The Heir Presumptive and the Heir Apparent

CHAPTER IX.

Ralph was considerably struck by this intimation, which had not affected him when Mary conveyed the news. An old viscount to whom his sister was heir presumptive must be an important person. He was not very learned in, or else he had forgotten the terms and conditions of English rank. He had heard indeed that Tisch had made a great marriage, but not much more about it, and indeed it had sincerely been more a natural desire to see his sister than any hope of allying himself to the exalted personages to whom she belonged which had moved the ranchman. He stood stroking down his big hand in all the majesty of his large checks and burly person, but with a look of great perplexity on his countenance. What should he do? As a matter of fact his irruption into the drawing-room on the night before, and the sudden sight of Tisch in all her glory, had startled him greatly. His confusion had turned into noise and bravado, as confusion and a sense of inappropriateness often do. And then he had been excited and his head turned by the attention his odd stories had received and the civility of the gentlemen who drew him out. Altogether there had been a whirl of events, which, in conjunction with the case of bottles in the smoking-room, and other potations which had led the way, had dazed Ralph. But now he came to himself. He realized that he was not wanted, with an acuteness which wounded the poor fellow more than such a rash personage could be supposed to be capable of being wounded. He stood and stared at the butler, while this process was going on in his mind. He was very nearly taking that functionary into his confidence, telling him what a trick Letitia had played him, and what a strange reception this was for a man newly come home. He ended his musing, however, by a sudden burst of his big laughter in the face of Saunders.

“Don’t stand and stare like a stuck pig,” he said, “but go and order the dogcart, or whatever you’ve got—for I’m going off. You didn’t suppose I’d stay when I’m not wanted, did you? You’re used to sending fellows off when they’re not wanted—ain’t you, old Tuppeny,” he added, giving Saunders a poke in his ribs.

The laughter and the roughness which made Saunders think Missis’ brother an affable, if not very fine gentleman, were both the product of the confusion in Ralph’s mind, rather than of any desire to expend high spirits in a joke. He took out a sovereign from his pocket and twanged it through the air into the astonished butler’s palm, which somehow, surprised though Saunders was, found itself open to receive the unimportant gift. Ralph intended to show his solemn antagonist that a man who would toss about sovereigns like that was not a man who was in want of anything from Mrs. Parke. But it is doubtful how far he succeeded. Saunders had a profound acquaintance with the ways of men about the world, and his judgment was not that it was rich men who throw their sovereigns about. But he did not in the least object to have pieces of gold flung at him, and, indeed, liked the sound of them twanging through the air.

Ralph, however, was in no hurry to go. He watched the footman strapping up his much-used portmanteau, and intimated that he thought he might as well have some lunch before he left: and he went out and displayed himself in front of the house, making a promenade up and down with his chest thrown well out, and his big footsteps making the gravel fly. He was not aware that Letitia watched him from her window, but he hoped as much, and that it was gall to her to see him in the way of every visitor who might arrive. The first who arrived, indeed, was no visitor, but the representative of the house in the person of Master Marmaduke, a little fellow of five, dressed in one of those childish suits which makes a child look as if it had gone to seed in the upper parts of its person, and was supported by the most incomplete thin stalks below. He was not so firmly planted upon his little legs as he ought to have been, but his shoulders had thus the air of being broad and strong. He returned from his walk with his nurse, while Ralph was taking this little stroll in preparation for the luncheon, which was being prepared for him in the dining-room. Little Duke went up to the intruder, whom he had not seen, with the air of the master of the house, seven times doubled in dignity and consequence. “Were you wanting anything here?” he asked, as if he had been his own father; but John Parke never filled the role so well.

“Oh, Master Duke,” said the nurse, dismayed, “the gentleman is staying in the house!”

Duke surveyed the bushman from head to foot with a child’s disapproval of a type unknown.

“Hold your tongue,” he said, “and let me alone. He’s not staying in the house! Why, I’ve never seen him till this moment, and he’s not like anybody I know.”

“What’s your name, little man?” said Ralph. “Come here and shake hands, and I’ll give you a bit of Australian gold, my boy, to know your uncle by.”

Duke planted his thin little legs very wide apart and stared. He liked the idea of that bit of gold without any special certainty as to what it was, but he did not approach too close to a man whose appearance did not satisfy his perceptions. “I don’t know you,” he said, “I don’t know you a bit. I never saw any one the least like you. Do you mean that you’re my uncle? What are bits of Australian gold like?”

“They are very much like sovereigns,” said Ralph.

Duke’s legs involuntarily brought him a little nearer. “You are not like the rest of the gentlemen,” said Duke. “You are very queerly dressed. I don’t think you can be my uncle. But I should like to see the Australian gold.”

Australian was a big mouthful for such a small boy. He got over it in syllables and with an effort.

“Look here,” said Ralph, repeating the manœuvre which he had tried with Saunders. Only he twanged the sovereign into the air with his thumb and caught it this time in the palm of his own hand. Duke watched the coin with the greatest interest and drew near to look at it, but did not put forth his own little hand.

“It’s just money,” he said, in a tone of half disappointment, half contempt. Then he added, “Should I have that to spend if—if you gave it me, you know.”

“Oh yes, you should have it to spend. You shall have it when you come and shake hands with your uncle,” said Ralph.

The boy came nearer. Then paused again and said, “I’m sure you can’t be Lord Frogmore.”

“Why not?” said Ralph, with his big laugh.

Duke looked at him critically and seriously, “Because you don’t look like a——, because I don’t think you’re a——.” What he wanted to say was that his new acquaintance was not a gentleman. Duke thought he was like the keepers. One of the grooms in his Sunday clothes had very much the air of this strange person who caught the sovereign in his hand in that clever way. But little Duke did not like to suggest, looking up into a big man’s face, that he was not a gentleman. So he stopped and stared, almost forgetting the Australian gold in this perplexity which was an experience not at all familiar to him.

“Not like a lord?” said Ralph. “How do you know? I don’t suppose you know many lords, do you, little man? I might be a duke for aught you know.”

The little boy stared again less assured. He had not been used to think of lords as a different species, but he had never known a duke. It was well within the limits of possibility that a duke might be like a gamekeeper. The species was unknown to little Marmaduke Parke.

“Are you a duke?” he asked with much seriousness and eyes very keen and sharp in the study of the new species. Ralph burst into a big laugh.

“No,” he said, “my little man, but I’m your uncle. Not Lord Frogmore, but one of the other side. I’m your Uncle Ralph. Come and shake hands.”

Duke advanced slowly as it were under protest, and at last ventured to place a little soft hand in the comparatively monstrous palm of Ralph, who squeezed the sovereign into it with such energy that the little boy cried out, and unaccustomed to such gratuities let the coin drop upon the path. But Duke picked it up with a practical sense which did him credit, and turned it over with eyes in which awe and eagerness were combined. He recognized the Queen’s head—but there was something about it which struck him as unusual. Unfortunately he could not yet read. He began to spell A—u—s——

“That’s Australia,” cried the newly-recognized uncle.

Duke, somewhat suspicious, handed the coin to nurse. “Oh, Master Duke, how can you?” cried that anxious woman. “A beautiful sovereign; and you’ve never thanked the kind gentleman. I don’t know, sir,” she said, curtseying to Ralph, “if his mamma would let him take it, for my mistress is very particular—but——”

“Not take it from his uncle?” roared Ralph.

The discussion was interrupted by the sound of a step upon the gravel which made them all look round. The new-comer was an old gentleman with snow-white hair, but a ruddy wholesome complexion and the round ripe face which reminds one of a winter apple. “Frosty but kindly” was the look of the small twinkling eyes, the carefully trimmed-whisker, the smoothly-shaven chin and upper lip. The old gentleman was of short stature compared with Ralph: his neatness, his perfect cleanness, his well-brushed, well-dressed, carefully preserved look, all showing to greater advantage beside the big figure of the bushman in his big checks. He walked with great activity and alertness—like a young man, people said—but there was indeed a special energy almost demonstrative in his activity which betrayed the fact that it was something of a wonder that he should be active. He flourished his stick perhaps a little to make it apparent that he had no need of it. He eyed the group very curiously as he walked past them to the door—and then it was that he heard Ralph’s cry, “Not from his uncle?” At the sound of those words he turned round quickly and came back.

“Eh,” he said, “his uncle? Who is this little fellow, my good woman? Marmaduke Parke? Then, my boy, I’m your uncle too.”

Duke looked at this new claimant without the hesitation which he had shown to Ralph. There was no doubt on the most superficial examination that this was a gentleman. He took off his little hat and held out his little hand.

“How do you do?” said the little boy. “Mamma is poorly and papa is out, and I’m just come back from my walk: but if you will come in, please, Saunders will know what to do.”

When Ralph gave vent to the great roar of a laugh which seemed to make a sort of storm in the air above the heads at once of Lord Frogmore and of little Marmaduke, there was more than merriment in that outburst. The bushman felt the distinction which the little boy had made, though it was only a very little boy that had made it. He assumed an additional swagger in consequence. “I’m on the other side, my lord,” he said, “for I presume you’re Lord Frogmore. I’m Ralph Ravelstone, the brother of the missus—but we’re on different tacks, you and me. She aint at all proud of her brother, I’m sorry to say, though I want nothing from them—not a brass farthing. So I’m clearing out of the way.”

“Ah!” said Lord Frogmore. He added after a moment, “You will not, of course, expect me to interfere—people know their own concerns best.”

“Interfere!” said Ralph. “I never thought of that. Tisch knows her own mind, and there’s nobody I ever heard of could make her change it. Oh, I’m going. It’s not good enough to hang on here in a bit of a country place like this, for anything I’ll get from Tisch. Besides I want nothing from them. I’ve just come from the bush with dollars enough once in a way. I came out of kindness. If she don’t want me I can do without her, and that’s all I’ve got to say.”

To this Lord Frogmore made no reply, save by bowing his head politely, as to a conclusion of which he might approve indeed, but which left nothing to be said. But Ralph stood swaying his big person about, not knowing how to get himself off the scene—and indeed with a sentiment of elation in the unexpected and unaccustomed felicity of talking to a lord.

“You see, my lord,” he said, “through her,” and he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, “we are a kind of connections, you and me.”

“Oh!” said Lord Frogmore, gravely, “We are—a kind of connections?”

“Yes,” said Ralph. “I’m very glad to make your acquaintance. This little beggar here is nephew to us both. It’s droll if you think of it,” added Ralph, stopping to laugh, “that he should be nephew to you—and also to me.”

“Perhaps it is a little—droll as you say,” said Lord Frogmore. Fortunately he did not think it was his own age that Ralph referred to. He thought it was indeed a wonderful thing that he and this wild bushranger, or whoever he was, should stand in the same relationship to anyone. At this moment the footman appeared at the hall door, with a look of intelligence addressed to Ralph. The bushman started and changed into a tone of almost ostentatious hospitality. “My lunch is ready,” he said, “there’s sure to be enough for two. I hope, my lord, you’ll come and have a share.”

Lord Frogmore had left the railway at a different station from that which the Parkes ordinarily used. He was proud of his walking powers, and liked to show that he was as able for exertion as much younger men. Indeed it was his delight to surprise people who sent carriages for him and were anxious to save such an old gentleman fatigue by appearing suddenly at their door as he had done now. But so much exercise required exceptional support—and he felt the want of a glass of wine. He received Ralph’s invitation with amusement but not without pleasure. “Don’t you think,” he said, “that we had better wait for some of the people of the house.”

“Don’t be shy, my lord,” said Ralph. “Why, we’re all people of the house.”

Little Duke then stood forth, feeling the call of duty. “Mamma’s poorly upstairs—and papa is out shooting,” he said. “But I’m here. And it’s me the next after papa.”

“Oh it’s you the next, little man?”

“Yes,” said Duke, without guile—“first there’s you, don’t you know, if you’re Uncle Frogmore—and when you’re dead, papa—and when papa’s dead, me—I’ll be Lord Frogmore some day,” said the boy. “And then I shan’t want your Australian sovereign, you, uncle—man—for I don’t know your name.”

“Oh,” said the old gentleman gravely, “so you’ll be Lord Frogmore.”

CHAPTER X.

Letitia was in her room, by the open window, wrapped in a warm dressing-gown. It was rather cold, though the day was bright, to sit by an open window; but she was watching for her brother’s departure, and very eager, thinking he would never go. She had been an unseen witness, behind the curtain, of his meeting with her boy, and had partially overheard the conversation that had passed; that is to say, she had heard all Ralph’s part of it, but not Duke’s little voice in reply. Letitia was more impatient than words can say of this encounter, and trembled with nervous anxiety and helpless eagerness. But she said to herself that Frogmore at least would not come till the afternoon, and all the other gentlemen were out, and the coast clear. No one arriving at a country house to pay a visit ever came before the afternoon—five o’clock, that was the earliest moment possible for an arrival. She said this to herself with a presentiment which she could not overcome, but for which she reproached herself, declaring that it was nonsense audibly in the turmoil of her excitement. Why should Frogmore arrive at an hour when nobody arrived, merely to distract her, Letitia? Things are very perverse sometimes, but not so perverse as that. She said to herself that she was a fool for dwelling upon such a thought, and that her nervousness about Ralph was absurd. She dared not show herself at the window lest he should see her and insist upon an interview; and from where she sat she could see only by a hurried glance now and then, so that she remained unaware of the full horror of what was happening until she heard a third voice, not familiar, but which after a moment she recognized, and which was to her as the clap of doom, Frogmore! She pulled the curtain aside, forgetting her precautions in the excess of her excitement; but no one of the group saw her, they were too much occupied with themselves. Lord Frogmore had not appeared much in his brother’s domestic circle. Since her marriage Letitia had seen him only during the three or four days’ visit which John and she paid once a year to the head of the house. He went abroad every winter, taking care of himself, as if his life were of so much importance! and had visits to pay in the visiting season which no doubt he liked better than going to see his brother: at all events they had met very little, and Letitia was not so very familiar with his voice that she should recognize it at once. But even before she recognized she divined. Of course it was Frogmore: who should it be but the one person in the world whom she was the least desirous to see? She was so overwhelmed by the thought that the meeting which she so much wished to avoid had taken place, that the heart which seemed to beat in her throat and the fluttering of all her nerves prevented her from hearing what they said, until the sound of steps made her again pull back the curtain, and she watched the group moving leisurely towards the dining-room. Ralph was doing the honors, he was inviting Lord Frogmore in to luncheon, and little Duke, whom she would have liked to whip, had abandoned his nurse and was walking solemnly between the big bushman and the little old gentleman. Oh! how she would have liked to whip Duke! It was the one possible outlet for her feelings which Letitia could think of in the immense irritation that possessed her, in view of this insufferable combination, Ralph doing the honors of John Parke’s house to Lord Frogmore. If she had only been wise enough to pursue it—to listen to her own presentiment, to have been on the spot herself and prepared for whatever might happen. Sometimes it is highly advantageous to adopt the female expedient of a headache; to find yourself unable to come downstairs on some particular morning when there may happen to be any embarrassing business. But sometimes this expedient is not so successful. Letitia repented bitterly the employment of it. She had been determined not to see her brother—to show him in the most decided way that her house was a place to which he was not to come. But how could she ever have anticipated that Lord Frogmore would appear at such an unlikely hour, and that it should be Ralph—Ralph of all people in the world that would receive him, and do the honors of the house to him! After a pause of rage and perplexity, Letitia rang the bell, and when her maid appeared sent her somewhat imperiously for Mary Hill. “Go and tell Miss Hill I want to see her. Tell her—I mean ask her,” said Letitia, with a civility born of necessity, “to come directly, please.” Mrs. Parke paused again to think which would be most impressive; whether to begin to dress with the air of being quite unable for the exertion, or to fling herself down upon the sofa in the lassitude of the dressing-gown, unable to move. She decided for the first of these processes. It would touch Mary more to see her preparing to do her duty at any price, than merely to witness the collapse which perhaps she would not have such complete faith in as was desirable. Accordingly Letitia rose. She pulled out the first dress that came to hand in her wardrobe. Not to diminish the effect, she waited until Mary might be supposed to be approaching. She then hurried out of her dressing-gown, and began to put on her usual clothes, and was found by Mary, on her hurried entry, half fallen upon the sofa, panting and breathless, fastening, with hands that trembled and seemed hardly capable of performing their functions, her under-garments. Mary made an outcry of surprise when she entered the room, and the maid who followed made a dart at her mistress with a scream—“Madame, you’re not fit to dress or go downstairs.”

“What can I do?” said Letitia, with little pants between each two words, “when I am so much wanted—when I must—I must.”

“Oh! what is the matter, Letitia? Can’t I do it for you?” said Mary, in her impulsive way.

“You may go away, Felicie. Miss Hill will help me if I want any help.” “Oh, Mary, don’t you know what is the matter? Shut the door after that prying woman. They all want to have their noses in everything. It’s Ralph,” said Mrs. Parke, throwing herself back on the sofa as in despair. “He has not gone away after all, and Frogmore has come. Oh, Mary! when I begged and implored you upon my knees to get him away, and not to let him meet Frogmore.”

Letitia threw herself back on her sofa while in the act of tying a pair of necessary strings. Her hands were trembling very perceptibly. She dropped the strings and flung her arms over her head in an outburst of tragical distress. Mary, on her part, had retired in tears from her interview with Ralph, and had shut herself into the little back room, which was all, in the present crowded state of the house, that she could call her own, with much real agitation and distress. But when she saw Letitia press those conspicuously trembling fingers on her face, the sight of her friend’s trouble was more than she could bear.

“Oh, Letitia,” she said, “I am so sorry for you—what can I do? If there is anything I can do, tell me. I did speak to him. I begged him to go away, and he said he would. Oh, if there is anything more I can do I will do it. But don’t kill yourself, don’t take on so dreadfully. Don’t, oh don’t think so much of it, Letitia; Ralph——”

“Don’t mention his name,” cried Mrs. Parke, “never shall I think of him as a brother. Do you think I’ve no pride and no feeling for my family. How would you like if your black sheep—if the one that was no credit—turned up just when you wanted to put your best foot foremost. Oh, Mary Hill! I don’t blame you, but he never would have come but for you.”

“You are quite mistaken, there,” said Mary, with a dignity in which there was some touch of irritation, too. “And I am glad to say there is no black sheep in my——” Her voice sank as she added this—and a compunction seized her and broke the sentence short—for to be sure the black sheep in the family is the misfortune and not the fault of the rest, and Mary felt it was ungenerous to remind Letitia of her own better fortune. She went on, with a little eagerness to conceal this error. “If I can do anything, Letitia—but I don’t know what I can do.”

“No, nor I,” said Letitia, but then she said with a softened voice, “you might go down and see what they’re doing. I can’t be ready in a moment, it takes some time to get into one’s dress when one is all of a tremble as I am. You might go down and stand between Frogmore and Ralph. Oh, I know you could do it. And there is Duke, the little wretch, listening to all Ralph’s stories. Send him up to me straight off.”

“I—go down! But I don’t know Lord Frogmore—and Ralph.”

“I hope you know Ralph at least. Mary Hill! You told me this moment you would do anything—but the moment I name the one thing, the only thing I ask of you——”

Mary wrung her hands but turned away and went downstairs. She had never been used to resist when anything was asked of her. It had been her part in the world always to do what was insisted upon, what it was necessary to do. She went downstairs, almost counting the steps in her reluctance, hoping that Letitia might relent and call her back, yet knowing very well that nothing would make Letitia relent. After her conversation this morning with Ralph to go back as it seemed voluntarily into the room where he was, to go as he would think on purpose to have a last word with him was intolerable to her. Her natural modesty and reticence was intensified by the primness, old maidenly scruples which had come upon her with the advancing years and made her pride more sensitive and her fear of compromising herself more great. And before Lord Frogmore, who would think—what might he not think? Poor Mary went slowly across the hall. Oh, if Letitia only knew what it was to put such a commission upon her—but Letitia had such different ways of thinking—Letitia might perhaps have found it no trial at all.

When Mary went into the dining-room where Ralph was making an excellent meal, and telling stories of the bush which delighted his little audience, her color was heightened, her dove’s eyes were clear and humid, almost with tears in them. She had seldom in her life looked so well, though of this she was quite unconscious. Her great reluctance gave her an air of dignity as well as that of duty painfully fulfilled. She went in very slowly, holding her head higher than usual, though it was a sense of humiliation and not pride that so moved her. Lord Frogmore had been persuaded to join the bushman in his luncheon, having evidently been assured that this was the luncheon of the house, Letitia not being well enough to be out of her room. Ralph was seated at his meal with his mouth full, talking as he munched, and praising the excellent cold beef as he talked. Cold beef for Lord Frogmore! Saunders indeed had endeavored to interfere, to explain that the family lunch was an hour later, that this was only for Mr. Ravelstone because of his train, and that to set cold beef before the distinguished guest was the last thing in the world that would have been contemplated. But Lord Frogmore had paid no attention, and sat quite pleased, mincing his cold beef into small morsels, and laughing at Ralph’s stories. Little Duke had clambered up upon his high chair and sat between the two men, turning his small head from one to another as they talked with great attention, with the precocious civility of a host paying solemn attention to his guests. Duke did not laugh at the Australian’s jokes because he did not understand them, but he gazed at Lord Frogmore who did, and looked from one to another with a curious consciousness of the inferiority of those mysteriously excited persons who gesticulated and declaimed and laughed and applauded to his own small gravity and dignity, something like that which we can imagine rising in the consciousness of an intelligent animal at sight of human eccentricities. Duke thought it very funny that they should laugh so much. What was there to laugh about? Ralph sprang up from the table, making a great noise, and with his knife and fork in his hands, when Mary appeared. “Hallo!” he cried. “Here we have begun like a couple of ill-bred pigs without thinking of Miss Hill. A plate and napkin for Miss Hill, and look sharp you there! What can you think of us to begin without you? I give you my word I never gave it a thought.”

“Please sit down,” said Mary. “I want nothing. I only came—that is Letitia sent me—to see that you had everything you want. To see that there was a proper lunch——”

“Letitia’s very kind, but she might have come herself. There’s excellent cold beef—isn’t it excellent, my Lord Frogmore? They think it’s not good enough for you, evidently, but it’s plenty good enough for me. I prefer it to all the kickshaws in the world. Sit down and try a bit, Mary, it’ll do you good.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Mary, drawing nervously away. “Duke, you are to go upstairs to your mother. Oh please don’t disturb yourself. I would rather not sit down, please. Letitia was afraid that you were not served in time—that you might be kept too late for your train.”

“Letitia’s very anxious about my train,” cried Ralph, with a big laugh, but he caught Mary’s alarmed look at Saunders, who stood very demurely behind Lord Frogmore with his ears wide open to everything. Saunders scented a mystery, and was very anxious to fathom it. He scented something much more mysterious, as was natural, than anything that existed. “But sit down, Mary, and join the festive board,” continued the bushman, “a meal’s twice a meal when there’s a lady present. Don’t you think so, Lord Frogmore?”

Lord Frogmore had risen up with old-fashioned courtesy when he saw Mary, and stood without taking any part in the invitation, awaiting what she intended to do, with his hand on the back of his chair. Lord Frogmore, as ill-fortune would have it, was seeing the house of the Parkes, which was indeed the most orderly and well-governed of houses, in the strangest light—a light that was not at all a true one, though he had no means of knowing it. The wild, bearded brother from the backwoods, the gentle, somewhat prim dependent lady puzzled him very much. Miss Hill he thought a much pleasanter type of woman than his sister-in-law, but who was she? Probably the governess; but then the governess would not be on such familiar terms with the brother. The old gentleman stood with true civility, doing nothing to increase the embarrassment of the poor lady, poor thing, who did not know what to do.

“The dog-cart, sir, is at the door,” said Saunders, solemnly, “and if I might make so bold, there is just twenty minutes to get the train.”

Ralph put down his knife and fork. “I should have liked another bit of that nice cold beef,” he said; “but since you’re all in such a hurry—— Little ’un, you can go and tell your mother I’m off. It’ll be a satisfaction to her. And, Mary, don’t forget what I said.”

“I don’t remember,” said Mary, “that you said anything particular. Ra—Mr. Ravelstone—I will tell Letitia—anything you wish me to say.”

“Then tell her,” cried Ralph, “I don’t care that!” with a snap of his big fingers. He paused, however, with a thought of Saunders and the proprieties, and burst into another laugh. “You can tell Tisch that the cold beef’s capital, and that I’ve enjoyed my luncheon—and the best of company,” he said. “Good-bye, my lord, and good-bye, little ’un. Mary, is this how we’re to part, you and me?”

Mary wrung her fingers out of his grasp. “I will give Letitia your message,” she said.

“You’ll come and see me off at least. Poor Mary, don’t be so down because there’s strangers here. Come out and see me go.”

She looked involuntarily in her distress towards the courteous old gentleman who stood quietly observant with his hand on the back of his chair. Lord Frogmore did not understand the meaning of the appeal in her eyes—whether she wished him to go away; whether she looked to him for protection. He took out his watch, however, on the chance that it was the latter, and held it up to the departing guest.

“Well, good-bye to you all!” shouted Ralph, thus driven by moral force to the door.

“I fear the gentleman will be late,” said Lord Frogmore in his precise voice.

“Oh, I hope not!” cried Mary, clasping her hands. She listened while the dash of the dog-cart from the door, as Ralph sprang into it, was audible. “He has been long absent from home,” she said. “He has got out of the ways of—English life. Mrs. Parke was rather afraid. She was so sorry not to be downstairs to receive you. She is dressing now to be ready for luncheon, and begged me——”

“It was quite unnecessary; I found him very amusing. And I was glad to make acquaintance with this little fellow.” Lord Frogmore put his hand on Duke’s head, who had not obeyed the call to his mother. “He is—your charge, perhaps?”

“Oh no,” cried Mary, with a blush. “I am only a friend staying in the house.”

“I beg you a thousand pardons,” said Lord Frogmore.

CHAPTER XI.

“I can only be most happy that you were not prepared, for what would I have said for myself, or what would John have said to me, had a life so precious been placed in danger by my indiscretion,” said Lord Frogmore with a bow. He was a little formal in his modes of speech and in his civilities, which had an old school deference about them quite unknown to the new generation. There is nothing easier than to give a dangerous scratch under the cover of that velvet glove of supreme good manners, but it takes a delicate perception to perceive sarcasm, and Letitia did not find it out.

Lord Frogmore on his side felt himself much more amused than he had expected by the reception he had met with. He belonged to a class perhaps more frequent nowadays than in former times; the class to which the follies of its fellow creatures is more amusing than anything else that can be met with in the world. The old lord expected to pay a very dull duty visit to his brother, whom he esteemed as a good-hearted blockhead, and the sharp little underbred woman who was his wife. He had scarcely hoped to be amused, even by Letitia, whose little pretentions he believed himself to have fully fathomed and seen through, and he did not expect to find amusement in the society to be found in their house. It was a quite unexpected felicity to be received so unexpectedly by the big bushman with his stories of adventure, and the unexplained family complication coincident with his presence and the evident desire to get rid of him shown by all the house. Mary, too, who was not the governess, and who under her little middle-aged primness was an observer like himself, and saw what he meant when Mrs. John remained quite impervious, interested the old lord. There was something to see and note where he had expected nothing, something to find out in the perfectly banal household. The old gentleman’s little keen eyes quickened and sparkled, and that wonderful interest in human life which is nowhere so strong as among those who have reached its furthest limit, awoke in him with a grateful hope of satisfaction. In the midst of this, which was on the whole agreeable, there was one little prick which had been given quite unintentionally by the most innocent hand, yet which he could not forget, notwithstanding all his philosophy. It was what little Duke had said when he had welcomed his uncle with immediate recognition of what was due to him. “First, there’s you,” Duke had said, “and when you’re dead, papa, and when papa’s dead, me—I’ll be Lord Frogmore some day.” This was quite true and quite innocent, and meant no harm; but Lord Frogmore could not get it out of his mind. He had of course been aware since John Parke was born that he was to be his own successor, heir presumptive, as the peerage said: and of course little Marmaduke was John’s heir—heir apparent, the undoubted hope of the illustrious son of the Parkes. But, still, all the same, it jarred upon the old gentleman. He did not like to be put away in his coffin in the family vault in this summary way, not even the chief figure there but followed soon by John after him, in order that this cocksparrow should become Lord Frogmore. He knew it was absurd, and he was able to laugh a little at John’s dismissal too, thus accomplished by his little son. But with all the alleviations to be procured in this way, and the evident simplicity of the child who meant no harm, it was still not pleasant to contemplate. “First, there’s you, and when you’re dead, papa, and when papa’s dead, me.” Lord Frogmore laughed to himself and wondered how John would like it: but John was young, and probably would not mind a reference to such a remote possibility, and then it was John’s son, not an unknown little boy, who was the speaker. He wondered if that was the sting of it—an unknown little boy—his nephew, indeed, but young enough to be his great-grandchild—a mite of a boy! To realize a long life like Lord Frogmore’s, an important life, so much in it, so many people dependent upon it, a life which had lasted so long, an institution in the country—and then to think that it was to be swept away to make room for that imp in knickerbockers! It was ludicrous, it was laughable—but the thing which put a sting in it and made it so disagreeable, so taunting, viewing back and back, thrusting duty in among other thoughts of far more importance, was that it was true. “I’ll be Lord Frogmore some day.” It was so. Uncle and father must give way to him. They would be put away with their riches and he would reign. This kept coming back into Lord Frogmore’s mind as he walked about the place and inspected the gardens and shrubberies. It flew in upon his thoughts when they were occupied with matters quite different—little Duke’s look and his childish confidence. “I’ll be Lord Frogmore, some day,” came back to him with a persistency which he disliked very much but could not get rid of. It was quite true—unless in any way Providence should interpose.

There was only two ways in which Providence, even Providence, could interpose. One was a very sad way, that little Duke should die; that he should never come to the heritage which he was quite right in thinking certain. The little fellow might die. This was an alternative that Lord Frogmore, though distinctly irritated by Duke, and resentful of his self-confidence, did not like to contemplate. Die—oh, no! He would not have the little fellow die—a creature so full of hope and promise—oh, no! Let him say what childish follies he pleased he must not die. But if not, then he must succeed and be Lord Frogmore. Was it absolutely certain that he must be Lord Frogmore?

Frogmore turned this over in his mind as he took his walk—the walk which he never intermitted, and which had done so much to keep him in health. Needless to say that the dearest wish of this old gentleman was to keep in health. The young people may be indifferent to it; they may consent to all sorts of rashness, and run all manner of risks; but when a man is drawing near seventy he knows he must not be guilty of any of these follies. Frogmore thought a good deal about his health, avoided everything that could injure it, denied himself even things that he liked, eat sparely, rested often, and avoided all subjects that were disagreeable, on principle, that nothing might affect his precious health. But he could not get this childish brag—this little boy’s chatter out of his mind. It was very annoying; it was not worth troubling about; but he could not get it out of his mind. Nevertheless, for some reason or other, he stayed longer at Greenpark than he had any intention of doing. He remained on from day to day, to Mrs. Parke’s annoyance yet pleasure.

“It is clear that Frogmore likes being here,” she said to her husband with some pride.

“Yes,” said John, “but it’s a bore.”

“It is a bore,” said Letitia, “but it always looks well to be on such good terms with the head of your family: and most likely he will do something for the children.”

“I don’t see what he can do for the children; it will all come to us naturally,” her husband said.

“Oh, John, naturally! How can you talk such nonsense; naturally he will leave everything he can away from us: but if he takes a liking to the children!” John was obliged, as he usually was, to allow that there was a great deal in what Letitia said.

One afternoon, however, she received disagreeable letters, which had a disastrous influence on Letitia’s temper. They were letters about Ralph. She had not very much communication nowadays with her old home. Mr. Ravelstone of Grocombe and his sons had no habit of writing. There was not a woman in the family save the wife of the second brother, who had married a housemaid, and naturally she did not attempt to correspond with her sister-in-law. But on this occasion old Mr. Ravelstone wrote, and Willie Ravelstone wrote, and there was a letter from Ralph. Why did you send him here? the father and brother asked in tones of despair. Why didn’t you make him go back? While Ralph himself wrote with jaunty familiarity and sent his love to Frogmore, who he said was a jolly old cock, and to whom he meant to write very soon. Letitia was irritated beyond description by these letters. Her sense of superiority to her own family was great, and to be thus called to account by them was intolerable. And Ralph’s boisterous nonsense and his bravado about Lord Frogmore drove her to a kind of frenzy. She turned, as was natural, upon the only person she could assail with the most perfect impunity, upon Mary, at whose head she had almost flung Ralph’s letter. The letters came to Greenpark in the afternoon. The gentlemen were all out, or so she thought, and there was no restraint upon the mistress of the house. The drawing-room was a double room, one within the other. And as ill luck would have it Lord Frogmore had retired to the inner portion with the newspaper before his sister-in-law came in. She had taken back Ralph’s letter from Mary, who followed her into the drawing-room, and now flung it on the table with an exclamation of disgust.

“I do not believe,” she said, “that he would ever have come here at all, Mary Hill, but for you. It was you who took him in, and instead of telling him, which was the best possible excuse, that the house was full, though you knew it was, fairly to the door: and I had to get up a story about the covers to make room for Frogmore, whom it’s of so much importance to keep well with: instead of getting rid of him in this way with just a simple story—and true—you gave him your own room—your own room! determined at any risk you’d have him here. What for, in the name of goodness? For you couldn’t marry him—though, indeed, one can never tell what a woman will be silly enough to do.”

“You know, Letitia,” said Mary, deeply wounded, and with some vehemence, “I would not marry your brother—not if he had everything the world could give.”

“You say that now—when you know that he is not in that mind: but you were not of the same opinion then. You gave him your own room that you mightn’t have to send him away.”

“Oh, Letitia,” said Mary, “you have always put people in my room when there was any crowding. You have done it twenty times. It seemed so rational: and how was I to know? Your own brother——”

“Oh yes,” cried Mrs. Parke, “the sort of brother to bring forward among the gentlemen and exhibit to Frogmore! Oh you know very well how I should hate it. You did it to be revenged upon me. You wouldn’t take the trouble to get him out of the house when I sent you to do it. And now here’s father abusing me for sending him home—as if it were any doing of mine. I don’t understand you, Mary Hill, after all I’ve done for you. You know you have not cost your father a sixpence all this year. I gave you the very gown on your back that you might look nice, and brought you into the best society: but you’ll not take any trouble or do a single thing for me.”

“Oh Letitia,” said poor Mary, and there was the sound of tears in her voice: presently she added tremulously—“There’s nothing I would not do—if I could only be the housemaid to have my proper work and know what was expected of me.”

“Oh, yes,” cried Letitia sarcastically, “I think I see you at the housemaid’s work. You like a great deal better to look nice and play the lady and make up to the gentlemen.”

Mary rose hastily to her feet. “If that is your opinion of me,” she said hurriedly, “I had much better go away.”

“Oh, yes,” cried Letitia again, “that is the only other way with people like you—go away! That is the first cry as soon as you are crossed—when you know I have nobody to help me, not a creature I can trust to? But what do you care? What does it matter how worried I may be: I can’t go away if things go wrong; but you can threaten me—it is nothing to you——!”

“What do you want me to do?” cried poor Mary. “You know it is not true that I make up to the gentlemen. I never did at my youngest—and it would be a strange thing if I were to begin now.”

“Mary Hill,” said Letitia with solemnity, “you know you thought Ralph was your sweetheart when he went away——”

“If I ever was such a fool,” cried Mary with spirit. “I saw well what a fool I was the first words I exchanged with him. You could not wish so much that he would go away as I did—and you cannot wish so much as I do never to see him again!”

“Well! I hope Ralph Ravelstone is as good as any Hill at all events!” Letitia cried. Her brother might be odious to herself, but as is usual in such circumstances she resented disapprobation from others. “If you hadn’t thought so you would never have let him in—and Frogmore would never have seen him—and I shouldn’t have been ashamed in this way—and now you pretend you never want to see him again! It is just the way with—with—people like you. You pull yourselves up by other people’s hands and then you turn upon them. And here you have been currying favor with old Frogmore.”

“I—with Lord Frogmore!”

“Yes, you—finding his gloves for him, cutting up the books for him—showing him the way about the grounds—or whatever he wants. And what do you expect you are to make by that? Do you think he will put you in his will? But all he has is ours by right. It ought to go to the children, every penny. And do you think he minds what you do—an old maid? Not a bit. If there is a thing that men despise, it is an old maid.”

“Letitia,” said Mary, with a trembling voice. “It will do no good for you and me to quarrel. If you ever say anything like this again I will go away from your house that very day. Lord Frogmore is a kind, good man; he is nicer to me than anyone in this house. Perhaps the gentlemen here do despise old maids. If they do, I think it shows that they are very silly to despise anybody for such a cause. And it is not very pretty of you to say it. But if ever you speak to me of making up to anyone again——”

“Oh, you are just a fool, Mary Hill. Of course, I say whatever comes into my head when I am just mad with everybody: and everybody is against me—you too.”

And it became audible in the next room that Letitia in her turn had burst into angry tears. Lord Frogmore had remained quite still in his seat while this conversation was going on. He had not thought it any harm. He listened and sometimes a smile flitted across his face, sometimes a frown—at one point he started slightly—but no sense of guilt in his eavesdropping was in the mind of this depraved old gentleman. When, however, there occurred this outburst of tears, and it became evident that Mary was occupied in soothing her friend, and that Mrs. Parke was being laid down on the sofa and propped with pillows, that a cup of tea was spoken of as likely to do her good, and every sign was given of a permanent occupation of the other room, Lord Frogmore began to feel much confused as to how he was to escape. There was a glass door which led into the garden, but it was no longer in use as the weather was growing cold—and to get through a window even from a room on the ground floor was a perilous attempt for a person of his age. It was, however, the only thing to be done. He opened the window as softly as possible and slipped out—leaving as few traces as he could of his escape. But the sounds, however softened, could not but produce a great effect on the ladies in the outer room. Mrs. Parke sat bolt upright on the sofa, stopped sobbing as if by a miracle, and shivered to the very tips of her toes. Who was it—who could it be?

“Run round and see,” she whispered hoarsely to Mary, pushing her off as she stood beside the sofa. “For goodness sake, don’t stand and stare, but run round outside and see.”

CHAPTER XII.

“I want none of his pennies,” said Mary indignantly—but it was with a sense of relief that she got her hat and went out to Lord Frogmore, who was more kind and understanding than any other visitor at Greenpark had ever been. They had all taken her undisguisedly for a dependent, all treated her in the easy and unguarded way which unfortunately is the common way of treating a governess or companion, with that manner of contempt—or perhaps it would be most kind to say indifference—which an old maid who is poor and modest is apt to meet with. Her remarks were not noted—her opinions elicited no response; if she was silent, as she most frequently was, nobody cared. But Lord Frogmore always heard her when she said anything, and asked her what she thought of this thing and that. It pleased poor Mary to be considered like other people, on the same level as the rest—whom inevitably in her own mind she had begun to regard with an involuntary responsive scorn as stupid and without feeling. She thought better of her neighbors because she herself was placed in her right position by the sense, the appreciation, or—as she called it—the kindness of old Lord Frogmore.

They went along together through the copsewood which surrounded the trim clearing of garden and tiny park in which the house was enclosed. It was brown and red with autumnal color and shining in the sun with autumn damp, the heavy dews of the morning which had settled down in the afternoon to a sort of suspended wateriness which made the bushes and the grass glisten. But it was not cold, the afternoon sun diffused a ruddy glow through the air, to which the red and yellow trees added each their suggestion of a contributed light. They had talked about the house, about the weather, so fine for the time of the year, and about Marsham Ponds, which made a picturesque point in the landscape, as they went along, and it was after a little pause that Lord Frogmore began.

“I am going to say something to you, Miss Hill, which perhaps you will consider I have no right to say—but you must remember that I am an old man.”

“You may say what you please, Lord Frogmore. I know it will be kind,” said Mary: and she added after a moment with a smile, “But I think it is a mistake to suppose that age can be counted merely by years.”

“I am glad you are of that opinion,” said the old lord. “I sometimes think so myself; but one is never a good judge in one’s own case. Don’t you think, however, my dear young lady, that you are yourself in rather a false position here.”

Mary looked at him with a quick change of color and a glance of interrogation.

“You know,” he said, “I took you for the governess. I have never ceased to be ashamed——”

“There was nothing to be ashamed about, Lord Frogmore. I wish I were the governess—then I should not be in a false position—but I don’t know enough to teach any one.”

“Not even Duke?” he said with a smile. “You are too humble minded, Miss Hill; but that would not suit Mrs. Parke so well as having all the advantage of you as you are. May I ask, is there any relationship to give her such a claim upon you?”

“Oh, no! But we are very old friends. My father is the Vicar of Grocombe, where all the Ravelstones live.”

“Ah,” said Lord Frogmore, with a look of satisfaction, “that explains the familiarity of that big fellow—that Australian: not so bad a fellow as his sister seems to think.”

“Oh,” cried Mary, with a shudder, “he is very rough and very coarse. He has always been the trouble of the family. I am afraid of Ralph, too; but I knew him very well as I knew them all when we were children. Letitia used to come a great deal to the vicarage——”

“I will be bound she came for help for herself, not for you?”

“Oh, don’t say so, please. I am sure she was fond of mamma. She had no mother of her own. And she is very kind now. Lord Frogmore, I need not conceal,” said Mary, with a sudden flush, “that we are poor. It is quite a poor living, and my father has had to send all the boys out in the world. Unfortunately, we girls have not any education or we might have helped.”

“So much the better, Miss Hill.”

“Oh, don’t say so!” said Mary, “if you knew what it was to feel so helpless, not to be able to do anything: and just to have to live on and on dependent on your father, good for nothing, with nothing to look forward to. I am saying a great deal more to you than I ever said to anyone, Lord Frogmore. Letitia has been very kind. She asked me to come for a long visit so that I might be no expense at home.”

“And reminds you of it every day,” said the old gentleman.

“Oh,” said Mary, off her guard, “how should you know?—not every day—oh, no, no! Sometimes I need to be reminded, for a thing that becomes familiar one is apt to forget. They are very kind at home, and say they miss me more than the good it does them. But I know it is an ease to my father’s mind. He thinks it is one at least provided for.”

“Do you think you are provided for, Miss Hill?”

Mary hung her head. “I am for the moment. I am sure Letitia is very kind; but if there was any change, or when she really has to get a governess——”

“Should you be sorry to go away?”

“Oh, never sorry to go home,” said Mary, with a gleam of light in her face. “I’d rather starve with them than feast with others—but so long as it is an ease to poor papa’s mind. He is not so strong as he was—he is getting old.”

“About my age, I suppose?” said Lord Frogmore.

“Oh, a great deal more, certainly a great deal more!” cried Mary. She gave, however, a sidelong glance at Lord Frogmore’s face to make quite sure. “And he has had a hard life. That makes a man old more than years.”

“You were good enough to say the same thing before,” said the old lord, “that age cannot be counted by years. That is always a pleasant thing to be said by the young to the old.”

“But I am not young,” said Mary, with a little, frank laugh. “I am middle-aged, which many people think is the worst of all.”

“In that case I must borrow your formula, and say age is not counted by years,” said the old gentleman. “You have a face on which peace is written. You have not had much trouble, I think, in your life.”

Mary grew very serious, for this is an imputation which few people can accept without a protest. But as she was very sincere she assented, after a moment, “No; only being poor. And what is that when all the boys, thank God, have done so well?”

“Is that the only trouble you can think of?” said Lord Frogmore.

“The chief—the greatest. When you have to be ashamed of a brother, or to watch him going wrong, and able to do nothing, and never to trust him. There is nothing in the world so dreadful as that. I can forgive Letitia anything,” cried Mary, almost with vehemence, “when I think how well all our boys have done, and that two of the Ravelstones—— That is the most dreadful of all.”

“I don’t think it will interfere with Mrs. Parke’s rest,” said Lord Frogmore, calmly. “And I saw no harm in the Australian. Will you tell me what the boys are doing who have done so well?”

He listened with great interest while Mary, with a brightened countenance and many smiles, made him aware of the successes of “the boys.” They were not very great successes from Lord Frogmore’s point of view, but he listened as if he had been hearing of bishoprics and woolsacks, while Mary told of the advantages of John, who was in New Zealand, and George, who was farming in Canada, and the missionary who had won golden opinions, if not joys, in Africa, and the soldier, who was in India with his regiment, but could not afford to come home because of the lessened pay. They were all “abroad” for it was so difficult to get things at home, but all so approved, so well spoken of, so thoroughly satisfactory! It went to the old lord’s heart to see her face of exultation, her happy pride in her family. “Perhaps you will think it is nasty of me to rejoice so over them, when there is poor Ralph so different,” said Mary, “but of course there was a great, a very great, difference in their upbringing, though that doesn’t always tell, as perhaps you know, Lord Frogmore.”

“Indeed I do know: sometimes the most carefully trained go astray. I have known many instances.”

“And the most neglected,” cried Mary, “whom nobody could have expected anything from, sometimes turn out so well! So that shows it is individual—it is in them, whatever may be their education. Ah, here we are,” she said, suddenly, with a calming down which was very evident from the fervor of her previous tone, “at Marsham Ponds.” One would have said Mary was disappointed to find herself so soon at the end of her walk.

Marsham Ponds were a series of fishponds, a trace of the old time, when a great abbey had stood near, and the supply of fish for Lenten fare was a pressing necessity which had to be provided for. “I think I must turn back now,” said Mary, “you will find your way quite easily, Lord Frogmore.”

“Stop a little; we may as well return together. I wanted the walk, not to see the ponds. I have seen them often before,” said Lord Frogmore. “We lived at Greenpark in the old days when I was a child—if you can suppose I ever was a child.” He laughed and paused a little, then resumed, “I remember—it must be about a hundred years ago—my father bringing me here when he came to the title. He succeeded his grandfather you may have heard. He brought me here, and lifted me up to see the view. It’s not much of a view,” said Lord Frogmore, in a parenthesis, “but seen in one particular light it is not without interest. He said to me, ‘Look there, Duke, that’s all ours——’” Here he paused again, looked over the wide landscape, which was flat and fell away into long blue depths of distance, and then burst into a laugh. “That is what John will be saying to another little Duke one of these days. They are both quite primed for it,” he said.

“Oh, Lord Frogmore, not Mr. Parke—that is not in his thoughts.”

The old lord turned round upon her with a little moisture in the corner of his eye. He put out his hand to her hastily, “Thank you, Miss Hill. I think you are right. My brother is free from such thoughts.”

“Nobody has any such thoughts,” said Mary, but not in the same assured tone.

He shook his head and looked at her smiling, “Not after what your friend said—that all I had belonged to the children, every penny—that it was their right. Mrs. Parke was very explicit, Miss Hill.”

“Oh,” said Mary, in a tone of horror, “then it was you after all, and you heard what we said.”

“I heard you say nothing that did not do you honor. The other did not surprise me at all. It may be a little premature. Things may not be so certain.” He paused a little as if he would have said something more. He was a very neat, well-preserved model of an old gentleman, not so old as the Parkes concluded; with a good color, a good figure, a firm light footstep; active and lively notwithstanding his age. The thought of little Duke, who was to be Lord Frogmore some day, and of all his property and possessions, which were being discounted by Mrs. John as belonging to the children, made him not sad but angry. He had never been disposed to be a passive person, to be managed by those about him; and no one could be less likely to consent to being powerless or helpless now. No one thing of all the many things they calculated upon was certain. His property was still in his own hands—even his title. Many things surged up in the old gentleman’s head. Suggestions which disturbed and excited him, but not unpleasantly. What if they might be disappointed altogether, the scheming woman, the silly little boy. John—Ah! John! Lord Frogmore turned upon Mary Hill, who was walking by his side, much agitated and in a great tremor; and put his hand upon her arm. “Miss Hill,” he said, “I can’t tell you how much I am obliged to you for doing justice to my brother John.”

“Oh, Lord Frogmore, Letitia is like all mothers, she thinks only of her children. She did not mean what you think. She is not without heart. She is——”

“We’ll say nothing about Letitia,” said the old lord. “But I am thankful to you for doing justice, and making me do justice, to my brother John.”