The Heir Presumptive and the Heir Apparent

CHAPTER XVII.

The parlor at Grocombe Vicarage was but a small room and a shabby one. There was a drawing-room which was the admiration of the parish into which all visitors were shown, but Mrs. Hill and her daughters had too much respect for it to use it commonly; and the centre of their domestic life was the parlor, where all their makings and mendings were done, and where Agnes did not disdain to boil the eggs in the morning and make the toast for tea, both of which operations were so much better done, she thought, when “you did them yourself.” She had been making a dress for her mother; indeed, the very dress in which Mrs. Hill intended to appear “at the ceremony,” and the large old sofa which stood between the door and the window was rendered unavailable for all the ordinary uses of a sofa by having the materials of this dress stretched out upon it. Mary was in a chair by the fire with a white knitted shawl wrapped round her, much oppressed with her cold. There was a little tea kettle upon the old-fashioned hob of the grate. It may be supposed with what a start of discomposure and vexation the invalid of the moment started up when the door of this sanctuary was flung open and the visitors appeared. Fearful under any circumstances would have been the sight of Letitia to Mary at this moment, but in the drawing-room she might at least have been kept at arm’s length. She stumbled to her feet with a cry; her nose was red, her eyes were streaming, and the feverish misery of her cold depressed any spirit with which she might have met this invasion. Letitia on the other hand swept in like an army, her head high, her hazel eyes blazing like fire, full of the energy of wrath. She was a small woman, but she might have been a giantess for the effect she produced. After her there came a personage really large enough to fill the little parlor, but who produced no such effect as Letitia, notwithstanding that she swept down a rickety table with the wind of her going as she hobbled and halted in. But Mary recognized with another thrill of alarm the Dowager Lady Frogmore, and felt as if her last day had come.

Letitia swept in and did not say a word till she had reached the chair which Mary had hurriedly vacated. She had the air of bearing down upon her unfortunate friend, who retreated towards the only window which filled the little room with cold wintry light. “Well!” Mrs. Parke cried, as she came to a sudden pause, facing Mary with a threatening look. “Well!” But it was ill she meant.

“Well,—Letitia,” cried poor Mary, faintly.

“I have come to know if it was you that wrote me that disgraceful letter. Could it be you? Tell me, Mary, it’s all some terrible mistake, and that I have not lost my friend.”

“Oh, Letitia! You have lost no friend. I—I hope—we shall always be friends.”

“Did you write that letter?” said Letitia, coming a step nearer. “You—that I trusted in with my whole heart—that I took out of this wretched place where you were starving, and made you as happy as the day is long. Was it you—that wrote to me like that, Mary Hill?”

Mary was capable of no response. She fell back upon the window, and stood leaning against it, nervously twisting and untwisting her shawl.

“Letitia,” said the dowager, from behind, “don’t agitate yourself—and me: tell this person that it can’t go any further: we won’t allow it, and that’s enough. We’ve come here to put a stop to it.” Lady Frogmore emphasized what she said with the stamp of a large foot upon the floor. Her voice was husky and hoarse by nature, and she was out of breath either with fretting or with the unusual rapidity of motion, which had brought her in like a heavy barge, tugged in the wake of a little bustling steamboat. She cast a glance round to see if there was a comfortable chair, and dropped heavily into that which was sacred to the vicar on the other side of the fire, from which she looked round, contemplating the shabby parlor and the figure of Mary in her shawl against the window. “We’ve come—— to put a stop to it,” she repeated in her deep voice.

Now Mary, though held by many bonds to Letitia, had at the bottom of her mild nature a spark of spirit—and it flashed through her mind involuntarily that it was she who would soon be Lady Frogmore, and that this large disagreeable woman was only the dowager. She put a stop to it! So impudent a threat gave Mary courage. “I don’t know,” she said, “who has any business to interfere; and I don’t think there is anyone who has any right. I don’t say that to you, Letitia. You are not like anyone else. I very much wish—oh, if you would only let me! to explain everything to you.”

“She has every right,” said Mrs. Parke; “and so has my husband. I suppose you don’t know that this is Lady Frogmore?”

“I know—that it is the dowager,” said Mary. She was aware, quite aware of what was in her heart, the meaning underneath, which Letitia understood with an access of fury. In Mary’s mild voice there was a distinct consciousness that this title was hers—hers! the poor dependent, the less than governess! Mrs. Parke made a step forward as if she would have fallen upon her antagonist.

“You think that’s what you’ll be! Oh, you Judas, taking advantage of all I’ve done for you. Oh, you wicked, treacherous, designing woman! You wouldn’t have had enough to eat if I hadn’t taken you in. Look at this wretched hole of a place and think what rooms you’ve had to live in the last six years—and pretending to care for the children, and bringing them to ruin! I’ve heard of such treachery, but I never, never thought I’d ever live to see it, and see it in you. I trusted you like a sister; you know I did. It was all I could do to keep the children from calling you Aunt Mary, as if you belonged to them; and you nobody, nobody at all! I got into trouble with my husband about you, for he couldn’t bear to see you always there. Oh, Mary, Mary Hill! where would you have been all these years but for me—and to turn upon me like this—and ruin me! I that was always so good to you!”

This address melted Mary into tears and helplessness. “Letitia,” she said, with a sob, “I never, never denied you had been kind: and I love the children, as if—as if—they were my own. It will be no worse for the children. Oh, if you only would believe what I say! I asked him before I would give him any answer, and he said, no, no, it would make no difference to the children. I would rather die than hurt them; but he said no, no, that it would hurt them if I refused. Letitia!”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Parke. “So you’re our benefactor, it appears. Grandmamma, this lady is going to patronize us you’ll be glad to hear. She has taken care of the children before she would accept his beautiful love. Oh!” cried Letitia, in her desperation, clenching the hand which was out of her muff as if she would have knocked down her former friend. She drew a long breath of fury, and then she said, “You think nobody can interfere! You think a noble family can be played upon by any wicked treacherous thing that likes to try, and that no one can do anything to stop it! but you’re mistaken, there, you’re mistaken there!”

Foam flew from Letitia’s lips. In her excitement she began to cry—hot tears of rage gathering in her eyes, and a spasm in her throat breaking the words. She sat down in the chair which Mary had so hurriedly vacated, overcome by passion, but carrying on her angry protest with mingled sobs and threats only half articulate. Poor Mary could not stand against the storm. A cold shiver of alarm lest this might turn out to be true, mingled with the shiver of her cold, which answered to the draughts from the window. Hunted out of her warm corner by the fire, exposed to the chill, her heart sinking, her cough coming on, there is no telling to what depth of dejection poor Mary might have fallen. She was saved for the moment at least by the rush at the door of her mother and sister, who, after a pause of wonder and many consultations, had at last decided that it was their duty to be present to support Mary—however grand and exalted her visitors might be. They came in one after the other a little awed but eager, not knowing what to expect. But they both in the same moment recognized Letitia and rushed toward her with open arms and a cry of “Oh, Tisch!” in the full intention of embracing and rejoicing over such an old friend. “Why didn’t you send for me, Mary?” cried Mrs. Hill. “I thought it was some grand stranger, and it’s Tisch, our dear old Tisch! What a pleasure to see you here again, my dear!”

Mrs. Parke put on a visage of stone. She could not avoid the touch of the mistress of the house who seized upon her hand with friendly eagerness, but she drew back from the kiss which was about to follow, and ignored Agnes altogether with a stony gaze. “I’m sorry I can’t meet you in the old way,” she said. “I was a child then and everything’s changed now. We have come here upon business, and unpleasant business too. I’m glad to see you, however, for you will have sense enough to know what I mean.”

“Sense enough to know what she means!” cried the vicar’s wife. “I am sure I don’t know what that means to begin with, Tisch Ravelstone! You were never so wonderfully clever that it wanted sense to understand you—so far as I know.”

“I am the Honorable Mrs. Parke and this is Lady Frogmore,” said Letitia with angry dignity. “Now perhaps you understand.”

“Not in the least, unless it’s congratulations you mean, and that sort of thing; but you do not look much like congratulators,” said Mrs. Hill. She drew a chair to the table and sat down and confronted the visitors firmly. “It looks as if you did not like the match,” she said.

“The match—shall never be,” said Lady Frogmore, in that voice which proceeded out of her boots, waving her arm, which was made majestic by the lace and jet of her cloak.

“It shall never be!” cried Letitia. “Never! My husband has already taken steps——”

“My son—has taken steps—the family will not allow it. They will never allow it.”

“Never!” said Letitia, raising her voice until it was almost a scream. “Never! if we should carry it into every court in the land.”

The ladies of the vicarage were very much startled. They lived out of the world. They did not know what privileges might remain with the nobility, for whom such excellent people have an almost superstitious regard, and the boldness of an assertion, whatever it was, had at all times a great effect upon them. For the moment Mrs. Hill could only stare, and did not know what to reply. She reflected that she might do harm if she spoke too boldly, and that it might be wiser to temporize. And she also reflected that the sight of a man was apt to daunt feminine visitors who might be going too far. She said, therefore, after that stare of consternation, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Tisch, nor how you can put a stop to a marriage; but perhaps the vicar may understand. Agnes, tell your father to come here. I am sorry you did not take this lady to the drawing-room, Tisch, you who know the house so well. This is the room we sit in in the morning, where we do all our little household jobs. Agnes is making me my dress for the ceremony, and everything is in confusion. Dress-making always does make a mess,” said Mrs. Hill, rising with dignity to arrange, yet with a quick fling of the long breadths of the silk spread out on the sofa to dazzle the spectators with a glimpse of the dress which she was to wear at the ceremony. She then addressed herself to Mary, who still stood shivering in the window. “My dear,” she said, “you’ll get your cold a great deal worse, standing there. Yes, I see Tisch has got your chair—but come here to the corner of the fire—she’ll make a little room for you. It’s a pity she should have such a bad cold just on the eve—Oh, here is the vicar. This is Lady Frogmore, my dear. What did you say, Mary? The Dowager Lady Frogmore? Yes, to be sure. And this is my husband, Mr. Hill. As for the other lady, you know very well, my dear, who she is.”

“Why, it’s Tisch!” said the vicar, “my little Tisch! Who would have thought it? Why we ought to have the bells ringing, for you haven’t been here, have you, since you were married, Tisch? and cheated me out of that too, which was unkind. Anyhow, you are very welcome, my dear.” He took her hand in both of his and swung her by it, which was the vicar’s way. He was a large flabby old man, with much bonhommie of manner, and ended off everything he said with a laugh. Letitia had not been able to avoid the paternal greeting. But she pulled her hand away as soon as that was possible. All these references to her absence and to her marriage were gall and wormwood to Mrs. Parke.

The vicar looked around after this, much discomfited by finding himself ousted from his usual chair. He wavered for a moment not knowing where to go, but finally planted himself in front of the fire, leaning his shoulders against the mantel-piece. He had an old coat on, very much glazed and shabby, and a large limp white neckcloth, fully deserving of that name, loosely tied. He looked round him amiable and a little unctuous, not perceiving, for his faculties were not very alert, the storm in the air. “Well, ladies,” he said, “I suppose you’ve come to talk things over, and all the fal-lals and things for the wedding, eh? It’s astonishing what interest ladies always take in anything of this kind, though they can’t be called, can they, on this occasion, the young couple?” He chuckled in his limp good humor, as he stood and warmed himself. “Only six years, I’ll give you my word for it, younger than myself—and going to be my son-in-law—but Mary there doesn’t seem to mind.”

His laugh had the most curious effect in that atmosphere charged with fiery elements. It was so easy, so devoid of any alarm or possibility of disturbance. Tisch, who knew very well that all that could be done was to frighten these simple people if possible, had too much sense not to see that her mission would be a failure furious as she was—but the dowager had not this saving salt. She held out her arm again with all the lace and jet. “We’ve come to put a stop to it,” she said.

“Eh?” said the vicar. His chuckle was a little different now, and he repeated it at the end of his ejaculation, which was scarcely a question.

“They’ve come,” said Mrs. Hill, raising her voice, “to put a stop to Mary’s marriage. Don’t you know? They won’t have it, they won’t allow it—they say a noble family—Mr. Hill, don’t you hear?”

For he went on chuckling, which was exasperating, and made his wife and daughters long to seize him by the shoulders and shake him. “Oh,” he said, “they’re going to put a stop to Mary’s marriage. How are they going to do that, my dear? Has he got another wife living?” And the vicar chuckled more than ever at such a good joke.

“Father!” and “my dear!” cried daughter and wife, simultaneously, in indignation. But the vicar went on laughing unmoved.

“Well?” he said. “We don’t know much about his life. He might have had several other wives living, he’s old enough. And that’s the only way I know.”

“It shall be put a stop to,” cried the dowager, “my son has taken steps. My son has been heir presumptive ever since he was born. It shall be put a stop to. If no one else will do it, I’ll do it. I’ll have him shut up. I’ll have him put in an asylum. He can’t be allowed to ruin the family. Letitia, can’t you speak?”

“My good lady,” said the vicar, carried out of himself and out of his natural respect for a peeress by his amusement and elation in being sent for and looked up to as the arbiter, which was a new and unusual position for this good man. “My good lady, is it Frogmore you are speaking of?” He laughed all the time so that all the women could have murdered him. “Frogmore! I’d like to see any one shut up Frogmore in an asylum, or dictate to him what he is to do.” He stopped to laugh again with the most profound enjoyment of the joke. “I think I never heard anything so good. Frogmore! Why he’s only in his sixties—six years younger than I am. Do you think you could put me in an asylum, or make me give up anything I wanted to do, my dear?” He looked up at his wife and rippled over with laughter, while she, almost put upon the other side by this appeal, gave him a glance which might have slain the vicar on the spot. The ladies of his house habitually dictated to the vicar; they put no faith in his power of acting for himself. What he proposed to do they generally found much fault with, and considered him to require constant guidance. But now for once he had his revenge. He went on chuckling over it till their nerves could scarcely sustain the irritation; but for the moment the vicar was master of the situation, and no one dared say him nay.

Letitia had taken no part in this, such sense as she had showing her that it was vain to maintain that altogether hopeless struggle. She had her own undertaking ready to her hand, and a much more hopeful one. Mary, who had been placed by her mother in a low chair close to the corner of the fire, was so near to her as to be at her mercy. The vicar’s large person standing in front of the fire shut them off from the rest, throwing a shadow over this pair; and while he occupied the entire space over them with his voice and his laugh, Letitia caught at Mary’s shoulder and began another argument in her ear. “Mary Hill,” she said, “you know you daren’t look me in the face.”

“I have done you no harm, Letitia,” said Mary trembling.

“You are going to take my children’s bread out of their mouths. They’ll have nothing—nothing! For how can we save off our allowance? The little things will be ruined, and all through you.”

“Letitia, oh, for goodness sake, listen to me for a minute. He says it will make no difference. They will not be the worse. I told him I would do nothing against them—and he says if I refuse he will cut them off altogether—Letitia——!”

“Don’t talk nonsense to me, Mary Hill! Do you think he will not rather leave his money to his own children than to ours.”

“He has no children,” said Mary.

“No, not now; but when a man is going to get married——”

“Letitia!”

“Oh, don’t be a fool, Mary Hill! You’re not a baby not to know. When a man marries—if he were Methuselah—one knows what he looks for. John and I would scorn to ask anything from you, though you will ruin us too. But the children! A mother must fight for her children. Poor little Duke, whom you always pretended to be so fond of—he’s fond of you, poor child—he sent his love to his Aunt Mary, little thinking they will all be ruined—because of you——”

“Letitia, oh what can I do?”

“You can give him up,” said Mrs. Parke, “in a moment. It will not give you much trouble to do that. An old fool like Frogmore, an old precise, wearisome old——. Why, he’s older than your father: and you who are engaged to my poor brother Ralph, such a fine man.”

“I never was engaged to your brother Ralph!” cried Mary, with indignation.

“You say so now: but if one had asked you ten years ago. We might make up a little something for him even now—a little goes a long way in Australia: and with someone whom he was fond of to keep him right, Mary!”

“Letitia! It is all a mistake. I never, never was fond of him.”

“And now, when you might save him if you liked! This has been such a blow to him. He would marry you to-morrow and take you away out of everybody’s reach. The man that was really, really, oh, you won’t deny it! the man of your heart.”

“I do deny it! Never, never! I would not marry your brother Ralph if—if there was not another. I would marry nobody,” said Mary, raising her head, “nobody—except the man I am going to marry!”

“You will say you are in love with him next. A man that is older than your father—that has lived such a life, oh, such a life! all to humble us and bring us down to the ground—that have been so kind to you, treated you like a sister—and trusted you with everything, Mary.”

Mary knew very well that this was not true—but it is so difficult to contradict any one who asserts thus boldly that she has been kind. Perhaps Letitia meant to be kind. She could not have had any other notion—at least at first. But Mary could not be warm in her response. She said, “It is misery to me to think of doing you any harm. I would not harm—a hair of one of their heads—not for the world!”

“No—you wouldn’t stab them or give them poison—but you would do far worse, take everything from them—their whole living. You would change everything for us. I,” cried Letitia, tears coming into her voice as she realized the emancipation of her once slave, “would not mind—for myself—I’m used to—putting up with things—for the sake of my family; but there is John—and little Duke—their inheritance taken from them that came from their ancestors—that they’ve always been brought up to—everything changed for them. And all because a friend—one we’ve been so kind to—my oldest friend, Mary, one brought into the family by me; oh, that is the worst of it! If it had not been for me you would never, never have known that there was such a person as Lord Frogmore. They’ve a right to say it’s all my doing. Oh, Mary Hill, it was a fine thing for me to marry John Parke, and then to bring my friends with me into the family and ruin them all!”

Mary felt herself as obdurate and hard as the nether millstone. She folded her shoulders in her shawl and her mind in what she felt to be a determined ingratitude. Yes, she was ungrateful. They had been kind to her, but she would not give up her life for that. It was not fair to ask her. And how could she change when everything was settled? She turned her shoulder to her friend. “He said it should do them no harm,—I told him I would not consent to do them any harm.”

“Oh, as for that!” Letitia cried. She leaned down close, near to Mary’s ear with her hand upon her shoulder. “Mary,” she said, “you’re my oldest friend. We used to play together, don’t you recollect? It was you who was kind to me in those days. Sometimes I’ve seemed to forget, but I don’t forget, Mary. It wouldn’t have mattered if we had cut each other out as girls—that’s natural; but now! You might win the day and welcome. Get the title and go out of the room before me and all that——” Letitia’s laboring bosom gave forth a sob at the dreadful possibility, but she went on. “But it is the others I am thinking of. It isn’t me, Mary! And we that were always such friends.”

There came from Mary’s bosom an answering sob of excitement and misery, but she made no reply.

“I can understand, dear,” said Letitia, putting her arm around the arched shoulders, “that now you have made up your mind to marry you don’t feel as if you could give it up. I don’t ask you to give it up—but oh, think how far better than an old man like that it would be to have one that was really fond of you, one of your own age, a person that was natural! Oh, Mary, hear me out. Father has settled to give him something, and we could make out between us what would be quite a fortune in Australia. And he worships the very ground you tread on—and you were always fond of him you know, you know—— Oh, Mary!”

“Don’t you know that you’re insulting me?” cried Mary, so miserable that to be angry was a relief to her. “Oh! take away your hand. Oh! go away and leave me. I won’t listen to you any more.”

“Mary—John told me to tell you that he had turned that insolent Saunders and all those horrid servants out of the house. He never even consulted me, and it’s a dreadful inconvenience, every servant we had. But he turned them every one out of the house. You might be satisfied after that, to see how much we think of you. He said no one should ever be suffered to be insolent to you in our house. We have all esteemed you above everything, Mary. Insulting! Is it insulting to want you to marry my own brother—my favorite—and to make sacrifices that you should have something to marry on.”

“Letitia,” said Mary, in her passion springing up from her seat, “so long as you talk of the children my heart’s ready to break, and I don’t know what to do—but you shall not put this scandal upon me. Oh! no, no. I won’t bear it. It is an insult! Mother, don’t let her come after me. I won’t have it. I won’t hear another word.”

For Letitia, too, had risen to her feet. She stood staring for a moment while Mary pushed past her flying. But the fugitive had no more than reached the door when she was caught by the shriek of Mrs. Parke’s valediction. “Mary Hill! If you go and do it after all I’ve said—oh! I hope you’ll be miserable! I hope you’ll be cursed for it—you and all belonging to you. I’ll never forgive you—never, never, never! I hope if you have a child it’ll be an idiot and kill you. I wish you were dead. I wish you would go mad. I wish the lightning might strike you. I wish——”

Letitia fell back in her chair, choking with rage and hatred; and Mary, like a hunted creature, with a cry of pain flew sobbing upstairs. The others looked on aghast, not knowing what to think or say.

CHAPTER XVIII.

“Oh, Frogmore,” cried Mary at last, “she could not mean it. You know she could not mean it. Poor Letitia! she is a mother, and they say a mother will do any thing I am sure she had no ill meaning. She said she hoped I would be cursed, that if I had a——oh, I can’t, I can’t repeat what she said. That she wished I were dead, or would go mad, or—— No, no, she could not mean it. People don’t curse you nowadays. It is too dreadful,” Mary cried, and she shivered more and more, wrapping herself up in her shawl.

“The devil,” cried Lord Frogmore. “The little fierce devil!—a mother. She is no more a mother than a tigress is. She hates you because after all her ill-treatment of you you will have the upper hand of her. And I hope you will take it and make her feel it too. What a woman for my poor brother John to have brought into the family! I can forgive his mother, who is as stupid as a figurehead, but would cut herself or anyone else in little pieces if she thought it would be good for John; but not John’s wife, the odious little shrew—the——”

“Oh, Frogmore,” cried Mary, “don’t speak of her so. I can never forget how kind she was to me.”

“Kind to you—accepting all your time and care and affections and downright hard work, and giving you how much for them?—nothing. Now, Mary, there must be an end of this. She has made a slave of you for years. I hope you don’t mean to let her make a victim of you at the end.”

“Oh—she could not mean it. I don’t think she could mean it; but to curse me—just when everyone, even the old women in the almshouses, send their blessing.”

Mary fell into a fit of shivering again, vainly wrapping herself in the shawl to restore warmth, and keeping with difficulty her teeth from chattering. The old lord was much disturbed by this sight. He tried to caress and soothe her into composure, but elicited little save a weeping apology. “Oh, I beg your pardon, Frogmore.”

“Mary,” he said at length, “I suppose we’ve both agreed as to the source from which blessings and curses come—or rather, let us say good fortune and bad, for I don’t like to credit God with the curses, for my part.”

Mary, a little startled, looked at him with wide, open eyes, the tears, for the moment at least, arrested. She was not sure whether he was not about to say something profane, and as a clergyman’s daughter she felt it her duty to be on her guard.

“Well,” said Lord Frogmore, “I shouldn’t, for my part, think the people who call down curses were very likely to be heard up there—do you think so, my dear? If they are it is not in accordance with anything we know. Curses are only in use in romance books. And as for believing that Mrs. John has any credit in that quarter I don’t, Mary. I’d back the old women in the almshouses against twenty Mrs. Johns.”

It was very profane—still it introduced a view of the subject which proved, after a while, consolatory to Mary. She recognized reason in it. And the presence of the old lord, who was so cheerful and self-possessed, and was afraid of nobody, was also very supporting, as Mrs. Hill said. He had the confidence of a man who had always been accustomed to have his own way, and to be baulked by nobody, which is a great prop to the minds of people who have the persistent sensation, due to the records and traditions of many failures, that something is always likely to interpose between the cup and the lip. Lord Frogmore did not take any such contingency into consideration. When he found that Mary’s cold was so obstinate he changed all his plans with the most lordly indifference to calculations and resolved to take her to the Riviera for what he had too much sense to call the honeymoon. “Moons,” he said to Mr. Hill, “do not drop honey when the bridegroom is sixty-seven, but I hope to make it very pleasant to Mary for all that.” And this was exactly what he did. The marriage and all the little fuss and excitement—for the parish was moved from one end to the other for the vicar’s daughter and her wonderful match—shook her up and roused her spirits. And she wanted to do credit to the old lord, and would not have him carry off a bride with watery eyes and a red nose. So that even before they left Grocombe, Mary had recovered herself. She had a few wedding presents, for her friends were not rich enough to send anything worthy of a lady who was going to be a viscountess. But there was one which moved her much, and amused the old lord. The family at the hall had taken no notice of what was going on in the vicarage—indeed it was so rough a man’s house that the amenities of life were disregarded altogether. But the day before the wedding Ralph Ravelstone, who had been known to be at home, but had showed very little, appeared at the vicarage with a stable-boy behind him leading a colt. He went in to the house, leaving this group at the gate, and paid his respects to the family, where he was received without enthusiasm. “You see I’ve come back,” he said.

“Yes, we heard you had come back,” said Mrs. Hill.

“Mary would tell you. I’m rather put out about Mary. I always meant,” said Ralph, “to marry her myself. Oh, I don’t mind if Frogmore hears. He’s a connection of mine and very jolly. I always meant to marry her myself.”

“You showed your good taste, Mr. Ralph; but I am glad that I was first in the field,” said Lord Frogmore.

“That’s what it is to have plenty of money,” said Ralph, with a grave face. “You see things on the other side didn’t turn out as well as I expected. I’ve brought her a wedding present, though. He looks leggy at present, but he’s a good sort. You wouldn’t know his sire’s name perhaps, but it’s well known in Yorkshire, and if he’s well trained he’ll make a horse. There he is at the gate. I don’t say but he looks a bit leggy as he is now——”

“Oh—is it that foal? l am sure it was very kind of you, Ralph,” said Mrs. Hill, in an extremely doubtful tone.

They had all gone to the window to look, and for a moment there had been some perplexity in the minds of the ladies as to which of the two animals visible was the wedding present—the half-grown stable-boy or the neglected colt. Mary repeated, still more doubtfully, “I am sure it is very kind of you, Ralph,” and there was a momentary pause of consternation. But this Lord Frogmore disposed of in his brisk way.

“We’ll send him to the Park,” he said, “where I don’t doubt he’ll be attended to; and who knows what races you may not win with him, Mary. She shall run him under her own name. We’ll make the Frogmore colors known on the turf, eh, my dear? Mr. Ravelstone has given you a most valuable present, and for my part I am very much obliged.”

“Lord Frogmore always speaks up handsome,” said Ralph. “I saw that the first moment we met at Tisch’s little place. And that little shaver, don’t you remember? By Jove, now he’ll have his little nose put out of joint.”

It was not perhaps a very elegant joke, and the ladies took no notice of it save by alarmed mutual glances between themselves. But Frogmore—the refined and polite little old gentleman; Frogmore, with his old-fashioned superiority in manners; Frogmore—laughed! There was no doubt of it—laughed and chuckled with satisfaction.

“Well,” he said, “such things can’t be helped. It’s best in all circumstances not to count one’s eggs before—— My brother John’s family were, perhaps, what we may call a little cocksure.”

“I don’t know much about your brother,” said Ralph. “But, lord, I shouldn’t like to come in Tisch’s way when she knows. Oh, she knows, does she? I’d just like to see her face when she reads it in the papers. Tisch is a fine one for pushing on in the world, but when she’s roused——”

“Ralph,” said Mrs. Hill, “you might be better employed than speaking against your sister. She has been very kind to Mary; and Lord Frogmore would never have met my daughter at all if it had not been in her house.”

“That was all the worse for me perhaps, Mrs. Hill,” said Ralph.

“You are quite right, my dear lady,” said Lord Frogmore. “We have all I am sure the greatest respect for Mrs. John. She has made my brother an excellent wife, and she has put me in the way of acquiring for myself a similar blessing.” He made this little speech in his precise way, quite concluding the argument, and even quieting Ralph in a manner which much impressed the ladies. But the big bushman shook his head and his beard as he went away. “That’s all very well,” he said, “but if Tisch has ever a chance to come in with a back-hander—” He went off continuing to shake his head all the way.

Fortunately, Mary did not notice this, being diverted by the perplexity and embarrassment caused by Ralph’s “leggy” gift, what to do with it, how to find accommodation for it in the little stable at the vicarage, already occupied by an old and self-opinionated pony, very impatient of being interfered with. But Mrs. Hill and Agnes shook their heads too behind the bride’s back. If Tisch ever had it in her power to do an ill-turn to Mary! Even all the excitement of the wedding preparations could not banish this thought from Mrs. Hill’s mind. She impressed upon her other daughter the oft-repeated lesson that there is no light without an accompanying shadow. “In the course of nature,” said the vicar’s wife, “poor Mary will be left a widow to struggle for herself. It is true that the settlement is all we could desire—but if Tisch is at the back of it, her husband being the heir, how can we know what may happen—and your father an old man, and me with so little experience in the ways of the world——”

“But, mother,” said Agnes, with hesitation, “Mary is not so old, she is only two years older than I am. She may have——”

“Oh, my dear! Heaven forbid there should be any family!” cried Mrs. Hill lifting up her hands and eyes.

CHAPTER XIX.

Mary came back from her travels a most composed and dignified young matron, bearing her honors sweetly, yet with a mild consciousness of their importance. I say young, for though she was forty she had always preserved her slim youthfulness of aspect, and the unwrinkled brow which belongs to a gentle temper and contented soul. She looked younger as Lady Frogmore than she had done as Miss Hill. The simple dresses, which were perhaps a little too simple for her age, had not become her so well as those she now wore, the rich silks and velvets which the ladies at the vicarage felt and pushed and admired with an elation of soul in regarding “Our Mary,” which it would be impossible to put into words. Mrs. Hill herself had now a velvet dress, a thing to which she had looked wistfully all her life as the acme of woman grandeur without any hope of ever attaining it; and Agnes had been supplied with a little trousseau to enable her to pay in comfort her first visit to the Park. But when Mary appeared in the Frogmore diamonds at the head of her own table, receiving the best people in the county, Agnes was silent in awe and admiration. For Mary Hill, who had never asserted herself anywhere, had insensibly acquired the self-possession of her new rank, her sister could not tell how. And the little old gentleman beamed like a wintry sun upon his household and his guests. Impossible to imagine a kinder host, a more delightful brother-in-law. He was good to everybody who had ever had to do with Mary—the old aunts in London; even, oddly enough, Ralph Ravelstone, who so frankly informed Lord Frogmore of his intention to marry Mary had all gone well with him. There had been an additional little episode about Ralph which nobody knew of, not even Mary herself. For Lord Frogmore had received from Mrs. John Parke, a day or two before the marriage, the note which Mary had written to Ralph begging him to meet her at the sundial in the grounds of Greenpark on that eventful day Lord Frogmore had made his first appearance. The reader may recollect that this note had been an urgent appeal for an interview, when Letitia had demanded of Mary that she should send Ralph away. Lord Frogmore burnt the little note, which, indeed, was evidently a note written in great perturbation of mind, and drew his wife into conversation upon the events of the day, from which he very speedily understood the situation, and the exact character of Mary’s intercourse with Ralph. He replied by a most polite note to Letitia, informing her that he was very glad to be able to do, in response to her friendly recommendation, something for her brother—not, perhaps, equal to his merits, but the best that was in his power—by making Ralph agent for his Westmoreland property. There was not very much responsibility, nor a large income, but at all events a life of activity and freedom which he believed was in consonance with Mr. Ravelstone’s habits and tastes. Letitia was entirely overwhelmed by this communication. She grew pale while she read, overawed as by a superior spirit.

It will be well, however, to draw a veil over the behavior of Letitia at this trying moment of her career. She had reason to be angry. There was scarcely any of the lookers on at this drama of ordinary life who did not acknowledge that. All her actions for years had been shaped by the conviction that sooner or later she would be Lady Frogmore. She had married John Parke on that understanding. It is possible, indeed, that, as no one else offered, she might have married him anyhow, for the substantial, if modest, advantages which his individual position secured. But nowadays Letitia did not remember that, and felt convinced that she had married him because he was heir-presumptive to Lord Frogmore. Who could say now when that designation might be erased from the peerage? And even if it were now erased, there was still the humiliating certainty that Mary—Mary Hill—was my Lady Frogmore, a fact that produced paroxysms almost of madness in the bosom of Mrs. John Parke. And she had a right to be angry. Even Mrs. Hill allowed this. To have had for years only an old bachelor between you and your highest hopes—and then that he should marry at sixty-seven! If ever woman had a grievance, Letitia was that woman. A certain amount of rage, virulence, revengeful feeling was what everybody expected. It was even allowed that the part of the interloper being a dependent of her own—a useful old friend—made things worse. She was bound, indeed, for her own sake, to preserve appearances a little more than she did; but, except in that respect, nobody blamed her. It was a very hard case. And more than by anybody else was this felt by Lady Frogmore, who did everything that woman could do to conciliate Letitia. She sent endless presents to the children, invited them to the Park—condescended in every way to keep them in the foreground. She even urged that Duke should spend as much time with them as possible, in order that Lord Frogmore should get to know his heir! His heir! Poor Mary insisted upon this—repeated it, lost no opportunity of directing attention to the fact—good heavens!—until at last one day——

One day—it was early in the year, a day in spring, when she had been married for more than a twelvemonth, and had quite got used to her position, and felt as if she had worn velvet and diamonds, and a coronet upon her pocket-handkerchiefs, all her life. Mary had got so used to it all that when a stranger in a London shop, or a cottager, or any person of the inferior classes called her ma’am instead of my lady, she was much amused by the mistake. And she had forgotten all evil prognostications, and was almost happy in a sort of truce with Letitia, kept up by the presents and the visits and numberless overtures of amity which it pleased her to make, and which Mrs. John condescended to accept. She had begun to think that all was well, and to know herself to be happy, and to feel as if nobody could ever be ill or die, or fall into trouble more.

When suddenly Mary made a discovery—the first suspicion of which threw her into a faintness which made the world swim all about her. It was a beautiful day, full of light and life and hope. The birds were twittering in every tree, talking over their new nests and where to build them, flitting about to look at different sites. Mary was out walking in the grounds, rejoicing in the lovely air, when suddenly it occurred to her what was the matter with her, for she had been slightly invalidish—out of her usual way. All at once her head swam, her whole being grew faint. She tottered along as well as she could till she came to one of the late cuttings in the avenue, where the great trunk of a tree was lying on the side of the path, and then she sat down to think. A great tremor came over her, a something of sweetness indescribable, something like the welling out of a fountain of joy and delight. She had never been a knowing woman or experienced in the courts of life, but rather prim and old-maidish in her reserve. And she had not known or thought what might be going on—was that what it was? She sat down to think, and for half-an-hour Mary’s mild spirit was, as it were in heaven. Tears, delicious tears came to her eyes—a tender awe came over her, a feeling which is one of the compensations of women for the many special troubles that they have to bear. As the one is indescribable so are the others. Mary could not for her life have put into words the emotions which filled her heart.

Presently Lord Frogmore came in sight walking briskly up the avenue, the trimmest, most active, cheerfullest of old gentlemen. He was never far off from where his wife was, liking to be near her, regarding her with an honest homely affection that had something polished in it. He came up to her quickening his pace. “Are you tired, Mary,” he said, “or were you waiting for me?”

“Partly the one and partly the other,” said Mary, bringing herself back to ordinary life with a little start and shock. He seated himself beside her upon the tree.

“I think, my dear,” he said, “that you have been of late more easily tired than you used to be.”

“Oh, no,” said Mary, with a sudden flush, for she was jealous of her secret, and shy as a girl, not knowing how it ever could be put into words. She got up quickly, shaking her skirts from the dead leaves which had been lying in the crevices. “I am not in the least tired now,” she said, “and it is time to get home.”

“On account of little Duke?” said Lord Frogmore. “You may be sure the boy is happy enough. I think you are as fond of that boy, Mary, as if he were your own.”

She had been a step in advance of him going on, but now she turned round suddenly and gave him a look—such a look. Never in all their life before had Mary’s mild eyes confessed such unfathomable things. The look filled Lord Frogmore with amazement and dismay. “Mary,” he said, “my dear, what is the matter? What has happened? What is wrong?”

She made him no reply; but suddenly the light went out altogether from the eyes which had turned to him so solemn and terrible a look. And Mary did what she had never done in her life—slid down at his feet in a faint, falling upon the grass on the side of the way. It was all so quiet—so instantaneous—that poor Lord Frogmore was taken doubly unprepared. There was nothing violent even about the fall. She slipped from his side noiselessly, and lay there without a movement or a cry. The old lord was for a moment terrified beyond measure, but presently perceived that it was merely a faint, and knelt down by her, taking off her bonnet, fanning her with his hat, watching till the life should come back. He had shouted for help, but Mary came to herself before any help arrived. She raised herself from the ground, the damp freshness of which had restored her, and put up her hand to her uncovered head in confusion. And then the colorless face suddenly flushed red, and she cried, “Oh, what have I been doing? I beg your pardon. I beg your pardon, Frogmore.”

“Hush, my dear, you have done nothing but what is quite natural,” said the old lord, who was far more experienced than Mary. “Don’t hurry yourself, nor jump up in that impetuous way. Gently, gently, my love, here is some one coming. Bring round the pony carriage at once, Gregory, your mistress is tired. At once, I say.”

“Oh, I can walk. There is really nothing the matter, Frogmore.”

“Nothing at all, my dear,” said Lord Frogmore cheerfully. “Keep quite quiet and don’t disturb yourself.” He sat down beside her on the grass, though he knew it was very bad for him. “Never mind the bonnet, you don’t want it this pleasant day. And what pretty hair you have, Mary. It is a good thing when your bonnet falls off, it shows your pretty hair.”

With such words he soothed her, with little compliments and tendernesses as if she had been a child divining many things, and not feeling any of those inclinations to blame which younger husbands exercise so freely. Lord Frogmore was all indulgence for the wife who was young in his eyes, so much younger than himself. He put her into the little carriage when it came, and drove her gently home with all the care of a father. Mary had quite recovered herself by this time, and had arranged her bonnet and looked herself, trim as usual, though a little pale when Gregory came jingling back with the quiet pony and the little cart with which Mary herself drove about the park. And they had quite a cheerful drive home, though Mary’s subdued tones, she who always was so quiet! and paleness were very touching to her old husband. But when they reached the hall door, where her maid and the housekeeper were both waiting, having heard that Lady Frogmore had been ill, and being both of them better instructed women than she, just as she stepped out of the carriage with her husband’s help, smiling and saying it was nothing, there was a childish shout in the hall, and Duke rushing out with a bound, flung himself upon her.

“Oh, Aunt Mary, I’ve got something to tell you—I’ve got something to tell you!” cried the boy.

“Get away with you, child,” said Lord Frogmore; “out of the way—out of the way. Don’t you see she’s ill?”

The color that had been coming back fled out of Mary’s cheeks again. Her eyes once more gave a look of anguish, straight into her husband’s heart. She stopped as if struck to stone, with her foot upon the step. But she did not faint again as they feared. She put out her hand to the boy.

“He must not suffer—he must not suffer. Promise me,” she said, with a shudder “that he shall not suffer, Frogmore?”

Fortunately this was said almost under her breath, so that no one could distinguish what it was except the old lord himself, who was extremely distressed and puzzled. He remained downstairs very anxious while the women attended Mary to her room. What should little Duke have to do with it? Why should he be brought in? The child hung about his uncle asking a thousand questions. What was the matter with Aunt Mary? Why did she look so pale? Was she going to bed so early before tea? What did she want with the doctor? Duke had not discrimination enough to see that he was not wanted, but when Lord Frogmore’s patience broke down, and he said, sharply, “Go away, child; for goodness sake go away,” Duke retired in great offence, feeling that the world was a desert, and that nothing but an abrupt return home would make it worth while to live. It was all he could do to keep himself from setting out at once on foot. He rushed out into the hall with that intention, but was checked by the sight of the butler at the door, who was still giving his instructions to the mounted groom outside. “He’s to come as fast as he can, and you’re to go on wherever he may have gone till you find him—a deal of fuss about nothing,” the butler was saying. “My missus——,” but here he broke off, seeing the puzzled face of little Duke, and the groom rode off at great speed, as if he had never lingered for a minute’s gossip during all his life.

“Is Aunt Mary very ill?” said Duke.

“I don’t think so, sir; no more than other ladies,” said the experienced butler.

“Mamma’s ill sometimes,” said the little boy.

“They mostly is, sir,” returned the other grimly.

“But she won’t take nasty physic as we have to do—nurse never asks me, though I am the oldest, and the one that is of most consequence.”

“You’ve always been the heir, my little gentleman,” said the little butler, “and made a deal of fuss with; but I wouldn’t say nothing on that subject if I were you now.”

“Why?” said the Duke, opening large eyes; but Mr. Porter had occupied enough of his precious time with a little boy, and now turned away vouchsafing no reply.

CHAPTER XX.

Why it was that Letitia should have come herself to fetch Duke home on that occasion I have never ascertained. Perhaps it was something in the air, one of those presentiments, sympathetic or antipathetic, brain-waves as the wise call them, which suggested to Mrs. John Parke the possibility of some new turn in the aspect of affairs. She did not ask any questions or receive any definite information during her stay of three days, at least from the heads of the house, but no doubt she drew her own conclusions from the extreme cheerfulness of the head of the house, and the subdued but anxious conciliatory ways of Mary. Mary was always conciliatory, always anxious to make up to Letitia as for an imaginary wrong, but she had never been so anxious as now. She took advantage of a birthday in the family to send a great box full of presents in which every child in the house had a share. She was eager to know if there was anything Letitia wanted—a desire in which Mrs. Parke did not balk her, notwithstanding that it was gall and wormwood to receive anything from Mary’s hands. We have all, however, a good deal of gall and wormwood to swallow in the course of our lives, and it was something to secure a solid advantage even at that cost. Letitia did not let her pride stand in the way. But to come to the Park and see Mary in full possession with that old fool, as his sister-in-law called him, smirking and smiling at her, and everybody serving her hand and foot, was hard for Letitia to endure at any time—and was doubly hard now. For all the more that she was not told anything, Mrs. Parke felt danger and destruction in the air. The care with which Mary was surrounded, the gaiety of Lord Frogmore, seemed proof positive at one moment of the failure of all her own hopes. But then she said to herself, why are they so exuberant towards Duke, petting the boy as he had never been petted before? This bewildered his mother, for she could not herself have felt any compunction in such a case. Her feelings in Mary’s circumstances would have been pure triumph. Thus notwithstanding the assurance given by her maid, and all the other signs which she could not ignore, Letitia left the Park with her son, still unsatisfied. Duke was kissed and blessed and tipped more than ever when he left the Frogmores. His pony had been sent off in charge of a groom, every distinction was done to him that could have been done to the future heir. If it was all because he was no longer certain to be the heir! but that was beyond the intuitions of Mrs. John Parke. She went home in heaviness and anger but still uncertain what to believe. All that she could do was to make poor John’s life very uncomfortable to him when she returned. He was cast down too as was natural. He walked up and down the room gloomily with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders thrust up to his ears as she told the story of her visit. When they were alone Mrs. Parke exercised some uncomfortable economics though she always contrived to do her husband credit when guests were in the house. Thus there was only one small lamp in the room and no fire though the day had been damp and cold, and John Parke did not feel disposed to warm himself as his wife did with hot cups of tea.

“Well,” he said with a sigh—“there was nothing else to be expected. You might have made up your mind to that from the day they were married—I did,” said John with a nod of his head, which was sunk between his shoulders as if he had been the most foreseeing philosopher in the world.

“I have not made up my mind yet,” said Letitia, “for why didn’t they tell me? Mary could never have kept in her triumph. And as for Frogmore, he would have been bursting with it. To be sure, Felicie—but I don’t put much faith in what the maids say. And then, why should they have been so more than usually fond of Duke? No; I won’t believe it,” Mrs. Parke cried, “they couldn’t have resisted the triumph over me.”

“I tell you what,” cried John, “I won’t have that little brute of a pony in my stables. If Frogmore chooses to give Duke presents like that he must keep it for him. A little beast! and fit to eat as much corn as my best hunter. I can’t have it here.”

“John! We must not offend Frogmore.”

“Oh, offend Frogmore! When you tell me we are to be cut out and disinherited and lose everything!”

“I never said that. I wouldn’t say it,” said Mrs. Parke, piously, “as if the worst had happened, for there’s always Providence to take into account, and measles and whooping cough and that sort of thing. And it might be a girl, and a hundred things happen—if it’s anything at all, which I don’t believe myself,” Letitia said, yet with a tremor at her heart. “Go away, for goodness sake, and dress,” she added, with irritation; “to see you going up and down, up and down, like the villains in the theatre is more than my nerves can stand. For goodness sake go away.”

“I can’t take this sort of news so easily as you do,” said John, with his head upon his breast.

“So easily as I do! Oh, go away, go away, and don’t drive me mad with your folly,” cried his wife. “Do you think it can ever be half as much to you as it is to me? To see that Mary Hill in the place that should be mine, to kiss her and pretend to be friends when I could tear her in pieces with my hand, to see your old fool of a brother, who ought to have been dead and buried——”

“Letitia, not a word against Frogmore!”

“Oh, fiddlesticks about Frogmore! as if one could have any patience with an old—— He ought to have been dead and buried long ago. No man has a right to live on society, and keep other people out of their rights. And to marry at that age! It ought to be punished like murder. It’s as bad as murder and robbery and sacrilege and high treason all together. I can’t think but you can find a word to say for him, John Parke.”

“For one thing he’s not seventy—as you may see in any peerage——”

“Oh, don’t talk to me!” cried Letitia—and what answer could be made to that? Altogether Greenpark was on that evening a melancholy house.

Such questions cannot remain long in any doubt, and before the summer was at all advanced Mrs. Parke was compelled to give full evidence to the terrible truth. Needless to say that in the bottom of her heart she had been certain of it all along, though she held out so stoutly and would not acknowledge it to be true. But when it became known that Mrs. Hill and Agnes had arrived at the Park for a long visit, Mrs. John had a paroxysm of almost frenzy which for a day or two kept her to her bed, where she lay devouring her soul with imaginations of what was happening. Imaginations! Did she not know as well as if she had seen them what was going on? Mrs. Hill, oh with what beaming of pleasure on her face, bustling about, putting everybody right. Agnes, like another Mary, full of importance, too. The family from the vicarage altogether at the head of affairs, regulating everything, occupying the whole place, scarcely leaving room enough in his own house for poor old Frogmore, the old fool, the old ass, who had brought all this upon his family. Letitia raged within herself with internal wars and wails of wrath and anguish, like a wild beast, for three days; and then she got up and announced her intention of paying a visit to the Park.

“It’s only right that I should go and ask for her!” she said, with a curl of her lip over her teeth, which made this English lady look like a hyena.

“For goodness sake, Letitia, mind what you’re about. Don’t go and betray yourself,” said her husband in alarm.

“Oh, you may leave me to take care of that,” she said.

She arrived quite suddenly and unexpectedly, without a maid even, with a new travelling bag. “I felt that I must see dear Mary once more before—— At her age one always feels a little nervous for an affair of this kind,” she said sympathetically to Lord Frogmore, whose radiant countenance naturally clouded over at this remark. “I can go home to-night if there’s no room for me,” she added, “though I brought a bag, you see, in case I should stay.”

“There must always be room for my brother John’s wife in any circumstances,” said the polite old lord, but he did not lead the way into the inner sanctuary until he had carried the news of this unexpected arrival. “Mrs. John Parke, my dear,” he said, “is so terribly anxious about you, Mary, that she has come all this way to know how you are.”

“Oh, Letitia!” cried Mary, and “Tisch!” cried Agnes, in equal consternation. They looked at each other and grew pale.

“Let me go down and speak to her. She will frighten Mary out of her wits if she comes upstairs.”

“Oh, no,” said Mary faintly, “she must come in. Oh, Frogmore, I can’t blame her, when I think of those poor children. Perhaps she will feel a little more for me—now——”

“Feel for you! You are the happiest woman I know,” said Agnes, indignant at her sister’s weakness.

“She feels nothing but envy and malice and all uncharitableness,” cried the old lord. “Never mind, my love. We’ll do our best for the children all the same; but you won’t let a woman like that interfere with your happiness, Mary?”

“N—no,” said Mary doubtfully. She grew very white, and then very red, and cried, “Oh, let her come at once, let me get it over,” with something that was very like a cry of despair.

But there was no offence in Letitia’s looks when she made her appearance. She explained again that she had brought a bag in case they would have her for the night, but otherwise that she could very well return to Greenpark the same night, for she would not for all the world upset dear Mary. Her eyes went round the room taking in everything at a glance. Oh, so like the Hills, she said to herself. Just what she would have expected of them. The big chair which was exactly Mrs. Hill, as if it had been made in imitation of her, and all the little trumpery ornaments and things, little pots of flowers and so forth. But Letitia took the chair which was like Mrs. Hill, feeling a momentary satisfaction in disturbing the habit which no doubt the vicar’s wife had already formed of sitting there, and beamed upon the little party as if she was as happy in her friend’s prospects as any of the family could be.

It was not until the evening that she showed the cloud that was hid under all this velvet. She had been so nice, so exactly what a sympathetic sister-in-law should be, that Mary’s mother and sister had not hesitated to leave her alone with their interesting invalid. Lord Frogmore had gone out for one of his frequent walks. The twilight was falling upon the long warm August day. It had begun to get a little dim in the room, though Mary through the open window was still watching the last evening glories in the western sky. Mary, too, had lost her fear of Letitia. It was so much more natural to think well of any one; to believe at bottom an old friend must always be kind. And what would be more natural between two old friends than to go back at such an hour upon the past, especially the past which had linked them so much more closely together.

“When one thinks,” said Letitia with a laugh, “how strangely things come about. Do you remember, Mary, how we met in the picture-gallery? It was the Grosvenor Gallery, wasn’t it? But no; they had not begun there. It must have been in the academy, I suppose. It was just a chance, as people say, that took you and I there at the same time. You were with those old-fashioned aunts of yours. And you were very old-fashioned yourself, my dear, if I may say so now. Very neat you know—you always were neat—but your things looking as if they had all been made at home, and made a good while ago, and as well taken care of. Oh, I think I can see you now, and to think from that chance meeting how much has come!”

“Yes, indeed,” said Mary, “when one thinks of it as you say——” Poor Mary’s voice trembled. She gave a despairing glance towards the door. But no one came to her rescue. Mrs. Hill and Agnes were busy laying out a whole wardrobe of “things” to show to Tisch——

“Yes—when one thinks of it—what put it into my head I wonder to ask you to come to Greenpark for a long visit? I hadn’t as much as thought of you for years, and all at once I saw you standing there, and the thought came into my head. If something hadn’t put that into my mind how different everything might have been for both of us. You would have been just Mary Hill, the vicar of Grocombe’s daughter, living very poorly in that dreadful old place, and I should have been—well, looking forward sooner or later to having this nice old house, and the title and all that. Dear me, how little one knows what difference in one’s life a rash word can make.”

“You can’t feel it more than—I do, Letitia,” said Mary in very subdued and tremulous tones, pulling closer round her with her old agitated movement the lace shawl that had replaced her knitted one.

“Oh, yes,” said Letitia, “I do, my dear, for I have suffered by it you know while you have benefited—that makes all the difference in the world. When I think how different things might have been had I only just said, ‘How d’ye do, Mary,’ and gone by. Then you would never have met Frogmore, never had it in your power to change anything, never turned against me and the poor children——”

“Letitia, oh, don’t say I have turned against you. How have I turned against you? I love the children as if—as if——”

“My dear,” said Letitia, “you know we needn’t discuss that. You would never have turned against us I am quite sure if it hadn’t been so very much to your own advantage. And nobody would expect you for a moment to have done otherwise. Think of what you’ve gained by it. A title. Who would have thought of a title for one of the vicar of Grocombe’s daughters—and everything that heart could desire. A handsome house, two very fine places which you know Frogmore has, not to speak of the house in town which he lets, but which I’m sure you won’t allow him to go on letting. And now having got everything else, you’re going to have an heir, Mary Hill—oh, I forgot, you’re not Mary Hill, you’re my Lady Frogmore,—an heir which is the best of all to turn my poor boy out of my chance, out of what we all thought so sure. No, I don’t want to say—I’m amazed at myself for saying, but I can’t help it. I’m Duke’s mother, and I can’t. I can’t but think of my boy.”

“Oh, Letitia!” said Mary, piteously, holding out her hands in an agonized appeal.

“Oh, I don’t blame you,” cried Letitia, “how could you be supposed not to think of your own advantage. What am I to you? What are we to you that you shouldn’t think of yourself first? Oh, of course you thought of yourself first. It would have been quite unnatural if you hadn’t done so. But I can’t help thinking, Mary, with little Duke upon my mind, and thinking what we must do with him, and then he must be brought up to get his own living now. I can’t help thinking if I had just said, ‘How d’ye do, Mary,’ that day. If I had taken no more notice and never thought, ‘Well, they’re very poor at the vicarage, and one person’s living would never be missed in our house, and that it might be such a thing for you.’ Oh, if I hadn’t been so silly, how different everything might have been. I don’t blame you; not the least in the world; for of course you thought first of what was to your own advantage. But I do blame myself! Oh, I do blame myself. If it hadn’t been for that you would never have seen Lord Frogmore, and how different everything would have been.”

“Oh, Letitia,” cried Mary, as she had done at intervals all through this long address. The tears were pouring down her cheeks. Sometimes she hid her face in her hands; sometimes raised it to give her tormentor an appealing look, a protest against this cruelty. “Oh, Letitia, Letitia, spare me. It is not my fault. I never thought—I never believed—I would rather have died than injure you or the children. It made me ill when I first heard. To think of little Duke. Oh, Letitia, I think my heart will break!”