JOHN came into the room with gloom upon his countenance, and a frown upon his noble brow. Letitia had arrested the course of her own passion—she had dried her eyes, and dropped her voice, and prepared herself to meet him with a real apprehension. It was not often that she was afraid of John, but for once there was no doubt that if John was in the mind to find fault he had a sufficient reason. The sight of her husband’s troubled face checked her anger and dried up the tears of vexation that had been in her eyes. She gave Mary an appealing look, and made her a motion to sit down by her. It went through her mind quickly that Mary might make a little stand for Ralph when she could not do it herself, and thus break the edge of the assault. If John could be made to see that Ralph was Mary’s old sweetheart, that it was Mary’s indiscretion which had brought him there, it would be easier in every way to manage the dilemma. John came in with his heavy step and his countenance overcast, but he looked like a man perplexed rather than angry, and as he came forward it was apparent that he held a telegram in his hand.
“Look here,” he said, “Letitia, here is a bore: just when we have got the house full to the door: look at that—that he should choose this time of all others for the visit that has been spoken of so long!”
“John,” said Letitia, with a gasp, “I never meant him to come here.”
“You never meant Frogmore to come here?”
“Frogmore!” she said, with a sort of wondering obtuseness. She was never stupid, and it made John angry, because he was quite unaccustomed to be misunderstood.
“You had better look at the telegram,” he said impatiently. “I don’t pretend to know what you mean. Here is the house crammed with men, and my brother, for the first time since we have been married, proposes a visit. What are we to do?”
It took Letitia some time to understand; her mind was so preoccupied by the other subject that she could not distract her thoughts from it. Frogmore—Frogmore or Ralph—which was it? She tried to shake herself together and grasp the sense of the words at which she was gazing:
“Could come to you to-morrow for three or four days, if it suits you.
“FROGMORE.”
“Was there ever such a bore?” John continued saying. “The first time he has proposed to come. And we’ve got the house crammed, and not a corner to put him in. What am I to do?”
“Frogmore!” Letitia murmured again to herself; and John went on saying, with a monotony which is natural to many men, the same burden of regret, “The house full of men and not a corner to put him in,” as if, in some way, the repeated statement of that fact might make a change.
“I don’t know what you are thinking of,” said Letitia at length with much relief in the sense that her own brother would be forgotten in the importance of his. “Of course, Frogmore must come, and there is an end of it. I hope you answered his telegram at once.”
“How could I answer the telegram—when the house is crowded with men and we have not a——”
“Yes, yes,” she said, “we know all that. Of course, he must come. If I should have to give him my own room; of course, he must come. There are so many things I want done. It would be tempting Providence to refuse Frogmore. I want a new nursery, and a cottage for the gardener, and I don’t know how many things. You had better write a telegram, and give it to Saunders to be sent the first thing in the morning.”
“But, Letitia, when you know the house is crowded, and there is not a——”
“Oh, don’t bother me,” said Letitia, “as if I had not enough without that! It is not a corner that will do for Frogmore. He must have, of course, the best room in the house. For goodness sake, John, go back to your men in the smoking-room, and tell them you have a very bad account of the covers, and that there are no birds to speak of. Say you’re dreadfully sorry, and that you find you’ve asked them on false pretences.”
“But——” said John. “Why Letitia! I have heard nothing of the kind.”
“I have, then,” she said. “They didn’t like to tell you—scarcely a bird. Those sort of accidents will happen. Go and tell them. Say you don’t know what to make of it.”
“I don’t, indeed,” said John; “I can’t understand it. Martin never said a word to me on the subject. That’s bad news, indeed. The men will think—I don’t know what they will think.” He turned to go away, looking more gloomy than ever; but when he got to the door of the boudoir turned round for a moment. “That brother of yours,” he said, “is a very queer fish.”
“Ralph! Oh, goodness gracious, do you think it’s necessary to tell me that?”
“He’s a very queer fish,” said John, with a laugh. “Those fellows are drawing him out. He is telling them all kinds of bush stories. I don’t believe half of them are true. Why did you never tell me you had a brother in the bush.”
“I thought he was dead,” she said. “I wish he had been dead before he came here. If I had only been at home it never would have happened. What’s the good of you, a man, if you can’t turn a fellow like that out of the house?”
John turned round upon her with amazement. “My wife’s brother!” he said.
“I don’t want to think of him as my brother. For goodness sake if you want me to have any peace turn him out of the house.”
“Letitia,” said John, “in most things you have your own way, and if you like to do a nasty thing yourself I never interfere; but as for turning your brother out of my house——”
“I’m ready to give up even my own comfort to your brother,” she said.
John stood for a moment feeling that there was something strained in the parallel—but not quite clever enough to perceive what it was. “Oh, as for that!” he said vaguely. Then he gave it up, the puzzle being too much for him. “And so would I,” he said, “do a great deal to please you, Letitia—but I can’t turn a man out of my house. If you have nothing more to say than that, I’ll go and tell those fellows about the birds.”
Letitia sat clenching her hands to keep in her wrath until he had closed the door, and his heavy foot sounded remote and far off as he went down the stairs. She then turned to Mary, who had made several attempts to go away, but had been retained by a gesture more and more imperative at every move she made. “Mary, I hope you know how much you owe me,” she said.
“You have been very—kind, Letitia—” said Mary faltering.
“You’ve been no expense to your father and mother for a whole year, not even for dress—you know there’s not many friends would do that.”
Mary hung her head and made no reply. She had not the courage to say that she had done something in return—scarcely even to think so, being very humble-minded—and yet—It was not generous to remind her so often of what was done for her, and the gratitude thus called for would not form itself into words.
“Well, now, you must do something for me. You must get Ralph out of this house.”
“I!” said Mary, in dismay.
“Yes, you. He came for you. Don’t deny it, for I am sure of it. What else would have brought him here? He and I were never friends. He knew I wouldn’t have him at any price, but he thought that through you, as you were always his sweetheart——”
“I never was anything to Ralph—never! He went away without so much as saying good-bye,” Mary said, with indignation.
“That proves exactly what I say. If he had been nothing to you you would not have remembered that he went away without saying good-bye—you needn’t try to deceive me, Mary. Now, you must get him out of this house.”
“Oh, Tisch!” said Mary, in forgetfulness of all injunctions. Their youth together and all its incidents came rushing back upon her mind. “Oh,” she said, “if you will remember, mother was kind to you then. Oh, don’t you remember how often you were all at the vicarage then? Oh, Letitia, I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean to say that, but don’t—don’t be so hard upon me now!”
Letitia rose up with her eyes and her diamonds sending forth kindred gleams. “Do you dare to compare your mother’s kindness with mine,” she said. “What was it?—a bit of cake to a child—and I’ve taken all your expenses off them for a whole year. Where did you get that dress you are wearing, Mary Hill? Who is it that keeps a roof over your head and a fire in your room, and everything as comfortable as if you were a duke’s daughter? Your mother kind to me? I wonder you dare to look me in the face.”
But, indeed, poor Mary did not look her in the face. She had put down her head in her hands, beaten by this storm. Though it was but the most timid reprisals, Mary felt that it was ungenerous to speak of her mother’s kindness—and, after all, was not Letitia right? for there never had been much in the vicarage to give. And it was true about the dress—it was that dyed silk which Mrs. Parke had given her, a silk richer than anything poor Mary would have bought for herself. It was true, also, about the fire in the bedroom, which was a luxury impossible in the vicarage. It might not be generous to remind her of these things, but still it was true.
Letitia drew an angry breath of relief. She sat down again with the satisfaction of one who has achieved a logical triumph and silenced an adversary. “Look here,” she said. “I don’t think anything can be done to-night. We must just leave it. He’s done as much harm as he can. But if Lord Frogmore were to come to-morrow and find Ralph I should die. That is all about it. I should just die, rather than let that horrid old man see my brother in a velveteen coat, like a gamekeeper, and with the manners of a groom, I’d—— take chloral, or something. Now you know! I can’t bear it, and I won’t bear it. The Parkes were never very nice to me. And that old man as good as said—No, I will not bear it, Mary Hill. If he comes before Ralph is gone I shall be found dead in my bed, and you will be answerable, for without you he never could have got admission here.”
“Oh, Letitia! don’t say such dreadful things,” cried Mary, raising a horror-stricken face.
“No, I shall not say them, but I shall do them,” said Mrs. Parke. She was like one who has given a final decision, as she gathered up in her hands the train of her heavy velvet dress. “Good-night,” she said; “I may never say it again.”
“Letitia!” Mary’s horror and trouble could find no words.
“I can’t think—that you’d kiss me like Judas—and mean to kill me all the same,” said the possible martyr, withdrawing within the curtains which screened the door of her bedchamber. She heard the still more horror-stricken tone of Mary’s protest. “Oh, Letitia!” as she disappeared. Mrs. Parke was not afraid of a bold simile. She dropped her excitement as she dropped her velvet skirt, as soon as the door had closed upon her, and submitted herself to the hands of her maid with much calm. She had not the least doubt that Mary would lie awake all night, trembling over that threat, and that in the morning, by some means or other, her commands would be done.
Mary fulfilled these prognostications to the letter. She never closed her eyes all night, but pictured to herself all the horrors of suicide; the discovery of what had happened, the guilt of which she would never feel herself free all her life. She said to herself, indeed, a hundred times that people who threaten such dreadful acts never perform them, but then reflected that many people had taken comfort from such a thought and then found themselves confronted by a horrible fact contradicting everything. It might be folly for a hundred times, yet if once it should come true! Mary, who had never seen old Lord Frogmore, figured to herself a sneering dreadful old man, whose satirical looks would be enough to make life intolerable. She had read of such men in books, and specially of the relations of the husband who would pursue with rancour or contempt a wife whom they did not approve. She went over it so often in her waking dreams that she seemed to see the dreadful old cynic whose very glance would be like a sharp arrow. Poor Letitia! It was bad enough to have a brother like Ralph without exhibiting him at his very worst to the old lord. Though the sight of the man, who had once been her hero, in his fallen state was dreadful to poor Mary, it became more and more plain to her that she must see him; that she must even ask him to see her, and execute Letitia’s will and clear this obstacle out of her friend’s path even if she herself were to die of it, as Letitia threatened she would. Mary’s heart jumped up in her throat and beat like a fluttering bird as if it would escape altogether from her bosom at the thought. How was she to speak to him, to argue with him, to persuade him? What words could she find to bid him leave his sister’s house and never show himself there again. Poor Ralph! Her tender heart pitied him too—he was a terrible apparition, shaming the past, a scare and horror in the present, but what could be so dreadful for a man coming back after so many years as to be disowned and turned away by his nearest relations—to be forbidden his sister’s house? Mary thought, but with a thrill of horror, what she would have done had he been her own brother, or if Will or Harry should come back like that. What misery would be so dreadful, what misfortune so terrible! But Mary knew well that she would never turn her back upon “the boys” whatever happened. The worse things were, they would have the more need of her. She would stand up for them, cover their faults, invent virtues for them if they had not any, make everybody but herself believe that they were guiltless. Oh! nobody should say a word against those who were dear to her—no one! Not husband nor husband’s kin—no one, not even if it was the Queen herself. Mary said this to herself with a burst of generous indignation—and then her heart sank down, down into the depths, thinking of Letitia’s threat, of Letitia perhaps possibly—if it were only possible that was bad enough—doing what she said! And the horror in the morning; the little children weeping, John Parke confounded, not knowing what to think, looking dully at the bed.
Mary got up in the horror of this thought in the dusk of the October morning, before daylight. She heard with a tremor that Mrs. Parke was not very well, was not coming downstairs, but was consoled by the sight of the plentiful breakfast which was being carried up to Letitia. Her maid would not have carried up a breakfast like that if there had been anything wrong; and besides nothing would have gone wrong so far, for there had been no time as yet for sending Ralph away. The dreadful thing was that he did not appear to breakfast any more than his sister. Mary, as she sat behind the tea urn, heard the gentlemen laughing over the previous night. They were sure the bushman would not come up to the scratch this morning they said. If he appeared in time for lunch that would be all that could be looked for. Mary, listening with an anxiety which she could scarcely conceal, soon discovered that one at least of the guests was going away, called as he said by sudden business. If Ralph did not come down till luncheon what should she do? Lord Frogmore might come early, he might meet the prodigal brother—and then! Mary trembled from head to foot. She said to herself that it was folly, that nothing would happen, that Letitia was not that kind—and then she said to herself who could tell, who knows what might happen? By dint of thinking one thing and another her brain was in a whirl. What was she to do?
Sometimes it happens that by dint of mere terror a coward will do a more daring thing than the bravest person would undertake in command of his faculties. Mary ended by sending to Ralph, while he was still sleeping off the whisky of the smoking-room, a note with these words——
“Dear Ralph,—I must speak to you. Come to me for God’s sake in the garden by the sundial at twelve o’clock. It may be a matter of life and death.”
She sent this up after breakfast, and for a little while Mary was more calm. At least she would do what she could for Letitia. For herself and for what he might think of her, or how he might pronounce on her summons, she thought nothing at all.