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.