THE condition of mind of Mrs. John Parke when she escaped from the hands of Lady Frogmore was one which no words of mine could describe. And yet her excitement was scarcely greater then than it had been during all that day. The extraordinary and awful discovery of the morning, that Mar was not going to die, that all her hopes were fallacious, and she and her children doomed to insignificance forever, had so unsettled her mind, which was fixed in a contrary idea, that in the storm and passion which possessed her soul she was scarcely responsible for her actions. To say this is a long way from saying that she was mad, and not responsible for her actions at all. Letitia was mad with passion, with contradiction, with the dreadful destruction of all her dreams—and when there came whirling into her soul like a burning arrow the horrible suggestion that was murder, she did not seem to have leisure or power to think of it, to consider it, much more to reject it and cast it out of her, but only to feel keenly penetrated by it, transfixed, so that the mad confusion became more terrible still, and the writhing of her spirit more convulsive from this painful dart, which went through and through her. She seemed to obey some command that had been given to her when she went with what seemed premeditation to the shop in the street of the little town where she had gone to call on her friend. There was no time to think, only to do. All the evening she was in this hurried breathless state. She had to sit down at the dinner table, to answer questions, to talk and look like her usual self; and then when she escaped upstairs, pretending she was tired, there was still no time, no time to think. She gave the nurse the potion, not sure whether that was not the thing that would destroy, while the other emptied into the innocent milk was nothing at all, a mere restorative. She did not know which was which. What did it matter? There was no time to think. Thus when Mary seized her it was but the climax of a miserable day, a day which had been all one rush from morning to night.
And then the stuff was spilt between them. It was a good thing the stuff was spilt—all spilt and useless on the floor except a little which went upon her dressing gown. Milk makes a stiff mark, hardens the stuff it stains, as if it were blood. Mary jumped back to save her grey gown. Oh, she did not mean to have her grey silk spoiled whatever happened, which was so like Mary. And then Letitia had got away. Nobody had seen it one way or the other, or knew anything about it except Mary. And what was there to know? Nothing! the stuff was spilt—there was nothing—nothing! She had done no harm—absolutely no harm. What was there to know? On the whole it had relieved her heart and her breathing when the stuff was spilt; she would not have liked to drink it as Mary tried to make her. No—she would not have drunk it; but when it was spilt, that was all right again. The only thing she regretted was that it did not splash up upon Mary’s gown. She would have liked to spoil that Quakerish dress. It would have been a satisfaction. And she did not meet a creature as she went back to her room. John was not there. Nobody need know that she had ever been out of it. To be sure there were Mary and Agnes—but they would not say anything. It was all one; Mar must live, and all her hopes must die—but at all events no one could say that she had harmed him. Never, never! she had not harmed him. She was even capable of falling asleep in her exhaustion and had a succession of dreams or dozes. She did not know what was going on till it was light, till the morning had begun, and then she jumped up and went and looked out at the sky, feverishly anxious to know whether it was fine or whether it rained, though this was of no importance to anyone; and then she had sent John to Mary, thinking it best to have the catastrophe over whatever it should be—and then went to bed again and fell asleep, deep asleep, lying like a log through all those brilliant morning hours.
Who it was who said first that Letitia had the fever, that she had caught it in her devotion to her nephew, no one ever knew. It was the kind of rumor which rises by itself. She was ill and in bed, and what so natural as that the fever, which is always popularly believed to be contagious, whatever the instructed may say, should have seized another victim? The housemaids were extremely nervous whether they might not themselves be the next to be stricken, and half the county sent to inquire with a depth of interest which was intensified by the fact that Mrs. John Parke had not been up to this time a popular woman. The ladies in the neighborhood said to each other that they had done her injustice, that they never had supposed her capable of such devotion, and sent their grooms to inquire with even greater interest than they had shown for young Lord Frogmore; and whenever John was met he was overwhelmed with inquiries and bidden to keep up his spirits and hope the best, for if young Frogmore, so delicate a boy had recovered, why not Mrs. Parke? John, everybody said, looked ten years older, and that too was a revelation to his neighbors; for it had never been supposed that he was so sensitive or so romantically attached to his wife that even a possibility of danger to her should move him so much. Dr. Barker, it was remarked, did not look by any means so grave. He said brusquely that she would do very well, that it was not nearly so bad a case as that of Lord Frogmore, and his visits were much less frequent than they had been during Mar’s illness. But even with all the superior sources of information which we possess, it is difficult to tell at what time it entered into Letitia’s mind that it would be a good thing to have the fever. She was capable of no such thought at first when she woke from that heavy sleep of exhaustion, and found her husband waiting for her awakening, waiting to question her, to catch her off her guard, to discover the meaning that had been in Mary’s words. But Letitia’s first glance at John’s face had put her on her guard. She had woke refreshed and strengthened by the consciousness which felt like superior virtue, that Mar had taken no harm; and all her forces rallied to answer John, to bewilder and beguile him. His face was full of perplexity—he had got no light on what had happened, and every nerve must be strained, Letitia felt, to settle the question now and forever. She answered with a skill and coolness which would have been the admiration of any lawyer, his heavy cross-examination. He was not clever, poor fellow, he did not know what questions to ask; he asked the same questions again and again. He continued to show his own troubled thoughts, and the vague dread in his mind, rather than to get any light upon the mystery. But though she was so clever and he so much the reverse, it soon became apparent to Letitia that for the first time he was not convinced by the most specious explanations. She told him a story which fitted well enough and made it all clear. There was no joints in her armour, nothing at least of which he could take advantage—it was all quite coherent, hanging together. There was not a word to be said against it. But John was not convinced, the cloud did not lift from his face. Instead of the look of confidence he was wont to give her, the “Ah, now I see what you mean,” which had so often been the reward of Letitia’s explanations, he sat heavily, staring at her, and found nothing to say. He could not object to anything, but he was not convinced. It was a new thing in their life. Perhaps it was then, in the evening of that day, when her own excitement had calmed down, when she had succeeded in repeating to herself as a thing that had been almost beyond hoping for, the highest testimony to her own virtues, that Mar had taken no harm, that the idea of having the fever came into Letitia’s busy brain. All this excitement had told upon her, and the terrible shock of last night which, to do her justice, was as much caused by the dreadful sensation of having done that terrible thing, as of having been found out. She was not well. She found with satisfaction that her pulse was high and her breathing quick. She was feverish and excited, her whole being conscious of the tremendous crisis through which she had passed. And to meet Mary was beyond even Letitia’s power. She was able for many things, but she did not feel herself able for that. It seemed to her that to remain in bed under any plausible pretext, to lie there at her ease, and repose herself, would be the greatest comfort she could think of. Her head did ache, her pulse was quick, the agitation which had not subsided in her mind counterfeited not badly the bodily agitation of fever. It was enough to deceive the nurse who came to her reluctantly, but whom she soon subdued to her service, and if it did not subdue Dr. Barker it was enough to make him consent to her assumption. It was herself who suggested gradually and with caution that she had caught it from young Frogmore. She said, “Let no one come near me; you all say there is nothing contagious in it; but how could I have got it but from Mar? Therefore, keep the children away from me, keep the servants out of the room. No one must run any risk for me.”
“Mamma, mamma,” cried Letty, at the locked door. “Let me come in. I must come in and help to nurse you.”
Letitia smiled with a pathetic look which altogether overcame the nurse. She went to the door and addressed the applicant outside. “Miss Letty, your dear mamma will not allow me to let you in. She says, seeing she has caught it from Lord Frogmore, you might catch it too—and you must not come in.”
“Oh, what do I care for catching it!” cried Letty, beating upon the door. “Let me in, let me come in!”
But Letitia was inexorable. John was allowed to come in, morning and evening. John, who never got free from that cloud on his face, who stood at a little distance from the bed, and looked at his wife while he asked his little formula of questions. “If she had had a good night—how her pulse was—what the doctor thought.” He was anxious and unfailing in his visits, but the cloud never departed from his face. Not even the fact that she had taken the fever convinced John. It softened him, indeed, and mingled pity with the painful perplexity in which his mind was left, which was something in her favor; but it was not enough to restore the confidence which was lost.
Thus the great house presented a very curious spectacle with its two centres of illness—on one side full of brightness and hope, on the other of dark and troublous thoughts. Mar was recovering moment by moment—they could see him getting better—thriving, brightening, expanding like a flower. And the room, in which Agnes no longer attempted to cook for him, was full of the cheerfullest voices, to which his young tremulous bass—for his boyish voice had broken, and was now portentiously mannish and deep, notwithstanding his weakness—would respond now and then with a happy word, which Letty and Tiny received with delight and admiration, accepting even his jokes with acclamation in their gratitude to him for getting well. They told each other stories now of the dreadful time of his illness, and especially of that day when they had given up hope, which was the day on which Agnes had received her letter, the day which preceded the change, which had been so wonderful a change in many ways. “But I never gave up hope,” cried Tiny, “neither I nor nurse.” “Oh,” cried Letty, “you shut yourself up all the morning in your room. You would do no lessons or anything; and when I went to your door to call you, you could not hear me, for you were sobbing as if your heart would break: and nurse, though she always said there was hope, cried when she said it.” “I cried because I could not help it, but I always believed he would get better,” said the nurse. It was the cheerful nurse, she who had always hoped, who still kept partial charge of Mar, while the other one who had fallen asleep on that eventful night had gone to Mrs. Parke. This conflict of eager voices touched and amused the two ladies, who had no thought in the world but how to humor and please and strengthen Mar. Mary laid her hand on Tiny’s shoulder, and said to her sister, “It must be this child, for the other is too old.” For what was it that Letty at nineteen was too old? But Agnes was not so easily moved. She shook her head a little. She loved the children; but Letitia’s blood was in their veins, and who could tell when or how it might come out?
And the curious thing was that between Lady Frogmore and her son there was such a perfect understanding and union, as mother and child who had been all in all to each other do not always reach. Mary’s mind had never been disturbed by fears that her boy might reject her tardy love, or might have been alienated from her. It was part of the change that her illness and permanent confusion of mind had wrought in her. She who had been so humble was now troubled with no doubts of herself. From the moment when the cloud had rolled away a soft and full sunshine of revival and certainty had come into Mary’s mind. She had not felt herself guilty towards her boy, and she had never doubted that his heart would meet her’s with all the warmth of nature. It was as if she had come home from a long involuntary absense. Had she ever forgotten him, put him aside, shrank from the sight of him? She did not believe it, or rather she never thought of its rejecting every such thought and image. She never called him by the name of Mar as the others did. Some painful association, she could not tell what, was in the name. She called him “my boy” in a voice which was like that of a dove, and then with a firmer tone “Frogmore.” “It is time,” she said, “that he bore his father’s name.” And she made no allusion to the past, never a word to show that she remembered the long years of separation. Even in her conversation with her sister when they were alone together, Mary altogether avoided the subject. To say that Agnes did not try to fathom the extraordinary change, and make out how it was that such a revolution should be possible would be to suppose her strangely unlike the rest of the human race. Her mind was full of curiosity and wonder, but it was never satisfied. Lady Frogmore never seemed to remember that things had been different in the past. She spoke of Frogmore’s room at the Dower house, as if there had always been such a room. “I think we must have all the furniture renewed,” she said, “he wants a man’s surroundings now. He must have new bookcases and room for all his things.” Agnes was so overawed by her sister’s steadfast ignoring of all that was different in the past that she did not even dare to ask which was Frogmore’s room. She had to divine which room was meant, and to carry out her orders without a question more.