When Mrs. Parke came downstairs she exhausted herself in civilities to her old brother-in-law, and in apologies that she had not been there to receive him. She had been much upset she allowed by the appearance of her long-lost brother quite unexpectedly on the previous night. A brother who had given the family great anxiety, and whom it was most necessary to send home at once for family reasons. The explanation was very well given and very plausible, but there was one thing upon which Letitia insisted too much, and that was the fact that she had not expected Lord Frogmore until the afternoon. Her imperfect breeding and still more imperfect taste made her insist upon this with an emphasis which conveyed a reproach to Lord Frogmore for his premature arrival. He made her a very serious apology, though with a twinkle in his keen old eyes which Letitia (though so clever) was not clever enough to detect.

“It was very thoughtless on my part,” said Lord Frogmore. “I will be more considerate on future occasions. It is of course ridiculous to arrive in the morning, when the mistress of the house has of course a thousand engagements. I will remember the hint you give me to regulate my future conduct.” Mary, who was present, was very uneasy at this covert satire, but Letitia did not perceive it.

“I am sure I did not mean that you were not most welcome—at any time, Frogmore. I hope neither John nor I need to say that—but only that it is more usual later, and that I was not prepared. Nothing would have prevented me from being down in time, not if I had died for it, had I been prepared.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” said John, “but it’s a bore.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I—with Lord Frogmore!”

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

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

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

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

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