Lord Frogmore stayed for some days at Greenpark. He caught cold—quite a slight cold, not worth making any fuss about, if he had not taken such tremendous care of his health, Letitia said, scornfully. She said to her husband that she really could not pretend to coddle and take care of him for such a nothing—it would look as if she had a mercenary motive—as if she meant to wheedle him out of something for the children. John did not quite like this tone, for Frogmore was his own brother after all, and Letitia was only a Parke by marriage. But he said, “I don’t know why you should trouble when Miss Hill is here.” So this was how it ended. Mary was made over permanently to Lord Frogmore to amuse him. He did not want nursing. Rogers, his man, who knew exactly what to do in any emergency, took care of that. Rogers was so clever that he was half a doctor, having studied all his master’s ailments, and having in every possible combination of circumstances the right thing to administer. It filled Mrs. Parke with mingled consternation and awe to see all the precautions that were taken.

“Why, he will never die,” she said to Mary. “His exercise and his food and every habit he has are like a doctor’s book. Felicie tells me such stories about his clothes; he is dressed by the thermometer, if you will believe me—and things put into his bath to strengthen him and brighten him up; and all kinds of preparations of food. It is Rogers’ whole work looking after him, day and night. What a cooking up of the poor body, Mary Hill! It’s against Scripture, and every law.”

“But there’s nothing wrong in keeping one’s self well.”

“Oh, well! it is not that—it is trying to get the better of Providence, not to speak of poor John and the children. What he means is never to die.”

Mrs. Parke was really alarmed by this determination on the part of the man to whom her husband was heir. All those precautions, (which, if not positively sinful, were so little consistent with the desire to be at rest, which ought to be the prevailing sentiment of old people) were intended to keep John out of his inheritance—to prevent herself from becoming Lady Frogmore. If the old lord succeeded in his wicked plan of living on to an indefinite time, John and she might be old people before they came to their kingdom—nay, more horrible still, John (who took very little care of himself) might die first and leave Letitia only Mrs. Parke for ever, even though little Duke might come to the title. This was a contingency which filled her with horror. She felt that she would willingly have seized the old gentleman and shaken him—but then reflected again with dismay upon his trim, steady figure, his alert walk, his rosy countenance. He looked, when she came to think of it, stronger than John! He had Rogers to watch over him night and day. He had Valentine’s Meat Juice and Brand’s Essence (if these concentrated comforts were invited) administered to him whenever he felt a sinking—he had some sort of elixir of life put into his bath. What he intended was never to die. Mrs. John Parke became pale with the horror of this thought, and she felt that she could not endure the old egotist, the selfish, self-absorbed old man. “It is all I can do to be civil to him at dinner and ask after his cold in the morning. Do for goodness sake amuse him a little, Mary Hill. You don’t feel it as I do—you’ve no cares to distract your mind, and it’s far easier for you to put on a face and sympathize with people about nothing than for me. I’m too sincere for that sort of thing,” Letitia said.

“But don’t you think it might be better to pay him a little attention. Just to show that you are interested. If it were only for half-an-hour, Letitia.”

“Oh, what is the good of having you in the house with nothing to do if you can’t manage a little thing like that for me, Mary Hill!”

Mary was silenced, and had no reply to make. She had herself no objection whatever to read the papers and talk to Lord Frogmore. He was very kind. His nice old ways, which were very precise and regular, almost, she said to herself, like a lady’s ways, suited Mary, who was a little prim in her middle-aged decorum. She had no objection to the entrance of Rogers with his little cough mixture, or digestive pill, or cup of soup. On the whole, perhaps, she liked the little fuss of invalidism, the cares, which a little ailment or any amusing little illness which meant nothing demanded. To draw out the screen so as to shield the old gentleman from an imaginary draught, to change for him the arrangement of his cushion and his footstool, to put book and paper cutter ready upon the little table when she herself was called away, was really pleasant to her. And when he declared that a slight cold was quite an agreeable thing in pleasant company, and that it was delightful to have a right to so many little attentions, it gave Mary a serene pleasure to find herself so useful. Another part of her duty was not perhaps so justifiable, but she discharged it with devotion. She accounted for the absence of Letitia in an unvarying round of praiseworthy ways. She made a fancy portrait of Mrs. Parke, which was beautiful to behold. She was so devoted a wife, taking every trouble from John, leaving him free for his shooting and all his amusements. She was so excellent a housekeeper, making it possible by her good management to entertain a great deal, which was so good for her husband. She was the best of mothers, giving so much of her attention to her children.

“I am coming to believe that my sister-in-law is not a woman at all, but a bundle of virtues,” said Lord Frogmore.

“Oh not that!” cried Mary, with a blush, “not that at all. She has her faults, of course—but her whole heart is in her own family, to do everything for them——”

“At all events she has one great quality—she has the art of making a devoted friend,” said Lord Frogmore with a smile which made Mary blush again.

“Oh,” she cried, “I am of so little account. I can never do anything for her—except the smallest things.”

“Such as taking care of an old bore with a cold,” said the old gentleman. Mary felt that she had not been warm enough in Letitia’s praises, for he never shook off that cynical look, while certainly Letitia might have showed him a little more attention. Mary wondered sometimes if it was true that she herself found it easy to make up a face and sympathize with people, and if Letitia was, as she said, too sincere. She found herself sympathizing with Lord Frogmore in a way which perhaps was absurd, for he was not ill: he was really enjoying his cold and all the attentions it procured him. It was bad weather, and there was no temptation to go out. It was not as if he were really ill, and it was an act of devotion to nurse him. Was she making up a face? Mary said to herself. “No,” with a little indignation. She did not feel herself to be insincere. Still, perhaps, it was easier for her than for Letitia to show sympathy with other people’s troubles, whether they were small or great.

Lord Frogmore got better and went away, having considerably outstayed the original limits of his visit. And to tell the truth his going was a great relief to the household, except to Mary, who missed him very much. The Parkes by this time had got rid of their visitors, and were themselves setting out upon a little round of visits to taste other people’s dinners and shoot other people’s covers. On such occasions, which occurred periodically, Mary was left in charge of the house. She had to keep the servants in hand, which was not an easy task, for they all knew that she was a dependent without wages; and naturally held her authority very light; and she had to watch over the children, to send for the doctor when he was wanted, to superintend the nurses, to keep everything in the established routine. It was not a pleasant office, for nobody in the house chose to be subordinate to a poor lady who was not even the governess—who was only a friend and of no account personally, living on the kindness of the mistress of the house. This did not account, however, for the excitement with which she rushed into Letitia’s boudoir on the morning of their departure, looking alternately very red and very white, and scarcely able to speak for an agitation which took away her breath.

“Oh Letitia, can I speak to you?” she cried, bursting into the room in a manner quite unlike her usual soft movements. Letitia was at the moment superintending the shutting up of her box, in which all her best dresses were, and which was reluctant to close.

“Well, my dear, you can speak as much as you like; but as for expecting me to pay any attention just at this moment when I am in the agonies of packing! Kneel on the lid, Felicie, and I’ll try and turn the key.”

“Letitia, please, just a moment. There’s something which I want to tell you—to consult you about.”

“You are the oddest creature in the world, Mary Hill. Consult me! when the carriage is nearly at the door, and all my things to pack. C’est fini at last, Felicie—Fermez le bonnet-box, too, and give me my keys. Well, what is it, Mary? You don’t speak.”

“I can’t tell you before anybody,” said Mary in a low voice. “I’ve got a letter——”

“Oh, you’ve got a letter! I can’t send Felicie away, because there are so many little things to do—but she doesn’t count. I say all sorts of things before her. Is it from one of the boys?”

“No, Letitia. Oh, please, a moment—it’s very important.”

“It’s from Ralph, and he’s asked you to marry him? I never thought he was such a fool. And I hope you’re not going to be a fool to snap at him—with not a penny between you,” Letitia added, growing red. “That’s all the advice I am going to give. You’re old enough to judge for yourself—but neither you nor he must look for anything from us. Neither money nor influence—we shall do nothing for you—nothing! You may as well know that from the first.”

Mary had been white and trembling with agitation; now she turned red with one of those sudden fits of exasperation which attack even the mildest. To have this said to her before the waiting maid, who concealed a smile and a look of intelligence which had flashed into her eyes under a demure gravity, was enough to have upset the temper of a saint.

“It is not from Ralph,” she said very quietly.

“Oh, it’s not from Ralph. Well, that’s a very good thing. Felicie, attachez les straps—or leave them for Robert to do, if you like—and bring me my cloak. Well, so it is not from Ralph, Mary? Then who is it from? It’s a proposal one can see from your face. Take it whoever it comes from, Mary. You haven’t time, my dear, to pick and choose.”

“You will let me speak to you in your room, Letitia?”

“There’s no time,” said Mrs. Parke. “Felicie, mon chapeau, and my gloves. There’s the carriage. I’ve only one piece of advice, Mary—take it if it’s a decent offer. You can’t expect to get many more at your age.”

“It is more than a decent offer. Oh, Letitia, it is from an old gentleman, one much older, and far above me.”

“Did you expect a young one?” said Mrs. Parke. “I think you would be very, very silly to stand upon that. I know who it is. It is old Dr. Hilton; and just an excellent match—an admirable match—the very thing I should have wished for you. Old! I hope you are not such a fool as to think of that! Think of your father and mother, and the use you might be to them. And as for far above you, why you’re a clergyman’s daughter, you are in the same rank in life. Mary, mind what I say to you. Don’t be a fool.”

“But it’s not Dr. Hilton. Oh Letitia, only a moment! I must speak to you.”

“There is John calling,” said Mrs. Parke, composedly. “Good-bye, Mary, I can’t stop a moment longer. Take care of the boy, and mind you don’t let Saunders and the rest get the upper hand. Who can it be if it’s not Dr. Hilton? But whoever it is, mind what I say. What does age matter? If he can support you, and leave you something when he dies, take him, take him, Mary Hill—at your age what could you expect more.”

Mary followed her friend downstairs. It was of no use saying any more. Mrs. Parke had many directions to give as she went away. She had to say good-bye to the children who were in the hall to see the last of mamma. She had to silence John who was calling to her, to question Felicie, who lagged behind. “Mind you take care of the boy,” she said, looking back, waving her hand to Mary. “Mind you keep everything going: and you can write and tell me all about it. Nurse, if there is anything the matter call Miss Hill at once, and she will know what to do. Ta-ta, baby; good-bye, Duke. Mind you’re good till I come back: and good-bye, Letty and Johnny, be good children all of you. Felicie, what on earth keeps you always behind?”

Then the carriage rolled away, followed by the cab with Felicie and the boxes, and stillness fell upon the abandoned house; stillness at least so far as the sitting-rooms were concerned; but a louder note than usual from the nurseries, and a jovial hum in the servants’ hall, where everybody felt their holiday had begun.

Mary went back into the house from the doorsteps, on which she had been standing dazed, contemplating the carriage and Felicie’s cab as they rolled away. She came in like a ghost, her face very pale, her limbs trembling with an agitation which was only increased by the fact that Letitia was now permanently out of hearing, and that there was nobody left from whom she could ask any advice. She wandered up and down the different rooms for some time, seating herself here and there for a moment, then springing up again to try another chair and another position. At last she went into the library and sat down upon a low chair before the fireplace. There was no fire in that room, which was not a room ordinarily much frequented by the ladies of the house, and the first to fall into the neglect which characterizes a house from which the masters are absent. The fire had not been lighted though it was November and a dull cold day. Mary sat down upon this little chair by the cold hearth, and she covered her face with her hands and leaned her head against the arm of the great chair which stood close to her. Here for a moment she could rest and think. She sat quite still for a long time in the absolute solitude of the place, and covered her eyes from all external distractions—but it would scarcely be just to say that Mary was thinking, much less that she was wisely balancing the good against the evil, and making up her mind what she should do.

It would be more just to say that her mind went whirling round and round like the scientific toy which represents processions of moving figures flying past, steeple-chases, hunting fields, negro contortionists, Christy’s minstrels. Everything was going round and round with Mary. She herself seemed only to be looking on, seeing the whirl which was going through her brain. It settled down a little after a time and solidified into the neat little figure which for so many days had occupied the chair on which she was leaning. Her thoughts all paused, stopped short in the whirl of them, and standing aside like so many country attendants allowed Lord Frogmore to reveal himself in the silence. There he stood, active, small, alert—with his short white curling locks and ruddy color. There he sat with his precise little ways, his cup of soup, his cough mixtures, Rogers, his man, taking such care of him. Mary’s heart jumped up and began to throb in her ears and jump in her throat like the piston of a steam engine. Lord Frogmore! And she had his letter in her pocket, a nice letter, a letter full of respect and honor, setting her in so high a place, doing her justice and far more than justice, Mary thought. No sign in all he said of the old maid at whom Letitia had assured her, and she herself had found, men laugh. Lord Frogmore showed no consciousness that she was an old maid, that she was past her bloom, that she was poor and he was doing her a great honor—oh, not a sign of that! If she had been a duke’s daughter and a creature beautiful as the day, the old gentleman could not have written with more tender respect. Mary was not without pride, humble woman though she was, and she had received many a wound among Letitia’s careless friends and visitors, wounds of which she was too proud to say anything and too good to resent, but of which she had deeply felt the sting. But out of Lord Frogmore’s letter there seemed to have come a balm which soothed and healed her very soul. She felt herself put in her right place, respected, honored, approved. If it did no more than this for her, it had done what words could not express. She sat hiding her face and felt this balm steal over and heal her wounds.

And it was only after this, after a long interval, after the first whirl of agitation and the hush of gratified and soothed sensation, the charm and sweetness of being at length appreciated and understood, that Mary began to think what answer was she to make?—what was she to do?