“Then, I suppose, there is scarcely any hope,” said Mr. Blotting, the other executor who had come over to inquire after the patient. The country altogether was moved for poor Mar. People who had never seen the boy sent daily to inquire after him, and the farmers, who had cheered his speech, talked of him and shook their heads as they met on their market days. “There was no stuff in him,” they said; “all spirit, and nothing to ballast it.” “No constitution from his cradle.” And they began to speculate on what kind of landlord John Parke would be when he acted for himself with full power. They all gave a regret to the boy; but that was the most important question after all.

John Parke had not, however, waited, as his wife suggested, to take measures to amend the cottages, where Mar had got what was probably to be his death, and it was while they were walking across the park to inspect the miserable little hamlet which was close to one of the gates that Mr. Blotting had supposed that there was scarcely any hope.

“My wife has been told to write for his mother,” said John, very seriously. “Barker would not take such a step as that, in the circumstances, if he did not think it was coming very near.”

“Poor Lady Frogmore,” said Mr. Blotting, “perhaps it’s better for her, poor thing, now, that she has known so little about him—though so unnatural for a mother.”

“I wonder,” said John, “whether this blow may not stir everything up and awaken her when it’s too late.”

“It’s to be hoped not, now,” said Mr. Blotting, “poor lady!” And he added after a pause, “It will make a great change in your position, Parke. It may be bad taste talking of it—but we can’t help thinking of it. It must be in your mind as it is in mine.”

“I try not to think at all,” said John; “it’s horrible. If I could buy back the boy’s life by any sacrifice——”

“I know, I know,” said the man of business, “that’s how one feels. But you can’t, of course. It’s far beyond your hands. And if you throw back your thoughts, it was a great disappointment when this poor boy was born. I felt it for one. I felt for you and Mrs. Parke deeply. It couldn’t have been expected of a man like your brother, an old man who had never thought of marrying. It was a cruel deception. I can suppose that the poor boy had very engaging qualities, but it seemed a cruel business at the time——”

“It did, it did,” said John. “My wife felt it very much. It was she who brought Mary, the present Lady Frogmore, into the family so to speak—and she did feel it perhaps more than she ought.”

“Not more,” said Mr. Blotting; “it was very natural, I’m sure. Well, it is an ill wind that blows nobody good, and you will at least get back your rights. What will you do about those houses when they fall in, Parke? Of course you can always command my best advice, but it will make a great difference when I have no authority in the matter, and you are acting altogether for yourself——”

“Don’t speak of it, Blotting. I can’t enter on such a question. So long as there is life there is hope.”

But John Parke would have been more than man if he had not allowed a thought or two to surprise him in this kind. He hated himself, but he could not help it: that all this would be his, absolutely his, which he had been managing for another; that he should be able to act independently, to think of the children’s interests without any responsibility or restraint was a wonderful thought. Poor little Mar! If he could redeem his young life by any sacrifice! But he could not do that. Not all the lands attached to the Frogmore peerage, or all belonging to the British crown, could have any effect upon the disposition of the Supreme Disposer of events. John acquiesced in this certainty with a sigh; and then he thought—how could he help thinking?—of what, when he was a free agent, he would do.

The cottages were a very picturesque group of red roofs and antiquated brickwork, situated picturesquely among a clump of trees. It was a thousand pities to pull them down or do anything to them. They were always the first sketch made by every amateur artist who visited the neighborhood, and they figured two or three times in the Academy every year under the titles of “A picturesque nook,” “The homes of our forefathers,” “A hamlet in Blankshire,” etc. A rumor had been spread about in the neighborhood that the cottages of Westgate were to be destroyed, and naturally the cottagers were up in arms. As Mr. Parke and Mr. Blotting were seen approaching, first one head and then another were seen at the doors, and finally a very old woman, bent half-double with rheumatism, and with a head continually moving with the tremble of palsy, came out from one of the houses and confronted the gentlemen. “You ain’t a-going to do away with the cottages; now don’t ye say so,” she said, following them wherever they went, keeping between them and the houses, as though her feeble guardianship could have done anything. “Oh, dearie, dearie! Gentlemen, don’t meddle with the old places; they’ll tumble soon enough of themselves. Oh, don’t ye touch the cottages, gentlemen!” she said.

“If we do anything to the cottages we’ll build you new ones, and far better than these, with every convenience,” said Mr. Blotting, to whom the picturesque told for nothing, and who would rather have had water laid on than all the red roofs in the world.

“We don’t want no conveniences,” said the old woman. “We ’as what suits us, and we don’t want nothin’ more. And what’s it all for, gentlemen, as you’re a-pulling of us down? Because the young lord drinked a lot of water when he didn’t ought to, when he was all in a sweat with his walk? I told ’im not to, and I’d make him a cup of tea. But the young ones they never pay no attention. And oh, my good gentlemen, what’s all the fuss about the young lord? He was one as was born to die, he was. Does any of our lads die of the water, them as drinks it every day? No, nor lasses either. They’s used to it, and they’s strong and well, and plenty of air all their lives, and nothin’ goes amiss with ’m. But yon young lord he’s as weakly as a lamb in February. Just to look at his long thin legs, and his white face, and you’d see there was nought that was solid in him. Don’t you go and judge what’s good for us by ’im. Why, that one would ne’er have had no strength, not if he’d been born and bred at Westgate. It wasn’t in ’im, and if it hadn’t been one thing it would have been another. He was born to die, was that young lord. There was his mother afore him that was druv crazed by that tother lady as made a fuss about the baby coming. Lord, just think what a woman to have a baby as couldn’t give her answer back, but went mad when she was talked to! I was at the Park at the time. I was in the laundry, and there wasn’t one of us servants that didn’t know.”

“What does she mean?” said John.

“Nothing. I should say,” cried Mr. Blotting. “Come, old lady, you’ve given no reason why we shouldn’t pull down your old rookeries that are full of damp and dirt and the rot and mildew. Why, it would be far more comfortable for yourselves. You would be ten times better.”

“Dirt yourself, mister,” cried the old woman in high indignation, “unless it’s Sally Brown’s, the woman at the corner, as isn’t true Westgate, there ain’t no dirt more than’s natural. And as for the young lord, you was always told as you’d never rare him. And no more you haven’t, and as for it’s being our well, as we drinks every day, it’s none of our well. And you just let us alone, mister!” She turned instinctively to Mr. Blotting, as to the inferior person of the two, although, old and nearly blind, she did not recognize John.

“What’s that story about the lady,” he said.

The old woman glared at him with her bleared eyes. “You just let our cottages alone, young gentleman,” she said.

“It’s not so easy as you think to mend matters,” said Mr. Blotting. “I could have told you that. You’d better build your new cottages first, and turn them into them before you pull down the old huts.”

“And let them die of typhoid in the meantime, like my poor boy.”

“Well, if they will, they will—and it’s not you nor me that will stop them,” said Blotting, who in the way of tenants great and small was no optimist. “They don’t care for your conveniences or for what means health to others—but if there’s any money going they would like their share of that.”

John had tossed half-a-crown into the old woman’s hand, who caught it with marvellous cleverness considering her bad sight and doubled-up figure, and he had not patience or tranquillity to do more. “We can send the surveyor,” he said, “for see, I can’t be long absent without thinking something must have happened while I’ve been away. Let’s go home.”

Letitia wrote her letter, not to Mary but Agnes—though she had a much stronger aversion to Agnes than to her sister. It was short, guarded, telling merely the fact of Mar’s illness, that it was very serious, that he was attended by two trained hospital nurses and under the special care of Dr. Barker, and that everything was done that could be done for him. She added no invitation. “The doctor wishes me to write,” she said, “as he thinks it very serious—and if anything further happens I will let you know. Of course you will use your discretion as to whether you communicate this to Mary or not. Probably she will not mind much—which will save her a great deal of grief, poor soul, in case things should turn out badly. He seems to have caught this fever the day you went away in such a hurry. He deserted us all and strolled off by himself into the park, and wore himself out. You will know best whether you said anything to the boy to upset him. He stopped tired at the houses at the Westgate, and asked for some water which was given him from their well. Dr. Barker says this is quite enough to account for it. It is a relief to me amidst all our trouble that he did not get it from anything in my house.” And she ended by repeating her promise to write again if there was “any change.” Letitia felt that she could now say “my house” without hesitation. It was as good as her house now—her great restlessness was calmed down. She went on and wrote a number of letters telling the sad circumstances to her habitual correspondents, whom she informed that her poor young nephew Lord Frogmore was lying dying, with a great deal of emotion. She wrote very affectionately of Mar. It was easy now to say that he was a dear boy, though always very delicate, never able to do the things that the other boys did. “But he has twined himself very much round all our hearts,” wrote Letitia, “and I don’t know how to console the children who adore him.” She could say this without anger or any vivid feeling in the certainty that Mar was going to die. For the first time since she had known she completely approved of Mar. It was a sad thing, no doubt, but it was for the best. He never could have been able to enjoy life—the best that could have been looked for for him would have been an invalid existence, never to be depended upon: and he was such a good boy, so well prepared, looking forward to his release with such resignation and piety. Letitia almost made herself cry, she gave such a touching account of Mar. When she completed those letters she felt more calm than she had done for many a day. The feeling of suspense was gone. The doctor she felt assured would never have said so much if there had been any hope left. And now she could permit herself to entertain these thoughts which had visited her at intervals for years, and which she had not permitted to dwell in her mind, thoughts captivating and attractive, of all the changes she would make and all the things she would do when she came into her kingdom. There were certain improvements to be made in this very house which she had always wanted, which she decided upon the very first time she ever came to the Park, while old Frogmore was still master of all. She had said to John on that occasion (though she was not much more than a bride at the time), “I shall change all the east wing, and turn the library into a second drawing-room when we are here.” John had bidden her hold her tongue, and asked how she knew they would ever be there? Frogmore, who was so strong, would probably outlive him, John said. But Mrs. John was sure that she knew better. And now how much had happened! It had seemed all to float from them and become impossible, and then again it had returned again to possibility, and now it was nearly come to pass. Very nearly! It was only a question of time now. Ten days or so and everything would be settled—at the furthest; if it was possible that he could hold out so long. She indulged herself by thinking it all out how she could make those alterations. Many a time had the vision drifted across her eyes, but she never allowed herself to caress and indulge that vision. She thought not only of the alterations, but of a thousand things beside. The position would be so different. No critical observers to remark on what she did; it would be her own to do what she pleased. No narrowness of money to prevent this and that, to drive her into half measures and improvements incomplete. What she did she could do with confidence, knowing that when John’s time was over (Letitia did not think that her own time might be over), her son would come after him. Everything would become legitimate and natural from the moment that this poor boy was mercifully removed to a better world. It would be better, far better for him: for he never could have had but a wretched invalid life in this world. And for everybody else how much better. The children would all have their rights—the privileges which Mary Hill had taken from them when she married old Frogmore. To have an Honorable to their name would be an advantage even for the girls. And their way of life would be so changed. Letitia went about the house lightly with a changed countenance. Her suspense seemed over. It was not that the doctor had said anything more than he had said over and over again; but she took it in a different way. Her mind was at rest. She spoke quietly to the people whom she saw of the great sorrow that was hanging over the house. There was no doubt, and no pretence at any hope in her tones. Her confidence was extraordinary, as had been the rage of her suspense a little time before. She allowed herself to talk to John of the things that would have to be done, and he did not stop her. He said nothing himself, but he did not refuse to listen to her. Her certainty as to their changed positions impressed her husband with a sensation of certainty too. She had always been in the right, and there seemed no reason for doubting her now. The conviction was wrought in John’s mind with a real sorrow for the dying boy. Poor Mar! To purchase advantage by the sacrifice of that innocent life was bitter to John, he said to himself; and if by any effort of his he could save the poor child’s life—but what could his efforts do when the doctors had given him up? And no doubt Letitia was right, and it became them to realize their position. He allowed himself to think of the alterations too.

And meantime Mar lay in a strange confusion, his faculties all dulled with his fever, the burning hours going over him, so that he knew not night from day, with kind hands ministering to him—but only the hands of strangers—and the minds of all about him gradually turning to a consideration of the life and the world beyond, in which he should have no part. There he lay, always patient, smiling still when he was roused from his stupor, drifting on to the end.