“Letitia! who did her best to kill you—who came when you were weak, and reproached you, and said—horrible things. Mary, Mary, rouse yourself! Do not let her succeed in her bad, bad intent. She hoped the baby would die. And almost as well if he had, poor child,” cried Agnes, in the petulance of her misery, “when his mother disowns him. His father is dead, and his mother has forgotten him. Oh, poor child, poor child.”
This did not move Mary as she had hoped. She said sadly, “Yes, I know, Letitia was not very kind. But it was not wonderful. If I had been the means of keeping her husband and her children out of the title—out of their inheritance. Would you have taken it better, Agnes? I should not—if I had had children——”
Her voice shook a little. “I do remember a time when I suppose there were hopes—and I felt very happy for a moment—and dear Frogmore——”
“Yes,” said Agnes, anxiously.
“But it all went off. I have been thinking of that all the time, while you have been saying such strange things. I fainted or something, and there was an end of it. I think I was sorry after, but I’m glad now not to have done any harm to Letitia and her boy.”
“Oh, Mary! if you were to see your own boy, your own boy! and hear him call you mother, don’t you think that would bring things back to your mind.”
“If I had a boy, Agnes,” said Lady Frogmore with a faint, half-reproachful smile, “I should not want that; but you know I never had a child.”
“O, my dear, my dear!” cried Agnes, wringing her hands.
“You may be sorry, but that doesn’t make any difference. If we could change things by being sorry——! not that I am sorry,” said Lady Frogmore, “my only comfort is that my marriage and all that which she disliked so, has done Letitia no harm.”
“She disliked it very much. Oh that is far too gentle a way of putting it, she said dreadful things to you, Mary.”