“There is the carriage going to fetch her,” said Agnes, “and I must go too. Good-bye, Mar. Oh, it’s a dreadful disappointment to me to go so soon, not to have any more of you. I was your mother when you were little, Mar. You were my baby, and now I don’t see you from year’s end to year’s end. Nobody thinks it is anything to me.”
“Aunt Agnes——”
“Oh Mar, my dear, never mind me, but think sometimes of your poor mother living in a dream and not knowing—and that she may wake up before she dies. God bless you, God bless you, my little Mar.”
Mar was not to be found when Duke came back to look for him, half touched, half triumphant, having given Lady Frogmore, he thought, a few things to think of, though he had not mentioned her son. He had kept his consigné according to the letter of Agnes’ instructions, but he had given a hint or two of someone who was waiting for him, and people whom Aunt Mary would not care to see. “I know how particular you are,” the young man had said. Lady Frogmore had not seemed to understand him, but no doubt she understood him, and he hoped would feel ashamed of herself. All this he meant to pour upon Mar, to indemnify him, by the fact that other people cared for him, for his mother’s neglect; but Mar was nowhere to be found. He did not appear at all till late in the afternoon, when he came in very tired and pale, stumbling upstairs to the schoolroom so fatigued that he could scarcely drag one foot after the other. He said he had been in the woods, that he had not wanted any luncheon, that he wanted nothing now except to lie down a little and rest, when his cousins and the servants surrounded him open-mouthed. “Oh, Mar, mamma is so angry. She will not let you come to the ball,” cried Tiny; and Letty gave him a little lecture upon making everybody anxious. But the worst of all was when Letitia herself appeared with a basin of soup in her hand and wrath in her countenance. “I did not think after all the fuss that has been made about you that you would choose this day to put us all out,” she cried, “but I ought to have known that it was just the fuss and nonsense that would turn your silly head. Take this at once, and you can go to bed: for you certainly shan’t come down again to-night.”
“I don’t want anything,” said Mar, turning his head from the light.
“Take it this moment,” cried Letitia; “I am not going to be trifled with. Nourishment you must have, and you shall have it so long as I am here to see after you. I have got a hundred things to do, but I shan’t leave this room till you have taken it. You can do what you will with the others, but you shall not overcome me.”
“Oh, take it, Mar, take it; and then we shall be by ourselves, and I will sit with you,” said Tiny. Mar was too tired almost to lift his head, but he had a forlorn sense of youthful dignity, and would not give battle over the soup. And after he had swallowed it he dozed a little, and was conscious for a time of the comforting presence of Tiny, who, indeed, did a great deal for him in staying half-an-hour with him when there was so many conflicting occurrences going on downstairs—the decorations of the ballroom and the laying of the long tables, and the flowers and all the preparations for the evening, which were fast turning the sober everyday house into a fairy palace. She stole away as soon as she had thought he had gone to sleep, not without a struggle with her conscience, which she put to silence by asking it indignantly what good she could do to Mar when he was asleep? The boy dozed most of the evening, and when Duke and Letty rushed into the room to announce a second victory over their mother, and that he must get up directly for the ball, Mar only shook his head. He said they were to put his windows open so that he might hear the music and that he would go to bed. And it was thus that Mar spent the evening of the ball. He lay awake and heard the music, and wondered to himself how they were enjoying it, and if it was as beautiful as he had fancied it would be, and whether Letty was dancing all the time, and if they ever thought of him lying upstairs listening. They had all promised to come and see him from time to time, but nobody came except Tiny on her way to bed, very angry to be sent upstairs at twelve o’clock, and spoiling the effect of her toilette by her rage and her tears. “They are going to keep it up for hours,” cried Tiny, “and how is a person to sleep with all that row going on.” It amused him faintly to see how angry Tiny was, and that she had entirely forgotten that he had already lain awake listening to it for hours that seemed to him endless. Then when fatigue began to conquer his wakefulness, and he was nearly asleep, there flashed in a brilliant couple, Letty and Duke, making a tour de valse in Mar’s little room, and bringing him sweetmeats from the supper table. They did not come at the promised time, but as soon as they remembered, with the careless, frank affectionateness of brothers and sisters—“It is nearly dawn,” said Mar, lifting his dazzled eyes. “Oh not for hours yet,” they cried, valsing off again, almost before he could say “How beautiful you are, Letty.” It vexed the boy that she did not hear him say it, and the sound of the carriages rattling up and down the avenue kept him awake for the rest of the night. But it was no longer night; it was bright morning when the visitors went away, and the house fell into uneasy silence at last—silence that did not last long; for, of course, the servants had to be up again to put everything straight, and prepare for the needs of the new day. Poor Mar, he too had looked forward a little to the ball, to see it, and decide whether it was as fine in reality as it was in books, and to see Letty dancing, and to hear all the pleasant things that would be said of Duke. It was not so bad for him as it would have been for a girl, who would have wanted to dance and not merely to look on; but still it was a forlorn way of spending the first night of splendor that since ever he was born had taken place in his own house.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
Letitia’s triumph and delight when she found that she was to have her ball to herself, without the presence either of Lady Frogmore, who would have made her seem second in what she called her own house, or Mar, who would have been the hero of the evening had he appeared, were almost more than words could say. It seemed to her too good to be true that Mary should come, giving thus her sanction and approval, and then go away, interfering with nothing; and that Mar should play into her hands, and disqualify himself by the fatigue of his long ramble, a thing which she could not have hoped for! It seemed to Mrs. Parke as if Providence had taken the matter in hand, and was fighting for her. It is easy to be pious when things go so much to one’s mind, and it is always so easy to deceive one’s-self about the virtuousness of one’s aims. When a woman is scheming for her children, and their benefit, does it not seem as if the stars in their courses should fight for her? And Letitia would have indignantly flung off the charge of selfishness: was it not all for Duke?—for her husband and her children? that they should have everything they wanted and a happy life; that they should, if possible, have all the honours of the race secured to them, or at least should triumph as much as possible over the untoward accident which had alienated these honors. It was not for herself, Letitia would have said, with fine indignation—what could it matter for her? and what could it be supposed but a mother’s first and highest duty to strive for the advantage of Duke.
It must not be supposed, however, that Mrs. Parke’s treatment of Mar had any distinct evil intention. It was her real conviction that the boy would not live, and she dealt with him as the man in the parable dealt with the talent which was given to him to make profit of, and which he laid up in a napkin. Had she been more generously inspired she would have endeavored, even by taking a risk, to stimulate the forces of the delicate boy. Had he been her own son this is what she would have done; but Letitia’s first thought was, not to save him, but that it might not be said he had been exposed to any danger while under her charge. She thought that she protected herself from all blame by making a hothouse plant of the boy, and shutting him up from every wind that blew. “No one can say he has not been taken every care of,” she said. Should “anything happen,” she, at least, would thus be free from blame. It would be known to all that she had been more careful of him than of her own—that she had not suffered the winds of heaven to visit his cheeks too roughly. That she had kept him from fatigue, from excitement, from everything calculated to hurt him. And in all this she was sincere enough. That she had also wished to ignore him, to keep him in the background, to give her own children the advantages which were meant chiefly for Mar, did not hurt her conscience. It was not for herself—she derived no benefit from the fact that Mar was not sent to school—on the contrary it was a self denial to her, a bond preventing her from amusing herself as she would, never leaving home except for a day or two. That it gave to Duke the principal place, and made John a much more important person in the county, were objects unconnected with Mrs. Parke’s personality—then how could she be called selfish? It can never be selfishness to strive for the pre-eminence of your husband and your child. Thus Letitia made her conscience quite comfortable when it did by chance give her a pinch. But generally it must be said her perfect conviction that she was right, whatever she did, daunted her conscience and kept everything quiet. Of course she was right! She had a delicate boy to bring up who everybody said would never be reared, and she took such care of him that he was never exposed to a draught, or suffered to escape from the cotton wool in which her assiduous and constant attention enveloped him. What could a woman do more? She thus put herself beyond the possibility of reproach whatever happened, while strengthening the conviction of everybody around that the young Lord Frogmore would never live to grow up; but if people chose to form that conclusion the fault was not Letitia’s. She shared it indeed herself, and shook her head over the state of Mar’s health; but when amiable neighbors said, “If care will save him I am sure, dear Mrs. Parke, you will do it,” she shook her hand again. “I do all I can,” she said, “at the risk of being told I do more harm than good. Some people think I should try bracing for him—exposing him like the other children. But I think it is best to be on the safe side. I shall be blamed anyhow, whatever happens, I know,” she would add with a smile. She would have convinced anyone; and she did convince herself. She thought she was only angry with Mar because it was so difficult to make him take proper precautions. She was certain that she wished nothing but his good.