“You know very well I shall never marry,” said Mary, reproachfully.
“Well, never mind—wait till you have seen all the people at Greenpark. You shall come to me as soon as you have done your fortnight with your aunt, and you shall go down with us when we go to the country, and you will keep me company when John is away, and talk to me when I am lonely, and make friends with the children. That will be worth your while, not like a fortnight in London, where you must always be spending shillings and sixpences. Now is it settled, or must you write home and ask if you may come? For it is a real long visit I shall want.”
“Oh, Letitia,” said Mary, with tears in her eyes, “is it possible you can be so very, very kind, when we have not met for years, and when I thought——”
“What did you think? That I had forgotten my old friends? I am one that never, never forgets,” said Mrs. Parke. “The first moment that I set eyes upon you I said to myself, ‘It’s Mary! and she must come to me for a long, long visit.’ I can see no use in asking people for a fortnight. It only costs money, and it is not a bit of relief at home.”
“I am sure you are quite right,” said Mary. “I have been thinking so myself; but then they all thought it would be a change, and though I am fonder of Grocombe than of any place in the world——”
“You are a hypocrite, Mary,” said Letitia. “I never was fond of Grocombe at all. It is the dullest place in England—there is never anything going on. Oh, here is Mr. Parke, whom you don’t know yet. John, this is Miss Hill, who is coming to us for a long visit. I told you what a dear friend she was of mine.”
“How do you do, Miss Hill,” said John, and then he added, the only thing it occurred to him to say to a stranger, “What fine weather we are having. Have you been in the Park to-day?”
This was how it came about that Mary Hill became an inmate of Greenpark. She paid Letitia a long—very long—visit, so long that it looked as if it never would end. Mrs. Parke stood on no ceremony at all with her friend. She confided her children to her with as much freedom as if she had been the nursery governess. She suggested to her that her place was wanted at table when there was a dinner party, and her room when the house was very full for the shooting. She made use of her to interview the housekeeper, and to write the menus for dinner. Mary soon came to occupy the position which is sacred to the poor relation—the unsalaried dependent in a house. She sometimes replaced the mistress of the house, sometimes the nurse, sometimes the lady’s maid. She was always at hand and ready whatever was wanted. “Oh, ask Miss Hill! Don’t, for heaven’s sake, bother me about everything,” was what Letitia learned to say. She made the children’s clothes, because she liked needlework. She arranged the bouquets for the table because she was so fond of flowers. She even helped the maid to arrange any changes that were necessary in Letitia’s toilettes because she had so much taste. Mary was a very long time in finding out why it was that her friend was, as she said, “so kind.” Perhaps she never entirely discovered the reason of it. She began, when her visit had extended to months, to discover that Letitia was not, perhaps, so invariably kind as she had supposed. But that was a very natural discovery, for nobody is perfect; and to do Mrs. Parke justice, it was only when there was a very large party for the shooting, or a very important dinner, that Mary was ever disturbed either in her room or her place. She appreciated the value of such a friend. When anything was said of Mary’s visit coming to an end, Letitia was in despair. “Oh, Mary, how could you go and leave me when you see how much I have to do? Oh, Mary, how could you desert the children, who are so fond of you? And don’t you think it is far better to be here, costing them nothing, than to go back to be a burden at home?” These mingled arguments overcame the humble-minded woman. Though it was bitter to hear it said that she was a burden at home, no doubt it was true. And thus it happened that she stayed, always under pretence of being on a long visit, an unremunerated, much exercised upper servant at Letitia’s beck and call, for one whole long year.
It is true that nobody would have divined what confusion of all Mrs. Parke’s plans was to result from this expedient of hers; yet it was apparent enough to various people concerned that she was less long-sighted than usual upon this occasion—apparent, that is to say, after the event which proved it. There could be no doubt that Mary’s presence in the house made an opening for other persons to appear who were likely to be much less acceptable to Letitia, and whom, indeed, she had carefully kept at arm’s length up to this time, when that brilliant idea of seizing a domestic slave for herself entered into her mind. The world could never get on at all if the selfish people in it were always long-sighted and never forgot themselves. But for the first year all went very well—so well that Mrs. Parke was used to congratulate herself on her own cleverness and success. And everybody was pleased: Mary, who wrote home that she was so happy to be able to save dear Letitia in many little things, and it was quite a pleasure to do anything for her; and the people at the Vicarage, who were never weary of saying how kind Mrs. Parke was to Mary, and how many nice people she saw, and what a delightful, long visit she was having; and John, who declared that Miss Hill was the most good-natured and the nicest to the children of anyone he ever saw. An arrangement which brought so much satisfaction to all concerned must surely have been an admirable arrangement. And how it could lead to any upsetting of the life and purpose of the Honorable Mrs. John Parke, or dash the full breeze of prosperity that filled the sails, or in any way endanger her career, was what nobody could have divined. But the great drawback of all mortal chances and successes is that you never can tell, nor can the wisest of mankind, what strange things may be effected in a single day.