It was in the beginning of the shooting-season, when birds were still plentiful and the best of the sportsmen visitors were come or coming, that Letitia was one evening startled by hearing of the arrival of a gentleman, who was one more than the number expected. Such a thing had been known before; for John’s invitations were sometimes a little vague, and he occasionally made a mistake; but it was particularly annoying on this occasion, because Mrs. Parke had not been at home for tea, and, therefore, was not at hand to place the unexpected guest.
“The only thing I could do, ma’am, in the circumstances,” said the butler, “was to refer to Miss Hill, and she said the gentleman must have her room; so I put him in Miss Hill’s room.”
“You were quite right, Saunders, since Miss Hill was so kind; and I daresay it will be all right. But you have not told me who the gentleman was.”
The butler made a little pause—a respectable family servant never forgets that every family has its secrets. He coughed discreetly behind his hand. “I did not ask the gentleman’s name, ma’am—Miss Hill seemed to know him very well.”
“Miss Hill—knew him very well!” Astonishment and a certain consternation came into Letitia’s face. But she recollected herself, perceiving Saunders’ look of extreme discretion, which is always an alarming thing. “I have no doubt it is all right,” she said, with great self-possession, “and you have done exactly what you ought to have done in referring to Miss Hill—send up someone to my room with a cup of good tea. One never gets tea one can drink out of one’s own house.”
Mrs. Parke repeated to herself, “Someone Mary knows,” under her breath. She was momentarily disturbed. Could it be a piece of presumption on Mary’s part bringing in someone she knew? But this was so incredible that Letitia dismissed the idea, laying it all upon the broad shoulders of John. “He must have made a mistake again,” she said to herself. She was late, everyone had gone to dress for dinner, and the mistress of the house only lingered for a moment in the drawing-room to see that all was in order, to give a little pull to the curtains, and a little push to the chairs such as the mistress of the house always finds necessary when she is expecting guests, breaking the air of inevitable primness which the best of servants are apt to have. She looked round to see that all was right, and then she went upstairs to her room to dress. Mary was standing on the stairs at the end of the corridor which led to the nursery, evidently waiting for her. “Oh, can I speak a word, Letitia?” she said.
“I don’t see how you can,” said Mrs. Parke, “for I am late, and you know the Witheringhams are coming. I cannot keep them waiting. But come into my room, if you like, while I dress.”
Mary was not coming to dinner on that evening: so that she had no need to dress. She looked pale and anxious standing in the doorway at the end of the nursery passage in her old grey gown. “But I must speak to you alone—not before your maid,” she said.
“Some naughtiness, I suppose,” said Letitia with a little sigh of despairing impatience. “Really, you are too particular. But it must wait till to-morrow, my dear—I have only time to slip on my dress.”
“But oh, Letitia——”