“I want none of his pennies,” said Mary indignantly—but it was with a sense of relief that she got her hat and went out to Lord Frogmore, who was more kind and understanding than any other visitor at Greenpark had ever been. They had all taken her undisguisedly for a dependent, all treated her in the easy and unguarded way which unfortunately is the common way of treating a governess or companion, with that manner of contempt—or perhaps it would be most kind to say indifference—which an old maid who is poor and modest is apt to meet with. Her remarks were not noted—her opinions elicited no response; if she was silent, as she most frequently was, nobody cared. But Lord Frogmore always heard her when she said anything, and asked her what she thought of this thing and that. It pleased poor Mary to be considered like other people, on the same level as the rest—whom inevitably in her own mind she had begun to regard with an involuntary responsive scorn as stupid and without feeling. She thought better of her neighbors because she herself was placed in her right position by the sense, the appreciation, or—as she called it—the kindness of old Lord Frogmore.
They went along together through the copsewood which surrounded the trim clearing of garden and tiny park in which the house was enclosed. It was brown and red with autumnal color and shining in the sun with autumn damp, the heavy dews of the morning which had settled down in the afternoon to a sort of suspended wateriness which made the bushes and the grass glisten. But it was not cold, the afternoon sun diffused a ruddy glow through the air, to which the red and yellow trees added each their suggestion of a contributed light. They had talked about the house, about the weather, so fine for the time of the year, and about Marsham Ponds, which made a picturesque point in the landscape, as they went along, and it was after a little pause that Lord Frogmore began.
“I am going to say something to you, Miss Hill, which perhaps you will consider I have no right to say—but you must remember that I am an old man.”
“You may say what you please, Lord Frogmore. I know it will be kind,” said Mary: and she added after a moment with a smile, “But I think it is a mistake to suppose that age can be counted merely by years.”
“I am glad you are of that opinion,” said the old lord. “I sometimes think so myself; but one is never a good judge in one’s own case. Don’t you think, however, my dear young lady, that you are yourself in rather a false position here.”
Mary looked at him with a quick change of color and a glance of interrogation.
“You know,” he said, “I took you for the governess. I have never ceased to be ashamed——”
“There was nothing to be ashamed about, Lord Frogmore. I wish I were the governess—then I should not be in a false position—but I don’t know enough to teach any one.”
“Not even Duke?” he said with a smile. “You are too humble minded, Miss Hill; but that would not suit Mrs. Parke so well as having all the advantage of you as you are. May I ask, is there any relationship to give her such a claim upon you?”
“Oh, no! But we are very old friends. My father is the Vicar of Grocombe, where all the Ravelstones live.”