“But don’t you think it might be better to pay him a little attention. Just to show that you are interested. If it were only for half-an-hour, Letitia.”
“Oh, what is the good of having you in the house with nothing to do if you can’t manage a little thing like that for me, Mary Hill!”
Mary was silenced, and had no reply to make. She had herself no objection whatever to read the papers and talk to Lord Frogmore. He was very kind. His nice old ways, which were very precise and regular, almost, she said to herself, like a lady’s ways, suited Mary, who was a little prim in her middle-aged decorum. She had no objection to the entrance of Rogers with his little cough mixture, or digestive pill, or cup of soup. On the whole, perhaps, she liked the little fuss of invalidism, the cares, which a little ailment or any amusing little illness which meant nothing demanded. To draw out the screen so as to shield the old gentleman from an imaginary draught, to change for him the arrangement of his cushion and his footstool, to put book and paper cutter ready upon the little table when she herself was called away, was really pleasant to her. And when he declared that a slight cold was quite an agreeable thing in pleasant company, and that it was delightful to have a right to so many little attentions, it gave Mary a serene pleasure to find herself so useful. Another part of her duty was not perhaps so justifiable, but she discharged it with devotion. She accounted for the absence of Letitia in an unvarying round of praiseworthy ways. She made a fancy portrait of Mrs. Parke, which was beautiful to behold. She was so devoted a wife, taking every trouble from John, leaving him free for his shooting and all his amusements. She was so excellent a housekeeper, making it possible by her good management to entertain a great deal, which was so good for her husband. She was the best of mothers, giving so much of her attention to her children.
“I am coming to believe that my sister-in-law is not a woman at all, but a bundle of virtues,” said Lord Frogmore.
“Oh not that!” cried Mary, with a blush, “not that at all. She has her faults, of course—but her whole heart is in her own family, to do everything for them——”
“At all events she has one great quality—she has the art of making a devoted friend,” said Lord Frogmore with a smile which made Mary blush again.
“Oh,” she cried, “I am of so little account. I can never do anything for her—except the smallest things.”
“Such as taking care of an old bore with a cold,” said the old gentleman. Mary felt that she had not been warm enough in Letitia’s praises, for he never shook off that cynical look, while certainly Letitia might have showed him a little more attention. Mary wondered sometimes if it was true that she herself found it easy to make up a face and sympathize with people, and if Letitia was, as she said, too sincere. She found herself sympathizing with Lord Frogmore in a way which perhaps was absurd, for he was not ill: he was really enjoying his cold and all the attentions it procured him. It was bad weather, and there was no temptation to go out. It was not as if he were really ill, and it was an act of devotion to nurse him. Was she making up a face? Mary said to herself. “No,” with a little indignation. She did not feel herself to be insincere. Still, perhaps, it was easier for her than for Letitia to show sympathy with other people’s troubles, whether they were small or great.
Lord Frogmore got better and went away, having considerably outstayed the original limits of his visit. And to tell the truth his going was a great relief to the household, except to Mary, who missed him very much. The Parkes by this time had got rid of their visitors, and were themselves setting out upon a little round of visits to taste other people’s dinners and shoot other people’s covers. On such occasions, which occurred periodically, Mary was left in charge of the house. She had to keep the servants in hand, which was not an easy task, for they all knew that she was a dependent without wages; and naturally held her authority very light; and she had to watch over the children, to send for the doctor when he was wanted, to superintend the nurses, to keep everything in the established routine. It was not a pleasant office, for nobody in the house chose to be subordinate to a poor lady who was not even the governess—who was only a friend and of no account personally, living on the kindness of the mistress of the house. This did not account, however, for the excitement with which she rushed into Letitia’s boudoir on the morning of their departure, looking alternately very red and very white, and scarcely able to speak for an agitation which took away her breath.
“Oh Letitia, can I speak to you?” she cried, bursting into the room in a manner quite unlike her usual soft movements. Letitia was at the moment superintending the shutting up of her box, in which all her best dresses were, and which was reluctant to close.