“You will let me speak to you in your room, Letitia?”
“There’s no time,” said Mrs. Parke. “Felicie, mon chapeau, and my gloves. There’s the carriage. I’ve only one piece of advice, Mary—take it if it’s a decent offer. You can’t expect to get many more at your age.”
“It is more than a decent offer. Oh, Letitia, it is from an old gentleman, one much older, and far above me.”
“Did you expect a young one?” said Mrs. Parke. “I think you would be very, very silly to stand upon that. I know who it is. It is old Dr. Hilton; and just an excellent match—an admirable match—the very thing I should have wished for you. Old! I hope you are not such a fool as to think of that! Think of your father and mother, and the use you might be to them. And as for far above you, why you’re a clergyman’s daughter, you are in the same rank in life. Mary, mind what I say to you. Don’t be a fool.”
“But it’s not Dr. Hilton. Oh Letitia, only a moment! I must speak to you.”
“There is John calling,” said Mrs. Parke, composedly. “Good-bye, Mary, I can’t stop a moment longer. Take care of the boy, and mind you don’t let Saunders and the rest get the upper hand. Who can it be if it’s not Dr. Hilton? But whoever it is, mind what I say. What does age matter? If he can support you, and leave you something when he dies, take him, take him, Mary Hill—at your age what could you expect more.”
Mary followed her friend downstairs. It was of no use saying any more. Mrs. Parke had many directions to give as she went away. She had to say good-bye to the children who were in the hall to see the last of mamma. She had to silence John who was calling to her, to question Felicie, who lagged behind. “Mind you take care of the boy,” she said, looking back, waving her hand to Mary. “Mind you keep everything going: and you can write and tell me all about it. Nurse, if there is anything the matter call Miss Hill at once, and she will know what to do. Ta-ta, baby; good-bye, Duke. Mind you’re good till I come back: and good-bye, Letty and Johnny, be good children all of you. Felicie, what on earth keeps you always behind?”
Then the carriage rolled away, followed by the cab with Felicie and the boxes, and stillness fell upon the abandoned house; stillness at least so far as the sitting-rooms were concerned; but a louder note than usual from the nurseries, and a jovial hum in the servants’ hall, where everybody felt their holiday had begun.
Mary went back into the house from the doorsteps, on which she had been standing dazed, contemplating the carriage and Felicie’s cab as they rolled away. She came in like a ghost, her face very pale, her limbs trembling with an agitation which was only increased by the fact that Letitia was now permanently out of hearing, and that there was nobody left from whom she could ask any advice. She wandered up and down the different rooms for some time, seating herself here and there for a moment, then springing up again to try another chair and another position. At last she went into the library and sat down upon a low chair before the fireplace. There was no fire in that room, which was not a room ordinarily much frequented by the ladies of the house, and the first to fall into the neglect which characterizes a house from which the masters are absent. The fire had not been lighted though it was November and a dull cold day. Mary sat down upon this little chair by the cold hearth, and she covered her face with her hands and leaned her head against the arm of the great chair which stood close to her. Here for a moment she could rest and think. She sat quite still for a long time in the absolute solitude of the place, and covered her eyes from all external distractions—but it would scarcely be just to say that Mary was thinking, much less that she was wisely balancing the good against the evil, and making up her mind what she should do.
It would be more just to say that her mind went whirling round and round like the scientific toy which represents processions of moving figures flying past, steeple-chases, hunting fields, negro contortionists, Christy’s minstrels. Everything was going round and round with Mary. She herself seemed only to be looking on, seeing the whirl which was going through her brain. It settled down a little after a time and solidified into the neat little figure which for so many days had occupied the chair on which she was leaning. Her thoughts all paused, stopped short in the whirl of them, and standing aside like so many country attendants allowed Lord Frogmore to reveal himself in the silence. There he stood, active, small, alert—with his short white curling locks and ruddy color. There he sat with his precise little ways, his cup of soup, his cough mixtures, Rogers, his man, taking such care of him. Mary’s heart jumped up and began to throb in her ears and jump in her throat like the piston of a steam engine. Lord Frogmore! And she had his letter in her pocket, a nice letter, a letter full of respect and honor, setting her in so high a place, doing her justice and far more than justice, Mary thought. No sign in all he said of the old maid at whom Letitia had assured her, and she herself had found, men laugh. Lord Frogmore showed no consciousness that she was an old maid, that she was past her bloom, that she was poor and he was doing her a great honor—oh, not a sign of that! If she had been a duke’s daughter and a creature beautiful as the day, the old gentleman could not have written with more tender respect. Mary was not without pride, humble woman though she was, and she had received many a wound among Letitia’s careless friends and visitors, wounds of which she was too proud to say anything and too good to resent, but of which she had deeply felt the sting. But out of Lord Frogmore’s letter there seemed to have come a balm which soothed and healed her very soul. She felt herself put in her right place, respected, honored, approved. If it did no more than this for her, it had done what words could not express. She sat hiding her face and felt this balm steal over and heal her wounds.