“Be so good as not to speak at all,” said Mary, quickly hurrying past. They burst into a great noise of laughter when she was gone—a shrill celebration of triumph. She got back to the morning room with a sensation of dismay, for which she had no words. She was all alone, with the household in mutiny behind her. She was startled, however, to see that someone was before her arranging neatly enough, and with quiet care, the tray with Mary’s dinner, which, according to Saunders’ instruction, had been sent up there. The maid was an under housemaid—a quiet and good girl, whom they had been kind to. But even she had her part in the revolt. When she had arranged everything, she came up to Mary, who had thrown herself into a chair by the fire.
“I think everything’s here, miss,” she said. “Perhaps you will just look and see if there’s anything more you will want.”
“It will do very well, I am sure, Jane.”
“I want to know, if you please,” said Jane, “whether you will want anything more to-night: for we’re going to have a party in the servants’ hall; and I’d rather get it now than be called after, if you please.”
“You are going to have a party in the servants’ hall?”
“Yes, miss. Mr. Saunders and John is going to do some acting, and there’s going to be a dance. If you’ll excuse me, I shouldn’t like to be called away.”
“I shall not want you any more,” said Mary.
She tried to smile at the festivity which had turned all their heads. But when, a little later, the sounds of the downstairs merriment came peeling up the great staircase, Mary felt like a prisoner abandoned among enemies. She had never felt so much alone as in the dreary silence of the house, with the distant revels going on. A genteel dependent scoffed at by all the conspirators downstairs—and all the while Lord Frogmore’s letter in her desk.
CHAPTER XV.
This strange state of things continued for some days. Mary found herself living as in a state of siege. She was permitted to visit the children in the nursery, and nurse was quite polite. She was also supplied with what she required, her little meals sent to her, the morning-room prepared for her inhabitation, and the housemaid who attended to her civil—but otherwise she was made to understand that her position was one of sufferance, and her presence exceedingly undesirable. This was all the more strange that she had already been left alone in the house on more than one occasion with no such result, the servants, if not very anxious to please her, being always at least observant of civility, and making no stand against her. She reflected, however, that her previous experience had been only of a few days, and that a fortnight was a long time for such a community to be put under the sway of a stranger like herself, whom they had no right to obey, and whom with the spirit of their class they despised as at once better and not so good as themselves—an inferior with the appearance of a superior—far below themselves in independence, while apparently placed over them. Mary being obliged to think upon the subject by the strange circumstances in which she found herself, made all these excuses and explanations of the conduct of the conspirators, and ended by thinking that on the whole it was natural though very uncomfortable, and that she could quite understand their way of thinking. But there was no doubt that it was very unpleasant. Sounds of revelry reached her from the servants’ hall every night; the men lounged about all day and smoked where they pleased; the rooms were locked up and nothing done. Jane, the housemaid, informed her that they all thought they had a right to a rest. “There’s a deal to do in this house. Them hunting and fishing things, if it was nothing else, puts Mr. Saunders and John in a continual worrit, special when there’s gentlemen coming that don’t bring a vally—and half the gentlemen here don’t. We’ve all made up our minds as we’ll have a good rest.”