“When one thinks,” said Letitia with a laugh, “how strangely things come about. Do you remember, Mary, how we met in the picture-gallery? It was the Grosvenor Gallery, wasn’t it? But no; they had not begun there. It must have been in the academy, I suppose. It was just a chance, as people say, that took you and I there at the same time. You were with those old-fashioned aunts of yours. And you were very old-fashioned yourself, my dear, if I may say so now. Very neat you know—you always were neat—but your things looking as if they had all been made at home, and made a good while ago, and as well taken care of. Oh, I think I can see you now, and to think from that chance meeting how much has come!”
“Yes, indeed,” said Mary, “when one thinks of it as you say——” Poor Mary’s voice trembled. She gave a despairing glance towards the door. But no one came to her rescue. Mrs. Hill and Agnes were busy laying out a whole wardrobe of “things” to show to Tisch——
“Yes—when one thinks of it—what put it into my head I wonder to ask you to come to Greenpark for a long visit? I hadn’t as much as thought of you for years, and all at once I saw you standing there, and the thought came into my head. If something hadn’t put that into my mind how different everything might have been for both of us. You would have been just Mary Hill, the vicar of Grocombe’s daughter, living very poorly in that dreadful old place, and I should have been—well, looking forward sooner or later to having this nice old house, and the title and all that. Dear me, how little one knows what difference in one’s life a rash word can make.”
“You can’t feel it more than—I do, Letitia,” said Mary in very subdued and tremulous tones, pulling closer round her with her old agitated movement the lace shawl that had replaced her knitted one.
“Oh, yes,” said Letitia, “I do, my dear, for I have suffered by it you know while you have benefited—that makes all the difference in the world. When I think how different things might have been had I only just said, ‘How d’ye do, Mary,’ and gone by. Then you would never have met Frogmore, never had it in your power to change anything, never turned against me and the poor children——”
“Letitia, oh, don’t say I have turned against you. How have I turned against you? I love the children as if—as if——”
“My dear,” said Letitia, “you know we needn’t discuss that. You would never have turned against us I am quite sure if it hadn’t been so very much to your own advantage. And nobody would expect you for a moment to have done otherwise. Think of what you’ve gained by it. A title. Who would have thought of a title for one of the vicar of Grocombe’s daughters—and everything that heart could desire. A handsome house, two very fine places which you know Frogmore has, not to speak of the house in town which he lets, but which I’m sure you won’t allow him to go on letting. And now having got everything else, you’re going to have an heir, Mary Hill—oh, I forgot, you’re not Mary Hill, you’re my Lady Frogmore,—an heir which is the best of all to turn my poor boy out of my chance, out of what we all thought so sure. No, I don’t want to say—I’m amazed at myself for saying, but I can’t help it. I’m Duke’s mother, and I can’t. I can’t but think of my boy.”
“Oh, Letitia!” said Mary, piteously, holding out her hands in an agonized appeal.
“Oh, I don’t blame you,” cried Letitia, “how could you be supposed not to think of your own advantage. What am I to you? What are we to you that you shouldn’t think of yourself first? Oh, of course you thought of yourself first. It would have been quite unnatural if you hadn’t done so. But I can’t help thinking, Mary, with little Duke upon my mind, and thinking what we must do with him, and then he must be brought up to get his own living now. I can’t help thinking if I had just said, ‘How d’ye do, Mary,’ that day. If I had taken no more notice and never thought, ‘Well, they’re very poor at the vicarage, and one person’s living would never be missed in our house, and that it might be such a thing for you.’ Oh, if I hadn’t been so silly, how different everything might have been. I don’t blame you; not the least in the world; for of course you thought first of what was to your own advantage. But I do blame myself! Oh, I do blame myself. If it hadn’t been for that you would never have seen Lord Frogmore, and how different everything would have been.”
“Oh, Letitia,” cried Mary, as she had done at intervals all through this long address. The tears were pouring down her cheeks. Sometimes she hid her face in her hands; sometimes raised it to give her tormentor an appealing look, a protest against this cruelty. “Oh, Letitia, Letitia, spare me. It is not my fault. I never thought—I never believed—I would rather have died than injure you or the children. It made me ill when I first heard. To think of little Duke. Oh, Letitia, I think my heart will break!”