Old Lady Mary | Page 6

and a little overawed by the solemnity of the bedchamber,
came in and painted solidly his large signature after the spidery lines of
his mistress. She had folded down the paper, so that neither saw what it
was.
"Now I will go to bed," Lady Mary said, when Brown had left the room.
"And Jervis, you must go to bed too."
"Yes, my lady," said Jervis.
"I don't approve of courtship at this hour."
"No, my lady," Jervis replied, deprecating and disappointed.
"Why cannot he tell his tale in daylight?"
"Oh, my lady, there's no tale to tell," cried the maid. "We are not of the
gossiping sort, my lady, neither me nor Mr. Brown." Lady Mary
laughed, and watched while the candles were put out, the fire made a
pleasant flicker in the room,--it was autumn and still warm, and it was
"for company" and cheerfulness that the little fire was lit; she liked to
see it dancing and flickering upon the walls,--and then closed her eyes
amid an exquisite softness of comfort and luxury, life itself bearing her
up as softly, filling up all the crevices as warmly, as the downy pillow
upon which she rested her still beautiful old head.
If she had died that night! The little sheet of paper that meant so much
lay openly, innocently, in her writing-book, along with the letters she
had written, and looking of as little importance as they. There was
nobody in the world who grudged old Lady Mary one of those pretty
placid days of hers. Brown and Jervis, if they were sometimes a little
impatient, consoled each other that they were both sure of something in
her will, and that in the mean time it was a very good place. And all the

rest would have been very well content that Lady Mary should live
forever. But how wonderfully it would have simplified everything, and
how much trouble and pain it would have saved to everybody, herself
included, could she have died that night!
But naturally, there was no question of dying on that night. When she
was about to go downstairs, next day, Lady Mary, giving her letters to
be posted, saw the paper she had forgotten lying beside them. She had
forgotten all about it, but the sight of it made her smile. She folded it up
and put it in an envelope while Jervis went down-stairs with the letters;
and then, to carry out her joke, she looked round her to see where she
would put it. There was an old Italian cabinet in the room, with a secret
drawer, which it was a little difficult to open,--almost impossible for
any one who did not know the secret. Lady Mary looked round her,
smiled, hesitated a little, and then walked across the room and put the
envelope in the secret drawer. She was still fumbling with it when
Jervis came back; but there was no connection in Jervis's mind, then or
ever after, between the paper she had signed and this old cabinet, which
was one of the old lady's toys. She arranged Lady Mary's shawl, which
had dropped off her shoulders a little in her unusual activity, and took
up her book and her favorite cushion, and all the little paraphernalia
that moved with her, and gave her lady her arm to go down-stairs;
where little Mary had placed her chair just at the right angle, and
arranged the little table, on which there were so many little necessaries
and conveniences, and was standing smiling, the prettiest object of all,
the climax of the gentle luxury and pleasantness, to receive her
godmother, who had been her providence all her life.
But what a pity! oh, what a pity, that she had not died that night!

II.
Life went on after this without any change. There was never any
change in that delightful house; and if it was years, or months, or even
days, the youngest of its inhabitants could scarcely tell, and Lady Mary
could not tell at all. This was one of her little imperfections,--a little

mist which hung, like the lace about her head, over her memory. She
could not remember how time went, or that there was any difference
between one day and another. There were Sundays, it was true, which
made a kind of gentle measure of the progress of time; but she said,
with a smile, that she thought it was always Sunday--they came so
close upon each other. And time flew on gentle wings, that made no
sound and left no reminders. She had her little ailments like anybody,
but in reality less than anybody, seeing there was nothing to fret her,
nothing to disturb the even tenor of her days. Still there were times
when she took