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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ce7fc02 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #51265 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/51265) diff --git a/old/51265-0.txt b/old/51265-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 0bf5852..0000000 --- a/old/51265-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,15701 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's The Last of the Mortimers, by Margaret Oliphant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Last of the Mortimers - A Story in Two Voices - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: December 22, 2016 [EBook #51265] -[Last updated: July 18, 2017] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAST OF THE MORTIMERS *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - - - THE - - LAST OF THE MORTIMERS. - - A Story in Two Voices. - - BY - - MRS. OLIPHANT, - - AUTHOR OF - - “MADONNA MARY,” “FOR LOVE AND LIFE,” “SQUIRE ARDEN,” - “MAY,” “THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR,” ETC., ETC. - - NEW EDITION. - - WARD, LOCK, AND CO., - LONDON, NEW YORK, AND MELBOURNE. - - [_All rights reserved._] - - - - -CONTENTS. - - -PART I. - - PAGE - -THE LADIES AT THE HALL 1 - - -PART II. - -THE LIEUTENANT’S WIFE 48 - - -PART III. - -THE LADIES AT THE HALL--_continued_ 105 - - -PART IV. - -THE LIEUTENANT’S WIFE--_continued_ 166 - - -PART V. - -THE LADIES AT THE HALL--_continued_ 227 - - -POSTSCRIPT 365 - - - - -[Illustration: text decoration] - - - - -THE LAST OF THE MORTIMERS. - - - - -PART I. - -THE LADIES AT THE HALL. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -I thought I heard a slight rustle, as if Sarah had taken off her -spectacles, but I was really so interested in the matter which I was -then discussing with Mr. Cresswell, our solicitor, that I did not look -round, as I certainly should have done in any other circumstances; but -imagine my utter amazement and the start which Mr. Cresswell gave, -nearly upsetting the ink on the drab table-cover, which never _could_ -have got the better of it, when my sister Sarah, who never speaks except -to me, and then only in a whisper, pronounced distinctly, loud out, the -following words: “His Christian name was Richard Arkwright; he was -called after the cotton-spinner; that was the chief thing against him in -my father’s days.” - -Now it was years and years ago since Sarah had lost her voice. It -happened before my father died, when we were both comparatively young -people; she had been abroad with him and caught a violent cold on her -way home. She was rather proud in those days--it was before she took to -knitting--and she had not forgotten then that she was once a beauty. -When she saw that her voice was gone for good, Sarah gave up talking. -She declared to me privately that to keep up a conversation in that -hoarse horrid whisper was more than she could give in to, and though she -was a very good Christian in principle she never could be resigned to -that loss. At first she kept upstairs in her own room; but after my -father’s death she came regularly to the drawing-room, giving everybody -to understand that she was not to be spoken to. Poor dear old soul! she -was as anxious to hear everything that was said to me as if she had come -down off her stilts and taken part in the conversation; but you may -suppose what a startling event it was to hear Sarah’s voice. - -I gave a jump, as was natural, and ran to her to see what had happened. - -“Do be cautious, Milly,” she said, fretfully, in her old whisper; for to -be sure I had whisked down her ball of worsted, and caught one of her -pins in my new-fashioned buttonholes. “At your age a gentlewoman should -move about in a different sort of way. I am quite well, thank you. -Please to go back to your occupation, and leave me to carry on mine in -peace.” - -“But Sarah, my dear soul! you’ve got back your voice!” cried I. - -Sarah smiled at me, not with her pretty smile. “People who are strong -are always thinking such things,” she said. “You don’t know what it is -to be afflicted; go back to your business, please.” - -“What does she say, Miss Milly?” cried Mr. Cresswell, quite eagerly, -when I went back to the table. - -“Oh, nothing at all; it’s all a mistake, I suppose,” said I, feeling a -little nettled, “put it down all the same. I dare say it was one of -those spirits we hear about nowadays. And a very useful bit of -information too, which makes it all the more remarkable, for I never -heard they did much good in that way. Richard Arkwright! Of all the -names I ever heard, the oddest name for a Mortimer! but put it down.” - -Mr. Cresswell put it down as I said. “Richard Arkwright Mortimer is -something more of an individual than Blank Mortimer, Esq., that’s true,” -said he; “he ought to be something with that name. Begging your pardon, -Miss Milly, though he was a Mortimer, he ought to have had either a -profession or a trade with that name. Don’t you think now,” he said, -lowering his voice, and making a sign at Sarah over his shoulder, “after -having broken the ice, something more might be got out of _her_?” - -I shook my head at first, being angry; then I nodded as I came to -myself, and at last said--it was all I could say--“We’ll see.” - -“Ah, ah, we’ll see--that’ll do, Miss Milly; but don’t lose your temper, -my dear lady,” said Mr. Cresswell; “all the county reverences you for an -angelic temper, as you well know.” - -“Stuff!” said I; “I’ve too much Welsh blood in me for that; but a pack -of interlopers, like the rest of you, never know the real mettle of them -that come of the soil; we’re as clear of the soil as the ore in the -Llangollen mines, we Mortimers; we can do what we have to do, whatever -it may be.” - -Mr. Cresswell cast up his eyebrows a little, and gave a kind of glance -towards Sarah and her knitting. “Well, well, it isn’t bad ore, at all -events,” he said, with a chuckle: “but, after all, I suppose the first -squire was not dug out of Llewellyn cliff?” - -“It will be a vast deal more profitable to find out where the next -squire is to come from,” said I; “we are old women both of us; I’d -advise you to set things agoing without delay. What would happen, do you -suppose, if Sarah and I were both to die without finding an heir? What -does happen, by the bye, when such a thing occurs; does it go to the -crown?” - -“My dear lady, I would not give much for the crown’s chance,” said -Cresswell, with, a little shrug of his shoulders. “Heirs-at-law are -never so far lost or mislaid but they turn up some time. Birds of the -air carry the matter when there’s an estate in question. There’s nothing -so safe to be found, in my humble opinion, as an heir-at-law.” - -“For I shouldn’t much mind,” said I to myself, thinking over it, “if it -went to the Queen. She might fix on the park for autumn quarters, sure, -as well as on that outlandish Scotch castle of hers. It’s a great deal -nearer, and I make sure it’s prettier; or if she gave it to the Prince -of Wales as a present, or to any of the other children, I should not -mind for my part. It is not by any means so bad a prospect as I -supposed--it might go to the Queen.” - -“But, then, what would be done with Mr. Richard Arkwright and his -progeny? I’ll be bound he has ten children,” said Mr. Cresswell. -“Somebody did leave Her Majesty an estate not so very long ago, and I -rather think she sought out the heirs and made it up to them. Depend -upon it, Mr. Richard Arkwright would have it out of her. Come, we must -stick to the Mortimers, Miss Milly. I’ll go off and see after the -advertisements; there’s plenty of time. I don’t believe you mean to be -in any hurry out of this world, either Miss Sarah or you.” - -“That’s as it may be--that’s as God pleases,” said I; “but you must wait -a little first, and I’ll see if I can find out anything further about -him. Perhaps some one can think on; we’ll see, we’ll see; more may -come.” - -Mr. Cresswell nodded his head confidentially. “You don’t remember -anything about him yourself?” he said. - -“Bless you, I am ten years younger than she is,” said I; “she was a -young lady, I was only a child. I neither knew nor cared anything about -the Lancashire cousin. Ten years make a great deal of difference when -people are young.” - -“And when they’re old as well,” said Cresswell, with a little nod of his -head. Mr. Cresswell, of course, like all the other people, would never -have looked at me when Sarah was present in old days; but now, when we -were both old women, the sly old lawyer had wheeled about, and was -rather an admirer of mine. I have had admirers since I was fifty; I -never had many before. - -“Now, are you going to stay to tea?” said I. - -“Thank you. I have not the least doubt it would be for my own advantage; -my cook is not to be named in the same breath with yours; but I promised -to be home to dinner,” said Mr. Cresswell. “Thank you all the same; Sara -will be waiting for me.” - -“And how is the dear child?” said I. - -“Very contrairy,” said Mr. Cresswell, shaking his head. “To tell the -truth, I don’t know what to make of her. I had twenty minds to bring her -to-day and leave her with you.” - -“Bring her next time. I never find her contrairy,” said I. “But perhaps -_you_ never were young yourself?” - -“Perhaps not, Miss Milly,” he said. “I have had a pretty tough life, -anyhow; and it is hard to be thwarted at the last by the only creature -one has to love.” - -“It is harder not to have a single creature that one has a right to -love,” said I a little sharply. “If we had your Sara belonging to us, -contrairy or not, we should not have to hunt up a far-off cousin, or -advertise for an heir.” - -A little passing gleam shot from the solicitor’s eye; he looked at me -close for a moment, and then at Sarah, with a lip that moved slightly, -as if he were unconsciously saying something within himself; I saw what -it was as clear as daylight. - -“She’s a good girl,” he said, faltering a little. “I daresay you’d soon -have her in hand, Miss Milly; there’s no place she is so fond of as the -Park; I’ll bring her out to-morrow.” - -And he went away, never thinking that I had seen what was in his mind. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -Our drawing-room was a very large one. The Mortimers had required large -rooms in their day; and I will not say, if we had been young people, and -disposed to have company, that we could not have kept it up with any of -them; for my father, who lived in a very homely way, proud as he was, -had laid up a good deal, and so had we. But though we kept no company, -we had not the heart to turn the Mortimer family, of which we were the -only remaining representatives, out of their old room. So we had a great -screen, made of stamped leather, and which was like everything else, of -my grandmother’s days, stretched behind Sarah’s chair, and with a very -large bright fire, and a good lamp upon the round table, we managed to -find the fireside very comfortable, though we were surrounded by all the -ranges of old furniture in the old half-dark room. Old Ellis had to come -stumbling as slowly as if the distance had been half a mile between us -and the door, when he came into the room with anything; and I dare say -impatient young people could not have put up with the rumble of chairs -rolled aside, and footstools tripped over, with which he always gave us -warning of his coming. For my part I was used to it, and took no notice. -Where I sat, the prospect before me was, first, Sarah in her easy chair, -close within shade of the screen, and beyond a darkling stretch of -space, which a stranger might have made very mysterious, but which I -knew perfectly well to be filled with just so many tables, chairs, -ottomans, and miscellaneous articles, not one of which could have been -stolen away without being missed. On the other side of the room, behind -my own chair, was a grand piano in a corner and another waste of old -furniture. Many people wondered why we did not make a cosy little -sitting-room of the boudoir, which had never been used since my mother’s -days. But Sarah, and I may say myself also, was of a different way of -thinking. We liked the big room which once had not been at all too big -for the Mortimers, and I am not sure that I did not even like the dark -bit on either side of us, and the two big old-fashioned mirrors, like -magic mirrors in a fairy tale, with a faint trembling of light over -them, and all the shadowy depths of the room standing out in them, as if -to double the size, which was already so much too great. Sometimes I -used to stand and watch myself going across one of those big mirrors. It -was a strange weird creature wandering about among the still, silent, -deserted household gods. It was not surely me. - -Not that I mean to represent myself as a sentimental person--not in the -very slightest degree. I am past fifty and stout. My own opinion is that -people had best be stout when they are past fifty, and I like my own -little comforts as well as anybody of my years. When I was young I was -far from being pretty. If I am to state frankly my own ideas on this -subject, I would say that I think I might have passed for moderately -good-looking, if I had not been sister to a beauty. But when we two were -described as the beautiful Miss Mortimer and the plain Miss Mortimer, -you may suppose how any little poor pretensions of mine were snubbed at -once. To be good-looking was something not expected from Sarah’s sister. -But however the tables have rather turned of late. If you asked little -Sara Cresswell, for example, who was the pretty Miss Mortimer, I do -believe the dear child would say, with the greatest of innocence, “Miss -Milly.” At our time of life it doesn’t matter very much, to be sure; but -dear, dear, vanity does lie deep! I declare honestly it’s a pleasure to -me. - -When Sarah and I are by ourselves, we don’t have a great deal of -conversation. She has lost her voice, as I said, which makes her decline -talking: and I must say, though she never yields to acknowledge it, that -I think she’s lost her hearing a little, poor dear old soul! Every night -in her life (except Sundays) she reads the Times. That paper gets great -abuse in many quarters, especially in the country, where our old -Squires, to be sure, are always at it for changing its opinions; but I -say, great success, and long life to the Times! that is my opinion. How -ever Sarah would get over those long evenings without that paper, I -don’t know. It quite keeps us in reading; and I do assure you, we know -much more about most things that are going on than a great many _men_ -do, who are much more in the world. The Times comes in early, but Sarah -never looks at it till after tea. I have to keep out of her sight, -indeed, when I glance over it myself in the early part of the day, for -Sarah does not approve of daylight reading. She thinks it a waste of -time. We have not such a very great deal to occupy us either, as you may -suppose; at least Sarah has little, except her knitting, for she will -rarely allow me to consult her anything about the property, though she -is the eldest. I wonder for my part that she does not weary of her life. -She never comes down to breakfast, and I don’t know very well what she -and Carson find to busy themselves about till noon in her room upstairs; -but at twelve o’clock punctually she comes down all dressed for the day. -She does not dress as I do, in the ordinary dress that everybody wears, -neither are Sarah’s fashions the same as I remember in our youth, when -our waists were just under our arms, and our gowns had “gores” in them. -On the contrary, she has taken to a very long waist and tight sleeves, -with a worked muslin shawl or scarf over her shoulders. In cold weather -the muslin is lined with silk of delicate colours, and her cap, which is -always light and pretty (Carson has great taste), trimmed to correspond. -Her hair, of course, she _always_ wears in curls at the front. It is -quite silver-white, and her face, poor dear soul, is a little pinched -and sharp nowadays. When she takes her seat within shelter of the screen -at twelve o’clock every day, the muslin shawl, lined with peach, is as -pretty as possible in itself: to be sure Sara Cresswell might almost -wear it to a ball; but I do declare I thought it looked very chilly -to-day on Sarah. Nice white Shetland for instance, which is almost as -pretty as lace, or, indeed, one of those beautiful soft fine woollen -shawls, would look a great deal better over that purple silk gown, if -she could only think so. But to be sure, Sarah will have her own way. -There she sat knitting all the time Mr. Cresswell was talking with me, -and there she does sit all day long with her basket of wools, and -knitting-pins, and patterns. Every other day she takes a drive, goes to -church once on Sundays, and reads the Times on all the week evenings. -That is exactly how she lives. - -Now perhaps this does not appear so odd to anybody else as it does to -me; and I am sure I might have got used to it after a dozen years; but -only Sarah, you see, has very good abilities, and is not the person to -fix herself down like this. And she knows a great deal more of life than -I do. My father and she were, I think, near upon ten years abroad after -my mother died. What she was doing all that time I know no more than -Carson does. Many a rumour went about that she was married, and many an -anxious hour I had all by myself at the Park. But when she came back -just Miss Mortimer, there was not a soul in the county but was -surprised. Such a great beauty! and papa’s eldest daughter and -co-heiress! people said it was unaccountable. I can’t say _I_ thought it -unaccountable. I never saw anybody that I could fancy myself, except -perhaps----, and then _he_ never asked me, you know. It might be -precisely the same with Sarah, though she was a beauty. But the wonder -to me is that after having lived abroad so long, and having, as I have -no doubt she had, a life of her own, which did not merely belong to my -father’s daughter, she should just have settled down like this. Many and -many a time have I thought it all over, sitting opposite to her of an -evening, when tea was over and she was reading the Times. There she sat -quite straight up, her muslin shawl with the peach-bottom lining -dropping down a little over her shoulders, and her thin hands in their -black lace mits holding the paper. She had never reposed any confidence -in me, you see. _I_ did not know what might have happened to her when -she was out upon the big waves of life. I dare say many a time when I -wondered why she took no interest in my affairs, she was back upon that -reserve of her own which I knew nothing about. But the odd thing to me -is, that after having really had something that one could call a life, -something happening to her own self,--don’t you know what I mean?--she -should have settled down so fixed and motionless here. - -We dined early, which was a prejudice of mine; but as Sarah had a very -uncertain appetite, we had always “something” to tea, which was the -cause of Mr. Cresswell’s allusion to our cook Evans. Further, we -indulged ourselves by having this substantial tea in the drawing-room, -which we never left after our early dinner. When tea was over on the -night of Mr. Cresswell’s visit, I had some little matters to do which -kept me about the room, going from one place to another. As I stood in -the shadow looking at the bright fire and lamp, and Sarah reading in her -easy chair, I could not prevent a great many inquiries rising in my -mind. What was Cousin Richard Arkwright Mortimer to her, for example? He -had not been at the Park, nor heard of, so far as I know, for forty -years. And then about her voice? On the whole it was very curious. I -resolved to try hard for some conversation with Sarah, after she had -done with the Times, that night. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -It was not a very easy matter to draw Sarah into a conversation, -especially in the evening. I had to watch my opportunity very carefully. -At ten exactly the door opened in the dark distance, and Ellis came -rumbling along through the dim depths behind the screen with the sherry -and biscuits. Just at the same moment Sarah smoothed out the paper -carefully, laid it down, as she always did, on the top of her -wool-basket, and held out her hands to warm them at the fire. They were -very thin hands in their black lace mits, and they were a little -rheumatic sometimes, though she did not like to confess it. She kept -rubbing them slowly before the fire. - -I poured out her glass of sherry, put the plate of biscuits within her -reach, and drew my chair nearer, that I might be sure of hearing what -she said. Sarah took no notice of my movements; she rubbed diligently -one of her forefingers, the joints of which were a little enlarged, and -never so much as glanced at me. - -“Did you ever know anything about this cousin Richard of ours, Sarah?” -said I. - -She did not answer just for a moment, but kept on rubbing her -forefinger; when that was finished she answered, “I knew a good deal -about him once. I would have married him if they had let me, in the old -times.” - -I was so thunderstruck by this unexpected frankness that I scarcely knew -what to say. At last I stumbled out somehow--“You would have married -him!” with a kind of inexpressible amazement; and she saying it so -calmly too! - -“Yes,” said Sarah, rubbing her middle finger thoughtfully, “he was -young, and fresh-looking, and good-tempered. I dare say I could have -liked him if they had let me; it is quite true.” - -“And would they not let you?” cried I, in my eagerness, thinking that -perhaps Sarah was going to confide in me at last. - -“No,” she said, pursing up her lips. She seemed to echo the “no” after, -in the little nod she gave her head, but she said nothing more. - -“And Sarah, tell me, please, if you don’t mind, was it because of his -means?” cried I; “was he not rich enough?” - -“You don’t know anything about these affairs, Milly,” said Sarah, a -little scornfully. “I don’t mind in the least. He was exactly such a man -as would have taken your fancy. When I saw him, five years after, I was -glad enough they did not let me; though it might have saved a deal of -trouble too,” she said to herself in a kind of sigh. - -I don’t know how I managed to hear those last words. I am sure she did -not think I heard them. You may suppose I grew more curious with every -word she spoke. - -“And where was it you met him five years after; was it abroad?” said I, -with a little flutter in my voice. - -I cannot think she was very sharp in her hearing. She gave a little -glance up at me, noticing that I paused before the last word; and then -seeing me look a little frightened and conscious, she drew herself up -all at once, and stopped rubbing her fingers. - -“Do you mean to cross-question _me_, Milly?” she cried, giving a stamp -with her foot. “Do you mean to rummage into my affairs and find me out -by your questions? You are very much mistaken, I can tell you. I am just -as willing as any one that Richard Mortimer should be found out. In -making your new heir you shall have no opposition from me.” - -“Why, bless us all, Sarah!” said I, “it was your own idea.” - -“Very well,” she said, with a little confused heat of manner; “why do -you imply that I have any objection? One would suppose, to hear you, -that you were trying to find out some secrets of mine.” - -“I never knew you had any secrets to find out,” said I, sharply. I knew -quite well I was aggravating her, but one must take one’s own part. - -She did not make any answer. She got up on her feet, and drew her muslin -shawl round her. There was a little nervous tremble about her head and -hands; she often had it, but I marked it more than ever to-night. I -thought at first she was going away without her sherry, but she thought -better of that. However, she went a few steps behind the screen to put -her basket aside, a thing she never did; and I think I can see her now, -as I saw her in the big mirror, drawing the fingers of one hand through -the other, and gliding along through the dark room, all reflected from -head to foot in the great glass, with her peach-blossom ribbons nodding -tremulously over her grey hair, and her white muslin shawl drawn over -her shoulders. Her face, as I saw it in the mirror, had a cloud and -agitation upon it, but was set with a fixed smile upon the lips, and a -strange, settled, passionate determination. I could no more penetrate -what it meant than I could tell why Sarah was angry. It was something -within herself that made her so, nothing that I had done or said. - -After she was gone I dropped into my chair, and sat there wondering and -pondering till the fire had nearly gone out, and the great room was -lying blank and chill in the darkness. Now that my thoughts were -directed into this channel--and it was very strange to me that they -never had been so before--there were a thousand things to think of. When -Sarah was twenty and I only ten there was a wonderful difference to be -sure between us, and not a great deal less when Sarah was thirty and I -twenty; but from that time it had been growing less by degrees, so that -we really did not feel nowadays any great difference in our age. But I -was only fourteen when my mother died. I had never, of course, been able -to share in any of the gaieties, being only in the schoolroom, and -certainly never dreamed of criticising my big sister, whom I thought -everything that was beautiful and splendid. Then my father and she went -away and left me. The Park was let, and I lived with my godmother. I -almost forgot that I had a father and sister in the world. They seldom -wrote, and we lived entirely out of the world, and never heard even in -gossip of the goings on at Rome and Naples, and what place the beautiful -Miss Mortimer took there. They came home at last quite suddenly, in the -depth of winter. Naturally Sarah had caught a very bad cold. She kept -her own room for a very long time after and never saw anybody. Then she -lost her voice. I remember I took it quite for granted at the time that -it was her cold and the loss of her voice that made her shut herself -up; but I must say that once or twice since I have had a little doubt on -that subject. She was then not much past five-and-thirty, a very -handsome woman. My father lived many years after, but they never, though -they had been great companions for so long before, seemed to be at ease -in each other’s presence. They never even sat down to dinner together -when they could help it. Since then, to be sure, Sarah had begun to live -more with me; but what a life it was! I had the concerns of the property -to occupy me, and things to manage; besides, I was always out and about -in the village and among the neighbours; and still more, I was quite a -different woman from Sarah, more homely-like, and had never been out in -the world. I wouldn’t for anything be what you might call suspicious of -my own only sister; and what I _could_ be suspicious about, even if I -wanted to, was more than I knew. Still it was odd, very odd, more -particularly after Sarah’s strange words and look. My mind was all in a -ferment--I could not tell what to think; but it came upon me as strong -as a conviction that something _must_ have happened in those ten years; -what it could be was as dark as midnight, but there must be something. -That was the end I came to after all my pondering. Ellis came twice into -the room to shut up, and twice stumbled off again with his “Beg pardon, -ma’am.” It began to feel chilly as the fire went out, and the night grew -pale and ghostly in the mirrors. By and by I began to hear those cracks -and rustles which one always hears when one sits up late at night. It -wasn’t in the furniture, bless you! I know a great deal better than -that; the old walnut and satin-wood was all seasoned by a century’s -wear. I don’t pretend to say what it was: but I know that I was made -very uneasy sitting all by myself, with the fire out, in that big room. -When it drew near twelve o’clock, I went to bed. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -I might as well, before all this description of our day’s talk and -cogitations, have said first who we were. - -The Mortimers are an old Cheshire family. We came originally from the -other side of the Dee; but we have been settled here in the Park since -Henry the Seventh’s time, when to be sure Welshmen were in fashion. The -old tower of Wyfod, over Llangollen way, was the cradle of our family. -So we have not travelled very far from our origin. We have always been, -since we came to the Cheshire side, tolerably prosperous and prudent, -not mixing much with politics, having a pretty eye for a bargain, and -letting other people get along in their own way; I say so quite frankly, -not being ashamed of it. Once, I confess, I felt a little sore that we -had no crusading knights nor wild cavaliers among our ancestors; but -that, of course, was when I was young. Now I take a different view of -affairs. Cavaliers and crusading knights have been generally very -expensive luxuries for their families, and must have done a great deal -more mischief than a man, however well disposed to it, could do at home. -Another circumstance has been good for our purse, but not so good (I -fear--so at least it threatens at the present moment) for the -prolongation of the race. The Mortimers have never had large families. I -suppose few English houses of our rank, or indeed of any rank, can count -so few cousins and collateral branches. We have relations, certainly, by -my mother’s side, who was one of the Stamfords of Lincolnshire; but -except this visionary Richard Arkwright (did ever mortal hear of such a -name for a Mortimer!), there is not a single individual remaining of our -own name and blood to inherit the property after us, which is a very sad -thing to say, and indeed, in some degree, a sort of disgrace to us. The -family allowance of children for ever so long has been somewhat about -one son and one daughter. The daughter has married off, as was natural, -or died unmarried, as, indeed, for a Miss Mortimer, was more natural -still; and the son has become the squire, and had a son and a daughter -in his turn. In Queen Anne’s time, the then squire, whose name was -Lewis, made an unfortunate divergence from the usual custom. He had two -girls only; but one of them married, and her husband took our name and -arms; the other died very opportunely, and left her sister in full -possession, so no harm was done. It is, however, a saying in the family, -that the Mortimers are to end in two sisters, and that after them the -property is to be divided and alienated from the name. This is one -reason why I never was much of a favourite at home. They forgave Sarah, -for she was beautiful, and just the person to be an heiress. But -co-heiresses are the bugbear of the Mortimers. Ah me! If there had been -no such saying as this, or if we had been poor girls, it might have made -a difference! Not in me, to be sure; I need not be sentimental about it. -I never saw an individual in this world I could have fancied but one, -and he, you know, never asked me; so it could not have made the -slightest difference to me. - -However, if there’s one thing more than another that my heart is set to -resist, it is letting this prophecy be fulfilled in our time. I’d rather -compass sea and land to find a Mortimer! I’d rather set out, old as I -am, and hunt for one with a lantern through the world! Sarah, though she -is so capricious and contrary, is of the same mind. It was she who told -me of this Mr. Richard Arkwright, whom I had forgotten all about. And -yet, you see, after showing such decided interest, she turns upon one -so! What a very odd thing it is that she did not marry! I never could -make it out, for my part. Nobody could imagine, to see her now, how very -pretty, nay, how beautiful she was; and such a way with her! and -dressed, to be sure, like a duchess. All the young men in the county -were after her before she went abroad. But dear, dear! to think what a -changed life when she came home, and lost her voice, and shut herself up -in her own room. - -There is nothing I dislike more than curiosity, or prying, or -suspiciousness; but I _should_ like to know the rights of it--how Sarah -went on abroad. To be sure my father was anxious enough that _she_ -should get married, and have a good humble-minded husband, who would -take the name of Mortimer. It was only me that he would not hear of any -proposal for. I don’t think he would have broken his heart if, like the -Milly Mortimer in Queen Anne’s time, I had been so obliging as to die. - -However, here we are, just as we were in the nursery, two Miss -Mortimers. Sarah, who might have had half a dozen good marriages, just -the same as I am; and I protest I don’t even know that there are two -people existing in the world who have the smallest collateral right to -divide the property and take it away from the name; unless Richard -Arkwright should happen to have co-heiresses! married to husbands who -will not change to Mortimer! Don’t let me think of such a horror! - -These are our circumstances in the meantime. It is a very sad thing for -a family when there are no collateral branches. I forgot to say that how -this Richard Arkwright came about, was by the strange accident of Squire -George, who died in 1713, having _two sons_! - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -During all this time--and indeed, after all, it was only a single day--I -had forgotten all about Mr. Cresswell and his Sara. He and his family -had been our family’s solicitors for a great many generations. He knew -all our secrets that we knew ourselves. It is only about twenty years -since he succeeded his father in the business, and married that pretty -delicate young creature, the clergyman’s daughter of St. John’s. She -died very early, poor thing, as was to be expected, and Sara is his only -child. But, of course, he does not know any more than a baby how to -manage a pretty fantastical young girl. They are a very respectable, -substantial family in their way, and have been settled in their house in -Chester for a very long time--though, of course, it would be absurd to -call a family of solicitors an _old_ family--and Mr. Cresswell is very -well off in the world, and can give a very pretty fortune to his -daughter; yet the covetous old fox has actually a fancy in his mind--_I_ -could see it when he was last here--that if Sara only played her cards -well she might be heiress of the Park, and succeed Sarah and me. An -attorney’s daughter! Not that I mean to put a slight upon Sara, who is -our godchild, and a very sweet, pretty girl. But to fancy that old -Cresswell could take up such an idea, and _I_ not find him out! It is -odd, really, how the cleverest of men deceive themselves. He will take -every means to find out Richard Mortimer all the same. He’ll not fail of -his duty, however things may turn out, I know that; but to think at the -very bottom of his sly old heart that he should have a hankering after -the Park! It is quite inconceivable what fancies will take hold of men. - -Sara is our godchild, as I said, called Sara Millicent, in token of the -kindness that poor Mrs. Cresswell, poor young motherless creature, -thought she had received from us. Poor little soul! she little thought -then, that the baby she was so proud of, was the only one she was to be -spared to bring into the world. From that time till now Sara has been a -pet at the Park, and always free to come to us when she wished, or when -her father thought it would do her good. This was how she was coming -to-day. Perhaps it might be imagined by some people rather a bold thing -of one’s family solicitor to bring his daughter to us without an -invitation. But you see we were only ladies, and did not stand on our -dignity as people do when there are men in the house; and, besides, she -was our pet and godchild, which makes all the difference. - -Just before dinner, Mr. Cresswell’s one-horse chaise came into the -courtyard. We never use the great door except for great people, and when -Sarah goes out for her airings. I always use the court entrance, which -is much handier, especially in winter, and when there is no fire in the -great hall. I really see no use, except on occasions, for a fire in that -great hall. It looks miserable, I dare say, but then the coal it -consumes is enormous--enough to keep three families in the village -comfortably warmed--and _we_ keep no lackeys to lounge about there, and -be in the way. A good respectable family servant, like Ellis, with -plenty of maids, is much more to my taste than those great saucy -fellows, who have not the heart of a mouse. But this is quite apart from -what I was saying. Sarah had come down just the same as ever, except -that she had her brown gown on,--she wears a different gown every day in -the week,--and her muslin shawl lined with blue, and of course blue -ribbons in her cap to correspond. Carson, after all, is really a -wonderful milliner. She seemed to have forgotten, or at least passed -over, our little quarrel, for she spoke just the same as usual, and -said, as she always does, that she hoped that I would not forget to -order the carriage for her drive. I have given over being nettled about -this. She says it regularly, poor dear soul, every other day. - -“And little Sara is coming to-day,” said I. “You’ll take her for -company, won’t you? It will do the child good.” - -“Do her good! why, Cresswell has a carriage!” said Sarah in her whisper; -“beggars will ride before all’s done.” - -“But he’s nothing of a beggar, quite the reverse; he’s very well-to-do, -indeed,” said I. “I think he has a very good right to a one-horse -chaise.” - -“Ah, to be sure, that makes all the difference,” said Sarah in her sharp -way, “I forgot it was but one horse.” - -Now her voice, which is rather pleasant when she’s kind, gets a sort of -hiss in it when she’s spiteful, and the sound of that “horse,” though I -wouldn’t for the world say any harm of my sister, drew out all the -hoarseness and unpleasant sound in the strangest way possible. I was -quite glad to hear at that moment the wheels in the courtyard. - -“There is little Sara,” said I, and went off to fetch her in, very glad -to get off, it must be confessed; but glad also, to be sure, to see my -little pet, who had always taken so kindly to me. Before I could get to -the door which Ellis was holding open, the dear child herself came -rushing upon me, fairly driving me a few steps back, and taking away my -breath. “You’re not to come into the draught, godmamma. It’s so cold, -oh, it’s so cold! I thought my nose would be off,” cried Sara’s voice -close to my ear. She was talking and kissing me at the same moment, and -after the start she had given me, you may suppose, I did not pick up -exactly every word she said. But that was the substance of it, to be -sure. - -“Why didn’t you wear a veil? You ought to wear a veil, child. We were -all supposed to have complexions when I was young,” said I. “Don’t you -have any complexions, now, you little girls?” - -“Oh, godmamma! I don’t expect ever to hear you talking nonsense,” said -Sara severely. “What’s the good of our complexions? We can’t do anything -with them that I ever heard of. Come in from the draught, please, for -the sake of your dear old nose.” - -“You are the rudest little girl I ever knew in my life. Go in, child, go -in, and see your godmamma,” said I. “How ever do you manage that girl, -Mr. Cresswell? Does she think I don’t know all the draughts in my own -house?” - -“Ah, my dear lady, she’s contrairy. I told you so--she always was and -ever will be,” said Mr. Cresswell, putting down his hat with a sigh. -Dear, dear! the poor man certainly had his troubles with that little -puss. Manage her, indeed! when, to be sure, as was natural, she made him -do exactly just as she pleased. - -When we went in after her, he and I, there she was, to be sure, kneeling -down on Sarah’s footstool, trying all she could to put my sister’s -curls out of order with kissing her. If any one else had dared to do it! -But Sara, who never since she was a baby feared any creature, had her -way with her godmother as well as with all the rest of us. There’s a -great deal in never being afraid. - -“Now, go up-stairs, and take off your bonnet, there’s a good child; -there’s a fire in your room to warm it for puss in velvet. Go, and come -down smooth and nice as your godmamma loves to see you. Dinner will be -ready presently, and you must be nice for dinner. There, there, don’t -talk any more, Sara, go and smooth your hair.” - -“Oh yes, certainly, and then you’ll see what’s happened!” cried Sara, -and frisked off out of the room like a little puss as she was. - -I dare say the dear child expected nothing less than a great curiosity -on my part about what had happened. Poor dear little kitten! she forgot -that these little secrets were not such great matters to me. When she -was gone we did not say a syllable about Sara; but her good father began -to pull about the things on one of the tables behind the screen, and -made signs to me with his eyebrows to come and talk to him. When I -passed over that way he said quite softly, “Anything more?” - -“Not a word,” said I; for, to be sure, that about Sarah marrying if they -would have let her was private, and even the family solicitor had -nothing to do with it, though, I dare say if the truth were known, he -knew all about it better than I did. “Not a word; only, I suppose, I -should say he must be about her own age.” - -Mr. Cresswell glanced up at me, gave a short little smile, a nod of his -head, and a shrug of his shoulders, and understood all about it as if I -had told him. - -“Was in love with her once, of course--thought so!” he said in his -undertone: “you ladies, for one good thing, do think on when we’ve made -fools of ourselves about you. It’s always our compensation.” - -“We think on after you’ve forgotten all about it--that’s what you mean,” -said I. - -Mr. Cresswell gave another little shrug with his shoulders, and glanced -at the screen behind which Sarah was knitting. “How lovely she was once, -to be sure!” he said with a little sigh, and then laughed out at -himself, not without a little redness in his face. To speak of a blush -in a man of his years would be simply absurd, you know. Such a piece of -presumption! I do believe Bob Cresswell had taken it upon him to fall -in love with Sarah too in his young days. I could have boxed his ears -for him; and to think he should have the audacity to laugh at himself -now! - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -This conversation of ours, if it could be called a conversation, was -luckily interrupted by the entrance of little Sara, who came into the -room, lightfooted and noiseless, as such creatures can when they are -young. She had on a velvet jacket, over a thick-corded blue silk dress. -She must have spent quite a fortune in dress, the little saucy puss. -What startled me, however, was her hair. She had a beautiful head of -hair, and wore it of course in the fashion, as all young girls ought. -Some people were so misguided as to call Sara Cresswell -dark-complexioned. They meant she had very dark hair, eyebrows, and -eyelashes. As for her skin, it was as pure as Sarah’s, who had always -been a blonde beauty. But with all the mass of hair she had, when she -chose to spread it out and display it, and with her black eyes and small -face, I don’t wonder people thought the little witch dark. However, all -that was done away _now_. There she stood before me, laughing, and -making her curtsey, with short little curls, like a child’s, scarcely -long enough to reach to her collar--all her splendid hair gone--a -regular crop! I screamed out, as may be supposed; I declare I could have -whipped her with the very best will in the world. The provoking, wicked -little creature! no wonder her poor father called her contrairy. Dear, -dear, to think what odd arrangements there are in this world! _I_ should -have brought her under some sort of authority, I promise you; but -really, not meaning to be profane, one was really tempted to say to -one’s self, what _could_ Providence be thinking of to give such a child -to poor old Bob Cresswell, who knew no more how to manage her than I -know how to steer a boat? - -“I declare I think you are very wicked,” I said when I gained my breath; -“I do believe, Sara, you take a delight in vexing your friends. For all -the world what good could it do to cut off your hair? Don’t speak to me, -child! I declare I am so vexed and provoked and angry, I could cry!” - -“Don’t cry, godmamma,” said Sara quite coolly, “or I’ll have it made up -into a wig; you can’t fancy how nice it is now. Besides, what was the -good of such a lot of hair? Don’t you know that’s what gives people -headaches? I thought I had better be wise in time.” - -“You little storyteller!” cried I, “you never had a headache in your -life.” - -“Ah, but prevention is better than cure,” said the wicked little -creature with her very demurest look. - -“Dinner, Ma’am,” said Ellis at the door. It was just as well for Sara. -But I had a great mind to pinch her, as Mr. Thackeray says the ladies -do, when we went together to the dining-room. I am sure she deserved it. -However, she did not escape a little pinch which touched her, brave as -she was. Sarah, I suppose, had not taken the trouble to look at her till -we were all seated at table. Then she looked up, quite ignorant of what -had happened. Sarah did not start like me, nor scream out; but she -looked at little Sara quite composedly, leaning forward to see her all -round. When she had quite done, she folded her hands upon her napkin, -and smiled. “What a shocking fright you have made of yourself, my dear -child,” said Sarah with the most amiable look in the world. Little Sara -coloured up in a moment, grew red and furious like a little vixen, and -had something angry and wicked on the very tip of her tongue, which -however, bold as she was, she dared not say. Mr. Cresswell ventured to -give a little mutter and chuckle of a laugh, and how the little witch -did look at him! But as for me, though I was glad to have her punished, -I could not find in my heart to hear anything said against her without -standing up in her defence. - -“Well, of course, I am very angry,” said I; “but I can’t say I agree -with your godmamma either--it’s pretty enough for that matter.” - -“Oh, please, don’t take any trouble about my feelings. I never meant it -to be pretty,” said little Sara, quite furious. - -“Nice hair is very much in a dark person’s favour. It helps the -complexion and harmonises,” said Sarah, who kept always looking at the -child in her smiling aggravating way. “People will soon notice the want -of it in you, my dear. They will say you are very much gone off in your -looks. It’s a pity you were so rash. It does make you a sad fright, -whatever Milly says.” - -Now, only imagine how little Sara was to bear all this, spoken just in -Sarah’s whisper, which made everybody, even Ellis, who was waiting, -listen close to hear what she said. It was very seldom she said so many -words in one day, not to say at one speaking. She began to eat her soup -when she had done her pleasant remarks. And surely I never did remark -before how odd the s’s sounded in her poor lost voice. Somehow they -seemed to go hissing round the table, as if every word had an s in it. -It was a round table, and not very large. Sarah never would do any -carving, and I got tired of always doing it. So Ellis managed for us now -on the sideboard, knowing foreign ways a little, and a small table -suited us best. - -“Ah, my dear lady, I wish you’d take her in hand,” said Mr. Cresswell -(dear, dear! it is inconceivable how injudicious some people are!); -“she’s too many for me.” - -“My opinion is,” said I, breaking in as well as I could, seeing that -poor little Sara must come to an explosion if they kept it up, “that -when a gentleman comes to visit two single ladies, he should let us know -what’s going on in the world. Have you never a new curate at St. John’s -to tell us of, and are all the officers just exactly as they used to be? -You may all be very superior, you wise people. But I do love gossip, I -am free to acknowledge. I heard your rector preached in his surplice -last Sunday. How did you Evangelicals take that, Mr. Cresswell, eh? For -my part, I can’t see where’s the harm in a surplice as you Low Church -people do.” - -“You and I will never agree in that, Miss Milly,” said Mr. Cresswell; -“though, indeed, if Dr. Roberts came into the pulpit in white, I’ve my -own idea as to how you’d take it. However, not to speak of surplices, -the red-coats are going, I hear. We’re to have a change. The Chestnuts -are coming up from Scotland, and our men are ordered to the West Indies. -The Colonel doesn’t like it a bit. It’s better for him in one way, but -he’s getting to like a steady friendly little society, and not to care -for moving. He’s getting up in years, like the rest of us, is the -Colonel. This will tell on him, you’ll see.” - -“Well, to be sure, when a man’s old, he ought to retire,” said I; “there -are always plenty to take his place.” - -“Ah, it’s easy to talk,” said Mr. Cresswell. “It’s all very well for us -to retire that have made money; but a man that has only his pay, what -is he to do? He has got that poor little widow-daughter of his to keep, -and Fred is very unsettled, I’m afraid, and little comfort to his -father. There’s a deal of difference, Miss Milly, between full-pay and -half-pay. He’d have to cut down his living one half if he retired.” - -“That’s just exactly what I quarrel with in these grand times of ours,” -said I; “what’s the harm of cutting down one’s living one half? My own -opinion is, I’d respect a man very much that did it. Great people can do -it somehow. I wish you luxurious middle-class people would learn the -way. But then you don’t stand by each other when you fall into poverty. -You drop your friend when he can’t ask you to dinner. You are good to -his children, and patronise them, and forget they were just the same as -yours a little while ago. I don’t think we’ll ever come to any good in -this country till we get back to knowing how to be poor.” - -“My dear lady, England never was in such splendid condition,” said Mr. -Cresswell, with a smile at my ignorance. “If we’ve forgotten how to -save, we’ve learned how to grow rich.” - -“I know all about England,” said I; “we read the Times; don’t you tell -me. I’m anything but easy about England. Making money is no substitute -in the world for saving it. I tell you, the world won’t be what I call -right till a gentleman may be as poor as God pleases, without being -ashamed of it; and have the heart to cut down his living one-half too.” - -“Well, well Miss Milly, ladies are always optimists,” said Mr. -Cresswell; “but I shouldn’t like to be poor myself, nor see Sara tried -with economics. _She_ don’t understand anything about them, that’s -sure.” - -“The more’s the pity. What if she should marry a poor man?” said I. - -“She _shan’t_ marry a poor man, my dear lady,” said Mr. Cresswell. - -Upon which Sara lighted up. I knew she would. The dear child would do -anything out of contradiction. - -“Rather a poor one than a rich one, papa,” cried Sara, with a little -start of opposition. “Godmamma is always quite right. It’s shocking how -everybody worships rich people. If we were to live in a little cottage, -now, and make a dozen poor people comfortable! instead of always living -in that dull old house, and having the same chairs and tables, and -looking at exactly the same things every day. Godmamma! I do so want my -room fresh papered. I know every tint of that pattern, till it makes me -quite ill to look at it. Wouldn’t it be a thousand times more reasonable -and like a Christian, if papa would stop giving stupid dinners, and -taking me to stupid parties, and divide all his money with, say, a dozen -poor families, and live in a sweet country cottage? It isn’t enough for -us, you know, to make us great people. But it would be quite enough to -give us all plenty to live upon, the dozen others and ourselves as well. -Don’t you think it would be a great deal more like what a man should do, -than keeping all one’s money to one’s self, like papa?” - -Little Sara grew quite earnest, and her eyes sparkled as she spoke. Her -father laughed inwardly under his breath, and thought it just one of her -vagaries. She divide all her money with her neighbours, the extravagant -little puss in velvet! But don’t suppose Sara was shamming. She was as -thoughtless and as prodigal as ever a child was who knew no better. But -for all that, she could have done it. She could have found out how to do -it. She meant what she said. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -“But you are a very foolish, thoughtless, provoking little puss; there -can’t be any mistake about it,” said I. - -“Nothing of the sort, godmamma,” said Sara, “such a quantity of time was -always taken up with that hair of mine; it had to be brushed out at -night, however sleepy I was, and it had to be done I don’t know how many -times a day. Think of wasting hours of one’s time upon one’s hair!” - -“But, my dear child, you have too much time on your hands. Do you ever -do anything in the world, you velvet kitten,” said I. - -“If it was anybody else but you, I should be angry, godmamma,” said -Sara; “but, indeed, I have tried a quantity of things. As for working, -you know I _won’t_ work--I tell everybody so plainly. What’s the good -of it? I hate crochet and cushions and footstools. If I had some little -children to keep all tidy, there would be some good in it; or if papa -was poor I might mend his stockings--but I won’t work now, whatever -anybody says.” - -“I don’t see any reason why you should not keep some little children -tidy, or mend papa’s stockings either, if you would like it,” said I. - -“If I would _like_ it!” cried Sara, in high wrath and indignation, “as -if that was why I should do it! I don’t think there can be anything more -dreadful in life than always having to do just what one likes. Now, look -here, godmamma; suppose I was to mend papa’s stockings because I liked -it,--oh, how Mary would giggle and laugh and rejoice over me! She _has_ -to do it, and doesn’t like it a bit, you may be sure. And suppose I were -making frocks for poor children, like the Dorcas society, wouldn’t all -the sensible people be on me to say how very much better it would be to -have poor women make them and pay them for their work? I could only do -what it’s other people’s business to do. I have got no business. The -best thing wanted of me is just to sit idle from morning to night and -read novels; and nobody understands me either, not even my dear old -godmamma, which is hardest of all.” - -“But, Sara, if you chose, you could do _good_; the best thing of all to -do--you could----” - -“Oh stop, stop, godmamma! I can’t do good. I don’t want to do good. I -hate going about and talking to people; and besides, they are all, every -one of them,” said Sara, with tears, half of vexation and half of -sorrow, sparkling in her eyes, “a great deal better than me.” - -I had not a single word to say against this; for indeed, though I said -it, because of course it was the right thing to say, I can’t undertake, -upon my honour, that I thought a spoiled child like Sara Cresswell was -the kind of creature to be much comfort to poor men or poor women -labouring hard in the sorrows of this life. - -“I went once with Miss Fielding from the Rectory. There was one house,” -said Sara, speaking low and getting red, “where they hadn’t so much to -live on for the whole year through as papa had to pay for my -dressmaker’s bill. He had just been worrying me about it that morning, -so I remember. But they weren’t miserable! no more than you are, -godmamma! not one half, nor a quarter, nor a hundredth part so miserable -as I am! And the woman looked so cheerful and _right_ with the baby in -her arms, and all the cleaning to do--I cried and ran off home when I -got out of that house. I was ashamed, just dead ashamed, godmamma, and -nothing else.--Doing good!--oh!--I think if I were the little girl, -coming in to hold the baby, and help to clean, I might get some good -myself. But then nobody will understand me whatever I say. I don’t want -to invent things to ‘employ my time.’ Employing one’s time is about as -bad as improving one’s mind. I want to have something _real_ to do, -something that _has_ to be done and nobody but me to do it; and I don’t -mind in the least whether I should like it or not.” - -“Well, dear,” said I, “you’re not nineteen yet; plenty of time. I dare -say you’ll have your hard work some day or other, and won’t like it any -more than the rest of us. Have patience, it will all come in time.” - -“Then, I suppose,” said Sara, with a little toss of her provoking little -head, “I had better just go to sleep till that time comes.” - -“Well, my love, papa would save a good deal, no doubt, if there were no -dressmaker’s bills. You inconsistent little witch! Here you tell me how -disgusted you are with being a rich man’s daughter and having nothing to -do, yet you cut off your hair to save time, and go on quite composedly -spending as much as would keep a poor family--and more than one poor -family, I suspect--on your dressmaker’s bill. Little Sara, what do you -mean?” - -“The two things have no connection,” said Sara, tossing her head again; -“I never pretended that I wanted to save papa’s money. What’s the good -of it? I like pretty things to wear, and I don’t care the very least in -the world how much money papa has in the bank, or wherever he keeps it. -He told me once it was my own means I was wasting, for, of course, it -would be all mine when he died,” she went on, her eyes twinkling with -proud tears and wounded feeling; “as if _that_ made any difference! But -I’ll tell you what, godmamma. If he was to portion out all the money to -ourselves and so many other people, just enough to live upon, you’d see -how happy I should be in muslin frocks. I know I should! and keep -everything so snug and nice at home.” - -“Oh, you deluded little child!” said I; “don’t you know there’s ever so -much _nasty_ work to do, before everything can be nice as we always have -it? Should you like to be a housemaid with your little velvet paws, you -foolish little kitten? You don’t know what you’re saying.” - -“But I do, though--and I could scratch too,” said the wild little puss, -with a glance out of her black eyes which confounded me. I thought the -child had gone out of her wits altogether. No wonder her poor father -called her contrairy, poor hapless man. - -This conversation took place after dinner, when we two went back to the -drawing-room. Mr. Cresswell had returned to Chester in his brougham, and -Sarah had gone out all by herself for her drive. Perhaps little Sara, -after being so aggravated at dinner, would not have gone with my sister -even had she been asked; but her godmamma did not ask her. Dear, dear, -what a very strange world this is! Poor Sarah chose to go out alone, -driving drearily through the winterly trees and hedges; she chose always -to turn aside from the village, which might have been a little cheerful, -and she never dreamt of calling anywhere, poor soul! I have lived a -quiet life enough, but I could not get on without a smile here and a -word there, and the sight of my fellow-creatures at least. However, I -have no call to censure neighbours, much less my sister. This is how -Sara Cresswell and I had time for our long conversation. I broke it off -short now, thinking it was about time for Sarah to come in. - -“Now little Sara,” said I, “we’ll drop the question what you’re to do as -a general question just now; but your godmamma will be in directly. What -shall you do while you’re here? Should you like to come and set my -papers straight? It’s nice, tiresome, sickening work. It always gives me -a headache, but I can’t trust a servant to do it. I think it’s the very -work for you.” - -“But, dear godmamma, here’s a novel,” said Sara, who was sunk deep in an -easy-chair, and had not the very slightest intention of obeying me, -“just the very one I wanted, and I see by the first chapter that Emily -is my own very favourite heroine. I’ll do it to-morrow, -please--to-morrow morning, not to-day.” - -“But it must be done to-day.” - -“Oh, _must_! why _must_? You have only to do what you please--you are -not obliged to keep time like a dressmaker or a clerk,” said Sara, -reading all the while. - -“Oh, you child!” said I; “suppose papa’s dinner was waiting, or his -stockings to mend, would you let them stand till you had finished your -novel? Oh, you deluded little thing, is that the good workwoman you -would be?” - -Before I had finished speaking Sara had started like a little sprite -out of her chair, tossed the novel into the corner of a distant sofa, -and went off like the wind to the library, where I did my business and -kept my papers. I had to hurry after her as quickly as I could. A pretty -job she would have made of it, had she done it alone! - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -If there is one thing I dislike more than another, it is the housemaid, -or even Ellis, meddling with my papers. I don’t scold a great deal, in a -general way, but I will allow that I don’t spare any of them when they -flutter my accounts and receipts about in setting things to rights. So -in the course of nature the things get dusty; and I quite expected to -see poor little Sara grow pale and give in before she was half through -the year’s accounts. But nobody knows the spirit that is in that child. -After she had once roused herself to do it, she held at it without an -idea of yielding. I saw her look now and again at her little toys of -hands, but I took no notice; and on she went at the papers manfully, -putting them in as regular order as I could have done myself. It was not -such a very important business after all, but still it’s a comfort to -see a person set to anything with a will, especially a little spoilt -wilful creature that never had anything to do but her own pleasure all -her life. - -Nearly an hour after we had come into the library somebody came with a -gentle knock to the door; thinking it was Ellis, I said, “Come in,” -without looking up, waiting for him to speak. But while I sat quietly -going on with my business, with Sara close by rustling her papers, I was -quite startled and shaken all at once to hear a voice close by me which -I did not hear half a dozen times in a twelvemonth, the voice of Carson, -Sarah’s maid. - -“Bless me, what’s the matter?” I said, looking up at the sound, being -really too much startled to notice what she said. - -“Nothing, I hope, ma’am,” said Carson, who was very precise and -particular. “But my missis is not come in, ma’am, from her drive, and I -thought I’d make bold to ask if she was going anywhere as I didn’t -know?” - -“Sarah not come back from her drive?” said I, looking at my watch; “why, -we’ve had lights this half hour, Carson; it’s getting towards five -o’clock.” - -“Yes, ma’am,” said Carson, briefly, not allowing for my surprise, “that -is just what I said.” - -This pulled me up a little, as you may suppose; but I was seriously put -out about Sarah, when I really saw how the matter stood. - -“I know nothing about where she was going. Dear, dear, can anything have -happened?” I cried, getting a little flustered and anxious; then I -jumped up, as was natural, and looked out at the window; though of -course nothing was to be seen there but the shrubbery and a corner of -the flower-garden. “But I can’t think what _could_ have happened either. -The horses are very steady, and Jacob is care itself; besides, we’d have -heard directly if anything had gone wrong. No, no, there can’t have been -any accident. My sister was just in her usual, Carson, eh?” - -“Just in her usual ma’am,” said Carson, like an echo of my voice. - -“Then, dear, what can be the matter? it’s only some accident, of -course,” said I; “I don’t mean accident, only some chance turn out of -the way, or something. Bless me, to think of Sarah out after nightfall! -Why don’t you run out to the road and look for the carriage? Call some -of the people about. Ring the bell, child, can’t you?--or no, sit still, -Sara. I’ll take a peep out at the great gate myself.” - -Saying which, I hurried past Carson, brushing against her, as she did -not keep out of my way, and snatched a cloak out of the hall, and ran to -the gate. It was only twilight out of doors, though we had our lamp -lighted. A nice night, grey, a little frosty, but rather pleasant, with -the lights twinkling out of the windows. I said to myself, “Nothing I -should like better than a brisk walk down to the village; but Sarah, you -know--Sarah’s different.” What could keep her out so late? I can’t say I -was alarmed, but I did get a little uneasy, especially as I saw Ellis -making his way up one road from the gate of the courtyard, and the -houseboy running down another. It was Carson’s doings, no doubt; well, -well! I ought to be thankful my sister had a maid that was so fond of -her; but taking things out of my hands in this way, not only made me -angry, as was natural, but flurried me as well. - -As I stood there, however, watching, and thinking I surely heard a sound -of wheels somewhere in the distance, somebody went past me very -suddenly. I could not see where he sprang from, he appeared in such a -sudden unexplainable way. I got quite a fright, and, except that he was -a gentleman, and probably a young one, I could tell nothing more about -the figure that shot across my eyes. Very odd; could he have been hiding -in the bushes? What could he want? Who could it be? I certainly hear the -carriage now, and there comes the houseboy up the road waving his arms -about; but instead of looking for my sister, I looked after this figure -that had passed me. It passed Ellis too, and looked in his face, making -him start, as it appeared to me, and so went straight on, till the road -turned and I could see it no longer. I felt quite as if I had met with -an adventure. Could it be some lover of little Sara’s that had followed -her out here?--or, dear, dear! could it have anything to do with -delaying Sarah’s drive? Just then the carriage came in sight, and I ran -back to the house-door to receive my sister and ask what had detained -her. She stepped out of the carriage, looking paler than her ordinary, -and with that nervous shake in her hands and head, and looked as if she -could quite have clutched hold of Carson, who of course was there to -receive her. - -“Sarah,” cried I, “what in all the world has kept you so long? We were -at our wits’ end, thinking something had happened.” - -“You’ll be glad to see nothing has happened,” said Sarah, in her -whisper, trying hard to be quite composed and like herself as she took -hold of Carson’s arm. “The beauty of the evening, you know, drew me a -little further than I generally go.” - -This she said looking into my face, nay, into my eyes all the time, as -if to defy any suspicions or doubt I might have. Her very determination -to show that there was no other reason, made it quite evident that there -had been something, whatever it was. - -I said nothing of course. I had not the least idea what my own -suspicions pointed at, nor what they were. So it was not likely I should -make any scene, or put it into the servants’ heads to wonder. So I stood -still and asked no more questions, while Sarah passed before me, leaning -on Carson’s arm, to go upstairs. It was the most simple and reasonable -thing in the world; why should she not have gone further than she -intended one night in her life? But she did not, that is all. - -When I went back to the library, little Sara, extraordinary to relate, -was sitting exactly where I left her, busy about the papers. The wilful -creature did not seem to have moved during my absence. She was as busy -and absorbed as if there was nothing else to do or think of in the -world. And while we had been all of a flutter looking for Sarah, she, -sitting quiet and undisturbed, had got the greater part of her work -finished. - -“Sara, you unfeeling child,” said I, “were you not anxious about your -godmamma?” - -“No,” said Sara, very simply. “Godmamma Sarah, and coachman Jacob, and -those two fat old horses could surely all take care of each other. I -wasn’t frightened, godmamma. I never heard of any accidents happening to -big old stout carriages and horses like yours. I’ve nearly got my work -done while you’ve been away.” - -This was all the sympathy I got from little Sara. Of course I could no -more have told her the puzzle my mind was in than I could have told the -servants; but still, you know, an intelligent young person might have -guessed by my looks and been a little sympathetic;--though to be sure -there is no use pretending with one’s self. I do believe I liked Sara -twenty times better for taking no notice;--and then, how cleverly the -little kitten had got through her work! - -We saw nothing more of Sarah that night. When it was time for tea, -Carson came down again with missus’s compliments, and she was tired with -her long drive, and would have tea in her own room. I said nothing at -all, but handed her the Times. I don’t doubt Sarah had her tea very snug -in her nice cosy dressing-room, with Carson purring round her and -watching every move she made. I never could manage that sort of thing -for my part. Little Sara and I, however, though her godmamma deserted -us, were very comfortable, on the whole, downstairs. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -We had both been reading almost all the evening. Sara had her novel, and -I had the Times Supplement, which I am free to confess I like as well as -any other part of the paper. I will not deny that I finished the third -volume before I began to the newspaper; but, to be sure, a novel, after -you are done with it, is an unsatisfactory piece of work; especially if -the evening is only half over, and you have nothing else to begin to. I -sat leaning back in my chair, wandering over the advertisements, and -very ready for a talk. That is just the time, to be sure, when one wants -somebody to talk to. If I had ever been used to the luxury of a -favourite maid when I was young, as Sarah was, I do believe I should -have been in my own cosy room now as well as Sarah, talking everything -over with _my_ Carson. But that is not the way I was brought up, you -see. To be sure, as there was ten years of difference between us, nobody -had ever looked for me, and Sarah had got quite settled in her heiress -ways before I was born. When I was young, I used to think it a sad pity -for everybody’s sake that I ever was born, especially after my mother -died; however, I changed my views upon that subject a good many years -ago. Yet here I sat looking all over the advertisements, and keeping an -eye on Sara to see if there was any hope of getting a little -conversation out of her. Alas! she was all lapped up and lost in her -novel. She thought no more of me than of Sarah’s empty chair. Ah! novels -are novels when people are young. I looked at the poor dear child, and -admired and smiled at her over the top of the newspaper. If I had been a -cabbage, Sara could not have taken less notice of me. - -At last she suddenly exclaimed out loud--at something she was reading, -of course--“I declare!” as if she had made a discovery, and then stopped -short and looked up at me with a sort of challenge, as if defying me to -guess what she was thinking of. Then, seeing how puzzled I looked, Sara -laughed, but reddened a little as well, to my amazement; and finally, -not without the least little touch of confusion, explained herself. To -be sure it was quite voluntary, and yet a little unwilling too. - -“There’s something here exactly like the Italian gentleman; he that -people talk so much about in Chester, you know.” - -“I never knew there was an Italian gentleman in Chester. What a piece of -news! and you never told me,” said I. - -“He only came about a fortnight ago,” said Sara. “It looks quite -romantic, you know, godmamma, which is the only reason _I_ have heard -anything about it. He came quite in great style to the Angel, and said -he was coming to see some friends, and asked all about whether anybody -knew where the Countess Sermoneta lived. You may be quite sure nobody -had ever heard of such a name in Chester. I heard it all from Lucy -Wilde, who had heard it from her brother, who is always playing -billiards and things at the Angel--Harry Wilde----” - -“That is the poor young man who----” - -“Oh, dear godmamma, don’t bother! let one go on with one’s story. Harry -Wilde says the Italian came down among them, asking everybody about this -Countess Sermoneta, and looking quite bewildered when he found that -nobody knew her; but still he was quite lively, and thought it must be -some mistake, and laughed, and made sure that this was really _Chestare_ -he had come to, and not any other place. But next day, people say, he -sent for the landlord and asked all about the families in the -neighbourhood, and all of a sudden grew quite grave and serious, and -soon after took lodgings in Watergate, and has been seen going about the -streets and the walls so much since that everybody knows him. He speaks -English quite well--people say so, I mean--and he has a servant with -him, the funniest-looking fat fellow you ever saw; no more like a proper -Italian servant in a play or a novel than I am; and he calls himself -just Mr. Luigi; and that, of course, you know, must be only his -Christian name.” - -“Nay, indeed, Sara, I don’t know anything about it. There is nothing at -all Christianlike in the name, so far as I can see.” - -“Well then, _I_ know, godmamma, which is all the same,” cried the -impatient little creature; “but then, to be sure, our old Signor Valetti -used to tell us they never minded their family names in Italy; and that -people might be next-door neighbours for ever so long and never know -each other’s surnames. Isn’t it pretty? especially when they have pretty -Christian names, as all the Italians have.” - -“My dear, if you think Looegee pretty, I don’t,” said I. “Take my word -for it, there is nothing like the sensible English names. I’ve had a -good deal of experience, and I don’t like your romantic foreigners. For -my part, I don’t like people that have a story. People have no right to -have stories, child. If you do your duty honestly, and always tell the -truth, and never conceal anything, you can’t get up a romance about -yourself. As for this Italian fellow and his name----” - -“I don’t believe he’s a fellow any more than you are, godmamma,” cried -Sara, quite indignantly; “people should know before they condemn; and -his name is just plain Lewis when it’s put into English. I did not think -you were so prejudiced, indeed I did not--or I never would have told you -anything at all about the poor count----” - -“Heaven preserve us! he’s a count, is he?” said I. “And what do you know -about him, Sara Cresswell, please, that you would quarrel with your own -godmother for his sake?” - -Sara did not speak for a few minutes, looking very flushed and angry. At -last, after a good fight with herself, she started up and threw her arms -round my neck. “Dear godmamma, I wouldn’t quarrel with you for anybody -in the world,” cried the little impulsive creature. Then she stopped and -gave a little toss of her head. “But whatever anybody says, I know it’s -_quite_ right to feel kind to the poor Italian gentleman, a stranger, -and solitary, and disappointed! I do wonder at your people, -godmamma--you people who pretend to do what’s in the Bible. You’re just -as hard upon strangers and as ready to take up a prejudice as anybody -else.” - -“I never pretended not to be prejudiced,” said I; “it’s natural to a -born Englishwoman. And as for your foreign counts, that come sneaking -into people’s houses to marry their daughters and run off with the -money----” - -“Oh, if it is that you are thinking of, godmamma,” cried Sara with great -dignity, sitting quite bolt upright in her chair, “you are totally -mistaken, I assure you. I never spoke to the gentleman in my life; and -besides,” she went on, getting very red and vehement, “I never will -marry anybody, I have quite made up my mind; so, if you please, -godmamma, whatever you choose to say about poor Mr. Luigi, _whom you -don’t know anything about_, I hope you will be good enough not to draw -me into any stupid story about marrying--I quite hate talk of that -kind.” - -I was so thunderstruck that I quite called out--“You impertinent little -puss,” said I, “is that how you dare to talk to your godmother!” I -declare I do not think I ever was put down so all my life before. I gave -her a good sound lecture, as anybody will believe, about the proper -respect she owed to her friends and seniors, telling her that I was very -much afraid she was in a bad way; and that, however her father, who -spoiled her, might let her talk, she ought to know better than to set up -her little saucy face like that in our house. I said a great deal to the -little provoking creature. I am sure she never saw me so angry before, -though she has been a perfect plague and tease all her days. But do you -think she would give in, and say she was sorry? Not if it had been to -save her life! She sat looking down on her book, opening and shutting it -upon her hand, her little delicate nostril swelling, her red upper lip -moving, her foot going pat-pat on the carpet, but never owning to be in -the wrong or making the least apology. After I had done and taken up my -paper again, pretending to be very busy with it, she got up and rummaged -out the other volume of the novel, and came to me to say good-night, -holding out her hand and stooping down her cheek, meaning me to kiss -her, the saucy little puss! As she was in my house, and a guest, and her -first night, I did kiss her, without looking at her. It was a regular -quarrel; and so she too went off to her own room. So here I was all -alone, very angry, and much disposed to launch out upon the servants or -somebody. Contrairy indeed! I should think so! I wonder how that poor -old Bob Cresswell can put up with his life. If she were mine I would -send her off to school, for all so accomplished as they say she is. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -I had not a very good night after these troubles: somehow one’s sleep -goes from one more easily when one grows old; and I kept dreaming all -the night through of my sister and little Sara, and something they were -concealing from me, mixing them both up together in my mind. I rose very -uneasy and excited, not a bit refreshed, as one should feel in the -morning. One thing very strange I have noticed all my life in dreams. -Though never a single _thing_ that one dreams should ever come true, -the feeling one has comes true somehow. I don’t know whether anybody -will understand me. I have had friends in my young days, whom I thought -a great deal upon, that did not prove true to me. And I have remarked, -often long before I found them out, however fond or trustful in them I -was through the day, I was always uneasy in my dreams, always finding -out something wrong or meeting some unkindness--which makes me have a -great confidence, not in what you would call _dreams_, you know, but in -the sentiment of dreams, if you can understand what I mean. I woke up -very unrefreshed, as I say; and got dressed and came downstairs as soon -as it was daylight, though I knew well enough I should find nobody -there. My sister always breakfasted in her own room, and Sara was late -of coming down at the best of times; however, I got some letters about -business, which were perhaps the best things I could have had. They put -me off minding my quarrel with little Sara, or trying to find out what -had kept Sarah so late on her drive. - -I had nearly finished breakfast when little Sara came downstairs. She -came up to me just as she had done the night before, holding out her -hand and stooping down her cheek to be kissed, but not looking at me. I -kissed her, the provoking puss, and poured out her coffee. And after ten -minutes or so we got on chatting just as usual, which was a relief to -me, for I don’t like apologies and explanations. I never could bear -them. Little Sara, after she had got over feeling a little awkward and -stiff, as people always do when they have been wrong, was just in her -ordinary. She was used to affront people and to have them come to again, -the little wicked creature--I am afraid she did not mind. - -This little quarrel had put Sarah a good deal out of my mind, I must -allow, but I got back to being anxious about her directly when I saw her -come down-stairs. I can’t tell what the change upon her was--she did not -look older or paler, or anything that you could put plainly in -words--she was just as particularly dressed, and had her silver-white -curls as nice, and her cap as pretty as usual, but she was not the same -as she had been yesterday; certainly there was some change. Not to speak -of that little nervous motion of her head and hands, which was greater -to-day than ever I had seen it, there was a strange vigilance and -watchfulness in her look which I don’t remember to have ever seen there -before. She looked me very full in the face, I remember with a sort of -daring defying openness, and the same to little Sara, though, of course -what could the child know? All over, down to her very hands, as she -went on with her knitting, there was a kind of self-consciousness that -had a very odd effect upon me. I could not tell what in the world to -think of it. And as for supposing that some mere common little accident, -or a fright, or anything outside of herself, had woke her up to that -look, you need not tell me. I have not lived fifty years in this world -for nothing. I knew better. Whatever it was that changed Sarah’s look, -the causes of it were deep down and secret in herself. - -It was this of course that made me anxious and almost alarmed, for I -could not but think she must have something on her mind to make her look -so. And when she beckoned to me that afternoon after dinner, as she did -when she had anything particular to say, I confess my heart went thump -against my breast, and I trembled all over. However, I went close up as -usual, and drew my chair towards her that I might hear. Little Sara was -close by. She could hear too if she pleased, but Sarah took no notice of -the child. - -“Have you heard anything from Cresswell about Richard Mortimer?” Sarah -asked me quite sharply all at once. - -“Why, no: he did not say anything yesterday when he was here. Did _you_ -have any conversation with him?” - -“_I!_ Do I have any conversation with any one?” said Sarah, in her -bitter way. “I want you to bestir yourself about this business, however. -We must have an heir.” - -“It is odd how little I have thought about it since that day--very odd,” -said I; “and I was quite in earnest before. I wondered if Providence -might, maybe, have taken it up now? I have seen such a thing: one falls -off one’s anxiety somehow, one can’t tell how; and lo! the reason is, -that the thing’s coming about all naturally without any help from you. -We’ll be having the heir dropped down at the park gates some of these -days, all as right and natural as ever was.” - -I said this without thinking much about it; just because it was an idea -of mine, that most times, when God lays a kind of lull upon our -anxieties and struggles, it really turns out to be because He himself is -taking them in hand; but having said this easy and calm, without -anything particular in my mind, you may judge how I was startled half -out of my wits by Sarah dashing down her knitting-pin out of her hand, -stamping her foot on the footstool, and half screaming out in her sharp, -strangled whisper, that sounded like the very voice of rage itself-- - -“The fool! the fool! oh, the fool! Shall I be obliged to leave my home -and my seclusion and do it myself? I that might have been so different! -Good God! shall _I_ be obliged to do it--_me_! When I was a young girl I -might have hoped to die a duchess,--everybody said so,--and now, instead -of being cared for and shielded from the envious world,--people were -always envious of me since ever I remember,--must I go trudging out to -find this wretched cousin? Is this all the gratitude and natural feeling -you have? Good heaven! to put such a thing upon me!” - -She stopped, all panting and breathless, like a wild creature that had -relieved itself somehow with a yell or a cry; but, strange, strange, at -that moment Ellis opened the door. I will never think again she does not -hear. The sound caught her in a moment. Her passion changed into that -new watching look quicker than I can tell; and she sat with her eyes -fixed upon me,--for, poor soul, to be sure she could not see through the -screen behind her to find out what Ellis came for,--as if she could have -killed me for the least motion. I got so excited myself that I could -hardly see the name on the card Ellis brought in. Sarah’s looks, not to -say her words, had put it so clearly in my mind that something was going -to happen, that my self-possession almost forsook me. I let the card -flutter down out of my hand when I lifted it off the tray, and did not -hear a single syllable of what the man was saying till he had repeated -it all twice over. It was only a neighbour who had sent over to ask for -Miss Mortimer, having heard somehow that Sarah was poorly. She heard him -herself, however, and gave an answer--her compliments, and she was quite -well--before I knew what it was all about. If she had boxed me well she -could not have muddled my head half so much as she had done now. When -Ellis went away again, and left me alone close by her, I quite shook in -my chair. - -But she had got over her rage as it seemed. She stooped down to pick up -her knitting-pin--with a little pettish exclamation that nobody helped -her now-a-days--just in her usual way, and took up the dropt stitches in -her knitting. But I could very well see that her hand trembled. As she -did not say any more, I thought I might venture to draw back my chair. -But when she saw the motion she started, looked up at me, and held up -her hand. I was not to get so easily away. - -“I had no idea you minded it so much. Well, well, Sarah,” cried I, in -desperation, “I will write this moment to urge Mr. Cresswell on.” - -“And shout it all out, please, that the child may hear!” said Sarah, -with a spiteful look as if she could bite me. I was actually afraid of -her. I got up as fast as I could, and went off to the writing-table at -the other end of the room. There was nothing I would not do to please -her in a rational way; but, of all the vagaries she ever took up before, -what did this dreadful passion mean? - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -The next day I had something to do in the village, which was only about -half a mile from the Park gates; but little Sara, when I asked her to go -with me, had got some piece of business to her fancy in the greenhouse, -and was not disposed to leave it, so I went off by myself. I went in, as -I passed the lodge, to ask for little Mary Williams, who had a cough -which I quite expected would turn to hooping-cough, though her mother -would not believe it (I turned out to be right, of course). Mrs. -Williams was rather in a way, poor body, that morning. Mary was worse -and worse, with a flushed face and shocking cough, and nothing would -please her mother but that it was inflammation, and the child would die. -It is quite the strangest thing in the world, among those sort of -people, how soon they make up their minds that their children are to -die. I scolded her well, which did her good, and promised her the -liniment we always have for hooping-cough, and said I should bring up a -picture-book for the child (it’s a good little thing when it is well) -from the new little shop in the village. This opened up, as I found out, -quite a new phase of poor Williams’ trouble. - -“I wouldn’t encourage it ma’am, no sure, I wouldn’t, not for a hundred -picture-books. I wouldn’t go for to set up them as ’tices men out of -their houses and lads fro’ home. No! I seen enough of that when poor old -Williams was alive, and we was all in Liverpool. It’s all as one as the -public-houses, ma’am. I can’t see no difference. Williams, it was his -chapell; and the boy, it’s his night-school and his reading. I don’t see -no good of it. In the old man’s time, many’s the weary night I’ve sat -by mysel’ mending their bits o’ things, and never a soul to cheer me up; -and now, look’ee here, the boy’s tooken to it; and if I’m to lose -Mary----” - -“You ridiculous woman,” cried I, while the poor creature fell sobbing -and took to her apron, “what’s to make you lose Mary? The child’s going -in for hooping-cough, as sure ever child was, and I see no reason in the -world why she shouldn’t get over it nicely, with the spring coming on as -well. Don’t fret; trouble comes soon enough without going out of the way -to meet it. What’s all this story you’ve been telling me about poor -Willie, and the shop in the village, and the night-school? Don’t you -know, you foolish woman, the night-school may be the making of the boy?” - -“I don’t know nothink about it, ma’am, nor I don’t want to know,” said -our liberal-minded retainer. “I know it takes the boy out o’ the house -most nights in the week; and I sits a-thinking upon my troubles, and -listening to all the sounds in the trees, sometimes moidered and -sometimes scared. I’d clear away thankful any night, even washing night, -when I’m folding for the mangle, to have him write his copy at home; and -have a hearth-stone for him, though I say it as shouldn’t, as bright as -a king’s. But he’s a deal grander nor the like o’ that, he is--he’ll -stay and read the papers and talk. Bother their talk and their papers! I -ask you, ma’am, wouldn’t Willie be a deal better at home?” - -“I shouldn’t say but what I might perhaps think so too,” said I; “but -then the gentlemen say not, and they should know best.” - -“The gentlemen! and there’s another worry, sure,” said Mrs. Williams; -“who would you think, ma’am, has been in the village, but a Frenchman, -a-spying all about, and asking questions; and had the impudence to come -to my very door, to the very park gates, to ask if I knowed a lady with -a French name that was here or hereabout. I answered him short, and said -I knew nothink about the French, and shut the door in his face, begging -your pardon, ma’am; for, to be sure, he was after no good, coming asking -for outlandish ladies here.” - -“Very odd,” said I, “I hope it’s no robber, Williams. You were quite -right to shut the door in his face.” - -“And if I might make so bold,” said Williams, coming closer and speaking -low, “Jacob, he maintains it was a French fellow with a mustache that -scared Miss Sarah the day afore yesterday. Jacob seen him, but took no -notice; and directly after Miss Sarah up and pulled the string, and -told him to drive round by Eden Castle, a good five-mile round, and to -go quick. You may depend Miss Sarah took him for a robber, or somethink; -and I’m dead sure it was the same man.” - -I was very much startled by this, though I could scarcely tell why; but, -of course, I would not let Williams suppose there was any mystery in it. -“Very likely,” said I; “my sister goes out so little, she’s timid--but I -am losing my time. Good-bye, little Mary, I’ll fetch you your -picture-book; and be sure you rub her chest well with the liniment. I -have always found it successful, and I’ve tried it for ten years.” - -When I had fairly got out of the lodge, I went along without losing any -more time, wonderfully puzzled in my own mind. Here was a riddle I could -neither understand nor find any key to. After hearing little Sara’s -tale, and all she had to say about the Italian, there was nothing so -surprising in finding him out here, if it should happen to be him, -seeing the park was only a few miles from Chester; only that Sara showed -more interest in him than she had any call to do, and if he should -happen to be coming after _her_, it was a thing that should be looked -to. But why, in all the world, should _Sarah_ be agitated by the sight -of him? _That_ was the extraordinary circumstance. As for supposing her -to be alarmed at the idea of a robber, that, of course, was the merest -folly, and I never entertained the idea for a moment. But if this were -not the reason, what could the reason be? I was entirely lost in -bewilderment and consternation. Could it be the mere passing face of a -stranger which made her so deeply anxious as to the name of the visitor -who called next day, and the entrance of Ellis with the card? How, in -all the world, could a wandering Italian, seeking or pretending to seek -for somebody no one had ever heard of, make any difference to Sarah? The -more I turned it over the more I was mystified. I could not even guess -at any meaning in it; but to drive five miles round out of her way, to -be so excited all at once about the heir of the Mortimers, and to have -got such a strange, watchful, vigilant look on her face, these changes -could not come from nothing: but I had not the merest shadow of a clue -to guide me in connecting little Sara’s Italian, if it was he, with my -sister Sarah’s agitation and excitement. I stopped short at this, and -could not go a step further; if there was any connection between the -two--if there was nothing else to account for Sarah’s trouble which I -did not know of--then the whole affair was the most extraordinary -mystery I ever came across. - -I walked pretty smartly down to the village while I was occupied with -these thoughts. A nice little village ours was, though I can’t really -say whether you would have called it picturesque. A little bit of a -thread of a stream ran along the lower edge of the common, and found its -way somehow, all by itself, little thing as it was, down to the Dee. At -that time of year the common was rather chilly to look at, the grass and -the gorse bushes being a good bit blackened by frost, which had set in -pretty sharply. I remember noticing, as I passed, that Dame Marsden, -whose cottage is the first you come to on the left-hand side, just on -the edge of the common, had her washing out, some of the things, after -the line was full, being spread on the gorse, and that the shirts were -lying there with their stiff white arms stuck out like pokers, as hard -with the frost as if they had been made of wood. But after you pass the -first few cottages, which just lie here and there, you come to a snug -bit of street, with the Rectory garden and a peep of the house on one -side, and the doctor’s house staring straight at it across the road; and -the other better houses of the village thrusting forward on both sides, -as if to take care of the aristocracy, and keep them cosy. Just before -you come to the doctor’s was the new shop I had spoken of at the lodge. -It was got up by the doctor, and was going to be a failure. It had all -kinds of cheap books and papers, and of all things in the world, a -reading room! And the shopkeeper, who was rather a smart young fellow, -taught a night school after the shop was over. I dare to say it wasn’t a -bad place; but, of course, in a bit of a rural village like ours, it was -easy to see it would never succeed. - -Into this shop, however, I went to get little Mary Williams her -picture-book; and I can’t but say I was very much struck and surprised -to see a stranger standing there whom I had never seen before, and to -hear roars of laughter coming out of the shop and drawing the children -about the door. The stranger was one of the fattest men I ever saw: not -that he was dreadfully big or unwieldy,--on the contrary, he was -spinning about on his toes in a way that would have been a trial to the -lightest Englishman. His fatness was so beautifully distributed that it -was amazing to see. His arms in the coat-sleeves which fitted them like -the covers of a cushion, his short plump fingers, all were in perfect -keeping. As for his face, that was nearly lost in beard. When I entered -the shop he had seized his beard with one of his fat hands, in the -warmth of his monologue; for he was talking, I have no doubt, in a very -animated and lively manner, if any one could have understood a word of -what he said. Now, I confess I felt a good deal of sympathy with the -poor fellow; for I remember quite well the only time I ever was abroad -feeling an odd sort of conviction that if I only spoke very clear, -plain, distinct English, and spoke loud enough, people, after a while, -must come to understand me. When he saw me he made a spin clean out of -my way, took off the queer hat he had on, made me a bow, and stopped -talking till I had done my business; which was the most civil thing I -had seen in a stranger for many a day. And the face was such a jolly, -honest sort of face that, in spite of my prejudice against foreigners, I -felt quite disarmed all at once. - -“Who is he? What is he saying?” said I to the shop-people. - -“Goodness knows!” cried old Mrs. Taylor, the shopkeeper’s mother. “I -know no more on’t nor if it was a dog. Lord, Miss Milly! to think of -poor creatures brought up from their cradles to talk sich stuff as -that!” - -“I was brought up at a grammar-school, ma’am,” said young Taylor -himself, with a blush; “where it isn’t modern languages, you know, -ma’am, that’s the great thing; and, though I know the grammar, I’m not -very well up in my French.” - -Here his little sister, who had kept nudging him all this time, suddenly -whispered, with her face growing crimson, “Oh, Alfred! ask Miss -Milly!--to be sure she knows.” - -And, to tell the truth, though I knew I could never keep up a -conversation, I had been privately conning over in my own mind a little -scrap of French, though whether he was French or not I knew no more than -Jenny Taylor. So I faced round boldly enough, not being afraid of any -criticism, and fired off my interrogation at the good-humoured fat -fellow. He looked so blank after I had spoken that it was quite apparent -he did not understand a word of it. He made a profusion of bows. He -entered into a long and animated explanation, which sent Jenny Taylor -into fits of laughter, and filled her mother with commiseration. But I -caught two words, and these confounded me. The first was “Italiano,” -over and over repeated; the second which he pronounced, pointing out to -the street with many lively gestures, was “padrone.” I comprehended the -matter all at once, and it made my heart beat. This was the servant whom -little Sara had described, and the master, the “padrone,” was in the -village pursuing his extraordinary inquiries, whatever they were, here. -For the moment I could not help being agitated; I felt, I cannot explain -why, as if I were on the eve of finding out something. I asked him -eagerly, in English, where his master was; and again received a voluble -and smiling answer, I have no doubt in very good Italian. Then we shook -our heads mutually and laughed, neither quite convinced that the other -could not understand if he or she would. But the end was that I got my -picture-book and left the shop without ascertaining anything about the -padrone. Perhaps it was just as well. Why should I go and thrust myself -into mysteries and troubles which did not make any call upon me? - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -I had a good many little errands in the village, and stayed there for -some time. It was dusk when I turned to go home. Very nice the village -looks at dusk, I assure you--the rectory windows beginning to shine -through the trees, and the doctor’s dining-room answering opposite as if -by a kind of reflection; but no lamps or candles lighted yet in the -other village houses, only the warm glow of the fire shining through the -little muslin blind on the geraniums in the window; and, perhaps, the -mother standing at the door to look out for the boys at play, or to see -if it is time for father’s coming home. Dame Marsden’s shirts were still -lying stiff and stark like ghosts upon the gorse bushes; and some of the -early labourers began to come tramping heavily down the road with their -long, slow, heavy steps. I had just stopped to ask James Hobson for his -old father, when my share of the adventure came. I call it the -adventure, because I suppose, somehow, we were all in it--Sarah, little -Sara Cresswell, and me. - -Just when that good Jem had gone on--such a fellow he is, too! keeps his -old father like a prince!--another sort of a figure appeared before the -light; and, bless me, to think I should have forgotten that -circumstance!--of course it was the same figure that started so suddenly -past me that evening when I stood looking for Sarah at the gate. He took -off his hat to me, in the half light, and stopped. I stopped also, I -cannot tell why. So far as I could see, a handsome young man, not so -dark as one expects to see an Italian, and none of that sort of French -showman look--you know what I mean--that these sort of people generally -have: on the contrary, a look very much as if he were a gentleman; only, -if I may say it, more innocent, more like a child in his ways than the -young men are now-a-days. I did not see all this just in a moment, you -may be sure. Indeed, I rather felt annoyed and displeased when the -stranger stopped me on the road--my own road, that seemed to belong to -me as much as the staircase or corridor at home. If he had not been -possessed of a kind of ingratiating, conciliatory sort of manner, as -these foreigners mostly have, I should scarcely have given him a civil -answer, I do believe. - -“Pardon, Madame”--not _Madam_, you perceive, which is the stiffest, -ugliest word that can be used in English--and I can’t make out how, by -putting an e to the end of it, and laying the emphasis on the last -syllable, it can be made so deferential and full of respect as the -French word sounds to English ears--“pardon, Madame; I was taking the -liberty to make inquiries in your village, and when I am so fortunate as -to make an encounter with yourself, I think it a very happy accident. -Will Madame permit me to ask her a question; only one,--it is very -important to me?” - -“Sir,” said I, being a little struck with his language, and still more -with his voice, which seemed to recall to me some other voice I had once -known, “you speak very good English.” - -His hat was off again, of course, in a moment to acknowledge the -compliment; but dark as it was, I could neither overlook nor could I in -the least understand, the singular, half pathetic, melancholy look he -gave me as he answered. “I had an English mother,” said the young -foreigner; and he looked at me in the darkness, and in my complete -ignorance of him, as if somehow I, plain Millicent Mortimer, a single -woman over fifty, and living among my own people, either knew something -about his mother, or had done her an injury, or was hiding her up -somewhere, or I don’t know what. I could not tell anybody how utterly -confounded and thunderstruck I was. I had nearly screamed out: “I? What -do I know about your mother?” so much impression did it have on me. -After all it is wonderful how these foreigners do talk in this underhand -sort of way with their eyes. I declare I do not so much wonder at the -influence they often get over young creatures. That sort of thing is -wonderfully impressive to the imagination. - -He paused quite in a natural, artful sort of way, to let the look have -its full effect; and he must have seen I was startled too; for though I -was old enough to have been his mother, I was, of course, but a plain -Englishwoman, and had no power over my face. - -“Madame,” said the stranger with a little more vehemence, and a motion -of his arm which looked as if he might fall into regular gesticulating, -just what disgusts one most, “to find the Countess Sermoneta is the -object of my life!” - -“I am very sorry I can’t help you,” said I, quite restored to myself by -this, which I was, so to speak, prepared for; “I never heard of such a -person; there’s no one of that name in this quarter, nor hasn’t been, I -am sure, these thirty years.” - -Seeing I was disposed to push past, my new acquaintance stood aside, and -took off again that everlasting hat. - -“I will not detain Madame,” he said in a voice that, I confess, rather -went to my heart a little, as if I had been cruel to him; “but Madame -will not judge hardly of my case. I came to find one whom I thought I -had but to name; and I find her not, nor her name, nor any sign that she -was ever here. Yet I must find her, living or dead; I made it a promise -to my father on his death-bed. Madame will not wonder if I search, ask, -look everywhere; I cannot do otherwise. Pardon that I say so much; I -will detain Madame no more.” - -And so he stood aside with another salute. Still he took off his hat -like a gentleman--no sort of flourish--a little more distinctly raised -from his head, perhaps, than people do now-a-days; but nothing in bad -taste; and just in proportion to his declaration that he would not -detain me, I grew, if I must confess it, more and more willing to be -detained. I did not go on when he stood out of my way, but rather fell a -little back, and turned more towards him than I had yet done. Dame -Marsden had just lighted her lamp, and it cast a sort of glimmery, -uncertain light upon the face of my new acquaintance; undeniably a -handsome young man. I like good-looking people wherever I find them; and -that was not all. Somehow, through his beard--which I daresay people who -like such appendages would have thought quite handsome--there seemed to -me to look, by glimpses, some face I had known long ago; and his voice, -foreign as it was, had a tone, just an occasional indescribable note, -which reminded me of some other voice, I could not tell whom belonging -to. It was very strange; and one forgets stories that one has no -personal interest in. Did I ever hear of any country person that had -married an Italian? for somehow I had jumped to the conclusion that it -was his mother he sought. - -“It is very odd,” said I, “I can fancy I have heard a voice like yours -somewhere long ago. I seem to feel as if I knew you. I don’t remember -ever hearing the name you want; but I’ll consult my sister and an old -servant we have, and try to find out,--Sermoneta! I certainly do not -recollect ever hearing the name. But it is very sad you should be so -disappointed. If you will come to the Park some day next week and ask -for Miss Millicent, I will do my best to find out for you if anybody -knows the name.” - -He made a great many exclamations of thanks, which, to be sure, I could -have dispensed with, and paused a little again in a hesitating way when -I wanted to go on. At last he began quite in a new tone; and this was -the oddest part of all. - -“If Madame should find, on inquiring, that the bearer of this name did -not _will_ to bear it; if there might be reasons to conceal that -name;--if the lady, who is the Contessa, would but see me, would but let -me know----” - -“Sir,” said I, interrupting the young fellow all at once, “is it an -_English_ lady you are speaking of? English ladies do not conceal their -names. Reason or not, we own to the name that belongs to us in _this_ -country. No, no, I know nothing about such a possibility. I don’t -believe in it either. If I can hear of a Countess Sermoneta, I’ll let -you know; but as for anybody denying their own name, you must not think -such things happen here. Good night. You’re not accustomed to England, I -can see. You must not think me impatient; but that’s not how we do -things in our country. Come to the Park, all the same; and I shall do -what I can to find out whether anybody remembers what you want to know.” - -This time he did not make any answer, only drew back a step, and so got -quite out of the light of Dame Marsden’s window. He seemed to be -silenced by what I had said, and I went on quite briskly, a little -stimulated, I confess, by that little encounter, and the exertion of -breaking my spear for English honour. Denying one’s name, indeed! Of -course we have our faults like other people; but who ever heard of an -English person (not speaking of thieves, or such creatures, of course), -denying his name! The thing was quite preposterous. It quite warmed me -up as I hastened back to the Park, though I was rather later than usual, -and the night had fallen dark all at once; and, to be sure, this kept me -from all those uncomfortable ideas--that perhaps, it might be a -deception after all; and what if it were a contrivance to be admitted to -the Park? and it might, even, for anything I know, be all a -fortune-hunter’s device to get introduced to Sara Cresswell--which -disturbed my mind sadly, though I felt much ashamed of them after I had -time for reflection at home. - - - - -PART II. - -THE LIEUTENANT’S WIFE. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -I will tell you exactly how it all happened. - -I have been an orphan all my life; at least, if that is a little Irish, -I mean that I never knew, or saw, that I know of, either my father or my -mother. Sad enough in the best of cases, and mine was not the best case -you could think of. I don’t know who paid for me when I was a child. -Some of mamma’s relations, I suppose, among them; and of all people in -the world to trust a poor little orphan child to, think of fixing upon a -soldier’s wife, following the regiment! That is how I have always been -half a soldier myself; and one reason, perhaps, if any reason was -necessary but his dear, good, tender-hearted self, why I was so ready, -when Harry asked me, to do the most foolish thing in the world. - -Though I say they made a strange choice in leaving me with dear Nurse -Richards, I don’t mean that it was not, so far as the woman was -concerned, the very best choice that possibly could have been made. -Richards himself was a sergeant, and she was quite a superior woman; but -much more to the purpose than that, she had been my very own nurse, -having taken me when poor mamma died. She had lost her baby, and I had -lost my mother; and it was for real love, and not for hire, that Nurse -Richards took the charge of me. She used to work hard, and deny herself -many things, I know, to keep the little house, or the snug lodgings we -always had, as far off from the barracks as Richards would allow them to -be. I know she could not possibly have had enough money for me to make -up for what she spent on my account; but I don’t think it was hard to -her, working and sparing for the poor orphan little girl. I know such -things by my own experience now. It was sweet to her to labour, and -contrive, and do a hundred things I knew nothing about, for “the -child’s” sake. I would do it all over again, and thankful, for her sake. -Ah, that I would! Pain and trouble are sweet for those one loves. - -She did her duty by me too, if ever woman did. She never would let me -forget that I was a lady, as she said. She used to lecture me by the -hour about many a thing being fit enough for the other children which -was not becoming for me, till I came to believe her as children do, and -gave myself little airs as was natural. I got no education, to be sure, -but reading and writing, and needlework, and how to do most things about -a house. So far as I have gone into life yet it has been a very good -education to me. I don’t doubt much more serviceable than if I had been -at boarding-school, as poor Aunt Connor used to lament, and wish I had; -but it was a sad wandering life for all that. We were in Edinburgh the -first that I can recollect. I remember as clear as possible, as if it -were in a dream, the great Castle Rock standing high up out of the town, -and whatever was ado in the skies, sunshine, or moonlight, or clouds, or -a thunder-storm, or whatever was going on, always taking that for its -centre, as I imagined. I could fancy still, if I shut my eyes, that I -saw the grey building up high in the blue air, with the lights twinkling -in the windows half way up to the stars; and heard the trumpet pealing -out with a kind of wistful sound, bringing images to me, a soldier’s -child, of men straying about, lost among the darkling fields, or -bewildered in the streets, when the recall sounded far up over their -heads in that calm inaccessible height. I see that very Castle Rock now -again, not in imagination, but with my real eyes. It is just the same as -ever, though I am so very different. It is my first love, and I am loyal -to it. Not being of any country, for I am _some_ Irish, and some Welsh, -and some Scotch, and Harry is a pure thorough-bred Englishman, I can -quite afford to be in love with Edinburgh Castle. The regiment went to -Swansea after it left Edinburgh, and then to Belfast, and we were in -dreadful terror of being sent to Canada, where Nurse Richards declared -she never would take “the child.” However, it never came to trying. At -Belfast, dear tender soul, she died. Ah me! ah me! I could not think how -the kind Lord could leave me behind, so wretched as I was; but He knew -better than I did. I was only fifteen; I humbly hope, now I’m twenty, I -have a great deal more yet to do in the world. But I thought of nothing -then except only what a comfort it would be to slip into the coffin -beside her and be laid down quietly in her grave. - -I did not know a single relation I had, if, indeed, I had any; Aunt -Connor, I know, used to send the money for me; but Nurse Richards had -often told me she was not my real aunt; only my uncle’s wife, and he was -dead. So, though she supported me, she had no right to love me; and she -couldn’t love me, and did not, that is certain; for I was fifteen, and -had never seen her, nor a single relation in the world. However, when -she heard of Nurse Richards’ death, Aunt Connor sent her maid for me. It -is very fortunate, Bridget said, we were in Belfast, and no great -distance off, for if it had been in England, over the seas, there was no -telling what might have happened. I was very unwilling to go with -Bridget. I struggled very much, and spoke to Richards about it. I said I -would much rather go into service, where at least I could be near _her_ -grave; but it was of no use speaking. I was obliged to obey. - -Aunt Connor lived in Dublin; and when I got to her house and saw the -footman, and the page in his livery, and all the grandeur about the -house, I thought really that Aunt Connor must be a very great lady. -Harry says the house was shabby-fine, and everything vulgar about it; -but I cannot say I saw that. Perhaps I am not so good a judge as Harry, -never having seen anything of the kind before. I do believe that she -really was very kind to me in her way; I must say so, whatever Harry -thinks. Harry says she behaved atrociously, and was jealous of me -because I was prettier than her own girls (which is all Harry’s -nonsense), and a great deal more like that--all in the Cinderella style, -you know, where the two young ladies are spiteful and ugly, and the -little girl in the kitchen is quite an angel. I love Cinderella; but all -the same, Harry’s story _is not true_. I underscore the words to -convince him if he should ever see this. Alicia and Patricia were very -handsome girls,--as different from me as possible--and good girls too, -and always had a kind word for their poor little cousin. They did not -take me to all their gaieties, to be sure. I am sure I did not wish it. -I was much happier in the nursery. After I had seen Harry a few times, -perhaps I did grudge going down so seldom to the drawing-room; and used -to keep wondering in my heart which of them he was fond of, and had many -a cry over it. But now that it is all past, and I see more clearly, I -know they were very kind indeed, considering. They were never, all the -time I was there, unfeeling to me; they liked me, and I liked them: -nothing in the world of your Cinderella story. If I had a nice house, -and was rich enough to have a visitor, there is nothing I should like -better than to have Patricia (her sister is married) come to see me. It -would be pleasant to see her bright Irish face. No, honestly, I cannot -complain of Aunt Connor. I am very sorry I deceived her for an hour--she -was never unkind to me. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -I did not think I could have said half a dozen words about myself -without telling all the story of my marriage. But what I have said was -necessary to keep you from blaming me so much. For, after all, I was a -young, friendless, desolate creature, longing very much to have somebody -belonging to me, somebody of my very own, and with no very clear natural -duty to Aunt Connor, though she had paid for bringing me up. I say again -she was kind to me, and so were the girls; but principally because it -was not in their nature to be unkind to anybody, and not because they -had a particular affection for me. And that is what one wants, whatever -people may choose to say. One might die of longing for love though one -was surrounded with kindness. Ah, yes, I am sure of it: even a little -unkindness from people we belong to, and who belong to us, one can bear -it. To have nobody belonging to you is the saddest thing in the world. - -I never was melancholy or pensive, or anything like that. After a while, -when I could think of Nurse Richards without breaking my heart, I got -just as cheerful as other girls of my age, and enjoyed whatever little -bit of pleasure came to me. But after I began to know Harry--after it -began to dawn upon my mind that there might be somebody in the world who -would take an interest in all my little concerns, for no better reason -than that they belonged to me, not for kindness or compassion, I felt as -if I were coming to life all at once. I have had some doubts since -whether it was what people call love; perhaps I would have been shyer -had it been so, and I don’t think I ever was shy to speak of. I was so -glad, so thankful, to the bottom of my heart, to think of having -somebody belonging to me. If we could have done something to make -ourselves _real_ brother and sister, I believe I should have been just -as glad. However, of course that was impossible. All the officers used -to come to Aunt Connor’s; she was always good-tempered and pleasant, and -glad to see them, though I am sure she would not have allowed her girls -to marry any of those poor lieutenants. However, I happened to be in the -drawing-room a good many times when Harry came first. Nobody noticed -that we two were always getting together for a time; but when my aunt -did observe it, she was angry, and said I was flirting, and I was not to -come downstairs any more in the evening. I thought I didn’t mind; I -never had minded before. But I did feel this. I made quite sure Harry -was falling in love with one of my cousins, and used to wonder which it -would be, and cry. Crying by one’s self does not improve one’s looks; -and when I met Harry the first day, by real accident, he looked so -anxious and concerned about me, that it quite went to my heart. My aunt -used to send me on her particular errands at that time,--to order things -for the dinner-parties, and to match ribbons, and to take gloves to be -cleaned; things the servants could not do properly. She used to say if I -kept my veil down, and walked very steadily, nobody would ever molest -me; and nobody ever did. Only Harry got to know the times I generally -went out, and always happened to meet me somewhere. Oh yes, it was very -wrong; very, _very_ wrong; if I had ever had a mother I could not have -forgiven myself. But it was such a comfort to see his face brighten up -as he caught sight of me. No one could tell how cheering it was except -one as friendless as me. So, as you may suppose, it went on from less to -more, and at last (after we had been asked in church, and I don’t know -all what) Harry and I called in at a far-off little church one morning, -and were married. I had not thought very much about it till it was over; -but the moment it was fairly over I fell into the greatest panic I ever -was in, in all my life. What if Aunt Connor should find us out? If she -did find us out, what would be done to us? what would happen to Harry? I -almost think he must have carried me out of church, my head quite spun -round upon my shoulders. I fell into such a tremble that my limbs would -not support me. When we were out of the church,--it was a summer -morning, beautiful and sweet, and the air so pleasant that it made one -happy to breathe it,--we two foolish young creatures looked with a kind -of awe into each other’s faces. Harry was pale as well as me. I do -believe he was in a panic too. “Oh, Harry, what have we done?” cried I -with a little gasp. He burst out into a great trembling laugh. “What we -can never undo, Milly darling; nor anybody else for us,” said he; “and -God be praised!” I could not say another word. We neither of us could -speak any more; we went silently along through the air, so sweet and -sunny, trembling and holding each other close, to my aunt’s door, where -we were to part. I think we must have gone gliding along like fairies, -on the wings that grow to people’s shoulders at those wonderful moments; -surely we did not walk over the common pavement like ordinary people. -But the common door, the white steps, the blank front of Aunt Connor’s -house, disenchanted us. I could not stop to say good-bye, but only gave -him a frightened look, and ran in, for the door was fortunately open. -Oh, how cold and trembling I felt when I shut my room door, and was safe -in, and knew it was all over! I took off my white frock, all in awe and -terror of myself. But when I had put on my morning dress, and looked at -myself in the glass, it was not Milly Mortimer! _I_ knew it was not -Milly Mortimer. I fastened my ring so that I could wear it round my neck -under my high dress, without anybody knowing; but already it had made a -mark round my finger. I was married! Oh dear, dear, and to think I could -not tell anybody! I never had a secret all my life before. I went down -on my knees in the corner, and asked God to forgive me, and to take care -of us two poor children that did not know what we were doing. Then I had -to get up and open my door, and go out in the every-day house. I can’t -tell how I did it. Of all the wonders in my life, there is none like -that. I can fancy how I was led on to consent to be married; but how did -I ever go downstairs and do my sewing, and eat my dinner, and look Aunt -Connor in the face? I suppose I must have done it somehow without making -them suspect anything; and I don’t wonder my aunt called me a little -hypocrite. What a hypocrite I must have been! - -I did not see Harry next day, and felt very miserable; cold, as if a -sudden frost had come on in the middle of summer. But the next morning -after, looking out of my window very early, who should I see looking up -at the house but himself! That moment I got back into the sun. We -belonged to each other; everything, even to the dress I had on, Harry -was pleased to know about. Ah, what a difference! I cannot say anything -else, though it may be very improper. After that moment I never was -ashamed again of what I had done, nor frightened, nor sorry. If it was -wrong, it’s a pity, and I don’t defend myself; but from that time I -thought only that I had somebody belonging to me; that I dared not get -ill, or mope, or die, or do any foolish thing; that I had Harry to think -of, and do for, and take care of. Ah, that was different from doing Aunt -Connor’s messages. It was not being married, it was being born--it was -coming to life. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -You are not to suppose, however, that we did not pay for our -foolishness. If I had been a well-brought up girl living at home, I -should have been perfectly wretched in that strange, feverish, secret -life in which everything felt like guilt; and, as it was, the excitement -and feeling of secrecy wore me out day by day. Poor Harry, too, got -quite harassed and wretched looking. This that we had done certainly did -not make us happy. Harry still came to the house for the chance of -seeing me; and imagine what I felt to know that he was in the -drawing-room, and _I, his wife_, sitting upstairs, after the little -children had gone to bed, sewing in the quiet nursery! I don’t know how -I ever endured it; and to hear Alicia and Patricia next morning saying -to each other what a bear that young Langham had grown! Once or twice, -when I was allowed to be downstairs, it was worse and worse. If one of -the other gentlemen so much as looked at me, Harry flushed up and -looked furious. Twenty times in a night I thought he would have -interfered and made a scene; but all the time we dared scarcely speak to -each other; and I am sure Aunt Connor never thought we were flirting -then. When I went out, as before, on my aunt’s errands, with my veil -down, Harry, instead of being pleased to meet me, as he used to be, was -so cross and unhappy that it was quite dreadful to be with him. And he -would come about the house looking up at the windows at all kinds of -improper times, quite in an open way, as if he were defying Aunt Connor. -I was quite in a fever night and day; I never knew what might happen any -minute. He could not bear so much as to think of other people ordering -me about, and making me do things I did not want to do. I am sure it is -very good of Harry to be so kind and fond of me as he is; for I feel -certain that, for the first three months, our marriage made him -miserable, injured his health, and his temper, and his appetite, and -everything. You may say, why did we keep it secret? The reason was this, -that he was to come in to a little money, which his uncle, who was his -only relation, had promised him on his birthday, and which he ought to -have got before now; and poor Harry thought every day it might come, and -was always waiting. But unless it was that promised present, he had -nothing in the world but his lieutenant’s pay. - -However, of course, this state of things could not go on. One day I had -gone out to take some gloves to be cleaned, and Harry, of course, had -met me. We were going along very quiet, not saying much to each other, -for he had been in one of his troublesome humours, having got a letter -from his uncle without a word in it about the money, and I had been -begging him to have patience a little, when all at once my heart gave a -jump, and I knew the crisis had come. There, straight before us, -crossing the road, was Aunt Connor, with her great eyes fixed upon Harry -and me! - -I gave a little cry and looked round. If there had been any cross street -or opening near I should have run away, and never looked either of them -in the face again; but there was not a single opening in all the houses. -I clasped my hands together tight, and stood still, with something -throbbing so in my head that I thought it would burst. I did not see -Harry nor anything, only Aunt Connor coming up to me whom I had -deceived. - -She grasped hold of me by the arm as soon as ever she came up. “Oh, you -shameless, ungrateful creature! Is this what you have come to after all -my care of you? This is how you take your walks, is it, Miss Mortimer? -Oh, good heavens! was ever simple woman so taken in and imposed upon? -Oh, you wicked, foolish, thoughtless thing! do you know you’re going to -ruin? do you know you’re seeking your own destruction? do you -know?--Lord save us, I don’t know what words to say to you! Haven’t you -heard what comes to young girls that behave so? Oh, you young -scapegrace! how dare you bring such a disgrace on my house!” - -“Hold your tongue, you old witch,” said Harry, who was perfectly wild -with rage, as I could hear by the sound of his voice, for I dared not -turn my head to look at him. But there he was, grasping hold of my hand -and holding me up. “Take your hand off my wife’s arm, Mrs. Connor. What! -you dare venture to speak about disgrace and destruction after sending -her out defenceless day after day. She has had somebody to defend her, -though you took no trouble about it. Yes, Milly darling, I am thankful -it has come at last. Madam, take away your hand; she is my wife.” - -Aunt Connor fell back from me perfectly speechless, holding up her two -hands. We two stood opposite, Harry holding my hand drawn through his -arm. I thought I should have sunk into the ground; and yet I felt so -happy and proud I could have cried with joy. Yes, it was quite true; I -was not all by myself to fight my own battles. We two belonged to each -other, and all the world could not make it otherwise. I could not say a -word, and I did not mind. I could leave it all to Harry. Henceforward he -would stand up for me before all the world. - -I really cannot tell, after that, what Aunt Connor said. I remember that -Harry wanted to take me away at once to his lodgings, and said he would -not allow me to go home with her; and she took hold of my arm again, and -declared she would not let me go till she had proof he was telling the -truth about our marriage. The end of it all was that we both went home -with her. She was dreadfully angry,--speechless with rage and dismay; -but after just the first she managed to keep proper and decorous in what -she said, being in the street, and not wishing to make a scene or gather -a crowd. She took us into the library and had it out there. Oh, what -names she called me!--not only deceitful and ungrateful, but, what was -far worse, light and easily won; and warned Harry against me, that I’d -deceive him as well. When she said _that_ it roused me; and I don’t know -what I should have said if Harry had not drawn me aside quite quietly -and whispered, “Leave it all to me.” I did; I never said a word for -myself. I put my cause into his hands. To be answered for, and have my -defence undertaken so, did a great deal more than make up to me for -anything that could be said. It was all very agitating and dreadful, -however; and I could not help thinking that most likely Harry’s uncle, -when he heard what a foolish marriage his nephew had made, would not -send that money, and Harry would have me to provide for, and so little, -so very little to do it with; and most likely all his brother officers -making fun of him to each other for being so foolish. Ah! now I felt how -foolish we had been. - -“Milly must come home with me,” said Harry. “If I could scarcely endure -her remaining here while it was all a secret, you may suppose how -impossible it is that I can endure it now. I thank you very much, Mrs. -Connor, for finding us out; and don’t think,” he said, changing his look -in a moment, “that I forget or will forget what actual kindness you may -have shown to my wife. But she is my wife: she must not do other -people’s business, or live in any house but her own. Mrs. Connor will -let you put your things together, Milly darling, for I cannot leave you -behind again.” - -“Well, young people,” said Aunt Connor, “I have seen a great deal, and -come through a great deal in my life, but such boldness and unconcern I -never did see before. Why, you don’t even look ashamed of -yourselves!--not Miss here, that is going to be at the head of her own -establishment, in the parlour over Mrs. Grogram’s shop, with boots lying -about in all the corners, and a cigar-box on the mantelshelf. However, -Mr. Langham, I am not such an old witch as you think for. I won’t let my -poor Connor’s niece go off like this, all of a sudden, with a young man -that has never made the least preparation for her. I am not throwing any -doubt upon your marriage, nor meaning any scandal upon the lieutenant, -Miss Milly,--you need not flush up; but what do you suppose his landlady -would say if he came in with a young lady by his side, and said he had -brought home his wife? Do you think she’d believe in you, or give you -proper respect, you unfortunate young creature? No, no; I’ll do my duty -by you, whether you will or no. Let Mr. Langham go home and make things -a little ready for a lady. She’s a lady by both sides of the house, I -can tell you, Mr. Langham; and I’ve heard her poor papa say might come -in for a great estate, if she lived. Any how, she’s poor Connor’s niece, -and she shan’t go out of my house in an unbecoming manner. Go home and -set your place in order for a bride; and since it must be so, come back -for Milly; but out of this door she’s not going to-night. Now be -easy,--be easy. I have had to do with her for eighteen years, and you -have had to do with her for a month or two. It’s not respectable, I tell -you, you two young fools. What! do you think I’ll make away with her, if -you leave her here while you make things decent at home?” - -Neither Harry nor I could resist kindness; and Aunt Connor was kind, as -nobody could deny; but he blushed, poor fellow, and looked -uncomfortable, and looked at me to help him out this time. “Harry has no -money, no more than I have,” said I; “it’s his wife that must make -things tidy at home.” - -A kind of strange spasm went over Aunt Connor’s face, as if she had -something to say and couldn’t, or wouldn’t. She pursed up her lips all -at once, and went away hastily to the other end of the room to pick up -something,--something that had nothing at all to do with us or our -business. “Well, well, do as you like,” she said, in a curious choked -voice. When she turned away from us, Harry drew me close to him to -consult what we should do. It was quite true about the boots, he said, -with a blush and a laugh; should I mind? Certainly I didn’t mind; but I -thought, on the whole, it was best not to vex Aunt Connor any more, but -to take her advice,--he to leave me here to-night, and fetch me home -to-morrow. Fetch me home! I that had never known such a thing in all my -life. - -We parted for another day with that agreement; and, strange as people -may think it, I was quite a heroine in Aunt Connor’s house that night. -The girls both came up to my room and made me tell them all about it, -and laughed and kissed me, and teased me, and cried over me, and did all -sorts of kind foolish things. They found out my ring tied round my neck, -and made me put it on; and they kept constantly running back and forward -from their own room to mine with little presents for me. Not much, to be -sure; but I was only a girl, though I was married, and liked them. There -was somebody to dinner, so I did not go downstairs, but when the -strangers were gone, there was a little supper in my honour, and Aunt -Connor made some negus with her own hand, and ordered them all to drink -dear Milly’s health the last night she would be at home. I could have -really thought they loved me that last night. They did not, however; -only, though it might not be very steady or constant, they were kind, -kind at the heart; and when one was just at the turn of one’s life, and -all one’s heart moved and excited, they could no more have refused their -sympathy than they could have denied their nature; and being very much -shocked and angry at first did not make the least difference to this. -The girls were twenty times fonder of me that night than if I had been -married ever so properly,--dear, kind, foolish Irish hearts! - -But all the while there was a strange uneasy look in Aunt Connor’s face. -I divined somehow, I cannot tell by what means, that there was something -she ought to tell me which she either was afraid or unwilling to let me -know, or had some object in keeping from me. She must be an innocent -woman, surely, or I never could have read that so clear in her face. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -The next morning Harry came radiant, quite like a new man. Was it all -for joy of taking me home? or, perhaps he had got the money on this most -convenient of all mornings? but such things don’t often happen just at -the most suitable time. He came rushing in with a kind of -shout,--“Milly, we’ve orders to march; we’re going next week. Hurrah!” -cried Harry. - -“And why hurrah?” said I. - -“We’ll have ourselves to ourselves, and nobody in our way,” he said; but -just then seeing Aunt Connor, who was at the other end of the room, -stopped short and looked a little confused. He had not intended to say -anything ill-natured to her. - -“Oh, I am not affronted; you’re excusable, you’re quite excusable,” said -Aunt Connor; “and I believe it _is_ very lucky; you’ll have a fresh -start, and nobody will know how foolish you have been. I was too angry -to ask yesterday, or to think of anything but that deluded child there, -that thinks herself so happy;--but young Langham, dear, have ye any -friends?” - -“None to whom I am answerable,” said Harry. - -“Then that means no father nor mother, no parents and guardians?” said -my aunt. “Well, what you’ve done is done, and can’t be undone; we must -make the best of it. Have you put the boots into the corner, and tidied -the cigars off the mantelshelf? and now Mrs. Grogram knows all about -it,--when it happened, where it happened, and how you two took clever -Mrs. Connor in?” - -“Exactly,” said Harry, laughing; “you have quite described it all. I -have done my best, Milly darling; come home.” - -“You’re glad, you two young fools?” said my aunt. - -“I should think so! and shouldn’t we be glad?” cried Harry. “If we have -not a penny between us, we have what is much better. Milly, come.” - -“Hush with your Milly, Milly,” said Aunt Connor, “and speak for -yourself, young man. My poor Connor’s niece, if she is undutiful, shall -never be said to be penniless. Well, I’ve won the battle. I _will_ tell -you, for I ought. As sure as she’s standing there in her white frock, -she has five hundred pounds.” - -“Five hundred pounds!” both Harry and I repeated the words with a little -cry of wonder and delight. - -She had said this with a flash of resolution, as if it were quite hard -to get it out; now she fell suddenly into a strange sort of coaxing, -persuading tone, which was sadly painful to me just as I was getting to -like her better; and as she coaxed and grew affectionate she grew vulgar -too. How strange! I had rather have given her the money than seen her -humble herself so. - -“But it’s out at the best of interest, my dears; what you couldn’t get -for it elsewhere. Think of five-and-twenty pounds a-year; an income, -Milly! My child, I’ll undertake to pay you the half year’s interest out -of my own pocket to help you with your housekeeping; for, of course, you -would never think of lifting the money, you nor young Langham, with such -an income coming of it. No, no; let well alone, I say. I would not -meddle with a penny of it if I were you. Rash young creatures that don’t -know the value of money, you’d just throw it away; but think what a -comfort there is in five-and-twenty pounds a-year!” - -Harry and I looked at each other; it was as clear as day that she had it -herself, and did not want to give it up. He was angry; I was only vexed -and distressed. I never in all my life had thought of money before. - -“Five hundred pounds would be very useful to Milly just now, Mrs. -Connor,” said Harry; “she has not a trousseau, as your daughters would -have; and I can only give her all I have, which is little enough. At -least it’s my duty to ascertain all about it; where it is, and what it -is, and----” - -“Oh, what it is! half of it Uncle Connor’s own gift to the ungrateful -creature--half of it at the very least; and ascertain, to be -sure!--ascertain, and welcome!--call it in if ye please, and spend it -all in three weeks, and don’t come to me for help or credit. What do you -mean, sir? Do ye think it’s anything to me?” - -“Oh, Aunt Connor, please don’t be angry. I never had but -half-a-sovereign all my life,” cried I. “You’ll tell us all about it -afterwards, to be sure. Harry--I mean Mr. Langham--doesn’t understand. -But it would be so handy to have some of it. Aunt Connor, don’t you -think so? Only please don’t be angry. I should like, all out of my own -head, to spend ten pounds.” - -Aunt Connor did not speak, but went to her desk and took something out -of it that was already prepared--one envelope she gave to Harry and the -other to me. - -“Here is the half year’s dividend of your wife’s little money; it’s just -come due,” said Aunt Connor, “and here, Milly, dear, is your aunt’s -wedding-present to you. Now you can have your will, you see, without -breaking in upon your tiny bit of fortune. See what it is to have -thoughtful friends.” - -For in my envelope there was exactly the sum I wished for--ten pounds. - -And what do you suppose I did? Harry standing there as sulky as a -statue, looking as if he would like to tear up his share and throw it -into the fire. I was so delighted I ran and threw my arms round her -neck, and kissed Aunt Connor. I hugged her quite heartily. I did not -understand five hundred pounds; but I knew I could get something nice -for Harry, and a new dress and a wedding bonnet, with orange-blossoms, -out of what she gave me. And she cried, too, and kissed me as if I had -been her own child; and it was no hypocrisy, whatever you may think. -Harry snatched me away, and quite turned me out of the room to get my -bonnet. He looked the sulkiest, most horrid fellow imaginable. I almost -could have made faces at him as he sent me away; it was our first _real_ -quarrel; but I can’t say I was very much afraid. - -When we got out of doors he was quite in a passion with poor Aunt -Connor. “Kind! what do you mean by kind? why, you’ve been living on your -own money. I am sure she has not spent more on you, besides making you -her servant,” cried Harry. “And to take her present! and kiss her--pah! -I would not do it for a hundred pounds.” - -“Nobody asked you, sir,” said I: “but come this way, please Harry, I -want to look at one shop-window--just one. I saw something there -yesterday that would just do for me; and now I can afford to buy a -dress.” - -“By Jove!” cried Harry, “what creatures you women are; here we are, on -as good as our wedding-day, walking home for the first time, and you are -thinking of the shop-windows! Are you just like all the rest?” - -“Oh, indeed, just precisely,” said I. “Ah, Harry, I never was in the -street before that I felt quite free and yet quite protected and safe. -Only think of the difference! I am not afraid of anybody or anything -to-day. I am going home. If you were not so grave and proper I think I -could dance all the way.” - -Harry did not say another word; he held my arm close, and called me by -my name. My name was Milly darling, to Harry; he said it sounded like -the turn of an Irish song. He calls me Milly darling still, though we -have been married two years. - -And how pretty he had made that little parlour over Mrs. Grogram’s shop! -Not a boot about anywhere that I could see, nor the shadow of a cigar; -clean new muslin curtains up, and flowers on the table; and the landlady -curtseying, and calling me Mrs. Langham. It was the very first time I -had heard the name. How odd it sounded! and yet an hour after I should -have laughed if any one had called me Miss Mortimer, as if that were the -most absurd thing in the world. - -And to make _home_ does not require many rooms or a great deal of -furniture. I have not a “house of my own” yet, and, perhaps, may not -have for years. A poor subaltern, with nothing but his pay, when he is -so foolish as to marry, has to take his wife to lodgings; but the best -house in the world could not have felt to me a warmer, safer, more -delightful home than Mrs. Grogram’s parlour above the shop. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -“It is only right, however,” said Harry, “that before we leave we should -know all that Mrs. Connor can tell us, Milly darling, about your family -and your relations. Though she’s to have your five hundred pounds, she -need not have your family archives too.” - -“Why, Harry, you almost speak as if you grudged her the five hundred -pounds!” - -“And so I do,” said Harry. “Just now, while I am so poor, it might have -made you a little comfortable. Please Heaven, after a while, five -hundred pounds will not matter so much; at least it is to be hoped so. -If there would only come a war----” - -“Harry, you savage! how dare you say so!” cried I. - -“Nonsense! what’s the good of a soldier except to fight?” he said. -“Active service brings promotion, Milly. You would not like to see me a -subaltern at forty. Better to take one’s chance of getting knocked on -the head.” - -“Ah, it is very easy for you to talk,” said I; “and if I could disguise -myself and ’list like Lady Fanshawe----” - -“’List! you five-foot creature! you could be nothing but a drummer, -Milly; and besides, Lady Fanshawe did not ’list, she----” - -“Never mind, I could contrive as well as she did,” said I. “I could get -upon stilts or something, and be your man, and never disclose myself -till I had cut down all your enemies, and brought you safe out of the -battle, and then fainted in your arms.” - -“Pleasant for me,” said Harry; “but I do believe, in spite of romance, -Fanshawe himself would have given his head to have had his wife safe at -home that time. Do you think it would be a comfort to a man if he was -shot down himself to think his wife was there with nobody to take care -of her? No, Milly darling; the truest love would stay at home and pray.” - -“And die,” said I; “I understand it better now. If I were ’listing and -going after you, it would not be for your sake, Harry, but for my own. -How do women keep alive, do you think, when those that belong to them -are at the wars?” - -Neither of us knew; but to think of it made us shudder and tremble,--I -that should have to bear it some day! for the very people in the streets -said that war was coming on. - -“In the meantime let me remind you,” said Harry, “that we’re going to -Aunt Connor’s to bid them good-bye, and that I mean to ask her all about -your relations, and get a full history of your family, in case you might -happen to be a princess in disguise, or a great heiress. By the bye, she -said something like that. Only don’t be too sanguine, Milly; if there -had been anything more to get on your account, Aunt Connor would have -ferreted it out.” - -I thought he was rather hard upon her, but could not really say anything -in her defence. I had myself begged Harry, after two or three talks with -Aunt Connor about it, not to say any more to her about claiming the five -hundred pounds. She had only her jointure, poor lady, and could not have -paid it without ruining herself. And, after all, she had always paid -Nurse Richards for me, and had kept me, and been kind enough to me. So -it was settled she was to keep it, and give us the five-and-twenty -pounds a-year. Not that she would allow, straight out, that she had it. -She always pretended it was somebody else that paid her the interest, -and that it was the very best investment in the world, and she wished -she could get as much for her money. Poor Aunt Connor! her pretence did -not deceive anybody; but I suppose it was a sort of comfort to herself. - -I did not take any part in Harry’s questions at first; it was all I -could do to answer the girls, who wanted to know all how we were going -to travel, and everything about it. Patricia brought me down her warm -cloak that she had worn all last winter. She said, though it wasn’t new, -it would be a comfortable wrap for the journey, if I would have it; and -indeed I thought so too, though Harry, I dare say, would have made a -fuss about it, if I had consulted him. But when Aunt Connor really began -to talk about poor papa and mamma, I hushed the girls and listened. I -never had heard anything about them. It was natural it should be very -interesting to me. - -“It was more from hearsay than knowledge, for, of course, Milly’s papa -was a great deal older than me,” said Aunt Connor, with a little toss of -her head. “He was forty when he married Maria, my poor Connor’s only -sister; and she was not very young either; and it went very hard with -her when Milly there came into the world; but though she died, poor -soul! he would not call the babe Maria, do what we would, but -Millicent, because it was the great name in his family. That was how we -came to hear about his family at all. His head was a little touched, -poor soul! He said what if she should come into the Park property after -all, and not be called Milly? He said Millicent Mortimer had been a name -in the family from the Conquest, or the Restoration, or something; and -the heiress that wasn’t Millicent had no luck. When he got weakly, he -maundered on for ever about his family. It was cousins or cousins’ -children had the property, and one of them had jilted him. He used to -say, in his wandering way, that one would never come to good; _she’d_ -never bring an heir to the property. But whether there were sons, or if -it was only a lady between him and the estate, or how the rights of it -were, I could not tell you. We used to think half of it was maundering, -and my poor dear Connor never put any faith in it. Except Maria Connor -that married him being not so young as she once was, not a creature -about knew Mr. Mortimer. He was an Englishman, and not much of a man any -how. No offence to you, Milly, dear; he was the kind of man that never -does any good after he’s been jilted; so, if you should happen to meet -with that cousin of his that did it, you can put out your anger upon -her. He left no particulars, poor man. I don’t believe it ever came into -his head that it might really matter for his poor little girl to have -friends that would help her on in the world. And to be sure, Milly was -but a year old when papa died.” - -“But this was worth taking some pains and making some inquiries about,” -said Harry. “Where did those friends live? What county did he belong -to?--you must surely have known.” - -“We knew no more than I tell you, Langham, dear. My poor dear Connor, as -I tell you, never put any faith in it. There’s some books in the house -belonging to him, that I was always to have sought out and given to -Milly. I’ll get them to-day, if I can, before you leave. But if you’ll -trust my opinion, I don’t think it’s the least good in the world. At the -best, he was but a distant cousin, if all was true, he said; and spoke -about his little girl proving heir after all, more in spite against her -that jilted him than anything else. Why, all he had, poor man, did not -come to but a trifle over five hundred pounds;--I mean--dear! what a -memory I have!--_three_ hundred pounds, for poor dear Connor put a large -slice to Milly’s little fortune. Now that’s all I have to tell you. But -I’ll get Milly her father’s books.” - -And I have not the least doubt it was all she had to tell us; every word -she knew. But that very night we got the books just as we were packing -up. They were as damp and mouldy as they could be, odd volumes of one -thing and another; one of Shakespeare, with Richard A. Mortimer written -in it, and “Haworth” underneath; another was Hudibras; another was an -old French school copy of Racine, with “Sarah Mortimer, the Park, May, -1810,” upon it, and in it an old pencil drawing all curled up at the -edges, and rubbed out in some places, of a great house with trees and -gardens round it, and a young lady mounting her horse at the door; -scribbled at the corner of this, in a strange scratchy hand, was a kind -of little inscription: “Sarah as I saw her last, and the Park--I wonder -was I in love with them both? R. M.” The last of this was evidently -written at a later time than the first. But that was all. Not a single -clue to papa’s grand friends, who they were, or where they were. I dare -say there are a hundred thousand parks in England, and, unless we could -find it out from the drawing (which, I am sorry to say, was a very poor -one. Harry, being disappointed and spiteful, took the pains to point out -to me that the house was leaning up against the trees, and off the -perpendicular, and that the young lady was on the wrong side of the -horse), there seemed no information at all in poor papa’s books. Poor -papa! it was very cruel of Harry! most likely his heart was breaking -when he drew “Sarah as I saw her last.” Do you say he might have put her -on the right side of the horse for all that, you cruel savage? Perhaps -there were tears in his eyes all the time, Mr. Langham. _You_ are not -sentimental. I dare say you would not cry if you were looking at _me_ -for the last time. But that has nothing to do with poor papa. I have no -doubt he must have been a very feeling man. - -However, we did not make anything out of the books; and I am sure I -should not have said half so much about it except that Harry really took -an interest in it which quite surprised me. I never expected to turn out -an heiress, nor cared much whether I had grand relations or not; and a -journey with Harry in that sweet September weather was far too -delightful to let me think of anything else. It was as good as a wedding -tour. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -The regiment was ordered to Edinburgh; and it was there we went -accordingly in that lovely autumn weather. I don’t think Harry quite -liked to hear me talk of Nurse Richards and the way she brought me up; -but he was pleased enough to take walks with me all round that castle -which was the centre of my recollections. At first we used to spend -every leisure moment we had wandering up and down the steep walks, and -always pausing to look up at the great precipice of rock. It was like a -friend to me, rising up out of the soft tiers and green slopes of grass: -the two churches down at its foot looking so mean and tiny beside it. -People should not build churches there. I almost think even a great -noble cathedral would look shabby under the shadow of that rock; and -only to think of that dreadful West Church and the other one! how they -can dare venture to stand there and don’t move and crumble down of -themselves! They would if there was any feeling in stone. - -We got our lodgings out to the south of the castle, two nice little cosy -rooms. It was not a fashionable quarter, to be sure, nor were the rooms -very grandly furnished; but we had _such_ views from the windows! The -Castle Rock, with its buildings jutting on the very edge, and yet -standing so strong and firm; the harsh ridge of the crags behind, and -the misty lion-head over all, gazing like a sentinel towards the sea. -And it was not these only, but all the clouds about them. Such dramas -every day! Now all sweet and serene like happiness; now all thundery and -ominous like a great misfortune; now brightened up with streaks of home -and comfort; now settling down leaden-dark, and heavy like death itself, -or despair. I never was poetical that I know of; but it was like reading -a very great poem every day to live in that little house at Bruntsfield. -Harry enjoyed it as much as I did. We lived the very cheapest that ever -was. We never went out anywhere; for Harry had always a little society -with his brother officers and at mess, and I had him, and old Mrs. -Saltoun, our landlady, to talk to when he was away, and was as happy as -the day was long. All the pleasantest recollections I had as a child -were connected with this place; and when I looked out of my window at -night and saw the lights shining up on the top of the Castle Rock, and -the stars higher still glimmering out above, or the moon revealing out -of the dark where Arthur’s Seat lay quiet, couched like a sentinel; and -heard the recall trumpet pealing out high into the clear air, my mind -used to wander from dear Nurse Richards, and the stories she used to -tell me, back to my great happiness now. When Harry found me at the -window crying to myself, he thought I was low-spirited. Low-spirited! I -was crying for pure happiness; because I was too happy to tell it, or -put it in words, or show it anyhow else. - -All this time we had never heard a single word from Harry’s uncle who -promised him the present on his birthday. This uncle was the only -relation he had except some cousins whom he did not know much about. He -was very near as friendless as I was; only that he remembered his father -and mother perfectly well, and had been brought up at home, which made a -great difference. Harry of course had written to his uncle to say what -had occurred; and he had never answered the letter. He was an old -bachelor, and rather rich; and if he did not take offence, and nothing -happened, it had always been supposed that Harry was to be his heir; -though I did not know this till after we were married and could not -untie ourselves, however angry any one might be. - -One day, however, Harry came home to me with a wonderful face. I could -not tell, though I knew what his face meant pretty well by this time, -what it was that day; whether he was angry, or disappointed, or vexed, -or only bursting with laughter. It turned out he was all of them -together. He tossed a letter on the table, and laughed and stamped his -foot, as if he did not quite know what he was doing. - -“By Jove, it’s too absurd!” cried Harry; for I could not get him to -leave off that stupid exclamation: but I thought it must be a little -serious too, as well as absurd, by the look in his eye. - -And what should it be but a letter from his uncle, declaring that, -though nothing else would have induced him to do such a thing, yet, to -punish Harry’s rashness and presumption, he had made up his mind to a -step which everybody assured him was the most prudent thing he could do, -and which it was only a pity he had not thought of sooner; this was, in -short, that he had married as well as Harry. Enclosed his nephew would -find cards addressed to his new wife: and, as for the expenses of such -an undertaking, he assured Harry that it would be ridiculous to look -for any assistance to a man in similar circumstances with himself. On a -clear understanding of which he could certainly afford to wish his -nephew joy,--but nothing else,--for he meant now to have heirs of his -own. - -Harry stared at me while I read this letter with a sort of angry fun and -indignation in his face, which would turn either one way or another, I -could see, according to how I received it. I cannot say I was the least -disappointed. I threw down the letter, and clapped my hands and laughed. -It was the most whimsical letter you could imagine; and, as for the -birthday present, or any other assistance to us, I had never looked for -it since Harry wrote what we had done. - -“Weel, weel, it’s no ill news, that’s a comfort. But, Captain, you -maunna come in rampaging and disturbing the lady when we’re no looking -for you,” said Mrs. Saltoun, who had been sitting with me. “Now I’ll -gang my ways ben the house; and you ken where to find me, Mrs. Langham, -my dear, when you want me again.” - -I had it on my lips to beg her not to go away, but stopped in time, for -Harry naturally, though he likes her very well, does not take comfort in -the good old lady as I do. When she was gone he laughed out again, but a -little abruptly, and not as if he felt particularly happy about the -news. - -“Why, Harry, what’s the matter; did you expect anything?” said I. - -“Well, not exactly, to be sure,” said Harry, with a half-ashamed look; -“except the first moment when I recognised the old fellow’s handwriting. -I did think it would be pleasant, Milly darling, to get some little -comforts about you just now.” - -“I have quantities of comforts,” said I; “and such a jewel of an old -lady to look after me when you are away. There is nobody in the world so -lucky as me.” - -“Lucky!” said Harry, with a little shout. “If you should turn out a -great heiress to be sure; that’s always a possible contingency, -according to your Aunt Connor. Otherwise, with all sorts of things going -to happen to us, and only my subaltern’s pay----” - -“Mr. Langham, you forget my five-and-twenty pounds a year!” cried I. - -And how do you think the savage answered me? “The old witch!” exclaimed -Harry, “to think of her stopping your simple mouth with that ten pounds! -I’d have seen her ducked, or burned, or whatever they do to witches, -before I’d have taken it!--and cheating you out of your little morsel of -fortune! How long do you suppose you’ll get your five-and-twenty -pounds?” - -“As long as poor Aunt Connor can pay it,” said I. “Things might come in -the way to be sure; but she _means_ to pay it regularly, and always will -when she can. What makes you so discontented, Harry? We have enough for -to-day, and God knows all about to-morrow.” - -“Ah, yes! but He’s far off, Milly, to a poor fellow like me. How can I -tell that He cares much what’s to become of us,--unless, indeed, it were -for your sake.” - -“Oh, Harry, Harry! how dare you say so!” cried I. “And see how good He -has been to us two orphans. Neither of us had any home or any one -belonging to us; and only look round you _now_!” - -Do you think it was not very much that he had to look round upon?--a -little room, low-roofed, and humbly furnished. It was nothing to any -other man or woman in the world; but we were two of us together in it, -and it was our home. Could I help but cry when I thought how different I -was from Aunt Connor’s niece in the nursery? And Harry was just as -thankful as I was, though he had his little pretences of grumbling like -this now and then. Does anybody think he was really anxious, either -about his uncle’s present that was never to come now, or my five hundred -pounds that was not much more to be relied on, or what was to happen to -us? No! he was no more anxious than I was; only now and then he -pretended to make a little fuss about it, and to be wanting something -better for me. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -We were nearly two years in Edinburgh; and it was there, of course, that -baby Harry came into the world. He made a great difference in many -things. I could not go out to walk with Harry any longer; I could not -even sit and talk with him so much, and, however economical I was, it -could not be denied that already three of us cost more than two of us -had done. It is strange enough, but still it is true, baby, bless him, -brought thorns upon the roses that came with him into the world. Harry -had not lived in a family since his father died long ago; he had lived a -young man’s life, and had his own fastidious fancies like (I suppose) -most young men. He was very much delighted when baby came, but he was -not so much delighted when baby was always with us, and occupying almost -all my time and attention; and it fretted him when he saw traces about -that once nice cosy sitting-room, which was nursery now as well as -dining-room and drawing-room; even baby’s basket, all trimmed with white -muslin and pink ribbons, which he thought very pretty at first, annoyed -him now when he saw it about; and when I had to stop talking to him in -order to see after baby, he would first laugh, then bite his lip, then -whistle, then go to the window, and after a while say he had better -smoke his cigar outside while I was so busy. I dare say this cost me a -few tears, for of course I thought there was no occupation in the world -so sweet as nursing baby, and was sadly disappointed just at first that -Harry could not be content to watch his pretty ways every moment as I -did; however, I had to make up my mind to it. And as it was my business -to mind Harry as well as his son, I had to think it all over in my mind -what was to be done. It was hard work considering what was best; for to -think of getting a servant upon our small means went to my very heart. -At last one day I formed a great resolution, and took Mrs. Saltoun into -my confidence. - -“Here is how it is,” said I, “I must have a maid to help me with baby -when Mr. Langham is at home. Men can’t understand things; they think it -so odd to see one always with a baby on one’s lap; especially when they -have not been accustomed to anything of the sort. Mrs. Saltoun, I shall -be obliged to have a maid.” - -“I told you so, my dear, the very day the lammie was born,” said Mrs. -Saultoun; “but I’m one that never presses my advice. I know experience -is far more effectual than anything I can say.” - -“But look here--I can’t afford it--it’s a disgrace to think of such a -thing with our small means, while I am perfectly strong and quite able -to take care of him myself; but what can I do?” said I. - -“My dear,” said Mrs. Saltoun, “poverty’s dreadful, and debt is worse; -but it’s heaviest of all the three to make a young married man -discontented with his ain house. Dinna be affronted; I’m no saying a -word! the Captain’s just extraordinary; but he’s no the lad to be second -to the baby for a’ that; and it’s nothing to sigh about. Thae’s just the -kind of troubles every woman has to set her face to, as sure’s she’s -born. My dear, however much ye canna afford, you’ll have to contrive.” - -“Well, I have been thinking. If you will promise faithfully never to -tell anybody, and keep my secret, and above everything, whatever you do, -never let Harry know!” cried I. - -“I’ll promise,” said Mrs. Saltoun; “but I’ll not promise to give my -consent unless it’s feasible and in reason; and no unbecoming the -Captain’s bonnie young wife.” - -“The Captain’s wife!--ah, if he were only the Captain!--but he’s just a -subaltern yet,” said I; “however, you will be disappointed if you think -I am meaning anything great. I can’t do anything to bring in money, and -I am sure Harry would not let me if I could. No--it’s only--oh, Mrs. -Saltoun, if you would help me!--I could get up all the linen myself. I -_can_ do it, though you may not think so. All Harry’s things that he is -so particular about, the laundress here never pleases him; and baby’s -frocks. I think if you would contrive to help me, I could save so many -shillings a week. I’ll do those pretty collars of yours and your fine -caps, and you shall see how pretty they’ll look.” - -“But your pretty bits of hands, my dear?” said Mrs. Saltoun; “a small -matter of work betrays itself on a lady’s hands that’s not used to do -anything. They would let out your secret, however well I kept it. What -would you do with your hands?” - -“But it will not hurt my hands--such beautiful clean work--it is quite a -lady’s work,” said I; “and then I can put gloves on when I am done, and -get some of the kalydor stuff. Besides, it will be only one day in the -week.” - -Mrs. Saltoun sat thinking it over, but she could not say a single word -against it. If I couldn’t have done it, it might have been slow work -learning; but I had a genius for it! Ah, hadn’t I ironed out Aunt -Connor’s lace much oftener than the clear-starcher did! So here was -something at once that could be saved; and nobody knows how dreadful the -laundress’s bill is when there’s a baby in the house; so now I thought I -might venture to try and look for a maid. - -“My great terror was you were thinking of giving lessons, or selling -some trumpery of fancy work, begging your pardon, my dear,” said Mrs. -Saltoun; “for the young ladies now-a-days would a’ break their necks to -_make_ money, before they would take a step out of their road to save -it; and indeed, you’re not far wrong that clear-starching is lady’s -work. It takes nice fingers, dainty, clean, and light. I was in an awfu’ -fright it was lessons on the piano, or handscreens to take into the -Repository. But it’s really very reasonable for a young creature of your -years; if you’re quite clear in your own mind you can take the -responsibility of shirts. Of all the things I’ve seen in my life I canna -remember that I ever saw a man what you could call perfectly pleased.” - -“I am not afraid about that; but remember, you have promised solemnly, -upon your honour,” said I, “never, whatever you do, to tell Harry!” - -“I’ll keep my word. But what put it into your head, a sensible young -woman like you, to go and run away with the like of a young sodger -officer, that everybody knows have scarcely enough for themselves, let -alone a wife? And if it’s hard work now, what will it be when you’ve a -large family? and how will you ever live or keep your heart if he goes -to war?” - -“Mrs. Saltoun, don’t speak!” cried I; “what is the use of making me -miserable? He is not going to the war to-day. It is not certain there is -to be a war at all. Why do you put such dreadful things in my mind? If -he goes I’ll have to bear it like the other soldiers’ wives; but do you -suppose I have strength to bear it now beforehand, before the time? God -does not promise anybody so much. If such a dreadful, dreadful thing -should be, I’ll get strength for it that day.” - -The good old lady did not say a word, but stroked my hand that was -resting on the table in a kind of comforting, coaxing way. I looked up -very much alarmed, but I could not see anything particular in her face. -I suppose she was sorry for me only in a general sort of way; because I -was young, and poor, and just beginning my troubles. So strange! I was -pitying her all the same for being old, and nearly at the end of hers. -How different things must seem at that other end of the road! Some of -her children were dead, some married, close at hand so far as space was -concerned, but far distant lost in their own life. I dare say when she -liked she could go back into memory and be again a young wife like me, -or an anxious middle-aged mother like her own daughter-in-law--and here -it had ended, leaving her all alone. But she was very cheerful and -contented all the same. - -Harry came in while I was busy with planning about my new maid. After I -had decided that she would have to sleep somewhere, and wondered why -neither Mrs. Saltoun nor myself had ever thought of that, I had begun to -wonder what sort of a person I should get; whether, perhaps, she would -be a dear good friend-servant, or one of the silly girls one hears -about. If she were a silly girl, even, there might be good in her. But -here Harry came in, and my thoughts were all dissipated. He looked a -little excited, and had a paper in his hand, out of which he seemed just -about to read me something. Then he paused all at once, looked first at -me and then at baby’s cradle, and his face clouded all over. I got -terribly alarmed; I rushed up to him and begged him to tell me, for -pity, what it was. - -“It’s nothing but fancy,” said Harry. “I was going to tell you great -news, my Milly darling; but it came over me, somehow, what you would do, -and who would take care of you if you should be left alone with your -baby; even though I were not killed.” - -“God would take care of us,” I cried out sharp, being in a kind of -agony. “Say it out--you are going to the war?” - -“No, no; nothing of the sort; only look here. It has thrown us all into -great excitement; but we are not under orders, nor like to be,” said -Harry. “Don’t tremble--we are all safe yet, you foolish Milly. Look -here.” - -Though I was leaning upon him, and he held the paper before my eyes, I -could not read a word. But I guessed what it was. It was the -Proclamation of War. - -“Come out with me and hear it read at the Cross. It is to be done at -twelve o’clock. Come,” said Harry, coaxing and soothing me; “it is -something to see. Pluck up a heart, Milly! Come and hear it -courageously, like a soldier’s wife. But, oh! I forgot baby,” he said, -stopping short all at once with a soft of half-annoyed laugh. - -“Baby shan’t prevent me this time,” I cried; for what between this -dreadful news and the excitement in Harry’s mind, and the sudden way he -stopped when he recollected I couldn’t rightly go out with him, I was -desperate. “Mrs. Saltoun will keep him till I come back; and he will not -wake, perhaps, for an hour.” - -The old lady came when I asked her; and was quite pleased to sit down by -the cradle while I tied on my bonnet with my trembling hands. Harry was -very kind--very pleased. We went along winding up the steep paths, -through the gardens to the Castle, my favourite walk, and into that -long, grand, noisy old street with the yellow haze lingering between the -deep houses, down the long slope towards Holyrood. I could see the -people clearly enough about the streets, the little groups all clustered -about the outside stairs, and the stir of something going to happen. But -I could not look at the official people coming to say it again and make -it more certain. If the trumpet had been a gun and killed somebody, my -heart could scarcely have leaped more. Harry’s cheek flushed up; and I -could almost fancy I felt the blood stir and swell in the arm I was -leaning on. He was a soldier, and he forgot me as he held up his head -and listened. Just then I could not hold up my head. The trumpet sounded -to me, somehow, as if it came lonely out of the distance over some -battle where men were dying who had wives and babies at home. A woman -stood before me crying, and drew my attention for a moment. She dared -say out what was in her heart, because, though perhaps she was no -poorer, she was not a lady like me. “Eh, weary on them! it’s your man -and my man that’s to pay for their fancies,” she was saying among her -tears. “Glad! do ye ask me to be glad at sound o’ war? If our regiment -doesna gang the day, it’ll gang _some_ day. I’ve five weans that canna -fend for themsels’, and I’m a sodger’s wife. God help us a’!” I dropped -my veil over my face to hide my eyes from Harry, and slid my hand out of -his arm--he, all excited in his soldier-mind, scarcely knowing it--to -speak to my neighbour who had spoken to my heart. I had nothing to give -her but my hand and my own troubled fellow-feeling, too deep and sore to -be called sympathy. “For I am a soldier’s wife, too; and God help us, as -you say!” I cried in her ear. She wiped off her tears, poor soul, to -look at me as Harry drew me away. She and the other woman with her -whispered about us as we went away through the crowd. They forgot their -own anxiety to pity “the poor young thing, the young lieutenant’s wife.” -I know they did, the kind creatures; for one of them said so another -day.--God help us all, soldiers’ wives! - -“But do you know this is like a little coward, Milly darling,” said -Harry, as we walked home, when he found I could not speak, “and foolish -as well. _We_ are not going to the wars.” - -“If you are not going to-day, you will go some day,” I cried, with a -sob. She said true, poor soul; I felt it in my heart. - -“To be sure we shall,” said Harry; “and you care neither for glory nor -promotion, nor to have your husband do his duty, you poor-spirited -Milly! But you can’t act Lady Fanshawe now; you will have baby to -comfort you at home.” - -“Do you mean that you are going?” cried I. - -“Hush, hush! why this is like a child. I am not going. But, Milly, -understand; if I don’t go some day, I shall be wretched. Make up your -mind; you are a soldier’s wife.” - -So I went home with this in my heart. Oh, my poor little economies, my -little vulgar cares about the housekeeping! And perhaps he was going -away from me to be killed. But hush, hush! I could not be Lady Fanshawe -any more, now that there were three of us in the world; and Harry said -the truest love would stay at home and pray. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -The very next day after that, while I was singing baby to sleep, sitting -all alone by the fire, there was a soft knock at the door. I said, “Come -in!” thinking it was Mrs. Saltoun, when there suddenly appeared before -me a figure as different as possible from the nice little cosy figure of -our good old landlady. This was an overgrown girl, fourteen or -thereabouts, in the strangest scanty dress. A printed cotton frock, very -washed out and dingy, so short as to leave a large piece of legs, -clothed in blue-grey stockings, uncomfortably visible; very red arms -that somewhat looked as if they were all elbow and fingers; a great -checked blue and white pinafore, much washed out like the frock, into -the breast of which the hands wore thrust now and then by way of relief -to the awkwardness of their owner; hair disposed to be red, and -superabundant in quantity, thrust back as far as was practicable under -the shade of a queer big bonnet, not only a full-sized woman’s bonnet, -but one ten years old, and made in the dimensions common at that distant -period. She stood at the door looking at me in a perfect agony of -innocent awkwardness, shuffling one foot over the other, twisting her -red fingers, holding down her bashful head, but all the time staring -with wistful eyes at baby and myself, and so sincere a look of awe and -admiration that of course I was touched by it. She did not say a word, -but dropped a foolish curtsey, and grew violently red standing at the -door. I could not think what such a strange apparition wanted with me. - -“What do you want, my good girl?” said I at last. - -“The mistress said I might come,” with another curtsey. Then, after a -violent effort, “They said you was wanting a lass.” - -A lass! Here she was then, the first applicant for the new situation of -baby’s personal attendant! Oh dear, what a spectre! I had to pause a -little before I could answer her. Really, though I was not much disposed -to laughter, the idea was too ludicrous to be treated gravely. - -“Yes, I want a lass;’ but not one so young as you,” said I. “I want -somebody who can take care of my baby. Who sent you to me?” - -“The mistress said I might come,” answered the apparition; “I can keep -wee babies fine.” - -“You can keep wee babies fine! How old are you?” cried I. - -“I’m just fourteen since I was born, but some folk count different. I’m -awfu’ auld other ways,” said my extraordinary visitor, with a kind of -grotesque sigh. - -The creature roused my interest with her odd answers and wistful round -eyes. “Shut the door and come here,” said I. “Do you know me? and what -tempted you to think _you_ could do for my servant? Were you ever in a -place before?” - -“No; but I’ve seen you gaun by, the Captain and you, and I would be -awfu’ glad if you would let me come. There’s plenty things I can do if I -could get leave to try,” cried the girl with a wonderful commotion in -her voice. “I’ve nursed bairns since ever I was a bairn myself, and I -can wash, and I can sew. Oh, leddy, tak me! I’ll no eat very much, and I -dinna want no wage; and I’ll learn everything you tell me, for the -mistress says I’m awfu’ quick at learning; and I’ll serve you hand and -foot, nicht and day!” - -“But, my poor girl,” said I, quite amazed by this burst of eloquence, -“why do you want so much to come to me?” - -Upon this another extraordinary change came upon my would-be maid. She -fidgeted about, she blushed fiery red, she thrust her red hands into the -bosom of her pinafore, she stood upon one heavy foot, making all sorts -of wonderful twists and contortions with the other. At last in gulps, -and with every demonstration of the most extreme confusion and -shame-facedness, burst forth the following avowal. “Oh! because you’re -rael bonnie; and you smile--and oh, I would like to come!” - -It was an extraordinary kind of flattery, certainly; but I felt my -cheeks flush up, and I cannot deny my heart was touched. I remember too, -when I was a little girl, taking fancies to people; I believe I might -have fallen in love with a lady and gone and offered myself to be her -servant, as likely as not if I could have done it. The uncouth creature -no more meant to flatter me than to offend me. She was deeply ashamed of -having made her confession. Her shame, and her admiration, and her -passionate childish feeling quite went to my heart. - -“You are a very strange girl,” said I. “What is your name, and where do -you live? and do your parents know what you want with me?” - -“They ca’ me Leczie Bayne. My father died six months since,” said the -girl, falling into a kind of vacant tone after her excitement, as if -this account of herself was something necessary to go through, but not -otherwise interesting. “I never had any mother, only a stepmother, and -lots of little bairns. She’s gaun back to her ain place, among her -friends, and I’m to be left, for I’ve naebody belonging to me. We live -down the road, and I used ay to see you gaun by. Whiles you used to -smile at me, no thinking; but I ay minded. And the folk said you we’re -awfu’ happy with the Captain, and had a kind look for everybody,--and -oh, leddy, I’ve naebody belonging to me!” - -I could have cried for her as she stood there, awkward, before the -little fire, with great blobs of tears dropping off her cheeks, rubbing -them away with her poor red hands. I knew no more how to resist her, in -that appeal she made to my happiness, than if I had been a child like a -baby in my lap. The tears came into my eyes, in spite of myself. In the -impulse of the moment I had nearly broken forth and confided to her my -terror and grief about Harry, and this dreadful war that was beginning. -She took possession of me, like the soldier’s wife, with a nearer fellow -feeling than sympathy. Poor, forlorn, uncouth creature, she stood before -me like my old self, strangely transmogrified, but never to be denied. I -could not answer her--for what could I say? Could I cast her off, poor -child, led by the instincts of her heart to me of all people? And oh -dear, dear, what a ridiculous contrast to all the passionate, elevated -feeling of her story, could I take her all in her checked pinafore and -blue stockings, a pathetic grotesque apparition, to be baby’s nurse and -my little maid? - -There never was a harder dilemma: and imagination, you may be sure, did -its very best to make things worse, by bringing up before me the pretty, -tidy, fresh little maid I had been dreaming of, with a white apron and a -little cap, and plump arms to hold my baby in. What could I do? and oh, -if I could not resist my fate, what would Harry say to me? How he would -shrug his shoulders and admire my good taste; how he would look at her -in his curious way as if she were a strange animal; how he would laugh -at me and my soft heart! I got quite restless as the creature stood -there opposite to me, twisting her poor foot and clasping her hands hard -as she thrust them into the bosom of her pinafore. I could not stand -against her wistful eyes. I grew quite desperate looking at her. Could I -ever trust my child in those long red arms that looked all elbow--and -yet how could I send her away? - -“Lizzie, my poor girl,” cried I, remonstrating, “don’t you see I am -very, very sorry for you? But look here now: my baby is very young, not -three months old, and I could never dare trust him to a young girl like -you. You must see that very well, a girl with so much sense; and -besides, I want somebody who knows how to do things. I don’t think I -could teach you myself; and besides----” - -Here I fairly broke down, stopped by the flood of arguments which rose -one after another, not to be defeated, in Lizzie’s round anxious eyes. - -“But I dinna need to learn,” she cried out whenever my voice faltered -and gave her a chance. “I ken! I would keep that bonnie baby from -morning to night far sooner than play; if practice learns folk, I’ve -been learning and learning a’ my life; and I’m that careful I would -rather break every joint in a’ my body than have a scratch on his little -finger; and I can hem that you wouldna see the stitches; and I can sing -to him when he’s wakin’, and redd up the house when he’s in his bed. I’m -no telling lees; and I’ll serve you on my knees, and never have a -thought but how to please you, oh, leddy, if you’ll let me come!” - -Could I resist that? I do not believe Harry himself could if he had -heard her. I gave in because I could not help myself. I did it in shame -and desperation, but what could I do? She was too many for me. - -“Go down stairs and ask Mrs. Saltoun to come up,” said I. - -She went off in a moment, almost before I could look up, and vanished -out of the room without any noise--I suppose because of the high -excitement the poor child was in. Mrs. Saltoun came up rather flurried, -casting very strange looks at Lizzie. When I saw the dear prim old lady -beside that extraordinary creature, and saw the looks she cast at her, -the ludicrous part of it seized hold upon me, and I was seized with such -a fit of laughing that I could scarcely speak. - -“Mrs. Saltoun,” said I, “I don’t know really what you will think of me. -I am going to take her for my maid.” - -Mrs. Saltoun looked at me and looked at Lizzie, who made her a curtsey. -She thought I had gone out of my senses. “It’s to be hoped it’s for -_lady’s_ maid and not for bairn’s maid then,” she said, with dreadful -sarcasm. If Mrs. Saltoun was so severe, what would Harry say. - -“She is an orphan and all alone; and she says she understands about -children,” said I, humbly, in self-defence. - -“Oh, if you please, I can keep bairns fine,” said Lizzie; “if ye’ll ask -the neebors they’ll a’ tell; and oh, if the leddy will try me, dinna -turn her against me again! I’m no a lassie in mysel. I’m awfu’ auld in -mysel. Afore harm would come to the baby I would die.” - -“And, my lass, what good would it do the lady if ye were to die,” said -Mrs. Saltoun entering the lists, “after maybe killin’ her bonnie bairn?” - -“I would a’ fa’ in pieces first!” cried Lizzie. “I would let them burn -spunks in my fingers, or crush my feet as they did langsyne; there’s no -a creature in the world I wouldna fecht and fell afore harm came to the -wean!” - -Mrs. Saltoun was not prepared for such an address; nor for the true -fire of enthusiasm and valour that burned through Lizzie’s tears; but -she did not give in. I had the satisfaction to look on and listen while -the old lady demonstrated in the clearest way that she would never do, -without any particular regard for her feelings; and then quietly enjoyed -the triumph when Lizzie burst forth upon Mrs. Saltoun, and in two -minutes routed her, horse and foot. Half an hour after Mrs. Saltoun and -I sat contriving what dress could be got up on the spur of the moment to -make the creature presentable; and that very night, while Harry was at -mess, she sat in the little kitchen downstairs helping to make up a -fresh new printed dress for herself in a fashion which justified part of -her assertions, and with a rapidity which I could explain only under the -supposition that excitement had still forcible possession of her. I -confess I was myself a little excited; though she was only a girl of -fourteen and a servant, not to say the most grotesque and -awkward-looking person imaginable, it is wonderful what an effect this -sudden contact with so strange and characteristic a creature immediately -had. My fears about the war faded off for the moment. I could not help -being quite occupied with thoughts about the new-comer:--whether, after -all, I ever would venture to trust baby with her,--what Harry would say -when he saw that odd apparition;--whether I had only been very -foolish;--whether I might have resisted. Lizzie Bayne had made herself -the heroine of that night. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -Two days after, when Lizzie made her appearance with a decently made -dress, long enough and wide enough to suit her stature, whatever might -be her age; with a clean collar, a white apron, and smooth hair, she -looked quite presentable. I cannot say she was good-looking; but, -undeniably, she looked a capable creature, and with her lively brown -eyes, good colour, and clear complexion might improve even in looks by -and by. But nobody could do anything for that grotesque awkwardness, -which belonged to Lizzie’s age, perhaps, rather than to herself. She -still stood upon one foot, and twisted the other round the leg that -supported her. She worked uneasily with her big hands, making vain -efforts to thrust them into the pinafore which recent improvements had -swept away; and she still hung her head in agonies of awkwardness and -self-consciousness. A creature so sensitively aware of observation, how -could she be trusted with the most precious baby in the world? I -repeated this five hundred times the first morning; but never once after -I had fairly ventured to place the child in her arms. - -“What on earth is that sprite doing here? Has Mrs. Saltoun taken her in, -or where does she come from?” said Harry the first day. I felt quite -piqued and affronted. I felt myself bound to defend her with all the -earnestness in the world. - -“Sprite! What do you mean? Why, that is my new maid, Henry, that I told -you of; and a capital maid she is,” said I, firing up with all the -consciousness of not having taken the wisest step in the world. - -“Your new maid!” And Harry said, “Oh!” in the most aggravating manner in -the world. I am obliged to confess that Lizzie’s arrival, so much out of -the ordinary way, and the excitement of getting her up, of making her -fit to appear, and of testing her qualities, had very much aroused my -mind out of the heavy thoughts I had been entertaining a few days ago; -so that I was no longer so subdued nor so entirely devoted to Harry but -what I could be provoked with him now and then. - -“There is nothing to cry out about; she is rather young, to be sure, and -not the most graceful figure in the world; but she’s good and grateful, -poor child, and I am quite content.” - -“You must recollect though, Milly, that we can’t afford to keep anybody -for charity,” said Harry; “she does not look very gainly; and if she -can’t save you the half of your present trouble, I’ll turn out a tyrant, -I warn you, and send her away.” - -“I am quite the best judge, you may be sure,” said I, with a little -internal tremor; “and I tell you I am satisfied. If you attempt to be -tyrannical, it is you who shall be sent away.” - -“Ah, Milly darling, how’s that! I shall be sent away soon enough,” said -Harry, with a little sigh. “I have been thinking that all over since we -talked of it the other day. What, you’ve forgot, have you, Milly? Thank -heaven! I was only afraid you were fretting over it, and thinking where -I should send you to be safe when the time came and I had to go away.” - -“Oh, Harry, how cruel!” said I. “I had got it out of my mind just then. -Now, I shall never forget it again. And where could you send me? What -would it matter, except to be near at hand for the post, and get the -earliest news.” - -“Unless you were to go to your Aunt Connor; poor Milly,” said he with a -pitiful look at me. - -“Have you got your orders?” cried I, clasping my hands. - -He said, “Nonsense!” getting up hurriedly. “Indeed, Milly, you must -consider this question without thinking it is all over the moment I -speak of it; and don’t burden yourself with an unsuitable maid. You -know, whether we go to the Crimea or not, we are likely very soon to go -somewhere. The regiment cannot be long here.” - -“Then, Harry, if there is nothing certain don’t let us talk of it,” said -I; “when one’s heart is to be broken, one cannot keep always -anticipating the moment.” “Don’t make any arrangements; when it comes, -that will be time enough. I shall care about nothing but letters. So -long as I can have letters I shall do.” - -Harry stayed, lingering about me before he went out. “I am not so sure -that the Lady Fanshawe idea is a foolish one after all,” he said after -awhile. “What fetters you put a man into, you wives and babes! I wish I -only knew somebody that would be very good to you if I have to go away. -Nineteen! and to be left all by yourself in the world! It’s hard work, -Milly, to be a soldier’s wife.” - -“If you don’t mean anything particular--if there’s no orders come--have -pity on me, and don’t talk, Harry!” I cried out. “When you must go, I’ll -bear it. I shall do as well as the other soldiers’ wives. I can never be -all by myself as long as you are in the world, though you should be ten -thousand miles away. Don’t talk of it. I shall get strength when the day -comes; but the day has not come nor the strength; don’t put me to -needless torture, Harry.” - -“I won’t,” he said again, with that little sigh, and went away leaving -me very miserable. Oh! if all this happy life were to finish and come to -an end. If I was to waken up some dreadful morning and find him gone, -and all the light gone out like the light in a dream! I durst not think -upon it. I got up and rushed about my little occupations. Lizzie came -upstairs when I was taking baby, who had just woke from his morning -sleep, out of the cradle. She stood, shy and doubtful, looking at me, -seeing in a moment that I was not so cheerful as usual. Poor child, with -a strange self-recollection that was quite natural, but seemed very odd -to me, she thought she had something to do with it. Her countenance fell -directly. She came sidling up to me with her heart in her face. Mrs. -Saltoun had taught her some faint outlines of common conventional -civility, and succeeded in substituting “mem” for “leddy” in her style -of address. She came up to me accordingly, with the tears ready to -start, and every sign of grieved disappointment and restrained eagerness -in her face. “Oh, mem,” cried Lizzie, “have I been doing wrong? Are you -no pleased wi’ me?” The words went to my heart, I cannot tell how. It -made me see more clearly than a dozen sermons how we were every one of -us going about in a private little world of our own. To think that her -shortcomings, the innocent grotesque creature, should throw me into such -trouble! What a strange unconscious self-estimation that was not -selfishness! In spite of myself, the load at my heart lightened, when I -smiled up at the girl. - -“Lizzie,” said I on the impulse of the moment, not thinking that I might -perhaps wound her; “if we did not suit each other, should we quite break -our hearts?” - -Lizzie coloured high, made a momentary pause, and dropped her queer -curtsey, “Eh no, mem, no you; I couldn’t expect it,” said Lizzie, with a -long sigh. Then, after another pause: “If it was a’ to turn out a dream -after twa haill days; and, to be sure, it’s three days coming; but if it -was a’ to come to naething after a’ this,” smoothing down her new dress, -“and a’ the thoughts I’ve had in my mind, eh me! I think I would have -nae heart ony mair either to break or bind.” - -Now, perhaps there was not very much in these words; but they were so -exactly what I had been thinking myself, that they seemed to make a new -link between me and my odd child-maid. - -“That is just what I have been thinking--but with far, far more reason,” -said I; “for, oh, Lizzie! war’s proclaimed, and Mr. Langham may have to -leave me; it might happen any day; and what should I do alone?” - -“Oh, mem, dinna greet!” said Lizzie loudly: “dinna let tears fa’ on the -wee baby; but I ken what you would do. Just nurse the bairn, and pray -the Lord, and wait. If you were sending me awa’, it would be never to -come back again; but if the Captain gangs to the wars he’ll come hame a -great general; maybe he would have a ribbon at his breast and a Sir at -his name!” cried Lizzie, glowing up suddenly. “Eh, wouldna we a’ be -proud! You might weary whiles, but the Captain would never forget you, -nor be parted in his heart, if he was ten thousand miles away.” - -“You strange little witch,” said I, crying, with the strangest feeling -of comfort, “you say the very words that come into my heart!” - -The creature gave me a bright affectionate look, with tears in her brown -eyes. “And please can I take baby out for a walk?” she said, immediately -falling back into her own department, with her little bob of a curtsey. -“I’ll gang before the windows to let you see how careful I am. It’s the -bonniest morning ever was. Eh, mem, if you’re pleased, I’ll ay see the -sun shining,” cried my nursery-maid. - -And I actually did trust her with my precious baby, and stood at the -window watching her with breathless anxiety and satisfaction for a whole -hour, afraid to lose sight of her for a moment. Steady as a judge walked -Lizzie, grand and important in her “charge,” disdaining the passing -appeals of “neighbours,” marching along on the sunny side of the -way--for it was already cold enough to make that necessary--shading the -child’s eyes with such adroit changes of his drapery and her own, -preserving him from the wind at the corners, and picking her steps over -the unequal road with such care and devotion, that I could have run -downstairs and kissed her on the spot. The sight, somehow, drove half -the bitterness of my thoughts out of my head. The sky was clear with -that “shining after rain” which has so much hope and freshness in it. -The wind was brisk, with plenty of floating clouds to knock about. -Before us, in the clear air, the castle rock looked almost near enough -to have touched it, with the sun shining on its bold grey front, and all -those white puffs of clouds blowing against and around it, like heavenly -children at their play. How it stood there, everlasting! How the sun -smiled and caressed those old walls where Harry was, and warmed and -brightened the cheerful bit of road where, to and fro, before my eyes, -unconscious in his baby state, went Harry’s son. Ah, me! to-day is -to-day, if one were to die to-morrow. I was too young to grope about for -darkness to come, and lose the good of this beautiful hour. Besides, -does not the good Lord know all about to-morrow? Beginning and end of -it, one thing with another, it pleases Him. Presently we shall have it, -and strength for it. So, away till your time, you dark hour! just now it -is not God, but an enemy who sends you. The light is sweet, and it is a -pleasant thing to behold the sun. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -When Harry came home that evening, I knew he had something to tell me; -but after the first start was over, I felt sure it was not anything -painful from the look of his face. I may venture to say now that he was -a very handsome young man in those days; but the thing that first drew -my heart to him was the way he always betrayed himself with his face. -Whatever he was feeling or thinking, you could tell it by his eyes; and -if he sometimes happened to say anything he did not think, as happens to -everybody now and then, his eyes woke up to a kind of sly, half ashamed, -half amused expression, and let you know he was fibbing in the oddest -way in the world. - -“I almost fell upon a discovery to-night,” said Harry. “What should you -have thought, Milly darling, if I had brought you home word about your -father and that estate you are to come heir to? I actually thought I was -on the scent of it for ten minutes at least.” - -“But it was a mistake,” said I, very quietly. - -“I confess, so far, it was a mistake; but still we may hear something,” -said Harry. “You have heard me talk of old Pendleton scores of times. -Fancy how I looked when he began about Haworth, a little town in -Yorkshire, all sorts of stories, as if he knew all about it. After I had -sat out a dozen anecdotes of other people, I asked him if he knew any -Mortimers there. Oh yes, yes! he said briskly, old Mortimer lived in the -brick house opposite the church; famous old fellow before he got so very -rheumatic and useless--had a son about Pendleton’s own age. And here he -shook his head: ‘Never did any good, sir! never did any good! Jilted in -early life, and never got over it.’ You may suppose this made me prick -up my ears.” - -“My father!” said I. - -“To be sure! it could not be anybody else; but it was your grandfather -whom old Pendleton would keep talking of. I asked very closely all about -him. It appears he only died about ten years ago; long after your -father, Milly, and seems to have been tolerably rich, according to -Pendleton. There’s none of the family remaining, Pendleton says. The red -brick house is all falling to ruins; and how the money went, or whether -there was any money, he can’t tell. I have a strong idea of making some -inquiries about it. Don’t you think it would be worth while?” - -“It seems to me of late that you’re always thinking about money. Why is -it?” said I. “Why should we go and trouble ourselves about people that -have never inquired after us.” - -“You simpleton!” cried Harry. “Who cares whether they like us or no; but -that red brick cosy house for my Milly darling, and a little comfort to -console her--it would take all the pricks out of my pillow when----” - -“Don’t talk, Harry. I’ll not listen to you. I’ll have no inquiries -made,” cried I, in desperation. “Every time I comfort myself a little -you pull me back again. To-night I am very happy and content, and don’t -care for your to-morrows. Be quiet and let my grandfather alone, if I -ever had one. What do I care for him? He was either in debt and had no -money to leave, or he was living on an annuity, or he endowed a -hospital, or something. And the red brick house of course is in -Chancery. Let the old gentleman alone. I’ll tell you about baby. He -certainly noticed Mrs. Saltoun’s bird swinging in its cage to-day.” - -“Nonsense! Pendleton is to write to his brother, who lives there, and -ask for all the particulars. He says your grandfather was a character,” -said Harry. “He belonged to some good family: Welsh, Pendleton -thinks--but professed to scorn all that, and called his son after -Arkwright, the cotton-spinner; that’s what the A. means in your father’s -name. By Jove! I wouldn’t write myself Richard Arkwright if I could help -it. What humbug it is giving fellows other people’s names! They must -have had a fancy for it in those days. Guess what Pendleton’s own name -is? He signs himself E. B. quite modestly. It’s Edmund Burke, upon my -honour!” - -“Well,” said I, “we have only got three names among us; and they are all -simple enough.” - -“Oh, so is Richard Arkwright when it’s a man’s own name,” said Harry. -“Now what do you think of my discovery? I confess I think it’s something -to know where one’s family belong to. If I could only have taken you to -our dear old Rectory, Milly. What a pleasure it would have been to have -thought of you there! I could have watched you all round every turn of -the garden, although I had been at the other end of the world.” - -“You are not going to the other end of the world; and we have no claim -upon the Rectory now, any more than on my grandfather,” said I. “Here is -a cup of tea for you. Now do be content; and don’t talk, Harry; at least -not on that subject. Of all the places in the world I like Edinburgh, a -little to the south of the Castle, and close upon Bruntsfield Links.” - -“You have no imagination, Milly,” said he. “However, we’ll hear what old -Pendleton says; and if there is anything known about it I should be very -much tempted, little as we have at present----” - -“To throw our poor good money away,” cried I. “You who grudged baby his -pretty hood! Oh, Harry, Harry, what wild fancies have you taken into -your head?” - -“To make my Milly a refuge when I’m away. Not so wild, after all,” he -said to himself softly. I made a noise with my teacups, and would not -hear him. It was hard work keeping cheerful when he would return and -return to the same subject. Sometimes I trembled and wondered, with a -sudden pang, was it a presentiment? But all the presentiments I ever -heard of were sudden and did not last; and it was natural enough, too, -that he should be anxious. If he did have to leave me, would not I work, -or beg, or steal, or anything, to have everything comfortable for _him_? -I forgave Harry for looking out for a home for his poor little wife; but -yet every time he spoke of it, it went to my heart. - -And I must say for myself that I never had the least hope either from my -unknown relations or Harry’s. I could not believe in a grandfather, nor -any cold strange people belonging to me. If I had friends they should -have shown themselves friendly when I needed it most. Now I thought, in -my pride, I did not want to know anything about them. I pictured to -myself an old morose man, that would have nothing to say to his poor -son’s only child. In my mind I took quite a prejudice against the very -place, and dreamt all that night of a mouldy old red-brick house, with -endless passages, and little steps now and then to throw one down and -break one’s limbs in the darkness. Somehow, both Harry’s imagination and -mine fixed on that old red-brick house. _He_ thought it would be -pleasant to settle me in such a place. _I_ had the most frightful -fancies about it. I could see myself going about the old grey faded -rooms, and Harry away at the war. I could see a pale creature, that was -me, go wringing her hands down the old staircase, and trembling at the -window waiting for the post coming in. I could see dreadful shadows of -scenes that might be when the letters came, which I would not look at, -but could not shut out of my heart. Harry did not think how he was -torturing me when he spoke of that old red-brick house. It seemed, -somehow, as if all my fears took solid form, and became real when they -got a shelter to house themselves in. I grew superstitious, as most -people do when their hearts are in great trouble. Going on from less to -more I came to settle upon this as a token for evil. If anyhow, by any -dreadful chance, something should come of it, and I should ever have -that house in my power, then I should know that the light was to depart -from me, and that I was to be set down, all by myself, and desolate, to -wither down and pine to death where my hard-hearted grandfather had -died. In my own mind, and without saying anything to anybody, I settled -upon this sign; and grew so assured of it, just by fancying things, -that, if I had heard that my grandfather had left me a fortune, and that -we should be comfortable all the rest of our lives, I should have sunk -down as if the intelligence was a blow. To be poor and happy, and have -our own way to make, seemed just enough, somehow; and in my superstition -I almost thought God would punish us for wanting more. I thought if -wealth should possibly come, happiness would fly away. I made sure if -Harry got his will it would be death to me. The thought of it put a new -terror into my life. His going away was not now the first thing I was -afraid of. I was afraid of his finding that home for me that he was so -anxious about--that place where I could be comfortable without him. -Every grief in the world came to be implied and suggested to my mind by -the mention of that red-brick house. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -“Oh yes, I am very fanciful, I know I am; but if Harry would only be -content, and let me be happy while I can,” said I, trying, but without -success, to gulp down my tears. - -“Mrs. Langham, my dear, the Captain canna be content, and it stands to -reason,” said Mrs. Saltoun; “and being anxious, as a good man should, to -provide for his wife and his bairn, will no take him away an hour sooner -than if he were a reckless ne’er-do-weel, that cared neither for the -tane nor the tither. Be reasonable, and let him speak. He’s young and -you’re young; and you’re neither o’ ye that wise but ye might thole -mending. It’s a real, discreet, sensible thing o’ the young gentleman to -try his very utmost for a home for his wife if he has to go away.” - -“If you have taken his side I shall give up speaking,” said I. “What do -I care for home, or anything else, if he is away?” - -“But you care for the Captain’s peace of mind, Mrs. Langham, my dear,” -said Mrs. Saltoun; “that’s far different. Maybe the truest love of a’ -would make itself content to be left in splendour for the sake of a -comfortable thought to them that’s going on a far different road. I -wouldna say but the thought o’ your safety would lighten mony an hour of -danger. Mony’s the strange thing I’ve seen in my life; but eh! when ye -have them that ye maybe mayna have lang, gie them their will! Let him -have his ain way, and gang in wi’ him if ye can. There’s mony a young -wife like you would die cheerful, or do ony hard thing in the world for -her husband, but canna see her way just to do _that_. Gie him his will! -I was ower late learning that mysel’.” - -The very tone in which my good old lady spoke plunged me deeper and -deeper into my agony of alarm and terror. I did not take her words for -what they meant. I went aside to draw terrifying inferences from her -tone and the sound of her voice. She thought he would go, I -concluded--perhaps she had heard already that marching orders had -come--she thought that he would never come back again, if he did leave -me. Anxiety and fear seized hold upon me so forcibly that I never -stopped to think that Mrs. Saltoun had no means of knowing, any more, -or even so much as I knew, and that she could not possibly be better -informed on this point than I was. - -“And now tell me about your family, Mrs. Langham, my dear. I’ve come -across half the folk in the country, I might venture to say, one time -and another. I was on the continent for three years with my old -gentleman,” said Mrs. Saltoun; “it’s just astonishing to say such a -thing, but if you’ll believe me, a person gets better acquaint with -their own country folk, that is, meaning the higher ranks o’ life, in -foreign parts than at home. It’s maybe just a glance and away, that’s -true; but them that has good memories minds.” - -“And were you really abroad?” said I, feeling a little interested in -spite of all my trouble; “and who was your old gentleman?--not----” - -“No, no, nobody belonging to me. I had the charge of his house and his -young family, that he had no business to have at his age; an auld fuil -of a man that had married a young wife, and lost her, and was left, past -seventy, with four young bairns. Mortimer? wasn’t that _your_ name, my -dear? Eh? I mind of a Miss Mortimer made a great steer among a’ the -English one season; and among mair than the English by bad fortune. She -was counted a great beauty; but I canna say she was like you.” - -“No, indeed, not likely!” cried I. - -“I would rather have your face than hers though,” said kind Mrs. -Saltoun. “Bless me, now I think of it, that was a very strange story. -There was a Count somebody that followed her about like her shadow. -Except her beauty, I canna say I ever had much of an opinion of her. She -was very heartless to her servants, and, for all the admirers she had, I -think her greatest admirer was herself; but between you and me, my dear, -men are great fools; she had ay a train after her. To be sure she was -said to be a great fortune as well. I canna think but that poor Count -was badly used. Counts are no a’ impostors, like what we think them -here. He was a real handsome gentleman, that one. He was with her -wherever she went for a year and more. Some folks said they were to be -married, and more said they were married already. _That_ was ay my -opinion;--when, what do you think, all at once he disappeared from her, -and for a while she flirted about more than ever; and then she went -suddenly off and home with her father. I would like to hear the rights -o’ that story. When a woman’s a witch,--and I canna think a great beauty -without a heart is onything else--most other women take a great -interest in finding her out. Fools say it’s for envy; but it’s no for -envy, my dear. You see beauty doesna blind a woman; we can ay see what’s -going on underhand.” - -“And what became of her?” said I. - -“That is just what I never heard. That is the worst of meeting in with -folk abroad; you see them once, and you, maybe, never see them a’ your -days again,” said Mrs. Saltoun. “To be sure, you commonly hear of them, -one way or other; but I never heard of the beautiful Miss Mortimer -again. It’s five-and-twenty years ago, if it’s a day, and she was far -from young then. That poor Count--I canna mind his name--was a good five -years, if no more, younger than the witch that kept him at her call. I -took a real spite against that woman; for you see she was just at the -over-bloom, and yet took a’ the airs of a young queen. I wouldna wonder -in the least but, after a’, she was married and wouldna own to it. There -was nae heart in her.” - -“But if she was married, how could she help herself?” said I. - -“That is what I canna tell,” said Mrs. Saltoun; “there’s wheels within -wheels, especially in foreign parts. Maybe the Count wasna a grand -enough match, maybe--I canna tell you; it’s a’ guess-work; but I am very -sure of one thing, that she was not an innocent woman, with nothing on -her conscience when she went away.” - -“I hope she is no relation of mine,” said I. “Harry has found out that I -had a grandfather, and all about him. Oh, only suppose, Mrs. Saltoun, -this dreadful beauty should turn out to be my aunt! That _would_ be -delightful!” I said to myself after a while, with a kind of bitter -satisfaction; “not to live in the red-brick house alone, but to live -with a dreadful old beauty who would be sure to be haunted. That would -be purgatory, enough, to please anybody; and Mortimer is not at all a -common name.” - -My old lady looked up at me half frightened. “Don’t say such a thing, -Mrs. Langham, my dear. I would not say a word against any person’s -character, far less one that might turn out a relation of yours. But, -for all that I’ve no right to interfere, I would set my face against the -like of you setting up house with ony such person. I would speak to the -Captain mysel’. Hout! here I’m taking’t up as if it was true; but if it -should be so that, in the order of Providence, the Captain was to go, -you mustna take up just with ony relation without considering if they -would make ye happy. You must be careful where you go--you must----” - -“Happy?” cried I. It seemed like mockery and a kind of insult;--as if I -could be happy when Harry, perhaps, was in danger, perhaps wounded or -ill, in suffering, and away from me! - -“Whisht, whisht,” said Mrs. Saltoun. “I ken ye better than ye ken -yourself. It’ll be hard, hard work at first; but when the parting’s over -you’ll get hopeful, and think o’ the meeting again; and ye’ll ay get -letters to cheer ye; and with the baby and the sun shining you’ll be -happy before you ken. But I maunna have ye settled down with the like of -yon Miss Mortimer. Na! na! naething like that, if she were twenty times -an aunt. Far better stay on still with me, that would ay be coming and -going to cheer you up. Yon’s a woman without a heart. I must speak to -the Captain mysel’.” - -Though I was much nearer crying that being amused, I could not but laugh -at Mrs. Saltoun’s anxiety about her Miss Mortimer, whom there was not -the very slightest reason to suppose any relation of mine. I took up the -idea myself, I must say, with quite a ludicrous sort of uncomfortable -satisfaction. If I had a grandfather, why should not I have an aunt? Why -should there not be an old Miss Mortimer living in the red-brick house, -ready to take me in, and kill me slowly by degrees? I formed an -immediate picture of her--how she would look, and what she would say to -me. I fancied her dressed up in her old fashions, trying to look young -and a beauty still. How dreadful it must be to drop from being a great -beauty, and having everybody worship you, down to a mere old woman left -all by yourself! Poor old Miss Mortimer! If she was my aunt, and was -very cross, and discontented, and miserable, there might be something -different in the old red-brick house, that quiet, dead comfortable home -that poor Harry, in his love and kindness, was so anxious to find for -me. There would be some satisfaction in living a miserable life with an -ogre in an enchanted castle if Harry were away. Mrs. Saltoun’s words did -not alarm me; on the contrary, I grew quite curious about this imaginary -Miss Mortimer. I thought I could fancy her going about those faded rooms -which yesterday I fancied seeing myself in. Now it was her figure I saw -all alone by the fire. Had she got used to it, I wonder? or did she -chafe and beat her poor old wings against the cage, and hate the world -that had given over admiring her? I tried to spell out what kind of a -beauty she had been; but it was always twilight in the old-fashioned -room. Tall, to be sure, with grey hair that had been black, and proud -eyes all wrinkled up in their sockets. Poor old Miss Mortimer! I wonder -did she know that she had an orphan niece who was to be sent to her for -a comfortable home? Couldn’t I look again, and see myself come in, and -how she greeted me? I think I must have grown quite fantastic in my -troubles. I could not keep my thoughts away from Mrs. Saltoun’s great -beauty. All alone in the house that was falling into decay, what ghosts -must crowd about her! Did she see the Count she had ill-used oftenest, -or some other who was more favoured? How did she keep these phantoms off -from her in the silence? I kept going over all this as other girls go -over imaginary romances of their own; I knew what my own romance was; -but still I was only nineteen, and loved to dream. - -And, perhaps, the consequence of this new turn to my thoughts was, that -I was more tolerant of Harry’s curiosity and anxious musing about my -father’s family, which had been revealed to him in that strange, -unexpected glimpse by Mr. Pendleton, the regimental doctor. I did not -stop him nervously when he began to talk of that favourite subject of -his thoughts. He was always coming back to it somehow. I could trace the -idea running through all he said. Not fancy and nonsensical imaginations -like mine; but serious, simple-minded anxiety, and an earnest concern -about the matter which would have broken my heart, had I not begun to -get used to it now. There was nothing talked about or heard of but the -war and the quantities of soldiers who were being sent away. Harry had -no other expectation or hope but to go too, and all his thought was, to -find a shelter for me. I could see it haunted his mind constantly, and -at last I gave in to it, that he might be eased on the subject. I used -to discuss it over with him where I should go--oh, only to go like Lady -Fanshawe, and be beside him, though he did not know! That was -impossible; so I let him talk, and smiled the best I could. Soon enough, -perhaps, we should have land and sea between us. Let him say what he -would. Let him arrange what he would. If it was a comfort to him, what -did it matter? The old brick house and Miss Mortimer would be better -than the happiest of homes. Who could wish to be happy while Harry was -away. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -One day after this Harry came in with a letter in his hand. - -“Here is news, Milly, darling; not such news as we expected, but still -news,” said he; “this is not how you are to become a great heiress, -certainly; but still it’s interesting. It turns out, after, all, that -your grandfather was not rich.” - -“Oh! is it Mr. Pendleton’s letter?” said I. - -“Pendleton’s brother has something to do with it,” said Harry, with a -little excitement; “there was not much money--not any more than enough -to pay the debts and give some presents to the old servants--but there -is the house. They had no funds to employ in looking up the heir, and -nobody cared to take much trouble. So there it stands falling to pieces. -Look here, Milly; it’s yours, indisputably yours.” - -“But how about Miss Mortimer?” cried I. - -Harry stopped short all at once as he was opening the letter, and stared -at me. “Miss Mortimer! who is she?” he said, in the most entire -amazement. He might well look surprised: but I had so entirely made up -my mind about her, and that she was living in the old house, that his -question was quite a shock to me. - -“Why, Miss Mortimer, to be sure,” I said, faltering a little; and then I -could not help laughing at Harry’s astonished face. - -“It appears that you know more than Mr. Pendleton does, Milly,” said he; -“there is no Miss Mortimer here. I suppose you are only amusing yourself -at my expense: but I really am quite in earnest. Mr. Mortimer’s house is -entirely yours. He had no child but your father; you are the -heir-at-law. I only wish there had been a Miss Mortimer. You may look -displeased, Milly darling; but think if there had been a good old lady -to take care of you while I’m away!” - -“Oh, Harry, you don’t know what you are saying,” cried I; “that Miss -Mortimer was an old witch and beauty. Mrs. Saltoun told me that if she -should turn out to be a relation of mine, she would speak to you -herself, to say that I must not on any account go there.” - -“Go where? What Miss Mortimer are you speaking of?” said Harry, -completely mystified. - -Then I had to confess that I knew nothing of her, and it was all -imagination; and Harry shook it off quite lightly, and went on to talk -of this house. As if I ever could, after all my fancies, put Miss -Mortimer out of that house! As if she had not taken possession, a -wonderful old ghost, always to live and reign there! And, moreover, my -heart got quite chill within me as Harry spoke. This was my bad omen; -this was the sign I had appointed with myself for the coming of every -trouble. I got so pale, listening to him, that he was disturbed, and -grew quite anxious. Was I ill? What was the matter with me? I said No, -with a gasp, and let him go on. He read out of the letter all the -description of this dreadful house; but I am sure I did not need any -description. I saw it as clear as a picture; large rooms, to be sure, -with great faded Turkey carpets on them! a low broad staircase, with -myself coming down on the post-morning wringing my hands, and Miss -Mortimer sitting all silent by the fire; a large old garden with mossy -apple-trees, and a sun-dial somewhere about, some dozen bedrooms or so, -all hushed and solemn, as if people had died there. I am not sure that I -heard the words of Harry’s description; for what was she good? I saw it -perfectly well in my mind, far clearer than I ever could have known it -by words. - -“And Harry,” cried I, with a start of despair, when he came to a pause, -“would you really have me go to live in such a place--a place I never -was in in all my life--a place I have no kind feeling about, nor -pleasant thoughts--only because it was my grandfather’s house, whom I -never saw, and who never cared to see me? I did not think you could have -been so cruel. Besides, it would be far too expensive. Servants would -have to be kept for it; and you must make up your mind that it would -kill me.” - -“But it might sell for a good price,” said Harry, “and I might get you a -pretty cottage, where you pleased, with the money. I am going to write -to old Pendleton to tell him who you are and all about it. You have had -your own way with your first bit of fortune; but I should not at all -wonder, Milly darling,” he said, laughing, “if you were to offer it, -rent free, to your Aunt Connor, that she might find it a very eligible -situation. After such a description, Mrs. Connor is not the woman to -despise the red-brick house.” - -“She might have it altogether, and welcome, for me,” said I. “Oh, Harry, -I can’t help thinking it’s an ill omened place. I could never be happy -there.” - -“Who ever heard of an ill omen now-a-days?” said Harry, “it’s a pagan -fancy, Milly. For my part the idea rather captivates me. I should like -to live in the house my good father was born in. My bridegroom uncle has -it now. Don’t you think I had better write and tell him my little wife -is an heiress? However, perhaps the best thing will be to try and sell -the house.” - -“Oh, much the best thing!” I said. That would be getting rid of it, at -all events; and as Harry would not leave off talking of it, I persuaded -him with all my might to get done with it so. We were both quite -confident that we had only to say who we were and get it without any -trouble. That, of course, was all very natural in me that knew nothing -about things, but Harry might have known better. He was quite pleased -and interested about it. I think he never was quite satisfied not to -know who I belonged to; but now that he had hunted up my grandfather, he -was quite comforted. And how he did talk of the pretty cottage he was to -buy me! Sometimes it was to be in England, in his own county; which he -naturally liked best of all places; sometimes near Edinburgh, where we -were, because I was fond of it. Sometimes we took walks and looked at -all the pretty little houses we could see. He had planned it out in his -own mind, all the rooms it was to have, and used to study the -upholsterer’s windows, and take me ever so far out of my way to see some -pretty table or chair that had taken his fancy. He said if he could only -see me settled, and know exactly what I was looking at, and all the -things round me, it would be such a comfort when he went away. - -This going away was kept so constantly before my mind that I could not -forget it for a moment. I lived in a constant state of nervous -expectation. Every day when he came in I went to meet him with a pang of -fear in my heart. Such constant anxiety would have made a woman ill who -had nothing to do; but I was full in the stream of life, and one thing -counterbalanced another, and kept everything going. That must be the -reason why people do get strength to bear so many things when they are -in the midst of life. Young disengaged people would die of half the -troubles that middle-aged, hard-labouring people have; but I had a daily -dread returning every time Harry returned, and with a shiver of -inexpressible relief put off my anxiety to the next day, when I found -there was no news. All the evils of life seemed to crowd into that one -possibility of Harry’s going away. It was not that I feared any positive -harm coming to him, or had made up my mind that he would not come back -again; it was the sudden extinction of our bright troubled life that I -looked forward to, the going out of our happiness. I did not seem to -care where I should be, or what might happen after that time. - -In the meantime Harry grew quite a man of business, and entered with -something like enjoyment, I thought, into the pursuit of my -grandfather’s house. He wrote to Aunt Connor for all the information -that could be had about my father, and for the register of his marriage -and my birth. He wrote a long letter to that Mr. Pendleton at Haworth, -who had, as he said, something to do with it; and old Pendleton, the -surgeon, came out to see me, and told me all he remembered about my -father. That was not very much; the principal thing was, that he had -heard of poor papa being jilted by a relation of his own, a great -heiress--in Wales, he thought, but he could not tell where. Of course -that must have been Sarah, in poor papa’s drawing, who was getting on -the wrong side of her horse; and “he never did any more good,” Mr. -Pendleton said. He lingered about at home for some time, and then went -wandering about everywhere. He had a little money from his mother, just -enough to keep him from being obliged to do anything; and the old -surgeon burst out into an outcry about the evils of a little money, -which quite frightened me. “When silly people leave a young man just as -much as he can live on, they ruin him for life,” said old Mr. Pendleton. -“Unless he’s a great genius there’s an end of him. Richard Mortimer, -begging your pardon, was not a great genius, Mrs. Langham; but he might -have been a good enough soldier, or doctor, or solicitor, or something; -or a cotton-spinner, as his name inclined that way,--if it hadn’t been -for his little bit of money. Langham, my boy, either have a great -fortune or none at all; it will be all the better for your heir.” - -“We’ll have a great fortune,” said Harry. “The first step must be to -sell this red-brick house.” - -Mr. Pendleton gave him an odd look. “There’s a saying about catching the -hare first before you cook it,” said the doctor. “Make yourself quite -sure they’ll give you a deal of trouble before they’ll let you take -possession; and then there’s no end of money wanted for repairs. The -last time I saw it, there was a hole that a man could pass through in -the roof.” - -Harry looked aghast at this new piece of information; nothing that I -ever saw had such an effect upon Harry’s courage. He gazed with open -eyes and mouth at the disenchanter for a moment. I do think he could -see the rain dropping in, and the wind blowing, and damp and decay -spreading through the house just as clearly as I saw Miss Mortimer -sitting by the fire, and myself going down the stairs. After that I used -to think Harry was thinking of the house, whenever it rained much. He -used to sigh, and look so grave, and say solemn things about the wet -weather destroying property. And I cannot deny that I laughed. -Altogether, this house kept us in talk and interest, and did a good deal -to amuse us through this winter, which, without something to lighten it, -would have passed very slowly, being so full of perpetual anxiety and -fears. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -It was in spring that Harry came in one day with the news in his face; -at least I thought it was the news. Heaven help me!--I came forward with -my hands clasped, struck speechless by the thought, my limbs trembling -under me so that I could scarcely stand. I suppose Harry was struck by -my dumb agony. My ears, that were strained to hear the one only thing in -the world that I was afraid of, devoured, without being satisfied, the -soothing words he said to me. I gasped at him, asking, I suppose, -without any sound, to know the worst; and he told me at once, in pity -for my desperate face. - -“No such thing, Milly darling. No, no; not to the war just yet. We are -only to leave Edinburgh, nothing more.” - -I think I almost fainted at this reprieve; I could scarcely understand -it. The certainty of the other was so clear upon my mind that I almost -could have thought he deceived me. I sank down into a seat when I came -to myself, and cried in my weakness like a child; Harry all the while -wondering over me in a surprise of love and pity. I do not think he -quite knew till then how much that terror had gone to my heart. - -“No, Milly, darling,” he kept repeating, looking at me always with a -strange compassion, as if he knew that the grief I was dreading must -come, though not yet; “take comfort, it has not come yet; and before it -comes you must be stronger, and able to bear what God sends.” - -“Yes, yes, yes, I will bear it,” said I, under my breath, “but say again -it is not to be now.” - -“No, we are going away to Chester,” said Harry, “be satisfied, I will -not try to cheat you when that time comes. We are to go to Chester to -let some other fellows away. Now you must pack again and be going, -Milly, like a true soldier’s wife.” - -Ah, me! if that were all that was needful for a soldier’s wife! Somehow, -all that night after, I felt lighter in my heart than usual. I had felt -all this time as if the sword was hanging over my head; but now that we -were sent out wandering again, the danger seemed to have faded further -off. Nobody would take the trouble to send a regiment from one end of -the country to the other, and then send them right away. If they had -been going to the war, they would have gone direct from Edinburgh. It -was a respite, a little additional life granted to us. I sang my old -songs that night, as I went about the room. I could dare laugh to baby, -and dance him about. How he was growing, the dear fellow! He set his -little pink feet firm on my hand, and could stand upright. I showed -Harry all his accomplishments, and rejoiced over them. How thankful and -lighthearted I was, to be sure, that night! Harry kept watching me, -following me with his eyes in the strangest, amused, sympathetic way. He -was surprised to see the agony I was in at first; but he was still more -surprised to see how easily, as one might have said, I got over it now. - -“And, Milly, what is to be done with the sprite?” said Harry. - -“Lizzie? what should be done with her? She is an orphan, she has nobody -belonging to her, she has taken shelter with me. Harry, no; we’re poor, -but we’re not free to think of ourselves alone. Lizzie shall go too. She -is God’s child, and He sent her to me.” - -Harry did not say anything, but he kept slowly shaking his head and -drumming upon the table. Harry had the common people’s ideas rather -about responsibility. He was afraid of the responsibility. For all the -kindness in his heart he did not like to step into what might be other -people’s business, or to take up any burdens that did not lie in his -way. - -“Besides, she is the best servant in the world. She is worth all Aunt -Connor’s three maids. I can trust her with baby almost as well as I can -trust myself; and, besides,” said I, rather hypocritically, “look at the -creature’s laundry work; you never were so pleased before.” - -“Well, that is rather astonishing, I confess,” said Harry, looking at -his fresh wristband with a little admiration. “I don’t believe those -awkward red fingers ever did it. She must keep some private fairy in a -box, or have made an agreement with a nameless personage. What if poor -Lizzie’s soul were in danger on account of your fine linen, you -hard-hearted Milly! I do not believe you would care.” - -“Ah! you can’t deny her talents in the laundry,” cried I, with a little -injudicious laughter. “What a triumph that is! You never were content -with anybody’s work before.” - -Harry looked at me rather doubtfully. “You look very much as if you were -a little cheat,” he said. “I’ll have a peep into the laundry one of -these days myself.” - -“But Lizzie must go with us,” said I. “I have taken very much to the -strange creature. You and I are God’s orphans too. We have a right to be -good to her; and it is not all on one side--don’t think it, Harry; she -is very good to me. She helps me with all her might, and stands by me -whenever I want, or tries to do it. I had rather have her than -half-a-dozen common servants. Leave this to me.” - -“But consider, Milly, what you are making yourself responsible for,” -cried Harry. - -I stopped his mouth; I would not let him speak; and danced away with -baby all in my joy and comfort to put him to bed. We met Mrs. Saltoun on -the stairs in the dark, and as she kissed the child, I kissed my good -old lady out of the fulness of my heart. “We are going away, but it is -only to Chester; we shall be together still,” I said in her ear. I never -thought how strange she would think it that I should be pleased to leave -her, or how she might wonder at my spirits getting up so easily. I was -very happy that night. - -Lizzie was putting all baby’s things away when I went into the room. She -folded and laid them all aside more nicely than I could have done it -myself; not, so far as I know, because orderliness came natural to her, -but because, with all her heart, she had wanted to please me, and saw -with her quick eyes how it was to be done best. When anybody looked at -Lizzie, and she knew it, she was just as awkward as ever. How I had -laboured to make her hands and her feet look as if they belonged to her, -without twisting up or going into angles! but it was all of no use. -Whenever anybody looked at Lizzie, she would stand on one foot, and seek -refuge of an imaginary pinafore for her hands; but just now, in the -firelight, when you could only half see her, you cannot think how tidily -and nicely the uncouth creature was going about her work. - -I paused before the fire after the child was in bed. “Lizzie,” said I, -standing in the warm light, and looking down into it, “do you like -Edinburgh very much?” I did not look round for her answer, I waited till -she should come to me; and yet felt pleased to see her, with “the tail -of my eye,” as Mrs. Saltoun would have said, flitting about after one -thing and another, through the pleasant darkness, with the firelight all -glimmering and shooting gleams of reflection into it, shining in the -drawers, and chairs, and furniture, which Lizzie’s hands had rubbed so -bright. I could not help thinking, with a little pride and -self-complacency, that it was all my doing. If I had not taught her, and -taken pains with her--but then, to be sure, if she had not been -wonderfully clever and capable; the one thing had just as much to do -with it as the other. But, between her exertions and my own, I had been -very successful in my little maid. - -“Edinburey?” said Lizzie, coming up to me, with a lingering sound in -that genuine Edinburgh tone of hers, “eh, mem, isn’t it rael bonnie? -They say there’s no such another bonnie town in the world.” - -“But there are, though,” said I; “they say quantities of foolish things. -Lizzie, the regiment is ordered away.” - -Lizzie clasped her hands together, and gave a shrill shriek. “I’ll waken -the wean, but I canna help it. Eh, what will we do?” cried Lizzie, in a -voice of suppressed and sharp despair. “I heard you say once you would -die, and if you die, so will the bairn, and so will I; and what heart -would the Captain have to come hame again? He would throw himself upon -the spears, the way they do in the ballads, and get his death. Mem!” -cried the excited girl, seizing my arm and stamping her foot upon the -floor in an impassioned appeal to my weakness, “if ye dinna bide alive, -and keep up your heart, he’ll never come hame!” - -I cannot explain what an extraordinary effect this had upon me. The -sudden flush of excitement and desperate necessity for doing something -to inspire and hold up my weakness, which animated Lizzie, cast a new -light upon myself and my selfish terror. She cared nothing about -affronting or offending me, the brave primitive creature; she thought -only of rousing, pricking me up to exert what strength I had. Her grasp -on my arm, her stamp on the floor, were nature’s own bold suggestions -to arrest the evil she dreaded. I should not give way, or break down--I -should not send away my soldier unworthily, nor peril the life on which -another hung, if Lizzie could help it. What I had escaped for the -moment--what I should have to go through with by and by, came all up -before me at her words. She whom I was proud of having trained for my -service had a braver heart than me. - -But when I could explain to her the real nature of the case our position -changed immediately. Lizzie’s countenance fell; she hung her head, and -relapsed into all her old awkwardness. It was neither the bold young -soul, resolved, come what might, to inspire me with needful courage, nor -the handy little maid busied with her work, but the old uncouth Lizzie, -not knowing how to stand or look for extreme awkwardness and eagerness, -that stood gazing wistful at me in the firelight. She stood with her -lips apart, looking at me, breathless with silent anxiety, muttering as -she stood, with an incessant nervous unconscious motion, the physical -utterance of extreme anxiety. She made no appeal to me then; but, like a -faithful dog, or dumb creature, kept gazing in my face. - -“And so we shall have to go away,” said I, somewhat confused by her -eyes; “and you are an Edinburgh girl, and people know you here. I could -recommend you very well, and you might get a better place; you must -think it all over, and decide what we must do.” - -Lizzie’s face showed that she only understood me by degrees; that she -should have any choice in the matter not seeming to have occurred to -her. When she fairly made it out, she gave a joyful shout, and another -little cry; but plunged me into the wildest amazement, the moment after, -by the following question, in which I could find no connection whatever -with the subject under hand. - -“Mem,” said Lizzie, “is a’ the Bible true alike--the auld Testament as -weel as the New?” - -“Surely,” said I, in the most utter surprise. - -“Then I know what I’ll do,” cried the girl; “I’ll bring you a hammer and -a nail, and you’ll drive it into the doorpost through my ear.” - -“What in the world do you mean, child?” cried I,--“are you laughing at -me, Lizzie? or is the girl crazed.” - -“Me laughing? if you would do it I would greet with joy; for the Bible -says them that have the nail driven through, never gang out ony mair for -ever, but belong to the house. Mrs. Saltoun mightna be pleased if it -was done in the parlour, but down at the outer door it might be nae -harm. Eh, mem, will ye ask the Captain?” cried Lizzie, “and then I’ll -never leave ye mair!” - -Just then Harry called me downstairs, and all laughing, and with tears -in my eyes, I hurried down to him, not knowing whether to be most amused -or melted. - -Harry had something to consult me about, which he plunged into -immediately, so that I had still had no opportunity of propounding -Lizzie’s petition, when, all at once, about an hour after, she made her -appearance at the door. I never saw the creature look so bright; her -eyes were shining, her colour high, her breath coming quick with -agitation, excitement, and a mingled thrill of joy and terror. In one -hand she carried Mrs. Saltoun’s great hammer, in another a rusty iron -nail; and her resolution had removed at once her awkwardness and her -reverential dread of Harry. She came up to him with a noiseless air of -excitement, and touched him on the sleeve; she held out the hammer and -the nail without being able to speak a word. He, on his side, looked at -her with the utmost amazement. Lizzie was too much excited to explain -herself, or even to remark his astonished look; she had come to prove -her allegiance in the only way that occurred to her. I believe, in my -heart, that she longed for the grotesque extraordinary pang which was to -make her my bondslave for ever; the spirit of a martyr was in the -child’s heart. - -When Harry understood the creature’s meaning you may imagine what a -scene followed. I had to send Lizzie away lest her highly-wrought -feelings should be driven desperate, by the agonies of laughter it threw -him into. I took her outside the door and put away the hammer, and gave -her a kiss in the dark. I whispered in her ear, “That shall be our bond, -Lizzie; we will take it out of the New Testament rather than the Old,” -and left her sitting on the stairs, with her apron thrown over her head, -crying her heart out. No one, from that day forward, has ever spoken of -leaving Lizzie behind again. - - - - -PART III. - -THE LADIES AT THE HALL. - -(_Continued_). - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -I cannot tell what it was that made me silent about this adventure while -we were having tea. My mind was naturally full of it, but when, having -the words just on my lips, I looked at Sarah, some strange influence -held me back. That reluctance to speak of a matter which will turn out -painful to somebody I have felt come across me like a sort of warning -more than once in my life; and this time it was so powerful, that during -our meal I said nothing whatever about the matter. You are not to -suppose, though, that I was so good a dissembler as not to show that I -had something on my mind. Little Sara found me out in a moment. She -said, “What are you thinking of, godmamma?” before we had been two -minutes at table, and persecuted me the whole time,--finding out -whenever I made any little mistake; and, indeed, I made several, my mind -being so much occupied. Sarah, on the contrary, took no notice; she -seemed, indeed, to have recovered herself a good deal, and had a very -good appetite. She never talked much at any time, and had said less than -usual since ever little Sara arrived. So what with my abstraction and -Sarah’s quiet occupation with herself, there was not much talk, you may -suppose. Little Sara Cresswell’s eyes, however, quite danced with -mischief when she saw me so deep in thought. She kept asking me all -sorts of questions; whether there was any bit of the road haunted -between the Park and the village? whether I had got some sermons from -the rector to read? whether Dr. Appleby had been trying some of his new -medicines (the doctor was certainly too much given to experiments) upon -me? whether I had met anybody to frighten me? Tea was all but finished, -and I had just rung the bell, when the little plague asked this last -question; and you may imagine I was quite as much inclined to tell all -my story as Sara was to draw me out. - -“Now I’ll just tell you what I think has happened, godmamma,” cried -Sara. “One of your old lovers has appeared to you, and told you that, -but for you, he might have been a happy man; and that all his troubles -began when you refused him. Now haven’t I guessed right?” - -“Right? Why, I have told you a dozen times, Sara, that I never had any -lovers,” said I,--“not till I was forty, at least.” - -“But that is no answer at all,” cried the little puss. “And the poor man -might die for you, when you were forty, all the same. Was it himself, -quite pined away and heart-broken, that you saw, godmamma, or was it his -ghost?” - -“Hush, you little provoking thing,” said I; “you and I had a quarrel -about an Italian the other evening. Now I know a deal better about him -than you do, Sara. He is all the ghost I met.” - -I gave a glance at Sarah, sidelong, as I spoke. I am sure what I said -was light enough, and not very serious, but her ear had caught it; it -was a sign to me that she was still as much on the watch as ever. She -did not speak, nor lift up her head, except with a little momentary -start, but _she stopped knitting_, which was something extraordinary to -me. - -And little Sara flushed up; whether it was with the recollection of our -quarrel, or a private interest of her own in the young stranger, who, to -be sure, being a handsome young man, and mysterious, and romantic, was -quite likely to excite a foolish young imagination, I cannot tell; but -her cheeks certainly reddened up at a great rate, and she looked exactly -as if she were ready to pounce and bite, what between curiosity and -wrath. - -“I met him on the road; it is my belief he passed the gate the other -evening when I was looking out. Poor young man! he speaks very good -English for an Italian,” said I. - -Then Sarah’s whisper interfered and stopped me; she spoke very sharply. -“Who are you speaking of?” she said; “there are no Italians here.” - -“There is one,” said I; “poor fellow. Little Sara there knows about -him. It appears he came expecting to find a lady hereabouts, and can’t -find her. I can’t think on the name myself; I never heard it that I know -of; but I must allow that the young man looks like a gentleman; and for -an Italian----” - -“Be silent, Milly! What can a person like you know?” said Sarah, in an -irritated shrill tone. “They’re a double-minded, deceitful, intriguing -race; they’re vile story-tellers, every one; they’re a people no more -fit to be considered like other Christians than dogs are, or slaves. -Bah! What do you mean talking to me of Italians? None of you are the -least aware of what you are speaking of. I know them well.” - -Here little Sara struck boldly into the breach, and saved me from the -necessity of struggling out an answer. - -“Godmamma, you are frightfully unjust!” cried little Sara. “I wonder how -you can speak of a whole people so; and such a people! as if everybody -in the world did not know who they are, and what they have done!” - -“They have done every kind of fraud and falsehood in existence,” said -Sarah, so earnest that her voice sounded like a sort of smothered -shriek. “I tell you, child, whoever trusts or believes in them gets -deceived and betrayed. Don’t speak to me of Italians--I know them; and -if any Italian comes here pretending to ask anything,” she said, -suddenly turning round upon me, and catching at me, if I may say so, -with her eye, “mind you, Milly, it’s a cheat! I say, recollect it’s a -cheat! He does not want any living creature; he wants money, and profit, -and what you have to give.” - -If she had said all this quietly, and there had been nothing beforehand -to rouse my attention, I should not have been surprised; for to be sure, -that was very much like what I had always believed; and as for lying, -and seeking their own advantage, I rather think that is just about what -an English person, who knows no better, thinks of most foreigners, right -or wrong. But Sarah’s way of speaking was breathless and excited. She -was no more thinking of Italians in general than I was, or than little -Sara was. She was thinking on some one thing, and some one person; she -alone knew who and what. All her anger, and her quickness, and her -dreadful look of being in earnest, were personal to herself; and I -cannot describe to anybody how my sister’s unexplainable anxiety and -excitement bewildered and excited me. - -“But, Sarah, you don’t know anything of this poor friend man; he may be -as honest as ever was. I do believe he is, for my part,” said I; “and -what he wants is----” - -“Don’t tell me!” cried Sarah. “I don’t want to hear what he wants. How -should I know anything about him? Hold your tongue, Milly, I tell you. -What! you go and take a fancy to a young villain and impostor, and -neglect _me_!” - -“Neglect _you_! but, dear, not for the poor young Italian gentleman’s -sake; you can’t think that!” said I, more and more amazed. - -“You all neglect me!” said Sarah, throwing down her knitting, and rising -up in her passion. “I don’t want to hear of reasons or causes. You are -not to tell me what young impostors you may fish up in the streets, or -what ridiculous things your _protégés_ may want. Don’t say anything to -me, I tell you! I desire to hear nothing about it. Make up what pretty -romance you please, you are quite fit to do it; but I clear my hands of -all such matters--you shall not even tell them to me!” - -And as she said this,--could I believe my eyes?--Sarah thrust her -footstool out of the way, pushed back her screen, and making a momentary -pause to search round all the dim depths of the room with her eyes, went -out, leaving us two, Sara and me, staring at each other. What had -affronted her? What could be the cause of her displeasure. She left her -knitting thrown down into the basket, and the Times lying on the chair -beside her seat. Nobody had done or said anything to displease her, -unless my mention of the young Italian had done it. What strange secret -irritation could be working in her, to produce these outbursts of -passion without any cause? - -Little Sara stared at me with her bright eyes wide open, till Sarah had -quite gone out of the room; then the wicked little creature, struck, I -suppose, with something comic in my blank distressed look, burst out -laughing. I cannot tell you how the sound of her laugh, thoughtless as -she was, jarred upon me. - -“Is this how you live so amicably at the Park, godmamma?” cried Sara. -“The people say you have the temper of an angel, and that nobody else -could live with godmamma Sarah. I never believed it was true till now. -You have the temper of an angel, godmamma. You forgave me the other -night when I was so naughty; you kissed me, though I did not expect you -would. And now here you have been kind to poor Italian Mr. Luigi, and -you have got paid for it. What have the Italians done to godmamma Sarah -to make her so savage at their very name?” - -“Ah! that is the question--what is it?” said I. “God knows!” - -“Then _you_ don’t know?” said little Sara. “Yet I could have thought you -did, you looked so.” - -“How did I look?” cried I. - -“As if there were a secret somewhere; as if you were thinking how -godmamma Sarah would take it; as if you were--well, just watching her a -little, and trying to see whether she cared,” said the observant little -girl. - -“Was I, indeed? was I so? Ah! I deserve to be punished. What right have -I to go and dream over anybody’s looks and frame romances, as she says? -Heaven forgive me! I’ll go and beg her pardon. I did not mean to do it. -To think I should be so mean and suspicious! Little Sara, let me go.” - -Sara held me fast, clinging with her arms round my waist--and her -provoking little face the little witch turned up close to mine. “Tell me -first what the romance was, godmamma?” said Sara. “She accused you of -it, and you confess; and I am sure a romance is far more in my way than -yours. Tell me, please, this very moment, what romance you are making -up? Has Mr. Luigi anything to do with it? Is it all about godmamma -Sarah? Tell me directly, or I don’t know what I shall do. Sit down in -this great chair, and begin--romance of real life.” - -“Ah, you foolish little girl! there’s many a romance of real life you -durst not listen to, and I durst not tell you,” cried I. “I am not -making up any romance. Nonsense! Child, get up. I’ll tell you about your -Mr. Luigi, which is the only story in my head. He is looking for a lady; -but that you know----” - -“Oh yes, and he can’t find her; the Countess Sermoneta,” said Sara, in -her careless way. - -Just then, to my still greater wonder, Sarah returned to the room. -Evidently she had heard the child’s words. I saw her come to a dead stop -in the shadow close by the door, and put her hand upon her side, as if -she were out of breath and had to recover herself. What did this strange -flitting about mean? In her usual way she never moved from her seat, -except to go to dinner. Her going away was extraordinary, and her coming -back more extraordinary still. I could but gaze at her in amazement as -she came slowly up, threading through the furniture in the half light. -But Sara, who had still her arms clasped round me, had of course her -back to her godmamma, and did not see that she had come back to the -room. - -“Wasn’t it the Countess Sermoneta?” said Sara, “I know he was asking -all over Chester for such a person, and was so disappointed. Did you -never hear of a Countess Sermoneta, godmamma? If you heard it once you -surely would remember the name.” - -Sarah had stopped again while the girl was speaking. Could she have been -running up and downstairs that her breath came so quick, and she had to -make such pauses to recover herself? I could not answer Sara for -watching my sister, feeling somehow fascinated; but then, remembering -that Sara had detected me in anxious observation of her godmother, I -hurried on with the conversation to avoid any suspicion of that. - -“That is just what I told the young man, my dear child--that I never had -heard the name,” said I; “but I promised to try all I could to get some -news for him. It is very sad he should be disappointed, poor young -fellow. I promised to ask Ellis, who has been centuries with the -Mortimers, you know; and I thought, perhaps, your godmamma and I, if we -had a talk together, might recollect somebody that married a -foreigner----” - -Here I made a dead pause in spite of myself. Sarah had somehow managed -to get back into her seat. She was wonderfully pale and haggard, and -looked like a different creature. She looked to me as if all her powers -were strained for some purpose, and that at any moment the pressure -might be too much, and she might give way under it. I could not go on; I -stopped short all at once, with a feeling that somehow I had been cruel. -“Not to-night,” I said softly to Sara, “another time.” Sara was obedient -for a miracle. We broke off the conversation just at that point, with an -uneasy feeling among us that it had been far more interesting and -exciting than it ought to have been; and that the best thing to be done -was to bury it up, and conceal what we had been talking about. Such was -the immediate result of my easy promise to consult my sister. Sarah sat -very steadily through all that evening, remaining up even later than -usual. She took no notice of anything that was said, nor mentioned why -she went away. We were all very quiet, and had little to say for -ourselves. What was this forbidden ground? - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -It is very odd, when there happens to be any one bit of tabooed ground -in a family, how impossible it is to keep off it. I daresay every member -of a household, above childhood, knows that, more or less. If there is -one matter that some two people are quite sure to disagree upon, whom it -is quite the business of your life to keep comfortable and on good -terms, isn’t that matter always turning up somehow? Doesn’t it float -about in the air, and hover over your head, always ready to poke in when -it is not wanted, and do what mischief it can? That is my experience, at -least. And it was so much the worse in our case, because little Sara had -no idea of keeping quiet, and no notion that her innocent mischief and -meddling could do any real harm, or have any worse effect than putting -her godmamma “in a passion.” Putting people in a passion was fun to the -thoughtless little girl; it never came into her little saucy -inconsiderate head that Sarah’s passion was not a flash of harmless -lightning like her own, or that it meant anything which could disturb -and overturn all my sister’s quiet life, and put me into a fever of -bewilderment and anxiety. For days after I kept carefully off the -subject, thinking it would be better to leave a polite message with -Ellis for the Italian young gentleman if he called, and say I was sorry -I could not get him any information, than to worry my poor sister, who -was so unaccountably disturbed by hearing of him. Not that Sarah said -anything about it; but she looked so haggard and anxious that it went to -my heart. She came down even earlier than usual and sat up later; -listened eagerly to all the conversation going on; sometimes, even, -missed her drive; sat on the watch, as one might have supposed; but when -she had gone out for her airing one day, I met the carriage,--and, can -you believe it, the very blinds were down! If, when all was quiet, and -nothing had happened, I used to wonder sometimes what sort of life she -had led when she was younger, what friends she might have had, and what -was her history when she was abroad, you may fancy how busy my mind was -on that subject now. - -The more I thought it over, of course, the more I could make nothing of -it. And what do you think at last was the conclusion I came to? That -Sarah, being a great beauty, and always accustomed to admiration and -almost a kind of worship, had forgotten, poor dear soul, that Time had -changed all that, and that she was an old woman; and that she imagined -the Italian we talked of, to be one of her old lovers come here to look -for her, and was quite frightened he should see her, and know she was at -the Park, and disturb us all with his raptures and passions. After -turning it over for days and days, that was the very best explanation I -could come to. Why she should be so tragical about it, to be sure, I -could not tell. Perhaps she thought the story of all her old gay doings, -if they were to come to my ears, would not sound just what a quiet old -maid like me would approve of. Possibly, it might be somebody she had -jilted that she was frightened to see; perhaps she was afraid of that -Italian revenge one reads of in books. I do suppose people are still -stabbed out of jealousy and revenge in Italy; and everybody carries a -stiletto about him. If that was what Sarah thought of, no wonder she was -frightened, poor dear. And I must say it quite went to my heart to see -her so anxious and unsettled, watching every word that was said, and -turning her keen eyes towards me--for she would not yield to change her -seat, so that she might see for herself who came in--every time the door -was opened, to know who it was by my face; and, above all, going out -that dreary drive with the carriage blinds down, carrying all her dismal -thoughts with her! If she would only have confidence in me, what a -difference it would make! I could very soon have relieved her mind about -it, I am sure. What was it to me if she _had_ been very gay and foolish -when she was young? that was all over, and she was my very own sister. -To think that I should stand upon my dignity, or blame Sarah for -anything that was past. But then she was so proud! she always was so -proud! she would never own to being less than perfect. The best thing -was to disabuse her mind, if possible, and to make it evident that this -Italian was a young man, far too young ever to have been a lover of -Sarah’s. A lover! why, she might have been his mother as far as age was -concerned--and that he was seeking, quite openly, an entirely different -person. If I had been a courageous woman I should have gone through with -my story the first night, and most likely saved my poor sister a great -deal of unnecessary anxiety. But I never was brave at going into -disagreeable conversation. I can’t say I ever was clever at conversation -at all. And when a person runs away with a mistaken idea, and you can’t -manage to get it out of her head, and the further you go the worse it -becomes, what can you do? I tried to nerve myself up to going into it, -but I could not. Whatever it was, it made her vastly uncomfortable, that -was evident; and really when Sarah gets into her passions there is no -reasoning with her, and I get flustered immediately, and she won’t -listen to explanations. So on the whole I never had a more troublesome -piece of business on my hands. - -As for little Sara Cresswell, she was the greatest tease and plague that -ever was in a house. She worried me morning and night about the romance -I was making up, and did not hesitate the least to carry on her -persecution before Sarah, who looked at her with a kind of silent rage, -which the saucy little puss never found out. But occupied and troubled -as my mind was, it was impossible not to be amused at that inconsistent -little creature and her goings on. She had brought out two great trunks -with her, big enough to have held the whole of my wardrobe for winter -and summer, though she knew very well we saw no company, and never -required her to dress in the evening. And as for her lace and worked -muslin, and all that foolish extravagance, that is so much in fashion -again, there was no end to the store she had. Years before this I gave -her the name of puss in velvet, for a very good reason. What do you -think, at eleven years old, she had persuaded that poor innocent -helpless man, her unfortunate papa, to do? Why, to get her a velvet -frock, to be sure--not a pelisse, but a dress for evenings like any -dowager old lady! Did ever anybody hear of anything so preposterous? And -she kept up her fancy still, with velvet jackets, and even a little -ridiculous velvet apron all trimmed and ornamented. Poor Mr. Cresswell, -to be sure, was well off, and, indeed, rich in his way; but she might -have ruined any man with her extravagance; and as to being ashamed of -it, would lift up her face coolly, and tell you she never pretended to -want to save papa’s money. At the same time she was as great as ever on -the subject of dividing it all, and keeping just enough to live on. When -that condition of things came about, she was to have no servants, but to -do everything herself, and so were all the other people who were to -share poor Mr. Cresswell’s money among them. When she went into the -village with me she gave a wary eye to the cottages, how things were put -tidy--and was quite resolved she should do it all, and be as happy as -possible. But as for anything _genteel_, or middling, she scouted at it -with the greatest contempt in the world. It was as good as a play to -hear her. If my mind had been free to amuse myself, I should have quite -enjoyed Sara’s vagaries; but, as it was, I could only be amused and -provoked by them now and then. I do believe she was much happier at the -Park than at home. That big dull house, with all the unchangeable -furniture, was not a place for a fantastical young girl; she poked about -the greenhouses in all the back corners where the gardener did not want -her, and where she was always sweeping down his flower-pots; she -rummaged through the great suites of rooms that nobody ever occupied; -she came into the library to help me with my accounts, and tease me out -of my wits; she went fishing about the house through all the nooks and -corners, and read all the old novels over again; and then she could not -persuade and worry me into doing everything she pleased, as she could -her father. I believe just at that moment Sara being at the Park was a -great comfort to me. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -One day in the week I found little Sara all by herself in the library, -very much engrossed about something. Indeed, she was in deep study, if -that was to be believed. She had the great volume of the history of the -county spread out before her, and a “Peerage” by her side; and at her -other hand were some trumpery little books about Chester, of the -handbook kind, Chester being, as everybody knows, a place of great -antiquity, and, indeed, a kind of show place in this part of the -country. She did not hear me when I came in, and as I came to an -astonished pause behind her, quite bewildered to know what the little -kitten could want with that great book, it was impossible she could see -me. She was quite at the end of the county history, going over all the -details about the families, and looking up the peerage, I could see, to -find out all the connections and collateral branches. What could the -child be so anxious about? Not our family, certainly, for we had no -collateral branches. Just once for an instant, it shot through my mind, -that her father might somehow have put that sly secret idea of his own, -that, if she played her cards well, we might leave her heiress of the -Park, in little Sara’s head; but a moment’s thought convinced me that -there was nothing in that. She was far too bold and simple for any such -plan; she would have repeated it out to me directly and scorned it; and -she had not an idea of the value of wealth, or what was the good of -being very rich. If I could have made her a Mortimer, she might have -thought twice about it, but not for being made simply an heiress; that -was a matter to which Sara was quite indifferent. - -But if it could not be us, who could it be? Had the child, perhaps, an -admirer among some of the county families? I made a little rustle, I -suppose, as I stood watching her; for she turned sharp round, found me -out, and flushed up violently. In her hasty annoyance she threw the book -over, shutting it upon her morsel of a hand, and defied me, turning -round on her seat. Certainly if Mr. Cresswell had instructed his -daughter to be very good, and amiable, and conciliatory, he had taken -the very best plan to bring about a failure. Oh! but she was contrairy; -the poor dear unfortunate man, what a life he must have led with that -little puss! - -“Godmamma!” cried Sara, with her eyes flashing, “I never knew that you -spied upon people before!” - -“Nor did I,” said I, quietly. “You may flatter yourself you are quite -the first that ever found it out. Don’t crush your hand to pieces, -child! _I_ don’t want to know what you are about.” - -On this the impatient little girl threw the book open again with a sound -that echoed through all the library. - -“Everybody may know what I am doing! Now don’t be angry, godmamma, I -mean I quite intended to tell you if I found anything,” cried Sara. -“Look here, this is just what it is. You said you had promised to help -that poor Italian gentleman, and I know quite well you have never tried -yet to find out anything for him. You need not look suspicious. I am -interested about him. There is no harm in that, is there? If he were as -old as Ellis, and as fat as his servant, I should be interested in him -all the same.” - -“Little Sara, never tell fibs,” said I. “I am just fifty, and you are -only seventeen; but _I_ should not be interested in him, all the same, -if he were old and fat, I assure you. Let me hear, now, what you have -been doing. You have nothing at all to do with him, remember; it was me, -and only me, he applied to; but let us hear what it is.” - -“Oh, it is nothing at all,” said Sara in a disappointed tone. “I thought -somebody might be found out, in some of these books, that had married an -Italian. I like the ‘Peerage;’ it is the funniest thing in the world to -see how all the people are twisted and linked together like network. -Everybody in the world must be everybody else’s cousin, if all the -common people’s families were like the peers.” - -“To be sure we are,” said I, “only so distant it won’t count; but I -don’t see what this has to do with what we were talking of before. Did -you find nobody that had married an Italian in all the ‘Peerage,’ Puss?” - -“You are trying to make me angry, godmamma,” said Sara, “but I shan’t be -angry. There is no Countess Sermoneta, though I have looked over all the -county families, and all their connections that I can make out; and -papa, who knows everybody, does not know any such person, for I made him -think and tell me; and the only person I can think of who does know -is----” - -Here little Sara stopped and looked very closely and keenly in my face. - -“Who, child?” said I. “Not me, I am certain. Whom do you mean?” - -“Can’t you guess?” “Why, godmamma Sarah, to be sure,” cried Sara. “I am -quite sure she knows who the Countess Sermoneta is.” - -“Child!” cried I, “do you know what you are saying? Your godmamma Sarah! -how dare you think of such a thing!” - -“Dare? is it anything wrong?” said Sara. “You are making a great deal -more mystery of it than I should do, godmamma. After all, it isn’t a bit -mysterious. Mr. Luigi wants to find this lady, and not knowing the -country, he has come most likely to the wrong place; and I am sure he -asks for her plain enough out. He could not do it plainer if she were -Mrs. Smith instead of Countess Sermoneta; and there is nothing secret -about it that I can see; only this, that godmamma Sarah knows her, and -is so cross she won’t tell.” - -“Sara, Sara, don’t say so!” cried I, “you make me quite unhappy. How can -your godmamma, who never sets her foot out of doors, one may say,--for -she would almost see as much in her own chamber as out of the carriage -windows,--how could she possibly know a person no one else knows? And as -for being cross, I really consider it very disrespectful and unkind of -you, Sara. She never was cross to you. I am sure she has always been -very kind to you. You have had your own way so much, child, and been so -spoiled, that you think you may say anything; but I must say, criticism -on your godmothers----” - -“I never criticised my godmothers,” cried Sara, starting up. “I may be -as wicked as you please, but I never did so. I said godmamma Sarah was -cross. Why, everybody knows she is cross. I never said, nor pretended, -she was cross to me; and as for kindness! you don’t expect me, I am -sure, to give you _thanks_, godmamma, for that!” - -“What could you give me else?” said I, in some little surprise. - -Sara stamped her little foot on the floor in vexation and impatience. -“Godmamma! what thing in the world could I give you but love?” cried the -provoking little creature. “You don’t suppose _thanks_ would do? I thank -Ellis when he opens the door for me, or anybody I don’t care for. I had -rather, if you could, you did think me wicked and ungrateful, than -suppose I would go and thank _you_.” - -“The child understands!” said I to myself, with tears in my eyes. Ah! -what multitudes of people there are in the world who don’t understand! I -was taken by surprise. But Sara was of that disposition that she would -quarrel with everybody all round, and fight for her secret like a little -Amazon, before she ever would let anybody find out the real feeling that -was in her heart. If you think she threw her arms round me and kissed me -after that, you are quite mistaken. On the contrary, if she could have -pinched, scratched, or given me a good shake, she would have liked it, I -believe. - -“But I want to know how this notion came into your perverse little -head?” said I; “how can your godmamma know, Sara? and what could -possibly make you imagine she did?” - -“Why did you watch her so the other night?” cried Sara. “You saw, -yourself, she knew something about it. Didn’t she listen to every word, -and look as if she could have told us in a minute? and I am sure she -thinks it quite pleasant to keep up a secret we don’t know,” cried the -little girl that knew no better; “it quite interests her. I wonder how -people can have so little feeling for others. She is not sorry for poor -Mr. Luigi, nor concerned to think of all his loss of time and patience. -She would rather keep her secret than satisfy him. What can it matter to -godmamma Sarah, whether he finds the Countess Sermoneta or not?” - -“What, indeed?” said I, with a sigh of bewilderment. That was just the -question I could not answer. What had she to do with it? and by what -strange witchcraft was it, that Sara and I had both instinctively mixed -her up with this business of which, to be sure, in reality she did not, -she _could_ not know anything? How dared we come to such conclusions -with only looks to build upon! Seeing my own thoughts thus reflected in -little Sara, I became quite shocked at myself. - -“Child, it is quite impossible she can know anything about it. Both you -and I are infatuated,” cried I. “How can Sarah possibly be mixed up in -such a matter? It is the merest folly. She doesn’t even know your Mr. -Luigi, nor who he is, nor the very name of the lady he is looking for. -It is nonsense, Sara, quite nonsense. How is it possible she could -know?” - -“Oh, godmamma, I’ll tell you how; I have been thinking it out, and I am -sure I am right. She was a long time abroad, you have often told me, and -she knew a great many people,” cried Sara; “among the rest she knew this -lady; and either because she likes her, or because she hates her, or -because she won’t tell, she keeps all quiet about it. But she can’t help -knowing, and saying she knows with her eyes. Godmamma Sarah, though she -takes no notice, knows everything better than you do. Carson gets -everybody’s news of them. Why, she even made my poor little Alice tell -her all about Georgy Wilde, you know, and that unlucky brother of -hers,--how often he came to our house, and everything about it; and -godmamma Sarah did not leave me at peace about it either. I am sure they -know everything that happens up in godmamma Sarah’s room. Godmamma, do -_you_ never have a gossip with your maid?” - -“I have got no maid, child; you know that very well,” said I. “I never -was brought up with any such luxury; and when I came to my kingdom I was -too old to begin, and liked my own ways. But at all events, though you -are so confident in your opinion, I am quite sure your godmamma can have -no knowledge of this business, so don’t speak of it any more.” - -“Will you ask her?” said Sara; “if she knows nothing about it, she will -not mind being asked. Why should you be afraid of speaking if she does -not know anything about it? It might be awkward, perhaps, if she knew -and would not tell; but it can’t matter if she doesn’t know. Will you -ask her, godmamma? or will you let me?” - -“Oh, for heaven’s sake go away, child, and don’t drive me crazy!” I -cried. “Go upstairs and decide what dress you will wear, you velvet -kitten; go and gossip with _your_ maid. Here am I in a peck of -troubles, and can’t see my way out or in, and you ask me to let _you_!” - -“You wouldn’t mind it in the least if you thought godmamma Sarah did not -know,” said the provoking little girl; and so went gliding off, -satisfied that I was of her opinion. When I was left to myself I dropped -on a chair in utter despair, and could not tell what to think. The -safest way was certainly to vow to myself that Sarah had nothing to do -with it at all. What _could_ she have to do with it? Her strange anxious -looks _must_ spring from some other cause. For once, at least, instinct -_must_ have deceived itself. Sarah knew the world and the Italians. She -was not so easily taken in as we were--nothing else was possible; and -she was only annoyed to see how ready to be imposed upon I was. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -This conversation, of course, set my thoughts all into a ferment again. -Little Sara was wonderfully quick-witted, if she was not very wise, as, -indeed, was not to be expected at her years; and I confess her idea did -return to my mind a great many times. Sarah might have known an Italian -Countess in that obscure time of her life which I had no clue to; might -even know some reason why persons from Italy might be looking for her, -and might be nervous, for old acquaintance’ sake, of any one finding her -out. When everything was so blank, any sort of sign-post was -satisfactory. It was true that I don’t remember seeing Sarah display so -much anxiety for any other person all her life before. But there might -be reasons; and if it was a friendly feeling, I should certainly be the -last person in the world to worry and aggravate my sister. I wish I -could have composed my mind with all the reasonings I went through; but -really, when I saw poor Sarah sitting all watchful and conscious at her -knitting, not getting on at all with her work, hearing the least rustle -in the room, or touch at the door; starting, and trying to conceal her -start every time the bell rung, with all the features of her face -growing thinner, and her hands and head trembling more than they ever -used to do, it was quite impossible for me to persuade myself that her -mind was not busy with something which had happened, or which was about -to happen. It might be something as completely unconnected with the poor -Italian as possible; most likely it was; but _something_ there was which -agitated her most unaccountably, which I knew nothing about, and which -she was determined I should not know. She was as conscious that I -observed this strange change upon her as I was myself; and she faced me -with such a resolution and defiance! No! I could read it in her eyes, -and the full look she turned upon me whenever I looked at her--she would -die rather than I should find it out. - -It is quite impossible, however ignorant you may be of the causes of it, -to live in the close presence of a person devoured by anxiety without -being infected by it, more or less. One gets curious and excited, you -know, in spite of one’s self; and all the more, of course, if the cause -is quite inexplicable and the trouble sudden. I lived in the kind of -feeling that you have just immediately before a thunderstorm--the air -all of a hush, so that you could hear the faintest stir of a bird, or -rustle of a branch, yet never knowing the moment when, instead of the -bird’s motion or the leaves’ tremble, it might be the thunder itself -that clamoured in your ears. - -In this condition of mind Sara’s little side reference to Carson, and my -sister’s acquaintance with everything that passed, did not fail to have -its effect upon me, as well as other things. I don’t know that I would -have been above questioning Carson if I could have got at her; but I did -not see her once in three months, and could not have had any -conversation with her without making quite an affair of it, and letting -all the house know. Carson was not her right name. She had been Sarah’s -maid when she was a young girl, and had married and lost her husband, -and come back to the Park just in time to go abroad with her mistress, -and being well known in the house by her maiden name, never got any -other. I could not help wondering within myself if she knew, or how much -she knew, of Sarah’s trouble, and its cause, whatever that might be. -When the thought rose in my mind whether I might not try to get to -private speech of Carson, I was out in the grounds making a little -survey, to see how everything was looking for spring, and had just been -at the lodge to see poor little Mary, who (as I had foreseen from the -beginning) was bad with the whooping-cough, but no worse than was to be -expected, and nothing alarming or out of the way. The carriage had just -gone up to take Sarah out for her drive, and I, all in shelter of a -clump of holly bushes, became the witness, quite unawares and without -any intention, of a most singular scene. A footstep went softly by me -upon the gravel. I was just behind the lodge, and within sight of the -gate and the road without. I saw Carson, in her cap and in-doors dress, -go softly out at the gate. She went out into the road, pretending to -hold out her hand and raise her face to see whether it rained; as if it -were not perfectly clear to any one that it did not rain, nor would, -either, till the glass fell. She looked up and down with an anxious -look, and lingered five minutes or more in that same position. Then she -came in, and met the carriage just inside the gate, which Williams had -come to her cottage door to open. “All’s quite bright and clear, ma’am,” -I heard Carson say; “no appearance of rain. I hope you’ll have a -pleasant drive.” A moment after the carriage wheeled quickly out, the -blind being drawn down just as it turned into the road. Carson stood -looking after it with a kind of grieved, compassionate expression, which -made me like her better. She answered Williams’ question, “Whatever had -come over Miss Sarah to make her so particklar about the weather; in the -carriage, too, as she wouldn’t be none the wiser, wet nor dry!” very -shortly, sighed, and turned to go back, mincing with true lady’s-maid -nicety, along the road. The sigh and the pitying look on her face -determined me. I took a quick step through the bushes and came up to -her. The holly branches tore a bit of trimming, as long as my finger, -off my garden hood (I think a hood a great deal more suitable than a hat -for a person of my years); but I did not mind. Here was a chance if I -could only use it well. - -“Carson,” said I, not to give her time to think, “my sister has surely -grown very fidgety of late?” - -Carson stared at me in an alarmed, confused way; but soon got back her -self-possession. “My missis was always a bit fidgety, ma’am, though no -more than she had a right to be,” said this one real, true, faithful -adherent, whom Sarah had secured to her cause. - -“I don’t know about such rights,” said I. “Now tell me, Carson;--you -know a great deal more about her than I do. Don’t you think I can see -how nervous and disturbed she is?--what’s the matter with my sister? -what is she afraid of? and what do you and she expect to see upon the -road, that you go out to look that the way is clear, before she ventures -beyond the gate? Don’t tell me about rain, I know better; what did you -expect to see?” - -Carson was taken entirely by surprise; she faltered, she grew red, she -wrung her hands; she stammered forth something quite unintelligible, -consisting of exclamations.--“Ma’am! Miss Milly!” and “My missis!” all -confused and run into each other. She had no time to invent anything; -and her fright and nervousness for the moment quite betrayed her. - -“I don’t want you to be false to your mistress,” said I, getting -excited, in my turn, at finding myself so near a clue to this mystery, -as I thought. “I don’t want you to tell me her secret, if she has -one--only let me know. Is there some danger apprehended? Is there some -one in the country that Sarah is afraid to see? What is wrong? Her limbs -are trembling under her, and her face growing thinner. Only think of her -going out with the blinds down, poor forlorn soul; What is wrong? It -would mend matters, somehow, if I knew.” - -“Miss Milly,” said Carson, with a great many little coughs and clearings -of her throat, “my missis has an attack on her nerves, that’s what it -is; when she haves them attacks, she grows fidgety, as you say, ma’am. A -little nice strengthening medicine, now, or a change of air, would be a -nice thing. I said that to my missis just this very morning. I said ‘A -few months at Brighton, now, or such like, would do you a world of good, -ma’am.’ It’s on her nerves, that’s what it is.” - -Carson had got quite glib and fluent before she ended this speech; the -difficulty had only been how to begin. - -“Now, Carson!” cried I, “if your mistress’s health suffers, and it turns -out to be something you could have told me, you may be certain I shall -call you to account for it. Think what you are saying. We Mortimers -never have nervous attacks. I know you’re deceiving me. Think again. -_Will_ you tell me what is wrong?” - -“Ma’am, Miss Milly, it’s an attack on the nerves,” cried Carson; “my -missis has had them before. I couldn’t say more if I was to talk till -to-morrow. I’ve got my caps to see to, I ask your pardon;--my missis is -very particular about her caps.” - -Upon which Carson somehow managed to elude me, with a mixture of -firmness and cunning quite extraordinary; and while I had still my eyes -fixed on her, and was calling her to stay with all the authority of my -position as acting mistress of the house, contrived to melt in at a back -door and escape out of my hands, I never could explain how. Talk about -controlling people with your eye, and swaying them by force of -character, and all that! I defy anybody to sway a servant in a great -house who is trained to the sort of thing, and knows how to recollect -her work at a critical moment, and the nearest way to the back stairs. -Carson had proved herself too many for me. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -It seems I was destined to hear of nothing but this Italian. I had not -kept faith to him, certainly. I had been startled and thrown back by -finding out how the idea of him got to be involved in Sarah’s trouble; -and really I did not care much about the Countess Sermoneta, whom I had -never heard of. I had been interested in _him_, I allow; but how could I -keep up an interest in strangers, with so much closer an anxiety near -home? - -However, just the next day after I had spoken to Carson, Dr. Roberts -called. Dr. Roberts was our rector; not a relation, but a kind of family -connection, somehow, I really could not tell how. For three or four -generations, at least, a Roberts had held our family living. There were -so few of us Mortimers, as I have already explained, that the living -could never be of any use to us; and our great-great-grandfathers had -happened to be intimate, and so it came about that the living was as -much an hereditary thing to the Robertses as our property was to us. Dr. -Roberts was the best of good, easy, quiet men. He preached us a nice -little sermon every Sunday. He would dine with the people who were in a -condition to ask him, and make himself as agreeable as possible. He -patted the children on the head, and wondered how it was that he had -forgotten their names. Of course he had his own way of doing most -things, and seldom varied; but then one could always calculate on what -he would do and say, and wasn’t that a comfort? On the whole, he was the -most excellent, good drowse of a man I ever knew. He led a very quiet -life, with little interruption, except when, now and then, a storm -seized upon him, in the shape of a new curate with advanced ideas. In -such cases Dr. Roberts generally bowed to the tempest till its force was -exhausted. He laughed in his quiet way at the young men. “They are all -for making a fuss when they begin,” he said to me, confidentially; “but -depend upon it, when they come to our age, Miss Milly, they’ll find the -advantage of just getting along.” That was his favourite mode of -progress. He was too stout and easy to make much haste. He loved to get -along quietly; and really, as ours was a small parish, and nothing -particular to make a commotion about, I don’t suppose there was much -harm done. - -But only to think of Dr. Roberts becoming one of my assailants! I never -could have expected any such thing. He came in, bringing some books from -Miss Kate, who was as unlike him as possible. She was very active in the -parish, and had something to do, with or for, everybody. She was rather -Low-Church, and sent us books to read, to do us good, which, for my -part, I always read faithfully, being very willing to have good done me, -as far as it was practicable. Dr. Roberts sat down with a little sigh in -the round easy chair, his particular chair, which Ellis wheeled out for -him; not with a sentimental sigh, good man; but the road to the Park -ascends a little, and the doctor, for the same reason as Hamlet, was a -little scant of breath. - -We were all as usual. Sarah, in the shadow of the screen, with her -knitting-pins in her hands, and her basket of wools and patterns at her -side; myself opposite, commanding a view of the door and the great -mirror, and all the room; little Sara, half a mile off, reading at one -of the windows--for it was very mild for February, and really one did -not feel much need of a fire. Dr. Roberts wandered on in his comfortable -way for half an hour at least; he complimented Miss Mortimer on always -being so industrious, and me upon my blooming looks! only think of that! -but I dare say he must have forgotten that it was Sarah who was the -beauty; and he gave us a quiet opinion upon the books he had brought us, -that they were “very much in Kate’s style, you know;” and had a word to -say about the curate--just one of his comfortable calls, when he has -something to say about everybody; nothing more. - -“But, by-the-bye,” said the good Doctor, “I had almost forgotten the -principal thing. There’s something romantic going on among us just now, -Miss Milly. Where is little Miss Cresswell? she ought to hear this.” - -“What is it, Doctor?” I asked, rather startled at this beginning. - -“Well, the fact is, I have had a strange sort of visitor,” said the -Doctor, with a soft little laugh; “or rather two, I should say,” he -continued, after a little pause, “ha! ha! I had Hubert to him, who -pretends to speak Italian, you know, ha! ha! He could speak Dante, -perhaps; but he can’t manage the Transteverine. I can’t say that I did -not enjoy it a little. These young fellows, Miss Milly, are so happy in -their own good opinion. Poor Hubert was terribly put out.” - -“Who are you speaking of?” asked I again. - -“Well, of a visitor I had; or two, as I have just said,--the master and -the man. The master speaks English very tolerably; the man is the real, -native, original article, newly imported. I am in good condition -myself,” said the good Doctor, giving a quiet unconscious pinch on his -plump wrist; “but anything like that, you know, goes quite beyond me. -You would have laughed to see poor young Hubert, poor fellow, talking to -him in his high Dantesque way, and the fat fellow dashing in through the -midst of it all, helter skelter, in _real_ Italian. Ha! ha! it was a -most amusing scene.” - -“Italian?” said I, scarcely venturing to speak above my breath, my -consternation was so great. - -“Yes,” said Dr. Roberts, calmly, with still a little agitation of -laughter about his voice--the discomfiture of the curate amused him -excessively--“Italian. The young man called on me to ask after a lady, -whom he supposed to be living in this neighbourhood, a Countess -Sermoneta. Did you ever hear of such a person, Miss Milly?” - -“No,” said I, as quietly as I could. Sarah took no notice, showed no -curiosity, betrayed to me that she _had_ heard this name before, and did -not learn the particulars of the stranger’s inquiry for the first time. -In general she liked to hear the news; and though she rarely took any -part in the conversation, listened to it, and showed that she did so. -To-day she never raised her head. Perhaps I was over-suspicious; but -this entire want of interest only added to my bewildering doubts. - -At this point little Sara came forward, and thrust herself, as was -natural, into a conversation so interesting to her; I only wondered she -had not done it sooner. - -“That is poor Mr. Luigi, that has been so much talked of in Chester,” -cried Sara; “and godmamma met him on the road, and promised to try and -find out for him. Do make her take it up, please Dr. Roberts. Did _you_ -never hear of the lady either? How strange nobody should have heard of -her! Who was she, does he say? What does he want with her? do tell us, -dear Dr. Roberts, please.” - -Sarah’s knitting-pins had dropped out of her hand when her goddaughter -broke in upon Dr. Roberts’ good-humoured drowsy talk. I turned to help -her to pick them up, but she waved me away. What _could_ be the matter? -she was trembling all over like an aspen leaf. - -“My dear Miss Cresswell, he gave me no information whatever,” said the -Doctor, smiling most graciously upon the pretty dainty little creature -in her velvet jacket! “and indeed, he was not quite the kind of man that -I should undertake to question. Hubert might do it, you know, ha! ha! -but then he rather stands on the dignity of his office, and would not -mind putting you, yourself, dangerous though it might be, through your -catechism. I did all that lively curiosity could do, you may believe, to -find out who _he_ is, and who _she_ was, but I made nothing of it. He, -as you seem to know, calls himself Mr. Luigi, and he wants the Countess -Sermoneta, a person no one in Cheshire ever heard of. I told him I had -no doubt he was mistaken in the locality; near Manchester, perhaps, or -Chichester, or some other place with a similar-sounding name; but I -don’t think he took in what I said. And you saw him, too, Miss Milly? -very odd, wasn’t it? He must have made a mistake in the place.” - -“I suppose so,” said I, quite faintly. Sarah’s knitting-pins had -actually fallen out of her hands again! - -“I promised to inquire and let him know if I heard anything,” said the -rector; “but if I do not know, and you do not know, Miss Milly,--we’re -about the likeliest people in the county, I suspect,--I don’t think it -is much good making other inquiries. You are sure you never heard the -name?” - -“Never in my life, so far as I recollect,” said I. “I promised to make -inquiries, too, and asked him to come to the Park, and I would let him -know. But that seems merely tantalising him. If you will give me the -address, Dr. Roberts, I will write him a note.” - -He gave me the address in his own leisurely way, and then he returned to -the scene at the rectory, where he had called the curate, who happened -to be with him at the time, to talk to Mr. Luigi’s servant, not without -some intention of doing the good young man a mischief, I am sure; and -how poor Mr. Hubert talked Dantesque, as the Doctor said, shaking his -portly person with quiet laughter, and the fat Italian burst in with a -flood of what Dr. Roberts called _real_ Italian. I could understand how -it would be from what I had seen myself; but I confess I found it very -difficult to listen and smile as it was necessary to do. There sat -Sarah, close up in the shelter of her screen, never lifting her head or -making any sign to show that she heard the conversation; not a smile -rose upon her face; _she_ saw nothing amusing in it; her lips were firm -set together, and all the lines of her face drawn tight; and though her -cheeks retained a kind of unnatural glow, which, for the first time in -my life, made me think that Sarah used paint, or something to heighten -her complexion, her brow and chin, and all except that pink spot, were -ghastly grey, and colourless. She had stopped her knitting altogether -now, and was rubbing her poor fingers, making believe to be very much -occupied with them, stooping down to rub the joints before the fire. It -quite went to my heart to see her sitting so forlorn there, shut up -within herself. Ah! whatever it was she feared, could I ever be hard -upon her? could I ever do anything but help her to bear what misfortune -or anxiety she might be under? I thought Dr. Roberts would never be done -with his story. I thought he would never go away. I dare say he, on his -part, thought we had just had a quarrel, or something of that sort, and -gave Miss Kate an amusing description of us when he went home; for he -had an amusing way of telling a story. And then, how to get quit of -little Sara when he was gone? I felt sure my sister would break out upon -me somehow, very likely without taking any notice of the real reason; -but all that silent excitement must find an outlet somehow; either that, -or her mind would give way, or she would break a blood-vessel, or -something dreadful would happen. I knew Sarah’s ways very well, we had -been so long together. I knew that, one way or other, she must get it -out, and relieve herself; and, to be sure, there was nobody whom she -_could_ relieve her feelings upon but me. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -All in haste, and in a peremptory tone, to which nobody could be less -used to than she was, I had sent little Sara away on some commission, -invented on the spur of the moment, when the door closed on Dr. Roberts. -The child looked up in my face with an amazed uncomprehension of any -order issued to her; I fancy I can see her great eyes growing larger and -blacker as she turned, asking what I meant. But Sara had understanding -in her, wilful as she was; she saw there was occasion for it, though she -could not understand how; and whenever her first surprise was over, she -went off and obeyed me with an alacrity which I shall always remember. -We two were left alone. I took up some work that lay on the table. I -could not tell whether it was mine or Sara’s, or who it belonged to. I -bent my head fumbling over it, too agitated to see what I was doing. Now -the volcano was about to explode. Now, even, an explanation might be -possible. - -“What was that I heard from you just now?” cried Sarah, in her shrill -whisper. “You were so lost to all common feeling, you were so forgetful -of my claims and everybody else’s, that you invited a common foreign -impostor to come here--here, without an idea what bad intentions he -might have--here to my house!” - -“Sarah! for heaven’s sake what do you know about him? What have you to -do with this young man?” said I, the words bursting, in spite of myself, -from my lips. - -I suppose she did not expect this question. She stopped with a flood of -other reproaches and accusations ready to be poured forth, staring at -me--staring--there is no other word for it. Her looks were dreadful to -me. She looked like some baited animal that had turned to bay. Was it my -doing? Presently her senses came back to her. And I was glad, really -thankful, when I saw that it was mere passion--one of her fits of -temper, poor dear soul! that had returned upon her again. - -“You dare to ask me such questions?” she cried; “you, a poor simpleton -that throws our doors open to any adventurer! This is what I have to do -with him. He shall never enter my house. I’ll have him expelled if he -comes here. I’ll muster the servants and let them know who’s -mistress,--you, a rustical fool that knows nothing of the world, and are -ready to throw yourself at anybody’s head that flatters you a little, or -me, that knows life and can detect a cheat! What! you’ll go slander me -in addition, will you? You worry and drive me out of my senses, and then -pretend that I have something to do with every impostor you pick up in -the streets. I tell you I’ll have him turned out if he dares to come to -this house. I will not have my peace molested for your fool’s tricks and -intrigues. An Italian forsooth! a fellow that will cringe to you, and -flatter you, and be as smooth as velvet. I’ll have him thrown into -prison if he dares to come here!” - -“Sarah! Sarah! for what reason? the poor young man has never harmed -you,” I cried, holding up my hands. - -She gave a strange bitter cry. “Fool! how can you tell whether he has -harmed me?” she cried out, wringing her thin hands: then suddenly -stopping short, came to herself again, and stared at me once more. -Always that stare of blank resistance--the hunted creature brought to -bay. She had been standing while she spoke before. Now she dropped into -her chair, exhausted, breathless, with a strange look of fury at -herself. She thought she had betrayed herself--and most likely so she -had, if I had possessed the slightest clue by which to find her mystery -out. - -“I beg and entreat you to be calm, and not to excite yourself,” cried I, -trying, if it were possible, to soothe her. “I know nothing whatever -about this young Italian, Sarah. I took an interest in him from his -appearance, and something in his voice--and because he was a stranger -and had no friends. But I will write to him immediately not to come--he -is nothing to me. He has neither flattered me nor asked anything of me. -I see no harm in him; but I shall certainly write and say he is not to -come. You might know well that there is no stranger in the world for -whom I would cross you.” - -“Oh, I am used to fair speeches, Milly,” said my sister, “quite used to -them; and used to being made no account of when all’s done. I, that -might have been so different. I might have had a coronet, and been one -of the leaders of life, instead of vegetating here; and, instead of -respecting me after I have resigned all that, I am to be badgered to -death by your old maid’s folly, and have a vulgar impostor brought in -upon me to oust me out of my home. Bring in whom you like, thank heaven, -I’m more than a match for you. I tell you, you shall bring nobody -here--it is my house, and was my house before you were born. I shall -keep it mine, and leave it to whom I like. Your romances and fictions -are nothing in this world to me. I am mistress, and I will be mistress. -You are only my younger sister, and I have nothing in the world to -consult but my own pleasure. I am not to be driven into changing my mind -by any persecution. I advise you to give up your schemes before you -suffer for them. Nobody, I tell you,--no man in the world with evil -designs against me, and my fortune, and my honour, shall come into my -house!” - -“Sarah! what on earth do you mean? Who is plotting against you? Your -fortune and your honour? What are you thinking of? You have gone too far -to draw back now,” cried I, in the greatest excitement. “Explain -yourself before we go any farther--what do you mean?” - -Once more she stared at me blankly and fiercely; but she had got it out, -and had more command of herself after she had relieved her mind. Could -it be only an outburst of passion? but my spirit was up. - -“The house is my house as well as yours,” I cried, when she did not -answer. “I have a voice as powerful as yours in everything that has to -be done. Yes, I can see what is going to happen. We are the two -Mortimers that are to send it out of the name. But I will not give up my -rights, either for the prophecy or for any threats. I have never made a -scheme against you, nor ever will. You have been wretched about -something ever since that day you were so late on your drive. I have -seen it, though I cannot tell the reason. This Italian cannot be any -connection of yours. He is a young man; he could not be more than born -when you were abroad. You might be his mother for age. What fancy is it -that you have taken into your mind, about him? What do you suppose you -can have to do with him? Sarah, for heaven’s sake! what is the matter? -If you ever had the slightest love for me, take me into your confidence, -and let me stand by you now.” - -For when I was speaking, some of my words, I cannot tell which, had -touched some secret spring that I knew nothing of; and dropping down her -head upon her hands she gave such a bitter, desperate groan that it went -to my very heart. I ran to her and fell on my knees by her side. I -kissed her hand, and begged her to have confidence in me. I was ready -to promise never to disturb her, never to speak of setting up a will of -my own again; but I felt I must not give in; it would be now or never. -She would trust me and tell me her trouble whether it was real or only -fanciful; and her mind would be relieved when it was told. - -But the now passed and the never came. She lifted up her head and pushed -me away; she looked at me with cold stony eyes; she relapsed without a -moment’s interval into her usual chilly, common-place, fretful, -tone--that tone of a discontented mind and closed heart which had -disturbed and irritated mine for years. All her old self returned to her -in an instant. Even her passion had been elevating and great in -comparison. She looked at me with her cold observant eyes, and bade me -get up, and not look so like a fool. “But it is impossible to think of -teaching you what anybody else of your age and position must have -learned thirty years ago,” she said, twitching her dress, which, when I -foolishly threw myself down beside her, I had put my knee upon unawares, -from under me. I cannot describe to anybody the mortified, indignant -feeling with which I scrambled up. Think of going down upon my knees to -her, ready to do anything or give up anything in the world for her, and -meeting this reception for my pains! I felt almost more bitterly -humiliated and ashamed than if I had been doing something wrong. I, who -was not a young girl but an elderly woman, long accustomed to be -respected and obeyed! If she had studied how to wound me most deeply, -she could not have succeeded better. I got up stumbling over my own -dress, and hastily went out of the room. I even went out of the house, -to calm myself down before I met anybody. I would not like to confess to -all the angry thoughts that came into my mind for the next hour in the -garden. I walked about thinking to get rid of them, but they only grew -more and more vivid. My affection was rejected and myself insulted at -the same moment. You would not suppose, perhaps, that one old woman -could do as much for another; but I assure you, Sarah had wounded me as -deeply as if we had been a couple of young men. - -When I found my temper was not going down as it ought to do, but on the -contrary my imagination was busy concocting all sorts of revengeful -things to say to her, I changed my plan, and went back to the library -and looked over the newspapers. Don’t go and think over it, dear good -people, when you feel very much insulted and angry. Read the papers or a -novel. I went down naturally when I stopped thinking. After all, poor -Sarah! poor Sarah! whom did she harm by it? only herself, not me. - -But anybody will perceive at a glance that after this I was more -completely bewildered than ever, and could not undertake to say to my -own mind, far less to anybody else, whether there was or was not any -real reason for Sarah’s nervousness, or whether she had actually any -sort of connection with this young Italian. Sometimes I made myself -miserable with the idea that the whole matter looked like an insane -fancy. People when they are going mad, as I have heard, always take up -the idea that they are persecuted or wronged somehow. What if Sarah’s -mind was tottering, and happening to catch sight of this young man, -quite a stranger, and very likely to catch her eye, her fancy took hold -of him as the person that was scheming against her? The more I thought -over this, the more feasible it looked; though it was a dreadful thing -to think that one’s only sister was failing in her reason, and that any -night the companion of my life might be a maniac. But what was I to -think? How was it possible, no madness being in the case, that a young -unknown stranger could threaten the fortune and honour of Sarah -Mortimer, born heiress of the Park, and in lawful possession of it for -more than a dozen years? What possible reason could there be for her, if -she was in her sane senses, fearing the intrigues of anybody, much less -a harmless young foreigner? But then that groan! was it a disturbed mind -that drew that involuntary utterance out of her? Heaven help us! What -could any one think or do in such circumstances? I was no more able to -write a note to Mr. Luigi that evening than I was to have gone out and -sought him. Things must take their chance. If he came he must come. I -could not help myself. Besides, I had no thought for Mr. Luigi and his -lost Countess. I could think only of my sister. No! no! little Sara was -deceived, clever as she was. Sarah knew no Countess Sermoneta--her mind -disturbed and unsettled, had fixed upon the strange face on the way, -only as some fanciful instrument of evil to herself. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -Next morning at breakfast I found a letter waiting me, in an unknown -hand--an odd hand, not inelegant, but which somehow gave a kind of -foreign look even to the honest English superscription. The address was -odd, too. It was Miss _Milla_ Mortimer, a very extraordinary sort of -title for me, Millicent. That is the work of diminutives--they are apt -to get misunderstood and metamorphosed into caricatures of names. - -The letter inside was of a sufficiently odd description to correspond -with the address; this is how it was expressed:-- - - “MADAME, - - “You will pardon me if I say Madame, when I perhaps should ought to - say Mademoiselle. Madame will understand that the titles of honour, - which differ in every country, do much of times puzzle a foreigner. - Since I had the honour of making an encounter with Mademoiselle, I - have more than once repeated my searches; and all in finding no - one, it has come to me in the head to go to another place, where - there may be better of prospects. I have, then, made the conclusion - to go to Manchester, where I shall find, as they say, some - countrymen, and will consult with their experience. There are much - of places, they say, with Chester in the name. I go to make a - little voyage among them. If I have the happiness to find the - Contessa, I will take the liberty of making Madame aware of it. If - it is to fail, I must submit. I shall return to Chester; and all in - making my homage to Madame, will use the boldness of asking if - anything of news respecting the Contessa may have come to her - recollection. In all cases Madame will permit me to remember with - gratitude her bounty to a stranger. - -“LUIGI S----.” - - - -Sara and I were, as usual, alone at the breakfast-table, and to tell the -truth, I prized this interval when Sarah’s eyes were not upon me, nor -all the troublous matters conveyed in her looks present to my mind, as -quite a holiday season,--when I could look as I liked, say what I -pleased, and be afraid of nobody. Besides, though I was more and more -uneasy about Sarah, I was not disturbed in my mind about this young man -to the degree I had been, nor so entirely mystified about any possible -connection between them. Since last evening, thinking it all over, it -came to be deeply impressed upon my mind that there was no connection -between them: that my poor sister knew nothing whatever about him or his -Italian Countess. Simply that Sarah’s mind, poor dear soul, was giving -way, and that catching sight of the strange face on the road, she had -somehow identified and fixed upon it as the face of an unknown agent of -trouble, the “somebody” who always injures, or persecutes, or haunts the -tottering mind. It was but little comfort to me to conclude upon this, -as you may suppose, but it seemed to explain everything. It cleared up a -quite unintelligible mystery. Poor Sarah! poor soul! She who had known -such a splendid morning, such an exciting noon, such a dull leaden -afternoon of life,--and how dark the clouds were gathering round her -towards the night! - -But being thus eased in my mind about the young man, the kindness I had -instinctively felt to him came strong upon me. I remembered the look he -had, quite affectionately, the nice, handsome, smiling, young fellow! -Who could it be that he was like? Somebody whom I remembered dimly -through the old ages; and his voice, too? His voice made a thrill of -strange wondering recollections run through me. Certainly that voice had -once possessed some power or influence over my mind. I decided he would -not find his Countess in Manchester. Fancy the ridiculous notion! A -Countess in Manchester! No. She must belong about Cheshire, somewhere; -and I must have known her in my youth. - -So I read his note twice over, with a good deal of interest, and then -naturally, as we had talked of him together so often, handed it to Sara. -Now I did not in the least mean to watch Sara while she read it, but, -having my eyes unconsciously upon her face at the moment, was startled, -I acknowledge, by seeing her suddenly flush up, and cast a startled -glance at me, as if the child expected that something more than usual -was to be in the note. Who could tell what romantic fancies might be in -her head? It is quite possible her imagination had been attracted by the -stranger, and perhaps if she had heard that Mr. Luigi had fallen -romantically in love with her, Sara would have been less surprised and -much less shocked than I should. However, there was no such matter, but -only a sensible, though, I must confess, rather odd and Frenchified -note. After the first glance she read it over very calmly and carefully, -then laid it down, with something that looked wonderfully like a little -shade of pique, and cried out in her sharpest tone: - -“Oh, godmamma, how sensible!--to be sure to be an Italian, and young, he -must be a perfect miracle of a Luigi. Actually, because there are -countrymen of his in Manchester--music teachers and Italian masters, of -course--to give up an appointment with a lady, and at such a house as -the Park! I think he must be quite the most sensible and pretty-behaved -of young men.” - -“I think he shows a great deal of sense,” said I, not altogether pleased -with the child’s tone; “but if you will excuse me saying so, Sara, I -think it is just a little vulgar of you to say ‘at such a house as the -Park.’” - -Sarah flushed up redder and redder. I quite thought we were to have a -quarrel again. - -“Oh, of course, godmamma, if I had been speaking of a--of an English -gentleman; but you know,” said the wicked little creature, looking -boldly in my face, “you set him down at once, whenever you heard of him, -as an adventurer,--a count, you know,--one of the fellows that came -sneaking into people’s houses and wanted to marry people’s daughters. I -am only repeating what you said, godmamma. It was not I that said it. -And now you perceive this good respectable young man does not attempt -anything of the kind.” - -“But then you see we, at the Park, have no daughters to marry,” said I, -looking at her rather grimly. - -“Oh, to be sure, that makes all the difference,” cried Sara, bursting -open her own letters with a half-ashamed, annoyed laugh. I have no doubt -she had said twice as much as she meant to say, the impatient little -puss, and was ashamed of herself. She had set her heart on seeing Mr. -Luigi, that was the plain truth of the matter. Seeing him at the Park, -where of course papa could have nothing to say against the introduction, -hearing all about his search after the unknown lady, exercising her -wiles upon him, turning him into a useless creature like that poor boy -Wilde, in Chester, who was good for nothing but to waylay her walks and -go errands for her. That was what she wanted, the wicked little -coquette. It was just as well Mr. Luigi had taken care of himself, and -kept out of the way. I really thought it was right to read her a lecture -on the occasion. - -“Sara, you are quite disappointed the poor young man is not coming. You -wanted to make a prey of him, you artful puss,” said I. “You thought, -out here in the country, with nothing else to do, it would be good fun -to make him fall in love with you--you know you did! And I think it is -not at all a creditable thing, I assure you. How can you excuse yourself -for all the damage you have done to that young Wilde?” - -“Damage!” cried Sara. “If I am a puss, I may surely pounce upon a mouse -that comes in my way,” she said spitefully; and then putting on her most -innocent look;--“but, indeed, it is very shocking to have such -suspicions of me, especially as I am a fright now, godmamma Sarah says.” - -“It is just as well Mr. Luigi does not put himself in your way,” said I; -“and it would be very wicked of you to do any harm to him, or attempt -such a thing; and I say so particularly, because I think you are quite -inclined to it, Sara, which is very wrong and very surprising. You are -not such a beauty as your godmamma Sarah was, but you have just the same -inclinations. It is something quite extraordinary to me.” - -The little puss looked at me with her wicked eyes blazing, and her face -flushed and angry. She looked quite beautiful in spite of her short -little curls. I am not sure that she might not, when she grew older, be -very near as great a beauty as her godmamma. She did not make any -answer, but bit her lips, and set her little red mouth, and looked a -very little sprite of mischief and saucy daring. She was not abashed by -what I said to her. She was a thoughtless child, aware only of a strange -mischievous power she had, and thinking no harm. - -“For I know,” said I, half to myself, “that poor Mr. Luigi will come -back. I feel as if I had known him half a lifetime ago. His voice is a -voice I used to hear when I was young. I can’t tell whose voice it is, -but I know it. He’ll come back here. He won’t find the lady in -Manchester, or any other chester; he’ll find her in Cheshire, if he -finds her at all.” - -“Did godmamma Sarah say so?” cried Sara, suddenly losing her own -self-consciousness in her interest in this bit of mystery. - -“Child, do not be rash,” cried I, in some agitation. “Your godmamma -knows nothing about her; it is all a mistake.” - -“Did you ask her?” said Sara. “Godmamma, it is written in her face. When -the rector was speaking, when you were speaking, even when I was -speaking, it was quite evident she knew her abroad, and remembered who -she was; but she will not tell. It is not a guess; I am perfectly sure -of it. She knows all about her, and she will not tell.” - -“It is quite a mistake, Sara,” cried I, trembling in spite of myself. -“She has taken some fancy into her head about Mr. Luigi, some merely -visionary notion that he has some bad intention, I cannot tell you what. -But I am certain she knows nothing about this Countess. Child, don’t -think you know better than anybody else! I have thought a great deal -about it, and made up my mind. Your godmamma has grown fanciful, she has -taken this into her head. Don’t be rash in speaking of your fancies; it -might give her pain;--and your idea is all a mistake.” - -“Will you ask her? or will you let me ask her?” cried Sara. “If she says -‘No,’ I shall be satisfied.” - -“I will do no such thing,” said I. “She is my only sister, I will do -nothing to molest or vex her; and, Sara, while I am here, neither shall -you.” - -Sara did not say anything for a few minutes. She allowed me to pick up -my letter in silence, for we had finished breakfast. She let me gather -up my papers and ring the bell, and make my way to the door. Then, as I -stood there waiting for Ellis, she brushed past me rapidly. “Godmamma” -said Sara, looking into my face for a moment, “all the same, _she -knows_,” and had passed the next instant, and was gliding upstairs -before I had recovered my composure. How pertinacious she was! Against -my will this had an effect on me. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -Great and many were my musings what steps I ought to take; or, indeed, -whether I ought to take any steps in the strange dilemma I was in. I -considered of it till my head ached. What if Sarah’s mind were possibly -just at that delicate point when means of cure might be effectual? but -how could _I_ bring her to any means of cure? There have been many -miserable stories told about false imputations of insanity and dreadful -cruelties and injustice following, but I almost think there might be as -many and as sad on the other side, about friends watching in agony, -neither able nor willing to take any steps until it was too late, far -too late, for any good. This was the situation I felt myself in; no -matter whether I was right or wrong in my opinion, this was how I felt -myself. I suppose nobody can think of madness appearing beside them in -the person of their nearest companion, without a dreadful thrill and -terror at their heart; but at the same time I felt that, however -inevitable this might be, I must first come to it unmistakably. I must -first see it, hear it, beyond all possibility of doubt, before I -ventured to whisper it even to the secret ear of a physician. - -All this floated through my mind with that dreadful faculty of jumping -at conclusions that imagination always has. Did ever anybody meet with -any great misfortune, which has been hanging some time over them, -without going through it a thousand times before the blow really fell, -and the dreadful repetition was done away with once and for ever? How -many times over and over, sleeping and waking, does the death-bed -watcher go through the parting that approaches before it really comes? -Dying itself, I think,--one naturally thinks what kind of a process that -is, as one comes near the appointed natural period of its coming,--dying -itself must be rehearsed so often, that its coming at last is a real -relief to the real actor. Not only does what is real go through a -hundred performances in one’s imagination, but many a scene appals us -that, thank heaven, we are never condemned to go through with. I could -not see before me what was to happen, nor into Sarah’s mind to know -what was astir there; but I tortured myself all the same, gathering all -the proofs of this new dismal light thrown upon her, in my mind. All -insane people make up a persecutor or pursuer for themselves. Poor Sarah -had found hers in the strange face,--it was so unusual in our quiet -roads to see a strange face!--which she met all at once and without -warning, on the quiet road. - -I recollected every incident, and everything confirmed my idea. She had -taken a panic all at once,--she had driven five miles round to get out -of his way; from that hour painful watchfulness and anxiety had come to -her face. Carson was sent out to see that the road was clear, before, -poor soul, she would venture out, though with the carriage blinds drawn -down. Ah! I think if my only communication with the open air and the -out-of-doors world was in the enclosure of that carriage with the blinds -drawn down, I should certainly go mad, and quickly too! I had a long -afternoon by myself in the library that day. I went back, as well as my -memory would carry me, into the history of the Mortimers. Insanity was -not in our family,--no trace of it. We had never been very clever, but -we had been obstinately sane and sober-minded. My mother’s family too, -the Stamfords, so far as I know, were all extremely steady people. It is -odd when one individual of a family, and no more, shows a tendency to -wander; at sixty, too, all of a sudden, with no possible reason. But who -can search into the ways of Providence? It might perhaps never go any -further; it might be the long silence of her life, and perhaps long -brooding over such things as may have happened to her in the course of -it. Something must have happened to Sarah; she was not like me. She had -really lived her life, and had her own course in the world. She had -known her own bitterness, too, no doubt, or she--she, the great beauty, -the heiress,--would not have been Sarah Mortimer sitting voiceless by -the fireside. She had been too silent, had too much leisure to go over -her life. Her brain had rusted in the quietness; terrors had risen -within her that took form and found an execution for themselves -whenever, without any warning, she saw a strange face. This explained -everything. I could see it quite clear with this interpretation; and -without this nothing could explain it; for the young Italian looking for -his friend, the lady whom nobody had ever heard of, could be nothing in -the world to Sarah Mortimer. - -Thinking over this, it naturally occurred to me that it would be -important to let my poor sister know that this innocent young object of -her fears had left the neighbourhood. It might, even, who knows? restore -the balance to her poor mind. I got up from my chair the moment I -thought of that, but did not go out of the library quite so quickly as -you might have supposed, either. I was afraid of Sarah’s passions and -reproaches; I always was. She had a way of representing everybody else -as so unkind to her, poor dear soul, and of making out that she was -neglected and of no consequence. Though I knew that this was not the -case, I never could help feeling uncomfortable. Perhaps if I could only -have put myself in her place, I might have felt the same; but it made me -very timid of starting any subject before her that she did not like, -even though it might be to relieve her mind. - -I went slowly into the drawing-room. I thought most likely little Sara -was dressing upstairs, and we two would have a little time to ourselves. -When I went into the great room it was lying in the twilight, very dim -and shadowy. The great mirror looked like another dimmer world added on -to this one which was already so dim,--a world all full of glimpses and -gliding figures, and brightened up by the gleams of the firelight which -happened to be blazing very bright and cheerful. There were no curtains -closed nor blinds down. Four great long windows, each let into the -opposite wall a long strip of sky, the grass, and leafless trees, giving -one a strange idea of the whole world outside, the world of winds, and -hills, and rivers, and foreign unknown people. It was not light that -came in at these windows; it was a sort of grey luminous darkness, that -led our eyes up to the sky and blurred everything underneath. But in the -centre of the room burned that ruddy centre of fire, a light which is -quite by itself, and is not to be compared to anything else. Straight -before me, as I stood at the door, was Sarah’s screen, shutting out as -much light as it could, and of course concealing her entirely; but -beyond, full in the ruddy light on the other side of the screen, with -the red fire reddening all over her velvet jacket, her glossy hair, and -the white round arms out of those long wide sleeves, sat little Sara -Cresswell, on a footstool opposite her godmamma, and talking to her. I -cannot say Sara was in a pretty attitude. Young ladies now-a-days are -sadly careless in their ways. She was stooping quite double, with one of -her hands thrust into her hair, and the fire scorching her complexion -all to nothing; and one of the long, uncovered windows, with the blind -drawn up to the very top, you may be sure by Sara’s own wilful hands, -was letting in the sky light over her, like a very tall spirit with -pale blue eyes, so chilly, and clear, and pale, that it looked the -oddest contrast possible to the firelight and the little velvet kitten -then in front of it, all scorched and reddened over, as you could fancy; -velvet takes on that surface tint wonderfully. I could see nothing of -Sarah in the shelter of her screen; but there sat the little puss in -velvet, straight before her, talking to her as nobody else ever ventured -to talk. I have been long telling you how that fireside scene looked, -just to get my breath. I had been trying to work myself up to the proper -pitch to enter upon that subject again with my poor sister. But lo! here -had little Sara come on her own account and got it all over. I could see -at a glance that there was no more to be said. - -I came forward quietly and dropped into my own seat without saying -anything. Dear, dear! had it been an insane, unreasonable terror, or had -it been something real and serious that she knew, and she alone? Sarah -was leaning a little towards the fire, rubbing the joints of her -fingers, which were rheumatic, as I have mentioned before; but it was -not what she was doing that struck me; it was the strange look of ease -and comfort that had somehow come upon her. Her whole person looked as -if it had relaxed out of some bondage. Her head drooped a little in a -kind of easy languor: her muslin shawl, lined with pale blue, hung -lightly off her shoulders. Her pins were laid down orderly and neat on -her basket with the wools. Her very foot was at ease on the footstool. -How was it? If it had been incipient madness, could this grateful look -of rest have come so easily? Would the fever have gone down only at -knowing he was away? Heavens know! I sat all silent in my own chair in -the shadow, and felt the water moisten my old eyes. What she must have -gone through before this sudden ease could show itself so clearly in -every limb and movement! What an iron bondage she must have been putting -on! What a relief this was! Her comfort and sudden relaxation struck me -dumb. I was appalled at the sight of it. My notion about insanity, -dreadful to think of, but still natural and innocent, was shaken; a -restless uneasiness of a different description rose upon my mind. Could -he indeed be anything to her, this young stranger? Could she in her own -knowledge have some mysterious burden which was connected with his -coming or going? Could she have _recognised_, instead of only finding an -insanely fanciful destiny in his strange face? Impossible! That foreign -life of hers, so obscure and mysterious to me, was of an older period -than his existence. _He_ could bring no gossip, no recollections to -confound her. At the time of her return he could scarcely have been -born. Thus I was plunged into a perfect wilderness of amazed questions -again. - -“When little Sara went off to dress,--she dressed every evening, though -we never saw anybody,--I stole to the door after her, and caught her -little pink ear outside the door in the half-lighted hall. She gave a -little shriek when I came suddenly behind her. I believe she thought I -was angry, and came to take her punishment into my own hand. - -“What did you say to your godmamma, Sara?” said I. - -“Nothing,” said the perverse child. Then, after a little pause, “I told -her that your Mr. Luigi was gone, godmamma; and that he was a very -pretty-behaved young man; and asked her who the Countess Sermoneta was.” - -“You did?” - -“Yes; but she did not mind,” said Sara. “I am not sure if she heard me; -she gave such a long sigh, half a year long. Godmamma Sarah’s heart must -be very deep down if it took _that_ to ease it; and melted all out, as -if frost was over somehow, and thaw had come.” - -“Ah! and what more?” said I. - -“Nothing more,” cried the child. “Don’t you think I have a little heart, -godmamma? If she felt it so, could I go poking at her with that -Countess’s name? Ah! you should have seen her. She thawed out as if the -sun was shining and the frost gone.” - -“Ah!” I cried again. It went to my heart as well. “Come down and talk, -little Sara,” said I, and so went back to the drawing room, where she -sat looking so eased and relieved, poor soul, poor soul! I was very -miserable. I had not the heart to ring for lights. I sat down in my -chair with all sorts of dismal thoughts in my heart. She did not speak -either. She was rubbing her rheumatic fingers, and taking in all the -warmth and comfort. She looked as if somehow she had escaped--good -heavens! from what? - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -Next day that change upon Sarah’s whole appearance continued, and -throughout the whole week. She was like herself once more. Carson made -no more stealthy expeditions out of doors before my sister set out on -her drive. Sarah did not stir in her chair and eye me desperately when -the door opened. She even seemed to fall deaf again with that old, soft, -slight hardness of hearing which I used to suspect in her. There was no -pressure on her heart to startle her ears. - -While I in the meantime tried my best to think nothing about it, tried -to turn a blank face towards what might happen, and to take the days as -they came. I have not come to be fifty without having troubles in -plenty. For the last dozen years, to be sure, there had been only common -embarrassments. The fewer people one has to love, the fewer pleasures -and joys are possible, the less grow our sorrows. It is cold comfort, -but it is a fact notwithstanding. Grief and delight go hand in hand in -full lives; when we are stinted down into a corner both fall off. We -suffer less, we enjoy less; we suffer nothing, we enjoy nothing in time, -only common pricks and vexations, which send no thrill to the slumbering -heart. So we had been living for years; happy enough, nothing to disturb -us; or not happy at all, if you choose to take that view of the subject; -true either way. Not such a thing as real emotion lighting upon our -house, only secondary feelings; no love to speak of, but kindness; no -joy, but occasional pleasure; no grief, but sometimes regret. A very -composed life, which had been broken in upon quite suddenly by a -bewildering shadow,--tragic fear, doubt, alarm,--sudden mystery no ways -explainable, or madness explainable but hopeless. In this pause of -dismay and doubt, while the dark, unknown, inexplicable figure had -turned away from the door a little, it was hard to turn from its -fascination and go quietly back to that quiet life. - -Little Sara Cresswell came much about me in the library in those days; -she interested herself in my business much; she tried to interfere with -my work and help me, as the kitten called it. All the outlays on the -estate, the works that were going on, the improvements I loved to set -a-going--which did not all come to anything,--and the failures, of which -to be sure there were plenty--pleased the impatient creature mightily. I -was considered rather speculative and fanciful among the Cheshire -squires; they did not approve of my goings on; they thought me a public -nuisance for preserving no game, and making a fuss about cottages. But I -am sorry to say little Sara did not agree with the squires. She thought -my small bits of improvements very slow affairs indeed; she grew -indignant at my stinginess and contracted ideas. She thought any little -I did were just preliminary attempts not worth mentioning. When was I to -begin the work in earnest she wanted to know? - -“What work, Sara?” - -“What work? Why, here are you, godmamma, an old lady--you will never -grow any wiser or any better than you are,” cried the intolerable child. -“You can’t get any more good out of all that belongs to the Park than -just your nice little dinners, and teas, and the carriage, and the -servants, and, perhaps, half-a-dozen dresses in the year,--though I do -believe three would be nearer true,--and to keep all these farms, and -fields, and meadows, and orchards, and things, all for godmamma Sarah -and you! Don’t you feel frightened sometimes when you wake up suddenly -at night?” - -“You saucy little puss!--why?” cried I. - -“To think of the poor,” said Sara, with a solemn look. She held herself -straight up, and looked quite dignified as she turned her reproving eyes -on me. “Quantities of families without any homes, quantities of little -children growing up worse than your pigs, godmamma, quantities of people -starving, and living, and crowding, and quarrelling in black streets not -as broad as this room, with courts off from them, like those horrid, -frightful places in Liverpool. While out here you are living in your big -rooms, in your big house, with the green park all round and round you, -and farmers, and gardeners, and cottagers, and servants, and all sorts -of people, working to make you comfortable; with more money than you -know what to do with, and everything belonging to yourself, and nobody -to interfere with you. And why have you any right to it more than -_them_?” - -Little Sara’s figure swelled out, and her dark eyes shone bright as she -was speaking. It took away my breath. “Are you a Chartist, child?” I -cried. - -“I think I am a Socialist,” said Sara, very composedly; “but I don’t -quite know. I think we should all go shares. I have told you so a dozen -times, godmamma. Suppose papa has twelve hundred a year,--I do believe -he has a great deal more,--isn’t it dreadful? and all, not out of the -ground like yours, but from worrying people into lawsuits and getting -them into trouble. Well, suppose it was all divided among a dozen -families, a hundred a year. People can live very comfortably, I assure -you, godmamma, upon a hundred a year.” - -“Who told you, child?” said I. - -“The curate has only eighty,” said Sara; “his wife dresses the baby and -makes all its things herself, and they have very comfortable little -dinners. The window in my old nursery--the end window you know--just -overlooks their little parlour. They look so snug and comfortable when -the baby is good. To be sure it must be a bore taking one’s dinner with -the baby in one’s lap; and I am sure she is always in a fright about -visitors coming. I think it would be quite delightful to give them one -of papa’s hundreds a year.” - -“In addition to their eighty?” said I. “Why, then, there is an end of -going shares.” - -Sara coughed and stammered for a moment over this, quite at fault; but -not being troubled either about logic or consistency, soon plunged on -again as bold as ever. - -“Whatever you say, godmamma, people can live quite comfortable on a -hundred a year. I have reckoned it all up; and I don’t see really any -reason why anybody should have more. Only fancy what a quantity of -hundreds a year you and godmamma Sarah might distribute if you would. -And, instead of that, you only build a few cottages and give a few -people work--work! as if they had not as good a right as anybody to -their living. People were not born only to work, and to be miserable, -and to die.” - -“People were born to do a great many harder things than you think for, -Sara,” said I. “Do you think I am going to argue with a little velvet -kitten like you? I advise you to try your twelve families on the twelve -hundreds a year. But what do you suppose you would do if your godmamma -and I, having no heirs, left the Park to you, and you had your will, and -might do what you pleased?” - -What put this into my head I cannot say; but I gave it utterance on the -spur of the moment. Sara stared at me for a moment, with her pretty -mouth falling a little open in astonishment. Then she jumped up and -clapped her hands. “Do, godmamma!” she cried out, “oh do; such a -glorious scatter I should make! everybody should have enough, and we’d -build the loveliest little chapel in existence to St. Millicent, if -there is such a saint. I have always thought it would be perfectly -delightful to be a great heiress. Godmamma, do!” - -To see her all sparkling with delight and eagerness quite charmed me. -Had she ever heard a hint of being left heiress to the Park, of course -she must have looked wretched and conscious. Anybody would that had -thought of such a great acquisition. Sara had not an idea of that. She -thought it the best fun possible. She clapped her hands and cried, “Do, -godmamma!” She was as bold as an innocent young lion, without either -guile or fear. - -“It should be tied down so that you could not part with a single acre, -nor give away above five pounds at a time,” said I. - -“Ah!” said Sara, thoughtfully; “I dare say there would be a way of -cheating you somehow though, godmamma,” she said, waking up again with a -touch of malice. “People are always cheated after they are dead. I knew -a dear old lady that would not have her portrait taken for anybody but -one friend whom she loved very much; but, what do you think? after she -was gone they found the wicked wretch of a photographic man that kept -the _thing_,--the negative they call it,--and printed scores of -portraits, and let everybody have one. I would have given my little -finger to have had one; but to go and cheat her, and baulk her after she -was dead, and all for love, that is cruel. I would rather go against -what you said right out, godmamma, than go against what I knew was in -your heart.” - -“Ah, Sara, you don’t know anything about it,” said I. “If you had a -great deal of money all to yourself, and could do anything you liked -with it,--as heaven knows you may have soon enough!--and were just as -foolish with it as you intend, how disgusted you would be with your -charity, to be sure, after a while! What a little misanthrope you would -grow! What mercenary, discontented wretches you would think all the -people! I think I can see you fancying how much good you are doing, and -yet doing only harm instead. Then that disagreeable old fellow, -experience, would take you in hand. The living are cheated as well as -the dead. We are all cheated, and cheat ourselves. Nothing would make me -go and have my portrait taken; but I don’t deny if I found out that -people had got it spontaneously, and handed it about among themselves -all for love, I should not be angry. You are a little goose. You don’t -know what manner of spirit you are of.” - -“It is very easy talking, godmamma,” said Sara. “I was watching -yesterday when godmamma Sarah went out for her drive. The groom and the -boy were hard at work ever so long with the carriage and horses before -it was ready. I saw them out of the window of Alice’s room while she was -mending my dress for me. Then came old Jacob to the door with the -carriage. Then came godmamma Sarah leaning on Carson’s arm to go -downstairs. So there were two great horses and four human -creatures,--three men and a woman,--all employed for ever so long to -give one old lady a half-hour’s drive, when a walk would have done her -twenty times as much good,” concluded the child hastily, under her -breath. - -“You speak in a very improper manner;--an old lady! You ought to have -more respect for your godmamma,” said I, indignantly. “Your godmamma has -nothing that is not perfectly suitable to her condition of life.” - -“But godmamma Sarah is an old lady, whether I am respectful or not,” -said the girl stoutly. “When I see ladies driving about I wonder at -them. Two great horses that could fight or plough; and two great men -that might do the same; and all occupied about one lady’s drive! If I -were queen I would do away with drives! Ah! shouldn’t I like to be -Semiramis, the Semiramis of the story, that persuaded the king to let -her be queen for a day, and turned everything upside down, and then----” - -“Cut off the king’s head. Would you do it, Sara, after he had trusted -you?” said I. - -Sara came to a sudden pause. “I would not mind about cutting off his -head; but, to be sure, being _trusted_ is different. As if it were not a -story, not a word true! But please, godmamma,” cried the wild creature, -making me a curtsey, “don’t leave me the Park. I don’t want to be -trusted, please. I want to have my own way.” - -Which was the truest word she ever said. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -The days wore away thus in talks with little Sara, and vague expeditions -out of doors, a misty sort of confused life. I felt as one feels when -one knows of some dreadful storm, or trial, that has passed over for a -little, only to come again by and by. After seeing Sarah show so much -feeling of one kind and another,--distress, anxiety, and apprehension -one day, and comfort and relief another,--I could not bind myself with -the thought that this could possibly pass off and come to nothing. Such -things don’t happen once and get done with. There was a secret reason -somewhere working all the same, either in her own mind alone, or in the -past and her history as well; and one time or other it must make its -appearance again. Whether it was her mind giving way; and in that case -it did not matter whether Mr. Luigi came back or not, for if he did not -appear, fancy would, doubtless seize upon some other; or whether it was -some person this young man resembled, or some part of her life which she -was afraid to hear of again which he recalled to her, in any case it was -sure to break out some other day; and I cannot tell what a strange -uncomfortable excitement it brought into my life, and how the impulse of -watching came upon me. Sarah’s smallest motions got a meaning in my -eyes. I could not take things easily as I had used to do. She had -always, of course, been very important in the house; but she had been a -kind of still life for a long time now. She would not be consulted about -leases or improvements, or anything done on the estate. So long as -everything was very comfortable and nice about her,--the fire just to -her liking, which Ellis managed to a nicety; the cooking satisfactory; -her wools nicely matched, and plenty of new patterns; her screen just in -the proper position, protecting her from the draught; and the Times -always ready when she was ready for it,--Sarah got on, as it appeared, -very comfortably. Despite all that, to be sure she would get angry -sometimes; but I was used to it, and did not mind much. Only to think -that a person, who had either in the past or in her own mind something -to work her up to such a pitch of excitement, _could_ live such a life! -She seemed to have quite resumed it now with a strange kind of -unreasoning self-consolation. If it was the Italian that disturbed her, -how could she persuade herself that he was not coming back again? Her -quiet falling back into her old way was inexplicable to me. - -I seemed to myself to stand just then in a very strange position. Sarah -on one side of me all shut up and self secluded, with a whole life all -full of strange incidents, dazzling, brilliant, unforgotten years, -actual things that had happened locked in her silent memory; and little -Sara on tiptoe, on the other side, eager to plunge in her own way into -the life she dreamt of, but knew nothing about. All the wild notions of -the little girl, ridiculous-wise opinions, poor dear child, her -principles of right and justice with which she would rule the world, and -all her innocent break-downs and failures, ever in her fancy, came -pouring down upon me, pelting me at all times. And on the other side was -my sister, content to spend her life in that easy-chair, my sister whom -I knew nothing about, whose memory could go out of the Park drawing-room -into exciting scenes and wonderful events which I had never heard of. -How strange it was! I don’t remember much that I did in those days. I -lived under a confused, uneasy cloud, ready enough to be amused with -Sara’s philosophy. I am not sure that I was not all the more disposed -to smile at and tease the dear child, and be amused by all the new ideas -she started, for the troubled sensation in my own mind. Nothing could -have happened, I think, that would have surprised me. Sometimes it came -into my head whether my father could have done, or tried to do, -something when he was abroad, to cut us off from the succession; and -once I jumped bolt upright out of my seat, thinking--what if my father -had married abroad and had a son, and we were living usurpers, and Sarah -knew of it! How that idea did set my heart beating! If I had not been so -much frightened for her passions, I should have gone to her directly and -questioned her. But to be sure my father was not the man to leave off -his own will for any consideration about his daughters; and would have -been only too proud to have had a son. After thinking, I gave up that -idea; but my heart went at a gallop for hours after, and I should not -have been surprised to hear that anything had happened, or was going to -happen. Really, anything real and actual, however bad, would have been a -relief from the mystery which preyed upon me. - -“Papa is coming to fetch me, to-morrow,” said Sara Cresswell, in rather -a discontented tone. “There is to be some ridiculous ball, or something. -Can anybody imagine anything so absurd as asking people to a ball when -you want to show you’re sorry to part with them? and papa might have -known, if he had ever taken the trouble to think, that I have no -dress----” - -“Sara, child! how many hundreds a year do you give your dressmaker?” -said I. - -“That has nothing whatever to do with it, godmamma,” said Sara, making a -slightly confused pause; and then resuming, with a defiant look into my -face,--“if I might give one hundred a year away out of all papa has got, -I could live upon one dress in a year; but what is the use of shillings -and sixpences to beggars, or of saving up a few pounds additional to -papa? I don’t call that any economy. If we were living according to -nature, it would be quite different; then I should want no ball-dresses. -Besides,” continued the refractory creature, “I don’t want to go; and if -papa insists on me going, why shouldn’t I get some pleasure out of it? -Everything else will be just the same as usual, of course.--Godmamma,” -exclaimed Sara suddenly, with a new thought, “will you ask papa anything -about this business? it is not done with yet. He will come back, and all -will have to be gone over again. Will you mention it to papa?” - -She had been thinking of it too,--she, thoughtless as she was, found -something in it not of a kind to die away and be passed over. I could -not mistake, nor pretend to mistake, what she meant; it was to be read -in her very eyes. - -“My dear, I have told you already that your godmamma can have nothing -whatever to do with this young man,” said I, with a little irritation; -“if she is out of sorts it is nobody’s business. Do you fancy she could -keep up an acquaintance with an Italian countess for more than twenty -years, and I know nothing of it? Nonsense! Some fancy, or some old -recollections, or something, had an effect upon her just at the moment. -Speak to your father! Why, you told me he knew nothing about the -Countess Sermoneta. Shall I ask him to feel your godmamma’s pulse and -prescribe for her? or do you suppose, even if he were fit for that, your -godmamma would allow it, without feeling herself ill? Your papa is -highly respectable, and has always been much trusted by the family. But -there are things with which one’s solicitor has nothing whatever to do; -there are things which belong to one’s self, and to nobody else in the -world.” - -Poor little Sara! I did not mean to mortify the child! She grew crimson -with pride and annoyance. I had no intention of reminding her that she -was only the attorney’s daughter; but she reminded herself of it on the -instant, with all the pride of a duchess. She did not say a syllable, -the little proud creature; but turned away with such an air, her cheek -burning, her eyes flashing, her little foot spurning the ground. She -went off with a great sweep of her full skirts, disturbing the air to -such an extent that I quite felt the breeze on my cheek. Perhaps it was -just as well. Of course there was a difference between the Mortimers and -the Cresswells. Because we did not stand on our dignity, people were so -ready to forget what they owed to us. It was just as well the spoiled -child could learn, for once in her life, that it was all of grace and -favour that she was made so much of at the Park. - -I made quite sure that she went to her own room directly, to see after -the packing of her things, with some thoughts of starting for home at -once, without even waiting for her father. However, when she began to -talk to her little maid Alice, about that ball-dress, I daresay the -other matter went out of the child’s head. The next that I saw of her -was when she made a rush downstairs to ask me for postage stamps, with a -letter in her hand, all closed ready to go off. She was still pouting -and ill-tempered; but she contrived to show me the address of the -letter. Alas, poor dear Bob Cresswell! it was to the Chester milliner, -the best one we had, no doubt ordering a dress for the ball. Yet I do -believe, for all that, the child could really have done what she said. I -believe, if some great misfortune had happened, and her father had lost -all his money, Sara’s first impulse would have been to clap her hands -and cry, “Now everybody shall see!” Of course it is very dreadful to -lose one’s fortune and become poor and have to work. But I wonder are -there no other spoiled creatures in the world like Sara, who have their -own ideas about such calamities, and think they would be the most famous -fun in the world? Too much of anything makes a revulsion in the mind. -Such over-indulged, capricious, spoiled children have often hardy bold -spirits, and would be thankful for some real, not sham necessity. But, -in the meantime, she had not the slightest idea of doing without her -ball-dress. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -Mr. Cresswell came next day accordingly. I confess the very sight of him -was a sort of solace to me in my perplexities; that solid steady man, -with his sharp keen eyes and looks, as if he knew everything going on -round about him. To be sure, being a lawyer, he must have pretended to -know a great many more things than he could have any insight into. -Still, when one is in great doubt, and cannot tell where to turn, the -sight of one of these precise men, with a vast knowledge about other -people, and no affairs of their own of any consequence, is a kind of -relief to one. Such men can throw light on quantities of things quite -out of their way. I could not help saying to myself, though I had -snubbed Sara for saying it, that he might, perhaps, have helped to clear -up this mystery. But, of course, he was always a last resort if anything -more happened. They were to have dinner before they went away, and Mr. -Cresswell reached the Park by noon; so there was plenty of time to tell -him anything. He came into the drawing-room rubbing his hands. Sarah had -just come down-stairs and taken her seat. She was looking just as she -always did, no tremble in her head to speak of, her attention quite -taken up with her wools, attending to what was said, but with no anxiety -about it. When Mr. Cresswell came in her face changed a little; she -looked as if all at once she had thought of something, and gave me a -sign, which I knew meant he was to come to her. I brought him directly, -not without a great deal of curiosity. It was a warm day for the season; -and just immediately before the fire, where the good man had to sit to -listen, was not just the most comfortable position in the world. He even -contrived to make a kind of appeal to me. Couldn’t I hear what it was, -and tell him afterwards? I took no notice; I confess it was rather -agreeable to me than otherwise,--to set him down there to get roasted -before the fire. - -“I want to know what you have done about Richard Mortimer,” said Sarah -in her shrill whisper; “there has been no advertisement in the Times nor -the Chester papers. I hope you are not losing time; what have you -done?” - -It struck me that Mr. Cresswell looked just a little abashed and put out -by this question; but it might be the fire. He put up his hand to -shelter his face, and hitched round his chair; then shrugged his -shoulders a little, insinuating that she was making far too much of it. -“My dear lady, advertisements are the last resort. I hope to do without -any such troublesome process,” said Mr. Cresswell. “All the Mortimers in -England will rouse up at the sight of an advertisement. I should prefer -to take a little time. Information is always to be obtained privately -when one has any clue at all.” - -“Then have you obtained any private information?” said Sarah, in rather -a sharp tone. She had no inclination to let him slide away till she was -quite satisfied. - -“Such things take their time,” said Mr. Cresswell, devoting all his -attention to screening himself from the fire. “How you ladies can bear -cooking yourselves up so, on this mild day, I cannot understand! I can -hear you perfectly, Miss Mortimer, thank you; your voice is as distinct -as it always was, though, unfortunately not the same tone. What a voice -your sister used to have, to be sure!--went through people’s hearts like -a bell.” - -This was addressed to me, in the idea of being able to wriggle out of -the conversation altogether. It is my conviction he had not taken a -single step in the matter of Richard Mortimer; but if he thought he -could shake off Sarah’s inquiries so, he deceived himself. She never -was, all her life, to be turned from her own way. - -“It is sometime now since we instructed you on this subject,” said -Sarah. “If you have not made any discovery, at least you can tell us -what you are doing. Milly, there, like a fool, does not care. She talks -of Providence dropping us an heir at our door,--a foundling, I suppose, -with its name on a paper pinned to its frock,” said Sarah, growing -rather excited, and turning an angry look on me. - -To my astonishment Mr. Cresswell also looked at me; his was a guilty, -conscious, inquiring look. What strange creatures we all are! This -shrewd lawyer, far from thinking that Sarah’s words referred to any -mysterious trouble or derangement in her own mind, took them up, knowing -his own thoughts, with all the quickness of guilt, to refer to Sara! He -thought we had probably had a quarrel about leaving her our heiress; -that I had stood up for her, and Sarah had opposed it. So he turned his -eyes to me to see if I would make any private telegraphic communication -to him of the state of affairs. And when he found nothing but surprise -in my eyes, turned back a little disappointed, but quite cool and ready -to stand to his arms, though he had failed of this mark. - -“The truth is, there is nothing so easy as finding an heir. I’ll ensure -you to hunt him up from the backwoods, or China, or anywhere in the -world. There’s a fate connected with heirs,” said Mr. Cresswell, -pleasantly, “whether one wants them or not they turn up with all their -certificates in their pocket-books! Ah! they’re a long-lived, -sharp-sighted race; they’re sure to hear somehow when they’re wanted. -Don’t be afraid--we’ll find him, sure enough. If you had made up your -minds to disown him, and shut him out, he’d turn up all the same.” - -“Milly,” cried Sarah suddenly, with her little shriek of passion, all so -unexpected and uncalled for that I fairly jumped from the table I was -standing at, and had nearly overturned her screen on the top of her, -“what do you mean by that fixed look at me? How dare you look so at me? -Did I speak of disowning any one? Richard Mortimer, when he’s found, -shall have the park that moment, if I lived a dozen years after it. -Nobody shall venture, so long as I live, to cast suspicious looks at -me!” - -I declare, freely, I was unconscious of looking at her as though I had -been a hundred miles away at the moment! I stood perfectly still, gaping -with consternation and amazement. Such an unwarranted, unexpected -accusation, fairly took away my breath. Mr. Cresswell, accustomed to -observe people, was startled, and woke up from those dreams of his own -which clouded his eyesight in this particular case. He looked at her -keenly for a moment, then, turned with a rapid question in his eyes to -me; he seemed to feel in a moment there was somehow some strange new -element in the matter. But, of course, I had no answer to make to him, -either with voice or eyes. - -“I was not looking at you at all, Sarah,” faltered I. “I was not looking -at anything in particular. Nobody is going to be disowned, that I know -of. Nobody is seeking our property, that I know of,” I said again -involuntarily, my eye turning with a kind of stupid consciousness, the -very last feeling in the world which I wished or intended to show, upon -Mr. Cresswell, who was quite watching my looks to see what this little -episode meant. - -He coloured up in a moment. He stumbled up from his chair, looking very -much confused. He dared not pretend to know what I meant, nor show -himself conscious, even that I had looked at him. He went across the -room to the window, looked out, and came back again. It was odd to see -such a man, accustomed and trained to conceal his sentiments, so -betrayed into showing them. When he sat down again he turned his face to -the fire, and almost his back to me. Matters had changed. It appeared I -was not such a safe confidante as he had supposed. - -“You shall very soon be satisfied about Mr. Richard Mortimer,” he said, -looking into the fire. “Don’t be afraid; I am on the scent; you may -trust it to me. But, really, I don’t wonder to see Miss Milly take it -very reasonably. What do you want with heirs yet? If I had any thoughts -of that kind, I should put all my powers in motion to get that little -kitten of mine married. If I leave her by herself she will throw away my -poor dear beautiful dividends in handfuls. But, somehow, the idea -doesn’t oppress me; and, of course, I am older than any lady in -existence can be supposed to be. I am----” - -“Hold your tongue, Cresswell,” cried Sarah crossly. “I daresay we know -what each other’s ages are. Attend to business, please. I want Richard -Mortimer found, I tell you. You can tell him his cousin Sarah wants him. -He will come, however far off he may be, when he hears that. You can put -it in the papers, if you please.” - -Saying this Sarah gave her muslin scarf a little twitch over her elbow, -and held up her head with a strange little vain self-satisfied movement. -Oh, how Mr. Cresswell did look at her! how he chuckled in his secret -soul! From what I had seen once before I understood perfectly well what -he meant. He had once taken the liberty to fall in love with Sarah -Mortimer himself; and now to see the old faded beauty putting on one of -her old airs, and reckoning on the fidelity of a man who, no doubt--it -was to be hoped, or what was to become of our search for heirs?--had -married and forgotten all about her years ago--tickled him beyond -measure. He felt himself quite revenged when he saw her -self-complacence. He ventured to chuckle at it secretly. I should have -liked, above all things, to box his ears. - -“Ah! to be sure; I’ll use all possible means immediately. It’s to be -hoped he has ten children,” said Mr. Cresswell, with a very quiet -private laugh. Sarah did not observe that he was laughing at her. I -believe such an idea could never have entered her head. She began, with -an habitual motion she had got whenever she left off knitting, to rub -her fingers and stoop to the fire. - -“And I insist you should come and report to us what you are doing,” said -Sarah; “and never mind Milly; see me. It is I who am interested. Milly, -as I tell you, thinks Providence will drop her an heir at the door.” - -What could she mean by these spiteful sneering suggestions? I had -thought no more of heirs for many a day--never since I got involved in -this bewildering business, which I could see no way through. Her sudden -attack sent a little thrill of terror through me. _I_ was casting -suspicious looks at her; an heir was to be dropped at our door; somebody -was plotting against her fortune and honour. Good heavens! what could it -mean but one thing? Mad people are always watched, pursued, persecuted, -thwarted. I was cast from one guess to another, as if from wave to wave -of a sea. I came back to that idea again; and trembled in spite of -myself to think of little Sara and her father leaving us, and of being -left alone to watch the insane haze spreading over her mind. It was sure -to spread if it was there. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -I will not undertake to say that we were a particularly sociable party -at dinner that day. The stranger, Mr. Cresswell, who might have been -supposed likely to give us a little news, and refresh us with the air of -out of doors, was constrained and uncomfortable with the idea of having -been found out. I am sure it was the last idea in the world which I -wanted to impress upon him. But still, in spite of myself, I had -betrayed it. Then Sara, without the faintest idea of her father’s -uneasiness, had a strong remembrance of my unlucky words on the -previous day, and was very high and stately, by way of proving to me -that an attorney’s daughter could be quite as proud as a Mortimer--as if -I ever doubted it!--and a great deal prouder. For really, when one knows -exactly what one’s position is, and that nobody can change it, one does -not stand upon one’s defence for every unwary word. However, so it was -that we were all a little constrained, and I felt as one generally feels -after a pretty long visit, even from a dear friend, that to be alone and -have the house to one’s self will just at first be a luxury in its way. - -Not having any free and comfortable subject to talk of, we naturally -fell to books, though Mr. Cresswell, I believe, never opened one. He -wanted to know if Sara had been reading novels all day long, and -immediately Sara turned to me to ask whether she might have one home -with her which she had begun to read. Then there burst on my mind an -innocent way of putting a question to Mr. Cresswell which I had been -very anxious to ask without seeing any way to do it. - -“I don’t think you will care for it when you do read it Sara; it is all -about a poor boy who gets persuaded not to marry, and breaks the poor -creature’s heart who is engaged to him, because there has been madness -in the family. High principle, you know. I am not quite so sure in my -own mind that I don’t think him a humbug; but I suppose it’s all very -grand and splendid to you young people. Young persons should be trained -very closely in their own family history if that is to be the way of it. -I hope there never was a Cresswell touched in his brain, or, Sara, it -would be a bad prospect for you.” - -“If you suppose I should think it a bad prospect to do as Gilbert did, -you are very wrong, godmamma,” cried Sara. “Why shouldn’t he have been -quite as happy one way as the other? Do you suppose people must be -_married_ to be happy? it is dreadful to hear such a thing from you!” - -“Well, to be sure, so it would be,” said I, “if I had said it. I am not -unhappy that I know of, nor happy either. Oh, you little velvet kitten, -how do you know how people get through life? One goes jog-jog, and does -not stop to find out how one feels. But I’d rather--though I daresay -it’s very bad philosophy--have creatures like you do things innocently, -without being too particular about the results. Besides, I think -Cheshire air is good steady air for the mind,--not exciting, you know. I -don’t think we’ve many mad people in our county, eh, Mr. Cresswell?--Did -you ever hear of a crazy Mortimer?” - -Mr. Cresswell looked up at me a little curiously--which, to be sure, -not having any command over my face, or habit of concealing what I -thought, made me look foolish. Sarah lifted her eyes, too, with a kind -of smile which alarmed me--a smile of ridicule and superior knowledge. -Perhaps I had exposed my fears to both of them by that question. I -shrank away from it immediately, frightened at my own rashness. But Mr. -Cresswell would not let me off. - -“I have always heard that your grand-uncle Lewis was very peculiar,” -said Mr. Cresswell,--“he that your cousin is descended from. Let us hope -it doesn’t run in Mr. Richard’s family. I suppose there’s no reason to -imagine that such a motive would prevent _him_ from marrying?” he -continued, rather spitefully. “And it was no wonder if Lewis Mortimer -was a little queer. What could you expect? he was the _second son_! an -unprecedented accident. The wonder is that something did not happen in -consequence. Oh yes, he was _soft_ a little, was your grand-uncle Lewis; -but most likely it descended to him from his mother’s side of the -house.” - -“And my father was named after him!” cried I, with a certain dismay. - -They all laughed, even Sarah. _She_ kept her eyes on me as if searching -through me to find out what I meant. She was puzzled a little, I could -see. She saw it was not a mere idle question, and wanted to know the -meaning. She was not conscious, thank heaven! and people are dismally -conscious, as I have heard, when their brain is going. This was a little -comfort to me under the unexpected answer I had got, for I certainly -never heard of a crazy Mortimer all my life. - -“If qualities descended by names, my little kitten would be in luck,” -said Mr. Cresswell. “But here is a new lot of officers coming, Miss -Milly; what would you recommend a poor man to do?” - -“Papa!” cried Sara, with blazing indignation, “what does any one suppose -the officers are to me? You say so to make my own godmamma despise me, -though you know it isn’t true! I can bear anything that is true. That is -why we always quarrel, papa and I. He does not mind what stories he -tells, and thinks it good fun. I am not a flirt, nor never was--never, -even when I was too young to know any better. No, godmamma, no more than -you are!--nobody dares say it of me.” - -We were just rising from table when she made this defence of herself. It -was not quite true. I know she tormented that poor boy Wilde as if he -had been a mouse, the cruel creature; and I am perfectly convinced that -she was much disappointed Mr. Luigi did not come to the Park, because -she had precisely the same intentions with regard to him. I must allow, -though I was very fond of Sara, that, professing to be mighty scornful -and sceptical as to hearts breaking, she loved to try when she had it in -her power. I daresay she was not conscious of her wicked arts, she used -them by instinct; but it came to much the same thing in the end. - -I went out of the room with her, under pretence of seeing that her boxes -were nicely packed; I did not say anything about it, whether I thought -her a flirt or not, and she quieted down immediately, with a perception -that I had something to say. I drew her into the great window of the -hall, when Sarah, and immediately after her Mr. Cresswell,--for, of -course, to him our early dinner only served as lunch, and no man would -dream of sitting over his wine at three o’clock in the afternoon, -especially in a lady’s house,--had passed into the drawing-room. It was -a great round bay-window, at one end of the hall, where our footmen used -to lounge in my father’s time, when we kept footmen. It had our -escutcheon in it, in painted glass, and the lower panes were obscured, I -cannot tell why, unless because it made them look ugly. The hall was -covered with matting, and the fire had been lighted that day, but must -have gone out, it felt so cold. - -“Sara, I wish to say to you--not that I don’t trust your discretion, my -dear child;” said I, “but you might not think I cared--don’t say -anything about your godmamma, or about this Mr. Luiggi, dear----” - -I was quite prepared to see her resent this caution, but I was not -prepared for the burst of saucy laughter with which the foolish little -girl replied to me. - -“Oh dear, godmamma, don’t be so comical! it isn’t Luiggi, it’s Luidgi, -that’s how it sounds,” cried Sara. “To think of any one murdering the -beautiful Italian so! Don’t you really think it’s a beautiful name?” - -“I freely confess I never could see any beauty in Italian, nor any other -outlandish tongue,” said I. “Luidgi, be it, if that’s better. I can’t -see how it makes one morsel of difference; but you will remember what I -say?” - -“Luigi simply means Lewis; and how should you be pleased to hear Lewis -mispronounced? You said it was your father’s name, godmamma,” said the -incorrigible child. - -I turned away, shaking my head. It was no use saying anything more; most -likely she would pay attention to what I said, though she was so -aggravating; oh, but she was contrairy. Never man spoke a truer word. -Nevertheless, as she stood there in her velvet jacket, with her -close-cropped pretty curls, and her eyes sparkling with laughter, I -could not help admiring her myself. I don’t mind saying I am very -inconsistent. A little while before, I had been thinking it would be -rather pleasant to have the house quiet and to ourselves. Now, I could -not help thinking what a gap it would leave when she was gone. Then the -child, who at home was led into every kind of amusement (to be sure -_procurable in Cheshire_, must be added to this), had been so contented, -after all, to live with two old women, whom nobody came to see, except -now and then in a morning call; and though she was so wicked, and -provoking, and careless, she was at the same time so good and clever -(when she pleased) and captivating. One could have put her in the -corner, and kissed her the next moment. As she stood there in the light -of the great window, I, who had left her, shaking my head, and -reflecting how contrairy she was, went back to kiss her, though I gave -her a little shake as well. That is how one always feels to these -creatures, half-and-half; ready to punish them and to pet them all at -once. - -However, after a while (though it was no easy matter getting Sara’s -trunks on the carriage--I wonder Mr. Cresswell ventured on it, for his -poor horse’s sake), they went away; and feeling just a little dull after -they were gone, and as it was just that good-for-nothing time, which is -the worst of an early dinner, the interval between dinner and tea, I set -out for a walk down to the village. It was Sarah’s day for her drive, -and she passed me on the road, and kissed her hand to me out of the -carriage window. No blinds down now; the horses going at their steady -pace, rather slowly than otherwise, wheeling along through the soft -hedgerows which began to have some buds on them. I wonder what Jacob -thought of it; I wonder what Williams at the lodge had to say on the -subject. Such a strange unreasonable change! - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -I called at a good many houses in the village. I am thankful to say I -have rarely found myself unwelcome, to the best sort of people at least. -Most of us have known each other so long, and have such a long stretch -of memory to go back upon together, that we belong to each other in a -way. As for the scapegraces, they are a little frightened of me, I -confess. They say, Miss Milly comes a-worriting, when I speak my mind to -them. I can’t say the men reverence me, nor the women bless my -influence, as I read they do with some ladies in some of Miss Kate -Roberts’ books. But we are good friends on the whole. When the men have -been drinking, and spent all their wages, or saucy, and put out of their -place, then they try their best to deceive me, to be sure; but I know -all their little contrivances pretty well by this time. They don’t mean -much harm after all, only to persuade one that things are not so bad as -they look. - -After I had given a glance into the shop where I saw Mr. Luigi’s fat -servant,--I only saw him once, but yet the place seemed full of that -fat, funny, good-humoured, outlandish figure, with his bows and smiles, -and loquacious foreign speech, that poor Mrs. Taylor commiserated so -deeply--I stepped across to the rectory to make a call there. The poor -young shopkeeper, who had a night-class for the men and grown lads, and -was really an intelligent, well-meaning young man, had been confiding -his troubles to me. They did not care a bit about learning; they did not -even want to read. When they did read it was the most foolish books! -Poor young Taylor’s heart was breaking over their stupidity. And then, -to keep a shop, even a bookshop, hurt his “feelings,” poor lad. He had -been brought up for a teacher’s profession, he said--he even had some -experience in “tuition.” He had thought he could make a home for his -mother and his little sister; and now Dr. Appleby was grumbling that he -did not succeed, and thought it his own fault! Poor young fellow! to be -sure, he should have gone stolidly through with it, and had no business -to have any “feelings.” But, you see, people will be foolish in every -condition of life. - -So I stepped across the road to call on Miss Kate, thinking of him all -the way; thinking of him and that unknown young Italian, only once seen, -whom the apparition of the fat servant in Taylor’s shop somehow -connected with the young shopkeeper. How Mr. Luigi had forced himself -into all my thoughts! and yet the only one fact I knew about him was, -that he was looking for an apocryphal lady whom nobody ever heard of! -Should I have thought no more about him but for Sarah’s mysterious -agitation? I really cannot tell. Again and again his voice came back to -me, independent of Sarah. Whose voice was it? Where had he got that -hereditary tone? - -Miss Kate was in, for a great wonder. She was wonderfully active in the -parish. She was far more the rector, except in the pulpit, than good Dr. -Roberts was. I am sure he was very fortunate to have such an active -sister. I don’t think anything ever happened, within a space of three or -four miles round the village, that Miss Kate was not at the bottom of -it. Of course I expected to hear everything over again that Dr. Roberts -had told us about Mr. Luigi. But, so long as Sarah was not present, I -could take that quite easily. Indeed, I wished so much to know more of -this stranger, somehow, that I really felt I should be glad to hear all -that they had to say. - -“I was indeed very much interested in the young man,” said Miss Kate, -starting the subject almost immediately, as I expected. “I think great -efforts should be made to lay hold of every one that comes out of his -poor benighted country. I said so to the Doctor; but the Doctor’s views, -you know, are _very_ charitable. Mr. Hubert, however, quite agreed with -me. I asked him to come back when he came to this part of the country -again, and said I should be very glad to have some _serious_ -conversation with him. He stared, but he was very polite; only, poor -young man, his thoughts are all upon this lady. I have no doubt he -thought it was that business I wanted to talk to him about.” - -“But I suppose, like Dr. Roberts, you can throw no light upon her; who -she is, or where she is?” said I. “It is strange he should seem so -positive she was here, and yet nobody remembers her. For my own part, if -I had once heard it, I am sure I should never have forgotten that name. -I have a wonderful memory for names.” - -“Very strange no doubt,” said Miss Kate, with a little cough. “And then, -that man of his. Alas, what an imprisoned soul! To think he should be -in the very midst of light and faithful preaching, and yet not be able -to derive any benefit from it! I never regretted more deeply not having -kept up my own Italian studies. And poor Mr. Hubert--but you would hear -all about that; the Doctor does so delight in an amusing story. They -could not understand each other in the very least, you know. Ah, what a -matter it would be to get hold of that poor Domenico--that’s his name. -Why, he might be quite an apostle among his countrymen, when he got -back. But nothing can be done till he can be taught English, or some -agency can be found out in Italian. I can’t tell you how much interest I -feel in these poor darkened creatures. And to think they should be in -the midst of the light, and no possibility of bringing them under its -influence! I don’t speak of the master, of course, who knows English -very well; but I am not one that am a respecter of persons,--the servant -is quite as much, if not more, interesting to me.” - -“If they stay long I daresay he’ll learn English,” I suggested modestly; -“but it will be a sad pity if the poor gentleman has come so far to seek -out this lady, and can’t find any trace of her. I promised him to do all -I could to find out for him; but nobody seems ever to have heard of her. -It will be a thousand pities if he has all his trouble for no end.” - -“Ah, Miss Milly! let us hope he may acquire something else that will far -more than repay him,” said Miss Kate; “disappointments are often great -blessings in directing one’s mind away from worldly things. We were all -very much interested in him, I assure you. Mr. Hubert promised to write -to a friend of his in Chester to ask if he could give him any -assistance. If it were only for the sake of that strange -resemblance,--the Doctor would tell you, of course, the resemblance -which struck both him and myself?” - -“No,” cried I; “did you find out anybody he was like? I only saw him in -the dark, and could not make out his face; but his voice has haunted me -ever since. I was sure I knew the voice.” - -“I wonder the Doctor did not mention it,” said Miss Kate, with a little -importance. “The truth is, it struck us both a good deal; a resemblance -to your family, Miss Milly.” - -I don’t know whether I was most disposed to sink down upon my chair or -start up from it with a cry; I did neither, however. - -“To _my_ family?” I gasped out. - -“Yes; it was very singular,” said Miss Kate; “I daresay, of course, it -was only one of those accidental likenesses. I remember being once -thought very like your sister. How strange you should think you knew his -voice! You have some relations in Italy, perhaps?” - -“Not that I know of,” said I, feeling very faint. I cannot tell what I -was afraid of; but I felt myself trembling and shaken; and I durst not -get up and go out either, or Miss Kate would have had it all over the -parish before night, that something had gone wrong at the Park. - -But I don’t remember another word she said. I kept my seat, and answered -her till I thought I might reasonably be supposed to have stayed long -enough. Then I left the rectory, my mind in the strangest agitation. -That this stranger, who had driven Sarah half mad, should be like our -family; what a bewildering, extraordinary thing to think of! But -stranger still, at this moment, when I had just heard such a wonderful -aggravation of my perplexity--that voice of his which had haunted me so -long, and which I felt sure I could identify at once, if the person it -once belonged to was named to me, vanished entirely from my mind as if -by some conjuring trick. It was extraordinary--it looked almost -supernatural. I could no more recall that tone, which I had recalled -with perfect freshness and ease when I entered the rectory garden, than -I could clear up the extraordinary puzzle thus gathering closer and -closer round all my thoughts. - -In this state of mind I hurried home, feeling really as if there must be -something supernatural in the whole business, and too much startled to -ask any definite questions of myself. When I had reached the house, and -was going upstairs, I met one of the maids coming down, who had been -upon some errand into Sarah’s room. This careless girl had left--a thing -never even seen when my sister happened to be out for her drives--the -room-door open. Before I knew what I was doing, I had stepped inside. I -can’t tell what I wanted--whether to speak with Sarah or to spy upon -her, or to listen at her door. Carson and she were in the dressing-room, -I could hear. And now I will tell you what I did. I don’t think I was -responsible for my actions at that moment; but whether or not, this is -what I did. I stepped forward stealthily, stooped down to the keyhole, -and listened at the door! - -There! I have said it out. Nobody else knows it to this day. I, who -called myself an honourable person, listened at my sister’s door. For -the first five minutes I was so agitated by my strange position that, -of course, I did not hear a word they said. But after a little I began -to hear indistinctly that they were talking of some letter that had -better be burned--that Carson was speaking in a kind of pleading tone, -and Sarah very harsh and hard, her words easier to be distinguished in -that hissing whisper of hers than if she had spoken in the clearest -voice imaginable. I can’t say I was much the better for the -conversation, till at last, just as I was going away, came this, which -made my heart beat so loud that I thought it must be heard inside that -closed mysterious door: - -“And to think they should have called him Lewis, too; though the English -is a deal the prettiest. Ah, ma’am,” cried Carson, with a little stifled -sob, “it showed love in the heart!” - -“Yes, for the Park,” said Sarah, in her whisper. I dared not stay a -moment longer, for I heard them both advancing to the door. I fled to my -own room, and dropped down there on my sofa stupified. My head ached as -if it would burst. My heart thumped and beat as if it would leap out of -my bosom Lewis! my father’s name--and, good heaven!--the voice! What did -it--what could it mean? - - - - -PART IV. - -THE LIEUTENANT’S WIFE. - -(_Continued._) - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -What a strange little quaint place Chester is! I thought I should never -have been tired walking along those ramparts, looking over the soft -green slopes, and up to the blue hills in the distance, and down here -and there upon the grey old churches and the quiet busy little town; but -at first we had our lodgings to look for, which was a much more serious -matter. I had made up my mind from the very first not to expect to be -called upon, nor to go into society; or rather I had set my face against -any chance of it, knowing always that we could not do it on the little -money we had. But now I found out that Harry was not content with this. -He was very anxious to have better lodgings, where ladies could come to -see me. I should say dearer lodgings, for better than Mrs. Saltoun’s we -could not have had. He wanted me to have quite a drawing-room instead of -our nice, cosy, old-fashioned parlour, which was good for everything; -and then to think people might be asking us to dinner, and how many -embarrassments and troubles we might meet with! For it is embarrassing -to be asked out, and to be obliged to let the people suppose you are -sulky, and ill-tempered, and _won’t_ go; or else to invent excuses -which, besides being sinful, are always sure to be found out; when the -real reason is simply that one has not a dress, and cannot afford to -get one just then. The other ladies in the regiment might wonder what -sort of person I could be, and tell each other that poor young Langham -had married some poor girl, and been very foolish. It was exactly -true--so he had; and as I can’t say I had any idea that he could be -ashamed of me, I took it all very quietly. So long as we were happy, and -could afford to live in our own way, I did not mind; but now Harry had -got discontented, somehow or other. He was quite in a fuss to think that -I was not received as I ought to be, and a great many more things like -that--perhaps somebody had said something to him, as if he were supposed -to be ashamed of me--at all events he had changed his mind from our -first plan; and though I felt quite convinced my way was the wisest, I -had to change it as before. Anything was better than having him -uncomfortable and discontented. I supported myself with Mrs. Saltoun’s -opinion, and went with resignation to look at all those expensive -lodgings. - -The people seemed all to guess that we belonged to the new regiment; and -some of them were quite great ladies, and quite enlightened me as to -what we should require. For most of the day I was in a perfect panic; -every place seeming dearer than another. When we went into those -expensive rooms I always found out something that it was quite -impossible for me to tolerate (quite independent, of course, you know, -of any question of price!) till Harry quite fretted at my -fastidiousness. At last we did find a place _that suited me_. It was no -great thing in point of situation. It was a first floor, a front and -back drawing-room. I believe, candidly, that the back room was about as -big as Mrs. Saltoun’s good substantial old dining-table, which we used -to have in our sitting-room in Edinburgh; but then there were -folding-doors; and the front drawing-room was decorated and ornamented -to such a pitch that one was quite afraid to sit down in any of the -chairs. When I heard what the rent was, I was charmed with the rooms. -Harry could not understand my enthusiasm. I found it the handiest place -in the world;--and then it showed such discrimination in the landlady to -ask so moderate a rent. We fetched Lizzie and baby from the inn -directly, and dismissed Harry to look at the town. And really, when we -got a little settled, it was not so uncomfortable; though, to be sure, -to give up the sizeable room for company (and they never came!), and to -live in that little box behind was very foolish, as I always thought. -However, when, I above and Lizzy below, we had investigated the house, -and when the landlady was made to comprehend, with difficulty, that our -washing was done at home, and that her toleration of these processes was -needful, and when her wonder and the first shock to her system conveyed -in this piece of intelligence was over, things looked tolerably -promising. The worst was, we had no view; no view whatever except the -bit of garden plot before the house, filled with dusty evergreens, and -the corner of a street which led to the railway station. The cabs and -people, going to and from the trains, made the only variety in the -prospect; and anybody will allow that was sadly different from windows -which looked sidelong over the corner of Bruntsfield Links, upon the -Castle, and the Crags, and Arthur’s Seat. However, what I had to think -of, in the meantime, was how to live without getting into debt; for, of -course, people like us, with just so much money coming in (and oh, how -very, very little it was!), had neither any excuse nor any way of saving -themselves if once they ventured into debt. - -Thus we got established in our new quarters; and many a long ramble I -took with Harry along those strange superannuated walls.--To think how -they once stood up desperate, in defence, round the brave little town! -to think of the wild Welsh raging outside on that tranquil turf, where -the races were now-a-days; to think of those secure streets down there, -that lengthened themselves out presumptuously beyond the ramparts, and -even cut passages through them, once cowering in alarm below their -shadow! The place quite captivated me; and then the streets themselves, -the strange dark covered pathways, steps up from the street, with the -shops lurking in their shadow! like some of the German towns, Harry told -me. Looking into them from the street, and seeing the stream of -passengers coming and going, through the openings and heavy wooden beams -of the railing; or looking out of one of those openings upon a kind of -street-scenes and life that had nothing in the world to do with the -strange old-world arcade, from which one looked out as from a balcony, -was as good as reading a book about ancient times. It was not like my -dear Edinburgh, to be sure, but it was very captivating; and Harry and I -enjoyed exploring together. It was all new and fresh to us--and it was -spring; and when you have nothing to trouble you much, it is delightful -to see new places, and get new pictures into the mind. Chester was quite -as novel, and fresh, and captivating, though it was only in our own -country, as that German Munich which Harry told me of--Harry had been a -great traveller before he joined, while his father was so long -ill--could have been. - -Lizzie, however, was not nearly so much at her ease as I was. When she -felt herself laughed at, and looked at, and misunderstood, Lizzie fell -back into her chronic state of awkwardness. Her national pride was -driven to enthusiasm by her contact with “thae English.” Lizzie -entertained a steady disbelief that the tongue in which she heard -everybody speak--which was far enough from being a refined one, -however,--was their native and natural speech. “They were a’ speaking -grand for a purpose o’ their ain, to make folk believe they were lords -and leddies,” Lizzie said; and with a still higher pitch of indignation, -“Mem, _you_ aye understood me, though you’re an English leddy; and think -o’ the like o’ them setting up no’ to understand what _your_ lass means -when she’s speaking! I dinna understand _them_, I’m sure,--no half a -dozen words. To hear that clippit English, and the sharp tongues they -have, deaves me. The very weans in the street they’ve nae innocence in -them. They’re a’ making a fashion of speaking as fine as you.” - -“Never mind, Lizzie; you’ll soon get accustomed to them, and make -friends,” said I, with an attempt at consolation. - -“Friends! I never had anybody belonging to me but a faither,” said -Lizzie, who understood relations to be signified by that word: “but I’m -no heeding now; and I’ll soon learn to nip the ends off the words like -the rest o’ them. There’s a grand green for drying, that Mrs. -Goldsworthy calls the back ga’den; and, if you’ll no’ be angry, I can do -the ironing grand mysel’.” - -“You! but I dare not trust you, Lizzie,” said I, shaking my head. “Mr. -Langham would find it out--I mean he would find me out--if they were not -quite so well done; and you don’t consider what quantities of things you -will have to do--to keep the drawing-room nice, and get tea and -breakfast, and wash, and I don’t know what; and yet always to be tidy, -and keep baby all day long. You don’t know what you have on your hands -already, you unlucky girl.” - -“Eh, I’m glad!” cried Lizzie, clapping her hands together with fervour; -and her brown eyes sparkled, and her uncouth figure grew steady with the -delight of conscious energy and power. If she had been eighteen she -would not have been so simple-minded. Never anybody was so fortunate as -I had been in my little maid. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -Very soon we began to get interested in the people round about us; for -we were not here, as we had been in Mrs. Saltoun’s little house, the -only strangers. By means of Lizzie, who was much annoyed at the -discovery, I found out that the house was quite full of lodgers. On the -ground floor there was a foreign gentleman and his servant. The -gentleman was absent at first; but the man, a very fat, -good-humoured-looking fellow, who adopted us all into his friendship -immediately, and expanded into smiles through the railings of the stair -when any of us went up or down, was in full possession. The way that -Lizzie avoided this smiling ogre, and the way in which he appreciated -her panic, and was amused by it, and conciliated and coaxed her, was the -most amusing thing I ever saw. And the way he opened the door for me, -and took off his hat, and laid his hand on his heart and bowed! The good -fellow quite kept us in amusement. When baby, who was getting on -famously and noticing everything, crowed at him, in spite of his great -beard, as children _will_ do to men (it is very odd; but babies _do_ -take to strange men sooner than to strange women, I believe), the fat -foreigner burst into great shouts of delighted laughter, and snapped his -fat fingers, and made the funniest grimaces to please the child. None of -us could speak a single word of his language; we did not even know at -first what countryman he was; but we all got to have the most friendly, -kind feeling for the stranger,--all except Lizzie, who stumbled up and -flew downstairs in her anxiety to avoid his eyes. One bad habit he -certainly had; he smoked perpetually. He smoked cigars--shocking bad -ones, Harry said: he did not even put them down when he sprang out of -his parlour to open the door for me; but only withdrew the one he was -smoking from his full red lips, and held it somehow concealed in his -hand. As he was constantly about in the house, or lingering close at -hand with his great-coat buttoned on round his throat like a cloak, and -the empty sleeves waving from his shoulders, stamping his feet on the -ground, and whistling like a bird, this smell of bad cigars was -perpetually about the house. Poor Mrs. Goldsworthy went up and down with -the most grieved look upon her face. If any one made the least sign of -having smelt anything disagreeable, she held up her hands in the most -imploring way, and said, “What can a poor body do? He’s the obligingest -creatur as ever was! and he don’t know a word of Christian language; and -the gentleman--which is a _real_ gentleman, and none o’ your -make-believes--as good as left him in my charge; and, bless you, if he -will smoke them cigars, and don’t understand a word a body says to him, -what am I to do?” Indeed, for my own part, I had not only a great -sympathy for him, but I could not help liking the fat fellow; and after -a few days it was astonishing how we got used to the cigars. - -Then we ourselves occupied the two next floors. It was a strange little -house; two rooms, back and front, piled on the top of each other four -stories high; the top-story rooms were attics; and there was actually a -lodger in each of those attics! Where Mrs. Goldsworthy and her daughter -slept themselves was more than either Lizzie or I could make out. One of -the attic lodgers was a thin, wistful man, whom I could not help looking -at. He worked at something in his own room, and used to go out to dine. -He was always very neat and clean; but very threadbare, and with a -hungry look that went to one’s heart. Perhaps it was not want; maybe he -was hungry for something else than mere money or nourishment; but -sometimes I am sure I should not have been surprised to hear that he was -starving too. Sometimes he looked at me or at baby in his wistful way, -just as he vanished past us. I can’t say he ever smiled, even at little -Harry; but still we drew his eyes when he chanced to meet us going out -or in. I felt a great compassion for this poor solitary man. He was a -man that might have been found starved, but never would have asked any -charity; at least so I thought of him. I used to fancy him sitting in -his solitary room upstairs by the window, and not by the fire,--for we -never heard him poking any fire, and often saw him at the window,--and -wondered how people could get so isolated, and chilled, and solitary; -how they lived at all when they came to that condition--benumbed of all -comfort, and still not frozen to death. How strange to think of keeping -on living, years and years after one’s heart is dead! Harry said I was -fanciful and continually made stories about people; but I did not tell -Harry one half of my fancies; I don’t know what he would have done to me -if I had; but I did so wish I could have some chance of doing something -to please that old man. - -One day Harry came downstairs with a smile on his face. “There is the -most ludicrous scene going on below; come and look, Milly,” he said, -drawing me to the stairs. I peeped down, and there, to be sure, I saw a -reason for the sound of talking I had heard for a few minutes past. -Lizzie was sitting on the stair, pondering deeply, with a perplexed -face, over a large book spread out on the step above her. She was -holding baby fast in one arm, and staving off his attempts to snatch at -the leaves of the book. Leaning on the bannisters regarding her, and -holding forth most volubly in an unknown tongue, was our fat friend; and -between every two or three words he pointed to the book, making a sort -of appeal to it. The contrast between the two--she silent and -bewildered, confused by her efforts to restrain baby and comprehend the -book--he, the vast full figure of him, so voluble, so good-humoured, so -complacent, talking with his fat arms and fingers, his gestures, and -every movement he made--talking with such confidence that language which -nobody understood--was almost as irresistible to me as to Harry. We -stood looking down at them, extremely amused and wondering. Then Lizzie, -failing to comprehend the book, and hearing herself addressed so -energetically, raised her round eyes, round with amazement, to the -speaker’s face. The unknown tongue awed Lizzie; she contemplated him -with speechless wonder and dismay; until at last, when the speaker made -an evident close appeal to her, with a natural oratory which she could -not mistake, unintelligible as was its meaning, her amazement burst -forth in words. “Eh, man, what _div_ ye mean?” cried Lizzie, in the -extremity of her puzzled wonder. It was the climax of the scene. Though -I thrust Harry back into the room instantly, that his laughter might not -be heard, and smothered my own as best I could, the sound caught -Lizzie’s watchful ears. In another moment she had reached the top of the -stairs, breathless, with her charge in her arms. The puzzled look had -not left Lizzie’s eyes, but she was deeply abashed and ashamed of -herself. Harry’s laughter did not mend the matter, of course. She -dropped baby in my arms, and twisted herself into all her old awkward -contortions. I had to send her away and dismiss Harry into the other -room. Poor Lizzie had never possessed sufficient courage to permit -herself to be accosted by the dreadful foreigner before. - -However, we were not less amused when we heard what Mrs. Goldsworthy -would have called “the rights of it.” Lizzie, with great resolution, -determined to have herself exculpated, came to me with her statement as -soon as she was quite assured that “the Captain” was out of the way. - -“Eh! I came to think at last he was, maybe, a Hielander,” said Lizzie, -“though they’re seldom that fat. And he laid down the book straight -before in the stair. I kent what kind of book it was. It was the book -wi’ a’ kind o’ words, and the meanings. But the meanings just were -English, and the words were some other language. And I kind of guessed -what he wanted, too. He wanted me to look in the book for the words he -said, to tell me what he meant; but eh! how was I to ken where one word -ended and another began? And he just hurried on and on; and the mair I -listened, the mair I could not hear a single word, and looking at the -book was just nonsense; and Master baby, he would try his hand; and oh, -Mem, if you’re angry, I didna mean ony ill, and I’ll never do it again.” - -“Nonsense, Lizzie! I am not angry; but couldn’t you get on with the -dictionary, and help the poor fellow? Were not you a very good scholar -at school?” - -“No very,” said Lizzie, hanging her head in agonies of pleased but -painful bashfulness, and unconsciously uttering her sentiments in -language as puzzling to an English hearer as any uttered by our fat -friend downstairs. “No very,” said Lizzie, anxiously truthful, yet not -unwilling to do herself due credit;--“no _very_, but gey.” - -Here I fear my laugh rather shocked and affronted Lizzie. She stood very -upright, and twisted nothing but her fingers. It would have been as -impossible to persuade her that there was scarcely a person in Chester, -but myself, who could have translated that exquisite monosyllable as to -convince the foreigner that he was actually and positively -incomprehensible in spite of the dictionary. But I will not attempt to -interpret _gey_; it is untranslatable, as we are quite content so many -French words should be. Even into Harry’s head, which should be capable -of better things, I find it quite impossible to convey an idea of the -expressiveness of this word. Lizzie and I, however, knew no other to put -in its place. - -“But a _gey_ good scholar might do a great deal for the poor fellow,” -said I, when I had got over my laughter; “tell him the English names for -things. Try if you can find out his name; but I forgot you were -frightened for him, Lizzie.” - -“Aye, till I thought he might, maybe, be a Hielander,” said Lizzie. -“Though the Hielanders dinna belang to us at hame, they might feel -kindly in a strange place; and I’ve heard folk speaking Gaelic. But this -is no like Gaelic, it’s a’ aws and os; and it’s awfu’ fast, just a -rattle; a’ the words run in to one another. Forbye what harm could he do -me? and the book was straight in my way on the stair; and it gangs to my -heart to set my foot on a book. Ye might be trampin’ ower a bit o’ the -Bible without kennin’; and then he’s very good-natured; and then,” said -Lizzie, her eyes suddenly glowing up, “it would be grand to learn a -language that nae ither body kens!” - -With the greatest cordiality I applauded this crowning argument, and did -all I could to encourage her to persevere with the dictionary, and make -herself interpreter; for I was not wise enough to think that this new -study might possibly be too captivating for Lizzie, and lead her into -neglect of her many and pressing duties. I only thought it was the most -amusing mode of intercourse I ever heard of, and that it would be great -fun to watch its progress. Besides, as she said herself, what harm could -he do her? Poor Lizzie, who might have been in danger at an elder age in -such a comical friendship, was invulnerable to all the dangers of -flirtation at fourteen. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -About this time Harry’s object was attained, and some of the other -ladies of the regiment called on me. I think they were a little -surprised to find me just like other people, and not very much afraid of -them; though I will confess that in my heart I was rather anxious, -thinking whether Lizzie would have the discretion to put baby’s best -frock on, in case they asked to see him. They did ask, of course; and -when, after a few minutes, Lizzie came down, not only with his best -frock on, but with the ribbon I had just got to trim my bonnet for -spring, carefully tied round his waist for a sash, anybody may imagine -what my feelings were! He looked very pretty in it certainly; but only -fancy my good ribbon that I had grudged to buy, and could not do -without! Ah! it is just possible that one’s nursery-maid may be too -anxious to show off one’s baby to the best advantage. However, of -course, I had to smile and make the best of it, and console myself with -bursting forth upon Lizzie whenever they were gone. - -“How could you think of taking my ribbon! oh, Lizzie, Lizzie! and I am -sure I cannot afford to buy another one,” cried I. - -“It’s a’ preened on,” said Lizzie mysteriously, “there’s no a single -crumple in’t; and I made the bows just like what the leddies have them -on their bonnets, and it’s no a bit the waur. But, Mem, the very weans -in the street have a sash round their waist; and was I gaun to let on to -strangers that our bairn hadna everything grand? And he sat still like a -king till I fastened it a’ on. You see yoursel’ it has taken nae harm.” - -“But the pins!” cried I, in horror. “Were you not afraid, you dreadful -girl, to make a pincushion of my boy?” - -Lizzie was fast taking them out, conveying them to her mouth in the -first place, and furtively withdrawing them again lest I should observe -her. Her only answer was to point triumphantly to the child. - -“Would he laugh like that if I had jaggit him?” cried Lizzie. There was -no contesting that proof; so I had to withdraw the ribbon out of their -joint hands immediately, and put it at once to its proper use. This, -however, was neither the first nor the last of Lizzie’s impromptus. -Those great red fingers of hers, all knuckles and corners as they were, -had that light rapid touch which distinguishes every true _artiste_. She -devised and appropriated for the decoration of the baby and “the credit -of the house,” with the utmost boldness. It was not safe to leave -anything which she could adapt to his use in her way. - -The next trial I had was an invitation to dinner, which came for us -shortly after. I set my face very much against it. Long ago, when Harry -used to tell me about their parties, I made up my mind it never would do -for us to begin going to them, however much we might be asked. To be -sure Harry might go. I was always glad Harry should go; but how was I, -who had got no trousseau, like other young wives, when I was married, -but just had one cheap silk dress, bought off Aunt Connor’s ten pounds, -which I made up myself, to go out to dinner? I stood out long and -obstinately; but I had to give in at last, just as I had about the maid -and the lodgings. Harry would not go by himself. He would not decline -the invitation; he said, with a very glum face, that we had better -accept, and leave it to the chapter of accidents to find an excuse at -the time. He did not understand how necessary it was for me to keep at -home. He had been able always to go where he wanted, and keep up with -the rest, and it fretted him dreadfully now to feel the bondage that our -narrow means put us in. You understand he did not object to be -economical in a general way, nor even, indeed, grumbled, the dear good -fellow, at giving up many of his old luxuries; and, at first, he seemed -to be delighted with having no society but our own. But now, when he -began to feel annoyed that his wife was not in the same position as the -others, and when I plied him with all the old arguments--that we dare -not begin such a life or the expense would ruin us, Harry became very -restive indeed. Somehow it seemed to gall and humble him; the idea that -_his_ wife could not go out for want of a dress! He could not put up -with the thought; he jumped up from his chair as if something had stung -him. “It is nonsense, Milly! folly; the merest shortsightedness; you -don’t want half a dozen dresses to go to one dinner, and one dress can’t -ruin us,” cried the unreasonable fellow. He would not understand me or -listen to me. The notion wounded him quite to the heart. He looked so -sulky and miserable that I could not bear to see it. I gave a great -sigh, and gave in again. What could I do? - -“Well, Harry!” said I, “the foolishness is all on the other side, mind; -but if I must give in I can’t help myself. I am only twenty, not twenty -quite. I’ll go in white.” - -“Bravo! you could not do better than go in white!” cried Harry, “there’s -a courageous woman! But why, may an ignoramus ask, should you not go in -white, Milly darling! Isn’t it the dress of all others for a--well, an -ugly little creature like you?” - -“I am not so sure about the ugly,” said I; “and now, please, get your -hat and come out with me. I saw the fashions in a window at the other -end of the street. Let us go and look at them, and then I shall know how -to make it up.” - -“Why can’t you go to the milliner like other people,” growled the -unsatisfied man; “and why, answer my question, shouldn’t you go in -white?” - -I durstn’t confess that I had my own vanity in the matter, and being a -matron, rather despised a white muslin frock to go out in; for if I had -betrayed the least inkling of such a thing, there is no saying what he -might not have done; run up a bill, or paid away all the money he had, -or something; so I stopped his mouth with some foolish answer, and ran -off to get my bonnet. Upstairs baby was sitting on the carpet, with -Lizzie beside him, jumping a little paste-board harlequin to please him. -Her brown eyes were quite sparkling over the loose-legged, insane -figure, as she jerked the string about. I could not help but stand and -look at her for a moment with a startled sensation. She was just as much -amused as baby was. Only to think of such a child being left in charge -of our boy! I went downstairs in consequence with a slower step, after -having given Lizzie a superabundance of cautions about taking care of -him. Only a girl of fourteen! I daresay all this time you must have been -thinking I was mad to trust her; but, indeed, she was a very -extraordinary girl; and after all, when you think it, fourteen is quite -a trustworthy age. She was old enough to know what she ought to do, and -not old enough to be distracted by thoughts of her own. Ah, depend upon -it, fourteen is more single-minded than eighteen; and then Lizzie had a -woman’s strength and handiness along with her child’s heart. - -Not to delay longer about it, we did go to the party. Harry said I -looked very well on the whole; he did not think he would have been -disposed to exchange with anybody. I had no jewellery at all, which was -rather a little humiliating to me; but, to my wonder and delight, Harry -did not object to that. “They’ll only think you’re setting up for -simplicity,” he said, laughing. “I suppose it’s safer to be thought a -little humbug than to have your dreadful destitution known. Come along. -Nobody will suspect you have not a bracelet; only mind you behave -yourself very innocently, like a little shepherdess, and you’ll take -everybody in.” - -I cannot say I very much admired this piece of advice; and if Harry had -thought me the least likely to take it, I am sure he would not have been -so ready with his good counsels. The party disappointed me a great deal. -How is it one reads in books of society being so captivating, and -intoxicating, and all that, and how, when one is used to it, one can’t -do without it? On the contrary, it was as dull--duller than anybody -could imagine! Instead of that delightful stream of conversation always -kept up, and so easy, and so witty, and so clever, you could see -perfectly well that everybody was trying to contrive what they should -say, and to find out things that would bear talking about. The poor lady -of the house was so anxious to keep up the talk that she ate no dinner -in the first place; and in the second, evidently frightened by the -pauses that occurred, kept talking loud herself, and dancing on from one -subject to another till she was quite breathless. Then there was one man -who was expected to make you laugh--people prepared to laugh whenever he -opened his lips; but I am sorry to say I was so indiscreet as only to -stare at him, and wonder what it was about. I caught the eye of the -young lady sitting by him as I did so. She was little,--less than -me,--dark, and very, _very_ pretty. She was only Miss somebody, but she -was dressed more richly than anybody there, and had the most beautiful -bracelets. I could not help feeling a little when I looked at my poor -wrists and my white muslin dress--I who was married, and she only a -young girl; when, just at that moment, she gave me a quick look, lifting -up her eyebrows, and smiling rather disdainfully at the great wit beside -her. Immediately we two were put in communication somehow. I suppose it -was mesmerism. Her eyes kept seeking mine all the time of dinner. The -odd thing about her was that her hair was quite short, hanging in little -curls upon her neck, like a child’s; and of all things in the world, for -such a child to wear, she was dressed in _violet velvet_, the most -beautiful shade in the world. I suppose Harry would have said she was a -little humbug too, and did it for effect; but, to be sure, it must have -been wealth and not poverty that did it in her case. When we went up to -the drawing-room after dinner, she very soon made her way to me. The -other ladies, most of them belonging to the regiment, had come round me, -and were doing their best to discover why I had been kept in the dark so -long, and whether anything could be found out about me. I stood at bay -pretty well, I think; but when Miss Cresswell came in, somehow all at -once, like a fresh little breeze, in her soft velvet dress, to the sofa -beside me, I really felt I could have laid down my head on her shoulder -and cried. To be sure it was very foolish; one can smile and keep up -when one is being baited, and when one finds a real friend after being -aggravated out of one’s life, it is only natural to feel disposed to -cry. I say a real friend, though I never saw her before,--it was -mesmerism, I suppose; we took to each other at once. - -We had got quite intimate before the gentlemen came upstairs. I had told -her where we lived, and she promised to come and see me, and we had -found out a great many opinions we had in common. Things were different, -however, when the gentlemen appeared. All the young men hovered about -Miss Cresswell. There were few young ladies, and she was certainly much -the prettiest; and, I am very grieved to have to say it--I cannot deny -that she _did_ flirt a little. She was disdainful, and would take no -notice of anybody at first, but by degrees she did come to little bursts -of flirtation; and I am afraid she liked it too. Then there began to be -things said about her and me which displeased me. We were “Art and -Nature,” somebody said; and some of the gentlemen evidently entertained -the same feeling that Harry indicated, when he said they would suppose -me a little humbug. Evidently we were both thought little humbugs, -sitting by each other to set each other off. Some of them, I do believe, -thought it had all been made up beforehand. Certainly we were a strange -contrast; I, in my plain white dress, with no ornaments; she in velvet, -with such a quantity of jewellery. But to have people looking at me, and -contrasting me with Miss Cresswell, and making jokes upon my dress and -hers, was what I did not choose to put up with. People accustomed to -society may like it, but I did not. So I got up and took Harry’s arm, -and went to look at a picture. Nobody spoke to us for some five minutes -or so, but we were close to some ladies talking with all their might. -Then some one touched my arm, and I saw Miss Cresswell had followed me, -and brought an old gentleman with her. This was her father. I got behind -one of the talking ladies to veil my “simplicity,” that there might be -no more nonsense about it. The ladies were talking of women working. -Oh, so little they knew or pretended to know about it; I wonder what -they would have thought if they could have seen my laundry operations; -or, indeed, I wonder, under all their fine talk, whether they had not, -of mornings, some work to do themselves. However, I only tell this from -the glimpse it gave me of my new friend. - -“It is all very well to speak of hardships,” cried Miss Cresswell. “_I_ -can’t see any hardship in doing one’s work. Ah! don’t you think they are -very happy who _have_ something to do?--something they must do whether -they like it or not. I hate always doing things if I like! it is the -most odious, tiresome stuff! If I like! and if I like it pray, what is -the good of it? It is not work any longer, it is only pleasure.” - -“My dear child,” said one of the old ladies, “be thankful you have so -much ease and leisure. Your business just now is to please your papa.” - -Here the old gentleman burst in with a long slow laugh, “To worry him, -you mean,” said Mr. Cresswell; “tell her of her duty, Mrs. Scrivin. Ah, -my dear lady, she’s contrairy!” he cried, shaking his head with a -certain air of complacence and ruefulness. Miss Cresswell gave him such -a flashing, wicked look out of her dark eyes, and then seized my hand to -lead me away somewhere. She was not a dutiful good girl, it appeared; -she did not look like it. Now she was roused up, first by flirting, and -then by rebellion and opposition, you could see it in her eyes. I am -sorry, I am ashamed to confess it--but I do believe I liked her the -better for being so wicked. It is very dreadful to say such a thing, but -I am afraid it was true. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -Our fat Italian friend below stairs began to give us great amusement -just then. Wherever he went he carried under his arm that square volume -as fat as himself, in which Lizzie was at present pursuing her occult -and bewildered studies. To see Domenico (for that was his name), coming -to a sudden halt straight before you, blocking out all the light from -that tiny passage which Mrs. Goldsworthy called her “hall,” and -announcing, with a flourish of his dictionary, that he had something to -communicate, was irresistibly comic certainly; but it was a little -embarrassing as well. Domenico’s verbs were innocent of either past, -present, or future. I presume he was quite above any considerations of -grammar, except that supplied to him by nature, in his own language, and -was not aware that such a master of the ceremonies existed to introduce -him to the new tongue, which the poor fellow found so crabbed and -unmanageable. I have heard of people managing to get on in foreign -countries with a language composed of nouns and the infinitive of verbs -(I honestly confess, that when I heard this story first, I had very -vague ideas of what the infinitive of a verb was); a primitive savage -language containing the possibilities of existence; eating, drinking, -and sleeping; but quite above the conventional uses of conversation. -Domenico’s ambition was far higher, but his information was absolutely -confined to those same infinitives. He knew the word only as it stood in -the dictionary--what were tenses and numbers to him? But you will -perceive that a conversation conducted on these principles was -necessarily wanting in precision, and that the conversing persons did -not always understand each other with the clearness that might have been -desired. - -One clear spring morning, a few days after the party, I was going out -about household affairs, when Domenico stopped me on the way to the -door. He had his coat off, and the immense expanse of man in -shirt-sleeves, which presented itself before me, cannot be expressed by -description. As usual, he was smiling all over his face; as usual, his -red lips and white teeth opened out of his beard with a primitive -fulness and genial good-humour; as usual, he seized his beard with one -hand as he addressed me, opening out his big dictionary on the table -with the other. “Signora,” cried Domenico, “the master my--me, of me,” -first pointing at himself, and then, to make assurance sure, boxing his -chest emphatically, “the my master,--Signora understand?--come back.” - -“What?” cried I, “he has come back, has he, Domenico?” - -Domenico nodded a hundred times with the fullest glee and rapture. -“I--me--Domenico,” he cried, again boxing himself, that there might be -no doubt of his identity, “make prepare.” - -From which I divined that the master was not yet returned; and, nodding -half as often as Domenico, by way of signifying my entire content and -sympathy, foolishly concluded that I was let off and might pass. -However, Domenico was not yet done with me. - -“The Signora give little of the advice,” said Domenico, with unusual -clearness, opening the door of his parlour, and inviting me by many -gestures to enter. I looked in, much puzzled, and found the room in all -the agonies of change. The carpet had been lifted, and the floor -polished, which, perhaps, explained the sounds we had heard for some -days. I cannot describe how the mean planks of poor Mrs. Goldsworthy’s -little parlour, many of them gaping apart, looked under the painstaking -labours of Domenico. He had contrived to rub them into due slipperiness -and a degree of shine; but the result was profoundly dismal, and -anything but corresponding to the face of complacency with which -Domenico regarded his handiwork. The fat fellow watched my eyes, and was -delighted at first to see my astonishment; but, perceiving immediately, -with all the quick observation which our straitened possibilities of -speech made necessary, that my admiration was by no means equal to -surprise, his countenance fell. “He not pleases to the Signora,” said -Domenico. Then he hastened to the corner where the rejected carpet lay -in a roll, and spread a corner of it over the floor. I nodded my head -again and applauded. Domenico’s disappointment was great. - -“But for the sommere?” said Domenico with a melancholy interrogation. - -“It is never so warm in England,--cold, cold,” I said, with great -emphasis and distinctness. Domenico heard and brightened up. - -“Ah, thank! ah, thank! not me remember. England! ah! Inghilterra! no -Italia! ah, thank! the Signora make good.” - -The Signora was permitted to consider herself dismissed, I concluded by -the bows that followed, and I hastened to the door, outstripping, as I -thought, the anxious politeness of the fat Italian. But I wronged his -devotion: with that light step, which was so ludicrously out of -proportion to his enormous figure, he swung out of the room to open the -door for me, and accomplished it in spite of my precipitation, taking in -his vast dimensions somehow so as to pass me without collision. I went -about my business with all the greater lightness after this comical -encounter, and a little curiosity, I confess, in respect to the master -who was coming home. Harry had heard of him already, as having quite a -romantic story attached to him. He had come to Chester to see some lady -whom he was quite confident of finding, and had been hunting all the -neighbouring country for her without meeting anybody who knew even her -name. It was supposed he had gone to make inquiries somewhere else, and -now he was coming home. I got quite interested about it. I pictured him -out to myself quite a romantic Italian, of course, with long hair, and a -picturesque cloak, and possibly a guitar. I made up a story in my own -mind, like that story of the Eastern girl and A’Becket--that prettiest -story! I could fancy Domenico’s master, not knowing much more English, -perhaps, than Domenico, wandering about everywhere with _the name_ on -his lips; for, of course, it must be a love-story. It is impossible to -imagine it could be anything else. - -In the evening, when Harry and I were going out for a little walk, -Domenico suddenly presented himself again, and stopped us. This time he -was beaming broader than ever with smiles and innocent complacent -self-content. He invited us into the parlour with a multitude of bows. -Harry, who had heard the morning’s adventure, went immediately, and I -followed him. The room was all in the most perfect tidiness; Mrs. -Goldsworthy’s hideous ornaments were put in corners, ornaments of any -kind being apparently better than none in Domenico’s eyes. But the -mantel-piece, where the little flower-glasses had heretofore held sole -sway, was now occupied by some plaster figures bought from some -wandering image-merchant, whom Domenico had loudly fraternised and -chattered with at the door some days before. In the middle was a bust of -Dante, upon which the Italian had placed a wreath of green leaves. The -walls were covered with cheap-coloured prints in frames--I suspect of -Domenico’s own manufacture; such prints as people fasten up, all -frameless in their simplicity, upon walls of nurseries: gay, bright, -cheap, highly-coloured articles, which quite satisfied the taste of -Domenico, himself a child in everything but size and years. It was -nothing to his simple mind that they had no money value, and I suppose -no value in art either. I don’t suppose Domenico knew anything about -art, though he was an Italian. But he knew about decoration! He had made -the walls blush and smile to welcome the new-comer. I trust his master -was no artist either, and could appreciate the adornments which made the -face of Domenico beam. The good fellow was so pleased that he forgot his -dictionary; he burst forth into long explanations, interspersed by -bursts of laughter and gestures of delight, in his own tongue. He threw -open the door of the little room behind to reveal to us the arrangements -of his master’s bedchamber. He explained to Harry--at least I have no -doubt, by the way he pointed to the carpet, and the frequency of the -word Signora, that this was what he meant--all about the carpet and his -polished floor. At last it suddenly flashed upon Domenico that he was -spending his eloquence in vain. He rushed to the table where his beloved -dictionary reposed; he dashed at its pages in frantic haste, with wild -pantomimic entreaties to us to wait. “Is good? good?” said Domenico, -with an eager expressiveness which made up for his defective verbs. I -applauded with all the might of gestures and smiles; upon which our -friend once more opened the door for us. “To-morrow! after to-morrow!” -said the good fellow. It was then his master was coming home. - -And, I am sorry to say, Harry was rather disposed to laugh at the fat -Italian, and to be sarcastic upon his beautiful prints. Harry did not -know anything in the world about pictures; but he knew how cheap these -were, and that was enough for him, the prose Englishman. I am thankful -to say that I soon reduced him to silence. He declared I was savage in -good Domenico’s defence. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -“Mem, he’s been at the market,” said Lizzie, next morning, “and bought a -hen; and he smiles and laughs to himself like to bring down the house.” - -This was the first bulletin of the important day on which the Italian -gentleman was expected home. - -The next report was more painful to Lizzie’s feelings. “He’s been at the -chapel,” said Lizzie, in a horrified whisper, “and brought hame water to -put in the wee bowlie at the maister’s bedhead. Oh, did you see it? it -has a cross, and--and--a figure on’t,” said Lizzie, with a deep awe, -“and a wee round bowlie for the water. What’ll yon be for? I’m no sure -it’s safe to be in the same house.” - -Lizzie’s horror, however, did not diminish her curiosity. After a little -interval another scrap of information reached my attentive ear. “He has -some veal on the kitchen-table,” said Lizzie, “and if he’s no’ working -at it himsel’! A man! cutting away and paring away, and putting the pan -a’ ready like a woman--and, eh, mem, the wastry’s dreadful. He’s making -holes in’t and stuffin’ them fu’ o’ something. Noo he’s puttin’t on the -fire.” - -That day baby was neglected for the first time. Lizzie was too much -excited and interested--not to say that she had an observant eye and -believed it quite possible that she might receive a hint from this man -of all work--to repress her natural curiosity. The next thing she -reported was a half-alarmed statement that “he was away out again and -left it at the fire; and what if it was _sitting to_[A] before he came -hame?” Lizzie’s dread of this accident carried her off downstairs to -watch Domenico’s stew with friendly anxiety. In about an hour she -re-appeared again. - - [A] A Scotch expression which signifies burned in the pan. - -“He’s come back; and, eh! o’ a’ the things in the world to think upon, -it’s a box of thae nasty things he smokes!” cried Lizzie. “If the -gentlemen smokes tae, we’ll a’ be driven out of the house.” - -Just then, however, another incident occurred which interrupted Lizzie’s -observations. As she went out of the room, in silent despair, after her -last alarming presentiment, somebody evidently encountered her coming -up. “I want Mrs. Langham, please,” cried Miss Cresswell’s voice. “Are -you her maid? Oh, I’m not to be shown into the drawing-room. I am to go -to _her_. Where is she?--in the nursery? Show me where to go, please.” - -“But you _maun_ go to the drawing-room,” said Lizzie, making, as I felt -sure from the little quiver in her voice, her bob to the young lady, and -audibly opening the sacred door of our state apartment. - -“Maun? do you mean must? I never do anything I must,” said Miss -Cresswell. “There now! make haste; show me where Mrs. Langham is.” - -“The drawing-room is the place for leddies that come visiting,” said -Lizzie, resolutely. “I’ll no let ye in ony other place.” - -“You’ll not let me in!--what do you mean, you impertinent child?” cried -Miss Cresswell. - -“I’m no a child,” cried Lizzie. “I ken my duty; and if I was to loose my -good place what good would that do onybody? If ye please, ye’ll come in -here.” - -The pause of astonishment that followed was evident by the silence; then -a little quick impatient step actually passed into that poor little -drawing-room. “You strange little soul! but I’ll tell Mrs. Langham,” -cried Miss Cresswell. - -“I’m no a soul,” said Lizzie; “I’m just like other folk. I’m Mrs. -Langham’s lass; and she kens me different from a stranger. What name -will I say, if ye please?” - -This question was answered by a burst of laughter from the visitor, -which I increased by throwing open the door of my concealment and -disclosing myself with baby in my arms. _He had on his best frock by -accident_, which explains my rashness. - -“How have you managed it?” cried Miss Cresswell; “why, here is a -romance-servant. Dear Mrs. Langham, tell me what you have done to make -her so original--and let me have baby. I have not come to make a call, -as that creature supposed. I have come as a friend--you said I might. -Why must I be brought into this room?” - -“It is the most cheerful room,” said I, evading the question: “however, -Lizzie did not mean to be saucy--she knew no better--but she is the most -famous help in the world, though she is little more than a child.” - -“But then I suppose you must do a great many things yourself?” said my -visitor, looking me very close in the face. - -I felt my cheeks grow hot in spite of myself--if Harry had heard her he -would have been furious; and I daresay many people would have set this -down at once as the impertinence of the rich to the poor. I felt it was -no such thing; but still it embarrassed me a little, against my will. - -“Do you know some people would be affronted to be asked as much?” said -I. - -“I know,” cried Miss Cresswell, with a little toss of her head,--“people -who can’t understand how miserable it is not to _have_ to do anything. -Do you believe in voluntary work? I don’t. I can’t see it’s any good. I -can’t see the use of it. I should like to cook the dinner and keep the -things tidy. I should like to see everything stand gaping and calling -for me till I set it to rights. That’s the pleasure; but as for saving -somebody else trouble, why should I do it? I can’t see any advantage -whatever in that.” - -“Then you would not have me save Lizzie or the landlady some trouble -when I can?” said I. - -“That is totally a different thing,” said the impetuous little girl; -then she started, in a manner to me inexplicable, and gazed out of the -window near which she was sitting. “Mr. Luigi!” she exclaimed to -herself; “now I should so like to know what he wants here.” - -Just then there was the noise of an arrival at the door; of course it -must be the Italian gentleman. “Who is he?” said I. “If it is the -Italian, he lives here.” - -Without making any immediate reply, Miss Cresswell clasped her hands -softly together. “How strange!” she exclaimed. Of course it was her own -thoughts she was following out, but they seemed sufficiently interesting -to rouse my attention. I occupied myself in the meantime with baby, -feeling that it would be the merest cruelty to call upon Lizzie at this -climax of the day’s excitement. And Miss Cresswell leant forward, -carefully drawing out the curtain of the window to shade her, and -watching the return of Domenico’s master. Her colour was a little higher -than it had been previously, and she seemed to have quite quietly and -comfortably forgotten my presence, I was amused; and, if I must confess -it, I was in a condition to be easily affronted as well. At last she -recovered herself, and blushed violently. - -“I don’t know what you will think of me,” she cried; “but it _is_ so -strange--my godmamma had the last news of his going, and I have the -first intelligence of his return. Do you know, there is quite a story -about him. He has come here to seek out a lady whom nobody ever heard -of; but I do believe, whatever any one may choose to say, that godmamma -Sarah knows.” - -“Knows? Will she not tell, then?” said I. - -“Look here,” said Miss Cresswell; “she was once a great beauty; and I -believe, if you never will tell anybody, that she’s a cruel, wicked old -woman. There! I did not mean to say half so much. She got so agitated -whenever she heard what Mr. Luigi wanted that nobody could help finding -her out; but, though I am certain she knows, she will do everything in -the world rather than tell.” - -“But why?” - -“Oh, I cannot tell you why. I know nothing at all about it; and -remember,” cried my imprudent visitor, “that I tell you all this in the -greatest secret! I would not tell papa nor any one. I said it to my own -godmamma just as it came into my head, and put her into such distress, -the dear old soul! My own idea is, that godmamma Sarah does it only for -spite; but her sister, you know, has a different opinion, and is -frightened, and does not know what she is frightened about. I daresay -you will think me very strange to say so,” said Miss Cresswell, again -blushing very much, “but I should like to meet Mr. Luigi. I am sure he -is somehow connected with my godmothers: I cannot make out how, I am -sure; but I am quite certain, however unlikely it may be, that godmamma -Sarah knows!” - -She seemed quite excited and in earnest about it; so, as all her -thoughts were turned that way, I told her our amusing intercourse with -Domenico, and what good friends we were. Though she laughed and clapped -her hands, she was too much engrossed with her own thoughts evidently to -be much amused. She was most anxious to know whether I had heard -anything of Mr. Luigi; whether the landlady talked of him; whether I -knew how he came to Chester. She told me the story I had heard dimly -from Harry in the most clear and distinct manner. On the whole, she -filled me with suspicions. If I had not seen her flirting so lately, I -should certainly have fancied her in love. - -“You know him, then?” said I, after hearing her very steadily to an end. - -“Not in the least,” she cried, once more blushing in the most violent, -undisguisable way. “How should I know him? Don’t you know I have no -brothers or sisters, Mrs. Langham? and can’t you suppose that papa has -exactly the same people to dinner year after year? Ah, you are quite -different! You have your own place, and can choose your own -society--choose me, please, there’s a darling! My name’s Sara; quite a -waiting-maid’s name; let me have baby and come and help you. As for -saying he would not come to me, it is nonsense. I will tell you exactly -how many friends I have,--Godmamma, who is more than a friend, of -course, but no relation; my old nurse, whom I _never_ see, and who lives -a hundred miles off; and old Miss Fielding, at the rectory. Now only -think how much I am alone! You are quite new here; you can choose for -yourself--choose me!” - -“With all my heart!” said I. I was so much surprised by her ignorance -and her free speech, that, though I liked her very much, I really did -not know what more to say. - -“I suppose, then, I may take off my bonnet?” she said, quite innocently -looking up in my face. - -If she had rushed to kiss me I could have understood it. If she had -declared we were to be friends for ever, I should have quite gone in -with her; but, to take off her bonnet! that was quite a different -matter. I am sadly afraid I stammered and stared. I wanted a friend as -much as she did--but men are such strange creatures. What would Harry -say when he came in? - -However, Sara Cresswell did not wait till I finished considering. In -five minutes after she was sitting on the carpet at the window with -little Harry, playing with him. The child was quite delighted. As for -me, I was too much taken by surprise to know whether I was pleased or -not. Harry was to dine at mess that night; and, of course, I had only -meant to have tea all by myself in the little back room. What was to be -done? I am sorry to say I was very much tempted to improvise a dinner, -and pretend that it was just what I always did. I think the thing that -saved me from this was looking at her with her little short curls; she -looked so like a child! Besides, if we were really to be friends, was I -to begin by deceiving her? Much better she should know at once all our -simple ways. - -“You will have no dinner,” said I, faltering a little. “Mr. Langham goes -out, and I only take tea.” - -“That is exactly what I like. Dinners are _such_ bores!” said Sara, with -the air of one who belonged to us and had taken possession. - -It was getting quite dark, and the lamps were being lighted outside; of -course it delighted baby very much to be held up to see them, as his new -nurse held him. As she stood there lifting him up, I put my hand upon -her pretty hair. She had quite taken my heart. - -“Have you had a fever, dear?” said I. - -Sara stared at me a moment, then looked deeply affronted, then burst -into a strange laugh. “I forgive you, because you called me dear,” she -cried, starting off with baby to the other window. I suppose, then, it -had not been a fever--some foolish fancy or other,--and no doubt her -friends and acquaintance had pretty well avenged it, without any further -question from me. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -Next morning I was a little amused and a little surprised to think over -all that had happened. The idea of having a friend, who stayed with me -till after nine, and helped to put baby to bed, and interfered with -Lizzie, and turned over all our few books, and asked all sorts of -questions, was the oddest thing in the world to me; and of course when I -told Harry I heard all sorts of jokes from him about female friendship, -and inquiries how long it would last, which made me extremely angry. Are -men’s friendships any steadier, I wonder? I should say _male_ -friendship, to be even with him. Mr. Thackeray is delightful; but he -puts a great deal of stuff into young men’s heads. I allow _he_ may joke -if he likes--to be sure, he does not mean half of it--but do you suppose -_they_ may all follow his example? Not that I mean to infer anything on -Harry’s part that I could not pay him back quite comfortably. But not -meaning Harry in the least, I don’t see why I should not do my little -bit of criticism. I was just beginning to read books at that time, and -everything was fresh to me. All the foolish lads think they are quite as -wise as Mr. Thackeray, and have quite as good a right to think -themselves behind the scenes. I suppose there never was anybody who did -not like to feel superior and wiser than his neighbours. I would put -Domenico’s laurel wreath on Mr. Thackeray’s head; but I should like to -put an extinguisher on the heads of the Thackerians. I should think the -great man would be disposed to knock down half the people that quote -him, could he only hear, and behold, and note. - -However, that has nothing to do with my story. I knew Lizzie must be in -a highly excited state from long repression of her manifold gleanings of -intelligence respecting last night’s arrival; and I went to her as soon -as Harry was out lest any explosion should happen. Lizzie, however, -looked rather downcast as, baby being asleep, she went about her work -upstairs. My first idea was that some jealousy of Miss Cresswell had -invaded the girl’s mind, but that did not explain all the peculiarities -of her manner. She certainly allowed herself to be drawn into an -account of Domenico’s proceedings, which gradually inspired and animated -her; but even in the midst of this she would make a hurried pause, now -and then, and listen, as if some painful sound had reached her ear. - -“It was a very grand dinner. Eh, I never saw onything like the way he -steered, and twisted, and mixed, and watched,” said Lizzie; “he maun be -a real man-cook, like what’s in books; and took up everything separate, -six different things one after the ither; and Sally says there was as -mony plates as if it had been a great party; and the minute before and -the minute after, what was the gentleman doing but smoking like as if he -was on fire; and eh, mem, he maun be a great man yon! Domenico kissed -his hand; but after that,” continued Lizzie, blushing and turning aside -with a strong sense of impropriety, “the gentleman kissed _him_!” - -“That is how foreigners do,” said I, in apology. - -“And after the dinner there was that sound o’ tongues through the house, -you would have thought the walls would ha’e been down. Eh, sic language -for Christians to speak! but, mem, they’re no Christians, they’re -Papishers--is that true?” said Lizzie, with a little anxiety. “Such a -blatter o’ words, and no one a body could understand. No’ that I was -wantin’ to understand; but it’s awfu’ funny to hear folk speakin’, and -nae sense in’t. Eh, whisht! what was that?” cried Lizzie, starting and -stopping short in her tale. - -It certainly was, or sounded, very like a moan of pain. - -“What is it, Lizzie?” - -“Eh, to think of us speaking of dinners, and sic nonsense!--and, mem, -it’s a poor man like to dee with pride, and sickness, and starvation! -What will I do? What will I do?” cried Lizzie. “If naebody else in the -house durst, it maun be me. I’ll no keep quiet ony langer--he canna be -ill at me that was destitute mysel’. I’ll gang and steal the bairn’s -beef-tea, and tell him lies, that it’s his ain. Mem, let me gang. I -canna bear’t ony mair!” - -I stopped her, however, growing very much excited myself. “What is it? -What do you mean?” - -Lizzie, who was choking with distress, eagerness, and excitement, -pointed her finger up, and struggled to find her voice. It burst upon me -in a moment. The poor gentleman in the attic, the threadbare wistful man -who went out to dine, had not been visible for some days. Lizzie told me -in gasps what the landlady had told her. He was ill; he was very poor; -deeply in Mrs. Goldsworthy’s debt. They had noticed that his usual work -had not been on his table for some time, and that no domestic stores of -any kind were in his little cupboard; three days ago he had become too -ill to go out, they did not think he had anything to eat, and he would -accept nothing from them. All yesterday they had not ventured to enter -his room. Sick, starving, friendless--what a picture it was! No wonder -he had hungry, wistful eyes. I lost no time as you may suppose. I sent -Lizzie flying downstairs for the beef-tea. As for asking whether he -would admit me or not, whether he would think it impertinent or not, I -never stopped to think. Another of those moans, more audible this time -because I was listening for it, thrilled me through and through before -Lizzie came back. Bless the girl! in no time at all she had got the -whitest napkin to be had in the house for the tray; and the beef-tea -smoked and smelt just as it ought. I was at the door of the room before -I thought anything about how I was to excuse myself. By mere instinct I -opened the door first; then knocked, merely to warn the inmate of my -coming, and in another moment stood all by myself in a new world. - -Another world! a world of misery, endurance, voiceless passion, and -persistence, altogether unknown to me. He was lying on some chairs -before the fireplace, supporting his gaunt shoulders against the end of -his bed,--before the fireplace, in which there was no fire, nor had -been. It was trim and well-blacked, and filled up with faded ornamental -chippings of paper. His table was beside him, and he leaned one arm on -it; nothing on the table, not even a book, except some old pens, -blotting-paper, and an ink-bottle. His coat buttoned close up to his -neck, with dreadful suggestive secrecy, plainly telling how little there -was below; and the hungry sad eyes, glaring wolfish and frenzied out of -his worn face. He gave a great start when I came in, and either in -passion or weakness thrust one of the chairs from under his feet, so -that it fell with a great noise on the floor. The sound and the movement -made my heart beat. But he took no further notice, only stared at me. I -went forward and put the tray before him on the table, uncovered the -basin, placed everything within his reach. All the while he stared at -me, his eyes contracting and dilating as I never saw the eyes of any -human creature before. I scarcely think he was a human creature at that -moment; at least he was holding to his manhood only by that frantic hold -of pride, which hunger and misery were rending before my very eyes. He -began to tremble dreadfully; the sight of the food excited his weakness; -but he tried to resist till the last gasp. - -“Who are you? and how dare you come to my room and intrude upon me!” he -said hoarsely, and trembling like a palsied man. - -“I am your fellow-lodger. You used to notice my baby when you went -downstairs; and they told me you were ill, and could not go out. When -one is ill there is nothing so good as beef-tea,” said I, trembling a -good deal myself; “even if you cannot eat, you might drink a little, and -it would refresh you. Do pray try, it will do you good.” - -“And how do you know?” he said trembling more and more, till his very -utterance was indistinct, “that I cannot have beef-tea or--or anything -else I like, of my own. Ah!” he ended, with a sharp cry. He put forward -his hand towards it; then he stopped in a dreadful spasm of resistance, -and glared at me. I obeyed my first impulse, and went out of the room -hurriedly. He would not take it while I was there. - -In about five minutes after I went back again with some coals and wood, -in one of Mrs. Goldsworthy’s old coal scuttles. I thought I saw how to -manage him--never to ask permission or make apologies, but simply to do -what was needful. He had emptied the basin, I saw at a glance, and had a -piece of bread in his hand, which he put down when I came in. He said -nothing, but stared at me as I lighted the fire. When my back was turned -to him I fancied he made another stealthy application to the bread. He -would hide the full amount of his misery if it were possible; but it was -only a partial victory he could obtain over himself. - -“Who, who are you?” he said at last. “You--you are a lady, eh? It is not -your business to make up fires?” - -“Yes,” said I, as cheerfully as I could; “but we are poor; and when one -has not much money one has many things to do.” - -At this the poor gentleman gave a great groan. Then, after a little, -gasped, in broken words, “Thank God! creatures like you don’t know the -truths they say.” - -I understood him at once. “No,” said I, “it is quite true; but God knows -all about it, that is a comfort always. Don’t you think if I put the -pillows behind you, you would be more comfortable? Try this. I am quite -sure it is better so.” - -“Ah! but how do you know I can’t have pillows as I please, and whatever -I want of my own?” cried the jealous, delirious pride, waking up again -in his big hollow eyes. - -“I don’t know anything about it,” said I; “but you have nobody with you -just now. If you will not send for any friends, you can’t help having -neighbours all the same.” - -He said, “Ah!” again, and relapsed into his silent stare. But for the -frenzy of desperate want and desperate pride, which only flickered up by -moments, he was too far benumbed with want and suffering to do anything -in the way of resistance. After I had settled him a little comfortable I -went downstairs again, and as soon as baby’s second bowl of beef-tea, -which had been hastily made to take the place of the first, was ready, I -stole that also, and went up with it again. Baby, who was as fat as -possible, could quite well do without it; and I remember having read -that people, who had been in great want, should get food very often but -not much at a time. The poor gentleman was lying with his head on the -pillow and his eyes half shut, the light of the fire glimmering over -him, and a kind of quiet in his attitude. When he opened his eyes they -grew wolfish again for a moment; but he was subdued--the first frenzy -was gone. Somehow he did not seem alone any longer, with that dear good -charitable fire blazing and crackling, and making all the noise it -could, as if to show what company it could be. And this time he actually -drew the basin towards him, and ate its contents before me. I went to -the little window and cried a little privately. Oh, it was pitiful! -pitiful! That morning I am sure he had laid himself down upon these -chairs, mad with want, bitterness, and solitude, to die. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -“You, who would not go out to dinner because you could not afford it!” -cried Harry, “how do you dare venture on such rash proceedings? It -appears to me you have adopted a new member into the family.” - -“Ah, but it is different,” said I; “going out to dinner was a matter of -choice, this was a matter of necessity.” - -“It depends upon how people think,” said Harry, “the priest and the -Levite were of quite a different opinion; but if you mean to have -friends and pensioners, and get rich people and poor people about you, -Milly darling, we’ll have to think of new supplies. I cannot imagine how -it has gone out of my mind all this time. Pendleton actually asked me -to-day whether I had heard anything more about your grandfather’s -house.” - -“My grandfather’s house!” I said; and we both looked at each other and -laughed; our removal had put all that out of our heads. Chester, and new -places to look at, and new people to see, and just the usual disturbance -of one’s thoughts in changing about, had betrayed Harry who was so -anxious about it, just as much as it had betrayed me. - -“I must see after it now in earnest. A thousand pounds or so, you know,” -said Harry, with a kind of serio-comic look, “would be worth a great -deal to you just now.” - -And with this he went out. A thousand pounds or so! twenty would have -been nice; aye, or ten, or even five, more than just our regular money. -However, I only laughed to myself, and went upstairs to my poor -gentleman. After all, I am not so sure that he was a gentleman, or at -least anything unusual in himself. He was very independent, and want, -and a passionate dread of being found out, and made a pauper of, had -carried him to a kind of heroism for the moment. But when he got used to -me, and consented to let me bring him things, he became very much like -other people. He was always eager to get the newspaper and see the news. -I carried him up the Chester paper, which Mrs. Goldsworthy took in just -now. - -When I went into his room, the first thing I saw was two letters on the -table. He was just drawing back, and still trembling from his exertion, -for he was still very weak. He put the letters towards me with a little -movement of his hand. - -“I am writing to ask for work; I’m wonderfully steady now, wonderfully -steady; if they would only give me work! Ah, it’s hard times when a man -can’t get work,” he said. - -I glanced at them as he wished me. “Cresswell?” said I; “I think I know -his daughter, Mr. Ward. I’ll speak to her; perhaps she can make him help -you.” - -“She can make him do whatever she likes,” said my friend, with his -wistful eyes; “it’ll be well for him if she don’t make him do what he’ll -repent.” - -“How do you mean?” said I, with some surprise. - -“Well!” said my patient, “it’s a story I don’t understand, and I can’t -give you the rights of it. I was never more than just about the office -an hour or so in the day, getting my copy. You see there’s two rich old -ladies about half-a-dozen miles out o’ Chester, and there’s either some -flaw in their title, or something that way. I know for certain there was -an advertisement written out for the Times, for one Mortimer----” - -“Mortimer!” - -“Yes,” he said, looking at me in his eager way. “I suppose it had been -some day when he had quarrelled with them, and meant to bring in the -true owner; when all of a sudden it was withdrawn, and has never been in -the Times to this day; and Miss Cresswell after that spent a long time -at the Park. Somebody said in the office it was more than likely the -ladies would leave their property to her; and to be sure if that was so, -it would be none of her father’s business to hunt up the right heir.” - -I felt completely dizzy and bewildered; I kept looking down upon the -table, where the letters seemed to be flitting about with the strangest -unsteady motion. - -“And are the ladies called Mortimer?” I said, almost under my breath. - -“Yes; they’re folks well known in Chester, though seldom to be seen -here,” said Mr. Ward; “the youngest one, Miss Milly, is a good creature; -the other one, and her name is Sarah, was a great beauty in her day. I -remember when I was a lad, we young fellows would walk all that way just -to see her riding out of the gates, or driving her grey ponies; they -called her the beautiful Miss Mortimer in those days. I daresay now -she’s as old, and as crazy, and as chilly--but thank heaven, she can -never be as poor, and as friendless, and as suffering--as me.” - -I could not make any answer for a long time. I stood with my hands -clasped together, and my brain in a perfect whirl; these words, Sarah, -Miss Mortimer, the Park, going in gusts through my mind. What did it -mean? I had come upstairs with a smile on my lips about the fabulous -house of my grandfather. Was this the real story now about to disclose -itself? I felt for a moment that overwhelming impatience to hear more -which makes one giddy when on the verge of a discovery; but I did not -want to betray myself to the old man. - -“And do you mean,” said I, holding fast by the table to keep myself from -trembling, “that they are not the lawful owners of their estate?” - -“Nay, I cannot tell you that,” said my patient, very coolly; “but what -could be wanted with an advertisement in the Times for one Mortimer? and -old Cresswell holding it back, you know, as soon as it was likely that -his girl might get the Park.” - -“Do you remember what was the Mortimer’s name that was to be advertised -for? I know some Mortimers,” said I, with a little tremble in my voice. - -“I can’t say I exactly remember just at this moment,” said the old man, -after a little pause. “It wasn’t like a Mortimer name; it was--nay, -stay,--it was one of the cotton-spinners’ names; I remember I thought of -the spinning-jenny directly; something in that way; I can’t tell exactly -what it was.” - -I could scarcely stand. I could scarcely keep silent; and yet I durst -not, for something that choked the voice in my throat, suggest my -father’s name boldly to his recollection. I hurried away and threw -myself on a chair in my own room. All was silent there; but with just a -door between us Lizzie was playing with my boy; and his crows of infant -delight, and her soft but homely voice, seemed to break in upon the -solitude I wanted. I rose from that retreat, and went down to our little -drawing room. There it was Domenico’s voice, round and full, singing, -whistling, talking, all in a breath. Nowhere could I get quiet enough to -think over the extraordinary information I had just received. Or, -rather, indeed it was not either Lizzie’s voice, or Domenico’s, but the -agitation and tumult in my own mind; the beating of my heart, and the -stir and restlessness that rose in me, that prevented me from thinking. -Could it be possible that my father’s languid prophecy, which Aunt -Connor reported so lightly, had truth in it after all? The idea excited -me beyond the power of thinking. I went out and came in. I took up -various kinds of work and threw them down again; I could do nothing till -Harry came in, and I had told him. Then I fancied there might possibly -seem some sense and coherence in the news. If this were to come true, -then what prospects might be dawning upon us! In this sudden -illumination my past dread returned to me, as a fear which has been -forgotten for a time always does. The war! if Harry’s wife turned out a -great heiress, must not Harry himself cease to be a soldier and enter -into his fortune? Ah me! but he would not; he would not if I should ask -him on my knees; not, at least, till he had taken his chance of getting -killed like all the rest. - -This threw me back, with scarcely a moment’s interval, into the full -tide of those thoughts which had tortured me before we came to Chester. -I got up from my chair and began to walk about the room in the -restlessness of great sudden apprehension and terror. All my trouble -came back. My fears had but been asleep, the real circumstances were -unchanged; even to-day, this very day, Harry might be ordered to the -war. - -He saw my nervous, troubled look in a moment when he came in; he was -struck by it at once. “You look as you once looked in Edinburgh, Milly,” -he said, coming up to me; “what is the matter? Something has happened -while I have been away?” - -“Harry,” cried I, with a little excitement, suddenly remembering that I -had news to tell him. “I have found the Park and the Sarah; I have found -the estate I am heiress to; I have found out something far more -important than that old red-brick house; and, do you know, hearing of -this brought everything to my mind directly, all my terrors and -troubles. Never mind, I’ll tell you what I heard in the first place. It -was from my poor gentleman upstairs.” - -Harry, who had heard me with great interest up to this point, suddenly -shrugged up his shoulders, and put his lips together with that -disdainful provoking whew! with which men think they can always put one -down. - -“Oh, indeed, you need not be scornful!” said I; “he writes papers for a -lawyer, and had a very good way of knowing. He says Mr. Cresswell had an -advertisement all ready to be put into the Times some months ago, for -one Mortimer, whose name reminded him of a spinning-jenny. But it never -was sent to the paper, because Miss Cresswell went out to the Park, and -it was thought the ladies would make her their heiress; but it was -supposed there was some flaw in their title, and that this Mortimer -would be the true heir.” - -“The Park, and the ladies, and Miss Cresswell, and it was supposed? By -Jove, Milly!” cried Harry, with great vehemence, “do you see how -important this is?--have you no better grounds than it was thought, and, -it was supposed?” - -“You are unreasonable, Harry; I only heard what he had to say; and, -besides, it might not be my father, nor the same people at all. _He_ -could not tell me, I only heard what he had to say.” - -But this explanation did not satisfy Harry; he became as excited as I -had been, but in a different way. He snatched up his hat, and would have -gone at once, on the impulse of the moment, to see Mr. Cresswell, had -not I detained him. The news had the same influence on Harry that it had -on me. It woke us both out of that happy quiescence into which we had -fallen when we came here. We were no longer dwelling at peace, safe in -each other’s society; once more we were thrown into all the agitation -that belonged to our condition and prospects. - -Harry was a soldier, ready to be sent off any day to the camp and the -trenches, gravely anxious about a home and shelter for his wife and -child; I, a soldier’s wife, ready at any moment to have the light of my -eyes torn from me, and my life cut in twain. After the first hurried -burst of consultation, we were both silent, thinking on these things. -Certainly it was better that we should have been aroused. The reality -coming at once, all unapprehended and unthought of, would otherwise have -been an intolerable blow. Now there was little fear that we could forget -again. - -It was natural that we should return to the subject again and again -during the day. Harry drew my father’s old books, and the drawing he had -laughed at, from his own desk, where he had kept them; and with them the -envelope, full of formal documents, which he had written to Aunt Connor -for with so much haste and importance, to substantiate my claim to my -grandfather’s house; there they lay, unused, almost unlooked at. Harry -shook his head as he drew them out. We neither of us said anything. We -were neither of us sorry that we had forgotten all about it for a time. -For my own part, I went away upstairs very like to cry. This -information, which had thrown us back into so many troubles, might never -come to anything; and even if it did, what difference would that make? -Harry, if I was found out to be a king’s daughter, would never leave his -profession, or shrink from its dangers, while this war lasted. My -pleasant forgetfulness was over now. He was looking at this subject in -the same light he had looked at it before we left Edinburgh;--it would -be a home for me. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -It was an agitated, troubled day. The accidental nature of the -information, calmly told to one who was supposed to have no interest in -it; the coincidence of the names; the startled feeling we had in thus -being suddenly brought into contact with people nearly connected with -us, who were unaware of our existence, and of whose existence we had -been unaware, acted very powerfully on our imaginations. I don’t think -either Harry or I had a moment’s doubt upon the subject. As to the -identity of the persons, certainly none; and I confess that I, for one, -received with perfect faith the suggestion that there was a wrong -somehow in the matter, and that my father had turned out to be the true -heir. It never occurred to me to imagine any other reason for the -suppressed advertisement; and Mr. Cresswell, whom I had thought at the -very climax of respectability, suddenly descended into a romantic -lawyer-villain in my excited eyes. - -To add to the agitation of my thoughts, Sara Cresswell chose to take -that day for one of her odd visits. She came in the afternoon to stay -with me till evening. She was clearly quite beyond her father’s control; -not even subject to a wholesome restriction of hours and meal-times; for -she never said her father was out to dinner on the occasions of her -coming, nor accounted in any way for her liberty at his dinner-hour. The -little brougham used to come for her at night, and her little maid in -it--a sign, I suppose, that the father did not disapprove; but that was -all. Only wilful as she was, I confess I had grown to like her very -much. I sometimes lectured her; and once or twice we quarrelled; but she -always came back next time just the same as ever. So quarrelling with -her was evidently useless. I must say I had a very strange sensation in -welcoming her to-day. Could she know her father’s base purposes about -the Park which, according to all appearances, ought to be mine? Could -she have been paying her court to those ladies with the hope of -supplanting the true heir? A glance at her face, only too frank and -daring always, might have undeceived me; but of course, I was bucklered -up in my own thoughts, and could see nothing else. - -“You are ill,” said Sara, “or you are worried; or ’tis I have done -something. If I have, I don’t mind; that is to say, I am very sorry, of -course, and I will never do it again. But if you think you will get rid -of me by looking glum, you are sadly mistaken. I shan’t go. If you won’t -have me for a friend, I shall come for a servant, and fight it out with -Lizzie. Lizzie, will you have me for ‘a neebor?’ Ah, I’m learning -Scotch.” - -“Eh, that’s no Scotch!” cried Lizzie; “ye dinna ken what it is. I’m, -maybe, no that good at learning folk now, for I have to speak English -mysel’.” - -“And Italian, Lizzie!” cried Sara, clapping her hands, and forgetting -all about my “glum” face. - -Lizzie’s elbows and ankles fell almost immediately, and the most -extraordinary blush rose on the girl’s face. “Eh, but it’s funny to hear -_twa_ speaking’t,” cried Lizzie, evading the subject eagerly. The truth -is, she had got overmuch involved in the delightful excitement of the -new language, and in consequence of the ludicrous fascination of the -dictionary, by means of which Domenico and she conducted their -conversations, had come to like the society of that worthy. When I found -him escorting my child-maid and the baby out-of-doors, I thought it was -time to remonstrate on the subject; and my remonstrance had woke a -certain womanly consciousness in the awkward-sensitive girlish bosom of -Lizzie. She was overwhelmed with shame. - -Fortunately, the mention of the “twa” diverted Sara’s thoughts. She had -never ceased to be interested in Mr. Luigi, and I saw a world of -questions in her eye immediately. I hurried her downstairs, not feeling -able, really, for random talk; and troubled, more than I could express, -to think how disappointed Harry would be when he came home full of one -subject, expecting to talk it over with me, and found me occupied -entertaining a stranger,--a stranger, too, who had something to do with -it, who was our rival, and plotting against us, all unaware of who we -were. - -However, as it happened, one of the first things Sara’s eye lighted upon -when we entered the room, was that old drawing of poor papa’s, which lay -on the table. She was the quickest creature imaginable. She had it in -her hand before I knew what she was about. Her exclamation made me start -and tremble as if I had been found out in something. Here was another -witness giving evidence freely, without any wish or contrivance of mine. - -“Why, here is the Park!” cried Sara, “actually the very house! Where, in -all the world, did you get it? Have you been there? Do you know them? -Why, I thought you were quite strangers to Chester! I never knew -anything so odd. Who did it? It is frightfully bad, to be sure, but a -staring likeness. Dear Mrs. Langham, where did you get this?” - -“I got it out of an old book,” said I, with a guilty faltering which I -could not quite conceal. “What Park is it? where is it? I do not know -the place.” - -But I am sure if ever anybody looked guilty and the possessor of an -uncomfortable secret, it was me at that moment. I turned away from Sara, -putting away that envelope with the certificates which Harry (how -careless!) had also left on the table. I am sure she must have felt -there was something odd in my voice. - -“What Park? why, _the_ Park, to be sure. Everybody in Chester knows the -Park; and here is an inscription, I declare!” she cried, running with it -to the window. “Oh, look here; do look here! It must have been some old -lover of godmamma Sarah’s. I never saw anything so funny in my life. -‘Sarah as I saw her last.’ Oh, Mrs. Langham! do come and look at this -comical, delightful thing! Isn’t it famous? She’s as old--as old as any -one’s grandmother. Who could it be? who could it possibly be?” - -“Did you say your godmother?” said I. This was another novel -aggravation. Of course I had heard Sara speak of her godmothers; but, -somehow, I had not identified them with the ladies who were expected to -make her their heir. - -But Sara was too much excited and delighted, and full of glee and -ridicule, to answer me. She kept dancing about and clapping her hands -over the drawing; always returning to it, and indulging in criticisms as -free and as depreciatory as Harry’s had been. It was getting dark, and I -confess I was very glad to sit down a little in the half light, and -repose myself as well as I could while she was thus engaged and wanted -no attention from me. Just then, however, I heard Harry’s foot coming -upstairs, and, to my great wonder and almost alarm, somebody else -entered with Harry. I could scarcely see him as I rose to receive my -husband’s companion. Somebody else, however, saw him quicker than I -did. In a moment Sara had dropped into the shadow of the curtains, and -became perfectly silent. An inconceivable kind of sympathy with her (it -could be nothing but mesmerism) somehow cleared up the twilight in a -moment, and made me aware who the stranger was. It was Domenico’s -master, Mr. Luigi, the Italian gentleman downstairs. - -I cannot tell how the first preliminaries were got over. Of all times in -the world to make acquaintance with anybody, think of the twilight, just -before the candles came in, and when you could scarcely make out even -the most familiar face! We got on somehow, however; we _three_--Sara -sitting all the time dropt down, and nestling like a bird among the -curtains, struck into the most unaccountable silence. I suppose she -thought nobody saw her; whereas, on the contrary, Mr. Luigi, looking out -of the darkness where he was sitting towards the window, saw the outline -of her pretty head against a bit of green-blue sky as distinct as -possible; and looked at it too, as I can testify. - -When candles came at last (Mrs. Goldsworthy had a lamp; but it smoked, -and the chimney broke, and all sorts of things happened to it), after -the first dazzled moment we all looked at each other. Then Sara became -clearly visible, and was forced out of her corner to let the blind be -drawn down. She came forward to the light at once, with just the least -bravado in her manner, ashamed of hiding herself. She had still the -drawing in her hand. - -“Mr. Langham,” said Sara, “do you know this wonderful drawing? I never -was so amused and amazed in my life. Do you know it’s the Park? and my -godmamma Sarah when she was a young lady and a great beauty. To think -you should find it accidentally! And it must have been one of her old -lovers who did it. Oh, please give it to me, and let me show it her. She -would be pleased. She would soon find out whose it was.” - -Here Mr. Luigi, who had taken up one of those old books of my father’s, -which Harry in his carelessness had left upon the table, uttered a very -brief instantly suppressed exclamation. I wonder what _he_ could have -discovered! It was the copy of Racine, which I have before mentioned as -among papa’s books, on which was written the name of Sarah Mortimer. -Sarah Mortimer! Here were we all strangers, or almost strangers, to each -other, all apparently startled by the sound and sight of this name. What -could the Italian have to do with Sarah Mortimer? she who broke poor -papa’s heart, and whom we had found out so suddenly to-day? - -“This lady?” said Mr. Luigi, holding up the book to me with a slight -tremulousness, “Madame will not think me impertinent; does she live?” - -“Indeed,” said I, with a shiver of agitation, “I cannot tell. I do not -know anything about her; her name on that book and the drawing is all we -know. I think she is a ghost. Do you too know her name? Sara, tell us, -for pity’s sake, who is this Sarah Mortimer of the Park?” - -Sara stared at the book with still greater amazement than she had shown -at the drawing. “She is my godmamma,” said the girl, in a disturbed, -amazed tone. “She is Miss Mortimer of the Park. Since you all know her -name, you all know that certainly. How is it you know her? why did you -not tell me? Is there any mystery? it all seems very strange to me.” - -“Then it is that lady,” exclaimed Mr. Luigi--“it is that lady I did meet -in the village.” - -“No,” said Sara, recovering herself in a moment; “you met my other -godmamma, her sister. She told me she had met you. May I ask if you -found the lady in Manchester? Godmamma was very much interested and -anxious to know. Did you find her? have you heard where she is to be -found?” - -Mr. Luigi looked at the book once more; then closed it down firmly with -his hand; then gazed a little anxiously in Sara’s face. “Have I found -the lady?” he repeated like an echo. “Mademoiselle, I do not know.” - -Then the Italian, as if with an instinctive motion, laid his other hand -over the book, and clasped them both upon it as though to hold something -fast. Then to my amazement and to Sara’s--but to something more than -amazement on Sara’s part--something very much like pique and offence--he -turned towards Harry and began to talk on indifferent matters. I had -noticed a half-weary, half-impatient sigh escape him as he laid his -hands over that book; but he showed no other symptom of emotion. The -next moment he was talking in very good English, slightly, very -slightly, broken with now and then a foreign idiom, something about -public affairs. I confess I felt disappointed as well as Sara. He had -recognised that name; somehow it was familiar to him; and his -enigmatical answer had naturally stimulated our curiosity. He left us -behind him staring and wondering, when he suddenly glided from the brink -of some revelation to those quiet remarks upon English politics. Harry, -full of his share of the common excitement, did not enter into it with -half so much heart as Mr. Luigi. Harry blundered and was awkward, his -thoughts being elsewhere. Mr. Luigi was quite undisturbed and at his -ease. Sara scarcely spoke again while he remained; she did all but turn -her back upon him; she showed her pique quite clearly enough to catch -the quick eye of the Italian. Altogether he did not stay very long, -thinking us, I daresay, rather an uncomfortable party; and Harry, -disappointed, as I had expected, not to find me alone, and be able to -hold a comfortable consultation, went downstairs with him to smoke a -cigar. - -“Now they are gone,” cried Sara; “now the man in the iron mask has left -us. I wonder if that is what one would call a romantic Italian? ah! I’d -rather have fat Domenico. Now they’re gone, do tell me, once for all, -what is godmamma Sarah to you?” - -“Nothing in the world that I know of,” said I, faltering a little; “we -have only that drawing and her name in the old book.” - -“I know there is something between her and _him_,” said Sara, returning, -to my great dismay to the other books on the table; “she knows about -him, or he knows about her, or something. You know she was a long time -abroad. What funny old books! Was it among those you found the drawing? -But, stop, here is another Mortimer--Richard A. Mortimer--who is he? -Papa has been their agent for centuries, and I have known them all my -life, but I never heard of a Richard Mortimer. Do tell me, who was he?” - -“Indeed, it is all very odd,” cried I, really fluttered out of my -self-possession. “I wonder what will come of it? It is very strange and -bewildering. Richard Mortimer was my father.” - -“Then you are a relation!” cried Sara; “you must be a relation, there -are so few Mortimers; and your father must have been her lover. Are you -sure, are you quite sure? Why, _your_ name must be Mortimer too! and -Milly! Mr. Langham calls you Milly--Milly Mortimer! Oh, dear, dear! I -never can get to the Park to tell them to-night, and how shall I contain -myself till to-morrow? I knew there must be something that made me love -you so much at first sight. To be sure, that explains everything. Milly -Mortimer! oh, you dear, pretty, good, delightful Mrs. Langham! I am so -glad, so happy! They are my godmothers, and so to be sure we are -relations too!” - -Upon which Sara threw her arms round me in a wild, rapid embrace. I was -so very much shaken and disturbed with all that had happened, that I -could scarcely bear this last. I remember using all my remaining power -to convince her that the relationship was by no means certain still, and -that it was not to be communicated to the ladies at the Park without -further assurance. Sara, however, only overpowered me with caresses and -exclamations. She entirely upset all the remaining strength I had. She -kept us from that consultation which Harry and I were both so much -longing for. She left us at last in terror lest we should be brought -into immediate contact with those unknown relatives. This day of great -news, excitement, and perplexity, was, I think, the most exhausted, -uncomfortable day I ever met with in all my life. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -“It is the oddest business altogether that I had ever anything to do -with,” said Harry, next morning; “one cannot tell what step to take -first. My own idea, of course, is to call on this old Cresswell and get -it all out of him. He evidently is the man who knows.” - -“Ah, but, Harry, if he is one of those scheming lawyers,” said I, “why -should he go and betray his clients for people whom he never heard of -before? and, besides, it would be impossible to tell him how we got -information about it, for you could not speak of the advertisement -without ruining poor Mr. Ward.” - -“Milly, I may be sorry enough for your poor Mr. Ward, but I am more -interested a great deal in your rights,” said Harry; “besides, if -everything came true we could make it up to him. I see nothing for it -but going to old Cresswell. He will be glad--since he did think of an -advertisement--to have such a rod of terror to hold over the heads of -his old ladies; at all events we shall know what it is. It might come to -nothing after all,” said Harry, with a little sigh, “and there is -nothing more injurious than to be kept uncertain. Why, to tell the -truth, I feel extravagant this morning: I got up with the feeling. I -should like to go and ruin myself in accordance with the sentiment of -the moment. If it’s all true, why should we be economical?--your -grandfather’s red brick house on one side, and this Park on the other. -We’re lucky people, Milly. I’ll either go and see old Cresswell and have -it out with him, or I’ll go and throw away every shilling I have.” - -“Ah, Harry, give it to me,” I said, holding out my hands; “but I don’t -believe you have any money, so it doesn’t matter. Only--just wait a -little, please; don’t let us do things hastily. Think of thrusting our -claims suddenly upon two old ladies who perhaps have enjoyed it all -their life. Only think of us two, young and happy, disturbing the lives -of two old people who are not so fortunate as we are! Not to-day; let us -try to get other proof first. Try if Mr. Pendleton knows anything--write -to Haworth again. At least, don’t let us be hasty; a day or two cannot -matter; and I don’t trust this Mr. Cresswell,” cried I, with some -vehemence. “He cannot be honest, or he would not have done such a -thing.” - -Harry laughed at my earnestness. He said lawyer-villains had gone out of -fashion, and that there were no Mr. Gammons now-a-days. The truth is, we -had both been reading novels since we came to Chester, and I am not at -all sure that Harry was as sceptical about Mr. Gammon as he professed to -be. But, to my consolation, he went out without any definite purpose of -beginning his proceedings. “I daresay old Cresswell is an old humbug,” -said Harry. “I’ll see whether there is not some other old fellow about -who is up to everybody’s genealogy; surely there ought to be some such -person about the Cathedral. And I’ll write to Pendleton, Milly. To be -sure, there is nothing to hurry us. ‘Let us take time, that we may be -done the sooner.’ I’ll do nothing desperate to-day.” - -When he was gone I felt a little sense of relief. I sat long in the same -chair, with the table still littered with the breakfast things, -neglecting my duties and even baby. He had been brought downstairs -before Harry went out, and was now sitting at my feet on the carpet, -playing with my work-basket, which much contented him. I did not observe -the havoc that was taking place, but sat still in a tumult of thoughts -which I could not describe. I suppose nobody ever did come to a sudden -knowledge--or even fancy--that they might be found out heirs of a great -estate without feeling fluttered. I was half afraid of the thought, yet -it had a strange, vague, bewildering exhilaration in it. Sometimes a -trembling shadow would cross my mind of my old spectre; but it had faded -again to-day into the agitation of surprised and trembling hopes. One -does not always feel the same even about one’s own terrors. And, upon -the whole, I felt raised into a kind of general elevation, thrust up -above myself into another region, capable of being kinder, more liberal -and magnanimous than I had ever felt before. I suppose it must have been -the same feeling which Harry had when he said he felt extravagant. I -could have emptied my purse to a beggar, I believe,--at least I could -have found it in my heart to give him sixpence instead of a penny,--to -such an extent had this vague, exhilarating _rich_ feeling carried me -away. - -Lizzie looked a little mysterious when I called her at last. She was -bursting with something to tell; and when I addressed some ordinary -question to her, her news broke forth suddenly without any introduction. -“Eh, the gentleman’s awa’ again,” cried Lizzie, “and he thinks she maun -be found or heard tell o’--he thinks there _maun_ be word of her. The -gentleman’s awa’ back where he was, to bring something he left, and -‘Menico says, as sure’s death she maun be found.” - -“Who must be found?” - -“Eh, mem, it’s the leddy! They came a’ this gate, ower the hills and the -seas, to find a leddy. I canna just understand wha she is,” said Lizzie, -“but she’s some freend; and ‘Menico’s clear she maun be found now, and -he’s dancing like to bring down the house for joy.” - -“But you don’t look very joyful, Lizzie; what is the matter?” said I. - -Lizzie made a desperate effort to restrain herself, but, failing, burst -into violent tears. “Eh, he’s written me a letter!” cried the girl, -sobbing; and then, with much fumbling, eyes blind with tears, and a face -all glowing with shame, the letter came forth from the bosom of Lizzie’s -dress, and was thrust into my hand. - -Alas for my self-congratulations over Lizzie’s childish age! Fourteen, -after all, it appeared, was no safeguard. But I was as much amused as -troubled when I undid Domenico’s letter. It was written on odd thin -paper, in a very tolerable hand; it was addressed to _the_ Elizabeth -Bain, and its contents were as follows: - - “To the my little good Lessee. - - “You be good child; if the lady yours will, I take you to the - theatre after to-morrow, for gratitude. To me you show of bounty, I - to you of thanks. There be grand sight at the theatre which will - please to you. Show the Signora yours this letter mine, and ask if - permission. It will much please to me to make festa for my little - good Lessee. There be none word in English for festa, for because - the English not know to make it. - -“DOMENICO.” - - - -“But, Lizzie,” cried I, in surprise, “there is nothing in this to cry -about. He only means to be kind, poor fellow. There is not a word in all -this that sounds like----” - -Love-making, I was about to have said, but paused, partly in respect for -the innocence of the girl, and partly ashamed of myself for my -instinctive suspicion that flirtation was inevitable when “a foreigner,” -however fat, was in the case. Lizzy had wiped her eyes and was looking -at me wistfully, quite ready to sob again. - -“Oh, it’s no him,” cried Lizzie; “he’s a papist, puir man, and he -doesna ken ony better. But oh, mem, it’s me--me that was weel brought -up, and learned the catechism and ay gaed to the kirk; and what will I -do? what will I do?” - -“For pity’s sake, Lizzie, tell me what is the matter?” cried I, really -alarmed. - -Lizzie burst into tears once more. She wiped her eyes with her apron, -with hot and humid hands; then, casting a pathetic glance at me from -under the drapery, sobbed forth the dreadful confession, “Oh, mem! -though I think burning shame, and ken it’s dreadful, I canna help it--I -would like to gang!” - -This anti-climax was too much for my gravity, and Lizzie looked on with -moist, uncomprehending eyes at the burst of laughter which I could not -restrain. Poor Lizzie! I have no doubt she thought me very heartless -neither to satisfy her guilty desires after such vanities, nor her -scruples of conscience and violent shame at her own weakness. Baby, -however, was more sympathetic. Seeing his beloved Lizzie in tears, a -fellow-feeling made him scream in concert. _He_ had to be consoled, -though his nurse went away wistful, trembling lest I should consent, and -lest I should not consent. But privately I confess I was very much -relieved and not a little ashamed of myself. To think I should have -suspected any absurd love-making between these two! I felt ready to go -and ask poor Lizzie’s pardon. But why should not she go to the theatre -and satisfy her mind? Domenico could not be less than twenty years older -than herself. On the whole, this little episode quite increased the -lightness of my spirits. The day was bright, the spring was every hour -becoming more sweet, and as I sat there by myself with my child in the -little back-room, noting the sunshine, which did not reach us, fall -sweet upon the little walled-in gardens at the back, a sudden project -which had already glanced through my mind, became feasible on the -moment. Yes, I should do it. Lizzie and the baby, for a breath of -country air, should go with me. By actual witness of my own eyes I would -identify the Park. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -The next day Harry had duties of one sort and another, which would -completely occupy his time. He had not found any student of genealogy -who could tell him all about the Mortimers of the Park; but he had heard -of one, and, between that and his duty, was full engaged both in person -and thoughts. A better opportunity could not be. I told him I thought of -taking a long walk into the country with Lizzie and baby this beautiful -day; and, except a warning not to go too far and weary myself, Harry had -nothing to say against my intention. I may say, however, that in the -meantime, having consulted with him on the subject, I had plunged -Lizzie’s mind into the most dread commotion of terror, delight, and -curiosity, by consenting to Domenico’s proposal, only adding Mrs. -Goldsworthy to the party, to make all right. - -And it was true that Mr. Luigi had disappeared again; he was only to be -three days gone, Domenico assured us, holding up three of his fingers. -“Tree sola, tree only,” repeated the fat fellow once more, blocking up -the passage as of old; and once more, with that inimitable wheel and -elastic step of his, opening the door before any one could approach it. -I could not help wondering to myself whether the Italian gentleman was -likely to leave Chester before we did; certainly the loss of Domenico -would make quite a difference in the house. I had not thought quite so -much as I might have been supposed to have done about this Italian -gentleman. He too had recognised the name of Sarah Mortimer as having -some influence on his fate. He had left early next morning, as if acting -upon the knowledge he had gained, whatever that might be. It was very -strange; afterwards, of course, I came to lay everything together, and -wonder at myself that I had not seen how things were tending. But at the -moment I was full of my own thoughts; they seemed so very much more -important to me just then than anything else. I dismissed Mr. Luigi with -just half a thought of surprise and curiosity; I dare say Sara Cresswell -had thought more of him. And Sara had not come to me through all that -long intervening day. Could she have gone to the Park to tell the news? -would they acknowledge or pretend to disown us? That was a question far -more interesting to me than all the Italians in the world. - -The private object of my expedition, however, was one I was truly -ashamed to mention to anybody; but, for all that, it had taken a great -hold upon myself. I have said I had been reading novels; and the very -last one we had from the library was “Ten Thousand a Year.” It struck -upon my mind even at the very moment when poor Mr. Ward had told me -first. Those dear, good, delightful, fine, superfine Aubreys! to think -of all their sufferings, the poor dear superlative people--how -dreadfully they felt it to have only a _maid_ waiting at table! Oh me! -and only to think that here might we ourselves be bringing about such -another calamity! Of course you may think it was very fantastical. I do -confess that the dreadful downfall of having only a _maid_ to wait, -seemed to me, at first sight, the most _fine_ distress I had ever heard -of; but it took a hold upon my mind all the same; I could not help -imagining to myself the other side of the picture. It was very pleasant -to think of falling heirs to a great estate, and being lifted in a -moment from poverty into great wealth; but who were those two pathetic -figures turning away from the closed door of the house which had been -their home so long, mournfully settling down in their new straitened -quarters, breaking up all the habits of their lives, missing somehow in -an unspoken way, that it would be ludicrous to express in words, but was -far from ludicrous to feel, all the grander circumstances of their life? -Ah! that was quite a different question. I thought I could see them -sighing over their contracted rooms, their fallen state--not speaking, -falling silent rather, life going out and ebbing away from them. I saw -the two pale old lofty faces, the pride, the submission, the deep sense -of downfall concealed in their hearts, and I felt myself stopped short -in my way. Those ineffable Aubreys, those figures painted on velvet, -those dear porcelain creatures, with their exquisite troubles, had an -effect upon my imagination, even though I might venture to smile at them -sometimes. Superfine people, to be sure, must have superfine -afflictions; and to think of being a Tittlebat Titmouse, and driving out -such angels from their paradise into the cold-hearted, unsympathetic -world, that cared no more whether they had a six-foot footman and a -carriage, than it cared about myself, a subaltern’s poor wife, driving -out of Chester in an omnibus! So this was the real cause of my journey. -I went remorsefully, thinking all the way how Mrs. Aubrey swooned at -all emergencies. I wonder, when they heard the dreadful power we had -over them, would Miss Sarah and Miss Milly swoon in each other’s arms? I -could see them going about, stricken silent, afraid to look at each -other; and it would be all _our_ doing. Remorseful to my very heart, I -went to visit their village and ask about them, and see the house if I -could. Perhaps some arrangement might be made, after all, to prevent any -loss to these poor dear old ladies. I felt as if I could have done -anything for them, my heart was so compunctious and repentant of the -power we had to do them harm. I am not sure my great magnanimousness did -not have a root in what Harry called _feeling extravagant_, as well as -in “Ten Thousand a Year.” - -We went out a considerable part of the way in an omnibus, and then -walked. After a good long walk through a nice country, we saw a pretty -common a little way before us: I call it pretty because some parts of it -were very unequal and broken, having gorse bushes, with here and there a -golden honey-bud among the prickles. To get to the common, we crossed -over a very clean, nicely kept piece of road, straight and smooth, -leading down to the village from the gates of a great house. The house -was too far off to make it out, but I felt my heart beat a little, -knowing, from the description I had got, that it could be no other than -the Park. - -I left Lizzie and her charge seated on the soft grass of the common, -where baby, who had never before known anything so delightful, began to -pluck at the crowflowers with his fat hands; and went down into the -village to buy them some biscuits. I confess I felt very guilty. Going -anywhere all by myself confused me, not being accustomed to it; but I -was not an innocent stranger here; I was a spy in my rival’s kingdom; I -was a Bolingbroke pretending to acknowledge the sway of the existing -sovereign: I was going to traffic with his subjects and tamper with -them. If the village authorities had found me out, and held a -court-martial and hanged me on the spot, I think I should have -acknowledged the justice of their decision. I was a spy. - -It was a nice village--a nice, well cared-for, tidy, yet not too -picturesque or unnatural village; looking as if the richer people about -were friendly and sensible, not interfering too much, but keeping up a -due reverence and influence. Some tall bushes of broom were actually -bursting into yellow streaks over the garden palings--not wall--of a -house standing back a little, which I found out to be the Rectory. It -must have been very sheltered and warm, for it was still only April. -However, though I was full of curiosity, my mind was not sufficiently -disengaged to carry away a clear picture of the village; and when the -women looked out from the doors at me with an instinct that a stranger -was passing, I felt more guilty than ever. I made my way accordingly to -the baker’s as fast as I could, and got some dark-complexioned ponderous -buns there, which I felt sure would rouse Lizzie’s national sense of -superiority to great triumph. Then I made a tremulous excuse of wanting -some biscuits besides, and so got a little time to bring forward the -questions I had prepared. - -“Who is it that lives in the great house at the other end of the -village?” said I hypocritically, pointing with my finger towards the -Park. - -“Who is it?” said the baker’s wife, leaning on her counter with a -certain contempt and admiration of my ignorance; “law bless you, ma’am, -you don’t know this place, seemingly. Them’s the Miss Mortimers, the -oldest family in Cheshire. They’re as well known as the Queen about -here.” - -“I am a stranger,” said I hurriedly. “Are they ladies--I mean are they -young ladies? were there no sons?” - -The baker’s wife leaned back upon a sack of flour, and laughed. “Miss -Milly’s godmoother to half the village,” she said; “she’s none that -young, she’s isn’t. No, there wasn’t no son. I’ve heard my mother say -there was once talk of making Miss Mortimer an ouldest son like, but it -couldn’t be done. They’re cooheiresses, that’s what it’s ca’ed--I’ve -seen it written down myself--cooheiresses of the late Lewis Esquire; -that’s the name it goes by; and as they ain’t married it’s no harm.” - -“Did they succeed their father, then?” said I. - -“And that they did,” cried the woman, “and their father’s father, and -grandfather, and great-grandfather, as far back as I don’t know when; -they’re no mushroom folks, the folks in the Park.” - -I felt very much puzzled and perplexed; how could my father, then, have -anything to do with it? It was very strange. - -“But I suppose the lands were entailed, then, or something of that sort. -Was there never another heir that claimed? I think you must be wrong,” -said I, betraying myself in my wonder and haste. - -The baker’s wife opened her eyes wide and stared; then laughed out -rather scornfully--politeness is not the first rule either of life or -speech in Cheshire. - -“I’ve lived here in the village all my life,” she said; “if I don’t -know, I’d like to hear who should. Nay, nay, there never was a dream of -another heir; they’re surer nor most folks are the Miss Mortimers. There -ain’t scarce one living belonging to them to get it when they’re gone. I -tell you what it is, it’s a mistake. You’re thinking on Eden Hall.” - -“Oh!” said I, “perhaps! I am a stranger here.” - -“Sure you’re strange,” said the baker’s wife; “any one in the village -could tell that. Ne’er a one asked such questions o’ me--nor any -questions at all, but the price of bread, and how the crops are to be, -except that Frenchman with the moustache. You’re not belonging to him, -are you? You’re English by your speech.” - -“Oh yes, I’m English,” cried I, not without a vague momentary vision of -the village court-martial, and being hung up for a spy. “I will take my -change, please.” - -And I took my change, and went away with quickened steps but changed -feelings. I had not the heart to speak to anybody else. I passed old -women at the doors, who, no doubt, could have told something about it; -but I did not venture to make any more inquiries. I was completely lost -in perplexity. The undisputed representatives of a race, the heirs of -father, grandfather, and great-grandfather to unknown antiquity--what -could be urged against their possession? I was startled into sudden -doubt of the whole matter. What if it were all a deception? The very -pathway swam and twisted under my eyes. When I reached the common, and -threw myself wearily on the grass beside little Harry and his maid, I -felt quite a different person from her who had left them there. I gave -Lizzie the coarse buns, but I did not listen to the comments which came -as I knew they would. I was far too much bewildered and shaken out of my -fancies to be amused. After I had rested awhile, I got up, and, taking -them with me, went up, rather faltering, to the gates of the Park. A -little lodge, half hidden among evergreen bushes, was at the gate. I -went forward, Lizzie following me close, to ask if we might be permitted -to look at the house. - -But, just as I was going up to the door, I was accosted by a lady who -came hurriedly forward by a side-path. She held out her hand to stop us -before she came up, and full of fanciful alarm as I was, I stopped, -startled, with again the sensation of having been found out. She was -middle-sized and stout, with a plump, handsome figure and sensible, kind -face--very sensible, very kind, not brilliant at all; and, I think, with -as much perplexed thought and anxiety upon it, as there was on mine. - -“Don’t go into the lodge with the baby, please,” she cried, as soon as -she was near; “the little girl has the hooping-cough. It’s always best -to keep out of the way of danger. If I can tell you what you want, shall -be very glad. I see you’re a stranger; or if you want to see Mrs. -Williams, send away the baby, please. Hooping-cough’s very catching, and -it’s hard upon such a young child.” - -This voice and this speech completely overpowered me. I could not doubt -for a moment that this was one of the Miss Mortimers. I was no longer a -mere spy; I was an unnatural traitor. I motioned Lizzie with my hand to -go away, but stood still speechless myself, the tears rising to my eyes. -The lady stood waiting to see what I wanted, but discovering my -distress, as some people can, came a little closer to me. “Are you ill? -can I help you in anything?” she said, looking very pitifully and kindly -into my wet eyes. - -“No, thank you. I was going to ask if I might look at the Park; but I -must make haste after baby,” I cried. I had the impulse to curtsey to -her as children do; for anything I know I did it. The only thing that I -am certain of is, that as fast as my feet would carry me, I hastened -away. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -We were able to get the same omnibus going home, which I was very glad -of, for the strange defeat I had received made me feel doubly weary with -the walk, which, after all, had not been a very long one. There was only -one person in this omnibus, which was not a town omnibus, you know, but -one which went between Chester and an important village, seven or eight -miles off. He was an elderly man, very well dressed in black, with a -white cravat. To tell the plain truth, I took him for a dissenting -preacher by his dress; and as he looked very serious and respectable, -and was very polite in helping us to get in, we had some little -conversation after a while. When he saw me look at the houses we passed -with an appearance of interest, he told me the names of them, or who -they belonged to. He was exceedingly polite and deferential, so polite -that he called me ma’am, which sounded odd; but I could only suppose he -was an old-fashioned person and liked such antiquated ways of -expression. I confess a suspicion of his real condition never crossed my -mind. But he evidently knew everybody, and after a while my prevailing -idea woke up again. - -“Do you know,” said I, with a little hesitation, “the family at the -Park--the Miss Mortimers? I should very much like to hear something -about them.” - -“There’s nobody I know better, ma’am,” said our companion with a slight -look of surprise; “I’ve been with--that is, I’ve known ’em this fifty -years.” - -“Oh, then will you please tell me how they succeeded?” said I; “how did -they come into the estate?” - -“How they succeeded?” said the stranger, with a certain slow wonder and -amazement; “why, ma’am, in the natural way, after their father as was -Squire before them.” - -Here I could not help thinking to myself that the dissenting clergy must -be dreadfully uneducated, if this were one of them. - -“But was there never any gap in the succession?” said I; “has it been in -a straight line? has there been no break lately--no branch of the family -passed over?” - -“Bless you, ma’am, you don’t know the Mortimers,” said our friend; -“there’s never enough of them to make branches of the family. There was -a second cousin the young ladies had a many years ago, but I never heard -of no more of them, and he was distant like, and had no more thoughts of -succession than I had. If that gen’lman was alive or had a family, -things might be different now.” - -“How do you mean things might be different now?” cried I. - -“The ladies, ma’am, has never married,” said the man, who certainly -could not be more than a Methodist local preacher at the utmost, “and, -in the course of nature, there can’t be no natural heir.” - -This view of the subject, however, was one totally unsatisfactory to me. -“Are you sure,” said I, “that there never was any other heir spoken -of--that there never was any story about the succession--that there was -never anybody to dispute it with the Miss Mortimers? I thought I had -heard some such story about----” - -“Ah, you’re thinking, ma’am, of Eden Hall, just the next property,” said -he. - -“But was there never any claimant to the Park?” asked I, somewhat -excited. - -“No such thing,” said the man in black, “nor couldn’t be. Bless you, the -family’s well known. There never was so much as a will-case, as I ever -heard on; for why, you see, ma’am, there never was such a plenty of -children to make quarrels. When there’s but two or so, there’s little -can come of quarrelling. No, no! there never was no strange claimant to -our estate.” - -“To _your_ estate, did you say?” cried I, in amazement. - -“No, ma’am, no--no such presumption. I said _our_, and sure I might; -I’ve been with the ladies this fifty year.” - -“Oh!” I exclaimed, much dismayed. This was certainly coming to the very -head-quarters for information. This was no local preacher after all, but -only the Miss Mortimers’ majordomo. If there had been any possible -excuse for it, I should certainly have got out of the omnibus -immediately, so utterly confounded and taken aback did I feel. But as we -were still some two miles out of Chester, and we were all tired, and -baby cross and sleepy, I had to think better of it. However, in my -consternation I fell into instant silence, and felt really afraid of -meeting the man’s eye. He sat opposite me, beside Lizzie, very -respectful and quiet, and by no means obtruding himself upon my notice. -I cannot tell how shocked and affronted and angry I felt with myself. I -had, I suppose, like most people of my condition, a sort of horror of -men-servants, a sort of resentful humiliation in feeling that I had -mistaken one of that class for an ordinary fellow-traveller, a -frightened idea of what Harry would think to hear of his wife sitting in -an omnibus beside Miss Mortimer’s man. Altogether I was sadly -discomfited and beaten. The Miss Mortimers had got the better of me at -every hand; and I was entirely humiliated and cast down by this last -blow of all. - -The interval was quite tedious and oppressive till we arrived in -Chester. Seeing me look at another house unconsciously as we passed, the -man, most kindly and good-humouredly, I am sure, after my sudden -withdrawal from the conversation, mentioned its name. “That is -Dee-sands, ma’am, the mayor o’ Chester’s place. It ain’t within sight of -the Dee, and there’s none of them sands near here, but they do say it’s -named after a song,” said the good-natured cicerone. “Oh!” said I again, -shrinking back into my corner. He looked at me rather closely after -this, muttering something that sounded like “No offence!” and leaned -back also, a little affronted. It did not occur to me that I was only -drawing his attention to what I had said before by this sudden reserve. -I took care to show no more interest in the wayside villas, and sprang -out with a great sense of relief when we reached the end of our journey. -Happening to glance back when I had reached our own door, I saw that the -omnibus had been delayed by numerous descents from the roof, and was -still standing where we had left it, and that Miss Mortimer’s man had -put his head out of one of the windows, and was watching where I went -to. This circumstance made me enter with great haste and trepidation. -Now, above all, I had been found out; and if ever any one felt like a -traitor and a spy, it was surely me, stumbling back from that -unsuccessful enterprise across the threshold of Mrs. Goldsworthy’s -house. - -The door was opened to us too alertly to be done by anybody but -Domenico; and it was Domenico accordingly, in his vast expanse of shirt -sleeves. It was quite a comfort to see his beaming, unconscious face. -“The time is fine,” said Domenico; “it pleases to the signora to make -promenade? Ah, bravo! the piccolo signore grow like tree.” - -This was in reference to baby, who crowed at him and held out his arms, -and whom Domenico freely called piccolo and piccolino, at first somewhat -to my indignation; but I confess the good fellow’s voice and looks, and -the way baby stretched out to him, out of poor Lizzie’s tired arms, was -quite consolatory and refreshing to me. It is easy to get a feeling of -home to a place, surely. It was only lodgings, and Domenico was a -foreigner, and I had not the ghost of an early association with the -little insignificant house; but I cannot tell you what a sense of ease -and protection came upon me the very moment I was within the door. - -Upstairs on the table lay a letter. We got so few letters that I was -surprised, and took it up immediately, and with still greater surprise -found it to be from Sara Cresswell, lamenting over not having found me, -wondering where I could have gone, and concluding with a solemn -invitation to dinner in her father’s name. “Papa is so anxious to see -Mr. Langham and you,” wrote Sara, “and to talk over things. I have been -obliged to obey him for once, and not to go or write out to dear -godmamma till he has seen you. If you don’t come he will be so -dreadfully disappointed; indeed, I am quite sure if you don’t come _he -will go to see you_. I can’t suppose you will be able to resist such a -threat as that. Send me a word, please, directly. I shall be quite -wretched till I know.” - -This revived all my excitement, as may be supposed; there _must_ be -something in it after all, and surely, instead of Harry going to his -office to seek him, it would be much better to meet at his house, and -with an evening’s leisure too; for Sara had taken care to add that -nobody else was to be there. The earnestness of this invitation seemed -so entirely contradictory to all that I had heard to-day, that the -wildest vague suspicions of mystery began to break upon my mind. To be -sure, bakers and butlers were not likely to be in the secret. Mr. -Cresswell knew all about it; and here was he seeking us entirely of his -own accord! Once more all my dazzled ambitious dreams came back again; I -forgot my failure and sense of treachery--I was no traitor--it was only -my rights that I had been thinking of; and they were not pathetic -possible victims, but triumphant usurpers, who now had possession of the -Park. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -I had managed to regain my spirits entirely before Harry returned: if -anything, indeed, I think this revival of all my fancies, after my -disappointment and annoyance, had stimulated me more than before. It was -a beautiful April evening, quite warm and summer-like, and there had -just been such a sunset, visible out of the front windows, as would have -gone far at any time to reconcile me to things in general. I was sitting -in the little drawing-room alone, with baby Harry in my lap, much -delighted to find that he could stand by my side for half a minute all -by himself, and rewarding him with kisses for the exhibition of that -accomplishment. I was tired after my long walk, and felt it delicious -rest to lean back in that chair and watch the light gradually fading out -of the sky, free to think my own thoughts, yet always with the sweet -accompaniment of baby’s inarticulate little syllables, and touches of -his soft small fingers. I remember that moment like a moment detached -out of my life. My heart had rebounded higher out of its despondency. -Who could tell what a bright future that might be on the very brink of -which we trembled? And I, whom Harry had married so foolishly, it was I -who was to bring this wealth to my husband and my child. It was pleasant -thinking in that stir of hope, in that calm of evening, sitting -listening for Harry’s step on the stair. The light grew less and less in -the two front windows, and the open door of communication between the -two rooms brought in a long line of grey luminous sky from the east into -my twilight picture. And I had so much to tell Harry. Ah, there at last -was his foot upon the stair! - -He came in, not to the room in which I was, but to the other, and gave a -glance round to see if I was there; then, not seeing me, instead of -calling out for “Milly darling,” as he always did, Harry threw his cap -on the table, and dropped heavily into a chair, with a long sigh--a -strange sigh, half relieved, half impatient--the sigh of something on -his mind. I can see the half-open door, the long gleam of the eastern -window, the scarcely visible figure dropped into that chair--I can see -them all as clearly as at that moment. I stumbled up unawares, gathered -baby into my arms I cannot tell how, and was at his side in a moment. My -own voice sounded foreign to my ears as I cried out, “Harry, what is it? -tell me!” Nothing else would come from my lips. - -He rose too--the attitude of rest was not possible at such a time; he -came and held the child and me close to him, making me lean on him. “It -is nothing more than we expected,” he said, “Milly darling. It is only -to have a heart--you are a soldier’s wife.” - -I knew without any more words. I stood within his arm, silent, -desperate, holding my dear frightened baby tight, too tight. Ah, God -help us! In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, as the Bible says, out -of the happiest flutter of hope into that cold, desperate, hopeless -darkness. I could have fancied I was standing on a battlefield, with the -cold, cold wind blowing over us. I made no outcry or appeal; my heart -only leaped with a start of agony at the worst, at the last conclusion. -We were not within his sheltering arm--he young, and strong, and -safe--but looking for him--looking for him on that black, dead -battlefield! - -I don’t think it was the cry of the child, whom he took softly out of my -straining arms, but Harry’s compassion that roused me. I cried out -sharply, “Don’t pity me, Harry; I’ll bear it.” It was all I could say. I -went out of his arm with agitated, hurried step, and shut out that cruel -clear sky looking down upon the battlefield I saw. I did not think nor -notice that this unseasonable action threw us into perfect darkness. It -was a kind of physical relief to me to do something with my hands, to -ring some common sound into my ears. At this moment Lizzie came into the -room, carrying lights. As I lifted my confused eyes to them, what a -ghastly change had passed on this room--all so cold, dark, miserable; -the furniture thrust about out of its place; the fireplace dark, and -Harry standing there, with the child in his arms and his cap thrown on -the table, as if this very moment he was going away. He was in uniform -too, and the light caught in the glitter of his sword. Was there to be -no interval? My head swam round. My heart seemed to stop beating. The -misery of imagination drove me half frantic--as if the present real -misery had not been enough. - -After a while we sat together once more as usual, he trying to bring me -to talk about it and receive it like a common event. “It is what we have -looked forward to for months,” said Harry; “it should not be strange to -you now. Think how you looked for it, Milly darling, long ago.” - -“Yes,” said I. Was it likely I could talk? I only rocked myself backward -and forward in my chair. - -“You said God would give you strength when the hour came: the hour has -come, Milly. You are a soldier’s wife!” he said. - -“Yes, yes!” and then I burst into an attempt to tell him what I had been -doing--if I must talk let me talk of something else than this--and broke -down, and fell, God help me! to crying and sobbing like a child; which -was how the good Lord gave me the power of bearing what He had sent. I -got better after that; I heard and listened to it all, every detail, -when they would have to go, where they would sail from,--everything. And -then I grew to see by degrees that Harry, but for me, was not sorry to -be sent to the war; that his eye was brightening, his head raised erect. -Oh me! he was a soldier; and I--I was only a foolish creature that could -not follow him or be with him, that could not come between him and those -bullets, that could only stay at home and pray. - -But when he came and stroked my hair down with his hand, and soothed me -like a child, and bent over me with such compassion in his face--sorry -for me, full of pity in his affectionate tender heart for the poor girl -he was leaving behind--that was more than I could bear. With a dreadful -pang I thought it was his widow he saw, all lonely and desolate, with no -one to comfort her; and I, his wife, thrust him away, and defied that -dreadful killing thought. No! _I_ might leap at the worst, because I -could not help my hurrying, blind imagination; but he should not, no one -else should--I was resolute of that. So we talked of all the things that -were needful for his preparation; and he spoke of expense and economy, -and I laughed and scorned his talk. Economy! expense! Perhaps I did not -know, could not think where it was to come from; but where careless -money can get everything, do you think careful love would fall far -short? I took courage to laugh at his words. - -And then I told him all my day’s trials, and that invitation for the -next day, which, even after what had happened, we must still accept. We -did not have baby downstairs again that night--I dared not--courage will -go so far, but not further. I went upstairs to put him into his little -bed, and was glad, God help me! to be out of Harry’s sight for half an -hour. But still I was not free; Lizzie was about me, gliding here and -there with her inquisitive sharp eyes--sharp eyes all the sharper for -tears, praying and threatening me with her looks. Nobody would believe -in my courage. They thought I should break down and die. Oh me! if one -could die when one pleased, one might sometimes make short work of it; -God does not give us that coward’s refuge. When I was all alone in my -own room, I took an old regimental sash of Harry’s and bound it round me -tight. I cannot tell why I did it; I think it was in my fancy somehow to -bind up my heart, that it should neither yield nor fail. - - - - -PART V. - -THE LADIES AT THE HALL. - -(_Continued._) - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -Some weeks of quietness passed over us after these dreadful -half-revelations which really disclosed nothing. I will not attempt to -give you any explanation of my state of mind; I don’t think I could if I -tried. I had ceased to think of insanity in respect to my sister Sarah; -she was not insane--no such thing. That scrap of conversation I had -overheard in her dressing-room overturned all my delusions. Some real -thing, some real person, had power to drive her half mad with anxiety -and fear. What she could be anxious about--what she could be afraid -of--she who had lived in the deadest peace at home for nearly -five-and-twenty years--was to me an inscrutable mystery. But that this -Italian stranger was no stranger--that his name was given him after the -name of my father--that love, supposed by Carson to be love in the -heart, and admitted by Sarah to be love for the estate, had suggested -that name--were facts not to be doubted. I need not say anything about -the long trains of agitated and confused thinking into which these -discoveries betrayed me. They ended in nothing--they could not end in -anything. But for a kind of determination I had, to keep up stedfastly -till some light came, and see the end of it, I don’t doubt they would -have made me ill. But I kept well in spite of them. Either our bodies -are not so sensitive as they are said to be, or I am a very stupid -person, which I wouldn’t deny if I was taxed with it; for certainly -many things that worry other people don’t trouble me very much. However, -let the reason be what it might, I kept up. I could not take any -comfort, as Sarah did, in knowing this young man had gone away. I can’t -tell how she could have blinded herself, poor soul. _I_ knew he would -come back. She did not seem to think so; yet surely she knew all about -it far better than I did. What a strange blank, unexplainable mystery it -was! Judging by appearances, the young man could not be much more than -born when she returned home. Yet _she knew him_. Incomprehensible, wild, -mad idea, of which, even after all I had heard, my reason denied the -possibility! _She knew him!_ and what or who, except herself, could -explain it? - -The only conclusion I could come to in all my pondering was one that had -glanced into my mind before, that my father had married abroad and had a -son, whom Sarah had somehow stormed or threatened him into disowning. -But then my father was--I grieve to say it, but one must tell the -truth--a man who considered his own will and pleasure much more than -anything else in the world; and I don’t think it would have broken his -heart to have turned us out of our heiress-honours, especially when we -grew old and did not marry. And to have left a male heir behind him! It -was a very unlikely story, to be sure; but certainly Sarah and he were -never friends after their return. They avoided each other, though they -lived under the same roof. They treated each other with a kind of -ceremonious politeness, more like mutual dislike than love. Dear, dear, -to think in a quiet English family how such a dark secret could rise and -grow! I set to hunting up all my father’s letters, not those he had -written to me at home, for he never wrote except when he was obliged, -but his own letters which he had left behind him. I could find nothing -there that threw the slightest light upon the mystery. And then, if he -was my father’s son, what could the young Italian mean by seeking after -this fabulous lady? What had the Countess _Sermoneta_ to do with it? On -the whole, anybody will see that I ended my investigations and -reasonings just where I began them. I knew nothing about it--I could -discover nothing. I had only to wait for the storm that was -returning--that must return. And if--oh, dear, to think of such a -thing!--if it was the miserable wealth we had, that prompted Sarah to -set her face against this stranger--if it were to keep possession of the -estate from him who was its lawful owner, thank Heaven! we were -co-heiresses. She thought she could do as she pleased with the Park, and -I dare say, in right and lawful things, I might have yielded to her; -but I hope Millicent Mortimer was never the woman to keep what did not -belong to her. If he had a title to the estate--Heaven knows how he -could--I gave up trying to imagine;--but if he had, without either -resistance or struggle he should have my share. - -I really could not tell how much time had passed from that day when Sara -Cresswell left us. It was near the end of April, so I suppose it must -have been about two months after, when the accident I am going to tell -happened. One afternoon when I was in the shrubbery I saw a young lady -coming up towards the gate, a young creature, pretty and -fair-complexioned, not tall, but very compact and orderly in her looks, -with the air of being a handy, cheerful little woman, and good for most -things she required to do. That was how she struck me, at all events. I -dare say many people would have said she was just a very pretty girl, -evidently sobered down by an early marriage, for she had an odd -nursemaid by her side, carrying a beautiful baby. This stranger caught -her attention very much as I watched her through the tall evergreen -bushes. There was no mystery about _her_, certainly. I took a liking for -her all of a sudden. Somehow it flashed into my mind that if I had ever -been so young and as happy I might have been just such a young woman -myself. I don’t mean so pretty, but the same kind of creature. She was -not rich, it was clear, for the nursemaid was not much more than a -child, an odd, awkward-looking girl; and though the young mother herself -was sufficiently well-dressed, her things had that indescribable -home-made look which one always recognises. She was a little heated with -walking, and had some very grave wrinkles of care, thoughtfulness, and -even anxiety, upon her pretty smooth forehead. I saw her aiming straight -at the door of the lodge, and hastened out to warn her off. She was -certainly a stranger, and could never know that the hooping-cough was in -the house. She took my warning very oddly, looked at me with great -curiosity and with tears--I am sure I saw them coming into her eyes--and -then, with some half-explanation about wishing to see the Park, hurried -away after her lovely little boy. I don’t know how long I stood, like a -fool, looking after them, with a great desire to call her back and ask -her in to see the house. Very likely she had come out from Chester to -give her baby a country walk. Pretty young soul! I had no more doubt she -was a good little wife than that she was a pretty creature, and very -young to be that child’s mother. I daresay she was tired and would have -been much the better for a rest. But while I stood thinking of it, of -course she was gone far out of the range of my voice. As for running -after her, that was out of the question at my age; and perhaps, after -all, it was as well not to bring that lovely baby near the lodge. Mary -might have rushed out, and the mischief might have been done in a -moment. As for hooping-cough itself, when children have good -constitutions, I can’t say it is a thing I am very timid about; but it -goes very hard with infants, and one could never excuse one’s-self for -putting such a child in peril. So I went back to the house, though -rather slowly. I can’t tell how it was, I am sure,--but I felt just as -if I had missed a visit from a friend whom it would have been a great -comfort to see. - -I might have forgotten this little incident altogether, but for -something that happened afterwards. Ellis had to go into Chester that -day--indeed, he had just left a few minutes before my pretty young -stranger came up. When Ellis came back he took an opportunity of -speaking privately to me--indeed, he asked me to step aside into the -hall for a minute. How he found out that there was any uneasiness in my -mind, or that any doubt about our right to the estate had ever occurred -to me, I cannot tell; there are few things more wonderful than the kind -of instinct by which servants divine the storms which may be only -brooding about a house. Ellis looked very grave and important; but as he -always does so, I was noways alarmed. - -“There was a young lady, ma’am,” said Ellis, “rode in the omnibus along -with me this afternoon; well, not perhaps what you might call a _real_ -lady neither; leastways I don’t know--her looks was all in her favour; -but ladies, as you know, ma’am, don’t go riding in an omnibus with bits -of nursegirls and babies. But I don’t say she was one of your common -sort.” - -“Why, it must have been that pretty young creature,” said I. - -“Well, ma’am,” said Ellis, actually with a little shame-facedness, “if -you ask me my opinion, she was a pooty young creature, and so was the -baby. But it ain’t what she looked, Miss Milly; it’s what she said. She -asked as anxious as could be after the family at the Park.” - -“Did she know anything of us?” said I, quite delighted. “I wonder who -she is; she quite took my heart.” - -“Not if you’d have heard her speak, ma’am,” said Ellis. “She asked, kind -of curious like, how you came to succeed to the estate, and whether -there wasn’t no gap in the line, and if none o’ the family were ever -passed over, and a deal of such questions. I told her it was Eden Hall -she was thinking on, but she wasn’t satisfied. She said wasn’t there -another claimant to the estate, and was I quite sure you was the right -people and hadn’t passed over nobody? But the strangest thing of all -was, as soon as I let out by accident I belonged to the Park, it was all -over in a twinkling. Afore you could know where you was, from asking her -questions and looking as anxious as you please, and her little veil up -over her bonnet, and her face turned to you like a child--in a moment, -ma’am, it was dead shut up and drawn back, and the veil down and face as -if it didn’t see the place you was. I said to myself, ‘There’s summut in -this,’ as soon as ever I seed the way she took me belonging to the Park; -and, to be sure, all the way not another word. Seeing things like that, -I made bold to look after her when she went out; and if you might chance -to have any curiosity, Miss Milly, here’s a note of the address.” - -“But what should I have any curiosity about?” said I, agitated and -surprised, taking the paper from him eagerly enough, yet quite at a loss -to account for any interest I could have in his adventure. Ah! had it -happened six months ago, how I should have laughed at Ellis! but it -could not have happened six months ago. Ellis himself would have taken -no notice whatever of such questions then. - -“Ma’am,” said Ellis, “the quality has their own ways; if _I_ don’t know -that, who should? I dare say it ain’t nothink to you; but it’s curious -to have parties asking about the Park, as if we was a family as had -romances; and being a pooty young creature, you see, Miss Milly, I -thought it might be possible as you’d like to know.” - -“Very well, thank you, Ellis. I know you’re always careful about the -interests of the family,” said I. - -“I’ve been at the Park fifty year,” said Ellis, with his best butler’s -bow. I gave him a nod, and went away to the library a great deal more -disturbed than I would let him perceive, but I don’t undertake to say -that he didn’t see it all the same. Here was just the very fuel to set -my smouldering impatience into a blaze. A sudden impulse of doing -something seized upon me like a kind of inspiration. Here was a new -actor in the strange bewildering drama. Who was she? Could she be -Luigi’s wife coming to aid him? As the thought struck me I trembled with -impatience, standing at the window where it was too dark to read that -address. I must wait for the morning, but certainly there was light out -of darkness. However foolish it might be, I could bear it no longer. -Here was a clue to guide my steps, and whether right or wrong, to-morrow -I should plunge into the mystery. The idea took possession of me beyond -all power of resistance. I walked about the library in the dark, quite -excited and tremulous. The wind had risen, and the night was rather -stormy, but I could not go into the comfort and light of that great -drawing-room where Sarah sat knitting. To-morrow, perhaps, I should know -the secret of her death in life. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -I got very little rest that night, and was up almost by break of day the -next morning. In the height of my excitement and anxiety, I felt more -comfort in my mind than I had done for a long time. Sitting waiting is -dreadful work, but I felt myself again when there appeared anything to -do. I would not allow myself to suppose that it would end in nothing. -Such inquiries could not possibly be made without a motive. I was so -restless that I scarcely could remain quietly at home for an hour or two -after breakfast which, out of regard for appearances, I was obliged to -sacrifice; but for the same reason I made up my mind not to take the -carriage, but to walk to the point where the omnibus passed, and take my -chance of finding a seat in it as other people did. I went out -accordingly about eleven o’clock, and left a message for Sarah that I -was going to make some calls, and that she was not to wait dinner for -me, as _I_ should probably lunch somewhere at a friend’s house. I saw -Ellis look out after me from the hall window, with a kind of solemn grin -on his face. Ellis was not to be deceived; he knew where I was going as -well as I did myself. - -As I had intended, I got into the omnibus when it passed, to the great -amazement and dismay of both guard and driver, who knew me well enough. -I thought to myself, after I was in it, that it was perhaps rather a -foolish thing to do. If any talk got abroad about our family, and if the -strangers, male and female, kept making strange inquiries, and I was -seen driving--no, that is not the word--_riding_ in an omnibus, what -would people think but that some extraordinary downfall had happened at -the Park? There were only some countrywomen in the coach, who stared at -me a little, but were too busy with their own affairs to mind me much. -Fortunately there was no one there from our own village. It was a very -long drive to Chester, going in the omnibus; and being unaccustomed to -it, and never on the outlook for jolts, I felt it a good deal, I -confess, besides being just the least thing in the world in a false -position. Not that I minded being seen in the omnibus, but because the -guard knew me, and was troublesomely respectful, and directed the -attention of the other passengers towards me. Great people, when they -pretend to travel _incognito_, must find it a great bore, I should -fancy. Of course somebody always betrays them, and it must be a great -deal easier to bear what you can’t help bearing when there is no mystery -about it, than when every blockhead thinks himself in your secret, and -bound to keep up the joke with you. - -At last we came to the street, and I got down. It was near the railway -station, and so all sorts of traffic poured past the place; shabby -hackney cabs, omnibuses from the Chester hotels, vans of goods, all the -miscellaneous stuff that pours into railway stations. The houses were a -little back from the road, to be sure, with little “front gardens,” as -the people call them. I walked past three or four times before I had -screwed myself up to the point of going in. The thing that dissipated -all my feelings of embarrassment in a moment, and brought me back to the -eagerness and excitement with which I set out from home, was the sudden -appearance of Mr. Luigi’s servant, the large, fat, good-humoured -Italian, whom I have before mentioned, at the door of one of the houses. -The sight of him flushed me at once into determination. I turned -immediately to the house where he stood, and of course it was _the_ -house, the number which Ellis had written down on his paper; there could -be no doubts on the subject now. - -“I wish to see your mistress,” said I, going up to the man, too -breathless and eager to waste any words. - -He looked at me with good-humoured scrutiny, repeating “Meestress” with -a puzzled tone; at last a kind of gay, half-flattered confusion came -over his good-humoured face, he put his hand on his heart, made a -deprecatory, remonstrating bow, and burst into some laughing mixture of -Italian and English, equally unintelligible. The fellow actually -supposed I meant his sweetheart, or pretended to suppose so. I became -very angry. He did not look impertinent either; but you may fancy how -one would feel, to be supposed capable of such a piece of levity at such -a time. And a person of my condition, too! Happily, at this moment the -nurse-girl whom I had seen with my pretty young stranger suddenly made -her appearance with the baby in her arms. I appealed to her, and though -she stared and made answer in words not much more intelligible to me -than her fellow-servant’s, she showed me upstairs. She was going out -with the beautiful baby, but one way and another I was so worried and -uncomfortable, and felt so strongly the existence of those plots against -us which I was now going to clear up, that I took no notice of the -child. I said nothing at all but that I wanted to see her mistress, and -walked into the little drawing room without thinking I might be going -into the young stranger’s presence, possibly into the presence of both -husband and wife. However, the moment I had entered I saw her; there she -was. In my heat and annoyance I went up to her instantly. - -“Young lady,” said I, “you were in the neighbourhood of my house -yesterday; you were in our village; I myself saw you approaching the -Park. You put some very strange questions to my servant. You must know -how harassed and disturbed I have been by inquiries I don’t know the -meaning of. What is it all about? What claim has your husband upon the -Mortimers? Who is he? What does he want with us?” - -I said this without pausing to take breath, for my encounter with the -servant, I confess, had irritated me. Now, when I had said my say and -come to myself, I looked at her and felt a little shocked. She was -certainly changed since yesterday; but before I had time even to make a -mental comment on this change, I was entirely confounded by the entrance -of a new and unsuspected actor on the scene; _her husband!_ evidently -her husband; but as unlike Mr. Luigi as one handsome young man could be -unlike another,--a bright, open-faced unmistakable Englishman, a young -soldier. The sight of him struck me aghast. What new complication was -this? - -“If there’s going to be any fighting, that’s _my_ trade,” said the -new-comer. “We’ll change places, Milly darling. Madam, my wife has a -great many things to occupy her just now; let me answer for her, if that -is possible. I think I know what she has been about.” - -Saying which, he wheeled the one easy chair in the room towards me, and -invited me to sit down. I sat down with the feeling of having somehow -deceived myself strangely and made a huge mistake. I could not make it -out. Mr. Luigi’s servant was below, and this was certainly the young -woman whom I had arrested on her way to the Park, and who had asked -questions of Ellis in the omnibus. But who was this handsome young -soldier? What had he to do with it? A cold tremble came over me that it -was what the newspapers call a mistaken identity, and that somehow I had -stumbled in, after the rudest and most unauthorized fashion, into the -privacy of two innocent young creatures who knew nothing about the Park. - -“Pardon me if I am wrong,” I said with a gasp; “I fear I must be wrong, -only let me ask one question. Did you speak to a man in the omnibus -yesterday about the Mortimers of the Park? or was it not you? I am sure -I shall never forgive myself if I have made such a foolish mistake.” - -“But it is no mistake,” said the young wife, who had remained in the -room, standing very near the half-opened door into the tiny apartment -behind. Poor young soul! she was certainly changed in those twenty-four -hours. I could scarcely resist an impulse that came upon me, to go up -and take her in my arms, and ask the dear young creature what it was -that ailed her. Depend upon it, whatever she might have asked about the -Mortimers, that face meant no harm. I looked at her so closely, I was so -much attracted by her, that I scarcely noticed, till she repeated it, -what she said. - -“It is no mistake,” she said, growing firmer; “I did ask questions. I am -sure you are Miss Mortimer--we will tell you how it was. Harry, you will -tell Miss Mortimer all about it. I am a little--a little stupid to-day. -I’ll go and fetch the books if you will tell Miss Mortimer how it was.” - -She went away quite simply and quietly. He stood looking after her with -a compassionate, tender look, that went to my heart. He did not speak -for a moment, and then he said, with a sigh, something that had nothing -to do with my mystery. “We got marching orders for the Crimea -yesterday,” said the dear simple-hearted young fellow, with the tears -coming into his honest eyes. “It is very hard upon my poor Milly;” and -he broke off with another sigh. - -If the two had come to me together the next moment, and disclosed a plan -to turn us out of our estate or pull the house down over our heads, I -could have hugged them in my arms all the same. God bless the dear -children! whatever they had to tell, there was but one thing in their -thoughts, and that was the parting that was coming. If I had been the -hardest heart in the world, that spontaneous confidence must have melted -me. As it was, I could hardly help crying over them in their anguish and -happiness. People are happy that have such anguishes. I could hardly -help exclaiming out aloud, “I’ll take care of her!” and yet dear! to -think of human short-sightedness! Had not I come all this way to find -them out? - -She came back again a minute after, with some old books in her arms. - -“Have you told Miss Mortimer, Harry?” she asked, pausing with a little -surprise to hear no conversation going on between us, and to see him -leaning against the mantelshelf just as she had left him, with his hand -over his eyes. Then she gave him a quick, affectionate, indignant -glance--I might say petulant--and came up in her energetic way to the -table, where she put down the books. “_I_ will tell you, Miss Mortimer,” -said the brave little woman. “We do not know very much ourselves, but -perhaps when you hear our story you can make it plain better than we -can. We found it out only by chance.” - -“My dear,” said I, “do not call me Miss Mortimer; my eldest sister is -Miss Mortimer. I am called Miss Milly; Millicent Mortimer is my name.” - -Here the young man broke in suddenly. “_Her_ name was Millicent Mortimer -too,” he cried. “Milly!--that is her name--I beg your pardon, Miss -Mortimer; I think there is no name in the world equal to it. She’s -Milly, named so at her father’s desire. Tell me, is she nearly related -to you?” - -I was so astonished I rose up to my feet and stared at them both. To be -sure, I had heard him call her Milly; but my thoughts had been so -entirely drawn astray by Mr. Luigi, that I never thought of anything -else. I stood perfectly thunderstruck, staring at them. “What are you -telling me?” I cried. Really my mind was not in a condition to take in -anything that might be said to me. She put the old books towards me one -by one. I opened them, not knowing what I did. “Sarah Mortimer, the -Park, 1810.” Heaven bless us! Sarah’s hand, no doubt about it; but who -in the world was _she_? - -“Child, take pity on me!” I cried; “with one thing and another I am -driven out of my wits. Tell me, for heaven’s sake, who was your father? -Are you _that_ Luigi’s sister? Who are you? Where did you come from? God -help us! I don’t know what to think, or where to turn. Your father, who -was he? What do you know about him? Were _you_ born in Italy too? What -is the truth of this wild, dreadful mystery? Sarah may know about it -perhaps, but I know nothing, nothing! If you would not have me go out of -my senses, child, tell me who you are, and who your father was.” - -They both gazed at me astonished. “She is Millicent Mortimer,” said her -young husband, “the child of Richard Mortimer and Maria Connor; she was -born in Ireland. Milly! Milly! the old lady is going to faint.” - -For I sank dead down in my chair, as was natural. I put my hands over my -face. I fell a-crying and sobbing in that wonderful, blessed relief. If -my worst suspicions had come true, I could have stood up and faced it. -But my strength went from me in this delicious, unspeakable comfort. -Richard Mortimer’s children! The heirs we were looking for! Oh dear! to -think I could ever be so distrustful of the good Lord! This was what all -the mystery had come to! I sat crying like a fool in my chair, the two -looking on at me, thinking me crazy most likely--most likely wondering, -in their innocent grieved hearts, at the old woman crying for nothing. -How could they tell what a mountain-load of trouble they had taken off -my head? - -“My dear,” cried I, when I could control myself enough, “if you are -Richard Mortimer’s daughter you’re the nearest relation we have. You -were to have been advertised for before now--we’ve been seeking you, or -trying to seek you, everywhere. I knew there must be something made my -heart warm to you so. My dear, we’re the last of the old race; there’s -nobody but Richard Mortimer’s children to carry on the name. God help -us! I am a silly old woman. I had taken dreadful fears into my head. Why -didn’t you come and say it plain out, and turn all my anxiety and -troubles into joy? Ah Milly, dear Milly Mortimer!--I could think you -were my own child somehow--come and let me kiss you. I am not so weak as -this usually, but I’m quite overcome to-day. Come here, child, and let -me look at you. It’s pleasant to think there’s a young Mortimer in the -world again.” - -I was so much engaged with my own feelings, that I did not notice how -much the young people were taking it. When I did come to myself a -little, they were standing rather irresolute, that pretty young Milly -Mortimer looking at me in a kind of longing, reluctant way, either as if -she could not take me at my word, or had something on her mind. As for -her husband, he was looking at me too, but with a full eager look, which -I understood in a moment; his lip trembling and swelling out a little, -his eyes full, his whole face telling its story. When he caught my eye -he turned his look upon her, and then back to me again. Do you think I -did not understand him? He said, “You will take care of my Milly?” -clearer than he could have said it in a thousand words; and if my eyes -were slow to answer him, you may be sure it was no fault of will or -heart. Seeing she was shy to come to me, and recovering myself, I went -to the new Milly and kissed her. I can’t tell what a pleasure I took in -looking at her. She belonged to me--she was of our very own blood, come -from the same old forefathers. I thought nothing strange that I loved -her in a moment. It was not love at first sight, it was _natural -affection_. That makes a vast difference. Even Sara Cresswell was not -like a child of our own family. To think of another Milly Mortimer, -pretty, and happy, and young! such a Milly as I might have been perhaps, -but never was. I felt very happy in this child of my family. It was half -as good as having a child of one’s own. - -Then they showed me some other books with poor Richard Mortimer’s name -in them, and his drawing of the Park, and Sarah getting on her horse. -Poor fellow! but I rather fear he could not have been any great things -of a man. I felt quite easy and light at my heart; nothing seemed to -frighten me. And the two young people even, in the little excitement, -forgot their own trouble, which was a comfort to me. - -“But all this time, my dear,” said I, at length, “you have said nothing -about your brother. How did he get to be Italian,--and what did he mean -by asking about that lady--and why not come at once to the Park and say -out who he was?” - -“My brother?” said the young wife, faltering; and gave a wondering look -at me, and then turned round, with a habit she seemed to have, to -consult her husband with her eyes; “my brother? I am afraid you have not -understood. Harry is----” - -“I know what Harry is,” cried I; “don’t tell me about _him_. I mean your -brother--your brother. Why, dear, dear child, don’t you understand? I -met this man at the door of this very house--Mr. Luigi, you know as they -call him; of course he must belong to you.” - -“Indeed,” said the new Milly, with very grave, concerned looks, “I never -spoke to him but once in my life; we don’t know anything about him. I -never had any brother; there were none but me.” - -I don’t think I said anything at all in answer. I said nothing, so far -as I know, for a long time after. I sat stupified, feeling my burden all -the heavier because I had deluded myself into laying it off a little. Oh -me! we had found the heirs that Sarah had thought so much about; but the -cloud had not dissolved in this pleasant sunshine. Out of my -extraordinary sense of relief, I fell into darker despondency than ever. -He was not Milly Mortimer’s brother, nor anybody belonging to her. Who -could he be? - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -I don’t know very well how I got to Mr. Cresswell’s house. I did manage -to get there somehow. I went listlessly through the old fashioned -streets I knew so well, and turned down upon that serious old house with -its brick front and rows of windows all covered with Venetian blinds. It -met the morning sun full, and that was why the blinds were down; but it -had a dismal effect upon me, as anything else would have had at that -moment. I know how the rooms look inside when the blinds are down; it -throws a chill into one’s heart that has known them put down for sadder -reasons. I went into the house in the same listless way, like a person -in a dream. Somehow I could not take any comfort in those dear young -creatures I had just found out. Mr. Luigi, whom I had not found out, -returned upon me like a nightmare. Was there no possible way in which -this mystery could be discovered? What if I sought an interview with -himself and put it to him fairly to tell me who he was? I went into Bob -Cresswell’s drawing-room, where the windows were open and the sunshine -slanting in through the Venetian blinds. It was rather dark, but a green -pleasant darkness, the wind stirring the curtains, and now and then -knocking the wood of the blinds softly against the woodwork of the -window; a cheerful kind of gloom. Sara’s knick-knacks lay scattered -about everywhere on the tables, and there were cushions, and ottomans, -and screens, and fantastic pieces of ornamental work about, enough to -have persuaded a stranger that Sara was the most industrious person in -the world. The creature bought them all, you know, at fancy fairs and -such absurd places. I am not sure that she ever took a needle in her -fingers; but she said herself she had not the slightest intention of -saving her poor papa’s money; and indeed it was very true. - -I was thankful to sit down by myself a little in the silence. Sara was -out, it appeared, and I threw myself into an easy-chair, and actually -felt the quietness and green-twilight look of the room, with just a -touch of sunshine here and there upon the carpet near the windows, a -comfort to me. Once again, as you may suppose, I thought it all over; -but into the confused crowd of my own thoughts, where Sarah, Carson, Mr. -Luigi, his fat servant, my new-found Milly Mortimer, and all her -belongings, kept swaying in and out and round about each other, there -came gleams of the other people suggested by this room;--Mr. Cresswell -trying to make some light out of the confusion, Sara darting about, a -mischievous, bewildering little sprite, and even, by some strange -incoherency of my imagination, Sara’s poor pretty young mother, dead -seventeen years ago, flickering about it, with her melancholy young -eyes. Poor sweet lonely creature! I remember her a bride in that very -room, with Bob Cresswell who might almost have been her father, very -fond, but not knowing a bit what to make of her; and then lying helpless -on the sofa, and then fading away out of sight, and the place that had -known her knowing her no more. Ah me! I wonder whether that is not the -best way of getting an end put to all one’s riddles. If Sarah and I had -died girls, we should have been girls for ever,--pleasant shadows always -belonging to the old house. Now it would be different, very different. -When we were gone, what story might be told about us? “In their time -something dreadful occurred about the succession, proving that they had -never any right to the estate;” or “the great lawsuit began between the -heirs of a younger branch and a supposed son of Squire Lewis.” Dear! -dear! Who could this young man be? and now here was our real relation, -our pretty Milly Mortimer--our true heir, if we were the true heirs of -the estate. Dare I let her believe herself the heir of the Park with -this mystery hanging over all our heads? Poor dear child, she was -thinking more about her husband’s marching orders than if a hundred -Parks had been in her power. Trouble there, trouble here; everywhere -trouble of one sort or another. I declare I felt very tired of it all, -sitting in that cool shady drawing-room. I could turn nowhere without -finding some aggravation. This is how life serves us, though it seems -such a great thing to keep in life. - -“But, godmamma, how in all the world did you come here?” cried Sara -Cresswell, springing upon me suddenly, before I had seen her come in, -like a kitten as she was; “you who never come to Chester but in great -state, to call upon people! It’s only one o’clock, and there’s no -carriage about the streets, and you’ve got your old brown dress on. How -_did_ you get here?” - -“Never mind, child,” said I, a little sharply; “you take away my -breath. Suppose you get me some lunch, and don’t ask any questions. I am -going to stay all day, perhaps all night,” I said with a little -desperation; “perhaps it’s the best thing I could do.” - -“Godmamma, something has happened!” cried Sara; and she came and knelt -down on the stool at my feet, looking up in my face, with cheeks all -crimsoned over, and eyes sparkling brighter than I had ever seen them. -It was not anxiety but positive expectation that flushed the child’s -face. I could not help thrusting her away from me with my hand, in the -fulness of my heart. - -“Child!” cried I, “you are glad! you think something has happened to us, -and it flushes you with pleasure. I did not expect as much from you!” - -Sara stumbled up to her feet, confused and affronted. She stood a moment -irresolute, not sure, apparently, how to take it, or whether to show me -to the full extent how angry and annoyed she was. However, I suppose she -remembered that we were in her father’s house, and that I was her guest -after a fashion; for she stammered some kind of apology. “You took me -into your confidence before, and naturally I wanted to know,” cried the -child, with half-subdued fury. She had never been taught how to manage -her temper, and she could not do it when she tried. - -“You,” said I, “we are your godmothers, Sara, and have loved you all -your life; but you want to know, just as if it were a story in a -novel--though, for all you can tell, it may be something that involves -our fortune, or our good name, or our life.” - -Now this was very foolish of me, and I confess it. It was not anger at -Sara that made me say it--nothing of the sort. But I had come through a -good deal, and my mind was so full that I could bear no more. It burst -from me like something I could not retain, and after that I am ashamed -to confess, I cried. It was merely the excitement and agitation of the -day, so unusual to me, and coming after such a long strain of silent -excitement as I had already come through. - -Sara stood before me confounded. She was quite unprepared for anything -of this kind. She kept standing by me in a bewildered way, too much -puzzled to say anything. At length she knelt down on the footstool and -pressed my hand upon her little soft mouth. “Something dreadful has -happened, godmamma?” said Sara, looking up at me wistfully. The poor -child was really alarmed and full of anxiety now. - -“No, no,” said I, “nothing has happened at all. I am only too nervous -and alarmed and unhappy to bear speaking to. I am not unhappy either. -Sara, child, can’t you leave me by myself a little and order luncheon? -I’ll tell you all about it then.” - -Sara got up immediately to do what I told her; but before she left me -stole her arm round my neck and kissed me. “I have got a secret to tell -you, godmamma; you’ll be so glad when you know,” whispered the creature -in my ear. Glad! I suppose it would be some of her love affairs,--some -deluded young man she was going to marry, perhaps. Well! so I might have -been glad, in a manner, if it were a suitable match, and she had taken -any other time to tell me; but you may fancy how much happiness I had to -spare for anybody now. - -It may be imagined that my appetite was not very great in spite of my -anxiety about luncheon, but I certainly was glad to have a glass of Mr. -Cresswell’s nice Madeira after all my fatigue and exhaustion. Sara and I -sat opposite to each other in the dining-room, where the blinds were -down also, without saying much for some time. She was watching me I -could see. There she sat very demure and a little anxious, in her velvet -jacket, shaking her short curls, now and then, with an impatient kind of -motion. I was glad to see that kitten have so much perception of the -rights of hospitality; for she allowed me to take my time, and did not -torture me with questions, so that I really got the good of this little -interval, and was refreshed. - -“I ought to be very happy instead of being so nervous and -uncomfortable,” cried I at last; “for only fancy, my dear child, who I -have found. Do you remember when you were at the Park hearing your -godmamma Sarah speak of an heir whom she wanted your papa to advertise -for? Well, what do you think, Sara? I have actually found her! for she -is not an heir but an heiress. What your godmamma Sarah will say when -she hears it, I can’t think; for she has never been advertised for, you -know. She has turned up ‘quite promiscuous,’ as Ellis says.” - -“Oh!--so you know!” said Sara, in quite a disappointed tone; “and I -thought I had such a secret for you. Well, of course, since you do know, -it doesn’t matter; they’re coming here to-night.” - -“My dear, I know they are coming here to-night. They told me so; and -your papa is to go over the whole, and make it all out how it is. Ah, -dear me!” said I with a sigh, “if that were but all!” - -“Dear godmamma,” said Sara in her coaxing way, “are you not glad? I -thought you would certainly be glad to find another Milly Mortimer; but -you’ve got something on your mind.” - -“Ah, yes, I have something on my mind,” said I. “Sara, child, I don’t -know what to do with myself. I must see this Mr. Luigi before I go -home.” - -“You can’t, godmamma; he is not in Chester,” cried Sara, with a sudden -blush. “As soon as he found out--the very next morning at least--he went -away to fetch some things he had left behind.” - -“Found out what?” - -Sara put her hands together with a childish appealing motion. “Indeed, I -do not know--indeed, dear godmamma, I do not know. If you think it wrong -of me to have spoken to him, I am very sorry, but I can’t help it. I met -him at Mrs. Langham’s, you know,--and he saw Sarah Mortimer written in -her book. And the next morning he met me,--I mean I met him--we happened -to meet in the street--and he told me he had found the clue he wanted, -and was going to fetch some things he had put for safety in London--and -I know he has not come back.” - -“How do you know he has not come back?” said I. - -Sara thought I was thinking of her, and the child blushed and looked -uneasy; I observed as much, but I did not till long afterwards connect -it with Mr. Luigi. I was too impatient to know about himself. - -“Because I should have seen him,” said Sara, faltering. It did not come -into my head to inquire why she was so sure she would have seen him. My -thoughts were occupied about my own business. I groaned in my heart over -her words. Not yet was I to discover this mystery. Not yet was I to -clear my mind of the burden which surely, surely, I could not long go on -bearing. _It_ must come to an end, or me. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -After what Sara had told me I felt in great doubt as to what I should -do. Staying in Chester, even for a night, was against my habits, and -might make people talk. Ellis, of course, would be very wise over it -among the servants, and the chances were that it might alarm Sarah; but -at the same time I could not return there in the same state of -uncertainty. I could not meet her face again, and see her going on with -her knitting in that dreadful inhuman way. Having once broken out of my -patience, it seemed to me quite impossible to return to it. I felt as if -I could only go and make a scene with Sarah, and demand to know what it -was, and be met by some cruel cold denial that she understood anything -about it, which would, of course,--feeling sure that she understood it -all, but having no sure ground on which I could contradict her,--put me -half out of my senses. On the whole, staying in Chester all night could -do no harm. If Ellis talked about it, and pretended that he knew quite -well what I had gone about, I dare say it was no more than he had done -already, and would be very well inclined to do again. One must always -pay the penalty for having faithful old servants, and, really, if my -absence frightened Sarah, so much the better. She ought not to be -allowed to go on placidly congratulating herself on having shut out this -poor young man. If we were wronging him, what a cruel, cruel, miserable -thing it was of Sarah to be glad of having balked him and driven him -away! It is dreadful to say such things of one’s own only sister, but -one does get driven out of patience. Think of all I had come through, -and the dreadful doubt hanging over me! I had kept very quiet for a long -time and said nothing to nobody; but now that I had broken out, I fear I -was in rather an unchristian state of mind. - -All that afternoon I kept quiet, and rested behind the green blinds in -Mr. Cresswell’s half-lighted drawing-room. How Sara ever has got into -the way of enduring that half light I can’t imagine; or rather I should -say I don’t believe she uses this room at all, but has the back -drawing-room, where the window is from which she could see down into the -poor curate’s rooms, and watch his wife dressing the baby, as she told -me long ago. You can see the street, too from an end window in that back -drawing-room; perhaps that is how she would have known if Mr. Luigi had -come back, for I am pretty sure, from the glimpses I had when the doors -opened, that the blinds were not down _there_. She received her visitors -in the back drawing-room that afternoon. I heard them come and go, with -their dresses rustling about, and their fresh young voices. Of course I -neither heard nor listened what they were talking of; but dear, to hear -how eager the creatures were in their talk! as if it were anything of -any consequence. I sat with that hum now and then coming to my ears, -bewildering myself with my own fancies. If I could have read a book or a -paper, or given my mind to anything else, it would have been a deal -better for me; but my disorder of mind, you see, had come to a crisis, -and I was obliged to let it take its way. - -It was not without a good deal of difficulty and embarrassment that Mr. -Cresswell and I met. He was a little uncomfortable himself with the same -feelings he had shown a spark of at the Park, and unduly anxious to let -me see that he had lost no time in inquiring about the Langhams,--that -was the name of the young people,--as soon as he heard of them, and had -meant to come out to us next day and tell us the result. For my part, I -was a great deal more embarrassed than he was. I could scarcely help -letting him see that this new heiress was a very small part of my -excitement and trouble; indeed, had no share in the trouble at all, for -as much as I could give my mind to think of her, was pure pleasure; but -at the same time my heart revolted from telling him my real difficulty. -He, I dare say, had never once connected the young Italian, whom -everybody in Chester knew something about, with us or our family; and I -was so perfectly unable to say what it was I feared, that a shrewd -precise man like Cresswell would have set it down at once merely as a -woman’s fancy. At the same time, you know, I was quite unpractised in -the art of concealing my thoughts. I betrayed to him, of course, a -hundred times that I had something on my mind. I dare say he remembered -from the time of our last interview that I looked to have something on -my mind, and he made a great many very skilful efforts to draw it out. -He talked of Sarah, with private appeals to me in the way of looks and -cunning questions to open my mind about her; and, to tell the truth, it -cost me a little self-denial, after we really got into conversation, not -to say something, and put his shrewdness on the scent. I dare say he -might have worried out the secret somehow or another; but I did not -commit myself. I kept my own counsel closely, to his great surprise. I -could see he went away baffled when it was nearly time for dinner. And -he was not at all pleased to be baffled either, or to think that I was -too many for him. I felt sure now I should have to be doubly on my -guard, for his pride was piqued to find it all out. - -I can’t tell anybody what a comfort it was to my heart when my new Milly -Mortimer came. If the two had been very bright and elate about finding -themselves heirs to a great estate I might have been disgusted, glad as -I was to know about them; for, to be sure, one does not like one’s heirs -to be _very_ triumphant about wealth they can only have after one’s own -death. But something more than houses or lands was in that young -creature’s mind. She was wonderfully steady and cheerful, but never for -a moment lost out of her eyes what was going to happen to her. It was -not mere sympathy, you know, that made me know so well how she was -feeling, for, to be sure, I never was in her circumstances nor anything -like them; it was because I was her relation, and had a natural insight -into her mind. I don’t believe Sara had the least perception of it. When -we came upstairs after dinner, leaving that fine young soldier, whom -really I felt quite proud of, with Mr. Cresswell, this came out -wonderfully, and in a way that went to my heart. Sara, who was extremely -affectionate to her, set her in an easy chair and brought her a -footstool, and paid her all those caressing little attentions which such -kittens can be so nice about when they please. “I am so glad you have -come to know my godmamma just now,” said Sara, kissing her, “because she -will know to comfort you when Mr. Langham goes away.” - -My Milly said nothing for a moment; she rather drew herself away from -Sara’s kiss. She did not lean back, but sat upright in her chair, and -put away the stool with her foot. “I am a soldier’s wife,” she said the -next minute in the most unspeakable tone, with a kind of sob that did -not sound, but only _showed_, in a silent heave of her breast. Ah, the -dear child! have not soldiers’ wives a good call to be heroes too? I -drew Sara away from her in a sort of passion; that velvet creature with -her sympathy and her kisses, when the other was hanging on the edge of -such a parting! If one could do nothing for the sweet soul, one might -have the charity to leave her alone. - -But after a while I drew Milly into talking of herself, for I was -naturally anxious to know all about her, and where she had been brought -up, and how she had found out that she belonged to us. We all knew that -young Langham and Mr. Cresswell were going over the papers that her -husband had brought with him, and setting it all straight; but as I -never had any doubt from the moment I saw those books of hers, I was -much more anxious to know from Milly herself how she had spent her life. -She told us with a little reserve about her Irish friends and her odd -bringing up, and then how she had met with Harry. She told you all about -that herself, I know, a great deal better than I could repeat it, and -fuller, too, than she told us. But when she got fully into that story, -she could not help forgetting herself and the present circumstances a -little. Sara sat on a stool before her, with her hands clasped on her -knees, devouring every word. Certainly Sara took a wonderful interest in -it. I never saw her so entirely carried away by interest and sympathy. -When Milly was done, the creature jumped up and defied me. - -“You couldn’t blame her; you couldn’t have the heart to blame her! It -was just what she ought to have done!” cried Sara, with her face in such -a commotion, all shining, and blushing, and dewy with tears. I was -confounded by her earnest looks. It was very interesting, certainly, but -there was nothing to transport her into such a little rapture as that. - -“Child, be quiet,” said I; “you are determined to do me some harm, -surely. I don’t blame Milly. She thought she had nobody belonging to -her, though she was mistaken there. My dear, you have one old woman -belonging to you that will expect a great deal, I can tell you. I can -feel somehow, as if it might have been me you were telling of, if I had -ever been as pretty or as young----” - -“Godmamma, such nonsense!” cried Sara; “you must have been as young -once; and if you were not far prettier than godmamma Sarah, I will never -believe my eyes!” - -“Your godmamma Sarah was a great beauty,” said I; “but that is nothing -to the purpose. If I had ever been as young and as pretty as this Milly -Mortimer, I might have fallen in with a Harry too, who knows? and it -might not have been any the better for you, my dear child; so it’s just -as well that things are as they are. But, all the same, I can’t help -thinking that it might have been my story you’re telling. There’s a -great deal in a name, whatever people may say. I shall think the second -Milly is to go through all the things the first Milly only wondered -about. I never had any life of my own to speak of. You have one already. -I shall think I have got hold of that life, that always slipped through -my fingers, when I see you going through with it. I shall never feel -myself an odd person again.” - -“Ah! but life is not happiness,” burst from my poor Milly’s lips in -spite of herself; then she hastily drew up again: “I mean it is not -play,” she said, after a while. - -“If it were play, it would be for children; it is heavy work and sore,” -cried I; “that much I know, you may be sure; but then there are words -said, that one can never forget, about him that endureth to the end.” - -Such words were comfort to _me_; but not just to that young creature in -the intolerable hope and anguish she had in her heart. She was not -thinking of any end; I was foolish to say it; and after all I knew more -of life than she did--far more! and knew very well it did not spring on -by means of heartbreaking events like the parting she was thinking of, -or joyful ones like the meeting again which already she had set all her -heart and life on, but crept into days and days like the slow current it -had been to me. Sara, however, as was natural, was impatient of this -talk. I believe she had something on her mind too. - -“You do not blame your Milly, godmamma?” she cried, a little spitefully; -“but I suppose you would blame any other poor girl; as if people were -always to do what was told them, and like such people as they were -ordered to like! You old people are often very cruel. Of course you -would blame every one else in the world?” - -“I should certainly blame _you_,” cried I, “if you should venture to -think you might deceive your good father, that never denied you anything -in his life. You velvet creature, what do you know about it? You never -had an unkind word said to you, nor the most foolish wish in your little -perverse heart denied. If you were to do such a thing, I could find it -in my heart to lock you up in a garret and give you bread and water. It -would not be a simple-hearted young creature with every excuse in the -world for her, but a little cheat and traitor, and unnatural little -deceiver. There! you are a wicked creature, but you are not so bad as -that. If you said it yourself I should not believe it of you!” - -But to my amazement the child stood aghast, too much dismayed, -apparently, to be angry, and faltered out, “Believe what?” with her -cheeks suddenly growing so pale that she frightened me. The next moment -she had rushed into the back drawing-room, and from thence -disappeared,--for I went to look after her,--fairly flying either from -herself or me. I was entirely confounded. I could not tell what to make -of it. Was little Sara in a mystery too? - -“If I am betraying Sara, I am very sorry,” said Milly, when I looked to -her for sympathy; “but I fear, though they don’t know it themselves, -that she and the Italian gentleman are thinking more of each other, -perhaps, than they ought.” - -She had scarcely finished speaking when Sara returned, dauntless and -defiant. “I rushed away to see whether your note had gone to godmamma -Sarah,” said the daring creature, actually looking into my very eyes. “A -sudden dreadful thought struck me that it had been forgotten. But it is -all right, godmamma; and now I think we might have some tea.” - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -The gentlemen came upstairs looking very cheerful and friendly, so of -course everything had been satisfactory in their conversation. After a -little while Mr. Cresswell came to tell me all about it. He said the -papers seemed all quite satisfactory, and he had no doubt Mrs. Langham -was really Richard Mortimer’s daughter, the nearest, and indeed only -relation, on the Mortimer side of the house, that we had in the world. - -“I have no doubt about it,” said I; “but I am very glad, all the same, -to have it confirmed. Now, my dear child, you know that we belong to -each other. My sister and I are, on your father’s side, the only -relations you have in the world.” - -Milly turned round to receive the kiss I gave her, but trembled and -looked as if she dared not lift her eyes to me. Somehow I believe that -idea which brightened her husband, came like a cold shadow between her -and me, the thought that I would take care of her when he was away. It -was very unreasonable, to be sure; but, dear, dear, it was very natural! -I did not quarrel with her for the impulse of her heart. - -“But softly, softly, my dear lady,” said Mr. Cresswell; “the papers all -_seem_ very satisfactory, I admit; but the ladies are always jumping at -conclusions. I shall have to get my Irish correspondent to go over the -whole matter, and test it, step by step. Not but that _I_ am perfectly -satisfied; but nobody can tell what may happen. A suit might arise, and -some of these documents might be found to have a flaw in it. We must be -cautious, very cautious, in all matters of succession.” - -“A suit! Why, wouldn’t Richard Mortimer, if he were alive, be -heir-at-law? Who could raise a suit?” cried I. - -I suppose he saw that there was some anxiety in my look which I did not -express; and, to be sure, he owed me something for having thwarted and -baffled him. “There is no calculating what mysterious claimant might -appear,” said Mr. Cresswell, quite jauntily. “I heard somebody say, not -very long ago, that all the romance now-a-days came through the hands -of conveyancers and attorneys. My dear lady, leave it to me; I -understand my own business, never fear.” - -I felt as if a perfect fever possessed me for the moment. My pulse beat -loud, and my ears rang and tingled. “What mysterious claimant could -there be to the Park?” I cried. I betrayed myself. He saw in a moment -that this was the dread that was on my mind. - -“Quite impossible to say. I know no loophole one could creep in -through,” he said, with a little shrug of his shoulders and a pretended -laugh. “But these things defy all probabilities. It is best to make -everything safe for our young friends here.” - -Now this, I confess, nettled me exceedingly; for though we had taken so -much notice of his daughter, and had lived so quietly for many years, -neither Sarah nor I had ever given up the pretensions of the Mortimers -to be one of the first families in the county. And to hear an attorney -speaking of “our young friends here,” as if they were falling heirs to -some old maiden lady’s little bit of property! I was very much -exasperated. - -“It seems to me, Mr. Cresswell, that you make a little mistake,” said I. -“Our family is not in such a position that its members could either be -lost or found without attracting observation. In a different rank of -life such things might happen; but the Mortimers, and all belonging to -them, are too well known among English families, if I am not mistaken, -to allow of _any_ unknown connections turning up.” - -Mr. Cresswell immediately saw that he had gone too far, and he muttered -a kind of apology and got out of it the best way he could. I drew back -my chair a little, naturally indignant. But Cresswell, whose father and -his father’s father had been the confidential agents of our family, who -knew very well what we had been, and what we _were_ whenever we chose to -assert ourselves,--to think of him, a Chester attorney, patronising our -heirs and successors! You may imagine I had a good right to be angry, -and especially as I could see he was quite pluming himself on his -cleverness in finding out what was in my mind. He thought it was a whim -that had taken possession of me, no doubt,--a kind of monomania. I could -even see, as he thought it all quietly over by himself over his cup of -tea, what a smile came upon his face. - -Young Langham, however, just then contrived to gain my attention. He did -it very carefully, watching his opportunities when Milly was not looking -at him, or when he thought she was not looking at him. “I am heartily -glad to have found you out now, of all times,” said the young man. -“Milly would not have gone to her relations in Ireland, and I have no -relations. She will be very lonely when we are gone. Poor Milly! It is a -hard life I have brought her into, and she so young.” - -“You are not much older yourself,” said I; “and if you children bring -such trouble on yourselves, you must be all the braver to bear it. I -doubt if she’d change with Sara Cresswell at this moment, or any other -unmarried young creature in the world.” - -The young man looked up at me gratefully. “I can’t tell you how good she -is,” he said, in his simplicity. “She never breaks down nor complains of -anything. I don’t understand how she has saved and spared our little -means and made them do; but she has, somehow. Now, though she’s pale -with thinking of this--don’t you think she’s pale? but I forgot, you -never saw her before--she has set all her mind upon my outfit, and will -hear of nothing else. I wish it were true what the books say. I wish -one’s young wife would content herself with thoughts of glory and -honour; indeed, I wish one could do as much one’s self,” said the good -young fellow, with a smile and sigh. “I fear I am only going, for -instance, because I must go; and that I’ll cast many a look behind me on -my Milly left alone. She’s just twenty,” he said, with an affectionate -look at her which brought her eyes upon us and our conversation, and -interrupted so far the confidential character of the interview between -him and me. - -“Say nothing about it just now,” said I, hurriedly, “it only vexes her -to hear you talk of what she is to do; leave her alone, dear soul--but -at the same time don’t be afraid. The very day you go I’ll fetch her to -the Park. She shall be our child while you are away--and it is to the -Park you shall come when you come home. But say nothing about it now. -She cannot bear to think of it at present. When the worst is over she’ll -breathe again. Hush! don’t let her hear us now!” - -“But you know her, though you don’t know her,” said he, under his -breath, with a half-wondering grateful look at me that quite restored my -good-humour. I remember I nodded at him cheerfully. Know her! I should -like to know who had as good a right! These young creatures can’t -understand how many things an old woman knows. - -Here Milly came up to us, a little jealous, thinking somehow we were -plotting against her. “Harry is talking to you of something?” she said, -with a little hesitation in her voice. - -“On the subject we both like best, just now,” said I. “But I wish you -both to go with me to the Park. You can manage it, can you not? The dear -baby, and the little nurse, and--but the fat Italian? Ah! he doesn’t -belong to you. - -“No! he was in great triumph to-night; his master has come home,” said -young Langham. “He does not belong to us; but he is a devoted slave of -Milly’s for all that.” - -“His master came home to-night!” I repeated the words over to myself -involuntarily; and then a sudden thought struck me in the feverish -impulse which came with that news. “Children,” said I, with a little -gasp, “it is deeply to all our interest to know who that young man is. I -can never rest, nor take comfort in anything till I know. Will you try -to have him with you to-morrow, and I will come and speak to him? Hush! -neither the Cresswells nor anybody is to know; it concerns only us -Mortimers. Will you help me to see him at your house?” - -“You are trembling,” said Milly, suddenly taking hold of my hand. “Tell -Harry what it is and he will do it. He is to be trusted; but it will -agitate you.” - -“I cannot tell Harry, for I do not know,” said I, below my breath, -leaning heavily upon the arm, so firm and yet so soft, that had come to -my aid. “But I will take Harry’s support and yours. It shall be in your -house. Whatever is to be said shall be said before you. Thank heaven! if -I do get agitated and forget myself you will remember what he says.” - -“It is something that distresses you?” said the young stranger, once -more looking into my face, not curious but wistful. I should have been -angry had Sara Cresswell asked as much. I was glad and comforted to see -Milly anxious on my account. - -“I cannot tell what it is; but whatever it is, it is right that you -should know all about it,” said I. “For anything I can tell you it may -interfere both with your succession and ours. I can’t tell you anything -about it, that is the truth! I know no more than your baby does how Mr. -Luigi can have any connection with our family; but he has a connection -somehow--that is all I know. To-morrow, to-morrow, please God! we’ll try -to find out what it is.” - -The two young people were a good deal startled by my agitation; -perhaps, as was natural, they were also moved by the thought of another -person who might interfere with the inheritance that had just begun to -dazzle their eyes; but as I leaned back in my chair, exhausted with the -flutter that came over me at the very thought of questioning Mr. Luigi, -my eyes fell upon Mr. Cresswell, still sipping a cup of tea, and quietly -watching me over the top of his spectacles; and at the same moment Sara -came in from the back drawing-room with great agitation and excitement -in her face. I could see that she scarcely could restrain herself from -coming to me and telling me something; but with a sudden guilty glance -at her father, and a sudden unaccountable blush, she stole off into a -corner, and, of all the wonderful things in the world, produced actually -_some work_ out of some fantastic ornamental work-table or other! That -was certainly a new development in Sara. But I could read in her face -that she had seen him too. She too had somehow poked her curls into this -mystery. All around me, everybody I looked at, were moved by it, into -curiosity or interest, or something deeper--I, the principal person in -the business, feeling them all look at me, could only feel the more that -I was going blindfold to, I could not tell what danger or precipice. -Blindfold! but at least it should be straightforward. I knew that much -of the to-morrow, which it made me tremble with excitement to think of; -but I knew nothing more. - - - - -PART VI. - -THE LIEUTENANT’S WIFE. - -(_Continued._) - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -My dear old relation whom we have found out so suddenly, and whom I am -quite ashamed to have once thought to be a kind of usurper of something -that belonged to me, has been too much distressed and troubled -altogether about this business to have the trouble of writing it down as -well; and I have so little, so strangely little, to take up my time just -now. The days are somehow all blank, with nothing ever happening in -them. In my mind I can always see the ship making way over the sea, with -the same rush of green water, and the same low-falling, quiet sky, and -no other ships in sight. It has been very quiet weather--that is a great -mercy. They should be almost landed there by this time. - -But that is not my business just now. My dear Aunt Milly--it is true she -is only my father’s cousin, but cousin is an awkward title between -people of such different age, and, according to Sara Cresswell, she is -my aunt, _à la mode de Bretagne_, which I don’t mind adopting without -any very close inquiry into its meaning--made an engagement with us to -come to our house the next morning after that first day we met her. -Harry came home from the Cresswells that night in raptures with Aunt -Milly. It was rather hard upon me to see him so pleased. Of course I -knew very well what made him so pleased. He thought he had secured a -home for me. He was never tired praising her in his way. I am not -exactly sure whether she herself would have relished the praises he gave -her, because he has a sad habit of talking slang like all the rest. But -apart from any reason, he _took to her_, which it is a great pleasure to -think of now. When we got home Mr. Luigi’s window was blazing with light -just as it had done when he returned before; for Domenico seems to be -quite of the opinion that candles are articles of love and welcome as -well as of devotion. Harry, who had quite made acquaintance with the -Italian gentleman when he was at home before, went in to see him, and I -went upstairs to baby. I used to take comfort in getting by myself a -little, just at that time. Ten minutes in my own room in the dark did me -a great deal of good. When one takes an opportunity and gets it out of -one’s heart now and then, one can go on longer and better--at least I -have found it so. - -Lizzie, always watchful, was very ready to let me hear that she was -close at hand. The moment she heard me open my own room-door, she began -to move about in the back apartment where she kept watch over baby, and -I do believe it was only by dint of strong self-denial that she did not -burst in upon me at once. I can’t fancy what she thought would happen if -I “gave way.” It must have taken some very terrible shape to her fancy. -After I had my moment of repose, I went to baby’s room. He was asleep -like a little cherub in Mrs. Goldsworthy’s old wicker-work cradle, which -I had trimmed with chintz for him; and Lizzie sat by the table working, -but looking up at me with her sharp suspicious eyes--sidelong -inquisitive looks, full of doubts of my fortitude, and anxiety for me. -It was all affection, poor child. When one has affectionate creatures -about one, it is impossible to be hard or shut one’s self up. I had no -choice but to stop and tell Lizzie about my new friend. - -“Oh, it was thon leddy was at the muckle gates, and warned us away for -the kingcough,” cried Lizzie; “I minded her the very moment at the door. -I was sure as could be from the first look that it was some friend.” - -“Some friend,” in Lizzie’s language meant some relation. I asked in -wonder, “Why?” - -But Lizzie could not explain why; it was one of those unreasonable -impressions which are either instinctively prophetic, or which are -adopted unconsciously after the event has proved them true. - -“But you were never slow where help was needed or comfort,” said Lizzie, -dropping her eyes and ashamed of her own compliment; “and I kent there -was somebody to be sent to comfort _you_; and wha could it be but a -friend? For naebody could take you like the way you took me.” - -I suppose Lizzie’s view of things, being the simplest, had power over -me. I was struck by this way of regarding it. Perhaps I had not just -been thinking of what was _sent_. I felt as if that tight binding over -my heart relaxed a little. Ah! so well as the Sender knew all about -it--all my loneliness, dismay, and troubles; all my Harry’s risks and -dangers; all our life beyond--inscrutable dread life which I dared not -attempt to look at--and everything that was in it. I held my breath, and -was silent in this wide world that opened out to me through Lizzie’s -words. - -“And eh, mem,” cried Lizzie, opening her eyes wide, “I was sent for down -the stair.” - -“Where?” cried I in astonishment. - -“I was sent for down the stair,” said Lizzie, with the oddest blush and -twist of her person. “Menico, he’s aye been awfu’ ill at me since I -wouldna gang to the playhouse after it was a’ settled--as if I could -gang to play mysel’ the very day the news came! and eh, when he came up -and glowered in at the door, and Mrs. Goldsworthy beside him, and no a -person but me in _oor_ house, I was awfu’ feared. Her being English, -they were like twa foreigners thegither; and how was I to ken what they -were wantin’? The only comfort I had was mindin’ upon the Captain’s -sword. It was aye like a protection. But a’ they said was that Mrs. -Goldsworthy would stop beside baby, and I was to gang down the stair and -speak to the gentleman. I thought shame to look as if I was feared--but -I was awfu’ feared for a’ that.” - -“And what then?” - -“I had to gang,” said Lizzie, holding down her head; “_he_ was sleeping -sound, and I kent I could hear the first word of greetin’ that was in -his head; _I_ could hear in ony corner o’ the house; and Mrs. -Goldsworthy gied me her word she would sit awfu’ quiet and not disturb -him. Eh, mem, are ye angry? I never did it afore, and I’ll never do it -again.” - -“No, you must not do it again,” said I; “but who wanted you downstairs?” - -“Eh, it was the Italian gentleman,” said Lizzie; “and it was a’ about -the leddy that was here the day. He wanted to ken if she was wanting -_him_; and then he wanted to hear if I kent her, and what friend she was -to you; but it was mostly a’ to make certain that it wasn’t _him_ she -wanted--as if a leddy like yon was likely to have ony troke wi’ -foreigners or strange men! and there was aye the other blatter to -Menico in their ain language--and ower again, and ower again to me, if -it wasna _him_ she asked for. And me standing close at the door -listening for baby, and thinking shame to be there, and awfu’ feared you -would be angry. I would like to ken what the like of him had to do wi’ -leddies?--and Menico, too, that might have kent better--but there’s -naebody will behave to please folk perfect in this world.” - -“But this is very strange news,” said I. “What did you say, Lizzie? did -you say it was Miss Mortimer, and that she was a relation of mine.” - -“Eh, no me!” cried Lizzie. “Ye might think it to see me so silly, but I -wasna that daft. I said it was ane on a visit to the leddy. _I_ had nae -ado with it ony mair than that, and I’m sure neither had he.” - -Here Harry’s voice sounded from below, calling me, and I left Lizzie -somewhat amused by her cautious and prudent answer, and not a little -curious to see that the Italian was interested about the old lady as -well as she about him. I found Harry quite full of the same story. Mr. -Luigi had questioned him with great caution about Miss Mortimer, and of -course had heard the entire story from Harry of our relationship, and -how we found each other out. He had received it very quietly, without -expressing any feeling at all, and had asked some very close questions -about her and about the Park, and her other sister. Harry could not make -him out. Of course neither of us knew the other sister. Evidently it was -a mysterious business somehow. But as we knew nothing whatever about it, -we soon came to an end of our speculations. The morning, perhaps, as -Aunt Milly thought, would clear it all up. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -The morning came, and a very lovely morning it was, as bright and almost -as warm as summer, one of those glimpses of real spring which come to us -only by days at a time. Aunt Milly came almost before we had finished -breakfast. I dare say she is accustomed to early hours; but it was -evidently strong anxiety and excitement that had brought her out so soon -to-day. I had told Lizzie she was coming, and Lizzie, either with some -perception of the real nature of her visit, which I could not in any way -account for, or with natural Scotch jealousy and reluctance to satisfy -the curiosity of strangers as to our relationship, kept on the watch -after she had given baby into my charge, and got her triumphantly into -the house without any intervention on the part of Domenico. Aunt Milly -sank into a chair, very breathless and agitated. It was some time before -she could even notice little Harry. To see her so made me more and more -aware how serious this business, whatever it was, must be. - -“But I am too early, I suppose?” she said with a little gasp. - -Harry thought it was rather too early, unless he were to tell Mr. Luigi -plainly what he was wanted for, which she would not permit him to do. It -was a very uncomfortable interval. She sat silent, evidently with her -whole mind bent upon the approaching interview. We, neither knowing the -subject of it, nor what her anxiety was, had nothing to say, and I was -very glad when Harry went downstairs to find the Italian. Then Aunt -Milly made a hurried communication to me when we were alone, which -certainly did not explain anything, but which still she evidently felt -to be taking me into her confidence. - -“My dear, Sarah knows something about him,” said Aunt Milly; “somehow or -other Sarah knows that he has a claim upon us. When she heard of the -inquiries he was making, she was in a state of desperation--used to -drive out with the carriage blinds down, poor soul, and kept watching -all day long, so wretched and anxious that it would have broken your -heart. But how it all is, and how about this Countess, and his being -named Luigi, and his claim upon the estate, and her knowing him--though, -so far as I can judge, he could be no more than born when she came -home--Hark! was that somebody coming upstairs?” - -It was only some of the people of the house moving about. Aunt Milly -gave a sigh of relief. “My dear, I’m more and more anxious since I’ve -found _you_, to know the worst,” she said. “It is as great a mystery to -you as to your baby, how he can have any connection with us. Dear, dear! -to think of a quiet family, and such a family as the Mortimers, plunged -all at once into some mystery! it is enough to break one’s heart;--but -then, you see, Sarah was so long abroad.” - -“Was she long abroad?” said I, with a little cry. All at once, and in -spite of myself, my old fancy about that old Miss Mortimer, whom I -imagined living in my grandfather’s house, came back to my mind. The -great beauty whom my good Mrs. Saltoun had seen abroad--how strange if -this should be her after all! Somehow my old imaginations had looked so -true at the time, that I seemed to remember them as if they were matters -of fact and not of fancy. I looked up, quite with a consciousness that I -knew something about it, in Aunt Milly’s face. - -“What do you know about her?” cried Aunt Milly, rising up quite erect -and rigid out of her chair. Her excitement was extreme. She had -evidently gone beyond the point at which she could be surprised to find -any stranger throwing light upon her mystery. But at that moment those -steps for which we had been listening did ascend the stairs. We could -hear them talking as they approached, the Italian with his accent and -rather solemn dictionary English, and Harry’s voice that sounded so easy -in comparison. Aunt Milly sank back again into her chair. She grasped -the arms of it to support herself, and gave me a strange half-terrified, -half-courageous look. In another moment they had entered the room. - -Mr. Luigi came in without any idea, I dare say, of the anxiety with -which we awaited him; but he had not been a minute in the room when his -quick eye caught Aunt Milly, though she had drawn back with an -involuntary movement of withdrawal from the crisis she had herself -brought on. I could read in his face, the instant he saw her, that he -divined the little contrivance by which he had been brought here. He -stood facing her after he had paid his respects to me, and took no -notice of the chair Harry offered him. As for Harry and I, not knowing -whether they really knew each other, or whether they ought to be named -to each other, or what to do, we stood very uncomfortable and -embarrassed behind. I said “Miss Mortimer,” instinctively, to lessen the -embarrassment if I could. I don’t believe he heard me. _He_ knew Miss -Mortimer very well, however it was. - -And it was he who was the first to break the silence. He made a kind of -reverence to her, more than a bow, like some sort of old-fashioned -filial demonstration. “Madame has something to say to me?” he asked, -with an anxiety in his face almost equal to her own. - -“Yes,” cried Aunt Milly, “I--I have something to say to you. Sit down, -and let me get breath.” - -He sat down, and so did we. To see her struggling to overcome the great -tremor of excitement she had fallen into, and we all waiting in silence -for her words, must have been a very strange scene. It was the merest -wonder and curiosity, of course, with Harry and me; but I remember -noticing even at that moment that Mr. Luigi was not surprised. He -evidently knew something to account for her agitation. He sat looking at -her, bending towards her with visible expectation of something. It was -no mystery to him. - -“Sir--young man,” cried Aunt Milly, with a gasp, “I do not know you; you -are a stranger, a foreigner; you have nothing to do with this place. -What, in the name of heaven, is it that you have to do with mine or me?” - -Mr. Luigi’s countenance fell. He was bitterly disappointed; it was -evident in his face. He drew a long breath and clasped his hands -together, half in resignation, half appealing against some hard fate. -“Ah!” he said, “I did hope otherwise--is it, indeed, indeed, that you -know not _me_?” - -Aunt Milly gave a cry half of terror. “I recognise your voice,” she -said. “I see gleams in your face of faces I know. I am going out of my -wits with bewilderment and trouble; but as sure as you are there before -me, I know no more who you are than does the child who cannot speak.” - -Mr. Luigi made no reply for some minutes. Then he made some exclamations -in Italian, scarcely knowing, I am sure, what he was saying. Then he -remembered himself. “Thing most strange! thing most terrible!” cried the -young man; “not even now!--not even now!” and he looked round to us with -such distress and amazement in his face, and with such an involuntary -call for our sympathy, though we knew nothing about it, that his look -went to my heart. Aunt Milly saw it, and was confounded by it. His -genuine wonder and strange grieved consciousness that she ought to have -known this secret, whatever it was, stopped her questions upon her lips. -She sat leaning forward looking at him, struck dumb by his looks. I was -so excited by the evident reserve on both sides, which implied the -existence of a third person whom neither would name, that I burst into -it, on the spur of the moment, without thinking whether what I said was -sensible or foolish. “Who?” I cried, “who is the other person that -knows?” - -Both of them started violently; then their eyes met in a strange look of -intelligence. Aunt Milly fell back in her chair trembling dreadfully, -trembling so much that her teeth chattered. Mr. Luigi rose. “I am at -Madame’s disposition,” he said softly; “but what can I say? It is better -I be gone while I do not harm Madame, and make her ill. Pardon! it is -not I who am to blame!” - -Saying so, he took Aunt Milly’s hand, kissed it, and turned to the door. -She called him back faintly. “Stop, I have not asked you rightly,” said -poor Aunt Milly. “Could not you tell me, without minding anybody else? -Are you--are you?--oh! _who_ are you? I do beseech you tell me. If wrong -is done you, I have no hand in it. What is there to prevent you telling -me?” - -“Ah, pardon. I know my duty,” said the young man. “If she _will_ reject -me--then! but it is yet too early. I wait--I expect--she has not yet -said it to me.” - -Aunt Milly gathered herself up gradually, with a strange fluttered look -in her eyes. “_Reject_ you! God bless us! it is some mistake, after all. -Do you know who it is you are speaking of? Do you know if it is my -sister Sarah? She is my elder sister, ten years older than me,--old -enough to be your mother--is it she? or, oh, God help us! is it a -mistake?” - -Mr. Luigi turned towards me for a moment, with a face melted out of all -reserve, into such affectionateness and emotion as I scarcely ever saw -on a man’s face. When she named her sister’s age, he said, “Ah!” with a -tone as if her words went to his heart. But that was all. He shook his -head. He said, “No more, no more,” and went slowly but steadily away. It -was no mistake. What she said conveyed no information to him. He knew -_that_ Sarah’s age and all about her, better than her sister did, or I -was mistaken. What he said, and still more what he looked, brought a -strong sudden impression to my mind. I don’t know yet how I can be -right--if I am right it is the strangest thing in the world; but I know -it darted into my head that morning when Luigi’s face melted out so -strongly, and that cry which explained nothing came from his heart. - -In the meantime, however, poor Aunt Milly sat wringing her hands and -more troubled than ever, repeating to herself bits of the conversation -which had just passed, and bits of other conversations which we knew -nothing about. Harry and I, a little uncomfortable, still tried to -occupy ourselves so that we should not hear anything she did not want us -to hear; but we did not wish to leave her either. At last Harry went out -altogether and left her alone with me, and by degrees she calmed down. I -do not wonder she was painfully excited. There could be little doubt -some strange, unnatural secret was concealed in her house. - -“But you heard him say _reject_,” said Aunt Milly,--“if she rejected -him--do you feel quite sure he understood my last question? Not knowing -a language very well makes a wonderful difference; and what if he -supposed my sister a _young_ woman, Milly? When I began to be troubled -about this business, I couldn’t but think that it was some old lover -Sarah was afraid of meeting, forgetting the lapse of time. She was a -great beauty once, you know. How do you suppose, now, an old woman could -_reject_ a young man?” - -“But there are other meanings of the word than as it is between young -women and young men,” said I; “he might mean _disown_.” - -“He might mean _disown_,” repeated Aunt Milly slowly,--“_disown_; but, -dear, dear child,” she cried, immediately throwing off her first puzzled -hypothesis, and falling back at once into the real subject of her -trouble, “what can he be to Sarah that she could _disown_ him? Before -you can disown a person he must belong to you. How could Mr. Luigi -belong to my sister? but, to be sure, it is folly to put such questions -to you that know nothing about it. Milly, dear, I’ll have to go home.” - -“I am very, very sorry you are going home disappointed,” said I. - -“Yes,” said Aunt Milly, with a great sigh, “it is hard to think one’s -somehow involved in doing wrong, my dear; it’s hard to live in the house -with your nearest friend, and not to know any more of her than if she -were a stranger. What was I saying? I never said so much to any creature -before. I take you as if you belonged to me, though you scarcely know me -yet, Milly. I’d like you to settle to come out as soon as possible, -dear. I’d like you to see Sarah, and tell me what you think. -Perhaps--there is no telling--she might say something to _you_.” - -“But will she be pleased to know about us?” said I. - -“It was _her_ desire to seek for you,” said Aunt Milly. “She thought of -that, somehow, just before this trouble came on. Sometimes it has come -into my mind, that she thought if she found your father, he would have -protected her somehow. I can’t tell: it is all a great mystery to me.” - -And so she went away after a while, looking very sorrowful; but came -back to tell me to put my bonnet on and come with her to Mr. -Cresswell’s, who was to drive her home. On our way there I suddenly felt -her grasp my arm and point forward a little way before us, where Mr. -Luigi was walking slowly along the road by Sara Cresswell’s side. Aunt -Milly came almost to a dead stop, looking at them. They were not -arm-in-arm, nor did they look as if they had met _on purpose_. I dare -say it was only by accident. Sara, as usual, was dressed in a great -velvet jacket, much larger and wider than the one she wore indoors, and -held her little head high, as if she quite meant to impress an idea of -her dignity upon the Italian, who had to stoop down a long way, and -perhaps did stoop down more than Aunt Milly and I saw to be exactly -necessary. They went the length of the street together, quite -unconscious of the critics behind them, and then separated, Mr. Luigi -marching off at a very brisk pace, and Sara continuing her way home. We -came up to her just as she reached her own door. She was certainly a -very pretty creature, and looked so fresh and blooming in the morning -air that I could not have scolded her a great deal, though I own I had a -very good mind to do my best in that way, while we were walking behind. -The moment she saw us she took guilt to herself. Her face glowed into -the most overpowering blush, and the little parasol in her hand fell out -of her trembling fingers. But, of course, her spirit did not forsake -her. She was not the person to yield to any such emergency. - -“We have been walking after you for a long time,” said dear Aunt Milly, -in a voice which I have no doubt she supposed to be severe. “I should -have called you to wait for us, had I not seen you were otherwise -engaged.” - -“Oh! then you saw Mr. Luigi, godmamma?” said Sara, quite innocently. “He -says he thinks he has found out where the Countess Sermoneta is.” - -“The Countess Sermoneta!--oh, child, child, how can you speak so to -me?” cried Aunt Milly. “I don’t believe there is any such person in the -world. I believe he only makes a fuss about a name, no one ever heard -of, to cover his real designs, whatever they may be.” - -“Godmamma!” cried Sara, with a flash of fury; “perhaps it will be better -to come indoors,” cried the little wicked creature (as Aunt Milly calls -her); “nobody, that I ever heard of, took away people’s characters in -the open street.” - -Aunt Milly went in quickly, shaking her head and deeply troubled. The -renewal of this subject swept Sara’s enormity out of her head. We -followed, Sara bidding me precede her with a sort of affronted grandeur, -which, I confess, was a little amusing to me. When we came into the -dining-room, where Aunt Milly went first, the little girl confronted us -both, very ready to answer anything we had to say, and confute us to our -faces. But much to Sara’s surprise, and perhaps annoyance, Aunt Milly -did not say a word on the subject. She shook her head again more -energetically than ever. She was so much shaken on this one subject, -that other matters evidently glided out of her mind, whenever she was -recalled to this. - -“No, no! depend upon it there’s no Countess Sermoneta. I believed in it -at first, naturally, as everybody else did. It may be a lady, but it -isn’t an Italian lady. No, no,” said Aunt Milly, mournfully; “he knows -better. He said nothing, you may be sure, about _her_ to me.” - -At this moment Mr. Cresswell entered the room, and a little after the -brougham came to the door. There was nothing more said on the subject. -Sara saw them drive away, with a flutter of fear, I could see; but she -need not have been afraid. Aunt Milly had returned into the -consideration of her own mystery, which swallowed up Sara’s. I do not -think, for my own part, that I had very Christian feelings towards Mr. -Luigi as I went home. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -For a few days after I was occupied entirely with my own affairs. We had -promised to go to the Park to see that strange sister Sarah, who -troubled Aunt Milly’s mind so much; and we had, of course, to make some -little preparations for going--more, indeed, than were very convenient -at such a time, as you may very well suppose. However, Aunt Connor, who -had not paid the last half year’s interest, sent it just then, “all in a -lump,” as she said herself, “thinking it would do you more good;” as -indeed it did, though perhaps poor Aunt Connor had other motives than -that one for not sending it just when it was due. Harry was quite -pleased at the thought of going to the Park. He got leave of absence for -a few days; and, naturally, it was a satisfaction to him, after feeling -that he had been obliged to keep his wife in the shade so long, to say -that it was to my relations we were going. And what with all the -preparations for his going away as well, I was so very busy that I got -little leisure to think. It is very common to say what good -opportunities for thought one has in working at one’s needle--and it is -very true so far as quiet, leisurely work is concerned; but when it -happens to be making shirts and such things--and you know, with most -men, merely to _say_ they are made at home is enough to make them feel -as if they did not fit,--it is quite a different matter. I was too busy, -both mind and fingers, to do much thinking; and that was far better for -me than if I had found more leisure. I used to go up to Lizzie’s room, -which we called the nursery, and work there. Baby sat on the carpet, -well protected with cushions, and furnished with things to play with. He -was not very particular--his playthings were of a very humble and -miscellaneous order; but I am sure he was as happy as a little king. - -“And eh, isn’t it grand that his birthday’s come before the Captain -gangs away? He’ll, maybe, be back,” said Lizzie, peering into my face -with a sidelong look, “before another year.” - -“Hush!” said I, hastily; “but you must remember, Lizzie, to be -particularly nice and tidy, and to look as if you were twenty, at least, -when we go to the Park.” - -Here Lizzie drew herself up a little. “I’ve never been among a housefu’ -o’ servants,” said Lizzie, “that’s true--but I’ve been wi’ a leddy, and -that suld learn folk manners better nor a’ the flunkeys in the world. -For Menico says, as well as I can understand him, that there’s twa -men-servants, and as mony maids as would fill a house. Eh, mem, wouldn’t -it be a great vexation to see a wheen idle folk aye in the road? -Menico’s no like a common man; there’s no an article he canna do; but as -for just flunkeys to hand the plates and do about a house--eh, if it was -me, I would think they werena men.” - -“But Miss Mortimer’s man is not a flunkey; it was he who came with us in -the omnibus,” said I. - -“Yon _gentleman_?” said Lizzie, in great dismay. “I thought he was a -minister; and eh, to think of _him_ puttin’ on fires and waitin’ at the -table! I would far sooner be a woman mysel’.” - -“And have you any objection to be a woman apart from that?” said I. “I -did not think you had been so ambitious, Lizzie. What would _you_ do if -you were a man?” - -Lizzie’s colour rose, and her work fell from her hand. “I would gang to -the wars with the Captain,” cried the girl, “I would aye make a spring -in before him where danger was. I would send word every day how he did, -and what he was doing. I would stand by our ain flag if they hacked me -in pieces. I wouldna let the Hielanders stay still, no a moment!--I -would dash them down on the enemy wi’ a’ their bayonets, and cry -‘Scotland and the Queen!’ and if we were killed, wha’s heeding!--it -would be worth a man’s while to die!” - -This outburst was more than I could bear. I forgot to think it was only -Lizzie, a woman and a child, that spoke. I put my hands over my eyes to -shut out the prospect she brought before me, but only saw the picture -all the clearer, as my hand, with all its warm pulses beating, shut out -the daylight. I could see Harry rushing before them with his sword -drawn. I could hear his voice pealing out over their heads; I could see -the smoke close over him and swallow him up. Ah, heaven!--pictures and -stories are made out of such scenes. This creature by my side had flamed -up into exulting enthusiasm at the thought. How many hearts attended -those charging regiments, breaking against each other, heart upon -heart! It came to my heart to wonder, suddenly, whether there might not -be some young Russian woman, like me, imagining that fight. Her husband -and my Harry might meet under those dreadful flags,--she and I, would -not we meet, too, in our agony? I held out my arms to her with a cry of -anguish--we were sisters, though _they_ were foes. - -When I looked up Lizzie was crying bitterly, partly with her own -excitement, partly, because she saw how cruel her suggestion had been to -me. She did not mean it so, poor child. Baby sat playing all the time -among his cushions, crowing to himself over the bright-coloured ball he -had found under his heap of toys. I thought to myself he would laugh all -the same whatever happened, and wondered how I should bear to hear him. -But that was enough, that was too much. I stopped myself, as best I -could, from going on any further. I got some linen that had to be cut -out, and rose up to do it;--it was very delicate work. If I were not -very careful, a snip of the scissors, too much or too little, might -spoil all the stuff; for Harry was very fastidious, you know, about all -his things, like most young men. It took some trouble to steady my hand -enough--but I did manage it. I wonder what the Russian woman did, to -calm _her_ agitation down. - -Lizzie recovered very hastily when she saw what I was doing. She picked -up her work, and sewed for a long time so silently and swiftly, that the -snip of my scissors and the movement of her arm, as she drew through her -needle, were the only sounds, except those which baby made, to be heard -in the room. At last she took courage to address me with great humility, -asking only if it was “the day after the morn” that we were going to the -Park? - -I nodded my head in return, and Lizzie took courage to go on. The next -question was whether the Italian gentleman would be there? - -“The Italian gentleman! what has he to do with the Miss Mortimers?” -cried I. - -“Eh, it’s no me said it,” cried Lizzie, in alarm; “but yesterday, the -day the leddy was here Menico was a’ the gate out there, ance errand wi’ -a letter. I said what way did it no go to the post? and he said the post -wouldna do. But I wouldna let on the leddy was here.” - -“He went out with a letter, did he?” said I, in much surprise. “Was that -where he was all day? I did not see him about till it was dark.” - -“There maun be another leddy?” said Lizzie, inquisitively; “and he gaed -her some grand name or another. He’s awfu’ funny wi’ his names. He ca’s -baby _Signorino_ and _ragazzino_, and I dinna ken a’ what. I looked them -up in the dictionary, and they were a’ right meanings enough. But it -wasna Miss Mortimer he ca’ed the other leddy. Eh, mem, isn’t Menico -getting grand at his English? and I’me aye improving mysel’ too,” said -Lizzie, with a little blush and awkward droop of her head. - -I was not much in the humour for laughing at poor Lizzie’s -self-complacency; but I was rather anxious to hear all the gossip I -could get for Aunt Milly’s sake. I asked immediately “Were they kind to -Menico at the Park?” - -Lizzie hesitated a little in her answer. “He’s rael clever at speaking,” -she said, apologetically,--I suppose finding it rather hard to go back -so soon after her laudation--“but when it’s a long story it’s no so easy -to ken--no _a’_ he means. But I’m no thinking they were very good to -him--for he was awfu’ angry when he came hame. And eh, to see him at his -dinner! You would think he hadna seen meat for a week. It’s no a guid -account of a house--no meaning ony harm of a great house like the Park,” -said Lizzie, reflectively,--“when a man comes awfu’ hungry hame.” - -Here there was a little pause while Lizzie threaded her needle. I don’t -know whether she was indulging in any melancholy anticipations of the -hospitality of the Park. However, presently she resumed her story again. - -“And eh, mem! far mair than that,” said Lizzie, making a fresh start, -“he brought back the very same letter just as it was--it might be -because the leddy was out, or I dinna ken what it might be; but I saw -him gi’e it back to the gentleman. And the gentleman, instead of being -angry, he just took the letter and shook his head, and set fire to it at -the candle. The door was open, and I saw him do it as I came up the -stairs. It gaed to my heart to see him burning the good letter,” said -Lizzie; “there was, maybe, something in’t that somebody might have likit -to hear.” - -“But, Lizzie, don’t you know nobody has any business with a letter -except the person who wrote it, and the person it is addressed to?” said -I. - -I spoke, I confess, in an admonitory spirit. We did not get very many -letters, but Harry was sadly careless of those he did get. - -“Eh, but foreigners are no like other folk,” cried Lizzie; “there’s -something awfu’ queer in burning a letter, and it a’ sealed up. I -couldna find it in my heart;--and when it’s a long story, it’s awfu’ -fickle to understand Domenico, the half o’ what he says.” - -Lizzie ended with a sigh of unsatisfied curiosity. Perhaps, if I could -have done it, I might have been as anxious to cross-question Domenico as -she. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -Our little journey was arranged by Aunt Milly in the most comfortable -way she could think of for us. Harry would not consent to let her send -the carriage all the way. The railway was close to us, and it passed -about two miles from the Park, where there was a little station; and the -carriage was to meet us there. It was a very short journey, certainly; -but I remember when we were all in the train,--all--every one of us,--a -family entire and close together,--and especially at the moment when we -were passing through the tunnel, and felt in the darkness more entirely -separated from the world,--a sudden thought seized upon me: “Oh, if we -were only going on, anywhere, anywhere to the end of the world!” -Plunging through the darkness, with Harry sitting close by me, and baby -on my knee, and nobody able to approach or stop us--going on all -together! All sorts of people have their fancies, no doubt. I daresay -mine were very homely ones; but I shall never forget the strange thrill -that came upon my heart as this wild possibility seized me. When we came -slowly into the daylight, and the train stopped, and the door of the -carriage flew open, and dear Aunt Milly herself appeared to welcome us, -I woke up with a little shiver into real life again. Ah me! one cannot -dart into the bowels of the earth and hide one’s self. But life and duty -somehow looked cold at me with their piercing daylight eyes after that -thought. - -Everything familiar stopped short and broke off when we got into the -carriage. Aunt Milly was not a great lady. I don’t think anything could -ever have made her a great lady; but it was clear she had been a person -of consideration for many a year. I never had been in such a carriage -before; indeed, I don’t think I had ever been in any carriage but a -public one, for, of course, Aunt Connor was not rich enough to have a -carriage of her own. But when I sat down by Aunt Milly’s side, I could -not help feeling immediately that it all belonged to me. It was a -strange feeling, and indeed, if nobody will be shocked, it was a very -pleasing feeling. Instead of making me discontented, somehow it quite -reconciled me to being poor. My own opinion is, that people of good -family, or whatever is equivalent to good family,--people that know they -belong to a higher class, whether other people know it or not,--always -bear poverty best. It does not humiliate them as it does people who have -always been poor. I think I could have stood any remarks upon my bonnet, -or even baby’s pelisse, with great equanimity after my visit to the -Park; being poor looked so much more like an accidental circumstance -after that. Perhaps I don’t explain very well what I mean, so I will -just state it plainly, and then you may understand, or disagree with it, -just as you choose. The higher one’s rank is, the better one can bear -being poor. There! it is not the common opinion, but I believe it all -the same for that. - -And here was the Park, the very same great modern house that stood -(leaning on the trees) in poor papa’s drawing, with two wings drawn out -from the main body of the building, and a curious archway and a little -paved court at the side before you came to the great door. We went to -the great door as we were strangers, and I could see the grave face of -my omnibus acquaintance peeping through a round bow-window close to the -door before he admitted us, very solemnly and with profoundest abstract -air. I wonder if he could remember us. His face looked as blankly -respectful as if any idea on any subject whatever would somehow be -unbecoming the dignity of the Park. Aunt Milly, who had gradually become -fidgety, now took hold of my hand and drew me forward quickly. I went -with her, a little astonished, but with no clear idea where I was going. -She took me into a very long, very large room, with a great many tall -windows on one side, a room so big as to look a perfect maze of -furniture to me. I saw nobody in it, and did not think of it as being a -room in common use. She had brought me to see some picture, no doubt. -But Aunt Milly hurried me up this long room, with her hand upon my -wrist, to a screen that seemed drawn so as to shelter one side of the -fireplace. When we came in front of this, I was greatly startled to see -a lady, with large knitting-pins in her hands, rise slowly from an -arm-chair. There was nothing extraordinary in her look; she had fine -features, I suppose,--I don’t think I know, very well, what fine -features are,--she had white hair, and a pretty cap with soft-coloured -ribbons, and a strange, _studied_, soft-coloured dress. I noticed all -this unconsciously, in the midst of the nervous and startled sensation -that I had in being brought in front of her so suddenly. She put both -her knitting-pins into one hand, and held out the other to me. Then she -bent forward a little, meaning me to kiss her, which I did with much -awe and with no great sensation of pleasure. Her hand was cold, and so -was her cheek. I could scarcely help shrinking away from her touch. Then -she spoke, and I, being quite unprepared for it, was still more -startled. Her voice was a kind of whisper, very strange and unpleasant; -all the s’s came out sharp, with a kind of hiss. I suppose it was -because she was so entirely used to it herself that Aunt Milly never -mentioned it to me. - -“So you are Richard Mortimer’s daughter?” she said. “Sit down: I am very -glad to see you. It is I that have been so anxious about finding you for -some time past. But where is your husband? I want him to come as well as -you.” - -“He is in the hall. He will be here presently, Sarah,” said Aunt Milly. -“I told Ellis to show him in, and the dear baby, too; but I could not -keep back Milly from you for a moment. I knew you would be anxious to -see her at once.” - -“I wish to see her husband too,” said Miss Mortimer. “So your name is -Milly? Because it was our principal family name, I suppose? Your father -was a great man for family matters, because _his_ father was such a -leveller; otherwise I should have thought he would have called you after -me.” - -Why, I wondered? but indeed I had very little inclination to speak. - -“I want to see your husband particularly. I should like you to live -here. Milly says he is going to the Crimea,” said Miss Mortimer. “I hope -he’s a reasonable man. Why shouldn’t he leave the army at once? _I_ want -him here. You were not the heir to an estate like the Park when he got -orders for the Crimea. I see no reason in the world why he should not -sell out and stay at home.” - -I think she went on saying more, but I did not hear her; the great room -swam in my eyes; she seemed all fading away into pale circles. I lost -hold of the chair or something I was standing by. I don’t remember -anything else till I felt some water dashed on my face, and gradually -the pale circles cleared away, and I was in the same room again. I had -no idea what had happened to me. I was lying on a sofa, though, now, -with my face all wet, and a dreadful singing and buzzing in my ears, and -Harry was there. I found out I had fainted. I never did such a thing in -all my life before; how very foolish of me! and just when she was -talking, too, about that--that chance. I caught hold of Harry’s fingers -tight: “Go and speak to her!” I cried out. I could not keep still until -he went, for I could see the screen, and knew she was there. - -When he disappeared behind the screen, and when, after a moment, Aunt -Milly followed, always keeping her eyes on me, I lay perfectly still, -grasping my two hands in each other. My mind was all seething up, as if -in a fever, round what she had said. I was conscious of nothing else. I -could not hear what they were saying now for the noise in my ears; but -as I lay still a strange succession of feelings came over me. It was -like so many breezes of wind, each cooler,--nay, I mean colder,--than -the other. First it occurred to me what other people would say of him, -of Harry, whom no one now durst breathe a doubt upon; then I thought of -him fighting with himself for my sake, trying to put down his manhood -and his honour to save breaking his wife’s heart; then I came to myself -last of all. Would I? could I? I groaned aloud in my anguish. Oh, -Russian woman, what would _you_ say? There are plenty to be killed and -sacrificed. Shall we let our children’s fathers go, to be lost in that -smoke and battle? Harry burst out to me from behind the screen when I -was in this darkness. I never saw him look as he looked then. He took my -two hands and cried out in an appeal and remonstrance, “Milly, do _you_ -say so?” looking down at me with his eyes all in a blaze. I could not -bear it. I put him away--thrust him away. They say I cried out to God in -my despair. I cannot tell anything that I said but “Go!” Oh, Russian -woman, I wonder if you made up your mind as I did! No, not if it were to -break my heart; we could die, all of us, when the good Lord pleased; but -the good Lord never pleased that one of us should make the other fail. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -I felt ill and shaken all the rest of that day. It was some time before -they would let me get up from the sofa, and I quite remember how very -strange it was to lie there in the great daylight room, with the sky -looming in through the great window, and to watch, always so close by, -and yet so distant, that screen which was drawn out by the side of the -fire. I could not keep my eyes from that harmless piece of furniture. -Aunt Milly kept coming and going, constantly talking to cheer me up, and -bring things to show me. But no sound came from the screen. There, in -that little space, shut off and shaded out of the centre of her home, -sat the woman who already fascinated me with an influence I could not -explain. Without knowing what I was doing--indeed, even I may say -against my will,--strange recollections of stories I had read came up to -my mind; about people in masks going whispering through an evil life, -about the veiled prophet in the poem, about secret hidden creatures -suspected of all manner of harm, but never found out, or betrayed. There -she was, within three paces of me, concealed and silent,--or was it not -rather watchful, lurking, with her bloodless smile and her shut up -heart? My imagination, perhaps, is always too active; somehow it quite -overpowered me that day. It seized upon Miss Sarah Mortimer’s looks and -her voice, and the strange separation which she made by that screen -between herself and the world. She was different--entirely -different--from that old ghastly Miss Mortimer whom I used to dream of -in my grandfather’s house; that one with her hair all mixed with grey, -and her dark careless dress, sitting by the fire with the ghosts of the -past about her, was a pleasant recollection in face of this. The great -beauty, deserted of all the world and fallen into solitude, had -something pathetic in her loneliness. But behind that screen there was -no pathos that I could see; nothing human, I had almost said. What folly -to speak so! To anybody’s eyes but mine, I daresay there was only an old -lady very prettily and carefully dressed, everything about her looking -as if it were intended to repeat and reproduce the effect of her white -hair; soft colours with clouds of something white coming over them. But -I could not look at her in that way. I was in awe and afraid when I -looked at the screen. It was a comfort to get out of the room, to go -upstairs, where after a while Aunt Milly took me. But I could not forget -her even upstairs. There she sat in her armchair, stony-eyed, knitting -like one of the Fates,--or was it spin they did?--and that screen -drawing a magical, dreadful shadow round her chair. - -Aunt Milly had prepared our rooms for us with the greatest care, that -was very evident. There was the daintiest little bed for baby, all new -and fresh, evidently bought for him, and quite a basketful of new toys, -which already he was doing his best to pull all to pieces. Oh, such -bright, luxurious rooms! I felt my heart grow a little cold as I looked -at them. Neither Harry nor Aunt Milly had said a word to me on the -subject. They thought they could deceive me, I suppose; but the moment I -saw these apartments, don’t you think I could see what they were planned -out for? I was to be taken there when he went away. - -“And, my dear, what do you think of your Aunt Sarah?” said her kind -sister, looking rather wistfully into my face. - -I was so foolish that I was half afraid to answer. How could I tell that -our words were not heard behind the screen yonder? And as for meeting -her eyes I could not have done that for the world. - -“But you know she is not my Aunt Sarah,” said I. “It is a love name, -dear Aunt Milly. I--I don’t know Miss Mortimer yet; you must let me keep -it for you.” - -“Hush! you have not known me much longer!” cried Aunt Milly, “No such -thing, child! we are both the same relation to you. Poor dear Sarah! I -forgot to tell you about her voice. Isn’t it very sad she should have -lost her beautiful voice? She is very clever too, Milly,” said Aunt -Milly, with a sigh. “When you know her better you will admire her very -much.” - -“But you know she jilted poor papa,” said I, trying to laugh and shake -off my dread of the veiled woman downstairs. - -“My dear! she jilted half the county!” said Aunt Milly, rather solemnly -and not without a little pride. “Your Aunt Sarah was the greatest beauty -that ever was seen when she was as young as you.” - -This speech made me smile in spite of myself. Dear Aunt Milly, perhaps, -had been a little slighted by the county. She had no compunction about -her sister’s prowess. I don’t know that I felt very sorry for her -victims myself, even poor papa, I fear. But, ah me! what kind of a woman -was this, I wonder, that had been an enchantress in her day! She was an -enchantress still. She charmed me, as a serpent, I could suppose, might -charm some poor creature. I wonder if there was any pity in her, any -feeling that there was a God and a heaven, and not merely the -century-old ceiling with the Mortimers’ arms on it, over her where she -sat? I don’t believe she cared. I don’t think there was anything in the -world but her own will and inclination, whatever it might be, that ruled -her in her dreadful solitude. I wonder when she looked across her -knitting at such a human creature as Aunt Milly how she felt; whether it -ever came into her head to wonder which of them was contrary to nature? -But I don’t suppose Miss Mortimer cared anything about nature. In this -wonderful world, all so throbbing with life and affection, I think she -must have known nothing but herself. - -Thinking like this, you may suppose I could not deceive Aunt Milly to -make her think I admired her sister. I kept off speaking of her; which, -of course, though not quite so unpleasant, tells one’s mind clearly -enough. Aunt Milly gave a little sigh. - -“My dear, I see you don’t take to Sarah just at once. I was in hopes if -you had taken to each other she might, perhaps, have told you something -of what is on her mind. Because, you know, after all we have heard, -something must be on her mind, whether she shows it or not. I am afraid -it is all beginning again now, Milly; but somehow she hasn’t let her -courage down as she did when that young man was about before. I suppose -she’s more prepared now. She drove out quite calm yesterday, just as -usual; though Mr. Luigi’s servant was out here with a letter the very -day I saw his master at your house.” - -“So I heard,” said I. - -“So you heard! Dear! How did you hear? I know things spread in the most -dreadful way,” said Aunt Milly, in great distress; “but to think that -should have reached Chester already! What did you hear?” - -“I heard it only from Lizzie, my little maid,” said I, pointing to the -door of the other room. “Mr. Luigi’s servant and she are great -friends.” - -Aunt Milly followed the movement of my hand with her eyes, a little -awe-stricken. “She must speak his language, for he knows no English,” -she said, with involuntary respect. “But dear, dear, she’s only a child! -To be sure she’ll go and publish it all in the servants’ hall. But -speaking of that, my dear, you ought to have a proper nurse. I felt very -nervous about baby when I saw her carrying him. She may be big, you -know, but she’s only a child.” - -Here Lizzie, either because she had heard us, or by some sudden impulse -of her own, knocked pretty loud at the door. I went to it a little -timidly, rather apprehensive that she had been listening, and meant to -defend herself. I did Lizzie great injustice however. She was standing -in a paroxysm of joyful impatience on the other side of the door. I -don’t believe the most injurious expression applied to herself could -have reached Lizzie’s ears at that moment. She had her great arms -stretched out, stooping over little Harry. Her face was perfectly -radiant and flushed with delight. On they came, baby tottering on his -own little limbs, half triumphant, half terrified, Lizzie with her wings -spread out, ready to snatch him up the moment he faltered. Anybody may -imagine what I did. I dropped down on the floor and held out my arms to -him, and forgot all my troubles for the moment. When he came tottering -into my arms, the touch of his little hands swept all the cares and -sorrows out of the world. It was not for long. But a minute’s joy is a -wonderful cordial; it strengthens one’s heart. - -“And oh, mem!” cried Lizzie, lifting her apron to her eyes, “the -Captain’ll see him afore he gangs away!” - -“Go and fetch him,” cried Aunt Milly, turning her out of the room. Aunt -Milly was nearly as delighted as she was; but she saw it was hard upon -me to be continually reminded that Harry was to be gone so soon. By way -of putting it out of my mind, she began such a lecture about letting -babies walk too soon, and about weak ankles and bowed legs and all kinds -of horrors, that I snatched my boy up on my knee, and was as much -alarmed as I had been overjoyed. When Harry came, and found me half -frightened to allow baby to exhibit his new accomplishment, and Aunt -Milly doing her best to soften down her own declarations, and convince -me that she referred to babies in general, and not to my boy, he burst -into fits of laughter. I rather think he kissed us all round, Aunt Milly -and all. He was in very high spirits that day. It did not occur to him -what a struggle I had come through before I overcame Miss Mortimer’s -temptation; he was contented to think I had fainted from heat and -excitement and all the fatigue I had been exposed to of late; and it was -a comfort to him to have my real voluntary consent to his going away. -Then this was to be my home, and here was my dear kind friend beside me. -His heart rose, he laughed out his amusement and pleasure with the -freedom of a young man in the height of his strength and hope. The sound -startled the unaccustomed walls. I saw Aunt Milly look at him with a -kind of delighted surprise and pleasure. Youth had not been here for -long. I wondered did manhood, after Harry’s fashion of it, belong to the -Mortimers at all? Many a day since, sitting in these silent rooms, the -echo of Harry’s laugh has come back to me ringing like silver bells. Ah, -hush! we shall all laugh when he comes back. - -But when Lizzie came to take her charge, the expression of the girl’s -face had completely changed. She took the child away with a certain -frightened gravity that had a great effect upon me. Aunt Milly had left -me by this time, and Harry had gone out to see the grounds, leaving me -to rest. Resting was not very much in my way; of course I got up from -the sofa the moment they were gone. What good would it do me, does -anybody suppose, to lie there and murder myself with thinking? I went -after Lizzie to ask her what was wrong. Lizzie was very slow to answer. -There was “naething wrang; she wasna minding. The man in blacks had -asked if she was the nurse or the nursery-maid. But it’s no my place to -answer questions,” said Lizzie, with indignation, “and thae English -they’re that saucy, they pretend they dinna ken what I’m saying. Eh, I -would just like to let them ken, leddies and gentlemen ay ken grand what -I’m saying! but they’ve nae education: ’Menico says that himsel’.” - -“But what does ’Menico know about education, Lizzie?” said I. - -Lizzie looked much affronted. “He mayna maybe ken _English_,” she said, -“but he may be a good scholar for a’ that. The tither maids just gape -and cry La! when he takes the dictionary, and laugh at every word he -says. He says they’ve nae education, thae English. He’s no’ a common -servant-man like that man in blacks. He kens a’ the gentlemen’s business -and what he’s wantin’, and everything about it. Eh,” cried Lizzie, -opening her eyes wide, and glancing behind her with involuntary caution, -“do you think yon would be _her_?” - -“Who?” said I. Was it possible that Lizzie knew? - -“Mem!” said Lizzie, with national unconscious skill and the deepest -earnestness, “do you think there’s ony witches in this country, like -what there was lang syne?” - -I was a little startled by the question; it brought back to my mind in -an instant that extraordinary picture which had so great an effect on my -own imagination,--the veiled woman at her knitting with the screen -behind her chair. - -“Or the Evil Eye,” continued Lizzie, with a little gasp of visionary -terror; “oh dinna say, if ye please, that I’m to bring _him_ into yon -muckle room! for I would do some ill to the house, or her, or -myself--and would be carried, and no ken what I was doing, if she put -any of her cantrips upon our bairn!” - -“Lizzie!” cried I, “child, you forget what you are saying, and where you -are!” - -“Oh no, no’ me!” cried Lizzie with vehement tears in her eyes; “but, -Mem, it maun be her; there’s nae other leddy except our leddy in this -house. And if I was never to say another word, she’s no canny; I ken -she’s no canny, if it was only what Domenico says.” - -“In the name of wonder what does Domenico say?” cried I, driven to -despair by the wild words in which there was no meaning. I don’t believe -she knew herself what the meaning was. - -Lizzie stopped short and repeated, with a puzzled and troubled glance at -me, “When it’s a long story it’s awfu’ fickle to ken,” she said, slowly; -“but just that yon’s the leddy. Eh, I dinna ken what they ca’ her right, -nor what ill-will they have at her; but ’Menico, he says--he says--Mem, -you’ll no be angry, it wasna _me_,--he says she’s the deil himsel’.” - -“Lizzie,” said I, in considerable agitation, “try to recollect; Miss -Milly wants to know; what _does_ Domenico say?” - -Lizzie blushed, and made a long pause again. “You see it’s the -Dictionary, Mem,” she said, with a sigh. “When he’s tired looking up the -words, he just gi’es a great burst out in the Italian, and thinks he’s -explained it a’. It’s awfu’ fickle when it’s a lang story; but just it’s -_her_; and eh! I’m sure she’s no canny by what Domenico says.” - -I had to be content with this very unsatisfactory conclusion. It was all -Lizzie could give me,--it was _her_; and she was a dreaded mysterious -person against whom the Italian was struggling in vain. I felt a strange -thrill of curiosity, deeply as my own mind was pre-occupied. Was it a -melodrama or a tragedy I was about to be present at? The crisis, -whatever it might be, could not be long delayed. What part were we to -play in it? why did she want Harry to stay? I did not say anything -either to him or Aunt Milly of Lizzie’s communication or my own fancies; -but it seemed to me somehow, when I passed through the rooms or along -the passages that a certain tingling stillness, the pause before the -storm, was closing round and round about the house. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -“We were interrupted in our talk yesterday,” said Aunt Milly, “but I -have not forgotten what you said about your little maid. My dear, I -don’t think it is worth your while to warn her against talking about -such matters. When they think a thing’s important, they are all the more -likely to talk.” - -“But you don’t know Lizzie,” said I. - -“No,” said Aunt Milly, doubtfully. “I always have heard the Scotch were -faithful servants; but it’s undeniable that they _do_ love to talk. -Besides, she’s only a child. My dear, has she any particular claim upon -you?” - -“Only that she is an orphan,” said I, “like Harry and me.” - -“Ah, dear child! there’s two of you; it does not matter to you,” cried -Aunt Milly; then she continued, rather anxiously, “I’d like to know, -however, what she can tell about this, Milly. Ellis told me a confused -story about a foreign man coming with a letter, and that he insisted on -seeing the lady--the lady! and couldn’t talk no more sense, Ellis says. -I understood by the description, it must be that man. There couldn’t be -two fat foreign serving-men in a quiet county like this; and Carson, ‘as -happened to be in the hall at the moment,’ Ellis tells me, spoke to him, -‘and they arguifyed for long in a queer language,’ and then he went -away. I don’t know any more of it, my dear. This Lizzie of yours, if she -can understand that man, and he told her of it, I wonder does _she_ know -any more?” - -Then I told her of the further particulars which had come under Lizzie’s -observation, the letter returned and destroyed. Aunt Milly once more -grew a good deal excited. She walked about the room with a troubled -face, and many exclamations; but on the whole it gave her comfort. “My -dear, she can’t be afraid of him now,” said Aunt Milly; and with this -piece of consolation she went away strengthened to her many businesses, -for everything evidently is in her hands. That eldest sister of hers, -whom I cannot call by any name of love, takes no share in anything. -When she does talk, she talks as if she were the sole mistress and ruler -of the house; but Aunt Milly, though I understand they are quite equal -in their rights, has all the trouble. It is very strange, but I could -not feel so comfortable about her sending back that letter as Aunt Milly -did. To tell the plain truth, a very distinct suspicion had entered into -my mind about her. It flashed upon me when Mr. Luigi was speaking of -her, and it grew stronger and stronger every hour I spent in the same -room, though how it could be, was more than by any amount of thinking I -could divine. I will not say what my fancy was; I was always too -imaginative. I don’t want to commit myself till I see whether anything -will occur to bear me out. - -The next day was wet, and I had abundant means of seeing Miss Mortimer. -I think my foolish faint that first day had quite settled me in her -opinion. She saw I was a nobody from that moment. Accordingly all that -rainy afternoon I sat by her in the strangest unsocial way. The fire was -still kept up, though the weather was warm; and Aunt Milly had stationed -me in her own easy chair, opposite her sister, and commanding the entire -length of the room so that I could see who entered at the door, though -Miss Mortimer could neither see or be seen by any one coming in. The -five great windows were all very naked and bare, the curtains drawn -back, and the blinds drawn up, according to Miss Mortimer’s fancy; she -had always an amount of twilight at her command by movement of her -screen. These five long lines of cold broad light, the cloudy sky -looking full down upon us, and the blasts of rain driving against the -cold transparent fence of glass which separated us from that outdoor -world, where the early flowers hung their heads in the rain, and the -shrubs cowered and drew together in the fitful gusts of wind, gave an -extraordinary atmosphere to the picture. Then that long great mirror at -the end of the room repeated the five windows in strange perspective, -and reflected all the maze of space and crowd of furniture in bars of -light and shadow; while here, in the centre, played the uncertain glow -of the fire, much too warm, and making the air feel unnatural; and close -before me sat Miss Mortimer with the screen carefully drawn round her -chair. She had on her usual dress--her muslin scarf or shawl, I forget -which, lined with pale blue silk, and ribbons of the same colour in her -cap, and black lace mits upon her thin hands, which, when she happened -to stop for a moment, she rubbed slowly before the fire. She did not -talk to me. I understand it was very rarely she talked to any one. -Silently, as if it were some weird work she was about, she knitted on; -but sometimes, as I was conscious, lifted her eyes from her knitting, -and continuing her work all the time, surveyed me as I sat helpless -before her. Every time the door of the room happened to open she -repeated this. I felt her stare at me, as she might have stared at a -mirror, to see who had entered the room; and it is impossible to -describe how I felt under that look. I durst not answer it by turning my -eyes upon her; but looking past her at the door, as one naturally does -when the door of the room opens--and knowing her gaze to be fixed on me, -I faltered, I trembled, my face burned in spite of myself. This went on -till, in desperation, I fairly answered her look; then my feelings -changed. Those blue eyes, which must have paled and chilled with age, -were gazing with a watchful dread in my face. It was not me she was -looking at. Her hands went on, in their dreadful inhuman occupation, -while she found in my face a reflection of who it was that went in, or -out, by that door behind her. It might be a habit she had got into; but -I could read in her eyes that she sat there in full expectation of -somebody or something arriving suddenly, which might startle and -distress everybody else, but which _she_ knew. Again, I saw the same -contrast which I had seen between Aunt Milly and Mr. Luigi. This woman, -like the Italian, was in no perplexity. She was not confused with a -mystery she could not comprehend, as Aunt Milly was. She knew something -was coming, and what was coming, and was prepared to defend herself, and -hide her shame to the death. - -Hide her shame! oh, how do I dare say it; how could I venture to say -that she had disgraced herself, or even to think so? There she sat, -clothed in a double respect, even by reason of all that made her so -unlovely and distasteful to me, the real great lady of the house, served -by everybody, imagining herself quite supreme; the head of the house, -though she transferred all the trouble of it to other shoulders; Miss -Mortimer, of the Park, a spotless maiden lady, who might have been, as -the common story went, had she chosen to marry, almost of any rank she -pleased. All that I knew; but as I gazed at her, the wild sudden fancy -that had seized me before, grew stronger and stronger. A kind of -loathing took possession of me. Shame may be dreadful, must be dreadful; -but to deserve it, and yet to escape it--to know one’s self guilty, and -fight all one’s life against the penalty--to shut one’s self up, heart -and voice, like that in a corner, waiting for the discovery and -exposure which has become inevitable--and resolute by every lie and -expedient of falsehood to resist and baffle it--the sight was hideous to -me. I turned away from her with a feeling of sickness--then in the -impulse of the moment I spoke. - -“Should not you like to take this seat, Miss Mortimer, if you wish to -see who comes in at the door?” - -“How do you know,” she cried, in her strangled voice, “that I wish to -see who comes in at the door?” - -“I can see it in your eyes,” said I. I could not help a little shudder -as I spoke. Her only answer was to draw a little further back into the -twilight of her screen. I don’t think she looked at me again; but she -did something else when Ellis came in the next time, which was quite as -characteristic. She listened visibly, with an extraordinary intentness; -her knitting stopped, though her eyes were bent on it. I could fancy she -must have heard the very vibration of the man’s foot upon the floor, and -satisfied herself by its sound what it was. - -“Miss Milly’s compliments, ma’am, and will you please step into the -library a moment,” said Ellis to me. - -“Who’s in the library, eh?” interrupted Miss Mortimer, before I could -speak. - -Ellis faced round upon her slowly, with evident surprise: “I don’t know -as it’s nobody, ma’am,” said the man; “Miss Milly has something to show -the young lady.” - -“Who’s in the house? why don’t you answer me? You are making up a -story,” cried Miss Mortimer, almost with a shriek. - -“Nobody, as I know on, but the Captain, as is in the stables, ma’am, -looking at the colt,” said Ellis, doggedly, “and Miss Milly, as is -waiting in the library for the young lady, with some pictures to show to -her, as it looked to me; nor likely to come neither on such a day.” - -Instead of resenting this speech as I supposed, Miss Mortimer smiled to -herself with a nod. She gave a glance out from her screen at the blank -of cloudy sky and the falling rain. It seemed to soothe her somehow. She -relapsed back again, and resumed her knitting, without looking at or -speaking to me. Did it relieve her to be told that nobody was likely to -come on such a day? Could she imagine a spring shower was motive enough -to keep the avenging truth away? I cannot tell. Who could tell? I might -be wronging her cruelly to think of any avenger on his way. But I left -the room, leaving her there with the blank clouds and rain, with the -solitary gleam of the decaying fire, in the heavy silence and broad -light of the vast room. She was standing at bay, grim and desperate; but -she could actually imagine that the fate which pursued her would be kept -away by the April shower! I cannot express all the wonder, pity, and -horror that come over my heart--such strange, strange, inconsequent -blendings of the dreadful and the foolish were not in any philosophy of -mine. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -I found Aunt Milly in the library with some miniatures spread out before -her. She wanted to show them to me. I can’t tell very well what had -suggested this to her. She was kept indoors by the rain, and with this -standing uneasiness in her mind, Aunt Milly naturally sought for some -means of returning to a discussion of the subject that engaged all her -thoughts. She made me sit down by her, and silently put one after -another before me. I could see clearly enough what she meant. A certain -family resemblance ran through them all, a resemblance which Aunt Milly -herself had escaped, and of which I believe there was not a trace in my -features. But one after another these portraits recalled to me the young -Italian’s face. - -“I ought to tell you,” said Aunt Milly in a tremulous tone, “what has -occurred to my own mind. I have thought of it for some time, but it’s so -very unlikely that I never could allow myself to think it. I do believe -he must be my father’s son. Yes, you may well be surprised. I can’t -think anything else but that my father must have married and had a son, -and Sarah somehow had bullied him into leaving the child behind, and -we’ve been deceivers all this time, and the Park has never been ours.” - -“But, dear Aunt Milly,” cried I, “with all these terrible thoughts, why -don’t you satisfy yourself. If you tell Miss Mortimer how much you have -found out, she certainly cannot help clearing up the rest.” - -“Ah! but she _can_ help it--she is not carried away by her feelings; she -knows better than to be surprised or anything like that. I have asked -her and been none the better for it,” cried Aunt Milly, “and the young -man will not tell me either. Milly, hush! there is certainly some one at -the door.” - -The door bell at the Park was a peculiar one--it had a solemn cathedral -sort of sound that rolled through the whole house, and it was only used -by strangers or visitors on ceremony. Both of us started violently when -we heard it; it came upon our consultations like a sudden alarm of -battle. - -“It rains as bad as ever; on such a day who can ring the great bell at -our door?” cried Aunt Milly. “God help us! if my father walked in at -that door, I should not feel it was anything out of the way. Nothing -would surprise me now.” - -I could not make her any answer. We both sat perfectly silent, waiting -for what was to come. As if to heighten the excitement of the moment, -the rain, which had been falling steadily all day, suddenly became -violent, and dashed against the windows in torrents. Through all this we -could hear the great door opened and the sound of voices. My thoughts -travelled into the great vacant drawing-room where these sounds could -not fail to reach Miss Mortimer within her screen. What was she doing? -Could she be sitting there still, dumb and desperate, listening but not -looking, with a pride and resistance more dreadful in its self-control -than the wildest passions! I trembled with suspense and wondering -anxiety in spite of myself. As for Aunt Milly, the miniatures she was -looking at fell out of her hands. She covered her eyes for an instant, -and then lifted her scared and pallid face to the door, as if she could -hear the approaching sounds better, for having her eyes fixed that way. -There was a pause that I suppose did not endure a minute, but which -looked like an hour. Then a soft tap at the door; then Ellis entered, -looking half as pale and anxious as we did--vaguely frightened he could -not tell how. - -“Miss Milly,” he said, in a hasty troubled voice, “the gentleman is here -as wants Miss Mortimer; what am I to do?” - -The old mistress and the old servant looked at each other. The man did -not know anything, but he knew the involuntary suspicion and dread that -had somehow gathered about the house. - -“What are we to do? God help us, Ellis, I know no more than the baby!” -cried Aunt Milly under her breath. - -She was carried by her excitement beyond her usual discretion. I -interposed as I best could. - -“Let it come to the crisis!” cried I, not being well aware what I said; -“it must be best to know clearly Aunt Milly--hush!--recollect, you know -nothing--let him go in.” - -She made a convulsive pause and restrained herself; and then the usual -keeping up of appearances recurred to her mind. “My sister’s voice! you -know, Milly,” she said, turning to me as if with a kind of -apology,--“who--who is it, Ellis?” - -“It’s--it’s the foreign gentleman, ma’am,” said Ellis, with a -sympathetic faltering of his voice. - -“Then show him in to Miss Mortimer?” cried Aunt Milly with a gasp over -the words. “You shouldn’t have spoken so, my dear,” she said as soon as -he was gone, “servants have nothing to do with our private affairs. -Dear, dear, it’s surely very cold. It’s the storm come on so suddenly--a -hail-storm, I declare. Don’t you feel, Milly, how cold the air has -grown?” - -I made no answer, and she did not expect any. She went up close to the -library door, and stood there as if listening, shivering now and then -with the nervous chill of her own emotion. We heard the drawing-room -door open and shut,--then silence, silence, something positive, not -merely an absence of sound. I stood by the table trembling, fancying I -saw the stranger pass, as if through a picture, up that empty-seeming -room, with the cold chill daylight spying in, and the motionless, -conscious creature who feared and yet defied him lurking behind that -screen. Would she speak to him? If she did it would not be with that -stifled whispering voice. What communication would pass between them? -Would the old walls groan with some dark secret fatal to their honour? -The very air tingled round us in the dead calm of the house. Surely it -never was so noiseless before. As for Aunt Milly, she stood before me -shivering at the door, sometimes putting her hand upon the lock, then -drawing back in irresolute terror. This lasted for some time, though -most likely for not half so long as I imagined it did; then she turned -to me, wringing her hands and bursting out into tears and cries. - -“I cannot leave her alone any longer, Milly,” she said in broken words. -“I cannot desert her in time of need;” and made as though she would -leave the room, and then returned and sank into a chair and hid her face -in her hands. - -She was entirely overwhelmed and broken down. All I could do for her, -was to get a shawl which hung over the sofa, and wrap it round her. All -this had been too much for her strength. - -In the midst of our suspense, Harry came suddenly in upon us. The sound -of his honest frank step ringing into the library, startled me back to -life again, and even Aunt Milly lifted up her blanched face expecting -him to bring some news. Harry looked startled and curious, and did not -grow less so as he looked at our agitated faces. - -“What is the matter, Milly?” he cried. “I passed the drawing-room -windows just now, and looked in thinking to see you. Miss Mortimer was -standing at a table looking over some papers, and by her side was Luigi, -talking very earnestly. By Jove! to see them standing there you would -have said they were mother and son.” - -At these words Aunt Milly lifted up her head, listening,--but Harry’s -expression did not seem to strike her; she held up her finger and cried -“Hark!” - -The silence was broken. A bell evidently rung--a door hastily -opened--startled us all three standing together. “Shall Harry go after -him?” cried I, seeing how it was and pointing Harry to the door; but -Aunt Milly would not, or perhaps could not, suppose that the visitor was -merely going away. She sprang up, crying, “She must be ill!” and rushed -out of the library. I followed her, alarmed, but not for Miss Mortimer. -I saw Luigi standing at the open door, just about to go out into the -cold rainy world out of doors, but Aunt Milly did not see him. She -rushed forward blindly into the room where she supposed her sister to be -ill. - -When I rushed in after her I found the usual positions of the two ladies -much reversed. Miss Mortimer was standing between the fire and the -window, looking at her sister with a certain fierce scorn. Aunt Milly -had sunk down in utter exhaustion and bewilderment upon a large ottoman. -The two were looking at each other, Aunt Milly all trembling, pallid, -and anxious. Miss Mortimer, with her head more erect than usual, her -muslin mantle hanging back from her shoulders, her attitude very rigid -and exact, and no symptom of excitement about her, save in the slight -hurried incessant movement of her head and hands. A mere spectator would -have said she was the judge and the other the culprit. It was an -extraordinary scene. - -“What did he say? Who is he? What does he want? Sarah, tell me for the -love of heaven,” cried Aunt Milly in her agony of distress and terror. - -“Who is _he_? I am not a girl to distinguish any one person by that -name,” said Miss Mortimer. - -Then she went back steadily to her chair, and sat down in it and took up -her knitting. - -“Any one who thinks to surprise me into speaking of my private affairs, -is mistaken,” she said after a while. “Gossips like you may talk as -they please; but what belongs to me is mine, and nobody in the world has -a right to ask what I either do or say.” - -That was all. She never opened her lips again that day. She sat there -rigid, pretending to work; she did not work however. I noticed that to -keep her hands and her head from excessive trembling was almost more -than she was able for; but the day passed without any disclosure. I -believe now she would die sooner than make any sign. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -That was a very miserable day. I cannot fancy a more uncomfortable -position for a stranger than that of being thrust into some distressing -family secret, almost immediately after his or her introduction to the -family in which it exists. This was just what had happened to me. I was -kept one way or the other between those two sisters all the day. Aunt -Milly kept continually appealing to me with her eyes, for conversation -would not keep up its fluctuating and feeble existence in presence of -that figure within the shelter of the screen; and my unlucky position of -confidante must have been so apparent that I should not have wondered at -any degree of dislike or displeasure which Miss Mortimer could have -shown me. She did not show any, however; I could discern no signs of -aversion to me. What am I saying? I could discern no signs of any human -feeling whatever in her appearance and behaviour that day. My impression -was that the sole thing with which her mind was occupied, was the effort -to keep her head steady, and overcome the nervous, tremulous motion -which agitated her frame. It was a relic, it might be an evidence, of -some unseen tempest. But I am firmly convinced that this was the subject -of all her thoughts. I watched, I must confess, with intense curiosity, -though as quietly as possible, that she might not see I was watching -her, every movement she made. But she did not notice me; she scarcely -noticed anybody; she was careless of what other people were thinking; -what she laboured after, all that miserable, lingering, rainy night was -to get the command of herself. She never ventured to unbend her attitude -in the slightest degree. She set her teeth together sometimes, and made -her face look ghastly; but she could not keep down that external symptom -of the trouble or tempest within. Her head kept moving with an incessant -tremble; her hands were too much agitated to pursue their work. She kept -the knitting-pins in her fingers, and held them rigidly together, as if -she were knitting, and sometimes made a few convulsive stitches, and -dropt them again, and bent in a tragical dismal confusion over that -trifling occupation of hers, which had grown so weird an adjunct of -herself to me. I watched her with a certain horror and pity which I -cannot describe. It was not her paltry wealth and lands she was -defending; it was her honour and her life. There she sat a solitary -desperate creature driven to bay, with dear Aunt Milly’s vague terrors -and anxieties revolving about her; but conscious in herself of a misery -and danger far transcending anything in her innocent sister’s thoughts. -Life and honour! but I believed there was no way in this world to defend -them but by unnatural falsehood, cruelty, and wrong, and that she did -not shrink from these means of upholding herself. Perhaps even a -virtuous struggle would have exercised less fascination, than the sight -of that desperate guilty secret resistance. I could not keep my eyes -from Miss Mortimer. There was something terrible to me in her convulsive -efforts after stillness, and in the nervous motion which continually -betrayed her, and which no exertions on her part could overcome. - -But she sat out all the lengthy lingering hours of that evening, after -dinner, for they departed from their usual customs at that time, and -dined late out of compliment to Harry. We did try to talk a little, but -Aunt Milly’s thoughts were all astray upon one subject, and she was -continually breaking off in abrupt conclusions which irresistibly -suggested the engrossing matter which she dared not enter upon. Miss -Mortimer, meanwhile, attempted to read her Times; but whether it was -that the rustle of the paper betrayed the trembling of her hands, or -that her mind was unfit for reading anything, she soon laid the paper -by, and resumed her pretence of working. You may suppose that Harry and -I were not very much at our ease in this strange position of affairs. -Almost everything that was said among us suggested a something which -could not be said, yet which occupied everybody’s thoughts. Aunt Milly -sat flushed and troubled opposite to her sister; her distressed -perplexed look, the look of one totally at a loss and unable to offer -any explanation even to herself; her glances, sometimes directing me to -look at Miss Mortimer, sometimes appealing to me in vain for some -suggestion which could throw light upon the subject, were enough of -themselves to betray to any stranger the existence of some secret -unhappiness in the house. Harry, who was not so much in Aunt Milly’s -confidence as I was, kept appealing to me on the other side. What was it -all about? I never wished so fervently for the conclusion of a day as I -did for that; and yet there must be some extraordinary fascination in -watching one’s fellow-creatures. I should not like to get fairly into -that dreadful inhuman occupation which people called studying character. -But I was so curious about Miss Mortimer that I could almost have liked -to follow her to her own room, and watch, when she was no longer on her -guard against other people, how she would look and what she would do. -Would she faint, or cry out, or dash herself against the floor? or was -she so accustomed to that dreadful secresy that she would not betray -herself even to herself? She must have lived that dreadful hidden life, -and locked up all she knew in her own breast for a lifetime; for a -longer lifetime than mine. - -“I wonder,” said Henry, when we were alone that evening, “what sort of a -person this Miss Mortimer is. Something’s wrong clearly. I suspect there -must be something in the old lady’s life which will not bear the light -of day.” - -“What makes you think so?” said I. - -“The t’other old lady and you play into each other’s hands,” cried -Harry; “you know more about it than you choose to tell. But of course -you are right enough if it is somebody else’s secret; only recollect, -Milly, I am very glad you should be an heiress; I am extremely glad you -will have a house to receive you while I am away, and that come what -may, _that_ little beggar is provided for; but look here, if there’s -another relation nearer than you, legitimate or illegitimate, I won’t -stand by and see him wronged.” - -“Harry, tell me what you mean,” cried I. - -Harry looked at me a little indignantly; he thought I knew more than he -did, and was trifling with him. “Milly, who is that fellow Luigi?” he -said at last. - -“I make dreadful guesses,” said I, “but I cannot tell. Aunt Milly knows -nothing about him. The only idea she can form is that he may be her -father’s son.” - -Harry gave a long, half amazed, incredulous whistle, and turned away. He -could scarcely believe me. Then I told him all I had heard, and -something of what I had guessed. We did not converse plainly about this -guess, which he had evidently jumped at as well as myself. A secret held -with such dreadful tenacity was not a thing to be lightly discussed; but -we both felt the same on the subject, only Harry’s mind took a more -charitable view of it than I did. They say _we_ are always harder on -guilty women than men are; perhaps it is natural. I felt an abhorrence -rise within me which I could neither overcome nor disguise at the idea -of a woman, and especially a woman in such a position as Miss Mortimer, -having lived a pretended life of honour and innocence all these years, -with that guilt in her mind which nobody knew but she; and now of her -sacrificing and disowning nature to keep up that dreadful sham. I can -understand people meeting death rather than disgrace; that is, I mean I -could understand how one would rather hear that those whom one loves -should die than disgrace themselves; but I don’t understand an insane -struggle against the disgrace which one has deserved. That is not a -noble struggle, so far as I can see; the only way of existing through -such dreadful circumstances would be by enduring it; and all the same -whether it was a woman or a man. I do think it is a shame to speak as -some people speak on this subject, as if the _disgrace_ were all; as if -all the harm was not done when the wrong was done, whether disgrace came -or no! - -“I’ll tell you what, Milly,” said Harry, “I must say I think it’s very -hard the poor old lady should lose her good name for something that -happened an age ago. No doubt, by what we saw to-day, she must have set -her poor old heart upon resisting and denying it, as foolish people -always try to do. Now, you know, that’s evidently of no use. Of course a -mere statement of any such claim having been made, is enough to finish -Miss Mortimer, with all the gossips of the county, whether it was proved -or not. Now I shan’t be here for long, and as they seem disposed to be -so very kind to you----” - -“Don’t, Harry!” - -“But I must,” said he. “It will be no end of consolation to me to think -of you in these pretty rooms which Miss Milly has already prepared for -you. If I can do them a good turn before I go, I will, you may depend -upon it. As soon as we return to Chester I’ll see Luigi; and if it can -be got out of him what he wants, I shall certainly make an effort to -have him satisfied, and Miss Mortimer left unmolested. It would not do -if sins of thirty years standing were to be brought against people in -this way. Why, anybody might be thrown into sudden shame on such a -principle; and you women, you know, are so vindictive and all that----” - -“Oh, yes! I know,” said I, “and will always be vindictive all the same. -Imagine this woman standing side by side with Aunt Milly, and considered -as spotless as she; imagine such a long cruel abominable sin, and no -retribution overtaking it! Oh, you may be pitiful if you like, but it -disgusts me.” - -Harry laughed. “I should be surprised if it did not disgust you, Milly -darling,” he said, “but poetic justice is exploded now-a-days. I don’t -suppose Luigi can be very anxious for her personal affection, -considering how she seems to have behaved; and, indeed, to be sure he -would be fully more disgraced than she. How many days are we to be here? -I shall see him whenever we return to Chester.” - -“Three days longer,” said I, with a sigh. “Somehow this little visit to -the Park had come to look like a little barrier between me and what was -coming. Presently we should go back to Chester, and then----” - -Harry understood my sigh. He repeated the very words I was saying in my -mind. “And then----” said Harry, “and then, darling, to see which of us -two is bravest! But it will come hardest upon you, my poor little wife.” - -“Harry,” cried I, “don’t speak!” and I went away, and would have no more -of such talk. It was enough that it was coming; it would be enough when -it came. - -Perhaps the last few words of this conversation were not the best -preparation possible for sleep. I know I awoke a great many times during -that long dark night, and once in its deepest darkness and stillness I -fancied I heard a groan faintly sounding through the wall. Miss -Mortimer’s rooms were near ours. This sound set all my imagination busy -again. It was she who groaned under that veil of night. She, so -dreadfully on her guard all day long, who relieved her miserable heart -thus when nobody watched her. It was impossible not to feel excited in -the neighbourhood of such mysterious secrecy. The sound of that groan -moved me to pity;--she had not escaped without retribution. Was not that -dread of the consequences under which she was suffering, worse than the -very hardest shape the consequences were likely to assume, if they -themselves ever overtook the sinner? - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -The next day began much like the previous day; it was still showery and -damp; and though Harry was out of doors I was prevented, by Aunt Milly’s -care, from joining him. In the afternoon we were to go out with her on a -round of inspection to see the neighbourhood, Miss Mortimer having -volunteered to give up the carriage to us for that purpose, though it -was the day on which she generally took her drive; and the rector and -some other near neighbours were to come to dinner in the evening. I was -once more alone with Miss Mortimer. We sat much as we had done on the -previous day, opposite each other, the moments passing over us in a -certain excited silence. She did not say anything to me; she did not -even look at me. She showed none of that voiceless anxiety to know who -had come in when the door opened, which struck me before. She was much -calmed down; the person she expected had come; the blow, whatever it -was, had been borne; and for the present moment there was an end of it. -She actually knitted her pattern correctly, and counted her stitches, -and referred to her book to see if she was correct, as she sat there -before me in her inhuman calm. Was she a creature of flesh and blood, -after all? or a witch, like those of the old stories, without any human -motives in her heart of stone? - -I could not help thinking so as I sat beside her. Her head still -trembled slightly; but I suppose that was an habitual motion. She sat -there shut up in herself,--her misery and her relief, and the cold -dauntless spirit that must have risen from that smart encounter -yesterday, and gained strength by the very struggle--hidden from -everybody round her, as if they had been a world away. I gazed and -wondered, almost trembled, at that extraordinary death in life. She who -had all the tumult of passion and guilt in her memory; she who must have -entered into the fullest excitement of life, and got entangled in its -most dreadful perplexities; she who was no ascetic, nor even pretended -to that rival excitement of the devotee which might have replaced the -other; how could she have lived silent and obdurate through those -dreadful years? The very thought of them struck me aghast. After her -life of flattery, admiration, and universal homage; after her -experience, whatever that might be, of more personal passions, to drop -for a longer time than my whole life behind that screen into that chair! -As I sat opposite to her, my thoughts turned back to that other Miss -Mortimer, whom I had placed in imagination in my grandfather’s house. -Once more I thought I could see that large low room which I never had -seen, except in fancy, with the ancient beauty sitting silent by the -fire amid the ghosts of the past. Was this the true impersonation of -that dream of mine? Was this the Miss Mortimer, with her foreign count, -whom Mrs. Saltoun remembered? As this recurred to me I could scarcely -help a little start of quickened curiosity and eagerness. It seemed to -flicker before me as a possible interpretation of all this dark enigma, -could only the connecting link be found. As I was wandering deeper and -deeper into these thoughts--so deep as to forget the strange position I -stood in, and the possibility of being taken for a kind of domestic spy, -which had embarrassed me at first--I heard a little commotion outside. -The door, perhaps, was ajar, or it might be simply that my ears were -quickened by hearing a little cry from baby, and Lizzie’s voice -belligerent and full of determination. I got up hastily and went to the -door. I don’t think Miss Mortimer even lifted her eyes to notice my -movement. It was certainly Lizzie in some conflict with one of the -authorities of the house; and Lizzie, as the natural and primitive -method of asserting her own way, had unconsciously elevated her voice; a -proceeding which alarmed baby, and also, as it appeared, her antagonist. -I ran and threw the door open as I heard another cry from my little boy. -There, outside, was a curious scene. Lizzie, in her out-of-doors dress, -just returned from a walk in the garden with baby, with her face a -little flushed, and her plentiful hair somewhat blown about by the wind, -was resolutely pressing forward to enter the drawing-room, where, to be -sure, she had no business to come; while holding her back by her cloak, -and whispering threats and dissuasions, was a person whom I had scarcely -seen before, but whom I knew at once to be Carson, Miss Mortimer’s maid. -Lizzie was greatly excited; and what with managing the baby and -resisting this woman, while at the same time possessed with some mission -which she was evidently determined to perform, looked fatigued and -exhausted too. - -“But I _will_,” cried Lizzie, with her eyes flashing. “I’m no heeding -whether it’s my place or no. I promised I would gi’e it into her ain -very hand; and do ye think I’m gaun back o’ my word? I tell ye I _will_ -gie’t to the leddy mysel’. Eh, mem!” she exclaimed, breathlessly, with a -sudden change of her tone as she saw me, “I met Menico at the gate, and -I promised to gi’e it into the leddy’s ain hand.” - -When I approached, Carson fell back; she shrank, I could fancy, from -meeting my eyes. Her hand dropped from Lizzie’s cloak; she was as much -afraid to be supposed to interfere as she was anxious to interfere in -reality. - -“My missis’s nerves, ma’am,” said Carson, glibly, but in a half whisper, -“is not as strong as might be wished. If the young person, ma’am, would -give it to me, or----. You see the ladies at the Park they’re known for -charity, and beggars’ letters, or such like, they’re too excitin’ for my -missis’; they puts her all in a tremble--it’s on her nerves.” - -“But, mem,” cried Lizzie, “I canna go back o’ my word.” - -I stood between them, much perplexed and bewildered. The anxiety of Miss -Mortimer’s maid was evident; and Lizzie, from whose arms baby had -instantly struggled as soon as he saw me, was greatly excited. At this -moment she produced the letter which was in question. Carson made a -stealthy spring to seize it, but recollecting herself, drew back, and -looked up guilty, but deprecating in my face. I don’t know whether it -was a desire to clear up the mystery, or the cruel curiosity of an -observer of character that decided me. I dismissed Carson coldly, saying -I would ring if Miss Mortimer wanted her, and told Lizzie to follow me -into the room. Lizzie’s excitement sank into awe as she trod softly -through this great, faded, magnificent apartment. Before she reached the -screen which sheltered Miss Mortimer, she was almost speechless with -half superstitious reverence. I am sure she would willingly have given -her letter to Carson or anybody at that moment. The very fact that the -person she was about to confront was thus concealed from her overawed -her simple mind. When she actually emerged from behind the screen, and -came in full sight of Miss Mortimer, Lizzie’s healthful face was -perfectly colourless, and her frame trembling. The supreme awkwardness -of the attitude into which she fell, the spasmodic rudeness with which -she thrust out that hand that contained the letter, the fright and -consternation visible in every twist of her person, would have been -painfully ludicrous if there had been any time to observe it. Miss -Mortimer raised her eyes and stared at the strange figure before her. -Almost absurd as that figure was in its dismay and terror, her mind was -not sufficiently at ease to be simply surprised. Any strange apparition -had a right to appear before this woman in her intrenchments of dumb -resistance. As I stood by looking on, I could understand the feeling -which worked in her eyes. She was not surprised. No miracle could have -surprised her. She was rather asking in her heart, “Who is this new -assailant? Who will come next?” - -“If ye please, it’s a letter,” said Lizzie, in a tremulous voice. - -Miss Mortimer made no attempt to take the letter. She said, “Who are -you?” with a strange curiosity; as if, amid all the powers that had a -secret right to assail her in her conscious guiltiness, this was a new -hobgoblin whom she could not well connect with the others. If there were -any purgatory, I could fancy a poor soul there asking in the same tone -the name of the new imp who came to torment it. - -This was more than Lizzie could bear. I don’t know what perplexed -terrors and superstitious ideas of evil influence brought back the blood -to her cheeks. She trembled all over under that eye, which had suggested -the idea of the Evil Eye to Lizzie, and to which she was determined -never to expose “our bairn.” She must have endured a kind of martyrdom -as she stood under its steady gaze. “Eh, me? I’m no onybody,” cried -Lizzie, shivering with excitement; “it’s just a letter. I said I would -gi’e it into the leddy’s own hand.” - -Miss Mortimer turned upon me--on the child--on the very mirror on the -further wall, a look of silent defiance; she seemed to look round to -call upon the very apartment in which we sat to witness what she did. -Then she took the letter from Lizzie’s rigid fingers, and with scarcely -a motion, except of her hand, dropped it into the fire. After she had -done it, she turned again to us with another steady look, and even with -a smile; triumphant!--with a certain gleam of devilish satisfaction in -her success, as if she had baffled us all once more. But in that very -moment, while she still smiled, I could see her hold herself fast -between the arms of her chair, to keep down the nervous tremor which -seized her. That resisting, defying spirit was lodged in nothing -stronger than a human frame. Her head shook, steadied, trembled again, -with a force beyond all her power of control. With all that soul of -successful evil in her face, her head shook as if with the palsy of -extreme old age, and in spite of the most convulsive strenuous efforts -to keep it still. I was nearly as much awe-struck as Lizzie. I stole out -of sight of her as the girl did. Never was there such a picture! She -could conquer nature, truth, and every human feeling; but she could not -conquer those tremulous chords and threads of mortal flesh which refused -to be in the conspiracy. She sat there dumbly defying every scrutiny, -but with the smile growing fixed and ghastly on her face as she tried, -with her utmost desperate feeble strength, and failed, to defy and -overcome herself. - -I asked Lizzie no questions as she came upstairs after me. I did not say -anything to her when I heard her sobbing out her agitation in her own -room. There was not a word said between us when she came refreshed by -that little ebullition, and by the necessary arrangement of her -wind-blown hair and dress, to take charge of little Harry. When I had -given the child up to her, I went downstairs again, quite silent and -eager. You may very well ask why. I cannot defend myself. I went down -with no better motive than to watch Miss Mortimer, and see if anything -more could be found out. - -When I went into the room I saw nobody, but heard some voices and -movement behind the screen. I believe if Miss Mortimer had been speaking -in the ordinary human voice, I should not have heard her at that -distance; but I did hear that strange stifled whisper almost as well as -if it had been hissed into my ear. - -“I must deny, deny, deny,” said the strange voice. “Don’t speak to me, -you know nothing about it. It is the only strength I have.” - -“But, oh! dear, dear, such a pretty young gentleman!” said the other -speaker, in a tone of weeping but hopeless remonstrance. - -“Let him prove his rights,” said Miss Mortimer. - -I obeyed my instincts, and fled out of the room as I heard that she was -stirring behind the screen. And I had not been mistaken in the guess I -made. She came out a few minutes later, leaning on Carson’s arm, leaning -heavily, with her head trembling like that of a palsied person; but her -eyes full of that dreadful self-possession, knowledge and resistance. I -trembled, too, as I stood aside to let her pass. She did not say -anything, though she stared hard at me. The maid, though she did her -best to make up her usual face when she saw me there, was evidently -overpowered with anxiety and distress. - -There was, then, one other individual who knew that secret--one creature -who loved that dreadful old woman, and in whom she trusted. I could not -help standing still to look after them as they went upstairs. Carson was -very little younger than her mistress. She had a naturally anxious look, -as well she might if she had been for years the depository of this -secret. I could not help picturing their life to myself as they went -upstairs: the innocent woman troubled and tearful, the guilty woman calm -and immovable, but for that trembling of her frame which even her -remorseless will was not strong enough to subdue. I could understand -better now how she kept alive, and could preserve that frightful -stillness of hers. Upstairs, in their own apartments, no doubt another -life went on; a life of recollections and schemes which no one knew of, -a life palpitating full of those past years of which Miss Mortimer gave -no sign. That was how she kept herself alive. I could not do anything -but stand still, watching them, as they went slowly up to that -retirement, where the mask could be laid off and the veil drawn. When -they were out of sight, I strayed into the great vacant drawing-room, -unable to withdraw my thoughts from this strange pair. “I must deny, -deny, deny!” That was the position she had taken. Could any one in -existence--could Luigi, a sensitive and high-minded young man as he -seemed to be--seek motherly love from such a woman as this? Motherly -love! it was dreadful even in thought to apply such words to anything -that could come from her. Shame only, shame to both. What motive could -he have to go on seeking her? for Nature had evidently no place in her -heart of stone. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -“But, dear, dear, where’s Sarah?” cried Aunt Milly, when some time later -she came into the room. - -I felt almost as guilty as if I had suddenly got some share in Miss -Mortimer’s secret. “She was going upstairs when I came in,” said I; but -I could not find it in my heart to say what new accident had done this. - -Aunt Milly looked at her chair and her footstool, and the work-basket -she had left behind, as if she might possibly ascertain something from -them. “My dear, it will be well to avoid the strangers to-night,” she -said, nodding her head, as if this conclusion was, on the whole, not -unsatisfactory; “and, indeed, Milly, though you may think it strange of -me to say so, I am not sorry; for Miss Kate, I am afraid, would be very -likely to mention something about that poor young man, whoever he may -be!” said Aunt Milly, with a sigh. “Dear, dear, to think what troubles -people make, both for themselves and others, that might be avoided by a -little openness. Why couldn’t he have told me, my dear? If he has -claims, I’d have seen him satisfied to the very last farthing, Milly! -and if he hasn’t claims, why should he persecute Sarah and me?” - -“But it might be something he couldn’t tell,” said I, rashly. - -“Something he couldn’t tell? What do you mean, child? What sort of a -connection could he have with our family that he _couldn’t tell_?” cried -Miss Milly. “I see what you mean. He might be a natural son. Harry has -put that into your head, now, for I am sure you never could have thought -of it of yourself. Milly, Milly, it’s dreadful to say, but I’d be more -thankful than I can tell you, to know that he was. I shouldn’t forget he -was my father’s son all the same; he should be amply provided -for--_amply_, my dear; ah, but it’s far too good news to be true; and, -besides, what would Sarah care for him, if he were illegitimate? It -could not hurt us in the least. Nothing, but what would be an injury to -us, can explain Sarah’s looks. Don’t let us think of it any more, -Milly. Come and show me, dear, what you’re going to wear to-night. I -should like you to look pretty, though they are all old people; for -they’re old _friends_ as well. Come upstairs with me, and show me what -you are to have on.” - -I went, not without some trepidation, for I did not know what Aunt Milly -would say when she knew I had nothing but white muslin. She did shake -her head when she saw it spread out ready to put on. She even faltered -forth some half questions as to what I had in my wardrobe, whether I had -not a nice----; but there dear Aunt Milly stopped. She would not hurt my -feelings whatever I might wear; and I don’t deny I felt a little -mortified myself to see it laid out like a little girl’s best frock. -However, I am thankful to say Harry never had an idea that it was not -the very best thing I could wear. - -“There are some lace flounces,” said Aunt Milly, half to herself, eyeing -the poor white frock over again, “that might brighten it up a little;” -then she turned round suddenly and kissed me by way of apology. “My -dear, don’t be affronted, I’m sure you will look very pretty in -it;--only I should have preferred, just for this one night,--but, to be -sure, you never thought of bringing out all your things for such a short -visit, and us such quiet people. Never mind, Milly dear, it will look -very nice, I am sure. I have a very pretty scarf you shall wear thrown -over it; it may not be quite in the fashion; but fine lace never goes -out of fashion, you know. I mean to give it you anyhow; and here’s a -little jewel-box, with some ornaments in it; I used to wear them myself -when I was a girl, and I had them reset just for a little remembrance of -this visit. Put them on, for my sake, to-night; and remember, dear, that -what we’ve been talking about so much these few days is a family secret. -If anybody should say anything that seems to touch on it, or should even -mention Mr. Luigi’s name, don’t look as if you were conscious of -anything. It _may_ come to nothing, you know. I am very glad you like -them, my dear. I am quite pleased I thought of it. But recollect, Milly, -my love, to be on your guard.” - -With these words she left me, running away from my thanks for her -present. I was very much pleased with her present, and even at that -moment, when people might suppose I had more serious things to think of, -I must say it did give me a flutter of gratification to find bracelets -in the jewel-box. How kind and thoughtful it was of Aunt Milly! I wonder -if she knew I hadn’t any? I showed them to Lizzie, who thought anything -so grand had never been seen, and to baby, who would have liked to have -them to play with, and finally to Harry when he came in, and I had to -prepare for our drive. Harry found some fault (of course) with their -style, but was quite as pleased as I was. And, indeed, it was very good -of him to be pleased, for I had almost to go down on my knees to him to -keep him from buying me something of the kind when we came to Chester, -and he naturally grudged that any one should give them to me but -himself. - -To think of me saying so much about such a small affair as bracelets, -when things so much more important were surrounding us on every side! I -am afraid to say it, but it is true, that when I went down into the -drawing-room that evening I was thinking too much about my beautiful -scarf and these same bracelets to notice, at the first moment, who was -there. The first thing that brought me to myself was hearing the voice -of Miss Mortimer behind her screen. I was so amazed that, instinctively, -without giving any reason to myself for it, I pushed forward to see her. -There she sat, that dreadful, wonderful witch of a woman--so far from -being moved by any feeling of nature which might have led her to avoid -the strangers, as innocent Aunt Milly supposed--sitting there as if on a -throne, entirely assuming the part of mistress of the house, and -receiving the homage of her guests. Evidently everybody was -surprised--everybody had understood Miss Mortimer to have withdrawn from -any but the most secluded life and I do not think I ever felt such a -thrill of wonder and pity, and almost horror, as when, after all I had -seen and noted, after her convulsive trembling and watchful readiness -for any attack, after the way in which, this very day, she had -retreated, stubborn but exhausted, upstairs, I saw her sitting here, in -full evening dress, with jewels and ornaments; her watchful eyes -gleaming stealthily round, and her ears alive to every sound. - -As I came forward I caught sight of Aunt Milly sitting silent by herself -by a table, with a face full of the deepest perplexity and distress. She -raised her troubled eyes to me, and grasped at my hand for a moment, as -if to strengthen herself. She could not make it out--any attempt to -decipher her sister’s purpose was in vain to Aunt Milly--the light might -as well have tried to comprehend the darkness. But I had not time to say -anything to her. Miss Mortimer had called Harry, who drew me along with -him; and it was she who introduced us to the rector and his sister, and -to that heavy old Sir George, and the Penrhyns of Eden Castle. I am sure -I cannot tell what she said; it was principally Harry she spoke of, and -I remember that she called him their heir and nearest relation, which -gained us a very flattering reception from the strangers. But the mere -fact of seeing her there, with her bare arms and shoulders shining thin -through just such another scarf as I had on, and her eyes meeting -everybody else’s with a certain wide-open vigilant stare, and her head -held stiffly erect to dissemble that trembling, which, even still, she -could not overcome, at once confounded and engrossed me so much that I -could observe nothing else. Harry got into conversation with the -gentlemen, and Miss Kate, from the Rectory, a woman evidently full of -curiosity and enterprise, seized upon Miss Mortimer. I managed to get -away to Aunt Milly; she took my hand again, and pressed it almost -painfully. “My dear, what do you suppose _this_ means?” said Aunt Milly, -looking wistfully up in my face. - -“To defy everybody,” I said, scarcely knowing what I was saying; “but, -dear Aunt Milly, you warned me to be on my guard. You look so troubled, -people will fancy something is wrong.” - -When I said that, she got up hastily and joined the others. I can’t tell -how the strangers felt; but for all of us who belonged to the house, it -is impossible to imagine any scene more extraordinary. To see the -dauntless, unnatural wickedness of that woman facing and defying -everybody--to see her take the principal place, and ignore the troubled, -terrified sister, whose guests these people really were--out of all the -mysterious veil of secrecy and darkness in which she had been wrapped, -to watch her emerging thus, not only as if nothing were wrong with her, -but as if, in reality, she was the soul of everything, and dear Aunt -Milly only her shadow and servant! When Miss Mortimer took the head of -the table at dinner, and Aunt Milly astonished, and not knowing what to -make of it, dropped into a seat near the foot, where Harry was, our -dismay and wonder were nearly at their climax. Aunt Milly clasped my -hands hard; she had got a chair placed in the corner beside me, and -whispered-- - -“I don’t mind it, my dear, don’t think I mind it. If all was well, and I -had known her meaning!” - -I understood that perfectly; but then all was not well, and nobody had -known the weird woman’s meaning. Now she had it all in her own hands. -With her grey hair, and her thin bare aged shoulders peeping out of her -scarf, she made a dreadful pretence of flirting with that old Sir -George; and curious Miss Kate sat scrutinising her, and making perpetual -remarks; and Aunt Milly and I looked on with awe and alarm which I could -not describe. I could scarcely answer Mr. Penrhyn when he spoke to me. I -fear he must have thought me a very poor representative of the -Mortimers. But I could not keep my attention from that figure at the -head of the table. I could not help wondering, did she see the writing -and the man’s hand upon the wall? for in all her pretences, and -affectations, and coquetries,--those strange coquetries, and gestures, -and movements of the head and hands, which might have been pretty in a -young beauty, but were so dismal in a white-haired old woman--remember, -_she never once forgot_. I could see it plain in her eyes all the time. -If the handwriting had come upon the wall, as it did in Belshazzar’s -palace, it would not have surprised her. No allusion that could be made -would shock or startle her. She knew everything that could come; and, in -her devilish daring, she was prepared for all. - -I hope it is not very wicked of me to use such words; indeed, I cannot -tell what others I could use. - -Things went on so till we got back to the drawing-room, which was a -relief in its way. And by dint of continuing so long, the pressure had, -of course, grown easier, and I had actually begun to make a little -acquaintance with Mrs. Penrhyn, who was young, and had little children -of her own, and quite insisted I should take her upstairs to see baby, -when I was suddenly recalled from that very agreeable talk we were just -falling into, by the sharp voice of Miss Kate. - -“Have you heard any more of that young Italian, Miss Milly?” said Miss -Kate; “he that struck me, you know, as having so odd a resemblance to -your family?--very strange! and did you not perceive it yourself? I hear -he has been seen about here again, and his servant, that stout person. -Ah, how very sad he doesn’t know English, that poor fellow! perhaps he -has picked up a little since. Of all the sad things in the world, I know -nothing so melancholy as being in the midst of light, and yet, for such -a trifling thing as the want of language, remaining in darkness. I have -never forgiven myself for neglecting Italian since that day. Ah, I wish -I knew Italian as you do, Miss Mortimer. Who can tell what use I might -have been to that poor benighted man!” - -I had turned aside, with the words stopped on my very lips, to listen. -So had Aunt Milly, looking aghast, and with every tinge of colour -blanched from her face. Miss Mortimer did not observe me; but she -noticed her sister, and stared at her with actually a little pause and -smile of malice, to direct everybody’s attention to her startled face, -before she spoke. - -“I can’t speak even my own language now,” was all Miss Mortimer said; -and all the time looked at Aunt Milly with that derisive look, as if to -show that whoever was agitated by this reference it was not herself. I -was so wicked as to think she meant to turn over the scandal, if any -should rise, upon her sister; and it made my blood boil; but, to be -sure, I was quite in error there. - -“Oh, I am sure after to-night--!” cried Miss Kate; “Indeed, my dear Miss -Mortimer, I must congratulate you. I hope it is the beginning of a new -life. If you would but take a little interest in the parish, with your -improved health, I am sure it would do so much good; and if you should -happen to meet that unfortunate young man, and would be induced to -explain the truth to him a little in his own language----” - -Here Miss Mortimer gave an extraordinary kind of gasp, without, however, -uttering any sound. Nobody observed it but me, as my eyes were fixed on -her. Then she spoke as if she could not help herself, drawing back into -the shadow. - -“He speaks English!” she said, with an extraordinary tone of being -compelled to say something--as if some influence within her had -constrained the words from her unwilling tongue. - -“But, ah, it is the servant I speak of,” cried Miss Kate; “one soul is -just as precious as another; it is he, poor unfortunate man! If you -should meet him in any of your drives,--he is very stout, and has a -large beard, and is so completely the foreigner that you can’t mistake -him,--if you would only stop the carriage and say a word in season.” - -There was another wonderful contraction of all the muscles of Miss -Mortimer’s face, and this time a kind of hysterical sound came with it. - -“If I meet him,” she said, slowly, “I’ll give him a word in -season--don’t be afraid,” and she laughed. - -It made me shiver and tremble all over. I was thankful that Ellis came -that moment with tea, and I could get up and go into another corner of -the room to recover myself. I don’t know how Aunt Milly bore it. She had -not a particle of colour in her face the whole evening after. But Miss -Mortimer went upstairs steadily when all the guests were gone. I do not -know what befell when she got into her own room. I do not think they had -much rest there that night. If she had fallen down in a fit, or expired -at the head of the table that evening, it would not have surprised me. -She had lived through it; but I am sure neither she nor her poor -faithful maid closed their eyes that night. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -The day after that, was the day we had fixed to go back to Chester. Miss -Mortimer did not come downstairs; but Carson came to me with a little -packet while I was helping Lizzie to pack up baby’s things. The poor -woman looked ill and strange herself. She had a scared terrified -expression, as if she were afraid of everybody, and looked so worn-out -and exhausted that I could scarcely help telling her, for pity’s sake, -to go and get some sleep. - -“My missis sends her love,” said Carson, “and she’s very sorry she can’t -come downstairs to see you, ma’am, nor the Captain, but hopes it won’t -be long till you’re here again; and sends you this, and her love.” - -“Is Miss Mortimer ill?” said I. - -Carson hesitated before she answered. - -“It’s on her nerves,” she said, at last, faltering; “it’s--I mean, to be -sure, she’s a little overtired because of overdoing of herself last -night. It was out of compliment to the Captain, ma’am, and you. My -missis has a great spirit; but it’s the body as is weak.” - -“Yes,” said I, unable to restrain the impulse; “but, oh, don’t you think -she has just too great a spirit? What if it kills her one of these -days?” - -The woman flashed up for a moment into an attempt of resentment and -dignity, but, partly from her weakness and watching and want of sleep, -broke down immediately, and shed a few tears in her apron. The poor -creature’s heart was moved. “If it kills her she’ll die; but she’ll -never give in,” sobbed Carson; and then, recovering herself all at -once--“it’s on the nerves, that’s what it is,” said the faithful -servant, and hurried away. - -It was some time before I cared to open Miss Mortimer’s packet. It -contained two rings, one of them a slight turquoise thing, which was for -me, and the other a fine diamond, which was to be given to my husband. -“Tell him it’s a family jewel,” said a little accompanying note. I put -it down on Harry’s dressing-table, where he would find it when he came -in. _I_ would not put such a present on his finger; besides, it was best -he should have it direct from herself--she had always received _him_ as -the representative of the Mortimers, and not me. - -And then Aunt Milly came upstairs to kiss and cry over us. I was very -sad myself, as was natural. There was nothing now between me and Harry’s -going, but a few weeks--rather a few days. I should look straight into -the face of that dreadful approaching moment when we turned our backs on -the Park. - -I could not cry as Aunt Milly did. I felt to myself as if I had been -trifling all this time, taken up with other people’s affairs, and making -friends with strangers, while every hour was bringing us closer to that -day. Dear Aunt Milly held me fast in her arms, and whispered everything -in the world she could think of to console me: that I had baby; that I -should have letters regularly; that the war would not last long; that I -must trust God, and pray. Ah, as if I did not know all that! if I had -not known it and gone over it all in my own mind a thousand times, there -might have been some comfort in what she said. - -“And look here,” said Aunt Milly, thrusting a purse into my pocket--not -into my hand, to give me a chance of putting it back again--“he is our -representative, dear. He is not to go a step till he has -everything--everything you can so much as think upon to make him -comfortable. Now, Milly, don’t say a word. I’ll think you don’t love me -if you say a word. Will it be any comfort to you, or me, to think here’s -some paltry money left, and Harry gone to fight for us all without -something that would make him comfortable? You’d work your fingers off -to get it for him, and you have no excuse for denying me. Don’t say -anything to Harry, child. Men don’t understand these things. It’s -between you and me; and, please God, we’ll tell him all our schemes when -we get him back safe, the dear fellow. But, dear, what is that on the -table? Sarah’s diamond! that one she has always had such a fancy for. -Has she sent it to you?” - -“To Harry,” said I. - -“To Harry! Dear, dear, what creatures we are!” cried Aunt Milly, much -agitated, and bursting in tears again. “Poor Sarah! she’s not so -hard-hearted as you and me were thinking, Milly. Oh, God help her; if -He would only bring her to deal true and fair, and have out this trouble -in the face of day, there might be some comfort yet for her in this very -life!” - -I made no answer. I did not love Miss Mortimer, as I suppose, in some -sort of way, her sister did; and, besides, my thoughts were all turned -in another direction again. I had ceased to see the Park and its -troubles so acutely as I had done for some days past. My mind was -returned to my own private burden. I had little to say to anybody after -that. I turned away even from Aunt Milly, with a dreadful feeling that I -was not to see her again till Harry was gone. For I knew in my heart, -though they never said anything to me, that this was how it was to be. - -I had not the heart to talk even to Harry, as we drove slowly back to -Chester--slowly, as I fancied. We went in the carriage all the way. We -had no railway or tunnel to go through this time. Nothing to help me to -a moment’s delusion of plunging away to the end of the world, or into -the bowels of the earth, it did not matter which, _all together_. That -was impossible. Miss Mortimer’s carriage put nothing in my mind but the -inevitable parting, and all that was to happen to me after Harry was -gone. - -When we got to our Chester lodgings, Domenico was there, as usual, full -of the noisiest, kindest bustle, to help in getting everything in, as if -he had belonged to us, instead of belonging to a stranger, who, most -likely, had little reason to bear the heirs of the Mortimers any good -will. Mr. Luigi was standing at the window all the time, looking at the -carriage, the horses, the servants; thinking, perhaps, they might all -have been his under different circumstances. How can I tell what he was -thinking? I am sure at that moment, though I observed him at the window, -I took no pains to imagine what his thoughts were, and did not care. I -did not care for anything just then. - -It was one of my bad times. It was one of the hundred partings which I -had with Harry before the real parting came. When the things were lifted -out of the carriage, I could see them all in my own mind lifted in -again, all but Harry’s share of them, and myself sitting blind in that -corner with all the world dark before me. Well, well; it is no use -reasoning over it, as if that would make things any better. Thousands -and thousands were just the same as me; did that make it any better, do -you suppose? I thought of the poor woman in the Edinburgh High Street, -and her hard damp hand that pressed mine. I was a soldier’s wife like -all the rest. I went up into my own room and got Harry’s old sash again, -and bound it tight over my heart. It gave me a kind of ease, somehow. -And to hear baby shouting at sight of his old toys, and Harry calling -for his Milly darling, downstairs! It was an agony of happiness and -anguish; it was life. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -The very next day Sara Cresswell came to see me. I cannot say that I was -very glad, for I grudged everything now that did not belong to the one -business which was engrossing us. I had been out that morning with Harry -trying to get things that were necessary for him. I don’t mean the -common articles of his outfit, for these, now that we had money enough, -could be ordered at once without contriving; but the little conveniences -that might make him more comfortable. He protested that I would load him -with so many contrivances for comfort that comfort would be impossible; -and, I daresay I was foolish. But he let me do it without more than just -laughing at me. He knew it was a sort of consolation. When Sara came the -room was in a litter with all sorts of portable apparatus; things for -cooking, and lamps, and portable dressing things, and the wonderful -convenient portmanteaus they make now-a-days. I was putting them all -together, and comparing, and thinking all how he would do when, instead -of home, where everything came naturally, without being asked for, he -should have only these skeletons to make himself comfortable with. I had -lighted the lamp, and was boiling the little kettle over it, to see how -it would do. Ah, if we only had been going all together! If I could have -imagined myself there to boil the kettle and have everything warm and -nice for him when he came in from the trenches, how pleasant all these -contrivances would have been! As it was I had just had his servant up -and been showing him the things we had bought; he looking grim and half -amused, touching his cap and saying, “Yes, ma’am,” to every word I said, -but laughing in his mind at all my womanish nonsense. I could see that -perfectly, and I had a good cry after the man was gone; and was just -rousing up from that, to boil the little kettle, when Sara Cresswell -came in. - -In this short week there was a good deal of change upon Sara. Her eyes -had a quick kind of fitful light in them gleaming about everywhere, as -if she were somehow dissatisfied, either with herself or her own -circumstances, and sought a kind of relief in external things. There -was a change in her appearance too; her little short curls had either -grown too long to cluster about her neck as she had worn them, or she -had taken another caprice about this fashion of hers, for they were now -all gathered into a net, a thing which changed her appearance, somehow, -without one being able to see for the first minute how it was. She -flushed up wonderfully when she saw my occupation. She came and kissed -me, and sat down by me to watch the lamp. I had to explain to her all -about it, how it was arranged, and everything; and after she had sat -with me watching till the little kettle boiled, all at once it seemed to -flash upon her what dreadful thing was implied to me in that little -apparatus, and she suddenly looked up in my face and took hold of my -hand, and burst out crying. I gave way just for one moment too, but even -her presence and her sympathy kept me from breaking down altogether. But -it warmed my heart to Sara to see her crying for my trouble. I took the -little teapot out of the place it was fitted into and made some tea, and -gave her some without saying anything. We sat by the table where that -little lamp was still burning, throwing the steady, cheerful little -flame that showed so strange in the daylight, upon us. We drank that tea -together without saying anything, till Sara, not being able to contain -herself, her heart quite running over with pity for me, took the cup out -of my hand and threw her arms round me. “We shall be sisters while he is -away!” cried Sara, not knowing what to say to comfort me. I don’t think -I said anything; but we were real fast friends from that day. - -“But I must have everything cleared away now, before Harry comes in,” -said I; “he must not see all this litter we have been making. He thinks -me foolish enough already. Go into the other room, Sara dear, and take a -book and wait for me. Lizzie is out with baby. I’ll come to you -presently.” - -“As if I could not help!” cried Sara, dashing the tears away off her -cheek. “Why, oh, Milly, why won’t people let us women do what we were -born to? This is twenty times pleasanter than going into the other room -and taking a book.” - -And so, I daresay, it was. When everything was tidy we did go into the -other room. Sara sat near the window, where she could see out without -being seen herself. I took up some of Harry’s things that I had begun to -make before Aunt Milly’s money came. I would have made them every one -myself if I could, but that, to be sure, was impossible; and what a -comfort it was to think he would have such a good supply of everything; -but still it was a pleasure to me to have that work. We sat talking for -some time about other things, about the Park, and Aunt Milly, and Miss -Mortimer, but without touching upon anything but the surface,--how I -liked them, and all that,--till at last Sara gave a little start and -exclamation, and put her hands together. It was something she saw in the -street. I rose to look over her shoulder what it was. - -“There is Mr. Langham and Mr. Luigi,” cried Sara. “What can they be -talking about? Are they coming in, I wonder? How earnest they both look! -Now they are turning back again. Oh, Milly, tell me, please! what are -they talking about?” - -“How can I possibly tell you?” said I; but I suppose there was a little -faltering and consciousness in my tone. - -Sara sat watching for some time longer. “They walk up and down, quite -engrossed in their conversation,” said Sara; “when they reach the end of -the pavement, they turn back again, up and down, up and down. Now Mr. -Langham seems urging something upon him--now he turns away, he clasps -his hands together, he appeals to Mr. Langham. What is it? what is it -all about? I never can persuade him to tell me. How does he belong to -the Park or the Mortimers? Why are they frightened for him? Oh, Milly, -you who have just come from them, tell me what it is? I am not asking -from vain curiosity--I--I--I have a right----” - -Here Sara stopped, overcome with agitation. I was close behind her. I -could not help growing agitated too. - -“Sara, tell _me_!” I cried; “we are both motherless creatures, and you -have nobody to guide you. Tell me; you call him _he_, you don’t say his -name. What is he to you?” - -Sara turned back and leant her head upon me, and fell into a passion of -tears again;--different tears--tears for herself, and out of the anguish -of her heart. She was doing wrong--she knew she was doing wrong--she had -gone on with it wilfully, knowing it was wrong all the time; and now she -had gone too far to draw back. - -“Oh, Milly, Milly, papa does not know!” she cried, in such a tone of -misery. And, indeed, I don’t wonder. How could she look him in the face -knowing how fond of her he was? - -“But, Sara, this is dreadfully wrong of Mr. Luigi,” cried I; “he ought -to know better; he should at least have gone to Mr. Cresswell. It is his -fault.” - -“Was it your Harry’s fault?” cried Sara, starting up in my face, all -flushed and glowing. “Should he have gone directly and told everybody? -And you were married, _married_, Milly!--and ever such a time before it -was found out. How _can_ you pretend to be so shocked at me?” - -To see her spring up, all blushing and beautiful, and determined as she -was--she who had been sobbing on my shoulder a moment before, took me -entirely by surprise. I retreated a step before her. I could not tell -what answer to make. She was not ashamed, the little darling creature! -She was ready to stand up for him against all the world. - -“It was not my good father that loved me, it was only my aunt,” I said, -faltering; “and, besides, it was I who should have told her; and as for -Harry--Harry----” - -“He is no better than Luigi!” cried Sara; “he ought to have gone and -told and asked for you. You know he should; and you were married, -actually _married_, and oh, Milly, can you really venture to scold me?” - -“If I had nothing else to excuse me I was ashamed, at least,” said I, a -little sharply. - -“I am not ashamed of Lewis!” cried the little girl, stamping her little -foot and clasping her hands together. When her courage deserted her, she -came and nestled into my side again, and clasped her arms tight and -cried. What was to be done? for whatever I might have done myself, I -could not be an accessory to Sara’s secret, to break her kind father’s -heart. - -“But tell me who he is? What is Mr. Langham speaking to him about?” -whispered Sara at last. - -“Has he not told you who he is?” - -“Only that soon he will be able to come to papa and tell him everything, -but that his duty to somebody prevents him speaking now, till he has -permission,” said Sara, under her breath. “I am not excusing him,” she -went on, lifting up her head. “As you say, it was my part to tell papa; -and it was only just the other day that--that--there was anything to -tell. We have not been going on making it up for a long time. We have -not been keeping it secret for months, like some people.” - -“Sara, hush,” said I; “you know quite well your case and mine are not -alike; but, at any rate, I am older and wiser now. Must I, or must -Harry, go and tell your father?” - -Sara looked at me with a degree of affectionate spite and wickedness I -never saw equalled. “You would, you treacherous, perfidious creature!” -she cried, flinging away from me; “but Mr. Langham wouldn’t!--you need -not think it. You will have to go yourself; and papa will think we have -had a quarrel, and won’t believe you. Ah, Milly! here they are coming -back. Tell me what Mr. Langham was saying to him? Tell me what it all -is?” - -If I had known ever so well what to tell her, and been as willing as I -was able, I would have been prevented by Harry’s coming in. He was -looking grave and perplexed. His interview with Luigi had not satisfied -_him_, any more than such a conversation had satisfied anybody else who -approached the Italian. Sara stopped short with the most violent blush -on her face when she saw him. She withdrew from me, and got into a -corner. She went to the window, and pretended to be looking out very -earnestly. She answered Harry’s salutation only over my shoulder. The -next moment she came whispering to me that it was time for her to go. -Evidently, however much she encouraged herself by our example, she could -not face Harry. She whispered, “Don’t tell!” and clenched her little -fist at me as she went away. Of course I only laughed at her; but it -appeared I did not need to tell Harry. He came upstairs, after seeing -her out, with a smile on his face. - -“Has she been telling you what trouble she has got herself into? Oh, -don’t betray her secret,” said Harry. “I have just heard it from the -other side. Here are other two fools following our example, Milly. What -is to be done for them? It is worse, you know, in their case, as I took -pains to show Luigi. Mr. Cresswell is a different person from Aunt -Connor; and we two were equal in our poverty. I don’t approve,” said -Harry, with a laugh mingling in his gravity, “of such a thing as this.” - -“And what did he say?” said I, thinking, no doubt, that my Harry’s -wisdom had made the Italian ashamed of himself. - -Harry laughed again, but grew rather red. “Word for word what I used to -say when I was explaining to myself why I did not go and ask you from -your Aunt Connor. I hope they’ll have as good an issue as we have had, -Milly, darling,” said Harry, “But here’s some extraordinary mistake -again. Either we’re mistaken in our guess, which I can’t think possible, -or poor Luigi’s dreadfully mistaken in the laws of England and of -civilised life. Perhaps he thinks our being Protestants makes an end of -law. I can’t tell what he thinks, nor what to think of the whole -concern. He refuses my mediation, Milly; at least he tells me I am -wrong.” - -“Wrong in what particular?” I asked eagerly. - -Harry shook his head. “I can’t tell; but he will not hear of any -compensation, or of giving up his pursuit of that poor old lady. When -he saw what I meant he grew very hot and angry, and asked if I meant to -insult him, but afterwards said to himself, ‘It is in ignorance,’ with a -sort of magnanimity which would be simply ridiculous according to my -notion of the affair. They’ll have it out their own way, Milly. We can’t -interfere, that’s clear; only I wish there was some light thrown upon -it,” said Harry, “before I went away, that I might know what your -fortune is likely to be. What would you say if this grand Park of yours -turned out to be no inheritance for us at all?” - -“I should not break my heart; but what _could_ he have to do with the -Park?” cried I. “If he were Mr. Mortimer’s son, why should Miss Mortimer -be so troubled about it? and how could he, if he is Miss Mortimer’s----” - -“Hush, Milly; we don’t know anything about it. Let’s talk of our own -concerns,” said Harry, with a sigh. These words plunged me back again -into the mood from which Sara had roused me. The other things went like -shadows--this was the real life which belonged to us. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -I don’t remember very well after that how these outside affairs went on. -I used to see them both, of course. Sara came to me almost every day, -and sometimes helped with my work, and sometimes played with baby, and -sometimes would read aloud to me when Harry was out. She meant it very -well and was very good, and a comfort, as much as that was possible. I -remember being glad when she read, and did not talk, for then I was free -to my own thoughts. I daresay, thinking it over since, that it must have -been the fascination of seeing her constantly, which for that interval -took precedence of everything in Luigi’s mind, and kept him inactive; -for I heard from Aunt Milly that he had not been to the Park again, nor -heard of in any way, so far as she knew. And Miss Mortimer had been -ailing too, and had very bad nights, and had been a whole week that she -did not come downstairs. I heard all these things at the time without -taking any notice of them. Harry, after finding himself so unsuccessful -with Luigi, had given it all up; and we were both too much occupied with -our own concerns to think of anything else. We did not talk much of what -was to happen when he was gone. It had come to be tacitly concluded that -I was to go with Aunt Milly; and, I suppose, that thought that crossed -Harry’s mind after his conversation with Luigi,--“What if the Park -should turn out to be no inheritance of ours after all?”--had passed -away again as it came. I can’t say I ever thought of the Park at that -time one way or another; and I am sure what Harry was glad for me to -have, was not the prospect of a great fortune, but the presence of a -dear friend. - -One day he rode out to see Aunt Milly, and take leave of her. He saw -them both, he told me, but nothing passed that I cared to inquire into. -We had a great deal to do, which helped us to pull through these days. -It was such a difficulty to get those things which I had collected, -packed. Harry’s servant came, and puffed and scratched his head over -them, and poor Domenico came up to help; and what with his broad laughs -and pantomime, and his determination to get everything in, and his -cheerfulness over all his failures, and the ludicrous way in which he -and Thomson addressed each other, each in his own language, and abused -each other too, even I was obliged to laugh, and the assistants were all -kept in good-humour. I felt as if it had been very dark all these -days--often raining, always cloudy, the streets muddy and uncomfortable, -and the air stifling. I can’t tell whether it was so in reality, but it -certainly seemed so to me. - -Then the very last day came. Harry was specially busy all that day; -there were all the men to look after, and he was acting adjutant. I went -out by myself to see whether I could not find anything else he might -want. It was very fatiguing walking--I suppose it was a rainy day. When -I came in I felt very faint, and sat down in a chair in the hall for an -instant to recover myself. I can’t tell how Luigi knew that I was there; -but he came out to the door of his room, and stood looking at me for a -moment. I got up, being jealous that anybody should see me break down, -just then; but he held up his hand as if to beg me to stay. - -“May I say how I think of you?” he said. “Just now you are never out of -my mind, you and that brave Langham. Patience, patience! such men come -back--they come back!” - -“Oh, hush, hush, hush!” I cried. I could say nothing more, and pressed -past him to go upstairs. - -He put his hand on mine when I laid it on the rail of the stairs, -detaining me. “We are cousins,” he said, softly; “do not put me away. In -my country we say cousin-brother--it does not matter, it is the same. I -will be your brother if you will let me. Tell him. I am not to be -ashamed of; he knows not; but if _she_ will not do what is right, soon -all the world must know. I am your brother, at your disposition. Say it -to him. I will not come to say farewell to disturb you--but tell him; he -shall trust me, and you may want a brother; we are of one blood.” - -“Oh, let me go!” I cried. “I can’t ask you how this is. I can’t thank -you, though I am sure it is kindness. I can’t think of anything to-day; -let me go.” - -Luigi kissed my hand, and let me go. It startled me very much for the -moment. I rushed upstairs, feeling as if he had been rude to me;--but -indeed he had not been rude to me, nor anything the least like it. But -it startled me into realizing all that was going to happen. That I -should be alone as to-morrow. I remember running and clutching at the -blinds which were down, and drawing them up with great haste, and almost -passion. It seemed to me as if that dim light were predicting something; -as if the furniture standing about was looking on, and knew what was -going to be. Now the time was come; I had gone over it and over it in my -fancy; this would be the last of my rehearsals; to-morrow Harry would be -away. - -And the to-morrow came, as they always do. I did not feel in the least -diminished in my strength. I did not feel I had any body at all that -morning. I went with him to the railway steadily, you may suppose. I -would not lose a moment of the time we were to be together in any folly -about myself. I remember him saying something about me going home alone, -and all that, as men _will_ do. But I did not lose sight of him till the -last moment when the train disappeared into the tunnel; and I can’t tell -how long I stood there watching, after it had vanished into that -darkness. Now he was gone! Another train came up, and the crowd -disturbed me standing there all by myself. I did not feel as if it were -true; but I went away all the same. I said to myself, over and over -again, “He is gone;” but it did me no good. I went out of the railway -not believing in it. Outside there was a cab waiting for me. But -Domenico rushed forward to open the door, and somehow they had contrived -that Lizzie and baby should be there to take me home. I heard afterwards -that Luigi and Domenico were both watching close by all the time, in -case I should faint, or something. I suppose they thought I would faint, -not knowing any better. Lizzie’s great eyes, panic-struck, gazing in my -face, full of tears that she durst not let fall, struck me quite -strangely when I got into the cab; and then little Harry stretched out -his arms to me--and then----. But even at the worst it was not so -dreadful as I thought it would be. I was not sitting blind and -desperate, with all the world dark before me. No, no; and God forgive me -for thinking I should. Harry was living and well, and gone to do his -duty; and this was his boy smiling in my face, and the sun was -shining----. And I had to live, and to be patient, and to pray. - -When we got home, Aunt Milly’s kind face, anxiously gazing out of the -window, was the first thing I saw. She came running downstairs to take -me in her arms; she seemed to think it strange I could walk in so -steadily, and did not want any support. Sara was upstairs too. I have -no doubt it was kind, the kindest thing possible; but I felt dreadfully -fatigued, somehow, with that morning’s work. I could have liked to have -been by myself a little. I went to my own room to put off my bonnet, and -sat down with a kind of pang of comfort. I thought I was _glad_ it was -over; and then my eye fell on Harry’s old scarf--and somehow the silence -came ringing about my ears with no “Milly, darling!” sounding through -it: and I began to see it was true, and he was away. - -When Aunt Milly came stealing into the room after me, she dropped down -by my side where I was kneeling, and put her kind arms round my waist. -“Yes, dear, cry!” said Aunt Milly, “it will do you good!” But I did not -cry after that--I was better. I was glad it was over now. - -We waited till we had a message by the telegraph to say the ship was -just sailing out of the Mersey; for Harry had stopped with me till the -very last moment. And then we went away. I remember everything so -clearly that happened that day. I remember how the sun kept shining, and -how they all looked at me as if I had been ill, and had to be watched -and cared for at every step. It was all very new to me. In the hall, as -we were going away, Luigi came up to me again. Aunt Milly had made me -take her arm; not that I needed it, but she seemed to think I ought to -need it. Luigi came and took my hand. “Remember!” he said, “I am your -brother, at your disposition, till he comes back.” I don’t think I made -him any answer; for the very sight of him made Aunt Milly tremble. He -went out after us to put us into the carriage, and somehow managed to do -it, though Aunt Milly was afraid of him. He put her in last of all, and -kissed her hand. Aunt Milly did not say anything to me for a long time -after. She kept gazing out of the carriage windows as long as she could -see Luigi; and I have a kind of consciousness that he stood there, with -his hat off, as long as we could be seen on the road. For the moment she -had returned into her own trouble and forgotten mine. I leaned out of -the other window, and felt the wind on my face. Ah, God send the winds -were safe upon the sea! He was gone--really gone. I was not even to hear -of him for a long time; and when I was to see him, God knew alone. I was -swept out of his sight, and he out of mine, as if we did not belong to -each other. There was only One now, in heaven or earth, that at the same -moment could see him and me. When I thought of that it melted all my -heart. Our Father, the only father we two had, saw us both, with no -boundaries between us--all that time when I could neither see nor hear -of Harry, God was my link to my husband. He knew. We were both in His -eye if we were worlds asunder. There, we were near to each other, -however else we might be separate. The impression came so strong upon me -that for a moment I could not say I was less than _glad_. No distance in -the world, though it put us for a time out of sight of each other, could -ever put us out of the sight of God. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -Nobody will be surprised when I say, that, after this, things got into -their usual way very soon, and that when the event was over, everything -subsided round it, and soon Aunt Milly began to forget that I was the -invalid (in spirit) whom she had taken such tender care of, and brought -back all her budget of perplexities and troubles to pour them into my -ear; and after a day or two’s retirement in my own room, which was an -ease to me, I went downstairs and about, and took a share in everything. -Miss Mortimer had got better of her illness, if illness it was. She sat -within the screen as usual, doing her knitting, and not taking much -notice of anybody. I don’t know whether she had really suffered in her -health, but it seemed to me that she got thinner, and that sometimes -there was a gleam of fiery restrained excitement in her eyes, which were -rather cold eyes by nature. We were told that she still had very bad -nights; and I am sure, two or three times when I met poor Carson by -accident, it took all my self-control to keep me from speaking to her, -and begging her to deliver herself, somehow, from this dreadful yoke. I -never saw exhaustion and a kind of weak despair so written upon -anybody’s face. These bad nights, whatever they might be to the -mistress, must have been murderous work to the poor maid. - -“My dear,” said Aunt Milly, “I shall never forget that young man’s look -as he put me into the carriage, and kissed my hand.” Aunt Milly held out -her plump soft hand as she spoke, and looked at it. “They have a habit -of doing so, these Italians. But if you will believe me, Milly, it was -actually an _affectionate_ look the poor young fellow gave me; and I -have never asked you what he meant; he was your brother, he said. My -dear, what did he mean? Ah, I remember how disappointed I was to find -that he was not your brother, and Richard Mortimer’s son. That would -have been such a happy solution of everything! but tell me why he called -himself your brother? Was it only sympathy, Milly?” - -“He said we were of the same blood; he said we were relations,” said I, -with some hesitation. - -The book she had been reading fell out of Aunt Milly’s hand. -“Relations!” she cried, faltering and growing pale; “then, Milly, there -can be no doubt at all about it. Milly, I tell you he must be my -father’s son; how could you be _relations_? And indeed, indeed,” cried -Aunt Milly, growing more and more agitated, “I can’t bear this any -longer. Now you are with me to support me, I must take it into my own -hands. I will go and write to him this moment, and ask him down here to -clear it all up. Don’t say anything--I must do it; it is impossible to -go on living in this way.” - -“But Miss Mortimer?” said I. - -“Miss Mortimer?” cried Aunt Milly, with a little scream, that was almost -hysterical, “what can my sister Sarah have to do with it? It is no -harder upon her than it is upon me. If he is my father’s son, how can -she be mixed up in it? And how can you and he be relations unless he is -my father’s son? Don’t speak to me, Milly. He shall come here and tell -it all, and at least we shall know what there is to fear.” - -“But if she were too much excited it might make her ill,” said I, -dreading that visit, without knowing anything to say against it. - -“I can’t help it!” cried Aunt Milly, “I am desperate. Think of living -and enjoying what doesn’t belong to you! Oh, Milly, Milly! what do you -think I must do? I never was in secrets and mysteries before; it’s -dreadful to me; and Sarah would not yield to tell what she’s kept hidden -so long, not for her life. We’ll see how she looks to-night. I did not -think she looked any worse than usual. I would not hurt her, you may be -sure, not for any relief to myself; but we can’t go on with this hanging -over us, Milly,” she said, with faltering lips. “I’ll write to-morrow; I -certainly will write to-morrow. Relations! My dear, dear child, it will -be a dreadful disappointment to you; but that is as good as proof.” - -Poor Aunt Milly! she was desperate, as she said; and what good it would -do writing, or asking, or even demanding anything, that one of the -people who knew it would guard at the cost of her life, and the other -would disclose only at his own time, I could not see. Luigi had refused -to tell her already; he would not tell Sara Cresswell. He was waiting a -permission that never, never in this world would be given. And he, too, -must be deluded. What could he think our laws or our principles were if -he could have any rights, but those of shame? It was all a mystery; I -could see that Aunt Milly’s idea was quite a false one. But I dared not -tell her that idea of my own, which, perhaps, for anything I knew, -might prove as false as hers. - -That morning I went out with Lizzie and my boy. He could walk now along -the sunny road holding my finger, and trot after his own little shadow, -and try to catch the motes in the sunshine, as I suppose all babies -do--but, to be sure, it is just as original and strange in every child -that does it, for all that. I was walking by him, very tranquil and even -contented in my mind. There had been very quiet weather; and little -Harry was so well and so beautiful; and I felt so much more as if I -could trust my Harry himself in God’s hands without trembling for him -every moment, that my heart opened out a little to the beautiful day. I -don’t know that I should have borne to see Domenico, much less to speak -to him, but for that---- - -For there was Domenico, unmistakably, on the edge of the common. He was -dressed in a white linen suit, all white, as if he wanted to make his -enormous bulk and his black beard as remarkable as possible in this -beardless and sober-minded country. It was warm weather now, and I -daresay he thought the hot summer was coming as in his own home. Baby, -with whom he had always been a favourite, gave a little shout at sight -of him, and tottered forward a step or two. Of course Domenico’s hat had -been in his hand from the first moment he saw me. He threw it down on -the grass now, and seized little Harry, and tossed him up in his arms. I -was afraid of this play, but my brave boy was not; he actually boxed at -Lizzie with his little fists when I begged Domenico to set him down. - -“Pardon,” said Domenico; “I--me--make demand of the signora, pardon--it -pleases to the piccolo signorino beebee. I--Domenico--here--this,” said -the great fellow, punching his breast, that I might be quite sure of the -person he meant, “take joy in heart for see the signora another time.” - -“Thank you, Domenico,” said I. “I shall never forget how kind you have -been. What is it that brings you here?” - -Domenico pointed round to various points of the compass, not seeming -sure which to fix upon, and then burst into a great laugh at himself. -“It pleases to the signora to pardon,” said Domenico; “when not to have -the book not clevare to make the speak. Here is the master of me.” - -“Your master, Domenico?--where?” cried I. - -Once more Domenico looked round to all the points of the compass. “He -here--he here--puff--Ecco!--he move far away--to make the time go. Here -my master come to make the visit--the signora not to know the other -signora? Yes, yes; in that large big palazzo of not any colour. Behold! -The my master there go.” - -“Who is he going to see there?” asked I, with some anxiety. - -Domenico held up his hand with many elaborate gestures of caution and -silence. Then he bent his enormous person forward and stooped to my ear. -When he spoke it was in a whisper. “It is need to speak silent--silent! -The signora contessa,” said Domenico, with half-important, half-guilty -air of one who communicates a secret. I drew back from him in utter -bewilderment--what could he mean? - -“There is no contessa there, Domenico,” said I, in my ordinary tone; -“your master is deceived.” - -Domenico held up his hand with an evident entreaty that I would be -cautious. Then he looked back upon Lizzie, the only person in sight. “I -not fear for the Lizzie,” said Domenico; and then launched forth into a -half-whispered description of the contessa, whoever that might be. But I -confess that Domenico’s description, being Italian whenever he warmed, -and only when he slackened and recollected himself falling into such -English as he was capable of, was difficult to make out. I fully entered -into Lizzie’s feeling, that it was “awfu’ fickle to ken what he meant -when it was a long story.” I remained profoundly bewildered, and unable -to make out one word in ten. - -As for learning anything about the contessa--poor fellow!--or, rather, -it was his master that was to be pitied--evidently here was some new -mistake, some additional impediment to the finding out of this mystery. -I left Lizzie with little Harry on the common, and went rather sadly -home. This little bit of apparent foolishness naturally set me all -astray as to the mysterious business which had cost us so much thought. -Was it a mistake of Domenico’s perhaps? for Luigi and Miss Mortimer had -actually met, and there could be no mistake there. - -When I looked back that great white apparition was keeping Lizzie -company on the common. They were a strange couple; but I cannot say I -had any such doubts or fears concerning Domenico’s attendance, as a -proper mistress ought to have had. I flattered myself Lizzie was a great -deal too young to take any harm. She stood with her red-brown hair a -little blown about her eyes: her clear, sanguine complexion, her angular -and still awkward figure, looking up at the man-monster beside her, and -holding up her hand to shade her eyes from the sun, which was shining -in her face. While Domenico, with all his great proportions expanded by -his white dress, impended over her, his smiling mouth opening in the -midst of his black beard, an _outre_ extraordinary foreign figure, -enough to drive any staid English village out of its propriety. I -remember the picture they made as distinctly as possible, with the green -common surrounding them, and the gorse bushes all bursting into flower; -and my own beautiful baby tottering about the fragrant grass. I was -quite secure in Lizzie’s love and Domenico’s kindness. I went away with -a smile at the curious group upon that soft English common--both figures -alien to the soil--and with a tenderness in my breast to them both. -Domenico had made himself well understood in another language, if not in -that of ordinary spoken communications. I shall always have a kindness -to his whole nation for that good fellow’s sake. - -As I paused at the gate of the Park, I saw another figure advancing by -an opposite road. I recognised Luigi in a moment. He was coming -hurriedly down between the green hedges, no doubt coming to pay that -visit of which Domenico had warned me. I rushed in, with all the -eagerness of a child, to get my bonnet off and be in the drawing-room -before he came. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -When I reached the drawing-room, after throwing off my bonnet and -arranging my hair in the most breathless haste, terrified to hear the -summons at the door before I was downstairs, I was thunderstruck to find -Sara Cresswell there. The sight of her made an end of my awkward feeling -of shame for my own haste and curiosity. Surely this was nothing less -than a crisis that was coming. Sara had just arrived, and was explaining -the reasons for her visit in such a very fluent and demonstrative way, -that I could see at once they were all made up, and some motive entirely -different from those she mentioned had brought her. She was still in her -hat and velvet jacket, seated rather on the edge of her chair, talking -very volubly, but looking breathless and anxious, while Aunt Milly, who -was sitting in her own place, opposite her sister, and near the -fireplace, looked at her, perplexed and uncertain, evidently rather -suspicious of the many motives which had procured us this visit; which, -if Sara had only said nothing about it, would have been received as a -delightful surprise, and wanted no accounting for. It was evidently a -great relief to Sara when I came in; she came to kiss me, turning her -face away from Aunt Milly, and caught hold of me so tight, and gave me -such a troubled, emphatic look, that even if I had not heard before, I -should have known something was coming. I stood by her breathless for a -moment, wondering why the door-bell did not ring,--Luigi had certainly -had abundant time to have got to the door,--and then went up to the -other end of the room on pretence of finding my work; while Sara, -instead of following me, dropped into her chair again, evidently too -nervous, too anxious, too eager to see the first of it and lose nothing, -to do anything but sit still. We were both traitors and plotters. She -had come to watch something that was about to happen, but which the -principal person concerned did not know. While I, more cruel still, took -my trembling way up to the other end of the apartment, and stationed -myself behind Aunt Milly, that I might not lose a look or word from Miss -Mortimer. I felt ashamed of myself, but I could not help it. I felt a -kind of conviction that this was to be the decisive day. - -But still there was no sound at the door; there was time to look round -all the peaceable vast room, and be struck by the quietness, the repose -of the scene in which some act of this mysterious drama was about to be -enacted. It was always very light here, but the bright day and the -sunshine out of doors, made it now even lighter than usual, and refused -to any of us the slightest shade for our faces, whatever undue -expression might come to them. Sara had adopted the only expedient -possible, by turning her back upon the light, and had, besides, a little -shelter in her hat. But dear Aunt Milly, looking at her favourite with a -troubled inquiring expression, and laying down the work she had in hand -in order to examine Sara’s countenance the better, was so fully set -forth in all her looks, movements, and almost feelings, by that broad -clear day-light, that I shrank back from it in spite of myself, fearing -that it would betray me too. The only shadow in the room was that -afforded by Miss Mortimer’s screen. She sat there just as usual, in her -violet-coloured dress, her light muslin embroidered scarf, worn without -any lining, now that the weather was warm, and her pretty cap, with -ribbons corresponding to her dress; her head moving so slightly that it -was difficult to perceive the motion; her pattern-book open on her knee, -her head bent over it. At this moment, when the thunders of Providence -were just about to break over her, she sat there, with her head over her -knitting-book, counting her stitches, and trying a new pattern. When I -saw how she was occupied, my own trembling pretence at work fell from my -hands. I gazed at her openly with a wonder which was almost awe. My -heart cried out against her in her dread composure. The Avenger was -coming, and there she sat, all conscious, aware, in every nerve, of her -guilt, and yet able to maintain that hideous calm. Yes! it would have -been sublime had she been a good woman, threatened by some undeserved -doom. I declare it was ghastly, devilish, dreadful to me! - -All this time nobody came to the door. I daresay, perhaps, it was not -very many minutes after all; but in the excitement and suspense it -seemed a very long time to me. And either the house was specially quiet, -or there was something in my agitated condition which made me think so. -Miss Mortimer never lifted her head; if she had not been so engaged with -her pattern, surely she would have noticed the perplexed looks of Aunt -Milly, and my excited face. But she did not, she kept working on at her -new stitch. We all relapsed into perfect silence; Sara’s voluble excuses -for herself died all at once off her lips. Aunt Milly dropped into a -strange anxious silence, looking at her. As for myself, I could not have -spoken a word whatever had been the consequences. Sara’s nervous motion -of her foot on the carpet startled me so much that I had nearly -committed myself by some cry of agitation. It was a dread, inexplainable -pause, which nobody dared either break or account for. Dead silence and -expectation. And Miss Mortimer bending her head over her pattern-book -counting the loops for her new stitch. - -The bell did not ring. If it had rung it must have startled us all so -much as to diminish the sense of what was coming; there was no such -premonition;--a little sound of steps and subdued voices in the hall -made my heart beat so loud that I felt sure my Aunt Milly must have -heard it. Sara looked up at me suddenly when that sound became audible. -Her face was perfectly colourless, and her hands firmly clasped -together. - -“Children, what is it?” said Aunt Milly, with a sharp frightened cry, -breaking off suddenly in a troubled manner as the steps drew nearer. -Miss Mortimer lifted her head from her book. She looked up, she looked -full at me; she smiled. She was listening, but she was not afraid. - -When suddenly the door was thrown open; Ellis called out, with his -fullest voice: “The Count Sormonata,” and somebody came in. I cannot -tell who it was that came in. I heard Sara cry out with a kind of shriek -and repeat the name, “The Count Sermoneta!” The work and the book and -all the trifling matters about her fell off from Miss Mortimer. She rose -up, clenching her hand, ghastly, like a dead woman. She cried out in a -voice I shall never forget: “he is dead, _dead!_” she cried, with the -wildest scream and outcry. “I tell you, he is dead, dead! My God, he is -dead! Will nobody believe me?” shrieked out the miserable woman. Her -sister ran to her, and was thrust away with those terrible clenched -hands. But she never turned to look, nor cast aside her screen that hid -the new comer from her. She stood still like some frightful statue, -rigid, with her wild eyes fixed upon the air before her--heaven knows -what she might see there!--listening in some frightful agony to the -steps that came slowly up the room. When that scream burst from her the -footsteps faltered and stopped. Then Miss Mortimer looked at me, the -only creature she saw before her, and laughed a dreadful laugh of -madness and misery. “He knows it!” she cried out, triumphantly, “if you -did not, he does. He is dead, dead!” and then came to another dreadful -pause, leaning her clenched hands upon the table and fixing her wild -eyes upon something straight before her. While I followed the mad stare -of her eyes with a shudder I could not refrain, another person came with -noiseless rapidity into the spot she was gazing on. It was not a -spectre--it was simply Luigi, from whose face agitation had banished all -the colour, and who stood trembling and speechless, wringing his hands, -and gazing at her with an unspeakable appeal and entreaty. She did not -say anything more; she stood with her eyes full opened and staring wide, -leaning her hands on that table. I believe, if anybody had touched her, -she would have fallen. I almost believed, while I looked at her, that -she had died standing, and that it was a lifeless form that stood fixed -in that horrible erect attitude, fronting us all, fronting a thousand -times more than us, all the guilt and sins of her life. I gave a cry -myself in the extremity of my terror and trouble. I went to her, I -cannot tell how, stumbling over Aunt Milly, who had either fallen or -fainted, or I cannot tell what. I went and put my arm round that -dreadful ghastly figure. It was not her I was approaching, but _it_, the -terrible mask and image of her. I had not a thought but that she was -dead. - -When I touched her, she fell, as I had thought she would. But so strong -an impression did her dreadful appearance have upon me, that, when her -figure sank into the chair and showed some elasticity, instead of going -down on the floor, crumbling down, dropping to pieces, as somehow I had -expected, I was struck with a horrible fear and surprise. She was not -dead. I called out to them all, what were we to do? and she seemed to -hear me. I saw, with a terror I cannot explain, her terrible eyes turn -from Luigi--they looked at me, at Aunt Milly, they cast a glance over -the room. Was it that the spirit was living and the body dead? - -I cannot tell what we did for a dreadful interval after that. Carson -came into the confused crowd. Luigi disappeared to find a doctor, and we -tried to get her lifted and laid upon the sofa. But though she neither -moved nor spoke, and scarcely seemed to breathe, she resisted, in some -dreadful way, and would not be removed. I shall never forget that -dreadful face; when I am ill it comes back to me, a recollection never -to be banished;--dead--yet never consenting to die, keeping alive, -determined, resolute, unshaken. I can see the discoloured lips begin to -move, the words formed on the inarticulate tongue, the eyes lightening -out of that fixed stare. Half the house had stolen into the room in -this dreadful emergency without anybody observing them. But the dead -woman observed them. And I, who was standing nearest, recoiled from her -side, and the whole circle round her broke up and fell back in -speechless horror, when a sound broke from that dreadful convulsed -mouth. Old Carson, trembling but faithful, stood by her mistress. The -poor creature said she understood that sound. It was to send everybody -away, said the woman, whose limbs would scarcely support her, and whose -very teeth chattered. They all went away, terrified but curious; the -boldest lingered behind the screen. Nobody remained within sight of -those dreadful eyes but Aunt Milly and me. We two stood huddled on each -other, not daring to say a word, or even to exchange looks. Carson stood -by her mistress’s side. Carson knew all and everything, more than we -knew. She held some cordial to the dead lips, she chafed the ghastly -hand, she gazed with pitiful eyes and tears and entreaties at the -terrible face. This woman was not deserted in her terrible necessity. -The voice of that humble love reached somehow to the springs of -existence, and she came back slowly, in a solemn, fearful waking, out of -death into life. We stood looking on, with an awe and terror impossible -to describe. It was a miracle slowly enacting before us. She was dead -and was alive again. Ghastly and dreadful, like a woman out of the -grave, Miss Mortimer woke up to all her misery again. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - - -This extraordinary revival was going on when the doctor rushed in. -Carson, who had been the principal person in all this scene, rushed at -him and drew him back. She kept her hand on his arm, detained him, ran -into voluble but trembling explanations. When he came forward the doctor -gazed with a troubled face at the patient. A fainting fit brought on by -great agitation; nobody could give any other account of it; he felt her -pulse, and prescribed, and lingered, and looked at us all with mingled -inquiry and suspicion. What had we been doing to her? Why had she not -been removed to bed? A flash came from the awakening eyes. She made a -motion of her hand, waving him away, then looked at me, and pointed -vaguely but imperatively before her. When I did not obey immediately, -she repeated the question, and at last spoke, with great evident pain, -impatience, and imperiousness: “Bring him?” were those the words? She -was so imperative, so fiercely determined, that I hastened out to call -Luigi. I found him at the door watching, very pale, and in profound -distress. He came in after me without saying a word; he went up to her -without waiting for me, and knelt down at her feet, and took her hands -in his own. “Mother! Mother!” cried the young man. If it did not go to -her heart, it went to the heart of every other person present; and Aunt -Milly, with a great cry of amazement and terror, repeated it after him, -“Mother!” But who could think of any discovery then? The doctor stood -listening, thunderstruck, behind the screen. I believe Sara Cresswell -was in the room. But we who were round about this terrible figure could -observe nothing else, except the dread inarticulate waves of passion -that kept rising in her dead face. She thrust at her son with a wild -motion of her bloodless hands as if to put him away. She questioned him -with her eyes in such frantic impatience, because he could not -understand her, that the sight was more than I could bear. I fell back -from her trembling and like to faint. Then her will got the better of -her weakness. She cried out aloud, with a voice that I am sure could -have been heard all over the house;--it was not a living voice; it rang -out wild, and loud, and hard, in separate words,--“Where is he?--_he_? -dead! let him come. I know he is dead, let him come;--Count!” and here -the terrible voice rose and broke in a wild horror of babbling cries. -God help us! It was a dreadful scene. Aunt Milly stood supporting -herself by a chair, unable to utter a word or even to move. I was afraid -to stir, lest I should faint and fall on the floor. Carson only stood -close by her mistress, supporting her head and gazing with wistful eyes -at Luigi; the young man stumbled up from his knees in an agony of pity -and horror. He held up his hands in wild appeal, whether to her, or to -us, or only to God, I cannot tell. “It is my father!” he cried. “She -thinks it was my father; and I am to blame!” Then he knelt down again -humbly at her feet, and held up his clasped hands to her as if he were -praying. I think he must have done it with an intention of drawing her -attention by any means, and to prove to her that it was the truth he -said. - -“Mother,” he cried, looking up at those eyes which had returned, and -were fixed upon him,--“mother, I am your son! My father is dead and -undisturbed in his grave; he has sent me to his wife. It is I, it is no -other. He is with the saints, where there are no names. It is I who am -Sermoneta; mother! Oh, heaven, does she not hear me? _will_ she not hear -me? It was I, only I. It was Luigi, Countess! If I must not bear your -name, I must bear my own. I say it was I, not my father, who can neither -do evil nor endure it,--me, either Luigi Sermoneta or Lewis Mortimer, as -you will,--your son!” - -It is impossible to describe the effect this had upon us all. Aunt Milly -burst forth into weeping, convulsive, and not to be restrained. Poor -Carson’s bosom heaved with silent sobs. Luigi, who had risen up as he -said these last words, stood erect in a passionate self-assertion and -defence before his miserable mother. Even she changed under this sudden -blaze of revelation. She sat up in her chair, and grew more human; her -rigid head began to tremble, her dread-eyes to lose their horror. Now it -was no longer that mad ghastly stare with which she regarded the young -man before her. She looked at him, leaning forward, slowly recovering -her powers. Some convulsive gasps or sobs in her throat alone -interrupted this pause of terrible silence. She looked at him, from head -to foot, with a slow, dismal scrutiny. Only once before in her life had -she met him face to face; then she had been strong enough to send him -away and disown him. Now, perforce, the mother looked at her son. The -young man trembled under that steady gaze; he held out his hands, and -cried out “Mother!” as if all the eloquence in the world lay in that -word. She continued perusing him all over with that slow examination. -Gradually she returned to be herself again. Not changed, not subdued! -Out of that death and agony there came forth, not a repentant woman, but -Sarah Mortimer, a creature who would not believe in everlasting truth -and justice--not though one should rise from the dead. - -“If you are Count Sermoneta,” she said, with all her old expression, -pausing between the words to get strength, but speaking in her usual -voice, “how do you dare come to me and offer what your father refused? -Impostor! you shall never, never, never sit in my father’s place! I -disown you. I--I have nothing to do with you. What! would you kill me -again?” - -Here I interposed; I could not help myself. My very soul sickened at -her. I came forward, without knowing what I was doing. “Let her alone,” -I cried out, “don’t say anything. She has died and come alive again, and -is no better. Do you think you can move her? Oh, Aunt Milly, it is your -part now. Take him away out of her sight, leave her alone in her -wretchedness. Can you bear to see her smiling there?--_smiling_ at us! -She is dead, and it is a devil that has come into her frame!” - -“Milly, hush, hush, you are mad,” cried Sara Cresswell, behind me; but -Aunt Milly did not think I was mad. She came and put her arm into -Luigi’s, her tears driven away by horror and indignation. “As sure as -God sees us all,” cried Aunt Milly, “I will do you justice. Come away -from her, as Milly, says. You make her wickeder and wickeder--Oh, -wickeder than she really is! Oh, Sarah,” she cried out, turning suddenly -round, “is it true?--is he your son?” - -Miss Mortimer said nothing;--the very colour had returned to her face. -Her head trembled excessively, but she had forced some frightful -caricature of a smile upon her lip. She held out her hand and pointed at -them in a kind of derision. “You were always a fool,” she said at last, -with a gasp. Aunt Milly did not wait or hesitate any longer. She was -possessed, like me, with a sudden impatience and intolerance of that -inhuman hard-heartedness. She went away hastily out of the room, -drawing Luigi with her. Miss Mortimer listened to the sound of their -steps till it had quite died away. Then she turned round to Carson with -some instinctive confession of weakness at last. Their eyes met; but -even Carson could no longer receive this dreadful confidence. She -stumbled back from her mistress with a cry. “I cannot, I cannot!” cried -Carson, “anything but this. I held him in my arms a baby, and I’ll never -disown him, if I was to die.” As her mistress turned round upon her, -Carson retreated back till she came to the wall, and stood there, fixed -and desperate, holding up her hands as if to keep off those pursuing -eyes. “Whatever you please!” cried Carson, “but not to disown him as I -dressed the first day he was in this world. No! not for no payment nor -coaxing! I’ve served you faithful all times and seasons, but I’ll not do -no more, not if I was to die!” - -Miss Mortimer sat gazing at her rebellious maid. What no other appeal -could do this did. She sank into the frail old woman she was, as she -gazed at Carson, who had forsaken her. She broke forth into feeble, -passionate tears. She could bear to send her son away from her, but she -could not bear to lose her faithful companion and attendant of forty -years. “Carson!” cried the broken voice, in a tone of absolute despair. -Then Miss Mortimer rose up. I ran forward to her in terror, and so did -Sara, but she waved us both away, steadied herself, cast a long look -upon the woman who stood trembling against the wall, and slowly turned -to make her way out of the room. She walked like some one upon whom -sudden blindness had fallen, wavering, stopping to steady herself, -putting out her hand to pilot the way, groping through the piercing -daylight that penetrated every corner of the room. We followed her, -trembling and terrified. As she went slowly through the long room, heavy -sobs came from her poor breast, sobs of which she was not conscious; her -muslin scarf had been torn and crushed in her dreadful faint, if it was -a faint, and hung all dishevelled from her shoulders. One hand hung -loosely down by her side, the other she groped with as she made her way. -Now and then she moaned aloud. Oh, miserable forsaken creature! there -had been still one link of life to hold her on to the living world. - -We went after her, silent, hushing our very steps lest she should turn -upon us, and watching with a perfect awe of wonder how she steered -herself through the room; she stumbled on the stair, but still rejected -any assistance. All the way up she went forlorn, accepting no support. -When we reached her door, I rushed forward not to let her shut me out. -“Let me be your maid to-night,” I cried out, laying my hand upon hers. -Her hand made me shiver; it was cold, as if it had actually been dead. -She pushed me back, not looking at me, and shut the door. What she did, -or how she sustained herself in that vacant room, we could see no -longer. Sara and I, arrested at the door, turned and looked into each -other’s faces. Sara broke out into the passionate tears of excitement -and agitation which could be restrained no longer. “She will kill -herself!” cried Sara. “Oh, godmamma, let me in, let _me_ in. I will -never cross you or trouble you. I will wait upon you night and day, -godmamma!” No answer came. We tried to open the door, but she had -fastened it. We could do nothing but leave her alone in this dreadful -solitude. For a little while a rustling sound of motion was in the room, -and still those pathetic, unconscious moans breaking at intervals into -the silence. But after a while all became still. She had not fainted or -fallen, for we should have heard her. She made no answer to our -entreaties--dead silence reigned in the room where that living spirit, -with all its dread forces and passions, palpitated within its veil of -worn-out flesh. I could imagine her taking possession of that dreadful -solitude, losing at a blow far more than reputation or fair-fame, all -that made her life tolerable to her, entering upon a new, unthought of, -murderous purgatory. We could not make up our minds to leave that closed -door. Sara was still crying, and almost hysterical with her long strain -of excitement. I made her go into the neighbouring room, where Lizzie -was with my boy, while I ran downstairs for Aunt Milly. Oh, what a -contrast it was! I snatched little Harry into my arms to kiss him, and -went away again, with a pity, I cannot describe, past the door where -that dreadful forsaken woman lay alone in the silence. I could not bear -it. God alone knew how she had sinned; but to leave her thus deserted in -her misery was not in the heart of man. - -I ran downstairs very hastily without waiting to think--at the foot of -the stairs Carson stood crying. She gasped out an inquiry at me which -was not audible at first. “Is she alone? alone? alone? Will nobody stay -with her?” cried Carson. “Oh, ma’am, my missis will never let me near -her again! I know it’s no use trying; but, for the love of mercy, let -somebody get into the room! There’s poisons and all sorts there. God -forgive me! couldn’t I have held my tongue?” cried the poor woman, in an -agony of terror. I was angry with her in the impatience of my thoughts. -I did not consider for how many long years Carson had endured all. - -“But why can’t you go up now? try if she will let you in; she is fond of -you, Carson,” said I. “Oh, go, go, and try.” - -“She’ll never look at me more,” said Carson with mournful certainty; -“but I’ll go, I’ll try. If it was at the end of the world, I’d go; but -she’ll never see me again.” The poor woman went upstairs saying this -over to herself, and dreadful as it was to think so, I was certain she -was right. - -And I went on to the library where Aunt Milly was. She had forgotten her -sister. She was listening, with a glowing face, with tears, and -outcries, and lamentations, to the tale Luigi told her. Some papers were -lying before them, and a miniature, which caught my eye even at such a -moment--a picture of a lovely fair woman, imperious and splendid. I -cannot say that it bore any resemblance to the wretched, solitary -creature upstairs; but I knew it was Sarah Mortimer,--Sarah Mortimer, -unkind, untrue, a woman making no account of love or tenderness; but not -the Sarah Mortimer who had delivered herself to the devil, and turned -her back upon nature. I pointed at it unconsciously in my excitement. It -was easier than naming her name. - -“Do you know she is alone upstairs, by herself?” cried I, “perhaps -dying, and nobody with her! Aunt Milly, you are her sister. She will -neither let us in, nor answer us. You have a right to go to her. There -are all kinds of dangerous things in the room--she might die!” - -“But Carson--Carson is there,” cried Aunt Milly, grasping my hand, to -bring me to myself. “My dear, Carson is a better companion than either -you or me.” - -“But Carson has gone,” I cried, “Carson will never be with her any more. -Hush! was that a sound upstairs? Come, I entreat you! She is all alone, -quite alone, not a creature with her. It is heartrending to think what -she is doing there--come! come!” - -Aunt Milly stood perplexed. She could not comprehend Carson’s absence, -and I might have had a long account of the whole matter to go through -had not Luigi come to my assistance. He took her hand hurriedly, and -pressed it in his own. - -“My aunt, I can wait,” said Luigi, “and I _will_ till there is time for -me; but my mother, my mother is----” - -Aunt Milly started, and understood all in a moment. His mother, the -unfortunate wretched woman who had disowned and rejected him--no need -for over-much explaining, or setting-forth of all the darker shades of -the picture to show her wretchedness. Nature and she had parted company, -and there was nothing too dreadful that might not befall her in the -fatal silence of that secluded room. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - - -All the remainder of that dreadful afternoon we spent in vain endeavours -to get admission. No answer came to us from those closed doors--silence, -dead and unbroken, was within those concealing walls, which it seemed -wonderful to me did not beat and throb with the torturing life within -them. The whole house was disturbed, as was to be supposed. While we -stood in an anxious, troubled group round Miss Mortimer’s door, Carson, -with her melancholy and ashamed face, stood anxious and terrified at a -little distance--the maids below came to take furtive peeps upon the -stairs--and Ellis himself stood listening in the hall, catching at every -sound. The whole house was conscious of some dreadful crisis, which had -occurred, or was occurring; and even in the frightful anxiety which -possessed us, Aunt Milly began to feel that extraordinary infraction of -all the decorums of such a house. She whispered to Sara to leave us, and -go downstairs to restore the equilibrium of the household a little, and -sent Carson into Lizzie’s room, where the poor creature sank, -overpowered and almost fainting, upon the bed. Then Aunt Milly went away -to her own apartment, and came back with a huge bunch of keys. With -these in her hand she motioned me to follow her round about into the -little corridor to which Miss Mortimer’s dressing-room opened. “Milly, -stand by me,” she cried, with a sob. “I’d rather face so many lions than -go in upon her against her will--but it must be--I cannot help myself. -After what we saw to-day, I should be guilty, I should be a -criminal--don’t you think so, Milly?--if I left her alone to-night.” - -It was getting dusk, and the light was pale and ghastly in that little -corridor which was close upon the backstairs, and very bare and chill. -The door opened without the assistance of the keys. We went into the -little luxurious room where the fire burned brightly, warm though the -weather was, and which bore all the marks of being lived in and -cherished. An easy-chair and footstool were placed at the side of the -fire, and close by stood a little table with a raised ornamental rim, -like a tray, in which some books and some of Miss Mortimer’s materials -for work were placed. At the other end of the room was a window, where -stood a plain rush-bottomed chair and a large round basket of work; -there was Carson’s place; and the union of the two in this their joint -retirement and dwelling-place--the junction of the lady’s luxuries and -the servant’s labours in this habitation common to them both--struck me -with a pathetic force, now that this old, long, immemorial connection -was brought to a close so hurriedly. Aunt Milly did not linger in this -room; she went straight to the door leading into the bedchamber which -was fastened. “Sarah,” she called softly, “Sarah!” there was no answer. -We listened, and the silence round was dreadful; the silence and the -gathering twilight, and the terrible mystery of life or death that lay -in that closed-up room. Then she tried the keys with her trembling -hands. Still not a word from the solitary within, not even of -remonstrance or indignation. After what seemed to us a dreadful tedious -interval, in which the night appeared visibly to darken round us, the -lock at length yielded. The key that had been in it fell, with a dull, -heavy sound, inside, making our hearts beat. Then Aunt Milly opened the -door. I shall never forget the sensation with which I entered that dark -room. What we were to find there, a ghastly corpse or a miserable living -creature, nobody could tell; treading on the soft carpets that made our -footsteps noiseless, brushing past those soft-drawn curtains which shut -out every draught, coming into this atmosphere of care, and comfort, and -luxury, the contrast was almost too dreadful to bear. I remember trying -to listen for her breath, but could not for the terrified beating of my -own heart. The darkness made everything more dreadful still, for the -blinds were drawn down, and the little light there was fell so faintly -through them that we could scarcely find our way through the room. Aunt -Milly was before me; she made a terrified plunge forward, and gave a cry -as we came past the head of the bed, which was towards the dressing-room -door. Something lay in a heap on the floor by the side of the bed. She -threw herself down on the floor beside that heap. I don’t think she was -conscious, even when she touched it, what it was; but as I rushed to -help her, as I thought, I was suddenly arrested by a gleam of eyes from -the bed. “I am not dead,” said Miss Mortimer. I could not help nor -command myself. Some scream or shriek came from me in the extremity of -my awe and terror. I could hear it answered by a sudden stir and -commotion outside the door. “They’re killing my mistress,” was Lizzie’s -voice; and with the wildest alarm lest some violent attack on the door -should follow, I rushed to it, opened it, and asked for lights. - -Outside were half the household grouped at various distances. No -precautions could stifle that eager curiosity which knew by instinct -that some wonderful mystery was here. They all dispersed when they saw -me, frightened and ashamed of themselves. Only Lizzie kept her ground. -She seized hold of my sleeve and detained me. “You’re no to stay there!” -cried Lizzie. “Oh, no _you_, no _you_! You’ll gang and let them kill -you, and the bairn’ll perish, and the Captain never come hame! Let _me_ -in! I’ll get the drinks and keep up the fire, and never close an e’e; -but it’s no you that’s to watch, and you the light o’ folks e’en. It’s -no to be you! If I was to gang to my bed and sleep, what would the -Captain say to me?” cried poor Lizzie, with a trembling burst of -excitement and anxiety, standing close up by me, holding my sleeve, -pressing to enter the room. Somehow it comforted me, though it was a -piece of folly. I told her again to get the lights, and went back into -the dark, solemn room. These sounds of the outside world had not entered -there. Miss Mortimer lay on the bed with her eyes wide-awake and -gleaming, gathering into them all the little light in the room. Aunt -Milly stood beside her, asking how she was; herself scarcely recovered -from the shock that had been given her by that heap of clothes upon the -floor, trembling, not knowing very well what she said, her great -yearning anxiety and curiosity to get at her sister’s heart, overflowing -in uneasy questions. Did she feel ill? Would she have anything? How was -she? Miss Mortimer took no notice of her questions. She repeated once “I -am not dead,” with a strange spitefulness and defiance, and for the rest -lay silent, looking at me as I moved about the room, a dark -undecipherable figure, and at poor Aunt Milly standing beside me. She -took no other notice. It seemed to please her to lie there silent, -defying all our curiosity. But she did not complain or find fault with -our presence. I believe in my heart she was glad to have her dreadful -solitude thus broken, and that it was a comfort to her desolation to see -living creatures moving in the darkness. I cannot help thinking so; but -after that one expression, twice repeated, not all the anxious questions -of her sister could bring a syllable to her lips. - -When the candles came she closed her eyes; then, after a little -interval, made a wrench at the curtains and gave an impatient sigh. The -sigh was for Carson, who doubtless knew exactly what she liked and what -she did not like. The fire was laid already in the grate, and I lighted -it, and began to put away those things which lay on the floor. Wherever -I moved, when it was within her sight, she followed me with her eyes -from within the crimson shadow of the curtain. She was perfectly -composed and self-possessed. She was even well as it appeared. The -ghastly colour had disappeared from her face. She lay there -self-absorbed, as she sat over her knitting. All the dread incidents of -this day had passed over, and left Sarah Mortimer unchanged. Such a -woman could deny, defy, live through any thing. I watched her with -indescribable awe and----. Well! I had pitied her while she was alone; -but do you suppose I could love such a woman, lying there unmoved and -unrepentant, in her dread self-occupation? It was not possible I hated -her, loathed her, turned away with sickening and disgust from her -dreadful looks. It was hard, even, to pity her now. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - - -I had with difficulty overcome Aunt Milly. I had represented to her how -much better I was able to bear it than she, and Aunt Milly herself had -sent off Sara Cresswell to bed. It was late at night, and all the house -was still. We were both together in the dressing-room. Nothing would -persuade dear Aunt Milly to leave me alone to this vigil. She wrapped -herself in a shawl and lay down upon the sofa. “I am at hand the moment -I am wanted,” she said. I had kissed baby, and said my prayers beside -him. I was not frightened or nervous now. I went in, wrapped in my -dressing-gown, to look at my patient. She stretched out her hand, and -then when she saw me, drew it back again with a fretful groan, and -turned her face to the wall. It was Carson, still Carson, whom she -missed at every turn. But she did not answer me when I asked if she -wanted anything, she only groaned again with a dismal impotence and -impatience. I sat and watched her at a distance while she lay in that -broad wakefulness, her eyes wandering to and fro, her mind evidently -wandering, too, into never-ending thought. It was to me a spirit, -somehow, chained and fettered to a body it could not throw off, which -lay in irksome confinement on that bed,--a spirit ever active, -sleepless, evil. Why was I sitting up with her? she was not even ill. -Was it that she had died that day, and some wicked spirit had taken -possession of the exhausted frame? I declare that this idea returned to -me in spite of myself. I could not escape from it; as the night crept on -strange fears came over me. Her eyes fascinated mine. I could not -withdraw my gaze from those two gleams of strange light within the -crimson curtains, moving about from minute to minute with their restless -observation. What was she thinking of? Could she tell that, under this -roof, the roof of his fathers, her injured son was sleeping? Was she -thinking of her youth, her life, the past, with all its dread, -pertinacious, stubborn cruelty? I did not know then how the -extraordinary story told by Luigi could be harmonised into possibility. -I could not think of any story; I could think of nothing but that -solitary woman pursuing those sleepless thoughts, which nobody shared, -through all the dread recesses of her conscience, through all the -scenes, visible to her only, of her hidden mysterious life. - -It must have been about midnight when some one knocked softly at the -door. It made me start painfully with a terror I could not subdue. I -rose to see who it was, trembling at the summons. It was Carson, who -called me anxiously into the drawing room. She did not say anything, but -drew me to a little medicine-chest, which she opened, and from which, -all silently, with the speed of long custom, she took a little bottle, -and dropped some of its contents into a glass of water. “You must put -this by her bedside,” whispered Carson, “and here are all her medicines; -but don’t drop them yourself, for the love of pity!--you’ve no -experience. You might give her her death. When my missis wants her -draughts, will you call me?” While I promised to do so, Aunt Milly woke -up from a short sleep. “Has anything happened, Milly?” she cried, -starting up suddenly. Nothing had happened but that her start had thrown -down a footstool, and made a noise which sounded dreadful in the calm of -the night. The three of us dispersed hastily upon that sound. Carson -disappeared out of the room. Aunt Milly sat up trembling on the sofa. I -went back to the patient. The noise had roused her. She had struggled up -in bed, and was trying to look round to the dressing-room door. - -“Who is it?” she cried, when I went in, her eyes fixing on me with -something of the dreadful expression they had in the drawing-room, as if -she had lost control over them, and the orbs turned wildly out and -fluttered to the light. “If it’s _him_, let him come here.” - -“It was only Carson,” I said. - -“Carson? let her not come near me. I will do her an injury,” cried Miss -Mortimer with wild exasperation. Then she suffered herself to fall back -on her pillows. “They’re all in a plot,” she went on, “all in a plot, -the very woman I trusted; I shall never trust anybody any more. But -here’s the wonderful thing; she is just as great a coward as she is a -fool; and to think she should hate me so much as to be able to go up and -down these passages in the middle of the night with a dead man! Hark, -there they are!” - -I fell back from the bedside at the words, unable to refrain from a -shudder of horror. - -“You’re afraid,” said Miss Mortimer, looking at me with a kind of -contemptuous curiosity. “Yet you saw him come in yesterday and you did -not faint. I remember seeing you stare and stare. Ah! it’s strange to -see a dead man!” - -“I saw nobody but Luigi; nobody but your son,” cried I, in dismay. - -When it was said I drew back in alarm, lest the words should rouse her -into passion. But they did not. She was beyond that. - -“I could not see him, though,” she continued, going on in her dreadful -monologue; “it was only a kind of feeling he was there, and the scent of -the syringas in the garden. You know it’s very overpowering; those they -call the Virgin’s Breast. It was that made me faint.” - -Here she fixed her eyes on me again, as if she imagined that she had -been setting up a plausible plea and dared me to contradict it. - -“I wonder if he’s as handsome now he’s dead,” she went on in a very low -tone; “he was never as handsome for a man as I was for a woman. I’ll -never, never speak to Carson again; but you might ask her if he’s kept -his looks. Ah! I thought I saw some one behind the curtains there; but -he’ll never appear to me. For he swore, you know, he swore, he was never -to give me any trouble, and he kept his word till he died.” - -“Oh, Miss Mortimer,”--I cried, coming forward to the bed with the glass -in my hand. She held out hers eagerly, and interrupted me. - -“Miss Mortimer! to be sure I am Miss Mortimer; I have always been Miss -Mortimer, you know that; then what’s all this made up story about a son? -For, you know,” she said, sinking her voice again into a whisper, and -holding the glass in her hand, “to be called countess would have been a -temptation to many a woman. But I never would have it, not for a day, -never after he refused to take our name. That’s what a man calls love, -you know. You shall take his name if it’s a beggar’s, and he will not -take yours if it brings a kingdom. But I was not the sort of woman to be -a beggarly Italian countess. And I’ve beaten him in his grave,” she -cried out in ghastly triumph,--“in his grave I’ve got the victory over -him! Here’s the child on his knees to me to call him Lewis Mortimer. Ah! -you’re Richard Mortimer’s daughter. I might have married Richard if I -had known how things were going to turn out. We’ll set it all right -to-morrow. Yes; stand by me, and we’ll set it all right. There’s no dead -man shall conquer me. Do you hear? There he is pacing about the passage -as he used to do when I refused to see him. But he dared not come in; -no, not if I had been a thousand times his wife.” - -And I cannot help it if people may think me a fool; there were steps -outside in the passage. If it was a living creature I cannot tell; but, -as certain as I live, there were footsteps going up and down, up and -down, with a heavy, melancholy tread. She looked at me full in the face -as we heard them going on. She began to tremble so that the bed shook -under her; her eyes grew wilder, her colour more ghastly. In spite of -all she said, she was stricken to her very heart with fear. - -And as for me, I did not feel I had courage to open the door. I called -out, “Whoever you are, go away, I beseech,--go away! She cannot rest -while you are here.” The steps stopped in a moment, then, after a pause, -went on and went away, growing fainter in the distance. Thank heaven it -must have been somebody living! perhaps Carson, perhaps her son. - -When I came back to the bedside she had dropped asleep--actually, in the -midst of her terror, had fallen into an unnatural slumber. It was an -opiate that Carson had given her. The little medicine-chest was full of -different kinds of opiates. Scarcely one of them that was not marked -poison. I looked into the dressing-room for a minute to comfort poor -Aunt Milly, who had heard all her sister said, and was in a dreadful -state of agitation. She kissed me and blessed me, and leaned her dear -kind head upon my shoulder for the moment I dared stay beside her. “She -would never have said so much to me,” said Aunt Milly, and wrapped her -own shawl round me, and tried to make me take some wine which she had -brought upstairs. When I would not take that, lest it should make me -sleepy, Aunt Milly got up from the sofa to make some tea for me. -Everybody knows such nights--everybody knows how some one always tries -to comfort the watcher with such attentions--tender, useless, -heartbreaking attempts at outside consolation. I went back to the sick -room with a pang both of relief and anguish. If it had been my husband -or my baby that I was watching! Thank God it was not so! but the picture -came before me with a terrible force just then, when I did not know -where Harry was, nor how he might be lying, nor who might be watching -over him. I tried to shut out my own thoughts from this room; but who -could ever do that? I fancied I could see white soldiers’ huts rising in -the darkness, and groans of wounded men. It was a relief to me when my -patient groaned and turned in her bed. But she did not wake; She lay all -night long in what seemed more like a stupor than a sleep, interrupted -by groans and stifled outcries, and long sighs that broke one’s heart. -No wonder we had heard of her bad nights. - -In the morning, when she woke at last, Miss Mortimer turned round upon -me with a half-stupified, wondering stare. Then she recollected herself. -She did not speak, but I saw all the thoughts of the previous night come -slowly back to her face. She watched me arranging the room in the -cheerful morning light; she even permitted me to raise her among her -pillows, and swallowed, though with an effort, the tea I brought her. -She bore no malice against me for anything I had said. She seemed even -pleased to have me beside her; but it was not for my sake; I believe she -thought I was doing it for an interested reason. And she--she thought -she had found an accomplice in me. - -This morning she spoke with difficulty, and her looks were changed. She -looked ill, very ill. The morning light showed a strange widening and -breadth about her eyes, a solemn fixed expression in her face, which, -though I had never watched it coming before, went to my heart with an -instinctive chill and recognition. She could not bear me to be out of -her sight for a moment. When I went to the dressing-room door to speak a -word to Aunt Milly she called me back with an impatient, stifled cry. At -last she beckoned me close to her bedside. - -“I want--I want--send--let him come,” she stammered out. - -“Luigi?” I said. - -She clasped her hands together in an access of passion. “To make my -will,” she cried, with a kind of scream; “now--now--this moment.” When -she had uttered the words she fell back panting, a flush of weakness and -fever coming to her face. I went and told Aunt Milly, who, all troubled -as she was, sent off a messenger immediately for Mr. Cresswell. “I will -send for the doctor, too, and--and the clergyman; but what can Dr. -Roberts do for _her_?” cried poor Aunt Milly, wringing her hands. The -clergyman! What, indeed, could that sleek, comfortable man do at this -deathbed of guilt and passion? Ah me! A poor priest might have done -something, perhaps, or a poor preacher accustomed to matters of life and -death. - -The day glided on while we waited. She would not let me leave her; but -she did not say anything, except disjointed murmurs, and strange broken -conversations with herself. It was not the present time that her mind -was busy with. Listening in the silence of that room I became aware of a -passionate prime of life, an Italian summer, a bitter mortification, -disappointment, revenge--revenge which had come back upon the -remorseless inflictor, and made her life the desert it had been. It all -opened up before me in breaks and glimpses; afterwards, when I knew the -story, it was with the force of an actual representation that I -remembered this broken, unconscious autobiography. She was not raving; -she was only calling up and setting in order the incidents of that -crisis of her life, I cannot follow her through it now; but I remember -that the awe, and interest, and excitement kept me from feeling any -weariness. - -I could not turn away for any sort of refreshment; I sat fascinated -before that revelation of the secret of her days. She seemed to have -foresworn husband and child, life itself and all that made it bearable, -in dreadful vengeance for some broken promise or unfulfilled vow. Her -father came flitting across the troubled picture; the count, and some -dreadful controversy about a name, all intermixed with recollections of -certain rooms and their furniture; of a garden and a thicket of -syringas. What that point of deception or disappointment was, on which -the whole story turned, I could not tell; but for this she had left the -stream of life when life was at its fullest promise; for this she had -settled down in a frightful, stubborn determination, behind that screen -in the drawing-room of the Park. All her after existence, huddled up -into one long monotonous day, had not made these scenes less fresh in -her memory. This was now she had revenged herself--on the Count, who was -dead--on her son, whom she disowned and cast away from her; ah! above -all, a thousand times more bitterly, on herself. - -It was afternoon when Mr. Cresswell came. He was brought up to the room -immediately, without a word of explanation, and accordingly knew nothing -of all the dreadful history of the last twenty-four hours. He had not -even a hint that anything was changed, except the health of Miss -Mortimer. He came and expressed his concern in the common-place tone of -an unexcited stranger; he expressed his surprise to see me with her. In -his heart he set it down that this will was of my suggesting. I am -certain he did; and smiled to find me the nurse of the sick woman. But -Miss Mortimer (that I should still go on calling her by that name after -all I had heard!) left him very little time. She recovered herself -wonderfully at sight of him; her very utterance became easier in the -anxiety she showed to express herself plainly. She was impatient of his -inquiries and condolences. She moved her hands uneasily about the bed, -and for a moment her eyes fluttered as they had done the day before; but -as soon as he had prepared his papers, and taken his pen in hand, she -was composed again. My heart beat so loud with anxiety to hear what she -said, that I could scarcely breathe. Was she now at last to set right -the injustice of a life? - -“Write,” she cried, with a gasp for breath, “that I leave -everything--mind, it is everything, Bob Cresswell, no partitions. My -sister Milly, though she is a fool, is as fond of her, ah! as--as I -am--all the Park and the lands belonging to it, to Millicent Mortimer. -There! the young soldier’s wife; and to--eh! who is it? Who speaks to -me?” - -I grasped her hand hard in my sudden passion. It was cold, cold, a dead -hand, and horrified me with its touch. “Stop,” I cried, “oh, stop, Mr. -Cresswell; she cannot mean such horrible injustice! Miss Mortimer! -Countess! whatever you are! will you dare to die and never repent? Do -you think I will let you bring a curse on my innocent baby? Stop! Stop! -I forbid it, for her soul’s sake!” - -Mr. Cresswell pushed back his chair and stared in amazement too great -for words. She looked at me with a strange air of cunning and superior -wisdom, and then at him. - -“She thinks,” said the dying woman, in a kind of whisper, addressing Mr. -Cresswell, “to draw me into some foolish talk, and bring it up against -the will. Fool! they are all fools; go on.” - -“What does it mean?” he said looking at me. - -“It means that she ought to do justice,” I cried; “that it is all she -can do now; that she is going to die without repenting, without making -amends. If you write it, it will be a sin.” - -“Bob Cresswell, go on; it is I who am the person to be attended to,” -said Miss Mortimer. “This creature, do you hear, is a fool. I know what -I mean.” - -“There is something here I don’t understand; my dear lady, you’re not so -very ill, suppose we put it off,” said the lawyer in great perplexity; -“and there’s Miss Milly, you know, she has her share in the Park.” - -“Attend to _me_!” cried Miss Mortimer, wildly. “You will kill me; am I -to be thwarted _now_, as well as all my life? Oh, good heavens! in my -own house, and in bed, and perhaps going to die--and I am not to have my -will, my will! I shall have my will, if I should write it myself!” - -She stretched out her eager hand towards the writing things, stretching -out of bed, and by some chance touched Mr. Cresswell. When he felt that -deathly touch he grew very grave, and started with a shudder. He took up -his pen immediately. - -“I will do what you please,” he said. He could not resist that cry of -death. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - - -I ran downstairs in desperation. I could not be content to let that -dreadful mockery go on. It was vain, for we never, never, would have -taken another man’s rights; but for herself, the miserable, guilty -woman, to hinder her by any means, to save her from putting that seal -upon all her cruelty and falsehood. I saw nobody as I flew down the -stairs, though afterwards I was conscious that Lizzie had been standing -there with my beautiful innocent boy. Do you think I would consent for a -kingdom to bring the curse of wrongful wealth upon little Harry? Not if -starvation and misery had been the only other choice! - -I burst into the library, where I knew Aunt Milly was. Pale with -watching and anxiety, she was sitting propped up in an easy-chair, with -Sara Cresswell and Luigi beside her. I believe they had been telling her -their story, and she, straining her ear for every sound, had been trying -to listen to them. When I came in she started up from her chair and came -to meet me, unconsciously putting them away. “What is it, Milly?” she -cried, putting out her arms to me. I dared not permit myself to rest or -even lean upon her. I seized her hand and drew her to the door. - -“Come up, and interfere,” I cried; “she is making her dreadful will. She -is leaving everything to me. Come, before she has put the seal to all -this misery. Aunt Milly, can you stand aside and let this be done?” - -“My dear,” said Aunt Milly, with a burst of tears, kissing me and -looking in my face, “you know I love you, Milly; you know you are almost -dearer to me now than any creature on earth.” - -I could not thank her; I had no time. I did not feel grateful or -pleased, but only impatient. “Come; come!” I repeated almost with -violence. I could not understand how she could delay. - -“Let her do what she will,” cried Aunt Milly. “If I go and argue with -her, it will only make her worse. Oh, child! we can’t cross her now; -don’t you see we can’t cross her now? But I took a vow, as sure as God -saw us, I would do justice,” said Aunt Milly, solemnly through her -tears. “She can but do what she can. We are co-heiresses! she has no -power but over her own share.” - -“Share!” I cried, “is it shares we have to think of? She is dying, and -she does not repent.” - -I could not wait there any longer; they all followed upstairs, Aunt -Milly holding my hand. They all came into the dressing-room, where we -could faintly hear Miss Mortimer’s voice, and where Carson stood -trembling at the door. At this moment there was no order or rule in the -stricken house. Then Aunt Milly went with me into the sick room. Mr. -Cresswell was writing, and Miss Mortimer had stopped speaking. She -turned her eyes triumphantly upon us both. - -“I have carried out your wishes, Milly. I have left everything to your -favourite,” she said, with pauses to got her breath. “You may sign it -after me, and then it will be complete.” - -“Sarah, that boy, that boy!” cried Aunt Milly. “Oh, put out your hand to -him just once--think, before it is finished, what claims he has. Give -him something. Sarah! Sarah! you would not take me into your confidence; -but I’ll go down on my knees to you if you’ll do justice to that boy!” - -“I am going to die,” said Miss Mortimer, after a pause. “I can see it in -all your faces. I can’t be much worse off than I’ve been here. But look -you, Milly, if you come and drive me into passion; if that wretched boy -so much as comes near me, I’ll die directly, and you’ll be my murderers. -His father made the choice--and I will not change, no, not if he came -again, as he did yesterday, with the dead man. Cresswell, I’m growing a -little faint. Is it ready to sign?” - -He brought it and laid it before her on the bed; and she called to me to -raise her up. I was desperate. I would rather have been content to be -her murderer, as she said, than to let her do that sin. - -“You are not Sarah Mortimer,” said I, as with great difficulty she wrote -her signature. “It is a false name, and you know it is. Write your own -name, Countess Sermoneta, and let everybody know that you have -disinherited your son.” - -She stared round at me, setting her teeth, then returned to the paper, -and with a desperate resolution completed it. I stood perfectly aghast -as I saw that dead hand trace those words, which to me cut her off for -ever from every hope:--“By marriage, Sermoneta.” God help us! was there -now no place of repentance? - -“And now,” she said, falling back on her pillows, “send me Carson--I -want no more--no more from anybody; send me my maid. I’ll forgive _her_ -though she deserted me;--nobody,” sobbed the poor voice, all at once -breaking and growing feeble,--“nobody knows me but Carson. I want my -maid; Carson, here!” - -She had scarcely spoken, when Carson was by her side kneeling down at -the bed, kissing the cold hand held out to her with such tears and eager -affection as I never saw a servant show to a mistress. It was a -reconciliation of love. The tears came into Miss Mortimer’s eyes. She -gave her hand to her maid’s caresses with actual affection. It was the -strangest conclusion to that dismal scene. One after another we three -went out of the room confounded. Aunt Milly weeping tears, the -bitterness of which I could not enter into. Mr. Cresswell, with a face -of utter wonder, and myself, too much shocked and shaken to be able for -anything. I could not go downstairs with them. I took refuge in the room -that had been fitted up as a nursery for my baby. I got my boy into my -arms and cried over him. It was too much; when he put his innocent arms -round my neck and laid his cheek to mine to console me, my happiness -struck me as with a pang. Oh, the unutterable things she had lost, that -poor, miserable woman! I got up again to rush back to her with my baby, -and see if that would not touch her heart, but stumbled in weariness and -weakness, and fell on my knees on the floor. That was all that was to be -done. I acknowledged it with that dreadful sense of impotence that one -has, when hearts and souls have to be dealt with. On my knees I might -help that desolate, lonely creature,--nowhere else, in no other manner. -And even this not now. I was worn out with excitement and distress. I -was ashamed to think, or permit myself to say, that one night’s watching -had done it. I had to put little Harry back into Lizzie’s hands and lie -down in the waning daylight. My head throbbed, and my heart beat, so -that I could not even recollect my thoughts. And all that had happened -seemed to have no impression but one upon me. I never thought of that -group downstairs going over the wonderful story which nobody had so much -as guessed at. I thought only of that hopeless woman, in her shut-up -room, slowly floating out of existence, dying hour by hour, and minute -by minute, unchanged and unsubdued. What was death that it should -change her, whom love and pity, and the long-suffering of God had not -changed? But I thought to myself I could never more blame those who -preach out of season as well as in season, and cannot be silent. There -were moments in which I could not endure myself--in which I felt as if I -must go and make another appeal to her--even at the risk of thrusting -myself into the room, and disturbing the quiet of her last hours. - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - -BY MISS MILLY MORTIMER. - - -It is I who must finish what there is to tell. My dear Milly was not in -a condition, either of mind or body, to go on with the story that had -moved her so much; and since then, poor dear child, you may suppose how -little heart she had to enter upon other things. We heard of the battle -that had just been fought not long after, and knew that Harry was sure -to have been in it, having got letters from him of his safe arrival just -the day after my sister’s death. And then we had to wait for the lists. -I can tell nobody how we lived through these days. She used to go down -and teach in the village school, and to all the distressed people near. -The things she did for them might have shocked me at another time. -Anything, it did not matter what, a servant’s work, whatever there might -happen to be to do--and came home at night tired to death, but with no -sleep in her poor eyes. She used to say, though she could not sleep, -that it was a kind of comfort to be very tired, it dulled her a little -in her heart. When the news came he was slightly wounded, and had -distinguished himself, she fell down in a faint at my feet. It was the -first moment she dared be insensible. After that little term of relief, -our anxieties were constant. But at last, you know, it is all over, and -he is coming home. - -But to go back to that day. When we left my sister’s deathbed, and I, -without even Milly to support me, went down alone with them all to hear -everything told over again, and all Mr. Cresswell’s remarks and -astonishment, you may well imagine it was very hard to me. I would have -given anything to have been able to keep all that from Mr. Cresswell, -but after what he had heard, and Sarah’s extraordinary signature, of -course it was indispensable that he should understand the whole -business; as well as for my nephew’s sake. I am bound to say Luigi -behaved to his poor mother in a very different way from that in which -she had treated him. If she had been the best mother in the world he -could not have told the tale more gently. He went over it all,--how -there had been a secret marriage done in Leghorn, where it was not -unlawful for a Catholic to marry a Protestant, and where his father came -under some engagement to take our own name. How it was kept secret for -some reason of her own. How my father found it out. How the Count was -summoned and called upon to bind himself, now that the affair could not -be mended, to come home with them, and take the name of Mortimer. How, -being dreadfully irritated by his wife (I don’t doubt she could have -driven a man mad, especially in the days of her beauty), he refused; and -how she had renounced, and given him up, and had nothing more to say to -him. You may say, why did not he claim his rights? I can’t tell. He -might have ruined her reputation, to be sure, or made the whole story -public; but I suppose she must have been more than a match for him. She -retired away into some village, and had her baby, and left it there. -Then she came home. The Count never disturbed her all his life; and when -he died he told his son the story, and bade him never to rest till he -had recovered his mother. The young man, all amazed, full of grief for -his father and anxiety to find _her_, came to England, asking for the -Countess Sermoneta. It was only after many failures, and seeking better -information from his father’s papers, that he came to believe that she -called herself still Miss Mortimer; and we know all the rest. Luigi did -not blame her, not a single word; he sat with his head leaning on his -hands, overcome with distress and trouble. He called her his mother, his -mother, every time he spoke, and said the name in such a tone as would -have gone to anybody’s heart. Little Sara sat gazing at him all the -time, with her whole heart in her eyes. When he covered his face with -his hands in that pitiful way, Sara was unable to contain herself; she -moved restlessly in her seat, fell a-crying in extreme agitation, and -then, just for a moment, laid her hand upon his and pressed it with a -quick momentary touch of sympathy. Her father’s eyes gleamed out for a -moment surprise, anger, I cannot tell what mixture of feelings; but, -dear! dear! what had their courtships and lovemakings to do in this -stricken house? I could not bear any such question just at that moment. -I told Cresswell that it was needful he should make my will, too, as -well as my sister’s, and that I left my share to my nephew, without any -conditions. Cresswell made objections, as was natural for a lawyer. His -objections were too much for me; I got angry and impatient, more than I -ought to have done. Here was he pottering about proofs and such things, -when I knew, and had seen, and read it all in my sister’s face. This -story was the key to Sarah’s life; I understood it all now what it -meant, from her never-uttered quarrel with my father, down to the time -when she met Luigi on the road. And the man spoke to me about proofs! I -made him draw out a kind of form of a will, like that which Sarah had -signed, but which Mr. Cresswell worded so cautiously, that it would be -null if Luigi was not proved my nephew--bequeathing all my share of the -Park estate to him. I confess it cost me a pang to do this; I confess -freely that, to part the lands, and to leave it away from Milly, and to -think it was Sarah and not me who had provided for that dear child, went -to my heart; but I would rather have died than refused justice to my -sister’s son. - -Luigi came round to my side and took my two hands and kissed them. I was -so wicked as to dislike it just at that moment, and to think it was one -of his Italian ways. But he stood before me with tears in his eyes, and -that look of the Mortimers, which nobody could mistake. “And your love?” -he said. I could not stand out against that; I broke down entirely, and -cried and sobbed like a child. Dreadful days these had been! Now I was -overpowered, and could do no more. When I rose to go upstairs Luigi drew -my arm into his, and took care of me like a son. He begged me to go to -Milly, and not to be by myself; and I cannot tell how, but his voice had -so great an effect upon me, that I did just as he said. Oh, dear! dear! -to think what Sarah had cast away from her. There was she, lying alone, -rejecting every creature in the world but Carson,--and here was the love -that belonged to her, coming to _me_. - -I did not see Mr. Cresswell again before he went away. Sara came up a -little after, in despair, saying he had ordered her to return with him, -and came and hugged me silently, and cried, with a frightened look upon -her pale little face. “I would say farewell to godmamma Sarah, if I -dared,” cried the poor child; but I dared not let her do it. She went -away, casting longing looks back at us like a creature condemned. It was -natural that she should feel leaving us in so much trouble, and going -back to her own quiet, motionless home. It was not Sara’s fault she had -not been watching with us every moment of that terrible night; but, for -all that, it was very right of Mr. Cresswell to take her away. - -And then some days of watching followed. Once Sarah admitted me into her -room, and she saw the doctor without making any objection--she would -have lived still, had that been possible--but when I begged her to see -Luigi, just to say one word to him, to let him believe she recognised -him as her son, her looks grew so terrible that I dared not say more. He -went himself, out of my knowledge, to her door, and begged and prayed to -be let in; but Carson came out to him, pallid with terror, and begged -him to go away, or he would kill Miss Mortimer--for they kept up that -farce of a name to the end. Luigi came to me heart-broken; it was, -indeed, a terrible position for the young man. He reproached himself for -seeking his natural rights, and bringing on all this misery. He said, “I -have killed my mother!” It was all I could do to comfort him. God -forgive her! it was not he who was to blame. - -This was how my sister Sarah died. I try never to think of it. I try not -to remember that dreadful time. Thank heaven! to judge others is not our -part in this life. There is very little comfort to be had out of it, -anyhow; living and dying it was a sad existence for a woman. If she had -not much love in her lifetime, I think there are few graves over which -have been shed more bitter tears. On her tombstone she is called -Countess Sermoneta; the first time she has ever borne that ill-fated -name. - -It was not difficult to prove the whole history. By degrees Mr. -Cresswell gathered enough from other sources to convince him of Luigi’s -story; and after that it did not take much persuasion to make him -consent to give my nephew his daughter. It was not the match he might -have made, of course. The Sermonetas are a very old family in their own -country; not much wonder the Count would not consent to give up his own -name, and take the name of the haughty Englishman that despised him. -Luigi would have changed his, had his mother bidden him, and for his -father’s sake; but the young man was deeply grateful to me for not -making any conditions. For my part, I did not want him to be the -representative of the Mortimers. I may safely say I came to love him -like a child of my own at last. But after all he was a foreigner still, -and even when I came to be fond of him, I never could see him without -pain mixing with the pleasure. It was Harry, little Harry, my sweet -English baby, Milly’s beautiful boy, that was to be the Mortimers’ heir. - -And Sara will not be married till Harry Langham comes home. Perhaps it -is not justice to Sara to say my nephew might have done better; but, -after all, you know, her father is only an attorney, our family -attorney. Her hair is grown now, and she is a little older, and very -pretty; very pretty indeed the little creature is. She is not in the -least like what my sister Sarah used to be; she can never be such a -beauty as her poor godmamma was. If it were nothing else, she is too -little for _beauty_; but I must say she is extremely pretty. I don’t -know if there is such another in all Cheshire. My Milly is different. Of -the two _I_ should rather have her; but then I am not a young man. - -And the war is over, and the dear child is nervously happy, and counting -the days. About another week or so and Harry Langham will be at home. - - - - -POSTSCRIPT. - -BY MRS. LANGHAM. - - -Harry is home, safe and well. He is to get the Medjidie and the French -ribbon of honour; but you can see that in the papers. It is something -else I have to tell. - -It is just a week before Sara’s marriage day, and Lizzie comes to me -looking very foolish. I had thought she had recovered of her -awkwardness. There she stands, twisting her feet again, rolling up her -arms in her white apron, holding her head to one side in a paroxysm of -her old use and wont. Really, if she were not standing in such a -preposterous attitude, Lizzie would look rather pretty; she has such a -nice complexion, and her red-brown hair pleases me--it is not too red. -It suits those features which are not at all regular, but only very -pleasant and bright, with health, and youth, and a good heart. But now -there is something dreadful choking Lizzie, which must be got out. - -“Mem, the Captain’s come hame,” came at last in a burst. - -He was brevet Major now, and most people about the Park called him -Colonel; and he was in the next room, no further off, so I rather stared -at Lizzie’s piece of news. - -“And wee Mr. Harry, he’s a grand little gentleman,” said Lizzie; “and -a’s weel, and there’s no cloud in a’ the sky as big as the dear bairn’s -little finger, let abee a man’s hand.” - -This solemn enumeration of my joys alarmed me considerably. “Do you know -of anything that has happened, Lizzie?” I cried with a momentary return -of my old fears. - -“Naething’s gaun to happen,” said Lizzie, “I’m meaning no to you; -naething but the blessing of God that kens a’. It was just to say----” - -Here Lizzie came to a dead stop, and cried, the unfailing resource in -all difficulties. A perception of the truth flashed upon me as I looked -at her. - -“Do you mean to say----?” cried I, but got no further in my extreme -amaze. - -“Eh, it’s no me!” cried Lizzie. “But eh, Menico says----” - -Here she stopped again, gave me a frightened look, made an attempt to go -on--and finally, startled by a sound in the next room, where Harry was, -dropped the apron she had unconsciously pulled off, on the floor, and -fairly ran away. - -Leaving me thunderstruck, and by no means pleased. I knew if I went and -told Harry he would burst into fits of laughter, and there would be an -end to all serious consideration of the subject. To lose Lizzie all at -once like this, to let the creature go and marry a foreigner! There was -something quite unbearable in the thought; what was I to do? A -foreigner, and a Catholic, too, and a man twice as old as herself; the -girl was mad! The more I thought of it the more distressed I grew. At -last I went to seek Aunt Milly, who was the only practicable counsellor. -She was in the garden, and I went to seek her there. It was July, and -sultry weather. In the hall, now better occupied than it used to be, -stood Domenico, in the white suit, vast and spotless, with which he -always distinguished himself in summer weather, and which always put me -in mind of that dreadful day when the Count Sermoneta first came, in his -own name, to the Park. Domenico started forward, noiseless and smiling, -to open the door. The action brought before me in a minute our little -Chester lodgings, our troubled happy days, our parting, and all the -simple kindness this honest fellow had done us. His face beamed through -all my recollections of that time, always thus starting forward with the -courtesy of the heart. My heart warmed to him in spite of all I had been -cogitating against him. Perhaps he divined what it was occupied my -thoughts--he followed me out at the door. - -“It pleases to the Signora give me the Leezee?” said Domenico, with an -insinuating look. “No? no? But what to have done? The Signora displeases -herself of me? Wherefore? Because? I not know.” - -“I am not displeased,” said I. “You are a very good fellow, Domenico, -and have always been very kind. But she is a child; she is not -seventeen. What would you do with her in a strange country? She is too -young for you.” - -“The Leezee contents herself,” said Domenico, with a broad smile opening -out his black beard. “If it pleases to the Signora, I bring her back -other times; I take the care of her; I make everything please to her. -The Signora not wills to say no?” - -And of course I did not say no; I had no right to say anything of the -sort. And Lizzie actually was not afraid to marry that mountain of a -man. She went away with him, looking dreadfully ashamed, and taking the -most heartrending farewell of little Harry and me, Domenico looking on -with great but smiling sympathy all the while, and not at all resenting -her tears. But the Captain had come home, and little Harry had attained -the independence of two and a half years. Lizzie felt she had discharged -her trust, and was no longer imperatively needed to take care of me. I -kissed her when she went away, as if she had been a sister of my own, -and I confess was not ashamed to add a tear to the floods that poured -from her brown eyes; but I am obliged to avow that it is not within the -range of my powers to put correctly on paper all the long rolling -syllables of her new name. - - -THE END. - - * * * * * - - WARD, LOCK & CO.’S - LIST OF - SELECT NOVELS - - By ANTHONY TROLLOPE, CHARLES LEVER, HENRY KINGSLEY, - WHYTE-MELVILLE, HARRISON AINSWORTH, HAWLEY - SMART, JANE AUSTEN, and other Popular Authors; and - BOOKS OF HUMOUR - By THOMAS HOOD, ARTEMUS WARD, BRET HARTE, MARK TWAIN, - JOHN HABBERTON (Author of “Helen’s Babies”), - MAX ADELER, and others. - - -THE - -SELECT LIBRARY OF FICTION. - -PRICE TWO SHILLINGS EACH; - -Or cloth, 2s. 6d. - -Comprising 500 of the Best Works by the Best Authors. - -_By ANTHONY TROLLOPE._ - - 1 Doctor Thorne. - 2 Macdermots of Ballycloran. - 3 Rachel Ray. - 4 The Kellys and the O’Kellys. - 5 Tales of all Countries. - 6 Castle Richmond. - 7 The Bertrams. - 8 Miss Mackenzie. - 9 The Belton Estate. - 10 Lotta Schmidt. - 11 An Editor’s Tales. - 12 Ralph the Heir. - 13 La Vendee. - 14 Lady Anna. - 15 Vicar of Bullhampton. - 16 Sir Harry Hotspur. - 17 Is He Popenjoy? - 18 An Eye for an Eye. - 19 Cousin Henry. - 20 Dr. Wortle’s School. - 21 Harry Heathcote. - 22 Orley Farm. - 24 Phineas Finn. - 25 He Knew He was Right. - 26 Eustace Diamonds. - 27 Phineas Redux. - 28 The Prime Minister. - 29 The Duke’s Children. - 30 Ayala’s Angel. - 23 Can You Forgive Her? 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KETTLE._ - -606 Smugglers and Foresters. -607 Mistress of Langdale Hall. -608 Hillsden on the Moors. -609 Under the Grand Old Hills. -610 Fabian’s Tower. -611 The Wreckers. -612 My Home in the Shires. -613 The Sea and the Moor. -614 La Belle Marie. - -_By MICHAEL SCOTT._ - -620 Tom Cringle’s Log. - -_By JEAN MIDDLEMASS._ - -625 Wild Georgie. - -_By Author of “OLIVE VARCOE.”_ - -629 Forgotten Lives. -630 The Kiddle-a-Wink. -631 Love’s Bitterness. -632 In the House of a Friend. - -_By GEORGE MEREDITH._ - -635 Tragic Comedians. - -_By Capt. ARMSTRONG._ - -636 The Young Commander. -637 The War-Hawk. -638 Queen of the Seas. -639 The Sailor Hero. -640 Cruise of the “Daring.” -641 The Sunny South. -642 Medora. -643 Two Midshipmen. - -_By Miss PARDOE._ - -644 The Jealous Wife. -645 Rival Beauties. - -_By W. STEPHENS HAYWARD._ - -650 Eulalie. -651 The Diamond Cross. - -_By ANNA H. DRURY._ - -654 Deep Waters. -655 Misrepresentation. -656 The Brothers. - -_By DOUGLAS JERROLD._ - -660 The Brownrigg Papers. - -_By Lady EDEN._ - -661 Dumbleton Common. -662 Semi-Attached Couple. -663 Semi-Detached House. - -_By Miss C. J. HAMILTON._ - -664 Marriage Bonds. -665 The Flynns of Flynnville. - -_By HOLME LEE._ - -673 Hawksview. -674 Gilbert Messenger. -675 Thorney Hall. - -_By HENRY COCKTON._ - -676 Valentine Vox. Illustrated. - -_By KATHARINE KING._ - -677 Lost for Gold. -678 Queen of the Regiment. -679 Off the Roll. -680 Our Detachment. - -_By S. W. FULLOM._ - -683 Man of the World. -684 King and Countess. - -_By the Author of “CASTE,” &c._ - -687 Colonel Dacre. -688 My Son’s Wife. -689 Entanglements. -690 Mr. Arle. -691 Bruna’s Revenge. -692 Pearl. -693 Caste. - -_By Rev. R. COBBOLD._ - -696 Margaret Catchpole. -697 The Suffolk Gipsy. - -_By Mrs. PARSONS._ - -698 Beautiful Edith. -699 Sun and Shade. -700 Ursula’s Love Story. - -_BY ARTEMUS WARD._ - -703 His Book; and Travels among the Mormons. -704 Letters to Punch; and MARK TWAIN’S Practical Jokes. - -_By ANNA C. STEELE._ - -705 Condoned. -706 Gardenhurst. -707 Broken Toys. - -_By Mrs. WHITNEY._ - -710 Odd or Even? - -_By EMILIE CARLEN._ - -711 Twelve Months of Matrimony. -712 The Brilliant Marriage. - -_By WILLIAM CARLETON._ - -715 Squanders of Castle Squander. - -_By W. S. MAYO._ - -720 Never Again. -721 The Berber. - -_By Mrs. FORRESTER._ - -722 Olympus to Hades. -723 Fair Women. - -_By AUGUSTUS MAYHEW._ - -724 Faces for Fortunes. -724A Paved with Gold. - -_By MARK LEMON._ - -725 Leyton Hall. - -_By Miss BURNEY._ - -726 Evelina. - -_By HONORE DE BALZAC._ - -728 Unrequited Affection. - -_By JANE PORTER._ - -732 The Scottish Chiefs. - -_By HANS C. ANDERSEN._ - -734 The Improvisatore. - -_By KATHARINE MACQUOID._ - -735 A Bad Beginning. -736 Wild as a Hawk. -737 Forgotten by the World. - -_By A. LAMARTINE._ - -741 Genevieve, and The Stonemason. - -_By GUSTAV FREYTAG._ - -744 Debit and Credit. - -_By Author of “ST. AUBYN OF ST. AUBYN’S.”_ - -745 Charlie Nugent. -746 St. Aubyn of St. Aubyn’s. - -_By “WATERS.”_ - -747 The Heir at Law. -748 Romance of the Seas. -748A Privateer Captain. - -_By EDGAR ALLAN POE._ - -749 Tales of Mystery, &c. - -_By HENRY J. BYRON._ - -750 Paid in Full. - -_By MARIA EDGEWORTH._ - -752 Helen. - -_By THOMAS MILLER._ - -754 Royston Gower. - -_By Mrs. S. C. HALL._ - -756 The Whiteboy. - -_By Lady CHATTERTON._ - -757 The Lost Bride. - -_By WILLIAM GILBERT._ - -758 Dr. Austin’s Guests. - -_By THOMAS PEACOCK._ - -759 Melincourt. - -_By BAYLE ST. JOHN._ - -761 Maretimo. - -_By C. GOLDSCHMIDT._ - -762 Jacob Bendixen. - -_By Lady SCOTT._ - -763 The Only Child. - -_By Bros. MAYHEW._ - -765 The Image of his Father. - -_By E. MACKENZIE._ - -768 Highland Lassies. - -_By S. W. R._ - -769 Rose Douglas. - -_By WAT BRADWOOD._ - -770 O. V. H. -770A Ensemble. - -_By ALICE PERRY._ - -771 Esther’s Sacrifice. - -_By A. MANNING._ - -772 Ladies of Bever Hollow. - -_By JULIA KAVANAGH._ - -773 Madeleine. - -_By Author of “GUY LIVINGSTONE.”_ - -774 Hagarene. - -_By Mrs. HOUSTON._ - -777 Lilian’s Penance. - -_By Lady THYNNE._ - -778 Off the Line. - -_By ALICE KING._ - -779 Queen of Herself. - -_By J. MASTERMAN._ - -780 A Fatal Error. - -_By E. METEYARD._ - -781 Mainstone’s Housekeeper. - -_By Mrs. RANDOLPH._ - -782 Wild Hyacinth. - -_By Baroness DE BURY._ - -783 All for Greed. - -_By Earl DESART._ - -785 Kelverdale. - -_By MARK HOPE._ - -786 Dark and Light Stories. - -_By Miss STEVENS._ - -789 Zana, the Gipsy. - -_By SYLVESTER JUDD._ - -790 Margaret. - -_BY A. DE VIGNY._ - -791 The Conspirators. - -_By G. R. GLEIG._ - -792 Chelsea Pensioners. - -_By A. DE FONBLANQUE._ - -793 A Lease for Lives. - -_Ed. by Sir E. WRAXALL._ - -794 The Backwoodsman. - -_By Miss LEVIEN._ - -795 Almost a Quixote. - -_By E. JUNCKER._ - -797 Margaret’s Ordeal. - -_By THORPE TALBOT._ - -798 Philiberta. - -_By SOPHIE MAY._ - -799 Our Helen. - -_By JAMES GREENWOOD._ - -800 Little Ragamuffins. - -_By WM. ADAMSON._ - -802 Abbot of Aberbrothock. - -_By Mrs. GORDON SMYTHIES._ - -804 Guilty or Not Guilty? - -_By PERCY B. ST. JOHN._ - -805 Miranda. - -_By Countess DE LA MOTTE._ - -806 The Diamond Necklace. - -_By Captain FLACK._ - -807 Castaways of the Prairie. - -_By “WANDERER.”_ - -808 Hunt-Room Stories and Yachting Yarns. Illustrated. - -_By W. G. CRAVEN._ - -809 The Margravine. - -_By A. WHAMOND._ - -810 The Conscript’s Revenge. -811 James Tacket. - -_By Mrs. J. K. SPENDER._ - -814 Godwyn’s Ordeal. - -_By Mrs. KENNARD._ - -818 The Right Sort. - -_By Mrs. PIRKIS._ - -825 Wanted an Heir. - -_BY A. DE GALLENGA._ - -826 Jenny Jennett. - -_By SAMUEL LAING._ - -828 A Sporting Quixote. - -_By HANNAH LYNCH._ - -830 Through Troubled Waters. - -_By BYRON WEBBER._ - -834 Pigskin and Willow. - -_By CATHARINE SINCLAIR._ - -850 Beatrice. -851 Modern Accomplishments. -852 Holiday House. -853 Modern Flirtations. -854 Mysterious Marriage. - -_By JULES VERNE._ - -856 Five Weeks in a Balloon. -857 English at the North Pole. -858 Among the Cannibals. -859 A Journey to the Interior of the Earth. - -_By ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN._ - -876 The Great Invasion. -877 Campaign In Kabylia. -878 Waterloo. -879 The Man-Wolf. -880 The Blockade. -881 The States-General. -882 Citizen Bonaparte. -883 Year One of the Republic. -884 Daniel Rock. -885 Friend Fritz. -886 The Conscript. - -_By Mrs. LEITH ADAMS._ - -900 Aunt Hepsy’s Foundling. - -_By SAMUEL WARREN._ - -905 Diary of a late Physician. -906 Ten Thousand a-Year. - -_By HAMILTON AIDE._ - -920 Introduced to Society. - -_By W. M. THACKERAY._ - -925 Yellowplush Correspondence, & Fitz-Boodle Papers, &c. - -_By OSWALD CRAWFURD._ - -951 Grace Tolmar. -952 The World we Live In. -953 A Woman’s Reputation. - -_By E. WERNER._ - -960 Riven Bonds. -961 Sacred Vows. - -_By F. MARION CRAWFORD._ - -965 An American Politician. -966 To Leeward. - -_BY C. E. CRADDOCK._ - -971 In the Clouds. -972 Story of Keedon Bluffs. - -_By Prof. WILSON._ - -981 Tales of the Border. I. -982 ---- II. -983 ---- III. -984 ---- IV. - -_By GUSTAVE AIMARD._ - -1001 The Tiger Slayer. -1002 Last of the Incas. -1003 Pirates of the Prairie. -1004 The Prairie Flower. -1005 The Trapper’s Daughter. -1006 The White Scalper. -1007 The Indian Chief. - -_By Lord BEACONSFIELD._ - -1021 Vivian Grey. -1022 Coningsby. -1023 Henrietta Temple. -1024 Venetia. -1025 Sybil. -1026 Alroy, and Contarini Fleming. -1027 The Young Duke. - -_By EMILE GABORIAU._ - -1031 In Deadly Peril. - -_By ELIOT WARBURTON._ - -1051 The Crescent and Cross. - -_By ALEXANDER DUMAS._ - -1060 Count of Monte Cristo. - -_ANONYMOUS._ - -767 Belial. -776 First in the Field. -788 Leah, the Jewish Maiden. -796 Janetta, and Blythe Herndon. -803 Life in a Prison. -813 Tales of Tramps. Illust. -1102 Remarkable Impostors and Celebrated Claimants. - - -WARD, LOCK & CO.’S - -SPORTSMAN’S LIBRARY OF FAVOURITE FICTION. - -Crown 8vo, well bound, cloth gilt, 2s. 6d. each. - - 1 From Post to Finish. HAWLEY SMART. - 2 A False Start. HAWLEY SMART. - 3 The Right Sort. MRS. E. KENNARD. - 4 O. V. H.; or, How Mr. Blake Became Master of Fox-Hounds. WAT BRADWOOD. - 5 The Flyers of the Hunt. JOHN MILLS. - 6 Tilbury Nogo. J. G. WHYTE-MELVILLE. - 7 Hunt-Room Stories. “WANDERER.” - 8 The Flying Scud. C. C. CLARKE. - 9 A Sporting Quixote. SAMUEL LAING. -10 Stable Secrets, and The Life of a Racehorse. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Last of the Mortimers - A Story in Two Voices - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: December 22, 2016 [EBook #51265] -[Last updated: July 18, 2017] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAST OF THE MORTIMERS *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/cover_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="324" height="500" alt="" title="" /></a> -</div> - -<h1><small><small>THE</small></small><br /> - -LAST OF THE MORTIMERS.</h1> - -<p class="cb"><span class="eng">A Story in Two Voices.</span><br /><br /> - -BY<br /> -M R S. O L I P H A N T,<br /><br /> -AUTHOR OF<br /> - -“MADONNA MARY,” “FOR LOVE AND LIFE,” “SQUIRE ARDEN,”<br /> -“MAY,” “THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR,” ETC., ETC.<br /><br /> - -<span class="sans">NEW EDITION.</span><br /><br /> - -WARD, LOCK, AND CO.,<br /> -LONDON, NEW YORK, AND MELBOURNE.</p> - -<p class="c">[<i>All rights reserved.</i>] -</p> - -<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS.</a></h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr><th><a href="#PART_I">PART I.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">The Ladies at the Hall</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_1">1</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#PART_II">PART II.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">The Lieutenant’s Wife</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_48">48</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#PART_III">PART III.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">The Ladies at the Hall</span>—<i>continued</i></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_105">105</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#PART_IV">PART IV.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">The Lieutenant’s Wife</span>—<i>continued</i></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_166">166</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#PART_V">PART V.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">The Ladies at the Hall</span>—<i>continued</i></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_227">227</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#PART_VI">PART VI.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">The Lieutenant’s Wife</span>—<i>continued</i></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_257">257</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c" colspan="2">—</td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"> POSTSCRIPT</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_365">365</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<h1><img src="images/ill_001.png" -alt="" -width="500" -/> -<br /><br />THE LAST OF THE MORTIMERS.</h1> - -<h2><a name="PART_I" id="PART_I"></a>PART I.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_1" id="page_1"></a>{1}</span><br /><br /> -THE LADIES AT THE HALL.</h2> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_I-a" id="Chapter_I-a"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter I.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span> <span class="smcap">THOUGHT</span> I heard a slight rustle, as if Sarah had taken off her -spectacles, but I was really so interested in the matter which I was -then discussing with Mr. Cresswell, our solicitor, that I did not look -round, as I certainly should have done in any other circumstances; but -imagine my utter amazement and the start which Mr. Cresswell gave, -nearly upsetting the ink on the drab table-cover, which never <i>could</i> -have got the better of it, when my sister Sarah, who never speaks except -to me, and then only in a whisper, pronounced distinctly, loud out, the -following words: “His Christian name was Richard Arkwright; he was -called after the cotton-spinner; that was the chief thing against him in -my father’s days.”</p> - -<p>Now it was years and years ago since Sarah had lost her voice. It -happened before my father died, when we were both comparatively young -people; she had been abroad with him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2"></a>{2}</span> and caught a violent cold on her -way home. She was rather proud in those days—it was before she took to -knitting—and she had not forgotten then that she was once a beauty. -When she saw that her voice was gone for good, Sarah gave up talking. -She declared to me privately that to keep up a conversation in that -hoarse horrid whisper was more than she could give in to, and though she -was a very good Christian in principle she never could be resigned to -that loss. At first she kept upstairs in her own room; but after my -father’s death she came regularly to the drawing-room, giving everybody -to understand that she was not to be spoken to. Poor dear old soul! she -was as anxious to hear everything that was said to me as if she had come -down off her stilts and taken part in the conversation; but you may -suppose what a startling event it was to hear Sarah’s voice.</p> - -<p>I gave a jump, as was natural, and ran to her to see what had happened.</p> - -<p>“Do be cautious, Milly,” she said, fretfully, in her old whisper; for to -be sure I had whisked down her ball of worsted, and caught one of her -pins in my new-fashioned buttonholes. “At your age a gentlewoman should -move about in a different sort of way. I am quite well, thank you. -Please to go back to your occupation, and leave me to carry on mine in -peace.”</p> - -<p>“But Sarah, my dear soul! you’ve got back your voice!” cried I.</p> - -<p>Sarah smiled at me, not with her pretty smile. “People who are strong -are always thinking such things,” she said. “You don’t know what it is -to be afflicted; go back to your business, please.”</p> - -<p>“What does she say, Miss Milly?” cried Mr. Cresswell, quite eagerly, -when I went back to the table.</p> - -<p>“Oh, nothing at all; it’s all a mistake, I suppose,” said I, feeling a -little nettled, “put it down all the same. I dare say it was one of -those spirits we hear about nowadays. And a very useful bit of -information too, which makes it all the more remarkable, for I never -heard they did much good in that way. Richard Arkwright! Of all the -names I ever heard, the oddest name for a Mortimer! but put it down.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Cresswell put it down as I said. “Richard Arkwright Mortimer is -something more of an individual than Blank Mortimer, Esq., that’s true,” -said he; “he ought to be something with that name. Begging your pardon, -Miss Milly, though he was a Mortimer, he ought to have had either a -profession or a trade with that name. Don’t you think now,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3"></a>{3}</span> he said, -lowering his voice, and making a sign at Sarah over his shoulder, “after -having broken the ice, something more might be got out of <i>her</i>?”</p> - -<p>I shook my head at first, being angry; then I nodded as I came to -myself, and at last said—it was all I could say—“We’ll see.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, ah, we’ll see—that’ll do, Miss Milly; but don’t lose your temper, -my dear lady,” said Mr. Cresswell; “all the county reverences you for an -angelic temper, as you well know.”</p> - -<p>“Stuff!” said I; “I’ve too much Welsh blood in me for that; but a pack -of interlopers, like the rest of you, never know the real mettle of them -that come of the soil; we’re as clear of the soil as the ore in the -Llangollen mines, we Mortimers; we can do what we have to do, whatever -it may be.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Cresswell cast up his eyebrows a little, and gave a kind of glance -towards Sarah and her knitting. “Well, well, it isn’t bad ore, at all -events,” he said, with a chuckle: “but, after all, I suppose the first -squire was not dug out of Llewellyn cliff?”</p> - -<p>“It will be a vast deal more profitable to find out where the next -squire is to come from,” said I; “we are old women both of us; I’d -advise you to set things agoing without delay. What would happen, do you -suppose, if Sarah and I were both to die without finding an heir? What -does happen, by the bye, when such a thing occurs; does it go to the -crown?”</p> - -<p>“My dear lady, I would not give much for the crown’s chance,” said -Cresswell, with, a little shrug of his shoulders. “Heirs-at-law are -never so far lost or mislaid but they turn up some time. Birds of the -air carry the matter when there’s an estate in question. There’s nothing -so safe to be found, in my humble opinion, as an heir-at-law.”</p> - -<p>“For I shouldn’t much mind,” said I to myself, thinking over it, “if it -went to the Queen. She might fix on the park for autumn quarters, sure, -as well as on that outlandish Scotch castle of hers. It’s a great deal -nearer, and I make sure it’s prettier; or if she gave it to the Prince -of Wales as a present, or to any of the other children, I should not -mind for my part. It is not by any means so bad a prospect as I -supposed—it might go to the Queen.”</p> - -<p>“But, then, what would be done with Mr. Richard Arkwright and his -progeny? I’ll be bound he has ten children,” said Mr. Cresswell. -“Somebody did leave Her Majesty an<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4"></a>{4}</span> estate not so very long ago, and I -rather think she sought out the heirs and made it up to them. Depend -upon it, Mr. Richard Arkwright would have it out of her. Come, we must -stick to the Mortimers, Miss Milly. I’ll go off and see after the -advertisements; there’s plenty of time. I don’t believe you mean to be -in any hurry out of this world, either Miss Sarah or you.”</p> - -<p>“That’s as it may be—that’s as God pleases,” said I; “but you must wait -a little first, and I’ll see if I can find out anything further about -him. Perhaps some one can think on; we’ll see, we’ll see; more may -come.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Cresswell nodded his head confidentially. “You don’t remember -anything about him yourself?” he said.</p> - -<p>“Bless you, I am ten years younger than she is,” said I; “she was a -young lady, I was only a child. I neither knew nor cared anything about -the Lancashire cousin. Ten years make a great deal of difference when -people are young.”</p> - -<p>“And when they’re old as well,” said Cresswell, with a little nod of his -head. Mr. Cresswell, of course, like all the other people, would never -have looked at me when Sarah was present in old days; but now, when we -were both old women, the sly old lawyer had wheeled about, and was -rather an admirer of mine. I have had admirers since I was fifty; I -never had many before.</p> - -<p>“Now, are you going to stay to tea?” said I.</p> - -<p>“Thank you. I have not the least doubt it would be for my own advantage; -my cook is not to be named in the same breath with yours; but I promised -to be home to dinner,” said Mr. Cresswell. “Thank you all the same; Sara -will be waiting for me.”</p> - -<p>“And how is the dear child?” said I.</p> - -<p>“Very contrairy,” said Mr. Cresswell, shaking his head. “To tell the -truth, I don’t know what to make of her. I had twenty minds to bring her -to-day and leave her with you.”</p> - -<p>“Bring her next time. I never find her contrairy,” said I. “But perhaps -<i>you</i> never were young yourself?”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps not, Miss Milly,” he said. “I have had a pretty tough life, -anyhow; and it is hard to be thwarted at the last by the only creature -one has to love.”</p> - -<p>“It is harder not to have a single creature that one has a right to -love,” said I a little sharply. “If we had your Sara belonging to us, -contrairy or not, we should not have to hunt up a far-off cousin, or -advertise for an heir.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5"></a>{5}</span></p> - -<p>A little passing gleam shot from the solicitor’s eye; he looked at me -close for a moment, and then at Sarah, with a lip that moved slightly, -as if he were unconsciously saying something within himself; I saw what -it was as clear as daylight.</p> - -<p>“She’s a good girl,” he said, faltering a little. “I daresay you’d soon -have her in hand, Miss Milly; there’s no place she is so fond of as the -Park; I’ll bring her out to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>And he went away, never thinking that I had seen what was in his mind.</p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_II-a" id="Chapter_II-a"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter II.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">O</span><span class="smcap">UR</span> drawing-room was a very large one. The Mortimers had required large -rooms in their day; and I will not say, if we had been young people, and -disposed to have company, that we could not have kept it up with any of -them; for my father, who lived in a very homely way, proud as he was, -had laid up a good deal, and so had we. But though we kept no company, -we had not the heart to turn the Mortimer family, of which we were the -only remaining representatives, out of their old room. So we had a great -screen, made of stamped leather, and which was like everything else, of -my grandmother’s days, stretched behind Sarah’s chair, and with a very -large bright fire, and a good lamp upon the round table, we managed to -find the fireside very comfortable, though we were surrounded by all the -ranges of old furniture in the old half-dark room. Old Ellis had to come -stumbling as slowly as if the distance had been half a mile between us -and the door, when he came into the room with anything; and I dare say -impatient young people could not have put up with the rumble of chairs -rolled aside, and footstools tripped over, with which he always gave us -warning of his coming. For my part I was used to it, and took no notice. -Where I sat, the prospect before me was, first, Sarah in her easy chair, -close within shade of the screen, and beyond a darkling<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6"></a>{6}</span> stretch of -space, which a stranger might have made very mysterious, but which I -knew perfectly well to be filled with just so many tables, chairs, -ottomans, and miscellaneous articles, not one of which could have been -stolen away without being missed. On the other side of the room, behind -my own chair, was a grand piano in a corner and another waste of old -furniture. Many people wondered why we did not make a cosy little -sitting-room of the boudoir, which had never been used since my mother’s -days. But Sarah, and I may say myself also, was of a different way of -thinking. We liked the big room which once had not been at all too big -for the Mortimers, and I am not sure that I did not even like the dark -bit on either side of us, and the two big old-fashioned mirrors, like -magic mirrors in a fairy tale, with a faint trembling of light over -them, and all the shadowy depths of the room standing out in them, as if -to double the size, which was already so much too great. Sometimes I -used to stand and watch myself going across one of those big mirrors. It -was a strange weird creature wandering about among the still, silent, -deserted household gods. It was not surely me.</p> - -<p>Not that I mean to represent myself as a sentimental person—not in the -very slightest degree. I am past fifty and stout. My own opinion is that -people had best be stout when they are past fifty, and I like my own -little comforts as well as anybody of my years. When I was young I was -far from being pretty. If I am to state frankly my own ideas on this -subject, I would say that I think I might have passed for moderately -good-looking, if I had not been sister to a beauty. But when we two were -described as the beautiful Miss Mortimer and the plain Miss Mortimer, -you may suppose how any little poor pretensions of mine were snubbed at -once. To be good-looking was something not expected from Sarah’s sister. -But however the tables have rather turned of late. If you asked little -Sara Cresswell, for example, who was the pretty Miss Mortimer, I do -believe the dear child would say, with the greatest of innocence, “Miss -Milly.” At our time of life it doesn’t matter very much, to be sure; but -dear, dear, vanity does lie deep! I declare honestly it’s a pleasure to -me.</p> - -<p>When Sarah and I are by ourselves, we don’t have a great deal of -conversation. She has lost her voice, as I said, which makes her decline -talking: and I must say, though she never yields to acknowledge it, that -I think she’s lost her hearing a little, poor dear old soul! Every night -in her life (except<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7"></a>{7}</span> Sundays) she reads the Times. That paper gets great -abuse in many quarters, especially in the country, where our old -Squires, to be sure, are always at it for changing its opinions; but I -say, great success, and long life to the Times! that is my opinion. How -ever Sarah would get over those long evenings without that paper, I -don’t know. It quite keeps us in reading; and I do assure you, we know -much more about most things that are going on than a great many <i>men</i> -do, who are much more in the world. The Times comes in early, but Sarah -never looks at it till after tea. I have to keep out of her sight, -indeed, when I glance over it myself in the early part of the day, for -Sarah does not approve of daylight reading. She thinks it a waste of -time. We have not such a very great deal to occupy us either, as you may -suppose; at least Sarah has little, except her knitting, for she will -rarely allow me to consult her anything about the property, though she -is the eldest. I wonder for my part that she does not weary of her life. -She never comes down to breakfast, and I don’t know very well what she -and Carson find to busy themselves about till noon in her room upstairs; -but at twelve o’clock punctually she comes down all dressed for the day. -She does not dress as I do, in the ordinary dress that everybody wears, -neither are Sarah’s fashions the same as I remember in our youth, when -our waists were just under our arms, and our gowns had “gores” in them. -On the contrary, she has taken to a very long waist and tight sleeves, -with a worked muslin shawl or scarf over her shoulders. In cold weather -the muslin is lined with silk of delicate colours, and her cap, which is -always light and pretty (Carson has great taste), trimmed to correspond. -Her hair, of course, she <i>always</i> wears in curls at the front. It is -quite silver-white, and her face, poor dear soul, is a little pinched -and sharp nowadays. When she takes her seat within shelter of the screen -at twelve o’clock every day, the muslin shawl, lined with peach, is as -pretty as possible in itself: to be sure Sara Cresswell might almost -wear it to a ball; but I do declare I thought it looked very chilly -to-day on Sarah. Nice white Shetland for instance, which is almost as -pretty as lace, or, indeed, one of those beautiful soft fine woollen -shawls, would look a great deal better over that purple silk gown, if -she could only think so. But to be sure, Sarah will have her own way. -There she sat knitting all the time Mr. Cresswell was talking with me, -and there she does sit all day long with her basket of wools, and -knitting-pins, and patterns. Every other day she takes a drive, goes to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8"></a>{8}</span> -church once on Sundays, and reads the Times on all the week evenings. -That is exactly how she lives.</p> - -<p>Now perhaps this does not appear so odd to anybody else as it does to -me; and I am sure I might have got used to it after a dozen years; but -only Sarah, you see, has very good abilities, and is not the person to -fix herself down like this. And she knows a great deal more of life than -I do. My father and she were, I think, near upon ten years abroad after -my mother died. What she was doing all that time I know no more than -Carson does. Many a rumour went about that she was married, and many an -anxious hour I had all by myself at the Park. But when she came back -just Miss Mortimer, there was not a soul in the county but was -surprised. Such a great beauty! and papa’s eldest daughter and -co-heiress! people said it was unaccountable. I can’t say <i>I</i> thought it -unaccountable. I never saw anybody that I could fancy myself, except -perhaps——, and then <i>he</i> never asked me, you know. It might be -precisely the same with Sarah, though she was a beauty. But the wonder -to me is that after having lived abroad so long, and having, as I have -no doubt she had, a life of her own, which did not merely belong to my -father’s daughter, she should just have settled down like this. Many and -many a time have I thought it all over, sitting opposite to her of an -evening, when tea was over and she was reading the Times. There she sat -quite straight up, her muslin shawl with the peach-bottom lining -dropping down a little over her shoulders, and her thin hands in their -black lace mits holding the paper. She had never reposed any confidence -in me, you see. <i>I</i> did not know what might have happened to her when -she was out upon the big waves of life. I dare say many a time when I -wondered why she took no interest in my affairs, she was back upon that -reserve of her own which I knew nothing about. But the odd thing to me -is, that after having really had something that one could call a life, -something happening to her own self,—don’t you know what I mean?—she -should have settled down so fixed and motionless here.</p> - -<p>We dined early, which was a prejudice of mine; but as Sarah had a very -uncertain appetite, we had always “something” to tea, which was the -cause of Mr. Cresswell’s allusion to our cook Evans. Further, we -indulged ourselves by having this substantial tea in the drawing-room, -which we never left after our early dinner. When tea was over on the -night of Mr. Cresswell’s visit, I had some little matters to do which -kept me about the room, going from one place to another. As<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9"></a>{9}</span> I stood in -the shadow looking at the bright fire and lamp, and Sarah reading in her -easy chair, I could not prevent a great many inquiries rising in my -mind. What was Cousin Richard Arkwright Mortimer to her, for example? He -had not been at the Park, nor heard of, so far as I know, for forty -years. And then about her voice? On the whole it was very curious. I -resolved to try hard for some conversation with Sarah, after she had -done with the Times, that night.</p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_III-a" id="Chapter_III-a"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter III.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span><span class="smcap">T</span> was not a very easy matter to draw Sarah into a conversation, -especially in the evening. I had to watch my opportunity very carefully. -At ten exactly the door opened in the dark distance, and Ellis came -rumbling along through the dim depths behind the screen with the sherry -and biscuits. Just at the same moment Sarah smoothed out the paper -carefully, laid it down, as she always did, on the top of her -wool-basket, and held out her hands to warm them at the fire. They were -very thin hands in their black lace mits, and they were a little -rheumatic sometimes, though she did not like to confess it. She kept -rubbing them slowly before the fire.</p> - -<p>I poured out her glass of sherry, put the plate of biscuits within her -reach, and drew my chair nearer, that I might be sure of hearing what -she said. Sarah took no notice of my movements; she rubbed diligently -one of her forefingers, the joints of which were a little enlarged, and -never so much as glanced at me.</p> - -<p>“Did you ever know anything about this cousin Richard of ours, Sarah?” -said I.</p> - -<p>She did not answer just for a moment, but kept on rubbing her -forefinger; when that was finished she answered, “I knew a good deal -about him once. I would have married him if they had let me, in the old -times.”</p> - -<p>I was so thunderstruck by this unexpected frankness that I scarcely knew -what to say. At last I stumbled out somehow<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10"></a>{10}</span>—“You would have married -him!” with a kind of inexpressible amazement; and she saying it so -calmly too!</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Sarah, rubbing her middle finger thoughtfully, “he was -young, and fresh-looking, and good-tempered. I dare say I could have -liked him if they had let me; it is quite true.”</p> - -<p>“And would they not let you?” cried I, in my eagerness, thinking that -perhaps Sarah was going to confide in me at last.</p> - -<p>“No,” she said, pursing up her lips. She seemed to echo the “no” after, -in the little nod she gave her head, but she said nothing more.</p> - -<p>“And Sarah, tell me, please, if you don’t mind, was it because of his -means?” cried I; “was he not rich enough?”</p> - -<p>“You don’t know anything about these affairs, Milly,” said Sarah, a -little scornfully. “I don’t mind in the least. He was exactly such a man -as would have taken your fancy. When I saw him, five years after, I was -glad enough they did not let me; though it might have saved a deal of -trouble too,” she said to herself in a kind of sigh.</p> - -<p>I don’t know how I managed to hear those last words. I am sure she did -not think I heard them. You may suppose I grew more curious with every -word she spoke.</p> - -<p>“And where was it you met him five years after; was it abroad?” said I, -with a little flutter in my voice.</p> - -<p>I cannot think she was very sharp in her hearing. She gave a little -glance up at me, noticing that I paused before the last word; and then -seeing me look a little frightened and conscious, she drew herself up -all at once, and stopped rubbing her fingers.</p> - -<p>“Do you mean to cross-question <i>me</i>, Milly?” she cried, giving a stamp -with her foot. “Do you mean to rummage into my affairs and find me out -by your questions? You are very much mistaken, I can tell you. I am just -as willing as any one that Richard Mortimer should be found out. In -making your new heir you shall have no opposition from me.”</p> - -<p>“Why, bless us all, Sarah!” said I, “it was your own idea.”</p> - -<p>“Very well,” she said, with a little confused heat of manner; “why do -you imply that I have any objection? One would suppose, to hear you, -that you were trying to find out some secrets of mine.”</p> - -<p>“I never knew you had any secrets to find out,” said I, sharply. I knew -quite well I was aggravating her, but one must take one’s own part.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11"></a>{11}</span></p> - -<p>She did not make any answer. She got up on her feet, and drew her muslin -shawl round her. There was a little nervous tremble about her head and -hands; she often had it, but I marked it more than ever to-night. I -thought at first she was going away without her sherry, but she thought -better of that. However, she went a few steps behind the screen to put -her basket aside, a thing she never did; and I think I can see her now, -as I saw her in the big mirror, drawing the fingers of one hand through -the other, and gliding along through the dark room, all reflected from -head to foot in the great glass, with her peach-blossom ribbons nodding -tremulously over her grey hair, and her white muslin shawl drawn over -her shoulders. Her face, as I saw it in the mirror, had a cloud and -agitation upon it, but was set with a fixed smile upon the lips, and a -strange, settled, passionate determination. I could no more penetrate -what it meant than I could tell why Sarah was angry. It was something -within herself that made her so, nothing that I had done or said.</p> - -<p>After she was gone I dropped into my chair, and sat there wondering and -pondering till the fire had nearly gone out, and the great room was -lying blank and chill in the darkness. Now that my thoughts were -directed into this channel—and it was very strange to me that they -never had been so before—there were a thousand things to think of. When -Sarah was twenty and I only ten there was a wonderful difference to be -sure between us, and not a great deal less when Sarah was thirty and I -twenty; but from that time it had been growing less by degrees, so that -we really did not feel nowadays any great difference in our age. But I -was only fourteen when my mother died. I had never, of course, been able -to share in any of the gaieties, being only in the schoolroom, and -certainly never dreamed of criticising my big sister, whom I thought -everything that was beautiful and splendid. Then my father and she went -away and left me. The Park was let, and I lived with my godmother. I -almost forgot that I had a father and sister in the world. They seldom -wrote, and we lived entirely out of the world, and never heard even in -gossip of the goings on at Rome and Naples, and what place the beautiful -Miss Mortimer took there. They came home at last quite suddenly, in the -depth of winter. Naturally Sarah had caught a very bad cold. She kept -her own room for a very long time after and never saw anybody. Then she -lost her voice. I remember I took it quite for granted at the time that -it was her cold and the loss of her voice that made her shut herself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12"></a>{12}</span> -up; but I must say that once or twice since I have had a little doubt on -that subject. She was then not much past five-and-thirty, a very -handsome woman. My father lived many years after, but they never, though -they had been great companions for so long before, seemed to be at ease -in each other’s presence. They never even sat down to dinner together -when they could help it. Since then, to be sure, Sarah had begun to live -more with me; but what a life it was! I had the concerns of the property -to occupy me, and things to manage; besides, I was always out and about -in the village and among the neighbours; and still more, I was quite a -different woman from Sarah, more homely-like, and had never been out in -the world. I wouldn’t for anything be what you might call suspicious of -my own only sister; and what I <i>could</i> be suspicious about, even if I -wanted to, was more than I knew. Still it was odd, very odd, more -particularly after Sarah’s strange words and look. My mind was all in a -ferment—I could not tell what to think; but it came upon me as strong -as a conviction that something <i>must</i> have happened in those ten years; -what it could be was as dark as midnight, but there must be something. -That was the end I came to after all my pondering. Ellis came twice into -the room to shut up, and twice stumbled off again with his “Beg pardon, -ma’am.” It began to feel chilly as the fire went out, and the night grew -pale and ghostly in the mirrors. By and by I began to hear those cracks -and rustles which one always hears when one sits up late at night. It -wasn’t in the furniture, bless you! I know a great deal better than -that; the old walnut and satin-wood was all seasoned by a century’s -wear. I don’t pretend to say what it was: but I know that I was made -very uneasy sitting all by myself, with the fire out, in that big room. -When it drew near twelve o’clock, I went to bed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13"></a>{13}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_IV-a" id="Chapter_IV-a"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter IV.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span> <span class="smcap">MIGHT</span> as well, before all this description of our day’s talk and -cogitations, have said first who we were.</p> - -<p>The Mortimers are an old Cheshire family. We came originally from the -other side of the Dee; but we have been settled here in the Park since -Henry the Seventh’s time, when to be sure Welshmen were in fashion. The -old tower of Wyfod, over Llangollen way, was the cradle of our family. -So we have not travelled very far from our origin. We have always been, -since we came to the Cheshire side, tolerably prosperous and prudent, -not mixing much with politics, having a pretty eye for a bargain, and -letting other people get along in their own way; I say so quite frankly, -not being ashamed of it. Once, I confess, I felt a little sore that we -had no crusading knights nor wild cavaliers among our ancestors; but -that, of course, was when I was young. Now I take a different view of -affairs. Cavaliers and crusading knights have been generally very -expensive luxuries for their families, and must have done a great deal -more mischief than a man, however well disposed to it, could do at home. -Another circumstance has been good for our purse, but not so good (I -fear—so at least it threatens at the present moment) for the -prolongation of the race. The Mortimers have never had large families. I -suppose few English houses of our rank, or indeed of any rank, can count -so few cousins and collateral branches. We have relations, certainly, by -my mother’s side, who was one of the Stamfords of Lincolnshire; but -except this visionary Richard Arkwright (did ever mortal hear of such a -name for a Mortimer!), there is not a single individual remaining of our -own name and blood to inherit the property after us, which is a very sad -thing to say, and indeed, in some degree, a sort of disgrace to us. The -family allowance of children for ever so long has been somewhat about -one son and one daughter. The daughter has married off, as was natural, -or died unmarried, as, indeed, for a Miss Mortimer, was more natural -still; and the son has become the squire, and had a son and a daughter -in his turn. In Queen Anne’s time, the then squire, whose name was -Lewis, made an unfortunate divergence from the usual custom. He had two -girls only; but one of them married, and her husband took our name and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14"></a>{14}</span> -arms; the other died very opportunely, and left her sister in full -possession, so no harm was done. It is, however, a saying in the family, -that the Mortimers are to end in two sisters, and that after them the -property is to be divided and alienated from the name. This is one -reason why I never was much of a favourite at home. They forgave Sarah, -for she was beautiful, and just the person to be an heiress. But -co-heiresses are the bugbear of the Mortimers. Ah me! If there had been -no such saying as this, or if we had been poor girls, it might have made -a difference! Not in me, to be sure; I need not be sentimental about it. -I never saw an individual in this world I could have fancied but one, -and he, you know, never asked me; so it could not have made the -slightest difference to me.</p> - -<p>However, if there’s one thing more than another that my heart is set to -resist, it is letting this prophecy be fulfilled in our time. I’d rather -compass sea and land to find a Mortimer! I’d rather set out, old as I -am, and hunt for one with a lantern through the world! Sarah, though she -is so capricious and contrary, is of the same mind. It was she who told -me of this Mr. Richard Arkwright, whom I had forgotten all about. And -yet, you see, after showing such decided interest, she turns upon one -so! What a very odd thing it is that she did not marry! I never could -make it out, for my part. Nobody could imagine, to see her now, how very -pretty, nay, how beautiful she was; and such a way with her! and -dressed, to be sure, like a duchess. All the young men in the county -were after her before she went abroad. But dear, dear! to think what a -changed life when she came home, and lost her voice, and shut herself up -in her own room.</p> - -<p>There is nothing I dislike more than curiosity, or prying, or -suspiciousness; but I <i>should</i> like to know the rights of it—how Sarah -went on abroad. To be sure my father was anxious enough that <i>she</i> -should get married, and have a good humble-minded husband, who would -take the name of Mortimer. It was only me that he would not hear of any -proposal for. I don’t think he would have broken his heart if, like the -Milly Mortimer in Queen Anne’s time, I had been so obliging as to die.</p> - -<p>However, here we are, just as we were in the nursery, two Miss -Mortimers. Sarah, who might have had half a dozen good marriages, just -the same as I am; and I protest I don’t even know that there are two -people existing in the world who have the smallest collateral right to -divide the property and take it away from the name; unless Richard -Arkwright<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15"></a>{15}</span> should happen to have co-heiresses! married to husbands who -will not change to Mortimer! Don’t let me think of such a horror!</p> - -<p>These are our circumstances in the meantime. It is a very sad thing for -a family when there are no collateral branches. I forgot to say that how -this Richard Arkwright came about, was by the strange accident of Squire -George, who died in 1713, having <i>two sons</i>!</p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_V-a" id="Chapter_V-a"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter V.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">D</span><span class="smcap">URING</span> all this time—and indeed, after all, it was only a single day—I -had forgotten all about Mr. Cresswell and his Sara. He and his family -had been our family’s solicitors for a great many generations. He knew -all our secrets that we knew ourselves. It is only about twenty years -since he succeeded his father in the business, and married that pretty -delicate young creature, the clergyman’s daughter of St. John’s. She -died very early, poor thing, as was to be expected, and Sara is his only -child. But, of course, he does not know any more than a baby how to -manage a pretty fantastical young girl. They are a very respectable, -substantial family in their way, and have been settled in their house in -Chester for a very long time—though, of course, it would be absurd to -call a family of solicitors an <i>old</i> family—and Mr. Cresswell is very -well off in the world, and can give a very pretty fortune to his -daughter; yet the covetous old fox has actually a fancy in his mind—<i>I</i> -could see it when he was last here—that if Sara only played her cards -well she might be heiress of the Park, and succeed Sarah and me. An -attorney’s daughter! Not that I mean to put a slight upon Sara, who is -our godchild, and a very sweet, pretty girl. But to fancy that old -Cresswell could take up such an idea, and <i>I</i> not find him out! It is -odd, really, how the cleverest of men deceive themselves. He will take -every means to find out Richard Mortimer all the same. He’ll not fail of -his duty, however things may turn out, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16"></a>{16}</span> know that; but to think at the -very bottom of his sly old heart that he should have a hankering after -the Park! It is quite inconceivable what fancies will take hold of men.</p> - -<p>Sara is our godchild, as I said, called Sara Millicent, in token of the -kindness that poor Mrs. Cresswell, poor young motherless creature, -thought she had received from us. Poor little soul! she little thought -then, that the baby she was so proud of, was the only one she was to be -spared to bring into the world. From that time till now Sara has been a -pet at the Park, and always free to come to us when she wished, or when -her father thought it would do her good. This was how she was coming -to-day. Perhaps it might be imagined by some people rather a bold thing -of one’s family solicitor to bring his daughter to us without an -invitation. But you see we were only ladies, and did not stand on our -dignity as people do when there are men in the house; and, besides, she -was our pet and godchild, which makes all the difference.</p> - -<p>Just before dinner, Mr. Cresswell’s one-horse chaise came into the -courtyard. We never use the great door except for great people, and when -Sarah goes out for her airings. I always use the court entrance, which -is much handier, especially in winter, and when there is no fire in the -great hall. I really see no use, except on occasions, for a fire in that -great hall. It looks miserable, I dare say, but then the coal it -consumes is enormous—enough to keep three families in the village -comfortably warmed—and <i>we</i> keep no lackeys to lounge about there, and -be in the way. A good respectable family servant, like Ellis, with -plenty of maids, is much more to my taste than those great saucy -fellows, who have not the heart of a mouse. But this is quite apart from -what I was saying. Sarah had come down just the same as ever, except -that she had her brown gown on,—she wears a different gown every day in -the week,—and her muslin shawl lined with blue, and of course blue -ribbons in her cap to correspond. Carson, after all, is really a -wonderful milliner. She seemed to have forgotten, or at least passed -over, our little quarrel, for she spoke just the same as usual, and -said, as she always does, that she hoped that I would not forget to -order the carriage for her drive. I have given over being nettled about -this. She says it regularly, poor dear soul, every other day.</p> - -<p>“And little Sara is coming to-day,” said I. “You’ll take her for -company, won’t you? It will do the child good.”</p> - -<p>“Do her good! why, Cresswell has a carriage!” said Sarah in her whisper; -“beggars will ride before all’s done.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17"></a>{17}</span></p> - -<p>“But he’s nothing of a beggar, quite the reverse; he’s very well-to-do, -indeed,” said I. “I think he has a very good right to a one-horse -chaise.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, to be sure, that makes all the difference,” said Sarah in her sharp -way, “I forgot it was but one horse.”</p> - -<p>Now her voice, which is rather pleasant when she’s kind, gets a sort of -hiss in it when she’s spiteful, and the sound of that “horse,” though I -wouldn’t for the world say any harm of my sister, drew out all the -hoarseness and unpleasant sound in the strangest way possible. I was -quite glad to hear at that moment the wheels in the courtyard.</p> - -<p>“There is little Sara,” said I, and went off to fetch her in, very glad -to get off, it must be confessed; but glad also, to be sure, to see my -little pet, who had always taken so kindly to me. Before I could get to -the door which Ellis was holding open, the dear child herself came -rushing upon me, fairly driving me a few steps back, and taking away my -breath. “You’re not to come into the draught, godmamma. It’s so cold, -oh, it’s so cold! I thought my nose would be off,” cried Sara’s voice -close to my ear. She was talking and kissing me at the same moment, and -after the start she had given me, you may suppose, I did not pick up -exactly every word she said. But that was the substance of it, to be -sure.</p> - -<p>“Why didn’t you wear a veil? You ought to wear a veil, child. We were -all supposed to have complexions when I was young,” said I. “Don’t you -have any complexions, now, you little girls?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, godmamma! I don’t expect ever to hear you talking nonsense,” said -Sara severely. “What’s the good of our complexions? We can’t do anything -with them that I ever heard of. Come in from the draught, please, for -the sake of your dear old nose.”</p> - -<p>“You are the rudest little girl I ever knew in my life. Go in, child, go -in, and see your godmamma,” said I. “How ever do you manage that girl, -Mr. Cresswell? Does she think I don’t know all the draughts in my own -house?”</p> - -<p>“Ah, my dear lady, she’s contrairy. I told you so—she always was and -ever will be,” said Mr. Cresswell, putting down his hat with a sigh. -Dear, dear! the poor man certainly had his troubles with that little -puss. Manage her, indeed! when, to be sure, as was natural, she made him -do exactly just as she pleased.</p> - -<p>When we went in after her, he and I, there she was, to be sure, kneeling -down on Sarah’s footstool, trying all she could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18"></a>{18}</span> to put my sister’s -curls out of order with kissing her. If any one else had dared to do it! -But Sara, who never since she was a baby feared any creature, had her -way with her godmother as well as with all the rest of us. There’s a -great deal in never being afraid.</p> - -<p>“Now, go up-stairs, and take off your bonnet, there’s a good child; -there’s a fire in your room to warm it for puss in velvet. Go, and come -down smooth and nice as your godmamma loves to see you. Dinner will be -ready presently, and you must be nice for dinner. There, there, don’t -talk any more, Sara, go and smooth your hair.”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, certainly, and then you’ll see what’s happened!” cried Sara, -and frisked off out of the room like a little puss as she was.</p> - -<p>I dare say the dear child expected nothing less than a great curiosity -on my part about what had happened. Poor dear little kitten! she forgot -that these little secrets were not such great matters to me. When she -was gone we did not say a syllable about Sara; but her good father began -to pull about the things on one of the tables behind the screen, and -made signs to me with his eyebrows to come and talk to him. When I -passed over that way he said quite softly, “Anything more?”</p> - -<p>“Not a word,” said I; for, to be sure, that about Sarah marrying if they -would have let her was private, and even the family solicitor had -nothing to do with it, though, I dare say if the truth were known, he -knew all about it better than I did. “Not a word; only, I suppose, I -should say he must be about her own age.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Cresswell glanced up at me, gave a short little smile, a nod of his -head, and a shrug of his shoulders, and understood all about it as if I -had told him.</p> - -<p>“Was in love with her once, of course—thought so!” he said in his -undertone: “you ladies, for one good thing, do think on when we’ve made -fools of ourselves about you. It’s always our compensation.”</p> - -<p>“We think on after you’ve forgotten all about it—that’s what you mean,” -said I.</p> - -<p>Mr. Cresswell gave another little shrug with his shoulders, and glanced -at the screen behind which Sarah was knitting. “How lovely she was once, -to be sure!” he said with a little sigh, and then laughed out at -himself, not without a little redness in his face. To speak of a blush -in a man of his years would be simply absurd, you know. Such a piece of -presumption!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19"></a>{19}</span> I do believe Bob Cresswell had taken it upon him to fall -in love with Sarah too in his young days. I could have boxed his ears -for him; and to think he should have the audacity to laugh at himself -now!</p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_VI-a" id="Chapter_VI-a"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter VI.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><span class="smcap">HIS</span> conversation of ours, if it could be called a conversation, was -luckily interrupted by the entrance of little Sara, who came into the -room, lightfooted and noiseless, as such creatures can when they are -young. She had on a velvet jacket, over a thick-corded blue silk dress. -She must have spent quite a fortune in dress, the little saucy puss. -What startled me, however, was her hair. She had a beautiful head of -hair, and wore it of course in the fashion, as all young girls ought. -Some people were so misguided as to call Sara Cresswell -dark-complexioned. They meant she had very dark hair, eyebrows, and -eyelashes. As for her skin, it was as pure as Sarah’s, who had always -been a blonde beauty. But with all the mass of hair she had, when she -chose to spread it out and display it, and with her black eyes and small -face, I don’t wonder people thought the little witch dark. However, all -that was done away <i>now</i>. There she stood before me, laughing, and -making her curtsey, with short little curls, like a child’s, scarcely -long enough to reach to her collar—all her splendid hair gone—a -regular crop! I screamed out, as may be supposed; I declare I could have -whipped her with the very best will in the world. The provoking, wicked -little creature! no wonder her poor father called her contrairy. Dear, -dear, to think what odd arrangements there are in this world! <i>I</i> should -have brought her under some sort of authority, I promise you; but -really, not meaning to be profane, one was really tempted to say to -one’s self, what <i>could</i> Providence be thinking of to give such a child -to poor old Bob Cresswell, who knew no more how to manage her than I -know how to steer a boat?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20"></a>{20}</span></p> - -<p>“I declare I think you are very wicked,” I said when I gained my breath; -“I do believe, Sara, you take a delight in vexing your friends. For all -the world what good could it do to cut off your hair? Don’t speak to me, -child! I declare I am so vexed and provoked and angry, I could cry!”</p> - -<p>“Don’t cry, godmamma,” said Sara quite coolly, “or I’ll have it made up -into a wig; you can’t fancy how nice it is now. Besides, what was the -good of such a lot of hair? Don’t you know that’s what gives people -headaches? I thought I had better be wise in time.”</p> - -<p>“You little storyteller!” cried I, “you never had a headache in your -life.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, but prevention is better than cure,” said the wicked little -creature with her very demurest look.</p> - -<p>“Dinner, Ma’am,” said Ellis at the door. It was just as well for Sara. -But I had a great mind to pinch her, as Mr. Thackeray says the ladies -do, when we went together to the dining-room. I am sure she deserved it. -However, she did not escape a little pinch which touched her, brave as -she was. Sarah, I suppose, had not taken the trouble to look at her till -we were all seated at table. Then she looked up, quite ignorant of what -had happened. Sarah did not start like me, nor scream out; but she -looked at little Sara quite composedly, leaning forward to see her all -round. When she had quite done, she folded her hands upon her napkin, -and smiled. “What a shocking fright you have made of yourself, my dear -child,” said Sarah with the most amiable look in the world. Little Sara -coloured up in a moment, grew red and furious like a little vixen, and -had something angry and wicked on the very tip of her tongue, which -however, bold as she was, she dared not say. Mr. Cresswell ventured to -give a little mutter and chuckle of a laugh, and how the little witch -did look at him! But as for me, though I was glad to have her punished, -I could not find in my heart to hear anything said against her without -standing up in her defence.</p> - -<p>“Well, of course, I am very angry,” said I; “but I can’t say I agree -with your godmamma either—it’s pretty enough for that matter.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, please, don’t take any trouble about my feelings. I never meant it -to be pretty,” said little Sara, quite furious.</p> - -<p>“Nice hair is very much in a dark person’s favour. It helps the -complexion and harmonises,” said Sarah, who kept always looking at the -child in her smiling aggravating way. “People will soon notice the want -of it in you, my dear. They will say<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21"></a>{21}</span> you are very much gone off in your -looks. It’s a pity you were so rash. It does make you a sad fright, -whatever Milly says.”</p> - -<p>Now, only imagine how little Sara was to bear all this, spoken just in -Sarah’s whisper, which made everybody, even Ellis, who was waiting, -listen close to hear what she said. It was very seldom she said so many -words in one day, not to say at one speaking. She began to eat her soup -when she had done her pleasant remarks. And surely I never did remark -before how odd the s’s sounded in her poor lost voice. Somehow they -seemed to go hissing round the table, as if every word had an s in it. -It was a round table, and not very large. Sarah never would do any -carving, and I got tired of always doing it. So Ellis managed for us now -on the sideboard, knowing foreign ways a little, and a small table -suited us best.</p> - -<p>“Ah, my dear lady, I wish you’d take her in hand,” said Mr. Cresswell -(dear, dear! it is inconceivable how injudicious some people are!); -“she’s too many for me.”</p> - -<p>“My opinion is,” said I, breaking in as well as I could, seeing that -poor little Sara must come to an explosion if they kept it up, “that -when a gentleman comes to visit two single ladies, he should let us know -what’s going on in the world. Have you never a new curate at St. John’s -to tell us of, and are all the officers just exactly as they used to be? -You may all be very superior, you wise people. But I do love gossip, I -am free to acknowledge. I heard your rector preached in his surplice -last Sunday. How did you Evangelicals take that, Mr. Cresswell, eh? For -my part, I can’t see where’s the harm in a surplice as you Low Church -people do.”</p> - -<p>“You and I will never agree in that, Miss Milly,” said Mr. Cresswell; -“though, indeed, if Dr. Roberts came into the pulpit in white, I’ve my -own idea as to how you’d take it. However, not to speak of surplices, -the red-coats are going, I hear. We’re to have a change. The Chestnuts -are coming up from Scotland, and our men are ordered to the West Indies. -The Colonel doesn’t like it a bit. It’s better for him in one way, but -he’s getting to like a steady friendly little society, and not to care -for moving. He’s getting up in years, like the rest of us, is the -Colonel. This will tell on him, you’ll see.”</p> - -<p>“Well, to be sure, when a man’s old, he ought to retire,” said I; “there -are always plenty to take his place.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, it’s easy to talk,” said Mr. Cresswell. “It’s all very well for us -to retire that have made money; but a man that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22"></a>{22}</span> has only his pay, what -is he to do? He has got that poor little widow-daughter of his to keep, -and Fred is very unsettled, I’m afraid, and little comfort to his -father. There’s a deal of difference, Miss Milly, between full-pay and -half-pay. He’d have to cut down his living one half if he retired.”</p> - -<p>“That’s just exactly what I quarrel with in these grand times of ours,” -said I; “what’s the harm of cutting down one’s living one half? My own -opinion is, I’d respect a man very much that did it. Great people can do -it somehow. I wish you luxurious middle-class people would learn the -way. But then you don’t stand by each other when you fall into poverty. -You drop your friend when he can’t ask you to dinner. You are good to -his children, and patronise them, and forget they were just the same as -yours a little while ago. I don’t think we’ll ever come to any good in -this country till we get back to knowing how to be poor.”</p> - -<p>“My dear lady, England never was in such splendid condition,” said Mr. -Cresswell, with a smile at my ignorance. “If we’ve forgotten how to -save, we’ve learned how to grow rich.”</p> - -<p>“I know all about England,” said I; “we read the Times; don’t you tell -me. I’m anything but easy about England. Making money is no substitute -in the world for saving it. I tell you, the world won’t be what I call -right till a gentleman may be as poor as God pleases, without being -ashamed of it; and have the heart to cut down his living one-half too.”</p> - -<p>“Well, well Miss Milly, ladies are always optimists,” said Mr. -Cresswell; “but I shouldn’t like to be poor myself, nor see Sara tried -with economics. <i>She</i> don’t understand anything about them, that’s -sure.”</p> - -<p>“The more’s the pity. What if she should marry a poor man?” said I.</p> - -<p>“She <i>shan’t</i> marry a poor man, my dear lady,” said Mr. Cresswell.</p> - -<p>Upon which Sara lighted up. I knew she would. The dear child would do -anything out of contradiction.</p> - -<p>“Rather a poor one than a rich one, papa,” cried Sara, with a little -start of opposition. “Godmamma is always quite right. It’s shocking how -everybody worships rich people. If we were to live in a little cottage, -now, and make a dozen poor people comfortable! instead of always living -in that dull old house, and having the same chairs and tables, and -looking at exactly the same things every day. Godmamma! I do so want my -room fresh papered. I know every tint of that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23"></a>{23}</span> pattern, till it makes me -quite ill to look at it. Wouldn’t it be a thousand times more reasonable -and like a Christian, if papa would stop giving stupid dinners, and -taking me to stupid parties, and divide all his money with, say, a dozen -poor families, and live in a sweet country cottage? It isn’t enough for -us, you know, to make us great people. But it would be quite enough to -give us all plenty to live upon, the dozen others and ourselves as well. -Don’t you think it would be a great deal more like what a man should do, -than keeping all one’s money to one’s self, like papa?”</p> - -<p>Little Sara grew quite earnest, and her eyes sparkled as she spoke. Her -father laughed inwardly under his breath, and thought it just one of her -vagaries. She divide all her money with her neighbours, the extravagant -little puss in velvet! But don’t suppose Sara was shamming. She was as -thoughtless and as prodigal as ever a child was who knew no better. But -for all that, she could have done it. She could have found out how to do -it. She meant what she said.</p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_VII-a" id="Chapter_VII-a"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter VII.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">“B</span><span class="smcap">UT</span> you are a very foolish, thoughtless, provoking little puss; there -can’t be any mistake about it,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Nothing of the sort, godmamma,” said Sara, “such a quantity of time was -always taken up with that hair of mine; it had to be brushed out at -night, however sleepy I was, and it had to be done I don’t know how many -times a day. Think of wasting hours of one’s time upon one’s hair!”</p> - -<p>“But, my dear child, you have too much time on your hands. Do you ever -do anything in the world, you velvet kitten,” said I.</p> - -<p>“If it was anybody else but you, I should be angry, godmamma,” said -Sara; “but, indeed, I have tried a quantity of things. As for working, -you know I <i>won’t</i> work—I tell everybody<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24"></a>{24}</span> so plainly. What’s the good -of it? I hate crochet and cushions and footstools. If I had some little -children to keep all tidy, there would be some good in it; or if papa -was poor I might mend his stockings—but I won’t work now, whatever -anybody says.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t see any reason why you should not keep some little children -tidy, or mend papa’s stockings either, if you would like it,” said I.</p> - -<p>“If I would <i>like</i> it!” cried Sara, in high wrath and indignation, “as -if that was why I should do it! I don’t think there can be anything more -dreadful in life than always having to do just what one likes. Now, look -here, godmamma; suppose I was to mend papa’s stockings because I liked -it,—oh, how Mary would giggle and laugh and rejoice over me! She <i>has</i> -to do it, and doesn’t like it a bit, you may be sure. And suppose I were -making frocks for poor children, like the Dorcas society, wouldn’t all -the sensible people be on me to say how very much better it would be to -have poor women make them and pay them for their work? I could only do -what it’s other people’s business to do. I have got no business. The -best thing wanted of me is just to sit idle from morning to night and -read novels; and nobody understands me either, not even my dear old -godmamma, which is hardest of all.”</p> - -<p>“But, Sara, if you chose, you could do <i>good</i>; the best thing of all to -do—you could——”</p> - -<p>“Oh stop, stop, godmamma! I can’t do good. I don’t want to do good. I -hate going about and talking to people; and besides, they are all, every -one of them,” said Sara, with tears, half of vexation and half of -sorrow, sparkling in her eyes, “a great deal better than me.”</p> - -<p>I had not a single word to say against this; for indeed, though I said -it, because of course it was the right thing to say, I can’t undertake, -upon my honour, that I thought a spoiled child like Sara Cresswell was -the kind of creature to be much comfort to poor men or poor women -labouring hard in the sorrows of this life.</p> - -<p>“I went once with Miss Fielding from the Rectory. There was one house,” -said Sara, speaking low and getting red, “where they hadn’t so much to -live on for the whole year through as papa had to pay for my -dressmaker’s bill. He had just been worrying me about it that morning, -so I remember. But they weren’t miserable! no more than you are, -godmamma! not one half, nor a quarter, nor a hundredth part so miserable -as I am! And the woman looked so cheerful and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25"></a>{25}</span> <i>right</i> with the baby in -her arms, and all the cleaning to do—I cried and ran off home when I -got out of that house. I was ashamed, just dead ashamed, godmamma, and -nothing else.—Doing good!—oh!—I think if I were the little girl, -coming in to hold the baby, and help to clean, I might get some good -myself. But then nobody will understand me whatever I say. I don’t want -to invent things to ‘employ my time.’ Employing one’s time is about as -bad as improving one’s mind. I want to have something <i>real</i> to do, -something that <i>has</i> to be done and nobody but me to do it; and I don’t -mind in the least whether I should like it or not.”</p> - -<p>“Well, dear,” said I, “you’re not nineteen yet; plenty of time. I dare -say you’ll have your hard work some day or other, and won’t like it any -more than the rest of us. Have patience, it will all come in time.”</p> - -<p>“Then, I suppose,” said Sara, with a little toss of her provoking little -head, “I had better just go to sleep till that time comes.”</p> - -<p>“Well, my love, papa would save a good deal, no doubt, if there were no -dressmaker’s bills. You inconsistent little witch! Here you tell me how -disgusted you are with being a rich man’s daughter and having nothing to -do, yet you cut off your hair to save time, and go on quite composedly -spending as much as would keep a poor family—and more than one poor -family, I suspect—on your dressmaker’s bill. Little Sara, what do you -mean?”</p> - -<p>“The two things have no connection,” said Sara, tossing her head again; -“I never pretended that I wanted to save papa’s money. What’s the good -of it? I like pretty things to wear, and I don’t care the very least in -the world how much money papa has in the bank, or wherever he keeps it. -He told me once it was my own means I was wasting, for, of course, it -would be all mine when he died,” she went on, her eyes twinkling with -proud tears and wounded feeling; “as if <i>that</i> made any difference! But -I’ll tell you what, godmamma. If he was to portion out all the money to -ourselves and so many other people, just enough to live upon, you’d see -how happy I should be in muslin frocks. I know I should! and keep -everything so snug and nice at home.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you deluded little child!” said I; “don’t you know there’s ever so -much <i>nasty</i> work to do, before everything can be nice as we always have -it? Should you like to be a housemaid with your little velvet paws, you -foolish little kitten? You don’t know what you’re saying.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26"></a>{26}</span></p> - -<p>“But I do, though—and I could scratch too,” said the wild little puss, -with a glance out of her black eyes which confounded me. I thought the -child had gone out of her wits altogether. No wonder her poor father -called her contrairy, poor hapless man.</p> - -<p>This conversation took place after dinner, when we two went back to the -drawing-room. Mr. Cresswell had returned to Chester in his brougham, and -Sarah had gone out all by herself for her drive. Perhaps little Sara, -after being so aggravated at dinner, would not have gone with my sister -even had she been asked; but her godmamma did not ask her. Dear, dear, -what a very strange world this is! Poor Sarah chose to go out alone, -driving drearily through the winterly trees and hedges; she chose always -to turn aside from the village, which might have been a little cheerful, -and she never dreamt of calling anywhere, poor soul! I have lived a -quiet life enough, but I could not get on without a smile here and a -word there, and the sight of my fellow-creatures at least. However, I -have no call to censure neighbours, much less my sister. This is how -Sara Cresswell and I had time for our long conversation. I broke it off -short now, thinking it was about time for Sarah to come in.</p> - -<p>“Now little Sara,” said I, “we’ll drop the question what you’re to do as -a general question just now; but your godmamma will be in directly. What -shall you do while you’re here? Should you like to come and set my -papers straight? It’s nice, tiresome, sickening work. It always gives me -a headache, but I can’t trust a servant to do it. I think it’s the very -work for you.”</p> - -<p>“But, dear godmamma, here’s a novel,” said Sara, who was sunk deep in an -easy-chair, and had not the very slightest intention of obeying me, -“just the very one I wanted, and I see by the first chapter that Emily -is my own very favourite heroine. I’ll do it to-morrow, -please—to-morrow morning, not to-day.”</p> - -<p>“But it must be done to-day.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, <i>must</i>! why <i>must</i>? You have only to do what you please—you are -not obliged to keep time like a dressmaker or a clerk,” said Sara, -reading all the while.</p> - -<p>“Oh, you child!” said I; “suppose papa’s dinner was waiting, or his -stockings to mend, would you let them stand till you had finished your -novel? Oh, you deluded little thing, is that the good workwoman you -would be?”</p> - -<p>Before I had finished speaking Sara had started like a little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27"></a>{27}</span> sprite -out of her chair, tossed the novel into the corner of a distant sofa, -and went off like the wind to the library, where I did my business and -kept my papers. I had to hurry after her as quickly as I could. A pretty -job she would have made of it, had she done it alone!</p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_VIII-a" id="Chapter_VIII-a"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter VIII.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span><span class="smcap">F</span> there is one thing I dislike more than another, it is the housemaid, -or even Ellis, meddling with my papers. I don’t scold a great deal, in a -general way, but I will allow that I don’t spare any of them when they -flutter my accounts and receipts about in setting things to rights. So -in the course of nature the things get dusty; and I quite expected to -see poor little Sara grow pale and give in before she was half through -the year’s accounts. But nobody knows the spirit that is in that child. -After she had once roused herself to do it, she held at it without an -idea of yielding. I saw her look now and again at her little toys of -hands, but I took no notice; and on she went at the papers manfully, -putting them in as regular order as I could have done myself. It was not -such a very important business after all, but still it’s a comfort to -see a person set to anything with a will, especially a little spoilt -wilful creature that never had anything to do but her own pleasure all -her life.</p> - -<p>Nearly an hour after we had come into the library somebody came with a -gentle knock to the door; thinking it was Ellis, I said, “Come in,” -without looking up, waiting for him to speak. But while I sat quietly -going on with my business, with Sara close by rustling her papers, I was -quite startled and shaken all at once to hear a voice close by me which -I did not hear half a dozen times in a twelvemonth, the voice of Carson, -Sarah’s maid.</p> - -<p>“Bless me, what’s the matter?” I said, looking up at the sound, being -really too much startled to notice what she said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28"></a>{28}</span></p> - -<p>“Nothing, I hope, ma’am,” said Carson, who was very precise and -particular. “But my missis is not come in, ma’am, from her drive, and I -thought I’d make bold to ask if she was going anywhere as I didn’t -know?”</p> - -<p>“Sarah not come back from her drive?” said I, looking at my watch; “why, -we’ve had lights this half hour, Carson; it’s getting towards five -o’clock.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, ma’am,” said Carson, briefly, not allowing for my surprise, “that -is just what I said.”</p> - -<p>This pulled me up a little, as you may suppose; but I was seriously put -out about Sarah, when I really saw how the matter stood.</p> - -<p>“I know nothing about where she was going. Dear, dear, can anything have -happened?” I cried, getting a little flustered and anxious; then I -jumped up, as was natural, and looked out at the window; though of -course nothing was to be seen there but the shrubbery and a corner of -the flower-garden. “But I can’t think what <i>could</i> have happened either. -The horses are very steady, and Jacob is care itself; besides, we’d have -heard directly if anything had gone wrong. No, no, there can’t have been -any accident. My sister was just in her usual, Carson, eh?”</p> - -<p>“Just in her usual ma’am,” said Carson, like an echo of my voice.</p> - -<p>“Then, dear, what can be the matter? it’s only some accident, of -course,” said I; “I don’t mean accident, only some chance turn out of -the way, or something. Bless me, to think of Sarah out after nightfall! -Why don’t you run out to the road and look for the carriage? Call some -of the people about. Ring the bell, child, can’t you?—or no, sit still, -Sara. I’ll take a peep out at the great gate myself.”</p> - -<p>Saying which, I hurried past Carson, brushing against her, as she did -not keep out of my way, and snatched a cloak out of the hall, and ran to -the gate. It was only twilight out of doors, though we had our lamp -lighted. A nice night, grey, a little frosty, but rather pleasant, with -the lights twinkling out of the windows. I said to myself, “Nothing I -should like better than a brisk walk down to the village; but Sarah, you -know—Sarah’s different.” What could keep her out so late? I can’t say I -was alarmed, but I did get a little uneasy, especially as I saw Ellis -making his way up one road from the gate of the courtyard, and the -houseboy running down another. It was Carson’s doings, no doubt; well, -well! I ought to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29"></a>{29}</span> thankful my sister had a maid that was so fond of -her; but taking things out of my hands in this way, not only made me -angry, as was natural, but flurried me as well.</p> - -<p>As I stood there, however, watching, and thinking I surely heard a sound -of wheels somewhere in the distance, somebody went past me very -suddenly. I could not see where he sprang from, he appeared in such a -sudden unexplainable way. I got quite a fright, and, except that he was -a gentleman, and probably a young one, I could tell nothing more about -the figure that shot across my eyes. Very odd; could he have been hiding -in the bushes? What could he want? Who could it be? I certainly hear the -carriage now, and there comes the houseboy up the road waving his arms -about; but instead of looking for my sister, I looked after this figure -that had passed me. It passed Ellis too, and looked in his face, making -him start, as it appeared to me, and so went straight on, till the road -turned and I could see it no longer. I felt quite as if I had met with -an adventure. Could it be some lover of little Sara’s that had followed -her out here?—or, dear, dear! could it have anything to do with -delaying Sarah’s drive? Just then the carriage came in sight, and I ran -back to the house-door to receive my sister and ask what had detained -her. She stepped out of the carriage, looking paler than her ordinary, -and with that nervous shake in her hands and head, and looked as if she -could quite have clutched hold of Carson, who of course was there to -receive her.</p> - -<p>“Sarah,” cried I, “what in all the world has kept you so long? We were -at our wits’ end, thinking something had happened.”</p> - -<p>“You’ll be glad to see nothing has happened,” said Sarah, in her -whisper, trying hard to be quite composed and like herself as she took -hold of Carson’s arm. “The beauty of the evening, you know, drew me a -little further than I generally go.”</p> - -<p>This she said looking into my face, nay, into my eyes all the time, as -if to defy any suspicions or doubt I might have. Her very determination -to show that there was no other reason, made it quite evident that there -had been something, whatever it was.</p> - -<p>I said nothing of course. I had not the least idea what my own -suspicions pointed at, nor what they were. So it was not likely I should -make any scene, or put it into the servants’ heads to wonder. So I stood -still and asked no more questions, while Sarah passed before me, leaning -on Carson’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30"></a>{30}</span> arm, to go upstairs. It was the most simple and reasonable -thing in the world; why should she not have gone further than she -intended one night in her life? But she did not, that is all.</p> - -<p>When I went back to the library, little Sara, extraordinary to relate, -was sitting exactly where I left her, busy about the papers. The wilful -creature did not seem to have moved during my absence. She was as busy -and absorbed as if there was nothing else to do or think of in the -world. And while we had been all of a flutter looking for Sarah, she, -sitting quiet and undisturbed, had got the greater part of her work -finished.</p> - -<p>“Sara, you unfeeling child,” said I, “were you not anxious about your -godmamma?”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Sara, very simply. “Godmamma Sarah, and coachman Jacob, and -those two fat old horses could surely all take care of each other. I -wasn’t frightened, godmamma. I never heard of any accidents happening to -big old stout carriages and horses like yours. I’ve nearly got my work -done while you’ve been away.”</p> - -<p>This was all the sympathy I got from little Sara. Of course I could no -more have told her the puzzle my mind was in than I could have told the -servants; but still, you know, an intelligent young person might have -guessed by my looks and been a little sympathetic;—though to be sure -there is no use pretending with one’s self. I do believe I liked Sara -twenty times better for taking no notice;—and then, how cleverly the -little kitten had got through her work!</p> - -<p>We saw nothing more of Sarah that night. When it was time for tea, -Carson came down again with missus’s compliments, and she was tired with -her long drive, and would have tea in her own room. I said nothing at -all, but handed her the Times. I don’t doubt Sarah had her tea very snug -in her nice cosy dressing-room, with Carson purring round her and -watching every move she made. I never could manage that sort of thing -for my part. Little Sara and I, however, though her godmamma deserted -us, were very comfortable, on the whole, downstairs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31"></a>{31}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_IX-a" id="Chapter_IX-a"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter IX.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span><span class="smcap">E</span> had both been reading almost all the evening. Sara had her novel, and -I had the Times Supplement, which I am free to confess I like as well as -any other part of the paper. I will not deny that I finished the third -volume before I began to the newspaper; but, to be sure, a novel, after -you are done with it, is an unsatisfactory piece of work; especially if -the evening is only half over, and you have nothing else to begin to. I -sat leaning back in my chair, wandering over the advertisements, and -very ready for a talk. That is just the time, to be sure, when one wants -somebody to talk to. If I had ever been used to the luxury of a -favourite maid when I was young, as Sarah was, I do believe I should -have been in my own cosy room now as well as Sarah, talking everything -over with <i>my</i> Carson. But that is not the way I was brought up, you -see. To be sure, as there was ten years of difference between us, nobody -had ever looked for me, and Sarah had got quite settled in her heiress -ways before I was born. When I was young, I used to think it a sad pity -for everybody’s sake that I ever was born, especially after my mother -died; however, I changed my views upon that subject a good many years -ago. Yet here I sat looking all over the advertisements, and keeping an -eye on Sara to see if there was any hope of getting a little -conversation out of her. Alas! she was all lapped up and lost in her -novel. She thought no more of me than of Sarah’s empty chair. Ah! novels -are novels when people are young. I looked at the poor dear child, and -admired and smiled at her over the top of the newspaper. If I had been a -cabbage, Sara could not have taken less notice of me.</p> - -<p>At last she suddenly exclaimed out loud—at something she was reading, -of course—“I declare!” as if she had made a discovery, and then stopped -short and looked up at me with a sort of challenge, as if defying me to -guess what she was thinking of. Then, seeing how puzzled I looked, Sara -laughed, but reddened a little as well, to my amazement; and finally, -not without the least little touch of confusion, explained herself. To -be sure it was quite voluntary, and yet a little unwilling too.</p> - -<p>“There’s something here exactly like the Italian gentleman; he that -people talk so much about in Chester, you know.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32"></a>{32}</span></p> - -<p>“I never knew there was an Italian gentleman in Chester. What a piece of -news! and you never told me,” said I.</p> - -<p>“He only came about a fortnight ago,” said Sara. “It looks quite -romantic, you know, godmamma, which is the only reason <i>I</i> have heard -anything about it. He came quite in great style to the Angel, and said -he was coming to see some friends, and asked all about whether anybody -knew where the Countess Sermoneta lived. You may be quite sure nobody -had ever heard of such a name in Chester. I heard it all from Lucy -Wilde, who had heard it from her brother, who is always playing -billiards and things at the Angel—Harry Wilde——”</p> - -<p>“That is the poor young man who——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, dear godmamma, don’t bother! let one go on with one’s story. Harry -Wilde says the Italian came down among them, asking everybody about this -Countess Sermoneta, and looking quite bewildered when he found that -nobody knew her; but still he was quite lively, and thought it must be -some mistake, and laughed, and made sure that this was really <i>Chestare</i> -he had come to, and not any other place. But next day, people say, he -sent for the landlord and asked all about the families in the -neighbourhood, and all of a sudden grew quite grave and serious, and -soon after took lodgings in Watergate, and has been seen going about the -streets and the walls so much since that everybody knows him. He speaks -English quite well—people say so, I mean—and he has a servant with -him, the funniest-looking fat fellow you ever saw; no more like a proper -Italian servant in a play or a novel than I am; and he calls himself -just Mr. Luigi; and that, of course, you know, must be only his -Christian name.”</p> - -<p>“Nay, indeed, Sara, I don’t know anything about it. There is nothing at -all Christianlike in the name, so far as I can see.”</p> - -<p>“Well then, <i>I</i> know, godmamma, which is all the same,” cried the -impatient little creature; “but then, to be sure, our old Signor Valetti -used to tell us they never minded their family names in Italy; and that -people might be next-door neighbours for ever so long and never know -each other’s surnames. Isn’t it pretty? especially when they have pretty -Christian names, as all the Italians have.”</p> - -<p>“My dear, if you think Looegee pretty, I don’t,” said I. “Take my word -for it, there is nothing like the sensible English names. I’ve had a -good deal of experience, and I don’t like your romantic foreigners. For -my part, I don’t like<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33"></a>{33}</span> people that have a story. People have no right to -have stories, child. If you do your duty honestly, and always tell the -truth, and never conceal anything, you can’t get up a romance about -yourself. As for this Italian fellow and his name——”</p> - -<p>“I don’t believe he’s a fellow any more than you are, godmamma,” cried -Sara, quite indignantly; “people should know before they condemn; and -his name is just plain Lewis when it’s put into English. I did not think -you were so prejudiced, indeed I did not—or I never would have told you -anything at all about the poor count——”</p> - -<p>“Heaven preserve us! he’s a count, is he?” said I. “And what do you know -about him, Sara Cresswell, please, that you would quarrel with your own -godmother for his sake?”</p> - -<p>Sara did not speak for a few minutes, looking very flushed and angry. At -last, after a good fight with herself, she started up and threw her arms -round my neck. “Dear godmamma, I wouldn’t quarrel with you for anybody -in the world,” cried the little impulsive creature. Then she stopped and -gave a little toss of her head. “But whatever anybody says, I know it’s -<i>quite</i> right to feel kind to the poor Italian gentleman, a stranger, -and solitary, and disappointed! I do wonder at your people, -godmamma—you people who pretend to do what’s in the Bible. You’re just -as hard upon strangers and as ready to take up a prejudice as anybody -else.”</p> - -<p>“I never pretended not to be prejudiced,” said I; “it’s natural to a -born Englishwoman. And as for your foreign counts, that come sneaking -into people’s houses to marry their daughters and run off with the -money——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, if it is that you are thinking of, godmamma,” cried Sara with great -dignity, sitting quite bolt upright in her chair, “you are totally -mistaken, I assure you. I never spoke to the gentleman in my life; and -besides,” she went on, getting very red and vehement, “I never will -marry anybody, I have quite made up my mind; so, if you please, -godmamma, whatever you choose to say about poor Mr. Luigi, <i>whom you -don’t know anything about</i>, I hope you will be good enough not to draw -me into any stupid story about marrying—I quite hate talk of that -kind.”</p> - -<p>I was so thunderstruck that I quite called out—“You impertinent little -puss,” said I, “is that how you dare to talk to your godmother!” I -declare I do not think I ever was put down so all my life before. I gave -her a good sound lecture, as anybody will believe, about the proper -respect she owed to her friends and seniors, telling her that I was very -much afraid<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34"></a>{34}</span> she was in a bad way; and that, however her father, who -spoiled her, might let her talk, she ought to know better than to set up -her little saucy face like that in our house. I said a great deal to the -little provoking creature. I am sure she never saw me so angry before, -though she has been a perfect plague and tease all her days. But do you -think she would give in, and say she was sorry? Not if it had been to -save her life! She sat looking down on her book, opening and shutting it -upon her hand, her little delicate nostril swelling, her red upper lip -moving, her foot going pat-pat on the carpet, but never owning to be in -the wrong or making the least apology. After I had done and taken up my -paper again, pretending to be very busy with it, she got up and rummaged -out the other volume of the novel, and came to me to say good-night, -holding out her hand and stooping down her cheek, meaning me to kiss -her, the saucy little puss! As she was in my house, and a guest, and her -first night, I did kiss her, without looking at her. It was a regular -quarrel; and so she too went off to her own room. So here I was all -alone, very angry, and much disposed to launch out upon the servants or -somebody. Contrairy indeed! I should think so! I wonder how that poor -old Bob Cresswell can put up with his life. If she were mine I would -send her off to school, for all so accomplished as they say she is.</p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_X-a" id="Chapter_X-a"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter X.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span> <span class="smcap">HAD</span> not a very good night after these troubles: somehow one’s sleep -goes from one more easily when one grows old; and I kept dreaming all -the night through of my sister and little Sara, and something they were -concealing from me, mixing them both up together in my mind. I rose very -uneasy and excited, not a bit refreshed, as one should feel in the -morning. One thing very strange I have noticed all my life in dreams. -Though never a single <i>thing</i> that one dreams<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35"></a>{35}</span> should ever come true, -the feeling one has comes true somehow. I don’t know whether anybody -will understand me. I have had friends in my young days, whom I thought -a great deal upon, that did not prove true to me. And I have remarked, -often long before I found them out, however fond or trustful in them I -was through the day, I was always uneasy in my dreams, always finding -out something wrong or meeting some unkindness—which makes me have a -great confidence, not in what you would call <i>dreams</i>, you know, but in -the sentiment of dreams, if you can understand what I mean. I woke up -very unrefreshed, as I say; and got dressed and came downstairs as soon -as it was daylight, though I knew well enough I should find nobody -there. My sister always breakfasted in her own room, and Sara was late -of coming down at the best of times; however, I got some letters about -business, which were perhaps the best things I could have had. They put -me off minding my quarrel with little Sara, or trying to find out what -had kept Sarah so late on her drive.</p> - -<p>I had nearly finished breakfast when little Sara came downstairs. She -came up to me just as she had done the night before, holding out her -hand and stooping down her cheek to be kissed, but not looking at me. I -kissed her, the provoking puss, and poured out her coffee. And after ten -minutes or so we got on chatting just as usual, which was a relief to -me, for I don’t like apologies and explanations. I never could bear -them. Little Sara, after she had got over feeling a little awkward and -stiff, as people always do when they have been wrong, was just in her -ordinary. She was used to affront people and to have them come to again, -the little wicked creature—I am afraid she did not mind.</p> - -<p>This little quarrel had put Sarah a good deal out of my mind, I must -allow, but I got back to being anxious about her directly when I saw her -come down-stairs. I can’t tell what the change upon her was—she did not -look older or paler, or anything that you could put plainly in -words—she was just as particularly dressed, and had her silver-white -curls as nice, and her cap as pretty as usual, but she was not the same -as she had been yesterday; certainly there was some change. Not to speak -of that little nervous motion of her head and hands, which was greater -to-day than ever I had seen it, there was a strange vigilance and -watchfulness in her look which I don’t remember to have ever seen there -before. She looked me very full in the face, I remember with a sort of -daring defying openness, and the same to little Sara, though, of course -what<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36"></a>{36}</span> could the child know? All over, down to her very hands, as she -went on with her knitting, there was a kind of self-consciousness that -had a very odd effect upon me. I could not tell what in the world to -think of it. And as for supposing that some mere common little accident, -or a fright, or anything outside of herself, had woke her up to that -look, you need not tell me. I have not lived fifty years in this world -for nothing. I knew better. Whatever it was that changed Sarah’s look, -the causes of it were deep down and secret in herself.</p> - -<p>It was this of course that made me anxious and almost alarmed, for I -could not but think she must have something on her mind to make her look -so. And when she beckoned to me that afternoon after dinner, as she did -when she had anything particular to say, I confess my heart went thump -against my breast, and I trembled all over. However, I went close up as -usual, and drew my chair towards her that I might hear. Little Sara was -close by. She could hear too if she pleased, but Sarah took no notice of -the child.</p> - -<p>“Have you heard anything from Cresswell about Richard Mortimer?” Sarah -asked me quite sharply all at once.</p> - -<p>“Why, no: he did not say anything yesterday when he was here. Did <i>you</i> -have any conversation with him?”</p> - -<p>“<i>I!</i> Do I have any conversation with any one?” said Sarah, in her -bitter way. “I want you to bestir yourself about this business, however. -We must have an heir.”</p> - -<p>“It is odd how little I have thought about it since that day—very odd,” -said I; “and I was quite in earnest before. I wondered if Providence -might, maybe, have taken it up now? I have seen such a thing: one falls -off one’s anxiety somehow, one can’t tell how; and lo! the reason is, -that the thing’s coming about all naturally without any help from you. -We’ll be having the heir dropped down at the park gates some of these -days, all as right and natural as ever was.”</p> - -<p>I said this without thinking much about it; just because it was an idea -of mine, that most times, when God lays a kind of lull upon our -anxieties and struggles, it really turns out to be because He himself is -taking them in hand; but having said this easy and calm, without -anything particular in my mind, you may judge how I was startled half -out of my wits by Sarah dashing down her knitting-pin out of her hand, -stamping her foot on the footstool, and half screaming out in her sharp, -strangled whisper, that sounded like the very voice of rage itself— -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37"></a>{37}</span> -“The fool! the fool! oh, the fool! Shall I be obliged to leave my home -and my seclusion and do it myself? I that might have been so different! -Good God! shall <i>I</i> be obliged to do it—<i>me</i>! When I was a young girl I -might have hoped to die a duchess,—everybody said so,—and now, instead -of being cared for and shielded from the envious world,—people were -always envious of me since ever I remember,—must I go trudging out to -find this wretched cousin? Is this all the gratitude and natural feeling -you have? Good heaven! to put such a thing upon me!”</p> - -<p>She stopped, all panting and breathless, like a wild creature that had -relieved itself somehow with a yell or a cry; but, strange, strange, at -that moment Ellis opened the door. I will never think again she does not -hear. The sound caught her in a moment. Her passion changed into that -new watching look quicker than I can tell; and she sat with her eyes -fixed upon me,—for, poor soul, to be sure she could not see through the -screen behind her to find out what Ellis came for,—as if she could have -killed me for the least motion. I got so excited myself that I could -hardly see the name on the card Ellis brought in. Sarah’s looks, not to -say her words, had put it so clearly in my mind that something was going -to happen, that my self-possession almost forsook me. I let the card -flutter down out of my hand when I lifted it off the tray, and did not -hear a single syllable of what the man was saying till he had repeated -it all twice over. It was only a neighbour who had sent over to ask for -Miss Mortimer, having heard somehow that Sarah was poorly. She heard him -herself, however, and gave an answer—her compliments, and she was quite -well—before I knew what it was all about. If she had boxed me well she -could not have muddled my head half so much as she had done now. When -Ellis went away again, and left me alone close by her, I quite shook in -my chair.</p> - -<p>But she had got over her rage as it seemed. She stooped down to pick up -her knitting-pin—with a little pettish exclamation that nobody helped -her now-a-days—just in her usual way, and took up the dropt stitches in -her knitting. But I could very well see that her hand trembled. As she -did not say any more, I thought I might venture to draw back my chair. -But when she saw the motion she started, looked up at me, and held up -her hand. I was not to get so easily away.</p> - -<p>“I had no idea you minded it so much. Well, well, Sarah,” cried I, in -desperation, “I will write this moment to urge Mr. Cresswell on.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38"></a>{38}</span></p> - -<p>“And shout it all out, please, that the child may hear!” said Sarah, -with a spiteful look as if she could bite me. I was actually afraid of -her. I got up as fast as I could, and went off to the writing-table at -the other end of the room. There was nothing I would not do to please -her in a rational way; but, of all the vagaries she ever took up before, -what did this dreadful passion mean?</p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_XI-a" id="Chapter_XI-a"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter XI.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><span class="smcap">HE</span> next day I had something to do in the village, which was only about -half a mile from the Park gates; but little Sara, when I asked her to go -with me, had got some piece of business to her fancy in the greenhouse, -and was not disposed to leave it, so I went off by myself. I went in, as -I passed the lodge, to ask for little Mary Williams, who had a cough -which I quite expected would turn to hooping-cough, though her mother -would not believe it (I turned out to be right, of course). Mrs. -Williams was rather in a way, poor body, that morning. Mary was worse -and worse, with a flushed face and shocking cough, and nothing would -please her mother but that it was inflammation, and the child would die. -It is quite the strangest thing in the world, among those sort of -people, how soon they make up their minds that their children are to -die. I scolded her well, which did her good, and promised her the -liniment we always have for hooping-cough, and said I should bring up a -picture-book for the child (it’s a good little thing when it is well) -from the new little shop in the village. This opened up, as I found out, -quite a new phase of poor Williams’ trouble.</p> - -<p>“I wouldn’t encourage it ma’am, no sure, I wouldn’t, not for a hundred -picture-books. I wouldn’t go for to set up them as ’tices men out of -their houses and lads fro’ home. No! I seen enough of that when poor old -Williams was alive, and we was all in Liverpool. It’s all as one as the -public-houses, ma’am. I can’t see no difference. Williams, it was his -chapell; and the boy, it’s his night-school and his reading. I don’t see -no good<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39"></a>{39}</span> of it. In the old man’s time, many’s the weary night I’ve sat -by mysel’ mending their bits o’ things, and never a soul to cheer me up; -and now, look’ee here, the boy’s tooken to it; and if I’m to lose -Mary——”</p> - -<p>“You ridiculous woman,” cried I, while the poor creature fell sobbing -and took to her apron, “what’s to make you lose Mary? The child’s going -in for hooping-cough, as sure ever child was, and I see no reason in the -world why she shouldn’t get over it nicely, with the spring coming on as -well. Don’t fret; trouble comes soon enough without going out of the way -to meet it. What’s all this story you’ve been telling me about poor -Willie, and the shop in the village, and the night-school? Don’t you -know, you foolish woman, the night-school may be the making of the boy?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know nothink about it, ma’am, nor I don’t want to know,” said -our liberal-minded retainer. “I know it takes the boy out o’ the house -most nights in the week; and I sits a-thinking upon my troubles, and -listening to all the sounds in the trees, sometimes moidered and -sometimes scared. I’d clear away thankful any night, even washing night, -when I’m folding for the mangle, to have him write his copy at home; and -have a hearth-stone for him, though I say it as shouldn’t, as bright as -a king’s. But he’s a deal grander nor the like o’ that, he is—he’ll -stay and read the papers and talk. Bother their talk and their papers! I -ask you, ma’am, wouldn’t Willie be a deal better at home?”</p> - -<p>“I shouldn’t say but what I might perhaps think so too,” said I; “but -then the gentlemen say not, and they should know best.”</p> - -<p>“The gentlemen! and there’s another worry, sure,” said Mrs. Williams; -“who would you think, ma’am, has been in the village, but a Frenchman, -a-spying all about, and asking questions; and had the impudence to come -to my very door, to the very park gates, to ask if I knowed a lady with -a French name that was here or hereabout. I answered him short, and said -I knew nothink about the French, and shut the door in his face, begging -your pardon, ma’am; for, to be sure, he was after no good, coming asking -for outlandish ladies here.”</p> - -<p>“Very odd,” said I, “I hope it’s no robber, Williams. You were quite -right to shut the door in his face.”</p> - -<p>“And if I might make so bold,” said Williams, coming closer and speaking -low, “Jacob, he maintains it was a French fellow with a mustache that -scared Miss Sarah the day afore yesterday. Jacob seen him, but took no -notice; and directly after<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40"></a>{40}</span> Miss Sarah up and pulled the string, and -told him to drive round by Eden Castle, a good five-mile round, and to -go quick. You may depend Miss Sarah took him for a robber, or somethink; -and I’m dead sure it was the same man.”</p> - -<p>I was very much startled by this, though I could scarcely tell why; but, -of course, I would not let Williams suppose there was any mystery in it. -“Very likely,” said I; “my sister goes out so little, she’s timid—but I -am losing my time. Good-bye, little Mary, I’ll fetch you your -picture-book; and be sure you rub her chest well with the liniment. I -have always found it successful, and I’ve tried it for ten years.”</p> - -<p>When I had fairly got out of the lodge, I went along without losing any -more time, wonderfully puzzled in my own mind. Here was a riddle I could -neither understand nor find any key to. After hearing little Sara’s -tale, and all she had to say about the Italian, there was nothing so -surprising in finding him out here, if it should happen to be him, -seeing the park was only a few miles from Chester; only that Sara showed -more interest in him than she had any call to do, and if he should -happen to be coming after <i>her</i>, it was a thing that should be looked -to. But why, in all the world, should <i>Sarah</i> be agitated by the sight -of him? <i>That</i> was the extraordinary circumstance. As for supposing her -to be alarmed at the idea of a robber, that, of course, was the merest -folly, and I never entertained the idea for a moment. But if this were -not the reason, what could the reason be? I was entirely lost in -bewilderment and consternation. Could it be the mere passing face of a -stranger which made her so deeply anxious as to the name of the visitor -who called next day, and the entrance of Ellis with the card? How, in -all the world, could a wandering Italian, seeking or pretending to seek -for somebody no one had ever heard of, make any difference to Sarah? The -more I turned it over the more I was mystified. I could not even guess -at any meaning in it; but to drive five miles round out of her way, to -be so excited all at once about the heir of the Mortimers, and to have -got such a strange, watchful, vigilant look on her face, these changes -could not come from nothing: but I had not the merest shadow of a clue -to guide me in connecting little Sara’s Italian, if it was he, with my -sister Sarah’s agitation and excitement. I stopped short at this, and -could not go a step further; if there was any connection between the -two—if there was nothing else to account for Sarah’s trouble which I -did not know of—then the whole affair was the most extraordinary -mystery I ever came across.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41"></a>{41}</span></p> - -<p>I walked pretty smartly down to the village while I was occupied with -these thoughts. A nice little village ours was, though I can’t really -say whether you would have called it picturesque. A little bit of a -thread of a stream ran along the lower edge of the common, and found its -way somehow, all by itself, little thing as it was, down to the Dee. At -that time of year the common was rather chilly to look at, the grass and -the gorse bushes being a good bit blackened by frost, which had set in -pretty sharply. I remember noticing, as I passed, that Dame Marsden, -whose cottage is the first you come to on the left-hand side, just on -the edge of the common, had her washing out, some of the things, after -the line was full, being spread on the gorse, and that the shirts were -lying there with their stiff white arms stuck out like pokers, as hard -with the frost as if they had been made of wood. But after you pass the -first few cottages, which just lie here and there, you come to a snug -bit of street, with the Rectory garden and a peep of the house on one -side, and the doctor’s house staring straight at it across the road; and -the other better houses of the village thrusting forward on both sides, -as if to take care of the aristocracy, and keep them cosy. Just before -you come to the doctor’s was the new shop I had spoken of at the lodge. -It was got up by the doctor, and was going to be a failure. It had all -kinds of cheap books and papers, and of all things in the world, a -reading room! And the shopkeeper, who was rather a smart young fellow, -taught a night school after the shop was over. I dare to say it wasn’t a -bad place; but, of course, in a bit of a rural village like ours, it was -easy to see it would never succeed.</p> - -<p>Into this shop, however, I went to get little Mary Williams her -picture-book; and I can’t but say I was very much struck and surprised -to see a stranger standing there whom I had never seen before, and to -hear roars of laughter coming out of the shop and drawing the children -about the door. The stranger was one of the fattest men I ever saw: not -that he was dreadfully big or unwieldy,—on the contrary, he was -spinning about on his toes in a way that would have been a trial to the -lightest Englishman. His fatness was so beautifully distributed that it -was amazing to see. His arms in the coat-sleeves which fitted them like -the covers of a cushion, his short plump fingers, all were in perfect -keeping. As for his face, that was nearly lost in beard. When I entered -the shop he had seized his beard with one of his fat hands, in the -warmth of his monologue; for he was talking, I have no<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42"></a>{42}</span> doubt, in a very -animated and lively manner, if any one could have understood a word of -what he said. Now, I confess I felt a good deal of sympathy with the -poor fellow; for I remember quite well the only time I ever was abroad -feeling an odd sort of conviction that if I only spoke very clear, -plain, distinct English, and spoke loud enough, people, after a while, -must come to understand me. When he saw me he made a spin clean out of -my way, took off the queer hat he had on, made me a bow, and stopped -talking till I had done my business; which was the most civil thing I -had seen in a stranger for many a day. And the face was such a jolly, -honest sort of face that, in spite of my prejudice against foreigners, I -felt quite disarmed all at once.</p> - -<p>“Who is he? What is he saying?” said I to the shop-people.</p> - -<p>“Goodness knows!” cried old Mrs. Taylor, the shopkeeper’s mother. “I -know no more on’t nor if it was a dog. Lord, Miss Milly! to think of -poor creatures brought up from their cradles to talk sich stuff as -that!”</p> - -<p>“I was brought up at a grammar-school, ma’am,” said young Taylor -himself, with a blush; “where it isn’t modern languages, you know, -ma’am, that’s the great thing; and, though I know the grammar, I’m not -very well up in my French.”</p> - -<p>Here his little sister, who had kept nudging him all this time, suddenly -whispered, with her face growing crimson, “Oh, Alfred! ask Miss -Milly!—to be sure she knows.”</p> - -<p>And, to tell the truth, though I knew I could never keep up a -conversation, I had been privately conning over in my own mind a little -scrap of French, though whether he was French or not I knew no more than -Jenny Taylor. So I faced round boldly enough, not being afraid of any -criticism, and fired off my interrogation at the good-humoured fat -fellow. He looked so blank after I had spoken that it was quite apparent -he did not understand a word of it. He made a profusion of bows. He -entered into a long and animated explanation, which sent Jenny Taylor -into fits of laughter, and filled her mother with commiseration. But I -caught two words, and these confounded me. The first was “Italiano,” -over and over repeated; the second which he pronounced, pointing out to -the street with many lively gestures, was “padrone.” I comprehended the -matter all at once, and it made my heart beat. This was the servant whom -little Sara had described, and the master, the “padrone,” was in the -village pursuing his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43"></a>{43}</span> extraordinary inquiries, whatever they were, here. -For the moment I could not help being agitated; I felt, I cannot explain -why, as if I were on the eve of finding out something. I asked him -eagerly, in English, where his master was; and again received a voluble -and smiling answer, I have no doubt in very good Italian. Then we shook -our heads mutually and laughed, neither quite convinced that the other -could not understand if he or she would. But the end was that I got my -picture-book and left the shop without ascertaining anything about the -padrone. Perhaps it was just as well. Why should I go and thrust myself -into mysteries and troubles which did not make any call upon me?</p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_XII-a" id="Chapter_XII-a"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter XII.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span> <span class="smcap">HAD</span> a good many little errands in the village, and stayed there for -some time. It was dusk when I turned to go home. Very nice the village -looks at dusk, I assure you—the rectory windows beginning to shine -through the trees, and the doctor’s dining-room answering opposite as if -by a kind of reflection; but no lamps or candles lighted yet in the -other village houses, only the warm glow of the fire shining through the -little muslin blind on the geraniums in the window; and, perhaps, the -mother standing at the door to look out for the boys at play, or to see -if it is time for father’s coming home. Dame Marsden’s shirts were still -lying stiff and stark like ghosts upon the gorse bushes; and some of the -early labourers began to come tramping heavily down the road with their -long, slow, heavy steps. I had just stopped to ask James Hobson for his -old father, when my share of the adventure came. I call it the -adventure, because I suppose, somehow, we were all in it—Sarah, little -Sara Cresswell, and me.</p> - -<p>Just when that good Jem had gone on—such a fellow he is, too! keeps his -old father like a prince!—another sort of a figure appeared before the -light; and, bless me, to think I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44"></a>{44}</span> should have forgotten that -circumstance!—of course it was the same figure that started so suddenly -past me that evening when I stood looking for Sarah at the gate. He took -off his hat to me, in the half light, and stopped. I stopped also, I -cannot tell why. So far as I could see, a handsome young man, not so -dark as one expects to see an Italian, and none of that sort of French -showman look—you know what I mean—that these sort of people generally -have: on the contrary, a look very much as if he were a gentleman; only, -if I may say it, more innocent, more like a child in his ways than the -young men are now-a-days. I did not see all this just in a moment, you -may be sure. Indeed, I rather felt annoyed and displeased when the -stranger stopped me on the road—my own road, that seemed to belong to -me as much as the staircase or corridor at home. If he had not been -possessed of a kind of ingratiating, conciliatory sort of manner, as -these foreigners mostly have, I should scarcely have given him a civil -answer, I do believe.</p> - -<p>“Pardon, Madame”—not <i>Madam</i>, you perceive, which is the stiffest, -ugliest word that can be used in English—and I can’t make out how, by -putting an e to the end of it, and laying the emphasis on the last -syllable, it can be made so deferential and full of respect as the -French word sounds to English ears—“pardon, Madame; I was taking the -liberty to make inquiries in your village, and when I am so fortunate as -to make an encounter with yourself, I think it a very happy accident. -Will Madame permit me to ask her a question; only one,—it is very -important to me?”</p> - -<p>“Sir,” said I, being a little struck with his language, and still more -with his voice, which seemed to recall to me some other voice I had once -known, “you speak very good English.”</p> - -<p>His hat was off again, of course, in a moment to acknowledge the -compliment; but dark as it was, I could neither overlook nor could I in -the least understand, the singular, half pathetic, melancholy look he -gave me as he answered. “I had an English mother,” said the young -foreigner; and he looked at me in the darkness, and in my complete -ignorance of him, as if somehow I, plain Millicent Mortimer, a single -woman over fifty, and living among my own people, either knew something -about his mother, or had done her an injury, or was hiding her up -somewhere, or I don’t know what. I could not tell anybody how utterly -confounded and thunderstruck I was. I had nearly screamed out: “I? What -do I know about your mother?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45"></a>{45}</span> so much impression did it have on me. -After all it is wonderful how these foreigners do talk in this underhand -sort of way with their eyes. I declare I do not so much wonder at the -influence they often get over young creatures. That sort of thing is -wonderfully impressive to the imagination.</p> - -<p>He paused quite in a natural, artful sort of way, to let the look have -its full effect; and he must have seen I was startled too; for though I -was old enough to have been his mother, I was, of course, but a plain -Englishwoman, and had no power over my face.</p> - -<p>“Madame,” said the stranger with a little more vehemence, and a motion -of his arm which looked as if he might fall into regular gesticulating, -just what disgusts one most, “to find the Countess Sermoneta is the -object of my life!”</p> - -<p>“I am very sorry I can’t help you,” said I, quite restored to myself by -this, which I was, so to speak, prepared for; “I never heard of such a -person; there’s no one of that name in this quarter, nor hasn’t been, I -am sure, these thirty years.”</p> - -<p>Seeing I was disposed to push past, my new acquaintance stood aside, and -took off again that everlasting hat.</p> - -<p>“I will not detain Madame,” he said in a voice that, I confess, rather -went to my heart a little, as if I had been cruel to him; “but Madame -will not judge hardly of my case. I came to find one whom I thought I -had but to name; and I find her not, nor her name, nor any sign that she -was ever here. Yet I must find her, living or dead; I made it a promise -to my father on his death-bed. Madame will not wonder if I search, ask, -look everywhere; I cannot do otherwise. Pardon that I say so much; I -will detain Madame no more.”</p> - -<p>And so he stood aside with another salute. Still he took off his hat -like a gentleman—no sort of flourish—a little more distinctly raised -from his head, perhaps, than people do now-a-days; but nothing in bad -taste; and just in proportion to his declaration that he would not -detain me, I grew, if I must confess it, more and more willing to be -detained. I did not go on when he stood out of my way, but rather fell a -little back, and turned more towards him than I had yet done. Dame -Marsden had just lighted her lamp, and it cast a sort of glimmery, -uncertain light upon the face of my new acquaintance; undeniably a -handsome young man. I like good-looking people wherever I find them; and -that was not all. Somehow, through his beard—which I daresay people who -like such appendages would have thought quite handsome—there seemed to -me to look, by glimpses, some face I had known long ago; and his voice,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46"></a>{46}</span> -foreign as it was, had a tone, just an occasional indescribable note, -which reminded me of some other voice, I could not tell whom belonging -to. It was very strange; and one forgets stories that one has no -personal interest in. Did I ever hear of any country person that had -married an Italian? for somehow I had jumped to the conclusion that it -was his mother he sought.</p> - -<p>“It is very odd,” said I, “I can fancy I have heard a voice like yours -somewhere long ago. I seem to feel as if I knew you. I don’t remember -ever hearing the name you want; but I’ll consult my sister and an old -servant we have, and try to find out,—Sermoneta! I certainly do not -recollect ever hearing the name. But it is very sad you should be so -disappointed. If you will come to the Park some day next week and ask -for Miss Millicent, I will do my best to find out for you if anybody -knows the name.”</p> - -<p>He made a great many exclamations of thanks, which, to be sure, I could -have dispensed with, and paused a little again in a hesitating way when -I wanted to go on. At last he began quite in a new tone; and this was -the oddest part of all.</p> - -<p>“If Madame should find, on inquiring, that the bearer of this name did -not <i>will</i> to bear it; if there might be reasons to conceal that -name;—if the lady, who is the Contessa, would but see me, would but let -me know——”</p> - -<p>“Sir,” said I, interrupting the young fellow all at once, “is it an -<i>English</i> lady you are speaking of? English ladies do not conceal their -names. Reason or not, we own to the name that belongs to us in <i>this</i> -country. No, no, I know nothing about such a possibility. I don’t -believe in it either. If I can hear of a Countess Sermoneta, I’ll let -you know; but as for anybody denying their own name, you must not think -such things happen here. Good night. You’re not accustomed to England, I -can see. You must not think me impatient; but that’s not how we do -things in our country. Come to the Park, all the same; and I shall do -what I can to find out whether anybody remembers what you want to know.”</p> - -<p>This time he did not make any answer, only drew back a step, and so got -quite out of the light of Dame Marsden’s window. He seemed to be -silenced by what I had said, and I went on quite briskly, a little -stimulated, I confess, by that little encounter, and the exertion of -breaking my spear for English honour. Denying one’s name, indeed! Of -course we have our faults like other people; but who ever heard of an -English person (not speaking of thieves, or such creatures,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47"></a>{47}</span> of course), -denying his name! The thing was quite preposterous. It quite warmed me -up as I hastened back to the Park, though I was rather later than usual, -and the night had fallen dark all at once; and, to be sure, this kept me -from all those uncomfortable ideas—that perhaps, it might be a -deception after all; and what if it were a contrivance to be admitted to -the Park? and it might, even, for anything I know, be all a -fortune-hunter’s device to get introduced to Sara Cresswell—which -disturbed my mind sadly, though I felt much ashamed of them after I had -time for reflection at home.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48"></a>{48}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="PART_II" id="PART_II"></a>PART II.<br /><br /> -THE LIEUTENANT’S WIFE.</h2> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_I-b" id="Chapter_I-b"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter I.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span> <span class="smcap">WILL</span> tell you exactly how it all happened.</p> - -<p>I have been an orphan all my life; at least, if that is a little Irish, -I mean that I never knew, or saw, that I know of, either my father or my -mother. Sad enough in the best of cases, and mine was not the best case -you could think of. I don’t know who paid for me when I was a child. -Some of mamma’s relations, I suppose, among them; and of all people in -the world to trust a poor little orphan child to, think of fixing upon a -soldier’s wife, following the regiment! That is how I have always been -half a soldier myself; and one reason, perhaps, if any reason was -necessary but his dear, good, tender-hearted self, why I was so ready, -when Harry asked me, to do the most foolish thing in the world.</p> - -<p>Though I say they made a strange choice in leaving me with dear Nurse -Richards, I don’t mean that it was not, so far as the woman was -concerned, the very best choice that possibly could have been made. -Richards himself was a sergeant, and she was quite a superior woman; but -much more to the purpose than that, she had been my very own nurse, -having taken me when poor mamma died. She had lost her baby, and I had -lost my mother; and it was for real love, and not for hire, that Nurse -Richards took the charge of me. She used to work hard, and deny herself -many things, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49"></a>{49}</span> know, to keep the little house, or the snug lodgings we -always had, as far off from the barracks as Richards would allow them to -be. I know she could not possibly have had enough money for me to make -up for what she spent on my account; but I don’t think it was hard to -her, working and sparing for the poor orphan little girl. I know such -things by my own experience now. It was sweet to her to labour, and -contrive, and do a hundred things I knew nothing about, for “the -child’s” sake. I would do it all over again, and thankful, for her sake. -Ah, that I would! Pain and trouble are sweet for those one loves.</p> - -<p>She did her duty by me too, if ever woman did. She never would let me -forget that I was a lady, as she said. She used to lecture me by the -hour about many a thing being fit enough for the other children which -was not becoming for me, till I came to believe her as children do, and -gave myself little airs as was natural. I got no education, to be sure, -but reading and writing, and needlework, and how to do most things about -a house. So far as I have gone into life yet it has been a very good -education to me. I don’t doubt much more serviceable than if I had been -at boarding-school, as poor Aunt Connor used to lament, and wish I had; -but it was a sad wandering life for all that. We were in Edinburgh the -first that I can recollect. I remember as clear as possible, as if it -were in a dream, the great Castle Rock standing high up out of the town, -and whatever was ado in the skies, sunshine, or moonlight, or clouds, or -a thunder-storm, or whatever was going on, always taking that for its -centre, as I imagined. I could fancy still, if I shut my eyes, that I -saw the grey building up high in the blue air, with the lights twinkling -in the windows half way up to the stars; and heard the trumpet pealing -out with a kind of wistful sound, bringing images to me, a soldier’s -child, of men straying about, lost among the darkling fields, or -bewildered in the streets, when the recall sounded far up over their -heads in that calm inaccessible height. I see that very Castle Rock now -again, not in imagination, but with my real eyes. It is just the same as -ever, though I am so very different. It is my first love, and I am loyal -to it. Not being of any country, for I am <i>some</i> Irish, and some Welsh, -and some Scotch, and Harry is a pure thorough-bred Englishman, I can -quite afford to be in love with Edinburgh Castle. The regiment went to -Swansea after it left Edinburgh, and then to Belfast, and we were in -dreadful terror of being sent to Canada, where Nurse Richards declared<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50"></a>{50}</span> -she never would take “the child.” However, it never came to trying. At -Belfast, dear tender soul, she died. Ah me! ah me! I could not think how -the kind Lord could leave me behind, so wretched as I was; but He knew -better than I did. I was only fifteen; I humbly hope, now I’m twenty, I -have a great deal more yet to do in the world. But I thought of nothing -then except only what a comfort it would be to slip into the coffin -beside her and be laid down quietly in her grave.</p> - -<p>I did not know a single relation I had, if, indeed, I had any; Aunt -Connor, I know, used to send the money for me; but Nurse Richards had -often told me she was not my real aunt; only my uncle’s wife, and he was -dead. So, though she supported me, she had no right to love me; and she -couldn’t love me, and did not, that is certain; for I was fifteen, and -had never seen her, nor a single relation in the world. However, when -she heard of Nurse Richards’ death, Aunt Connor sent her maid for me. It -is very fortunate, Bridget said, we were in Belfast, and no great -distance off, for if it had been in England, over the seas, there was no -telling what might have happened. I was very unwilling to go with -Bridget. I struggled very much, and spoke to Richards about it. I said I -would much rather go into service, where at least I could be near <i>her</i> -grave; but it was of no use speaking. I was obliged to obey.</p> - -<p>Aunt Connor lived in Dublin; and when I got to her house and saw the -footman, and the page in his livery, and all the grandeur about the -house, I thought really that Aunt Connor must be a very great lady. -Harry says the house was shabby-fine, and everything vulgar about it; -but I cannot say I saw that. Perhaps I am not so good a judge as Harry, -never having seen anything of the kind before. I do believe that she -really was very kind to me in her way; I must say so, whatever Harry -thinks. Harry says she behaved atrociously, and was jealous of me -because I was prettier than her own girls (which is all Harry’s -nonsense), and a great deal more like that—all in the Cinderella style, -you know, where the two young ladies are spiteful and ugly, and the -little girl in the kitchen is quite an angel. I love Cinderella; but all -the same, Harry’s story <i>is not true</i>. I underscore the words to -convince him if he should ever see this. Alicia and Patricia were very -handsome girls,—as different from me as possible—and good girls too, -and always had a kind word for their poor little cousin. They did not -take me to all their gaieties, to be sure. I am sure I did not wish it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51"></a>{51}</span> -I was much happier in the nursery. After I had seen Harry a few times, -perhaps I did grudge going down so seldom to the drawing-room; and used -to keep wondering in my heart which of them he was fond of, and had many -a cry over it. But now that it is all past, and I see more clearly, I -know they were very kind indeed, considering. They were never, all the -time I was there, unfeeling to me; they liked me, and I liked them: -nothing in the world of your Cinderella story. If I had a nice house, -and was rich enough to have a visitor, there is nothing I should like -better than to have Patricia (her sister is married) come to see me. It -would be pleasant to see her bright Irish face. No, honestly, I cannot -complain of Aunt Connor. I am very sorry I deceived her for an hour—she -was never unkind to me.</p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_II-b" id="Chapter_II-b"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter II.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span> <span class="smcap">DID</span> not think I could have said half a dozen words about myself -without telling all the story of my marriage. But what I have said was -necessary to keep you from blaming me so much. For, after all, I was a -young, friendless, desolate creature, longing very much to have somebody -belonging to me, somebody of my very own, and with no very clear natural -duty to Aunt Connor, though she had paid for bringing me up. I say again -she was kind to me, and so were the girls; but principally because it -was not in their nature to be unkind to anybody, and not because they -had a particular affection for me. And that is what one wants, whatever -people may choose to say. One might die of longing for love though one -was surrounded with kindness. Ah, yes, I am sure of it: even a little -unkindness from people we belong to, and who belong to us, one can bear -it. To have nobody belonging to you is the saddest thing in the world.</p> - -<p>I never was melancholy or pensive, or anything like that. After a while, -when I could think of Nurse Richards without<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52"></a>{52}</span> breaking my heart, I got -just as cheerful as other girls of my age, and enjoyed whatever little -bit of pleasure came to me. But after I began to know Harry—after it -began to dawn upon my mind that there might be somebody in the world who -would take an interest in all my little concerns, for no better reason -than that they belonged to me, not for kindness or compassion, I felt as -if I were coming to life all at once. I have had some doubts since -whether it was what people call love; perhaps I would have been shyer -had it been so, and I don’t think I ever was shy to speak of. I was so -glad, so thankful, to the bottom of my heart, to think of having -somebody belonging to me. If we could have done something to make -ourselves <i>real</i> brother and sister, I believe I should have been just -as glad. However, of course that was impossible. All the officers used -to come to Aunt Connor’s; she was always good-tempered and pleasant, and -glad to see them, though I am sure she would not have allowed her girls -to marry any of those poor lieutenants. However, I happened to be in the -drawing-room a good many times when Harry came first. Nobody noticed -that we two were always getting together for a time; but when my aunt -did observe it, she was angry, and said I was flirting, and I was not to -come downstairs any more in the evening. I thought I didn’t mind; I -never had minded before. But I did feel this. I made quite sure Harry -was falling in love with one of my cousins, and used to wonder which it -would be, and cry. Crying by one’s self does not improve one’s looks; -and when I met Harry the first day, by real accident, he looked so -anxious and concerned about me, that it quite went to my heart. My aunt -used to send me on her particular errands at that time,—to order things -for the dinner-parties, and to match ribbons, and to take gloves to be -cleaned; things the servants could not do properly. She used to say if I -kept my veil down, and walked very steadily, nobody would ever molest -me; and nobody ever did. Only Harry got to know the times I generally -went out, and always happened to meet me somewhere. Oh yes, it was very -wrong; very, <i>very</i> wrong; if I had ever had a mother I could not have -forgiven myself. But it was such a comfort to see his face brighten up -as he caught sight of me. No one could tell how cheering it was except -one as friendless as me. So, as you may suppose, it went on from less to -more, and at last (after we had been asked in church, and I don’t know -all what) Harry and I called in at a far-off little church one morning, -and were married. I had not thought very much about it till it was over; -but the moment it was fairly over I fell into the greatest panic<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53"></a>{53}</span> I ever -was in, in all my life. What if Aunt Connor should find us out? If she -did find us out, what would be done to us? what would happen to Harry? I -almost think he must have carried me out of church, my head quite spun -round upon my shoulders. I fell into such a tremble that my limbs would -not support me. When we were out of the church,—it was a summer -morning, beautiful and sweet, and the air so pleasant that it made one -happy to breathe it,—we two foolish young creatures looked with a kind -of awe into each other’s faces. Harry was pale as well as me. I do -believe he was in a panic too. “Oh, Harry, what have we done?” cried I -with a little gasp. He burst out into a great trembling laugh. “What we -can never undo, Milly darling; nor anybody else for us,” said he; “and -God be praised!” I could not say another word. We neither of us could -speak any more; we went silently along through the air, so sweet and -sunny, trembling and holding each other close, to my aunt’s door, where -we were to part. I think we must have gone gliding along like fairies, -on the wings that grow to people’s shoulders at those wonderful moments; -surely we did not walk over the common pavement like ordinary people. -But the common door, the white steps, the blank front of Aunt Connor’s -house, disenchanted us. I could not stop to say good-bye, but only gave -him a frightened look, and ran in, for the door was fortunately open. -Oh, how cold and trembling I felt when I shut my room door, and was safe -in, and knew it was all over! I took off my white frock, all in awe and -terror of myself. But when I had put on my morning dress, and looked at -myself in the glass, it was not Milly Mortimer! <i>I</i> knew it was not -Milly Mortimer. I fastened my ring so that I could wear it round my neck -under my high dress, without anybody knowing; but already it had made a -mark round my finger. I was married! Oh dear, dear, and to think I could -not tell anybody! I never had a secret all my life before. I went down -on my knees in the corner, and asked God to forgive me, and to take care -of us two poor children that did not know what we were doing. Then I had -to get up and open my door, and go out in the every-day house. I can’t -tell how I did it. Of all the wonders in my life, there is none like -that. I can fancy how I was led on to consent to be married; but how did -I ever go downstairs and do my sewing, and eat my dinner, and look Aunt -Connor in the face? I suppose I must have done it somehow without making -them suspect anything; and I don’t wonder my aunt called me a little -hypocrite. What a hypocrite I must have been!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54"></a>{54}</span></p> - -<p>I did not see Harry next day, and felt very miserable; cold, as if a -sudden frost had come on in the middle of summer. But the next morning -after, looking out of my window very early, who should I see looking up -at the house but himself! That moment I got back into the sun. We -belonged to each other; everything, even to the dress I had on, Harry -was pleased to know about. Ah, what a difference! I cannot say anything -else, though it may be very improper. After that moment I never was -ashamed again of what I had done, nor frightened, nor sorry. If it was -wrong, it’s a pity, and I don’t defend myself; but from that time I -thought only that I had somebody belonging to me; that I dared not get -ill, or mope, or die, or do any foolish thing; that I had Harry to think -of, and do for, and take care of. Ah, that was different from doing Aunt -Connor’s messages. It was not being married, it was being born—it was -coming to life.</p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_III-b" id="Chapter_III-b"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter III.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">Y</span><span class="smcap">OU</span> are not to suppose, however, that we did not pay for our -foolishness. If I had been a well-brought up girl living at home, I -should have been perfectly wretched in that strange, feverish, secret -life in which everything felt like guilt; and, as it was, the excitement -and feeling of secrecy wore me out day by day. Poor Harry, too, got -quite harassed and wretched looking. This that we had done certainly did -not make us happy. Harry still came to the house for the chance of -seeing me; and imagine what I felt to know that he was in the -drawing-room, and <i>I, his wife</i>, sitting upstairs, after the little -children had gone to bed, sewing in the quiet nursery! I don’t know how -I ever endured it; and to hear Alicia and Patricia next morning saying -to each other what a bear that young Langham had grown! Once or twice, -when I was allowed to be downstairs, it was worse and worse. If one of -the other gentlemen so much as looked at me, Harry flushed up<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55"></a>{55}</span> and -looked furious. Twenty times in a night I thought he would have -interfered and made a scene; but all the time we dared scarcely speak to -each other; and I am sure Aunt Connor never thought we were flirting -then. When I went out, as before, on my aunt’s errands, with my veil -down, Harry, instead of being pleased to meet me, as he used to be, was -so cross and unhappy that it was quite dreadful to be with him. And he -would come about the house looking up at the windows at all kinds of -improper times, quite in an open way, as if he were defying Aunt Connor. -I was quite in a fever night and day; I never knew what might happen any -minute. He could not bear so much as to think of other people ordering -me about, and making me do things I did not want to do. I am sure it is -very good of Harry to be so kind and fond of me as he is; for I feel -certain that, for the first three months, our marriage made him -miserable, injured his health, and his temper, and his appetite, and -everything. You may say, why did we keep it secret? The reason was this, -that he was to come in to a little money, which his uncle, who was his -only relation, had promised him on his birthday, and which he ought to -have got before now; and poor Harry thought every day it might come, and -was always waiting. But unless it was that promised present, he had -nothing in the world but his lieutenant’s pay.</p> - -<p>However, of course, this state of things could not go on. One day I had -gone out to take some gloves to be cleaned, and Harry, of course, had -met me. We were going along very quiet, not saying much to each other, -for he had been in one of his troublesome humours, having got a letter -from his uncle without a word in it about the money, and I had been -begging him to have patience a little, when all at once my heart gave a -jump, and I knew the crisis had come. There, straight before us, -crossing the road, was Aunt Connor, with her great eyes fixed upon Harry -and me!</p> - -<p>I gave a little cry and looked round. If there had been any cross street -or opening near I should have run away, and never looked either of them -in the face again; but there was not a single opening in all the houses. -I clasped my hands together tight, and stood still, with something -throbbing so in my head that I thought it would burst. I did not see -Harry nor anything, only Aunt Connor coming up to me whom I had -deceived.</p> - -<p>She grasped hold of me by the arm as soon as ever she came up. “Oh, you -shameless, ungrateful creature! Is this what you have come to after all -my care of you? This is how you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56"></a>{56}</span> take your walks, is it, Miss Mortimer? -Oh, good heavens! was ever simple woman so taken in and imposed upon? -Oh, you wicked, foolish, thoughtless thing! do you know you’re going to -ruin? do you know you’re seeking your own destruction? do you -know?—Lord save us, I don’t know what words to say to you! Haven’t you -heard what comes to young girls that behave so? Oh, you young -scapegrace! how dare you bring such a disgrace on my house!”</p> - -<p>“Hold your tongue, you old witch,” said Harry, who was perfectly wild -with rage, as I could hear by the sound of his voice, for I dared not -turn my head to look at him. But there he was, grasping hold of my hand -and holding me up. “Take your hand off my wife’s arm, Mrs. Connor. What! -you dare venture to speak about disgrace and destruction after sending -her out defenceless day after day. She has had somebody to defend her, -though you took no trouble about it. Yes, Milly darling, I am thankful -it has come at last. Madam, take away your hand; she is my wife.”</p> - -<p>Aunt Connor fell back from me perfectly speechless, holding up her two -hands. We two stood opposite, Harry holding my hand drawn through his -arm. I thought I should have sunk into the ground; and yet I felt so -happy and proud I could have cried with joy. Yes, it was quite true; I -was not all by myself to fight my own battles. We two belonged to each -other, and all the world could not make it otherwise. I could not say a -word, and I did not mind. I could leave it all to Harry. Henceforward he -would stand up for me before all the world.</p> - -<p>I really cannot tell, after that, what Aunt Connor said. I remember that -Harry wanted to take me away at once to his lodgings, and said he would -not allow me to go home with her; and she took hold of my arm again, and -declared she would not let me go till she had proof he was telling the -truth about our marriage. The end of it all was that we both went home -with her. She was dreadfully angry,—speechless with rage and dismay; -but after just the first she managed to keep proper and decorous in what -she said, being in the street, and not wishing to make a scene or gather -a crowd. She took us into the library and had it out there. Oh, what -names she called me!—not only deceitful and ungrateful, but, what was -far worse, light and easily won; and warned Harry against me, that I’d -deceive him as well. When she said <i>that</i> it roused me; and I don’t know -what I should have said if Harry had not drawn me aside quite quietly -and whispered, “Leave it all to me.” I did; I never said a word<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57"></a>{57}</span> for -myself. I put my cause into his hands. To be answered for, and have my -defence undertaken so, did a great deal more than make up to me for -anything that could be said. It was all very agitating and dreadful, -however; and I could not help thinking that most likely Harry’s uncle, -when he heard what a foolish marriage his nephew had made, would not -send that money, and Harry would have me to provide for, and so little, -so very little to do it with; and most likely all his brother officers -making fun of him to each other for being so foolish. Ah! now I felt how -foolish we had been.</p> - -<p>“Milly must come home with me,” said Harry. “If I could scarcely endure -her remaining here while it was all a secret, you may suppose how -impossible it is that I can endure it now. I thank you very much, Mrs. -Connor, for finding us out; and don’t think,” he said, changing his look -in a moment, “that I forget or will forget what actual kindness you may -have shown to my wife. But she is my wife: she must not do other -people’s business, or live in any house but her own. Mrs. Connor will -let you put your things together, Milly darling, for I cannot leave you -behind again.”</p> - -<p>“Well, young people,” said Aunt Connor, “I have seen a great deal, and -come through a great deal in my life, but such boldness and unconcern I -never did see before. Why, you don’t even look ashamed of -yourselves!—not Miss here, that is going to be at the head of her own -establishment, in the parlour over Mrs. Grogram’s shop, with boots lying -about in all the corners, and a cigar-box on the mantelshelf. However, -Mr. Langham, I am not such an old witch as you think for. I won’t let my -poor Connor’s niece go off like this, all of a sudden, with a young man -that has never made the least preparation for her. I am not throwing any -doubt upon your marriage, nor meaning any scandal upon the lieutenant, -Miss Milly,—you need not flush up; but what do you suppose his landlady -would say if he came in with a young lady by his side, and said he had -brought home his wife? Do you think she’d believe in you, or give you -proper respect, you unfortunate young creature? No, no; I’ll do my duty -by you, whether you will or no. Let Mr. Langham go home and make things -a little ready for a lady. She’s a lady by both sides of the house, I -can tell you, Mr. Langham; and I’ve heard her poor papa say might come -in for a great estate, if she lived. Any how, she’s poor Connor’s niece, -and she shan’t go out of my house in an unbecoming manner. Go home and -set your place in order for a bride; and since it must be so,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58"></a>{58}</span> come back -for Milly; but out of this door she’s not going to-night. Now be -easy,—be easy. I have had to do with her for eighteen years, and you -have had to do with her for a month or two. It’s not respectable, I tell -you, you two young fools. What! do you think I’ll make away with her, if -you leave her here while you make things decent at home?”</p> - -<p>Neither Harry nor I could resist kindness; and Aunt Connor was kind, as -nobody could deny; but he blushed, poor fellow, and looked -uncomfortable, and looked at me to help him out this time. “Harry has no -money, no more than I have,” said I; “it’s his wife that must make -things tidy at home.”</p> - -<p>A kind of strange spasm went over Aunt Connor’s face, as if she had -something to say and couldn’t, or wouldn’t. She pursed up her lips all -at once, and went away hastily to the other end of the room to pick up -something,—something that had nothing at all to do with us or our -business. “Well, well, do as you like,” she said, in a curious choked -voice. When she turned away from us, Harry drew me close to him to -consult what we should do. It was quite true about the boots, he said, -with a blush and a laugh; should I mind? Certainly I didn’t mind; but I -thought, on the whole, it was best not to vex Aunt Connor any more, but -to take her advice,—he to leave me here to-night, and fetch me home -to-morrow. Fetch me home! I that had never known such a thing in all my -life.</p> - -<p>We parted for another day with that agreement; and, strange as people -may think it, I was quite a heroine in Aunt Connor’s house that night. -The girls both came up to my room and made me tell them all about it, -and laughed and kissed me, and teased me, and cried over me, and did all -sorts of kind foolish things. They found out my ring tied round my neck, -and made me put it on; and they kept constantly running back and forward -from their own room to mine with little presents for me. Not much, to be -sure; but I was only a girl, though I was married, and liked them. There -was somebody to dinner, so I did not go downstairs, but when the -strangers were gone, there was a little supper in my honour, and Aunt -Connor made some negus with her own hand, and ordered them all to drink -dear Milly’s health the last night she would be at home. I could have -really thought they loved me that last night. They did not, however; -only, though it might not be very steady or constant, they were kind, -kind at the heart; and when one was just at the turn of one’s life,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59"></a>{59}</span> and -all one’s heart moved and excited, they could no more have refused their -sympathy than they could have denied their nature; and being very much -shocked and angry at first did not make the least difference to this. -The girls were twenty times fonder of me that night than if I had been -married ever so properly,—dear, kind, foolish Irish hearts!</p> - -<p>But all the while there was a strange uneasy look in Aunt Connor’s face. -I divined somehow, I cannot tell by what means, that there was something -she ought to tell me which she either was afraid or unwilling to let me -know, or had some object in keeping from me. She must be an innocent -woman, surely, or I never could have read that so clear in her face.</p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_IV-b" id="Chapter_IV-b"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter IV.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><span class="smcap">HE</span> next morning Harry came radiant, quite like a new man. Was it all -for joy of taking me home? or, perhaps he had got the money on this most -convenient of all mornings? but such things don’t often happen just at -the most suitable time. He came rushing in with a kind of -shout,—“Milly, we’ve orders to march; we’re going next week. Hurrah!” -cried Harry.</p> - -<p>“And why hurrah?” said I.</p> - -<p>“We’ll have ourselves to ourselves, and nobody in our way,” he said; but -just then seeing Aunt Connor, who was at the other end of the room, -stopped short and looked a little confused. He had not intended to say -anything ill-natured to her.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I am not affronted; you’re excusable, you’re quite excusable,” said -Aunt Connor; “and I believe it <i>is</i> very lucky; you’ll have a fresh -start, and nobody will know how foolish you have been. I was too angry -to ask yesterday, or to think of anything but that deluded child there, -that thinks herself so happy;—but young Langham, dear, have ye any -friends?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60"></a>{60}</span></p> - -<p>“None to whom I am answerable,” said Harry.</p> - -<p>“Then that means no father nor mother, no parents and guardians?” said -my aunt. “Well, what you’ve done is done, and can’t be undone; we must -make the best of it. Have you put the boots into the corner, and tidied -the cigars off the mantelshelf? and now Mrs. Grogram knows all about -it,—when it happened, where it happened, and how you two took clever -Mrs. Connor in?”</p> - -<p>“Exactly,” said Harry, laughing; “you have quite described it all. I -have done my best, Milly darling; come home.”</p> - -<p>“You’re glad, you two young fools?” said my aunt.</p> - -<p>“I should think so! and shouldn’t we be glad?” cried Harry. “If we have -not a penny between us, we have what is much better. Milly, come.”</p> - -<p>“Hush with your Milly, Milly,” said Aunt Connor, “and speak for -yourself, young man. My poor Connor’s niece, if she is undutiful, shall -never be said to be penniless. Well, I’ve won the battle. I <i>will</i> tell -you, for I ought. As sure as she’s standing there in her white frock, -she has five hundred pounds.”</p> - -<p>“Five hundred pounds!” both Harry and I repeated the words with a little -cry of wonder and delight.</p> - -<p>She had said this with a flash of resolution, as if it were quite hard -to get it out; now she fell suddenly into a strange sort of coaxing, -persuading tone, which was sadly painful to me just as I was getting to -like her better; and as she coaxed and grew affectionate she grew vulgar -too. How strange! I had rather have given her the money than seen her -humble herself so.</p> - -<p>“But it’s out at the best of interest, my dears; what you couldn’t get -for it elsewhere. Think of five-and-twenty pounds a-year; an income, -Milly! My child, I’ll undertake to pay you the half year’s interest out -of my own pocket to help you with your housekeeping; for, of course, you -would never think of lifting the money, you nor young Langham, with such -an income coming of it. No, no; let well alone, I say. I would not -meddle with a penny of it if I were you. Rash young creatures that don’t -know the value of money, you’d just throw it away; but think what a -comfort there is in five-and-twenty pounds a-year!”</p> - -<p>Harry and I looked at each other; it was as clear as day that she had it -herself, and did not want to give it up. He was angry; I was only vexed -and distressed. I never in all my life had thought of money before.</p> - -<p>“Five hundred pounds would be very useful to Milly just<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61"></a>{61}</span> now, Mrs. -Connor,” said Harry; “she has not a trousseau, as your daughters would -have; and I can only give her all I have, which is little enough. At -least it’s my duty to ascertain all about it; where it is, and what it -is, and——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, what it is! half of it Uncle Connor’s own gift to the ungrateful -creature—half of it at the very least; and ascertain, to be -sure!—ascertain, and welcome!—call it in if ye please, and spend it -all in three weeks, and don’t come to me for help or credit. What do you -mean, sir? Do ye think it’s anything to me?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Aunt Connor, please don’t be angry. I never had but -half-a-sovereign all my life,” cried I. “You’ll tell us all about it -afterwards, to be sure. Harry—I mean Mr. Langham—doesn’t understand. -But it would be so handy to have some of it. Aunt Connor, don’t you -think so? Only please don’t be angry. I should like, all out of my own -head, to spend ten pounds.”</p> - -<p>Aunt Connor did not speak, but went to her desk and took something out -of it that was already prepared—one envelope she gave to Harry and the -other to me.</p> - -<p>“Here is the half year’s dividend of your wife’s little money; it’s just -come due,” said Aunt Connor, “and here, Milly, dear, is your aunt’s -wedding-present to you. Now you can have your will, you see, without -breaking in upon your tiny bit of fortune. See what it is to have -thoughtful friends.”</p> - -<p>For in my envelope there was exactly the sum I wished for—ten pounds.</p> - -<p>And what do you suppose I did? Harry standing there as sulky as a -statue, looking as if he would like to tear up his share and throw it -into the fire. I was so delighted I ran and threw my arms round her -neck, and kissed Aunt Connor. I hugged her quite heartily. I did not -understand five hundred pounds; but I knew I could get something nice -for Harry, and a new dress and a wedding bonnet, with orange-blossoms, -out of what she gave me. And she cried, too, and kissed me as if I had -been her own child; and it was no hypocrisy, whatever you may think. -Harry snatched me away, and quite turned me out of the room to get my -bonnet. He looked the sulkiest, most horrid fellow imaginable. I almost -could have made faces at him as he sent me away; it was our first <i>real</i> -quarrel; but I can’t say I was very much afraid.</p> - -<p>When we got out of doors he was quite in a passion with poor Aunt -Connor. “Kind! what do you mean by kind? why, you’ve been living on your -own money. I am sure she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62"></a>{62}</span> has not spent more on you, besides making you -her servant,” cried Harry. “And to take her present! and kiss her—pah! -I would not do it for a hundred pounds.”</p> - -<p>“Nobody asked you, sir,” said I: “but come this way, please Harry, I -want to look at one shop-window—just one. I saw something there -yesterday that would just do for me; and now I can afford to buy a -dress.”</p> - -<p>“By Jove!” cried Harry, “what creatures you women are; here we are, on -as good as our wedding-day, walking home for the first time, and you are -thinking of the shop-windows! Are you just like all the rest?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, indeed, just precisely,” said I. “Ah, Harry, I never was in the -street before that I felt quite free and yet quite protected and safe. -Only think of the difference! I am not afraid of anybody or anything -to-day. I am going home. If you were not so grave and proper I think I -could dance all the way.”</p> - -<p>Harry did not say another word; he held my arm close, and called me by -my name. My name was Milly darling, to Harry; he said it sounded like -the turn of an Irish song. He calls me Milly darling still, though we -have been married two years.</p> - -<p>And how pretty he had made that little parlour over Mrs. Grogram’s shop! -Not a boot about anywhere that I could see, nor the shadow of a cigar; -clean new muslin curtains up, and flowers on the table; and the landlady -curtseying, and calling me Mrs. Langham. It was the very first time I -had heard the name. How odd it sounded! and yet an hour after I should -have laughed if any one had called me Miss Mortimer, as if that were the -most absurd thing in the world.</p> - -<p>And to make <i>home</i> does not require many rooms or a great deal of -furniture. I have not a “house of my own” yet, and, perhaps, may not -have for years. A poor subaltern, with nothing but his pay, when he is -so foolish as to marry, has to take his wife to lodgings; but the best -house in the world could not have felt to me a warmer, safer, more -delightful home than Mrs. Grogram’s parlour above the shop.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63"></a>{63}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_V-b" id="Chapter_V-b"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter V.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">“I</span><span class="smcap">T</span> is only right, however,” said Harry, “that before we leave we should -know all that Mrs. Connor can tell us, Milly darling, about your family -and your relations. Though she’s to have your five hundred pounds, she -need not have your family archives too.”</p> - -<p>“Why, Harry, you almost speak as if you grudged her the five hundred -pounds!”</p> - -<p>“And so I do,” said Harry. “Just now, while I am so poor, it might have -made you a little comfortable. Please Heaven, after a while, five -hundred pounds will not matter so much; at least it is to be hoped so. -If there would only come a war——”</p> - -<p>“Harry, you savage! how dare you say so!” cried I.</p> - -<p>“Nonsense! what’s the good of a soldier except to fight?” he said. -“Active service brings promotion, Milly. You would not like to see me a -subaltern at forty. Better to take one’s chance of getting knocked on -the head.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, it is very easy for you to talk,” said I; “and if I could disguise -myself and ’list like Lady Fanshawe——”</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">’</span>List! you five-foot creature! you could be nothing but a drummer, -Milly; and besides, Lady Fanshawe did not ’list, she——”</p> - -<p>“Never mind, I could contrive as well as she did,” said I. “I could get -upon stilts or something, and be your man, and never disclose myself -till I had cut down all your enemies, and brought you safe out of the -battle, and then fainted in your arms.”</p> - -<p>“Pleasant for me,” said Harry; “but I do believe, in spite of romance, -Fanshawe himself would have given his head to have had his wife safe at -home that time. Do you think it would be a comfort to a man if he was -shot down himself to think his wife was there with nobody to take care -of her? No, Milly darling; the truest love would stay at home and pray.”</p> - -<p>“And die,” said I; “I understand it better now. If I were ’listing and -going after you, it would not be for your sake, Harry, but for my own. -How do women keep alive, do you think, when those that belong to them -are at the wars?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64"></a>{64}</span></p> - -<p>Neither of us knew; but to think of it made us shudder and tremble,—I -that should have to bear it some day! for the very people in the streets -said that war was coming on.</p> - -<p>“In the meantime let me remind you,” said Harry, “that we’re going to -Aunt Connor’s to bid them good-bye, and that I mean to ask her all about -your relations, and get a full history of your family, in case you might -happen to be a princess in disguise, or a great heiress. By the bye, she -said something like that. Only don’t be too sanguine, Milly; if there -had been anything more to get on your account, Aunt Connor would have -ferreted it out.”</p> - -<p>I thought he was rather hard upon her, but could not really say anything -in her defence. I had myself begged Harry, after two or three talks with -Aunt Connor about it, not to say any more to her about claiming the five -hundred pounds. She had only her jointure, poor lady, and could not have -paid it without ruining herself. And, after all, she had always paid -Nurse Richards for me, and had kept me, and been kind enough to me. So -it was settled she was to keep it, and give us the five-and-twenty -pounds a-year. Not that she would allow, straight out, that she had it. -She always pretended it was somebody else that paid her the interest, -and that it was the very best investment in the world, and she wished -she could get as much for her money. Poor Aunt Connor! her pretence did -not deceive anybody; but I suppose it was a sort of comfort to herself.</p> - -<p>I did not take any part in Harry’s questions at first; it was all I -could do to answer the girls, who wanted to know all how we were going -to travel, and everything about it. Patricia brought me down her warm -cloak that she had worn all last winter. She said, though it wasn’t new, -it would be a comfortable wrap for the journey, if I would have it; and -indeed I thought so too, though Harry, I dare say, would have made a -fuss about it, if I had consulted him. But when Aunt Connor really began -to talk about poor papa and mamma, I hushed the girls and listened. I -never had heard anything about them. It was natural it should be very -interesting to me.</p> - -<p>“It was more from hearsay than knowledge, for, of course, Milly’s papa -was a great deal older than me,” said Aunt Connor, with a little toss of -her head. “He was forty when he married Maria, my poor Connor’s only -sister; and she was not very young either; and it went very hard with -her when Milly there came into the world; but though she died, poor -soul! he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65"></a>{65}</span> would not call the babe Maria, do what we would, but -Millicent, because it was the great name in his family. That was how we -came to hear about his family at all. His head was a little touched, -poor soul! He said what if she should come into the Park property after -all, and not be called Milly? He said Millicent Mortimer had been a name -in the family from the Conquest, or the Restoration, or something; and -the heiress that wasn’t Millicent had no luck. When he got weakly, he -maundered on for ever about his family. It was cousins or cousins’ -children had the property, and one of them had jilted him. He used to -say, in his wandering way, that one would never come to good; <i>she’d</i> -never bring an heir to the property. But whether there were sons, or if -it was only a lady between him and the estate, or how the rights of it -were, I could not tell you. We used to think half of it was maundering, -and my poor dear Connor never put any faith in it. Except Maria Connor -that married him being not so young as she once was, not a creature -about knew Mr. Mortimer. He was an Englishman, and not much of a man any -how. No offence to you, Milly, dear; he was the kind of man that never -does any good after he’s been jilted; so, if you should happen to meet -with that cousin of his that did it, you can put out your anger upon -her. He left no particulars, poor man. I don’t believe it ever came into -his head that it might really matter for his poor little girl to have -friends that would help her on in the world. And to be sure, Milly was -but a year old when papa died.”</p> - -<p>“But this was worth taking some pains and making some inquiries about,” -said Harry. “Where did those friends live? What county did he belong -to?—you must surely have known.”</p> - -<p>“We knew no more than I tell you, Langham, dear. My poor dear Connor, as -I tell you, never put any faith in it. There’s some books in the house -belonging to him, that I was always to have sought out and given to -Milly. I’ll get them to-day, if I can, before you leave. But if you’ll -trust my opinion, I don’t think it’s the least good in the world. At the -best, he was but a distant cousin, if all was true, he said; and spoke -about his little girl proving heir after all, more in spite against her -that jilted him than anything else. Why, all he had, poor man, did not -come to but a trifle over five hundred pounds;—I mean—dear! what a -memory I have!—<i>three</i> hundred pounds, for poor dear Connor put a large -slice to Milly’s little fortune. Now that’s all I have to tell you. But -I’ll get Milly her father’s books.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66"></a>{66}</span></p> - -<p>And I have not the least doubt it was all she had to tell us; every word -she knew. But that very night we got the books just as we were packing -up. They were as damp and mouldy as they could be, odd volumes of one -thing and another; one of Shakespeare, with Richard A. Mortimer written -in it, and “Haworth” underneath; another was Hudibras; another was an -old French school copy of Racine, with “Sarah Mortimer, the Park, May, -1810,” upon it, and in it an old pencil drawing all curled up at the -edges, and rubbed out in some places, of a great house with trees and -gardens round it, and a young lady mounting her horse at the door; -scribbled at the corner of this, in a strange scratchy hand, was a kind -of little inscription: “Sarah as I saw her last, and the Park—I wonder -was I in love with them both? R. M.” The last of this was evidently -written at a later time than the first. But that was all. Not a single -clue to papa’s grand friends, who they were, or where they were. I dare -say there are a hundred thousand parks in England, and, unless we could -find it out from the drawing (which, I am sorry to say, was a very poor -one. Harry, being disappointed and spiteful, took the pains to point out -to me that the house was leaning up against the trees, and off the -perpendicular, and that the young lady was on the wrong side of the -horse), there seemed no information at all in poor papa’s books. Poor -papa! it was very cruel of Harry! most likely his heart was breaking -when he drew “Sarah as I saw her last.” Do you say he might have put her -on the right side of the horse for all that, you cruel savage? Perhaps -there were tears in his eyes all the time, Mr. Langham. <i>You</i> are not -sentimental. I dare say you would not cry if you were looking at <i>me</i> -for the last time. But that has nothing to do with poor papa. I have no -doubt he must have been a very feeling man.</p> - -<p>However, we did not make anything out of the books; and I am sure I -should not have said half so much about it except that Harry really took -an interest in it which quite surprised me. I never expected to turn out -an heiress, nor cared much whether I had grand relations or not; and a -journey with Harry in that sweet September weather was far too -delightful to let me think of anything else. It was as good as a wedding -tour.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67"></a>{67}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_VI-b" id="Chapter_VI-b"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter VI.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><span class="smcap">HE</span> regiment was ordered to Edinburgh; and it was there we went -accordingly in that lovely autumn weather. I don’t think Harry quite -liked to hear me talk of Nurse Richards and the way she brought me up; -but he was pleased enough to take walks with me all round that castle -which was the centre of my recollections. At first we used to spend -every leisure moment we had wandering up and down the steep walks, and -always pausing to look up at the great precipice of rock. It was like a -friend to me, rising up out of the soft tiers and green slopes of grass: -the two churches down at its foot looking so mean and tiny beside it. -People should not build churches there. I almost think even a great -noble cathedral would look shabby under the shadow of that rock; and -only to think of that dreadful West Church and the other one! how they -can dare venture to stand there and don’t move and crumble down of -themselves! They would if there was any feeling in stone.</p> - -<p>We got our lodgings out to the south of the castle, two nice little cosy -rooms. It was not a fashionable quarter, to be sure, nor were the rooms -very grandly furnished; but we had <i>such</i> views from the windows! The -Castle Rock, with its buildings jutting on the very edge, and yet -standing so strong and firm; the harsh ridge of the crags behind, and -the misty lion-head over all, gazing like a sentinel towards the sea. -And it was not these only, but all the clouds about them. Such dramas -every day! Now all sweet and serene like happiness; now all thundery and -ominous like a great misfortune; now brightened up with streaks of home -and comfort; now settling down leaden-dark, and heavy like death itself, -or despair. I never was poetical that I know of; but it was like reading -a very great poem every day to live in that little house at Bruntsfield. -Harry enjoyed it as much as I did. We lived the very cheapest that ever -was. We never went out anywhere; for Harry had always a little society -with his brother officers and at mess, and I had him, and old Mrs. -Saltoun, our landlady, to talk to when he was away, and was as happy as -the day was long. All the pleasantest recollections I had as a child -were connected with this place; and when I looked out of my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68"></a>{68}</span> window at -night and saw the lights shining up on the top of the Castle Rock, and -the stars higher still glimmering out above, or the moon revealing out -of the dark where Arthur’s Seat lay quiet, couched like a sentinel; and -heard the recall trumpet pealing out high into the clear air, my mind -used to wander from dear Nurse Richards, and the stories she used to -tell me, back to my great happiness now. When Harry found me at the -window crying to myself, he thought I was low-spirited. Low-spirited! I -was crying for pure happiness; because I was too happy to tell it, or -put it in words, or show it anyhow else.</p> - -<p>All this time we had never heard a single word from Harry’s uncle who -promised him the present on his birthday. This uncle was the only -relation he had except some cousins whom he did not know much about. He -was very near as friendless as I was; only that he remembered his father -and mother perfectly well, and had been brought up at home, which made a -great difference. Harry of course had written to his uncle to say what -had occurred; and he had never answered the letter. He was an old -bachelor, and rather rich; and if he did not take offence, and nothing -happened, it had always been supposed that Harry was to be his heir; -though I did not know this till after we were married and could not -untie ourselves, however angry any one might be.</p> - -<p>One day, however, Harry came home to me with a wonderful face. I could -not tell, though I knew what his face meant pretty well by this time, -what it was that day; whether he was angry, or disappointed, or vexed, -or only bursting with laughter. It turned out he was all of them -together. He tossed a letter on the table, and laughed and stamped his -foot, as if he did not quite know what he was doing.</p> - -<p>“By Jove, it’s too absurd!” cried Harry; for I could not get him to -leave off that stupid exclamation: but I thought it must be a little -serious too, as well as absurd, by the look in his eye.</p> - -<p>And what should it be but a letter from his uncle, declaring that, -though nothing else would have induced him to do such a thing, yet, to -punish Harry’s rashness and presumption, he had made up his mind to a -step which everybody assured him was the most prudent thing he could do, -and which it was only a pity he had not thought of sooner; this was, in -short, that he had married as well as Harry. Enclosed his nephew would -find cards addressed to his new wife: and, as for the expenses of such -an undertaking, he assured Harry that it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69"></a>{69}</span> would be ridiculous to look -for any assistance to a man in similar circumstances with himself. On a -clear understanding of which he could certainly afford to wish his -nephew joy,—but nothing else,—for he meant now to have heirs of his -own.</p> - -<p>Harry stared at me while I read this letter with a sort of angry fun and -indignation in his face, which would turn either one way or another, I -could see, according to how I received it. I cannot say I was the least -disappointed. I threw down the letter, and clapped my hands and laughed. -It was the most whimsical letter you could imagine; and, as for the -birthday present, or any other assistance to us, I had never looked for -it since Harry wrote what we had done.</p> - -<p>“Weel, weel, it’s no ill news, that’s a comfort. But, Captain, you -maunna come in rampaging and disturbing the lady when we’re no looking -for you,” said Mrs. Saltoun, who had been sitting with me. “Now I’ll -gang my ways ben the house; and you ken where to find me, Mrs. Langham, -my dear, when you want me again.”</p> - -<p>I had it on my lips to beg her not to go away, but stopped in time, for -Harry naturally, though he likes her very well, does not take comfort in -the good old lady as I do. When she was gone he laughed out again, but a -little abruptly, and not as if he felt particularly happy about the -news.</p> - -<p>“Why, Harry, what’s the matter; did you expect anything?” said I.</p> - -<p>“Well, not exactly, to be sure,” said Harry, with a half-ashamed look; -“except the first moment when I recognised the old fellow’s handwriting. -I did think it would be pleasant, Milly darling, to get some little -comforts about you just now.”</p> - -<p>“I have quantities of comforts,” said I; “and such a jewel of an old -lady to look after me when you are away. There is nobody in the world so -lucky as me.”</p> - -<p>“Lucky!” said Harry, with a little shout. “If you should turn out a -great heiress to be sure; that’s always a possible contingency, -according to your Aunt Connor. Otherwise, with all sorts of things going -to happen to us, and only my subaltern’s pay——”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Langham, you forget my five-and-twenty pounds a year!” cried I.</p> - -<p>And how do you think the savage answered me? “The old witch!” exclaimed -Harry, “to think of her stopping your simple mouth with that ten pounds! -I’d have seen her ducked,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70"></a>{70}</span> or burned, or whatever they do to witches, -before I’d have taken it!—and cheating you out of your little morsel of -fortune! How long do you suppose you’ll get your five-and-twenty -pounds?”</p> - -<p>“As long as poor Aunt Connor can pay it,” said I. “Things might come in -the way to be sure; but she <i>means</i> to pay it regularly, and always will -when she can. What makes you so discontented, Harry? We have enough for -to-day, and God knows all about to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, yes! but He’s far off, Milly, to a poor fellow like me. How can I -tell that He cares much what’s to become of us,—unless, indeed, it were -for your sake.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Harry, Harry! how dare you say so!” cried I. “And see how good He -has been to us two orphans. Neither of us had any home or any one -belonging to us; and only look round you <i>now</i>!”</p> - -<p>Do you think it was not very much that he had to look round upon?—a -little room, low-roofed, and humbly furnished. It was nothing to any -other man or woman in the world; but we were two of us together in it, -and it was our home. Could I help but cry when I thought how different I -was from Aunt Connor’s niece in the nursery? And Harry was just as -thankful as I was, though he had his little pretences of grumbling like -this now and then. Does anybody think he was really anxious, either -about his uncle’s present that was never to come now, or my five hundred -pounds that was not much more to be relied on, or what was to happen to -us? No! he was no more anxious than I was; only now and then he -pretended to make a little fuss about it, and to be wanting something -better for me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71"></a>{71}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_VII-b" id="Chapter_VII-b"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter VII.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span><span class="smcap">E</span> were nearly two years in Edinburgh; and it was there, of course, that -baby Harry came into the world. He made a great difference in many -things. I could not go out to walk with Harry any longer; I could not -even sit and talk with him so much, and, however economical I was, it -could not be denied that already three of us cost more than two of us -had done. It is strange enough, but still it is true, baby, bless him, -brought thorns upon the roses that came with him into the world. Harry -had not lived in a family since his father died long ago; he had lived a -young man’s life, and had his own fastidious fancies like (I suppose) -most young men. He was very much delighted when baby came, but he was -not so much delighted when baby was always with us, and occupying almost -all my time and attention; and it fretted him when he saw traces about -that once nice cosy sitting-room, which was nursery now as well as -dining-room and drawing-room; even baby’s basket, all trimmed with white -muslin and pink ribbons, which he thought very pretty at first, annoyed -him now when he saw it about; and when I had to stop talking to him in -order to see after baby, he would first laugh, then bite his lip, then -whistle, then go to the window, and after a while say he had better -smoke his cigar outside while I was so busy. I dare say this cost me a -few tears, for of course I thought there was no occupation in the world -so sweet as nursing baby, and was sadly disappointed just at first that -Harry could not be content to watch his pretty ways every moment as I -did; however, I had to make up my mind to it. And as it was my business -to mind Harry as well as his son, I had to think it all over in my mind -what was to be done. It was hard work considering what was best; for to -think of getting a servant upon our small means went to my very heart. -At last one day I formed a great resolution, and took Mrs. Saltoun into -my confidence.</p> - -<p>“Here is how it is,” said I, “I must have a maid to help me with baby -when Mr. Langham is at home. Men can’t understand things; they think it -so odd to see one always with a baby on one’s lap; especially when they -have not been accustomed to anything of the sort. Mrs. Saltoun, I shall -be obliged to have a maid.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72"></a>{72}</span></p> - -<p>“I told you so, my dear, the very day the lammie was born,” said Mrs. -Saultoun; “but I’m one that never presses my advice. I know experience -is far more effectual than anything I can say.”</p> - -<p>“But look here—I can’t afford it—it’s a disgrace to think of such a -thing with our small means, while I am perfectly strong and quite able -to take care of him myself; but what can I do?” said I.</p> - -<p>“My dear,” said Mrs. Saltoun, “poverty’s dreadful, and debt is worse; -but it’s heaviest of all the three to make a young married man -discontented with his ain house. Dinna be affronted; I’m no saying a -word! the Captain’s just extraordinary; but he’s no the lad to be second -to the baby for a’ that; and it’s nothing to sigh about. Thae’s just the -kind of troubles every woman has to set her face to, as sure’s she’s -born. My dear, however much ye canna afford, you’ll have to contrive.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I have been thinking. If you will promise faithfully never to -tell anybody, and keep my secret, and above everything, whatever you do, -never let Harry know!” cried I.</p> - -<p>“I’ll promise,” said Mrs. Saltoun; “but I’ll not promise to give my -consent unless it’s feasible and in reason; and no unbecoming the -Captain’s bonnie young wife.”</p> - -<p>“The Captain’s wife!—ah, if he were only the Captain!—but he’s just a -subaltern yet,” said I; “however, you will be disappointed if you think -I am meaning anything great. I can’t do anything to bring in money, and -I am sure Harry would not let me if I could. No—it’s only—oh, Mrs. -Saltoun, if you would help me!—I could get up all the linen myself. I -<i>can</i> do it, though you may not think so. All Harry’s things that he is -so particular about, the laundress here never pleases him; and baby’s -frocks. I think if you would contrive to help me, I could save so many -shillings a week. I’ll do those pretty collars of yours and your fine -caps, and you shall see how pretty they’ll look.”</p> - -<p>“But your pretty bits of hands, my dear?” said Mrs. Saltoun; “a small -matter of work betrays itself on a lady’s hands that’s not used to do -anything. They would let out your secret, however well I kept it. What -would you do with your hands?”</p> - -<p>“But it will not hurt my hands—such beautiful clean work—it is quite a -lady’s work,” said I; “and then I can put gloves on when I am done, and -get some of the kalydor stuff. Besides, it will be only one day in the -week.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Saltoun sat thinking it over, but she could not say a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73"></a>{73}</span> single word -against it. If I couldn’t have done it, it might have been slow work -learning; but I had a genius for it! Ah, hadn’t I ironed out Aunt -Connor’s lace much oftener than the clear-starcher did! So here was -something at once that could be saved; and nobody knows how dreadful the -laundress’s bill is when there’s a baby in the house; so now I thought I -might venture to try and look for a maid.</p> - -<p>“My great terror was you were thinking of giving lessons, or selling -some trumpery of fancy work, begging your pardon, my dear,” said Mrs. -Saltoun; “for the young ladies now-a-days would a’ break their necks to -<i>make</i> money, before they would take a step out of their road to save -it; and indeed, you’re not far wrong that clear-starching is lady’s -work. It takes nice fingers, dainty, clean, and light. I was in an awfu’ -fright it was lessons on the piano, or handscreens to take into the -Repository. But it’s really very reasonable for a young creature of your -years; if you’re quite clear in your own mind you can take the -responsibility of shirts. Of all the things I’ve seen in my life I canna -remember that I ever saw a man what you could call perfectly pleased.”</p> - -<p>“I am not afraid about that; but remember, you have promised solemnly, -upon your honour,” said I, “never, whatever you do, to tell Harry!”</p> - -<p>“I’ll keep my word. But what put it into your head, a sensible young -woman like you, to go and run away with the like of a young sodger -officer, that everybody knows have scarcely enough for themselves, let -alone a wife? And if it’s hard work now, what will it be when you’ve a -large family? and how will you ever live or keep your heart if he goes -to war?”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Saltoun, don’t speak!” cried I; “what is the use of making me -miserable? He is not going to the war to-day. It is not certain there is -to be a war at all. Why do you put such dreadful things in my mind? If -he goes I’ll have to bear it like the other soldiers’ wives; but do you -suppose I have strength to bear it now beforehand, before the time? God -does not promise anybody so much. If such a dreadful, dreadful thing -should be, I’ll get strength for it that day.”</p> - -<p>The good old lady did not say a word, but stroked my hand that was -resting on the table in a kind of comforting, coaxing way. I looked up -very much alarmed, but I could not see anything particular in her face. -I suppose she was sorry for me only in a general sort of way; because I -was young, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74"></a>{74}</span> poor, and just beginning my troubles. So strange! I was -pitying her all the same for being old, and nearly at the end of hers. -How different things must seem at that other end of the road! Some of -her children were dead, some married, close at hand so far as space was -concerned, but far distant lost in their own life. I dare say when she -liked she could go back into memory and be again a young wife like me, -or an anxious middle-aged mother like her own daughter-in-law—and here -it had ended, leaving her all alone. But she was very cheerful and -contented all the same.</p> - -<p>Harry came in while I was busy with planning about my new maid. After I -had decided that she would have to sleep somewhere, and wondered why -neither Mrs. Saltoun nor myself had ever thought of that, I had begun to -wonder what sort of a person I should get; whether, perhaps, she would -be a dear good friend-servant, or one of the silly girls one hears -about. If she were a silly girl, even, there might be good in her. But -here Harry came in, and my thoughts were all dissipated. He looked a -little excited, and had a paper in his hand, out of which he seemed just -about to read me something. Then he paused all at once, looked first at -me and then at baby’s cradle, and his face clouded all over. I got -terribly alarmed; I rushed up to him and begged him to tell me, for -pity, what it was.</p> - -<p>“It’s nothing but fancy,” said Harry. “I was going to tell you great -news, my Milly darling; but it came over me, somehow, what you would do, -and who would take care of you if you should be left alone with your -baby; even though I were not killed.”</p> - -<p>“God would take care of us,” I cried out sharp, being in a kind of -agony. “Say it out—you are going to the war?”</p> - -<p>“No, no; nothing of the sort; only look here. It has thrown us all into -great excitement; but we are not under orders, nor like to be,” said -Harry. “Don’t tremble—we are all safe yet, you foolish Milly. Look -here.”</p> - -<p>Though I was leaning upon him, and he held the paper before my eyes, I -could not read a word. But I guessed what it was. It was the -Proclamation of War.</p> - -<p>“Come out with me and hear it read at the Cross. It is to be done at -twelve o’clock. Come,” said Harry, coaxing and soothing me; “it is -something to see. Pluck up a heart, Milly! Come and hear it -courageously, like a soldier’s wife. But, oh! I forgot baby,” he said, -stopping short all at once with a soft of half-annoyed laugh.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75"></a>{75}</span></p> - -<p>“Baby shan’t prevent me this time,” I cried; for what between this -dreadful news and the excitement in Harry’s mind, and the sudden way he -stopped when he recollected I couldn’t rightly go out with him, I was -desperate. “Mrs. Saltoun will keep him till I come back; and he will not -wake, perhaps, for an hour.”</p> - -<p>The old lady came when I asked her; and was quite pleased to sit down by -the cradle while I tied on my bonnet with my trembling hands. Harry was -very kind—very pleased. We went along winding up the steep paths, -through the gardens to the Castle, my favourite walk, and into that -long, grand, noisy old street with the yellow haze lingering between the -deep houses, down the long slope towards Holyrood. I could see the -people clearly enough about the streets, the little groups all clustered -about the outside stairs, and the stir of something going to happen. But -I could not look at the official people coming to say it again and make -it more certain. If the trumpet had been a gun and killed somebody, my -heart could scarcely have leaped more. Harry’s cheek flushed up; and I -could almost fancy I felt the blood stir and swell in the arm I was -leaning on. He was a soldier, and he forgot me as he held up his head -and listened. Just then I could not hold up my head. The trumpet sounded -to me, somehow, as if it came lonely out of the distance over some -battle where men were dying who had wives and babies at home. A woman -stood before me crying, and drew my attention for a moment. She dared -say out what was in her heart, because, though perhaps she was no -poorer, she was not a lady like me. “Eh, weary on them! it’s your man -and my man that’s to pay for their fancies,” she was saying among her -tears. “Glad! do ye ask me to be glad at sound o’ war? If our regiment -doesna gang the day, it’ll gang <i>some</i> day. I’ve five weans that canna -fend for themsels’, and I’m a sodger’s wife. God help us a’!” I dropped -my veil over my face to hide my eyes from Harry, and slid my hand out of -his arm—he, all excited in his soldier-mind, scarcely knowing it—to -speak to my neighbour who had spoken to my heart. I had nothing to give -her but my hand and my own troubled fellow-feeling, too deep and sore to -be called sympathy. “For I am a soldier’s wife, too; and God help us, as -you say!” I cried in her ear. She wiped off her tears, poor soul, to -look at me as Harry drew me away. She and the other woman with her -whispered about us as we went away through the crowd. They forgot their -own anxiety to pity “the poor young thing, the young lieutenant’s wife.” -I know they did,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76"></a>{76}</span> the kind creatures; for one of them said so another -day.—God help us all, soldiers’ wives!</p> - -<p>“But do you know this is like a little coward, Milly darling,” said -Harry, as we walked home, when he found I could not speak, “and foolish -as well. <i>We</i> are not going to the wars.”</p> - -<p>“If you are not going to-day, you will go some day,” I cried, with a -sob. She said true, poor soul; I felt it in my heart.</p> - -<p>“To be sure we shall,” said Harry; “and you care neither for glory nor -promotion, nor to have your husband do his duty, you poor-spirited -Milly! But you can’t act Lady Fanshawe now; you will have baby to -comfort you at home.”</p> - -<p>“Do you mean that you are going?” cried I.</p> - -<p>“Hush, hush! why this is like a child. I am not going. But, Milly, -understand; if I don’t go some day, I shall be wretched. Make up your -mind; you are a soldier’s wife.”</p> - -<p>So I went home with this in my heart. Oh, my poor little economies, my -little vulgar cares about the housekeeping! And perhaps he was going -away from me to be killed. But hush, hush! I could not be Lady Fanshawe -any more, now that there were three of us in the world; and Harry said -the truest love would stay at home and pray.</p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_VIII-b" id="Chapter_VIII-b"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter VIII.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><span class="smcap">HE</span> very next day after that, while I was singing baby to sleep, sitting -all alone by the fire, there was a soft knock at the door. I said, “Come -in!” thinking it was Mrs. Saltoun, when there suddenly appeared before -me a figure as different as possible from the nice little cosy figure of -our good old landlady. This was an overgrown girl, fourteen or -thereabouts, in the strangest scanty dress. A printed cotton frock, very -washed out and dingy, so short as to leave a large piece of legs, -clothed in blue-grey stockings, uncomfortably visible;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77"></a>{77}</span> very red arms -that somewhat looked as if they were all elbow and fingers; a great -checked blue and white pinafore, much washed out like the frock, into -the breast of which the hands wore thrust now and then by way of relief -to the awkwardness of their owner; hair disposed to be red, and -superabundant in quantity, thrust back as far as was practicable under -the shade of a queer big bonnet, not only a full-sized woman’s bonnet, -but one ten years old, and made in the dimensions common at that distant -period. She stood at the door looking at me in a perfect agony of -innocent awkwardness, shuffling one foot over the other, twisting her -red fingers, holding down her bashful head, but all the time staring -with wistful eyes at baby and myself, and so sincere a look of awe and -admiration that of course I was touched by it. She did not say a word, -but dropped a foolish curtsey, and grew violently red standing at the -door. I could not think what such a strange apparition wanted with me.</p> - -<p>“What do you want, my good girl?” said I at last.</p> - -<p>“The mistress said I might come,” with another curtsey. Then, after a -violent effort, “They said you was wanting a lass.”</p> - -<p>A lass! Here she was then, the first applicant for the new situation of -baby’s personal attendant! Oh dear, what a spectre! I had to pause a -little before I could answer her. Really, though I was not much disposed -to laughter, the idea was too ludicrous to be treated gravely.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I want a lass;’ but not one so young as you,” said I. “I want -somebody who can take care of my baby. Who sent you to me?”</p> - -<p>“The mistress said I might come,” answered the apparition; “I can keep -wee babies fine.”</p> - -<p>“You can keep wee babies fine! How old are you?” cried I.</p> - -<p>“I’m just fourteen since I was born, but some folk count different. I’m -awfu’ auld other ways,” said my extraordinary visitor, with a kind of -grotesque sigh.</p> - -<p>The creature roused my interest with her odd answers and wistful round -eyes. “Shut the door and come here,” said I. “Do you know me? and what -tempted you to think <i>you</i> could do for my servant? Were you ever in a -place before?”</p> - -<p>“No; but I’ve seen you gaun by, the Captain and you, and I would be -awfu’ glad if you would let me come. There’s plenty things I can do if I -could get leave to try,” cried the girl with a wonderful commotion in -her voice. “I’ve nursed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78"></a>{78}</span> bairns since ever I was a bairn myself, and I -can wash, and I can sew. Oh, leddy, tak me! I’ll no eat very much, and I -dinna want no wage; and I’ll learn everything you tell me, for the -mistress says I’m awfu’ quick at learning; and I’ll serve you hand and -foot, nicht and day!”</p> - -<p>“But, my poor girl,” said I, quite amazed by this burst of eloquence, -“why do you want so much to come to me?”</p> - -<p>Upon this another extraordinary change came upon my would-be maid. She -fidgeted about, she blushed fiery red, she thrust her red hands into the -bosom of her pinafore, she stood upon one heavy foot, making all sorts -of wonderful twists and contortions with the other. At last in gulps, -and with every demonstration of the most extreme confusion and -shame-facedness, burst forth the following avowal. “Oh! because you’re -rael bonnie; and you smile—and oh, I would like to come!”</p> - -<p>It was an extraordinary kind of flattery, certainly; but I felt my -cheeks flush up, and I cannot deny my heart was touched. I remember too, -when I was a little girl, taking fancies to people; I believe I might -have fallen in love with a lady and gone and offered myself to be her -servant, as likely as not if I could have done it. The uncouth creature -no more meant to flatter me than to offend me. She was deeply ashamed of -having made her confession. Her shame, and her admiration, and her -passionate childish feeling quite went to my heart.</p> - -<p>“You are a very strange girl,” said I. “What is your name, and where do -you live? and do your parents know what you want with me?”</p> - -<p>“They ca’ me Leczie Bayne. My father died six months since,” said the -girl, falling into a kind of vacant tone after her excitement, as if -this account of herself was something necessary to go through, but not -otherwise interesting. “I never had any mother, only a stepmother, and -lots of little bairns. She’s gaun back to her ain place, among her -friends, and I’m to be left, for I’ve naebody belonging to me. We live -down the road, and I used ay to see you gaun by. Whiles you used to -smile at me, no thinking; but I ay minded. And the folk said you we’re -awfu’ happy with the Captain, and had a kind look for everybody,—and -oh, leddy, I’ve naebody belonging to me!”</p> - -<p>I could have cried for her as she stood there, awkward, before the -little fire, with great blobs of tears dropping off her cheeks, rubbing -them away with her poor red hands. I knew no more how to resist her, in -that appeal she made to my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79"></a>{79}</span> happiness, than if I had been a child like a -baby in my lap. The tears came into my eyes, in spite of myself. In the -impulse of the moment I had nearly broken forth and confided to her my -terror and grief about Harry, and this dreadful war that was beginning. -She took possession of me, like the soldier’s wife, with a nearer fellow -feeling than sympathy. Poor, forlorn, uncouth creature, she stood before -me like my old self, strangely transmogrified, but never to be denied. I -could not answer her—for what could I say? Could I cast her off, poor -child, led by the instincts of her heart to me of all people? And oh -dear, dear, what a ridiculous contrast to all the passionate, elevated -feeling of her story, could I take her all in her checked pinafore and -blue stockings, a pathetic grotesque apparition, to be baby’s nurse and -my little maid?</p> - -<p>There never was a harder dilemma: and imagination, you may be sure, did -its very best to make things worse, by bringing up before me the pretty, -tidy, fresh little maid I had been dreaming of, with a white apron and a -little cap, and plump arms to hold my baby in. What could I do? and oh, -if I could not resist my fate, what would Harry say to me? How he would -shrug his shoulders and admire my good taste; how he would look at her -in his curious way as if she were a strange animal; how he would laugh -at me and my soft heart! I got quite restless as the creature stood -there opposite to me, twisting her poor foot and clasping her hands hard -as she thrust them into the bosom of her pinafore. I could not stand -against her wistful eyes. I grew quite desperate looking at her. Could I -ever trust my child in those long red arms that looked all elbow—and -yet how could I send her away?</p> - -<p>“Lizzie, my poor girl,” cried I, remonstrating, “don’t you see I am -very, very sorry for you? But look here now: my baby is very young, not -three months old, and I could never dare trust him to a young girl like -you. You must see that very well, a girl with so much sense; and -besides, I want somebody who knows how to do things. I don’t think I -could teach you myself; and besides——”</p> - -<p>Here I fairly broke down, stopped by the flood of arguments which rose -one after another, not to be defeated, in Lizzie’s round anxious eyes.</p> - -<p>“But I dinna need to learn,” she cried out whenever my voice faltered -and gave her a chance. “I ken! I would keep that bonnie baby from -morning to night far sooner than play;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80"></a>{80}</span> if practice learns folk, I’ve -been learning and learning a’ my life; and I’m that careful I would -rather break every joint in a’ my body than have a scratch on his little -finger; and I can hem that you wouldna see the stitches; and I can sing -to him when he’s wakin’, and redd up the house when he’s in his bed. I’m -no telling lees; and I’ll serve you on my knees, and never have a -thought but how to please you, oh, leddy, if you’ll let me come!”</p> - -<p>Could I resist that? I do not believe Harry himself could if he had -heard her. I gave in because I could not help myself. I did it in shame -and desperation, but what could I do? She was too many for me.</p> - -<p>“Go down stairs and ask Mrs. Saltoun to come up,” said I.</p> - -<p>She went off in a moment, almost before I could look up, and vanished -out of the room without any noise—I suppose because of the high -excitement the poor child was in. Mrs. Saltoun came up rather flurried, -casting very strange looks at Lizzie. When I saw the dear prim old lady -beside that extraordinary creature, and saw the looks she cast at her, -the ludicrous part of it seized hold upon me, and I was seized with such -a fit of laughing that I could scarcely speak.</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Saltoun,” said I, “I don’t know really what you will think of me. -I am going to take her for my maid.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Saltoun looked at me and looked at Lizzie, who made her a curtsey. -She thought I had gone out of my senses. “It’s to be hoped it’s for -<i>lady’s</i> maid and not for bairn’s maid then,” she said, with dreadful -sarcasm. If Mrs. Saltoun was so severe, what would Harry say.</p> - -<p>“She is an orphan and all alone; and she says she understands about -children,” said I, humbly, in self-defence.</p> - -<p>“Oh, if you please, I can keep bairns fine,” said Lizzie; “if ye’ll ask -the neebors they’ll a’ tell; and oh, if the leddy will try me, dinna -turn her against me again! I’m no a lassie in mysel. I’m awfu’ auld in -mysel. Afore harm would come to the baby I would die.”</p> - -<p>“And, my lass, what good would it do the lady if ye were to die,” said -Mrs. Saltoun entering the lists, “after maybe killin’ her bonnie bairn?”</p> - -<p>“I would a’ fa’ in pieces first!” cried Lizzie. “I would let them burn -spunks in my fingers, or crush my feet as they did langsyne; there’s no -a creature in the world I wouldna fecht and fell afore harm came to the -wean!”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Saltoun was not prepared for such an address; nor for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81"></a>{81}</span> the true -fire of enthusiasm and valour that burned through Lizzie’s tears; but -she did not give in. I had the satisfaction to look on and listen while -the old lady demonstrated in the clearest way that she would never do, -without any particular regard for her feelings; and then quietly enjoyed -the triumph when Lizzie burst forth upon Mrs. Saltoun, and in two -minutes routed her, horse and foot. Half an hour after Mrs. Saltoun and -I sat contriving what dress could be got up on the spur of the moment to -make the creature presentable; and that very night, while Harry was at -mess, she sat in the little kitchen downstairs helping to make up a -fresh new printed dress for herself in a fashion which justified part of -her assertions, and with a rapidity which I could explain only under the -supposition that excitement had still forcible possession of her. I -confess I was myself a little excited; though she was only a girl of -fourteen and a servant, not to say the most grotesque and -awkward-looking person imaginable, it is wonderful what an effect this -sudden contact with so strange and characteristic a creature immediately -had. My fears about the war faded off for the moment. I could not help -being quite occupied with thoughts about the new-comer:—whether, after -all, I ever would venture to trust baby with her,—what Harry would say -when he saw that odd apparition;—whether I had only been very -foolish;—whether I might have resisted. Lizzie Bayne had made herself -the heroine of that night.</p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_IX-b" id="Chapter_IX-b"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter IX.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><span class="smcap">WO</span> days after, when Lizzie made her appearance with a decently made -dress, long enough and wide enough to suit her stature, whatever might -be her age; with a clean collar, a white apron, and smooth hair, she -looked quite presentable. I cannot say she was good-looking; but, -undeniably, she looked a capable creature, and with her lively brown -eyes, good colour, and clear complexion might improve even in looks<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82"></a>{82}</span> by -and by. But nobody could do anything for that grotesque awkwardness, -which belonged to Lizzie’s age, perhaps, rather than to herself. She -still stood upon one foot, and twisted the other round the leg that -supported her. She worked uneasily with her big hands, making vain -efforts to thrust them into the pinafore which recent improvements had -swept away; and she still hung her head in agonies of awkwardness and -self-consciousness. A creature so sensitively aware of observation, how -could she be trusted with the most precious baby in the world? I -repeated this five hundred times the first morning; but never once after -I had fairly ventured to place the child in her arms.</p> - -<p>“What on earth is that sprite doing here? Has Mrs. Saltoun taken her in, -or where does she come from?” said Harry the first day. I felt quite -piqued and affronted. I felt myself bound to defend her with all the -earnestness in the world.</p> - -<p>“Sprite! What do you mean? Why, that is my new maid, Henry, that I told -you of; and a capital maid she is,” said I, firing up with all the -consciousness of not having taken the wisest step in the world.</p> - -<p>“Your new maid!” And Harry said, “Oh!” in the most aggravating manner in -the world. I am obliged to confess that Lizzie’s arrival, so much out of -the ordinary way, and the excitement of getting her up, of making her -fit to appear, and of testing her qualities, had very much aroused my -mind out of the heavy thoughts I had been entertaining a few days ago; -so that I was no longer so subdued nor so entirely devoted to Harry but -what I could be provoked with him now and then.</p> - -<p>“There is nothing to cry out about; she is rather young, to be sure, and -not the most graceful figure in the world; but she’s good and grateful, -poor child, and I am quite content.”</p> - -<p>“You must recollect though, Milly, that we can’t afford to keep anybody -for charity,” said Harry; “she does not look very gainly; and if she -can’t save you the half of your present trouble, I’ll turn out a tyrant, -I warn you, and send her away.”</p> - -<p>“I am quite the best judge, you may be sure,” said I, with a little -internal tremor; “and I tell you I am satisfied. If you attempt to be -tyrannical, it is you who shall be sent away.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, Milly darling, how’s that! I shall be sent away soon enough,” said -Harry, with a little sigh. “I have been thinking that all over since we -talked of it the other day. What, you’ve forgot, have you, Milly? Thank -heaven! I was only afraid you were fretting over it, and thinking where -I should send you to be safe when the time came and I had to go away.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83"></a>{83}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, Harry, how cruel!” said I. “I had got it out of my mind just then. -Now, I shall never forget it again. And where could you send me? What -would it matter, except to be near at hand for the post, and get the -earliest news.”</p> - -<p>“Unless you were to go to your Aunt Connor; poor Milly,” said he with a -pitiful look at me.</p> - -<p>“Have you got your orders?” cried I, clasping my hands.</p> - -<p>He said, “Nonsense!” getting up hurriedly. “Indeed, Milly, you must -consider this question without thinking it is all over the moment I -speak of it; and don’t burden yourself with an unsuitable maid. You -know, whether we go to the Crimea or not, we are likely very soon to go -somewhere. The regiment cannot be long here.”</p> - -<p>“Then, Harry, if there is nothing certain don’t let us talk of it,” said -I; “when one’s heart is to be broken, one cannot keep always -anticipating the moment.” “Don’t make any arrangements; when it comes, -that will be time enough. I shall care about nothing but letters. So -long as I can have letters I shall do.”</p> - -<p>Harry stayed, lingering about me before he went out. “I am not so sure -that the Lady Fanshawe idea is a foolish one after all,” he said after -awhile. “What fetters you put a man into, you wives and babes! I wish I -only knew somebody that would be very good to you if I have to go away. -Nineteen! and to be left all by yourself in the world! It’s hard work, -Milly, to be a soldier’s wife.”</p> - -<p>“If you don’t mean anything particular—if there’s no orders come—have -pity on me, and don’t talk, Harry!” I cried out. “When you must go, I’ll -bear it. I shall do as well as the other soldiers’ wives. I can never be -all by myself as long as you are in the world, though you should be ten -thousand miles away. Don’t talk of it. I shall get strength when the day -comes; but the day has not come nor the strength; don’t put me to -needless torture, Harry.”</p> - -<p>“I won’t,” he said again, with that little sigh, and went away leaving -me very miserable. Oh! if all this happy life were to finish and come to -an end. If I was to waken up some dreadful morning and find him gone, -and all the light gone out like the light in a dream! I durst not think -upon it. I got up and rushed about my little occupations. Lizzie came -upstairs when I was taking baby, who had just woke from his morning -sleep, out of the cradle. She stood, shy and doubtful, looking at me, -seeing in a moment that I was not so cheerful as usual. Poor child, with -a strange self-recollection that was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84"></a>{84}</span> quite natural, but seemed very odd -to me, she thought she had something to do with it. Her countenance fell -directly. She came sidling up to me with her heart in her face. Mrs. -Saltoun had taught her some faint outlines of common conventional -civility, and succeeded in substituting “mem” for “leddy” in her style -of address. She came up to me accordingly, with the tears ready to -start, and every sign of grieved disappointment and restrained eagerness -in her face. “Oh, mem,” cried Lizzie, “have I been doing wrong? Are you -no pleased wi’ me?” The words went to my heart, I cannot tell how. It -made me see more clearly than a dozen sermons how we were every one of -us going about in a private little world of our own. To think that her -shortcomings, the innocent grotesque creature, should throw me into such -trouble! What a strange unconscious self-estimation that was not -selfishness! In spite of myself, the load at my heart lightened, when I -smiled up at the girl.</p> - -<p>“Lizzie,” said I on the impulse of the moment, not thinking that I might -perhaps wound her; “if we did not suit each other, should we quite break -our hearts?”</p> - -<p>Lizzie coloured high, made a momentary pause, and dropped her queer -curtsey, “Eh no, mem, no you; I couldn’t expect it,” said Lizzie, with a -long sigh. Then, after another pause: “If it was a’ to turn out a dream -after twa haill days; and, to be sure, it’s three days coming; but if it -was a’ to come to naething after a’ this,” smoothing down her new dress, -“and a’ the thoughts I’ve had in my mind, eh me! I think I would have -nae heart ony mair either to break or bind.”</p> - -<p>Now, perhaps there was not very much in these words; but they were so -exactly what I had been thinking myself, that they seemed to make a new -link between me and my odd child-maid.</p> - -<p>“That is just what I have been thinking—but with far, far more reason,” -said I; “for, oh, Lizzie! war’s proclaimed, and Mr. Langham may have to -leave me; it might happen any day; and what should I do alone?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mem, dinna greet!” said Lizzie loudly: “dinna let tears fa’ on the -wee baby; but I ken what you would do. Just nurse the bairn, and pray -the Lord, and wait. If you were sending me awa’, it would be never to -come back again; but if the Captain gangs to the wars he’ll come hame a -great general; maybe he would have a ribbon at his breast and a Sir at -his name!” cried Lizzie, glowing up suddenly. “Eh, wouldna we a’ be -proud! You might weary whiles, but the Captain would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85"></a>{85}</span> never forget you, -nor be parted in his heart, if he was ten thousand miles away.”</p> - -<p>“You strange little witch,” said I, crying, with the strangest feeling -of comfort, “you say the very words that come into my heart!”</p> - -<p>The creature gave me a bright affectionate look, with tears in her brown -eyes. “And please can I take baby out for a walk?” she said, immediately -falling back into her own department, with her little bob of a curtsey. -“I’ll gang before the windows to let you see how careful I am. It’s the -bonniest morning ever was. Eh, mem, if you’re pleased, I’ll ay see the -sun shining,” cried my nursery-maid.</p> - -<p>And I actually did trust her with my precious baby, and stood at the -window watching her with breathless anxiety and satisfaction for a whole -hour, afraid to lose sight of her for a moment. Steady as a judge walked -Lizzie, grand and important in her “charge,” disdaining the passing -appeals of “neighbours,” marching along on the sunny side of the -way—for it was already cold enough to make that necessary—shading the -child’s eyes with such adroit changes of his drapery and her own, -preserving him from the wind at the corners, and picking her steps over -the unequal road with such care and devotion, that I could have run -downstairs and kissed her on the spot. The sight, somehow, drove half -the bitterness of my thoughts out of my head. The sky was clear with -that “shining after rain” which has so much hope and freshness in it. -The wind was brisk, with plenty of floating clouds to knock about. -Before us, in the clear air, the castle rock looked almost near enough -to have touched it, with the sun shining on its bold grey front, and all -those white puffs of clouds blowing against and around it, like heavenly -children at their play. How it stood there, everlasting! How the sun -smiled and caressed those old walls where Harry was, and warmed and -brightened the cheerful bit of road where, to and fro, before my eyes, -unconscious in his baby state, went Harry’s son. Ah, me! to-day is -to-day, if one were to die to-morrow. I was too young to grope about for -darkness to come, and lose the good of this beautiful hour. Besides, -does not the good Lord know all about to-morrow? Beginning and end of -it, one thing with another, it pleases Him. Presently we shall have it, -and strength for it. So, away till your time, you dark hour! just now it -is not God, but an enemy who sends you. The light is sweet, and it is a -pleasant thing to behold the sun.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86"></a>{86}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_X-b" id="Chapter_X-b"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter X.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span><span class="smcap">HEN</span> Harry came home that evening, I knew he had something to tell me; -but after the first start was over, I felt sure it was not anything -painful from the look of his face. I may venture to say now that he was -a very handsome young man in those days; but the thing that first drew -my heart to him was the way he always betrayed himself with his face. -Whatever he was feeling or thinking, you could tell it by his eyes; and -if he sometimes happened to say anything he did not think, as happens to -everybody now and then, his eyes woke up to a kind of sly, half ashamed, -half amused expression, and let you know he was fibbing in the oddest -way in the world.</p> - -<p>“I almost fell upon a discovery to-night,” said Harry. “What should you -have thought, Milly darling, if I had brought you home word about your -father and that estate you are to come heir to? I actually thought I was -on the scent of it for ten minutes at least.”</p> - -<p>“But it was a mistake,” said I, very quietly.</p> - -<p>“I confess, so far, it was a mistake; but still we may hear something,” -said Harry. “You have heard me talk of old Pendleton scores of times. -Fancy how I looked when he began about Haworth, a little town in -Yorkshire, all sorts of stories, as if he knew all about it. After I had -sat out a dozen anecdotes of other people, I asked him if he knew any -Mortimers there. Oh yes, yes! he said briskly, old Mortimer lived in the -brick house opposite the church; famous old fellow before he got so very -rheumatic and useless—had a son about Pendleton’s own age. And here he -shook his head: ‘Never did any good, sir! never did any good! Jilted in -early life, and never got over it.’ You may suppose this made me prick -up my ears.”</p> - -<p>“My father!” said I.</p> - -<p>“To be sure! it could not be anybody else; but it was your grandfather -whom old Pendleton would keep talking of. I asked very closely all about -him. It appears he only died about ten years ago; long after your -father, Milly, and seems to have been tolerably rich, according to -Pendleton. There’s none of the family remaining, Pendleton says. The red -brick house is all falling to ruins; and how the money went, or<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87"></a>{87}</span> whether -there was any money, he can’t tell. I have a strong idea of making some -inquiries about it. Don’t you think it would be worth while?”</p> - -<p>“It seems to me of late that you’re always thinking about money. Why is -it?” said I. “Why should we go and trouble ourselves about people that -have never inquired after us.”</p> - -<p>“You simpleton!” cried Harry. “Who cares whether they like us or no; but -that red brick cosy house for my Milly darling, and a little comfort to -console her—it would take all the pricks out of my pillow when——”</p> - -<p>“Don’t talk, Harry. I’ll not listen to you. I’ll have no inquiries -made,” cried I, in desperation. “Every time I comfort myself a little -you pull me back again. To-night I am very happy and content, and don’t -care for your to-morrows. Be quiet and let my grandfather alone, if I -ever had one. What do I care for him? He was either in debt and had no -money to leave, or he was living on an annuity, or he endowed a -hospital, or something. And the red brick house of course is in -Chancery. Let the old gentleman alone. I’ll tell you about baby. He -certainly noticed Mrs. Saltoun’s bird swinging in its cage to-day.”</p> - -<p>“Nonsense! Pendleton is to write to his brother, who lives there, and -ask for all the particulars. He says your grandfather was a character,” -said Harry. “He belonged to some good family: Welsh, Pendleton -thinks—but professed to scorn all that, and called his son after -Arkwright, the cotton-spinner; that’s what the A. means in your father’s -name. By Jove! I wouldn’t write myself Richard Arkwright if I could help -it. What humbug it is giving fellows other people’s names! They must -have had a fancy for it in those days. Guess what Pendleton’s own name -is? He signs himself E. B. quite modestly. It’s Edmund Burke, upon my -honour!”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said I, “we have only got three names among us; and they are all -simple enough.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, so is Richard Arkwright when it’s a man’s own name,” said Harry. -“Now what do you think of my discovery? I confess I think it’s something -to know where one’s family belong to. If I could only have taken you to -our dear old Rectory, Milly. What a pleasure it would have been to have -thought of you there! I could have watched you all round every turn of -the garden, although I had been at the other end of the world.”</p> - -<p>“You are not going to the other end of the world; and we<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88"></a>{88}</span> have no claim -upon the Rectory now, any more than on my grandfather,” said I. “Here is -a cup of tea for you. Now do be content; and don’t talk, Harry; at least -not on that subject. Of all the places in the world I like Edinburgh, a -little to the south of the Castle, and close upon Bruntsfield Links.”</p> - -<p>“You have no imagination, Milly,” said he. “However, we’ll hear what old -Pendleton says; and if there is anything known about it I should be very -much tempted, little as we have at present——”</p> - -<p>“To throw our poor good money away,” cried I. “You who grudged baby his -pretty hood! Oh, Harry, Harry, what wild fancies have you taken into -your head?”</p> - -<p>“To make my Milly a refuge when I’m away. Not so wild, after all,” he -said to himself softly. I made a noise with my teacups, and would not -hear him. It was hard work keeping cheerful when he would return and -return to the same subject. Sometimes I trembled and wondered, with a -sudden pang, was it a presentiment? But all the presentiments I ever -heard of were sudden and did not last; and it was natural enough, too, -that he should be anxious. If he did have to leave me, would not I work, -or beg, or steal, or anything, to have everything comfortable for <i>him</i>? -I forgave Harry for looking out for a home for his poor little wife; but -yet every time he spoke of it, it went to my heart.</p> - -<p>And I must say for myself that I never had the least hope either from my -unknown relations or Harry’s. I could not believe in a grandfather, nor -any cold strange people belonging to me. If I had friends they should -have shown themselves friendly when I needed it most. Now I thought, in -my pride, I did not want to know anything about them. I pictured to -myself an old morose man, that would have nothing to say to his poor -son’s only child. In my mind I took quite a prejudice against the very -place, and dreamt all that night of a mouldy old red-brick house, with -endless passages, and little steps now and then to throw one down and -break one’s limbs in the darkness. Somehow, both Harry’s imagination and -mine fixed on that old red-brick house. <i>He</i> thought it would be -pleasant to settle me in such a place. <i>I</i> had the most frightful -fancies about it. I could see myself going about the old grey faded -rooms, and Harry away at the war. I could see a pale creature, that was -me, go wringing her hands down the old staircase, and trembling at the -window waiting for the post coming in. I could see dreadful shadows of -scenes that might be when<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89"></a>{89}</span> the letters came, which I would not look at, -but could not shut out of my heart. Harry did not think how he was -torturing me when he spoke of that old red-brick house. It seemed, -somehow, as if all my fears took solid form, and became real when they -got a shelter to house themselves in. I grew superstitious, as most -people do when their hearts are in great trouble. Going on from less to -more I came to settle upon this as a token for evil. If anyhow, by any -dreadful chance, something should come of it, and I should ever have -that house in my power, then I should know that the light was to depart -from me, and that I was to be set down, all by myself, and desolate, to -wither down and pine to death where my hard-hearted grandfather had -died. In my own mind, and without saying anything to anybody, I settled -upon this sign; and grew so assured of it, just by fancying things, -that, if I had heard that my grandfather had left me a fortune, and that -we should be comfortable all the rest of our lives, I should have sunk -down as if the intelligence was a blow. To be poor and happy, and have -our own way to make, seemed just enough, somehow; and in my superstition -I almost thought God would punish us for wanting more. I thought if -wealth should possibly come, happiness would fly away. I made sure if -Harry got his will it would be death to me. The thought of it put a new -terror into my life. His going away was not now the first thing I was -afraid of. I was afraid of his finding that home for me that he was so -anxious about—that place where I could be comfortable without him. -Every grief in the world came to be implied and suggested to my mind by -the mention of that red-brick house.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90"></a>{90}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_XI-b" id="Chapter_XI-b"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter XI.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">“O</span><span class="smcap">H</span> yes, I am very fanciful, I know I am; but if Harry would only be -content, and let me be happy while I can,” said I, trying, but without -success, to gulp down my tears.</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Langham, my dear, the Captain canna be content, and it stands to -reason,” said Mrs. Saltoun; “and being anxious, as a good man should, to -provide for his wife and his bairn, will no take him away an hour sooner -than if he were a reckless ne’er-do-weel, that cared neither for the -tane nor the tither. Be reasonable, and let him speak. He’s young and -you’re young; and you’re neither o’ ye that wise but ye might thole -mending. It’s a real, discreet, sensible thing o’ the young gentleman to -try his very utmost for a home for his wife if he has to go away.”</p> - -<p>“If you have taken his side I shall give up speaking,” said I. “What do -I care for home, or anything else, if he is away?”</p> - -<p>“But you care for the Captain’s peace of mind, Mrs. Langham, my dear,” -said Mrs. Saltoun; “that’s far different. Maybe the truest love of a’ -would make itself content to be left in splendour for the sake of a -comfortable thought to them that’s going on a far different road. I -wouldna say but the thought o’ your safety would lighten mony an hour of -danger. Mony’s the strange thing I’ve seen in my life; but eh! when ye -have them that ye maybe mayna have lang, gie them their will! Let him -have his ain way, and gang in wi’ him if ye can. There’s mony a young -wife like you would die cheerful, or do ony hard thing in the world for -her husband, but canna see her way just to do <i>that</i>. Gie him his will! -I was ower late learning that mysel’.”</p> - -<p>The very tone in which my good old lady spoke plunged me deeper and -deeper into my agony of alarm and terror. I did not take her words for -what they meant. I went aside to draw terrifying inferences from her -tone and the sound of her voice. She thought he would go, I -concluded—perhaps she had heard already that marching orders had -come—she thought that he would never come back again, if he did leave -me. Anxiety and fear seized hold upon me so forcibly that I never -stopped to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91"></a>{91}</span> think that Mrs. Saltoun had no means of knowing, any more, -or even so much as I knew, and that she could not possibly be better -informed on this point than I was.</p> - -<p>“And now tell me about your family, Mrs. Langham, my dear. I’ve come -across half the folk in the country, I might venture to say, one time -and another. I was on the continent for three years with my old -gentleman,” said Mrs. Saltoun; “it’s just astonishing to say such a -thing, but if you’ll believe me, a person gets better acquaint with -their own country folk, that is, meaning the higher ranks o’ life, in -foreign parts than at home. It’s maybe just a glance and away, that’s -true; but them that has good memories minds.”</p> - -<p>“And were you really abroad?” said I, feeling a little interested in -spite of all my trouble; “and who was your old gentleman?—not——”</p> - -<p>“No, no, nobody belonging to me. I had the charge of his house and his -young family, that he had no business to have at his age; an auld fuil -of a man that had married a young wife, and lost her, and was left, past -seventy, with four young bairns. Mortimer? wasn’t that <i>your</i> name, my -dear? Eh? I mind of a Miss Mortimer made a great steer among a’ the -English one season; and among mair than the English by bad fortune. She -was counted a great beauty; but I canna say she was like you.”</p> - -<p>“No, indeed, not likely!” cried I.</p> - -<p>“I would rather have your face than hers though,” said kind Mrs. -Saltoun. “Bless me, now I think of it, that was a very strange story. -There was a Count somebody that followed her about like her shadow. -Except her beauty, I canna say I ever had much of an opinion of her. She -was very heartless to her servants, and, for all the admirers she had, I -think her greatest admirer was herself; but between you and me, my dear, -men are great fools; she had ay a train after her. To be sure she was -said to be a great fortune as well. I canna think but that poor Count -was badly used. Counts are no a’ impostors, like what we think them -here. He was a real handsome gentleman, that one. He was with her -wherever she went for a year and more. Some folks said they were to be -married, and more said they were married already. <i>That</i> was ay my -opinion;—when, what do you think, all at once he disappeared from her, -and for a while she flirted about more than ever; and then she went -suddenly off and home with her father. I would like to hear the rights -o’ that story. When a woman’s a witch,—and I canna think a great beauty -without a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92"></a>{92}</span> heart is onything else—most other women take a great -interest in finding her out. Fools say it’s for envy; but it’s no for -envy, my dear. You see beauty doesna blind a woman; we can ay see what’s -going on underhand.”</p> - -<p>“And what became of her?” said I.</p> - -<p>“That is just what I never heard. That is the worst of meeting in with -folk abroad; you see them once, and you, maybe, never see them a’ your -days again,” said Mrs. Saltoun. “To be sure, you commonly hear of them, -one way or other; but I never heard of the beautiful Miss Mortimer -again. It’s five-and-twenty years ago, if it’s a day, and she was far -from young then. That poor Count—I canna mind his name—was a good five -years, if no more, younger than the witch that kept him at her call. I -took a real spite against that woman; for you see she was just at the -over-bloom, and yet took a’ the airs of a young queen. I wouldna wonder -in the least but, after a’, she was married and wouldna own to it. There -was nae heart in her.”</p> - -<p>“But if she was married, how could she help herself?” said I.</p> - -<p>“That is what I canna tell,” said Mrs. Saltoun; “there’s wheels within -wheels, especially in foreign parts. Maybe the Count wasna a grand -enough match, maybe—I canna tell you; it’s a’ guess-work; but I am very -sure of one thing, that she was not an innocent woman, with nothing on -her conscience when she went away.”</p> - -<p>“I hope she is no relation of mine,” said I. “Harry has found out that I -had a grandfather, and all about him. Oh, only suppose, Mrs. Saltoun, -this dreadful beauty should turn out to be my aunt! That <i>would</i> be -delightful!” I said to myself after a while, with a kind of bitter -satisfaction; “not to live in the red-brick house alone, but to live -with a dreadful old beauty who would be sure to be haunted. That would -be purgatory, enough, to please anybody; and Mortimer is not at all a -common name.”</p> - -<p>My old lady looked up at me half frightened. “Don’t say such a thing, -Mrs. Langham, my dear. I would not say a word against any person’s -character, far less one that might turn out a relation of yours. But, -for all that I’ve no right to interfere, I would set my face against the -like of you setting up house with ony such person. I would speak to the -Captain mysel’. Hout! here I’m taking’t up as if it was true; but if it -should be so that, in the order of Providence, the Captain was to go, -you mustna take up just with ony relation without<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93"></a>{93}</span> considering if they -would make ye happy. You must be careful where you go—you must——”</p> - -<p>“Happy?” cried I. It seemed like mockery and a kind of insult;—as if I -could be happy when Harry, perhaps, was in danger, perhaps wounded or -ill, in suffering, and away from me!</p> - -<p>“Whisht, whisht,” said Mrs. Saltoun. “I ken ye better than ye ken -yourself. It’ll be hard, hard work at first; but when the parting’s over -you’ll get hopeful, and think o’ the meeting again; and ye’ll ay get -letters to cheer ye; and with the baby and the sun shining you’ll be -happy before you ken. But I maunna have ye settled down with the like of -yon Miss Mortimer. Na! na! naething like that, if she were twenty times -an aunt. Far better stay on still with me, that would ay be coming and -going to cheer you up. Yon’s a woman without a heart. I must speak to -the Captain mysel’.”</p> - -<p>Though I was much nearer crying that being amused, I could not but laugh -at Mrs. Saltoun’s anxiety about her Miss Mortimer, whom there was not -the very slightest reason to suppose any relation of mine. I took up the -idea myself, I must say, with quite a ludicrous sort of uncomfortable -satisfaction. If I had a grandfather, why should not I have an aunt? Why -should there not be an old Miss Mortimer living in the red-brick house, -ready to take me in, and kill me slowly by degrees? I formed an -immediate picture of her—how she would look, and what she would say to -me. I fancied her dressed up in her old fashions, trying to look young -and a beauty still. How dreadful it must be to drop from being a great -beauty, and having everybody worship you, down to a mere old woman left -all by yourself! Poor old Miss Mortimer! If she was my aunt, and was -very cross, and discontented, and miserable, there might be something -different in the old red-brick house, that quiet, dead comfortable home -that poor Harry, in his love and kindness, was so anxious to find for -me. There would be some satisfaction in living a miserable life with an -ogre in an enchanted castle if Harry were away. Mrs. Saltoun’s words did -not alarm me; on the contrary, I grew quite curious about this imaginary -Miss Mortimer. I thought I could fancy her going about those faded rooms -which yesterday I fancied seeing myself in. Now it was her figure I saw -all alone by the fire. Had she got used to it, I wonder? or did she -chafe and beat her poor old wings against the cage, and hate the world -that had given over admiring her? I tried to spell out what kind of a -beauty she had been; but it was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94"></a>{94}</span> always twilight in the old-fashioned -room. Tall, to be sure, with grey hair that had been black, and proud -eyes all wrinkled up in their sockets. Poor old Miss Mortimer! I wonder -did she know that she had an orphan niece who was to be sent to her for -a comfortable home? Couldn’t I look again, and see myself come in, and -how she greeted me? I think I must have grown quite fantastic in my -troubles. I could not keep my thoughts away from Mrs. Saltoun’s great -beauty. All alone in the house that was falling into decay, what ghosts -must crowd about her! Did she see the Count she had ill-used oftenest, -or some other who was more favoured? How did she keep these phantoms off -from her in the silence? I kept going over all this as other girls go -over imaginary romances of their own; I knew what my own romance was; -but still I was only nineteen, and loved to dream.</p> - -<p>And, perhaps, the consequence of this new turn to my thoughts was, that -I was more tolerant of Harry’s curiosity and anxious musing about my -father’s family, which had been revealed to him in that strange, -unexpected glimpse by Mr. Pendleton, the regimental doctor. I did not -stop him nervously when he began to talk of that favourite subject of -his thoughts. He was always coming back to it somehow. I could trace the -idea running through all he said. Not fancy and nonsensical imaginations -like mine; but serious, simple-minded anxiety, and an earnest concern -about the matter which would have broken my heart, had I not begun to -get used to it now. There was nothing talked about or heard of but the -war and the quantities of soldiers who were being sent away. Harry had -no other expectation or hope but to go too, and all his thought was, to -find a shelter for me. I could see it haunted his mind constantly, and -at last I gave in to it, that he might be eased on the subject. I used -to discuss it over with him where I should go—oh, only to go like Lady -Fanshawe, and be beside him, though he did not know! That was -impossible; so I let him talk, and smiled the best I could. Soon enough, -perhaps, we should have land and sea between us. Let him say what he -would. Let him arrange what he would. If it was a comfort to him, what -did it matter? The old brick house and Miss Mortimer would be better -than the happiest of homes. Who could wish to be happy while Harry was -away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95"></a>{95}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_XII-b" id="Chapter_XII-b"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter XII.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">O</span><span class="smcap">NE</span> day after this Harry came in with a letter in his hand.</p> - -<p>“Here is news, Milly, darling; not such news as we expected, but still -news,” said he; “this is not how you are to become a great heiress, -certainly; but still it’s interesting. It turns out, after, all, that -your grandfather was not rich.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! is it Mr. Pendleton’s letter?” said I.</p> - -<p>“Pendleton’s brother has something to do with it,” said Harry, with a -little excitement; “there was not much money—not any more than enough -to pay the debts and give some presents to the old servants—but there -is the house. They had no funds to employ in looking up the heir, and -nobody cared to take much trouble. So there it stands falling to pieces. -Look here, Milly; it’s yours, indisputably yours.”</p> - -<p>“But how about Miss Mortimer?” cried I.</p> - -<p>Harry stopped short all at once as he was opening the letter, and stared -at me. “Miss Mortimer! who is she?” he said, in the most entire -amazement. He might well look surprised: but I had so entirely made up -my mind about her, and that she was living in the old house, that his -question was quite a shock to me.</p> - -<p>“Why, Miss Mortimer, to be sure,” I said, faltering a little; and then I -could not help laughing at Harry’s astonished face.</p> - -<p>“It appears that you know more than Mr. Pendleton does, Milly,” said he; -“there is no Miss Mortimer here. I suppose you are only amusing yourself -at my expense: but I really am quite in earnest. Mr. Mortimer’s house is -entirely yours. He had no child but your father; you are the -heir-at-law. I only wish there had been a Miss Mortimer. You may look -displeased, Milly darling; but think if there had been a good old lady -to take care of you while I’m away!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Harry, you don’t know what you are saying,” cried I; “that Miss -Mortimer was an old witch and beauty. Mrs. Saltoun told me that if she -should turn out to be a relation of mine, she would speak to you -herself, to say that I must not on any account go there.”</p> - -<p>“Go where? What Miss Mortimer are you speaking of?” said Harry, -completely mystified.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96"></a>{96}</span></p> - -<p>Then I had to confess that I knew nothing of her, and it was all -imagination; and Harry shook it off quite lightly, and went on to talk -of this house. As if I ever could, after all my fancies, put Miss -Mortimer out of that house! As if she had not taken possession, a -wonderful old ghost, always to live and reign there! And, moreover, my -heart got quite chill within me as Harry spoke. This was my bad omen; -this was the sign I had appointed with myself for the coming of every -trouble. I got so pale, listening to him, that he was disturbed, and -grew quite anxious. Was I ill? What was the matter with me? I said No, -with a gasp, and let him go on. He read out of the letter all the -description of this dreadful house; but I am sure I did not need any -description. I saw it as clear as a picture; large rooms, to be sure, -with great faded Turkey carpets on them! a low broad staircase, with -myself coming down on the post-morning wringing my hands, and Miss -Mortimer sitting all silent by the fire; a large old garden with mossy -apple-trees, and a sun-dial somewhere about, some dozen bedrooms or so, -all hushed and solemn, as if people had died there. I am not sure that I -heard the words of Harry’s description; for what was she good? I saw it -perfectly well in my mind, far clearer than I ever could have known it -by words.</p> - -<p>“And Harry,” cried I, with a start of despair, when he came to a pause, -“would you really have me go to live in such a place—a place I never -was in in all my life—a place I have no kind feeling about, nor -pleasant thoughts—only because it was my grandfather’s house, whom I -never saw, and who never cared to see me? I did not think you could have -been so cruel. Besides, it would be far too expensive. Servants would -have to be kept for it; and you must make up your mind that it would -kill me.”</p> - -<p>“But it might sell for a good price,” said Harry, “and I might get you a -pretty cottage, where you pleased, with the money. I am going to write -to old Pendleton to tell him who you are and all about it. You have had -your own way with your first bit of fortune; but I should not at all -wonder, Milly darling,” he said, laughing, “if you were to offer it, -rent free, to your Aunt Connor, that she might find it a very eligible -situation. After such a description, Mrs. Connor is not the woman to -despise the red-brick house.”</p> - -<p>“She might have it altogether, and welcome, for me,” said I. “Oh, Harry, -I can’t help thinking it’s an ill omened place. I could never be happy -there.”</p> - -<p>“Who ever heard of an ill omen now-a-days?” said Harry,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97"></a>{97}</span> “it’s a pagan -fancy, Milly. For my part the idea rather captivates me. I should like -to live in the house my good father was born in. My bridegroom uncle has -it now. Don’t you think I had better write and tell him my little wife -is an heiress? However, perhaps the best thing will be to try and sell -the house.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, much the best thing!” I said. That would be getting rid of it, at -all events; and as Harry would not leave off talking of it, I persuaded -him with all my might to get done with it so. We were both quite -confident that we had only to say who we were and get it without any -trouble. That, of course, was all very natural in me that knew nothing -about things, but Harry might have known better. He was quite pleased -and interested about it. I think he never was quite satisfied not to -know who I belonged to; but now that he had hunted up my grandfather, he -was quite comforted. And how he did talk of the pretty cottage he was to -buy me! Sometimes it was to be in England, in his own county; which he -naturally liked best of all places; sometimes near Edinburgh, where we -were, because I was fond of it. Sometimes we took walks and looked at -all the pretty little houses we could see. He had planned it out in his -own mind, all the rooms it was to have, and used to study the -upholsterer’s windows, and take me ever so far out of my way to see some -pretty table or chair that had taken his fancy. He said if he could only -see me settled, and know exactly what I was looking at, and all the -things round me, it would be such a comfort when he went away.</p> - -<p>This going away was kept so constantly before my mind that I could not -forget it for a moment. I lived in a constant state of nervous -expectation. Every day when he came in I went to meet him with a pang of -fear in my heart. Such constant anxiety would have made a woman ill who -had nothing to do; but I was full in the stream of life, and one thing -counterbalanced another, and kept everything going. That must be the -reason why people do get strength to bear so many things when they are -in the midst of life. Young disengaged people would die of half the -troubles that middle-aged, hard-labouring people have; but I had a daily -dread returning every time Harry returned, and with a shiver of -inexpressible relief put off my anxiety to the next day, when I found -there was no news. All the evils of life seemed to crowd into that one -possibility of Harry’s going away. It was not that I feared any positive -harm coming to him, or had made up my mind that he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98"></a>{98}</span> would not come back -again; it was the sudden extinction of our bright troubled life that I -looked forward to, the going out of our happiness. I did not seem to -care where I should be, or what might happen after that time.</p> - -<p>In the meantime Harry grew quite a man of business, and entered with -something like enjoyment, I thought, into the pursuit of my -grandfather’s house. He wrote to Aunt Connor for all the information -that could be had about my father, and for the register of his marriage -and my birth. He wrote a long letter to that Mr. Pendleton at Haworth, -who had, as he said, something to do with it; and old Pendleton, the -surgeon, came out to see me, and told me all he remembered about my -father. That was not very much; the principal thing was, that he had -heard of poor papa being jilted by a relation of his own, a great -heiress—in Wales, he thought, but he could not tell where. Of course -that must have been Sarah, in poor papa’s drawing, who was getting on -the wrong side of her horse; and “he never did any more good,” Mr. -Pendleton said. He lingered about at home for some time, and then went -wandering about everywhere. He had a little money from his mother, just -enough to keep him from being obliged to do anything; and the old -surgeon burst out into an outcry about the evils of a little money, -which quite frightened me. “When silly people leave a young man just as -much as he can live on, they ruin him for life,” said old Mr. Pendleton. -“Unless he’s a great genius there’s an end of him. Richard Mortimer, -begging your pardon, was not a great genius, Mrs. Langham; but he might -have been a good enough soldier, or doctor, or solicitor, or something; -or a cotton-spinner, as his name inclined that way,—if it hadn’t been -for his little bit of money. Langham, my boy, either have a great -fortune or none at all; it will be all the better for your heir.”</p> - -<p>“We’ll have a great fortune,” said Harry. “The first step must be to -sell this red-brick house.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Pendleton gave him an odd look. “There’s a saying about catching the -hare first before you cook it,” said the doctor. “Make yourself quite -sure they’ll give you a deal of trouble before they’ll let you take -possession; and then there’s no end of money wanted for repairs. The -last time I saw it, there was a hole that a man could pass through in -the roof.”</p> - -<p>Harry looked aghast at this new piece of information; nothing that I -ever saw had such an effect upon Harry’s courage. He gazed with open -eyes and mouth at the disenchanter <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99"></a>{99}</span>for a moment. I do think he could -see the rain dropping in, and the wind blowing, and damp and decay -spreading through the house just as clearly as I saw Miss Mortimer -sitting by the fire, and myself going down the stairs. After that I used -to think Harry was thinking of the house, whenever it rained much. He -used to sigh, and look so grave, and say solemn things about the wet -weather destroying property. And I cannot deny that I laughed. -Altogether, this house kept us in talk and interest, and did a good deal -to amuse us through this winter, which, without something to lighten it, -would have passed very slowly, being so full of perpetual anxiety and -fears.</p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_XIII-b" id="Chapter_XIII-b"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter XIII.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span><span class="smcap">T</span> was in spring that Harry came in one day with the news in his face; -at least I thought it was the news. Heaven help me!—I came forward with -my hands clasped, struck speechless by the thought, my limbs trembling -under me so that I could scarcely stand. I suppose Harry was struck by -my dumb agony. My ears, that were strained to hear the one only thing in -the world that I was afraid of, devoured, without being satisfied, the -soothing words he said to me. I gasped at him, asking, I suppose, -without any sound, to know the worst; and he told me at once, in pity -for my desperate face.</p> - -<p>“No such thing, Milly darling. No, no; not to the war just yet. We are -only to leave Edinburgh, nothing more.”</p> - -<p>I think I almost fainted at this reprieve; I could scarcely understand -it. The certainty of the other was so clear upon my mind that I almost -could have thought he deceived me. I sank down into a seat when I came -to myself, and cried in my weakness like a child; Harry all the while -wondering over me in a surprise of love and pity. I do not think he -quite knew till then how much that terror had gone to my heart.</p> - -<p>“No, Milly, darling,” he kept repeating, looking at me<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a>{100}</span> always with a -strange compassion, as if he knew that the grief I was dreading must -come, though not yet; “take comfort, it has not come yet; and before it -comes you must be stronger, and able to bear what God sends.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, yes, I will bear it,” said I, under my breath, “but say again -it is not to be now.”</p> - -<p>“No, we are going away to Chester,” said Harry, “be satisfied, I will -not try to cheat you when that time comes. We are to go to Chester to -let some other fellows away. Now you must pack again and be going, -Milly, like a true soldier’s wife.”</p> - -<p>Ah, me! if that were all that was needful for a soldier’s wife! Somehow, -all that night after, I felt lighter in my heart than usual. I had felt -all this time as if the sword was hanging over my head; but now that we -were sent out wandering again, the danger seemed to have faded further -off. Nobody would take the trouble to send a regiment from one end of -the country to the other, and then send them right away. If they had -been going to the war, they would have gone direct from Edinburgh. It -was a respite, a little additional life granted to us. I sang my old -songs that night, as I went about the room. I could dare laugh to baby, -and dance him about. How he was growing, the dear fellow! He set his -little pink feet firm on my hand, and could stand upright. I showed -Harry all his accomplishments, and rejoiced over them. How thankful and -lighthearted I was, to be sure, that night! Harry kept watching me, -following me with his eyes in the strangest, amused, sympathetic way. He -was surprised to see the agony I was in at first; but he was still more -surprised to see how easily, as one might have said, I got over it now.</p> - -<p>“And, Milly, what is to be done with the sprite?” said Harry.</p> - -<p>“Lizzie? what should be done with her? She is an orphan, she has nobody -belonging to her, she has taken shelter with me. Harry, no; we’re poor, -but we’re not free to think of ourselves alone. Lizzie shall go too. She -is God’s child, and He sent her to me.”</p> - -<p>Harry did not say anything, but he kept slowly shaking his head and -drumming upon the table. Harry had the common people’s ideas rather -about responsibility. He was afraid of the responsibility. For all the -kindness in his heart he did not like to step into what might be other -people’s business, or to take up any burdens that did not lie in his -way.</p> - -<p>“Besides, she is the best servant in the world. She is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a>{101}</span> worth all Aunt -Connor’s three maids. I can trust her with baby almost as well as I can -trust myself; and, besides,” said I, rather hypocritically, “look at the -creature’s laundry work; you never were so pleased before.”</p> - -<p>“Well, that is rather astonishing, I confess,” said Harry, looking at -his fresh wristband with a little admiration. “I don’t believe those -awkward red fingers ever did it. She must keep some private fairy in a -box, or have made an agreement with a nameless personage. What if poor -Lizzie’s soul were in danger on account of your fine linen, you -hard-hearted Milly! I do not believe you would care.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! you can’t deny her talents in the laundry,” cried I, with a little -injudicious laughter. “What a triumph that is! You never were content -with anybody’s work before.”</p> - -<p>Harry looked at me rather doubtfully. “You look very much as if you were -a little cheat,” he said. “I’ll have a peep into the laundry one of -these days myself.”</p> - -<p>“But Lizzie must go with us,” said I. “I have taken very much to the -strange creature. You and I are God’s orphans too. We have a right to be -good to her; and it is not all on one side—don’t think it, Harry; she -is very good to me. She helps me with all her might, and stands by me -whenever I want, or tries to do it. I had rather have her than -half-a-dozen common servants. Leave this to me.”</p> - -<p>“But consider, Milly, what you are making yourself responsible for,” -cried Harry.</p> - -<p>I stopped his mouth; I would not let him speak; and danced away with -baby all in my joy and comfort to put him to bed. We met Mrs. Saltoun on -the stairs in the dark, and as she kissed the child, I kissed my good -old lady out of the fulness of my heart. “We are going away, but it is -only to Chester; we shall be together still,” I said in her ear. I never -thought how strange she would think it that I should be pleased to leave -her, or how she might wonder at my spirits getting up so easily. I was -very happy that night.</p> - -<p>Lizzie was putting all baby’s things away when I went into the room. She -folded and laid them all aside more nicely than I could have done it -myself; not, so far as I know, because orderliness came natural to her, -but because, with all her heart, she had wanted to please me, and saw -with her quick eyes how it was to be done best. When anybody looked at -Lizzie, and she knew it, she was just as awkward as ever. How I had -laboured to make her hands and her feet look as if they belonged to her, -without twisting up or going into angles! but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a>{102}</span> it was all of no use. -Whenever anybody looked at Lizzie, she would stand on one foot, and seek -refuge of an imaginary pinafore for her hands; but just now, in the -firelight, when you could only half see her, you cannot think how tidily -and nicely the uncouth creature was going about her work.</p> - -<p>I paused before the fire after the child was in bed. “Lizzie,” said I, -standing in the warm light, and looking down into it, “do you like -Edinburgh very much?” I did not look round for her answer, I waited till -she should come to me; and yet felt pleased to see her, with “the tail -of my eye,” as Mrs. Saltoun would have said, flitting about after one -thing and another, through the pleasant darkness, with the firelight all -glimmering and shooting gleams of reflection into it, shining in the -drawers, and chairs, and furniture, which Lizzie’s hands had rubbed so -bright. I could not help thinking, with a little pride and -self-complacency, that it was all my doing. If I had not taught her, and -taken pains with her—but then, to be sure, if she had not been -wonderfully clever and capable; the one thing had just as much to do -with it as the other. But, between her exertions and my own, I had been -very successful in my little maid.</p> - -<p>“Edinburey?” said Lizzie, coming up to me, with a lingering sound in -that genuine Edinburgh tone of hers, “eh, mem, isn’t it rael bonnie? -They say there’s no such another bonnie town in the world.”</p> - -<p>“But there are, though,” said I; “they say quantities of foolish things. -Lizzie, the regiment is ordered away.”</p> - -<p>Lizzie clasped her hands together, and gave a shrill shriek. “I’ll waken -the wean, but I canna help it. Eh, what will we do?” cried Lizzie, in a -voice of suppressed and sharp despair. “I heard you say once you would -die, and if you die, so will the bairn, and so will I; and what heart -would the Captain have to come hame again? He would throw himself upon -the spears, the way they do in the ballads, and get his death. Mem!” -cried the excited girl, seizing my arm and stamping her foot upon the -floor in an impassioned appeal to my weakness, “if ye dinna bide alive, -and keep up your heart, he’ll never come hame!”</p> - -<p>I cannot explain what an extraordinary effect this had upon me. The -sudden flush of excitement and desperate necessity for doing something -to inspire and hold up my weakness, which animated Lizzie, cast a new -light upon myself and my selfish terror. She cared nothing about -affronting or offending me, the brave primitive creature; she thought -only of rousing, pricking me up to exert what strength I had. Her grasp -on<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a>{103}</span> my arm, her stamp on the floor, were nature’s own bold suggestions -to arrest the evil she dreaded. I should not give way, or break down—I -should not send away my soldier unworthily, nor peril the life on which -another hung, if Lizzie could help it. What I had escaped for the -moment—what I should have to go through with by and by, came all up -before me at her words. She whom I was proud of having trained for my -service had a braver heart than me.</p> - -<p>But when I could explain to her the real nature of the case our position -changed immediately. Lizzie’s countenance fell; she hung her head, and -relapsed into all her old awkwardness. It was neither the bold young -soul, resolved, come what might, to inspire me with needful courage, nor -the handy little maid busied with her work, but the old uncouth Lizzie, -not knowing how to stand or look for extreme awkwardness and eagerness, -that stood gazing wistful at me in the firelight. She stood with her -lips apart, looking at me, breathless with silent anxiety, muttering as -she stood, with an incessant nervous unconscious motion, the physical -utterance of extreme anxiety. She made no appeal to me then; but, like a -faithful dog, or dumb creature, kept gazing in my face.</p> - -<p>“And so we shall have to go away,” said I, somewhat confused by her -eyes; “and you are an Edinburgh girl, and people know you here. I could -recommend you very well, and you might get a better place; you must -think it all over, and decide what we must do.”</p> - -<p>Lizzie’s face showed that she only understood me by degrees; that she -should have any choice in the matter not seeming to have occurred to -her. When she fairly made it out, she gave a joyful shout, and another -little cry; but plunged me into the wildest amazement, the moment after, -by the following question, in which I could find no connection whatever -with the subject under hand.</p> - -<p>“Mem,” said Lizzie, “is a’ the Bible true alike—the auld Testament as -weel as the New?”</p> - -<p>“Surely,” said I, in the most utter surprise.</p> - -<p>“Then I know what I’ll do,” cried the girl; “I’ll bring you a hammer and -a nail, and you’ll drive it into the doorpost through my ear.”</p> - -<p>“What in the world do you mean, child?” cried I,—“are you laughing at -me, Lizzie? or is the girl crazed.”</p> - -<p>“Me laughing? if you would do it I would greet with joy; for the Bible -says them that have the nail driven through, never gang out ony mair for -ever, but belong to the house.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a>{104}</span> Mrs. Saltoun mightna be pleased if it -was done in the parlour, but down at the outer door it might be nae -harm. Eh, mem, will ye ask the Captain?” cried Lizzie, “and then I’ll -never leave ye mair!”</p> - -<p>Just then Harry called me downstairs, and all laughing, and with tears -in my eyes, I hurried down to him, not knowing whether to be most amused -or melted.</p> - -<p>Harry had something to consult me about, which he plunged into -immediately, so that I had still had no opportunity of propounding -Lizzie’s petition, when, all at once, about an hour after, she made her -appearance at the door. I never saw the creature look so bright; her -eyes were shining, her colour high, her breath coming quick with -agitation, excitement, and a mingled thrill of joy and terror. In one -hand she carried Mrs. Saltoun’s great hammer, in another a rusty iron -nail; and her resolution had removed at once her awkwardness and her -reverential dread of Harry. She came up to him with a noiseless air of -excitement, and touched him on the sleeve; she held out the hammer and -the nail without being able to speak a word. He, on his side, looked at -her with the utmost amazement. Lizzie was too much excited to explain -herself, or even to remark his astonished look; she had come to prove -her allegiance in the only way that occurred to her. I believe, in my -heart, that she longed for the grotesque extraordinary pang which was to -make her my bondslave for ever; the spirit of a martyr was in the -child’s heart.</p> - -<p>When Harry understood the creature’s meaning you may imagine what a -scene followed. I had to send Lizzie away lest her highly-wrought -feelings should be driven desperate, by the agonies of laughter it threw -him into. I took her outside the door and put away the hammer, and gave -her a kiss in the dark. I whispered in her ear, “That shall be our bond, -Lizzie; we will take it out of the New Testament rather than the Old,” -and left her sitting on the stairs, with her apron thrown over her head, -crying her heart out. No one, from that day forward, has ever spoken of -leaving Lizzie behind again.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a>{105}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="PART_III" id="PART_III"></a>PART III.<br /><br /> -THE LADIES AT THE HALL.<br /> -<small>(<i>Continued</i>)</small>.</h2> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_I-c" id="Chapter_I-c"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter I.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span> <span class="smcap">CANNOT</span> tell what it was that made me silent about this adventure while -we were having tea. My mind was naturally full of it, but when, having -the words just on my lips, I looked at Sarah, some strange influence -held me back. That reluctance to speak of a matter which will turn out -painful to somebody I have felt come across me like a sort of warning -more than once in my life; and this time it was so powerful, that during -our meal I said nothing whatever about the matter. You are not to -suppose, though, that I was so good a dissembler as not to show that I -had something on my mind. Little Sara found me out in a moment. She -said, “What are you thinking of, godmamma?” before we had been two -minutes at table, and persecuted me the whole time,—finding out -whenever I made any little mistake; and, indeed, I made several, my mind -being so much occupied. Sarah, on the contrary, took no notice; she -seemed, indeed, to have recovered herself a good deal, and had a very -good appetite. She never talked much at any time, and had said less than -usual since ever little Sara arrived. So what with my abstraction and -Sarah’s quiet occupation with herself, there was not much talk, you may -suppose. Little Sara Cresswell’s eyes, however, quite danced with -mischief when she saw me so deep in thought. She kept asking me all -sorts of questions; whether there was any bit of the road haunted -between<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a>{106}</span> the Park and the village? whether I had got some sermons from -the rector to read? whether Dr. Appleby had been trying some of his new -medicines (the doctor was certainly too much given to experiments) upon -me? whether I had met anybody to frighten me? Tea was all but finished, -and I had just rung the bell, when the little plague asked this last -question; and you may imagine I was quite as much inclined to tell all -my story as Sara was to draw me out.</p> - -<p>“Now I’ll just tell you what I think has happened, godmamma,” cried -Sara. “One of your old lovers has appeared to you, and told you that, -but for you, he might have been a happy man; and that all his troubles -began when you refused him. Now haven’t I guessed right?”</p> - -<p>“Right? Why, I have told you a dozen times, Sara, that I never had any -lovers,” said I,—“not till I was forty, at least.”</p> - -<p>“But that is no answer at all,” cried the little puss. “And the poor man -might die for you, when you were forty, all the same. Was it himself, -quite pined away and heart-broken, that you saw, godmamma, or was it his -ghost?”</p> - -<p>“Hush, you little provoking thing,” said I; “you and I had a quarrel -about an Italian the other evening. Now I know a deal better about him -than you do, Sara. He is all the ghost I met.”</p> - -<p>I gave a glance at Sarah, sidelong, as I spoke. I am sure what I said -was light enough, and not very serious, but her ear had caught it; it -was a sign to me that she was still as much on the watch as ever. She -did not speak, nor lift up her head, except with a little momentary -start, but <i>she stopped knitting</i>, which was something extraordinary to -me.</p> - -<p>And little Sara flushed up; whether it was with the recollection of our -quarrel, or a private interest of her own in the young stranger, who, to -be sure, being a handsome young man, and mysterious, and romantic, was -quite likely to excite a foolish young imagination, I cannot tell; but -her cheeks certainly reddened up at a great rate, and she looked exactly -as if she were ready to pounce and bite, what between curiosity and -wrath.</p> - -<p>“I met him on the road; it is my belief he passed the gate the other -evening when I was looking out. Poor young man! he speaks very good -English for an Italian,” said I.</p> - -<p>Then Sarah’s whisper interfered and stopped me; she spoke very sharply. -“Who are you speaking of?” she said; “there are no Italians here.”</p> - -<p>“There is one,” said I; “poor fellow. Little Sara there<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a>{107}</span> knows about -him. It appears he came expecting to find a lady hereabouts, and can’t -find her. I can’t think on the name myself; I never heard it that I know -of; but I must allow that the young man looks like a gentleman; and for -an Italian——”</p> - -<p>“Be silent, Milly! What can a person like you know?” said Sarah, in an -irritated shrill tone. “They’re a double-minded, deceitful, intriguing -race; they’re vile story-tellers, every one; they’re a people no more -fit to be considered like other Christians than dogs are, or slaves. -Bah! What do you mean talking to me of Italians? None of you are the -least aware of what you are speaking of. I know them well.”</p> - -<p>Here little Sara struck boldly into the breach, and saved me from the -necessity of struggling out an answer.</p> - -<p>“Godmamma, you are frightfully unjust!” cried little Sara. “I wonder how -you can speak of a whole people so; and such a people! as if everybody -in the world did not know who they are, and what they have done!”</p> - -<p>“They have done every kind of fraud and falsehood in existence,” said -Sarah, so earnest that her voice sounded like a sort of smothered -shriek. “I tell you, child, whoever trusts or believes in them gets -deceived and betrayed. Don’t speak to me of Italians—I know them; and -if any Italian comes here pretending to ask anything,” she said, -suddenly turning round upon me, and catching at me, if I may say so, -with her eye, “mind you, Milly, it’s a cheat! I say, recollect it’s a -cheat! He does not want any living creature; he wants money, and profit, -and what you have to give.”</p> - -<p>If she had said all this quietly, and there had been nothing beforehand -to rouse my attention, I should not have been surprised; for to be sure, -that was very much like what I had always believed; and as for lying, -and seeking their own advantage, I rather think that is just about what -an English person, who knows no better, thinks of most foreigners, right -or wrong. But Sarah’s way of speaking was breathless and excited. She -was no more thinking of Italians in general than I was, or than little -Sara was. She was thinking on some one thing, and some one person; she -alone knew who and what. All her anger, and her quickness, and her -dreadful look of being in earnest, were personal to herself; and I -cannot describe to anybody how my sister’s unexplainable anxiety and -excitement bewildered and excited me.</p> - -<p>“But, Sarah, you don’t know anything of this poor friend<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a>{108}</span> man; he may be -as honest as ever was. I do believe he is, for my part,” said I; “and -what he wants is——”</p> - -<p>“Don’t tell me!” cried Sarah. “I don’t want to hear what he wants. How -should I know anything about him? Hold your tongue, Milly, I tell you. -What! you go and take a fancy to a young villain and impostor, and -neglect <i>me</i>!”</p> - -<p>“Neglect <i>you</i>! but, dear, not for the poor young Italian gentleman’s -sake; you can’t think that!” said I, more and more amazed.</p> - -<p>“You all neglect me!” said Sarah, throwing down her knitting, and rising -up in her passion. “I don’t want to hear of reasons or causes. You are -not to tell me what young impostors you may fish up in the streets, or -what ridiculous things your <i>protégés</i> may want. Don’t say anything to -me, I tell you! I desire to hear nothing about it. Make up what pretty -romance you please, you are quite fit to do it; but I clear my hands of -all such matters—you shall not even tell them to me!”</p> - -<p>And as she said this,—could I believe my eyes?—Sarah thrust her -footstool out of the way, pushed back her screen, and making a momentary -pause to search round all the dim depths of the room with her eyes, went -out, leaving us two, Sara and me, staring at each other. What had -affronted her? What could be the cause of her displeasure. She left her -knitting thrown down into the basket, and the Times lying on the chair -beside her seat. Nobody had done or said anything to displease her, -unless my mention of the young Italian had done it. What strange secret -irritation could be working in her, to produce these outbursts of -passion without any cause?</p> - -<p>Little Sara stared at me with her bright eyes wide open, till Sarah had -quite gone out of the room; then the wicked little creature, struck, I -suppose, with something comic in my blank distressed look, burst out -laughing. I cannot tell you how the sound of her laugh, thoughtless as -she was, jarred upon me.</p> - -<p>“Is this how you live so amicably at the Park, godmamma?” cried Sara. -“The people say you have the temper of an angel, and that nobody else -could live with godmamma Sarah. I never believed it was true till now. -You have the temper of an angel, godmamma. You forgave me the other -night when I was so naughty; you kissed me, though I did not expect you -would. And now here you have been kind to poor Italian Mr. Luigi, and -you have got paid for it. What have the Italians done to godmamma Sarah -to make her so savage at their very name?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a>{109}</span></p> - -<p>“Ah! that is the question—what is it?” said I. “God knows!”</p> - -<p>“Then <i>you</i> don’t know?” said little Sara. “Yet I could have thought you -did, you looked so.”</p> - -<p>“How did I look?” cried I.</p> - -<p>“As if there were a secret somewhere; as if you were thinking how -godmamma Sarah would take it; as if you were—well, just watching her a -little, and trying to see whether she cared,” said the observant little -girl.</p> - -<p>“Was I, indeed? was I so? Ah! I deserve to be punished. What right have -I to go and dream over anybody’s looks and frame romances, as she says? -Heaven forgive me! I’ll go and beg her pardon. I did not mean to do it. -To think I should be so mean and suspicious! Little Sara, let me go.”</p> - -<p>Sara held me fast, clinging with her arms round my waist—and her -provoking little face the little witch turned up close to mine. “Tell me -first what the romance was, godmamma?” said Sara. “She accused you of -it, and you confess; and I am sure a romance is far more in my way than -yours. Tell me, please, this very moment, what romance you are making -up? Has Mr. Luigi anything to do with it? Is it all about godmamma -Sarah? Tell me directly, or I don’t know what I shall do. Sit down in -this great chair, and begin—romance of real life.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, you foolish little girl! there’s many a romance of real life you -durst not listen to, and I durst not tell you,” cried I. “I am not -making up any romance. Nonsense! Child, get up. I’ll tell you about your -Mr. Luigi, which is the only story in my head. He is looking for a lady; -but that you know——”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, and he can’t find her; the Countess Sermoneta,” said Sara, in -her careless way.</p> - -<p>Just then, to my still greater wonder, Sarah returned to the room. -Evidently she had heard the child’s words. I saw her come to a dead stop -in the shadow close by the door, and put her hand upon her side, as if -she were out of breath and had to recover herself. What did this strange -flitting about mean? In her usual way she never moved from her seat, -except to go to dinner. Her going away was extraordinary, and her coming -back more extraordinary still. I could but gaze at her in amazement as -she came slowly up, threading through the furniture in the half light. -But Sara, who had still her arms clasped round me, had of course her -back to her godmamma, and did not see that she had come back to the -room.</p> - -<p>“Wasn’t it the Countess Sermoneta?” said Sara, “I know<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a>{110}</span> he was asking -all over Chester for such a person, and was so disappointed. Did you -never hear of a Countess Sermoneta, godmamma? If you heard it once you -surely would remember the name.”</p> - -<p>Sarah had stopped again while the girl was speaking. Could she have been -running up and downstairs that her breath came so quick, and she had to -make such pauses to recover herself? I could not answer Sara for -watching my sister, feeling somehow fascinated; but then, remembering -that Sara had detected me in anxious observation of her godmother, I -hurried on with the conversation to avoid any suspicion of that.</p> - -<p>“That is just what I told the young man, my dear child—that I never had -heard the name,” said I; “but I promised to try all I could to get some -news for him. It is very sad he should be disappointed, poor young -fellow. I promised to ask Ellis, who has been centuries with the -Mortimers, you know; and I thought, perhaps, your godmamma and I, if we -had a talk together, might recollect somebody that married a -foreigner——”</p> - -<p>Here I made a dead pause in spite of myself. Sarah had somehow managed -to get back into her seat. She was wonderfully pale and haggard, and -looked like a different creature. She looked to me as if all her powers -were strained for some purpose, and that at any moment the pressure -might be too much, and she might give way under it. I could not go on; I -stopped short all at once, with a feeling that somehow I had been cruel. -“Not to-night,” I said softly to Sara, “another time.” Sara was obedient -for a miracle. We broke off the conversation just at that point, with an -uneasy feeling among us that it had been far more interesting and -exciting than it ought to have been; and that the best thing to be done -was to bury it up, and conceal what we had been talking about. Such was -the immediate result of my easy promise to consult my sister. Sarah sat -very steadily through all that evening, remaining up even later than -usual. She took no notice of anything that was said, nor mentioned why -she went away. We were all very quiet, and had little to say for -ourselves. What was this forbidden ground?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a>{111}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_II-c" id="Chapter_II-c"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter II.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span><span class="smcap">T</span> is very odd, when there happens to be any one bit of tabooed ground -in a family, how impossible it is to keep off it. I daresay every member -of a household, above childhood, knows that, more or less. If there is -one matter that some two people are quite sure to disagree upon, whom it -is quite the business of your life to keep comfortable and on good -terms, isn’t that matter always turning up somehow? Doesn’t it float -about in the air, and hover over your head, always ready to poke in when -it is not wanted, and do what mischief it can? That is my experience, at -least. And it was so much the worse in our case, because little Sara had -no idea of keeping quiet, and no notion that her innocent mischief and -meddling could do any real harm, or have any worse effect than putting -her godmamma “in a passion.” Putting people in a passion was fun to the -thoughtless little girl; it never came into her little saucy -inconsiderate head that Sarah’s passion was not a flash of harmless -lightning like her own, or that it meant anything which could disturb -and overturn all my sister’s quiet life, and put me into a fever of -bewilderment and anxiety. For days after I kept carefully off the -subject, thinking it would be better to leave a polite message with -Ellis for the Italian young gentleman if he called, and say I was sorry -I could not get him any information, than to worry my poor sister, who -was so unaccountably disturbed by hearing of him. Not that Sarah said -anything about it; but she looked so haggard and anxious that it went to -my heart. She came down even earlier than usual and sat up later; -listened eagerly to all the conversation going on; sometimes, even, -missed her drive; sat on the watch, as one might have supposed; but when -she had gone out for her airing one day, I met the carriage,—and, can -you believe it, the very blinds were down! If, when all was quiet, and -nothing had happened, I used to wonder sometimes what sort of life she -had led when she was younger, what friends she might have had, and what -was her history when she was abroad, you may fancy how busy my mind was -on that subject now.</p> - -<p>The more I thought it over, of course, the more I could make nothing of -it. And what do you think at last was the conclusion I came to? That -Sarah, being a great beauty, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a>{112}</span> always accustomed to admiration and -almost a kind of worship, had forgotten, poor dear soul, that Time had -changed all that, and that she was an old woman; and that she imagined -the Italian we talked of, to be one of her old lovers come here to look -for her, and was quite frightened he should see her, and know she was at -the Park, and disturb us all with his raptures and passions. After -turning it over for days and days, that was the very best explanation I -could come to. Why she should be so tragical about it, to be sure, I -could not tell. Perhaps she thought the story of all her old gay doings, -if they were to come to my ears, would not sound just what a quiet old -maid like me would approve of. Possibly, it might be somebody she had -jilted that she was frightened to see; perhaps she was afraid of that -Italian revenge one reads of in books. I do suppose people are still -stabbed out of jealousy and revenge in Italy; and everybody carries a -stiletto about him. If that was what Sarah thought of, no wonder she was -frightened, poor dear. And I must say it quite went to my heart to see -her so anxious and unsettled, watching every word that was said, and -turning her keen eyes towards me—for she would not yield to change her -seat, so that she might see for herself who came in—every time the door -was opened, to know who it was by my face; and, above all, going out -that dreary drive with the carriage blinds down, carrying all her dismal -thoughts with her! If she would only have confidence in me, what a -difference it would make! I could very soon have relieved her mind about -it, I am sure. What was it to me if she <i>had</i> been very gay and foolish -when she was young? that was all over, and she was my very own sister. -To think that I should stand upon my dignity, or blame Sarah for -anything that was past. But then she was so proud! she always was so -proud! she would never own to being less than perfect. The best thing -was to disabuse her mind, if possible, and to make it evident that this -Italian was a young man, far too young ever to have been a lover of -Sarah’s. A lover! why, she might have been his mother as far as age was -concerned—and that he was seeking, quite openly, an entirely different -person. If I had been a courageous woman I should have gone through with -my story the first night, and most likely saved my poor sister a great -deal of unnecessary anxiety. But I never was brave at going into -disagreeable conversation. I can’t say I ever was clever at conversation -at all. And when a person runs away with a mistaken idea, and you can’t -manage to get it out of her head, and the further you go the worse it -becomes, what<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a>{113}</span> can you do? I tried to nerve myself up to going into it, -but I could not. Whatever it was, it made her vastly uncomfortable, that -was evident; and really when Sarah gets into her passions there is no -reasoning with her, and I get flustered immediately, and she won’t -listen to explanations. So on the whole I never had a more troublesome -piece of business on my hands.</p> - -<p>As for little Sara Cresswell, she was the greatest tease and plague that -ever was in a house. She worried me morning and night about the romance -I was making up, and did not hesitate the least to carry on her -persecution before Sarah, who looked at her with a kind of silent rage, -which the saucy little puss never found out. But occupied and troubled -as my mind was, it was impossible not to be amused at that inconsistent -little creature and her goings on. She had brought out two great trunks -with her, big enough to have held the whole of my wardrobe for winter -and summer, though she knew very well we saw no company, and never -required her to dress in the evening. And as for her lace and worked -muslin, and all that foolish extravagance, that is so much in fashion -again, there was no end to the store she had. Years before this I gave -her the name of puss in velvet, for a very good reason. What do you -think, at eleven years old, she had persuaded that poor innocent -helpless man, her unfortunate papa, to do? Why, to get her a velvet -frock, to be sure—not a pelisse, but a dress for evenings like any -dowager old lady! Did ever anybody hear of anything so preposterous? And -she kept up her fancy still, with velvet jackets, and even a little -ridiculous velvet apron all trimmed and ornamented. Poor Mr. Cresswell, -to be sure, was well off, and, indeed, rich in his way; but she might -have ruined any man with her extravagance; and as to being ashamed of -it, would lift up her face coolly, and tell you she never pretended to -want to save papa’s money. At the same time she was as great as ever on -the subject of dividing it all, and keeping just enough to live on. When -that condition of things came about, she was to have no servants, but to -do everything herself, and so were all the other people who were to -share poor Mr. Cresswell’s money among them. When she went into the -village with me she gave a wary eye to the cottages, how things were put -tidy—and was quite resolved she should do it all, and be as happy as -possible. But as for anything <i>genteel</i>, or middling, she scouted at it -with the greatest contempt in the world. It was as good as a play to -hear her. If my mind had been free to amuse myself, I should have quite -enjoyed Sara’s vagaries; but, as it was, I could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a>{114}</span> only be amused and -provoked by them now and then. I do believe she was much happier at the -Park than at home. That big dull house, with all the unchangeable -furniture, was not a place for a fantastical young girl; she poked about -the greenhouses in all the back corners where the gardener did not want -her, and where she was always sweeping down his flower-pots; she -rummaged through the great suites of rooms that nobody ever occupied; -she came into the library to help me with my accounts, and tease me out -of my wits; she went fishing about the house through all the nooks and -corners, and read all the old novels over again; and then she could not -persuade and worry me into doing everything she pleased, as she could -her father. I believe just at that moment Sara being at the Park was a -great comfort to me.</p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_III-c" id="Chapter_III-c"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter III.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">O</span><span class="smcap">NE</span> day in the week I found little Sara all by herself in the library, -very much engrossed about something. Indeed, she was in deep study, if -that was to be believed. She had the great volume of the history of the -county spread out before her, and a “Peerage” by her side; and at her -other hand were some trumpery little books about Chester, of the -handbook kind, Chester being, as everybody knows, a place of great -antiquity, and, indeed, a kind of show place in this part of the -country. She did not hear me when I came in, and as I came to an -astonished pause behind her, quite bewildered to know what the little -kitten could want with that great book, it was impossible she could see -me. She was quite at the end of the county history, going over all the -details about the families, and looking up the peerage, I could see, to -find out all the connections and collateral branches. What could the -child be so anxious about? Not our family, certainly, for we had no -collateral branches. Just once for an instant, it shot through my mind, -that her father might somehow have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a>{115}</span> put that sly secret idea of his own, -that, if she played her cards well, we might leave her heiress of the -Park, in little Sara’s head; but a moment’s thought convinced me that -there was nothing in that. She was far too bold and simple for any such -plan; she would have repeated it out to me directly and scorned it; and -she had not an idea of the value of wealth, or what was the good of -being very rich. If I could have made her a Mortimer, she might have -thought twice about it, but not for being made simply an heiress; that -was a matter to which Sara was quite indifferent.</p> - -<p>But if it could not be us, who could it be? Had the child, perhaps, an -admirer among some of the county families? I made a little rustle, I -suppose, as I stood watching her; for she turned sharp round, found me -out, and flushed up violently. In her hasty annoyance she threw the book -over, shutting it upon her morsel of a hand, and defied me, turning -round on her seat. Certainly if Mr. Cresswell had instructed his -daughter to be very good, and amiable, and conciliatory, he had taken -the very best plan to bring about a failure. Oh! but she was contrairy; -the poor dear unfortunate man, what a life he must have led with that -little puss!</p> - -<p>“Godmamma!” cried Sara, with her eyes flashing, “I never knew that you -spied upon people before!”</p> - -<p>“Nor did I,” said I, quietly. “You may flatter yourself you are quite -the first that ever found it out. Don’t crush your hand to pieces, -child! <i>I</i> don’t want to know what you are about.”</p> - -<p>On this the impatient little girl threw the book open again with a sound -that echoed through all the library.</p> - -<p>“Everybody may know what I am doing! Now don’t be angry, godmamma, I -mean I quite intended to tell you if I found anything,” cried Sara. -“Look here, this is just what it is. You said you had promised to help -that poor Italian gentleman, and I know quite well you have never tried -yet to find out anything for him. You need not look suspicious. I am -interested about him. There is no harm in that, is there? If he were as -old as Ellis, and as fat as his servant, I should be interested in him -all the same.”</p> - -<p>“Little Sara, never tell fibs,” said I. “I am just fifty, and you are -only seventeen; but <i>I</i> should not be interested in him, all the same, -if he were old and fat, I assure you. Let me hear, now, what you have -been doing. You have nothing at all to do with him, remember; it was me, -and only me, he applied to; but let us hear what it is.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a>{116}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, it is nothing at all,” said Sara in a disappointed tone. “I thought -somebody might be found out, in some of these books, that had married an -Italian. I like the ‘Peerage;’ it is the funniest thing in the world to -see how all the people are twisted and linked together like network. -Everybody in the world must be everybody else’s cousin, if all the -common people’s families were like the peers.”</p> - -<p>“To be sure we are,” said I, “only so distant it won’t count; but I -don’t see what this has to do with what we were talking of before. Did -you find nobody that had married an Italian in all the ‘Peerage,’ Puss?”</p> - -<p>“You are trying to make me angry, godmamma,” said Sara, “but I shan’t be -angry. There is no Countess Sermoneta, though I have looked over all the -county families, and all their connections that I can make out; and -papa, who knows everybody, does not know any such person, for I made him -think and tell me; and the only person I can think of who does know -is——”</p> - -<p>Here little Sara stopped and looked very closely and keenly in my face.</p> - -<p>“Who, child?” said I. “Not me, I am certain. Whom do you mean?”</p> - -<p>“Can’t you guess?” “Why, godmamma Sarah, to be sure,” cried Sara. “I am -quite sure she knows who the Countess Sermoneta is.”</p> - -<p>“Child!” cried I, “do you know what you are saying? Your godmamma Sarah! -how dare you think of such a thing!”</p> - -<p>“Dare? is it anything wrong?” said Sara. “You are making a great deal -more mystery of it than I should do, godmamma. After all, it isn’t a bit -mysterious. Mr. Luigi wants to find this lady, and not knowing the -country, he has come most likely to the wrong place; and I am sure he -asks for her plain enough out. He could not do it plainer if she were -Mrs. Smith instead of Countess Sermoneta; and there is nothing secret -about it that I can see; only this, that godmamma Sarah knows her, and -is so cross she won’t tell.”</p> - -<p>“Sara, Sara, don’t say so!” cried I, “you make me quite unhappy. How can -your godmamma, who never sets her foot out of doors, one may say,—for -she would almost see as much in her own chamber as out of the carriage -windows,—how could she possibly know a person no one else knows? And as -for being cross, I really consider it very disrespectful and unkind of -you, Sara. She never was cross to you. I am sure<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a>{117}</span> she has always been -very kind to you. You have had your own way so much, child, and been so -spoiled, that you think you may say anything; but I must say, criticism -on your godmothers——”</p> - -<p>“I never criticised my godmothers,” cried Sara, starting up. “I may be -as wicked as you please, but I never did so. I said godmamma Sarah was -cross. Why, everybody knows she is cross. I never said, nor pretended, -she was cross to me; and as for kindness! you don’t expect me, I am -sure, to give you <i>thanks</i>, godmamma, for that!”</p> - -<p>“What could you give me else?” said I, in some little surprise.</p> - -<p>Sara stamped her little foot on the floor in vexation and impatience. -“Godmamma! what thing in the world could I give you but love?” cried the -provoking little creature. “You don’t suppose <i>thanks</i> would do? I thank -Ellis when he opens the door for me, or anybody I don’t care for. I had -rather, if you could, you did think me wicked and ungrateful, than -suppose I would go and thank <i>you</i>.”</p> - -<p>“The child understands!” said I to myself, with tears in my eyes. Ah! -what multitudes of people there are in the world who don’t understand! I -was taken by surprise. But Sara was of that disposition that she would -quarrel with everybody all round, and fight for her secret like a little -Amazon, before she ever would let anybody find out the real feeling that -was in her heart. If you think she threw her arms round me and kissed me -after that, you are quite mistaken. On the contrary, if she could have -pinched, scratched, or given me a good shake, she would have liked it, I -believe.</p> - -<p>“But I want to know how this notion came into your perverse little -head?” said I; “how can your godmamma know, Sara? and what could -possibly make you imagine she did?”</p> - -<p>“Why did you watch her so the other night?” cried Sara. “You saw, -yourself, she knew something about it. Didn’t she listen to every word, -and look as if she could have told us in a minute? and I am sure she -thinks it quite pleasant to keep up a secret we don’t know,” cried the -little girl that knew no better; “it quite interests her. I wonder how -people can have so little feeling for others. She is not sorry for poor -Mr. Luigi, nor concerned to think of all his loss of time and patience. -She would rather keep her secret than satisfy him. What can it matter to -godmamma Sarah, whether he finds the Countess Sermoneta or not?”</p> - -<p>“What, indeed?” said I, with a sigh of bewilderment.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a>{118}</span> That was just the -question I could not answer. What had she to do with it? and by what -strange witchcraft was it, that Sara and I had both instinctively mixed -her up with this business of which, to be sure, in reality she did not, -she <i>could</i> not know anything? How dared we come to such conclusions -with only looks to build upon! Seeing my own thoughts thus reflected in -little Sara, I became quite shocked at myself.</p> - -<p>“Child, it is quite impossible she can know anything about it. Both you -and I are infatuated,” cried I. “How can Sarah possibly be mixed up in -such a matter? It is the merest folly. She doesn’t even know your Mr. -Luigi, nor who he is, nor the very name of the lady he is looking for. -It is nonsense, Sara, quite nonsense. How is it possible she could -know?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, godmamma, I’ll tell you how; I have been thinking it out, and I am -sure I am right. She was a long time abroad, you have often told me, and -she knew a great many people,” cried Sara; “among the rest she knew this -lady; and either because she likes her, or because she hates her, or -because she won’t tell, she keeps all quiet about it. But she can’t help -knowing, and saying she knows with her eyes. Godmamma Sarah, though she -takes no notice, knows everything better than you do. Carson gets -everybody’s news of them. Why, she even made my poor little Alice tell -her all about Georgy Wilde, you know, and that unlucky brother of -hers,—how often he came to our house, and everything about it; and -godmamma Sarah did not leave me at peace about it either. I am sure they -know everything that happens up in godmamma Sarah’s room. Godmamma, do -<i>you</i> never have a gossip with your maid?”</p> - -<p>“I have got no maid, child; you know that very well,” said I. “I never -was brought up with any such luxury; and when I came to my kingdom I was -too old to begin, and liked my own ways. But at all events, though you -are so confident in your opinion, I am quite sure your godmamma can have -no knowledge of this business, so don’t speak of it any more.”</p> - -<p>“Will you ask her?” said Sara; “if she knows nothing about it, she will -not mind being asked. Why should you be afraid of speaking if she does -not know anything about it? It might be awkward, perhaps, if she knew -and would not tell; but it can’t matter if she doesn’t know. Will you -ask her, godmamma? or will you let me?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, for heaven’s sake go away, child, and don’t drive me crazy!” I -cried. “Go upstairs and decide what dress you will wear, you velvet -kitten; go and gossip with <i>your</i> maid. Here<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a>{119}</span> am I in a peck of -troubles, and can’t see my way out or in, and you ask me to let <i>you</i>!”</p> - -<p>“You wouldn’t mind it in the least if you thought godmamma Sarah did not -know,” said the provoking little girl; and so went gliding off, -satisfied that I was of her opinion. When I was left to myself I dropped -on a chair in utter despair, and could not tell what to think. The -safest way was certainly to vow to myself that Sarah had nothing to do -with it at all. What <i>could</i> she have to do with it? Her strange anxious -looks <i>must</i> spring from some other cause. For once, at least, instinct -<i>must</i> have deceived itself. Sarah knew the world and the Italians. She -was not so easily taken in as we were—nothing else was possible; and -she was only annoyed to see how ready to be imposed upon I was.</p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_IV-c" id="Chapter_IV-c"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter IV.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><span class="smcap">HIS</span> conversation, of course, set my thoughts all into a ferment again. -Little Sara was wonderfully quick-witted, if she was not very wise, as, -indeed, was not to be expected at her years; and I confess her idea did -return to my mind a great many times. Sarah might have known an Italian -Countess in that obscure time of her life which I had no clue to; might -even know some reason why persons from Italy might be looking for her, -and might be nervous, for old acquaintance’ sake, of any one finding her -out. When everything was so blank, any sort of sign-post was -satisfactory. It was true that I don’t remember seeing Sarah display so -much anxiety for any other person all her life before. But there might -be reasons; and if it was a friendly feeling, I should certainly be the -last person in the world to worry and aggravate my sister. I wish I -could have composed my mind with all the reasonings I went through; but -really, when I saw<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a>{120}</span> poor Sarah sitting all watchful and conscious at her -knitting, not getting on at all with her work, hearing the least rustle -in the room, or touch at the door; starting, and trying to conceal her -start every time the bell rung, with all the features of her face -growing thinner, and her hands and head trembling more than they ever -used to do, it was quite impossible for me to persuade myself that her -mind was not busy with something which had happened, or which was about -to happen. It might be something as completely unconnected with the poor -Italian as possible; most likely it was; but <i>something</i> there was which -agitated her most unaccountably, which I knew nothing about, and which -she was determined I should not know. She was as conscious that I -observed this strange change upon her as I was myself; and she faced me -with such a resolution and defiance! No! I could read it in her eyes, -and the full look she turned upon me whenever I looked at her—she would -die rather than I should find it out.</p> - -<p>It is quite impossible, however ignorant you may be of the causes of it, -to live in the close presence of a person devoured by anxiety without -being infected by it, more or less. One gets curious and excited, you -know, in spite of one’s self; and all the more, of course, if the cause -is quite inexplicable and the trouble sudden. I lived in the kind of -feeling that you have just immediately before a thunderstorm—the air -all of a hush, so that you could hear the faintest stir of a bird, or -rustle of a branch, yet never knowing the moment when, instead of the -bird’s motion or the leaves’ tremble, it might be the thunder itself -that clamoured in your ears.</p> - -<p>In this condition of mind Sara’s little side reference to Carson, and my -sister’s acquaintance with everything that passed, did not fail to have -its effect upon me, as well as other things. I don’t know that I would -have been above questioning Carson if I could have got at her; but I did -not see her once in three months, and could not have had any -conversation with her without making quite an affair of it, and letting -all the house know. Carson was not her right name. She had been Sarah’s -maid when she was a young girl, and had married and lost her husband, -and come back to the Park just in time to go abroad with her mistress, -and being well known in the house by her maiden name, never got any -other. I could not help wondering within myself if she knew, or how much -she knew, of Sarah’s trouble, and its cause, whatever that might be. -When the thought rose in my mind whether I might not try to get to -private speech of Carson, I was out in the grounds<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a>{121}</span> making a little -survey, to see how everything was looking for spring, and had just been -at the lodge to see poor little Mary, who (as I had foreseen from the -beginning) was bad with the whooping-cough, but no worse than was to be -expected, and nothing alarming or out of the way. The carriage had just -gone up to take Sarah out for her drive, and I, all in shelter of a -clump of holly bushes, became the witness, quite unawares and without -any intention, of a most singular scene. A footstep went softly by me -upon the gravel. I was just behind the lodge, and within sight of the -gate and the road without. I saw Carson, in her cap and in-doors dress, -go softly out at the gate. She went out into the road, pretending to -hold out her hand and raise her face to see whether it rained; as if it -were not perfectly clear to any one that it did not rain, nor would, -either, till the glass fell. She looked up and down with an anxious -look, and lingered five minutes or more in that same position. Then she -came in, and met the carriage just inside the gate, which Williams had -come to her cottage door to open. “All’s quite bright and clear, ma’am,” -I heard Carson say; “no appearance of rain. I hope you’ll have a -pleasant drive.” A moment after the carriage wheeled quickly out, the -blind being drawn down just as it turned into the road. Carson stood -looking after it with a kind of grieved, compassionate expression, which -made me like her better. She answered Williams’ question, “Whatever had -come over Miss Sarah to make her so particklar about the weather; in the -carriage, too, as she wouldn’t be none the wiser, wet nor dry!” very -shortly, sighed, and turned to go back, mincing with true lady’s-maid -nicety, along the road. The sigh and the pitying look on her face -determined me. I took a quick step through the bushes and came up to -her. The holly branches tore a bit of trimming, as long as my finger, -off my garden hood (I think a hood a great deal more suitable than a hat -for a person of my years); but I did not mind. Here was a chance if I -could only use it well.</p> - -<p>“Carson,” said I, not to give her time to think, “my sister has surely -grown very fidgety of late?”</p> - -<p>Carson stared at me in an alarmed, confused way; but soon got back her -self-possession. “My missis was always a bit fidgety, ma’am, though no -more than she had a right to be,” said this one real, true, faithful -adherent, whom Sarah had secured to her cause.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know about such rights,” said I. “Now tell me, Carson;—you -know a great deal more about her than I do.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a>{122}</span> Don’t you think I can see -how nervous and disturbed she is?—what’s the matter with my sister? -what is she afraid of? and what do you and she expect to see upon the -road, that you go out to look that the way is clear, before she ventures -beyond the gate? Don’t tell me about rain, I know better; what did you -expect to see?”</p> - -<p>Carson was taken entirely by surprise; she faltered, she grew red, she -wrung her hands; she stammered forth something quite unintelligible, -consisting of exclamations.—“Ma’am! Miss Milly!” and “My missis!” all -confused and run into each other. She had no time to invent anything; -and her fright and nervousness for the moment quite betrayed her.</p> - -<p>“I don’t want you to be false to your mistress,” said I, getting -excited, in my turn, at finding myself so near a clue to this mystery, -as I thought. “I don’t want you to tell me her secret, if she has -one—only let me know. Is there some danger apprehended? Is there some -one in the country that Sarah is afraid to see? What is wrong? Her limbs -are trembling under her, and her face growing thinner. Only think of her -going out with the blinds down, poor forlorn soul; What is wrong? It -would mend matters, somehow, if I knew.”</p> - -<p>“Miss Milly,” said Carson, with a great many little coughs and clearings -of her throat, “my missis has an attack on her nerves, that’s what it -is; when she haves them attacks, she grows fidgety, as you say, ma’am. A -little nice strengthening medicine, now, or a change of air, would be a -nice thing. I said that to my missis just this very morning. I said ‘A -few months at Brighton, now, or such like, would do you a world of good, -ma’am.’ It’s on her nerves, that’s what it is.”</p> - -<p>Carson had got quite glib and fluent before she ended this speech; the -difficulty had only been how to begin.</p> - -<p>“Now, Carson!” cried I, “if your mistress’s health suffers, and it turns -out to be something you could have told me, you may be certain I shall -call you to account for it. Think what you are saying. We Mortimers -never have nervous attacks. I know you’re deceiving me. Think again. -<i>Will</i> you tell me what is wrong?”</p> - -<p>“Ma’am, Miss Milly, it’s an attack on the nerves,” cried Carson; “my -missis has had them before. I couldn’t say more if I was to talk till -to-morrow. I’ve got my caps to see to, I ask your pardon;—my missis is -very particular about her caps.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a>{123}</span></p> - -<p>Upon which Carson somehow managed to elude me, with a mixture of -firmness and cunning quite extraordinary; and while I had still my eyes -fixed on her, and was calling her to stay with all the authority of my -position as acting mistress of the house, contrived to melt in at a back -door and escape out of my hands, I never could explain how. Talk about -controlling people with your eye, and swaying them by force of -character, and all that! I defy anybody to sway a servant in a great -house who is trained to the sort of thing, and knows how to recollect -her work at a critical moment, and the nearest way to the back stairs. -Carson had proved herself too many for me.</p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_V-c" id="Chapter_V-c"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter V.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span><span class="smcap">T</span> seems I was destined to hear of nothing but this Italian. I had not -kept faith to him, certainly. I had been startled and thrown back by -finding out how the idea of him got to be involved in Sarah’s trouble; -and really I did not care much about the Countess Sermoneta, whom I had -never heard of. I had been interested in <i>him</i>, I allow; but how could I -keep up an interest in strangers, with so much closer an anxiety near -home?</p> - -<p>However, just the next day after I had spoken to Carson, Dr. Roberts -called. Dr. Roberts was our rector; not a relation, but a kind of family -connection, somehow, I really could not tell how. For three or four -generations, at least, a Roberts had held our family living. There were -so few of us Mortimers, as I have already explained, that the living -could never be of any use to us; and our great-great-grandfathers had -happened to be intimate, and so it came about that the living was as -much an hereditary thing to the Robertses as our property was to us. Dr. -Roberts was the best of good, easy, quiet men.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a>{124}</span> He preached us a nice -little sermon every Sunday. He would dine with the people who were in a -condition to ask him, and make himself as agreeable as possible. He -patted the children on the head, and wondered how it was that he had -forgotten their names. Of course he had his own way of doing most -things, and seldom varied; but then one could always calculate on what -he would do and say, and wasn’t that a comfort? On the whole, he was the -most excellent, good drowse of a man I ever knew. He led a very quiet -life, with little interruption, except when, now and then, a storm -seized upon him, in the shape of a new curate with advanced ideas. In -such cases Dr. Roberts generally bowed to the tempest till its force was -exhausted. He laughed in his quiet way at the young men. “They are all -for making a fuss when they begin,” he said to me, confidentially; “but -depend upon it, when they come to our age, Miss Milly, they’ll find the -advantage of just getting along.” That was his favourite mode of -progress. He was too stout and easy to make much haste. He loved to get -along quietly; and really, as ours was a small parish, and nothing -particular to make a commotion about, I don’t suppose there was much -harm done.</p> - -<p>But only to think of Dr. Roberts becoming one of my assailants! I never -could have expected any such thing. He came in, bringing some books from -Miss Kate, who was as unlike him as possible. She was very active in the -parish, and had something to do, with or for, everybody. She was rather -Low-Church, and sent us books to read, to do us good, which, for my -part, I always read faithfully, being very willing to have good done me, -as far as it was practicable. Dr. Roberts sat down with a little sigh in -the round easy chair, his particular chair, which Ellis wheeled out for -him; not with a sentimental sigh, good man; but the road to the Park -ascends a little, and the doctor, for the same reason as Hamlet, was a -little scant of breath.</p> - -<p>We were all as usual. Sarah, in the shadow of the screen, with her -knitting-pins in her hands, and her basket of wools and patterns at her -side; myself opposite, commanding a view of the door and the great -mirror, and all the room; little Sara, half a mile off, reading at one -of the windows—for it was very mild for February, and really one did -not feel much need of a fire. Dr. Roberts wandered on in his comfortable -way for half an hour at least; he complimented Miss Mortimer on always -being so industrious, and me upon my blooming looks! only think of that! -but I dare say he must have forgotten that it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a>{125}</span> was Sarah who was the -beauty; and he gave us a quiet opinion upon the books he had brought us, -that they were “very much in Kate’s style, you know;” and had a word to -say about the curate—just one of his comfortable calls, when he has -something to say about everybody; nothing more.</p> - -<p>“But, by-the-bye,” said the good Doctor, “I had almost forgotten the -principal thing. There’s something romantic going on among us just now, -Miss Milly. Where is little Miss Cresswell? she ought to hear this.”</p> - -<p>“What is it, Doctor?” I asked, rather startled at this beginning.</p> - -<p>“Well, the fact is, I have had a strange sort of visitor,” said the -Doctor, with a soft little laugh; “or rather two, I should say,” he -continued, after a little pause, “ha! ha! I had Hubert to him, who -pretends to speak Italian, you know, ha! ha! He could speak Dante, -perhaps; but he can’t manage the Transteverine. I can’t say that I did -not enjoy it a little. These young fellows, Miss Milly, are so happy in -their own good opinion. Poor Hubert was terribly put out.”</p> - -<p>“Who are you speaking of?” asked I again.</p> - -<p>“Well, of a visitor I had; or two, as I have just said,—the master and -the man. The master speaks English very tolerably; the man is the real, -native, original article, newly imported. I am in good condition -myself,” said the good Doctor, giving a quiet unconscious pinch on his -plump wrist; “but anything like that, you know, goes quite beyond me. -You would have laughed to see poor young Hubert, poor fellow, talking to -him in his high Dantesque way, and the fat fellow dashing in through the -midst of it all, helter skelter, in <i>real</i> Italian. Ha! ha! it was a -most amusing scene.”</p> - -<p>“Italian?” said I, scarcely venturing to speak above my breath, my -consternation was so great.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Dr. Roberts, calmly, with still a little agitation of -laughter about his voice—the discomfiture of the curate amused him -excessively—“Italian. The young man called on me to ask after a lady, -whom he supposed to be living in this neighbourhood, a Countess -Sermoneta. Did you ever hear of such a person, Miss Milly?”</p> - -<p>“No,” said I, as quietly as I could. Sarah took no notice, showed no -curiosity, betrayed to me that she <i>had</i> heard this name before, and did -not learn the particulars of the stranger’s inquiry for the first time. -In general she liked to hear the news; and though she rarely took any -part in the conversation, listened to it, and showed that she did so. -To-day she never<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a>{126}</span> raised her head. Perhaps I was over-suspicious; but -this entire want of interest only added to my bewildering doubts.</p> - -<p>At this point little Sara came forward, and thrust herself, as was -natural, into a conversation so interesting to her; I only wondered she -had not done it sooner.</p> - -<p>“That is poor Mr. Luigi, that has been so much talked of in Chester,” -cried Sara; “and godmamma met him on the road, and promised to try and -find out for him. Do make her take it up, please Dr. Roberts. Did <i>you</i> -never hear of the lady either? How strange nobody should have heard of -her! Who was she, does he say? What does he want with her? do tell us, -dear Dr. Roberts, please.”</p> - -<p>Sarah’s knitting-pins had dropped out of her hand when her goddaughter -broke in upon Dr. Roberts’ good-humoured drowsy talk. I turned to help -her to pick them up, but she waved me away. What <i>could</i> be the matter? -she was trembling all over like an aspen leaf.</p> - -<p>“My dear Miss Cresswell, he gave me no information whatever,” said the -Doctor, smiling most graciously upon the pretty dainty little creature -in her velvet jacket! “and indeed, he was not quite the kind of man that -I should undertake to question. Hubert might do it, you know, ha! ha! -but then he rather stands on the dignity of his office, and would not -mind putting you, yourself, dangerous though it might be, through your -catechism. I did all that lively curiosity could do, you may believe, to -find out who <i>he</i> is, and who <i>she</i> was, but I made nothing of it. He, -as you seem to know, calls himself Mr. Luigi, and he wants the Countess -Sermoneta, a person no one in Cheshire ever heard of. I told him I had -no doubt he was mistaken in the locality; near Manchester, perhaps, or -Chichester, or some other place with a similar-sounding name; but I -don’t think he took in what I said. And you saw him, too, Miss Milly? -very odd, wasn’t it? He must have made a mistake in the place.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose so,” said I, quite faintly. Sarah’s knitting-pins had -actually fallen out of her hands again!</p> - -<p>“I promised to inquire and let him know if I heard anything,” said the -rector; “but if I do not know, and you do not know, Miss Milly,—we’re -about the likeliest people in the county, I suspect,—I don’t think it -is much good making other inquiries. You are sure you never heard the -name?”</p> - -<p>“Never in my life, so far as I recollect,” said I. “I promised to make -inquiries, too, and asked him to come to the Park, and I would let him -know. But that seems merely<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a>{127}</span> tantalising him. If you will give me the -address, Dr. Roberts, I will write him a note.”</p> - -<p>He gave me the address in his own leisurely way, and then he returned to -the scene at the rectory, where he had called the curate, who happened -to be with him at the time, to talk to Mr. Luigi’s servant, not without -some intention of doing the good young man a mischief, I am sure; and -how poor Mr. Hubert talked Dantesque, as the Doctor said, shaking his -portly person with quiet laughter, and the fat Italian burst in with a -flood of what Dr. Roberts called <i>real</i> Italian. I could understand how -it would be from what I had seen myself; but I confess I found it very -difficult to listen and smile as it was necessary to do. There sat -Sarah, close up in the shelter of her screen, never lifting her head or -making any sign to show that she heard the conversation; not a smile -rose upon her face; <i>she</i> saw nothing amusing in it; her lips were firm -set together, and all the lines of her face drawn tight; and though her -cheeks retained a kind of unnatural glow, which, for the first time in -my life, made me think that Sarah used paint, or something to heighten -her complexion, her brow and chin, and all except that pink spot, were -ghastly grey, and colourless. She had stopped her knitting altogether -now, and was rubbing her poor fingers, making believe to be very much -occupied with them, stooping down to rub the joints before the fire. It -quite went to my heart to see her sitting so forlorn there, shut up -within herself. Ah! whatever it was she feared, could I ever be hard -upon her? could I ever do anything but help her to bear what misfortune -or anxiety she might be under? I thought Dr. Roberts would never be done -with his story. I thought he would never go away. I dare say he, on his -part, thought we had just had a quarrel, or something of that sort, and -gave Miss Kate an amusing description of us when he went home; for he -had an amusing way of telling a story. And then, how to get quit of -little Sara when he was gone? I felt sure my sister would break out upon -me somehow, very likely without taking any notice of the real reason; -but all that silent excitement must find an outlet somehow; either that, -or her mind would give way, or she would break a blood-vessel, or -something dreadful would happen. I knew Sarah’s ways very well, we had -been so long together. I knew that, one way or other, she must get it -out, and relieve herself; and, to be sure, there was nobody whom she -<i>could</i> relieve her feelings upon but me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a>{128}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_VI-c" id="Chapter_VI-c"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter VI.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">A</span><span class="smcap">LL</span> in haste, and in a peremptory tone, to which nobody could be less -used to than she was, I had sent little Sara away on some commission, -invented on the spur of the moment, when the door closed on Dr. Roberts. -The child looked up in my face with an amazed uncomprehension of any -order issued to her; I fancy I can see her great eyes growing larger and -blacker as she turned, asking what I meant. But Sara had understanding -in her, wilful as she was; she saw there was occasion for it, though she -could not understand how; and whenever her first surprise was over, she -went off and obeyed me with an alacrity which I shall always remember. -We two were left alone. I took up some work that lay on the table. I -could not tell whether it was mine or Sara’s, or who it belonged to. I -bent my head fumbling over it, too agitated to see what I was doing. Now -the volcano was about to explode. Now, even, an explanation might be -possible.</p> - -<p>“What was that I heard from you just now?” cried Sarah, in her shrill -whisper. “You were so lost to all common feeling, you were so forgetful -of my claims and everybody else’s, that you invited a common foreign -impostor to come here—here, without an idea what bad intentions he -might have—here to my house!”</p> - -<p>“Sarah! for heaven’s sake what do you know about him? What have you to -do with this young man?” said I, the words bursting, in spite of myself, -from my lips.</p> - -<p>I suppose she did not expect this question. She stopped with a flood of -other reproaches and accusations ready to be poured forth, staring at -me—staring—there is no other word for it. Her looks were dreadful to -me. She looked like some baited animal that had turned to bay. Was it my -doing? Presently her senses came back to her. And I was glad, really -thankful, when I saw that it was mere passion—one of her fits of -temper, poor dear soul! that had returned upon her again.</p> - -<p>“You dare to ask me such questions?” she cried; “you, a poor simpleton -that throws our doors open to any adventurer!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a>{129}</span> This is what I have to do -with him. He shall never enter my house. I’ll have him expelled if he -comes here. I’ll muster the servants and let them know who’s -mistress,—you, a rustical fool that knows nothing of the world, and are -ready to throw yourself at anybody’s head that flatters you a little, or -me, that knows life and can detect a cheat! What! you’ll go slander me -in addition, will you? You worry and drive me out of my senses, and then -pretend that I have something to do with every impostor you pick up in -the streets. I tell you I’ll have him turned out if he dares to come to -this house. I will not have my peace molested for your fool’s tricks and -intrigues. An Italian forsooth! a fellow that will cringe to you, and -flatter you, and be as smooth as velvet. I’ll have him thrown into -prison if he dares to come here!”</p> - -<p>“Sarah! Sarah! for what reason? the poor young man has never harmed -you,” I cried, holding up my hands.</p> - -<p>She gave a strange bitter cry. “Fool! how can you tell whether he has -harmed me?” she cried out, wringing her thin hands: then suddenly -stopping short, came to herself again, and stared at me once more. -Always that stare of blank resistance—the hunted creature brought to -bay. She had been standing while she spoke before. Now she dropped into -her chair, exhausted, breathless, with a strange look of fury at -herself. She thought she had betrayed herself—and most likely so she -had, if I had possessed the slightest clue by which to find her mystery -out.</p> - -<p>“I beg and entreat you to be calm, and not to excite yourself,” cried I, -trying, if it were possible, to soothe her. “I know nothing whatever -about this young Italian, Sarah. I took an interest in him from his -appearance, and something in his voice—and because he was a stranger -and had no friends. But I will write to him immediately not to come—he -is nothing to me. He has neither flattered me nor asked anything of me. -I see no harm in him; but I shall certainly write and say he is not to -come. You might know well that there is no stranger in the world for -whom I would cross you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I am used to fair speeches, Milly,” said my sister, “quite used to -them; and used to being made no account of when all’s done. I, that -might have been so different. I might have had a coronet, and been one -of the leaders of life, instead of vegetating here; and, instead of -respecting me after I have resigned all that, I am to be badgered to -death by your<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a>{130}</span> old maid’s folly, and have a vulgar impostor brought in -upon me to oust me out of my home. Bring in whom you like, thank heaven, -I’m more than a match for you. I tell you, you shall bring nobody -here—it is my house, and was my house before you were born. I shall -keep it mine, and leave it to whom I like. Your romances and fictions -are nothing in this world to me. I am mistress, and I will be mistress. -You are only my younger sister, and I have nothing in the world to -consult but my own pleasure. I am not to be driven into changing my mind -by any persecution. I advise you to give up your schemes before you -suffer for them. Nobody, I tell you,—no man in the world with evil -designs against me, and my fortune, and my honour, shall come into my -house!”</p> - -<p>“Sarah! what on earth do you mean? Who is plotting against you? Your -fortune and your honour? What are you thinking of? You have gone too far -to draw back now,” cried I, in the greatest excitement. “Explain -yourself before we go any farther—what do you mean?”</p> - -<p>Once more she stared at me blankly and fiercely; but she had got it out, -and had more command of herself after she had relieved her mind. Could -it be only an outburst of passion? but my spirit was up.</p> - -<p>“The house is my house as well as yours,” I cried, when she did not -answer. “I have a voice as powerful as yours in everything that has to -be done. Yes, I can see what is going to happen. We are the two -Mortimers that are to send it out of the name. But I will not give up my -rights, either for the prophecy or for any threats. I have never made a -scheme against you, nor ever will. You have been wretched about -something ever since that day you were so late on your drive. I have -seen it, though I cannot tell the reason. This Italian cannot be any -connection of yours. He is a young man; he could not be more than born -when you were abroad. You might be his mother for age. What fancy is it -that you have taken into your mind, about him? What do you suppose you -can have to do with him? Sarah, for heaven’s sake! what is the matter? -If you ever had the slightest love for me, take me into your confidence, -and let me stand by you now.”</p> - -<p>For when I was speaking, some of my words, I cannot tell which, had -touched some secret spring that I knew nothing of; and dropping down her -head upon her hands she gave such a bitter, desperate groan that it went -to my very heart. I ran to her and fell on my knees by her side. I -kissed her hand, and begged her to have confidence in me. I was ready -to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a>{131}</span> promise never to disturb her, never to speak of setting up a will of -my own again; but I felt I must not give in; it would be now or never. -She would trust me and tell me her trouble whether it was real or only -fanciful; and her mind would be relieved when it was told.</p> - -<p>But the now passed and the never came. She lifted up her head and pushed -me away; she looked at me with cold stony eyes; she relapsed without a -moment’s interval into her usual chilly, common-place, fretful, -tone—that tone of a discontented mind and closed heart which had -disturbed and irritated mine for years. All her old self returned to her -in an instant. Even her passion had been elevating and great in -comparison. She looked at me with her cold observant eyes, and bade me -get up, and not look so like a fool. “But it is impossible to think of -teaching you what anybody else of your age and position must have -learned thirty years ago,” she said, twitching her dress, which, when I -foolishly threw myself down beside her, I had put my knee upon unawares, -from under me. I cannot describe to anybody the mortified, indignant -feeling with which I scrambled up. Think of going down upon my knees to -her, ready to do anything or give up anything in the world for her, and -meeting this reception for my pains! I felt almost more bitterly -humiliated and ashamed than if I had been doing something wrong. I, who -was not a young girl but an elderly woman, long accustomed to be -respected and obeyed! If she had studied how to wound me most deeply, -she could not have succeeded better. I got up stumbling over my own -dress, and hastily went out of the room. I even went out of the house, -to calm myself down before I met anybody. I would not like to confess to -all the angry thoughts that came into my mind for the next hour in the -garden. I walked about thinking to get rid of them, but they only grew -more and more vivid. My affection was rejected and myself insulted at -the same moment. You would not suppose, perhaps, that one old woman -could do as much for another; but I assure you, Sarah had wounded me as -deeply as if we had been a couple of young men.</p> - -<p>When I found my temper was not going down as it ought to do, but on the -contrary my imagination was busy concocting all sorts of revengeful -things to say to her, I changed my plan, and went back to the library -and looked over the newspapers. Don’t go and think over it, dear good -people, when you feel very much insulted and angry. Read the papers or a -novel. I went down naturally when I stopped thinking. After all,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a>{132}</span> poor -Sarah! poor Sarah! whom did she harm by it? only herself, not me.</p> - -<p>But anybody will perceive at a glance that after this I was more -completely bewildered than ever, and could not undertake to say to my -own mind, far less to anybody else, whether there was or was not any -real reason for Sarah’s nervousness, or whether she had actually any -sort of connection with this young Italian. Sometimes I made myself -miserable with the idea that the whole matter looked like an insane -fancy. People when they are going mad, as I have heard, always take up -the idea that they are persecuted or wronged somehow. What if Sarah’s -mind was tottering, and happening to catch sight of this young man, -quite a stranger, and very likely to catch her eye, her fancy took hold -of him as the person that was scheming against her? The more I thought -over this, the more feasible it looked; though it was a dreadful thing -to think that one’s only sister was failing in her reason, and that any -night the companion of my life might be a maniac. But what was I to -think? How was it possible, no madness being in the case, that a young -unknown stranger could threaten the fortune and honour of Sarah -Mortimer, born heiress of the Park, and in lawful possession of it for -more than a dozen years? What possible reason could there be for her, if -she was in her sane senses, fearing the intrigues of anybody, much less -a harmless young foreigner? But then that groan! was it a disturbed mind -that drew that involuntary utterance out of her? Heaven help us! What -could any one think or do in such circumstances? I was no more able to -write a note to Mr. Luigi that evening than I was to have gone out and -sought him. Things must take their chance. If he came he must come. I -could not help myself. Besides, I had no thought for Mr. Luigi and his -lost Countess. I could think only of my sister. No! no! little Sara was -deceived, clever as she was. Sarah knew no Countess Sermoneta—her mind -disturbed and unsettled, had fixed upon the strange face on the way, -only as some fanciful instrument of evil to herself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a>{133}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_VII-c" id="Chapter_VII-c"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter VII.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">N</span><span class="smcap">EXT</span> morning at breakfast I found a letter waiting me, in an unknown -hand—an odd hand, not inelegant, but which somehow gave a kind of -foreign look even to the honest English superscription. The address was -odd, too. It was Miss <i>Milla</i> Mortimer, a very extraordinary sort of -title for me, Millicent. That is the work of diminutives—they are apt -to get misunderstood and metamorphosed into caricatures of names.</p> - -<p>The letter inside was of a sufficiently odd description to correspond -with the address; this is how it was expressed:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“<span class="smcap">Madame</span>,</p> - -<p>“You will pardon me if I say Madame, when I perhaps should ought to -say Mademoiselle. Madame will understand that the titles of honour, -which differ in every country, do much of times puzzle a foreigner. -Since I had the honour of making an encounter with Mademoiselle, I -have more than once repeated my searches; and all in finding no -one, it has come to me in the head to go to another place, where -there may be better of prospects. I have, then, made the conclusion -to go to Manchester, where I shall find, as they say, some -countrymen, and will consult with their experience. There are much -of places, they say, with Chester in the name. I go to make a -little voyage among them. If I have the happiness to find the -Contessa, I will take the liberty of making Madame aware of it. If -it is to fail, I must submit. I shall return to Chester; and all in -making my homage to Madame, will use the boldness of asking if -anything of news respecting the Contessa may have come to her -recollection. In all cases Madame will permit me to remember with -gratitude her bounty to a stranger.</p> - -<p class="r"> -“<span class="smcap">Luigi S——.</span>”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>Sara and I were, as usual, alone at the breakfast-table, and to tell the -truth, I prized this interval when Sarah’s eyes were not upon me, nor -all the troublous matters conveyed in her looks present to my mind, as -quite a holiday season,—when I could look as I liked, say what I -pleased, and be afraid of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a>{134}</span> nobody. Besides, though I was more and more -uneasy about Sarah, I was not disturbed in my mind about this young man -to the degree I had been, nor so entirely mystified about any possible -connection between them. Since last evening, thinking it all over, it -came to be deeply impressed upon my mind that there was no connection -between them: that my poor sister knew nothing whatever about him or his -Italian Countess. Simply that Sarah’s mind, poor dear soul, was giving -way, and that catching sight of the strange face on the road, she had -somehow identified and fixed upon it as the face of an unknown agent of -trouble, the “somebody” who always injures, or persecutes, or haunts the -tottering mind. It was but little comfort to me to conclude upon this, -as you may suppose, but it seemed to explain everything. It cleared up a -quite unintelligible mystery. Poor Sarah! poor soul! She who had known -such a splendid morning, such an exciting noon, such a dull leaden -afternoon of life,—and how dark the clouds were gathering round her -towards the night!</p> - -<p>But being thus eased in my mind about the young man, the kindness I had -instinctively felt to him came strong upon me. I remembered the look he -had, quite affectionately, the nice, handsome, smiling, young fellow! -Who could it be that he was like? Somebody whom I remembered dimly -through the old ages; and his voice, too? His voice made a thrill of -strange wondering recollections run through me. Certainly that voice had -once possessed some power or influence over my mind. I decided he would -not find his Countess in Manchester. Fancy the ridiculous notion! A -Countess in Manchester! No. She must belong about Cheshire, somewhere; -and I must have known her in my youth.</p> - -<p>So I read his note twice over, with a good deal of interest, and then -naturally, as we had talked of him together so often, handed it to Sara. -Now I did not in the least mean to watch Sara while she read it, but, -having my eyes unconsciously upon her face at the moment, was startled, -I acknowledge, by seeing her suddenly flush up, and cast a startled -glance at me, as if the child expected that something more than usual -was to be in the note. Who could tell what romantic fancies might be in -her head? It is quite possible her imagination had been attracted by the -stranger, and perhaps if she had heard that Mr. Luigi had fallen -romantically in love with her, Sara would have been less surprised and -much less shocked than I should. However, there was no such matter, but -only a sensible, though, I must confess, rather odd and Frenchified<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a>{135}</span> -note. After the first glance she read it over very calmly and carefully, -then laid it down, with something that looked wonderfully like a little -shade of pique, and cried out in her sharpest tone:</p> - -<p>“Oh, godmamma, how sensible!—to be sure to be an Italian, and young, he -must be a perfect miracle of a Luigi. Actually, because there are -countrymen of his in Manchester—music teachers and Italian masters, of -course—to give up an appointment with a lady, and at such a house as -the Park! I think he must be quite the most sensible and pretty-behaved -of young men.”</p> - -<p>“I think he shows a great deal of sense,” said I, not altogether pleased -with the child’s tone; “but if you will excuse me saying so, Sara, I -think it is just a little vulgar of you to say ‘at such a house as the -Park.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>Sarah flushed up redder and redder. I quite thought we were to have a -quarrel again.</p> - -<p>“Oh, of course, godmamma, if I had been speaking of a—of an English -gentleman; but you know,” said the wicked little creature, looking -boldly in my face, “you set him down at once, whenever you heard of him, -as an adventurer,—a count, you know,—one of the fellows that came -sneaking into people’s houses and wanted to marry people’s daughters. I -am only repeating what you said, godmamma. It was not I that said it. -And now you perceive this good respectable young man does not attempt -anything of the kind.”</p> - -<p>“But then you see we, at the Park, have no daughters to marry,” said I, -looking at her rather grimly.</p> - -<p>“Oh, to be sure, that makes all the difference,” cried Sara, bursting -open her own letters with a half-ashamed, annoyed laugh. I have no doubt -she had said twice as much as she meant to say, the impatient little -puss, and was ashamed of herself. She had set her heart on seeing Mr. -Luigi, that was the plain truth of the matter. Seeing him at the Park, -where of course papa could have nothing to say against the introduction, -hearing all about his search after the unknown lady, exercising her -wiles upon him, turning him into a useless creature like that poor boy -Wilde, in Chester, who was good for nothing but to waylay her walks and -go errands for her. That was what she wanted, the wicked little -coquette. It was just as well Mr. Luigi had taken care of himself, and -kept out of the way. I really thought it was right to read her a lecture -on the occasion.</p> - -<p>“Sara, you are quite disappointed the poor young man is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a>{136}</span> not coming. You -wanted to make a prey of him, you artful puss,” said I. “You thought, -out here in the country, with nothing else to do, it would be good fun -to make him fall in love with you—you know you did! And I think it is -not at all a creditable thing, I assure you. How can you excuse yourself -for all the damage you have done to that young Wilde?”</p> - -<p>“Damage!” cried Sara. “If I am a puss, I may surely pounce upon a mouse -that comes in my way,” she said spitefully; and then putting on her most -innocent look;—“but, indeed, it is very shocking to have such -suspicions of me, especially as I am a fright now, godmamma Sarah says.”</p> - -<p>“It is just as well Mr. Luigi does not put himself in your way,” said I; -“and it would be very wicked of you to do any harm to him, or attempt -such a thing; and I say so particularly, because I think you are quite -inclined to it, Sara, which is very wrong and very surprising. You are -not such a beauty as your godmamma Sarah was, but you have just the same -inclinations. It is something quite extraordinary to me.”</p> - -<p>The little puss looked at me with her wicked eyes blazing, and her face -flushed and angry. She looked quite beautiful in spite of her short -little curls. I am not sure that she might not, when she grew older, be -very near as great a beauty as her godmamma. She did not make any -answer, but bit her lips, and set her little red mouth, and looked a -very little sprite of mischief and saucy daring. She was not abashed by -what I said to her. She was a thoughtless child, aware only of a strange -mischievous power she had, and thinking no harm.</p> - -<p>“For I know,” said I, half to myself, “that poor Mr. Luigi will come -back. I feel as if I had known him half a lifetime ago. His voice is a -voice I used to hear when I was young. I can’t tell whose voice it is, -but I know it. He’ll come back here. He won’t find the lady in -Manchester, or any other chester; he’ll find her in Cheshire, if he -finds her at all.”</p> - -<p>“Did godmamma Sarah say so?” cried Sara, suddenly losing her own -self-consciousness in her interest in this bit of mystery.</p> - -<p>“Child, do not be rash,” cried I, in some agitation. “Your godmamma -knows nothing about her; it is all a mistake.”</p> - -<p>“Did you ask her?” said Sara. “Godmamma, it is written in her face. When -the rector was speaking, when you were speaking, even when I was -speaking, it was quite evident she knew her abroad, and remembered who -she was; but she will<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a>{137}</span> not tell. It is not a guess; I am perfectly sure -of it. She knows all about her, and she will not tell.”</p> - -<p>“It is quite a mistake, Sara,” cried I, trembling in spite of myself. -“She has taken some fancy into her head about Mr. Luigi, some merely -visionary notion that he has some bad intention, I cannot tell you what. -But I am certain she knows nothing about this Countess. Child, don’t -think you know better than anybody else! I have thought a great deal -about it, and made up my mind. Your godmamma has grown fanciful, she has -taken this into her head. Don’t be rash in speaking of your fancies; it -might give her pain;—and your idea is all a mistake.”</p> - -<p>“Will you ask her? or will you let me ask her?” cried Sara. “If she says -‘No,’ I shall be satisfied.”</p> - -<p>“I will do no such thing,” said I. “She is my only sister, I will do -nothing to molest or vex her; and, Sara, while I am here, neither shall -you.”</p> - -<p>Sara did not say anything for a few minutes. She allowed me to pick up -my letter in silence, for we had finished breakfast. She let me gather -up my papers and ring the bell, and make my way to the door. Then, as I -stood there waiting for Ellis, she brushed past me rapidly. “Godmamma” -said Sara, looking into my face for a moment, “all the same, <i>she -knows</i>,” and had passed the next instant, and was gliding upstairs -before I had recovered my composure. How pertinacious she was! Against -my will this had an effect on me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a>{138}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_VIII-c" id="Chapter_VIII-c"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter VIII.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">G</span><span class="smcap">REAT</span> and many were my musings what steps I ought to take; or, indeed, -whether I ought to take any steps in the strange dilemma I was in. I -considered of it till my head ached. What if Sarah’s mind were possibly -just at that delicate point when means of cure might be effectual? but -how could <i>I</i> bring her to any means of cure? There have been many -miserable stories told about false imputations of insanity and dreadful -cruelties and injustice following, but I almost think there might be as -many and as sad on the other side, about friends watching in agony, -neither able nor willing to take any steps until it was too late, far -too late, for any good. This was the situation I felt myself in; no -matter whether I was right or wrong in my opinion, this was how I felt -myself. I suppose nobody can think of madness appearing beside them in -the person of their nearest companion, without a dreadful thrill and -terror at their heart; but at the same time I felt that, however -inevitable this might be, I must first come to it unmistakably. I must -first see it, hear it, beyond all possibility of doubt, before I -ventured to whisper it even to the secret ear of a physician.</p> - -<p>All this floated through my mind with that dreadful faculty of jumping -at conclusions that imagination always has. Did ever anybody meet with -any great misfortune, which has been hanging some time over them, -without going through it a thousand times before the blow really fell, -and the dreadful repetition was done away with once and for ever? How -many times over and over, sleeping and waking, does the death-bed -watcher go through the parting that approaches before it really comes? -Dying itself, I think,—one naturally thinks what kind of a process that -is, as one comes near the appointed natural period of its coming,—dying -itself must be rehearsed so often, that its coming at last is a real -relief to the real actor. Not only does what is real go through a -hundred performances in one’s imagination, but many a scene appals us -that, thank heaven, we are never condemned to go through with. I could -not see before me what was to happen, nor into Sarah’s mind<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a>{139}</span> to know -what was astir there; but I tortured myself all the same, gathering all -the proofs of this new dismal light thrown upon her, in my mind. All -insane people make up a persecutor or pursuer for themselves. Poor Sarah -had found hers in the strange face,—it was so unusual in our quiet -roads to see a strange face!—which she met all at once and without -warning, on the quiet road.</p> - -<p>I recollected every incident, and everything confirmed my idea. She had -taken a panic all at once,—she had driven five miles round to get out -of his way; from that hour painful watchfulness and anxiety had come to -her face. Carson was sent out to see that the road was clear, before, -poor soul, she would venture out, though with the carriage blinds drawn -down. Ah! I think if my only communication with the open air and the -out-of-doors world was in the enclosure of that carriage with the blinds -drawn down, I should certainly go mad, and quickly too! I had a long -afternoon by myself in the library that day. I went back, as well as my -memory would carry me, into the history of the Mortimers. Insanity was -not in our family,—no trace of it. We had never been very clever, but -we had been obstinately sane and sober-minded. My mother’s family too, -the Stamfords, so far as I know, were all extremely steady people. It is -odd when one individual of a family, and no more, shows a tendency to -wander; at sixty, too, all of a sudden, with no possible reason. But who -can search into the ways of Providence? It might perhaps never go any -further; it might be the long silence of her life, and perhaps long -brooding over such things as may have happened to her in the course of -it. Something must have happened to Sarah; she was not like me. She had -really lived her life, and had her own course in the world. She had -known her own bitterness, too, no doubt, or she—she, the great beauty, -the heiress,—would not have been Sarah Mortimer sitting voiceless by -the fireside. She had been too silent, had too much leisure to go over -her life. Her brain had rusted in the quietness; terrors had risen -within her that took form and found an execution for themselves -whenever, without any warning, she saw a strange face. This explained -everything. I could see it quite clear with this interpretation; and -without this nothing could explain it; for the young Italian looking for -his friend, the lady whom nobody had ever heard of, could be nothing in -the world to Sarah Mortimer.</p> - -<p>Thinking over this, it naturally occurred to me that it would be -important to let my poor sister know that this innocent<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a>{140}</span> young object of -her fears had left the neighbourhood. It might, even, who knows? restore -the balance to her poor mind. I got up from my chair the moment I -thought of that, but did not go out of the library quite so quickly as -you might have supposed, either. I was afraid of Sarah’s passions and -reproaches; I always was. She had a way of representing everybody else -as so unkind to her, poor dear soul, and of making out that she was -neglected and of no consequence. Though I knew that this was not the -case, I never could help feeling uncomfortable. Perhaps if I could only -have put myself in her place, I might have felt the same; but it made me -very timid of starting any subject before her that she did not like, -even though it might be to relieve her mind.</p> - -<p>I went slowly into the drawing-room. I thought most likely little Sara -was dressing upstairs, and we two would have a little time to ourselves. -When I went into the great room it was lying in the twilight, very dim -and shadowy. The great mirror looked like another dimmer world added on -to this one which was already so dim,—a world all full of glimpses and -gliding figures, and brightened up by the gleams of the firelight which -happened to be blazing very bright and cheerful. There were no curtains -closed nor blinds down. Four great long windows, each let into the -opposite wall a long strip of sky, the grass, and leafless trees, giving -one a strange idea of the whole world outside, the world of winds, and -hills, and rivers, and foreign unknown people. It was not light that -came in at these windows; it was a sort of grey luminous darkness, that -led our eyes up to the sky and blurred everything underneath. But in the -centre of the room burned that ruddy centre of fire, a light which is -quite by itself, and is not to be compared to anything else. Straight -before me, as I stood at the door, was Sarah’s screen, shutting out as -much light as it could, and of course concealing her entirely; but -beyond, full in the ruddy light on the other side of the screen, with -the red fire reddening all over her velvet jacket, her glossy hair, and -the white round arms out of those long wide sleeves, sat little Sara -Cresswell, on a footstool opposite her godmamma, and talking to her. I -cannot say Sara was in a pretty attitude. Young ladies now-a-days are -sadly careless in their ways. She was stooping quite double, with one of -her hands thrust into her hair, and the fire scorching her complexion -all to nothing; and one of the long, uncovered windows, with the blind -drawn up to the very top, you may be sure by Sara’s own wilful hands, -was letting in the sky light over her,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a>{141}</span> like a very tall spirit with -pale blue eyes, so chilly, and clear, and pale, that it looked the -oddest contrast possible to the firelight and the little velvet kitten -then in front of it, all scorched and reddened over, as you could fancy; -velvet takes on that surface tint wonderfully. I could see nothing of -Sarah in the shelter of her screen; but there sat the little puss in -velvet, straight before her, talking to her as nobody else ever ventured -to talk. I have been long telling you how that fireside scene looked, -just to get my breath. I had been trying to work myself up to the proper -pitch to enter upon that subject again with my poor sister. But lo! here -had little Sara come on her own account and got it all over. I could see -at a glance that there was no more to be said.</p> - -<p>I came forward quietly and dropped into my own seat without saying -anything. Dear, dear! had it been an insane, unreasonable terror, or had -it been something real and serious that she knew, and she alone? Sarah -was leaning a little towards the fire, rubbing the joints of her -fingers, which were rheumatic, as I have mentioned before; but it was -not what she was doing that struck me; it was the strange look of ease -and comfort that had somehow come upon her. Her whole person looked as -if it had relaxed out of some bondage. Her head drooped a little in a -kind of easy languor: her muslin shawl, lined with pale blue, hung -lightly off her shoulders. Her pins were laid down orderly and neat on -her basket with the wools. Her very foot was at ease on the footstool. -How was it? If it had been incipient madness, could this grateful look -of rest have come so easily? Would the fever have gone down only at -knowing he was away? Heavens know! I sat all silent in my own chair in -the shadow, and felt the water moisten my old eyes. What she must have -gone through before this sudden ease could show itself so clearly in -every limb and movement! What an iron bondage she must have been putting -on! What a relief this was! Her comfort and sudden relaxation struck me -dumb. I was appalled at the sight of it. My notion about insanity, -dreadful to think of, but still natural and innocent, was shaken; a -restless uneasiness of a different description rose upon my mind. Could -he indeed be anything to her, this young stranger? Could she in her own -knowledge have some mysterious burden which was connected with his -coming or going? Could she have <i>recognised</i>, instead of only finding an -insanely fanciful destiny in his strange face? Impossible! That foreign -life of hers, so obscure and mysterious to me, was of an older period -than his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a>{142}</span> existence. <i>He</i> could bring no gossip, no recollections to -confound her. At the time of her return he could scarcely have been -born. Thus I was plunged into a perfect wilderness of amazed questions -again.</p> - -<p>“When little Sara went off to dress,—she dressed every evening, though -we never saw anybody,—I stole to the door after her, and caught her -little pink ear outside the door in the half-lighted hall. She gave a -little shriek when I came suddenly behind her. I believe she thought I -was angry, and came to take her punishment into my own hand.</p> - -<p>“What did you say to your godmamma, Sara?” said I.</p> - -<p>“Nothing,” said the perverse child. Then, after a little pause, “I told -her that your Mr. Luigi was gone, godmamma; and that he was a very -pretty-behaved young man; and asked her who the Countess Sermoneta was.”</p> - -<p>“You did?”</p> - -<p>“Yes; but she did not mind,” said Sara. “I am not sure if she heard me; -she gave such a long sigh, half a year long. Godmamma Sarah’s heart must -be very deep down if it took <i>that</i> to ease it; and melted all out, as -if frost was over somehow, and thaw had come.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! and what more?” said I.</p> - -<p>“Nothing more,” cried the child. “Don’t you think I have a little heart, -godmamma? If she felt it so, could I go poking at her with that -Countess’s name? Ah! you should have seen her. She thawed out as if the -sun was shining and the frost gone.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” I cried again. It went to my heart as well. “Come down and talk, -little Sara,” said I, and so went back to the drawing room, where she -sat looking so eased and relieved, poor soul, poor soul! I was very -miserable. I had not the heart to ring for lights. I sat down in my -chair with all sorts of dismal thoughts in my heart. She did not speak -either. She was rubbing her rheumatic fingers, and taking in all the -warmth and comfort. She looked as if somehow she had escaped—good -heavens! from what?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a>{143}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_IX-c" id="Chapter_IX-c"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter IX.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">N</span><span class="smcap">EXT</span> day that change upon Sarah’s whole appearance continued, and -throughout the whole week. She was like herself once more. Carson made -no more stealthy expeditions out of doors before my sister set out on -her drive. Sarah did not stir in her chair and eye me desperately when -the door opened. She even seemed to fall deaf again with that old, soft, -slight hardness of hearing which I used to suspect in her. There was no -pressure on her heart to startle her ears.</p> - -<p>While I in the meantime tried my best to think nothing about it, tried -to turn a blank face towards what might happen, and to take the days as -they came. I have not come to be fifty without having troubles in -plenty. For the last dozen years, to be sure, there had been only common -embarrassments. The fewer people one has to love, the fewer pleasures -and joys are possible, the less grow our sorrows. It is cold comfort, -but it is a fact notwithstanding. Grief and delight go hand in hand in -full lives; when we are stinted down into a corner both fall off. We -suffer less, we enjoy less; we suffer nothing, we enjoy nothing in time, -only common pricks and vexations, which send no thrill to the slumbering -heart. So we had been living for years; happy enough, nothing to disturb -us; or not happy at all, if you choose to take that view of the subject; -true either way. Not such a thing as real emotion lighting upon our -house, only secondary feelings; no love to speak of, but kindness; no -joy, but occasional pleasure; no grief, but sometimes regret. A very -composed life, which had been broken in upon quite suddenly by a -bewildering shadow,—tragic fear, doubt, alarm,—sudden mystery no ways -explainable, or madness explainable but hopeless. In this pause of -dismay and doubt, while the dark, unknown, inexplicable figure had -turned away from the door a little, it was hard to turn from its -fascination and go quietly back to that quiet life.</p> - -<p>Little Sara Cresswell came much about me in the library in those days; -she interested herself in my business much; she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a>{144}</span> tried to interfere with -my work and help me, as the kitten called it. All the outlays on the -estate, the works that were going on, the improvements I loved to set -a-going—which did not all come to anything,—and the failures, of which -to be sure there were plenty—pleased the impatient creature mightily. I -was considered rather speculative and fanciful among the Cheshire -squires; they did not approve of my goings on; they thought me a public -nuisance for preserving no game, and making a fuss about cottages. But I -am sorry to say little Sara did not agree with the squires. She thought -my small bits of improvements very slow affairs indeed; she grew -indignant at my stinginess and contracted ideas. She thought any little -I did were just preliminary attempts not worth mentioning. When was I to -begin the work in earnest she wanted to know?</p> - -<p>“What work, Sara?”</p> - -<p>“What work? Why, here are you, godmamma, an old lady—you will never -grow any wiser or any better than you are,” cried the intolerable child. -“You can’t get any more good out of all that belongs to the Park than -just your nice little dinners, and teas, and the carriage, and the -servants, and, perhaps, half-a-dozen dresses in the year,—though I do -believe three would be nearer true,—and to keep all these farms, and -fields, and meadows, and orchards, and things, all for godmamma Sarah -and you! Don’t you feel frightened sometimes when you wake up suddenly -at night?”</p> - -<p>“You saucy little puss!—why?” cried I.</p> - -<p>“To think of the poor,” said Sara, with a solemn look. She held herself -straight up, and looked quite dignified as she turned her reproving eyes -on me. “Quantities of families without any homes, quantities of little -children growing up worse than your pigs, godmamma, quantities of people -starving, and living, and crowding, and quarrelling in black streets not -as broad as this room, with courts off from them, like those horrid, -frightful places in Liverpool. While out here you are living in your big -rooms, in your big house, with the green park all round and round you, -and farmers, and gardeners, and cottagers, and servants, and all sorts -of people, working to make you comfortable; with more money than you -know what to do with, and everything belonging to yourself, and nobody -to interfere with you. And why have you any right to it more than -<i>them</i>?”</p> - -<p>Little Sara’s figure swelled out, and her dark eyes shone bright as she -was speaking. It took away my breath. “Are you a Chartist, child?” I -cried.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a>{145}</span></p> - -<p>“I think I am a Socialist,” said Sara, very composedly; “but I don’t -quite know. I think we should all go shares. I have told you so a dozen -times, godmamma. Suppose papa has twelve hundred a year,—I do believe -he has a great deal more,—isn’t it dreadful? and all, not out of the -ground like yours, but from worrying people into lawsuits and getting -them into trouble. Well, suppose it was all divided among a dozen -families, a hundred a year. People can live very comfortably, I assure -you, godmamma, upon a hundred a year.”</p> - -<p>“Who told you, child?” said I.</p> - -<p>“The curate has only eighty,” said Sara; “his wife dresses the baby and -makes all its things herself, and they have very comfortable little -dinners. The window in my old nursery—the end window you know—just -overlooks their little parlour. They look so snug and comfortable when -the baby is good. To be sure it must be a bore taking one’s dinner with -the baby in one’s lap; and I am sure she is always in a fright about -visitors coming. I think it would be quite delightful to give them one -of papa’s hundreds a year.”</p> - -<p>“In addition to their eighty?” said I. “Why, then, there is an end of -going shares.”</p> - -<p>Sara coughed and stammered for a moment over this, quite at fault; but -not being troubled either about logic or consistency, soon plunged on -again as bold as ever.</p> - -<p>“Whatever you say, godmamma, people can live quite comfortable on a -hundred a year. I have reckoned it all up; and I don’t see really any -reason why anybody should have more. Only fancy what a quantity of -hundreds a year you and godmamma Sarah might distribute if you would. -And, instead of that, you only build a few cottages and give a few -people work—work! as if they had not as good a right as anybody to -their living. People were not born only to work, and to be miserable, -and to die.”</p> - -<p>“People were born to do a great many harder things than you think for, -Sara,” said I. “Do you think I am going to argue with a little velvet -kitten like you? I advise you to try your twelve families on the twelve -hundreds a year. But what do you suppose you would do if your godmamma -and I, having no heirs, left the Park to you, and you had your will, and -might do what you pleased?”</p> - -<p>What put this into my head I cannot say; but I gave it utterance on the -spur of the moment. Sara stared at me for a moment, with her pretty -mouth falling a little open in astonishment. Then she jumped up and -clapped her hands. “Do, godmamma!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a>{146}</span>” she cried out, “oh do; such a -glorious scatter I should make! everybody should have enough, and we’d -build the loveliest little chapel in existence to St. Millicent, if -there is such a saint. I have always thought it would be perfectly -delightful to be a great heiress. Godmamma, do!”</p> - -<p>To see her all sparkling with delight and eagerness quite charmed me. -Had she ever heard a hint of being left heiress to the Park, of course -she must have looked wretched and conscious. Anybody would that had -thought of such a great acquisition. Sara had not an idea of that. She -thought it the best fun possible. She clapped her hands and cried, “Do, -godmamma!” She was as bold as an innocent young lion, without either -guile or fear.</p> - -<p>“It should be tied down so that you could not part with a single acre, -nor give away above five pounds at a time,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Ah!” said Sara, thoughtfully; “I dare say there would be a way of -cheating you somehow though, godmamma,” she said, waking up again with a -touch of malice. “People are always cheated after they are dead. I knew -a dear old lady that would not have her portrait taken for anybody but -one friend whom she loved very much; but, what do you think? after she -was gone they found the wicked wretch of a photographic man that kept -the <i>thing</i>,—the negative they call it,—and printed scores of -portraits, and let everybody have one. I would have given my little -finger to have had one; but to go and cheat her, and baulk her after she -was dead, and all for love, that is cruel. I would rather go against -what you said right out, godmamma, than go against what I knew was in -your heart.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, Sara, you don’t know anything about it,” said I. “If you had a -great deal of money all to yourself, and could do anything you liked -with it,—as heaven knows you may have soon enough!—and were just as -foolish with it as you intend, how disgusted you would be with your -charity, to be sure, after a while! What a little misanthrope you would -grow! What mercenary, discontented wretches you would think all the -people! I think I can see you fancying how much good you are doing, and -yet doing only harm instead. Then that disagreeable old fellow, -experience, would take you in hand. The living are cheated as well as -the dead. We are all cheated, and cheat ourselves. Nothing would make me -go and have my portrait taken; but I don’t deny if I found out that -people had got it spontaneously, and handed it about among themselves -all for love, I should not be angry. You<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a>{147}</span> are a little goose. You don’t -know what manner of spirit you are of.”</p> - -<p>“It is very easy talking, godmamma,” said Sara. “I was watching -yesterday when godmamma Sarah went out for her drive. The groom and the -boy were hard at work ever so long with the carriage and horses before -it was ready. I saw them out of the window of Alice’s room while she was -mending my dress for me. Then came old Jacob to the door with the -carriage. Then came godmamma Sarah leaning on Carson’s arm to go -downstairs. So there were two great horses and four human -creatures,—three men and a woman,—all employed for ever so long to -give one old lady a half-hour’s drive, when a walk would have done her -twenty times as much good,” concluded the child hastily, under her -breath.</p> - -<p>“You speak in a very improper manner;—an old lady! You ought to have -more respect for your godmamma,” said I, indignantly. “Your godmamma has -nothing that is not perfectly suitable to her condition of life.”</p> - -<p>“But godmamma Sarah is an old lady, whether I am respectful or not,” -said the girl stoutly. “When I see ladies driving about I wonder at -them. Two great horses that could fight or plough; and two great men -that might do the same; and all occupied about one lady’s drive! If I -were queen I would do away with drives! Ah! shouldn’t I like to be -Semiramis, the Semiramis of the story, that persuaded the king to let -her be queen for a day, and turned everything upside down, and then——”</p> - -<p>“Cut off the king’s head. Would you do it, Sara, after he had trusted -you?” said I.</p> - -<p>Sara came to a sudden pause. “I would not mind about cutting off his -head; but, to be sure, being <i>trusted</i> is different. As if it were not a -story, not a word true! But please, godmamma,” cried the wild creature, -making me a curtsey, “don’t leave me the Park. I don’t want to be -trusted, please. I want to have my own way.”</p> - -<p>Which was the truest word she ever said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a>{148}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_X-c" id="Chapter_X-c"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter X.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><span class="smcap">HE</span> days wore away thus in talks with little Sara, and vague expeditions -out of doors, a misty sort of confused life. I felt as one feels when -one knows of some dreadful storm, or trial, that has passed over for a -little, only to come again by and by. After seeing Sarah show so much -feeling of one kind and another,—distress, anxiety, and apprehension -one day, and comfort and relief another,—I could not bind myself with -the thought that this could possibly pass off and come to nothing. Such -things don’t happen once and get done with. There was a secret reason -somewhere working all the same, either in her own mind alone, or in the -past and her history as well; and one time or other it must make its -appearance again. Whether it was her mind giving way; and in that case -it did not matter whether Mr. Luigi came back or not, for if he did not -appear, fancy would, doubtless seize upon some other; or whether it was -some person this young man resembled, or some part of her life which she -was afraid to hear of again which he recalled to her, in any case it was -sure to break out some other day; and I cannot tell what a strange -uncomfortable excitement it brought into my life, and how the impulse of -watching came upon me. Sarah’s smallest motions got a meaning in my -eyes. I could not take things easily as I had used to do. She had -always, of course, been very important in the house; but she had been a -kind of still life for a long time now. She would not be consulted about -leases or improvements, or anything done on the estate. So long as -everything was very comfortable and nice about her,—the fire just to -her liking, which Ellis managed to a nicety; the cooking satisfactory; -her wools nicely matched, and plenty of new patterns; her screen just in -the proper position, protecting her from the draught; and the Times -always ready when she was ready for it,—Sarah got on, as it appeared, -very comfortably. Despite all that, to be sure she would get angry -sometimes; but I was used to it, and did not mind much. Only to think -that a person, who had either in the past or in her own mind<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a>{149}</span> something -to work her up to such a pitch of excitement, <i>could</i> live such a life! -She seemed to have quite resumed it now with a strange kind of -unreasoning self-consolation. If it was the Italian that disturbed her, -how could she persuade herself that he was not coming back again? Her -quiet falling back into her old way was inexplicable to me.</p> - -<p>I seemed to myself to stand just then in a very strange position. Sarah -on one side of me all shut up and self secluded, with a whole life all -full of strange incidents, dazzling, brilliant, unforgotten years, -actual things that had happened locked in her silent memory; and little -Sara on tiptoe, on the other side, eager to plunge in her own way into -the life she dreamt of, but knew nothing about. All the wild notions of -the little girl, ridiculous-wise opinions, poor dear child, her -principles of right and justice with which she would rule the world, and -all her innocent break-downs and failures, ever in her fancy, came -pouring down upon me, pelting me at all times. And on the other side was -my sister, content to spend her life in that easy-chair, my sister whom -I knew nothing about, whose memory could go out of the Park drawing-room -into exciting scenes and wonderful events which I had never heard of. -How strange it was! I don’t remember much that I did in those days. I -lived under a confused, uneasy cloud, ready enough to be amused with -Sara’s philosophy. I am not sure that I was not all the more disposed -to smile at and tease the dear child, and be amused by all the new ideas -she started, for the troubled sensation in my own mind. Nothing could -have happened, I think, that would have surprised me. Sometimes it came -into my head whether my father could have done, or tried to do, -something when he was abroad, to cut us off from the succession; and -once I jumped bolt upright out of my seat, thinking—what if my father -had married abroad and had a son, and we were living usurpers, and Sarah -knew of it! How that idea did set my heart beating! If I had not been so -much frightened for her passions, I should have gone to her directly and -questioned her. But to be sure my father was not the man to leave off -his own will for any consideration about his daughters; and would have -been only too proud to have had a son. After thinking, I gave up that -idea; but my heart went at a gallop for hours after, and I should not -have been surprised to hear that anything had happened, or was going to -happen. Really, anything real and actual, however bad, would have been a -relief from the mystery which preyed upon me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a>{150}</span></p> - -<p>“Papa is coming to fetch me, to-morrow,” said Sara Cresswell, in rather -a discontented tone. “There is to be some ridiculous ball, or something. -Can anybody imagine anything so absurd as asking people to a ball when -you want to show you’re sorry to part with them? and papa might have -known, if he had ever taken the trouble to think, that I have no -dress——”</p> - -<p>“Sara, child! how many hundreds a year do you give your dressmaker?” -said I.</p> - -<p>“That has nothing whatever to do with it, godmamma,” said Sara, making a -slightly confused pause; and then resuming, with a defiant look into my -face,—“if I might give one hundred a year away out of all papa has got, -I could live upon one dress in a year; but what is the use of shillings -and sixpences to beggars, or of saving up a few pounds additional to -papa? I don’t call that any economy. If we were living according to -nature, it would be quite different; then I should want no ball-dresses. -Besides,” continued the refractory creature, “I don’t want to go; and if -papa insists on me going, why shouldn’t I get some pleasure out of it? -Everything else will be just the same as usual, of course.—Godmamma,” -exclaimed Sara suddenly, with a new thought, “will you ask papa anything -about this business? it is not done with yet. He will come back, and all -will have to be gone over again. Will you mention it to papa?”</p> - -<p>She had been thinking of it too,—she, thoughtless as she was, found -something in it not of a kind to die away and be passed over. I could -not mistake, nor pretend to mistake, what she meant; it was to be read -in her very eyes.</p> - -<p>“My dear, I have told you already that your godmamma can have nothing -whatever to do with this young man,” said I, with a little irritation; -“if she is out of sorts it is nobody’s business. Do you fancy she could -keep up an acquaintance with an Italian countess for more than twenty -years, and I know nothing of it? Nonsense! Some fancy, or some old -recollections, or something, had an effect upon her just at the moment. -Speak to your father! Why, you told me he knew nothing about the -Countess Sermoneta. Shall I ask him to feel your godmamma’s pulse and -prescribe for her? or do you suppose, even if he were fit for that, your -godmamma would allow it, without feeling herself ill? Your papa is -highly respectable, and has always been much trusted by the family. But -there are things with which one’s solicitor has nothing whatever to do; -there are things which belong to one’s self, and to nobody else in the -world.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a>{151}</span></p> - -<p>Poor little Sara! I did not mean to mortify the child! She grew crimson -with pride and annoyance. I had no intention of reminding her that she -was only the attorney’s daughter; but she reminded herself of it on the -instant, with all the pride of a duchess. She did not say a syllable, -the little proud creature; but turned away with such an air, her cheek -burning, her eyes flashing, her little foot spurning the ground. She -went off with a great sweep of her full skirts, disturbing the air to -such an extent that I quite felt the breeze on my cheek. Perhaps it was -just as well. Of course there was a difference between the Mortimers and -the Cresswells. Because we did not stand on our dignity, people were so -ready to forget what they owed to us. It was just as well the spoiled -child could learn, for once in her life, that it was all of grace and -favour that she was made so much of at the Park.</p> - -<p>I made quite sure that she went to her own room directly, to see after -the packing of her things, with some thoughts of starting for home at -once, without even waiting for her father. However, when she began to -talk to her little maid Alice, about that ball-dress, I daresay the -other matter went out of the child’s head. The next that I saw of her -was when she made a rush downstairs to ask me for postage stamps, with a -letter in her hand, all closed ready to go off. She was still pouting -and ill-tempered; but she contrived to show me the address of the -letter. Alas, poor dear Bob Cresswell! it was to the Chester milliner, -the best one we had, no doubt ordering a dress for the ball. Yet I do -believe, for all that, the child could really have done what she said. I -believe, if some great misfortune had happened, and her father had lost -all his money, Sara’s first impulse would have been to clap her hands -and cry, “Now everybody shall see!” Of course it is very dreadful to -lose one’s fortune and become poor and have to work. But I wonder are -there no other spoiled creatures in the world like Sara, who have their -own ideas about such calamities, and think they would be the most famous -fun in the world? Too much of anything makes a revulsion in the mind. -Such over-indulged, capricious, spoiled children have often hardy bold -spirits, and would be thankful for some real, not sham necessity. But, -in the meantime, she had not the slightest idea of doing without her -ball-dress.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a>{152}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_XI-c" id="Chapter_XI-c"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter XI.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">M</span><span class="smcap">R. CRESSWELL</span> came next day accordingly. I confess the very sight of him -was a sort of solace to me in my perplexities; that solid steady man, -with his sharp keen eyes and looks, as if he knew everything going on -round about him. To be sure, being a lawyer, he must have pretended to -know a great many more things than he could have any insight into. -Still, when one is in great doubt, and cannot tell where to turn, the -sight of one of these precise men, with a vast knowledge about other -people, and no affairs of their own of any consequence, is a kind of -relief to one. Such men can throw light on quantities of things quite -out of their way. I could not help saying to myself, though I had -snubbed Sara for saying it, that he might, perhaps, have helped to clear -up this mystery. But, of course, he was always a last resort if anything -more happened. They were to have dinner before they went away, and Mr. -Cresswell reached the Park by noon; so there was plenty of time to tell -him anything. He came into the drawing-room rubbing his hands. Sarah had -just come down-stairs and taken her seat. She was looking just as she -always did, no tremble in her head to speak of, her attention quite -taken up with her wools, attending to what was said, but with no anxiety -about it. When Mr. Cresswell came in her face changed a little; she -looked as if all at once she had thought of something, and gave me a -sign, which I knew meant he was to come to her. I brought him directly, -not without a great deal of curiosity. It was a warm day for the season; -and just immediately before the fire, where the good man had to sit to -listen, was not just the most comfortable position in the world. He even -contrived to make a kind of appeal to me. Couldn’t I hear what it was, -and tell him afterwards? I took no notice; I confess it was rather -agreeable to me than otherwise,—to set him down there to get roasted -before the fire.</p> - -<p>“I want to know what you have done about Richard Mortimer,” said Sarah -in her shrill whisper; “there has been no advertisement in the Times nor -the Chester papers. I hope you are not losing time; what have you -done?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a>{153}</span></p> - -<p>It struck me that Mr. Cresswell looked just a little abashed and put out -by this question; but it might be the fire. He put up his hand to -shelter his face, and hitched round his chair; then shrugged his -shoulders a little, insinuating that she was making far too much of it. -“My dear lady, advertisements are the last resort. I hope to do without -any such troublesome process,” said Mr. Cresswell. “All the Mortimers in -England will rouse up at the sight of an advertisement. I should prefer -to take a little time. Information is always to be obtained privately -when one has any clue at all.”</p> - -<p>“Then have you obtained any private information?” said Sarah, in rather -a sharp tone. She had no inclination to let him slide away till she was -quite satisfied.</p> - -<p>“Such things take their time,” said Mr. Cresswell, devoting all his -attention to screening himself from the fire. “How you ladies can bear -cooking yourselves up so, on this mild day, I cannot understand! I can -hear you perfectly, Miss Mortimer, thank you; your voice is as distinct -as it always was, though, unfortunately not the same tone. What a voice -your sister used to have, to be sure!—went through people’s hearts like -a bell.”</p> - -<p>This was addressed to me, in the idea of being able to wriggle out of -the conversation altogether. It is my conviction he had not taken a -single step in the matter of Richard Mortimer; but if he thought he -could shake off Sarah’s inquiries so, he deceived himself. She never -was, all her life, to be turned from her own way.</p> - -<p>“It is sometime now since we instructed you on this subject,” said -Sarah. “If you have not made any discovery, at least you can tell us -what you are doing. Milly, there, like a fool, does not care. She talks -of Providence dropping us an heir at our door,—a foundling, I suppose, -with its name on a paper pinned to its frock,” said Sarah, growing -rather excited, and turning an angry look on me.</p> - -<p>To my astonishment Mr. Cresswell also looked at me; his was a guilty, -conscious, inquiring look. What strange creatures we all are! This -shrewd lawyer, far from thinking that Sarah’s words referred to any -mysterious trouble or derangement in her own mind, took them up, knowing -his own thoughts, with all the quickness of guilt, to refer to Sara! He -thought we had probably had a quarrel about leaving her our heiress; -that I had stood up for her, and Sarah had opposed it. So he turned his -eyes to me to see if I would make any private telegraphic communication -to him of the state of affairs. And<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a>{154}</span> when he found nothing but surprise -in my eyes, turned back a little disappointed, but quite cool and ready -to stand to his arms, though he had failed of this mark.</p> - -<p>“The truth is, there is nothing so easy as finding an heir. I’ll ensure -you to hunt him up from the backwoods, or China, or anywhere in the -world. There’s a fate connected with heirs,” said Mr. Cresswell, -pleasantly, “whether one wants them or not they turn up with all their -certificates in their pocket-books! Ah! they’re a long-lived, -sharp-sighted race; they’re sure to hear somehow when they’re wanted. -Don’t be afraid—we’ll find him, sure enough. If you had made up your -minds to disown him, and shut him out, he’d turn up all the same.”</p> - -<p>“Milly,” cried Sarah suddenly, with her little shriek of passion, all so -unexpected and uncalled for that I fairly jumped from the table I was -standing at, and had nearly overturned her screen on the top of her, -“what do you mean by that fixed look at me? How dare you look so at me? -Did I speak of disowning any one? Richard Mortimer, when he’s found, -shall have the park that moment, if I lived a dozen years after it. -Nobody shall venture, so long as I live, to cast suspicious looks at -me!”</p> - -<p>I declare, freely, I was unconscious of looking at her as though I had -been a hundred miles away at the moment! I stood perfectly still, gaping -with consternation and amazement. Such an unwarranted, unexpected -accusation, fairly took away my breath. Mr. Cresswell, accustomed to -observe people, was startled, and woke up from those dreams of his own -which clouded his eyesight in this particular case. He looked at her -keenly for a moment, then, turned with a rapid question in his eyes to -me; he seemed to feel in a moment there was somehow some strange new -element in the matter. But, of course, I had no answer to make to him, -either with voice or eyes.</p> - -<p>“I was not looking at you at all, Sarah,” faltered I. “I was not looking -at anything in particular. Nobody is going to be disowned, that I know -of. Nobody is seeking our property, that I know of,” I said again -involuntarily, my eye turning with a kind of stupid consciousness, the -very last feeling in the world which I wished or intended to show, upon -Mr. Cresswell, who was quite watching my looks to see what this little -episode meant.</p> - -<p>He coloured up in a moment. He stumbled up from his chair, looking very -much confused. He dared not pretend to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a>{155}</span> know what I meant, nor show -himself conscious, even that I had looked at him. He went across the -room to the window, looked out, and came back again. It was odd to see -such a man, accustomed and trained to conceal his sentiments, so -betrayed into showing them. When he sat down again he turned his face to -the fire, and almost his back to me. Matters had changed. It appeared I -was not such a safe confidante as he had supposed.</p> - -<p>“You shall very soon be satisfied about Mr. Richard Mortimer,” he said, -looking into the fire. “Don’t be afraid; I am on the scent; you may -trust it to me. But, really, I don’t wonder to see Miss Milly take it -very reasonably. What do you want with heirs yet? If I had any thoughts -of that kind, I should put all my powers in motion to get that little -kitten of mine married. If I leave her by herself she will throw away my -poor dear beautiful dividends in handfuls. But, somehow, the idea -doesn’t oppress me; and, of course, I am older than any lady in -existence can be supposed to be. I am——”</p> - -<p>“Hold your tongue, Cresswell,” cried Sarah crossly. “I daresay we know -what each other’s ages are. Attend to business, please. I want Richard -Mortimer found, I tell you. You can tell him his cousin Sarah wants him. -He will come, however far off he may be, when he hears that. You can put -it in the papers, if you please.”</p> - -<p>Saying this Sarah gave her muslin scarf a little twitch over her elbow, -and held up her head with a strange little vain self-satisfied movement. -Oh, how Mr. Cresswell did look at her! how he chuckled in his secret -soul! From what I had seen once before I understood perfectly well what -he meant. He had once taken the liberty to fall in love with Sarah -Mortimer himself; and now to see the old faded beauty putting on one of -her old airs, and reckoning on the fidelity of a man who, no doubt—it -was to be hoped, or what was to become of our search for heirs?—had -married and forgotten all about her years ago—tickled him beyond -measure. He felt himself quite revenged when he saw her -self-complacence. He ventured to chuckle at it secretly. I should have -liked, above all things, to box his ears.</p> - -<p>“Ah! to be sure; I’ll use all possible means immediately. It’s to be -hoped he has ten children,” said Mr. Cresswell, with a very quiet -private laugh. Sarah did not observe that he was laughing at her. I -believe such an idea could never have entered her head. She began, with -an habitual motion she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a>{156}</span> had got whenever she left off knitting, to rub -her fingers and stoop to the fire.</p> - -<p>“And I insist you should come and report to us what you are doing,” said -Sarah; “and never mind Milly; see me. It is I who am interested. Milly, -as I tell you, thinks Providence will drop her an heir at the door.”</p> - -<p>What could she mean by these spiteful sneering suggestions? I had -thought no more of heirs for many a day—never since I got involved in -this bewildering business, which I could see no way through. Her sudden -attack sent a little thrill of terror through me. <i>I</i> was casting -suspicious looks at her; an heir was to be dropped at our door; somebody -was plotting against her fortune and honour. Good heavens! what could it -mean but one thing? Mad people are always watched, pursued, persecuted, -thwarted. I was cast from one guess to another, as if from wave to wave -of a sea. I came back to that idea again; and trembled in spite of -myself to think of little Sara and her father leaving us, and of being -left alone to watch the insane haze spreading over her mind. It was sure -to spread if it was there.</p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_XII-c" id="Chapter_XII-c"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter XII.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span> <span class="smcap">WILL</span> not undertake to say that we were a particularly sociable party -at dinner that day. The stranger, Mr. Cresswell, who might have been -supposed likely to give us a little news, and refresh us with the air of -out of doors, was constrained and uncomfortable with the idea of having -been found out. I am sure it was the last idea in the world which I -wanted to impress upon him. But still, in spite of myself, I had -betrayed it. Then Sara, without the faintest idea of her father’s -uneasiness, had a strong remembrance of my unlucky<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a>{157}</span> words on the -previous day, and was very high and stately, by way of proving to me -that an attorney’s daughter could be quite as proud as a Mortimer—as if -I ever doubted it!—and a great deal prouder. For really, when one knows -exactly what one’s position is, and that nobody can change it, one does -not stand upon one’s defence for every unwary word. However, so it was -that we were all a little constrained, and I felt as one generally feels -after a pretty long visit, even from a dear friend, that to be alone and -have the house to one’s self will just at first be a luxury in its way.</p> - -<p>Not having any free and comfortable subject to talk of, we naturally -fell to books, though Mr. Cresswell, I believe, never opened one. He -wanted to know if Sara had been reading novels all day long, and -immediately Sara turned to me to ask whether she might have one home -with her which she had begun to read. Then there burst on my mind an -innocent way of putting a question to Mr. Cresswell which I had been -very anxious to ask without seeing any way to do it.</p> - -<p>“I don’t think you will care for it when you do read it Sara; it is all -about a poor boy who gets persuaded not to marry, and breaks the poor -creature’s heart who is engaged to him, because there has been madness -in the family. High principle, you know. I am not quite so sure in my -own mind that I don’t think him a humbug; but I suppose it’s all very -grand and splendid to you young people. Young persons should be trained -very closely in their own family history if that is to be the way of it. -I hope there never was a Cresswell touched in his brain, or, Sara, it -would be a bad prospect for you.”</p> - -<p>“If you suppose I should think it a bad prospect to do as Gilbert did, -you are very wrong, godmamma,” cried Sara. “Why shouldn’t he have been -quite as happy one way as the other? Do you suppose people must be -<i>married</i> to be happy? it is dreadful to hear such a thing from you!”</p> - -<p>“Well, to be sure, so it would be,” said I, “if I had said it. I am not -unhappy that I know of, nor happy either. Oh, you little velvet kitten, -how do you know how people get through life? One goes jog-jog, and does -not stop to find out how one feels. But I’d rather—though I daresay -it’s very bad philosophy—have creatures like you do things innocently, -without being too particular about the results. Besides, I think -Cheshire air is good steady air for the mind,—not exciting, you know. I -don’t think we’ve many mad people in our county, eh, Mr. Cresswell?—Did -you ever hear of a crazy Mortimer?”</p> - -<p>Mr. Cresswell looked up at me a little curiously—which, to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a>{158}</span> be sure, -not having any command over my face, or habit of concealing what I -thought, made me look foolish. Sarah lifted her eyes, too, with a kind -of smile which alarmed me—a smile of ridicule and superior knowledge. -Perhaps I had exposed my fears to both of them by that question. I -shrank away from it immediately, frightened at my own rashness. But Mr. -Cresswell would not let me off.</p> - -<p>“I have always heard that your grand-uncle Lewis was very peculiar,” -said Mr. Cresswell,—“he that your cousin is descended from. Let us hope -it doesn’t run in Mr. Richard’s family. I suppose there’s no reason to -imagine that such a motive would prevent <i>him</i> from marrying?” he -continued, rather spitefully. “And it was no wonder if Lewis Mortimer -was a little queer. What could you expect? he was the <i>second son</i>! an -unprecedented accident. The wonder is that something did not happen in -consequence. Oh yes, he was <i>soft</i> a little, was your grand-uncle Lewis; -but most likely it descended to him from his mother’s side of the -house.”</p> - -<p>“And my father was named after him!” cried I, with a certain dismay.</p> - -<p>They all laughed, even Sarah. <i>She</i> kept her eyes on me as if searching -through me to find out what I meant. She was puzzled a little, I could -see. She saw it was not a mere idle question, and wanted to know the -meaning. She was not conscious, thank heaven! and people are dismally -conscious, as I have heard, when their brain is going. This was a little -comfort to me under the unexpected answer I had got, for I certainly -never heard of a crazy Mortimer all my life.</p> - -<p>“If qualities descended by names, my little kitten would be in luck,” -said Mr. Cresswell. “But here is a new lot of officers coming, Miss -Milly; what would you recommend a poor man to do?”</p> - -<p>“Papa!” cried Sara, with blazing indignation, “what does any one suppose -the officers are to me? You say so to make my own godmamma despise me, -though you know it isn’t true! I can bear anything that is true. That is -why we always quarrel, papa and I. He does not mind what stories he -tells, and thinks it good fun. I am not a flirt, nor never was—never, -even when I was too young to know any better. No, godmamma, no more than -you are!—nobody dares say it of me.”</p> - -<p>We were just rising from table when she made this defence of herself. It -was not quite true. I know she tormented that poor boy Wilde as if he -had been a mouse, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a>{159}</span> cruel creature; and I am perfectly convinced that -she was much disappointed Mr. Luigi did not come to the Park, because -she had precisely the same intentions with regard to him. I must allow, -though I was very fond of Sara, that, professing to be mighty scornful -and sceptical as to hearts breaking, she loved to try when she had it in -her power. I daresay she was not conscious of her wicked arts, she used -them by instinct; but it came to much the same thing in the end.</p> - -<p>I went out of the room with her, under pretence of seeing that her boxes -were nicely packed; I did not say anything about it, whether I thought -her a flirt or not, and she quieted down immediately, with a perception -that I had something to say. I drew her into the great window of the -hall, when Sarah, and immediately after her Mr. Cresswell,—for, of -course, to him our early dinner only served as lunch, and no man would -dream of sitting over his wine at three o’clock in the afternoon, -especially in a lady’s house,—had passed into the drawing-room. It was -a great round bay-window, at one end of the hall, where our footmen used -to lounge in my father’s time, when we kept footmen. It had our -escutcheon in it, in painted glass, and the lower panes were obscured, I -cannot tell why, unless because it made them look ugly. The hall was -covered with matting, and the fire had been lighted that day, but must -have gone out, it felt so cold.</p> - -<p>“Sara, I wish to say to you—not that I don’t trust your discretion, my -dear child;” said I, “but you might not think I cared—don’t say -anything about your godmamma, or about this Mr. Luiggi, dear——”</p> - -<p>I was quite prepared to see her resent this caution, but I was not -prepared for the burst of saucy laughter with which the foolish little -girl replied to me.</p> - -<p>“Oh dear, godmamma, don’t be so comical! it isn’t Luiggi, it’s Luidgi, -that’s how it sounds,” cried Sara. “To think of any one murdering the -beautiful Italian so! Don’t you really think it’s a beautiful name?”</p> - -<p>“I freely confess I never could see any beauty in Italian, nor any other -outlandish tongue,” said I. “Luidgi, be it, if that’s better. I can’t -see how it makes one morsel of difference; but you will remember what I -say?”</p> - -<p>“Luigi simply means Lewis; and how should you be pleased to hear Lewis -mispronounced? You said it was your father’s name, godmamma,” said the -incorrigible child.</p> - -<p>I turned away, shaking my head. It was no use saying anything more; most -likely she would pay attention to what I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a>{160}</span> said, though she was so -aggravating; oh, but she was contrairy. Never man spoke a truer word. -Nevertheless, as she stood there in her velvet jacket, with her -close-cropped pretty curls, and her eyes sparkling with laughter, I -could not help admiring her myself. I don’t mind saying I am very -inconsistent. A little while before, I had been thinking it would be -rather pleasant to have the house quiet and to ourselves. Now, I could -not help thinking what a gap it would leave when she was gone. Then the -child, who at home was led into every kind of amusement (to be sure -<i>procurable in Cheshire</i>, must be added to this), had been so contented, -after all, to live with two old women, whom nobody came to see, except -now and then in a morning call; and though she was so wicked, and -provoking, and careless, she was at the same time so good and clever -(when she pleased) and captivating. One could have put her in the -corner, and kissed her the next moment. As she stood there in the light -of the great window, I, who had left her, shaking my head, and -reflecting how contrairy she was, went back to kiss her, though I gave -her a little shake as well. That is how one always feels to these -creatures, half-and-half; ready to punish them and to pet them all at -once.</p> - -<p>However, after a while (though it was no easy matter getting Sara’s -trunks on the carriage—I wonder Mr. Cresswell ventured on it, for his -poor horse’s sake), they went away; and feeling just a little dull after -they were gone, and as it was just that good-for-nothing time, which is -the worst of an early dinner, the interval between dinner and tea, I set -out for a walk down to the village. It was Sarah’s day for her drive, -and she passed me on the road, and kissed her hand to me out of the -carriage window. No blinds down now; the horses going at their steady -pace, rather slowly than otherwise, wheeling along through the soft -hedgerows which began to have some buds on them. I wonder what Jacob -thought of it; I wonder what Williams at the lodge had to say on the -subject. Such a strange unreasonable change!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a>{161}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_XIII-c" id="Chapter_XIII-c"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter XIII.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span> <span class="smcap">CALLED</span> at a good many houses in the village. I am thankful to say I -have rarely found myself unwelcome, to the best sort of people at least. -Most of us have known each other so long, and have such a long stretch -of memory to go back upon together, that we belong to each other in a -way. As for the scapegraces, they are a little frightened of me, I -confess. They say, Miss Milly comes a-worriting, when I speak my mind to -them. I can’t say the men reverence me, nor the women bless my -influence, as I read they do with some ladies in some of Miss Kate -Roberts’ books. But we are good friends on the whole. When the men have -been drinking, and spent all their wages, or saucy, and put out of their -place, then they try their best to deceive me, to be sure; but I know -all their little contrivances pretty well by this time. They don’t mean -much harm after all, only to persuade one that things are not so bad as -they look.</p> - -<p>After I had given a glance into the shop where I saw Mr. Luigi’s fat -servant,—I only saw him once, but yet the place seemed full of that -fat, funny, good-humoured, outlandish figure, with his bows and smiles, -and loquacious foreign speech, that poor Mrs. Taylor commiserated so -deeply—I stepped across to the rectory to make a call there. The poor -young shopkeeper, who had a night-class for the men and grown lads, and -was really an intelligent, well-meaning young man, had been confiding -his troubles to me. They did not care a bit about learning; they did not -even want to read. When they did read it was the most foolish books! -Poor young Taylor’s heart was breaking over their stupidity. And then, -to keep a shop, even a bookshop, hurt his “feelings,” poor lad. He had -been brought up for a teacher’s profession, he said—he even had some -experience in “tuition.” He had thought he could make a home for his -mother and his little sister; and now Dr. Appleby was grumbling that he -did not succeed, and thought it his own fault! Poor young fellow! to be -sure, he should have gone stolidly through with it, and had no business -to have any “feelings.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a>{162}</span> But, you see, people will be foolish in every -condition of life.</p> - -<p>So I stepped across the road to call on Miss Kate, thinking of him all -the way; thinking of him and that unknown young Italian, only once seen, -whom the apparition of the fat servant in Taylor’s shop somehow -connected with the young shopkeeper. How Mr. Luigi had forced himself -into all my thoughts! and yet the only one fact I knew about him was, -that he was looking for an apocryphal lady whom nobody ever heard of! -Should I have thought no more about him but for Sarah’s mysterious -agitation? I really cannot tell. Again and again his voice came back to -me, independent of Sarah. Whose voice was it? Where had he got that -hereditary tone?</p> - -<p>Miss Kate was in, for a great wonder. She was wonderfully active in the -parish. She was far more the rector, except in the pulpit, than good Dr. -Roberts was. I am sure he was very fortunate to have such an active -sister. I don’t think anything ever happened, within a space of three or -four miles round the village, that Miss Kate was not at the bottom of -it. Of course I expected to hear everything over again that Dr. Roberts -had told us about Mr. Luigi. But, so long as Sarah was not present, I -could take that quite easily. Indeed, I wished so much to know more of -this stranger, somehow, that I really felt I should be glad to hear all -that they had to say.</p> - -<p>“I was indeed very much interested in the young man,” said Miss Kate, -starting the subject almost immediately, as I expected. “I think great -efforts should be made to lay hold of every one that comes out of his -poor benighted country. I said so to the Doctor; but the Doctor’s views, -you know, are <i>very</i> charitable. Mr. Hubert, however, quite agreed with -me. I asked him to come back when he came to this part of the country -again, and said I should be very glad to have some <i>serious</i> -conversation with him. He stared, but he was very polite; only, poor -young man, his thoughts are all upon this lady. I have no doubt he -thought it was that business I wanted to talk to him about.”</p> - -<p>“But I suppose, like Dr. Roberts, you can throw no light upon her; who -she is, or where she is?” said I. “It is strange he should seem so -positive she was here, and yet nobody remembers her. For my own part, if -I had once heard it, I am sure I should never have forgotten that name. -I have a wonderful memory for names.”</p> - -<p>“Very strange no doubt,” said Miss Kate, with a little cough. “And then, -that man of his. Alas, what an imprisoned<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a>{163}</span> soul! To think he should be -in the very midst of light and faithful preaching, and yet not be able -to derive any benefit from it! I never regretted more deeply not having -kept up my own Italian studies. And poor Mr. Hubert—but you would hear -all about that; the Doctor does so delight in an amusing story. They -could not understand each other in the very least, you know. Ah, what a -matter it would be to get hold of that poor Domenico—that’s his name. -Why, he might be quite an apostle among his countrymen, when he got -back. But nothing can be done till he can be taught English, or some -agency can be found out in Italian. I can’t tell you how much interest I -feel in these poor darkened creatures. And to think they should be in -the midst of the light, and no possibility of bringing them under its -influence! I don’t speak of the master, of course, who knows English -very well; but I am not one that am a respecter of persons,—the servant -is quite as much, if not more, interesting to me.”</p> - -<p>“If they stay long I daresay he’ll learn English,” I suggested modestly; -“but it will be a sad pity if the poor gentleman has come so far to seek -out this lady, and can’t find any trace of her. I promised him to do all -I could to find out for him; but nobody seems ever to have heard of her. -It will be a thousand pities if he has all his trouble for no end.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, Miss Milly! let us hope he may acquire something else that will far -more than repay him,” said Miss Kate; “disappointments are often great -blessings in directing one’s mind away from worldly things. We were all -very much interested in him, I assure you. Mr. Hubert promised to write -to a friend of his in Chester to ask if he could give him any -assistance. If it were only for the sake of that strange -resemblance,—the Doctor would tell you, of course, the resemblance -which struck both him and myself?”</p> - -<p>“No,” cried I; “did you find out anybody he was like? I only saw him in -the dark, and could not make out his face; but his voice has haunted me -ever since. I was sure I knew the voice.”</p> - -<p>“I wonder the Doctor did not mention it,” said Miss Kate, with a little -importance. “The truth is, it struck us both a good deal; a resemblance -to your family, Miss Milly.”</p> - -<p>I don’t know whether I was most disposed to sink down upon my chair or -start up from it with a cry; I did neither, however.</p> - -<p>“To <i>my</i> family?” I gasped out. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a>{164}</span> -“Yes; it was very singular,” said Miss Kate; “I daresay, of course, it -was only one of those accidental likenesses. I remember being once -thought very like your sister. How strange you should think you knew his -voice! You have some relations in Italy, perhaps?”</p> - -<p>“Not that I know of,” said I, feeling very faint. I cannot tell what I -was afraid of; but I felt myself trembling and shaken; and I durst not -get up and go out either, or Miss Kate would have had it all over the -parish before night, that something had gone wrong at the Park.</p> - -<p>But I don’t remember another word she said. I kept my seat, and answered -her till I thought I might reasonably be supposed to have stayed long -enough. Then I left the rectory, my mind in the strangest agitation. -That this stranger, who had driven Sarah half mad, should be like our -family; what a bewildering, extraordinary thing to think of! But -stranger still, at this moment, when I had just heard such a wonderful -aggravation of my perplexity—that voice of his which had haunted me so -long, and which I felt sure I could identify at once, if the person it -once belonged to was named to me, vanished entirely from my mind as if -by some conjuring trick. It was extraordinary—it looked almost -supernatural. I could no more recall that tone, which I had recalled -with perfect freshness and ease when I entered the rectory garden, than -I could clear up the extraordinary puzzle thus gathering closer and -closer round all my thoughts.</p> - -<p>In this state of mind I hurried home, feeling really as if there must be -something supernatural in the whole business, and too much startled to -ask any definite questions of myself. When I had reached the house, and -was going upstairs, I met one of the maids coming down, who had been -upon some errand into Sarah’s room. This careless girl had left—a thing -never even seen when my sister happened to be out for her drives—the -room-door open. Before I knew what I was doing, I had stepped inside. I -can’t tell what I wanted—whether to speak with Sarah or to spy upon -her, or to listen at her door. Carson and she were in the dressing-room, -I could hear. And now I will tell you what I did. I don’t think I was -responsible for my actions at that moment; but whether or not, this is -what I did. I stepped forward stealthily, stooped down to the keyhole, -and listened at the door!</p> - -<p>There! I have said it out. Nobody else knows it to this day. I, who -called myself an honourable person, listened at my sister’s door. For -the first five minutes I was so agitated<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a>{165}</span> by my strange position that, -of course, I did not hear a word they said. But after a little I began -to hear indistinctly that they were talking of some letter that had -better be burned—that Carson was speaking in a kind of pleading tone, -and Sarah very harsh and hard, her words easier to be distinguished in -that hissing whisper of hers than if she had spoken in the clearest -voice imaginable. I can’t say I was much the better for the -conversation, till at last, just as I was going away, came this, which -made my heart beat so loud that I thought it must be heard inside that -closed mysterious door:</p> - -<p>“And to think they should have called him Lewis, too; though the English -is a deal the prettiest. Ah, ma’am,” cried Carson, with a little stifled -sob, “it showed love in the heart!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, for the Park,” said Sarah, in her whisper. I dared not stay a -moment longer, for I heard them both advancing to the door. I fled to my -own room, and dropped down there on my sofa stupified. My head ached as -if it would burst. My heart thumped and beat as if it would leap out of -my bosom Lewis! my father’s name—and, good heaven!—the voice! What did -it—what could it mean?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a>{166}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="PART_IV" id="PART_IV"></a>PART IV.<br /><br /> -THE LIEUTENANT’S WIFE.<br /> -<small>(<i>Continued.</i>)</small></h2> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_I-d" id="Chapter_I-d"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter I.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span><span class="smcap">HAT</span> a strange little quaint place Chester is! I thought I should never -have been tired walking along those ramparts, looking over the soft -green slopes, and up to the blue hills in the distance, and down here -and there upon the grey old churches and the quiet busy little town; but -at first we had our lodgings to look for, which was a much more serious -matter. I had made up my mind from the very first not to expect to be -called upon, nor to go into society; or rather I had set my face against -any chance of it, knowing always that we could not do it on the little -money we had. But now I found out that Harry was not content with this. -He was very anxious to have better lodgings, where ladies could come to -see me. I should say dearer lodgings, for better than Mrs. Saltoun’s we -could not have had. He wanted me to have quite a drawing-room instead of -our nice, cosy, old-fashioned parlour, which was good for everything; -and then to think people might be asking us to dinner, and how many -embarrassments and troubles we might meet with! For it is embarrassing -to be asked out, and to be obliged to let the people suppose you are -sulky, and ill-tempered, and <i>won’t</i> go; or else to invent excuses -which, besides being sinful, are always sure to be found out; when the -real reason is simply<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a>{167}</span> that one has not a dress, and cannot afford to -get one just then. The other ladies in the regiment might wonder what -sort of person I could be, and tell each other that poor young Langham -had married some poor girl, and been very foolish. It was exactly -true—so he had; and as I can’t say I had any idea that he could be -ashamed of me, I took it all very quietly. So long as we were happy, and -could afford to live in our own way, I did not mind; but now Harry had -got discontented, somehow or other. He was quite in a fuss to think that -I was not received as I ought to be, and a great many more things like -that—perhaps somebody had said something to him, as if he were supposed -to be ashamed of me—at all events he had changed his mind from our -first plan; and though I felt quite convinced my way was the wisest, I -had to change it as before. Anything was better than having him -uncomfortable and discontented. I supported myself with Mrs. Saltoun’s -opinion, and went with resignation to look at all those expensive -lodgings.</p> - -<p>The people seemed all to guess that we belonged to the new regiment; and -some of them were quite great ladies, and quite enlightened me as to -what we should require. For most of the day I was in a perfect panic; -every place seeming dearer than another. When we went into those -expensive rooms I always found out something that it was quite -impossible for me to tolerate (quite independent, of course, you know, -of any question of price!) till Harry quite fretted at my -fastidiousness. At last we did find a place <i>that suited me</i>. It was no -great thing in point of situation. It was a first floor, a front and -back drawing-room. I believe, candidly, that the back room was about as -big as Mrs. Saltoun’s good substantial old dining-table, which we used -to have in our sitting-room in Edinburgh; but then there were -folding-doors; and the front drawing-room was decorated and ornamented -to such a pitch that one was quite afraid to sit down in any of the -chairs. When I heard what the rent was, I was charmed with the rooms. -Harry could not understand my enthusiasm. I found it the handiest place -in the world;—and then it showed such discrimination in the landlady to -ask so moderate a rent. We fetched Lizzie and baby from the inn -directly, and dismissed Harry to look at the town. And really, when we -got a little settled, it was not so uncomfortable; though, to be sure, -to give up the sizeable room for company (and they never came!), and to -live in that little box behind was very foolish, as I always thought. -However, when, I above and Lizzy below, we had investigated the house, -and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a>{168}</span> when the landlady was made to comprehend, with difficulty, that our -washing was done at home, and that her toleration of these processes was -needful, and when her wonder and the first shock to her system conveyed -in this piece of intelligence was over, things looked tolerably -promising. The worst was, we had no view; no view whatever except the -bit of garden plot before the house, filled with dusty evergreens, and -the corner of a street which led to the railway station. The cabs and -people, going to and from the trains, made the only variety in the -prospect; and anybody will allow that was sadly different from windows -which looked sidelong over the corner of Bruntsfield Links, upon the -Castle, and the Crags, and Arthur’s Seat. However, what I had to think -of, in the meantime, was how to live without getting into debt; for, of -course, people like us, with just so much money coming in (and oh, how -very, very little it was!), had neither any excuse nor any way of saving -themselves if once they ventured into debt.</p> - -<p>Thus we got established in our new quarters; and many a long ramble I -took with Harry along those strange superannuated walls.—To think how -they once stood up desperate, in defence, round the brave little town! -to think of the wild Welsh raging outside on that tranquil turf, where -the races were now-a-days; to think of those secure streets down there, -that lengthened themselves out presumptuously beyond the ramparts, and -even cut passages through them, once cowering in alarm below their -shadow! The place quite captivated me; and then the streets themselves, -the strange dark covered pathways, steps up from the street, with the -shops lurking in their shadow! like some of the German towns, Harry told -me. Looking into them from the street, and seeing the stream of -passengers coming and going, through the openings and heavy wooden beams -of the railing; or looking out of one of those openings upon a kind of -street-scenes and life that had nothing in the world to do with the -strange old-world arcade, from which one looked out as from a balcony, -was as good as reading a book about ancient times. It was not like my -dear Edinburgh, to be sure, but it was very captivating; and Harry and I -enjoyed exploring together. It was all new and fresh to us—and it was -spring; and when you have nothing to trouble you much, it is delightful -to see new places, and get new pictures into the mind. Chester was quite -as novel, and fresh, and captivating, though it was only in our own -country, as that German Munich which Harry told me of—Harry had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a>{169}</span> been a -great traveller before he joined, while his father was so long -ill—could have been.</p> - -<p>Lizzie, however, was not nearly so much at her ease as I was. When she -felt herself laughed at, and looked at, and misunderstood, Lizzie fell -back into her chronic state of awkwardness. Her national pride was -driven to enthusiasm by her contact with “thae English.” Lizzie -entertained a steady disbelief that the tongue in which she heard -everybody speak—which was far enough from being a refined one, -however,—was their native and natural speech. “They were a’ speaking -grand for a purpose o’ their ain, to make folk believe they were lords -and leddies,” Lizzie said; and with a still higher pitch of indignation, -“Mem, <i>you</i> aye understood me, though you’re an English leddy; and think -o’ the like o’ them setting up no’ to understand what <i>your</i> lass means -when she’s speaking! I dinna understand <i>them</i>, I’m sure,—no half a -dozen words. To hear that clippit English, and the sharp tongues they -have, deaves me. The very weans in the street they’ve nae innocence in -them. They’re a’ making a fashion of speaking as fine as you.”</p> - -<p>“Never mind, Lizzie; you’ll soon get accustomed to them, and make -friends,” said I, with an attempt at consolation.</p> - -<p>“Friends! I never had anybody belonging to me but a faither,” said -Lizzie, who understood relations to be signified by that word: “but I’m -no heeding now; and I’ll soon learn to nip the ends off the words like -the rest o’ them. There’s a grand green for drying, that Mrs. -Goldsworthy calls the back ga’den; and, if you’ll no’ be angry, I can do -the ironing grand mysel’.”</p> - -<p>“You! but I dare not trust you, Lizzie,” said I, shaking my head. “Mr. -Langham would find it out—I mean he would find me out—if they were not -quite so well done; and you don’t consider what quantities of things you -will have to do—to keep the drawing-room nice, and get tea and -breakfast, and wash, and I don’t know what; and yet always to be tidy, -and keep baby all day long. You don’t know what you have on your hands -already, you unlucky girl.”</p> - -<p>“Eh, I’m glad!” cried Lizzie, clapping her hands together with fervour; -and her brown eyes sparkled, and her uncouth figure grew steady with the -delight of conscious energy and power. If she had been eighteen she -would not have been so simple-minded. Never anybody was so fortunate as -I had been in my little maid.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a>{170}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_II-d" id="Chapter_II-d"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter II.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">V</span><span class="smcap">ERY</span> soon we began to get interested in the people round about us; for -we were not here, as we had been in Mrs. Saltoun’s little house, the -only strangers. By means of Lizzie, who was much annoyed at the -discovery, I found out that the house was quite full of lodgers. On the -ground floor there was a foreign gentleman and his servant. The -gentleman was absent at first; but the man, a very fat, -good-humoured-looking fellow, who adopted us all into his friendship -immediately, and expanded into smiles through the railings of the stair -when any of us went up or down, was in full possession. The way that -Lizzie avoided this smiling ogre, and the way in which he appreciated -her panic, and was amused by it, and conciliated and coaxed her, was the -most amusing thing I ever saw. And the way he opened the door for me, -and took off his hat, and laid his hand on his heart and bowed! The good -fellow quite kept us in amusement. When baby, who was getting on -famously and noticing everything, crowed at him, in spite of his great -beard, as children <i>will</i> do to men (it is very odd; but babies <i>do</i> -take to strange men sooner than to strange women, I believe), the fat -foreigner burst into great shouts of delighted laughter, and snapped his -fat fingers, and made the funniest grimaces to please the child. None of -us could speak a single word of his language; we did not even know at -first what countryman he was; but we all got to have the most friendly, -kind feeling for the stranger,—all except Lizzie, who stumbled up and -flew downstairs in her anxiety to avoid his eyes. One bad habit he -certainly had; he smoked perpetually. He smoked cigars—shocking bad -ones, Harry said: he did not even put them down when he sprang out of -his parlour to open the door for me; but only withdrew the one he was -smoking from his full red lips, and held it somehow concealed in his -hand. As he was constantly about in the house, or lingering close at -hand with his great-coat buttoned on round his throat like a cloak, and -the empty sleeves waving from his shoulders, stamping his feet on the -ground, and whistling like a bird, this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a>{171}</span> smell of bad cigars was -perpetually about the house. Poor Mrs. Goldsworthy went up and down with -the most grieved look upon her face. If any one made the least sign of -having smelt anything disagreeable, she held up her hands in the most -imploring way, and said, “What can a poor body do? He’s the obligingest -creatur as ever was! and he don’t know a word of Christian language; and -the gentleman—which is a <i>real</i> gentleman, and none o’ your -make-believes—as good as left him in my charge; and, bless you, if he -will smoke them cigars, and don’t understand a word a body says to him, -what am I to do?” Indeed, for my own part, I had not only a great -sympathy for him, but I could not help liking the fat fellow; and after -a few days it was astonishing how we got used to the cigars.</p> - -<p>Then we ourselves occupied the two next floors. It was a strange little -house; two rooms, back and front, piled on the top of each other four -stories high; the top-story rooms were attics; and there was actually a -lodger in each of those attics! Where Mrs. Goldsworthy and her daughter -slept themselves was more than either Lizzie or I could make out. One of -the attic lodgers was a thin, wistful man, whom I could not help looking -at. He worked at something in his own room, and used to go out to dine. -He was always very neat and clean; but very threadbare, and with a -hungry look that went to one’s heart. Perhaps it was not want; maybe he -was hungry for something else than mere money or nourishment; but -sometimes I am sure I should not have been surprised to hear that he was -starving too. Sometimes he looked at me or at baby in his wistful way, -just as he vanished past us. I can’t say he ever smiled, even at little -Harry; but still we drew his eyes when he chanced to meet us going out -or in. I felt a great compassion for this poor solitary man. He was a -man that might have been found starved, but never would have asked any -charity; at least so I thought of him. I used to fancy him sitting in -his solitary room upstairs by the window, and not by the fire,—for we -never heard him poking any fire, and often saw him at the window,—and -wondered how people could get so isolated, and chilled, and solitary; -how they lived at all when they came to that condition—benumbed of all -comfort, and still not frozen to death. How strange to think of keeping -on living, years and years after one’s heart is dead! Harry said I was -fanciful and continually made stories about people; but I did not tell -Harry one half of my fancies; I don’t know what he would have done to me -if I had; but I did so wish I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a>{172}</span> could have some chance of doing something -to please that old man.</p> - -<p>One day Harry came downstairs with a smile on his face. “There is the -most ludicrous scene going on below; come and look, Milly,” he said, -drawing me to the stairs. I peeped down, and there, to be sure, I saw a -reason for the sound of talking I had heard for a few minutes past. -Lizzie was sitting on the stair, pondering deeply, with a perplexed -face, over a large book spread out on the step above her. She was -holding baby fast in one arm, and staving off his attempts to snatch at -the leaves of the book. Leaning on the bannisters regarding her, and -holding forth most volubly in an unknown tongue, was our fat friend; and -between every two or three words he pointed to the book, making a sort -of appeal to it. The contrast between the two—she silent and -bewildered, confused by her efforts to restrain baby and comprehend the -book—he, the vast full figure of him, so voluble, so good-humoured, so -complacent, talking with his fat arms and fingers, his gestures, and -every movement he made—talking with such confidence that language which -nobody understood—was almost as irresistible to me as to Harry. We -stood looking down at them, extremely amused and wondering. Then Lizzie, -failing to comprehend the book, and hearing herself addressed so -energetically, raised her round eyes, round with amazement, to the -speaker’s face. The unknown tongue awed Lizzie; she contemplated him -with speechless wonder and dismay; until at last, when the speaker made -an evident close appeal to her, with a natural oratory which she could -not mistake, unintelligible as was its meaning, her amazement burst -forth in words. “Eh, man, what <i>div</i> ye mean?” cried Lizzie, in the -extremity of her puzzled wonder. It was the climax of the scene. Though -I thrust Harry back into the room instantly, that his laughter might not -be heard, and smothered my own as best I could, the sound caught -Lizzie’s watchful ears. In another moment she had reached the top of the -stairs, breathless, with her charge in her arms. The puzzled look had -not left Lizzie’s eyes, but she was deeply abashed and ashamed of -herself. Harry’s laughter did not mend the matter, of course. She -dropped baby in my arms, and twisted herself into all her old awkward -contortions. I had to send her away and dismiss Harry into the other -room. Poor Lizzie had never possessed sufficient courage to permit -herself to be accosted by the dreadful foreigner before.</p> - -<p>However, we were not less amused when we heard what Mrs. Goldsworthy -would have called “the rights of it.” Lizzie,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a>{173}</span> with great resolution, -determined to have herself exculpated, came to me with her statement as -soon as she was quite assured that “the Captain” was out of the way.</p> - -<p>“Eh! I came to think at last he was, maybe, a Hielander,” said Lizzie, -“though they’re seldom that fat. And he laid down the book straight -before in the stair. I kent what kind of book it was. It was the book -wi’ a’ kind o’ words, and the meanings. But the meanings just were -English, and the words were some other language. And I kind of guessed -what he wanted, too. He wanted me to look in the book for the words he -said, to tell me what he meant; but eh! how was I to ken where one word -ended and another began? And he just hurried on and on; and the mair I -listened, the mair I could not hear a single word, and looking at the -book was just nonsense; and Master baby, he would try his hand; and oh, -Mem, if you’re angry, I didna mean ony ill, and I’ll never do it again.”</p> - -<p>“Nonsense, Lizzie! I am not angry; but couldn’t you get on with the -dictionary, and help the poor fellow? Were not you a very good scholar -at school?”</p> - -<p>“No very,” said Lizzie, hanging her head in agonies of pleased but -painful bashfulness, and unconsciously uttering her sentiments in -language as puzzling to an English hearer as any uttered by our fat -friend downstairs. “No very,” said Lizzie, anxiously truthful, yet not -unwilling to do herself due credit;—“no <i>very</i>, but gey.”</p> - -<p>Here I fear my laugh rather shocked and affronted Lizzie. She stood very -upright, and twisted nothing but her fingers. It would have been as -impossible to persuade her that there was scarcely a person in Chester, -but myself, who could have translated that exquisite monosyllable as to -convince the foreigner that he was actually and positively -incomprehensible in spite of the dictionary. But I will not attempt to -interpret <i>gey</i>; it is untranslatable, as we are quite content so many -French words should be. Even into Harry’s head, which should be capable -of better things, I find it quite impossible to convey an idea of the -expressiveness of this word. Lizzie and I, however, knew no other to put -in its place.</p> - -<p>“But a <i>gey</i> good scholar might do a great deal for the poor fellow,” -said I, when I had got over my laughter; “tell him the English names for -things. Try if you can find out his name; but I forgot you were -frightened for him, Lizzie.”</p> - -<p>“Aye, till I thought he might, maybe, be a Hielander,” said Lizzie. -“Though the Hielanders dinna belang to us at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a>{174}</span> hame, they might feel -kindly in a strange place; and I’ve heard folk speaking Gaelic. But this -is no like Gaelic, it’s a’ aws and os; and it’s awfu’ fast, just a -rattle; a’ the words run in to one another. Forbye what harm could he do -me? and the book was straight in my way on the stair; and it gangs to my -heart to set my foot on a book. Ye might be trampin’ ower a bit o’ the -Bible without kennin’; and then he’s very good-natured; and then,” said -Lizzie, her eyes suddenly glowing up, “it would be grand to learn a -language that nae ither body kens!”</p> - -<p>With the greatest cordiality I applauded this crowning argument, and did -all I could to encourage her to persevere with the dictionary, and make -herself interpreter; for I was not wise enough to think that this new -study might possibly be too captivating for Lizzie, and lead her into -neglect of her many and pressing duties. I only thought it was the most -amusing mode of intercourse I ever heard of, and that it would be great -fun to watch its progress. Besides, as she said herself, what harm could -he do her? Poor Lizzie, who might have been in danger at an elder age in -such a comical friendship, was invulnerable to all the dangers of -flirtation at fourteen.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a>{175}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_III-d" id="Chapter_III-d"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter III.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">A</span><span class="smcap">BOUT</span> this time Harry’s object was attained, and some of the other -ladies of the regiment called on me. I think they were a little -surprised to find me just like other people, and not very much afraid of -them; though I will confess that in my heart I was rather anxious, -thinking whether Lizzie would have the discretion to put baby’s best -frock on, in case they asked to see him. They did ask, of course; and -when, after a few minutes, Lizzie came down, not only with his best -frock on, but with the ribbon I had just got to trim my bonnet for -spring, carefully tied round his waist for a sash, anybody may imagine -what my feelings were! He looked very pretty in it certainly; but only -fancy my good ribbon that I had grudged to buy, and could not do -without! Ah! it is just possible that one’s nursery-maid may be too -anxious to show off one’s baby to the best advantage. However, of -course, I had to smile and make the best of it, and console myself with -bursting forth upon Lizzie whenever they were gone.</p> - -<p>“How could you think of taking my ribbon! oh, Lizzie, Lizzie! and I am -sure I cannot afford to buy another one,” cried I.</p> - -<p>“It’s a’ preened on,” said Lizzie mysteriously, “there’s no a single -crumple in’t; and I made the bows just like what the leddies have them -on their bonnets, and it’s no a bit the waur. But, Mem, the very weans -in the street have a sash round their waist; and was I gaun to let on to -strangers that our bairn hadna everything grand? And he sat still like a -king till I fastened it a’ on. You see yoursel’ it has taken nae harm.”</p> - -<p>“But the pins!” cried I, in horror. “Were you not afraid, you dreadful -girl, to make a pincushion of my boy?”</p> - -<p>Lizzie was fast taking them out, conveying them to her mouth in the -first place, and furtively withdrawing them again lest I should observe -her. Her only answer was to point triumphantly to the child.</p> - -<p>“Would he laugh like that if I had jaggit him?” cried Lizzie. There was -no contesting that proof; so I had to withdraw the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a>{176}</span> ribbon out of their -joint hands immediately, and put it at once to its proper use. This, -however, was neither the first nor the last of Lizzie’s impromptus. -Those great red fingers of hers, all knuckles and corners as they were, -had that light rapid touch which distinguishes every true <i>artiste</i>. She -devised and appropriated for the decoration of the baby and “the credit -of the house,” with the utmost boldness. It was not safe to leave -anything which she could adapt to his use in her way.</p> - -<p>The next trial I had was an invitation to dinner, which came for us -shortly after. I set my face very much against it. Long ago, when Harry -used to tell me about their parties, I made up my mind it never would do -for us to begin going to them, however much we might be asked. To be -sure Harry might go. I was always glad Harry should go; but how was I, -who had got no trousseau, like other young wives, when I was married, -but just had one cheap silk dress, bought off Aunt Connor’s ten pounds, -which I made up myself, to go out to dinner? I stood out long and -obstinately; but I had to give in at last, just as I had about the maid -and the lodgings. Harry would not go by himself. He would not decline -the invitation; he said, with a very glum face, that we had better -accept, and leave it to the chapter of accidents to find an excuse at -the time. He did not understand how necessary it was for me to keep at -home. He had been able always to go where he wanted, and keep up with -the rest, and it fretted him dreadfully now to feel the bondage that our -narrow means put us in. You understand he did not object to be -economical in a general way, nor even, indeed, grumbled, the dear good -fellow, at giving up many of his old luxuries; and, at first, he seemed -to be delighted with having no society but our own. But now, when he -began to feel annoyed that his wife was not in the same position as the -others, and when I plied him with all the old arguments—that we dare -not begin such a life or the expense would ruin us, Harry became very -restive indeed. Somehow it seemed to gall and humble him; the idea that -<i>his</i> wife could not go out for want of a dress! He could not put up -with the thought; he jumped up from his chair as if something had stung -him. “It is nonsense, Milly! folly; the merest shortsightedness; you -don’t want half a dozen dresses to go to one dinner, and one dress can’t -ruin us,” cried the unreasonable fellow. He would not understand me or -listen to me. The notion wounded him quite to the heart. He looked so -sulky and miserable that I could not bear to see it. I gave a great -sigh, and gave in again. What could I do?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a>{177}</span></p> - -<p>“Well, Harry!” said I, “the foolishness is all on the other side, mind; -but if I must give in I can’t help myself. I am only twenty, not twenty -quite. I’ll go in white.”</p> - -<p>“Bravo! you could not do better than go in white!” cried Harry, “there’s -a courageous woman! But why, may an ignoramus ask, should you not go in -white, Milly darling! Isn’t it the dress of all others for a—well, an -ugly little creature like you?”</p> - -<p>“I am not so sure about the ugly,” said I; “and now, please, get your -hat and come out with me. I saw the fashions in a window at the other -end of the street. Let us go and look at them, and then I shall know how -to make it up.”</p> - -<p>“Why can’t you go to the milliner like other people,” growled the -unsatisfied man; “and why, answer my question, shouldn’t you go in -white?”</p> - -<p>I durstn’t confess that I had my own vanity in the matter, and being a -matron, rather despised a white muslin frock to go out in; for if I had -betrayed the least inkling of such a thing, there is no saying what he -might not have done; run up a bill, or paid away all the money he had, -or something; so I stopped his mouth with some foolish answer, and ran -off to get my bonnet. Upstairs baby was sitting on the carpet, with -Lizzie beside him, jumping a little paste-board harlequin to please him. -Her brown eyes were quite sparkling over the loose-legged, insane -figure, as she jerked the string about. I could not help but stand and -look at her for a moment with a startled sensation. She was just as much -amused as baby was. Only to think of such a child being left in charge -of our boy! I went downstairs in consequence with a slower step, after -having given Lizzie a superabundance of cautions about taking care of -him. Only a girl of fourteen! I daresay all this time you must have been -thinking I was mad to trust her; but, indeed, she was a very -extraordinary girl; and after all, when you think it, fourteen is quite -a trustworthy age. She was old enough to know what she ought to do, and -not old enough to be distracted by thoughts of her own. Ah, depend upon -it, fourteen is more single-minded than eighteen; and then Lizzie had a -woman’s strength and handiness along with her child’s heart.</p> - -<p>Not to delay longer about it, we did go to the party. Harry said I -looked very well on the whole; he did not think he would have been -disposed to exchange with anybody. I had no jewellery at all, which was -rather a little humiliating to me; but, to my wonder and delight, Harry -did not object to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a>{178}</span> that. “They’ll only think you’re setting up for -simplicity,” he said, laughing. “I suppose it’s safer to be thought a -little humbug than to have your dreadful destitution known. Come along. -Nobody will suspect you have not a bracelet; only mind you behave -yourself very innocently, like a little shepherdess, and you’ll take -everybody in.”</p> - -<p>I cannot say I very much admired this piece of advice; and if Harry had -thought me the least likely to take it, I am sure he would not have been -so ready with his good counsels. The party disappointed me a great deal. -How is it one reads in books of society being so captivating, and -intoxicating, and all that, and how, when one is used to it, one can’t -do without it? On the contrary, it was as dull—duller than anybody -could imagine! Instead of that delightful stream of conversation always -kept up, and so easy, and so witty, and so clever, you could see -perfectly well that everybody was trying to contrive what they should -say, and to find out things that would bear talking about. The poor lady -of the house was so anxious to keep up the talk that she ate no dinner -in the first place; and in the second, evidently frightened by the -pauses that occurred, kept talking loud herself, and dancing on from one -subject to another till she was quite breathless. Then there was one man -who was expected to make you laugh—people prepared to laugh whenever he -opened his lips; but I am sorry to say I was so indiscreet as only to -stare at him, and wonder what it was about. I caught the eye of the -young lady sitting by him as I did so. She was little,—less than -me,—dark, and very, <i>very</i> pretty. She was only Miss somebody, but she -was dressed more richly than anybody there, and had the most beautiful -bracelets. I could not help feeling a little when I looked at my poor -wrists and my white muslin dress—I who was married, and she only a -young girl; when, just at that moment, she gave me a quick look, lifting -up her eyebrows, and smiling rather disdainfully at the great wit beside -her. Immediately we two were put in communication somehow. I suppose it -was mesmerism. Her eyes kept seeking mine all the time of dinner. The -odd thing about her was that her hair was quite short, hanging in little -curls upon her neck, like a child’s; and of all things in the world, for -such a child to wear, she was dressed in <i>violet velvet</i>, the most -beautiful shade in the world. I suppose Harry would have said she was a -little humbug too, and did it for effect; but, to be sure, it must have -been wealth and not poverty that did it in her case. When we went up to -the drawing-room after dinner,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a>{179}</span> she very soon made her way to me. The -other ladies, most of them belonging to the regiment, had come round me, -and were doing their best to discover why I had been kept in the dark so -long, and whether anything could be found out about me. I stood at bay -pretty well, I think; but when Miss Cresswell came in, somehow all at -once, like a fresh little breeze, in her soft velvet dress, to the sofa -beside me, I really felt I could have laid down my head on her shoulder -and cried. To be sure it was very foolish; one can smile and keep up -when one is being baited, and when one finds a real friend after being -aggravated out of one’s life, it is only natural to feel disposed to -cry. I say a real friend, though I never saw her before,—it was -mesmerism, I suppose; we took to each other at once.</p> - -<p>We had got quite intimate before the gentlemen came upstairs. I had told -her where we lived, and she promised to come and see me, and we had -found out a great many opinions we had in common. Things were different, -however, when the gentlemen appeared. All the young men hovered about -Miss Cresswell. There were few young ladies, and she was certainly much -the prettiest; and, I am very grieved to have to say it—I cannot deny -that she <i>did</i> flirt a little. She was disdainful, and would take no -notice of anybody at first, but by degrees she did come to little bursts -of flirtation; and I am afraid she liked it too. Then there began to be -things said about her and me which displeased me. We were “Art and -Nature,” somebody said; and some of the gentlemen evidently entertained -the same feeling that Harry indicated, when he said they would suppose -me a little humbug. Evidently we were both thought little humbugs, -sitting by each other to set each other off. Some of them, I do believe, -thought it had all been made up beforehand. Certainly we were a strange -contrast; I, in my plain white dress, with no ornaments; she in velvet, -with such a quantity of jewellery. But to have people looking at me, and -contrasting me with Miss Cresswell, and making jokes upon my dress and -hers, was what I did not choose to put up with. People accustomed to -society may like it, but I did not. So I got up and took Harry’s arm, -and went to look at a picture. Nobody spoke to us for some five minutes -or so, but we were close to some ladies talking with all their might. -Then some one touched my arm, and I saw Miss Cresswell had followed me, -and brought an old gentleman with her. This was her father. I got behind -one of the talking ladies to veil my “simplicity,” that there might be -no more nonsense about<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a>{180}</span> it. The ladies were talking of women working. -Oh, so little they knew or pretended to know about it; I wonder what -they would have thought if they could have seen my laundry operations; -or, indeed, I wonder, under all their fine talk, whether they had not, -of mornings, some work to do themselves. However, I only tell this from -the glimpse it gave me of my new friend.</p> - -<p>“It is all very well to speak of hardships,” cried Miss Cresswell. “<i>I</i> -can’t see any hardship in doing one’s work. Ah! don’t you think they are -very happy who <i>have</i> something to do?—something they must do whether -they like it or not. I hate always doing things if I like! it is the -most odious, tiresome stuff! If I like! and if I like it pray, what is -the good of it? It is not work any longer, it is only pleasure.”</p> - -<p>“My dear child,” said one of the old ladies, “be thankful you have so -much ease and leisure. Your business just now is to please your papa.”</p> - -<p>Here the old gentleman burst in with a long slow laugh, “To worry him, -you mean,” said Mr. Cresswell; “tell her of her duty, Mrs. Scrivin. Ah, -my dear lady, she’s contrairy!” he cried, shaking his head with a -certain air of complacence and ruefulness. Miss Cresswell gave him such -a flashing, wicked look out of her dark eyes, and then seized my hand to -lead me away somewhere. She was not a dutiful good girl, it appeared; -she did not look like it. Now she was roused up, first by flirting, and -then by rebellion and opposition, you could see it in her eyes. I am -sorry, I am ashamed to confess it—but I do believe I liked her the -better for being so wicked. It is very dreadful to say such a thing, but -I am afraid it was true.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a>{181}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_IV-d" id="Chapter_IV-d"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter IV.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">O</span><span class="smcap">UR</span> fat Italian friend below stairs began to give us great amusement -just then. Wherever he went he carried under his arm that square volume -as fat as himself, in which Lizzie was at present pursuing her occult -and bewildered studies. To see Domenico (for that was his name), coming -to a sudden halt straight before you, blocking out all the light from -that tiny passage which Mrs. Goldsworthy called her “hall,” and -announcing, with a flourish of his dictionary, that he had something to -communicate, was irresistibly comic certainly; but it was a little -embarrassing as well. Domenico’s verbs were innocent of either past, -present, or future. I presume he was quite above any considerations of -grammar, except that supplied to him by nature, in his own language, and -was not aware that such a master of the ceremonies existed to introduce -him to the new tongue, which the poor fellow found so crabbed and -unmanageable. I have heard of people managing to get on in foreign -countries with a language composed of nouns and the infinitive of verbs -(I honestly confess, that when I heard this story first, I had very -vague ideas of what the infinitive of a verb was); a primitive savage -language containing the possibilities of existence; eating, drinking, -and sleeping; but quite above the conventional uses of conversation. -Domenico’s ambition was far higher, but his information was absolutely -confined to those same infinitives. He knew the word only as it stood in -the dictionary—what were tenses and numbers to him? But you will -perceive that a conversation conducted on these principles was -necessarily wanting in precision, and that the conversing persons did -not always understand each other with the clearness that might have been -desired.</p> - -<p>One clear spring morning, a few days after the party, I was going out -about household affairs, when Domenico stopped me on the way to the -door. He had his coat off, and the immense expanse of man in -shirt-sleeves, which presented itself before me, cannot be expressed by -description. As usual, he was smiling all over his face; as usual, his -red lips and white teeth<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a>{182}</span> opened out of his beard with a primitive -fulness and genial good-humour; as usual, he seized his beard with one -hand as he addressed me, opening out his big dictionary on the table -with the other. “Signora,” cried Domenico, “the master my—me, of me,” -first pointing at himself, and then, to make assurance sure, boxing his -chest emphatically, “the my master,—Signora understand?—come back.”</p> - -<p>“What?” cried I, “he has come back, has he, Domenico?”</p> - -<p>Domenico nodded a hundred times with the fullest glee and rapture. -“I—me—Domenico,” he cried, again boxing himself, that there might be -no doubt of his identity, “make prepare.”</p> - -<p>From which I divined that the master was not yet returned; and, nodding -half as often as Domenico, by way of signifying my entire content and -sympathy, foolishly concluded that I was let off and might pass. -However, Domenico was not yet done with me.</p> - -<p>“The Signora give little of the advice,” said Domenico, with unusual -clearness, opening the door of his parlour, and inviting me by many -gestures to enter. I looked in, much puzzled, and found the room in all -the agonies of change. The carpet had been lifted, and the floor -polished, which, perhaps, explained the sounds we had heard for some -days. I cannot describe how the mean planks of poor Mrs. Goldsworthy’s -little parlour, many of them gaping apart, looked under the painstaking -labours of Domenico. He had contrived to rub them into due slipperiness -and a degree of shine; but the result was profoundly dismal, and -anything but corresponding to the face of complacency with which -Domenico regarded his handiwork. The fat fellow watched my eyes, and was -delighted at first to see my astonishment; but, perceiving immediately, -with all the quick observation which our straitened possibilities of -speech made necessary, that my admiration was by no means equal to -surprise, his countenance fell. “He not pleases to the Signora,” said -Domenico. Then he hastened to the corner where the rejected carpet lay -in a roll, and spread a corner of it over the floor. I nodded my head -again and applauded. Domenico’s disappointment was great.</p> - -<p>“But for the sommere?” said Domenico with a melancholy interrogation.</p> - -<p>“It is never so warm in England,—cold, cold,” I said, with great -emphasis and distinctness. Domenico heard and brightened up.</p> - -<p>“Ah, thank! ah, thank! not me remember. England!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a>{183}</span> ah! Inghilterra! no -Italia! ah, thank! the Signora make good.”</p> - -<p>The Signora was permitted to consider herself dismissed, I concluded by -the bows that followed, and I hastened to the door, outstripping, as I -thought, the anxious politeness of the fat Italian. But I wronged his -devotion: with that light step, which was so ludicrously out of -proportion to his enormous figure, he swung out of the room to open the -door for me, and accomplished it in spite of my precipitation, taking in -his vast dimensions somehow so as to pass me without collision. I went -about my business with all the greater lightness after this comical -encounter, and a little curiosity, I confess, in respect to the master -who was coming home. Harry had heard of him already, as having quite a -romantic story attached to him. He had come to Chester to see some lady -whom he was quite confident of finding, and had been hunting all the -neighbouring country for her without meeting anybody who knew even her -name. It was supposed he had gone to make inquiries somewhere else, and -now he was coming home. I got quite interested about it. I pictured him -out to myself quite a romantic Italian, of course, with long hair, and a -picturesque cloak, and possibly a guitar. I made up a story in my own -mind, like that story of the Eastern girl and A’Becket—that prettiest -story! I could fancy Domenico’s master, not knowing much more English, -perhaps, than Domenico, wandering about everywhere with <i>the name</i> on -his lips; for, of course, it must be a love-story. It is impossible to -imagine it could be anything else.</p> - -<p>In the evening, when Harry and I were going out for a little walk, -Domenico suddenly presented himself again, and stopped us. This time he -was beaming broader than ever with smiles and innocent complacent -self-content. He invited us into the parlour with a multitude of bows. -Harry, who had heard the morning’s adventure, went immediately, and I -followed him. The room was all in the most perfect tidiness; Mrs. -Goldsworthy’s hideous ornaments were put in corners, ornaments of any -kind being apparently better than none in Domenico’s eyes. But the -mantel-piece, where the little flower-glasses had heretofore held sole -sway, was now occupied by some plaster figures bought from some -wandering image-merchant, whom Domenico had loudly fraternised and -chattered with at the door some days before. In the middle was a bust of -Dante, upon which the Italian had placed a wreath of green leaves. The -walls were covered with cheap-coloured prints in frames—I suspect<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a>{184}</span> of -Domenico’s own manufacture; such prints as people fasten up, all -frameless in their simplicity, upon walls of nurseries: gay, bright, -cheap, highly-coloured articles, which quite satisfied the taste of -Domenico, himself a child in everything but size and years. It was -nothing to his simple mind that they had no money value, and I suppose -no value in art either. I don’t suppose Domenico knew anything about -art, though he was an Italian. But he knew about decoration! He had made -the walls blush and smile to welcome the new-comer. I trust his master -was no artist either, and could appreciate the adornments which made the -face of Domenico beam. The good fellow was so pleased that he forgot his -dictionary; he burst forth into long explanations, interspersed by -bursts of laughter and gestures of delight, in his own tongue. He threw -open the door of the little room behind to reveal to us the arrangements -of his master’s bedchamber. He explained to Harry—at least I have no -doubt, by the way he pointed to the carpet, and the frequency of the -word Signora, that this was what he meant—all about the carpet and his -polished floor. At last it suddenly flashed upon Domenico that he was -spending his eloquence in vain. He rushed to the table where his beloved -dictionary reposed; he dashed at its pages in frantic haste, with wild -pantomimic entreaties to us to wait. “Is good? good?” said Domenico, -with an eager expressiveness which made up for his defective verbs. I -applauded with all the might of gestures and smiles; upon which our -friend once more opened the door for us. “To-morrow! after to-morrow!” -said the good fellow. It was then his master was coming home.</p> - -<p>And, I am sorry to say, Harry was rather disposed to laugh at the fat -Italian, and to be sarcastic upon his beautiful prints. Harry did not -know anything in the world about pictures; but he knew how cheap these -were, and that was enough for him, the prose Englishman. I am thankful -to say that I soon reduced him to silence. He declared I was savage in -good Domenico’s defence.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a>{185}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_V-d" id="Chapter_V-d"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter V.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">“M</span><span class="smcap">EM</span>, he’s been at the market,” said Lizzie, next morning, “and bought a -hen; and he smiles and laughs to himself like to bring down the house.”</p> - -<p>This was the first bulletin of the important day on which the Italian -gentleman was expected home.</p> - -<p>The next report was more painful to Lizzie’s feelings. “He’s been at the -chapel,” said Lizzie, in a horrified whisper, “and brought hame water to -put in the wee bowlie at the maister’s bedhead. Oh, did you see it? it -has a cross, and—and—a figure on’t,” said Lizzie, with a deep awe, -“and a wee round bowlie for the water. What’ll yon be for? I’m no sure -it’s safe to be in the same house.”</p> - -<p>Lizzie’s horror, however, did not diminish her curiosity. After a little -interval another scrap of information reached my attentive ear. “He has -some veal on the kitchen-table,” said Lizzie, “and if he’s no’ working -at it himsel’! A man! cutting away and paring away, and putting the pan -a’ ready like a woman—and, eh, mem, the wastry’s dreadful. He’s making -holes in’t and stuffin’ them fu’ o’ something. Noo he’s puttin’t on the -fire.”</p> - -<p>That day baby was neglected for the first time. Lizzie was too much -excited and interested—not to say that she had an observant eye and -believed it quite possible that she might receive a hint from this man -of all work—to repress her natural curiosity. The next thing she -reported was a half-alarmed statement that “he was away out again and -left it at the fire; and what if it was <i>sitting to</i><a name="FNanchor_A_1" id="FNanchor_A_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_1" class="fnanchor">[A]</a> before he came -hame?” Lizzie’s dread of this accident carried her off downstairs to -watch Domenico’s stew with friendly anxiety. In about an hour she -re-appeared again.</p> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_A_1" id="Footnote_A_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_1"><span class="label">[A]</span></a> A Scotch expression which signifies burned in the pan.</p></div> - -<p>“He’s come back; and, eh! o’ a’ the things in the world to think upon, -it’s a box of thae nasty things he smokes!” cried Lizzie. “If the -gentlemen smokes tae, we’ll a’ be driven out of the house.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a>{186}</span></p> - -<p>Just then, however, another incident occurred which interrupted Lizzie’s -observations. As she went out of the room, in silent despair, after her -last alarming presentiment, somebody evidently encountered her coming -up. “I want Mrs. Langham, please,” cried Miss Cresswell’s voice. “Are -you her maid? Oh, I’m not to be shown into the drawing-room. I am to go -to <i>her</i>. Where is she?—in the nursery? Show me where to go, please.”</p> - -<p>“But you <i>maun</i> go to the drawing-room,” said Lizzie, making, as I felt -sure from the little quiver in her voice, her bob to the young lady, and -audibly opening the sacred door of our state apartment.</p> - -<p>“Maun? do you mean must? I never do anything I must,” said Miss -Cresswell. “There now! make haste; show me where Mrs. Langham is.”</p> - -<p>“The drawing-room is the place for leddies that come visiting,” said -Lizzie, resolutely. “I’ll no let ye in ony other place.”</p> - -<p>“You’ll not let me in!—what do you mean, you impertinent child?” cried -Miss Cresswell.</p> - -<p>“I’m no a child,” cried Lizzie. “I ken my duty; and if I was to loose my -good place what good would that do onybody? If ye please, ye’ll come in -here.”</p> - -<p>The pause of astonishment that followed was evident by the silence; then -a little quick impatient step actually passed into that poor little -drawing-room. “You strange little soul! but I’ll tell Mrs. Langham,” -cried Miss Cresswell.</p> - -<p>“I’m no a soul,” said Lizzie; “I’m just like other folk. I’m Mrs. -Langham’s lass; and she kens me different from a stranger. What name -will I say, if ye please?”</p> - -<p>This question was answered by a burst of laughter from the visitor, -which I increased by throwing open the door of my concealment and -disclosing myself with baby in my arms. <i>He had on his best frock by -accident</i>, which explains my rashness.</p> - -<p>“How have you managed it?” cried Miss Cresswell; “why, here is a -romance-servant. Dear Mrs. Langham, tell me what you have done to make -her so original—and let me have baby. I have not come to make a call, -as that creature supposed. I have come as a friend—you said I might. -Why must I be brought into this room?”</p> - -<p>“It is the most cheerful room,” said I, evading the question: “however, -Lizzie did not mean to be saucy—she knew no better—but she is the most -famous help in the world, though she is little more than a child.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a>{187}</span></p> - -<p>“But then I suppose you must do a great many things yourself?” said my -visitor, looking me very close in the face.</p> - -<p>I felt my cheeks grow hot in spite of myself—if Harry had heard her he -would have been furious; and I daresay many people would have set this -down at once as the impertinence of the rich to the poor. I felt it was -no such thing; but still it embarrassed me a little, against my will.</p> - -<p>“Do you know some people would be affronted to be asked as much?” said -I.</p> - -<p>“I know,” cried Miss Cresswell, with a little toss of her head,—“people -who can’t understand how miserable it is not to <i>have</i> to do anything. -Do you believe in voluntary work? I don’t. I can’t see it’s any good. I -can’t see the use of it. I should like to cook the dinner and keep the -things tidy. I should like to see everything stand gaping and calling -for me till I set it to rights. That’s the pleasure; but as for saving -somebody else trouble, why should I do it? I can’t see any advantage -whatever in that.”</p> - -<p>“Then you would not have me save Lizzie or the landlady some trouble -when I can?” said I.</p> - -<p>“That is totally a different thing,” said the impetuous little girl; -then she started, in a manner to me inexplicable, and gazed out of the -window near which she was sitting. “Mr. Luigi!” she exclaimed to -herself; “now I should so like to know what he wants here.”</p> - -<p>Just then there was the noise of an arrival at the door; of course it -must be the Italian gentleman. “Who is he?” said I. “If it is the -Italian, he lives here.”</p> - -<p>Without making any immediate reply, Miss Cresswell clasped her hands -softly together. “How strange!” she exclaimed. Of course it was her own -thoughts she was following out, but they seemed sufficiently interesting -to rouse my attention. I occupied myself in the meantime with baby, -feeling that it would be the merest cruelty to call upon Lizzie at this -climax of the day’s excitement. And Miss Cresswell leant forward, -carefully drawing out the curtain of the window to shade her, and -watching the return of Domenico’s master. Her colour was a little higher -than it had been previously, and she seemed to have quite quietly and -comfortably forgotten my presence, I was amused; and, if I must confess -it, I was in a condition to be easily affronted as well. At last she -recovered herself, and blushed violently.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what you will think of me,” she cried; “but it <i>is</i> so -strange—my godmamma had the last news of his going,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a>{188}</span> and I have the -first intelligence of his return. Do you know, there is quite a story -about him. He has come here to seek out a lady whom nobody ever heard -of; but I do believe, whatever any one may choose to say, that godmamma -Sarah knows.”</p> - -<p>“Knows? Will she not tell, then?” said I.</p> - -<p>“Look here,” said Miss Cresswell; “she was once a great beauty; and I -believe, if you never will tell anybody, that she’s a cruel, wicked old -woman. There! I did not mean to say half so much. She got so agitated -whenever she heard what Mr. Luigi wanted that nobody could help finding -her out; but, though I am certain she knows, she will do everything in -the world rather than tell.”</p> - -<p>“But why?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I cannot tell you why. I know nothing at all about it; and -remember,” cried my imprudent visitor, “that I tell you all this in the -greatest secret! I would not tell papa nor any one. I said it to my own -godmamma just as it came into my head, and put her into such distress, -the dear old soul! My own idea is, that godmamma Sarah does it only for -spite; but her sister, you know, has a different opinion, and is -frightened, and does not know what she is frightened about. I daresay -you will think me very strange to say so,” said Miss Cresswell, again -blushing very much, “but I should like to meet Mr. Luigi. I am sure he -is somehow connected with my godmothers: I cannot make out how, I am -sure; but I am quite certain, however unlikely it may be, that godmamma -Sarah knows!”</p> - -<p>She seemed quite excited and in earnest about it; so, as all her -thoughts were turned that way, I told her our amusing intercourse with -Domenico, and what good friends we were. Though she laughed and clapped -her hands, she was too much engrossed with her own thoughts evidently to -be much amused. She was most anxious to know whether I had heard -anything of Mr. Luigi; whether the landlady talked of him; whether I -knew how he came to Chester. She told me the story I had heard dimly -from Harry in the most clear and distinct manner. On the whole, she -filled me with suspicions. If I had not seen her flirting so lately, I -should certainly have fancied her in love.</p> - -<p>“You know him, then?” said I, after hearing her very steadily to an end.</p> - -<p>“Not in the least,” she cried, once more blushing in the most violent, -undisguisable way. “How should I know him?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a>{189}</span> Don’t you know I have no -brothers or sisters, Mrs. Langham? and can’t you suppose that papa has -exactly the same people to dinner year after year? Ah, you are quite -different! You have your own place, and can choose your own -society—choose me, please, there’s a darling! My name’s Sara; quite a -waiting-maid’s name; let me have baby and come and help you. As for -saying he would not come to me, it is nonsense. I will tell you exactly -how many friends I have,—Godmamma, who is more than a friend, of -course, but no relation; my old nurse, whom I <i>never</i> see, and who lives -a hundred miles off; and old Miss Fielding, at the rectory. Now only -think how much I am alone! You are quite new here; you can choose for -yourself—choose me!”</p> - -<p>“With all my heart!” said I. I was so much surprised by her ignorance -and her free speech, that, though I liked her very much, I really did -not know what more to say.</p> - -<p>“I suppose, then, I may take off my bonnet?” she said, quite innocently -looking up in my face.</p> - -<p>If she had rushed to kiss me I could have understood it. If she had -declared we were to be friends for ever, I should have quite gone in -with her; but, to take off her bonnet! that was quite a different -matter. I am sadly afraid I stammered and stared. I wanted a friend as -much as she did—but men are such strange creatures. What would Harry -say when he came in?</p> - -<p>However, Sara Cresswell did not wait till I finished considering. In -five minutes after she was sitting on the carpet at the window with -little Harry, playing with him. The child was quite delighted. As for -me, I was too much taken by surprise to know whether I was pleased or -not. Harry was to dine at mess that night; and, of course, I had only -meant to have tea all by myself in the little back room. What was to be -done? I am sorry to say I was very much tempted to improvise a dinner, -and pretend that it was just what I always did. I think the thing that -saved me from this was looking at her with her little short curls; she -looked so like a child! Besides, if we were really to be friends, was I -to begin by deceiving her? Much better she should know at once all our -simple ways.</p> - -<p>“You will have no dinner,” said I, faltering a little. “Mr. Langham goes -out, and I only take tea.”</p> - -<p>“That is exactly what I like. Dinners are <i>such</i> bores!” said Sara, with -the air of one who belonged to us and had taken possession.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a>{190}</span></p> - -<p>It was getting quite dark, and the lamps were being lighted outside; of -course it delighted baby very much to be held up to see them, as his new -nurse held him. As she stood there lifting him up, I put my hand upon -her pretty hair. She had quite taken my heart.</p> - -<p>“Have you had a fever, dear?” said I.</p> - -<p>Sara stared at me a moment, then looked deeply affronted, then burst -into a strange laugh. “I forgive you, because you called me dear,” she -cried, starting off with baby to the other window. I suppose, then, it -had not been a fever—some foolish fancy or other,—and no doubt her -friends and acquaintance had pretty well avenged it, without any further -question from me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a>{191}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_VI-d" id="Chapter_VI-d"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter VI.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">N</span><span class="smcap">EXT</span> morning I was a little amused and a little surprised to think over -all that had happened. The idea of having a friend, who stayed with me -till after nine, and helped to put baby to bed, and interfered with -Lizzie, and turned over all our few books, and asked all sorts of -questions, was the oddest thing in the world to me; and of course when I -told Harry I heard all sorts of jokes from him about female friendship, -and inquiries how long it would last, which made me extremely angry. Are -men’s friendships any steadier, I wonder? I should say <i>male</i> -friendship, to be even with him. Mr. Thackeray is delightful; but he -puts a great deal of stuff into young men’s heads. I allow <i>he</i> may joke -if he likes—to be sure, he does not mean half of it—but do you suppose -<i>they</i> may all follow his example? Not that I mean to infer anything on -Harry’s part that I could not pay him back quite comfortably. But not -meaning Harry in the least, I don’t see why I should not do my little -bit of criticism. I was just beginning to read books at that time, and -everything was fresh to me. All the foolish lads think they are quite as -wise as Mr. Thackeray, and have quite as good a right to think -themselves behind the scenes. I suppose there never was anybody who did -not like to feel superior and wiser than his neighbours. I would put -Domenico’s laurel wreath on Mr. Thackeray’s head; but I should like to -put an extinguisher on the heads of the Thackerians. I should think the -great man would be disposed to knock down half the people that quote -him, could he only hear, and behold, and note.</p> - -<p>However, that has nothing to do with my story. I knew Lizzie must be in -a highly excited state from long repression of her manifold gleanings of -intelligence respecting last night’s arrival; and I went to her as soon -as Harry was out lest any explosion should happen. Lizzie, however, -looked rather downcast as, baby being asleep, she went about her work -upstairs. My first idea was that some jealousy of Miss Cresswell had -invaded the girl’s mind, but that did not explain all the peculiarities -of her manner. She certainly allowed herself to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a>{192}</span> be drawn into an -account of Domenico’s proceedings, which gradually inspired and animated -her; but even in the midst of this she would make a hurried pause, now -and then, and listen, as if some painful sound had reached her ear.</p> - -<p>“It was a very grand dinner. Eh, I never saw onything like the way he -steered, and twisted, and mixed, and watched,” said Lizzie; “he maun be -a real man-cook, like what’s in books; and took up everything separate, -six different things one after the ither; and Sally says there was as -mony plates as if it had been a great party; and the minute before and -the minute after, what was the gentleman doing but smoking like as if he -was on fire; and eh, mem, he maun be a great man yon! Domenico kissed -his hand; but after that,” continued Lizzie, blushing and turning aside -with a strong sense of impropriety, “the gentleman kissed <i>him</i>!”</p> - -<p>“That is how foreigners do,” said I, in apology.</p> - -<p>“And after the dinner there was that sound o’ tongues through the house, -you would have thought the walls would ha’e been down. Eh, sic language -for Christians to speak! but, mem, they’re no Christians, they’re -Papishers—is that true?” said Lizzie, with a little anxiety. “Such a -blatter o’ words, and no one a body could understand. No’ that I was -wantin’ to understand; but it’s awfu’ funny to hear folk speakin’, and -nae sense in’t. Eh, whisht! what was that?” cried Lizzie, starting and -stopping short in her tale.</p> - -<p>It certainly was, or sounded, very like a moan of pain.</p> - -<p>“What is it, Lizzie?”</p> - -<p>“Eh, to think of us speaking of dinners, and sic nonsense!—and, mem, -it’s a poor man like to dee with pride, and sickness, and starvation! -What will I do? What will I do?” cried Lizzie. “If naebody else in the -house durst, it maun be me. I’ll no keep quiet ony langer—he canna be -ill at me that was destitute mysel’. I’ll gang and steal the bairn’s -beef-tea, and tell him lies, that it’s his ain. Mem, let me gang. I -canna bear’t ony mair!”</p> - -<p>I stopped her, however, growing very much excited myself. “What is it? -What do you mean?”</p> - -<p>Lizzie, who was choking with distress, eagerness, and excitement, -pointed her finger up, and struggled to find her voice. It burst upon me -in a moment. The poor gentleman in the attic, the threadbare wistful man -who went out to dine, had not been visible for some days. Lizzie told me -in gasps what the landlady had told her. He was ill; he was very poor; -deeply in Mrs. Goldsworthy’s debt. They had noticed that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a>{193}</span> his usual work -had not been on his table for some time, and that no domestic stores of -any kind were in his little cupboard; three days ago he had become too -ill to go out, they did not think he had anything to eat, and he would -accept nothing from them. All yesterday they had not ventured to enter -his room. Sick, starving, friendless—what a picture it was! No wonder -he had hungry, wistful eyes. I lost no time as you may suppose. I sent -Lizzie flying downstairs for the beef-tea. As for asking whether he -would admit me or not, whether he would think it impertinent or not, I -never stopped to think. Another of those moans, more audible this time -because I was listening for it, thrilled me through and through before -Lizzie came back. Bless the girl! in no time at all she had got the -whitest napkin to be had in the house for the tray; and the beef-tea -smoked and smelt just as it ought. I was at the door of the room before -I thought anything about how I was to excuse myself. By mere instinct I -opened the door first; then knocked, merely to warn the inmate of my -coming, and in another moment stood all by myself in a new world.</p> - -<p>Another world! a world of misery, endurance, voiceless passion, and -persistence, altogether unknown to me. He was lying on some chairs -before the fireplace, supporting his gaunt shoulders against the end of -his bed,—before the fireplace, in which there was no fire, nor had -been. It was trim and well-blacked, and filled up with faded ornamental -chippings of paper. His table was beside him, and he leaned one arm on -it; nothing on the table, not even a book, except some old pens, -blotting-paper, and an ink-bottle. His coat buttoned close up to his -neck, with dreadful suggestive secrecy, plainly telling how little there -was below; and the hungry sad eyes, glaring wolfish and frenzied out of -his worn face. He gave a great start when I came in, and either in -passion or weakness thrust one of the chairs from under his feet, so -that it fell with a great noise on the floor. The sound and the movement -made my heart beat. But he took no further notice, only stared at me. I -went forward and put the tray before him on the table, uncovered the -basin, placed everything within his reach. All the while he stared at -me, his eyes contracting and dilating as I never saw the eyes of any -human creature before. I scarcely think he was a human creature at that -moment; at least he was holding to his manhood only by that frantic hold -of pride, which hunger and misery were rending before my very eyes. He -began to tremble dreadfully; the sight of the food excited his weakness; -but he tried to resist till the last gasp.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a>{194}</span></p> - -<p>“Who are you? and how dare you come to my room and intrude upon me!” he -said hoarsely, and trembling like a palsied man.</p> - -<p>“I am your fellow-lodger. You used to notice my baby when you went -downstairs; and they told me you were ill, and could not go out. When -one is ill there is nothing so good as beef-tea,” said I, trembling a -good deal myself; “even if you cannot eat, you might drink a little, and -it would refresh you. Do pray try, it will do you good.”</p> - -<p>“And how do you know?” he said trembling more and more, till his very -utterance was indistinct, “that I cannot have beef-tea or—or anything -else I like, of my own. Ah!” he ended, with a sharp cry. He put forward -his hand towards it; then he stopped in a dreadful spasm of resistance, -and glared at me. I obeyed my first impulse, and went out of the room -hurriedly. He would not take it while I was there.</p> - -<p>In about five minutes after I went back again with some coals and wood, -in one of Mrs. Goldsworthy’s old coal scuttles. I thought I saw how to -manage him—never to ask permission or make apologies, but simply to do -what was needful. He had emptied the basin, I saw at a glance, and had a -piece of bread in his hand, which he put down when I came in. He said -nothing, but stared at me as I lighted the fire. When my back was turned -to him I fancied he made another stealthy application to the bread. He -would hide the full amount of his misery if it were possible; but it was -only a partial victory he could obtain over himself.</p> - -<p>“Who, who are you?” he said at last. “You—you are a lady, eh? It is not -your business to make up fires?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said I, as cheerfully as I could; “but we are poor; and when one -has not much money one has many things to do.”</p> - -<p>At this the poor gentleman gave a great groan. Then, after a little, -gasped, in broken words, “Thank God! creatures like you don’t know the -truths they say.”</p> - -<p>I understood him at once. “No,” said I, “it is quite true; but God knows -all about it, that is a comfort always. Don’t you think if I put the -pillows behind you, you would be more comfortable? Try this. I am quite -sure it is better so.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! but how do you know I can’t have pillows as I please, and whatever -I want of my own?” cried the jealous, delirious pride, waking up again -in his big hollow eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a>{195}</span></p> - -<p>“I don’t know anything about it,” said I; “but you have nobody with you -just now. If you will not send for any friends, you can’t help having -neighbours all the same.”</p> - -<p>He said, “Ah!” again, and relapsed into his silent stare. But for the -frenzy of desperate want and desperate pride, which only flickered up by -moments, he was too far benumbed with want and suffering to do anything -in the way of resistance. After I had settled him a little comfortable I -went downstairs again, and as soon as baby’s second bowl of beef-tea, -which had been hastily made to take the place of the first, was ready, I -stole that also, and went up with it again. Baby, who was as fat as -possible, could quite well do without it; and I remember having read -that people, who had been in great want, should get food very often but -not much at a time. The poor gentleman was lying with his head on the -pillow and his eyes half shut, the light of the fire glimmering over -him, and a kind of quiet in his attitude. When he opened his eyes they -grew wolfish again for a moment; but he was subdued—the first frenzy -was gone. Somehow he did not seem alone any longer, with that dear good -charitable fire blazing and crackling, and making all the noise it -could, as if to show what company it could be. And this time he actually -drew the basin towards him, and ate its contents before me. I went to -the little window and cried a little privately. Oh, it was pitiful! -pitiful! That morning I am sure he had laid himself down upon these -chairs, mad with want, bitterness, and solitude, to die.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a>{196}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_VII-d" id="Chapter_VII-d"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter VII.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">“Y</span><span class="smcap">OU</span>, who would not go out to dinner because you could not afford it!” -cried Harry, “how do you dare venture on such rash proceedings? It -appears to me you have adopted a new member into the family.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, but it is different,” said I; “going out to dinner was a matter of -choice, this was a matter of necessity.”</p> - -<p>“It depends upon how people think,” said Harry, “the priest and the -Levite were of quite a different opinion; but if you mean to have -friends and pensioners, and get rich people and poor people about you, -Milly darling, we’ll have to think of new supplies. I cannot imagine how -it has gone out of my mind all this time. Pendleton actually asked me -to-day whether I had heard anything more about your grandfather’s -house.”</p> - -<p>“My grandfather’s house!” I said; and we both looked at each other and -laughed; our removal had put all that out of our heads. Chester, and new -places to look at, and new people to see, and just the usual disturbance -of one’s thoughts in changing about, had betrayed Harry who was so -anxious about it, just as much as it had betrayed me.</p> - -<p>“I must see after it now in earnest. A thousand pounds or so, you know,” -said Harry, with a kind of serio-comic look, “would be worth a great -deal to you just now.”</p> - -<p>And with this he went out. A thousand pounds or so! twenty would have -been nice; aye, or ten, or even five, more than just our regular money. -However, I only laughed to myself, and went upstairs to my poor -gentleman. After all, I am not so sure that he was a gentleman, or at -least anything unusual in himself. He was very independent, and want, -and a passionate dread of being found out, and made a pauper of, had -carried him to a kind of heroism for the moment. But when he got used to -me, and consented to let me bring him things, he became very much like -other people. He was always eager to get the newspaper and see the news. -I carried him up the Chester paper, which Mrs. Goldsworthy took in just -now.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a>{197}</span></p> - -<p>When I went into his room, the first thing I saw was two letters on the -table. He was just drawing back, and still trembling from his exertion, -for he was still very weak. He put the letters towards me with a little -movement of his hand.</p> - -<p>“I am writing to ask for work; I’m wonderfully steady now, wonderfully -steady; if they would only give me work! Ah, it’s hard times when a man -can’t get work,” he said.</p> - -<p>I glanced at them as he wished me. “Cresswell?” said I; “I think I know -his daughter, Mr. Ward. I’ll speak to her; perhaps she can make him help -you.”</p> - -<p>“She can make him do whatever she likes,” said my friend, with his -wistful eyes; “it’ll be well for him if she don’t make him do what he’ll -repent.”</p> - -<p>“How do you mean?” said I, with some surprise.</p> - -<p>“Well!” said my patient, “it’s a story I don’t understand, and I can’t -give you the rights of it. I was never more than just about the office -an hour or so in the day, getting my copy. You see there’s two rich old -ladies about half-a-dozen miles out o’ Chester, and there’s either some -flaw in their title, or something that way. I know for certain there was -an advertisement written out for the Times, for one Mortimer——”</p> - -<p>“Mortimer!”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said, looking at me in his eager way. “I suppose it had been -some day when he had quarrelled with them, and meant to bring in the -true owner; when all of a sudden it was withdrawn, and has never been in -the Times to this day; and Miss Cresswell after that spent a long time -at the Park. Somebody said in the office it was more than likely the -ladies would leave their property to her; and to be sure if that was so, -it would be none of her father’s business to hunt up the right heir.”</p> - -<p>I felt completely dizzy and bewildered; I kept looking down upon the -table, where the letters seemed to be flitting about with the strangest -unsteady motion.</p> - -<p>“And are the ladies called Mortimer?” I said, almost under my breath.</p> - -<p>“Yes; they’re folks well known in Chester, though seldom to be seen -here,” said Mr. Ward; “the youngest one, Miss Milly, is a good creature; -the other one, and her name is Sarah, was a great beauty in her day. I -remember when I was a lad, we young fellows would walk all that way just -to see her riding out of the gates, or driving her grey ponies;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a>{198}</span> they -called her the beautiful Miss Mortimer in those days. I daresay now -she’s as old, and as crazy, and as chilly—but thank heaven, she can -never be as poor, and as friendless, and as suffering—as me.”</p> - -<p>I could not make any answer for a long time. I stood with my hands -clasped together, and my brain in a perfect whirl; these words, Sarah, -Miss Mortimer, the Park, going in gusts through my mind. What did it -mean? I had come upstairs with a smile on my lips about the fabulous -house of my grandfather. Was this the real story now about to disclose -itself? I felt for a moment that overwhelming impatience to hear more -which makes one giddy when on the verge of a discovery; but I did not -want to betray myself to the old man.</p> - -<p>“And do you mean,” said I, holding fast by the table to keep myself from -trembling, “that they are not the lawful owners of their estate?”</p> - -<p>“Nay, I cannot tell you that,” said my patient, very coolly; “but what -could be wanted with an advertisement in the Times for one Mortimer? and -old Cresswell holding it back, you know, as soon as it was likely that -his girl might get the Park.”</p> - -<p>“Do you remember what was the Mortimer’s name that was to be advertised -for? I know some Mortimers,” said I, with a little tremble in my voice.</p> - -<p>“I can’t say I exactly remember just at this moment,” said the old man, -after a little pause. “It wasn’t like a Mortimer name; it was—nay, -stay,—it was one of the cotton-spinners’ names; I remember I thought of -the spinning-jenny directly; something in that way; I can’t tell exactly -what it was.”</p> - -<p>I could scarcely stand. I could scarcely keep silent; and yet I durst -not, for something that choked the voice in my throat, suggest my -father’s name boldly to his recollection. I hurried away and threw -myself on a chair in my own room. All was silent there; but with just a -door between us Lizzie was playing with my boy; and his crows of infant -delight, and her soft but homely voice, seemed to break in upon the -solitude I wanted. I rose from that retreat, and went down to our little -drawing room. There it was Domenico’s voice, round and full, singing, -whistling, talking, all in a breath. Nowhere could I get quiet enough to -think over the extraordinary information I had just received. Or, -rather, indeed it was not either Lizzie’s voice, or Domenico’s, but the -agitation and tumult in my own mind; the beating of my heart, and the -stir and restlessness that rose<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a>{199}</span> in me, that prevented me from thinking. -Could it be possible that my father’s languid prophecy, which Aunt -Connor reported so lightly, had truth in it after all? The idea excited -me beyond the power of thinking. I went out and came in. I took up -various kinds of work and threw them down again; I could do nothing till -Harry came in, and I had told him. Then I fancied there might possibly -seem some sense and coherence in the news. If this were to come true, -then what prospects might be dawning upon us! In this sudden -illumination my past dread returned to me, as a fear which has been -forgotten for a time always does. The war! if Harry’s wife turned out a -great heiress, must not Harry himself cease to be a soldier and enter -into his fortune? Ah me! but he would not; he would not if I should ask -him on my knees; not, at least, till he had taken his chance of getting -killed like all the rest.</p> - -<p>This threw me back, with scarcely a moment’s interval, into the full -tide of those thoughts which had tortured me before we came to Chester. -I got up from my chair and began to walk about the room in the -restlessness of great sudden apprehension and terror. All my trouble -came back. My fears had but been asleep, the real circumstances were -unchanged; even to-day, this very day, Harry might be ordered to the -war.</p> - -<p>He saw my nervous, troubled look in a moment when he came in; he was -struck by it at once. “You look as you once looked in Edinburgh, Milly,” -he said, coming up to me; “what is the matter? Something has happened -while I have been away?”</p> - -<p>“Harry,” cried I, with a little excitement, suddenly remembering that I -had news to tell him. “I have found the Park and the Sarah; I have found -the estate I am heiress to; I have found out something far more -important than that old red-brick house; and, do you know, hearing of -this brought everything to my mind directly, all my terrors and -troubles. Never mind, I’ll tell you what I heard in the first place. It -was from my poor gentleman upstairs.”</p> - -<p>Harry, who had heard me with great interest up to this point, suddenly -shrugged up his shoulders, and put his lips together with that -disdainful provoking whew! with which men think they can always put one -down.</p> - -<p>“Oh, indeed, you need not be scornful!” said I; “he writes papers for a -lawyer, and had a very good way of knowing. He says Mr. Cresswell had an -advertisement all ready to be put<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a>{200}</span> into the Times some months ago, for -one Mortimer, whose name reminded him of a spinning-jenny. But it never -was sent to the paper, because Miss Cresswell went out to the Park, and -it was thought the ladies would make her their heiress; but it was -supposed there was some flaw in their title, and that this Mortimer -would be the true heir.”</p> - -<p>“The Park, and the ladies, and Miss Cresswell, and it was supposed? By -Jove, Milly!” cried Harry, with great vehemence, “do you see how -important this is?—have you no better grounds than it was thought, and, -it was supposed?”</p> - -<p>“You are unreasonable, Harry; I only heard what he had to say; and, -besides, it might not be my father, nor the same people at all. <i>He</i> -could not tell me, I only heard what he had to say.”</p> - -<p>But this explanation did not satisfy Harry; he became as excited as I -had been, but in a different way. He snatched up his hat, and would have -gone at once, on the impulse of the moment, to see Mr. Cresswell, had -not I detained him. The news had the same influence on Harry that it had -on me. It woke us both out of that happy quiescence into which we had -fallen when we came here. We were no longer dwelling at peace, safe in -each other’s society; once more we were thrown into all the agitation -that belonged to our condition and prospects.</p> - -<p>Harry was a soldier, ready to be sent off any day to the camp and the -trenches, gravely anxious about a home and shelter for his wife and -child; I, a soldier’s wife, ready at any moment to have the light of my -eyes torn from me, and my life cut in twain. After the first hurried -burst of consultation, we were both silent, thinking on these things. -Certainly it was better that we should have been aroused. The reality -coming at once, all unapprehended and unthought of, would otherwise have -been an intolerable blow. Now there was little fear that we could forget -again.</p> - -<p>It was natural that we should return to the subject again and again -during the day. Harry drew my father’s old books, and the drawing he had -laughed at, from his own desk, where he had kept them; and with them the -envelope, full of formal documents, which he had written to Aunt Connor -for with so much haste and importance, to substantiate my claim to my -grandfather’s house; there they lay, unused, almost unlooked at. Harry -shook his head as he drew them out. We neither of us said anything. We -were neither of us sorry that we had forgotten all about it for a time. -For my own part, I went<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a>{201}</span> away upstairs very like to cry. This -information, which had thrown us back into so many troubles, might never -come to anything; and even if it did, what difference would that make? -Harry, if I was found out to be a king’s daughter, would never leave his -profession, or shrink from its dangers, while this war lasted. My -pleasant forgetfulness was over now. He was looking at this subject in -the same light he had looked at it before we left Edinburgh;—it would -be a home for me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a>{202}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_VIII-d" id="Chapter_VIII-d"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter VIII.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span><span class="smcap">T</span> was an agitated, troubled day. The accidental nature of the -information, calmly told to one who was supposed to have no interest in -it; the coincidence of the names; the startled feeling we had in thus -being suddenly brought into contact with people nearly connected with -us, who were unaware of our existence, and of whose existence we had -been unaware, acted very powerfully on our imaginations. I don’t think -either Harry or I had a moment’s doubt upon the subject. As to the -identity of the persons, certainly none; and I confess that I, for one, -received with perfect faith the suggestion that there was a wrong -somehow in the matter, and that my father had turned out to be the true -heir. It never occurred to me to imagine any other reason for the -suppressed advertisement; and Mr. Cresswell, whom I had thought at the -very climax of respectability, suddenly descended into a romantic -lawyer-villain in my excited eyes.</p> - -<p>To add to the agitation of my thoughts, Sara Cresswell chose to take -that day for one of her odd visits. She came in the afternoon to stay -with me till evening. She was clearly quite beyond her father’s control; -not even subject to a wholesome restriction of hours and meal-times; for -she never said her father was out to dinner on the occasions of her -coming, nor accounted in any way for her liberty at his dinner-hour. The -little brougham used to come for her at night, and her little maid in -it—a sign, I suppose, that the father did not disapprove; but that was -all. Only wilful as she was, I confess I had grown to like her very -much. I sometimes lectured her; and once or twice we quarrelled; but she -always came back next time just the same as ever. So quarrelling with -her was evidently useless. I must say I had a very strange sensation in -welcoming her to-day. Could she know her father’s base purposes about -the Park which, according to all appearances, ought to be mine? Could -she have been paying her court to those ladies with the hope of -supplanting the true heir? A glance at her face, only too frank and -daring always, might have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a>{203}</span> undeceived me; but of course, I was bucklered -up in my own thoughts, and could see nothing else.</p> - -<p>“You are ill,” said Sara, “or you are worried; or ’tis I have done -something. If I have, I don’t mind; that is to say, I am very sorry, of -course, and I will never do it again. But if you think you will get rid -of me by looking glum, you are sadly mistaken. I shan’t go. If you won’t -have me for a friend, I shall come for a servant, and fight it out with -Lizzie. Lizzie, will you have me for ‘a neebor?’ Ah, I’m learning -Scotch.”</p> - -<p>“Eh, that’s no Scotch!” cried Lizzie; “ye dinna ken what it is. I’m, -maybe, no that good at learning folk now, for I have to speak English -mysel’.”</p> - -<p>“And Italian, Lizzie!” cried Sara, clapping her hands, and forgetting -all about my “glum” face.</p> - -<p>Lizzie’s elbows and ankles fell almost immediately, and the most -extraordinary blush rose on the girl’s face. “Eh, but it’s funny to hear -<i>twa</i> speaking’t,” cried Lizzie, evading the subject eagerly. The truth -is, she had got overmuch involved in the delightful excitement of the -new language, and in consequence of the ludicrous fascination of the -dictionary, by means of which Domenico and she conducted their -conversations, had come to like the society of that worthy. When I found -him escorting my child-maid and the baby out-of-doors, I thought it was -time to remonstrate on the subject; and my remonstrance had woke a -certain womanly consciousness in the awkward-sensitive girlish bosom of -Lizzie. She was overwhelmed with shame.</p> - -<p>Fortunately, the mention of the “twa” diverted Sara’s thoughts. She had -never ceased to be interested in Mr. Luigi, and I saw a world of -questions in her eye immediately. I hurried her downstairs, not feeling -able, really, for random talk; and troubled, more than I could express, -to think how disappointed Harry would be when he came home full of one -subject, expecting to talk it over with me, and found me occupied -entertaining a stranger,—a stranger, too, who had something to do with -it, who was our rival, and plotting against us, all unaware of who we -were.</p> - -<p>However, as it happened, one of the first things Sara’s eye lighted upon -when we entered the room, was that old drawing of poor papa’s, which lay -on the table. She was the quickest creature imaginable. She had it in -her hand before I knew what she was about. Her exclamation made me start -and tremble as if I had been found out in something.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a>{204}</span> Here was another -witness giving evidence freely, without any wish or contrivance of mine.</p> - -<p>“Why, here is the Park!” cried Sara, “actually the very house! Where, in -all the world, did you get it? Have you been there? Do you know them? -Why, I thought you were quite strangers to Chester! I never knew -anything so odd. Who did it? It is frightfully bad, to be sure, but a -staring likeness. Dear Mrs. Langham, where did you get this?”</p> - -<p>“I got it out of an old book,” said I, with a guilty faltering which I -could not quite conceal. “What Park is it? where is it? I do not know -the place.”</p> - -<p>But I am sure if ever anybody looked guilty and the possessor of an -uncomfortable secret, it was me at that moment. I turned away from Sara, -putting away that envelope with the certificates which Harry (how -careless!) had also left on the table. I am sure she must have felt -there was something odd in my voice.</p> - -<p>“What Park? why, <i>the</i> Park, to be sure. Everybody in Chester knows the -Park; and here is an inscription, I declare!” she cried, running with it -to the window. “Oh, look here; do look here! It must have been some old -lover of godmamma Sarah’s. I never saw anything so funny in my life. -‘Sarah as I saw her last.’ Oh, Mrs. Langham! do come and look at this -comical, delightful thing! Isn’t it famous? She’s as old—as old as any -one’s grandmother. Who could it be? who could it possibly be?”</p> - -<p>“Did you say your godmother?” said I. This was another novel -aggravation. Of course I had heard Sara speak of her godmothers; but, -somehow, I had not identified them with the ladies who were expected to -make her their heir.</p> - -<p>But Sara was too much excited and delighted, and full of glee and -ridicule, to answer me. She kept dancing about and clapping her hands -over the drawing; always returning to it, and indulging in criticisms as -free and as depreciatory as Harry’s had been. It was getting dark, and I -confess I was very glad to sit down a little in the half light, and -repose myself as well as I could while she was thus engaged and wanted -no attention from me. Just then, however, I heard Harry’s foot coming -upstairs, and, to my great wonder and almost alarm, somebody else -entered with Harry. I could scarcely see him as I rose to receive my -husband’s companion. Somebody else, however, saw<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205"></a>{205}</span> him quicker than I -did. In a moment Sara had dropped into the shadow of the curtains, and -became perfectly silent. An inconceivable kind of sympathy with her (it -could be nothing but mesmerism) somehow cleared up the twilight in a -moment, and made me aware who the stranger was. It was Domenico’s -master, Mr. Luigi, the Italian gentleman downstairs.</p> - -<p>I cannot tell how the first preliminaries were got over. Of all times in -the world to make acquaintance with anybody, think of the twilight, just -before the candles came in, and when you could scarcely make out even -the most familiar face! We got on somehow, however; we <i>three</i>—Sara -sitting all the time dropt down, and nestling like a bird among the -curtains, struck into the most unaccountable silence. I suppose she -thought nobody saw her; whereas, on the contrary, Mr. Luigi, looking out -of the darkness where he was sitting towards the window, saw the outline -of her pretty head against a bit of green-blue sky as distinct as -possible; and looked at it too, as I can testify.</p> - -<p>When candles came at last (Mrs. Goldsworthy had a lamp; but it smoked, -and the chimney broke, and all sorts of things happened to it), after -the first dazzled moment we all looked at each other. Then Sara became -clearly visible, and was forced out of her corner to let the blind be -drawn down. She came forward to the light at once, with just the least -bravado in her manner, ashamed of hiding herself. She had still the -drawing in her hand.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Langham,” said Sara, “do you know this wonderful drawing? I never -was so amused and amazed in my life. Do you know it’s the Park? and my -godmamma Sarah when she was a young lady and a great beauty. To think -you should find it accidentally! And it must have been one of her old -lovers who did it. Oh, please give it to me, and let me show it her. She -would be pleased. She would soon find out whose it was.”</p> - -<p>Here Mr. Luigi, who had taken up one of those old books of my father’s, -which Harry in his carelessness had left upon the table, uttered a very -brief instantly suppressed exclamation. I wonder what <i>he</i> could have -discovered! It was the copy of Racine, which I have before mentioned as -among papa’s books, on which was written the name of Sarah Mortimer. -Sarah Mortimer! Here were we all strangers, or almost strangers, to each -other, all apparently startled by the sound and sight of this name. What -could the Italian have to do with Sarah<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206"></a>{206}</span> Mortimer? she who broke poor -papa’s heart, and whom we had found out so suddenly to-day?</p> - -<p>“This lady?” said Mr. Luigi, holding up the book to me with a slight -tremulousness, “Madame will not think me impertinent; does she live?”</p> - -<p>“Indeed,” said I, with a shiver of agitation, “I cannot tell. I do not -know anything about her; her name on that book and the drawing is all we -know. I think she is a ghost. Do you too know her name? Sara, tell us, -for pity’s sake, who is this Sarah Mortimer of the Park?”</p> - -<p>Sara stared at the book with still greater amazement than she had shown -at the drawing. “She is my godmamma,” said the girl, in a disturbed, -amazed tone. “She is Miss Mortimer of the Park. Since you all know her -name, you all know that certainly. How is it you know her? why did you -not tell me? Is there any mystery? it all seems very strange to me.”</p> - -<p>“Then it is that lady,” exclaimed Mr. Luigi—“it is that lady I did meet -in the village.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Sara, recovering herself in a moment; “you met my other -godmamma, her sister. She told me she had met you. May I ask if you -found the lady in Manchester? Godmamma was very much interested and -anxious to know. Did you find her? have you heard where she is to be -found?”</p> - -<p>Mr. Luigi looked at the book once more; then closed it down firmly with -his hand; then gazed a little anxiously in Sara’s face. “Have I found -the lady?” he repeated like an echo. “Mademoiselle, I do not know.”</p> - -<p>Then the Italian, as if with an instinctive motion, laid his other hand -over the book, and clasped them both upon it as though to hold something -fast. Then to my amazement and to Sara’s—but to something more than -amazement on Sara’s part—something very much like pique and offence—he -turned towards Harry and began to talk on indifferent matters. I had -noticed a half-weary, half-impatient sigh escape him as he laid his -hands over that book; but he showed no other symptom of emotion. The -next moment he was talking in very good English, slightly, very -slightly, broken with now and then a foreign idiom, something about -public affairs. I confess I felt disappointed as well as Sara. He had -recognised that name; somehow it was familiar to him; and his -enigmatical answer had naturally stimulated our curiosity. He left us -behind him staring and wondering, when he suddenly glided from the brink -of some revelation to those quiet remarks upon English politics. Harry, -full of his share of the common<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207"></a>{207}</span> excitement, did not enter into it with -half so much heart as Mr. Luigi. Harry blundered and was awkward, his -thoughts being elsewhere. Mr. Luigi was quite undisturbed and at his -ease. Sara scarcely spoke again while he remained; she did all but turn -her back upon him; she showed her pique quite clearly enough to catch -the quick eye of the Italian. Altogether he did not stay very long, -thinking us, I daresay, rather an uncomfortable party; and Harry, -disappointed, as I had expected, not to find me alone, and be able to -hold a comfortable consultation, went downstairs with him to smoke a -cigar.</p> - -<p>“Now they are gone,” cried Sara; “now the man in the iron mask has left -us. I wonder if that is what one would call a romantic Italian? ah! I’d -rather have fat Domenico. Now they’re gone, do tell me, once for all, -what is godmamma Sarah to you?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing in the world that I know of,” said I, faltering a little; “we -have only that drawing and her name in the old book.”</p> - -<p>“I know there is something between her and <i>him</i>,” said Sara, returning, -to my great dismay to the other books on the table; “she knows about -him, or he knows about her, or something. You know she was a long time -abroad. What funny old books! Was it among those you found the drawing? -But, stop, here is another Mortimer—Richard A. Mortimer—who is he? -Papa has been their agent for centuries, and I have known them all my -life, but I never heard of a Richard Mortimer. Do tell me, who was he?”</p> - -<p>“Indeed, it is all very odd,” cried I, really fluttered out of my -self-possession. “I wonder what will come of it? It is very strange and -bewildering. Richard Mortimer was my father.”</p> - -<p>“Then you are a relation!” cried Sara; “you must be a relation, there -are so few Mortimers; and your father must have been her lover. Are you -sure, are you quite sure? Why, <i>your</i> name must be Mortimer too! and -Milly! Mr. Langham calls you Milly—Milly Mortimer! Oh, dear, dear! I -never can get to the Park to tell them to-night, and how shall I contain -myself till to-morrow? I knew there must be something that made me love -you so much at first sight. To be sure, that explains everything. Milly -Mortimer! oh, you dear, pretty, good, delightful Mrs. Langham! I am so -glad, so happy! They are my godmothers, and so to be sure we are -relations too!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208"></a>{208}</span></p> - -<p>Upon which Sara threw her arms round me in a wild, rapid embrace. I was -so very much shaken and disturbed with all that had happened, that I -could scarcely bear this last. I remember using all my remaining power -to convince her that the relationship was by no means certain still, and -that it was not to be communicated to the ladies at the Park without -further assurance. Sara, however, only overpowered me with caresses and -exclamations. She entirely upset all the remaining strength I had. She -kept us from that consultation which Harry and I were both so much -longing for. She left us at last in terror lest we should be brought -into immediate contact with those unknown relatives. This day of great -news, excitement, and perplexity, was, I think, the most exhausted, -uncomfortable day I ever met with in all my life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209"></a>{209}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_IX-d" id="Chapter_IX-d"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter IX.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">“I</span><span class="smcap">T</span> is the oddest business altogether that I had ever anything to do -with,” said Harry, next morning; “one cannot tell what step to take -first. My own idea, of course, is to call on this old Cresswell and get -it all out of him. He evidently is the man who knows.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, but, Harry, if he is one of those scheming lawyers,” said I, “why -should he go and betray his clients for people whom he never heard of -before? and, besides, it would be impossible to tell him how we got -information about it, for you could not speak of the advertisement -without ruining poor Mr. Ward.”</p> - -<p>“Milly, I may be sorry enough for your poor Mr. Ward, but I am more -interested a great deal in your rights,” said Harry; “besides, if -everything came true we could make it up to him. I see nothing for it -but going to old Cresswell. He will be glad—since he did think of an -advertisement—to have such a rod of terror to hold over the heads of -his old ladies; at all events we shall know what it is. It might come to -nothing after all,” said Harry, with a little sigh, “and there is -nothing more injurious than to be kept uncertain. Why, to tell the -truth, I feel extravagant this morning: I got up with the feeling. I -should like to go and ruin myself in accordance with the sentiment of -the moment. If it’s all true, why should we be economical?—your -grandfather’s red brick house on one side, and this Park on the other. -We’re lucky people, Milly. I’ll either go and see old Cresswell and have -it out with him, or I’ll go and throw away every shilling I have.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, Harry, give it to me,” I said, holding out my hands; “but I don’t -believe you have any money, so it doesn’t matter. Only—just wait a -little, please; don’t let us do things hastily. Think of thrusting our -claims suddenly upon two old ladies who perhaps have enjoyed it all -their life. Only think of us two, young and happy, disturbing the lives -of two old people who are not so fortunate as we are! Not to-day; let us -try to get other proof first. Try if Mr. Pendleton knows anything—write -to Haworth again. At least, don’t let us be hasty; a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210"></a>{210}</span> day or two cannot -matter; and I don’t trust this Mr. Cresswell,” cried I, with some -vehemence. “He cannot be honest, or he would not have done such a -thing.”</p> - -<p>Harry laughed at my earnestness. He said lawyer-villains had gone out of -fashion, and that there were no Mr. Gammons now-a-days. The truth is, we -had both been reading novels since we came to Chester, and I am not at -all sure that Harry was as sceptical about Mr. Gammon as he professed to -be. But, to my consolation, he went out without any definite purpose of -beginning his proceedings. “I daresay old Cresswell is an old humbug,” -said Harry. “I’ll see whether there is not some other old fellow about -who is up to everybody’s genealogy; surely there ought to be some such -person about the Cathedral. And I’ll write to Pendleton, Milly. To be -sure, there is nothing to hurry us. ‘Let us take time, that we may be -done the sooner.’ I’ll do nothing desperate to-day.”</p> - -<p>When he was gone I felt a little sense of relief. I sat long in the same -chair, with the table still littered with the breakfast things, -neglecting my duties and even baby. He had been brought downstairs -before Harry went out, and was now sitting at my feet on the carpet, -playing with my work-basket, which much contented him. I did not observe -the havoc that was taking place, but sat still in a tumult of thoughts -which I could not describe. I suppose nobody ever did come to a sudden -knowledge—or even fancy—that they might be found out heirs of a great -estate without feeling fluttered. I was half afraid of the thought, yet -it had a strange, vague, bewildering exhilaration in it. Sometimes a -trembling shadow would cross my mind of my old spectre; but it had faded -again to-day into the agitation of surprised and trembling hopes. One -does not always feel the same even about one’s own terrors. And, upon -the whole, I felt raised into a kind of general elevation, thrust up -above myself into another region, capable of being kinder, more liberal -and magnanimous than I had ever felt before. I suppose it must have been -the same feeling which Harry had when he said he felt extravagant. I -could have emptied my purse to a beggar, I believe,—at least I could -have found it in my heart to give him sixpence instead of a penny,—to -such an extent had this vague, exhilarating <i>rich</i> feeling carried me -away.</p> - -<p>Lizzie looked a little mysterious when I called her at last. She was -bursting with something to tell; and when I addressed some ordinary -question to her, her news broke forth suddenly without any introduction. -“Eh, the gentleman’s awa’ again,” cried Lizzie, “and he thinks she maun -be found or heard tell<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211"></a>{211}</span> o’—he thinks there <i>maun</i> be word of her. The -gentleman’s awa’ back where he was, to bring something he left, and -‘Menico says, as sure’s death she maun be found.”</p> - -<p>“Who must be found?”</p> - -<p>“Eh, mem, it’s the leddy! They came a’ this gate, ower the hills and the -seas, to find a leddy. I canna just understand wha she is,” said Lizzie, -“but she’s some freend; and ‘Menico’s clear she maun be found now, and -he’s dancing like to bring down the house for joy.”</p> - -<p>“But you don’t look very joyful, Lizzie; what is the matter?” said I.</p> - -<p>Lizzie made a desperate effort to restrain herself, but, failing, burst -into violent tears. “Eh, he’s written me a letter!” cried the girl, -sobbing; and then, with much fumbling, eyes blind with tears, and a face -all glowing with shame, the letter came forth from the bosom of Lizzie’s -dress, and was thrust into my hand.</p> - -<p>Alas for my self-congratulations over Lizzie’s childish age! Fourteen, -after all, it appeared, was no safeguard. But I was as much amused as -troubled when I undid Domenico’s letter. It was written on odd thin -paper, in a very tolerable hand; it was addressed to <i>the</i> Elizabeth -Bain, and its contents were as follows:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“To the my little good Lessee.</p> - -<p>“You be good child; if the lady yours will, I take you to the -theatre after to-morrow, for gratitude. To me you show of bounty, I -to you of thanks. There be grand sight at the theatre which will -please to you. Show the Signora yours this letter mine, and ask if -permission. It will much please to me to make festa for my little -good Lessee. There be none word in English for festa, for because -the English not know to make it.</p> - -<p class="r"> -“<span class="smcap">Domenico.</span>”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>“But, Lizzie,” cried I, in surprise, “there is nothing in this to cry -about. He only means to be kind, poor fellow. There is not a word in all -this that sounds like——”</p> - -<p>Love-making, I was about to have said, but paused, partly in respect for -the innocence of the girl, and partly ashamed of myself for my -instinctive suspicion that flirtation was inevitable when “a foreigner,” -however fat, was in the case. Lizzy had wiped her eyes and was looking -at me wistfully, quite ready to sob again.</p> - -<p>“Oh, it’s no him,” cried Lizzie; “he’s a papist, puir man,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212"></a>{212}</span> and he -doesna ken ony better. But oh, mem, it’s me—me that was weel brought -up, and learned the catechism and ay gaed to the kirk; and what will I -do? what will I do?”</p> - -<p>“For pity’s sake, Lizzie, tell me what is the matter?” cried I, really -alarmed.</p> - -<p>Lizzie burst into tears once more. She wiped her eyes with her apron, -with hot and humid hands; then, casting a pathetic glance at me from -under the drapery, sobbed forth the dreadful confession, “Oh, mem! -though I think burning shame, and ken it’s dreadful, I canna help it—I -would like to gang!”</p> - -<p>This anti-climax was too much for my gravity, and Lizzie looked on with -moist, uncomprehending eyes at the burst of laughter which I could not -restrain. Poor Lizzie! I have no doubt she thought me very heartless -neither to satisfy her guilty desires after such vanities, nor her -scruples of conscience and violent shame at her own weakness. Baby, -however, was more sympathetic. Seeing his beloved Lizzie in tears, a -fellow-feeling made him scream in concert. <i>He</i> had to be consoled, -though his nurse went away wistful, trembling lest I should consent, and -lest I should not consent. But privately I confess I was very much -relieved and not a little ashamed of myself. To think I should have -suspected any absurd love-making between these two! I felt ready to go -and ask poor Lizzie’s pardon. But why should not she go to the theatre -and satisfy her mind? Domenico could not be less than twenty years older -than herself. On the whole, this little episode quite increased the -lightness of my spirits. The day was bright, the spring was every hour -becoming more sweet, and as I sat there by myself with my child in the -little back-room, noting the sunshine, which did not reach us, fall -sweet upon the little walled-in gardens at the back, a sudden project -which had already glanced through my mind, became feasible on the -moment. Yes, I should do it. Lizzie and the baby, for a breath of -country air, should go with me. By actual witness of my own eyes I would -identify the Park.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213"></a>{213}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_X-d" id="Chapter_X-d"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter X.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><span class="smcap">HE</span> next day Harry had duties of one sort and another, which would -completely occupy his time. He had not found any student of genealogy -who could tell him all about the Mortimers of the Park; but he had heard -of one, and, between that and his duty, was full engaged both in person -and thoughts. A better opportunity could not be. I told him I thought of -taking a long walk into the country with Lizzie and baby this beautiful -day; and, except a warning not to go too far and weary myself, Harry had -nothing to say against my intention. I may say, however, that in the -meantime, having consulted with him on the subject, I had plunged -Lizzie’s mind into the most dread commotion of terror, delight, and -curiosity, by consenting to Domenico’s proposal, only adding Mrs. -Goldsworthy to the party, to make all right.</p> - -<p>And it was true that Mr. Luigi had disappeared again; he was only to be -three days gone, Domenico assured us, holding up three of his fingers. -“Tree sola, tree only,” repeated the fat fellow once more, blocking up -the passage as of old; and once more, with that inimitable wheel and -elastic step of his, opening the door before any one could approach it. -I could not help wondering to myself whether the Italian gentleman was -likely to leave Chester before we did; certainly the loss of Domenico -would make quite a difference in the house. I had not thought quite so -much as I might have been supposed to have done about this Italian -gentleman. He too had recognised the name of Sarah Mortimer as having -some influence on his fate. He had left early next morning, as if acting -upon the knowledge he had gained, whatever that might be. It was very -strange; afterwards, of course, I came to lay everything together, and -wonder at myself that I had not seen how things were tending. But at the -moment I was full of my own thoughts; they seemed so very much more -important to me just then than anything else. I dismissed Mr. Luigi with -just half a thought of surprise and curiosity; I dare say Sara Cresswell -had thought more of him. And Sara had not come to me through all that -long intervening day. Could she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214"></a>{214}</span> have gone to the Park to tell the news? -would they acknowledge or pretend to disown us? That was a question far -more interesting to me than all the Italians in the world.</p> - -<p>The private object of my expedition, however, was one I was truly -ashamed to mention to anybody; but, for all that, it had taken a great -hold upon myself. I have said I had been reading novels; and the very -last one we had from the library was “Ten Thousand a Year.” It struck -upon my mind even at the very moment when poor Mr. Ward had told me -first. Those dear, good, delightful, fine, superfine Aubreys! to think -of all their sufferings, the poor dear superlative people—how -dreadfully they felt it to have only a <i>maid</i> waiting at table! Oh me! -and only to think that here might we ourselves be bringing about such -another calamity! Of course you may think it was very fantastical. I do -confess that the dreadful downfall of having only a <i>maid</i> to wait, -seemed to me, at first sight, the most <i>fine</i> distress I had ever heard -of; but it took a hold upon my mind all the same; I could not help -imagining to myself the other side of the picture. It was very pleasant -to think of falling heirs to a great estate, and being lifted in a -moment from poverty into great wealth; but who were those two pathetic -figures turning away from the closed door of the house which had been -their home so long, mournfully settling down in their new straitened -quarters, breaking up all the habits of their lives, missing somehow in -an unspoken way, that it would be ludicrous to express in words, but was -far from ludicrous to feel, all the grander circumstances of their life? -Ah! that was quite a different question. I thought I could see them -sighing over their contracted rooms, their fallen state—not speaking, -falling silent rather, life going out and ebbing away from them. I saw -the two pale old lofty faces, the pride, the submission, the deep sense -of downfall concealed in their hearts, and I felt myself stopped short -in my way. Those ineffable Aubreys, those figures painted on velvet, -those dear porcelain creatures, with their exquisite troubles, had an -effect upon my imagination, even though I might venture to smile at them -sometimes. Superfine people, to be sure, must have superfine -afflictions; and to think of being a Tittlebat Titmouse, and driving out -such angels from their paradise into the cold-hearted, unsympathetic -world, that cared no more whether they had a six-foot footman and a -carriage, than it cared about myself, a subaltern’s poor wife, driving -out of Chester in an omnibus! So this was the real cause of my journey. -I went remorsefully, thinking all the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215"></a>{215}</span> way how Mrs. Aubrey swooned at -all emergencies. I wonder, when they heard the dreadful power we had -over them, would Miss Sarah and Miss Milly swoon in each other’s arms? I -could see them going about, stricken silent, afraid to look at each -other; and it would be all <i>our</i> doing. Remorseful to my very heart, I -went to visit their village and ask about them, and see the house if I -could. Perhaps some arrangement might be made, after all, to prevent any -loss to these poor dear old ladies. I felt as if I could have done -anything for them, my heart was so compunctious and repentant of the -power we had to do them harm. I am not sure my great magnanimousness did -not have a root in what Harry called <i>feeling extravagant</i>, as well as -in “Ten Thousand a Year.”</p> - -<p>We went out a considerable part of the way in an omnibus, and then -walked. After a good long walk through a nice country, we saw a pretty -common a little way before us: I call it pretty because some parts of it -were very unequal and broken, having gorse bushes, with here and there a -golden honey-bud among the prickles. To get to the common, we crossed -over a very clean, nicely kept piece of road, straight and smooth, -leading down to the village from the gates of a great house. The house -was too far off to make it out, but I felt my heart beat a little, -knowing, from the description I had got, that it could be no other than -the Park.</p> - -<p>I left Lizzie and her charge seated on the soft grass of the common, -where baby, who had never before known anything so delightful, began to -pluck at the crowflowers with his fat hands; and went down into the -village to buy them some biscuits. I confess I felt very guilty. Going -anywhere all by myself confused me, not being accustomed to it; but I -was not an innocent stranger here; I was a spy in my rival’s kingdom; I -was a Bolingbroke pretending to acknowledge the sway of the existing -sovereign: I was going to traffic with his subjects and tamper with -them. If the village authorities had found me out, and held a -court-martial and hanged me on the spot, I think I should have -acknowledged the justice of their decision. I was a spy.</p> - -<p>It was a nice village—a nice, well cared-for, tidy, yet not too -picturesque or unnatural village; looking as if the richer people about -were friendly and sensible, not interfering too much, but keeping up a -due reverence and influence. Some tall bushes of broom were actually -bursting into yellow streaks over the garden palings—not wall—of a -house standing back a little, which I found out to be the Rectory. It -must have been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216"></a>{216}</span> very sheltered and warm, for it was still only April. -However, though I was full of curiosity, my mind was not sufficiently -disengaged to carry away a clear picture of the village; and when the -women looked out from the doors at me with an instinct that a stranger -was passing, I felt more guilty than ever. I made my way accordingly to -the baker’s as fast as I could, and got some dark-complexioned ponderous -buns there, which I felt sure would rouse Lizzie’s national sense of -superiority to great triumph. Then I made a tremulous excuse of wanting -some biscuits besides, and so got a little time to bring forward the -questions I had prepared.</p> - -<p>“Who is it that lives in the great house at the other end of the -village?” said I hypocritically, pointing with my finger towards the -Park.</p> - -<p>“Who is it?” said the baker’s wife, leaning on her counter with a -certain contempt and admiration of my ignorance; “law bless you, ma’am, -you don’t know this place, seemingly. Them’s the Miss Mortimers, the -oldest family in Cheshire. They’re as well known as the Queen about -here.”</p> - -<p>“I am a stranger,” said I hurriedly. “Are they ladies—I mean are they -young ladies? were there no sons?”</p> - -<p>The baker’s wife leaned back upon a sack of flour, and laughed. “Miss -Milly’s godmoother to half the village,” she said; “she’s none that -young, she’s isn’t. No, there wasn’t no son. I’ve heard my mother say -there was once talk of making Miss Mortimer an ouldest son like, but it -couldn’t be done. They’re cooheiresses, that’s what it’s ca’ed—I’ve -seen it written down myself—cooheiresses of the late Lewis Esquire; -that’s the name it goes by; and as they ain’t married it’s no harm.”</p> - -<p>“Did they succeed their father, then?” said I.</p> - -<p>“And that they did,” cried the woman, “and their father’s father, and -grandfather, and great-grandfather, as far back as I don’t know when; -they’re no mushroom folks, the folks in the Park.”</p> - -<p>I felt very much puzzled and perplexed; how could my father, then, have -anything to do with it? It was very strange.</p> - -<p>“But I suppose the lands were entailed, then, or something of that sort. -Was there never another heir that claimed? I think you must be wrong,” -said I, betraying myself in my wonder and haste.</p> - -<p>The baker’s wife opened her eyes wide and stared; then laughed out -rather scornfully—politeness is not the first rule either of life or -speech in Cheshire.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217"></a>{217}</span></p> - -<p>“I’ve lived here in the village all my life,” she said; “if I don’t -know, I’d like to hear who should. Nay, nay, there never was a dream of -another heir; they’re surer nor most folks are the Miss Mortimers. There -ain’t scarce one living belonging to them to get it when they’re gone. I -tell you what it is, it’s a mistake. You’re thinking on Eden Hall.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” said I, “perhaps! I am a stranger here.”</p> - -<p>“Sure you’re strange,” said the baker’s wife; “any one in the village -could tell that. Ne’er a one asked such questions o’ me—nor any -questions at all, but the price of bread, and how the crops are to be, -except that Frenchman with the moustache. You’re not belonging to him, -are you? You’re English by your speech.”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, I’m English,” cried I, not without a vague momentary vision of -the village court-martial, and being hung up for a spy. “I will take my -change, please.”</p> - -<p>And I took my change, and went away with quickened steps but changed -feelings. I had not the heart to speak to anybody else. I passed old -women at the doors, who, no doubt, could have told something about it; -but I did not venture to make any more inquiries. I was completely lost -in perplexity. The undisputed representatives of a race, the heirs of -father, grandfather, and great-grandfather to unknown antiquity—what -could be urged against their possession? I was startled into sudden -doubt of the whole matter. What if it were all a deception? The very -pathway swam and twisted under my eyes. When I reached the common, and -threw myself wearily on the grass beside little Harry and his maid, I -felt quite a different person from her who had left them there. I gave -Lizzie the coarse buns, but I did not listen to the comments which came -as I knew they would. I was far too much bewildered and shaken out of my -fancies to be amused. After I had rested awhile, I got up, and, taking -them with me, went up, rather faltering, to the gates of the Park. A -little lodge, half hidden among evergreen bushes, was at the gate. I -went forward, Lizzie following me close, to ask if we might be permitted -to look at the house.</p> - -<p>But, just as I was going up to the door, I was accosted by a lady who -came hurriedly forward by a side-path. She held out her hand to stop us -before she came up, and full of fanciful alarm as I was, I stopped, -startled, with again the sensation of having been found out. She was -middle-sized and stout, with a plump, handsome figure and sensible, kind -face—very sensible, very kind, not brilliant at all; and, I think, with -as much<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218"></a>{218}</span> perplexed thought and anxiety upon it, as there was on mine.</p> - -<p>“Don’t go into the lodge with the baby, please,” she cried, as soon as -she was near; “the little girl has the hooping-cough. It’s always best -to keep out of the way of danger. If I can tell you what you want, shall -be very glad. I see you’re a stranger; or if you want to see Mrs. -Williams, send away the baby, please. Hooping-cough’s very catching, and -it’s hard upon such a young child.”</p> - -<p>This voice and this speech completely overpowered me. I could not doubt -for a moment that this was one of the Miss Mortimers. I was no longer a -mere spy; I was an unnatural traitor. I motioned Lizzie with my hand to -go away, but stood still speechless myself, the tears rising to my eyes. -The lady stood waiting to see what I wanted, but discovering my -distress, as some people can, came a little closer to me. “Are you ill? -can I help you in anything?” she said, looking very pitifully and kindly -into my wet eyes.</p> - -<p>“No, thank you. I was going to ask if I might look at the Park; but I -must make haste after baby,” I cried. I had the impulse to curtsey to -her as children do; for anything I know I did it. The only thing that I -am certain of is, that as fast as my feet would carry me, I hastened -away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219"></a>{219}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_XI-d" id="Chapter_XI-d"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter XI.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span><span class="smcap">E</span> were able to get the same omnibus going home, which I was very glad -of, for the strange defeat I had received made me feel doubly weary with -the walk, which, after all, had not been a very long one. There was only -one person in this omnibus, which was not a town omnibus, you know, but -one which went between Chester and an important village, seven or eight -miles off. He was an elderly man, very well dressed in black, with a -white cravat. To tell the plain truth, I took him for a dissenting -preacher by his dress; and as he looked very serious and respectable, -and was very polite in helping us to get in, we had some little -conversation after a while. When he saw me look at the houses we passed -with an appearance of interest, he told me the names of them, or who -they belonged to. He was exceedingly polite and deferential, so polite -that he called me ma’am, which sounded odd; but I could only suppose he -was an old-fashioned person and liked such antiquated ways of -expression. I confess a suspicion of his real condition never crossed my -mind. But he evidently knew everybody, and after a while my prevailing -idea woke up again.</p> - -<p>“Do you know,” said I, with a little hesitation, “the family at the -Park—the Miss Mortimers? I should very much like to hear something -about them.”</p> - -<p>“There’s nobody I know better, ma’am,” said our companion with a slight -look of surprise; “I’ve been with—that is, I’ve known ’em this fifty -years.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, then will you please tell me how they succeeded?” said I; “how did -they come into the estate?”</p> - -<p>“How they succeeded?” said the stranger, with a certain slow wonder and -amazement; “why, ma’am, in the natural way, after their father as was -Squire before them.”</p> - -<p>Here I could not help thinking to myself that the dissenting clergy must -be dreadfully uneducated, if this were one of them.</p> - -<p>“But was there never any gap in the succession?” said I; “has it been in -a straight line? has there been no break lately—no branch of the family -passed over?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220"></a>{220}</span></p> - -<p>“Bless you, ma’am, you don’t know the Mortimers,” said our friend; -“there’s never enough of them to make branches of the family. There was -a second cousin the young ladies had a many years ago, but I never heard -of no more of them, and he was distant like, and had no more thoughts of -succession than I had. If that gen’lman was alive or had a family, -things might be different now.”</p> - -<p>“How do you mean things might be different now?” cried I.</p> - -<p>“The ladies, ma’am, has never married,” said the man, who certainly -could not be more than a Methodist local preacher at the utmost, “and, -in the course of nature, there can’t be no natural heir.”</p> - -<p>This view of the subject, however, was one totally unsatisfactory to me. -“Are you sure,” said I, “that there never was any other heir spoken -of—that there never was any story about the succession—that there was -never anybody to dispute it with the Miss Mortimers? I thought I had -heard some such story about——”</p> - -<p>“Ah, you’re thinking, ma’am, of Eden Hall, just the next property,” said -he.</p> - -<p>“But was there never any claimant to the Park?” asked I, somewhat -excited.</p> - -<p>“No such thing,” said the man in black, “nor couldn’t be. Bless you, the -family’s well known. There never was so much as a will-case, as I ever -heard on; for why, you see, ma’am, there never was such a plenty of -children to make quarrels. When there’s but two or so, there’s little -can come of quarrelling. No, no! there never was no strange claimant to -our estate.”</p> - -<p>“To <i>your</i> estate, did you say?” cried I, in amazement.</p> - -<p>“No, ma’am, no—no such presumption. I said <i>our</i>, and sure I might; -I’ve been with the ladies this fifty year.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” I exclaimed, much dismayed. This was certainly coming to the very -head-quarters for information. This was no local preacher after all, but -only the Miss Mortimers’ majordomo. If there had been any possible -excuse for it, I should certainly have got out of the omnibus -immediately, so utterly confounded and taken aback did I feel. But as we -were still some two miles out of Chester, and we were all tired, and -baby cross and sleepy, I had to think better of it. However, in my -consternation I fell into instant silence, and felt really afraid of -meeting the man’s eye. He sat opposite me, beside Lizzie, very -respectful and quiet, and by no means obtruding himself upon my notice. -I cannot tell how shocked and affronted and angry<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221"></a>{221}</span> I felt with myself. I -had, I suppose, like most people of my condition, a sort of horror of -men-servants, a sort of resentful humiliation in feeling that I had -mistaken one of that class for an ordinary fellow-traveller, a -frightened idea of what Harry would think to hear of his wife sitting in -an omnibus beside Miss Mortimer’s man. Altogether I was sadly -discomfited and beaten. The Miss Mortimers had got the better of me at -every hand; and I was entirely humiliated and cast down by this last -blow of all.</p> - -<p>The interval was quite tedious and oppressive till we arrived in -Chester. Seeing me look at another house unconsciously as we passed, the -man, most kindly and good-humouredly, I am sure, after my sudden -withdrawal from the conversation, mentioned its name. “That is -Dee-sands, ma’am, the mayor o’ Chester’s place. It ain’t within sight of -the Dee, and there’s none of them sands near here, but they do say it’s -named after a song,” said the good-natured cicerone. “Oh!” said I again, -shrinking back into my corner. He looked at me rather closely after -this, muttering something that sounded like “No offence!” and leaned -back also, a little affronted. It did not occur to me that I was only -drawing his attention to what I had said before by this sudden reserve. -I took care to show no more interest in the wayside villas, and sprang -out with a great sense of relief when we reached the end of our journey. -Happening to glance back when I had reached our own door, I saw that the -omnibus had been delayed by numerous descents from the roof, and was -still standing where we had left it, and that Miss Mortimer’s man had -put his head out of one of the windows, and was watching where I went -to. This circumstance made me enter with great haste and trepidation. -Now, above all, I had been found out; and if ever any one felt like a -traitor and a spy, it was surely me, stumbling back from that -unsuccessful enterprise across the threshold of Mrs. Goldsworthy’s -house.</p> - -<p>The door was opened to us too alertly to be done by anybody but -Domenico; and it was Domenico accordingly, in his vast expanse of shirt -sleeves. It was quite a comfort to see his beaming, unconscious face. -“The time is fine,” said Domenico; “it pleases to the signora to make -promenade? Ah, bravo! the piccolo signore grow like tree.”</p> - -<p>This was in reference to baby, who crowed at him and held out his arms, -and whom Domenico freely called piccolo and piccolino, at first somewhat -to my indignation; but I confess the good fellow’s voice and looks, and -the way baby stretched<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222"></a>{222}</span> out to him, out of poor Lizzie’s tired arms, was -quite consolatory and refreshing to me. It is easy to get a feeling of -home to a place, surely. It was only lodgings, and Domenico was a -foreigner, and I had not the ghost of an early association with the -little insignificant house; but I cannot tell you what a sense of ease -and protection came upon me the very moment I was within the door.</p> - -<p>Upstairs on the table lay a letter. We got so few letters that I was -surprised, and took it up immediately, and with still greater surprise -found it to be from Sara Cresswell, lamenting over not having found me, -wondering where I could have gone, and concluding with a solemn -invitation to dinner in her father’s name. “Papa is so anxious to see -Mr. Langham and you,” wrote Sara, “and to talk over things. I have been -obliged to obey him for once, and not to go or write out to dear -godmamma till he has seen you. If you don’t come he will be so -dreadfully disappointed; indeed, I am quite sure if you don’t come <i>he -will go to see you</i>. I can’t suppose you will be able to resist such a -threat as that. Send me a word, please, directly. I shall be quite -wretched till I know.”</p> - -<p>This revived all my excitement, as may be supposed; there <i>must</i> be -something in it after all, and surely, instead of Harry going to his -office to seek him, it would be much better to meet at his house, and -with an evening’s leisure too; for Sara had taken care to add that -nobody else was to be there. The earnestness of this invitation seemed -so entirely contradictory to all that I had heard to-day, that the -wildest vague suspicions of mystery began to break upon my mind. To be -sure, bakers and butlers were not likely to be in the secret. Mr. -Cresswell knew all about it; and here was he seeking us entirely of his -own accord! Once more all my dazzled ambitious dreams came back again; I -forgot my failure and sense of treachery—I was no traitor—it was only -my rights that I had been thinking of; and they were not pathetic -possible victims, but triumphant usurpers, who now had possession of the -Park.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223"></a>{223}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_XII-d" id="Chapter_XII-d"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter XII.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span> <span class="smcap">HAD</span> managed to regain my spirits entirely before Harry returned: if -anything, indeed, I think this revival of all my fancies, after my -disappointment and annoyance, had stimulated me more than before. It was -a beautiful April evening, quite warm and summer-like, and there had -just been such a sunset, visible out of the front windows, as would have -gone far at any time to reconcile me to things in general. I was sitting -in the little drawing-room alone, with baby Harry in my lap, much -delighted to find that he could stand by my side for half a minute all -by himself, and rewarding him with kisses for the exhibition of that -accomplishment. I was tired after my long walk, and felt it delicious -rest to lean back in that chair and watch the light gradually fading out -of the sky, free to think my own thoughts, yet always with the sweet -accompaniment of baby’s inarticulate little syllables, and touches of -his soft small fingers. I remember that moment like a moment detached -out of my life. My heart had rebounded higher out of its despondency. -Who could tell what a bright future that might be on the very brink of -which we trembled? And I, whom Harry had married so foolishly, it was I -who was to bring this wealth to my husband and my child. It was pleasant -thinking in that stir of hope, in that calm of evening, sitting -listening for Harry’s step on the stair. The light grew less and less in -the two front windows, and the open door of communication between the -two rooms brought in a long line of grey luminous sky from the east into -my twilight picture. And I had so much to tell Harry. Ah, there at last -was his foot upon the stair!</p> - -<p>He came in, not to the room in which I was, but to the other, and gave a -glance round to see if I was there; then, not seeing me, instead of -calling out for “Milly darling,” as he always did, Harry threw his cap -on the table, and dropped heavily into a chair, with a long sigh—a -strange sigh, half relieved, half impatient—the sigh of something on -his mind. I can see the half-open door, the long gleam of the eastern -window, the scarcely visible figure dropped into that chair—I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224"></a>{224}</span> can see -them all as clearly as at that moment. I stumbled up unawares, gathered -baby into my arms I cannot tell how, and was at his side in a moment. My -own voice sounded foreign to my ears as I cried out, “Harry, what is it? -tell me!” Nothing else would come from my lips.</p> - -<p>He rose too—the attitude of rest was not possible at such a time; he -came and held the child and me close to him, making me lean on him. “It -is nothing more than we expected,” he said, “Milly darling. It is only -to have a heart—you are a soldier’s wife.”</p> - -<p>I knew without any more words. I stood within his arm, silent, -desperate, holding my dear frightened baby tight, too tight. Ah, God -help us! In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, as the Bible says, out -of the happiest flutter of hope into that cold, desperate, hopeless -darkness. I could have fancied I was standing on a battlefield, with the -cold, cold wind blowing over us. I made no outcry or appeal; my heart -only leaped with a start of agony at the worst, at the last conclusion. -We were not within his sheltering arm—he young, and strong, and -safe—but looking for him—looking for him on that black, dead -battlefield!</p> - -<p>I don’t think it was the cry of the child, whom he took softly out of my -straining arms, but Harry’s compassion that roused me. I cried out -sharply, “Don’t pity me, Harry; I’ll bear it.” It was all I could say. I -went out of his arm with agitated, hurried step, and shut out that cruel -clear sky looking down upon the battlefield I saw. I did not think nor -notice that this unseasonable action threw us into perfect darkness. It -was a kind of physical relief to me to do something with my hands, to -ring some common sound into my ears. At this moment Lizzie came into the -room, carrying lights. As I lifted my confused eyes to them, what a -ghastly change had passed on this room—all so cold, dark, miserable; -the furniture thrust about out of its place; the fireplace dark, and -Harry standing there, with the child in his arms and his cap thrown on -the table, as if this very moment he was going away. He was in uniform -too, and the light caught in the glitter of his sword. Was there to be -no interval? My head swam round. My heart seemed to stop beating. The -misery of imagination drove me half frantic—as if the present real -misery had not been enough.</p> - -<p>After a while we sat together once more as usual, he trying to bring me -to talk about it and receive it like a common event. “It is what we have -looked forward to for months,” said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225"></a>{225}</span> Harry; “it should not be strange to -you now. Think how you looked for it, Milly darling, long ago.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said I. Was it likely I could talk? I only rocked myself backward -and forward in my chair.</p> - -<p>“You said God would give you strength when the hour came: the hour has -come, Milly. You are a soldier’s wife!” he said.</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes!” and then I burst into an attempt to tell him what I had been -doing—if I must talk let me talk of something else than this—and broke -down, and fell, God help me! to crying and sobbing like a child; which -was how the good Lord gave me the power of bearing what He had sent. I -got better after that; I heard and listened to it all, every detail, -when they would have to go, where they would sail from,—everything. And -then I grew to see by degrees that Harry, but for me, was not sorry to -be sent to the war; that his eye was brightening, his head raised erect. -Oh me! he was a soldier; and I—I was only a foolish creature that could -not follow him or be with him, that could not come between him and those -bullets, that could only stay at home and pray.</p> - -<p>But when he came and stroked my hair down with his hand, and soothed me -like a child, and bent over me with such compassion in his face—sorry -for me, full of pity in his affectionate tender heart for the poor girl -he was leaving behind—that was more than I could bear. With a dreadful -pang I thought it was his widow he saw, all lonely and desolate, with no -one to comfort her; and I, his wife, thrust him away, and defied that -dreadful killing thought. No! <i>I</i> might leap at the worst, because I -could not help my hurrying, blind imagination; but he should not, no one -else should—I was resolute of that. So we talked of all the things that -were needful for his preparation; and he spoke of expense and economy, -and I laughed and scorned his talk. Economy! expense! Perhaps I did not -know, could not think where it was to come from; but where careless -money can get everything, do you think careful love would fall far -short? I took courage to laugh at his words.</p> - -<p>And then I told him all my day’s trials, and that invitation for the -next day, which, even after what had happened, we must still accept. We -did not have baby downstairs again that night—I dared not—courage will -go so far, but not further. I went upstairs to put him into his little -bed, and was glad, God help me! to be out of Harry’s sight for half an -hour. But still<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226"></a>{226}</span> I was not free; Lizzie was about me, gliding here and -there with her inquisitive sharp eyes—sharp eyes all the sharper for -tears, praying and threatening me with her looks. Nobody would believe -in my courage. They thought I should break down and die. Oh me! if one -could die when one pleased, one might sometimes make short work of it; -God does not give us that coward’s refuge. When I was all alone in my -own room, I took an old regimental sash of Harry’s and bound it round me -tight. I cannot tell why I did it; I think it was in my fancy somehow to -bind up my heart, that it should neither yield nor fail.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227"></a>{227}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="PART_V" id="PART_V"></a>PART V.<br /><br /> -THE LADIES AT THE HALL.<br /> -<small>(<i>Continued</i>)</small></h2> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_I-e" id="Chapter_I-e"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter I.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">S</span><span class="smcap">OME</span> weeks of quietness passed over us after these dreadful -half-revelations which really disclosed nothing. I will not attempt to -give you any explanation of my state of mind; I don’t think I could if I -tried. I had ceased to think of insanity in respect to my sister Sarah; -she was not insane—no such thing. That scrap of conversation I had -overheard in her dressing-room overturned all my delusions. Some real -thing, some real person, had power to drive her half mad with anxiety -and fear. What she could be anxious about—what she could be afraid -of—she who had lived in the deadest peace at home for nearly -five-and-twenty years—was to me an inscrutable mystery. But that this -Italian stranger was no stranger—that his name was given him after the -name of my father—that love, supposed by Carson to be love in the -heart, and admitted by Sarah to be love for the estate, had suggested -that name—were facts not to be doubted. I need not say anything about -the long trains of agitated and confused thinking into which these -discoveries betrayed me. They ended in nothing—they could not end in -anything. But for a kind of determination I had, to keep up stedfastly -till some light came, and see the end of it, I don’t doubt they would -have made me ill. But I kept well in spite of them. Either our bodies -are not so sensitive as they are said to be, or I am a very stupid -person, which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228"></a>{228}</span> I wouldn’t deny if I was taxed with it; for certainly -many things that worry other people don’t trouble me very much. However, -let the reason be what it might, I kept up. I could not take any -comfort, as Sarah did, in knowing this young man had gone away. I can’t -tell how she could have blinded herself, poor soul. <i>I</i> knew he would -come back. She did not seem to think so; yet surely she knew all about -it far better than I did. What a strange blank, unexplainable mystery it -was! Judging by appearances, the young man could not be much more than -born when she returned home. Yet <i>she knew him</i>. Incomprehensible, wild, -mad idea, of which, even after all I had heard, my reason denied the -possibility! <i>She knew him!</i> and what or who, except herself, could -explain it?</p> - -<p>The only conclusion I could come to in all my pondering was one that had -glanced into my mind before, that my father had married abroad and had a -son, whom Sarah had somehow stormed or threatened him into disowning. -But then my father was—I grieve to say it, but one must tell the -truth—a man who considered his own will and pleasure much more than -anything else in the world; and I don’t think it would have broken his -heart to have turned us out of our heiress-honours, especially when we -grew old and did not marry. And to have left a male heir behind him! It -was a very unlikely story, to be sure; but certainly Sarah and he were -never friends after their return. They avoided each other, though they -lived under the same roof. They treated each other with a kind of -ceremonious politeness, more like mutual dislike than love. Dear, dear, -to think in a quiet English family how such a dark secret could rise and -grow! I set to hunting up all my father’s letters, not those he had -written to me at home, for he never wrote except when he was obliged, -but his own letters which he had left behind him. I could find nothing -there that threw the slightest light upon the mystery. And then, if he -was my father’s son, what could the young Italian mean by seeking after -this fabulous lady? What had the Countess <i>Sermoneta</i> to do with it? On -the whole, anybody will see that I ended my investigations and -reasonings just where I began them. I knew nothing about it—I could -discover nothing. I had only to wait for the storm that was -returning—that must return. And if—oh, dear, to think of such a -thing!—if it was the miserable wealth we had, that prompted Sarah to -set her face against this stranger—if it were to keep possession of the -estate from him who was its lawful owner, thank Heaven! we were -co-heiresses. She thought she could do as she pleased with the Park, and -I dare<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229"></a>{229}</span> say, in right and lawful things, I might have yielded to her; -but I hope Millicent Mortimer was never the woman to keep what did not -belong to her. If he had a title to the estate—Heaven knows how he -could—I gave up trying to imagine;—but if he had, without either -resistance or struggle he should have my share.</p> - -<p>I really could not tell how much time had passed from that day when Sara -Cresswell left us. It was near the end of April, so I suppose it must -have been about two months after, when the accident I am going to tell -happened. One afternoon when I was in the shrubbery I saw a young lady -coming up towards the gate, a young creature, pretty and -fair-complexioned, not tall, but very compact and orderly in her looks, -with the air of being a handy, cheerful little woman, and good for most -things she required to do. That was how she struck me, at all events. I -dare say many people would have said she was just a very pretty girl, -evidently sobered down by an early marriage, for she had an odd -nursemaid by her side, carrying a beautiful baby. This stranger caught -her attention very much as I watched her through the tall evergreen -bushes. There was no mystery about <i>her</i>, certainly. I took a liking for -her all of a sudden. Somehow it flashed into my mind that if I had ever -been so young and as happy I might have been just such a young woman -myself. I don’t mean so pretty, but the same kind of creature. She was -not rich, it was clear, for the nursemaid was not much more than a -child, an odd, awkward-looking girl; and though the young mother herself -was sufficiently well-dressed, her things had that indescribable -home-made look which one always recognises. She was a little heated with -walking, and had some very grave wrinkles of care, thoughtfulness, and -even anxiety, upon her pretty smooth forehead. I saw her aiming straight -at the door of the lodge, and hastened out to warn her off. She was -certainly a stranger, and could never know that the hooping-cough was in -the house. She took my warning very oddly, looked at me with great -curiosity and with tears—I am sure I saw them coming into her eyes—and -then, with some half-explanation about wishing to see the Park, hurried -away after her lovely little boy. I don’t know how long I stood, like a -fool, looking after them, with a great desire to call her back and ask -her in to see the house. Very likely she had come out from Chester to -give her baby a country walk. Pretty young soul! I had no more doubt she -was a good little wife than that she was a pretty creature, and very -young to be that child’s mother. I daresay she was tired and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230"></a>{230}</span> would have -been much the better for a rest. But while I stood thinking of it, of -course she was gone far out of the range of my voice. As for running -after her, that was out of the question at my age; and perhaps, after -all, it was as well not to bring that lovely baby near the lodge. Mary -might have rushed out, and the mischief might have been done in a -moment. As for hooping-cough itself, when children have good -constitutions, I can’t say it is a thing I am very timid about; but it -goes very hard with infants, and one could never excuse one’s-self for -putting such a child in peril. So I went back to the house, though -rather slowly. I can’t tell how it was, I am sure,—but I felt just as -if I had missed a visit from a friend whom it would have been a great -comfort to see.</p> - -<p>I might have forgotten this little incident altogether, but for -something that happened afterwards. Ellis had to go into Chester that -day—indeed, he had just left a few minutes before my pretty young -stranger came up. When Ellis came back he took an opportunity of -speaking privately to me—indeed, he asked me to step aside into the -hall for a minute. How he found out that there was any uneasiness in my -mind, or that any doubt about our right to the estate had ever occurred -to me, I cannot tell; there are few things more wonderful than the kind -of instinct by which servants divine the storms which may be only -brooding about a house. Ellis looked very grave and important; but as he -always does so, I was noways alarmed.</p> - -<p>“There was a young lady, ma’am,” said Ellis, “rode in the omnibus along -with me this afternoon; well, not perhaps what you might call a <i>real</i> -lady neither; leastways I don’t know—her looks was all in her favour; -but ladies, as you know, ma’am, don’t go riding in an omnibus with bits -of nursegirls and babies. But I don’t say she was one of your common -sort.”</p> - -<p>“Why, it must have been that pretty young creature,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Well, ma’am,” said Ellis, actually with a little shame-facedness, “if -you ask me my opinion, she was a pooty young creature, and so was the -baby. But it ain’t what she looked, Miss Milly; it’s what she said. She -asked as anxious as could be after the family at the Park.”</p> - -<p>“Did she know anything of us?” said I, quite delighted. “I wonder who -she is; she quite took my heart.”</p> - -<p>“Not if you’d have heard her speak, ma’am,” said Ellis. “She asked, kind -of curious like, how you came to succeed to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231"></a>{231}</span> the estate, and whether -there wasn’t no gap in the line, and if none o’ the family were ever -passed over, and a deal of such questions. I told her it was Eden Hall -she was thinking on, but she wasn’t satisfied. She said wasn’t there -another claimant to the estate, and was I quite sure you was the right -people and hadn’t passed over nobody? But the strangest thing of all -was, as soon as I let out by accident I belonged to the Park, it was all -over in a twinkling. Afore you could know where you was, from asking her -questions and looking as anxious as you please, and her little veil up -over her bonnet, and her face turned to you like a child—in a moment, -ma’am, it was dead shut up and drawn back, and the veil down and face as -if it didn’t see the place you was. I said to myself, ‘There’s summut in -this,’ as soon as ever I seed the way she took me belonging to the Park; -and, to be sure, all the way not another word. Seeing things like that, -I made bold to look after her when she went out; and if you might chance -to have any curiosity, Miss Milly, here’s a note of the address.”</p> - -<p>“But what should I have any curiosity about?” said I, agitated and -surprised, taking the paper from him eagerly enough, yet quite at a loss -to account for any interest I could have in his adventure. Ah! had it -happened six months ago, how I should have laughed at Ellis! but it -could not have happened six months ago. Ellis himself would have taken -no notice whatever of such questions then.</p> - -<p>“Ma’am,” said Ellis, “the quality has their own ways; if <i>I</i> don’t know -that, who should? I dare say it ain’t nothink to you; but it’s curious -to have parties asking about the Park, as if we was a family as had -romances; and being a pooty young creature, you see, Miss Milly, I -thought it might be possible as you’d like to know.”</p> - -<p>“Very well, thank you, Ellis. I know you’re always careful about the -interests of the family,” said I.</p> - -<p>“I’ve been at the Park fifty year,” said Ellis, with his best butler’s -bow. I gave him a nod, and went away to the library a great deal more -disturbed than I would let him perceive, but I don’t undertake to say -that he didn’t see it all the same. Here was just the very fuel to set -my smouldering impatience into a blaze. A sudden impulse of doing -something seized upon me like a kind of inspiration. Here was a new -actor in the strange bewildering drama. Who was she? Could she be -Luigi’s wife coming to aid him? As the thought struck me I trembled with -impatience, standing at the window where it was too dark to read that -address. I must wait for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232"></a>{232}</span> the morning, but certainly there was light out -of darkness. However foolish it might be, I could bear it no longer. -Here was a clue to guide my steps, and whether right or wrong, to-morrow -I should plunge into the mystery. The idea took possession of me beyond -all power of resistance. I walked about the library in the dark, quite -excited and tremulous. The wind had risen, and the night was rather -stormy, but I could not go into the comfort and light of that great -drawing-room where Sarah sat knitting. To-morrow, perhaps, I should know -the secret of her death in life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233"></a>{233}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_II-e" id="Chapter_II-e"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter II.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span> <span class="smcap">GOT</span> very little rest that night, and was up almost by break of day the -next morning. In the height of my excitement and anxiety, I felt more -comfort in my mind than I had done for a long time. Sitting waiting is -dreadful work, but I felt myself again when there appeared anything to -do. I would not allow myself to suppose that it would end in nothing. -Such inquiries could not possibly be made without a motive. I was so -restless that I scarcely could remain quietly at home for an hour or two -after breakfast which, out of regard for appearances, I was obliged to -sacrifice; but for the same reason I made up my mind not to take the -carriage, but to walk to the point where the omnibus passed, and take my -chance of finding a seat in it as other people did. I went out -accordingly about eleven o’clock, and left a message for Sarah that I -was going to make some calls, and that she was not to wait dinner for -me, as <i>I</i> should probably lunch somewhere at a friend’s house. I saw -Ellis look out after me from the hall window, with a kind of solemn grin -on his face. Ellis was not to be deceived; he knew where I was going as -well as I did myself.</p> - -<p>As I had intended, I got into the omnibus when it passed, to the great -amazement and dismay of both guard and driver, who knew me well enough. -I thought to myself, after I was in it, that it was perhaps rather a -foolish thing to do. If any talk got abroad about our family, and if the -strangers, male and female, kept making strange inquiries, and I was -seen driving—no, that is not the word—<i>riding</i> in an omnibus, what -would people think but that some extraordinary downfall had happened at -the Park? There were only some countrywomen in the coach, who stared at -me a little, but were too busy with their own affairs to mind me much. -Fortunately there was no one there from our own village. It was a very -long drive to Chester, going in the omnibus; and being unaccustomed to -it, and never on the outlook for jolts, I felt it a good deal, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234"></a>{234}</span> -confess, besides being just the least thing in the world in a false -position. Not that I minded being seen in the omnibus, but because the -guard knew me, and was troublesomely respectful, and directed the -attention of the other passengers towards me. Great people, when they -pretend to travel <i>incognito</i>, must find it a great bore, I should -fancy. Of course somebody always betrays them, and it must be a great -deal easier to bear what you can’t help bearing when there is no mystery -about it, than when every blockhead thinks himself in your secret, and -bound to keep up the joke with you.</p> - -<p>At last we came to the street, and I got down. It was near the railway -station, and so all sorts of traffic poured past the place; shabby -hackney cabs, omnibuses from the Chester hotels, vans of goods, all the -miscellaneous stuff that pours into railway stations. The houses were a -little back from the road, to be sure, with little “front gardens,” as -the people call them. I walked past three or four times before I had -screwed myself up to the point of going in. The thing that dissipated -all my feelings of embarrassment in a moment, and brought me back to the -eagerness and excitement with which I set out from home, was the sudden -appearance of Mr. Luigi’s servant, the large, fat, good-humoured -Italian, whom I have before mentioned, at the door of one of the houses. -The sight of him flushed me at once into determination. I turned -immediately to the house where he stood, and of course it was <i>the</i> -house, the number which Ellis had written down on his paper; there could -be no doubts on the subject now.</p> - -<p>“I wish to see your mistress,” said I, going up to the man, too -breathless and eager to waste any words.</p> - -<p>He looked at me with good-humoured scrutiny, repeating “Meestress” with -a puzzled tone; at last a kind of gay, half-flattered confusion came -over his good-humoured face, he put his hand on his heart, made a -deprecatory, remonstrating bow, and burst into some laughing mixture of -Italian and English, equally unintelligible. The fellow actually -supposed I meant his sweetheart, or pretended to suppose so. I became -very angry. He did not look impertinent either; but you may fancy how -one would feel, to be supposed capable of such a piece of levity at such -a time. And a person of my condition, too! Happily, at this moment the -nurse-girl whom I had seen with my pretty young stranger suddenly made -her appearance with the baby in her arms. I appealed to her, and though -she stared and made answer in words not much more intelligible to me -than her fellow-servant’s, she showed me<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235"></a>{235}</span> upstairs. She was going out -with the beautiful baby, but one way and another I was so worried and -uncomfortable, and felt so strongly the existence of those plots against -us which I was now going to clear up, that I took no notice of the -child. I said nothing at all but that I wanted to see her mistress, and -walked into the little drawing room without thinking I might be going -into the young stranger’s presence, possibly into the presence of both -husband and wife. However, the moment I had entered I saw her; there she -was. In my heat and annoyance I went up to her instantly.</p> - -<p>“Young lady,” said I, “you were in the neighbourhood of my house -yesterday; you were in our village; I myself saw you approaching the -Park. You put some very strange questions to my servant. You must know -how harassed and disturbed I have been by inquiries I don’t know the -meaning of. What is it all about? What claim has your husband upon the -Mortimers? Who is he? What does he want with us?”</p> - -<p>I said this without pausing to take breath, for my encounter with the -servant, I confess, had irritated me. Now, when I had said my say and -come to myself, I looked at her and felt a little shocked. She was -certainly changed since yesterday; but before I had time even to make a -mental comment on this change, I was entirely confounded by the entrance -of a new and unsuspected actor on the scene; <i>her husband!</i> evidently -her husband; but as unlike Mr. Luigi as one handsome young man could be -unlike another,—a bright, open-faced unmistakable Englishman, a young -soldier. The sight of him struck me aghast. What new complication was -this?</p> - -<p>“If there’s going to be any fighting, that’s <i>my</i> trade,” said the -new-comer. “We’ll change places, Milly darling. Madam, my wife has a -great many things to occupy her just now; let me answer for her, if that -is possible. I think I know what she has been about.”</p> - -<p>Saying which, he wheeled the one easy chair in the room towards me, and -invited me to sit down. I sat down with the feeling of having somehow -deceived myself strangely and made a huge mistake. I could not make it -out. Mr. Luigi’s servant was below, and this was certainly the young -woman whom I had arrested on her way to the Park, and who had asked -questions of Ellis in the omnibus. But who was this handsome young -soldier? What had he to do with it? A cold tremble came over me that it -was what the newspapers call a mistaken identity, and that somehow I had -stumbled in,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236"></a>{236}</span> after the rudest and most unauthorized fashion, into the -privacy of two innocent young creatures who knew nothing about the Park.</p> - -<p>“Pardon me if I am wrong,” I said with a gasp; “I fear I must be wrong, -only let me ask one question. Did you speak to a man in the omnibus -yesterday about the Mortimers of the Park? or was it not you? I am sure -I shall never forgive myself if I have made such a foolish mistake.”</p> - -<p>“But it is no mistake,” said the young wife, who had remained in the -room, standing very near the half-opened door into the tiny apartment -behind. Poor young soul! she was certainly changed in those twenty-four -hours. I could scarcely resist an impulse that came upon me, to go up -and take her in my arms, and ask the dear young creature what it was -that ailed her. Depend upon it, whatever she might have asked about the -Mortimers, that face meant no harm. I looked at her so closely, I was so -much attracted by her, that I scarcely noticed, till she repeated it, -what she said.</p> - -<p>“It is no mistake,” she said, growing firmer; “I did ask questions. I am -sure you are Miss Mortimer—we will tell you how it was. Harry, you will -tell Miss Mortimer all about it. I am a little—a little stupid to-day. -I’ll go and fetch the books if you will tell Miss Mortimer how it was.”</p> - -<p>She went away quite simply and quietly. He stood looking after her with -a compassionate, tender look, that went to my heart. He did not speak -for a moment, and then he said, with a sigh, something that had nothing -to do with my mystery. “We got marching orders for the Crimea -yesterday,” said the dear simple-hearted young fellow, with the tears -coming into his honest eyes. “It is very hard upon my poor Milly;” and -he broke off with another sigh.</p> - -<p>If the two had come to me together the next moment, and disclosed a plan -to turn us out of our estate or pull the house down over our heads, I -could have hugged them in my arms all the same. God bless the dear -children! whatever they had to tell, there was but one thing in their -thoughts, and that was the parting that was coming. If I had been the -hardest heart in the world, that spontaneous confidence must have melted -me. As it was, I could hardly help crying over them in their anguish and -happiness.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237"></a>{237}</span> People are happy that have such anguishes. I could hardly -help exclaiming out aloud, “I’ll take care of her!” and yet dear! to -think of human short-sightedness! Had not I come all this way to find -them out?</p> - -<p>She came back again a minute after, with some old books in her arms.</p> - -<p>“Have you told Miss Mortimer, Harry?” she asked, pausing with a little -surprise to hear no conversation going on between us, and to see him -leaning against the mantelshelf just as she had left him, with his hand -over his eyes. Then she gave him a quick, affectionate, indignant -glance—I might say petulant—and came up in her energetic way to the -table, where she put down the books. “<i>I</i> will tell you, Miss Mortimer,” -said the brave little woman. “We do not know very much ourselves, but -perhaps when you hear our story you can make it plain better than we -can. We found it out only by chance.”</p> - -<p>“My dear,” said I, “do not call me Miss Mortimer; my eldest sister is -Miss Mortimer. I am called Miss Milly; Millicent Mortimer is my name.”</p> - -<p>Here the young man broke in suddenly. “<i>Her</i> name was Millicent Mortimer -too,” he cried. “Milly!—that is her name—I beg your pardon, Miss -Mortimer; I think there is no name in the world equal to it. She’s -Milly, named so at her father’s desire. Tell me, is she nearly related -to you?”</p> - -<p>I was so astonished I rose up to my feet and stared at them both. To be -sure, I had heard him call her Milly; but my thoughts had been so -entirely drawn astray by Mr. Luigi, that I never thought of anything -else. I stood perfectly thunderstruck, staring at them. “What are you -telling me?” I cried. Really my mind was not in a condition to take in -anything that might be said to me. She put the old books towards me one -by one. I opened them, not knowing what I did. “Sarah Mortimer, the -Park, 1810.” Heaven bless us! Sarah’s hand, no doubt about it; but who -in the world was <i>she</i>?</p> - -<p>“Child, take pity on me!” I cried; “with one thing and another I am -driven out of my wits. Tell me, for heaven’s sake, who was your father? -Are you <i>that</i> Luigi’s sister? Who are you? Where did you come from? God -help us! I don’t know what to think, or where to turn. Your father, who -was he? What do you know about him? Were <i>you</i> born in Italy too? What -is the truth of this wild, dreadful<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238"></a>{238}</span> mystery? Sarah may know about it -perhaps, but I know nothing, nothing! If you would not have me go out of -my senses, child, tell me who you are, and who your father was.”</p> - -<p>They both gazed at me astonished. “She is Millicent Mortimer,” said her -young husband, “the child of Richard Mortimer and Maria Connor; she was -born in Ireland. Milly! Milly! the old lady is going to faint.”</p> - -<p>For I sank dead down in my chair, as was natural. I put my hands over my -face. I fell a-crying and sobbing in that wonderful, blessed relief. If -my worst suspicions had come true, I could have stood up and faced it. -But my strength went from me in this delicious, unspeakable comfort. -Richard Mortimer’s children! The heirs we were looking for! Oh dear! to -think I could ever be so distrustful of the good Lord! This was what all -the mystery had come to! I sat crying like a fool in my chair, the two -looking on at me, thinking me crazy most likely—most likely wondering, -in their innocent grieved hearts, at the old woman crying for nothing. -How could they tell what a mountain-load of trouble they had taken off -my head?</p> - -<p>“My dear,” cried I, when I could control myself enough, “if you are -Richard Mortimer’s daughter you’re the nearest relation we have. You -were to have been advertised for before now—we’ve been seeking you, or -trying to seek you, everywhere. I knew there must be something made my -heart warm to you so. My dear, we’re the last of the old race; there’s -nobody but Richard Mortimer’s children to carry on the name. God help -us! I am a silly old woman. I had taken dreadful fears into my head. Why -didn’t you come and say it plain out, and turn all my anxiety and -troubles into joy? Ah Milly, dear Milly Mortimer!—I could think you -were my own child somehow—come and let me kiss you. I am not so weak as -this usually, but I’m quite overcome to-day. Come here, child, and let -me look at you. It’s pleasant to think there’s a young Mortimer in the -world again.”</p> - -<p>I was so much engaged with my own feelings, that I did not notice how -much the young people were taking it. When I did come to myself a -little, they were standing rather irresolute, that pretty young Milly -Mortimer looking at me in a kind of longing, reluctant way, either as if -she could not take me at my word, or had something on her mind. As for -her husband, he was looking at me too, but with a full eager look, which -I understood in a moment; his lip trembling and swelling out a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239"></a>{239}</span> little, -his eyes full, his whole face telling its story. When he caught my eye -he turned his look upon her, and then back to me again. Do you think I -did not understand him? He said, “You will take care of my Milly?” -clearer than he could have said it in a thousand words; and if my eyes -were slow to answer him, you may be sure it was no fault of will or -heart. Seeing she was shy to come to me, and recovering myself, I went -to the new Milly and kissed her. I can’t tell what a pleasure I took in -looking at her. She belonged to me—she was of our very own blood, come -from the same old forefathers. I thought nothing strange that I loved -her in a moment. It was not love at first sight, it was <i>natural -affection</i>. That makes a vast difference. Even Sara Cresswell was not -like a child of our own family. To think of another Milly Mortimer, -pretty, and happy, and young! such a Milly as I might have been perhaps, -but never was. I felt very happy in this child of my family. It was half -as good as having a child of one’s own.</p> - -<p>Then they showed me some other books with poor Richard Mortimer’s name -in them, and his drawing of the Park, and Sarah getting on her horse. -Poor fellow! but I rather fear he could not have been any great things -of a man. I felt quite easy and light at my heart; nothing seemed to -frighten me. And the two young people even, in the little excitement, -forgot their own trouble, which was a comfort to me.</p> - -<p>“But all this time, my dear,” said I, at length, “you have said nothing -about your brother. How did he get to be Italian,—and what did he mean -by asking about that lady—and why not come at once to the Park and say -out who he was?”</p> - -<p>“My brother?” said the young wife, faltering; and gave a wondering look -at me, and then turned round, with a habit she seemed to have, to -consult her husband with her eyes; “my brother? I am afraid you have not -understood. Harry is——”</p> - -<p>“I know what Harry is,” cried I; “don’t tell me about <i>him</i>. I mean your -brother—your brother. Why, dear, dear child, don’t you understand? I -met this man at the door of this very house—Mr. Luigi, you know as they -call him; of course he must belong to you.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed,” said the new Milly, with very grave, concerned looks, “I never -spoke to him but once in my life; we don’t know anything about him. I -never had any brother; there were none but me.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240"></a>{240}</span></p> - -<p>I don’t think I said anything at all in answer. I said nothing, so far -as I know, for a long time after. I sat stupified, feeling my burden all -the heavier because I had deluded myself into laying it off a little. Oh -me! we had found the heirs that Sarah had thought so much about; but the -cloud had not dissolved in this pleasant sunshine. Out of my -extraordinary sense of relief, I fell into darker despondency than ever. -He was not Milly Mortimer’s brother, nor anybody belonging to her. Who -could he be?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241"></a>{241}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_III-e" id="Chapter_III-e"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter III.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span> <span class="smcap">DON’T</span> know very well how I got to Mr. Cresswell’s house. I did manage -to get there somehow. I went listlessly through the old fashioned -streets I knew so well, and turned down upon that serious old house with -its brick front and rows of windows all covered with Venetian blinds. It -met the morning sun full, and that was why the blinds were down; but it -had a dismal effect upon me, as anything else would have had at that -moment. I know how the rooms look inside when the blinds are down; it -throws a chill into one’s heart that has known them put down for sadder -reasons. I went into the house in the same listless way, like a person -in a dream. Somehow I could not take any comfort in those dear young -creatures I had just found out. Mr. Luigi, whom I had not found out, -returned upon me like a nightmare. Was there no possible way in which -this mystery could be discovered? What if I sought an interview with -himself and put it to him fairly to tell me who he was? I went into Bob -Cresswell’s drawing-room, where the windows were open and the sunshine -slanting in through the Venetian blinds. It was rather dark, but a green -pleasant darkness, the wind stirring the curtains, and now and then -knocking the wood of the blinds softly against the woodwork of the -window; a cheerful kind of gloom. Sara’s knick-knacks lay scattered -about everywhere on the tables, and there were cushions, and ottomans, -and screens, and fantastic pieces of ornamental work about, enough to -have persuaded a stranger that Sara was the most industrious person in -the world. The creature bought them all, you know, at fancy fairs and -such absurd places. I am not sure that she ever took a needle in her -fingers; but she said herself she had not the slightest intention of -saving her poor papa’s money; and indeed it was very true.</p> - -<p>I was thankful to sit down by myself a little in the silence. Sara was -out, it appeared, and I threw myself into an easy-chair, and actually -felt the quietness and green-twilight look of the room, with just a -touch of sunshine here and there upon the carpet near the windows, a -comfort to me. Once again,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242"></a>{242}</span> as you may suppose, I thought it all over; -but into the confused crowd of my own thoughts, where Sarah, Carson, Mr. -Luigi, his fat servant, my new-found Milly Mortimer, and all her -belongings, kept swaying in and out and round about each other, there -came gleams of the other people suggested by this room;—Mr. Cresswell -trying to make some light out of the confusion, Sara darting about, a -mischievous, bewildering little sprite, and even, by some strange -incoherency of my imagination, Sara’s poor pretty young mother, dead -seventeen years ago, flickering about it, with her melancholy young -eyes. Poor sweet lonely creature! I remember her a bride in that very -room, with Bob Cresswell who might almost have been her father, very -fond, but not knowing a bit what to make of her; and then lying helpless -on the sofa, and then fading away out of sight, and the place that had -known her knowing her no more. Ah me! I wonder whether that is not the -best way of getting an end put to all one’s riddles. If Sarah and I had -died girls, we should have been girls for ever,—pleasant shadows always -belonging to the old house. Now it would be different, very different. -When we were gone, what story might be told about us? “In their time -something dreadful occurred about the succession, proving that they had -never any right to the estate;” or “the great lawsuit began between the -heirs of a younger branch and a supposed son of Squire Lewis.” Dear! -dear! Who could this young man be? and now here was our real relation, -our pretty Milly Mortimer—our true heir, if we were the true heirs of -the estate. Dare I let her believe herself the heir of the Park with -this mystery hanging over all our heads? Poor dear child, she was -thinking more about her husband’s marching orders than if a hundred -Parks had been in her power. Trouble there, trouble here; everywhere -trouble of one sort or another. I declare I felt very tired of it all, -sitting in that cool shady drawing-room. I could turn nowhere without -finding some aggravation. This is how life serves us, though it seems -such a great thing to keep in life.</p> - -<p>“But, godmamma, how in all the world did you come here?” cried Sara -Cresswell, springing upon me suddenly, before I had seen her come in, -like a kitten as she was; “you who never come to Chester but in great -state, to call upon people! It’s only one o’clock, and there’s no -carriage about the streets, and you’ve got your old brown dress on. How -<i>did</i> you get here?”</p> - -<p>“Never mind, child,” said I, a little sharply; “you take<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243"></a>{243}</span> away my -breath. Suppose you get me some lunch, and don’t ask any questions. I am -going to stay all day, perhaps all night,” I said with a little -desperation; “perhaps it’s the best thing I could do.”</p> - -<p>“Godmamma, something has happened!” cried Sara; and she came and knelt -down on the stool at my feet, looking up in my face, with cheeks all -crimsoned over, and eyes sparkling brighter than I had ever seen them. -It was not anxiety but positive expectation that flushed the child’s -face. I could not help thrusting her away from me with my hand, in the -fulness of my heart.</p> - -<p>“Child!” cried I, “you are glad! you think something has happened to us, -and it flushes you with pleasure. I did not expect as much from you!”</p> - -<p>Sara stumbled up to her feet, confused and affronted. She stood a moment -irresolute, not sure, apparently, how to take it, or whether to show me -to the full extent how angry and annoyed she was. However, I suppose she -remembered that we were in her father’s house, and that I was her guest -after a fashion; for she stammered some kind of apology. “You took me -into your confidence before, and naturally I wanted to know,” cried the -child, with half-subdued fury. She had never been taught how to manage -her temper, and she could not do it when she tried.</p> - -<p>“You,” said I, “we are your godmothers, Sara, and have loved you all -your life; but you want to know, just as if it were a story in a -novel—though, for all you can tell, it may be something that involves -our fortune, or our good name, or our life.”</p> - -<p>Now this was very foolish of me, and I confess it. It was not anger at -Sara that made me say it—nothing of the sort. But I had come through a -good deal, and my mind was so full that I could bear no more. It burst -from me like something I could not retain, and after that I am ashamed -to confess, I cried. It was merely the excitement and agitation of the -day, so unusual to me, and coming after such a long strain of silent -excitement as I had already come through.</p> - -<p>Sara stood before me confounded. She was quite unprepared for anything -of this kind. She kept standing by me in a bewildered way, too much -puzzled to say anything. At length she knelt down on the footstool and -pressed my hand upon her little soft mouth. “Something dreadful has -happened, godmamma?” said Sara, looking up at me wistfully. The poor -child was really alarmed and full of anxiety now.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244"></a>{244}</span></p> - -<p>“No, no,” said I, “nothing has happened at all. I am only too nervous -and alarmed and unhappy to bear speaking to. I am not unhappy either. -Sara, child, can’t you leave me by myself a little and order luncheon? -I’ll tell you all about it then.”</p> - -<p>Sara got up immediately to do what I told her; but before she left me -stole her arm round my neck and kissed me. “I have got a secret to tell -you, godmamma; you’ll be so glad when you know,” whispered the creature -in my ear. Glad! I suppose it would be some of her love affairs,—some -deluded young man she was going to marry, perhaps. Well! so I might have -been glad, in a manner, if it were a suitable match, and she had taken -any other time to tell me; but you may fancy how much happiness I had to -spare for anybody now.</p> - -<p>It may be imagined that my appetite was not very great in spite of my -anxiety about luncheon, but I certainly was glad to have a glass of Mr. -Cresswell’s nice Madeira after all my fatigue and exhaustion. Sara and I -sat opposite to each other in the dining-room, where the blinds were -down also, without saying much for some time. She was watching me I -could see. There she sat very demure and a little anxious, in her velvet -jacket, shaking her short curls, now and then, with an impatient kind of -motion. I was glad to see that kitten have so much perception of the -rights of hospitality; for she allowed me to take my time, and did not -torture me with questions, so that I really got the good of this little -interval, and was refreshed.</p> - -<p>“I ought to be very happy instead of being so nervous and -uncomfortable,” cried I at last; “for only fancy, my dear child, who I -have found. Do you remember when you were at the Park hearing your -godmamma Sarah speak of an heir whom she wanted your papa to advertise -for? Well, what do you think, Sara? I have actually found her! for she -is not an heir but an heiress. What your godmamma Sarah will say when -she hears it, I can’t think; for she has never been advertised for, you -know. She has turned up ‘quite promiscuous,’ as Ellis says.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!—so you know!” said Sara, in quite a disappointed tone; “and I -thought I had such a secret for you. Well, of course, since you do know, -it doesn’t matter; they’re coming here to-night.”</p> - -<p>“My dear, I know they are coming here to-night. They told me so; and -your papa is to go over the whole, and make it all out how it is. Ah, -dear me!” said I with a sigh, “if that were but all!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245"></a>{245}</span></p> - -<p>“Dear godmamma,” said Sara in her coaxing way, “are you not glad? I -thought you would certainly be glad to find another Milly Mortimer; but -you’ve got something on your mind.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, yes, I have something on my mind,” said I. “Sara, child, I don’t -know what to do with myself. I must see this Mr. Luigi before I go -home.”</p> - -<p>“You can’t, godmamma; he is not in Chester,” cried Sara, with a sudden -blush. “As soon as he found out—the very next morning at least—he went -away to fetch some things he had left behind.”</p> - -<p>“Found out what?”</p> - -<p>Sara put her hands together with a childish appealing motion. “Indeed, I -do not know—indeed, dear godmamma, I do not know. If you think it wrong -of me to have spoken to him, I am very sorry, but I can’t help it. I met -him at Mrs. Langham’s, you know,—and he saw Sarah Mortimer written in -her book. And the next morning he met me,—I mean I met him—we happened -to meet in the street—and he told me he had found the clue he wanted, -and was going to fetch some things he had put for safety in London—and -I know he has not come back.”</p> - -<p>“How do you know he has not come back?” said I.</p> - -<p>Sara thought I was thinking of her, and the child blushed and looked -uneasy; I observed as much, but I did not till long afterwards connect -it with Mr. Luigi. I was too impatient to know about himself.</p> - -<p>“Because I should have seen him,” said Sara, faltering. It did not come -into my head to inquire why she was so sure she would have seen him. My -thoughts were occupied about my own business. I groaned in my heart over -her words. Not yet was I to discover this mystery. Not yet was I to -clear my mind of the burden which surely, surely, I could not long go on -bearing. <i>It</i> must come to an end, or me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246"></a>{246}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_IV-e" id="Chapter_IV-e"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter IV.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">A</span><span class="smcap">FTER</span> what Sara had told me I felt in great doubt as to what I should -do. Staying in Chester, even for a night, was against my habits, and -might make people talk. Ellis, of course, would be very wise over it -among the servants, and the chances were that it might alarm Sarah; but -at the same time I could not return there in the same state of -uncertainty. I could not meet her face again, and see her going on with -her knitting in that dreadful inhuman way. Having once broken out of my -patience, it seemed to me quite impossible to return to it. I felt as if -I could only go and make a scene with Sarah, and demand to know what it -was, and be met by some cruel cold denial that she understood anything -about it, which would, of course,—feeling sure that she understood it -all, but having no sure ground on which I could contradict her,—put me -half out of my senses. On the whole, staying in Chester all night could -do no harm. If Ellis talked about it, and pretended that he knew quite -well what I had gone about, I dare say it was no more than he had done -already, and would be very well inclined to do again. One must always -pay the penalty for having faithful old servants, and, really, if my -absence frightened Sarah, so much the better. She ought not to be -allowed to go on placidly congratulating herself on having shut out this -poor young man. If we were wronging him, what a cruel, cruel, miserable -thing it was of Sarah to be glad of having balked him and driven him -away! It is dreadful to say such things of one’s own only sister, but -one does get driven out of patience. Think of all I had come through, -and the dreadful doubt hanging over me! I had kept very quiet for a long -time and said nothing to nobody; but now that I had broken out, I fear I -was in rather an unchristian state of mind.</p> - -<p>All that afternoon I kept quiet, and rested behind the green blinds in -Mr. Cresswell’s half-lighted drawing-room. How Sara ever has got into -the way of enduring that half light I can’t imagine; or rather I should -say I don’t believe she uses this room at all, but has the back -drawing-room, where the window is from which she could see down into the -poor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247"></a>{247}</span> curate’s rooms, and watch his wife dressing the baby, as she told -me long ago. You can see the street, too from an end window in that back -drawing-room; perhaps that is how she would have known if Mr. Luigi had -come back, for I am pretty sure, from the glimpses I had when the doors -opened, that the blinds were not down <i>there</i>. She received her visitors -in the back drawing-room that afternoon. I heard them come and go, with -their dresses rustling about, and their fresh young voices. Of course I -neither heard nor listened what they were talking of; but dear, to hear -how eager the creatures were in their talk! as if it were anything of -any consequence. I sat with that hum now and then coming to my ears, -bewildering myself with my own fancies. If I could have read a book or a -paper, or given my mind to anything else, it would have been a deal -better for me; but my disorder of mind, you see, had come to a crisis, -and I was obliged to let it take its way.</p> - -<p>It was not without a good deal of difficulty and embarrassment that Mr. -Cresswell and I met. He was a little uncomfortable himself with the same -feelings he had shown a spark of at the Park, and unduly anxious to let -me see that he had lost no time in inquiring about the Langhams,—that -was the name of the young people,—as soon as he heard of them, and had -meant to come out to us next day and tell us the result. For my part, I -was a great deal more embarrassed than he was. I could scarcely help -letting him see that this new heiress was a very small part of my -excitement and trouble; indeed, had no share in the trouble at all, for -as much as I could give my mind to think of her, was pure pleasure; but -at the same time my heart revolted from telling him my real difficulty. -He, I dare say, had never once connected the young Italian, whom -everybody in Chester knew something about, with us or our family; and I -was so perfectly unable to say what it was I feared, that a shrewd -precise man like Cresswell would have set it down at once merely as a -woman’s fancy. At the same time, you know, I was quite unpractised in -the art of concealing my thoughts. I betrayed to him, of course, a -hundred times that I had something on my mind. I dare say he remembered -from the time of our last interview that I looked to have something on -my mind, and he made a great many very skilful efforts to draw it out. -He talked of Sarah, with private appeals to me in the way of looks and -cunning questions to open my mind about her; and, to tell the truth, it -cost me a little self-denial, after we really got into conversation, not -to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248"></a>{248}</span> say something, and put his shrewdness on the scent. I dare say he -might have worried out the secret somehow or another; but I did not -commit myself. I kept my own counsel closely, to his great surprise. I -could see he went away baffled when it was nearly time for dinner. And -he was not at all pleased to be baffled either, or to think that I was -too many for him. I felt sure now I should have to be doubly on my -guard, for his pride was piqued to find it all out.</p> - -<p>I can’t tell anybody what a comfort it was to my heart when my new Milly -Mortimer came. If the two had been very bright and elate about finding -themselves heirs to a great estate I might have been disgusted, glad as -I was to know about them; for, to be sure, one does not like one’s heirs -to be <i>very</i> triumphant about wealth they can only have after one’s own -death. But something more than houses or lands was in that young -creature’s mind. She was wonderfully steady and cheerful, but never for -a moment lost out of her eyes what was going to happen to her. It was -not mere sympathy, you know, that made me know so well how she was -feeling, for, to be sure, I never was in her circumstances nor anything -like them; it was because I was her relation, and had a natural insight -into her mind. I don’t believe Sara had the least perception of it. When -we came upstairs after dinner, leaving that fine young soldier, whom -really I felt quite proud of, with Mr. Cresswell, this came out -wonderfully, and in a way that went to my heart. Sara, who was extremely -affectionate to her, set her in an easy chair and brought her a -footstool, and paid her all those caressing little attentions which such -kittens can be so nice about when they please. “I am so glad you have -come to know my godmamma just now,” said Sara, kissing her, “because she -will know to comfort you when Mr. Langham goes away.”</p> - -<p>My Milly said nothing for a moment; she rather drew herself away from -Sara’s kiss. She did not lean back, but sat upright in her chair, and -put away the stool with her foot. “I am a soldier’s wife,” she said the -next minute in the most unspeakable tone, with a kind of sob that did -not sound, but only <i>showed</i>, in a silent heave of her breast. Ah, the -dear child! have not soldiers’ wives a good call to be heroes too? I -drew Sara away from her in a sort of passion; that velvet creature with -her sympathy and her kisses, when the other was hanging on the edge of -such a parting! If one could do nothing for the sweet soul, one might -have the charity to leave her alone.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249"></a>{249}</span></p> - -<p>But after a while I drew Milly into talking of herself, for I was -naturally anxious to know all about her, and where she had been brought -up, and how she had found out that she belonged to us. We all knew that -young Langham and Mr. Cresswell were going over the papers that her -husband had brought with him, and setting it all straight; but as I -never had any doubt from the moment I saw those books of hers, I was -much more anxious to know from Milly herself how she had spent her life. -She told us with a little reserve about her Irish friends and her odd -bringing up, and then how she had met with Harry. She told you all about -that herself, I know, a great deal better than I could repeat it, and -fuller, too, than she told us. But when she got fully into that story, -she could not help forgetting herself and the present circumstances a -little. Sara sat on a stool before her, with her hands clasped on her -knees, devouring every word. Certainly Sara took a wonderful interest in -it. I never saw her so entirely carried away by interest and sympathy. -When Milly was done, the creature jumped up and defied me.</p> - -<p>“You couldn’t blame her; you couldn’t have the heart to blame her! It -was just what she ought to have done!” cried Sara, with her face in such -a commotion, all shining, and blushing, and dewy with tears. I was -confounded by her earnest looks. It was very interesting, certainly, but -there was nothing to transport her into such a little rapture as that.</p> - -<p>“Child, be quiet,” said I; “you are determined to do me some harm, -surely. I don’t blame Milly. She thought she had nobody belonging to -her, though she was mistaken there. My dear, you have one old woman -belonging to you that will expect a great deal, I can tell you. I can -feel somehow, as if it might have been me you were telling of, if I had -ever been as pretty or as young——”</p> - -<p>“Godmamma, such nonsense!” cried Sara; “you must have been as young -once; and if you were not far prettier than godmamma Sarah, I will never -believe my eyes!”</p> - -<p>“Your godmamma Sarah was a great beauty,” said I; “but that is nothing -to the purpose. If I had ever been as young and as pretty as this Milly -Mortimer, I might have fallen in with a Harry too, who knows? and it -might not have been any the better for you, my dear child; so it’s just -as well that things are as they are. But, all the same, I can’t help -thinking that it might have been my story you’re telling. There’s a -great deal in a name, whatever people may say. I shall think<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250"></a>{250}</span> the second -Milly is to go through all the things the first Milly only wondered -about. I never had any life of my own to speak of. You have one already. -I shall think I have got hold of that life, that always slipped through -my fingers, when I see you going through with it. I shall never feel -myself an odd person again.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! but life is not happiness,” burst from my poor Milly’s lips in -spite of herself; then she hastily drew up again: “I mean it is not -play,” she said, after a while.</p> - -<p>“If it were play, it would be for children; it is heavy work and sore,” -cried I; “that much I know, you may be sure; but then there are words -said, that one can never forget, about him that endureth to the end.”</p> - -<p>Such words were comfort to <i>me</i>; but not just to that young creature in -the intolerable hope and anguish she had in her heart. She was not -thinking of any end; I was foolish to say it; and after all I knew more -of life than she did—far more! and knew very well it did not spring on -by means of heartbreaking events like the parting she was thinking of, -or joyful ones like the meeting again which already she had set all her -heart and life on, but crept into days and days like the slow current it -had been to me. Sara, however, as was natural, was impatient of this -talk. I believe she had something on her mind too.</p> - -<p>“You do not blame your Milly, godmamma?” she cried, a little spitefully; -“but I suppose you would blame any other poor girl; as if people were -always to do what was told them, and like such people as they were -ordered to like! You old people are often very cruel. Of course you -would blame every one else in the world?”</p> - -<p>“I should certainly blame <i>you</i>,” cried I, “if you should venture to -think you might deceive your good father, that never denied you anything -in his life. You velvet creature, what do you know about it? You never -had an unkind word said to you, nor the most foolish wish in your little -perverse heart denied. If you were to do such a thing, I could find it -in my heart to lock you up in a garret and give you bread and water. It -would not be a simple-hearted young creature with every excuse in the -world for her, but a little cheat and traitor, and unnatural little -deceiver. There! you are a wicked creature, but you are not so bad as -that. If you said it yourself I should not believe it of you!”</p> - -<p>But to my amazement the child stood aghast, too much dismayed, -apparently, to be angry, and faltered out, “Believe<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251"></a>{251}</span> what?” with her -cheeks suddenly growing so pale that she frightened me. The next moment -she had rushed into the back drawing-room, and from thence -disappeared,—for I went to look after her,—fairly flying either from -herself or me. I was entirely confounded. I could not tell what to make -of it. Was little Sara in a mystery too?</p> - -<p>“If I am betraying Sara, I am very sorry,” said Milly, when I looked to -her for sympathy; “but I fear, though they don’t know it themselves, -that she and the Italian gentleman are thinking more of each other, -perhaps, than they ought.”</p> - -<p>She had scarcely finished speaking when Sara returned, dauntless and -defiant. “I rushed away to see whether your note had gone to godmamma -Sarah,” said the daring creature, actually looking into my very eyes. “A -sudden dreadful thought struck me that it had been forgotten. But it is -all right, godmamma; and now I think we might have some tea.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252"></a>{252}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_V-e" id="Chapter_V-e"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter V.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><span class="smcap">HE</span> gentlemen came upstairs looking very cheerful and friendly, so of -course everything had been satisfactory in their conversation. After a -little while Mr. Cresswell came to tell me all about it. He said the -papers seemed all quite satisfactory, and he had no doubt Mrs. Langham -was really Richard Mortimer’s daughter, the nearest, and indeed only -relation, on the Mortimer side of the house, that we had in the world.</p> - -<p>“I have no doubt about it,” said I; “but I am very glad, all the same, -to have it confirmed. Now, my dear child, you know that we belong to -each other. My sister and I are, on your father’s side, the only -relations you have in the world.”</p> - -<p>Milly turned round to receive the kiss I gave her, but trembled and -looked as if she dared not lift her eyes to me. Somehow I believe that -idea which brightened her husband, came like a cold shadow between her -and me, the thought that I would take care of her when he was away. It -was very unreasonable, to be sure; but, dear, dear, it was very natural! -I did not quarrel with her for the impulse of her heart.</p> - -<p>“But softly, softly, my dear lady,” said Mr. Cresswell; “the papers all -<i>seem</i> very satisfactory, I admit; but the ladies are always jumping at -conclusions. I shall have to get my Irish correspondent to go over the -whole matter, and test it, step by step. Not but that <i>I</i> am perfectly -satisfied; but nobody can tell what may happen. A suit might arise, and -some of these documents might be found to have a flaw in it. We must be -cautious, very cautious, in all matters of succession.”</p> - -<p>“A suit! Why, wouldn’t Richard Mortimer, if he were alive, be -heir-at-law? Who could raise a suit?” cried I.</p> - -<p>I suppose he saw that there was some anxiety in my look which I did not -express; and, to be sure, he owed me something for having thwarted and -baffled him. “There is no calculating what mysterious claimant might -appear,” said Mr. Cresswell, quite jauntily. “I heard somebody say, not -very long ago, that all the romance now-a-days came through the hands -of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253"></a>{253}</span> conveyancers and attorneys. My dear lady, leave it to me; I -understand my own business, never fear.”</p> - -<p>I felt as if a perfect fever possessed me for the moment. My pulse beat -loud, and my ears rang and tingled. “What mysterious claimant could -there be to the Park?” I cried. I betrayed myself. He saw in a moment -that this was the dread that was on my mind.</p> - -<p>“Quite impossible to say. I know no loophole one could creep in -through,” he said, with a little shrug of his shoulders and a pretended -laugh. “But these things defy all probabilities. It is best to make -everything safe for our young friends here.”</p> - -<p>Now this, I confess, nettled me exceedingly; for though we had taken so -much notice of his daughter, and had lived so quietly for many years, -neither Sarah nor I had ever given up the pretensions of the Mortimers -to be one of the first families in the county. And to hear an attorney -speaking of “our young friends here,” as if they were falling heirs to -some old maiden lady’s little bit of property! I was very much -exasperated.</p> - -<p>“It seems to me, Mr. Cresswell, that you make a little mistake,” said I. -“Our family is not in such a position that its members could either be -lost or found without attracting observation. In a different rank of -life such things might happen; but the Mortimers, and all belonging to -them, are too well known among English families, if I am not mistaken, -to allow of <i>any</i> unknown connections turning up.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Cresswell immediately saw that he had gone too far, and he muttered -a kind of apology and got out of it the best way he could. I drew back -my chair a little, naturally indignant. But Cresswell, whose father and -his father’s father had been the confidential agents of our family, who -knew very well what we had been, and what we <i>were</i> whenever we chose to -assert ourselves,—to think of him, a Chester attorney, patronising our -heirs and successors! You may imagine I had a good right to be angry, -and especially as I could see he was quite pluming himself on his -cleverness in finding out what was in my mind. He thought it was a whim -that had taken possession of me, no doubt,—a kind of monomania. I could -even see, as he thought it all quietly over by himself over his cup of -tea, what a smile came upon his face.</p> - -<p>Young Langham, however, just then contrived to gain my attention. He did -it very carefully, watching his opportunities when Milly was not looking -at him, or when he thought she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254"></a>{254}</span> was not looking at him. “I am heartily -glad to have found you out now, of all times,” said the young man. -“Milly would not have gone to her relations in Ireland, and I have no -relations. She will be very lonely when we are gone. Poor Milly! It is a -hard life I have brought her into, and she so young.”</p> - -<p>“You are not much older yourself,” said I; “and if you children bring -such trouble on yourselves, you must be all the braver to bear it. I -doubt if she’d change with Sara Cresswell at this moment, or any other -unmarried young creature in the world.”</p> - -<p>The young man looked up at me gratefully. “I can’t tell you how good she -is,” he said, in his simplicity. “She never breaks down nor complains of -anything. I don’t understand how she has saved and spared our little -means and made them do; but she has, somehow. Now, though she’s pale -with thinking of this—don’t you think she’s pale? but I forgot, you -never saw her before—she has set all her mind upon my outfit, and will -hear of nothing else. I wish it were true what the books say. I wish -one’s young wife would content herself with thoughts of glory and -honour; indeed, I wish one could do as much one’s self,” said the good -young fellow, with a smile and sigh. “I fear I am only going, for -instance, because I must go; and that I’ll cast many a look behind me on -my Milly left alone. She’s just twenty,” he said, with an affectionate -look at her which brought her eyes upon us and our conversation, and -interrupted so far the confidential character of the interview between -him and me.</p> - -<p>“Say nothing about it just now,” said I, hurriedly, “it only vexes her -to hear you talk of what she is to do; leave her alone, dear soul—but -at the same time don’t be afraid. The very day you go I’ll fetch her to -the Park. She shall be our child while you are away—and it is to the -Park you shall come when you come home. But say nothing about it now. -She cannot bear to think of it at present. When the worst is over she’ll -breathe again. Hush! don’t let her hear us now!”</p> - -<p>“But you know her, though you don’t know her,” said he, under his -breath, with a half-wondering grateful look at me that quite restored my -good-humour. I remember I nodded at him cheerfully. Know her! I should -like to know who had as good a right! These young creatures can’t -understand how many things an old woman knows.</p> - -<p>Here Milly came up to us, a little jealous, thinking somehow<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255"></a>{255}</span> we were -plotting against her. “Harry is talking to you of something?” she said, -with a little hesitation in her voice.</p> - -<p>“On the subject we both like best, just now,” said I. “But I wish you -both to go with me to the Park. You can manage it, can you not? The dear -baby, and the little nurse, and—but the fat Italian? Ah! he doesn’t -belong to you.</p> - -<p>“No! he was in great triumph to-night; his master has come home,” said -young Langham. “He does not belong to us; but he is a devoted slave of -Milly’s for all that.”</p> - -<p>“His master came home to-night!” I repeated the words over to myself -involuntarily; and then a sudden thought struck me in the feverish -impulse which came with that news. “Children,” said I, with a little -gasp, “it is deeply to all our interest to know who that young man is. I -can never rest, nor take comfort in anything till I know. Will you try -to have him with you to-morrow, and I will come and speak to him? Hush! -neither the Cresswells nor anybody is to know; it concerns only us -Mortimers. Will you help me to see him at your house?”</p> - -<p>“You are trembling,” said Milly, suddenly taking hold of my hand. “Tell -Harry what it is and he will do it. He is to be trusted; but it will -agitate you.”</p> - -<p>“I cannot tell Harry, for I do not know,” said I, below my breath, -leaning heavily upon the arm, so firm and yet so soft, that had come to -my aid. “But I will take Harry’s support and yours. It shall be in your -house. Whatever is to be said shall be said before you. Thank heaven! if -I do get agitated and forget myself you will remember what he says.”</p> - -<p>“It is something that distresses you?” said the young stranger, once -more looking into my face, not curious but wistful. I should have been -angry had Sara Cresswell asked as much. I was glad and comforted to see -Milly anxious on my account.</p> - -<p>“I cannot tell what it is; but whatever it is, it is right that you -should know all about it,” said I. “For anything I can tell you it may -interfere both with your succession and ours. I can’t tell you anything -about it, that is the truth! I know no more than your baby does how Mr. -Luigi can have any connection with our family; but he has a connection -somehow—that is all I know. To-morrow, to-morrow, please God! we’ll try -to find out what it is.”</p> - -<p>The two young people were a good deal startled by my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256"></a>{256}</span> agitation; -perhaps, as was natural, they were also moved by the thought of another -person who might interfere with the inheritance that had just begun to -dazzle their eyes; but as I leaned back in my chair, exhausted with the -flutter that came over me at the very thought of questioning Mr. Luigi, -my eyes fell upon Mr. Cresswell, still sipping a cup of tea, and quietly -watching me over the top of his spectacles; and at the same moment Sara -came in from the back drawing-room with great agitation and excitement -in her face. I could see that she scarcely could restrain herself from -coming to me and telling me something; but with a sudden guilty glance -at her father, and a sudden unaccountable blush, she stole off into a -corner, and, of all the wonderful things in the world, produced actually -<i>some work</i> out of some fantastic ornamental work-table or other! That -was certainly a new development in Sara. But I could read in her face -that she had seen him too. She too had somehow poked her curls into this -mystery. All around me, everybody I looked at, were moved by it, into -curiosity or interest, or something deeper—I, the principal person in -the business, feeling them all look at me, could only feel the more that -I was going blindfold to, I could not tell what danger or precipice. -Blindfold! but at least it should be straightforward. I knew that much -of the to-morrow, which it made me tremble with excitement to think of; -but I knew nothing more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257"></a>{257}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="PART_VI" id="PART_VI"></a>PART VI.<br /><br /> -THE LIEUTENANT’S WIFE.<br /> -<small>(<i>Continued</i>).</small></h2> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_I-f" id="Chapter_I-f"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter I.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">M</span><span class="smcap">Y</span> dear old relation whom we have found out so suddenly, and whom I am -quite ashamed to have once thought to be a kind of usurper of something -that belonged to me, has been too much distressed and troubled -altogether about this business to have the trouble of writing it down as -well; and I have so little, so strangely little, to take up my time just -now. The days are somehow all blank, with nothing ever happening in -them. In my mind I can always see the ship making way over the sea, with -the same rush of green water, and the same low-falling, quiet sky, and -no other ships in sight. It has been very quiet weather—that is a great -mercy. They should be almost landed there by this time.</p> - -<p>But that is not my business just now. My dear Aunt Milly—it is true she -is only my father’s cousin, but cousin is an awkward title between -people of such different age, and, according to Sara Cresswell, she is -my aunt, <i>à la mode de Bretagne</i>, which I don’t mind adopting without -any very close inquiry into its meaning—made an engagement with us to -come to our house the next morning after that first day we met her. -Harry came home from the Cresswells that night in raptures with Aunt -Milly. It was rather hard upon me to see him so pleased. Of course I -knew very well what made him so pleased. He thought he had secured a -home for me. He was never tired<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258"></a>{258}</span> praising her in his way. I am not -exactly sure whether she herself would have relished the praises he gave -her, because he has a sad habit of talking slang like all the rest. But -apart from any reason, he <i>took to her</i>, which it is a great pleasure to -think of now. When we got home Mr. Luigi’s window was blazing with light -just as it had done when he returned before; for Domenico seems to be -quite of the opinion that candles are articles of love and welcome as -well as of devotion. Harry, who had quite made acquaintance with the -Italian gentleman when he was at home before, went in to see him, and I -went upstairs to baby. I used to take comfort in getting by myself a -little, just at that time. Ten minutes in my own room in the dark did me -a great deal of good. When one takes an opportunity and gets it out of -one’s heart now and then, one can go on longer and better—at least I -have found it so.</p> - -<p>Lizzie, always watchful, was very ready to let me hear that she was -close at hand. The moment she heard me open my own room-door, she began -to move about in the back apartment where she kept watch over baby, and -I do believe it was only by dint of strong self-denial that she did not -burst in upon me at once. I can’t fancy what she thought would happen if -I “gave way.” It must have taken some very terrible shape to her fancy. -After I had my moment of repose, I went to baby’s room. He was asleep -like a little cherub in Mrs. Goldsworthy’s old wicker-work cradle, which -I had trimmed with chintz for him; and Lizzie sat by the table working, -but looking up at me with her sharp suspicious eyes—sidelong -inquisitive looks, full of doubts of my fortitude, and anxiety for me. -It was all affection, poor child. When one has affectionate creatures -about one, it is impossible to be hard or shut one’s self up. I had no -choice but to stop and tell Lizzie about my new friend.</p> - -<p>“Oh, it was thon leddy was at the muckle gates, and warned us away for -the kingcough,” cried Lizzie; “I minded her the very moment at the door. -I was sure as could be from the first look that it was some friend.”</p> - -<p>“Some friend,” in Lizzie’s language meant some relation. I asked in -wonder, “Why?”</p> - -<p>But Lizzie could not explain why; it was one of those unreasonable -impressions which are either instinctively prophetic, or which are -adopted unconsciously after the event has proved them true.</p> - -<p>“But you were never slow where help was needed or comfort,” said Lizzie, -dropping her eyes and ashamed of her own compliment; “and I kent there -was somebody to be sent to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259"></a>{259}</span> comfort <i>you</i>; and wha could it be but a -friend? For naebody could take you like the way you took me.”</p> - -<p>I suppose Lizzie’s view of things, being the simplest, had power over -me. I was struck by this way of regarding it. Perhaps I had not just -been thinking of what was <i>sent</i>. I felt as if that tight binding over -my heart relaxed a little. Ah! so well as the Sender knew all about -it—all my loneliness, dismay, and troubles; all my Harry’s risks and -dangers; all our life beyond—inscrutable dread life which I dared not -attempt to look at—and everything that was in it. I held my breath, and -was silent in this wide world that opened out to me through Lizzie’s -words.</p> - -<p>“And eh, mem,” cried Lizzie, opening her eyes wide, “I was sent for down -the stair.”</p> - -<p>“Where?” cried I in astonishment.</p> - -<p>“I was sent for down the stair,” said Lizzie, with the oddest blush and -twist of her person. “Menico, he’s aye been awfu’ ill at me since I -wouldna gang to the playhouse after it was a’ settled—as if I could -gang to play mysel’ the very day the news came! and eh, when he came up -and glowered in at the door, and Mrs. Goldsworthy beside him, and no a -person but me in <i>oor</i> house, I was awfu’ feared. Her being English, -they were like twa foreigners thegither; and how was I to ken what they -were wantin’? The only comfort I had was mindin’ upon the Captain’s -sword. It was aye like a protection. But a’ they said was that Mrs. -Goldsworthy would stop beside baby, and I was to gang down the stair and -speak to the gentleman. I thought shame to look as if I was feared—but -I was awfu’ feared for a’ that.”</p> - -<p>“And what then?”</p> - -<p>“I had to gang,” said Lizzie, holding down her head; “<i>he</i> was sleeping -sound, and I kent I could hear the first word of greetin’ that was in -his head; <i>I</i> could hear in ony corner o’ the house; and Mrs. -Goldsworthy gied me her word she would sit awfu’ quiet and not disturb -him. Eh, mem, are ye angry? I never did it afore, and I’ll never do it -again.”</p> - -<p>“No, you must not do it again,” said I; “but who wanted you downstairs?”</p> - -<p>“Eh, it was the Italian gentleman,” said Lizzie; “and it was a’ about -the leddy that was here the day. He wanted to ken if she was wanting -<i>him</i>; and then he wanted to hear if I kent her, and what friend she was -to you; but it was mostly a’ to make certain that it wasn’t <i>him</i> she -wanted—as if a leddy like yon was likely to have ony troke wi’ -foreigners or strange men!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260"></a>{260}</span> and there was aye the other blatter to -Menico in their ain language—and ower again, and ower again to me, if -it wasna <i>him</i> she asked for. And me standing close at the door -listening for baby, and thinking shame to be there, and awfu’ feared you -would be angry. I would like to ken what the like of him had to do wi’ -leddies?—and Menico, too, that might have kent better—but there’s -naebody will behave to please folk perfect in this world.”</p> - -<p>“But this is very strange news,” said I. “What did you say, Lizzie? did -you say it was Miss Mortimer, and that she was a relation of mine.”</p> - -<p>“Eh, no me!” cried Lizzie. “Ye might think it to see me so silly, but I -wasna that daft. I said it was ane on a visit to the leddy. <i>I</i> had nae -ado with it ony mair than that, and I’m sure neither had he.”</p> - -<p>Here Harry’s voice sounded from below, calling me, and I left Lizzie -somewhat amused by her cautious and prudent answer, and not a little -curious to see that the Italian was interested about the old lady as -well as she about him. I found Harry quite full of the same story. Mr. -Luigi had questioned him with great caution about Miss Mortimer, and of -course had heard the entire story from Harry of our relationship, and -how we found each other out. He had received it very quietly, without -expressing any feeling at all, and had asked some very close questions -about her and about the Park, and her other sister. Harry could not make -him out. Of course neither of us knew the other sister. Evidently it was -a mysterious business somehow. But as we knew nothing whatever about it, -we soon came to an end of our speculations. The morning, perhaps, as -Aunt Milly thought, would clear it all up.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261"></a>{261}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_II-f" id="Chapter_II-f"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter II.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><span class="smcap">HE</span> morning came, and a very lovely morning it was, as bright and almost -as warm as summer, one of those glimpses of real spring which come to us -only by days at a time. Aunt Milly came almost before we had finished -breakfast. I dare say she is accustomed to early hours; but it was -evidently strong anxiety and excitement that had brought her out so soon -to-day. I had told Lizzie she was coming, and Lizzie, either with some -perception of the real nature of her visit, which I could not in any way -account for, or with natural Scotch jealousy and reluctance to satisfy -the curiosity of strangers as to our relationship, kept on the watch -after she had given baby into my charge, and got her triumphantly into -the house without any intervention on the part of Domenico. Aunt Milly -sank into a chair, very breathless and agitated. It was some time before -she could even notice little Harry. To see her so made me more and more -aware how serious this business, whatever it was, must be.</p> - -<p>“But I am too early, I suppose?” she said with a little gasp.</p> - -<p>Harry thought it was rather too early, unless he were to tell Mr. Luigi -plainly what he was wanted for, which she would not permit him to do. It -was a very uncomfortable interval. She sat silent, evidently with her -whole mind bent upon the approaching interview. We, neither knowing the -subject of it, nor what her anxiety was, had nothing to say, and I was -very glad when Harry went downstairs to find the Italian. Then Aunt -Milly made a hurried communication to me when we were alone, which -certainly did not explain anything, but which still she evidently felt -to be taking me into her confidence.</p> - -<p>“My dear, Sarah knows something about him,” said Aunt Milly; “somehow or -other Sarah knows that he has a claim upon us. When she heard of the -inquiries he was making, she was in a state of desperation—used to -drive out with the carriage blinds down, poor soul, and kept watching -all day long, so wretched and anxious that it would have broken<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262"></a>{262}</span> your -heart. But how it all is, and how about this Countess, and his being -named Luigi, and his claim upon the estate, and her knowing him—though, -so far as I can judge, he could be no more than born when she came -home—Hark! was that somebody coming upstairs?”</p> - -<p>It was only some of the people of the house moving about. Aunt Milly -gave a sigh of relief. “My dear, I’m more and more anxious since I’ve -found <i>you</i>, to know the worst,” she said. “It is as great a mystery to -you as to your baby, how he can have any connection with us. Dear, dear! -to think of a quiet family, and such a family as the Mortimers, plunged -all at once into some mystery! it is enough to break one’s heart;—but -then, you see, Sarah was so long abroad.”</p> - -<p>“Was she long abroad?” said I, with a little cry. All at once, and in -spite of myself, my old fancy about that old Miss Mortimer, whom I -imagined living in my grandfather’s house, came back to my mind. The -great beauty whom my good Mrs. Saltoun had seen abroad—how strange if -this should be her after all! Somehow my old imaginations had looked so -true at the time, that I seemed to remember them as if they were matters -of fact and not of fancy. I looked up, quite with a consciousness that I -knew something about it, in Aunt Milly’s face.</p> - -<p>“What do you know about her?” cried Aunt Milly, rising up quite erect -and rigid out of her chair. Her excitement was extreme. She had -evidently gone beyond the point at which she could be surprised to find -any stranger throwing light upon her mystery. But at that moment those -steps for which we had been listening did ascend the stairs. We could -hear them talking as they approached, the Italian with his accent and -rather solemn dictionary English, and Harry’s voice that sounded so easy -in comparison. Aunt Milly sank back again into her chair. She grasped -the arms of it to support herself, and gave me a strange half-terrified, -half-courageous look. In another moment they had entered the room.</p> - -<p>Mr. Luigi came in without any idea, I dare say, of the anxiety with -which we awaited him; but he had not been a minute in the room when his -quick eye caught Aunt Milly, though she had drawn back with an -involuntary movement of withdrawal from the crisis she had herself -brought on. I could read in his face, the instant he saw her, that he -divined the little contrivance by which he had been brought here. He -stood facing her after he had paid his respects to me, and took no -notice of the chair Harry offered him. As for Harry and I, not knowing -whether they really knew each other, or whether<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263"></a>{263}</span> they ought to be named -to each other, or what to do, we stood very uncomfortable and -embarrassed behind. I said “Miss Mortimer,” instinctively, to lessen the -embarrassment if I could. I don’t believe he heard me. <i>He</i> knew Miss -Mortimer very well, however it was.</p> - -<p>And it was he who was the first to break the silence. He made a kind of -reverence to her, more than a bow, like some sort of old-fashioned -filial demonstration. “Madame has something to say to me?” he asked, -with an anxiety in his face almost equal to her own.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” cried Aunt Milly, “I—I have something to say to you. Sit down, -and let me get breath.”</p> - -<p>He sat down, and so did we. To see her struggling to overcome the great -tremor of excitement she had fallen into, and we all waiting in silence -for her words, must have been a very strange scene. It was the merest -wonder and curiosity, of course, with Harry and me; but I remember -noticing even at that moment that Mr. Luigi was not surprised. He -evidently knew something to account for her agitation. He sat looking at -her, bending towards her with visible expectation of something. It was -no mystery to him.</p> - -<p>“Sir—young man,” cried Aunt Milly, with a gasp, “I do not know you; you -are a stranger, a foreigner; you have nothing to do with this place. -What, in the name of heaven, is it that you have to do with mine or me?”</p> - -<p>Mr. Luigi’s countenance fell. He was bitterly disappointed; it was -evident in his face. He drew a long breath and clasped his hands -together, half in resignation, half appealing against some hard fate. -“Ah!” he said, “I did hope otherwise—is it, indeed, indeed, that you -know not <i>me</i>?”</p> - -<p>Aunt Milly gave a cry half of terror. “I recognise your voice,” she -said. “I see gleams in your face of faces I know. I am going out of my -wits with bewilderment and trouble; but as sure as you are there before -me, I know no more who you are than does the child who cannot speak.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Luigi made no reply for some minutes. Then he made some exclamations -in Italian, scarcely knowing, I am sure, what he was saying. Then he -remembered himself. “Thing most strange! thing most terrible!” cried the -young man; “not even now!—not even now!” and he looked round to us with -such distress and amazement in his face, and with such an involuntary -call for our sympathy, though we knew nothing about it, that his look -went to my heart. Aunt Milly saw it, and was confounded by it. His -genuine wonder and strange<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264"></a>{264}</span> grieved consciousness that she ought to have -known this secret, whatever it was, stopped her questions upon her lips. -She sat leaning forward looking at him, struck dumb by his looks. I was -so excited by the evident reserve on both sides, which implied the -existence of a third person whom neither would name, that I burst into -it, on the spur of the moment, without thinking whether what I said was -sensible or foolish. “Who?” I cried, “who is the other person that -knows?”</p> - -<p>Both of them started violently; then their eyes met in a strange look of -intelligence. Aunt Milly fell back in her chair trembling dreadfully, -trembling so much that her teeth chattered. Mr. Luigi rose. “I am at -Madame’s disposition,” he said softly; “but what can I say? It is better -I be gone while I do not harm Madame, and make her ill. Pardon! it is -not I who am to blame!”</p> - -<p>Saying so, he took Aunt Milly’s hand, kissed it, and turned to the door. -She called him back faintly. “Stop, I have not asked you rightly,” said -poor Aunt Milly. “Could not you tell me, without minding anybody else? -Are you—are you?—oh! <i>who</i> are you? I do beseech you tell me. If wrong -is done you, I have no hand in it. What is there to prevent you telling -me?”</p> - -<p>“Ah, pardon. I know my duty,” said the young man. “If she <i>will</i> reject -me—then! but it is yet too early. I wait—I expect—she has not yet -said it to me.”</p> - -<p>Aunt Milly gathered herself up gradually, with a strange fluttered look -in her eyes. “<i>Reject</i> you! God bless us! it is some mistake, after all. -Do you know who it is you are speaking of? Do you know if it is my -sister Sarah? She is my elder sister, ten years older than me,—old -enough to be your mother—is it she? or, oh, God help us! is it a -mistake?”</p> - -<p>Mr. Luigi turned towards me for a moment, with a face melted out of all -reserve, into such affectionateness and emotion as I scarcely ever saw -on a man’s face. When she named her sister’s age, he said, “Ah!” with a -tone as if her words went to his heart. But that was all. He shook his -head. He said, “No more, no more,” and went slowly but steadily away. It -was no mistake. What she said conveyed no information to him. He knew -<i>that</i> Sarah’s age and all about her, better than her sister did, or I -was mistaken. What he said, and still more what he looked, brought a -strong sudden impression to my mind. I don’t know yet how I can be -right—if I am right it is the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265"></a>{265}</span> strangest thing in the world; but I know -it darted into my head that morning when Luigi’s face melted out so -strongly, and that cry which explained nothing came from his heart.</p> - -<p>In the meantime, however, poor Aunt Milly sat wringing her hands and -more troubled than ever, repeating to herself bits of the conversation -which had just passed, and bits of other conversations which we knew -nothing about. Harry and I, a little uncomfortable, still tried to -occupy ourselves so that we should not hear anything she did not want us -to hear; but we did not wish to leave her either. At last Harry went out -altogether and left her alone with me, and by degrees she calmed down. I -do not wonder she was painfully excited. There could be little doubt -some strange, unnatural secret was concealed in her house.</p> - -<p>“But you heard him say <i>reject</i>,” said Aunt Milly,—“if she rejected -him—do you feel quite sure he understood my last question? Not knowing -a language very well makes a wonderful difference; and what if he -supposed my sister a <i>young</i> woman, Milly? When I began to be troubled -about this business, I couldn’t but think that it was some old lover -Sarah was afraid of meeting, forgetting the lapse of time. She was a -great beauty once, you know. How do you suppose, now, an old woman could -<i>reject</i> a young man?”</p> - -<p>“But there are other meanings of the word than as it is between young -women and young men,” said I; “he might mean <i>disown</i>.”</p> - -<p>“He might mean <i>disown</i>,” repeated Aunt Milly slowly,—“<i>disown</i>; but, -dear, dear child,” she cried, immediately throwing off her first puzzled -hypothesis, and falling back at once into the real subject of her -trouble, “what can he be to Sarah that she could <i>disown</i> him? Before -you can disown a person he must belong to you. How could Mr. Luigi -belong to my sister? but, to be sure, it is folly to put such questions -to you that know nothing about it. Milly, dear, I’ll have to go home.”</p> - -<p>“I am very, very sorry you are going home disappointed,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Aunt Milly, with a great sigh, “it is hard to think one’s -somehow involved in doing wrong, my dear; it’s hard to live in the house -with your nearest friend, and not to know any more of her than if she -were a stranger. What was I saying? I never said so much to any creature -before. I take you as if you belonged to me, though you scarcely know me -yet, Milly. I’d like you to settle to come out as soon as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266"></a>{266}</span> possible, -dear. I’d like you to see Sarah, and tell me what you think. -Perhaps—there is no telling—she might say something to <i>you</i>.”</p> - -<p>“But will she be pleased to know about us?” said I.</p> - -<p>“It was <i>her</i> desire to seek for you,” said Aunt Milly. “She thought of -that, somehow, just before this trouble came on. Sometimes it has come -into my mind, that she thought if she found your father, he would have -protected her somehow. I can’t tell: it is all a great mystery to me.”</p> - -<p>And so she went away after a while, looking very sorrowful; but came -back to tell me to put my bonnet on and come with her to Mr. -Cresswell’s, who was to drive her home. On our way there I suddenly felt -her grasp my arm and point forward a little way before us, where Mr. -Luigi was walking slowly along the road by Sara Cresswell’s side. Aunt -Milly came almost to a dead stop, looking at them. They were not -arm-in-arm, nor did they look as if they had met <i>on purpose</i>. I dare -say it was only by accident. Sara, as usual, was dressed in a great -velvet jacket, much larger and wider than the one she wore indoors, and -held her little head high, as if she quite meant to impress an idea of -her dignity upon the Italian, who had to stoop down a long way, and -perhaps did stoop down more than Aunt Milly and I saw to be exactly -necessary. They went the length of the street together, quite -unconscious of the critics behind them, and then separated, Mr. Luigi -marching off at a very brisk pace, and Sara continuing her way home. We -came up to her just as she reached her own door. She was certainly a -very pretty creature, and looked so fresh and blooming in the morning -air that I could not have scolded her a great deal, though I own I had a -very good mind to do my best in that way, while we were walking behind. -The moment she saw us she took guilt to herself. Her face glowed into -the most overpowering blush, and the little parasol in her hand fell out -of her trembling fingers. But, of course, her spirit did not forsake -her. She was not the person to yield to any such emergency.</p> - -<p>“We have been walking after you for a long time,” said dear Aunt Milly, -in a voice which I have no doubt she supposed to be severe. “I should -have called you to wait for us, had I not seen you were otherwise -engaged.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! then you saw Mr. Luigi, godmamma?” said Sara, quite innocently. “He -says he thinks he has found out where the Countess Sermoneta is.”</p> - -<p>“The Countess Sermoneta!—oh, child, child, how can you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267"></a>{267}</span> speak so to -me?” cried Aunt Milly. “I don’t believe there is any such person in the -world. I believe he only makes a fuss about a name, no one ever heard -of, to cover his real designs, whatever they may be.”</p> - -<p>“Godmamma!” cried Sara, with a flash of fury; “perhaps it will be better -to come indoors,” cried the little wicked creature (as Aunt Milly calls -her); “nobody, that I ever heard of, took away people’s characters in -the open street.”</p> - -<p>Aunt Milly went in quickly, shaking her head and deeply troubled. The -renewal of this subject swept Sara’s enormity out of her head. We -followed, Sara bidding me precede her with a sort of affronted grandeur, -which, I confess, was a little amusing to me. When we came into the -dining-room, where Aunt Milly went first, the little girl confronted us -both, very ready to answer anything we had to say, and confute us to our -faces. But much to Sara’s surprise, and perhaps annoyance, Aunt Milly -did not say a word on the subject. She shook her head again more -energetically than ever. She was so much shaken on this one subject, -that other matters evidently glided out of her mind, whenever she was -recalled to this.</p> - -<p>“No, no! depend upon it there’s no Countess Sermoneta. I believed in it -at first, naturally, as everybody else did. It may be a lady, but it -isn’t an Italian lady. No, no,” said Aunt Milly, mournfully; “he knows -better. He said nothing, you may be sure, about <i>her</i> to me.”</p> - -<p>At this moment Mr. Cresswell entered the room, and a little after the -brougham came to the door. There was nothing more said on the subject. -Sara saw them drive away, with a flutter of fear, I could see; but she -need not have been afraid. Aunt Milly had returned into the -consideration of her own mystery, which swallowed up Sara’s. I do not -think, for my own part, that I had very Christian feelings towards Mr. -Luigi as I went home.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268"></a>{268}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_III-f" id="Chapter_III-f"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter III.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">F</span><span class="smcap">OR</span> a few days after I was occupied entirely with my own affairs. We had -promised to go to the Park to see that strange sister Sarah, who -troubled Aunt Milly’s mind so much; and we had, of course, to make some -little preparations for going—more, indeed, than were very convenient -at such a time, as you may very well suppose. However, Aunt Connor, who -had not paid the last half year’s interest, sent it just then, “all in a -lump,” as she said herself, “thinking it would do you more good;” as -indeed it did, though perhaps poor Aunt Connor had other motives than -that one for not sending it just when it was due. Harry was quite -pleased at the thought of going to the Park. He got leave of absence for -a few days; and, naturally, it was a satisfaction to him, after feeling -that he had been obliged to keep his wife in the shade so long, to say -that it was to my relations we were going. And what with all the -preparations for his going away as well, I was so very busy that I got -little leisure to think. It is very common to say what good -opportunities for thought one has in working at one’s needle—and it is -very true so far as quiet, leisurely work is concerned; but when it -happens to be making shirts and such things—and you know, with most -men, merely to <i>say</i> they are made at home is enough to make them feel -as if they did not fit,—it is quite a different matter. I was too busy, -both mind and fingers, to do much thinking; and that was far better for -me than if I had found more leisure. I used to go up to Lizzie’s room, -which we called the nursery, and work there. Baby sat on the carpet, -well protected with cushions, and furnished with things to play with. He -was not very particular—his playthings were of a very humble and -miscellaneous order; but I am sure he was as happy as a little king.</p> - -<p>“And eh, isn’t it grand that his birthday’s come before the Captain -gangs away? He’ll, maybe, be back,” said Lizzie, peering into my face -with a sidelong look, “before another year.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269"></a>{269}</span></p> - -<p>“Hush!” said I, hastily; “but you must remember, Lizzie, to be -particularly nice and tidy, and to look as if you were twenty, at least, -when we go to the Park.”</p> - -<p>Here Lizzie drew herself up a little. “I’ve never been among a housefu’ -o’ servants,” said Lizzie, “that’s true—but I’ve been wi’ a leddy, and -that suld learn folk manners better nor a’ the flunkeys in the world. -For Menico says, as well as I can understand him, that there’s twa -men-servants, and as mony maids as would fill a house. Eh, mem, wouldn’t -it be a great vexation to see a wheen idle folk aye in the road? -Menico’s no like a common man; there’s no an article he canna do; but as -for just flunkeys to hand the plates and do about a house—eh, if it was -me, I would think they werena men.”</p> - -<p>“But Miss Mortimer’s man is not a flunkey; it was he who came with us in -the omnibus,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Yon <i>gentleman</i>?” said Lizzie, in great dismay. “I thought he was a -minister; and eh, to think of <i>him</i> puttin’ on fires and waitin’ at the -table! I would far sooner be a woman mysel’.”</p> - -<p>“And have you any objection to be a woman apart from that?” said I. “I -did not think you had been so ambitious, Lizzie. What would <i>you</i> do if -you were a man?”</p> - -<p>Lizzie’s colour rose, and her work fell from her hand. “I would gang to -the wars with the Captain,” cried the girl, “I would aye make a spring -in before him where danger was. I would send word every day how he did, -and what he was doing. I would stand by our ain flag if they hacked me -in pieces. I wouldna let the Hielanders stay still, no a moment!—I -would dash them down on the enemy wi’ a’ their bayonets, and cry -‘Scotland and the Queen!’ and if we were killed, wha’s heeding!—it -would be worth a man’s while to die!”</p> - -<p>This outburst was more than I could bear. I forgot to think it was only -Lizzie, a woman and a child, that spoke. I put my hands over my eyes to -shut out the prospect she brought before me, but only saw the picture -all the clearer, as my hand, with all its warm pulses beating, shut out -the daylight. I could see Harry rushing before them with his sword -drawn. I could hear his voice pealing out over their heads; I could see -the smoke close over him and swallow him up. Ah, heaven!—pictures and -stories are made out of such scenes. This creature by my side had flamed -up into exulting enthusiasm at the thought. How many hearts attended -those charging regiments, breaking against each other, heart upon<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270"></a>{270}</span> -heart! It came to my heart to wonder, suddenly, whether there might not -be some young Russian woman, like me, imagining that fight. Her husband -and my Harry might meet under those dreadful flags,—she and I, would -not we meet, too, in our agony? I held out my arms to her with a cry of -anguish—we were sisters, though <i>they</i> were foes.</p> - -<p>When I looked up Lizzie was crying bitterly, partly with her own -excitement, partly, because she saw how cruel her suggestion had been to -me. She did not mean it so, poor child. Baby sat playing all the time -among his cushions, crowing to himself over the bright-coloured ball he -had found under his heap of toys. I thought to myself he would laugh all -the same whatever happened, and wondered how I should bear to hear him. -But that was enough, that was too much. I stopped myself, as best I -could, from going on any further. I got some linen that had to be cut -out, and rose up to do it;—it was very delicate work. If I were not -very careful, a snip of the scissors, too much or too little, might -spoil all the stuff; for Harry was very fastidious, you know, about all -his things, like most young men. It took some trouble to steady my hand -enough—but I did manage it. I wonder what the Russian woman did, to -calm <i>her</i> agitation down.</p> - -<p>Lizzie recovered very hastily when she saw what I was doing. She picked -up her work, and sewed for a long time so silently and swiftly, that the -snip of my scissors and the movement of her arm, as she drew through her -needle, were the only sounds, except those which baby made, to be heard -in the room. At last she took courage to address me with great humility, -asking only if it was “the day after the morn” that we were going to the -Park?</p> - -<p>I nodded my head in return, and Lizzie took courage to go on. The next -question was whether the Italian gentleman would be there?</p> - -<p>“The Italian gentleman! what has he to do with the Miss Mortimers?” -cried I.</p> - -<p>“Eh, it’s no me said it,” cried Lizzie, in alarm; “but yesterday, the -day the leddy was here Menico was a’ the gate out there, ance errand wi’ -a letter. I said what way did it no go to the post? and he said the post -wouldna do. But I wouldna let on the leddy was here.”</p> - -<p>“He went out with a letter, did he?” said I, in much surprise. “Was that -where he was all day? I did not see him about till it was dark.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271"></a>{271}</span></p> - -<p>“There maun be another leddy?” said Lizzie, inquisitively; “and he gaed -her some grand name or another. He’s awfu’ funny wi’ his names. He ca’s -baby <i>Signorino</i> and <i>ragazzino</i>, and I dinna ken a’ what. I looked them -up in the dictionary, and they were a’ right meanings enough. But it -wasna Miss Mortimer he ca’ed the other leddy. Eh, mem, isn’t Menico -getting grand at his English? and I’me aye improving mysel’ too,” said -Lizzie, with a little blush and awkward droop of her head.</p> - -<p>I was not much in the humour for laughing at poor Lizzie’s -self-complacency; but I was rather anxious to hear all the gossip I -could get for Aunt Milly’s sake. I asked immediately “Were they kind to -Menico at the Park?”</p> - -<p>Lizzie hesitated a little in her answer. “He’s rael clever at speaking,” -she said, apologetically,—I suppose finding it rather hard to go back -so soon after her laudation—“but when it’s a long story it’s no so easy -to ken—no <i>a’</i> he means. But I’m no thinking they were very good to -him—for he was awfu’ angry when he came hame. And eh, to see him at his -dinner! You would think he hadna seen meat for a week. It’s no a guid -account of a house—no meaning ony harm of a great house like the Park,” -said Lizzie, reflectively,—“when a man comes awfu’ hungry hame.”</p> - -<p>Here there was a little pause while Lizzie threaded her needle. I don’t -know whether she was indulging in any melancholy anticipations of the -hospitality of the Park. However, presently she resumed her story again.</p> - -<p>“And eh, mem! far mair than that,” said Lizzie, making a fresh start, -“he brought back the very same letter just as it was—it might be -because the leddy was out, or I dinna ken what it might be; but I saw -him gi’e it back to the gentleman. And the gentleman, instead of being -angry, he just took the letter and shook his head, and set fire to it at -the candle. The door was open, and I saw him do it as I came up the -stairs. It gaed to my heart to see him burning the good letter,” said -Lizzie; “there was, maybe, something in’t that somebody might have likit -to hear.”</p> - -<p>“But, Lizzie, don’t you know nobody has any business with a letter -except the person who wrote it, and the person it is addressed to?” said -I.</p> - -<p>I spoke, I confess, in an admonitory spirit. We did not get very many -letters, but Harry was sadly careless of those he did get.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272"></a>{272}</span></p> - -<p>“Eh, but foreigners are no like other folk,” cried Lizzie; “there’s -something awfu’ queer in burning a letter, and it a’ sealed up. I -couldna find it in my heart;—and when it’s a long story, it’s awfu’ -fickle to understand Domenico, the half o’ what he says.”</p> - -<p>Lizzie ended with a sigh of unsatisfied curiosity. Perhaps, if I could -have done it, I might have been as anxious to cross-question Domenico as -she.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273"></a>{273}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_IV-f" id="Chapter_IV-f"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter IV.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">O</span><span class="smcap">UR</span> little journey was arranged by Aunt Milly in the most comfortable -way she could think of for us. Harry would not consent to let her send -the carriage all the way. The railway was close to us, and it passed -about two miles from the Park, where there was a little station; and the -carriage was to meet us there. It was a very short journey, certainly; -but I remember when we were all in the train,—all—every one of us,—a -family entire and close together,—and especially at the moment when we -were passing through the tunnel, and felt in the darkness more entirely -separated from the world,—a sudden thought seized upon me: “Oh, if we -were only going on, anywhere, anywhere to the end of the world!” -Plunging through the darkness, with Harry sitting close by me, and baby -on my knee, and nobody able to approach or stop us—going on all -together! All sorts of people have their fancies, no doubt. I daresay -mine were very homely ones; but I shall never forget the strange thrill -that came upon my heart as this wild possibility seized me. When we came -slowly into the daylight, and the train stopped, and the door of the -carriage flew open, and dear Aunt Milly herself appeared to welcome us, -I woke up with a little shiver into real life again. Ah me! one cannot -dart into the bowels of the earth and hide one’s self. But life and duty -somehow looked cold at me with their piercing daylight eyes after that -thought.</p> - -<p>Everything familiar stopped short and broke off when we got into the -carriage. Aunt Milly was not a great lady. I don’t think anything could -ever have made her a great lady; but it was clear she had been a person -of consideration for many a year. I never had been in such a carriage -before; indeed, I don’t think I had ever been in any carriage but a -public one, for, of course, Aunt Connor was not rich enough to have a -carriage of her own. But when I sat down by Aunt Milly’s side, I could -not help feeling immediately that it all belonged to me. It was a -strange feeling, and indeed, if nobody will be shocked, it was a very -pleasing feeling. Instead of making me discontented, somehow it quite -reconciled me to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274"></a>{274}</span> being poor. My own opinion is, that people of good -family, or whatever is equivalent to good family,—people that know they -belong to a higher class, whether other people know it or not,—always -bear poverty best. It does not humiliate them as it does people who have -always been poor. I think I could have stood any remarks upon my bonnet, -or even baby’s pelisse, with great equanimity after my visit to the -Park; being poor looked so much more like an accidental circumstance -after that. Perhaps I don’t explain very well what I mean, so I will -just state it plainly, and then you may understand, or disagree with it, -just as you choose. The higher one’s rank is, the better one can bear -being poor. There! it is not the common opinion, but I believe it all -the same for that.</p> - -<p>And here was the Park, the very same great modern house that stood -(leaning on the trees) in poor papa’s drawing, with two wings drawn out -from the main body of the building, and a curious archway and a little -paved court at the side before you came to the great door. We went to -the great door as we were strangers, and I could see the grave face of -my omnibus acquaintance peeping through a round bow-window close to the -door before he admitted us, very solemnly and with profoundest abstract -air. I wonder if he could remember us. His face looked as blankly -respectful as if any idea on any subject whatever would somehow be -unbecoming the dignity of the Park. Aunt Milly, who had gradually become -fidgety, now took hold of my hand and drew me forward quickly. I went -with her, a little astonished, but with no clear idea where I was going. -She took me into a very long, very large room, with a great many tall -windows on one side, a room so big as to look a perfect maze of -furniture to me. I saw nobody in it, and did not think of it as being a -room in common use. She had brought me to see some picture, no doubt. -But Aunt Milly hurried me up this long room, with her hand upon my -wrist, to a screen that seemed drawn so as to shelter one side of the -fireplace. When we came in front of this, I was greatly startled to see -a lady, with large knitting-pins in her hands, rise slowly from an -arm-chair. There was nothing extraordinary in her look; she had fine -features, I suppose,—I don’t think I know, very well, what fine -features are,—she had white hair, and a pretty cap with soft-coloured -ribbons, and a strange, <i>studied</i>, soft-coloured dress. I noticed all -this unconsciously, in the midst of the nervous and startled sensation -that I had in being brought in front of her so suddenly. She put both -her knitting-pins into one hand, and held out the other to me. Then she -bent<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275"></a>{275}</span> forward a little, meaning me to kiss her, which I did with much -awe and with no great sensation of pleasure. Her hand was cold, and so -was her cheek. I could scarcely help shrinking away from her touch. Then -she spoke, and I, being quite unprepared for it, was still more -startled. Her voice was a kind of whisper, very strange and unpleasant; -all the s’s came out sharp, with a kind of hiss. I suppose it was -because she was so entirely used to it herself that Aunt Milly never -mentioned it to me.</p> - -<p>“So you are Richard Mortimer’s daughter?” she said. “Sit down: I am very -glad to see you. It is I that have been so anxious about finding you for -some time past. But where is your husband? I want him to come as well as -you.”</p> - -<p>“He is in the hall. He will be here presently, Sarah,” said Aunt Milly. -“I told Ellis to show him in, and the dear baby, too; but I could not -keep back Milly from you for a moment. I knew you would be anxious to -see her at once.”</p> - -<p>“I wish to see her husband too,” said Miss Mortimer. “So your name is -Milly? Because it was our principal family name, I suppose? Your father -was a great man for family matters, because <i>his</i> father was such a -leveller; otherwise I should have thought he would have called you after -me.”</p> - -<p>Why, I wondered? but indeed I had very little inclination to speak.</p> - -<p>“I want to see your husband particularly. I should like you to live -here. Milly says he is going to the Crimea,” said Miss Mortimer. “I hope -he’s a reasonable man. Why shouldn’t he leave the army at once? <i>I</i> want -him here. You were not the heir to an estate like the Park when he got -orders for the Crimea. I see no reason in the world why he should not -sell out and stay at home.”</p> - -<p>I think she went on saying more, but I did not hear her; the great room -swam in my eyes; she seemed all fading away into pale circles. I lost -hold of the chair or something I was standing by. I don’t remember -anything else till I felt some water dashed on my face, and gradually -the pale circles cleared away, and I was in the same room again. I had -no idea what had happened to me. I was lying on a sofa, though, now, -with my face all wet, and a dreadful singing and buzzing in my ears, and -Harry was there. I found out I had fainted. I never did such a thing in -all my life before; how very foolish of me! and just when she was -talking, too, about that—that chance. I caught hold of Harry’s fingers -tight: “Go and speak to her!” I cried out. I could not keep still until<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276"></a>{276}</span> -he went, for I could see the screen, and knew she was there.</p> - -<p>When he disappeared behind the screen, and when, after a moment, Aunt -Milly followed, always keeping her eyes on me, I lay perfectly still, -grasping my two hands in each other. My mind was all seething up, as if -in a fever, round what she had said. I was conscious of nothing else. I -could not hear what they were saying now for the noise in my ears; but -as I lay still a strange succession of feelings came over me. It was -like so many breezes of wind, each cooler,—nay, I mean colder,—than -the other. First it occurred to me what other people would say of him, -of Harry, whom no one now durst breathe a doubt upon; then I thought of -him fighting with himself for my sake, trying to put down his manhood -and his honour to save breaking his wife’s heart; then I came to myself -last of all. Would I? could I? I groaned aloud in my anguish. Oh, -Russian woman, what would <i>you</i> say? There are plenty to be killed and -sacrificed. Shall we let our children’s fathers go, to be lost in that -smoke and battle? Harry burst out to me from behind the screen when I -was in this darkness. I never saw him look as he looked then. He took my -two hands and cried out in an appeal and remonstrance, “Milly, do <i>you</i> -say so?” looking down at me with his eyes all in a blaze. I could not -bear it. I put him away—thrust him away. They say I cried out to God in -my despair. I cannot tell anything that I said but “Go!” Oh, Russian -woman, I wonder if you made up your mind as I did! No, not if it were to -break my heart; we could die, all of us, when the good Lord pleased; but -the good Lord never pleased that one of us should make the other fail.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277"></a>{277}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_V-f" id="Chapter_V-f"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter V.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span> <span class="smcap">FELT</span> ill and shaken all the rest of that day. It was some time before -they would let me get up from the sofa, and I quite remember how very -strange it was to lie there in the great daylight room, with the sky -looming in through the great window, and to watch, always so close by, -and yet so distant, that screen which was drawn out by the side of the -fire. I could not keep my eyes from that harmless piece of furniture. -Aunt Milly kept coming and going, constantly talking to cheer me up, and -bring things to show me. But no sound came from the screen. There, in -that little space, shut off and shaded out of the centre of her home, -sat the woman who already fascinated me with an influence I could not -explain. Without knowing what I was doing—indeed, even I may say -against my will,—strange recollections of stories I had read came up to -my mind; about people in masks going whispering through an evil life, -about the veiled prophet in the poem, about secret hidden creatures -suspected of all manner of harm, but never found out, or betrayed. There -she was, within three paces of me, concealed and silent,—or was it not -rather watchful, lurking, with her bloodless smile and her shut up -heart? My imagination, perhaps, is always too active; somehow it quite -overpowered me that day. It seized upon Miss Sarah Mortimer’s looks and -her voice, and the strange separation which she made by that screen -between herself and the world. She was different—entirely -different—from that old ghastly Miss Mortimer whom I used to dream of -in my grandfather’s house; that one with her hair all mixed with grey, -and her dark careless dress, sitting by the fire with the ghosts of the -past about her, was a pleasant recollection in face of this. The great -beauty, deserted of all the world and fallen into solitude, had -something pathetic in her loneliness. But behind that screen there was -no pathos that I could see; nothing human, I had almost said. What folly -to speak so! To anybody’s eyes but mine, I daresay there was only an old -lady very prettily and carefully dressed, everything about her looking -as if it were intended to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278"></a>{278}</span> repeat and reproduce the effect of her white -hair; soft colours with clouds of something white coming over them. But -I could not look at her in that way. I was in awe and afraid when I -looked at the screen. It was a comfort to get out of the room, to go -upstairs, where after a while Aunt Milly took me. But I could not forget -her even upstairs. There she sat in her armchair, stony-eyed, knitting -like one of the Fates,—or was it spin they did?—and that screen -drawing a magical, dreadful shadow round her chair.</p> - -<p>Aunt Milly had prepared our rooms for us with the greatest care, that -was very evident. There was the daintiest little bed for baby, all new -and fresh, evidently bought for him, and quite a basketful of new toys, -which already he was doing his best to pull all to pieces. Oh, such -bright, luxurious rooms! I felt my heart grow a little cold as I looked -at them. Neither Harry nor Aunt Milly had said a word to me on the -subject. They thought they could deceive me, I suppose; but the moment I -saw these apartments, don’t you think I could see what they were planned -out for? I was to be taken there when he went away.</p> - -<p>“And, my dear, what do you think of your Aunt Sarah?” said her kind -sister, looking rather wistfully into my face.</p> - -<p>I was so foolish that I was half afraid to answer. How could I tell that -our words were not heard behind the screen yonder? And as for meeting -her eyes I could not have done that for the world.</p> - -<p>“But you know she is not my Aunt Sarah,” said I. “It is a love name, -dear Aunt Milly. I—I don’t know Miss Mortimer yet; you must let me keep -it for you.”</p> - -<p>“Hush! you have not known me much longer!” cried Aunt Milly, “No such -thing, child! we are both the same relation to you. Poor dear Sarah! I -forgot to tell you about her voice. Isn’t it very sad she should have -lost her beautiful voice? She is very clever too, Milly,” said Aunt -Milly, with a sigh. “When you know her better you will admire her very -much.”</p> - -<p>“But you know she jilted poor papa,” said I, trying to laugh and shake -off my dread of the veiled woman downstairs.</p> - -<p>“My dear! she jilted half the county!” said Aunt Milly, rather solemnly -and not without a little pride. “Your Aunt Sarah was the greatest beauty -that ever was seen when she was as young as you.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279"></a>{279}</span></p> - -<p>This speech made me smile in spite of myself. Dear Aunt Milly, perhaps, -had been a little slighted by the county. She had no compunction about -her sister’s prowess. I don’t know that I felt very sorry for her -victims myself, even poor papa, I fear. But, ah me! what kind of a woman -was this, I wonder, that had been an enchantress in her day! She was an -enchantress still. She charmed me, as a serpent, I could suppose, might -charm some poor creature. I wonder if there was any pity in her, any -feeling that there was a God and a heaven, and not merely the -century-old ceiling with the Mortimers’ arms on it, over her where she -sat? I don’t believe she cared. I don’t think there was anything in the -world but her own will and inclination, whatever it might be, that ruled -her in her dreadful solitude. I wonder when she looked across her -knitting at such a human creature as Aunt Milly how she felt; whether it -ever came into her head to wonder which of them was contrary to nature? -But I don’t suppose Miss Mortimer cared anything about nature. In this -wonderful world, all so throbbing with life and affection, I think she -must have known nothing but herself.</p> - -<p>Thinking like this, you may suppose I could not deceive Aunt Milly to -make her think I admired her sister. I kept off speaking of her; which, -of course, though not quite so unpleasant, tells one’s mind clearly -enough. Aunt Milly gave a little sigh.</p> - -<p>“My dear, I see you don’t take to Sarah just at once. I was in hopes if -you had taken to each other she might, perhaps, have told you something -of what is on her mind. Because, you know, after all we have heard, -something must be on her mind, whether she shows it or not. I am afraid -it is all beginning again now, Milly; but somehow she hasn’t let her -courage down as she did when that young man was about before. I suppose -she’s more prepared now. She drove out quite calm yesterday, just as -usual; though Mr. Luigi’s servant was out here with a letter the very -day I saw his master at your house.”</p> - -<p>“So I heard,” said I.</p> - -<p>“So you heard! Dear! How did you hear? I know things spread in the most -dreadful way,” said Aunt Milly, in great distress; “but to think that -should have reached Chester already! What did you hear?”</p> - -<p>“I heard it only from Lizzie, my little maid,” said I, pointing to the -door of the other room. “Mr. Luigi’s servant and she are great -friends.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280"></a>{280}</span></p> - -<p>Aunt Milly followed the movement of my hand with her eyes, a little -awe-stricken. “She must speak his language, for he knows no English,” -she said, with involuntary respect. “But dear, dear, she’s only a child! -To be sure she’ll go and publish it all in the servants’ hall. But -speaking of that, my dear, you ought to have a proper nurse. I felt very -nervous about baby when I saw her carrying him. She may be big, you -know, but she’s only a child.”</p> - -<p>Here Lizzie, either because she had heard us, or by some sudden impulse -of her own, knocked pretty loud at the door. I went to it a little -timidly, rather apprehensive that she had been listening, and meant to -defend herself. I did Lizzie great injustice however. She was standing -in a paroxysm of joyful impatience on the other side of the door. I -don’t believe the most injurious expression applied to herself could -have reached Lizzie’s ears at that moment. She had her great arms -stretched out, stooping over little Harry. Her face was perfectly -radiant and flushed with delight. On they came, baby tottering on his -own little limbs, half triumphant, half terrified, Lizzie with her wings -spread out, ready to snatch him up the moment he faltered. Anybody may -imagine what I did. I dropped down on the floor and held out my arms to -him, and forgot all my troubles for the moment. When he came tottering -into my arms, the touch of his little hands swept all the cares and -sorrows out of the world. It was not for long. But a minute’s joy is a -wonderful cordial; it strengthens one’s heart.</p> - -<p>“And oh, mem!” cried Lizzie, lifting her apron to her eyes, “the -Captain’ll see him afore he gangs away!”</p> - -<p>“Go and fetch him,” cried Aunt Milly, turning her out of the room. Aunt -Milly was nearly as delighted as she was; but she saw it was hard upon -me to be continually reminded that Harry was to be gone so soon. By way -of putting it out of my mind, she began such a lecture about letting -babies walk too soon, and about weak ankles and bowed legs and all kinds -of horrors, that I snatched my boy up on my knee, and was as much -alarmed as I had been overjoyed. When Harry came, and found me half -frightened to allow baby to exhibit his new accomplishment, and Aunt -Milly doing her best to soften down her own declarations, and convince -me that she referred to babies in general, and not to my boy, he burst -into fits of laughter. I rather think he kissed us all round, Aunt Milly -and all. He was in very high spirits that day. It did not occur to him -what a struggle I had come through before I overcame Miss Mortimer’s -temptation; he was contented to think<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281"></a>{281}</span> I had fainted from heat and -excitement and all the fatigue I had been exposed to of late; and it was -a comfort to him to have my real voluntary consent to his going away. -Then this was to be my home, and here was my dear kind friend beside me. -His heart rose, he laughed out his amusement and pleasure with the -freedom of a young man in the height of his strength and hope. The sound -startled the unaccustomed walls. I saw Aunt Milly look at him with a -kind of delighted surprise and pleasure. Youth had not been here for -long. I wondered did manhood, after Harry’s fashion of it, belong to the -Mortimers at all? Many a day since, sitting in these silent rooms, the -echo of Harry’s laugh has come back to me ringing like silver bells. Ah, -hush! we shall all laugh when he comes back.</p> - -<p>But when Lizzie came to take her charge, the expression of the girl’s -face had completely changed. She took the child away with a certain -frightened gravity that had a great effect upon me. Aunt Milly had left -me by this time, and Harry had gone out to see the grounds, leaving me -to rest. Resting was not very much in my way; of course I got up from -the sofa the moment they were gone. What good would it do me, does -anybody suppose, to lie there and murder myself with thinking? I went -after Lizzie to ask her what was wrong. Lizzie was very slow to answer. -There was “naething wrang; she wasna minding. The man in blacks had -asked if she was the nurse or the nursery-maid. But it’s no my place to -answer questions,” said Lizzie, with indignation, “and thae English -they’re that saucy, they pretend they dinna ken what I’m saying. Eh, I -would just like to let them ken, leddies and gentlemen ay ken grand what -I’m saying! but they’ve nae education: ’Menico says that himsel’.”</p> - -<p>“But what does ’Menico know about education, Lizzie?” said I.</p> - -<p>Lizzie looked much affronted. “He mayna maybe ken <i>English</i>,” she said, -“but he may be a good scholar for a’ that. The tither maids just gape -and cry La! when he takes the dictionary, and laugh at every word he -says. He says they’ve nae education, thae English. He’s no’ a common -servant-man like that man in blacks. He kens a’ the gentlemen’s business -and what he’s wantin’, and everything about it. Eh,” cried Lizzie, -opening her eyes wide, and glancing behind her with involuntary caution, -“do you think yon would be <i>her</i>?”</p> - -<p>“Who?” said I. Was it possible that Lizzie knew?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282"></a>{282}</span></p> - -<p>“Mem!” said Lizzie, with national unconscious skill and the deepest -earnestness, “do you think there’s ony witches in this country, like -what there was lang syne?”</p> - -<p>I was a little startled by the question; it brought back to my mind in -an instant that extraordinary picture which had so great an effect on my -own imagination,—the veiled woman at her knitting with the screen -behind her chair.</p> - -<p>“Or the Evil Eye,” continued Lizzie, with a little gasp of visionary -terror; “oh dinna say, if ye please, that I’m to bring <i>him</i> into yon -muckle room! for I would do some ill to the house, or her, or -myself—and would be carried, and no ken what I was doing, if she put -any of her cantrips upon our bairn!”</p> - -<p>“Lizzie!” cried I, “child, you forget what you are saying, and where you -are!”</p> - -<p>“Oh no, no’ me!” cried Lizzie with vehement tears in her eyes; “but, -Mem, it maun be her; there’s nae other leddy except our leddy in this -house. And if I was never to say another word, she’s no canny; I ken -she’s no canny, if it was only what Domenico says.”</p> - -<p>“In the name of wonder what does Domenico say?” cried I, driven to -despair by the wild words in which there was no meaning. I don’t believe -she knew herself what the meaning was.</p> - -<p>Lizzie stopped short and repeated, with a puzzled and troubled glance at -me, “When it’s a long story it’s awfu’ fickle to ken,” she said, slowly; -“but just that yon’s the leddy. Eh, I dinna ken what they ca’ her right, -nor what ill-will they have at her; but ’Menico, he says—he says—Mem, -you’ll no be angry, it wasna <i>me</i>,—he says she’s the deil himsel’.”</p> - -<p>“Lizzie,” said I, in considerable agitation, “try to recollect; Miss -Milly wants to know; what <i>does</i> Domenico say?”</p> - -<p>Lizzie blushed, and made a long pause again. “You see it’s the -Dictionary, Mem,” she said, with a sigh. “When he’s tired looking up the -words, he just gi’es a great burst out in the Italian, and thinks he’s -explained it a’. It’s awfu’ fickle when it’s a lang story; but just it’s -<i>her</i>; and eh! I’m sure she’s no canny by what Domenico says.”</p> - -<p>I had to be content with this very unsatisfactory conclusion. It was all -Lizzie could give me,—it was <i>her</i>; and she was a dreaded mysterious -person against whom the Italian was struggling in vain. I felt a strange -thrill of curiosity, deeply as my own mind was pre-occupied. Was it a -melodrama or a tragedy I was about to be present at? The crisis, -whatever it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283"></a>{283}</span> might be, could not be long delayed. What part were we to -play in it? why did she want Harry to stay? I did not say anything -either to him or Aunt Milly of Lizzie’s communication or my own fancies; -but it seemed to me somehow, when I passed through the rooms or along -the passages that a certain tingling stillness, the pause before the -storm, was closing round and round about the house.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284"></a>{284}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_VI-f" id="Chapter_VI-f"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter VI.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">“W</span><span class="smcap">E</span> were interrupted in our talk yesterday,” said Aunt Milly, “but I -have not forgotten what you said about your little maid. My dear, I -don’t think it is worth your while to warn her against talking about -such matters. When they think a thing’s important, they are all the more -likely to talk.”</p> - -<p>“But you don’t know Lizzie,” said I.</p> - -<p>“No,” said Aunt Milly, doubtfully. “I always have heard the Scotch were -faithful servants; but it’s undeniable that they <i>do</i> love to talk. -Besides, she’s only a child. My dear, has she any particular claim upon -you?”</p> - -<p>“Only that she is an orphan,” said I, “like Harry and me.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, dear child! there’s two of you; it does not matter to you,” cried -Aunt Milly; then she continued, rather anxiously, “I’d like to know, -however, what she can tell about this, Milly. Ellis told me a confused -story about a foreign man coming with a letter, and that he insisted on -seeing the lady—the lady! and couldn’t talk no more sense, Ellis says. -I understood by the description, it must be that man. There couldn’t be -two fat foreign serving-men in a quiet county like this; and Carson, ‘as -happened to be in the hall at the moment,’ Ellis tells me, spoke to him, -‘and they arguifyed for long in a queer language,’ and then he went -away. I don’t know any more of it, my dear. This Lizzie of yours, if she -can understand that man, and he told her of it, I wonder does <i>she</i> know -any more?”</p> - -<p>Then I told her of the further particulars which had come under Lizzie’s -observation, the letter returned and destroyed. Aunt Milly once more -grew a good deal excited. She walked about the room with a troubled -face, and many exclamations; but on the whole it gave her comfort. “My -dear, she can’t be afraid of him now,” said Aunt Milly; and with this -piece of consolation she went away strengthened to her many businesses, -for everything evidently is in her hands. That eldest sister of hers, -whom I cannot call by any name of love, takes no share<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285"></a>{285}</span> in anything. -When she does talk, she talks as if she were the sole mistress and ruler -of the house; but Aunt Milly, though I understand they are quite equal -in their rights, has all the trouble. It is very strange, but I could -not feel so comfortable about her sending back that letter as Aunt Milly -did. To tell the plain truth, a very distinct suspicion had entered into -my mind about her. It flashed upon me when Mr. Luigi was speaking of -her, and it grew stronger and stronger every hour I spent in the same -room, though how it could be, was more than by any amount of thinking I -could divine. I will not say what my fancy was; I was always too -imaginative. I don’t want to commit myself till I see whether anything -will occur to bear me out.</p> - -<p>The next day was wet, and I had abundant means of seeing Miss Mortimer. -I think my foolish faint that first day had quite settled me in her -opinion. She saw I was a nobody from that moment. Accordingly all that -rainy afternoon I sat by her in the strangest unsocial way. The fire was -still kept up, though the weather was warm; and Aunt Milly had stationed -me in her own easy chair, opposite her sister, and commanding the entire -length of the room so that I could see who entered at the door, though -Miss Mortimer could neither see or be seen by any one coming in. The -five great windows were all very naked and bare, the curtains drawn -back, and the blinds drawn up, according to Miss Mortimer’s fancy; she -had always an amount of twilight at her command by movement of her -screen. These five long lines of cold broad light, the cloudy sky -looking full down upon us, and the blasts of rain driving against the -cold transparent fence of glass which separated us from that outdoor -world, where the early flowers hung their heads in the rain, and the -shrubs cowered and drew together in the fitful gusts of wind, gave an -extraordinary atmosphere to the picture. Then that long great mirror at -the end of the room repeated the five windows in strange perspective, -and reflected all the maze of space and crowd of furniture in bars of -light and shadow; while here, in the centre, played the uncertain glow -of the fire, much too warm, and making the air feel unnatural; and close -before me sat Miss Mortimer with the screen carefully drawn round her -chair. She had on her usual dress—her muslin scarf or shawl, I forget -which, lined with pale blue silk, and ribbons of the same colour in her -cap, and black lace mits upon her thin hands, which, when she happened -to stop for a moment, she rubbed slowly before the fire. She did not -talk to me. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286"></a>{286}</span> understand it was very rarely she talked to any one. -Silently, as if it were some weird work she was about, she knitted on; -but sometimes, as I was conscious, lifted her eyes from her knitting, -and continuing her work all the time, surveyed me as I sat helpless -before her. Every time the door of the room happened to open she -repeated this. I felt her stare at me, as she might have stared at a -mirror, to see who had entered the room; and it is impossible to -describe how I felt under that look. I durst not answer it by turning my -eyes upon her; but looking past her at the door, as one naturally does -when the door of the room opens—and knowing her gaze to be fixed on me, -I faltered, I trembled, my face burned in spite of myself. This went on -till, in desperation, I fairly answered her look; then my feelings -changed. Those blue eyes, which must have paled and chilled with age, -were gazing with a watchful dread in my face. It was not me she was -looking at. Her hands went on, in their dreadful inhuman occupation, -while she found in my face a reflection of who it was that went in, or -out, by that door behind her. It might be a habit she had got into; but -I could read in her eyes that she sat there in full expectation of -somebody or something arriving suddenly, which might startle and -distress everybody else, but which <i>she</i> knew. Again, I saw the same -contrast which I had seen between Aunt Milly and Mr. Luigi. This woman, -like the Italian, was in no perplexity. She was not confused with a -mystery she could not comprehend, as Aunt Milly was. She knew something -was coming, and what was coming, and was prepared to defend herself, and -hide her shame to the death.</p> - -<p>Hide her shame! oh, how do I dare say it; how could I venture to say -that she had disgraced herself, or even to think so? There she sat, -clothed in a double respect, even by reason of all that made her so -unlovely and distasteful to me, the real great lady of the house, served -by everybody, imagining herself quite supreme; the head of the house, -though she transferred all the trouble of it to other shoulders; Miss -Mortimer, of the Park, a spotless maiden lady, who might have been, as -the common story went, had she chosen to marry, almost of any rank she -pleased. All that I knew; but as I gazed at her, the wild sudden fancy -that had seized me before, grew stronger and stronger. A kind of -loathing took possession of me. Shame may be dreadful, must be dreadful; -but to deserve it, and yet to escape it—to know one’s self guilty, and -fight all one’s life against the penalty—to shut one’s self up, heart -and voice, like<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287"></a>{287}</span> that in a corner, waiting for the discovery and -exposure which has become inevitable—and resolute by every lie and -expedient of falsehood to resist and baffle it—the sight was hideous to -me. I turned away from her with a feeling of sickness—then in the -impulse of the moment I spoke.</p> - -<p>“Should not you like to take this seat, Miss Mortimer, if you wish to -see who comes in at the door?”</p> - -<p>“How do you know,” she cried, in her strangled voice, “that I wish to -see who comes in at the door?”</p> - -<p>“I can see it in your eyes,” said I. I could not help a little shudder -as I spoke. Her only answer was to draw a little further back into the -twilight of her screen. I don’t think she looked at me again; but she -did something else when Ellis came in the next time, which was quite as -characteristic. She listened visibly, with an extraordinary intentness; -her knitting stopped, though her eyes were bent on it. I could fancy she -must have heard the very vibration of the man’s foot upon the floor, and -satisfied herself by its sound what it was.</p> - -<p>“Miss Milly’s compliments, ma’am, and will you please step into the -library a moment,” said Ellis to me.</p> - -<p>“Who’s in the library, eh?” interrupted Miss Mortimer, before I could -speak.</p> - -<p>Ellis faced round upon her slowly, with evident surprise: “I don’t know -as it’s nobody, ma’am,” said the man; “Miss Milly has something to show -the young lady.”</p> - -<p>“Who’s in the house? why don’t you answer me? You are making up a -story,” cried Miss Mortimer, almost with a shriek.</p> - -<p>“Nobody, as I know on, but the Captain, as is in the stables, ma’am, -looking at the colt,” said Ellis, doggedly, “and Miss Milly, as is -waiting in the library for the young lady, with some pictures to show to -her, as it looked to me; nor likely to come neither on such a day.”</p> - -<p>Instead of resenting this speech as I supposed, Miss Mortimer smiled to -herself with a nod. She gave a glance out from her screen at the blank -of cloudy sky and the falling rain. It seemed to soothe her somehow. She -relapsed back again, and resumed her knitting, without looking at or -speaking to me. Did it relieve her to be told that nobody was likely to -come on such a day? Could she imagine a spring shower was motive enough -to keep the avenging truth away? I cannot tell. Who could tell? I might -be wronging her cruelly to think of any avenger on his way. But I left -the room, leaving her there with the blank clouds and rain, with the -solitary<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288"></a>{288}</span> gleam of the decaying fire, in the heavy silence and broad -light of the vast room. She was standing at bay, grim and desperate; but -she could actually imagine that the fate which pursued her would be kept -away by the April shower! I cannot express all the wonder, pity, and -horror that come over my heart—such strange, strange, inconsequent -blendings of the dreadful and the foolish were not in any philosophy of -mine.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289"></a>{289}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_VII-f" id="Chapter_VII-f"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter VII.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span> <span class="smcap">FOUND</span> Aunt Milly in the library with some miniatures spread out before -her. She wanted to show them to me. I can’t tell very well what had -suggested this to her. She was kept indoors by the rain, and with this -standing uneasiness in her mind, Aunt Milly naturally sought for some -means of returning to a discussion of the subject that engaged all her -thoughts. She made me sit down by her, and silently put one after -another before me. I could see clearly enough what she meant. A certain -family resemblance ran through them all, a resemblance which Aunt Milly -herself had escaped, and of which I believe there was not a trace in my -features. But one after another these portraits recalled to me the young -Italian’s face.</p> - -<p>“I ought to tell you,” said Aunt Milly in a tremulous tone, “what has -occurred to my own mind. I have thought of it for some time, but it’s so -very unlikely that I never could allow myself to think it. I do believe -he must be my father’s son. Yes, you may well be surprised. I can’t -think anything else but that my father must have married and had a son, -and Sarah somehow had bullied him into leaving the child behind, and -we’ve been deceivers all this time, and the Park has never been ours.”</p> - -<p>“But, dear Aunt Milly,” cried I, “with all these terrible thoughts, why -don’t you satisfy yourself. If you tell Miss Mortimer how much you have -found out, she certainly cannot help clearing up the rest.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! but she <i>can</i> help it—she is not carried away by her feelings; she -knows better than to be surprised or anything like that. I have asked -her and been none the better for it,” cried Aunt Milly, “and the young -man will not tell me either. Milly, hush! there is certainly some one at -the door.”</p> - -<p>The door bell at the Park was a peculiar one—it had a solemn cathedral -sort of sound that rolled through the whole house, and it was only used -by strangers or visitors on ceremony.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290"></a>{290}</span> Both of us started violently when -we heard it; it came upon our consultations like a sudden alarm of -battle.</p> - -<p>“It rains as bad as ever; on such a day who can ring the great bell at -our door?” cried Aunt Milly. “God help us! if my father walked in at -that door, I should not feel it was anything out of the way. Nothing -would surprise me now.”</p> - -<p>I could not make her any answer. We both sat perfectly silent, waiting -for what was to come. As if to heighten the excitement of the moment, -the rain, which had been falling steadily all day, suddenly became -violent, and dashed against the windows in torrents. Through all this we -could hear the great door opened and the sound of voices. My thoughts -travelled into the great vacant drawing-room where these sounds could -not fail to reach Miss Mortimer within her screen. What was she doing? -Could she be sitting there still, dumb and desperate, listening but not -looking, with a pride and resistance more dreadful in its self-control -than the wildest passions! I trembled with suspense and wondering -anxiety in spite of myself. As for Aunt Milly, the miniatures she was -looking at fell out of her hands. She covered her eyes for an instant, -and then lifted her scared and pallid face to the door, as if she could -hear the approaching sounds better, for having her eyes fixed that way. -There was a pause that I suppose did not endure a minute, but which -looked like an hour. Then a soft tap at the door; then Ellis entered, -looking half as pale and anxious as we did—vaguely frightened he could -not tell how.</p> - -<p>“Miss Milly,” he said, in a hasty troubled voice, “the gentleman is here -as wants Miss Mortimer; what am I to do?”</p> - -<p>The old mistress and the old servant looked at each other. The man did -not know anything, but he knew the involuntary suspicion and dread that -had somehow gathered about the house.</p> - -<p>“What are we to do? God help us, Ellis, I know no more than the baby!” -cried Aunt Milly under her breath.</p> - -<p>She was carried by her excitement beyond her usual discretion. I -interposed as I best could.</p> - -<p>“Let it come to the crisis!” cried I, not being well aware what I said; -“it must be best to know clearly Aunt Milly—hush!—recollect, you know -nothing—let him go in.”</p> - -<p>She made a convulsive pause and restrained herself; and then the usual -keeping up of appearances recurred to her mind. “My sister’s voice! you -know, Milly,” she said,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291"></a>{291}</span> turning to me as if with a kind of -apology,—“who—who is it, Ellis?”</p> - -<p>“It’s—it’s the foreign gentleman, ma’am,” said Ellis, with a -sympathetic faltering of his voice.</p> - -<p>“Then show him in to Miss Mortimer?” cried Aunt Milly with a gasp over -the words. “You shouldn’t have spoken so, my dear,” she said as soon as -he was gone, “servants have nothing to do with our private affairs. -Dear, dear, it’s surely very cold. It’s the storm come on so suddenly—a -hail-storm, I declare. Don’t you feel, Milly, how cold the air has -grown?”</p> - -<p>I made no answer, and she did not expect any. She went up close to the -library door, and stood there as if listening, shivering now and then -with the nervous chill of her own emotion. We heard the drawing-room -door open and shut,—then silence, silence, something positive, not -merely an absence of sound. I stood by the table trembling, fancying I -saw the stranger pass, as if through a picture, up that empty-seeming -room, with the cold chill daylight spying in, and the motionless, -conscious creature who feared and yet defied him lurking behind that -screen. Would she speak to him? If she did it would not be with that -stifled whispering voice. What communication would pass between them? -Would the old walls groan with some dark secret fatal to their honour? -The very air tingled round us in the dead calm of the house. Surely it -never was so noiseless before. As for Aunt Milly, she stood before me -shivering at the door, sometimes putting her hand upon the lock, then -drawing back in irresolute terror. This lasted for some time, though -most likely for not half so long as I imagined it did; then she turned -to me, wringing her hands and bursting out into tears and cries.</p> - -<p>“I cannot leave her alone any longer, Milly,” she said in broken words. -“I cannot desert her in time of need;” and made as though she would -leave the room, and then returned and sank into a chair and hid her face -in her hands.</p> - -<p>She was entirely overwhelmed and broken down. All I could do for her, -was to get a shawl which hung over the sofa, and wrap it round her. All -this had been too much for her strength.</p> - -<p>In the midst of our suspense, Harry came suddenly in upon us. The sound -of his honest frank step ringing into the library, startled me back to -life again, and even Aunt Milly lifted up her blanched face expecting -him to bring some news.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292"></a>{292}</span> Harry looked startled and curious, and did not -grow less so as he looked at our agitated faces.</p> - -<p>“What is the matter, Milly?” he cried. “I passed the drawing-room -windows just now, and looked in thinking to see you. Miss Mortimer was -standing at a table looking over some papers, and by her side was Luigi, -talking very earnestly. By Jove! to see them standing there you would -have said they were mother and son.”</p> - -<p>At these words Aunt Milly lifted up her head, listening,—but Harry’s -expression did not seem to strike her; she held up her finger and cried -“Hark!”</p> - -<p>The silence was broken. A bell evidently rung—a door hastily -opened—startled us all three standing together. “Shall Harry go after -him?” cried I, seeing how it was and pointing Harry to the door; but -Aunt Milly would not, or perhaps could not, suppose that the visitor was -merely going away. She sprang up, crying, “She must be ill!” and rushed -out of the library. I followed her, alarmed, but not for Miss Mortimer. -I saw Luigi standing at the open door, just about to go out into the -cold rainy world out of doors, but Aunt Milly did not see him. She -rushed forward blindly into the room where she supposed her sister to be -ill.</p> - -<p>When I rushed in after her I found the usual positions of the two ladies -much reversed. Miss Mortimer was standing between the fire and the -window, looking at her sister with a certain fierce scorn. Aunt Milly -had sunk down in utter exhaustion and bewilderment upon a large ottoman. -The two were looking at each other, Aunt Milly all trembling, pallid, -and anxious. Miss Mortimer, with her head more erect than usual, her -muslin mantle hanging back from her shoulders, her attitude very rigid -and exact, and no symptom of excitement about her, save in the slight -hurried incessant movement of her head and hands. A mere spectator would -have said she was the judge and the other the culprit. It was an -extraordinary scene.</p> - -<p>“What did he say? Who is he? What does he want? Sarah, tell me for the -love of heaven,” cried Aunt Milly in her agony of distress and terror.</p> - -<p>“Who is <i>he</i>? I am not a girl to distinguish any one person by that -name,” said Miss Mortimer.</p> - -<p>Then she went back steadily to her chair, and sat down in it and took up -her knitting.</p> - -<p>“Any one who thinks to surprise me into speaking of my private affairs, -is mistaken,” she said after a while.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293"></a>{293}</span> “Gossips like you may talk as -they please; but what belongs to me is mine, and nobody in the world has -a right to ask what I either do or say.”</p> - -<p>That was all. She never opened her lips again that day. She sat there -rigid, pretending to work; she did not work however. I noticed that to -keep her hands and her head from excessive trembling was almost more -than she was able for; but the day passed without any disclosure. I -believe now she would die sooner than make any sign.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294"></a>{294}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_VIII-f" id="Chapter_VIII-f"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter VIII.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><span class="smcap">HAT</span> was a very miserable day. I cannot fancy a more uncomfortable -position for a stranger than that of being thrust into some distressing -family secret, almost immediately after his or her introduction to the -family in which it exists. This was just what had happened to me. I was -kept one way or the other between those two sisters all the day. Aunt -Milly kept continually appealing to me with her eyes, for conversation -would not keep up its fluctuating and feeble existence in presence of -that figure within the shelter of the screen; and my unlucky position of -confidante must have been so apparent that I should not have wondered at -any degree of dislike or displeasure which Miss Mortimer could have -shown me. She did not show any, however; I could discern no signs of -aversion to me. What am I saying? I could discern no signs of any human -feeling whatever in her appearance and behaviour that day. My impression -was that the sole thing with which her mind was occupied, was the effort -to keep her head steady, and overcome the nervous, tremulous motion -which agitated her frame. It was a relic, it might be an evidence, of -some unseen tempest. But I am firmly convinced that this was the subject -of all her thoughts. I watched, I must confess, with intense curiosity, -though as quietly as possible, that she might not see I was watching -her, every movement she made. But she did not notice me; she scarcely -noticed anybody; she was careless of what other people were thinking; -what she laboured after, all that miserable, lingering, rainy night was -to get the command of herself. She never ventured to unbend her attitude -in the slightest degree. She set her teeth together sometimes, and made -her face look ghastly; but she could not keep down that external symptom -of the trouble or tempest within. Her head kept moving with an incessant -tremble; her hands were too much agitated to pursue their work. She kept -the knitting-pins in her fingers, and held them rigidly together, as if -she were knitting, and sometimes made a few convulsive stitches, and -dropt them again, and bent in a tragical dismal confusion over that -trifling occupation of hers, which had grown so weird<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295"></a>{295}</span> an adjunct of -herself to me. I watched her with a certain horror and pity which I -cannot describe. It was not her paltry wealth and lands she was -defending; it was her honour and her life. There she sat a solitary -desperate creature driven to bay, with dear Aunt Milly’s vague terrors -and anxieties revolving about her; but conscious in herself of a misery -and danger far transcending anything in her innocent sister’s thoughts. -Life and honour! but I believed there was no way in this world to defend -them but by unnatural falsehood, cruelty, and wrong, and that she did -not shrink from these means of upholding herself. Perhaps even a -virtuous struggle would have exercised less fascination, than the sight -of that desperate guilty secret resistance. I could not keep my eyes -from Miss Mortimer. There was something terrible to me in her convulsive -efforts after stillness, and in the nervous motion which continually -betrayed her, and which no exertions on her part could overcome.</p> - -<p>But she sat out all the lengthy lingering hours of that evening, after -dinner, for they departed from their usual customs at that time, and -dined late out of compliment to Harry. We did try to talk a little, but -Aunt Milly’s thoughts were all astray upon one subject, and she was -continually breaking off in abrupt conclusions which irresistibly -suggested the engrossing matter which she dared not enter upon. Miss -Mortimer, meanwhile, attempted to read her Times; but whether it was -that the rustle of the paper betrayed the trembling of her hands, or -that her mind was unfit for reading anything, she soon laid the paper -by, and resumed her pretence of working. You may suppose that Harry and -I were not very much at our ease in this strange position of affairs. -Almost everything that was said among us suggested a something which -could not be said, yet which occupied everybody’s thoughts. Aunt Milly -sat flushed and troubled opposite to her sister; her distressed -perplexed look, the look of one totally at a loss and unable to offer -any explanation even to herself; her glances, sometimes directing me to -look at Miss Mortimer, sometimes appealing to me in vain for some -suggestion which could throw light upon the subject, were enough of -themselves to betray to any stranger the existence of some secret -unhappiness in the house. Harry, who was not so much in Aunt Milly’s -confidence as I was, kept appealing to me on the other side. What was it -all about? I never wished so fervently for the conclusion of a day as I -did for that; and yet there must be some extraordinary fascination in -watching one’s fellow-creatures. I should not like to get<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296"></a>{296}</span> fairly into -that dreadful inhuman occupation which people called studying character. -But I was so curious about Miss Mortimer that I could almost have liked -to follow her to her own room, and watch, when she was no longer on her -guard against other people, how she would look and what she would do. -Would she faint, or cry out, or dash herself against the floor? or was -she so accustomed to that dreadful secresy that she would not betray -herself even to herself? She must have lived that dreadful hidden life, -and locked up all she knew in her own breast for a lifetime; for a -longer lifetime than mine.</p> - -<p>“I wonder,” said Henry, when we were alone that evening, “what sort of a -person this Miss Mortimer is. Something’s wrong clearly. I suspect there -must be something in the old lady’s life which will not bear the light -of day.”</p> - -<p>“What makes you think so?” said I.</p> - -<p>“The t’other old lady and you play into each other’s hands,” cried -Harry; “you know more about it than you choose to tell. But of course -you are right enough if it is somebody else’s secret; only recollect, -Milly, I am very glad you should be an heiress; I am extremely glad you -will have a house to receive you while I am away, and that come what -may, <i>that</i> little beggar is provided for; but look here, if there’s -another relation nearer than you, legitimate or illegitimate, I won’t -stand by and see him wronged.”</p> - -<p>“Harry, tell me what you mean,” cried I.</p> - -<p>Harry looked at me a little indignantly; he thought I knew more than he -did, and was trifling with him. “Milly, who is that fellow Luigi?” he -said at last.</p> - -<p>“I make dreadful guesses,” said I, “but I cannot tell. Aunt Milly knows -nothing about him. The only idea she can form is that he may be her -father’s son.”</p> - -<p>Harry gave a long, half amazed, incredulous whistle, and turned away. He -could scarcely believe me. Then I told him all I had heard, and -something of what I had guessed. We did not converse plainly about this -guess, which he had evidently jumped at as well as myself. A secret held -with such dreadful tenacity was not a thing to be lightly discussed; but -we both felt the same on the subject, only Harry’s mind took a more -charitable view of it than I did. They say <i>we</i> are always harder on -guilty women than men are; perhaps it is natural. I felt an abhorrence -rise within me which I could neither overcome nor disguise at the idea -of a woman, and especially a woman in such a position as Miss Mortimer, -having lived a pretended life of honour and innocence all these years, -with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297"></a>{297}</span> that guilt in her mind which nobody knew but she; and now of her -sacrificing and disowning nature to keep up that dreadful sham. I can -understand people meeting death rather than disgrace; that is, I mean I -could understand how one would rather hear that those whom one loves -should die than disgrace themselves; but I don’t understand an insane -struggle against the disgrace which one has deserved. That is not a -noble struggle, so far as I can see; the only way of existing through -such dreadful circumstances would be by enduring it; and all the same -whether it was a woman or a man. I do think it is a shame to speak as -some people speak on this subject, as if the <i>disgrace</i> were all; as if -all the harm was not done when the wrong was done, whether disgrace came -or no!</p> - -<p>“I’ll tell you what, Milly,” said Harry, “I must say I think it’s very -hard the poor old lady should lose her good name for something that -happened an age ago. No doubt, by what we saw to-day, she must have set -her poor old heart upon resisting and denying it, as foolish people -always try to do. Now, you know, that’s evidently of no use. Of course a -mere statement of any such claim having been made, is enough to finish -Miss Mortimer, with all the gossips of the county, whether it was proved -or not. Now I shan’t be here for long, and as they seem disposed to be -so very kind to you——”</p> - -<p>“Don’t, Harry!”</p> - -<p>“But I must,” said he. “It will be no end of consolation to me to think -of you in these pretty rooms which Miss Milly has already prepared for -you. If I can do them a good turn before I go, I will, you may depend -upon it. As soon as we return to Chester I’ll see Luigi; and if it can -be got out of him what he wants, I shall certainly make an effort to -have him satisfied, and Miss Mortimer left unmolested. It would not do -if sins of thirty years standing were to be brought against people in -this way. Why, anybody might be thrown into sudden shame on such a -principle; and you women, you know, are so vindictive and all that——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes! I know,” said I, “and will always be vindictive all the same. -Imagine this woman standing side by side with Aunt Milly, and considered -as spotless as she; imagine such a long cruel abominable sin, and no -retribution overtaking it! Oh, you may be pitiful if you like, but it -disgusts me.”</p> - -<p>Harry laughed. “I should be surprised if it did not disgust you, Milly -darling,” he said, “but poetic justice is exploded now-a-days. I don’t -suppose Luigi can be very anxious for her personal affection, -considering how she seems to have behaved;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298"></a>{298}</span> and, indeed, to be sure he -would be fully more disgraced than she. How many days are we to be here? -I shall see him whenever we return to Chester.”</p> - -<p>“Three days longer,” said I, with a sigh. “Somehow this little visit to -the Park had come to look like a little barrier between me and what was -coming. Presently we should go back to Chester, and then——”</p> - -<p>Harry understood my sigh. He repeated the very words I was saying in my -mind. “And then——” said Harry, “and then, darling, to see which of us -two is bravest! But it will come hardest upon you, my poor little wife.”</p> - -<p>“Harry,” cried I, “don’t speak!” and I went away, and would have no more -of such talk. It was enough that it was coming; it would be enough when -it came.</p> - -<p>Perhaps the last few words of this conversation were not the best -preparation possible for sleep. I know I awoke a great many times during -that long dark night, and once in its deepest darkness and stillness I -fancied I heard a groan faintly sounding through the wall. Miss -Mortimer’s rooms were near ours. This sound set all my imagination busy -again. It was she who groaned under that veil of night. She, so -dreadfully on her guard all day long, who relieved her miserable heart -thus when nobody watched her. It was impossible not to feel excited in -the neighbourhood of such mysterious secrecy. The sound of that groan -moved me to pity;—she had not escaped without retribution. Was not that -dread of the consequences under which she was suffering, worse than the -very hardest shape the consequences were likely to assume, if they -themselves ever overtook the sinner?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299"></a>{299}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_IX-f" id="Chapter_IX-f"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter IX.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><span class="smcap">HE</span> next day began much like the previous day; it was still showery and -damp; and though Harry was out of doors I was prevented, by Aunt Milly’s -care, from joining him. In the afternoon we were to go out with her on a -round of inspection to see the neighbourhood, Miss Mortimer having -volunteered to give up the carriage to us for that purpose, though it -was the day on which she generally took her drive; and the rector and -some other near neighbours were to come to dinner in the evening. I was -once more alone with Miss Mortimer. We sat much as we had done on the -previous day, opposite each other, the moments passing over us in a -certain excited silence. She did not say anything to me; she did not -even look at me. She showed none of that voiceless anxiety to know who -had come in when the door opened, which struck me before. She was much -calmed down; the person she expected had come; the blow, whatever it -was, had been borne; and for the present moment there was an end of it. -She actually knitted her pattern correctly, and counted her stitches, -and referred to her book to see if she was correct, as she sat there -before me in her inhuman calm. Was she a creature of flesh and blood, -after all? or a witch, like those of the old stories, without any human -motives in her heart of stone?</p> - -<p>I could not help thinking so as I sat beside her. Her head still -trembled slightly; but I suppose that was an habitual motion. She sat -there shut up in herself,—her misery and her relief, and the cold -dauntless spirit that must have risen from that smart encounter -yesterday, and gained strength by the very struggle—hidden from -everybody round her, as if they had been a world away. I gazed and -wondered, almost trembled, at that extraordinary death in life. She who -had all the tumult of passion and guilt in her memory; she who must have -entered into the fullest excitement of life, and got entangled in its -most dreadful perplexities; she who was no ascetic, nor even pretended -to that rival excitement of the devotee which might have replaced the -other; how could she have lived silent and obdurate through those -dreadful years? The very thought of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300"></a>{300}</span> them struck me aghast. After her -life of flattery, admiration, and universal homage; after her -experience, whatever that might be, of more personal passions, to drop -for a longer time than my whole life behind that screen into that chair! -As I sat opposite to her, my thoughts turned back to that other Miss -Mortimer, whom I had placed in imagination in my grandfather’s house. -Once more I thought I could see that large low room which I never had -seen, except in fancy, with the ancient beauty sitting silent by the -fire amid the ghosts of the past. Was this the true impersonation of -that dream of mine? Was this the Miss Mortimer, with her foreign count, -whom Mrs. Saltoun remembered? As this recurred to me I could scarcely -help a little start of quickened curiosity and eagerness. It seemed to -flicker before me as a possible interpretation of all this dark enigma, -could only the connecting link be found. As I was wandering deeper and -deeper into these thoughts—so deep as to forget the strange position I -stood in, and the possibility of being taken for a kind of domestic spy, -which had embarrassed me at first—I heard a little commotion outside. -The door, perhaps, was ajar, or it might be simply that my ears were -quickened by hearing a little cry from baby, and Lizzie’s voice -belligerent and full of determination. I got up hastily and went to the -door. I don’t think Miss Mortimer even lifted her eyes to notice my -movement. It was certainly Lizzie in some conflict with one of the -authorities of the house; and Lizzie, as the natural and primitive -method of asserting her own way, had unconsciously elevated her voice; a -proceeding which alarmed baby, and also, as it appeared, her antagonist. -I ran and threw the door open as I heard another cry from my little boy. -There, outside, was a curious scene. Lizzie, in her out-of-doors dress, -just returned from a walk in the garden with baby, with her face a -little flushed, and her plentiful hair somewhat blown about by the wind, -was resolutely pressing forward to enter the drawing-room, where, to be -sure, she had no business to come; while holding her back by her cloak, -and whispering threats and dissuasions, was a person whom I had scarcely -seen before, but whom I knew at once to be Carson, Miss Mortimer’s maid. -Lizzie was greatly excited; and what with managing the baby and -resisting this woman, while at the same time possessed with some mission -which she was evidently determined to perform, looked fatigued and -exhausted too.</p> - -<p>“But I <i>will</i>,” cried Lizzie, with her eyes flashing. “I’m no heeding -whether it’s my place or no. I promised I would gi’e<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301"></a>{301}</span> it into her ain -very hand; and do ye think I’m gaun back o’ my word? I tell ye I <i>will</i> -gie’t to the leddy mysel’. Eh, mem!” she exclaimed, breathlessly, with a -sudden change of her tone as she saw me, “I met Menico at the gate, and -I promised to gi’e it into the leddy’s ain hand.”</p> - -<p>When I approached, Carson fell back; she shrank, I could fancy, from -meeting my eyes. Her hand dropped from Lizzie’s cloak; she was as much -afraid to be supposed to interfere as she was anxious to interfere in -reality.</p> - -<p>“My missis’s nerves, ma’am,” said Carson, glibly, but in a half whisper, -“is not as strong as might be wished. If the young person, ma’am, would -give it to me, or——. You see the ladies at the Park they’re known for -charity, and beggars’ letters, or such like, they’re too excitin’ for my -missis’; they puts her all in a tremble—it’s on her nerves.”</p> - -<p>“But, mem,” cried Lizzie, “I canna go back o’ my word.”</p> - -<p>I stood between them, much perplexed and bewildered. The anxiety of Miss -Mortimer’s maid was evident; and Lizzie, from whose arms baby had -instantly struggled as soon as he saw me, was greatly excited. At this -moment she produced the letter which was in question. Carson made a -stealthy spring to seize it, but recollecting herself, drew back, and -looked up guilty, but deprecating in my face. I don’t know whether it -was a desire to clear up the mystery, or the cruel curiosity of an -observer of character that decided me. I dismissed Carson coldly, saying -I would ring if Miss Mortimer wanted her, and told Lizzie to follow me -into the room. Lizzie’s excitement sank into awe as she trod softly -through this great, faded, magnificent apartment. Before she reached the -screen which sheltered Miss Mortimer, she was almost speechless with -half superstitious reverence. I am sure she would willingly have given -her letter to Carson or anybody at that moment. The very fact that the -person she was about to confront was thus concealed from her overawed -her simple mind. When she actually emerged from behind the screen, and -came in full sight of Miss Mortimer, Lizzie’s healthful face was -perfectly colourless, and her frame trembling. The supreme awkwardness -of the attitude into which she fell, the spasmodic rudeness with which -she thrust out that hand that contained the letter, the fright and -consternation visible in every twist of her person, would have been -painfully ludicrous if there had been any time to observe it. Miss -Mortimer raised her eyes and stared at the strange figure before her. -Almost absurd as that figure was in its dismay and terror, her mind was -not sufficiently at ease to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302"></a>{302}</span> simply surprised. Any strange apparition -had a right to appear before this woman in her intrenchments of dumb -resistance. As I stood by looking on, I could understand the feeling -which worked in her eyes. She was not surprised. No miracle could have -surprised her. She was rather asking in her heart, “Who is this new -assailant? Who will come next?”</p> - -<p>“If ye please, it’s a letter,” said Lizzie, in a tremulous voice.</p> - -<p>Miss Mortimer made no attempt to take the letter. She said, “Who are -you?” with a strange curiosity; as if, amid all the powers that had a -secret right to assail her in her conscious guiltiness, this was a new -hobgoblin whom she could not well connect with the others. If there were -any purgatory, I could fancy a poor soul there asking in the same tone -the name of the new imp who came to torment it.</p> - -<p>This was more than Lizzie could bear. I don’t know what perplexed -terrors and superstitious ideas of evil influence brought back the blood -to her cheeks. She trembled all over under that eye, which had suggested -the idea of the Evil Eye to Lizzie, and to which she was determined -never to expose “our bairn.” She must have endured a kind of martyrdom -as she stood under its steady gaze. “Eh, me? I’m no onybody,” cried -Lizzie, shivering with excitement; “it’s just a letter. I said I would -gi’e it into the leddy’s own hand.”</p> - -<p>Miss Mortimer turned upon me—on the child—on the very mirror on the -further wall, a look of silent defiance; she seemed to look round to -call upon the very apartment in which we sat to witness what she did. -Then she took the letter from Lizzie’s rigid fingers, and with scarcely -a motion, except of her hand, dropped it into the fire. After she had -done it, she turned again to us with another steady look, and even with -a smile; triumphant!—with a certain gleam of devilish satisfaction in -her success, as if she had baffled us all once more. But in that very -moment, while she still smiled, I could see her hold herself fast -between the arms of her chair, to keep down the nervous tremor which -seized her. That resisting, defying spirit was lodged in nothing -stronger than a human frame. Her head shook, steadied, trembled again, -with a force beyond all her power of control. With all that soul of -successful evil in her face, her head shook as if with the palsy of -extreme old age, and in spite of the most convulsive strenuous efforts -to keep it still. I was nearly as much awe-struck as Lizzie. I stole out -of sight of her as the girl did. Never was there such a picture! She -could conquer nature, truth, and every human<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303"></a>{303}</span> feeling; but she could not -conquer those tremulous chords and threads of mortal flesh which refused -to be in the conspiracy. She sat there dumbly defying every scrutiny, -but with the smile growing fixed and ghastly on her face as she tried, -with her utmost desperate feeble strength, and failed, to defy and -overcome herself.</p> - -<p>I asked Lizzie no questions as she came upstairs after me. I did not say -anything to her when I heard her sobbing out her agitation in her own -room. There was not a word said between us when she came refreshed by -that little ebullition, and by the necessary arrangement of her -wind-blown hair and dress, to take charge of little Harry. When I had -given the child up to her, I went downstairs again, quite silent and -eager. You may very well ask why. I cannot defend myself. I went down -with no better motive than to watch Miss Mortimer, and see if anything -more could be found out.</p> - -<p>When I went into the room I saw nobody, but heard some voices and -movement behind the screen. I believe if Miss Mortimer had been speaking -in the ordinary human voice, I should not have heard her at that -distance; but I did hear that strange stifled whisper almost as well as -if it had been hissed into my ear.</p> - -<p>“I must deny, deny, deny,” said the strange voice. “Don’t speak to me, -you know nothing about it. It is the only strength I have.”</p> - -<p>“But, oh! dear, dear, such a pretty young gentleman!” said the other -speaker, in a tone of weeping but hopeless remonstrance.</p> - -<p>“Let him prove his rights,” said Miss Mortimer.</p> - -<p>I obeyed my instincts, and fled out of the room as I heard that she was -stirring behind the screen. And I had not been mistaken in the guess I -made. She came out a few minutes later, leaning on Carson’s arm, leaning -heavily, with her head trembling like that of a palsied person; but her -eyes full of that dreadful self-possession, knowledge and resistance. I -trembled, too, as I stood aside to let her pass. She did not say -anything, though she stared hard at me. The maid, though she did her -best to make up her usual face when she saw me there, was evidently -overpowered with anxiety and distress.</p> - -<p>There was, then, one other individual who knew that secret—one creature -who loved that dreadful old woman, and in whom she trusted. I could not -help standing still to look after them as they went upstairs. Carson was -very little younger than her mistress. She had a naturally anxious look, -as well she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304"></a>{304}</span> might if she had been for years the depository of this -secret. I could not help picturing their life to myself as they went -upstairs: the innocent woman troubled and tearful, the guilty woman calm -and immovable, but for that trembling of her frame which even her -remorseless will was not strong enough to subdue. I could understand -better now how she kept alive, and could preserve that frightful -stillness of hers. Upstairs, in their own apartments, no doubt another -life went on; a life of recollections and schemes which no one knew of, -a life palpitating full of those past years of which Miss Mortimer gave -no sign. That was how she kept herself alive. I could not do anything -but stand still, watching them, as they went slowly up to that -retirement, where the mask could be laid off and the veil drawn. When -they were out of sight, I strayed into the great vacant drawing-room, -unable to withdraw my thoughts from this strange pair. “I must deny, -deny, deny!” That was the position she had taken. Could any one in -existence—could Luigi, a sensitive and high-minded young man as he -seemed to be—seek motherly love from such a woman as this? Motherly -love! it was dreadful even in thought to apply such words to anything -that could come from her. Shame only, shame to both. What motive could -he have to go on seeking her? for Nature had evidently no place in her -heart of stone.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305"></a>{305}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_X-f" id="Chapter_X-f"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter X.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">“B</span><span class="smcap">UT</span>, dear, dear, where’s Sarah?” cried Aunt Milly, when some time later -she came into the room.</p> - -<p>I felt almost as guilty as if I had suddenly got some share in Miss -Mortimer’s secret. “She was going upstairs when I came in,” said I; but -I could not find it in my heart to say what new accident had done this.</p> - -<p>Aunt Milly looked at her chair and her footstool, and the work-basket -she had left behind, as if she might possibly ascertain something from -them. “My dear, it will be well to avoid the strangers to-night,” she -said, nodding her head, as if this conclusion was, on the whole, not -unsatisfactory; “and, indeed, Milly, though you may think it strange of -me to say so, I am not sorry; for Miss Kate, I am afraid, would be very -likely to mention something about that poor young man, whoever he may -be!” said Aunt Milly, with a sigh. “Dear, dear, to think what troubles -people make, both for themselves and others, that might be avoided by a -little openness. Why couldn’t he have told me, my dear? If he has -claims, I’d have seen him satisfied to the very last farthing, Milly! -and if he hasn’t claims, why should he persecute Sarah and me?”</p> - -<p>“But it might be something he couldn’t tell,” said I, rashly.</p> - -<p>“Something he couldn’t tell? What do you mean, child? What sort of a -connection could he have with our family that he <i>couldn’t tell</i>?” cried -Miss Milly. “I see what you mean. He might be a natural son. Harry has -put that into your head, now, for I am sure you never could have thought -of it of yourself. Milly, Milly, it’s dreadful to say, but I’d be more -thankful than I can tell you, to know that he was. I shouldn’t forget he -was my father’s son all the same; he should be amply provided -for—<i>amply</i>, my dear; ah, but it’s far too good news to be true; and, -besides, what would Sarah care for him, if he were illegitimate? It -could not hurt us in the least. Nothing, but what would be an injury to -us, can explain Sarah’s looks.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306"></a>{306}</span> Don’t let us think of it any more, -Milly. Come and show me, dear, what you’re going to wear to-night. I -should like you to look pretty, though they are all old people; for -they’re old <i>friends</i> as well. Come upstairs with me, and show me what -you are to have on.”</p> - -<p>I went, not without some trepidation, for I did not know what Aunt Milly -would say when she knew I had nothing but white muslin. She did shake -her head when she saw it spread out ready to put on. She even faltered -forth some half questions as to what I had in my wardrobe, whether I had -not a nice——; but there dear Aunt Milly stopped. She would not hurt my -feelings whatever I might wear; and I don’t deny I felt a little -mortified myself to see it laid out like a little girl’s best frock. -However, I am thankful to say Harry never had an idea that it was not -the very best thing I could wear.</p> - -<p>“There are some lace flounces,” said Aunt Milly, half to herself, eyeing -the poor white frock over again, “that might brighten it up a little;” -then she turned round suddenly and kissed me by way of apology. “My -dear, don’t be affronted, I’m sure you will look very pretty in -it;—only I should have preferred, just for this one night,—but, to be -sure, you never thought of bringing out all your things for such a short -visit, and us such quiet people. Never mind, Milly dear, it will look -very nice, I am sure. I have a very pretty scarf you shall wear thrown -over it; it may not be quite in the fashion; but fine lace never goes -out of fashion, you know. I mean to give it you anyhow; and here’s a -little jewel-box, with some ornaments in it; I used to wear them myself -when I was a girl, and I had them reset just for a little remembrance of -this visit. Put them on, for my sake, to-night; and remember, dear, that -what we’ve been talking about so much these few days is a family secret. -If anybody should say anything that seems to touch on it, or should even -mention Mr. Luigi’s name, don’t look as if you were conscious of -anything. It <i>may</i> come to nothing, you know. I am very glad you like -them, my dear. I am quite pleased I thought of it. But recollect, Milly, -my love, to be on your guard.”</p> - -<p>With these words she left me, running away from my thanks for her -present. I was very much pleased with her present, and even at that -moment, when people might suppose I had more serious things to think of, -I must say it did give me a flutter of gratification to find bracelets -in the jewel-box. How kind and thoughtful it was of Aunt Milly! I wonder -if<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307"></a>{307}</span> she knew I hadn’t any? I showed them to Lizzie, who thought anything -so grand had never been seen, and to baby, who would have liked to have -them to play with, and finally to Harry when he came in, and I had to -prepare for our drive. Harry found some fault (of course) with their -style, but was quite as pleased as I was. And, indeed, it was very good -of him to be pleased, for I had almost to go down on my knees to him to -keep him from buying me something of the kind when we came to Chester, -and he naturally grudged that any one should give them to me but -himself.</p> - -<p>To think of me saying so much about such a small affair as bracelets, -when things so much more important were surrounding us on every side! I -am afraid to say it, but it is true, that when I went down into the -drawing-room that evening I was thinking too much about my beautiful -scarf and these same bracelets to notice, at the first moment, who was -there. The first thing that brought me to myself was hearing the voice -of Miss Mortimer behind her screen. I was so amazed that, instinctively, -without giving any reason to myself for it, I pushed forward to see her. -There she sat, that dreadful, wonderful witch of a woman—so far from -being moved by any feeling of nature which might have led her to avoid -the strangers, as innocent Aunt Milly supposed—sitting there as if on a -throne, entirely assuming the part of mistress of the house, and -receiving the homage of her guests. Evidently everybody was -surprised—everybody had understood Miss Mortimer to have withdrawn from -any but the most secluded life and I do not think I ever felt such a -thrill of wonder and pity, and almost horror, as when, after all I had -seen and noted, after her convulsive trembling and watchful readiness -for any attack, after the way in which, this very day, she had -retreated, stubborn but exhausted, upstairs, I saw her sitting here, in -full evening dress, with jewels and ornaments; her watchful eyes -gleaming stealthily round, and her ears alive to every sound.</p> - -<p>As I came forward I caught sight of Aunt Milly sitting silent by herself -by a table, with a face full of the deepest perplexity and distress. She -raised her troubled eyes to me, and grasped at my hand for a moment, as -if to strengthen herself. She could not make it out—any attempt to -decipher her sister’s purpose was in vain to Aunt Milly—the light might -as well have tried to comprehend the darkness. But I had not time to say -anything to her. Miss Mortimer had called Harry, who drew me along with -him; and it was she who introduced us to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308"></a>{308}</span> the rector and his sister, and -to that heavy old Sir George, and the Penrhyns of Eden Castle. I am sure -I cannot tell what she said; it was principally Harry she spoke of, and -I remember that she called him their heir and nearest relation, which -gained us a very flattering reception from the strangers. But the mere -fact of seeing her there, with her bare arms and shoulders shining thin -through just such another scarf as I had on, and her eyes meeting -everybody else’s with a certain wide-open vigilant stare, and her head -held stiffly erect to dissemble that trembling, which, even still, she -could not overcome, at once confounded and engrossed me so much that I -could observe nothing else. Harry got into conversation with the -gentlemen, and Miss Kate, from the Rectory, a woman evidently full of -curiosity and enterprise, seized upon Miss Mortimer. I managed to get -away to Aunt Milly; she took my hand again, and pressed it almost -painfully. “My dear, what do you suppose <i>this</i> means?” said Aunt Milly, -looking wistfully up in my face.</p> - -<p>“To defy everybody,” I said, scarcely knowing what I was saying; “but, -dear Aunt Milly, you warned me to be on my guard. You look so troubled, -people will fancy something is wrong.”</p> - -<p>When I said that, she got up hastily and joined the others. I can’t tell -how the strangers felt; but for all of us who belonged to the house, it -is impossible to imagine any scene more extraordinary. To see the -dauntless, unnatural wickedness of that woman facing and defying -everybody—to see her take the principal place, and ignore the troubled, -terrified sister, whose guests these people really were—out of all the -mysterious veil of secrecy and darkness in which she had been wrapped, -to watch her emerging thus, not only as if nothing were wrong with her, -but as if, in reality, she was the soul of everything, and dear Aunt -Milly only her shadow and servant! When Miss Mortimer took the head of -the table at dinner, and Aunt Milly astonished, and not knowing what to -make of it, dropped into a seat near the foot, where Harry was, our -dismay and wonder were nearly at their climax. Aunt Milly clasped my -hands hard; she had got a chair placed in the corner beside me, and -whispered—</p> - -<p>“I don’t mind it, my dear, don’t think I mind it. If all was well, and I -had known her meaning!”</p> - -<p>I understood that perfectly; but then all was not well, and nobody had -known the weird woman’s meaning. Now she had it all in her own hands. -With her grey hair, and her thin<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309"></a>{309}</span> bare aged shoulders peeping out of her -scarf, she made a dreadful pretence of flirting with that old Sir -George; and curious Miss Kate sat scrutinising her, and making perpetual -remarks; and Aunt Milly and I looked on with awe and alarm which I could -not describe. I could scarcely answer Mr. Penrhyn when he spoke to me. I -fear he must have thought me a very poor representative of the -Mortimers. But I could not keep my attention from that figure at the -head of the table. I could not help wondering, did she see the writing -and the man’s hand upon the wall? for in all her pretences, and -affectations, and coquetries,—those strange coquetries, and gestures, -and movements of the head and hands, which might have been pretty in a -young beauty, but were so dismal in a white-haired old woman—remember, -<i>she never once forgot</i>. I could see it plain in her eyes all the time. -If the handwriting had come upon the wall, as it did in Belshazzar’s -palace, it would not have surprised her. No allusion that could be made -would shock or startle her. She knew everything that could come; and, in -her devilish daring, she was prepared for all.</p> - -<p>I hope it is not very wicked of me to use such words; indeed, I cannot -tell what others I could use.</p> - -<p>Things went on so till we got back to the drawing-room, which was a -relief in its way. And by dint of continuing so long, the pressure had, -of course, grown easier, and I had actually begun to make a little -acquaintance with Mrs. Penrhyn, who was young, and had little children -of her own, and quite insisted I should take her upstairs to see baby, -when I was suddenly recalled from that very agreeable talk we were just -falling into, by the sharp voice of Miss Kate.</p> - -<p>“Have you heard any more of that young Italian, Miss Milly?” said Miss -Kate; “he that struck me, you know, as having so odd a resemblance to -your family?—very strange! and did you not perceive it yourself? I hear -he has been seen about here again, and his servant, that stout person. -Ah, how very sad he doesn’t know English, that poor fellow! perhaps he -has picked up a little since. Of all the sad things in the world, I know -nothing so melancholy as being in the midst of light, and yet, for such -a trifling thing as the want of language, remaining in darkness. I have -never forgiven myself for neglecting Italian since that day. Ah, I wish -I knew Italian as you do, Miss Mortimer. Who can tell what use I might -have been to that poor benighted man!”</p> - -<p>I had turned aside, with the words stopped on my very lips,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310"></a>{310}</span> to listen. -So had Aunt Milly, looking aghast, and with every tinge of colour -blanched from her face. Miss Mortimer did not observe me; but she -noticed her sister, and stared at her with actually a little pause and -smile of malice, to direct everybody’s attention to her startled face, -before she spoke.</p> - -<p>“I can’t speak even my own language now,” was all Miss Mortimer said; -and all the time looked at Aunt Milly with that derisive look, as if to -show that whoever was agitated by this reference it was not herself. I -was so wicked as to think she meant to turn over the scandal, if any -should rise, upon her sister; and it made my blood boil; but, to be -sure, I was quite in error there.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I am sure after to-night—!” cried Miss Kate; “Indeed, my dear Miss -Mortimer, I must congratulate you. I hope it is the beginning of a new -life. If you would but take a little interest in the parish, with your -improved health, I am sure it would do so much good; and if you should -happen to meet that unfortunate young man, and would be induced to -explain the truth to him a little in his own language——”</p> - -<p>Here Miss Mortimer gave an extraordinary kind of gasp, without, however, -uttering any sound. Nobody observed it but me, as my eyes were fixed on -her. Then she spoke as if she could not help herself, drawing back into -the shadow.</p> - -<p>“He speaks English!” she said, with an extraordinary tone of being -compelled to say something—as if some influence within her had -constrained the words from her unwilling tongue.</p> - -<p>“But, ah, it is the servant I speak of,” cried Miss Kate; “one soul is -just as precious as another; it is he, poor unfortunate man! If you -should meet him in any of your drives,—he is very stout, and has a -large beard, and is so completely the foreigner that you can’t mistake -him,—if you would only stop the carriage and say a word in season.”</p> - -<p>There was another wonderful contraction of all the muscles of Miss -Mortimer’s face, and this time a kind of hysterical sound came with it.</p> - -<p>“If I meet him,” she said, slowly, “I’ll give him a word in -season—don’t be afraid,” and she laughed.</p> - -<p>It made me shiver and tremble all over. I was thankful that Ellis came -that moment with tea, and I could get up and go into another corner of -the room to recover myself. I don’t know how Aunt Milly bore it. She had -not a particle of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_311" id="page_311"></a>{311}</span> colour in her face the whole evening after. But Miss -Mortimer went upstairs steadily when all the guests were gone. I do not -know what befell when she got into her own room. I do not think they had -much rest there that night. If she had fallen down in a fit, or expired -at the head of the table that evening, it would not have surprised me. -She had lived through it; but I am sure neither she nor her poor -faithful maid closed their eyes that night.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_312" id="page_312"></a>{312}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_XI-f" id="Chapter_XI-f"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter XI.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><span class="smcap">HE</span> day after that, was the day we had fixed to go back to Chester. Miss -Mortimer did not come downstairs; but Carson came to me with a little -packet while I was helping Lizzie to pack up baby’s things. The poor -woman looked ill and strange herself. She had a scared terrified -expression, as if she were afraid of everybody, and looked so worn-out -and exhausted that I could scarcely help telling her, for pity’s sake, -to go and get some sleep.</p> - -<p>“My missis sends her love,” said Carson, “and she’s very sorry she can’t -come downstairs to see you, ma’am, nor the Captain, but hopes it won’t -be long till you’re here again; and sends you this, and her love.”</p> - -<p>“Is Miss Mortimer ill?” said I.</p> - -<p>Carson hesitated before she answered.</p> - -<p>“It’s on her nerves,” she said, at last, faltering; “it’s—I mean, to be -sure, she’s a little overtired because of overdoing of herself last -night. It was out of compliment to the Captain, ma’am, and you. My -missis has a great spirit; but it’s the body as is weak.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said I, unable to restrain the impulse; “but, oh, don’t you think -she has just too great a spirit? What if it kills her one of these -days?”</p> - -<p>The woman flashed up for a moment into an attempt of resentment and -dignity, but, partly from her weakness and watching and want of sleep, -broke down immediately, and shed a few tears in her apron. The poor -creature’s heart was moved. “If it kills her she’ll die; but she’ll -never give in,” sobbed Carson; and then, recovering herself all at -once—“it’s on the nerves, that’s what it is,” said the faithful -servant, and hurried away.</p> - -<p>It was some time before I cared to open Miss Mortimer’s packet. It -contained two rings, one of them a slight turquoise thing, which was for -me, and the other a fine diamond, which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_313" id="page_313"></a>{313}</span> was to be given to my husband. -“Tell him it’s a family jewel,” said a little accompanying note. I put -it down on Harry’s dressing-table, where he would find it when he came -in. <i>I</i> would not put such a present on his finger; besides, it was best -he should have it direct from herself—she had always received <i>him</i> as -the representative of the Mortimers, and not me.</p> - -<p>And then Aunt Milly came upstairs to kiss and cry over us. I was very -sad myself, as was natural. There was nothing now between me and Harry’s -going, but a few weeks—rather a few days. I should look straight into -the face of that dreadful approaching moment when we turned our backs on -the Park.</p> - -<p>I could not cry as Aunt Milly did. I felt to myself as if I had been -trifling all this time, taken up with other people’s affairs, and making -friends with strangers, while every hour was bringing us closer to that -day. Dear Aunt Milly held me fast in her arms, and whispered everything -in the world she could think of to console me: that I had baby; that I -should have letters regularly; that the war would not last long; that I -must trust God, and pray. Ah, as if I did not know all that! if I had -not known it and gone over it all in my own mind a thousand times, there -might have been some comfort in what she said.</p> - -<p>“And look here,” said Aunt Milly, thrusting a purse into my pocket—not -into my hand, to give me a chance of putting it back again—“he is our -representative, dear. He is not to go a step till he has -everything—everything you can so much as think upon to make him -comfortable. Now, Milly, don’t say a word. I’ll think you don’t love me -if you say a word. Will it be any comfort to you, or me, to think here’s -some paltry money left, and Harry gone to fight for us all without -something that would make him comfortable? You’d work your fingers off -to get it for him, and you have no excuse for denying me. Don’t say -anything to Harry, child. Men don’t understand these things. It’s -between you and me; and, please God, we’ll tell him all our schemes when -we get him back safe, the dear fellow. But, dear, what is that on the -table? Sarah’s diamond! that one she has always had such a fancy for. -Has she sent it to you?”</p> - -<p>“To Harry,” said I.</p> - -<p>“To Harry! Dear, dear, what creatures we are!” cried Aunt Milly, much -agitated, and bursting in tears again. “Poor Sarah! she’s not so -hard-hearted as you and me were thinking,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_314" id="page_314"></a>{314}</span> Milly. Oh, God help her; if -He would only bring her to deal true and fair, and have out this trouble -in the face of day, there might be some comfort yet for her in this very -life!”</p> - -<p>I made no answer. I did not love Miss Mortimer, as I suppose, in some -sort of way, her sister did; and, besides, my thoughts were all turned -in another direction again. I had ceased to see the Park and its -troubles so acutely as I had done for some days past. My mind was -returned to my own private burden. I had little to say to anybody after -that. I turned away even from Aunt Milly, with a dreadful feeling that I -was not to see her again till Harry was gone. For I knew in my heart, -though they never said anything to me, that this was how it was to be.</p> - -<p>I had not the heart to talk even to Harry, as we drove slowly back to -Chester—slowly, as I fancied. We went in the carriage all the way. We -had no railway or tunnel to go through this time. Nothing to help me to -a moment’s delusion of plunging away to the end of the world, or into -the bowels of the earth, it did not matter which, <i>all together</i>. That -was impossible. Miss Mortimer’s carriage put nothing in my mind but the -inevitable parting, and all that was to happen to me after Harry was -gone.</p> - -<p>When we got to our Chester lodgings, Domenico was there, as usual, full -of the noisiest, kindest bustle, to help in getting everything in, as if -he had belonged to us, instead of belonging to a stranger, who, most -likely, had little reason to bear the heirs of the Mortimers any good -will. Mr. Luigi was standing at the window all the time, looking at the -carriage, the horses, the servants; thinking, perhaps, they might all -have been his under different circumstances. How can I tell what he was -thinking? I am sure at that moment, though I observed him at the window, -I took no pains to imagine what his thoughts were, and did not care. I -did not care for anything just then.</p> - -<p>It was one of my bad times. It was one of the hundred partings which I -had with Harry before the real parting came. When the things were lifted -out of the carriage, I could see them all in my own mind lifted in -again, all but Harry’s share of them, and myself sitting blind in that -corner with all the world dark before me. Well, well; it is no use -reasoning over it, as if that would make things any better. Thousands -and thousands were just the same as me; did that make it any better, do -you suppose? I thought of the poor woman in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_315" id="page_315"></a>{315}</span> Edinburgh High Street, -and her hard damp hand that pressed mine. I was a soldier’s wife like -all the rest. I went up into my own room and got Harry’s old sash again, -and bound it tight over my heart. It gave me a kind of ease, somehow. -And to hear baby shouting at sight of his old toys, and Harry calling -for his Milly darling, downstairs! It was an agony of happiness and -anguish; it was life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_316" id="page_316"></a>{316}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_XII-f" id="Chapter_XII-f"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter XII.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><span class="smcap">HE</span> very next day Sara Cresswell came to see me. I cannot say that I was -very glad, for I grudged everything now that did not belong to the one -business which was engrossing us. I had been out that morning with Harry -trying to get things that were necessary for him. I don’t mean the -common articles of his outfit, for these, now that we had money enough, -could be ordered at once without contriving; but the little conveniences -that might make him more comfortable. He protested that I would load him -with so many contrivances for comfort that comfort would be impossible; -and, I daresay I was foolish. But he let me do it without more than just -laughing at me. He knew it was a sort of consolation. When Sara came the -room was in a litter with all sorts of portable apparatus; things for -cooking, and lamps, and portable dressing things, and the wonderful -convenient portmanteaus they make now-a-days. I was putting them all -together, and comparing, and thinking all how he would do when, instead -of home, where everything came naturally, without being asked for, he -should have only these skeletons to make himself comfortable with. I had -lighted the lamp, and was boiling the little kettle over it, to see how -it would do. Ah, if we only had been going all together! If I could have -imagined myself there to boil the kettle and have everything warm and -nice for him when he came in from the trenches, how pleasant all these -contrivances would have been! As it was I had just had his servant up -and been showing him the things we had bought; he looking grim and half -amused, touching his cap and saying, “Yes, ma’am,” to every word I said, -but laughing in his mind at all my womanish nonsense. I could see that -perfectly, and I had a good cry after the man was gone; and was just -rousing up from that, to boil the little kettle, when Sara Cresswell -came in.</p> - -<p>In this short week there was a good deal of change upon Sara. Her eyes -had a quick kind of fitful light in them gleaming about everywhere, as -if she were somehow dissatisfied, either with herself or her own -circumstances, and sought a kind<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_317" id="page_317"></a>{317}</span> of relief in external things. There -was a change in her appearance too; her little short curls had either -grown too long to cluster about her neck as she had worn them, or she -had taken another caprice about this fashion of hers, for they were now -all gathered into a net, a thing which changed her appearance, somehow, -without one being able to see for the first minute how it was. She -flushed up wonderfully when she saw my occupation. She came and kissed -me, and sat down by me to watch the lamp. I had to explain to her all -about it, how it was arranged, and everything; and after she had sat -with me watching till the little kettle boiled, all at once it seemed to -flash upon her what dreadful thing was implied to me in that little -apparatus, and she suddenly looked up in my face and took hold of my -hand, and burst out crying. I gave way just for one moment too, but even -her presence and her sympathy kept me from breaking down altogether. But -it warmed my heart to Sara to see her crying for my trouble. I took the -little teapot out of the place it was fitted into and made some tea, and -gave her some without saying anything. We sat by the table where that -little lamp was still burning, throwing the steady, cheerful little -flame that showed so strange in the daylight, upon us. We drank that tea -together without saying anything, till Sara, not being able to contain -herself, her heart quite running over with pity for me, took the cup out -of my hand and threw her arms round me. “We shall be sisters while he is -away!” cried Sara, not knowing what to say to comfort me. I don’t think -I said anything; but we were real fast friends from that day.</p> - -<p>“But I must have everything cleared away now, before Harry comes in,” -said I; “he must not see all this litter we have been making. He thinks -me foolish enough already. Go into the other room, Sara dear, and take a -book and wait for me. Lizzie is out with baby. I’ll come to you -presently.”</p> - -<p>“As if I could not help!” cried Sara, dashing the tears away off her -cheek. “Why, oh, Milly, why won’t people let us women do what we were -born to? This is twenty times pleasanter than going into the other room -and taking a book.”</p> - -<p>And so, I daresay, it was. When everything was tidy we did go into the -other room. Sara sat near the window, where she could see out without -being seen herself. I took up some of Harry’s things that I had begun to -make before Aunt Milly’s money came. I would have made them every one -myself if I could, but that, to be sure, was impossible; and what a -comfort<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_318" id="page_318"></a>{318}</span> it was to think he would have such a good supply of everything; -but still it was a pleasure to me to have that work. We sat talking for -some time about other things, about the Park, and Aunt Milly, and Miss -Mortimer, but without touching upon anything but the surface,—how I -liked them, and all that,—till at last Sara gave a little start and -exclamation, and put her hands together. It was something she saw in the -street. I rose to look over her shoulder what it was.</p> - -<p>“There is Mr. Langham and Mr. Luigi,” cried Sara. “What can they be -talking about? Are they coming in, I wonder? How earnest they both look! -Now they are turning back again. Oh, Milly, tell me, please! what are -they talking about?”</p> - -<p>“How can I possibly tell you?” said I; but I suppose there was a little -faltering and consciousness in my tone.</p> - -<p>Sara sat watching for some time longer. “They walk up and down, quite -engrossed in their conversation,” said Sara; “when they reach the end of -the pavement, they turn back again, up and down, up and down. Now Mr. -Langham seems urging something upon him—now he turns away, he clasps -his hands together, he appeals to Mr. Langham. What is it? what is it -all about? I never can persuade him to tell me. How does he belong to -the Park or the Mortimers? Why are they frightened for him? Oh, Milly, -you who have just come from them, tell me what it is? I am not asking -from vain curiosity—I—I—I have a right——”</p> - -<p>Here Sara stopped, overcome with agitation. I was close behind her. I -could not help growing agitated too.</p> - -<p>“Sara, tell <i>me</i>!” I cried; “we are both motherless creatures, and you -have nobody to guide you. Tell me; you call him <i>he</i>, you don’t say his -name. What is he to you?”</p> - -<p>Sara turned back and leant her head upon me, and fell into a passion of -tears again;—different tears—tears for herself, and out of the anguish -of her heart. She was doing wrong—she knew she was doing wrong—she had -gone on with it wilfully, knowing it was wrong all the time; and now she -had gone too far to draw back.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Milly, Milly, papa does not know!” she cried, in such a tone of -misery. And, indeed, I don’t wonder. How could she look him in the face -knowing how fond of her he was?</p> - -<p>“But, Sara, this is dreadfully wrong of Mr. Luigi,” cried I; “he ought -to know better; he should at least have gone to Mr. Cresswell. It is his -fault.”</p> - -<p>“Was it your Harry’s fault?” cried Sara, starting up in my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_319" id="page_319"></a>{319}</span> face, all -flushed and glowing. “Should he have gone directly and told everybody? -And you were married, <i>married</i>, Milly!—and ever such a time before it -was found out. How <i>can</i> you pretend to be so shocked at me?”</p> - -<p>To see her spring up, all blushing and beautiful, and determined as she -was—she who had been sobbing on my shoulder a moment before, took me -entirely by surprise. I retreated a step before her. I could not tell -what answer to make. She was not ashamed, the little darling creature! -She was ready to stand up for him against all the world.</p> - -<p>“It was not my good father that loved me, it was only my aunt,” I said, -faltering; “and, besides, it was I who should have told her; and as for -Harry—Harry——”</p> - -<p>“He is no better than Luigi!” cried Sara; “he ought to have gone and -told and asked for you. You know he should; and you were married, -actually <i>married</i>, and oh, Milly, can you really venture to scold me?”</p> - -<p>“If I had nothing else to excuse me I was ashamed, at least,” said I, a -little sharply.</p> - -<p>“I am not ashamed of Lewis!” cried the little girl, stamping her little -foot and clasping her hands together. When her courage deserted her, she -came and nestled into my side again, and clasped her arms tight and -cried. What was to be done? for whatever I might have done myself, I -could not be an accessory to Sara’s secret, to break her kind father’s -heart.</p> - -<p>“But tell me who he is? What is Mr. Langham speaking to him about?” -whispered Sara at last.</p> - -<p>“Has he not told you who he is?”</p> - -<p>“Only that soon he will be able to come to papa and tell him everything, -but that his duty to somebody prevents him speaking now, till he has -permission,” said Sara, under her breath. “I am not excusing him,” she -went on, lifting up her head. “As you say, it was my part to tell papa; -and it was only just the other day that—that—there was anything to -tell. We have not been going on making it up for a long time. We have -not been keeping it secret for months, like some people.”</p> - -<p>“Sara, hush,” said I; “you know quite well your case and mine are not -alike; but, at any rate, I am older and wiser now. Must I, or must -Harry, go and tell your father?”</p> - -<p>Sara looked at me with a degree of affectionate spite and wickedness I -never saw equalled. “You would, you treacherous, perfidious creature!” -she cried, flinging away from me; “but Mr. Langham wouldn’t!—you need -not think it. You will have to go yourself; and papa will think we have -had a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_320" id="page_320"></a>{320}</span> quarrel, and won’t believe you. Ah, Milly! here they are coming -back. Tell me what Mr. Langham was saying to him? Tell me what it all -is?”</p> - -<p>If I had known ever so well what to tell her, and been as willing as I -was able, I would have been prevented by Harry’s coming in. He was -looking grave and perplexed. His interview with Luigi had not satisfied -<i>him</i>, any more than such a conversation had satisfied anybody else who -approached the Italian. Sara stopped short with the most violent blush -on her face when she saw him. She withdrew from me, and got into a -corner. She went to the window, and pretended to be looking out very -earnestly. She answered Harry’s salutation only over my shoulder. The -next moment she came whispering to me that it was time for her to go. -Evidently, however much she encouraged herself by our example, she could -not face Harry. She whispered, “Don’t tell!” and clenched her little -fist at me as she went away. Of course I only laughed at her; but it -appeared I did not need to tell Harry. He came upstairs, after seeing -her out, with a smile on his face.</p> - -<p>“Has she been telling you what trouble she has got herself into? Oh, -don’t betray her secret,” said Harry. “I have just heard it from the -other side. Here are other two fools following our example, Milly. What -is to be done for them? It is worse, you know, in their case, as I took -pains to show Luigi. Mr. Cresswell is a different person from Aunt -Connor; and we two were equal in our poverty. I don’t approve,” said -Harry, with a laugh mingling in his gravity, “of such a thing as this.”</p> - -<p>“And what did he say?” said I, thinking, no doubt, that my Harry’s -wisdom had made the Italian ashamed of himself.</p> - -<p>Harry laughed again, but grew rather red. “Word for word what I used to -say when I was explaining to myself why I did not go and ask you from -your Aunt Connor. I hope they’ll have as good an issue as we have had, -Milly, darling,” said Harry, “But here’s some extraordinary mistake -again. Either we’re mistaken in our guess, which I can’t think possible, -or poor Luigi’s dreadfully mistaken in the laws of England and of -civilised life. Perhaps he thinks our being Protestants makes an end of -law. I can’t tell what he thinks, nor what to think of the whole -concern. He refuses my mediation, Milly; at least he tells me I am -wrong.”</p> - -<p>“Wrong in what particular?” I asked eagerly.</p> - -<p>Harry shook his head. “I can’t tell; but he will not hear of any -compensation, or of giving up his pursuit of that poor old<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_321" id="page_321"></a>{321}</span> lady. When -he saw what I meant he grew very hot and angry, and asked if I meant to -insult him, but afterwards said to himself, ‘It is in ignorance,’ with a -sort of magnanimity which would be simply ridiculous according to my -notion of the affair. They’ll have it out their own way, Milly. We can’t -interfere, that’s clear; only I wish there was some light thrown upon -it,” said Harry, “before I went away, that I might know what your -fortune is likely to be. What would you say if this grand Park of yours -turned out to be no inheritance for us at all?”</p> - -<p>“I should not break my heart; but what <i>could</i> he have to do with the -Park?” cried I. “If he were Mr. Mortimer’s son, why should Miss Mortimer -be so troubled about it? and how could he, if he is Miss Mortimer’s——”</p> - -<p>“Hush, Milly; we don’t know anything about it. Let’s talk of our own -concerns,” said Harry, with a sigh. These words plunged me back again -into the mood from which Sara had roused me. The other things went like -shadows—this was the real life which belonged to us.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_322" id="page_322"></a>{322}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_XIII-f" id="Chapter_XIII-f"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter XIII.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span> <span class="smcap">DON’T</span> remember very well after that how these outside affairs went on. -I used to see them both, of course. Sara came to me almost every day, -and sometimes helped with my work, and sometimes played with baby, and -sometimes would read aloud to me when Harry was out. She meant it very -well and was very good, and a comfort, as much as that was possible. I -remember being glad when she read, and did not talk, for then I was free -to my own thoughts. I daresay, thinking it over since, that it must have -been the fascination of seeing her constantly, which for that interval -took precedence of everything in Luigi’s mind, and kept him inactive; -for I heard from Aunt Milly that he had not been to the Park again, nor -heard of in any way, so far as she knew. And Miss Mortimer had been -ailing too, and had very bad nights, and had been a whole week that she -did not come downstairs. I heard all these things at the time without -taking any notice of them. Harry, after finding himself so unsuccessful -with Luigi, had given it all up; and we were both too much occupied with -our own concerns to think of anything else. We did not talk much of what -was to happen when he was gone. It had come to be tacitly concluded that -I was to go with Aunt Milly; and, I suppose, that thought that crossed -Harry’s mind after his conversation with Luigi,—“What if the Park -should turn out to be no inheritance of ours after all?”—had passed -away again as it came. I can’t say I ever thought of the Park at that -time one way or another; and I am sure what Harry was glad for me to -have, was not the prospect of a great fortune, but the presence of a -dear friend.</p> - -<p>One day he rode out to see Aunt Milly, and take leave of her. He saw -them both, he told me, but nothing passed that I cared to inquire into. -We had a great deal to do, which helped us to pull through these days. -It was such a difficulty to get those things which I had collected, -packed. Harry’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_323" id="page_323"></a>{323}</span> servant came, and puffed and scratched his head over -them, and poor Domenico came up to help; and what with his broad laughs -and pantomime, and his determination to get everything in, and his -cheerfulness over all his failures, and the ludicrous way in which he -and Thomson addressed each other, each in his own language, and abused -each other too, even I was obliged to laugh, and the assistants were all -kept in good-humour. I felt as if it had been very dark all these -days—often raining, always cloudy, the streets muddy and uncomfortable, -and the air stifling. I can’t tell whether it was so in reality, but it -certainly seemed so to me.</p> - -<p>Then the very last day came. Harry was specially busy all that day; -there were all the men to look after, and he was acting adjutant. I went -out by myself to see whether I could not find anything else he might -want. It was very fatiguing walking—I suppose it was a rainy day. When -I came in I felt very faint, and sat down in a chair in the hall for an -instant to recover myself. I can’t tell how Luigi knew that I was there; -but he came out to the door of his room, and stood looking at me for a -moment. I got up, being jealous that anybody should see me break down, -just then; but he held up his hand as if to beg me to stay.</p> - -<p>“May I say how I think of you?” he said. “Just now you are never out of -my mind, you and that brave Langham. Patience, patience! such men come -back—they come back!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, hush, hush, hush!” I cried. I could say nothing more, and pressed -past him to go upstairs.</p> - -<p>He put his hand on mine when I laid it on the rail of the stairs, -detaining me. “We are cousins,” he said, softly; “do not put me away. In -my country we say cousin-brother—it does not matter, it is the same. I -will be your brother if you will let me. Tell him. I am not to be -ashamed of; he knows not; but if <i>she</i> will not do what is right, soon -all the world must know. I am your brother, at your disposition. Say it -to him. I will not come to say farewell to disturb you—but tell him; he -shall trust me, and you may want a brother; we are of one blood.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, let me go!” I cried. “I can’t ask you how this is. I can’t thank -you, though I am sure it is kindness. I can’t think of anything to-day; -let me go.”</p> - -<p>Luigi kissed my hand, and let me go. It startled me very much for the -moment. I rushed upstairs, feeling as if he had been rude to me;—but -indeed he had not been rude to me, nor anything the least like it. But -it startled me into<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_324" id="page_324"></a>{324}</span> realizing all that was going to happen. That I -should be alone as to-morrow. I remember running and clutching at the -blinds which were down, and drawing them up with great haste, and almost -passion. It seemed to me as if that dim light were predicting something; -as if the furniture standing about was looking on, and knew what was -going to be. Now the time was come; I had gone over it and over it in my -fancy; this would be the last of my rehearsals; to-morrow Harry would be -away.</p> - -<p>And the to-morrow came, as they always do. I did not feel in the least -diminished in my strength. I did not feel I had any body at all that -morning. I went with him to the railway steadily, you may suppose. I -would not lose a moment of the time we were to be together in any folly -about myself. I remember him saying something about me going home alone, -and all that, as men <i>will</i> do. But I did not lose sight of him till the -last moment when the train disappeared into the tunnel; and I can’t tell -how long I stood there watching, after it had vanished into that -darkness. Now he was gone! Another train came up, and the crowd -disturbed me standing there all by myself. I did not feel as if it were -true; but I went away all the same. I said to myself, over and over -again, “He is gone;” but it did me no good. I went out of the railway -not believing in it. Outside there was a cab waiting for me. But -Domenico rushed forward to open the door, and somehow they had contrived -that Lizzie and baby should be there to take me home. I heard afterwards -that Luigi and Domenico were both watching close by all the time, in -case I should faint, or something. I suppose they thought I would faint, -not knowing any better. Lizzie’s great eyes, panic-struck, gazing in my -face, full of tears that she durst not let fall, struck me quite -strangely when I got into the cab; and then little Harry stretched out -his arms to me—and then——. But even at the worst it was not so -dreadful as I thought it would be. I was not sitting blind and -desperate, with all the world dark before me. No, no; and God forgive me -for thinking I should. Harry was living and well, and gone to do his -duty; and this was his boy smiling in my face, and the sun was -shining——. And I had to live, and to be patient, and to pray.</p> - -<p>When we got home, Aunt Milly’s kind face, anxiously gazing out of the -window, was the first thing I saw. She came running downstairs to take -me in her arms; she seemed to think it strange I could walk in so -steadily, and did not want any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_325" id="page_325"></a>{325}</span> support. Sara was upstairs too. I have -no doubt it was kind, the kindest thing possible; but I felt dreadfully -fatigued, somehow, with that morning’s work. I could have liked to have -been by myself a little. I went to my own room to put off my bonnet, and -sat down with a kind of pang of comfort. I thought I was <i>glad</i> it was -over; and then my eye fell on Harry’s old scarf—and somehow the silence -came ringing about my ears with no “Milly, darling!” sounding through -it: and I began to see it was true, and he was away.</p> - -<p>When Aunt Milly came stealing into the room after me, she dropped down -by my side where I was kneeling, and put her kind arms round my waist. -“Yes, dear, cry!” said Aunt Milly, “it will do you good!” But I did not -cry after that—I was better. I was glad it was over now.</p> - -<p>We waited till we had a message by the telegraph to say the ship was -just sailing out of the Mersey; for Harry had stopped with me till the -very last moment. And then we went away. I remember everything so -clearly that happened that day. I remember how the sun kept shining, and -how they all looked at me as if I had been ill, and had to be watched -and cared for at every step. It was all very new to me. In the hall, as -we were going away, Luigi came up to me again. Aunt Milly had made me -take her arm; not that I needed it, but she seemed to think I ought to -need it. Luigi came and took my hand. “Remember!” he said, “I am your -brother, at your disposition, till he comes back.” I don’t think I made -him any answer; for the very sight of him made Aunt Milly tremble. He -went out after us to put us into the carriage, and somehow managed to do -it, though Aunt Milly was afraid of him. He put her in last of all, and -kissed her hand. Aunt Milly did not say anything to me for a long time -after. She kept gazing out of the carriage windows as long as she could -see Luigi; and I have a kind of consciousness that he stood there, with -his hat off, as long as we could be seen on the road. For the moment she -had returned into her own trouble and forgotten mine. I leaned out of -the other window, and felt the wind on my face. Ah, God send the winds -were safe upon the sea! He was gone—really gone. I was not even to hear -of him for a long time; and when I was to see him, God knew alone. I was -swept out of his sight, and he out of mine, as if we did not belong to -each other. There was only One now, in heaven or earth, that at the same -moment could see him and me. When I thought of that it melted all my -heart. Our Father, the only father we two had, saw us both, with no -boundaries between<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_326" id="page_326"></a>{326}</span> us—all that time when I could neither see nor hear -of Harry, God was my link to my husband. He knew. We were both in His -eye if we were worlds asunder. There, we were near to each other, -however else we might be separate. The impression came so strong upon me -that for a moment I could not say I was less than <i>glad</i>. No distance in -the world, though it put us for a time out of sight of each other, could -ever put us out of the sight of God.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_327" id="page_327"></a>{327}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_XIV-f" id="Chapter_XIV-f"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter XIV.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">N</span><span class="smcap">OBODY</span> will be surprised when I say, that, after this, things got into -their usual way very soon, and that when the event was over, everything -subsided round it, and soon Aunt Milly began to forget that I was the -invalid (in spirit) whom she had taken such tender care of, and brought -back all her budget of perplexities and troubles to pour them into my -ear; and after a day or two’s retirement in my own room, which was an -ease to me, I went downstairs and about, and took a share in everything. -Miss Mortimer had got better of her illness, if illness it was. She sat -within the screen as usual, doing her knitting, and not taking much -notice of anybody. I don’t know whether she had really suffered in her -health, but it seemed to me that she got thinner, and that sometimes -there was a gleam of fiery restrained excitement in her eyes, which were -rather cold eyes by nature. We were told that she still had very bad -nights; and I am sure, two or three times when I met poor Carson by -accident, it took all my self-control to keep me from speaking to her, -and begging her to deliver herself, somehow, from this dreadful yoke. I -never saw exhaustion and a kind of weak despair so written upon -anybody’s face. These bad nights, whatever they might be to the -mistress, must have been murderous work to the poor maid.</p> - -<p>“My dear,” said Aunt Milly, “I shall never forget that young man’s look -as he put me into the carriage, and kissed my hand.” Aunt Milly held out -her plump soft hand as she spoke, and looked at it. “They have a habit -of doing so, these Italians. But if you will believe me, Milly, it was -actually an <i>affectionate</i> look the poor young fellow gave me; and I -have never asked you what he meant; he was your brother, he said. My -dear, what did he mean? Ah, I remember how disappointed I was to find -that he was not your brother, and Richard Mortimer’s son. That would -have been such a happy solution of everything! but tell me why he called -himself your brother? Was it only sympathy, Milly?”</p> - -<p>“He said we were of the same blood; he said we were relations,” said I, -with some hesitation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_328" id="page_328"></a>{328}</span></p> - -<p>The book she had been reading fell out of Aunt Milly’s hand. -“Relations!” she cried, faltering and growing pale; “then, Milly, there -can be no doubt at all about it. Milly, I tell you he must be my -father’s son; how could you be <i>relations</i>? And indeed, indeed,” cried -Aunt Milly, growing more and more agitated, “I can’t bear this any -longer. Now you are with me to support me, I must take it into my own -hands. I will go and write to him this moment, and ask him down here to -clear it all up. Don’t say anything—I must do it; it is impossible to -go on living in this way.”</p> - -<p>“But Miss Mortimer?” said I.</p> - -<p>“Miss Mortimer?” cried Aunt Milly, with a little scream, that was almost -hysterical, “what can my sister Sarah have to do with it? It is no -harder upon her than it is upon me. If he is my father’s son, how can -she be mixed up in it? And how can you and he be relations unless he is -my father’s son? Don’t speak to me, Milly. He shall come here and tell -it all, and at least we shall know what there is to fear.”</p> - -<p>“But if she were too much excited it might make her ill,” said I, -dreading that visit, without knowing anything to say against it.</p> - -<p>“I can’t help it!” cried Aunt Milly, “I am desperate. Think of living -and enjoying what doesn’t belong to you! Oh, Milly, Milly! what do you -think I must do? I never was in secrets and mysteries before; it’s -dreadful to me; and Sarah would not yield to tell what she’s kept hidden -so long, not for her life. We’ll see how she looks to-night. I did not -think she looked any worse than usual. I would not hurt her, you may be -sure, not for any relief to myself; but we can’t go on with this hanging -over us, Milly,” she said, with faltering lips. “I’ll write to-morrow; I -certainly will write to-morrow. Relations! My dear, dear child, it will -be a dreadful disappointment to you; but that is as good as proof.”</p> - -<p>Poor Aunt Milly! she was desperate, as she said; and what good it would -do writing, or asking, or even demanding anything, that one of the -people who knew it would guard at the cost of her life, and the other -would disclose only at his own time, I could not see. Luigi had refused -to tell her already; he would not tell Sara Cresswell. He was waiting a -permission that never, never in this world would be given. And he, too, -must be deluded. What could he think our laws or our principles were if -he could have any rights, but those of shame? It was all a mystery; I -could see that Aunt Milly’s idea was quite a false one. But I dared not -tell her that idea<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_329" id="page_329"></a>{329}</span> of my own, which, perhaps, for anything I knew, -might prove as false as hers.</p> - -<p>That morning I went out with Lizzie and my boy. He could walk now along -the sunny road holding my finger, and trot after his own little shadow, -and try to catch the motes in the sunshine, as I suppose all babies -do—but, to be sure, it is just as original and strange in every child -that does it, for all that. I was walking by him, very tranquil and even -contented in my mind. There had been very quiet weather; and little -Harry was so well and so beautiful; and I felt so much more as if I -could trust my Harry himself in God’s hands without trembling for him -every moment, that my heart opened out a little to the beautiful day. I -don’t know that I should have borne to see Domenico, much less to speak -to him, but for that——</p> - -<p>For there was Domenico, unmistakably, on the edge of the common. He was -dressed in a white linen suit, all white, as if he wanted to make his -enormous bulk and his black beard as remarkable as possible in this -beardless and sober-minded country. It was warm weather now, and I -daresay he thought the hot summer was coming as in his own home. Baby, -with whom he had always been a favourite, gave a little shout at sight -of him, and tottered forward a step or two. Of course Domenico’s hat had -been in his hand from the first moment he saw me. He threw it down on -the grass now, and seized little Harry, and tossed him up in his arms. I -was afraid of this play, but my brave boy was not; he actually boxed at -Lizzie with his little fists when I begged Domenico to set him down.</p> - -<p>“Pardon,” said Domenico; “I—me—make demand of the signora, pardon—it -pleases to the piccolo signorino beebee. I—Domenico—here—this,” said -the great fellow, punching his breast, that I might be quite sure of the -person he meant, “take joy in heart for see the signora another time.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you, Domenico,” said I. “I shall never forget how kind you have -been. What is it that brings you here?”</p> - -<p>Domenico pointed round to various points of the compass, not seeming -sure which to fix upon, and then burst into a great laugh at himself. -“It pleases to the signora to pardon,” said Domenico; “when not to have -the book not clevare to make the speak. Here is the master of me.”</p> - -<p>“Your master, Domenico?—where?” cried I.</p> - -<p>Once more Domenico looked round to all the points of the compass. “He -here—he here—puff—Ecco!—he move far away—to make the time go. Here -my master come to make<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_330" id="page_330"></a>{330}</span> the visit—the signora not to know the other -signora? Yes, yes; in that large big palazzo of not any colour. Behold! -The my master there go.”</p> - -<p>“Who is he going to see there?” asked I, with some anxiety.</p> - -<p>Domenico held up his hand with many elaborate gestures of caution and -silence. Then he bent his enormous person forward and stooped to my ear. -When he spoke it was in a whisper. “It is need to speak silent—silent! -The signora contessa,” said Domenico, with half-important, half-guilty -air of one who communicates a secret. I drew back from him in utter -bewilderment—what could he mean?</p> - -<p>“There is no contessa there, Domenico,” said I, in my ordinary tone; -“your master is deceived.”</p> - -<p>Domenico held up his hand with an evident entreaty that I would be -cautious. Then he looked back upon Lizzie, the only person in sight. “I -not fear for the Lizzie,” said Domenico; and then launched forth into a -half-whispered description of the contessa, whoever that might be. But I -confess that Domenico’s description, being Italian whenever he warmed, -and only when he slackened and recollected himself falling into such -English as he was capable of, was difficult to make out. I fully entered -into Lizzie’s feeling, that it was “awfu’ fickle to ken what he meant -when it was a long story.” I remained profoundly bewildered, and unable -to make out one word in ten.</p> - -<p>As for learning anything about the contessa—poor fellow!—or, rather, -it was his master that was to be pitied—evidently here was some new -mistake, some additional impediment to the finding out of this mystery. -I left Lizzie with little Harry on the common, and went rather sadly -home. This little bit of apparent foolishness naturally set me all -astray as to the mysterious business which had cost us so much thought. -Was it a mistake of Domenico’s perhaps? for Luigi and Miss Mortimer had -actually met, and there could be no mistake there.</p> - -<p>When I looked back that great white apparition was keeping Lizzie -company on the common. They were a strange couple; but I cannot say I -had any such doubts or fears concerning Domenico’s attendance, as a -proper mistress ought to have had. I flattered myself Lizzie was a great -deal too young to take any harm. She stood with her red-brown hair a -little blown about her eyes: her clear, sanguine complexion, her angular -and still awkward figure, looking up at the man-monster beside her, and -holding up her hand to shade her eyes from the sun, which was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_331" id="page_331"></a>{331}</span> shining -in her face. While Domenico, with all his great proportions expanded by -his white dress, impended over her, his smiling mouth opening in the -midst of his black beard, an <i>outre</i> extraordinary foreign figure, -enough to drive any staid English village out of its propriety. I -remember the picture they made as distinctly as possible, with the green -common surrounding them, and the gorse bushes all bursting into flower; -and my own beautiful baby tottering about the fragrant grass. I was -quite secure in Lizzie’s love and Domenico’s kindness. I went away with -a smile at the curious group upon that soft English common—both figures -alien to the soil—and with a tenderness in my breast to them both. -Domenico had made himself well understood in another language, if not in -that of ordinary spoken communications. I shall always have a kindness -to his whole nation for that good fellow’s sake.</p> - -<p>As I paused at the gate of the Park, I saw another figure advancing by -an opposite road. I recognised Luigi in a moment. He was coming -hurriedly down between the green hedges, no doubt coming to pay that -visit of which Domenico had warned me. I rushed in, with all the -eagerness of a child, to get my bonnet off and be in the drawing-room -before he came.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_332" id="page_332"></a>{332}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_XV-f" id="Chapter_XV-f"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter XV.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span><span class="smcap">HEN</span> I reached the drawing-room, after throwing off my bonnet and -arranging my hair in the most breathless haste, terrified to hear the -summons at the door before I was downstairs, I was thunderstruck to find -Sara Cresswell there. The sight of her made an end of my awkward feeling -of shame for my own haste and curiosity. Surely this was nothing less -than a crisis that was coming. Sara had just arrived, and was explaining -the reasons for her visit in such a very fluent and demonstrative way, -that I could see at once they were all made up, and some motive entirely -different from those she mentioned had brought her. She was still in her -hat and velvet jacket, seated rather on the edge of her chair, talking -very volubly, but looking breathless and anxious, while Aunt Milly, who -was sitting in her own place, opposite her sister, and near the -fireplace, looked at her, perplexed and uncertain, evidently rather -suspicious of the many motives which had procured us this visit; which, -if Sara had only said nothing about it, would have been received as a -delightful surprise, and wanted no accounting for. It was evidently a -great relief to Sara when I came in; she came to kiss me, turning her -face away from Aunt Milly, and caught hold of me so tight, and gave me -such a troubled, emphatic look, that even if I had not heard before, I -should have known something was coming. I stood by her breathless for a -moment, wondering why the door-bell did not ring,—Luigi had certainly -had abundant time to have got to the door,—and then went up to the -other end of the room on pretence of finding my work; while Sara, -instead of following me, dropped into her chair again, evidently too -nervous, too anxious, too eager to see the first of it and lose nothing, -to do anything but sit still. We were both traitors and plotters. She -had come to watch something that was about to happen, but which the -principal person concerned did not know. While I, more cruel still, took -my trembling way up to the other end of the apartment, and stationed -myself behind Aunt Milly, that I might not lose a look or word from Miss -Mortimer. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_333" id="page_333"></a>{333}</span> felt ashamed of myself, but I could not help it. I felt a -kind of conviction that this was to be the decisive day.</p> - -<p>But still there was no sound at the door; there was time to look round -all the peaceable vast room, and be struck by the quietness, the repose -of the scene in which some act of this mysterious drama was about to be -enacted. It was always very light here, but the bright day and the -sunshine out of doors, made it now even lighter than usual, and refused -to any of us the slightest shade for our faces, whatever undue -expression might come to them. Sara had adopted the only expedient -possible, by turning her back upon the light, and had, besides, a little -shelter in her hat. But dear Aunt Milly, looking at her favourite with a -troubled inquiring expression, and laying down the work she had in hand -in order to examine Sara’s countenance the better, was so fully set -forth in all her looks, movements, and almost feelings, by that broad -clear day-light, that I shrank back from it in spite of myself, fearing -that it would betray me too. The only shadow in the room was that -afforded by Miss Mortimer’s screen. She sat there just as usual, in her -violet-coloured dress, her light muslin embroidered scarf, worn without -any lining, now that the weather was warm, and her pretty cap, with -ribbons corresponding to her dress; her head moving so slightly that it -was difficult to perceive the motion; her pattern-book open on her knee, -her head bent over it. At this moment, when the thunders of Providence -were just about to break over her, she sat there, with her head over her -knitting-book, counting her stitches, and trying a new pattern. When I -saw how she was occupied, my own trembling pretence at work fell from my -hands. I gazed at her openly with a wonder which was almost awe. My -heart cried out against her in her dread composure. The Avenger was -coming, and there she sat, all conscious, aware, in every nerve, of her -guilt, and yet able to maintain that hideous calm. Yes! it would have -been sublime had she been a good woman, threatened by some undeserved -doom. I declare it was ghastly, devilish, dreadful to me!</p> - -<p>All this time nobody came to the door. I daresay, perhaps, it was not -very many minutes after all; but in the excitement and suspense it -seemed a very long time to me. And either the house was specially quiet, -or there was something in my agitated condition which made me think so. -Miss Mortimer never lifted her head; if she had not been so engaged with -her pattern, surely she would have noticed the perplexed looks of Aunt -Milly, and my excited face. But she did not, she kept<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_334" id="page_334"></a>{334}</span> working on at her -new stitch. We all relapsed into perfect silence; Sara’s voluble excuses -for herself died all at once off her lips. Aunt Milly dropped into a -strange anxious silence, looking at her. As for myself, I could not have -spoken a word whatever had been the consequences. Sara’s nervous motion -of her foot on the carpet startled me so much that I had nearly -committed myself by some cry of agitation. It was a dread, inexplainable -pause, which nobody dared either break or account for. Dead silence and -expectation. And Miss Mortimer bending her head over her pattern-book -counting the loops for her new stitch.</p> - -<p>The bell did not ring. If it had rung it must have startled us all so -much as to diminish the sense of what was coming; there was no such -premonition;—a little sound of steps and subdued voices in the hall -made my heart beat so loud that I felt sure my Aunt Milly must have -heard it. Sara looked up at me suddenly when that sound became audible. -Her face was perfectly colourless, and her hands firmly clasped -together.</p> - -<p>“Children, what is it?” said Aunt Milly, with a sharp frightened cry, -breaking off suddenly in a troubled manner as the steps drew nearer. -Miss Mortimer lifted her head from her book. She looked up, she looked -full at me; she smiled. She was listening, but she was not afraid.</p> - -<p>When suddenly the door was thrown open; Ellis called out, with his -fullest voice: “The Count Sormonata,” and somebody came in. I cannot -tell who it was that came in. I heard Sara cry out with a kind of shriek -and repeat the name, “The Count Sermoneta!” The work and the book and -all the trifling matters about her fell off from Miss Mortimer. She rose -up, clenching her hand, ghastly, like a dead woman. She cried out in a -voice I shall never forget: “he is dead, <i>dead!</i>” she cried, with the -wildest scream and outcry. “I tell you, he is dead, dead! My God, he is -dead! Will nobody believe me?” shrieked out the miserable woman. Her -sister ran to her, and was thrust away with those terrible clenched -hands. But she never turned to look, nor cast aside her screen that hid -the new comer from her. She stood still like some frightful statue, -rigid, with her wild eyes fixed upon the air before her—heaven knows -what she might see there!—listening in some frightful agony to the -steps that came slowly up the room. When that scream burst from her the -footsteps faltered and stopped. Then Miss Mortimer looked at me, the -only creature she saw before her, and laughed a dreadful laugh of -madness and misery. “He knows it!” she cried out, triumphantly, “if you -did not, he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_335" id="page_335"></a>{335}</span> does. He is dead, dead!” and then came to another dreadful -pause, leaning her clenched hands upon the table and fixing her wild -eyes upon something straight before her. While I followed the mad stare -of her eyes with a shudder I could not refrain, another person came with -noiseless rapidity into the spot she was gazing on. It was not a -spectre—it was simply Luigi, from whose face agitation had banished all -the colour, and who stood trembling and speechless, wringing his hands, -and gazing at her with an unspeakable appeal and entreaty. She did not -say anything more; she stood with her eyes full opened and staring wide, -leaning her hands on that table. I believe, if anybody had touched her, -she would have fallen. I almost believed, while I looked at her, that -she had died standing, and that it was a lifeless form that stood fixed -in that horrible erect attitude, fronting us all, fronting a thousand -times more than us, all the guilt and sins of her life. I gave a cry -myself in the extremity of my terror and trouble. I went to her, I -cannot tell how, stumbling over Aunt Milly, who had either fallen or -fainted, or I cannot tell what. I went and put my arm round that -dreadful ghastly figure. It was not her I was approaching, but <i>it</i>, the -terrible mask and image of her. I had not a thought but that she was -dead.</p> - -<p>When I touched her, she fell, as I had thought she would. But so strong -an impression did her dreadful appearance have upon me, that, when her -figure sank into the chair and showed some elasticity, instead of going -down on the floor, crumbling down, dropping to pieces, as somehow I had -expected, I was struck with a horrible fear and surprise. She was not -dead. I called out to them all, what were we to do? and she seemed to -hear me. I saw, with a terror I cannot explain, her terrible eyes turn -from Luigi—they looked at me, at Aunt Milly, they cast a glance over -the room. Was it that the spirit was living and the body dead?</p> - -<p>I cannot tell what we did for a dreadful interval after that. Carson -came into the confused crowd. Luigi disappeared to find a doctor, and we -tried to get her lifted and laid upon the sofa. But though she neither -moved nor spoke, and scarcely seemed to breathe, she resisted, in some -dreadful way, and would not be removed. I shall never forget that -dreadful face; when I am ill it comes back to me, a recollection never -to be banished;—dead—yet never consenting to die, keeping alive, -determined, resolute, unshaken. I can see the discoloured lips begin to -move, the words formed on the inarticulate tongue, the eyes lightening -out of that fixed stare. Half the house had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_336" id="page_336"></a>{336}</span> stolen into the room in -this dreadful emergency without anybody observing them. But the dead -woman observed them. And I, who was standing nearest, recoiled from her -side, and the whole circle round her broke up and fell back in -speechless horror, when a sound broke from that dreadful convulsed -mouth. Old Carson, trembling but faithful, stood by her mistress. The -poor creature said she understood that sound. It was to send everybody -away, said the woman, whose limbs would scarcely support her, and whose -very teeth chattered. They all went away, terrified but curious; the -boldest lingered behind the screen. Nobody remained within sight of -those dreadful eyes but Aunt Milly and me. We two stood huddled on each -other, not daring to say a word, or even to exchange looks. Carson stood -by her mistress’s side. Carson knew all and everything, more than we -knew. She held some cordial to the dead lips, she chafed the ghastly -hand, she gazed with pitiful eyes and tears and entreaties at the -terrible face. This woman was not deserted in her terrible necessity. -The voice of that humble love reached somehow to the springs of -existence, and she came back slowly, in a solemn, fearful waking, out of -death into life. We stood looking on, with an awe and terror impossible -to describe. It was a miracle slowly enacting before us. She was dead -and was alive again. Ghastly and dreadful, like a woman out of the -grave, Miss Mortimer woke up to all her misery again.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_337" id="page_337"></a>{337}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_XVI-f" id="Chapter_XVI-f"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter XVI.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><span class="smcap">HIS</span> extraordinary revival was going on when the doctor rushed in. -Carson, who had been the principal person in all this scene, rushed at -him and drew him back. She kept her hand on his arm, detained him, ran -into voluble but trembling explanations. When he came forward the doctor -gazed with a troubled face at the patient. A fainting fit brought on by -great agitation; nobody could give any other account of it; he felt her -pulse, and prescribed, and lingered, and looked at us all with mingled -inquiry and suspicion. What had we been doing to her? Why had she not -been removed to bed? A flash came from the awakening eyes. She made a -motion of her hand, waving him away, then looked at me, and pointed -vaguely but imperatively before her. When I did not obey immediately, -she repeated the question, and at last spoke, with great evident pain, -impatience, and imperiousness: “Bring him?” were those the words? She -was so imperative, so fiercely determined, that I hastened out to call -Luigi. I found him at the door watching, very pale, and in profound -distress. He came in after me without saying a word; he went up to her -without waiting for me, and knelt down at her feet, and took her hands -in his own. “Mother! Mother!” cried the young man. If it did not go to -her heart, it went to the heart of every other person present; and Aunt -Milly, with a great cry of amazement and terror, repeated it after him, -“Mother!” But who could think of any discovery then? The doctor stood -listening, thunderstruck, behind the screen. I believe Sara Cresswell -was in the room. But we who were round about this terrible figure could -observe nothing else, except the dread inarticulate waves of passion -that kept rising in her dead face. She thrust at her son with a wild -motion of her bloodless hands as if to put him away. She questioned him -with her eyes in such frantic impatience, because he could not -understand her, that the sight was more<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_338" id="page_338"></a>{338}</span> than I could bear. I fell back -from her trembling and like to faint. Then her will got the better of -her weakness. She cried out aloud, with a voice that I am sure could -have been heard all over the house;—it was not a living voice; it rang -out wild, and loud, and hard, in separate words,—“Where is he?—<i>he</i>? -dead! let him come. I know he is dead, let him come;—Count!” and here -the terrible voice rose and broke in a wild horror of babbling cries. -God help us! It was a dreadful scene. Aunt Milly stood supporting -herself by a chair, unable to utter a word or even to move. I was afraid -to stir, lest I should faint and fall on the floor. Carson only stood -close by her mistress, supporting her head and gazing with wistful eyes -at Luigi; the young man stumbled up from his knees in an agony of pity -and horror. He held up his hands in wild appeal, whether to her, or to -us, or only to God, I cannot tell. “It is my father!” he cried. “She -thinks it was my father; and I am to blame!” Then he knelt down again -humbly at her feet, and held up his clasped hands to her as if he were -praying. I think he must have done it with an intention of drawing her -attention by any means, and to prove to her that it was the truth he -said.</p> - -<p>“Mother,” he cried, looking up at those eyes which had returned, and -were fixed upon him,—“mother, I am your son! My father is dead and -undisturbed in his grave; he has sent me to his wife. It is I, it is no -other. He is with the saints, where there are no names. It is I who am -Sermoneta; mother! Oh, heaven, does she not hear me? <i>will</i> she not hear -me? It was I, only I. It was Luigi, Countess! If I must not bear your -name, I must bear my own. I say it was I, not my father, who can neither -do evil nor endure it,—me, either Luigi Sermoneta or Lewis Mortimer, as -you will,—your son!”</p> - -<p>It is impossible to describe the effect this had upon us all. Aunt Milly -burst forth into weeping, convulsive, and not to be restrained. Poor -Carson’s bosom heaved with silent sobs. Luigi, who had risen up as he -said these last words, stood erect in a passionate self-assertion and -defence before his miserable mother. Even she changed under this sudden -blaze of revelation. She sat up in her chair, and grew more human; her -rigid head began to tremble, her dread-eyes to lose their horror. Now it -was no longer that mad ghastly stare with which she regarded the young -man before her. She looked at him, leaning forward, slowly recovering -her powers. Some convulsive gasps or sobs in her throat alone -interrupted this pause of terrible silence. She looked at him, from head -to foot, with a slow,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_339" id="page_339"></a>{339}</span> dismal scrutiny. Only once before in her life had -she met him face to face; then she had been strong enough to send him -away and disown him. Now, perforce, the mother looked at her son. The -young man trembled under that steady gaze; he held out his hands, and -cried out “Mother!” as if all the eloquence in the world lay in that -word. She continued perusing him all over with that slow examination. -Gradually she returned to be herself again. Not changed, not subdued! -Out of that death and agony there came forth, not a repentant woman, but -Sarah Mortimer, a creature who would not believe in everlasting truth -and justice—not though one should rise from the dead.</p> - -<p>“If you are Count Sermoneta,” she said, with all her old expression, -pausing between the words to get strength, but speaking in her usual -voice, “how do you dare come to me and offer what your father refused? -Impostor! you shall never, never, never sit in my father’s place! I -disown you. I—I have nothing to do with you. What! would you kill me -again?”</p> - -<p>Here I interposed; I could not help myself. My very soul sickened at -her. I came forward, without knowing what I was doing. “Let her alone,” -I cried out, “don’t say anything. She has died and come alive again, and -is no better. Do you think you can move her? Oh, Aunt Milly, it is your -part now. Take him away out of her sight, leave her alone in her -wretchedness. Can you bear to see her smiling there?—<i>smiling</i> at us! -She is dead, and it is a devil that has come into her frame!”</p> - -<p>“Milly, hush, hush, you are mad,” cried Sara Cresswell, behind me; but -Aunt Milly did not think I was mad. She came and put her arm into -Luigi’s, her tears driven away by horror and indignation. “As sure as -God sees us all,” cried Aunt Milly, “I will do you justice. Come away -from her, as Milly, says. You make her wickeder and wickeder—Oh, -wickeder than she really is! Oh, Sarah,” she cried out, turning suddenly -round, “is it true?—is he your son?”</p> - -<p>Miss Mortimer said nothing;—the very colour had returned to her face. -Her head trembled excessively, but she had forced some frightful -caricature of a smile upon her lip. She held out her hand and pointed at -them in a kind of derision. “You were always a fool,” she said at last, -with a gasp. Aunt Milly did not wait or hesitate any longer. She was -possessed, like me, with a sudden impatience and intolerance of that -inhuman<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_340" id="page_340"></a>{340}</span> hard-heartedness. She went away hastily out of the room, -drawing Luigi with her. Miss Mortimer listened to the sound of their -steps till it had quite died away. Then she turned round to Carson with -some instinctive confession of weakness at last. Their eyes met; but -even Carson could no longer receive this dreadful confidence. She -stumbled back from her mistress with a cry. “I cannot, I cannot!” cried -Carson, “anything but this. I held him in my arms a baby, and I’ll never -disown him, if I was to die.” As her mistress turned round upon her, -Carson retreated back till she came to the wall, and stood there, fixed -and desperate, holding up her hands as if to keep off those pursuing -eyes. “Whatever you please!” cried Carson, “but not to disown him as I -dressed the first day he was in this world. No! not for no payment nor -coaxing! I’ve served you faithful all times and seasons, but I’ll not do -no more, not if I was to die!”</p> - -<p>Miss Mortimer sat gazing at her rebellious maid. What no other appeal -could do this did. She sank into the frail old woman she was, as she -gazed at Carson, who had forsaken her. She broke forth into feeble, -passionate tears. She could bear to send her son away from her, but she -could not bear to lose her faithful companion and attendant of forty -years. “Carson!” cried the broken voice, in a tone of absolute despair. -Then Miss Mortimer rose up. I ran forward to her in terror, and so did -Sara, but she waved us both away, steadied herself, cast a long look -upon the woman who stood trembling against the wall, and slowly turned -to make her way out of the room. She walked like some one upon whom -sudden blindness had fallen, wavering, stopping to steady herself, -putting out her hand to pilot the way, groping through the piercing -daylight that penetrated every corner of the room. We followed her, -trembling and terrified. As she went slowly through the long room, heavy -sobs came from her poor breast, sobs of which she was not conscious; her -muslin scarf had been torn and crushed in her dreadful faint, if it was -a faint, and hung all dishevelled from her shoulders. One hand hung -loosely down by her side, the other she groped with as she made her way. -Now and then she moaned aloud. Oh, miserable forsaken creature! there -had been still one link of life to hold her on to the living world.</p> - -<p>We went after her, silent, hushing our very steps lest she should turn -upon us, and watching with a perfect awe of wonder how she steered -herself through the room; she stumbled on the stair, but still rejected -any assistance. All the way up<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_341" id="page_341"></a>{341}</span> she went forlorn, accepting no support. -When we reached her door, I rushed forward not to let her shut me out. -“Let me be your maid to-night,” I cried out, laying my hand upon hers. -Her hand made me shiver; it was cold, as if it had actually been dead. -She pushed me back, not looking at me, and shut the door. What she did, -or how she sustained herself in that vacant room, we could see no -longer. Sara and I, arrested at the door, turned and looked into each -other’s faces. Sara broke out into the passionate tears of excitement -and agitation which could be restrained no longer. “She will kill -herself!” cried Sara. “Oh, godmamma, let me in, let <i>me</i> in. I will -never cross you or trouble you. I will wait upon you night and day, -godmamma!” No answer came. We tried to open the door, but she had -fastened it. We could do nothing but leave her alone in this dreadful -solitude. For a little while a rustling sound of motion was in the room, -and still those pathetic, unconscious moans breaking at intervals into -the silence. But after a while all became still. She had not fainted or -fallen, for we should have heard her. She made no answer to our -entreaties—dead silence reigned in the room where that living spirit, -with all its dread forces and passions, palpitated within its veil of -worn-out flesh. I could imagine her taking possession of that dreadful -solitude, losing at a blow far more than reputation or fair-fame, all -that made her life tolerable to her, entering upon a new, unthought of, -murderous purgatory. We could not make up our minds to leave that closed -door. Sara was still crying, and almost hysterical with her long strain -of excitement. I made her go into the neighbouring room, where Lizzie -was with my boy, while I ran downstairs for Aunt Milly. Oh, what a -contrast it was! I snatched little Harry into my arms to kiss him, and -went away again, with a pity, I cannot describe, past the door where -that dreadful forsaken woman lay alone in the silence. I could not bear -it. God alone knew how she had sinned; but to leave her thus deserted in -her misery was not in the heart of man.</p> - -<p>I ran downstairs very hastily without waiting to think—at the foot of -the stairs Carson stood crying. She gasped out an inquiry at me which -was not audible at first. “Is she alone? alone? alone? Will nobody stay -with her?” cried Carson. “Oh, ma’am, my missis will never let me near -her again! I know it’s no use trying; but, for the love of mercy, let -somebody get into the room! There’s poisons and all sorts there. God -forgive me! couldn’t I have held my tongue?” cried the poor woman, in an -agony of terror. I was angry with her in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_342" id="page_342"></a>{342}</span> the impatience of my thoughts. -I did not consider for how many long years Carson had endured all.</p> - -<p>“But why can’t you go up now? try if she will let you in; she is fond of -you, Carson,” said I. “Oh, go, go, and try.”</p> - -<p>“She’ll never look at me more,” said Carson with mournful certainty; -“but I’ll go, I’ll try. If it was at the end of the world, I’d go; but -she’ll never see me again.” The poor woman went upstairs saying this -over to herself, and dreadful as it was to think so, I was certain she -was right.</p> - -<p>And I went on to the library where Aunt Milly was. She had forgotten her -sister. She was listening, with a glowing face, with tears, and -outcries, and lamentations, to the tale Luigi told her. Some papers were -lying before them, and a miniature, which caught my eye even at such a -moment—a picture of a lovely fair woman, imperious and splendid. I -cannot say that it bore any resemblance to the wretched, solitary -creature upstairs; but I knew it was Sarah Mortimer,—Sarah Mortimer, -unkind, untrue, a woman making no account of love or tenderness; but not -the Sarah Mortimer who had delivered herself to the devil, and turned -her back upon nature. I pointed at it unconsciously in my excitement. It -was easier than naming her name.</p> - -<p>“Do you know she is alone upstairs, by herself?” cried I, “perhaps -dying, and nobody with her! Aunt Milly, you are her sister. She will -neither let us in, nor answer us. You have a right to go to her. There -are all kinds of dangerous things in the room—she might die!”</p> - -<p>“But Carson—Carson is there,” cried Aunt Milly, grasping my hand, to -bring me to myself. “My dear, Carson is a better companion than either -you or me.”</p> - -<p>“But Carson has gone,” I cried, “Carson will never be with her any more. -Hush! was that a sound upstairs? Come, I entreat you! She is all alone, -quite alone, not a creature with her. It is heartrending to think what -she is doing there—come! come!”</p> - -<p>Aunt Milly stood perplexed. She could not comprehend Carson’s absence, -and I might have had a long account of the whole matter to go through -had not Luigi come to my assistance. He took her hand hurriedly, and -pressed it in his own.</p> - -<p>“My aunt, I can wait,” said Luigi, “and I <i>will</i> till there is time for -me; but my mother, my mother is——”</p> - -<p>Aunt Milly started, and understood all in a moment. His<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_343" id="page_343"></a>{343}</span> mother, the -unfortunate wretched woman who had disowned and rejected him—no need -for over-much explaining, or setting-forth of all the darker shades of -the picture to show her wretchedness. Nature and she had parted company, -and there was nothing too dreadful that might not befall her in the -fatal silence of that secluded room.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_344" id="page_344"></a>{344}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_XVII-f" id="Chapter_XVII-f"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter XVII.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">A</span><span class="smcap">LL</span> the remainder of that dreadful afternoon we spent in vain endeavours -to get admission. No answer came to us from those closed doors—silence, -dead and unbroken, was within those concealing walls, which it seemed -wonderful to me did not beat and throb with the torturing life within -them. The whole house was disturbed, as was to be supposed. While we -stood in an anxious, troubled group round Miss Mortimer’s door, Carson, -with her melancholy and ashamed face, stood anxious and terrified at a -little distance—the maids below came to take furtive peeps upon the -stairs—and Ellis himself stood listening in the hall, catching at every -sound. The whole house was conscious of some dreadful crisis, which had -occurred, or was occurring; and even in the frightful anxiety which -possessed us, Aunt Milly began to feel that extraordinary infraction of -all the decorums of such a house. She whispered to Sara to leave us, and -go downstairs to restore the equilibrium of the household a little, and -sent Carson into Lizzie’s room, where the poor creature sank, -overpowered and almost fainting, upon the bed. Then Aunt Milly went away -to her own apartment, and came back with a huge bunch of keys. With -these in her hand she motioned me to follow her round about into the -little corridor to which Miss Mortimer’s dressing-room opened. “Milly, -stand by me,” she cried, with a sob. “I’d rather face so many lions than -go in upon her against her will—but it must be—I cannot help myself. -After what we saw to-day, I should be guilty, I should be a -criminal—don’t you think so, Milly?—if I left her alone to-night.”</p> - -<p>It was getting dusk, and the light was pale and ghastly in that little -corridor which was close upon the backstairs, and very bare and chill. -The door opened without the assistance of the keys. We went into the -little luxurious room where the fire burned brightly, warm though the -weather was, and which bore all the marks of being lived in and -cherished. An easy-chair and footstool were placed at the side of the -fire, and close by stood a little table with a raised ornamental rim, -like a tray, in which some books and some of Miss Mortimer’s materials<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_345" id="page_345"></a>{345}</span> -for work were placed. At the other end of the room was a window, where -stood a plain rush-bottomed chair and a large round basket of work; -there was Carson’s place; and the union of the two in this their joint -retirement and dwelling-place—the junction of the lady’s luxuries and -the servant’s labours in this habitation common to them both—struck me -with a pathetic force, now that this old, long, immemorial connection -was brought to a close so hurriedly. Aunt Milly did not linger in this -room; she went straight to the door leading into the bedchamber which -was fastened. “Sarah,” she called softly, “Sarah!” there was no answer. -We listened, and the silence round was dreadful; the silence and the -gathering twilight, and the terrible mystery of life or death that lay -in that closed-up room. Then she tried the keys with her trembling -hands. Still not a word from the solitary within, not even of -remonstrance or indignation. After what seemed to us a dreadful tedious -interval, in which the night appeared visibly to darken round us, the -lock at length yielded. The key that had been in it fell, with a dull, -heavy sound, inside, making our hearts beat. Then Aunt Milly opened the -door. I shall never forget the sensation with which I entered that dark -room. What we were to find there, a ghastly corpse or a miserable living -creature, nobody could tell; treading on the soft carpets that made our -footsteps noiseless, brushing past those soft-drawn curtains which shut -out every draught, coming into this atmosphere of care, and comfort, and -luxury, the contrast was almost too dreadful to bear. I remember trying -to listen for her breath, but could not for the terrified beating of my -own heart. The darkness made everything more dreadful still, for the -blinds were drawn down, and the little light there was fell so faintly -through them that we could scarcely find our way through the room. Aunt -Milly was before me; she made a terrified plunge forward, and gave a cry -as we came past the head of the bed, which was towards the dressing-room -door. Something lay in a heap on the floor by the side of the bed. She -threw herself down on the floor beside that heap. I don’t think she was -conscious, even when she touched it, what it was; but as I rushed to -help her, as I thought, I was suddenly arrested by a gleam of eyes from -the bed. “I am not dead,” said Miss Mortimer. I could not help nor -command myself. Some scream or shriek came from me in the extremity of -my awe and terror. I could hear it answered by a sudden stir and -commotion outside the door. “They’re killing my mistress,” was Lizzie’s -voice; and with the wildest alarm lest some violent<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_346" id="page_346"></a>{346}</span> attack on the door -should follow, I rushed to it, opened it, and asked for lights.</p> - -<p>Outside were half the household grouped at various distances. No -precautions could stifle that eager curiosity which knew by instinct -that some wonderful mystery was here. They all dispersed when they saw -me, frightened and ashamed of themselves. Only Lizzie kept her ground. -She seized hold of my sleeve and detained me. “You’re no to stay there!” -cried Lizzie. “Oh, no <i>you</i>, no <i>you</i>! You’ll gang and let them kill -you, and the bairn’ll perish, and the Captain never come hame! Let <i>me</i> -in! I’ll get the drinks and keep up the fire, and never close an e’e; -but it’s no you that’s to watch, and you the light o’ folks e’en. It’s -no to be you! If I was to gang to my bed and sleep, what would the -Captain say to me?” cried poor Lizzie, with a trembling burst of -excitement and anxiety, standing close up by me, holding my sleeve, -pressing to enter the room. Somehow it comforted me, though it was a -piece of folly. I told her again to get the lights, and went back into -the dark, solemn room. These sounds of the outside world had not entered -there. Miss Mortimer lay on the bed with her eyes wide-awake and -gleaming, gathering into them all the little light in the room. Aunt -Milly stood beside her, asking how she was; herself scarcely recovered -from the shock that had been given her by that heap of clothes upon the -floor, trembling, not knowing very well what she said, her great -yearning anxiety and curiosity to get at her sister’s heart, overflowing -in uneasy questions. Did she feel ill? Would she have anything? How was -she? Miss Mortimer took no notice of her questions. She repeated once “I -am not dead,” with a strange spitefulness and defiance, and for the rest -lay silent, looking at me as I moved about the room, a dark -undecipherable figure, and at poor Aunt Milly standing beside me. She -took no other notice. It seemed to please her to lie there silent, -defying all our curiosity. But she did not complain or find fault with -our presence. I believe in my heart she was glad to have her dreadful -solitude thus broken, and that it was a comfort to her desolation to see -living creatures moving in the darkness. I cannot help thinking so; but -after that one expression, twice repeated, not all the anxious questions -of her sister could bring a syllable to her lips.</p> - -<p>When the candles came she closed her eyes; then, after a little -interval, made a wrench at the curtains and gave an impatient sigh. The -sigh was for Carson, who doubtless knew exactly what she liked and what -she did not like. The fire<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_347" id="page_347"></a>{347}</span> was laid already in the grate, and I lighted -it, and began to put away those things which lay on the floor. Wherever -I moved, when it was within her sight, she followed me with her eyes -from within the crimson shadow of the curtain. She was perfectly -composed and self-possessed. She was even well as it appeared. The -ghastly colour had disappeared from her face. She lay there -self-absorbed, as she sat over her knitting. All the dread incidents of -this day had passed over, and left Sarah Mortimer unchanged. Such a -woman could deny, defy, live through any thing. I watched her with -indescribable awe and——. Well! I had pitied her while she was alone; -but do you suppose I could love such a woman, lying there unmoved and -unrepentant, in her dread self-occupation? It was not possible I hated -her, loathed her, turned away with sickening and disgust from her -dreadful looks. It was hard, even, to pity her now.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_348" id="page_348"></a>{348}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_XVIII-f" id="Chapter_XVIII-f"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter XVIII.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span> <span class="smcap">HAD</span> with difficulty overcome Aunt Milly. I had represented to her how -much better I was able to bear it than she, and Aunt Milly herself had -sent off Sara Cresswell to bed. It was late at night, and all the house -was still. We were both together in the dressing-room. Nothing would -persuade dear Aunt Milly to leave me alone to this vigil. She wrapped -herself in a shawl and lay down upon the sofa. “I am at hand the moment -I am wanted,” she said. I had kissed baby, and said my prayers beside -him. I was not frightened or nervous now. I went in, wrapped in my -dressing-gown, to look at my patient. She stretched out her hand, and -then when she saw me, drew it back again with a fretful groan, and -turned her face to the wall. It was Carson, still Carson, whom she -missed at every turn. But she did not answer me when I asked if she -wanted anything, she only groaned again with a dismal impotence and -impatience. I sat and watched her at a distance while she lay in that -broad wakefulness, her eyes wandering to and fro, her mind evidently -wandering, too, into never-ending thought. It was to me a spirit, -somehow, chained and fettered to a body it could not throw off, which -lay in irksome confinement on that bed,—a spirit ever active, -sleepless, evil. Why was I sitting up with her? she was not even ill. -Was it that she had died that day, and some wicked spirit had taken -possession of the exhausted frame? I declare that this idea returned to -me in spite of myself. I could not escape from it; as the night crept on -strange fears came over me. Her eyes fascinated mine. I could not -withdraw my gaze from those two gleams of strange light within the -crimson curtains, moving about from minute to minute with their restless -observation. What was she thinking of? Could she tell that, under this -roof, the roof of his fathers, her injured son was sleeping? Was she -thinking of her youth, her life, the past, with all its dread, -pertinacious, stubborn cruelty? I did not know then how the -extraordinary story told by Luigi could be harmonised into possibility. -I could not think of any story; I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_349" id="page_349"></a>{349}</span> could think of nothing but that -solitary woman pursuing those sleepless thoughts, which nobody shared, -through all the dread recesses of her conscience, through all the -scenes, visible to her only, of her hidden mysterious life.</p> - -<p>It must have been about midnight when some one knocked softly at the -door. It made me start painfully with a terror I could not subdue. I -rose to see who it was, trembling at the summons. It was Carson, who -called me anxiously into the drawing room. She did not say anything, but -drew me to a little medicine-chest, which she opened, and from which, -all silently, with the speed of long custom, she took a little bottle, -and dropped some of its contents into a glass of water. “You must put -this by her bedside,” whispered Carson, “and here are all her medicines; -but don’t drop them yourself, for the love of pity!—you’ve no -experience. You might give her her death. When my missis wants her -draughts, will you call me?” While I promised to do so, Aunt Milly woke -up from a short sleep. “Has anything happened, Milly?” she cried, -starting up suddenly. Nothing had happened but that her start had thrown -down a footstool, and made a noise which sounded dreadful in the calm of -the night. The three of us dispersed hastily upon that sound. Carson -disappeared out of the room. Aunt Milly sat up trembling on the sofa. I -went back to the patient. The noise had roused her. She had struggled up -in bed, and was trying to look round to the dressing-room door.</p> - -<p>“Who is it?” she cried, when I went in, her eyes fixing on me with -something of the dreadful expression they had in the drawing-room, as if -she had lost control over them, and the orbs turned wildly out and -fluttered to the light. “If it’s <i>him</i>, let him come here.”</p> - -<p>“It was only Carson,” I said.</p> - -<p>“Carson? let her not come near me. I will do her an injury,” cried Miss -Mortimer with wild exasperation. Then she suffered herself to fall back -on her pillows. “They’re all in a plot,” she went on, “all in a plot, -the very woman I trusted; I shall never trust anybody any more. But -here’s the wonderful thing; she is just as great a coward as she is a -fool; and to think she should hate me so much as to be able to go up and -down these passages in the middle of the night with a dead man! Hark, -there they are!”</p> - -<p>I fell back from the bedside at the words, unable to refrain from a -shudder of horror.</p> - -<p>“You’re afraid,” said Miss Mortimer, looking at me with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_350" id="page_350"></a>{350}</span> kind of -contemptuous curiosity. “Yet you saw him come in yesterday and you did -not faint. I remember seeing you stare and stare. Ah! it’s strange to -see a dead man!”</p> - -<p>“I saw nobody but Luigi; nobody but your son,” cried I, in dismay.</p> - -<p>When it was said I drew back in alarm, lest the words should rouse her -into passion. But they did not. She was beyond that.</p> - -<p>“I could not see him, though,” she continued, going on in her dreadful -monologue; “it was only a kind of feeling he was there, and the scent of -the syringas in the garden. You know it’s very overpowering; those they -call the Virgin’s Breast. It was that made me faint.”</p> - -<p>Here she fixed her eyes on me again, as if she imagined that she had -been setting up a plausible plea and dared me to contradict it.</p> - -<p>“I wonder if he’s as handsome now he’s dead,” she went on in a very low -tone; “he was never as handsome for a man as I was for a woman. I’ll -never, never speak to Carson again; but you might ask her if he’s kept -his looks. Ah! I thought I saw some one behind the curtains there; but -he’ll never appear to me. For he swore, you know, he swore, he was never -to give me any trouble, and he kept his word till he died.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Miss Mortimer,”—I cried, coming forward to the bed with the glass -in my hand. She held out hers eagerly, and interrupted me.</p> - -<p>“Miss Mortimer! to be sure I am Miss Mortimer; I have always been Miss -Mortimer, you know that; then what’s all this made up story about a son? -For, you know,” she said, sinking her voice again into a whisper, and -holding the glass in her hand, “to be called countess would have been a -temptation to many a woman. But I never would have it, not for a day, -never after he refused to take our name. That’s what a man calls love, -you know. You shall take his name if it’s a beggar’s, and he will not -take yours if it brings a kingdom. But I was not the sort of woman to be -a beggarly Italian countess. And I’ve beaten him in his grave,” she -cried out in ghastly triumph,—“in his grave I’ve got the victory over -him! Here’s the child on his knees to me to call him Lewis Mortimer. Ah! -you’re Richard Mortimer’s daughter. I might have married Richard if I -had known how things were going to turn out. We’ll set it all right -to-morrow. Yes; stand by me, and we’ll set it all right. There’s no dead -man shall conquer me. Do you hear? There he is pacing about the passage -as he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_351" id="page_351"></a>{351}</span> used to do when I refused to see him. But he dared not come in; -no, not if I had been a thousand times his wife.”</p> - -<p>And I cannot help it if people may think me a fool; there were steps -outside in the passage. If it was a living creature I cannot tell; but, -as certain as I live, there were footsteps going up and down, up and -down, with a heavy, melancholy tread. She looked at me full in the face -as we heard them going on. She began to tremble so that the bed shook -under her; her eyes grew wilder, her colour more ghastly. In spite of -all she said, she was stricken to her very heart with fear.</p> - -<p>And as for me, I did not feel I had courage to open the door. I called -out, “Whoever you are, go away, I beseech,—go away! She cannot rest -while you are here.” The steps stopped in a moment, then, after a pause, -went on and went away, growing fainter in the distance. Thank heaven it -must have been somebody living! perhaps Carson, perhaps her son.</p> - -<p>When I came back to the bedside she had dropped asleep—actually, in the -midst of her terror, had fallen into an unnatural slumber. It was an -opiate that Carson had given her. The little medicine-chest was full of -different kinds of opiates. Scarcely one of them that was not marked -poison. I looked into the dressing-room for a minute to comfort poor -Aunt Milly, who had heard all her sister said, and was in a dreadful -state of agitation. She kissed me and blessed me, and leaned her dear -kind head upon my shoulder for the moment I dared stay beside her. “She -would never have said so much to me,” said Aunt Milly, and wrapped her -own shawl round me, and tried to make me take some wine which she had -brought upstairs. When I would not take that, lest it should make me -sleepy, Aunt Milly got up from the sofa to make some tea for me. -Everybody knows such nights—everybody knows how some one always tries -to comfort the watcher with such attentions—tender, useless, -heartbreaking attempts at outside consolation. I went back to the sick -room with a pang both of relief and anguish. If it had been my husband -or my baby that I was watching! Thank God it was not so! but the picture -came before me with a terrible force just then, when I did not know -where Harry was, nor how he might be lying, nor who might be watching -over him. I tried to shut out my own thoughts from this room; but who -could ever do that? I fancied I could see white soldiers’ huts rising in -the darkness, and groans of wounded men. It was a relief to me when my -patient groaned and turned in her bed. But she did not wake; She lay all -night long in what seemed more like a stupor than a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_352" id="page_352"></a>{352}</span> sleep, interrupted -by groans and stifled outcries, and long sighs that broke one’s heart. -No wonder we had heard of her bad nights.</p> - -<p>In the morning, when she woke at last, Miss Mortimer turned round upon -me with a half-stupified, wondering stare. Then she recollected herself. -She did not speak, but I saw all the thoughts of the previous night come -slowly back to her face. She watched me arranging the room in the -cheerful morning light; she even permitted me to raise her among her -pillows, and swallowed, though with an effort, the tea I brought her. -She bore no malice against me for anything I had said. She seemed even -pleased to have me beside her; but it was not for my sake; I believe she -thought I was doing it for an interested reason. And she—she thought -she had found an accomplice in me.</p> - -<p>This morning she spoke with difficulty, and her looks were changed. She -looked ill, very ill. The morning light showed a strange widening and -breadth about her eyes, a solemn fixed expression in her face, which, -though I had never watched it coming before, went to my heart with an -instinctive chill and recognition. She could not bear me to be out of -her sight for a moment. When I went to the dressing-room door to speak a -word to Aunt Milly she called me back with an impatient, stifled cry. At -last she beckoned me close to her bedside.</p> - -<p>“I want—I want—send—let him come,” she stammered out.</p> - -<p>“Luigi?” I said.</p> - -<p>She clasped her hands together in an access of passion. “To make my -will,” she cried, with a kind of scream; “now—now—this moment.” When -she had uttered the words she fell back panting, a flush of weakness and -fever coming to her face. I went and told Aunt Milly, who, all troubled -as she was, sent off a messenger immediately for Mr. Cresswell. “I will -send for the doctor, too, and—and the clergyman; but what can Dr. -Roberts do for <i>her</i>?” cried poor Aunt Milly, wringing her hands. The -clergyman! What, indeed, could that sleek, comfortable man do at this -deathbed of guilt and passion? Ah me! A poor priest might have done -something, perhaps, or a poor preacher accustomed to matters of life and -death.</p> - -<p>The day glided on while we waited. She would not let me leave her; but -she did not say anything, except disjointed murmurs, and strange broken -conversations with herself. It was not the present time that her mind -was busy with. Listening in the silence of that room I became aware of a -passionate<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_353" id="page_353"></a>{353}</span> prime of life, an Italian summer, a bitter mortification, -disappointment, revenge—revenge which had come back upon the -remorseless inflictor, and made her life the desert it had been. It all -opened up before me in breaks and glimpses; afterwards, when I knew the -story, it was with the force of an actual representation that I -remembered this broken, unconscious autobiography. She was not raving; -she was only calling up and setting in order the incidents of that -crisis of her life, I cannot follow her through it now; but I remember -that the awe, and interest, and excitement kept me from feeling any -weariness.</p> - -<p>I could not turn away for any sort of refreshment; I sat fascinated -before that revelation of the secret of her days. She seemed to have -foresworn husband and child, life itself and all that made it bearable, -in dreadful vengeance for some broken promise or unfulfilled vow. Her -father came flitting across the troubled picture; the count, and some -dreadful controversy about a name, all intermixed with recollections of -certain rooms and their furniture; of a garden and a thicket of -syringas. What that point of deception or disappointment was, on which -the whole story turned, I could not tell; but for this she had left the -stream of life when life was at its fullest promise; for this she had -settled down in a frightful, stubborn determination, behind that screen -in the drawing-room of the Park. All her after existence, huddled up -into one long monotonous day, had not made these scenes less fresh in -her memory. This was now she had revenged herself—on the Count, who was -dead—on her son, whom she disowned and cast away from her; ah! above -all, a thousand times more bitterly, on herself.</p> - -<p>It was afternoon when Mr. Cresswell came. He was brought up to the room -immediately, without a word of explanation, and accordingly knew nothing -of all the dreadful history of the last twenty-four hours. He had not -even a hint that anything was changed, except the health of Miss -Mortimer. He came and expressed his concern in the common-place tone of -an unexcited stranger; he expressed his surprise to see me with her. In -his heart he set it down that this will was of my suggesting. I am -certain he did; and smiled to find me the nurse of the sick woman. But -Miss Mortimer (that I should still go on calling her by that name after -all I had heard!) left him very little time. She recovered herself -wonderfully at sight of him; her very utterance became easier in the -anxiety she showed to express herself plainly. She was impatient of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_354" id="page_354"></a>{354}</span> his -inquiries and condolences. She moved her hands uneasily about the bed, -and for a moment her eyes fluttered as they had done the day before; but -as soon as he had prepared his papers, and taken his pen in hand, she -was composed again. My heart beat so loud with anxiety to hear what she -said, that I could scarcely breathe. Was she now at last to set right -the injustice of a life?</p> - -<p>“Write,” she cried, with a gasp for breath, “that I leave -everything—mind, it is everything, Bob Cresswell, no partitions. My -sister Milly, though she is a fool, is as fond of her, ah! as—as I -am—all the Park and the lands belonging to it, to Millicent Mortimer. -There! the young soldier’s wife; and to—eh! who is it? Who speaks to -me?”</p> - -<p>I grasped her hand hard in my sudden passion. It was cold, cold, a dead -hand, and horrified me with its touch. “Stop,” I cried, “oh, stop, Mr. -Cresswell; she cannot mean such horrible injustice! Miss Mortimer! -Countess! whatever you are! will you dare to die and never repent? Do -you think I will let you bring a curse on my innocent baby? Stop! Stop! -I forbid it, for her soul’s sake!”</p> - -<p>Mr. Cresswell pushed back his chair and stared in amazement too great -for words. She looked at me with a strange air of cunning and superior -wisdom, and then at him.</p> - -<p>“She thinks,” said the dying woman, in a kind of whisper, addressing Mr. -Cresswell, “to draw me into some foolish talk, and bring it up against -the will. Fool! they are all fools; go on.”</p> - -<p>“What does it mean?” he said looking at me.</p> - -<p>“It means that she ought to do justice,” I cried; “that it is all she -can do now; that she is going to die without repenting, without making -amends. If you write it, it will be a sin.”</p> - -<p>“Bob Cresswell, go on; it is I who am the person to be attended to,” -said Miss Mortimer. “This creature, do you hear, is a fool. I know what -I mean.”</p> - -<p>“There is something here I don’t understand; my dear lady, you’re not so -very ill, suppose we put it off,” said the lawyer in great perplexity; -“and there’s Miss Milly, you know, she has her share in the Park.”</p> - -<p>“Attend to <i>me</i>!” cried Miss Mortimer, wildly. “You will kill me; am I -to be thwarted <i>now</i>, as well as all my life? Oh, good heavens! in my -own house, and in bed, and perhaps going to die—and I am not to have my -will, my will! I shall have my will, if I should write it myself!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_355" id="page_355"></a>{355}</span></p> - -<p>She stretched out her eager hand towards the writing things, stretching -out of bed, and by some chance touched Mr. Cresswell. When he felt that -deathly touch he grew very grave, and started with a shudder. He took up -his pen immediately.</p> - -<p>“I will do what you please,” he said. He could not resist that cry of -death.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_356" id="page_356"></a>{356}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="Chapter_XIX-f" id="Chapter_XIX-f"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter XIX.</span></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span> <span class="smcap">RAN</span> downstairs in desperation. I could not be content to let that -dreadful mockery go on. It was vain, for we never, never, would have -taken another man’s rights; but for herself, the miserable, guilty -woman, to hinder her by any means, to save her from putting that seal -upon all her cruelty and falsehood. I saw nobody as I flew down the -stairs, though afterwards I was conscious that Lizzie had been standing -there with my beautiful innocent boy. Do you think I would consent for a -kingdom to bring the curse of wrongful wealth upon little Harry? Not if -starvation and misery had been the only other choice!</p> - -<p>I burst into the library, where I knew Aunt Milly was. Pale with -watching and anxiety, she was sitting propped up in an easy-chair, with -Sara Cresswell and Luigi beside her. I believe they had been telling her -their story, and she, straining her ear for every sound, had been trying -to listen to them. When I came in she started up from her chair and came -to meet me, unconsciously putting them away. “What is it, Milly?” she -cried, putting out her arms to me. I dared not permit myself to rest or -even lean upon her. I seized her hand and drew her to the door.</p> - -<p>“Come up, and interfere,” I cried; “she is making her dreadful will. She -is leaving everything to me. Come, before she has put the seal to all -this misery. Aunt Milly, can you stand aside and let this be done?”</p> - -<p>“My dear,” said Aunt Milly, with a burst of tears, kissing me and -looking in my face, “you know I love you, Milly; you know you are almost -dearer to me now than any creature on earth.”</p> - -<p>I could not thank her; I had no time. I did not feel grateful or -pleased, but only impatient. “Come; come!” I repeated almost with -violence. I could not understand how she could delay.</p> - -<p>“Let her do what she will,” cried Aunt Milly. “If I go<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_357" id="page_357"></a>{357}</span> and argue with -her, it will only make her worse. Oh, child! we can’t cross her now; -don’t you see we can’t cross her now? But I took a vow, as sure as God -saw us, I would do justice,” said Aunt Milly, solemnly through her -tears. “She can but do what she can. We are co-heiresses! she has no -power but over her own share.”</p> - -<p>“Share!” I cried, “is it shares we have to think of? She is dying, and -she does not repent.”</p> - -<p>I could not wait there any longer; they all followed upstairs, Aunt -Milly holding my hand. They all came into the dressing-room, where we -could faintly hear Miss Mortimer’s voice, and where Carson stood -trembling at the door. At this moment there was no order or rule in the -stricken house. Then Aunt Milly went with me into the sick room. Mr. -Cresswell was writing, and Miss Mortimer had stopped speaking. She -turned her eyes triumphantly upon us both.</p> - -<p>“I have carried out your wishes, Milly. I have left everything to your -favourite,” she said, with pauses to got her breath. “You may sign it -after me, and then it will be complete.”</p> - -<p>“Sarah, that boy, that boy!” cried Aunt Milly. “Oh, put out your hand to -him just once—think, before it is finished, what claims he has. Give -him something. Sarah! Sarah! you would not take me into your confidence; -but I’ll go down on my knees to you if you’ll do justice to that boy!”</p> - -<p>“I am going to die,” said Miss Mortimer, after a pause. “I can see it in -all your faces. I can’t be much worse off than I’ve been here. But look -you, Milly, if you come and drive me into passion; if that wretched boy -so much as comes near me, I’ll die directly, and you’ll be my murderers. -His father made the choice—and I will not change, no, not if he came -again, as he did yesterday, with the dead man. Cresswell, I’m growing a -little faint. Is it ready to sign?”</p> - -<p>He brought it and laid it before her on the bed; and she called to me to -raise her up. I was desperate. I would rather have been content to be -her murderer, as she said, than to let her do that sin.</p> - -<p>“You are not Sarah Mortimer,” said I, as with great difficulty she wrote -her signature. “It is a false name, and you know it is. Write your own -name, Countess Sermoneta, and let everybody know that you have -disinherited your son.”</p> - -<p>She stared round at me, setting her teeth, then returned to the paper, -and with a desperate resolution completed it. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_358" id="page_358"></a>{358}</span> stood perfectly aghast -as I saw that dead hand trace those words, which to me cut her off for -ever from every hope:—“By marriage, Sermoneta.” God help us! was there -now no place of repentance?</p> - -<p>“And now,” she said, falling back on her pillows, “send me Carson—I -want no more—no more from anybody; send me my maid. I’ll forgive <i>her</i> -though she deserted me;—nobody,” sobbed the poor voice, all at once -breaking and growing feeble,—“nobody knows me but Carson. I want my -maid; Carson, here!”</p> - -<p>She had scarcely spoken, when Carson was by her side kneeling down at -the bed, kissing the cold hand held out to her with such tears and eager -affection as I never saw a servant show to a mistress. It was a -reconciliation of love. The tears came into Miss Mortimer’s eyes. She -gave her hand to her maid’s caresses with actual affection. It was the -strangest conclusion to that dismal scene. One after another we three -went out of the room confounded. Aunt Milly weeping tears, the -bitterness of which I could not enter into. Mr. Cresswell, with a face -of utter wonder, and myself, too much shocked and shaken to be able for -anything. I could not go downstairs with them. I took refuge in the room -that had been fitted up as a nursery for my baby. I got my boy into my -arms and cried over him. It was too much; when he put his innocent arms -round my neck and laid his cheek to mine to console me, my happiness -struck me as with a pang. Oh, the unutterable things she had lost, that -poor, miserable woman! I got up again to rush back to her with my baby, -and see if that would not touch her heart, but stumbled in weariness and -weakness, and fell on my knees on the floor. That was all that was to be -done. I acknowledged it with that dreadful sense of impotence that one -has, when hearts and souls have to be dealt with. On my knees I might -help that desolate, lonely creature,—nowhere else, in no other manner. -And even this not now. I was worn out with excitement and distress. I -was ashamed to think, or permit myself to say, that one night’s watching -had done it. I had to put little Harry back into Lizzie’s hands and lie -down in the waning daylight. My head throbbed, and my heart beat, so -that I could not even recollect my thoughts. And all that had happened -seemed to have no impression but one upon me. I never thought of that -group downstairs going over the wonderful story which nobody had so much -as guessed at. I thought only of that hopeless woman, in her shut-up -room, slowly floating out of existence, dying hour by hour, and minute -by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_359" id="page_359"></a>{359}</span> minute, unchanged and unsubdued. What was death that it should -change her, whom love and pity, and the long-suffering of God had not -changed? But I thought to myself I could never more blame those who -preach out of season as well as in season, and cannot be silent. There -were moments in which I could not endure myself—in which I felt as if I -must go and make another appeal to her—even at the risk of thrusting -myself into the room, and disturbing the quiet of her last hours.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_360" id="page_360"></a>{360}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="Chapter_XX-f" id="Chapter_XX-f"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter XX.</span><br /><br /> -BY MISS MILLY MORTIMER.</h2> - -<p>It is I who must finish what there is to tell. My dear Milly was not in -a condition, either of mind or body, to go on with the story that had -moved her so much; and since then, poor dear child, you may suppose how -little heart she had to enter upon other things. We heard of the battle -that had just been fought not long after, and knew that Harry was sure -to have been in it, having got letters from him of his safe arrival just -the day after my sister’s death. And then we had to wait for the lists. -I can tell nobody how we lived through these days. She used to go down -and teach in the village school, and to all the distressed people near. -The things she did for them might have shocked me at another time. -Anything, it did not matter what, a servant’s work, whatever there might -happen to be to do—and came home at night tired to death, but with no -sleep in her poor eyes. She used to say, though she could not sleep, -that it was a kind of comfort to be very tired, it dulled her a little -in her heart. When the news came he was slightly wounded, and had -distinguished himself, she fell down in a faint at my feet. It was the -first moment she dared be insensible. After that little term of relief, -our anxieties were constant. But at last, you know, it is all over, and -he is coming home.</p> - -<p>But to go back to that day. When we left my sister’s deathbed, and I, -without even Milly to support me, went down alone with them all to hear -everything told over again, and all Mr. Cresswell’s remarks and -astonishment, you may well imagine it was very hard to me. I would have -given anything to have been able to keep all that from Mr. Cresswell, -but after what he had heard, and Sarah’s extraordinary signature, of -course it was indispensable that he should understand the whole -business; as well as for my nephew’s sake. I am bound to say Luigi -behaved to his poor mother in a very different way from that in which -she had treated him. If she had been the best mother in the world he -could not have told the tale more<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_361" id="page_361"></a>{361}</span> gently. He went over it all,—how -there had been a secret marriage done in Leghorn, where it was not -unlawful for a Catholic to marry a Protestant, and where his father came -under some engagement to take our own name. How it was kept secret for -some reason of her own. How my father found it out. How the Count was -summoned and called upon to bind himself, now that the affair could not -be mended, to come home with them, and take the name of Mortimer. How, -being dreadfully irritated by his wife (I don’t doubt she could have -driven a man mad, especially in the days of her beauty), he refused; and -how she had renounced, and given him up, and had nothing more to say to -him. You may say, why did not he claim his rights? I can’t tell. He -might have ruined her reputation, to be sure, or made the whole story -public; but I suppose she must have been more than a match for him. She -retired away into some village, and had her baby, and left it there. -Then she came home. The Count never disturbed her all his life; and when -he died he told his son the story, and bade him never to rest till he -had recovered his mother. The young man, all amazed, full of grief for -his father and anxiety to find <i>her</i>, came to England, asking for the -Countess Sermoneta. It was only after many failures, and seeking better -information from his father’s papers, that he came to believe that she -called herself still Miss Mortimer; and we know all the rest. Luigi did -not blame her, not a single word; he sat with his head leaning on his -hands, overcome with distress and trouble. He called her his mother, his -mother, every time he spoke, and said the name in such a tone as would -have gone to anybody’s heart. Little Sara sat gazing at him all the -time, with her whole heart in her eyes. When he covered his face with -his hands in that pitiful way, Sara was unable to contain herself; she -moved restlessly in her seat, fell a-crying in extreme agitation, and -then, just for a moment, laid her hand upon his and pressed it with a -quick momentary touch of sympathy. Her father’s eyes gleamed out for a -moment surprise, anger, I cannot tell what mixture of feelings; but, -dear! dear! what had their courtships and lovemakings to do in this -stricken house? I could not bear any such question just at that moment. -I told Cresswell that it was needful he should make my will, too, as -well as my sister’s, and that I left my share to my nephew, without any -conditions. Cresswell made objections, as was natural for a lawyer. His -objections were too much for me; I got angry and impatient, more than I -ought to have done. Here was he pottering about proofs and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_362" id="page_362"></a>{362}</span> such things, -when I knew, and had seen, and read it all in my sister’s face. This -story was the key to Sarah’s life; I understood it all now what it -meant, from her never-uttered quarrel with my father, down to the time -when she met Luigi on the road. And the man spoke to me about proofs! I -made him draw out a kind of form of a will, like that which Sarah had -signed, but which Mr. Cresswell worded so cautiously, that it would be -null if Luigi was not proved my nephew—bequeathing all my share of the -Park estate to him. I confess it cost me a pang to do this; I confess -freely that, to part the lands, and to leave it away from Milly, and to -think it was Sarah and not me who had provided for that dear child, went -to my heart; but I would rather have died than refused justice to my -sister’s son.</p> - -<p>Luigi came round to my side and took my two hands and kissed them. I was -so wicked as to dislike it just at that moment, and to think it was one -of his Italian ways. But he stood before me with tears in his eyes, and -that look of the Mortimers, which nobody could mistake. “And your love?” -he said. I could not stand out against that; I broke down entirely, and -cried and sobbed like a child. Dreadful days these had been! Now I was -overpowered, and could do no more. When I rose to go upstairs Luigi drew -my arm into his, and took care of me like a son. He begged me to go to -Milly, and not to be by myself; and I cannot tell how, but his voice had -so great an effect upon me, that I did just as he said. Oh, dear! dear! -to think what Sarah had cast away from her. There was she, lying alone, -rejecting every creature in the world but Carson,—and here was the love -that belonged to her, coming to <i>me</i>.</p> - -<p>I did not see Mr. Cresswell again before he went away. Sara came up a -little after, in despair, saying he had ordered her to return with him, -and came and hugged me silently, and cried, with a frightened look upon -her pale little face. “I would say farewell to godmamma Sarah, if I -dared,” cried the poor child; but I dared not let her do it. She went -away, casting longing looks back at us like a creature condemned. It was -natural that she should feel leaving us in so much trouble, and going -back to her own quiet, motionless home. It was not Sara’s fault she had -not been watching with us every moment of that terrible night; but, for -all that, it was very right of Mr. Cresswell to take her away.</p> - -<p>And then some days of watching followed. Once Sarah admitted me into her -room, and she saw the doctor without<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_363" id="page_363"></a>{363}</span> making any objection—she would -have lived still, had that been possible—but when I begged her to see -Luigi, just to say one word to him, to let him believe she recognised -him as her son, her looks grew so terrible that I dared not say more. He -went himself, out of my knowledge, to her door, and begged and prayed to -be let in; but Carson came out to him, pallid with terror, and begged -him to go away, or he would kill Miss Mortimer—for they kept up that -farce of a name to the end. Luigi came to me heart-broken; it was, -indeed, a terrible position for the young man. He reproached himself for -seeking his natural rights, and bringing on all this misery. He said, “I -have killed my mother!” It was all I could do to comfort him. God -forgive her! it was not he who was to blame.</p> - -<p>This was how my sister Sarah died. I try never to think of it. I try not -to remember that dreadful time. Thank heaven! to judge others is not our -part in this life. There is very little comfort to be had out of it, -anyhow; living and dying it was a sad existence for a woman. If she had -not much love in her lifetime, I think there are few graves over which -have been shed more bitter tears. On her tombstone she is called -Countess Sermoneta; the first time she has ever borne that ill-fated -name.</p> - -<p>It was not difficult to prove the whole history. By degrees Mr. -Cresswell gathered enough from other sources to convince him of Luigi’s -story; and after that it did not take much persuasion to make him -consent to give my nephew his daughter. It was not the match he might -have made, of course. The Sermonetas are a very old family in their own -country; not much wonder the Count would not consent to give up his own -name, and take the name of the haughty Englishman that despised him. -Luigi would have changed his, had his mother bidden him, and for his -father’s sake; but the young man was deeply grateful to me for not -making any conditions. For my part, I did not want him to be the -representative of the Mortimers. I may safely say I came to love him -like a child of my own at last. But after all he was a foreigner still, -and even when I came to be fond of him, I never could see him without -pain mixing with the pleasure. It was Harry, little Harry, my sweet -English baby, Milly’s beautiful boy, that was to be the Mortimers’ heir.</p> - -<p>And Sara will not be married till Harry Langham comes home. Perhaps it -is not justice to Sara to say my nephew might have done better; but, -after all, you know, her father is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_364" id="page_364"></a>{364}</span> only an attorney, our family -attorney. Her hair is grown now, and she is a little older, and very -pretty; very pretty indeed the little creature is. She is not in the -least like what my sister Sarah used to be; she can never be such a -beauty as her poor godmamma was. If it were nothing else, she is too -little for <i>beauty</i>; but I must say she is extremely pretty. I don’t -know if there is such another in all Cheshire. My Milly is different. Of -the two <i>I</i> should rather have her; but then I am not a young man.</p> - -<p>And the war is over, and the dear child is nervously happy, and counting -the days. About another week or so and Harry Langham will be at home.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_365" id="page_365"></a>{365}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="POSTSCRIPT" id="POSTSCRIPT"></a>POSTSCRIPT.<br /><br /> -BY MRS. LANGHAM.</h2> - -<p>Harry is home, safe and well. He is to get the Medjidie and the French -ribbon of honour; but you can see that in the papers. It is something -else I have to tell.</p> - -<p>It is just a week before Sara’s marriage day, and Lizzie comes to me -looking very foolish. I had thought she had recovered of her -awkwardness. There she stands, twisting her feet again, rolling up her -arms in her white apron, holding her head to one side in a paroxysm of -her old use and wont. Really, if she were not standing in such a -preposterous attitude, Lizzie would look rather pretty; she has such a -nice complexion, and her red-brown hair pleases me—it is not too red. -It suits those features which are not at all regular, but only very -pleasant and bright, with health, and youth, and a good heart. But now -there is something dreadful choking Lizzie, which must be got out.</p> - -<p>“Mem, the Captain’s come hame,” came at last in a burst.</p> - -<p>He was brevet Major now, and most people about the Park called him -Colonel; and he was in the next room, no further off, so I rather stared -at Lizzie’s piece of news.</p> - -<p>“And wee Mr. Harry, he’s a grand little gentleman,” said Lizzie; “and -a’s weel, and there’s no cloud in a’ the sky as big as the dear bairn’s -little finger, let abee a man’s hand.”</p> - -<p>This solemn enumeration of my joys alarmed me considerably. “Do you know -of anything that has happened, Lizzie?” I cried with a momentary return -of my old fears.</p> - -<p>“Naething’s gaun to happen,” said Lizzie, “I’m meaning no to you; -naething but the blessing of God that kens a’. It was just to say——”</p> - -<p>Here Lizzie came to a dead stop, and cried, the unfailing resource in -all difficulties. A perception of the truth flashed upon me as I looked -at her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_366" id="page_366"></a>{366}</span></p> - -<p>“Do you mean to say——?” cried I, but got no further in my extreme -amaze.</p> - -<p>“Eh, it’s no me!” cried Lizzie. “But eh, Menico says——”</p> - -<p>Here she stopped again, gave me a frightened look, made an attempt to go -on—and finally, startled by a sound in the next room, where Harry was, -dropped the apron she had unconsciously pulled off, on the floor, and -fairly ran away.</p> - -<p>Leaving me thunderstruck, and by no means pleased. I knew if I went and -told Harry he would burst into fits of laughter, and there would be an -end to all serious consideration of the subject. To lose Lizzie all at -once like this, to let the creature go and marry a foreigner! There was -something quite unbearable in the thought; what was I to do? A -foreigner, and a Catholic, too, and a man twice as old as herself; the -girl was mad! The more I thought of it the more distressed I grew. At -last I went to seek Aunt Milly, who was the only practicable counsellor. -She was in the garden, and I went to seek her there. It was July, and -sultry weather. In the hall, now better occupied than it used to be, -stood Domenico, in the white suit, vast and spotless, with which he -always distinguished himself in summer weather, and which always put me -in mind of that dreadful day when the Count Sermoneta first came, in his -own name, to the Park. Domenico started forward, noiseless and smiling, -to open the door. The action brought before me in a minute our little -Chester lodgings, our troubled happy days, our parting, and all the -simple kindness this honest fellow had done us. His face beamed through -all my recollections of that time, always thus starting forward with the -courtesy of the heart. My heart warmed to him in spite of all I had been -cogitating against him. Perhaps he divined what it was occupied my -thoughts—he followed me out at the door.</p> - -<p>“It pleases to the Signora give me the Leezee?” said Domenico, with an -insinuating look. “No? no? But what to have done? The Signora displeases -herself of me? Wherefore? Because? I not know.”</p> - -<p>“I am not displeased,” said I. “You are a very good fellow, Domenico, -and have always been very kind. But she is a child; she is not -seventeen. What would you do with her in a strange country? She is too -young for you.”</p> - -<p>“The Leezee contents herself,” said Domenico, with a broad smile opening -out his black beard. “If it pleases to the Signora, I bring her back -other times; I take the care of her;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_367" id="page_367"></a>{367}</span> I make everything please to her. -The Signora not wills to say no?”</p> - -<p>And of course I did not say no; I had no right to say anything of the -sort. And Lizzie actually was not afraid to marry that mountain of a -man. She went away with him, looking dreadfully ashamed, and taking the -most heartrending farewell of little Harry and me, Domenico looking on -with great but smiling sympathy all the while, and not at all resenting -her tears. But the Captain had come home, and little Harry had attained -the independence of two and a half years. Lizzie felt she had discharged -her trust, and was no longer imperatively needed to take care of me. I -kissed her when she went away, as if she had been a sister of my own, -and I confess was not ashamed to add a tear to the floods that poured -from her brown eyes; but I am obliged to avow that it is not within the -range of my powers to put correctly on paper all the long rolling -syllables of her new name.</p> - -<p class="c">THE END.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_368" id="page_368"></a>{368}</span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_369" id="page_369"></a>{369}</span> </p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="bbox"> -<p class="c"> -WARD, LOCK & CO.’S<br /> -LIST OF<br /> -<big><big><b>SELECT NOVELS</b></big></big><br /> -<br /> -By ANTHONY TROLLOPE, CHARLES LEVER, HENRY KINGSLEY,<br /> -WHYTE-MELVILLE, HARRISON AINSWORTH, HAWLEY<br /> -SMART, JANE AUSTEN, and other Popular Authors; and<br /> -<span class="sans">BOOKS OF HUMOUR</span><br /> -By THOMAS HOOD, ARTEMUS WARD, BRET HARTE, MARK TWAIN,<br /> -JOHN HABBERTON (Author of “Helen’s Babies”),<br /> -MAX ADELER, and others.<br /> -</p> -<hr /> - -<p class="c">THE</p> - -<p class="c">SELECT LIBRARY OF FICTION.</p> - -<p class="c">PRICE TWO SHILLINGS EACH;</p> - -<p class="c">Or cloth, 2s. 6d.</p> - -<p class="c">Comprising 500 of the Best Works by the Best Authors.</p> - -<table class="smltb" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr valign="top"> -<td> <i>By ANTHONY TROLLOPE.</i><br /> -<span class="sans"> - 1 Doctor Thorne.<br /> - 2 Macdermots of Ballycloran.<br /> - 3 Rachel Ray.<br /> - 4 The Kellys and the O’Kellys.<br /> - 5 Tales of all Countries.<br /> - 6 Castle Richmond.<br /> - 7 The Bertrams.<br /> - 8 Miss Mackenzie.<br /> - 9 The Belton Estate.<br /> - 10 Lotta Schmidt.<br /> - 11 An Editor’s Tales.<br /> - 12 Ralph the Heir.<br /> - 13 La Vendee.<br /> - 14 Lady Anna.<br /> - 15 Vicar of Bullhampton.</span></td> - -<td class="bl"> <br /> <span class="sans">16 Sir Harry Hotspur.<br /> - 17 Is He Popenjoy?<br /> - 18 An Eye for an Eye.<br /> - 19 Cousin Henry.<br /> - 20 Dr. Wortle’s School.<br /> - 21 Harry Heathcote.<br /> - 22 Orley Farm.<br /> - 24 Phineas Finn.<br /> - 25 He Knew He was Right.<br /> - 26 Eustace Diamonds.<br /> - 27 Phineas Redux.<br /> - 28 The Prime Minister.<br /> - 29 The Duke’s Children.<br /> - 30 Ayala’s Angel.<br /> - 23 Can You Forgive Her?<br /> (2<i>s.</i> 6<i>d.</i>; cloth gilt, 3<i>s.</i>)</span></td></tr> -</table> - -<p class="c"> <i>By ANTHONY TROLLOPE; uniform with the above, 2s. each.</i></p> - -<p class="c"> 31 South and West Australia and New Zealand.</p> -<p class="c"> 32 New South Wales, Victoria and Tasmania.</p> - -<hr /> -<p class="c">WARD, LOCK & CO., London, Melbourne, and New York.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_370" id="page_370"></a>{370}</span></p> - -</div> - -<div class="bbox"> -<p class="c">THE SELECT LIBRARY OF FICTION.</p> -<hr /> -<p class="c">Price 2s. each; or cloth gilt, 2s. 6d.</p> - -<table class="smltb" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr valign="top"><td> - - <i>By CHARLES LEVER.</i><br /> - - 39 Jack Hinton.<br /> - 40 Harry Lorrequer.<br /> - 41 The O’Donoghue.<br /> - 42 The Fortunes of Glencore.<br /> - 43 One of Them.<br /> - 44 Sir Jasper Carew.<br /> - 45 A Day’s Ride: a Life’s Romance<br /> - 46 Maurice Tiernay.<br /> - 47 Barrington.<br /> - 48 Luttrell of Arran<br />. - 49 A Rent in a Cloud.<br /> - 50 Sir Brook Fossbrooke.<br /> - 51 The Bramleighs.<br /> - 52 Tony Butler.<br /> - 53 That Boy of Norcott’s.<br /> - 54 Lord Kilgobbin.<br /> - 55 Cornelius O’Dowd.<br /> - 56 Nuts and Nutcrackers.<br /> - 57 Tales of the Trains.<br /> - 58 Paul Goslett’s Confessions.<br /> - 59 Charles O’Malley.<br /> - 60 The Daltons.<br /> - 61 Knight of Gwynne.<br /> - 62 Dodd Family Abroad.<br /> - 63 Tom Burke.<br /> - 65 Roland Cashel.<br /> - 66 Martins of Cro’ Martin.<br /> - 64 Davenport Dunn. <br />(2<i>s.</i> 6<i>d.</i>; cloth gilt, 3<i>s.</i>) -<br /> - <i>By HARRISON AINSWORTH.</i><br /> -<br /> - 73 Cardinal Pole.<br /> - 74 Constable of the Tower.<br /> - 75 Leaguer of Lathom.<br /> - 76 Spanish Match.<br /> - 77 Constable de Bourbon.<br /> - 78 Old Court.<br /> - 79 Myddleton Pomfret.<br /> - 80 Hilary St. Ives.</td> - -<td class="bl"> 81 Lord Mayor of London.<br /> - 82 John Law.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By HENRY KINGSLEY.</i><br /> - -101 Mdlle. Mathilde.<br /> -102 Hetty.<br /> -103 Geoffry Hamlyn.<br /> -104 Ravenshoe.<br /> -105 Hillyars and Burtons.<br /> -106 Silcote of Silcotes.<br /> -107 Leighton Court.<br /> -108 Austin Elliot.<br /> -109 Reginald Hetherege.<br /> -110 The Harveys.<br /> -111 Stretton.<br /> -112 Old Margaret.<br /> -113 Valentin.<br /> -114 Hornby Mills.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By WHYTE-MELVILLE.</i><br /> - -115 Tilbury Nogo.<br /> -116 Uncle John.<br /> -117 The White Rose.<br /> -118 Cerise.<br /> -119 Brookes of Bridlemere.<br /> -120 “Bones and I.”<br /> -121 “M. or N.”<br /> -122 Contraband.<br /> -123 Market Harborough.<br /> -124 Sarchedon.<br /> -125 Satanella.<br /> -126 Katerfelto.<br /> -127 Sister Louise.<br /> -128 Rosine.<br /> -129 Roy’s Wife.<br /> -130 Black, but Comely.<br /> -131 Riding Recollections.<br /><br /> - -<i>Uniform with above.</i><br /> - -132 Songs and Verses.<br /> -133 The True Cross.</td></tr> -</table> - -<hr /> - -<p class="c">WARD, LOCK & CO., London, Melbourne, and New York.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="bbox"> -<p class="c">THE SELECT LIBRARY OF FICTION.</p> -<hr /> -<p class="c">Price 2s. each; or cloth gilt, 2s. 6d.</p> - -<table class="smltb" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr valign="top"><td> - - <i>By Mrs. OLIPHANT.</i><br /> - -146 May.<br /> -147 For Love and Life.<br /> -148 Last of the Mortimers.<br /> -149 Squire Arden.<br /> -150 Ombra.<br /> -151 Madonna Mary.<br /> -152 Days of my Life.<br /> -153 Harry Muir.<br /> -154 Heart and Cross.<br /> -155 Magdalene Hepburn.<br /> -156 House on the Moor.<br /> -157 Lilliesleaf.<br /> -158 Lucy Crofton.<br /> -159 At His Gates.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By HAWLEY SMART.</i><br /> - -165 Broken Bonds.<br /> -166 Two Kisses.<br /> -167 False Cards.<br /> -168 Courtship.<br /> -169 Bound to Win.<br /> -170 Cecile.<br /> -171 Race for a Wife.<br /> -172 Play or Pay.<br /> -173 Sunshine and Snow.<br /> -174 Belles and Ringers.<br /> -175 Social Sinners.<br /> -176 The Great Tontine.<br /> -177 At Fault.<br /> -178 Hard Lines.<br /> -179 Salvage.<br /> -180 From Post to Finish.<br /> -181 Tie and Trick.<br /> -182 A False Start.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By JANE AUSTEN.</i><br /> - -187 Sense and Sensibility.<br /> -188 Emma.<br /> -189 Mansfield Park.<br /> -190 Northanger Abbey.<br /> -191 Pride and Prejudice.<br /> -</td><td class="bl"> - <i>By VICTOR HUGO.</i><br /> - -195 Fantine (Les Miserables).<br /> -196 Cosette and Marius (Les Miserables).<br /> -197 Jean Valjean (Miserables).<br /> -198 By the King’s Command.<br /> -199 Hunchback of Notre Dame.<br /> -200 Under Sentence of Death.<br /> -201 Workers of the Sea.<br /> -202 Ninety-Three.<br /> -202<span class="smcap">A</span> History of a Crime.<br /> -202<span class="smcap">B</span> The Outlaw of Iceland.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By CHARLES DICKENS.</i><br /> - -203 Pickwick Papers. Illust.<br /> -204 Nicholas Nickleby. Illust.<br /> -206 The Old Curiosity Shop.<br /> -207 Barnaby Rudge.<br /> -208 Martin Chuzzlewit.<br /> -228 The Mudfog Society, &c.<br /> -229 Picnic Papers.<br /> (Edited by <span class="smcap">C. Dickens</span>.)<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Sir WALTER SCOTT.</i><br /> - -230 Waverley.<br /> -231 Kenilworth.<br /> -232 Ivanhoe.<br /> -233 The Antiquary.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By LYTTON BULWER.</i><br /> -<br /> -264 Paul Clifford.<br /> -265 Last Days of Pompeii.<br /> -266 Eugene Aram.<br /> -267 Pelham.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Captain MARRYAT.</i><br /> - -298 Midshipman Easy.<br /> -299 Japhet in Search of a Father.<br /> -300 Jacob Faithful.<br /> -301 Peter Simple.<br /> -302 The King’s Own.<br /> -303 Frank Mildmay.<br /> -304 Pacha of many Tales.<br /> -305 Rattlin the Reefer.</td></tr> -</table> - -<hr /> - -<p class="c">WARD, LOCK & CO., London, Melbourne, and New York.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="bbox"> -<p class="c">THE SELECT LIBRARY OF FICTION.</p> -<hr /> -<p class="c">Price 2s. each; or cloth gilt, 2s. 6d.</p> - -<table class="smltb" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr valign="top"><td> - -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_372" id="page_372"></a>{372}</span><br /> -<br /> - <i>By MAX ADELER.</i><br /> - -322 Out of the Hurly Burly. With 400 Illustrations.<br /> -323 Elbow Room. Illustrated.<br /> -324 Random Shots. Illustrated.<br /> -325 An Old Fogey. Illustrated.<br /> -326 A Desperate Adventure.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By C. C. CLARKE.</i><br /> - -332 Charlie Thornhill.<br /> -333 Flying Scud.<br /> -334 Crumbs from a Sportsman’s Table.<br /> -335 Which is the Winner?<br /> -336 Lord Falconberg’s Heir.<br /> -337 The Beauclercs.<br /> -338 A Box for the Season.<br /> -339 Chips from an Old Block.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By ANNIE THOMAS.</i><br /> - -343 Theo Leigh.<br /> -344 Dennis Donne.<br /> -345 Called to Account.<br /> -346 A Passion in Tatters.<br /> -347 He Cometh Not, She Said.<br /> -348 No Alternative.<br /> -349 A Narrow Escape.<br /> -350 Blotted Out.<br /> -351 A Laggard in Love.<br /> -352 High Stakes.<br /> -353 Best for Her.<br /> -354 False Colours.<br /> -355 Sir Victor’s Choice.<br /> -356 Dower House.<br /> -357 Cross of Honour.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By E. P. ROE.</i><br /> - -370 Opening a Chestnut Burr.<br /> -371 A Face Illumined.<br /> -372 Barriers Burned Away.<br /> -373 What Can She Do?<br /> -374 A Day of Fate.<br /> -375 Without a Home.</td><td class="bl"> -376 A Knight of the 19th Century.<br /> -377 Near to Nature’s Heart.<br /> -378 From Jest to Earnest.<br /> -379 His Sombre Rivals.<br /> -380 An Original Belle.<br /> -381 He Fell in Love with his Wife.<br /> -382 The Earth Trembled.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Miss E. MARLITT.</i><br /> - -387 An Old Maid’s Secret.<br /> -388 Gold Elsie.<br /> -389 The Second Wife.<br /> -390 The Little Moorland Princess.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By AMELIA B. EDWARDS.</i><br /> - -398 In the Days of My Youth.<br /> -399 Miss Carew.<br /> -400 Debenham’s Vow.<br /> -401 Monsieur Maurice.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By JAMES GRANT.</i><br /> - -428 Secret Dispatch.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By G. P. R. JAMES.</i><br /> - -435 Bernard Marsh.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.</i><br /> - -440 Elsie Venner.<br /> -441 Autocrat of the Breakfast Table.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By SAMUEL LOVER.</i><br /> - -446 He Would be a Gentleman.<br /> -447 Irish Stories and Legends.<br /> -448 Handy Andy.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Mrs. MARSH.</i><br /> - -451 Father Darcy.<br /> -452 Time, the Avenger.<br /> -453 Emilia Wyndham.<br /> -454 Mount Sorrel.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By ELEANOR F. TROLLOPE.</i><br /> - -459 Aunt Margaret.<br /> -460 A Charming Fellow.<br /> -461 Veronica.<br /> -462 Sacristan’s Household.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_373" id="page_373"></a>{373}</span><br /> -</td></tr> -</table> -<hr /> - -<p class="c">WARD, LOCK & CO., London, Melbourne, and New York.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="bbox"> -<p class="c">THE SELECT LIBRARY OF FICTION.</p> -<hr /> -<p class="c">Price 2s. each; or cloth gilt, 2s. 6d.</p> - -<table class="smltb" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr valign="top"><td> - - <i>By ALBERT SMITH.</i><br /> - -465 Christopher Tadpole. Illus.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By BRET HARTE.</i><br /> -<br /> -468 Complete Tales.<br /> -469 The Heathen Chinee.<br /> -470 Wan Lee, the Pagan, &c.<br /> -471 Deadwood Mystery, and <span class="smcap">Mark Twain’s</span> Nightmare. Illus.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Capt. MAYNE REID.</i><br /> - -474 The Mountain Marriage.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Mrs. LYNN LINTON.</i><br /> - -478 Lizzie Lorton.<br /> -479 The Mad Willoughbys.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By IVAN TURGENIEFF.</i><br /> - -483 Virgin Soil.<br /> -484 Smoke.<br /> -485 Fathers and Sons.<br /> -486 Dimitri Roudine.<br /> -487 Liza; or, A Noble Nest.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.</i><br /> - -491 Blithedale Romance.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Mrs. CASHEL HOEY.</i><br /> - -492 No Sign.<br /> -493 Blossoming of an Aloe.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Mrs. G. M. CRAIK.</i><br /> - -494 Riverston.<br /> -495 Lost and Won.<br /> -496 Winifred’s Wooing.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By T. A. TROLLOPE.</i><br /> - -500 Marietta.<br /> -501 Beppo, the Conscript.<br /> -502 Lindisfarne Chase.<br /> -503 Giulio Malatesta.<br /> -504 La Beata.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By MARK TWAIN.</i><br /> - -509 The Innocents Abroad.<br /> -510 American Drolleries.<br /> -511 Funny Stories; with <span class="smcap">Holmes’</span><br /> Humorous Poems.<br /> -</td><td class="bl"> -512 The Mississippi Pilot;<br /> -with <span class="smcap">Bret Harte’s</span><br /> “Two Men of Sandy Bar.”<br /> -<br /> - <i>By W. H. MAXWELL.</i><br /> - -516 Hector O’Halloran. Illust.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By HENRY JAMES, Jun.</i><br /> - -519 The American.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By the Author of “WOMAN’S DEVOTION.”</i><br /> - -524 Mr. and Mrs. Asheton.<br /> -525 Three Wives.<br /> -526 Ladies of Lovel Leigh.<br /> -527 Queen of the County.<br /> -528 Book of Heroines.<br /> -529 Lords and Ladies.<br /> -530 Woman’s Devotion.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By THEODORE HOOK.</i><br /> - -536 Jack Brag.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By M. W. SAVAGE.</i><br /> - -541 My Uncle, the Curate.<br /> -542 Bachelor of the Albany.<br /> -543 Falcon Family.<br /> -544 Reuben Medlicott.<br /> -545 Clover Cottage.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By M. BETHAM EDWARDS.</i><br /> - -551 White House by the Sea.<br /> -552 John and I.<br /> -553 Lisabee’s Love Story.<br /> -554 Wild Flower of Ravensworth.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By J. FENIMORE COOPER.</i><br /> - -555 Last of the Mohicans.<br /> -556 The Deerslayer.<br /> -557 The Spy.<br /> -558 The Prairie.<br /> -559 Mark’s Reef.<br /> -560 The Sea Lions.<br /> -<br /> -<i>BY J. G. HOLLAND.</i><br /> - -565 Arthur Bonnicastle.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_374" id="page_374"></a>{374}</span><br /> -</td></tr> -</table> -<hr /> - -<p class="c">WARD, LOCK & CO., London, Melbourne, and New York.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="bbox"> -<p class="c">THE SELECT LIBRARY OF FICTION.</p> -<hr /> -<p class="c">Price 2s. each; or cloth gilt, 2s. 6d.</p> - -<table class="smltb" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr valign="top"><td> - <i>By Miss JEWSBURY.</i><br /> - -568 The Half-Sisters.<br /> -569 Sorrows of Gentility.<br /> -570 Marian Withers.<br /> -571 Constance Herbert.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Mrs. GREY.</i><br /> - -575 Mary Seaham.<br /> -576 The Gambler’s Wife.<br /> -577 The Daughter.<br /> -578 The Opera Singer’s Wife.<br /> -579 Old Dower House.<br /> -580 The Young Husband.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By JOHN MILLS.</i><br /> - -582 Belle of the Village.<br /> -583 The Briefless Barrister.<br /> -584 Stable Secrets, and The Life of a Racehorse. Illustrated.<br /> -585 Flyers of the Hunt.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By the Author of<br /> -“MY FIRST SEASON.”</i><br /> - -588 Charles Auchester.<br /> -589 Counterparts.<br /> -590 My First Season.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By “SCRUTATOR.”</i><br /> - -595 Master of the Hounds.<br /> -596 Country Gentleman.<br /> -597 Squire of Beechwood.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Mrs. W. M. L. JAY.</i><br /> - -602 Shiloh.<br /> -603 Holden with the Cords.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Miss R. M. KETTLE.</i><br /> - -606 Smugglers and Foresters.<br /> -607 Mistress of Langdale Hall.<br /> -608 Hillsden on the Moors.<br /> -609 Under the Grand Old Hills.<br /> -610 Fabian’s Tower.<br /></td> -<td class="bl"> -611 The Wreckers.<br /> -612 My Home in the Shires.<br /> -613 The Sea and the Moor.<br /> -614 La Belle Marie.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By MICHAEL SCOTT.</i><br /> - -620 Tom Cringle’s Log.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By JEAN MIDDLEMASS.</i><br /> - -625 Wild Georgie.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Author of “OLIVE VARCOE.”</i><br /> - -629 Forgotten Lives.<br /> -630 The Kiddle-a-Wink.<br /> -631 Love’s Bitterness.<br /> -632 In the House of a Friend.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By GEORGE MEREDITH.</i><br /> - -635 Tragic Comedians.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Capt. ARMSTRONG.</i><br /> - -636 The Young Commander.<br /> -637 The War-Hawk.<br /> -638 Queen of the Seas.<br /> -639 The Sailor Hero.<br /> -640 Cruise of the “Daring.”<br /> -641 The Sunny South.<br /> -642 Medora.<br /> -643 Two Midshipmen.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Miss PARDOE.</i><br /> - -644 The Jealous Wife.<br /> -645 Rival Beauties.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By W. STEPHENS HAYWARD.</i><br /> - -650 Eulalie.<br /> -651 The Diamond Cross.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By ANNA H. DRURY.</i><br /> -654 Deep Waters.<br /> -655 Misrepresentation.<br /> -656 The Brothers. -</td></tr> -</table> -<hr /> - -<p class="c">WARD, LOCK & CO., London, Melbourne, and New York.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="bbox"> -<p class="c">THE SELECT LIBRARY OF FICTION.</p> -<hr /> -<p class="c">Price 2s. each; or cloth gilt, 2s. 6d.</p> - -<table class="smltb" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr valign="top"><td> - -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_375" id="page_375"></a>{375}</span> - - <i>By DOUGLAS JERROLD.</i><br /> -660 The Brownrigg Papers.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Lady EDEN.</i><br /> -661 Dumbleton Common.<br /> -662 Semi-Attached Couple.<br /> -663 Semi-Detached House.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Miss C. J. HAMILTON.</i><br /> -664 Marriage Bonds.<br /> -665 The Flynns of Flynnville.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By HOLME LEE.</i><br /> -673 Hawksview.<br /> -674 Gilbert Messenger.<br /> -675 Thorney Hall.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By HENRY COCKTON.</i><br /> -676 Valentine Vox. Illustrated.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By KATHARINE KING.</i><br /> -677 Lost for Gold.<br /> -678 Queen of the Regiment.<br /> -679 Off the Roll.<br /> -680 Our Detachment.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By S. W. FULLOM.</i><br /> -<br /> -683 Man of the World.<br /> -684 King and Countess.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By the Author of “CASTE,” &c.</i><br /> -687 Colonel Dacre.<br /> -688 My Son’s Wife.<br /> -689 Entanglements.<br /> -690 Mr. Arle.<br /> -691 Bruna’s Revenge.<br /> -692 Pearl.<br /> -693 Caste.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Rev. R. COBBOLD.</i><br /> -696 Margaret Catchpole.<br /> -697 The Suffolk Gipsy.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Mrs. PARSONS.</i><br /> -698 Beautiful Edith.<br /> -699 Sun and Shade.<br /></td> -<td class="bl"> -700 Ursula’s Love Story.<br /> -<br /> -<i>BY ARTEMUS WARD.</i><br /> -703 His Book; and Travels among the Mormons.<br /> -704 Letters to Punch;<br /> - and <span class="smcap">Mark Twain’s</span><br /> - Practical Jokes.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By ANNA C. STEELE.</i><br /> -705 Condoned.<br /> -706 Gardenhurst.<br /> -707 Broken Toys.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Mrs. WHITNEY.</i><br /> -710 Odd or Even?<br /> -<br /> - <i>By EMILIE CARLEN.</i><br /> -711 Twelve Months of Matrimony.<br /> -712 The Brilliant Marriage.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By WILLIAM CARLETON.</i><br /> -715 Squanders of Castle Squander.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By W. S. MAYO.</i><br /> -720 Never Again.<br /> -721 The Berber.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Mrs. FORRESTER.</i><br /> -722 Olympus to Hades.<br /> -723 Fair Women.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By AUGUSTUS MAYHEW.</i><br /> -724 Faces for Fortunes.<br /> -724<span class="smcap">A</span> Paved with Gold.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By MARK LEMON.</i><br /> -725 Leyton Hall.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Miss BURNEY.</i><br /> -726 Evelina.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By HONORE DE BALZAC.</i><br /> -728 Unrequited Affection.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By JANE PORTER.</i><br /> -732 The Scottish Chiefs. -</td></tr> -</table> -<hr /> - -<p class="c">WARD, LOCK & CO., London, Melbourne, and New York.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="bbox"> -<p class="c">THE SELECT LIBRARY OF FICTION.</p> -<hr /> -<p class="c">Price 2s. each; or cloth gilt, 2s. 6d.</p> - -<table class="smltb" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr valign="top"><td> - -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_376" id="page_376"></a>{376}</span> - - <i>By HANS C. ANDERSEN.</i><br /> -734 The Improvisatore.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By KATHARINE MACQUOID.</i><br /> -735 A Bad Beginning.<br /> -736 Wild as a Hawk.<br /> -737 Forgotten by the World.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By A. LAMARTINE.</i><br /> -741 Genevieve, and The Stonemason.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By GUSTAV FREYTAG.</i><br /> -744 Debit and Credit.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Author of “ST. AUBYN OF ST. AUBYN’S.”</i><br /> -745 Charlie Nugent.<br /> -746 St. Aubyn of St. Aubyn’s.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By “WATERS.”</i><br /> -747 The Heir at Law.<br /> -748 Romance of the Seas.<br /> -748<span class="smcap">A</span> Privateer Captain.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By EDGAR ALLAN POE.</i><br /> -749 Tales of Mystery, &c.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By HENRY J. BYRON.</i><br /> -750 Paid in Full.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By MARIA EDGEWORTH.</i><br /> -752 Helen.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By THOMAS MILLER.</i><br /> -754 Royston Gower.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Mrs. S. C. HALL.</i><br /> -756 The Whiteboy.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Lady CHATTERTON.</i><br /> -757 The Lost Bride.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By WILLIAM GILBERT.</i><br /> -758 Dr. Austin’s Guests.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By THOMAS PEACOCK.</i><br /> -759 Melincourt.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By BAYLE ST. JOHN.</i><br /> -761 Maretimo.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By C. GOLDSCHMIDT.</i><br /> -762 Jacob Bendixen.<br /></td> - -<td class="bl"> - <i>By Lady SCOTT.</i><br /> - -763 The Only Child.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Bros. MAYHEW.</i><br /> -765 The Image of his Father.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By E. MACKENZIE.</i><br /> -768 Highland Lassies.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By S. W. R.</i><br /> -769 Rose Douglas.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By WAT BRADWOOD.</i><br /> -770 O. V. H.<br /> -770<span class="smcap">A</span> Ensemble.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By ALICE PERRY.</i><br /> -771 Esther’s Sacrifice.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By A. MANNING.</i><br /> -772 Ladies of Bever Hollow.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By JULIA KAVANAGH.</i><br /> -773 Madeleine.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Author of “GUY LIVINGSTONE.”</i><br /> -774 Hagarene.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Mrs. HOUSTON.</i><br /> -777 Lilian’s Penance.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Lady THYNNE.</i><br /> -778 Off the Line.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By ALICE KING.</i><br /> -779 Queen of Herself.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By J. MASTERMAN.</i><br /> -780 A Fatal Error.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By E. METEYARD.</i><br /> -781 Mainstone’s Housekeeper.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Mrs. RANDOLPH.</i><br /> -782 Wild Hyacinth.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Baroness DE BURY.</i><br /> -783 All for Greed.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Earl DESART.</i><br /> -785 Kelverdale.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By MARK HOPE.</i><br /> -786 Dark and Light Stories. -</td></tr> -</table> -<hr /> - -<p class="c">WARD, LOCK & CO., London, Melbourne, and New York.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="bbox"> -<p class="c">THE SELECT LIBRARY OF FICTION.</p> -<hr /> -<p class="c">Price 2s. each; or cloth gilt, 2s. 6d.</p> - -<table class="smltb" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr valign="top"><td> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_377" id="page_377"></a>{377}</span> - <i>By Miss STEVENS.</i><br /> -789 Zana, the Gipsy.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By SYLVESTER JUDD.</i><br /> -790 Margaret.<br /> -<br /> -<i>BY A. DE VIGNY.</i><br /> -791 The Conspirators.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By G. R. GLEIG.</i><br /> -792 Chelsea Pensioners.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By A. DE FONBLANQUE.</i><br /> -793 A Lease for Lives.<br /> -<br /> -<i>Ed. by Sir E. WRAXALL.</i><br /> -794 The Backwoodsman.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Miss LEVIEN.</i><br /> -795 Almost a Quixote.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By E. JUNCKER.</i><br /> -797 Margaret’s Ordeal.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By THORPE TALBOT.</i><br /> -798 Philiberta.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By SOPHIE MAY.</i><br /> -799 Our Helen.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By JAMES GREENWOOD.</i><br /> -800 Little Ragamuffins.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By WM. ADAMSON.</i><br /> -802 Abbot of Aberbrothock.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Mrs. GORDON SMYTHIES.</i><br /> -804 Guilty or Not Guilty?<br /> -<br /> - <i>By PERCY B. ST. JOHN.</i><br /> -805 Miranda.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Countess DE LA MOTTE.</i><br /> -806 The Diamond Necklace.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Captain FLACK.</i><br /> -807 Castaways of the Prairie.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By “WANDERER.”</i><br /> -808 Hunt-Room Stories and Yachting Yarns. Illustrated.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By W. G. CRAVEN.</i><br /> -809 The Margravine.</td> - -<td class="bl"> - <i>By A. WHAMOND.</i><br /> -810 The Conscript’s Revenge.<br /> -811 James Tacket.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Mrs. J. K. SPENDER.</i><br /> -814 Godwyn’s Ordeal.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Mrs. KENNARD.</i><br /> -818 The Right Sort.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Mrs. PIRKIS.</i><br /> -825 Wanted an Heir.<br /> -<br /> -<i>BY A. DE GALLENGA.</i><br /> -826 Jenny Jennett.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By SAMUEL LAING.</i><br /> -828 A Sporting Quixote.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By HANNAH LYNCH.</i><br /> -830 Through Troubled Waters.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By BYRON WEBBER.</i><br /> -834 Pigskin and Willow.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By CATHARINE SINCLAIR.</i><br /> -850 Beatrice.<br /> -851 Modern Accomplishments.<br /> -852 Holiday House.<br /> -853 Modern Flirtations.<br /> -854 Mysterious Marriage.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By JULES VERNE.</i><br /> -856 Five Weeks in a Balloon.<br /> -857 English at the North Pole.<br /> -858 Among the Cannibals.<br /> -859 A Journey to the Interior of the Earth.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN.</i><br /> -876 The Great Invasion.<br /> -877 Campaign In Kabylia.<br /> -878 Waterloo.<br /> -879 The Man-Wolf.<br /> -880 The Blockade.<br /> -881 The States-General.<br /> -882 Citizen Bonaparte.<br /> -883 Year One of the Republic.<br /> -884 Daniel Rock. -</td></tr> -</table> -<hr /> - -<p class="c">WARD, LOCK & CO., London, Melbourne, and New York.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="bbox"> -<p class="c">THE SELECT LIBRARY OF FICTION.</p> -<hr /> -<p class="c">Price 2s. each; or cloth gilt, 2s. 6d.</p> - -<table class="smltb" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr valign="top"><td> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_378" id="page_378"></a>{378}</span> -885 Friend Fritz.<br /> -886 The Conscript.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Mrs. LEITH ADAMS.</i><br /> -900 Aunt Hepsy’s Foundling.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By SAMUEL WARREN.</i><br /> -905 Diary of a late Physician.<br /> -906 Ten Thousand a-Year.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By HAMILTON AIDE.</i><br /> -920 Introduced to Society.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By W. M. THACKERAY.</i><br /> -925 Yellowplush Correspondence, & Fitz-Boodle Papers, &c.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By OSWALD CRAWFURD.</i><br /> -951 Grace Tolmar.<br /> -952 The World we Live In.<br /> -953 A Woman’s Reputation.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By E. WERNER.</i><br /> -960 Riven Bonds.<br /> -961 Sacred Vows.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By F. MARION CRAWFORD.</i><br /> -965 An American Politician.<br /> -966 To Leeward.<br /> -<br /> -<i>BY C. E. CRADDOCK.</i><br /> -971 In the Clouds.<br /> -972 Story of Keedon Bluffs.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Prof. WILSON.</i><br /> -981 Tales of the Border. I.<br /> -982 ——————— II.<br /> -983 ——————— III.<br /> -984 ——————— IV.</td> - -<td class="bl"> - - <i>By GUSTAVE AIMARD.</i><br /> -1001 The Tiger Slayer.<br /> -1002 Last of the Incas.<br /> -1003 Pirates of the Prairie.<br /> -1004 The Prairie Flower.<br /> -1005 The Trapper’s Daughter.<br /> -1006 The White Scalper.<br /> -1007 The Indian Chief.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By Lord BEACONSFIELD.</i><br /> -1021 Vivian Grey.<br /> -1022 Coningsby.<br /> -1023 Henrietta Temple.<br /> -1024 Venetia.<br /> -1025 Sybil.<br /> -1026 Alroy, and Contarini Fleming.<br /> -1027 The Young Duke.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By EMILE GABORIAU.</i><br /> -1031 In Deadly Peril.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By ELIOT WARBURTON.</i><br /> -1051 The Crescent and Cross.<br /> -<br /> - <i>By ALEXANDER DUMAS.</i><br /> -1060 Count of Monte Cristo.<br /> -<br /> - <i>ANONYMOUS.</i><br /> -767 Belial.<br /> -776 First in the Field.<br /> -788 Leah, the Jewish Maiden.<br /> -796 Janetta, and Blythe Herndon.<br /> -803 Life in a Prison.<br /> -813 Tales of Tramps. Illust.<br /> -1102 Remarkable Impostors and Celebrated Claimants.</td></tr> -</table> - -<p class="c">WARD, LOCK & CO.’S</p> - -<p class="cb"><big>SPORTSMAN’S LIBRARY OF FAVOURITE FICTION.</big></p> - -<p class="c">Crown 8vo, well bound, cloth gilt, 2s. 6d. each.</p> - -<table class="smltb" border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">1</td><td>From Post to Finish. Hawley Smart.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">2</td><td>A False Start. Hawley Smart.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">3</td><td>The Right Sort. Mrs. E. Kennard.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">4</td><td>O. V. H.; or, How Mr. Blake Became Master of Fox-Hounds. Wat Bradwood.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">5</td><td>The Flyers of the Hunt. John Mills.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">6</td><td>Tilbury Nogo. J. G. Whyte-Melville.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">7</td><td>Hunt-Room Stories. “Wanderer.”</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">8</td><td>The Flying Scud. C. C. Clarke.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">9</td><td>A Sporting Quixote. Samuel Laing.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">10</td><td> Stable Secrets, and The Life of a Racehorse. John Mills.</td></tr> -</table> - -<hr /> - -<p class="c">WARD, LOCK & CO., London, Melbourne, and New York.</p> - -</div> -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Last of the Mortimers, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAST OF THE MORTIMERS *** - -***** This file should be named 51265-h.htm or 51265-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/2/6/51265/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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