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The Last of the Mortimers
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.
