Маргарет Олифант
The Last of the Mortimers
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.
