Маргарет Олифант
The Last of the Mortimers
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.
