Маргарет Олифант
The Last of the Mortimers
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.
