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The Last of the Mortimers
Chapter X
WHEN Harry came home that evening, I knew he had something to tell me; but after the first start was over, I felt sure it was not anything painful from the look of his face. I may venture to say now that he was a very handsome young man in those days; but the thing that first drew my heart to him was the way he always betrayed himself with his face. Whatever he was feeling or thinking, you could tell it by his eyes; and if he sometimes happened to say anything he did not think, as happens to everybody now and then, his eyes woke up to a kind of sly, half ashamed, half amused expression, and let you know he was fibbing in the oddest way in the world.
“I almost fell upon a discovery to-night,” said Harry. “What should you have thought, Milly darling, if I had brought you home word about your father and that estate you are to come heir to? I actually thought I was on the scent of it for ten minutes at least.”
“But it was a mistake,” said I, very quietly.
“I confess, so far, it was a mistake; but still we may hear something,” said Harry. “You have heard me talk of old Pendleton scores of times. Fancy how I looked when he began about Haworth, a little town in Yorkshire, all sorts of stories, as if he knew all about it. After I had sat out a dozen anecdotes of other people, I asked him if he knew any Mortimers there. Oh yes, yes! he said briskly, old Mortimer lived in the brick house opposite the church; famous old fellow before he got so very rheumatic and useless—had a son about Pendleton’s own age. And here he shook his head: ‘Never did any good, sir! never did any good! Jilted in early life, and never got over it.’ You may suppose this made me prick up my ears.”
“My father!” said I.
“To be sure! it could not be anybody else; but it was your grandfather whom old Pendleton would keep talking of. I asked very closely all about him. It appears he only died about ten years ago; long after your father, Milly, and seems to have been tolerably rich, according to Pendleton. There’s none of the family remaining, Pendleton says. The red brick house is all falling to ruins; and how the money went, or whether there was any money, he can’t tell. I have a strong idea of making some inquiries about it. Don’t you think it would be worth while?”
“It seems to me of late that you’re always thinking about money. Why is it?” said I. “Why should we go and trouble ourselves about people that have never inquired after us.”
“You simpleton!” cried Harry. “Who cares whether they like us or no; but that red brick cosy house for my Milly darling, and a little comfort to console her—it would take all the pricks out of my pillow when–”
“Don’t talk, Harry. I’ll not listen to you. I’ll have no inquiries made,” cried I, in desperation. “Every time I comfort myself a little you pull me back again. To-night I am very happy and content, and don’t care for your to-morrows. Be quiet and let my grandfather alone, if I ever had one. What do I care for him? He was either in debt and had no money to leave, or he was living on an annuity, or he endowed a hospital, or something. And the red brick house of course is in Chancery. Let the old gentleman alone. I’ll tell you about baby. He certainly noticed Mrs. Saltoun’s bird swinging in its cage to-day.”
“Nonsense! Pendleton is to write to his brother, who lives there, and ask for all the particulars. He says your grandfather was a character,” said Harry. “He belonged to some good family: Welsh, Pendleton thinks—but professed to scorn all that, and called his son after Arkwright, the cotton-spinner; that’s what the A. means in your father’s name. By Jove! I wouldn’t write myself Richard Arkwright if I could help it. What humbug it is giving fellows other people’s names! They must have had a fancy for it in those days. Guess what Pendleton’s own name is? He signs himself E. B. quite modestly. It’s Edmund Burke, upon my honour!”
“Well,” said I, “we have only got three names among us; and they are all simple enough.”
“Oh, so is Richard Arkwright when it’s a man’s own name,” said Harry. “Now what do you think of my discovery? I confess I think it’s something to know where one’s family belong to. If I could only have taken you to our dear old Rectory, Milly. What a pleasure it would have been to have thought of you there! I could have watched you all round every turn of the garden, although I had been at the other end of the world.”
“You are not going to the other end of the world; and we have no claim upon the Rectory now, any more than on my grandfather,” said I. “Here is a cup of tea for you. Now do be content; and don’t talk, Harry; at least not on that subject. Of all the places in the world I like Edinburgh, a little to the south of the Castle, and close upon Bruntsfield Links.”
“You have no imagination, Milly,” said he. “However, we’ll hear what old Pendleton says; and if there is anything known about it I should be very much tempted, little as we have at present–”
“To throw our poor good money away,” cried I. “You who grudged baby his pretty hood! Oh, Harry, Harry, what wild fancies have you taken into your head?”
“To make my Milly a refuge when I’m away. Not so wild, after all,” he said to himself softly. I made a noise with my teacups, and would not hear him. It was hard work keeping cheerful when he would return and return to the same subject. Sometimes I trembled and wondered, with a sudden pang, was it a presentiment? But all the presentiments I ever heard of were sudden and did not last; and it was natural enough, too, that he should be anxious. If he did have to leave me, would not I work, or beg, or steal, or anything, to have everything comfortable for him? I forgave Harry for looking out for a home for his poor little wife; but yet every time he spoke of it, it went to my heart.
And I must say for myself that I never had the least hope either from my unknown relations or Harry’s. I could not believe in a grandfather, nor any cold strange people belonging to me. If I had friends they should have shown themselves friendly when I needed it most. Now I thought, in my pride, I did not want to know anything about them. I pictured to myself an old morose man, that would have nothing to say to his poor son’s only child. In my mind I took quite a prejudice against the very place, and dreamt all that night of a mouldy old red-brick house, with endless passages, and little steps now and then to throw one down and break one’s limbs in the darkness. Somehow, both Harry’s imagination and mine fixed on that old red-brick house. He thought it would be pleasant to settle me in such a place. I had the most frightful fancies about it. I could see myself going about the old grey faded rooms, and Harry away at the war. I could see a pale creature, that was me, go wringing her hands down the old staircase, and trembling at the window waiting for the post coming in. I could see dreadful shadows of scenes that might be when the letters came, which I would not look at, but could not shut out of my heart. Harry did not think how he was torturing me when he spoke of that old red-brick house. It seemed, somehow, as if all my fears took solid form, and became real when they got a shelter to house themselves in. I grew superstitious, as most people do when their hearts are in great trouble. Going on from less to more I came to settle upon this as a token for evil. If anyhow, by any dreadful chance, something should come of it, and I should ever have that house in my power, then I should know that the light was to depart from me, and that I was to be set down, all by myself, and desolate, to wither down and pine to death where my hard-hearted grandfather had died. In my own mind, and without saying anything to anybody, I settled upon this sign; and grew so assured of it, just by fancying things, that, if I had heard that my grandfather had left me a fortune, and that we should be comfortable all the rest of our lives, I should have sunk down as if the intelligence was a blow. To be poor and happy, and have our own way to make, seemed just enough, somehow; and in my superstition I almost thought God would punish us for wanting more. I thought if wealth should possibly come, happiness would fly away. I made sure if Harry got his will it would be death to me. The thought of it put a new terror into my life. His going away was not now the first thing I was afraid of. I was afraid of his finding that home for me that he was so anxious about—that place where I could be comfortable without him. Every grief in the world came to be implied and suggested to my mind by the mention of that red-brick house.
Chapter XI
“OH yes, I am very fanciful, I know I am; but if Harry would only be content, and let me be happy while I can,” said I, trying, but without success, to gulp down my tears.
“Mrs. Langham, my dear, the Captain canna be content, and it stands to reason,” said Mrs. Saltoun; “and being anxious, as a good man should, to provide for his wife and his bairn, will no take him away an hour sooner than if he were a reckless ne’er-do-weel, that cared neither for the tane nor the tither. Be reasonable, and let him speak. He’s young and you’re young; and you’re neither o’ ye that wise but ye might thole mending. It’s a real, discreet, sensible thing o’ the young gentleman to try his very utmost for a home for his wife if he has to go away.”
“If you have taken his side I shall give up speaking,” said I. “What do I care for home, or anything else, if he is away?”
“But you care for the Captain’s peace of mind, Mrs. Langham, my dear,” said Mrs. Saltoun; “that’s far different. Maybe the truest love of a’ would make itself content to be left in splendour for the sake of a comfortable thought to them that’s going on a far different road. I wouldna say but the thought o’ your safety would lighten mony an hour of danger. Mony’s the strange thing I’ve seen in my life; but eh! when ye have them that ye maybe mayna have lang, gie them their will! Let him have his ain way, and gang in wi’ him if ye can. There’s mony a young wife like you would die cheerful, or do ony hard thing in the world for her husband, but canna see her way just to do that. Gie him his will! I was ower late learning that mysel’.”
The very tone in which my good old lady spoke plunged me deeper and deeper into my agony of alarm and terror. I did not take her words for what they meant. I went aside to draw terrifying inferences from her tone and the sound of her voice. She thought he would go, I concluded—perhaps she had heard already that marching orders had come—she thought that he would never come back again, if he did leave me. Anxiety and fear seized hold upon me so forcibly that I never stopped to think that Mrs. Saltoun had no means of knowing, any more, or even so much as I knew, and that she could not possibly be better informed on this point than I was.
“And now tell me about your family, Mrs. Langham, my dear. I’ve come across half the folk in the country, I might venture to say, one time and another. I was on the continent for three years with my old gentleman,” said Mrs. Saltoun; “it’s just astonishing to say such a thing, but if you’ll believe me, a person gets better acquaint with their own country folk, that is, meaning the higher ranks o’ life, in foreign parts than at home. It’s maybe just a glance and away, that’s true; but them that has good memories minds.”
“And were you really abroad?” said I, feeling a little interested in spite of all my trouble; “and who was your old gentleman?—not–”
“No, no, nobody belonging to me. I had the charge of his house and his young family, that he had no business to have at his age; an auld fuil of a man that had married a young wife, and lost her, and was left, past seventy, with four young bairns. Mortimer? wasn’t that your name, my dear? Eh? I mind of a Miss Mortimer made a great steer among a’ the English one season; and among mair than the English by bad fortune. She was counted a great beauty; but I canna say she was like you.”
“No, indeed, not likely!” cried I.
“I would rather have your face than hers though,” said kind Mrs. Saltoun. “Bless me, now I think of it, that was a very strange story. There was a Count somebody that followed her about like her shadow. Except her beauty, I canna say I ever had much of an opinion of her. She was very heartless to her servants, and, for all the admirers she had, I think her greatest admirer was herself; but between you and me, my dear, men are great fools; she had ay a train after her. To be sure she was said to be a great fortune as well. I canna think but that poor Count was badly used. Counts are no a’ impostors, like what we think them here. He was a real handsome gentleman, that one. He was with her wherever she went for a year and more. Some folks said they were to be married, and more said they were married already. That was ay my opinion;—when, what do you think, all at once he disappeared from her, and for a while she flirted about more than ever; and then she went suddenly off and home with her father. I would like to hear the rights o’ that story. When a woman’s a witch,—and I canna think a great beauty without a heart is onything else—most other women take a great interest in finding her out. Fools say it’s for envy; but it’s no for envy, my dear. You see beauty doesna blind a woman; we can ay see what’s going on underhand.”
“And what became of her?” said I.
“That is just what I never heard. That is the worst of meeting in with folk abroad; you see them once, and you, maybe, never see them a’ your days again,” said Mrs. Saltoun. “To be sure, you commonly hear of them, one way or other; but I never heard of the beautiful Miss Mortimer again. It’s five-and-twenty years ago, if it’s a day, and she was far from young then. That poor Count—I canna mind his name—was a good five years, if no more, younger than the witch that kept him at her call. I took a real spite against that woman; for you see she was just at the over-bloom, and yet took a’ the airs of a young queen. I wouldna wonder in the least but, after a’, she was married and wouldna own to it. There was nae heart in her.”
“But if she was married, how could she help herself?” said I.
“That is what I canna tell,” said Mrs. Saltoun; “there’s wheels within wheels, especially in foreign parts. Maybe the Count wasna a grand enough match, maybe—I canna tell you; it’s a’ guess-work; but I am very sure of one thing, that she was not an innocent woman, with nothing on her conscience when she went away.”
“I hope she is no relation of mine,” said I. “Harry has found out that I had a grandfather, and all about him. Oh, only suppose, Mrs. Saltoun, this dreadful beauty should turn out to be my aunt! That would be delightful!” I said to myself after a while, with a kind of bitter satisfaction; “not to live in the red-brick house alone, but to live with a dreadful old beauty who would be sure to be haunted. That would be purgatory, enough, to please anybody; and Mortimer is not at all a common name.”
My old lady looked up at me half frightened. “Don’t say such a thing, Mrs. Langham, my dear. I would not say a word against any person’s character, far less one that might turn out a relation of yours. But, for all that I’ve no right to interfere, I would set my face against the like of you setting up house with ony such person. I would speak to the Captain mysel’. Hout! here I’m taking’t up as if it was true; but if it should be so that, in the order of Providence, the Captain was to go, you mustna take up just with ony relation without considering if they would make ye happy. You must be careful where you go—you must–”
“Happy?” cried I. It seemed like mockery and a kind of insult;—as if I could be happy when Harry, perhaps, was in danger, perhaps wounded or ill, in suffering, and away from me!
“Whisht, whisht,” said Mrs. Saltoun. “I ken ye better than ye ken yourself. It’ll be hard, hard work at first; but when the parting’s over you’ll get hopeful, and think o’ the meeting again; and ye’ll ay get letters to cheer ye; and with the baby and the sun shining you’ll be happy before you ken. But I maunna have ye settled down with the like of yon Miss Mortimer. Na! na! naething like that, if she were twenty times an aunt. Far better stay on still with me, that would ay be coming and going to cheer you up. Yon’s a woman without a heart. I must speak to the Captain mysel’.”
Though I was much nearer crying that being amused, I could not but laugh at Mrs. Saltoun’s anxiety about her Miss Mortimer, whom there was not the very slightest reason to suppose any relation of mine. I took up the idea myself, I must say, with quite a ludicrous sort of uncomfortable satisfaction. If I had a grandfather, why should not I have an aunt? Why should there not be an old Miss Mortimer living in the red-brick house, ready to take me in, and kill me slowly by degrees? I formed an immediate picture of her—how she would look, and what she would say to me. I fancied her dressed up in her old fashions, trying to look young and a beauty still. How dreadful it must be to drop from being a great beauty, and having everybody worship you, down to a mere old woman left all by yourself! Poor old Miss Mortimer! If she was my aunt, and was very cross, and discontented, and miserable, there might be something different in the old red-brick house, that quiet, dead comfortable home that poor Harry, in his love and kindness, was so anxious to find for me. There would be some satisfaction in living a miserable life with an ogre in an enchanted castle if Harry were away. Mrs. Saltoun’s words did not alarm me; on the contrary, I grew quite curious about this imaginary Miss Mortimer. I thought I could fancy her going about those faded rooms which yesterday I fancied seeing myself in. Now it was her figure I saw all alone by the fire. Had she got used to it, I wonder? or did she chafe and beat her poor old wings against the cage, and hate the world that had given over admiring her? I tried to spell out what kind of a beauty she had been; but it was always twilight in the old-fashioned room. Tall, to be sure, with grey hair that had been black, and proud eyes all wrinkled up in their sockets. Poor old Miss Mortimer! I wonder did she know that she had an orphan niece who was to be sent to her for a comfortable home? Couldn’t I look again, and see myself come in, and how she greeted me? I think I must have grown quite fantastic in my troubles. I could not keep my thoughts away from Mrs. Saltoun’s great beauty. All alone in the house that was falling into decay, what ghosts must crowd about her! Did she see the Count she had ill-used oftenest, or some other who was more favoured? How did she keep these phantoms off from her in the silence? I kept going over all this as other girls go over imaginary romances of their own; I knew what my own romance was; but still I was only nineteen, and loved to dream.
And, perhaps, the consequence of this new turn to my thoughts was, that I was more tolerant of Harry’s curiosity and anxious musing about my father’s family, which had been revealed to him in that strange, unexpected glimpse by Mr. Pendleton, the regimental doctor. I did not stop him nervously when he began to talk of that favourite subject of his thoughts. He was always coming back to it somehow. I could trace the idea running through all he said. Not fancy and nonsensical imaginations like mine; but serious, simple-minded anxiety, and an earnest concern about the matter which would have broken my heart, had I not begun to get used to it now. There was nothing talked about or heard of but the war and the quantities of soldiers who were being sent away. Harry had no other expectation or hope but to go too, and all his thought was, to find a shelter for me. I could see it haunted his mind constantly, and at last I gave in to it, that he might be eased on the subject. I used to discuss it over with him where I should go—oh, only to go like Lady Fanshawe, and be beside him, though he did not know! That was impossible; so I let him talk, and smiled the best I could. Soon enough, perhaps, we should have land and sea between us. Let him say what he would. Let him arrange what he would. If it was a comfort to him, what did it matter? The old brick house and Miss Mortimer would be better than the happiest of homes. Who could wish to be happy while Harry was away.
