The Last of the Mortimers

As I came forward I caught sight of Aunt Milly sitting silent by herself by a table, with a face full of the deepest perplexity and distress. She raised her troubled eyes to me, and grasped at my hand for a moment, as if to strengthen herself. She could not make it out—any attempt to decipher her sister’s purpose was in vain to Aunt Milly—the light might as well have tried to comprehend the darkness. But I had not time to say anything to her. Miss Mortimer had called Harry, who drew me along with him; and it was she who introduced us to the rector and his sister, and to that heavy old Sir George, and the Penrhyns of Eden Castle. I am sure I cannot tell what she said; it was principally Harry she spoke of, and I remember that she called him their heir and nearest relation, which gained us a very flattering reception from the strangers. But the mere fact of seeing her there, with her bare arms and shoulders shining thin through just such another scarf as I had on, and her eyes meeting everybody else’s with a certain wide-open vigilant stare, and her head held stiffly erect to dissemble that trembling, which, even still, she could not overcome, at once confounded and engrossed me so much that I could observe nothing else. Harry got into conversation with the gentlemen, and Miss Kate, from the Rectory, a woman evidently full of curiosity and enterprise, seized upon Miss Mortimer. I managed to get away to Aunt Milly; she took my hand again, and pressed it almost painfully. “My dear, what do you suppose this means?” said Aunt Milly, looking wistfully up in my face.

“To defy everybody,” I said, scarcely knowing what I was saying; “but, dear Aunt Milly, you warned me to be on my guard. You look so troubled, people will fancy something is wrong.”

When I said that, she got up hastily and joined the others. I can’t tell how the strangers felt; but for all of us who belonged to the house, it is impossible to imagine any scene more extraordinary. To see the dauntless, unnatural wickedness of that woman facing and defying everybody—to see her take the principal place, and ignore the troubled, terrified sister, whose guests these people really were—out of all the mysterious veil of secrecy and darkness in which she had been wrapped, to watch her emerging thus, not only as if nothing were wrong with her, but as if, in reality, she was the soul of everything, and dear Aunt Milly only her shadow and servant! When Miss Mortimer took the head of the table at dinner, and Aunt Milly astonished, and not knowing what to make of it, dropped into a seat near the foot, where Harry was, our dismay and wonder were nearly at their climax. Aunt Milly clasped my hands hard; she had got a chair placed in the corner beside me, and whispered—

“I don’t mind it, my dear, don’t think I mind it. If all was well, and I had known her meaning!”

I understood that perfectly; but then all was not well, and nobody had known the weird woman’s meaning. Now she had it all in her own hands. With her grey hair, and her thin bare aged shoulders peeping out of her scarf, she made a dreadful pretence of flirting with that old Sir George; and curious Miss Kate sat scrutinising her, and making perpetual remarks; and Aunt Milly and I looked on with awe and alarm which I could not describe. I could scarcely answer Mr. Penrhyn when he spoke to me. I fear he must have thought me a very poor representative of the Mortimers. But I could not keep my attention from that figure at the head of the table. I could not help wondering, did she see the writing and the man’s hand upon the wall? for in all her pretences, and affectations, and coquetries,—those strange coquetries, and gestures, and movements of the head and hands, which might have been pretty in a young beauty, but were so dismal in a white-haired old woman—remember, she never once forgot. I could see it plain in her eyes all the time. If the handwriting had come upon the wall, as it did in Belshazzar’s palace, it would not have surprised her. No allusion that could be made would shock or startle her. She knew everything that could come; and, in her devilish daring, she was prepared for all.

I hope it is not very wicked of me to use such words; indeed, I cannot tell what others I could use.

Things went on so till we got back to the drawing-room, which was a relief in its way. And by dint of continuing so long, the pressure had, of course, grown easier, and I had actually begun to make a little acquaintance with Mrs. Penrhyn, who was young, and had little children of her own, and quite insisted I should take her upstairs to see baby, when I was suddenly recalled from that very agreeable talk we were just falling into, by the sharp voice of Miss Kate.

“Have you heard any more of that young Italian, Miss Milly?” said Miss Kate; “he that struck me, you know, as having so odd a resemblance to your family?—very strange! and did you not perceive it yourself? I hear he has been seen about here again, and his servant, that stout person. Ah, how very sad he doesn’t know English, that poor fellow! perhaps he has picked up a little since. Of all the sad things in the world, I know nothing so melancholy as being in the midst of light, and yet, for such a trifling thing as the want of language, remaining in darkness. I have never forgiven myself for neglecting Italian since that day. Ah, I wish I knew Italian as you do, Miss Mortimer. Who can tell what use I might have been to that poor benighted man!”

I had turned aside, with the words stopped on my very lips, to listen. So had Aunt Milly, looking aghast, and with every tinge of colour blanched from her face. Miss Mortimer did not observe me; but she noticed her sister, and stared at her with actually a little pause and smile of malice, to direct everybody’s attention to her startled face, before she spoke.

“I can’t speak even my own language now,” was all Miss Mortimer said; and all the time looked at Aunt Milly with that derisive look, as if to show that whoever was agitated by this reference it was not herself. I was so wicked as to think she meant to turn over the scandal, if any should rise, upon her sister; and it made my blood boil; but, to be sure, I was quite in error there.

“Oh, I am sure after to-night—!” cried Miss Kate; “Indeed, my dear Miss Mortimer, I must congratulate you. I hope it is the beginning of a new life. If you would but take a little interest in the parish, with your improved health, I am sure it would do so much good; and if you should happen to meet that unfortunate young man, and would be induced to explain the truth to him a little in his own language–”

Here Miss Mortimer gave an extraordinary kind of gasp, without, however, uttering any sound. Nobody observed it but me, as my eyes were fixed on her. Then she spoke as if she could not help herself, drawing back into the shadow.

“He speaks English!” she said, with an extraordinary tone of being compelled to say something—as if some influence within her had constrained the words from her unwilling tongue.

“But, ah, it is the servant I speak of,” cried Miss Kate; “one soul is just as precious as another; it is he, poor unfortunate man! If you should meet him in any of your drives,—he is very stout, and has a large beard, and is so completely the foreigner that you can’t mistake him,—if you would only stop the carriage and say a word in season.”

There was another wonderful contraction of all the muscles of Miss Mortimer’s face, and this time a kind of hysterical sound came with it.

“If I meet him,” she said, slowly, “I’ll give him a word in season—don’t be afraid,” and she laughed.

It made me shiver and tremble all over. I was thankful that Ellis came that moment with tea, and I could get up and go into another corner of the room to recover myself. I don’t know how Aunt Milly bore it. She had not a particle of colour in her face the whole evening after. But Miss Mortimer went upstairs steadily when all the guests were gone. I do not know what befell when she got into her own room. I do not think they had much rest there that night. If she had fallen down in a fit, or expired at the head of the table that evening, it would not have surprised me. She had lived through it; but I am sure neither she nor her poor faithful maid closed their eyes that night.

Chapter XI

THE day after that, was the day we had fixed to go back to Chester. Miss Mortimer did not come downstairs; but Carson came to me with a little packet while I was helping Lizzie to pack up baby’s things. The poor woman looked ill and strange herself. She had a scared terrified expression, as if she were afraid of everybody, and looked so worn-out and exhausted that I could scarcely help telling her, for pity’s sake, to go and get some sleep.

“My missis sends her love,” said Carson, “and she’s very sorry she can’t come downstairs to see you, ma’am, nor the Captain, but hopes it won’t be long till you’re here again; and sends you this, and her love.”

“Is Miss Mortimer ill?” said I.

Carson hesitated before she answered.

“It’s on her nerves,” she said, at last, faltering; “it’s—I mean, to be sure, she’s a little overtired because of overdoing of herself last night. It was out of compliment to the Captain, ma’am, and you. My missis has a great spirit; but it’s the body as is weak.”

“Yes,” said I, unable to restrain the impulse; “but, oh, don’t you think she has just too great a spirit? What if it kills her one of these days?”

The woman flashed up for a moment into an attempt of resentment and dignity, but, partly from her weakness and watching and want of sleep, broke down immediately, and shed a few tears in her apron. The poor creature’s heart was moved. “If it kills her she’ll die; but she’ll never give in,” sobbed Carson; and then, recovering herself all at once—“it’s on the nerves, that’s what it is,” said the faithful servant, and hurried away.

It was some time before I cared to open Miss Mortimer’s packet. It contained two rings, one of them a slight turquoise thing, which was for me, and the other a fine diamond, which was to be given to my husband. “Tell him it’s a family jewel,” said a little accompanying note. I put it down on Harry’s dressing-table, where he would find it when he came in. I would not put such a present on his finger; besides, it was best he should have it direct from herself—she had always received him as the representative of the Mortimers, and not me.

And then Aunt Milly came upstairs to kiss and cry over us. I was very sad myself, as was natural. There was nothing now between me and Harry’s going, but a few weeks—rather a few days. I should look straight into the face of that dreadful approaching moment when we turned our backs on the Park.

I could not cry as Aunt Milly did. I felt to myself as if I had been trifling all this time, taken up with other people’s affairs, and making friends with strangers, while every hour was bringing us closer to that day. Dear Aunt Milly held me fast in her arms, and whispered everything in the world she could think of to console me: that I had baby; that I should have letters regularly; that the war would not last long; that I must trust God, and pray. Ah, as if I did not know all that! if I had not known it and gone over it all in my own mind a thousand times, there might have been some comfort in what she said.

“And look here,” said Aunt Milly, thrusting a purse into my pocket—not into my hand, to give me a chance of putting it back again—“he is our representative, dear. He is not to go a step till he has everything—everything you can so much as think upon to make him comfortable. Now, Milly, don’t say a word. I’ll think you don’t love me if you say a word. Will it be any comfort to you, or me, to think here’s some paltry money left, and Harry gone to fight for us all without something that would make him comfortable? You’d work your fingers off to get it for him, and you have no excuse for denying me. Don’t say anything to Harry, child. Men don’t understand these things. It’s between you and me; and, please God, we’ll tell him all our schemes when we get him back safe, the dear fellow. But, dear, what is that on the table? Sarah’s diamond! that one she has always had such a fancy for. Has she sent it to you?”

“To Harry,” said I.

“To Harry! Dear, dear, what creatures we are!” cried Aunt Milly, much agitated, and bursting in tears again. “Poor Sarah! she’s not so hard-hearted as you and me were thinking, Milly. Oh, God help her; if He would only bring her to deal true and fair, and have out this trouble in the face of day, there might be some comfort yet for her in this very life!”

I made no answer. I did not love Miss Mortimer, as I suppose, in some sort of way, her sister did; and, besides, my thoughts were all turned in another direction again. I had ceased to see the Park and its troubles so acutely as I had done for some days past. My mind was returned to my own private burden. I had little to say to anybody after that. I turned away even from Aunt Milly, with a dreadful feeling that I was not to see her again till Harry was gone. For I knew in my heart, though they never said anything to me, that this was how it was to be.

I had not the heart to talk even to Harry, as we drove slowly back to Chester—slowly, as I fancied. We went in the carriage all the way. We had no railway or tunnel to go through this time. Nothing to help me to a moment’s delusion of plunging away to the end of the world, or into the bowels of the earth, it did not matter which, all together. That was impossible. Miss Mortimer’s carriage put nothing in my mind but the inevitable parting, and all that was to happen to me after Harry was gone.

When we got to our Chester lodgings, Domenico was there, as usual, full of the noisiest, kindest bustle, to help in getting everything in, as if he had belonged to us, instead of belonging to a stranger, who, most likely, had little reason to bear the heirs of the Mortimers any good will. Mr. Luigi was standing at the window all the time, looking at the carriage, the horses, the servants; thinking, perhaps, they might all have been his under different circumstances. How can I tell what he was thinking? I am sure at that moment, though I observed him at the window, I took no pains to imagine what his thoughts were, and did not care. I did not care for anything just then.

It was one of my bad times. It was one of the hundred partings which I had with Harry before the real parting came. When the things were lifted out of the carriage, I could see them all in my own mind lifted in again, all but Harry’s share of them, and myself sitting blind in that corner with all the world dark before me. Well, well; it is no use reasoning over it, as if that would make things any better. Thousands and thousands were just the same as me; did that make it any better, do you suppose? I thought of the poor woman in the Edinburgh High Street, and her hard damp hand that pressed mine. I was a soldier’s wife like all the rest. I went up into my own room and got Harry’s old sash again, and bound it tight over my heart. It gave me a kind of ease, somehow. And to hear baby shouting at sight of his old toys, and Harry calling for his Milly darling, downstairs! It was an agony of happiness and anguish; it was life.

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?”