The Last of the Mortimers

He coloured up in a moment. He stumbled up from his chair, looking very much confused. He dared not pretend to know what I meant, nor show himself conscious, even that I had looked at him. He went across the room to the window, looked out, and came back again. It was odd to see such a man, accustomed and trained to conceal his sentiments, so betrayed into showing them. When he sat down again he turned his face to the fire, and almost his back to me. Matters had changed. It appeared I was not such a safe confidante as he had supposed.

“You shall very soon be satisfied about Mr. Richard Mortimer,” he said, looking into the fire. “Don’t be afraid; I am on the scent; you may trust it to me. But, really, I don’t wonder to see Miss Milly take it very reasonably. What do you want with heirs yet? If I had any thoughts of that kind, I should put all my powers in motion to get that little kitten of mine married. If I leave her by herself she will throw away my poor dear beautiful dividends in handfuls. But, somehow, the idea doesn’t oppress me; and, of course, I am older than any lady in existence can be supposed to be. I am–”

“Hold your tongue, Cresswell,” cried Sarah crossly. “I daresay we know what each other’s ages are. Attend to business, please. I want Richard Mortimer found, I tell you. You can tell him his cousin Sarah wants him. He will come, however far off he may be, when he hears that. You can put it in the papers, if you please.”

Saying this Sarah gave her muslin scarf a little twitch over her elbow, and held up her head with a strange little vain self-satisfied movement. Oh, how Mr. Cresswell did look at her! how he chuckled in his secret soul! From what I had seen once before I understood perfectly well what he meant. He had once taken the liberty to fall in love with Sarah Mortimer himself; and now to see the old faded beauty putting on one of her old airs, and reckoning on the fidelity of a man who, no doubt—it was to be hoped, or what was to become of our search for heirs?—had married and forgotten all about her years ago—tickled him beyond measure. He felt himself quite revenged when he saw her self-complacence. He ventured to chuckle at it secretly. I should have liked, above all things, to box his ears.

“Ah! to be sure; I’ll use all possible means immediately. It’s to be hoped he has ten children,” said Mr. Cresswell, with a very quiet private laugh. Sarah did not observe that he was laughing at her. I believe such an idea could never have entered her head. She began, with an habitual motion she had got whenever she left off knitting, to rub her fingers and stoop to the fire.

“And I insist you should come and report to us what you are doing,” said Sarah; “and never mind Milly; see me. It is I who am interested. Milly, as I tell you, thinks Providence will drop her an heir at the door.”

What could she mean by these spiteful sneering suggestions? I had thought no more of heirs for many a day—never since I got involved in this bewildering business, which I could see no way through. Her sudden attack sent a little thrill of terror through me. I was casting suspicious looks at her; an heir was to be dropped at our door; somebody was plotting against her fortune and honour. Good heavens! what could it mean but one thing? Mad people are always watched, pursued, persecuted, thwarted. I was cast from one guess to another, as if from wave to wave of a sea. I came back to that idea again; and trembled in spite of myself to think of little Sara and her father leaving us, and of being left alone to watch the insane haze spreading over her mind. It was sure to spread if it was there.

Chapter XII

I WILL not undertake to say that we were a particularly sociable party at dinner that day. The stranger, Mr. Cresswell, who might have been supposed likely to give us a little news, and refresh us with the air of out of doors, was constrained and uncomfortable with the idea of having been found out. I am sure it was the last idea in the world which I wanted to impress upon him. But still, in spite of myself, I had betrayed it. Then Sara, without the faintest idea of her father’s uneasiness, had a strong remembrance of my unlucky words on the previous day, and was very high and stately, by way of proving to me that an attorney’s daughter could be quite as proud as a Mortimer—as if I ever doubted it!—and a great deal prouder. For really, when one knows exactly what one’s position is, and that nobody can change it, one does not stand upon one’s defence for every unwary word. However, so it was that we were all a little constrained, and I felt as one generally feels after a pretty long visit, even from a dear friend, that to be alone and have the house to one’s self will just at first be a luxury in its way.

Not having any free and comfortable subject to talk of, we naturally fell to books, though Mr. Cresswell, I believe, never opened one. He wanted to know if Sara had been reading novels all day long, and immediately Sara turned to me to ask whether she might have one home with her which she had begun to read. Then there burst on my mind an innocent way of putting a question to Mr. Cresswell which I had been very anxious to ask without seeing any way to do it.

“I don’t think you will care for it when you do read it Sara; it is all about a poor boy who gets persuaded not to marry, and breaks the poor creature’s heart who is engaged to him, because there has been madness in the family. High principle, you know. I am not quite so sure in my own mind that I don’t think him a humbug; but I suppose it’s all very grand and splendid to you young people. Young persons should be trained very closely in their own family history if that is to be the way of it. I hope there never was a Cresswell touched in his brain, or, Sara, it would be a bad prospect for you.”

“If you suppose I should think it a bad prospect to do as Gilbert did, you are very wrong, godmamma,” cried Sara. “Why shouldn’t he have been quite as happy one way as the other? Do you suppose people must be married to be happy? it is dreadful to hear such a thing from you!”

“Well, to be sure, so it would be,” said I, “if I had said it. I am not unhappy that I know of, nor happy either. Oh, you little velvet kitten, how do you know how people get through life? One goes jog-jog, and does not stop to find out how one feels. But I’d rather—though I daresay it’s very bad philosophy—have creatures like you do things innocently, without being too particular about the results. Besides, I think Cheshire air is good steady air for the mind,—not exciting, you know. I don’t think we’ve many mad people in our county, eh, Mr. Cresswell?—Did you ever hear of a crazy Mortimer?”

Mr. Cresswell looked up at me a little curiously—which, to be sure, not having any command over my face, or habit of concealing what I thought, made me look foolish. Sarah lifted her eyes, too, with a kind of smile which alarmed me—a smile of ridicule and superior knowledge. Perhaps I had exposed my fears to both of them by that question. I shrank away from it immediately, frightened at my own rashness. But Mr. Cresswell would not let me off.

“I have always heard that your grand-uncle Lewis was very peculiar,” said Mr. Cresswell,—“he that your cousin is descended from. Let us hope it doesn’t run in Mr. Richard’s family. I suppose there’s no reason to imagine that such a motive would prevent him from marrying?” he continued, rather spitefully. “And it was no wonder if Lewis Mortimer was a little queer. What could you expect? he was the second son! an unprecedented accident. The wonder is that something did not happen in consequence. Oh yes, he was soft a little, was your grand-uncle Lewis; but most likely it descended to him from his mother’s side of the house.”

“And my father was named after him!” cried I, with a certain dismay.

They all laughed, even Sarah. She kept her eyes on me as if searching through me to find out what I meant. She was puzzled a little, I could see. She saw it was not a mere idle question, and wanted to know the meaning. She was not conscious, thank heaven! and people are dismally conscious, as I have heard, when their brain is going. This was a little comfort to me under the unexpected answer I had got, for I certainly never heard of a crazy Mortimer all my life.

“If qualities descended by names, my little kitten would be in luck,” said Mr. Cresswell. “But here is a new lot of officers coming, Miss Milly; what would you recommend a poor man to do?”

“Papa!” cried Sara, with blazing indignation, “what does any one suppose the officers are to me? You say so to make my own godmamma despise me, though you know it isn’t true! I can bear anything that is true. That is why we always quarrel, papa and I. He does not mind what stories he tells, and thinks it good fun. I am not a flirt, nor never was—never, even when I was too young to know any better. No, godmamma, no more than you are!—nobody dares say it of me.”

We were just rising from table when she made this defence of herself. It was not quite true. I know she tormented that poor boy Wilde as if he had been a mouse, the cruel creature; and I am perfectly convinced that she was much disappointed Mr. Luigi did not come to the Park, because she had precisely the same intentions with regard to him. I must allow, though I was very fond of Sara, that, professing to be mighty scornful and sceptical as to hearts breaking, she loved to try when she had it in her power. I daresay she was not conscious of her wicked arts, she used them by instinct; but it came to much the same thing in the end.

I went out of the room with her, under pretence of seeing that her boxes were nicely packed; I did not say anything about it, whether I thought her a flirt or not, and she quieted down immediately, with a perception that I had something to say. I drew her into the great window of the hall, when Sarah, and immediately after her Mr. Cresswell,—for, of course, to him our early dinner only served as lunch, and no man would dream of sitting over his wine at three o’clock in the afternoon, especially in a lady’s house,—had passed into the drawing-room. It was a great round bay-window, at one end of the hall, where our footmen used to lounge in my father’s time, when we kept footmen. It had our escutcheon in it, in painted glass, and the lower panes were obscured, I cannot tell why, unless because it made them look ugly. The hall was covered with matting, and the fire had been lighted that day, but must have gone out, it felt so cold.

“Sara, I wish to say to you—not that I don’t trust your discretion, my dear child;” said I, “but you might not think I cared—don’t say anything about your godmamma, or about this Mr. Luiggi, dear–”

I was quite prepared to see her resent this caution, but I was not prepared for the burst of saucy laughter with which the foolish little girl replied to me.

“Oh dear, godmamma, don’t be so comical! it isn’t Luiggi, it’s Luidgi, that’s how it sounds,” cried Sara. “To think of any one murdering the beautiful Italian so! Don’t you really think it’s a beautiful name?”

“I freely confess I never could see any beauty in Italian, nor any other outlandish tongue,” said I. “Luidgi, be it, if that’s better. I can’t see how it makes one morsel of difference; but you will remember what I say?”

“Luigi simply means Lewis; and how should you be pleased to hear Lewis mispronounced? You said it was your father’s name, godmamma,” said the incorrigible child.

I turned away, shaking my head. It was no use saying anything more; most likely she would pay attention to what I said, though she was so aggravating; oh, but she was contrairy. Never man spoke a truer word. Nevertheless, as she stood there in her velvet jacket, with her close-cropped pretty curls, and her eyes sparkling with laughter, I could not help admiring her myself. I don’t mind saying I am very inconsistent. A little while before, I had been thinking it would be rather pleasant to have the house quiet and to ourselves. Now, I could not help thinking what a gap it would leave when she was gone. Then the child, who at home was led into every kind of amusement (to be sure procurable in Cheshire, must be added to this), had been so contented, after all, to live with two old women, whom nobody came to see, except now and then in a morning call; and though she was so wicked, and provoking, and careless, she was at the same time so good and clever (when she pleased) and captivating. One could have put her in the corner, and kissed her the next moment. As she stood there in the light of the great window, I, who had left her, shaking my head, and reflecting how contrairy she was, went back to kiss her, though I gave her a little shake as well. That is how one always feels to these creatures, half-and-half; ready to punish them and to pet them all at once.

However, after a while (though it was no easy matter getting Sara’s trunks on the carriage—I wonder Mr. Cresswell ventured on it, for his poor horse’s sake), they went away; and feeling just a little dull after they were gone, and as it was just that good-for-nothing time, which is the worst of an early dinner, the interval between dinner and tea, I set out for a walk down to the village. It was Sarah’s day for her drive, and she passed me on the road, and kissed her hand to me out of the carriage window. No blinds down now; the horses going at their steady pace, rather slowly than otherwise, wheeling along through the soft hedgerows which began to have some buds on them. I wonder what Jacob thought of it; I wonder what Williams at the lodge had to say on the subject. Such a strange unreasonable change!

Chapter XIII

I CALLED at a good many houses in the village. I am thankful to say I have rarely found myself unwelcome, to the best sort of people at least. Most of us have known each other so long, and have such a long stretch of memory to go back upon together, that we belong to each other in a way. As for the scapegraces, they are a little frightened of me, I confess. They say, Miss Milly comes a-worriting, when I speak my mind to them. I can’t say the men reverence me, nor the women bless my influence, as I read they do with some ladies in some of Miss Kate Roberts’ books. But we are good friends on the whole. When the men have been drinking, and spent all their wages, or saucy, and put out of their place, then they try their best to deceive me, to be sure; but I know all their little contrivances pretty well by this time. They don’t mean much harm after all, only to persuade one that things are not so bad as they look.

After I had given a glance into the shop where I saw Mr. Luigi’s fat servant,—I only saw him once, but yet the place seemed full of that fat, funny, good-humoured, outlandish figure, with his bows and smiles, and loquacious foreign speech, that poor Mrs. Taylor commiserated so deeply—I stepped across to the rectory to make a call there. The poor young shopkeeper, who had a night-class for the men and grown lads, and was really an intelligent, well-meaning young man, had been confiding his troubles to me. They did not care a bit about learning; they did not even want to read. When they did read it was the most foolish books! Poor young Taylor’s heart was breaking over their stupidity. And then, to keep a shop, even a bookshop, hurt his “feelings,” poor lad. He had been brought up for a teacher’s profession, he said—he even had some experience in “tuition.” He had thought he could make a home for his mother and his little sister; and now Dr. Appleby was grumbling that he did not succeed, and thought it his own fault! Poor young fellow! to be sure, he should have gone stolidly through with it, and had no business to have any “feelings.” But, you see, people will be foolish in every condition of life.

So I stepped across the road to call on Miss Kate, thinking of him all the way; thinking of him and that unknown young Italian, only once seen, whom the apparition of the fat servant in Taylor’s shop somehow connected with the young shopkeeper. How Mr. Luigi had forced himself into all my thoughts! and yet the only one fact I knew about him was, that he was looking for an apocryphal lady whom nobody ever heard of! Should I have thought no more about him but for Sarah’s mysterious agitation? I really cannot tell. Again and again his voice came back to me, independent of Sarah. Whose voice was it? Where had he got that hereditary tone?

Miss Kate was in, for a great wonder. She was wonderfully active in the parish. She was far more the rector, except in the pulpit, than good Dr. Roberts was. I am sure he was very fortunate to have such an active sister. I don’t think anything ever happened, within a space of three or four miles round the village, that Miss Kate was not at the bottom of it. Of course I expected to hear everything over again that Dr. Roberts had told us about Mr. Luigi. But, so long as Sarah was not present, I could take that quite easily. Indeed, I wished so much to know more of this stranger, somehow, that I really felt I should be glad to hear all that they had to say.

“I was indeed very much interested in the young man,” said Miss Kate, starting the subject almost immediately, as I expected. “I think great efforts should be made to lay hold of every one that comes out of his poor benighted country. I said so to the Doctor; but the Doctor’s views, you know, are very charitable. Mr. Hubert, however, quite agreed with me. I asked him to come back when he came to this part of the country again, and said I should be very glad to have some serious conversation with him. He stared, but he was very polite; only, poor young man, his thoughts are all upon this lady. I have no doubt he thought it was that business I wanted to talk to him about.”

“But I suppose, like Dr. Roberts, you can throw no light upon her; who she is, or where she is?” said I. “It is strange he should seem so positive she was here, and yet nobody remembers her. For my own part, if I had once heard it, I am sure I should never have forgotten that name. I have a wonderful memory for names.”

“Very strange no doubt,” said Miss Kate, with a little cough. “And then, that man of his. Alas, what an imprisoned soul! To think he should be in the very midst of light and faithful preaching, and yet not be able to derive any benefit from it! I never regretted more deeply not having kept up my own Italian studies. And poor Mr. Hubert—but you would hear all about that; the Doctor does so delight in an amusing story. They could not understand each other in the very least, you know. Ah, what a matter it would be to get hold of that poor Domenico—that’s his name. Why, he might be quite an apostle among his countrymen, when he got back. But nothing can be done till he can be taught English, or some agency can be found out in Italian. I can’t tell you how much interest I feel in these poor darkened creatures. And to think they should be in the midst of the light, and no possibility of bringing them under its influence! I don’t speak of the master, of course, who knows English very well; but I am not one that am a respecter of persons,—the servant is quite as much, if not more, interesting to me.”

“If they stay long I daresay he’ll learn English,” I suggested modestly; “but it will be a sad pity if the poor gentleman has come so far to seek out this lady, and can’t find any trace of her. I promised him to do all I could to find out for him; but nobody seems ever to have heard of her. It will be a thousand pities if he has all his trouble for no end.”

“Ah, Miss Milly! let us hope he may acquire something else that will far more than repay him,” said Miss Kate; “disappointments are often great blessings in directing one’s mind away from worldly things. We were all very much interested in him, I assure you. Mr. Hubert promised to write to a friend of his in Chester to ask if he could give him any assistance. If it were only for the sake of that strange resemblance,—the Doctor would tell you, of course, the resemblance which struck both him and myself?”

“No,” cried I; “did you find out anybody he was like? I only saw him in the dark, and could not make out his face; but his voice has haunted me ever since. I was sure I knew the voice.”

“I wonder the Doctor did not mention it,” said Miss Kate, with a little importance. “The truth is, it struck us both a good deal; a resemblance to your family, Miss Milly.”

I don’t know whether I was most disposed to sink down upon my chair or start up from it with a cry; I did neither, however.

“To my family?” I gasped out. “Yes; it was very singular,” said Miss Kate; “I daresay, of course, it was only one of those accidental likenesses. I remember being once thought very like your sister. How strange you should think you knew his voice! You have some relations in Italy, perhaps?”

“Not that I know of,” said I, feeling very faint. I cannot tell what I was afraid of; but I felt myself trembling and shaken; and I durst not get up and go out either, or Miss Kate would have had it all over the parish before night, that something had gone wrong at the Park.

But I don’t remember another word she said. I kept my seat, and answered her till I thought I might reasonably be supposed to have stayed long enough. Then I left the rectory, my mind in the strangest agitation. That this stranger, who had driven Sarah half mad, should be like our family; what a bewildering, extraordinary thing to think of! But stranger still, at this moment, when I had just heard such a wonderful aggravation of my perplexity—that voice of his which had haunted me so long, and which I felt sure I could identify at once, if the person it once belonged to was named to me, vanished entirely from my mind as if by some conjuring trick. It was extraordinary—it looked almost supernatural. I could no more recall that tone, which I had recalled with perfect freshness and ease when I entered the rectory garden, than I could clear up the extraordinary puzzle thus gathering closer and closer round all my thoughts.

In this state of mind I hurried home, feeling really as if there must be something supernatural in the whole business, and too much startled to ask any definite questions of myself. When I had reached the house, and was going upstairs, I met one of the maids coming down, who had been upon some errand into Sarah’s room. This careless girl had left—a thing never even seen when my sister happened to be out for her drives—the room-door open. Before I knew what I was doing, I had stepped inside. I can’t tell what I wanted—whether to speak with Sarah or to spy upon her, or to listen at her door. Carson and she were in the dressing-room, I could hear. And now I will tell you what I did. I don’t think I was responsible for my actions at that moment; but whether or not, this is what I did. I stepped forward stealthily, stooped down to the keyhole, and listened at the door!

There! I have said it out. Nobody else knows it to this day. I, who called myself an honourable person, listened at my sister’s door. For the first five minutes I was so agitated by my strange position that, of course, I did not hear a word they said. But after a little I began to hear indistinctly that they were talking of some letter that had better be burned—that Carson was speaking in a kind of pleading tone, and Sarah very harsh and hard, her words easier to be distinguished in that hissing whisper of hers than if she had spoken in the clearest voice imaginable. I can’t say I was much the better for the conversation, till at last, just as I was going away, came this, which made my heart beat so loud that I thought it must be heard inside that closed mysterious door:

“And to think they should have called him Lewis, too; though the English is a deal the prettiest. Ah, ma’am,” cried Carson, with a little stifled sob, “it showed love in the heart!”

“Yes, for the Park,” said Sarah, in her whisper. I dared not stay a moment longer, for I heard them both advancing to the door. I fled to my own room, and dropped down there on my sofa stupified. My head ached as if it would burst. My heart thumped and beat as if it would leap out of my bosom Lewis! my father’s name—and, good heaven!—the voice! What did it—what could it mean?

PART IV.

THE LIEUTENANT’S WIFE

(Continued.)

Chapter I

WHAT a strange little quaint place Chester is! I thought I should never have been tired walking along those ramparts, looking over the soft green slopes, and up to the blue hills in the distance, and down here and there upon the grey old churches and the quiet busy little town; but at first we had our lodgings to look for, which was a much more serious matter. I had made up my mind from the very first not to expect to be called upon, nor to go into society; or rather I had set my face against any chance of it, knowing always that we could not do it on the little money we had. But now I found out that Harry was not content with this. He was very anxious to have better lodgings, where ladies could come to see me. I should say dearer lodgings, for better than Mrs. Saltoun’s we could not have had. He wanted me to have quite a drawing-room instead of our nice, cosy, old-fashioned parlour, which was good for everything; and then to think people might be asking us to dinner, and how many embarrassments and troubles we might meet with! For it is embarrassing to be asked out, and to be obliged to let the people suppose you are sulky, and ill-tempered, and won’t go; or else to invent excuses which, besides being sinful, are always sure to be found out; when the real reason is simply that one has not a dress, and cannot afford to get one just then. The other ladies in the regiment might wonder what sort of person I could be, and tell each other that poor young Langham had married some poor girl, and been very foolish. It was exactly true—so he had; and as I can’t say I had any idea that he could be ashamed of me, I took it all very quietly. So long as we were happy, and could afford to live in our own way, I did not mind; but now Harry had got discontented, somehow or other. He was quite in a fuss to think that I was not received as I ought to be, and a great many more things like that—perhaps somebody had said something to him, as if he were supposed to be ashamed of me—at all events he had changed his mind from our first plan; and though I felt quite convinced my way was the wisest, I had to change it as before. Anything was better than having him uncomfortable and discontented. I supported myself with Mrs. Saltoun’s opinion, and went with resignation to look at all those expensive lodgings.