Chapter IX
“IT is the oddest business altogether that I had ever anything to do with,” said Harry, next morning; “one cannot tell what step to take first. My own idea, of course, is to call on this old Cresswell and get it all out of him. He evidently is the man who knows.”
“Ah, but, Harry, if he is one of those scheming lawyers,” said I, “why should he go and betray his clients for people whom he never heard of before? and, besides, it would be impossible to tell him how we got information about it, for you could not speak of the advertisement without ruining poor Mr. Ward.”
“Milly, I may be sorry enough for your poor Mr. Ward, but I am more interested a great deal in your rights,” said Harry; “besides, if everything came true we could make it up to him. I see nothing for it but going to old Cresswell. He will be glad—since he did think of an advertisement—to have such a rod of terror to hold over the heads of his old ladies; at all events we shall know what it is. It might come to nothing after all,” said Harry, with a little sigh, “and there is nothing more injurious than to be kept uncertain. Why, to tell the truth, I feel extravagant this morning: I got up with the feeling. I should like to go and ruin myself in accordance with the sentiment of the moment. If it’s all true, why should we be economical?—your grandfather’s red brick house on one side, and this Park on the other. We’re lucky people, Milly. I’ll either go and see old Cresswell and have it out with him, or I’ll go and throw away every shilling I have.”
“Ah, Harry, give it to me,” I said, holding out my hands; “but I don’t believe you have any money, so it doesn’t matter. Only—just wait a little, please; don’t let us do things hastily. Think of thrusting our claims suddenly upon two old ladies who perhaps have enjoyed it all their life. Only think of us two, young and happy, disturbing the lives of two old people who are not so fortunate as we are! Not to-day; let us try to get other proof first. Try if Mr. Pendleton knows anything—write to Haworth again. At least, don’t let us be hasty; a day or two cannot matter; and I don’t trust this Mr. Cresswell,” cried I, with some vehemence. “He cannot be honest, or he would not have done such a thing.”
Harry laughed at my earnestness. He said lawyer-villains had gone out of fashion, and that there were no Mr. Gammons now-a-days. The truth is, we had both been reading novels since we came to Chester, and I am not at all sure that Harry was as sceptical about Mr. Gammon as he professed to be. But, to my consolation, he went out without any definite purpose of beginning his proceedings. “I daresay old Cresswell is an old humbug,” said Harry. “I’ll see whether there is not some other old fellow about who is up to everybody’s genealogy; surely there ought to be some such person about the Cathedral. And I’ll write to Pendleton, Milly. To be sure, there is nothing to hurry us. ‘Let us take time, that we may be done the sooner.’ I’ll do nothing desperate to-day.”
When he was gone I felt a little sense of relief. I sat long in the same chair, with the table still littered with the breakfast things, neglecting my duties and even baby. He had been brought downstairs before Harry went out, and was now sitting at my feet on the carpet, playing with my work-basket, which much contented him. I did not observe the havoc that was taking place, but sat still in a tumult of thoughts which I could not describe. I suppose nobody ever did come to a sudden knowledge—or even fancy—that they might be found out heirs of a great estate without feeling fluttered. I was half afraid of the thought, yet it had a strange, vague, bewildering exhilaration in it. Sometimes a trembling shadow would cross my mind of my old spectre; but it had faded again to-day into the agitation of surprised and trembling hopes. One does not always feel the same even about one’s own terrors. And, upon the whole, I felt raised into a kind of general elevation, thrust up above myself into another region, capable of being kinder, more liberal and magnanimous than I had ever felt before. I suppose it must have been the same feeling which Harry had when he said he felt extravagant. I could have emptied my purse to a beggar, I believe,—at least I could have found it in my heart to give him sixpence instead of a penny,—to such an extent had this vague, exhilarating rich feeling carried me away.
Lizzie looked a little mysterious when I called her at last. She was bursting with something to tell; and when I addressed some ordinary question to her, her news broke forth suddenly without any introduction. “Eh, the gentleman’s awa’ again,” cried Lizzie, “and he thinks she maun be found or heard tell o’—he thinks there maun be word of her. The gentleman’s awa’ back where he was, to bring something he left, and ‘Menico says, as sure’s death she maun be found.”
“Who must be found?”
“Eh, mem, it’s the leddy! They came a’ this gate, ower the hills and the seas, to find a leddy. I canna just understand wha she is,” said Lizzie, “but she’s some freend; and ‘Menico’s clear she maun be found now, and he’s dancing like to bring down the house for joy.”
“But you don’t look very joyful, Lizzie; what is the matter?” said I.
Lizzie made a desperate effort to restrain herself, but, failing, burst into violent tears. “Eh, he’s written me a letter!” cried the girl, sobbing; and then, with much fumbling, eyes blind with tears, and a face all glowing with shame, the letter came forth from the bosom of Lizzie’s dress, and was thrust into my hand.
Alas for my self-congratulations over Lizzie’s childish age! Fourteen, after all, it appeared, was no safeguard. But I was as much amused as troubled when I undid Domenico’s letter. It was written on odd thin paper, in a very tolerable hand; it was addressed to the Elizabeth Bain, and its contents were as follows:
“To the my little good Lessee.
“You be good child; if the lady yours will, I take you to the theatre after to-morrow, for gratitude. To me you show of bounty, I to you of thanks. There be grand sight at the theatre which will please to you. Show the Signora yours this letter mine, and ask if permission. It will much please to me to make festa for my little good Lessee. There be none word in English for festa, for because the English not know to make it.
“Domenico.”
“But, Lizzie,” cried I, in surprise, “there is nothing in this to cry about. He only means to be kind, poor fellow. There is not a word in all this that sounds like–”
Love-making, I was about to have said, but paused, partly in respect for the innocence of the girl, and partly ashamed of myself for my instinctive suspicion that flirtation was inevitable when “a foreigner,” however fat, was in the case. Lizzy had wiped her eyes and was looking at me wistfully, quite ready to sob again.
“Oh, it’s no him,” cried Lizzie; “he’s a papist, puir man, and he doesna ken ony better. But oh, mem, it’s me—me that was weel brought up, and learned the catechism and ay gaed to the kirk; and what will I do? what will I do?”
“For pity’s sake, Lizzie, tell me what is the matter?” cried I, really alarmed.
Lizzie burst into tears once more. She wiped her eyes with her apron, with hot and humid hands; then, casting a pathetic glance at me from under the drapery, sobbed forth the dreadful confession, “Oh, mem! though I think burning shame, and ken it’s dreadful, I canna help it—I would like to gang!”
This anti-climax was too much for my gravity, and Lizzie looked on with moist, uncomprehending eyes at the burst of laughter which I could not restrain. Poor Lizzie! I have no doubt she thought me very heartless neither to satisfy her guilty desires after such vanities, nor her scruples of conscience and violent shame at her own weakness. Baby, however, was more sympathetic. Seeing his beloved Lizzie in tears, a fellow-feeling made him scream in concert. He had to be consoled, though his nurse went away wistful, trembling lest I should consent, and lest I should not consent. But privately I confess I was very much relieved and not a little ashamed of myself. To think I should have suspected any absurd love-making between these two! I felt ready to go and ask poor Lizzie’s pardon. But why should not she go to the theatre and satisfy her mind? Domenico could not be less than twenty years older than herself. On the whole, this little episode quite increased the lightness of my spirits. The day was bright, the spring was every hour becoming more sweet, and as I sat there by myself with my child in the little back-room, noting the sunshine, which did not reach us, fall sweet upon the little walled-in gardens at the back, a sudden project which had already glanced through my mind, became feasible on the moment. Yes, I should do it. Lizzie and the baby, for a breath of country air, should go with me. By actual witness of my own eyes I would identify the Park.
Chapter X
THE next day Harry had duties of one sort and another, which would completely occupy his time. He had not found any student of genealogy who could tell him all about the Mortimers of the Park; but he had heard of one, and, between that and his duty, was full engaged both in person and thoughts. A better opportunity could not be. I told him I thought of taking a long walk into the country with Lizzie and baby this beautiful day; and, except a warning not to go too far and weary myself, Harry had nothing to say against my intention. I may say, however, that in the meantime, having consulted with him on the subject, I had plunged Lizzie’s mind into the most dread commotion of terror, delight, and curiosity, by consenting to Domenico’s proposal, only adding Mrs. Goldsworthy to the party, to make all right.
And it was true that Mr. Luigi had disappeared again; he was only to be three days gone, Domenico assured us, holding up three of his fingers. “Tree sola, tree only,” repeated the fat fellow once more, blocking up the passage as of old; and once more, with that inimitable wheel and elastic step of his, opening the door before any one could approach it. I could not help wondering to myself whether the Italian gentleman was likely to leave Chester before we did; certainly the loss of Domenico would make quite a difference in the house. I had not thought quite so much as I might have been supposed to have done about this Italian gentleman. He too had recognised the name of Sarah Mortimer as having some influence on his fate. He had left early next morning, as if acting upon the knowledge he had gained, whatever that might be. It was very strange; afterwards, of course, I came to lay everything together, and wonder at myself that I had not seen how things were tending. But at the moment I was full of my own thoughts; they seemed so very much more important to me just then than anything else. I dismissed Mr. Luigi with just half a thought of surprise and curiosity; I dare say Sara Cresswell had thought more of him. And Sara had not come to me through all that long intervening day. Could she have gone to the Park to tell the news? would they acknowledge or pretend to disown us? That was a question far more interesting to me than all the Italians in the world.
The private object of my expedition, however, was one I was truly ashamed to mention to anybody; but, for all that, it had taken a great hold upon myself. I have said I had been reading novels; and the very last one we had from the library was “Ten Thousand a Year.” It struck upon my mind even at the very moment when poor Mr. Ward had told me first. Those dear, good, delightful, fine, superfine Aubreys! to think of all their sufferings, the poor dear superlative people—how dreadfully they felt it to have only a maid waiting at table! Oh me! and only to think that here might we ourselves be bringing about such another calamity! Of course you may think it was very fantastical. I do confess that the dreadful downfall of having only a maid to wait, seemed to me, at first sight, the most fine distress I had ever heard of; but it took a hold upon my mind all the same; I could not help imagining to myself the other side of the picture. It was very pleasant to think of falling heirs to a great estate, and being lifted in a moment from poverty into great wealth; but who were those two pathetic figures turning away from the closed door of the house which had been their home so long, mournfully settling down in their new straitened quarters, breaking up all the habits of their lives, missing somehow in an unspoken way, that it would be ludicrous to express in words, but was far from ludicrous to feel, all the grander circumstances of their life? Ah! that was quite a different question. I thought I could see them sighing over their contracted rooms, their fallen state—not speaking, falling silent rather, life going out and ebbing away from them. I saw the two pale old lofty faces, the pride, the submission, the deep sense of downfall concealed in their hearts, and I felt myself stopped short in my way. Those ineffable Aubreys, those figures painted on velvet, those dear porcelain creatures, with their exquisite troubles, had an effect upon my imagination, even though I might venture to smile at them sometimes. Superfine people, to be sure, must have superfine afflictions; and to think of being a Tittlebat Titmouse, and driving out such angels from their paradise into the cold-hearted, unsympathetic world, that cared no more whether they had a six-foot footman and a carriage, than it cared about myself, a subaltern’s poor wife, driving out of Chester in an omnibus! So this was the real cause of my journey. I went remorsefully, thinking all the way how Mrs. Aubrey swooned at all emergencies. I wonder, when they heard the dreadful power we had over them, would Miss Sarah and Miss Milly swoon in each other’s arms? I could see them going about, stricken silent, afraid to look at each other; and it would be all our doing. Remorseful to my very heart, I went to visit their village and ask about them, and see the house if I could. Perhaps some arrangement might be made, after all, to prevent any loss to these poor dear old ladies. I felt as if I could have done anything for them, my heart was so compunctious and repentant of the power we had to do them harm. I am not sure my great magnanimousness did not have a root in what Harry called feeling extravagant, as well as in “Ten Thousand a Year.”
We went out a considerable part of the way in an omnibus, and then walked. After a good long walk through a nice country, we saw a pretty common a little way before us: I call it pretty because some parts of it were very unequal and broken, having gorse bushes, with here and there a golden honey-bud among the prickles. To get to the common, we crossed over a very clean, nicely kept piece of road, straight and smooth, leading down to the village from the gates of a great house. The house was too far off to make it out, but I felt my heart beat a little, knowing, from the description I had got, that it could be no other than the Park.
I left Lizzie and her charge seated on the soft grass of the common, where baby, who had never before known anything so delightful, began to pluck at the crowflowers with his fat hands; and went down into the village to buy them some biscuits. I confess I felt very guilty. Going anywhere all by myself confused me, not being accustomed to it; but I was not an innocent stranger here; I was a spy in my rival’s kingdom; I was a Bolingbroke pretending to acknowledge the sway of the existing sovereign: I was going to traffic with his subjects and tamper with them. If the village authorities had found me out, and held a court-martial and hanged me on the spot, I think I should have acknowledged the justice of their decision. I was a spy.
It was a nice village—a nice, well cared-for, tidy, yet not too picturesque or unnatural village; looking as if the richer people about were friendly and sensible, not interfering too much, but keeping up a due reverence and influence. Some tall bushes of broom were actually bursting into yellow streaks over the garden palings—not wall—of a house standing back a little, which I found out to be the Rectory. It must have been very sheltered and warm, for it was still only April. However, though I was full of curiosity, my mind was not sufficiently disengaged to carry away a clear picture of the village; and when the women looked out from the doors at me with an instinct that a stranger was passing, I felt more guilty than ever. I made my way accordingly to the baker’s as fast as I could, and got some dark-complexioned ponderous buns there, which I felt sure would rouse Lizzie’s national sense of superiority to great triumph. Then I made a tremulous excuse of wanting some biscuits besides, and so got a little time to bring forward the questions I had prepared.
“Who is it that lives in the great house at the other end of the village?” said I hypocritically, pointing with my finger towards the Park.
“Who is it?” said the baker’s wife, leaning on her counter with a certain contempt and admiration of my ignorance; “law bless you, ma’am, you don’t know this place, seemingly. Them’s the Miss Mortimers, the oldest family in Cheshire. They’re as well known as the Queen about here.”
“I am a stranger,” said I hurriedly. “Are they ladies—I mean are they young ladies? were there no sons?”
The baker’s wife leaned back upon a sack of flour, and laughed. “Miss Milly’s godmoother to half the village,” she said; “she’s none that young, she’s isn’t. No, there wasn’t no son. I’ve heard my mother say there was once talk of making Miss Mortimer an ouldest son like, but it couldn’t be done. They’re cooheiresses, that’s what it’s ca’ed—I’ve seen it written down myself—cooheiresses of the late Lewis Esquire; that’s the name it goes by; and as they ain’t married it’s no harm.”
“Did they succeed their father, then?” said I.
“And that they did,” cried the woman, “and their father’s father, and grandfather, and great-grandfather, as far back as I don’t know when; they’re no mushroom folks, the folks in the Park.”
I felt very much puzzled and perplexed; how could my father, then, have anything to do with it? It was very strange.
“But I suppose the lands were entailed, then, or something of that sort. Was there never another heir that claimed? I think you must be wrong,” said I, betraying myself in my wonder and haste.
The baker’s wife opened her eyes wide and stared; then laughed out rather scornfully—politeness is not the first rule either of life or speech in Cheshire.
“I’ve lived here in the village all my life,” she said; “if I don’t know, I’d like to hear who should. Nay, nay, there never was a dream of another heir; they’re surer nor most folks are the Miss Mortimers. There ain’t scarce one living belonging to them to get it when they’re gone. I tell you what it is, it’s a mistake. You’re thinking on Eden Hall.”
“Oh!” said I, “perhaps! I am a stranger here.”
“Sure you’re strange,” said the baker’s wife; “any one in the village could tell that. Ne’er a one asked such questions o’ me—nor any questions at all, but the price of bread, and how the crops are to be, except that Frenchman with the moustache. You’re not belonging to him, are you? You’re English by your speech.”
“Oh yes, I’m English,” cried I, not without a vague momentary vision of the village court-martial, and being hung up for a spy. “I will take my change, please.”
And I took my change, and went away with quickened steps but changed feelings. I had not the heart to speak to anybody else. I passed old women at the doors, who, no doubt, could have told something about it; but I did not venture to make any more inquiries. I was completely lost in perplexity. The undisputed representatives of a race, the heirs of father, grandfather, and great-grandfather to unknown antiquity—what could be urged against their possession? I was startled into sudden doubt of the whole matter. What if it were all a deception? The very pathway swam and twisted under my eyes. When I reached the common, and threw myself wearily on the grass beside little Harry and his maid, I felt quite a different person from her who had left them there. I gave Lizzie the coarse buns, but I did not listen to the comments which came as I knew they would. I was far too much bewildered and shaken out of my fancies to be amused. After I had rested awhile, I got up, and, taking them with me, went up, rather faltering, to the gates of the Park. A little lodge, half hidden among evergreen bushes, was at the gate. I went forward, Lizzie following me close, to ask if we might be permitted to look at the house.
But, just as I was going up to the door, I was accosted by a lady who came hurriedly forward by a side-path. She held out her hand to stop us before she came up, and full of fanciful alarm as I was, I stopped, startled, with again the sensation of having been found out. She was middle-sized and stout, with a plump, handsome figure and sensible, kind face—very sensible, very kind, not brilliant at all; and, I think, with as much perplexed thought and anxiety upon it, as there was on mine.
“Don’t go into the lodge with the baby, please,” she cried, as soon as she was near; “the little girl has the hooping-cough. It’s always best to keep out of the way of danger. If I can tell you what you want, shall be very glad. I see you’re a stranger; or if you want to see Mrs. Williams, send away the baby, please. Hooping-cough’s very catching, and it’s hard upon such a young child.”
This voice and this speech completely overpowered me. I could not doubt for a moment that this was one of the Miss Mortimers. I was no longer a mere spy; I was an unnatural traitor. I motioned Lizzie with my hand to go away, but stood still speechless myself, the tears rising to my eyes. The lady stood waiting to see what I wanted, but discovering my distress, as some people can, came a little closer to me. “Are you ill? can I help you in anything?” she said, looking very pitifully and kindly into my wet eyes.
“No, thank you. I was going to ask if I might look at the Park; but I must make haste after baby,” I cried. I had the impulse to curtsey to her as children do; for anything I know I did it. The only thing that I am certain of is, that as fast as my feet would carry me, I hastened away.