The Last of the Mortimers
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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.
Chapter XI
WE were able to get the same omnibus going home, which I was very glad of, for the strange defeat I had received made me feel doubly weary with the walk, which, after all, had not been a very long one. There was only one person in this omnibus, which was not a town omnibus, you know, but one which went between Chester and an important village, seven or eight miles off. He was an elderly man, very well dressed in black, with a white cravat. To tell the plain truth, I took him for a dissenting preacher by his dress; and as he looked very serious and respectable, and was very polite in helping us to get in, we had some little conversation after a while. When he saw me look at the houses we passed with an appearance of interest, he told me the names of them, or who they belonged to. He was exceedingly polite and deferential, so polite that he called me ma’am, which sounded odd; but I could only suppose he was an old-fashioned person and liked such antiquated ways of expression. I confess a suspicion of his real condition never crossed my mind. But he evidently knew everybody, and after a while my prevailing idea woke up again.
“Do you know,” said I, with a little hesitation, “the family at the Park—the Miss Mortimers? I should very much like to hear something about them.”
“There’s nobody I know better, ma’am,” said our companion with a slight look of surprise; “I’ve been with—that is, I’ve known ’em this fifty years.”
“Oh, then will you please tell me how they succeeded?” said I; “how did they come into the estate?”
“How they succeeded?” said the stranger, with a certain slow wonder and amazement; “why, ma’am, in the natural way, after their father as was Squire before them.”
Here I could not help thinking to myself that the dissenting clergy must be dreadfully uneducated, if this were one of them.
“But was there never any gap in the succession?” said I; “has it been in a straight line? has there been no break lately—no branch of the family passed over?”
“Bless you, ma’am, you don’t know the Mortimers,” said our friend; “there’s never enough of them to make branches of the family. There was a second cousin the young ladies had a many years ago, but I never heard of no more of them, and he was distant like, and had no more thoughts of succession than I had. If that gen’lman was alive or had a family, things might be different now.”
“How do you mean things might be different now?” cried I.
“The ladies, ma’am, has never married,” said the man, who certainly could not be more than a Methodist local preacher at the utmost, “and, in the course of nature, there can’t be no natural heir.”
This view of the subject, however, was one totally unsatisfactory to me. “Are you sure,” said I, “that there never was any other heir spoken of—that there never was any story about the succession—that there was never anybody to dispute it with the Miss Mortimers? I thought I had heard some such story about–”
“Ah, you’re thinking, ma’am, of Eden Hall, just the next property,” said he.
“But was there never any claimant to the Park?” asked I, somewhat excited.
“No such thing,” said the man in black, “nor couldn’t be. Bless you, the family’s well known. There never was so much as a will-case, as I ever heard on; for why, you see, ma’am, there never was such a plenty of children to make quarrels. When there’s but two or so, there’s little can come of quarrelling. No, no! there never was no strange claimant to our estate.”
“To your estate, did you say?” cried I, in amazement.
“No, ma’am, no—no such presumption. I said our, and sure I might; I’ve been with the ladies this fifty year.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed, much dismayed. This was certainly coming to the very head-quarters for information. This was no local preacher after all, but only the Miss Mortimers’ majordomo. If there had been any possible excuse for it, I should certainly have got out of the omnibus immediately, so utterly confounded and taken aback did I feel. But as we were still some two miles out of Chester, and we were all tired, and baby cross and sleepy, I had to think better of it. However, in my consternation I fell into instant silence, and felt really afraid of meeting the man’s eye. He sat opposite me, beside Lizzie, very respectful and quiet, and by no means obtruding himself upon my notice. I cannot tell how shocked and affronted and angry I felt with myself. I had, I suppose, like most people of my condition, a sort of horror of men-servants, a sort of resentful humiliation in feeling that I had mistaken one of that class for an ordinary fellow-traveller, a frightened idea of what Harry would think to hear of his wife sitting in an omnibus beside Miss Mortimer’s man. Altogether I was sadly discomfited and beaten. The Miss Mortimers had got the better of me at every hand; and I was entirely humiliated and cast down by this last blow of all.
The interval was quite tedious and oppressive till we arrived in Chester. Seeing me look at another house unconsciously as we passed, the man, most kindly and good-humouredly, I am sure, after my sudden withdrawal from the conversation, mentioned its name. “That is Dee-sands, ma’am, the mayor o’ Chester’s place. It ain’t within sight of the Dee, and there’s none of them sands near here, but they do say it’s named after a song,” said the good-natured cicerone. “Oh!” said I again, shrinking back into my corner. He looked at me rather closely after this, muttering something that sounded like “No offence!” and leaned back also, a little affronted. It did not occur to me that I was only drawing his attention to what I had said before by this sudden reserve. I took care to show no more interest in the wayside villas, and sprang out with a great sense of relief when we reached the end of our journey. Happening to glance back when I had reached our own door, I saw that the omnibus had been delayed by numerous descents from the roof, and was still standing where we had left it, and that Miss Mortimer’s man had put his head out of one of the windows, and was watching where I went to. This circumstance made me enter with great haste and trepidation. Now, above all, I had been found out; and if ever any one felt like a traitor and a spy, it was surely me, stumbling back from that unsuccessful enterprise across the threshold of Mrs. Goldsworthy’s house.
The door was opened to us too alertly to be done by anybody but Domenico; and it was Domenico accordingly, in his vast expanse of shirt sleeves. It was quite a comfort to see his beaming, unconscious face. “The time is fine,” said Domenico; “it pleases to the signora to make promenade? Ah, bravo! the piccolo signore grow like tree.”
This was in reference to baby, who crowed at him and held out his arms, and whom Domenico freely called piccolo and piccolino, at first somewhat to my indignation; but I confess the good fellow’s voice and looks, and the way baby stretched out to him, out of poor Lizzie’s tired arms, was quite consolatory and refreshing to me. It is easy to get a feeling of home to a place, surely. It was only lodgings, and Domenico was a foreigner, and I had not the ghost of an early association with the little insignificant house; but I cannot tell you what a sense of ease and protection came upon me the very moment I was within the door.
Upstairs on the table lay a letter. We got so few letters that I was surprised, and took it up immediately, and with still greater surprise found it to be from Sara Cresswell, lamenting over not having found me, wondering where I could have gone, and concluding with a solemn invitation to dinner in her father’s name. “Papa is so anxious to see Mr. Langham and you,” wrote Sara, “and to talk over things. I have been obliged to obey him for once, and not to go or write out to dear godmamma till he has seen you. If you don’t come he will be so dreadfully disappointed; indeed, I am quite sure if you don’t come he will go to see you. I can’t suppose you will be able to resist such a threat as that. Send me a word, please, directly. I shall be quite wretched till I know.”
This revived all my excitement, as may be supposed; there must be something in it after all, and surely, instead of Harry going to his office to seek him, it would be much better to meet at his house, and with an evening’s leisure too; for Sara had taken care to add that nobody else was to be there. The earnestness of this invitation seemed so entirely contradictory to all that I had heard to-day, that the wildest vague suspicions of mystery began to break upon my mind. To be sure, bakers and butlers were not likely to be in the secret. Mr. Cresswell knew all about it; and here was he seeking us entirely of his own accord! Once more all my dazzled ambitious dreams came back again; I forgot my failure and sense of treachery—I was no traitor—it was only my rights that I had been thinking of; and they were not pathetic possible victims, but triumphant usurpers, who now had possession of the Park.
Chapter XII
I HAD managed to regain my spirits entirely before Harry returned: if anything, indeed, I think this revival of all my fancies, after my disappointment and annoyance, had stimulated me more than before. It was a beautiful April evening, quite warm and summer-like, and there had just been such a sunset, visible out of the front windows, as would have gone far at any time to reconcile me to things in general. I was sitting in the little drawing-room alone, with baby Harry in my lap, much delighted to find that he could stand by my side for half a minute all by himself, and rewarding him with kisses for the exhibition of that accomplishment. I was tired after my long walk, and felt it delicious rest to lean back in that chair and watch the light gradually fading out of the sky, free to think my own thoughts, yet always with the sweet accompaniment of baby’s inarticulate little syllables, and touches of his soft small fingers. I remember that moment like a moment detached out of my life. My heart had rebounded higher out of its despondency. Who could tell what a bright future that might be on the very brink of which we trembled? And I, whom Harry had married so foolishly, it was I who was to bring this wealth to my husband and my child. It was pleasant thinking in that stir of hope, in that calm of evening, sitting listening for Harry’s step on the stair. The light grew less and less in the two front windows, and the open door of communication between the two rooms brought in a long line of grey luminous sky from the east into my twilight picture. And I had so much to tell Harry. Ah, there at last was his foot upon the stair!
He came in, not to the room in which I was, but to the other, and gave a glance round to see if I was there; then, not seeing me, instead of calling out for “Milly darling,” as he always did, Harry threw his cap on the table, and dropped heavily into a chair, with a long sigh—a strange sigh, half relieved, half impatient—the sigh of something on his mind. I can see the half-open door, the long gleam of the eastern window, the scarcely visible figure dropped into that chair—I can see them all as clearly as at that moment. I stumbled up unawares, gathered baby into my arms I cannot tell how, and was at his side in a moment. My own voice sounded foreign to my ears as I cried out, “Harry, what is it? tell me!” Nothing else would come from my lips.
He rose too—the attitude of rest was not possible at such a time; he came and held the child and me close to him, making me lean on him. “It is nothing more than we expected,” he said, “Milly darling. It is only to have a heart—you are a soldier’s wife.”
I knew without any more words. I stood within his arm, silent, desperate, holding my dear frightened baby tight, too tight. Ah, God help us! In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, as the Bible says, out of the happiest flutter of hope into that cold, desperate, hopeless darkness. I could have fancied I was standing on a battlefield, with the cold, cold wind blowing over us. I made no outcry or appeal; my heart only leaped with a start of agony at the worst, at the last conclusion. We were not within his sheltering arm—he young, and strong, and safe—but looking for him—looking for him on that black, dead battlefield!