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?”
If I had known ever so well what to tell her, and been as willing as I
was able, I would have been prevented by Harry’s coming in. He was
looking grave and perplexed. His interview with Luigi had not satisfied
_him_, any more than such a conversation had satisfied anybody else who
approached the Italian. Sara stopped short with the most violent blush
on her face when she saw him. She withdrew from me, and got into a
corner. She went to the window, and pretended to be looking out very
earnestly. She answered Harry’s salutation only over my shoulder. The
next moment she came whispering to me that it was time for her to go.
Evidently, however much she encouraged herself by our example, she could
not face Harry. She whispered, “Don’t tell!” and clenched her little
fist at me as she went away. Of course I only laughed at her; but it
appeared I did not need to tell Harry. He came upstairs, after seeing
her out, with a smile on his face.
“Has she been telling you what trouble she has got herself into? Oh,
don’t betray her secret,” said Harry. “I have just heard it from the
other side. Here are other two fools following our example, Milly. What
is to be done for them? It is worse, you know, in their case, as I took
pains to show Luigi. Mr. Cresswell is a different person from Aunt
Connor; and we two were equal in our poverty. I don’t approve,” said
Harry, with a laugh mingling in his gravity, “of such a thing as this.”
“And what did he say?” said I, thinking, no doubt, that my Harry’s
wisdom had made the Italian ashamed of himself.
Harry laughed again, but grew rather red. “Word for word what I used to
say when I was explaining to myself why I did not go and ask you from
your Aunt Connor. I hope they’ll have as good an issue as we have had,
Milly, darling,” said Harry, “But here’s some extraordinary mistake
again. Either we’re mistaken in our guess, which I can’t think possible,
or poor Luigi’s dreadfully mistaken in the laws of England and of
civilised life. Perhaps he thinks our being Protestants makes an end of
law. I can’t tell what he thinks, nor what to think of the whole
concern. He refuses my mediation, Milly; at least he tells me I am
wrong.”
“Wrong in what particular?” I asked eagerly.
Harry shook his head. “I can’t tell; but he will not hear of any
compensation, or of giving up his pursuit of that poor old lady. When
he saw what I meant he grew very hot and angry, and asked if I meant to
insult him, but afterwards said to himself, ‘It is in ignorance,’ with a
sort of magnanimity which would be simply ridiculous according to my
notion of the affair. They’ll have it out their own way, Milly. We can’t
interfere, that’s clear; only I wish there was some light thrown upon
it,” said Harry, “before I went away, that I might know what your
fortune is likely to be. What would you say if this grand Park of yours
turned out to be no inheritance for us at all?”
“I should not break my heart; but what _could_ he have to do with the
Park?” cried I. “If he were Mr. Mortimer’s son, why should Miss Mortimer
be so troubled about it? and how could he, if he is Miss Mortimer’s----”
“Hush, Milly; we don’t know anything about it. Let’s talk of our own
concerns,” said Harry, with a sigh. These words plunged me back again
into the mood from which Sara had roused me. The other things went like
shadows--this was the real life which belonged to us.