The Last of the Mortimers: A Story in Two Voices

Chapter V.

I FELT ill and shaken all the rest of that day. It was some time before they would let me get up from the sofa, and I quite remember how very strange it was to lie there in the great daylight room, with the sky looming in through the great window, and to watch, always so close by, and yet so distant, that screen which was drawn out by the side of the fire. I could not keep my eyes from that harmless piece of furniture. Aunt Milly kept coming and going, constantly talking to cheer me up, and bring things to show me. But no sound came from the screen. There, in that little space, shut off and shaded out of the centre of her home, sat the woman who already fascinated me with an influence I could not explain. Without knowing what I was doing—indeed, even I may say against my will,—strange recollections of stories I had read came up to my mind; about people in masks going whispering through an evil life, about the veiled prophet in the poem, about secret hidden creatures suspected of all manner of harm, but never found out, or betrayed. There she was, within three paces of me, concealed and silent,—or was it not rather watchful, lurking, with her bloodless smile and her shut up heart? My imagination, perhaps, is always too active; somehow it quite overpowered me that day. It seized upon Miss Sarah Mortimer’s looks and her voice, and the strange separation which she made by that screen between herself and the world. She was different—entirely different—from that old ghastly Miss Mortimer whom I used to dream of in my grandfather’s house; that one with her hair all mixed with grey, and her dark careless dress, sitting by the fire with the ghosts of the past about her, was a pleasant recollection in face of this. The great beauty, deserted of all the world and fallen into solitude, had something pathetic in her loneliness. But behind that screen there was no pathos that I could see; nothing human, I had almost said. What folly to speak so! To anybody’s eyes but mine, I daresay there was only an old lady very prettily and carefully dressed, everything about her looking as if it were intended to repeat and reproduce the effect of her white hair; soft colours with clouds of something white coming over them. But I could not look at her in that way. I was in awe and afraid when I looked at the screen. It was a comfort to get out of the room, to go upstairs, where after a while Aunt Milly took me. But I could not forget her even upstairs. There she sat in her armchair, stony-eyed, knitting like one of the Fates,—or was it spin they did?—and that screen drawing a magical, dreadful shadow round her chair.

Aunt Milly had prepared our rooms for us with the greatest care, that was very evident. There was the daintiest little bed for baby, all new and fresh, evidently bought for him, and quite a basketful of new toys, which already he was doing his best to pull all to pieces. Oh, such bright, luxurious rooms! I felt my heart grow a little cold as I looked at them. Neither Harry nor Aunt Milly had said a word to me on the subject. They thought they could deceive me, I suppose; but the moment I saw these apartments, don’t you think I could see what they were planned out for? I was to be taken there when he went away.

“And, my dear, what do you think of your Aunt Sarah?” said her kind sister, looking rather wistfully into my face.

I was so foolish that I was half afraid to answer. How could I tell that our words were not heard behind the screen yonder? And as for meeting her eyes I could not have done that for the world.

“But you know she is not my Aunt Sarah,” said I. “It is a love name, dear Aunt Milly. I—I don’t know Miss Mortimer yet; you must let me keep it for you.”

“Hush! you have not known me much longer!” cried Aunt Milly, “No such thing, child! we are both the same relation to you. Poor dear Sarah! I forgot to tell you about her voice. Isn’t it very sad she should have lost her beautiful voice? She is very clever too, Milly,” said Aunt Milly, with a sigh. “When you know her better you will admire her very much.”

“But you know she jilted poor papa,” said I, trying to laugh and shake off my dread of the veiled woman downstairs.

“My dear! she jilted half the county!” said Aunt Milly, rather solemnly and not without a little pride. “Your Aunt Sarah was the greatest beauty that ever was seen when she was as young as you.”

This speech made me smile in spite of myself. Dear Aunt Milly, perhaps, had been a little slighted by the county. She had no compunction about her sister’s prowess. I don’t know that I felt very sorry for her victims myself, even poor papa, I fear. But, ah me! what kind of a woman was this, I wonder, that had been an enchantress in her day! She was an enchantress still. She charmed me, as a serpent, I could suppose, might charm some poor creature. I wonder if there was any pity in her, any feeling that there was a God and a heaven, and not merely the century-old ceiling with the Mortimers’ arms on it, over her where she sat? I don’t believe she cared. I don’t think there was anything in the world but her own will and inclination, whatever it might be, that ruled her in her dreadful solitude. I wonder when she looked across her knitting at such a human creature as Aunt Milly how she felt; whether it ever came into her head to wonder which of them was contrary to nature? But I don’t suppose Miss Mortimer cared anything about nature. In this wonderful world, all so throbbing with life and affection, I think she must have known nothing but herself.

Thinking like this, you may suppose I could not deceive Aunt Milly to make her think I admired her sister. I kept off speaking of her; which, of course, though not quite so unpleasant, tells one’s mind clearly enough. Aunt Milly gave a little sigh.

“My dear, I see you don’t take to Sarah just at once. I was in hopes if you had taken to each other she might, perhaps, have told you something of what is on her mind. Because, you know, after all we have heard, something must be on her mind, whether she shows it or not. I am afraid it is all beginning again now, Milly; but somehow she hasn’t let her courage down as she did when that young man was about before. I suppose she’s more prepared now. She drove out quite calm yesterday, just as usual; though Mr. Luigi’s servant was out here with a letter the very day I saw his master at your house.”

“So I heard,” said I.

“So you heard! Dear! How did you hear? I know things spread in the most dreadful way,” said Aunt Milly, in great distress; “but to think that should have reached Chester already! What did you hear?”

“I heard it only from Lizzie, my little maid,” said I, pointing to the door of the other room. “Mr. Luigi’s servant and she are great friends.”

Aunt Milly followed the movement of my hand with her eyes, a little awe-stricken. “She must speak his language, for he knows no English,” she said, with involuntary respect. “But dear, dear, she’s only a child! To be sure she’ll go and publish it all in the servants’ hall. But speaking of that, my dear, you ought to have a proper nurse. I felt very nervous about baby when I saw her carrying him. She may be big, you know, but she’s only a child.”

Here Lizzie, either because she had heard us, or by some sudden impulse of her own, knocked pretty loud at the door. I went to it a little timidly, rather apprehensive that she had been listening, and meant to defend herself. I did Lizzie great injustice however. She was standing in a paroxysm of joyful impatience on the other side of the door. I don’t believe the most injurious expression applied to herself could have reached Lizzie’s ears at that moment. She had her great arms stretched out, stooping over little Harry. Her face was perfectly radiant and flushed with delight. On they came, baby tottering on his own little limbs, half triumphant, half terrified, Lizzie with her wings spread out, ready to snatch him up the moment he faltered. Anybody may imagine what I did. I dropped down on the floor and held out my arms to him, and forgot all my troubles for the moment. When he came tottering into my arms, the touch of his little hands swept all the cares and sorrows out of the world. It was not for long. But a minute’s joy is a wonderful cordial; it strengthens one’s heart.

“And oh, mem!” cried Lizzie, lifting her apron to her eyes, “the Captain’ll see him afore he gangs away!”

“Go and fetch him,” cried Aunt Milly, turning her out of the room. Aunt Milly was nearly as delighted as she was; but she saw it was hard upon me to be continually reminded that Harry was to be gone so soon. By way of putting it out of my mind, she began such a lecture about letting babies walk too soon, and about weak ankles and bowed legs and all kinds of horrors, that I snatched my boy up on my knee, and was as much alarmed as I had been overjoyed. When Harry came, and found me half frightened to allow baby to exhibit his new accomplishment, and Aunt Milly doing her best to soften down her own declarations, and convince me that she referred to babies in general, and not to my boy, he burst into fits of laughter. I rather think he kissed us all round, Aunt Milly and all. He was in very high spirits that day. It did not occur to him what a struggle I had come through before I overcame Miss Mortimer’s temptation; he was contented to think I had fainted from heat and excitement and all the fatigue I had been exposed to of late; and it was a comfort to him to have my real voluntary consent to his going away. Then this was to be my home, and here was my dear kind friend beside me. His heart rose, he laughed out his amusement and pleasure with the freedom of a young man in the height of his strength and hope. The sound startled the unaccustomed walls. I saw Aunt Milly look at him with a kind of delighted surprise and pleasure. Youth had not been here for long. I wondered did manhood, after Harry’s fashion of it, belong to the Mortimers at all? Many a day since, sitting in these silent rooms, the echo of Harry’s laugh has come back to me ringing like silver bells. Ah, hush! we shall all laugh when he comes back.

But when Lizzie came to take her charge, the expression of the girl’s face had completely changed. She took the child away with a certain frightened gravity that had a great effect upon me. Aunt Milly had left me by this time, and Harry had gone out to see the grounds, leaving me to rest. Resting was not very much in my way; of course I got up from the sofa the moment they were gone. What good would it do me, does anybody suppose, to lie there and murder myself with thinking? I went after Lizzie to ask her what was wrong. Lizzie was very slow to answer. There was “naething wrang; she wasna minding. The man in blacks had asked if she was the nurse or the nursery-maid. But it’s no my place to answer questions,” said Lizzie, with indignation, “and thae English they’re that saucy, they pretend they dinna ken what I’m saying. Eh, I would just like to let them ken, leddies and gentlemen ay ken grand what I’m saying! but they’ve nae education: ’Menico says that himsel’.”

“But what does ’Menico know about education, Lizzie?” said I.

Lizzie looked much affronted. “He mayna maybe ken English,” she said, “but he may be a good scholar for a’ that. The tither maids just gape and cry La! when he takes the dictionary, and laugh at every word he says. He says they’ve nae education, thae English. He’s no’ a common servant-man like that man in blacks. He kens a’ the gentlemen’s business and what he’s wantin’, and everything about it. Eh,” cried Lizzie, opening her eyes wide, and glancing behind her with involuntary caution, “do you think yon would be her?”

“Who?” said I. Was it possible that Lizzie knew?

“Mem!” said Lizzie, with national unconscious skill and the deepest earnestness, “do you think there’s ony witches in this country, like what there was lang syne?”

I was a little startled by the question; it brought back to my mind in an instant that extraordinary picture which had so great an effect on my own imagination,—the veiled woman at her knitting with the screen behind her chair.

“Or the Evil Eye,” continued Lizzie, with a little gasp of visionary terror; “oh dinna say, if ye please, that I’m to bring him into yon muckle room! for I would do some ill to the house, or her, or myself—and would be carried, and no ken what I was doing, if she put any of her cantrips upon our bairn!”

“Lizzie!” cried I, “child, you forget what you are saying, and where you are!”

“Oh no, no’ me!” cried Lizzie with vehement tears in her eyes; “but, Mem, it maun be her; there’s nae other leddy except our leddy in this house. And if I was never to say another word, she’s no canny; I ken she’s no canny, if it was only what Domenico says.”

“In the name of wonder what does Domenico say?” cried I, driven to despair by the wild words in which there was no meaning. I don’t believe she knew herself what the meaning was.

Lizzie stopped short and repeated, with a puzzled and troubled glance at me, “When it’s a long story it’s awfu’ fickle to ken,” she said, slowly; “but just that yon’s the leddy. Eh, I dinna ken what they ca’ her right, nor what ill-will they have at her; but ’Menico, he says—he says—Mem, you’ll no be angry, it wasna me,—he says she’s the deil himsel’.”

“Lizzie,” said I, in considerable agitation, “try to recollect; Miss Milly wants to know; what does Domenico say?”

Lizzie blushed, and made a long pause again. “You see it’s the Dictionary, Mem,” she said, with a sigh. “When he’s tired looking up the words, he just gi’es a great burst out in the Italian, and thinks he’s explained it a’. It’s awfu’ fickle when it’s a lang story; but just it’s her; and eh! I’m sure she’s no canny by what Domenico says.”

I had to be content with this very unsatisfactory conclusion. It was all Lizzie could give me,—it was her; and she was a dreaded mysterious person against whom the Italian was struggling in vain. I felt a strange thrill of curiosity, deeply as my own mind was pre-occupied. Was it a melodrama or a tragedy I was about to be present at? The crisis, whatever it might be, could not be long delayed. What part were we to play in it? why did she want Harry to stay? I did not say anything either to him or Aunt Milly of Lizzie’s communication or my own fancies; but it seemed to me somehow, when I passed through the rooms or along the passages that a certain tingling stillness, the pause before the storm, was closing round and round about the house.

Chapter VI.

Then I told her of the further particulars which had come under Lizzie’s observation, the letter returned and destroyed. Aunt Milly once more grew a good deal excited. She walked about the room with a troubled face, and many exclamations; but on the whole it gave her comfort. “My dear, she can’t be afraid of him now,” said Aunt Milly; and with this piece of consolation she went away strengthened to her many businesses, for everything evidently is in her hands. That eldest sister of hers, whom I cannot call by any name of love, takes no share in anything. When she does talk, she talks as if she were the sole mistress and ruler of the house; but Aunt Milly, though I understand they are quite equal in their rights, has all the trouble. It is very strange, but I could not feel so comfortable about her sending back that letter as Aunt Milly did. To tell the plain truth, a very distinct suspicion had entered into my mind about her. It flashed upon me when Mr. Luigi was speaking of her, and it grew stronger and stronger every hour I spent in the same room, though how it could be, was more than by any amount of thinking I could divine. I will not say what my fancy was; I was always too imaginative. I don’t want to commit myself till I see whether anything will occur to bear me out.

The next day was wet, and I had abundant means of seeing Miss Mortimer. I think my foolish faint that first day had quite settled me in her opinion. She saw I was a nobody from that moment. Accordingly all that rainy afternoon I sat by her in the strangest unsocial way. The fire was still kept up, though the weather was warm; and Aunt Milly had stationed me in her own easy chair, opposite her sister, and commanding the entire length of the room so that I could see who entered at the door, though Miss Mortimer could neither see or be seen by any one coming in. The five great windows were all very naked and bare, the curtains drawn back, and the blinds drawn up, according to Miss Mortimer’s fancy; she had always an amount of twilight at her command by movement of her screen. These five long lines of cold broad light, the cloudy sky looking full down upon us, and the blasts of rain driving against the cold transparent fence of glass which separated us from that outdoor world, where the early flowers hung their heads in the rain, and the shrubs cowered and drew together in the fitful gusts of wind, gave an extraordinary atmosphere to the picture. Then that long great mirror at the end of the room repeated the five windows in strange perspective, and reflected all the maze of space and crowd of furniture in bars of light and shadow; while here, in the centre, played the uncertain glow of the fire, much too warm, and making the air feel unnatural; and close before me sat Miss Mortimer with the screen carefully drawn round her chair. She had on her usual dress—her muslin scarf or shawl, I forget which, lined with pale blue silk, and ribbons of the same colour in her cap, and black lace mits upon her thin hands, which, when she happened to stop for a moment, she rubbed slowly before the fire. She did not talk to me. I understand it was very rarely she talked to any one. Silently, as if it were some weird work she was about, she knitted on; but sometimes, as I was conscious, lifted her eyes from her knitting, and continuing her work all the time, surveyed me as I sat helpless before her. Every time the door of the room happened to open she repeated this. I felt her stare at me, as she might have stared at a mirror, to see who had entered the room; and it is impossible to describe how I felt under that look. I durst not answer it by turning my eyes upon her; but looking past her at the door, as one naturally does when the door of the room opens—and knowing her gaze to be fixed on me, I faltered, I trembled, my face burned in spite of myself. This went on till, in desperation, I fairly answered her look; then my feelings changed. Those blue eyes, which must have paled and chilled with age, were gazing with a watchful dread in my face. It was not me she was looking at. Her hands went on, in their dreadful inhuman occupation, while she found in my face a reflection of who it was that went in, or out, by that door behind her. It might be a habit she had got into; but I could read in her eyes that she sat there in full expectation of somebody or something arriving suddenly, which might startle and distress everybody else, but which she knew. Again, I saw the same contrast which I had seen between Aunt Milly and Mr. Luigi. This woman, like the Italian, was in no perplexity. She was not confused with a mystery she could not comprehend, as Aunt Milly was. She knew something was coming, and what was coming, and was prepared to defend herself, and hide her shame to the death.

Hide her shame! oh, how do I dare say it; how could I venture to say that she had disgraced herself, or even to think so? There she sat, clothed in a double respect, even by reason of all that made her so unlovely and distasteful to me, the real great lady of the house, served by everybody, imagining herself quite supreme; the head of the house, though she transferred all the trouble of it to other shoulders; Miss Mortimer, of the Park, a spotless maiden lady, who might have been, as the common story went, had she chosen to marry, almost of any rank she pleased. All that I knew; but as I gazed at her, the wild sudden fancy that had seized me before, grew stronger and stronger. A kind of loathing took possession of me. Shame may be dreadful, must be dreadful; but to deserve it, and yet to escape it—to know one’s self guilty, and fight all one’s life against the penalty—to shut one’s self up, heart and voice, like that in a corner, waiting for the discovery and exposure which has become inevitable—and resolute by every lie and expedient of falsehood to resist and baffle it—the sight was hideous to me. I turned away from her with a feeling of sickness—then in the impulse of the moment I spoke.

“Should not you like to take this seat, Miss Mortimer, if you wish to see who comes in at the door?”

“How do you know,” she cried, in her strangled voice, “that I wish to see who comes in at the door?”

“I can see it in your eyes,” said I. I could not help a little shudder as I spoke. Her only answer was to draw a little further back into the twilight of her screen. I don’t think she looked at me again; but she did something else when Ellis came in the next time, which was quite as characteristic. She listened visibly, with an extraordinary intentness; her knitting stopped, though her eyes were bent on it. I could fancy she must have heard the very vibration of the man’s foot upon the floor, and satisfied herself by its sound what it was.

“Miss Milly’s compliments, ma’am, and will you please step into the library a moment,” said Ellis to me.

“Who’s in the library, eh?” interrupted Miss Mortimer, before I could speak.

Ellis faced round upon her slowly, with evident surprise: “I don’t know as it’s nobody, ma’am,” said the man; “Miss Milly has something to show the young lady.”

“Who’s in the house? why don’t you answer me? You are making up a story,” cried Miss Mortimer, almost with a shriek.

“Nobody, as I know on, but the Captain, as is in the stables, ma’am, looking at the colt,” said Ellis, doggedly, “and Miss Milly, as is waiting in the library for the young lady, with some pictures to show to her, as it looked to me; nor likely to come neither on such a day.”

Instead of resenting this speech as I supposed, Miss Mortimer smiled to herself with a nod. She gave a glance out from her screen at the blank of cloudy sky and the falling rain. It seemed to soothe her somehow. She relapsed back again, and resumed her knitting, without looking at or speaking to me. Did it relieve her to be told that nobody was likely to come on such a day? Could she imagine a spring shower was motive enough to keep the avenging truth away? I cannot tell. Who could tell? I might be wronging her cruelly to think of any avenger on his way. But I left the room, leaving her there with the blank clouds and rain, with the solitary gleam of the decaying fire, in the heavy silence and broad light of the vast room. She was standing at bay, grim and desperate; but she could actually imagine that the fate which pursued her would be kept away by the April shower! I cannot express all the wonder, pity, and horror that come over my heart—such strange, strange, inconsequent blendings of the dreadful and the foolish were not in any philosophy of mine.

Chapter VII.

The door bell at the Park was a peculiar one—it had a solemn cathedral sort of sound that rolled through the whole house, and it was only used by strangers or visitors on ceremony. Both of us started violently when we heard it; it came upon our consultations like a sudden alarm of battle.

“It rains as bad as ever; on such a day who can ring the great bell at our door?” cried Aunt Milly. “God help us! if my father walked in at that door, I should not feel it was anything out of the way. Nothing would surprise me now.”

I could not make her any answer. We both sat perfectly silent, waiting for what was to come. As if to heighten the excitement of the moment, the rain, which had been falling steadily all day, suddenly became violent, and dashed against the windows in torrents. Through all this we could hear the great door opened and the sound of voices. My thoughts travelled into the great vacant drawing-room where these sounds could not fail to reach Miss Mortimer within her screen. What was she doing? Could she be sitting there still, dumb and desperate, listening but not looking, with a pride and resistance more dreadful in its self-control than the wildest passions! I trembled with suspense and wondering anxiety in spite of myself. As for Aunt Milly, the miniatures she was looking at fell out of her hands. She covered her eyes for an instant, and then lifted her scared and pallid face to the door, as if she could hear the approaching sounds better, for having her eyes fixed that way. There was a pause that I suppose did not endure a minute, but which looked like an hour. Then a soft tap at the door; then Ellis entered, looking half as pale and anxious as we did—vaguely frightened he could not tell how.

“Miss Milly,” he said, in a hasty troubled voice, “the gentleman is here as wants Miss Mortimer; what am I to do?”

The old mistress and the old servant looked at each other. The man did not know anything, but he knew the involuntary suspicion and dread that had somehow gathered about the house.

“What are we to do? God help us, Ellis, I know no more than the baby!” cried Aunt Milly under her breath.

She was carried by her excitement beyond her usual discretion. I interposed as I best could.

“Let it come to the crisis!” cried I, not being well aware what I said; “it must be best to know clearly Aunt Milly—hush!—recollect, you know nothing—let him go in.”

She made a convulsive pause and restrained herself; and then the usual keeping up of appearances recurred to her mind. “My sister’s voice! you know, Milly,” she said, turning to me as if with a kind of apology,—“who—who is it, Ellis?”

“It’s—it’s the foreign gentleman, ma’am,” said Ellis, with a sympathetic faltering of his voice.

“Then show him in to Miss Mortimer?” cried Aunt Milly with a gasp over the words. “You shouldn’t have spoken so, my dear,” she said as soon as he was gone, “servants have nothing to do with our private affairs. Dear, dear, it’s surely very cold. It’s the storm come on so suddenly—a hail-storm, I declare. Don’t you feel, Milly, how cold the air has grown?”

I made no answer, and she did not expect any. She went up close to the library door, and stood there as if listening, shivering now and then with the nervous chill of her own emotion. We heard the drawing-room door open and shut,—then silence, silence, something positive, not merely an absence of sound. I stood by the table trembling, fancying I saw the stranger pass, as if through a picture, up that empty-seeming room, with the cold chill daylight spying in, and the motionless, conscious creature who feared and yet defied him lurking behind that screen. Would she speak to him? If she did it would not be with that stifled whispering voice. What communication would pass between them? Would the old walls groan with some dark secret fatal to their honour? The very air tingled round us in the dead calm of the house. Surely it never was so noiseless before. As for Aunt Milly, she stood before me shivering at the door, sometimes putting her hand upon the lock, then drawing back in irresolute terror. This lasted for some time, though most likely for not half so long as I imagined it did; then she turned to me, wringing her hands and bursting out into tears and cries.

“I cannot leave her alone any longer, Milly,” she said in broken words. “I cannot desert her in time of need;” and made as though she would leave the room, and then returned and sank into a chair and hid her face in her hands.

She was entirely overwhelmed and broken down. All I could do for her, was to get a shawl which hung over the sofa, and wrap it round her. All this had been too much for her strength.

In the midst of our suspense, Harry came suddenly in upon us. The sound of his honest frank step ringing into the library, startled me back to life again, and even Aunt Milly lifted up her blanched face expecting him to bring some news. Harry looked startled and curious, and did not grow less so as he looked at our agitated faces.

“What is the matter, Milly?” he cried. “I passed the drawing-room windows just now, and looked in thinking to see you. Miss Mortimer was standing at a table looking over some papers, and by her side was Luigi, talking very earnestly. By Jove! to see them standing there you would have said they were mother and son.”

At these words Aunt Milly lifted up her head, listening,—but Harry’s expression did not seem to strike her; she held up her finger and cried “Hark!”

The silence was broken. A bell evidently rung—a door hastily opened—startled us all three standing together. “Shall Harry go after him?” cried I, seeing how it was and pointing Harry to the door; but Aunt Milly would not, or perhaps could not, suppose that the visitor was merely going away. She sprang up, crying, “She must be ill!” and rushed out of the library. I followed her, alarmed, but not for Miss Mortimer. I saw Luigi standing at the open door, just about to go out into the cold rainy world out of doors, but Aunt Milly did not see him. She rushed forward blindly into the room where she supposed her sister to be ill.

When I rushed in after her I found the usual positions of the two ladies much reversed. Miss Mortimer was standing between the fire and the window, looking at her sister with a certain fierce scorn. Aunt Milly had sunk down in utter exhaustion and bewilderment upon a large ottoman. The two were looking at each other, Aunt Milly all trembling, pallid, and anxious. Miss Mortimer, with her head more erect than usual, her muslin mantle hanging back from her shoulders, her attitude very rigid and exact, and no symptom of excitement about her, save in the slight hurried incessant movement of her head and hands. A mere spectator would have said she was the judge and the other the culprit. It was an extraordinary scene.

“What did he say? Who is he? What does he want? Sarah, tell me for the love of heaven,” cried Aunt Milly in her agony of distress and terror.

“Who is he? I am not a girl to distinguish any one person by that name,” said Miss Mortimer.

Then she went back steadily to her chair, and sat down in it and took up her knitting.

“Any one who thinks to surprise me into speaking of my private affairs, is mistaken,” she said after a while. “Gossips like you may talk as they please; but what belongs to me is mine, and nobody in the world has a right to ask what I either do or say.”

That was all. She never opened her lips again that day. She sat there rigid, pretending to work; she did not work however. I noticed that to keep her hands and her head from excessive trembling was almost more than she was able for; but the day passed without any disclosure. I believe now she would die sooner than make any sign.

Chapter VIII.

THAT was a very miserable day. I cannot fancy a more uncomfortable position for a stranger than that of being thrust into some distressing family secret, almost immediately after his or her introduction to the family in which it exists. This was just what had happened to me. I was kept one way or the other between those two sisters all the day. Aunt Milly kept continually appealing to me with her eyes, for conversation would not keep up its fluctuating and feeble existence in presence of that figure within the shelter of the screen; and my unlucky position of confidante must have been so apparent that I should not have wondered at any degree of dislike or displeasure which Miss Mortimer could have shown me. She did not show any, however; I could discern no signs of aversion to me. What am I saying? I could discern no signs of any human feeling whatever in her appearance and behaviour that day. My impression was that the sole thing with which her mind was occupied, was the effort to keep her head steady, and overcome the nervous, tremulous motion which agitated her frame. It was a relic, it might be an evidence, of some unseen tempest. But I am firmly convinced that this was the subject of all her thoughts. I watched, I must confess, with intense curiosity, though as quietly as possible, that she might not see I was watching her, every movement she made. But she did not notice me; she scarcely noticed anybody; she was careless of what other people were thinking; what she laboured after, all that miserable, lingering, rainy night was to get the command of herself. She never ventured to unbend her attitude in the slightest degree. She set her teeth together sometimes, and made her face look ghastly; but she could not keep down that external symptom of the trouble or tempest within. Her head kept moving with an incessant tremble; her hands were too much agitated to pursue their work. She kept the knitting-pins in her fingers, and held them rigidly together, as if she were knitting, and sometimes made a few convulsive stitches, and dropt them again, and bent in a tragical dismal confusion over that trifling occupation of hers, which had grown so weird an adjunct of herself to me. I watched her with a certain horror and pity which I cannot describe. It was not her paltry wealth and lands she was defending; it was her honour and her life. There she sat a solitary desperate creature driven to bay, with dear Aunt Milly’s vague terrors and anxieties revolving about her; but conscious in herself of a misery and danger far transcending anything in her innocent sister’s thoughts. Life and honour! but I believed there was no way in this world to defend them but by unnatural falsehood, cruelty, and wrong, and that she did not shrink from these means of upholding herself. Perhaps even a virtuous struggle would have exercised less fascination, than the sight of that desperate guilty secret resistance. I could not keep my eyes from Miss Mortimer. There was something terrible to me in her convulsive efforts after stillness, and in the nervous motion which continually betrayed her, and which no exertions on her part could overcome.

But she sat out all the lengthy lingering hours of that evening, after dinner, for they departed from their usual customs at that time, and dined late out of compliment to Harry. We did try to talk a little, but Aunt Milly’s thoughts were all astray upon one subject, and she was continually breaking off in abrupt conclusions which irresistibly suggested the engrossing matter which she dared not enter upon. Miss Mortimer, meanwhile, attempted to read her Times; but whether it was that the rustle of the paper betrayed the trembling of her hands, or that her mind was unfit for reading anything, she soon laid the paper by, and resumed her pretence of working. You may suppose that Harry and I were not very much at our ease in this strange position of affairs. Almost everything that was said among us suggested a something which could not be said, yet which occupied everybody’s thoughts. Aunt Milly sat flushed and troubled opposite to her sister; her distressed perplexed look, the look of one totally at a loss and unable to offer any explanation even to herself; her glances, sometimes directing me to look at Miss Mortimer, sometimes appealing to me in vain for some suggestion which could throw light upon the subject, were enough of themselves to betray to any stranger the existence of some secret unhappiness in the house. Harry, who was not so much in Aunt Milly’s confidence as I was, kept appealing to me on the other side. What was it all about? I never wished so fervently for the conclusion of a day as I did for that; and yet there must be some extraordinary fascination in watching one’s fellow-creatures. I should not like to get fairly into that dreadful inhuman occupation which people called studying character. But I was so curious about Miss Mortimer that I could almost have liked to follow her to her own room, and watch, when she was no longer on her guard against other people, how she would look and what she would do. Would she faint, or cry out, or dash herself against the floor? or was she so accustomed to that dreadful secresy that she would not betray herself even to herself? She must have lived that dreadful hidden life, and locked up all she knew in her own breast for a lifetime; for a longer lifetime than mine.

“I wonder,” said Henry, when we were alone that evening, “what sort of a person this Miss Mortimer is. Something’s wrong clearly. I suspect there must be something in the old lady’s life which will not bear the light of day.”

“What makes you think so?” said I.

“The t’other old lady and you play into each other’s hands,” cried Harry; “you know more about it than you choose to tell. But of course you are right enough if it is somebody else’s secret; only recollect, Milly, I am very glad you should be an heiress; I am extremely glad you will have a house to receive you while I am away, and that come what may, that little beggar is provided for; but look here, if there’s another relation nearer than you, legitimate or illegitimate, I won’t stand by and see him wronged.”

“Harry, tell me what you mean,” cried I.

Harry looked at me a little indignantly; he thought I knew more than he did, and was trifling with him. “Milly, who is that fellow Luigi?” he said at last.

“I make dreadful guesses,” said I, “but I cannot tell. Aunt Milly knows nothing about him. The only idea she can form is that he may be her father’s son.”

Harry gave a long, half amazed, incredulous whistle, and turned away. He could scarcely believe me. Then I told him all I had heard, and something of what I had guessed. We did not converse plainly about this guess, which he had evidently jumped at as well as myself. A secret held with such dreadful tenacity was not a thing to be lightly discussed; but we both felt the same on the subject, only Harry’s mind took a more charitable view of it than I did. They say we are always harder on guilty women than men are; perhaps it is natural. I felt an abhorrence rise within me which I could neither overcome nor disguise at the idea of a woman, and especially a woman in such a position as Miss Mortimer, having lived a pretended life of honour and innocence all these years, with that guilt in her mind which nobody knew but she; and now of her sacrificing and disowning nature to keep up that dreadful sham. I can understand people meeting death rather than disgrace; that is, I mean I could understand how one would rather hear that those whom one loves should die than disgrace themselves; but I don’t understand an insane struggle against the disgrace which one has deserved. That is not a noble struggle, so far as I can see; the only way of existing through such dreadful circumstances would be by enduring it; and all the same whether it was a woman or a man. I do think it is a shame to speak as some people speak on this subject, as if the disgrace were all; as if all the harm was not done when the wrong was done, whether disgrace came or no!

“I’ll tell you what, Milly,” said Harry, “I must say I think it’s very hard the poor old lady should lose her good name for something that happened an age ago. No doubt, by what we saw to-day, she must have set her poor old heart upon resisting and denying it, as foolish people always try to do. Now, you know, that’s evidently of no use. Of course a mere statement of any such claim having been made, is enough to finish Miss Mortimer, with all the gossips of the county, whether it was proved or not. Now I shan’t be here for long, and as they seem disposed to be so very kind to you——”

“Don’t, Harry!”

“But I must,” said he. “It will be no end of consolation to me to think of you in these pretty rooms which Miss Milly has already prepared for you. If I can do them a good turn before I go, I will, you may depend upon it. As soon as we return to Chester I’ll see Luigi; and if it can be got out of him what he wants, I shall certainly make an effort to have him satisfied, and Miss Mortimer left unmolested. It would not do if sins of thirty years standing were to be brought against people in this way. Why, anybody might be thrown into sudden shame on such a principle; and you women, you know, are so vindictive and all that——”

“Oh, yes! I know,” said I, “and will always be vindictive all the same. Imagine this woman standing side by side with Aunt Milly, and considered as spotless as she; imagine such a long cruel abominable sin, and no retribution overtaking it! Oh, you may be pitiful if you like, but it disgusts me.”

Harry laughed. “I should be surprised if it did not disgust you, Milly darling,” he said, “but poetic justice is exploded now-a-days. I don’t suppose Luigi can be very anxious for her personal affection, considering how she seems to have behaved; and, indeed, to be sure he would be fully more disgraced than she. How many days are we to be here? I shall see him whenever we return to Chester.”

“Three days longer,” said I, with a sigh. “Somehow this little visit to the Park had come to look like a little barrier between me and what was coming. Presently we should go back to Chester, and then——”

Harry understood my sigh. He repeated the very words I was saying in my mind. “And then——” said Harry, “and then, darling, to see which of us two is bravest! But it will come hardest upon you, my poor little wife.”

“Harry,” cried I, “don’t speak!” and I went away, and would have no more of such talk. It was enough that it was coming; it would be enough when it came.

Perhaps the last few words of this conversation were not the best preparation possible for sleep. I know I awoke a great many times during that long dark night, and once in its deepest darkness and stillness I fancied I heard a groan faintly sounding through the wall. Miss Mortimer’s rooms were near ours. This sound set all my imagination busy again. It was she who groaned under that veil of night. She, so dreadfully on her guard all day long, who relieved her miserable heart thus when nobody watched her. It was impossible not to feel excited in the neighbourhood of such mysterious secrecy. The sound of that groan moved me to pity;—she had not escaped without retribution. Was not that dread of the consequences under which she was suffering, worse than the very hardest shape the consequences were likely to assume, if they themselves ever overtook the sinner?

Chapter IX.

I could not help thinking so as I sat beside her. Her head still trembled slightly; but I suppose that was an habitual motion. She sat there shut up in herself,—her misery and her relief, and the cold dauntless spirit that must have risen from that smart encounter yesterday, and gained strength by the very struggle—hidden from everybody round her, as if they had been a world away. I gazed and wondered, almost trembled, at that extraordinary death in life. She who had all the tumult of passion and guilt in her memory; she who must have entered into the fullest excitement of life, and got entangled in its most dreadful perplexities; she who was no ascetic, nor even pretended to that rival excitement of the devotee which might have replaced the other; how could she have lived silent and obdurate through those dreadful years? The very thought of them struck me aghast. After her life of flattery, admiration, and universal homage; after her experience, whatever that might be, of more personal passions, to drop for a longer time than my whole life behind that screen into that chair! As I sat opposite to her, my thoughts turned back to that other Miss Mortimer, whom I had placed in imagination in my grandfather’s house. Once more I thought I could see that large low room which I never had seen, except in fancy, with the ancient beauty sitting silent by the fire amid the ghosts of the past. Was this the true impersonation of that dream of mine? Was this the Miss Mortimer, with her foreign count, whom Mrs. Saltoun remembered? As this recurred to me I could scarcely help a little start of quickened curiosity and eagerness. It seemed to flicker before me as a possible interpretation of all this dark enigma, could only the connecting link be found. As I was wandering deeper and deeper into these thoughts—so deep as to forget the strange position I stood in, and the possibility of being taken for a kind of domestic spy, which had embarrassed me at first—I heard a little commotion outside. The door, perhaps, was ajar, or it might be simply that my ears were quickened by hearing a little cry from baby, and Lizzie’s voice belligerent and full of determination. I got up hastily and went to the door. I don’t think Miss Mortimer even lifted her eyes to notice my movement. It was certainly Lizzie in some conflict with one of the authorities of the house; and Lizzie, as the natural and primitive method of asserting her own way, had unconsciously elevated her voice; a proceeding which alarmed baby, and also, as it appeared, her antagonist. I ran and threw the door open as I heard another cry from my little boy. There, outside, was a curious scene. Lizzie, in her out-of-doors dress, just returned from a walk in the garden with baby, with her face a little flushed, and her plentiful hair somewhat blown about by the wind, was resolutely pressing forward to enter the drawing-room, where, to be sure, she had no business to come; while holding her back by her cloak, and whispering threats and dissuasions, was a person whom I had scarcely seen before, but whom I knew at once to be Carson, Miss Mortimer’s maid. Lizzie was greatly excited; and what with managing the baby and resisting this woman, while at the same time possessed with some mission which she was evidently determined to perform, looked fatigued and exhausted too.

“But I will,” cried Lizzie, with her eyes flashing. “I’m no heeding whether it’s my place or no. I promised I would gi’e it into her ain very hand; and do ye think I’m gaun back o’ my word? I tell ye I will gie’t to the leddy mysel’. Eh, mem!” she exclaimed, breathlessly, with a sudden change of her tone as she saw me, “I met Menico at the gate, and I promised to gi’e it into the leddy’s ain hand.”

When I approached, Carson fell back; she shrank, I could fancy, from meeting my eyes. Her hand dropped from Lizzie’s cloak; she was as much afraid to be supposed to interfere as she was anxious to interfere in reality.

“My missis’s nerves, ma’am,” said Carson, glibly, but in a half whisper, “is not as strong as might be wished. If the young person, ma’am, would give it to me, or——. You see the ladies at the Park they’re known for charity, and beggars’ letters, or such like, they’re too excitin’ for my missis’; they puts her all in a tremble—it’s on her nerves.”

“But, mem,” cried Lizzie, “I canna go back o’ my word.”

I stood between them, much perplexed and bewildered. The anxiety of Miss Mortimer’s maid was evident; and Lizzie, from whose arms baby had instantly struggled as soon as he saw me, was greatly excited. At this moment she produced the letter which was in question. Carson made a stealthy spring to seize it, but recollecting herself, drew back, and looked up guilty, but deprecating in my face. I don’t know whether it was a desire to clear up the mystery, or the cruel curiosity of an observer of character that decided me. I dismissed Carson coldly, saying I would ring if Miss Mortimer wanted her, and told Lizzie to follow me into the room. Lizzie’s excitement sank into awe as she trod softly through this great, faded, magnificent apartment. Before she reached the screen which sheltered Miss Mortimer, she was almost speechless with half superstitious reverence. I am sure she would willingly have given her letter to Carson or anybody at that moment. The very fact that the person she was about to confront was thus concealed from her overawed her simple mind. When she actually emerged from behind the screen, and came in full sight of Miss Mortimer, Lizzie’s healthful face was perfectly colourless, and her frame trembling. The supreme awkwardness of the attitude into which she fell, the spasmodic rudeness with which she thrust out that hand that contained the letter, the fright and consternation visible in every twist of her person, would have been painfully ludicrous if there had been any time to observe it. Miss Mortimer raised her eyes and stared at the strange figure before her. Almost absurd as that figure was in its dismay and terror, her mind was not sufficiently at ease to be simply surprised. Any strange apparition had a right to appear before this woman in her intrenchments of dumb resistance. As I stood by looking on, I could understand the feeling which worked in her eyes. She was not surprised. No miracle could have surprised her. She was rather asking in her heart, “Who is this new assailant? Who will come next?”

“If ye please, it’s a letter,” said Lizzie, in a tremulous voice.

Miss Mortimer made no attempt to take the letter. She said, “Who are you?” with a strange curiosity; as if, amid all the powers that had a secret right to assail her in her conscious guiltiness, this was a new hobgoblin whom she could not well connect with the others. If there were any purgatory, I could fancy a poor soul there asking in the same tone the name of the new imp who came to torment it.

This was more than Lizzie could bear. I don’t know what perplexed terrors and superstitious ideas of evil influence brought back the blood to her cheeks. She trembled all over under that eye, which had suggested the idea of the Evil Eye to Lizzie, and to which she was determined never to expose “our bairn.” She must have endured a kind of martyrdom as she stood under its steady gaze. “Eh, me? I’m no onybody,” cried Lizzie, shivering with excitement; “it’s just a letter. I said I would gi’e it into the leddy’s own hand.”

Miss Mortimer turned upon me—on the child—on the very mirror on the further wall, a look of silent defiance; she seemed to look round to call upon the very apartment in which we sat to witness what she did. Then she took the letter from Lizzie’s rigid fingers, and with scarcely a motion, except of her hand, dropped it into the fire. After she had done it, she turned again to us with another steady look, and even with a smile; triumphant!—with a certain gleam of devilish satisfaction in her success, as if she had baffled us all once more. But in that very moment, while she still smiled, I could see her hold herself fast between the arms of her chair, to keep down the nervous tremor which seized her. That resisting, defying spirit was lodged in nothing stronger than a human frame. Her head shook, steadied, trembled again, with a force beyond all her power of control. With all that soul of successful evil in her face, her head shook as if with the palsy of extreme old age, and in spite of the most convulsive strenuous efforts to keep it still. I was nearly as much awe-struck as Lizzie. I stole out of sight of her as the girl did. Never was there such a picture! She could conquer nature, truth, and every human feeling; but she could not conquer those tremulous chords and threads of mortal flesh which refused to be in the conspiracy. She sat there dumbly defying every scrutiny, but with the smile growing fixed and ghastly on her face as she tried, with her utmost desperate feeble strength, and failed, to defy and overcome herself.

I asked Lizzie no questions as she came upstairs after me. I did not say anything to her when I heard her sobbing out her agitation in her own room. There was not a word said between us when she came refreshed by that little ebullition, and by the necessary arrangement of her wind-blown hair and dress, to take charge of little Harry. When I had given the child up to her, I went downstairs again, quite silent and eager. You may very well ask why. I cannot defend myself. I went down with no better motive than to watch Miss Mortimer, and see if anything more could be found out.

When I went into the room I saw nobody, but heard some voices and movement behind the screen. I believe if Miss Mortimer had been speaking in the ordinary human voice, I should not have heard her at that distance; but I did hear that strange stifled whisper almost as well as if it had been hissed into my ear.

“I must deny, deny, deny,” said the strange voice. “Don’t speak to me, you know nothing about it. It is the only strength I have.”

“But, oh! dear, dear, such a pretty young gentleman!” said the other speaker, in a tone of weeping but hopeless remonstrance.

“Let him prove his rights,” said Miss Mortimer.

I obeyed my instincts, and fled out of the room as I heard that she was stirring behind the screen. And I had not been mistaken in the guess I made. She came out a few minutes later, leaning on Carson’s arm, leaning heavily, with her head trembling like that of a palsied person; but her eyes full of that dreadful self-possession, knowledge and resistance. I trembled, too, as I stood aside to let her pass. She did not say anything, though she stared hard at me. The maid, though she did her best to make up her usual face when she saw me there, was evidently overpowered with anxiety and distress.

There was, then, one other individual who knew that secret—one creature who loved that dreadful old woman, and in whom she trusted. I could not help standing still to look after them as they went upstairs. Carson was very little younger than her mistress. She had a naturally anxious look, as well she might if she had been for years the depository of this secret. I could not help picturing their life to myself as they went upstairs: the innocent woman troubled and tearful, the guilty woman calm and immovable, but for that trembling of her frame which even her remorseless will was not strong enough to subdue. I could understand better now how she kept alive, and could preserve that frightful stillness of hers. Upstairs, in their own apartments, no doubt another life went on; a life of recollections and schemes which no one knew of, a life palpitating full of those past years of which Miss Mortimer gave no sign. That was how she kept herself alive. I could not do anything but stand still, watching them, as they went slowly up to that retirement, where the mask could be laid off and the veil drawn. When they were out of sight, I strayed into the great vacant drawing-room, unable to withdraw my thoughts from this strange pair. “I must deny, deny, deny!” That was the position she had taken. Could any one in existence—could Luigi, a sensitive and high-minded young man as he seemed to be—seek motherly love from such a woman as this? Motherly love! it was dreadful even in thought to apply such words to anything that could come from her. Shame only, shame to both. What motive could he have to go on seeking her? for Nature had evidently no place in her heart of stone.

Chapter X.

“Something he couldn’t tell? What do you mean, child? What sort of a connection could he have with our family that he couldn’t tell?” cried Miss Milly. “I see what you mean. He might be a natural son. Harry has put that into your head, now, for I am sure you never could have thought of it of yourself. Milly, Milly, it’s dreadful to say, but I’d be more thankful than I can tell you, to know that he was. I shouldn’t forget he was my father’s son all the same; he should be amply provided for—amply, my dear; ah, but it’s far too good news to be true; and, besides, what would Sarah care for him, if he were illegitimate? It could not hurt us in the least. Nothing, but what would be an injury to us, can explain Sarah’s looks. Don’t let us think of it any more, Milly. Come and show me, dear, what you’re going to wear to-night. I should like you to look pretty, though they are all old people; for they’re old friends as well. Come upstairs with me, and show me what you are to have on.”

I went, not without some trepidation, for I did not know what Aunt Milly would say when she knew I had nothing but white muslin. She did shake her head when she saw it spread out ready to put on. She even faltered forth some half questions as to what I had in my wardrobe, whether I had not a nice——; but there dear Aunt Milly stopped. She would not hurt my feelings whatever I might wear; and I don’t deny I felt a little mortified myself to see it laid out like a little girl’s best frock. However, I am thankful to say Harry never had an idea that it was not the very best thing I could wear.

“There are some lace flounces,” said Aunt Milly, half to herself, eyeing the poor white frock over again, “that might brighten it up a little;” then she turned round suddenly and kissed me by way of apology. “My dear, don’t be affronted, I’m sure you will look very pretty in it;—only I should have preferred, just for this one night,—but, to be sure, you never thought of bringing out all your things for such a short visit, and us such quiet people. Never mind, Milly dear, it will look very nice, I am sure. I have a very pretty scarf you shall wear thrown over it; it may not be quite in the fashion; but fine lace never goes out of fashion, you know. I mean to give it you anyhow; and here’s a little jewel-box, with some ornaments in it; I used to wear them myself when I was a girl, and I had them reset just for a little remembrance of this visit. Put them on, for my sake, to-night; and remember, dear, that what we’ve been talking about so much these few days is a family secret. If anybody should say anything that seems to touch on it, or should even mention Mr. Luigi’s name, don’t look as if you were conscious of anything. It may come to nothing, you know. I am very glad you like them, my dear. I am quite pleased I thought of it. But recollect, Milly, my love, to be on your guard.”

With these words she left me, running away from my thanks for her present. I was very much pleased with her present, and even at that moment, when people might suppose I had more serious things to think of, I must say it did give me a flutter of gratification to find bracelets in the jewel-box. How kind and thoughtful it was of Aunt Milly! I wonder if she knew I hadn’t any? I showed them to Lizzie, who thought anything so grand had never been seen, and to baby, who would have liked to have them to play with, and finally to Harry when he came in, and I had to prepare for our drive. Harry found some fault (of course) with their style, but was quite as pleased as I was. And, indeed, it was very good of him to be pleased, for I had almost to go down on my knees to him to keep him from buying me something of the kind when we came to Chester, and he naturally grudged that any one should give them to me but himself.

To think of me saying so much about such a small affair as bracelets, when things so much more important were surrounding us on every side! I am afraid to say it, but it is true, that when I went down into the drawing-room that evening I was thinking too much about my beautiful scarf and these same bracelets to notice, at the first moment, who was there. The first thing that brought me to myself was hearing the voice of Miss Mortimer behind her screen. I was so amazed that, instinctively, without giving any reason to myself for it, I pushed forward to see her. There she sat, that dreadful, wonderful witch of a woman—so far from being moved by any feeling of nature which might have led her to avoid the strangers, as innocent Aunt Milly supposed—sitting there as if on a throne, entirely assuming the part of mistress of the house, and receiving the homage of her guests. Evidently everybody was surprised—everybody had understood Miss Mortimer to have withdrawn from any but the most secluded life and I do not think I ever felt such a thrill of wonder and pity, and almost horror, as when, after all I had seen and noted, after her convulsive trembling and watchful readiness for any attack, after the way in which, this very day, she had retreated, stubborn but exhausted, upstairs, I saw her sitting here, in full evening dress, with jewels and ornaments; her watchful eyes gleaming stealthily round, and her ears alive to every sound.

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!”