Chapter X.

WHEN Harry came home that evening, I knew he had something to tell me; but after the first start was over, I felt sure it was not anything painful from the look of his face. I may venture to say now that he was a very handsome young man in those days; but the thing that first drew my heart to him was the way he always betrayed himself with his face. Whatever he was feeling or thinking, you could tell it by his eyes; and if he sometimes happened to say anything he did not think, as happens to everybody now and then, his eyes woke up to a kind of sly, half ashamed, half amused expression, and let you know he was fibbing in the oddest way in the world.

“I almost fell upon a discovery to-night,” said Harry. “What should you have thought, Milly darling, if I had brought you home word about your father and that estate you are to come heir to? I actually thought I was on the scent of it for ten minutes at least.”

“But it was a mistake,” said I, very quietly.

“I confess, so far, it was a mistake; but still we may hear something,” said Harry. “You have heard me talk of old Pendleton scores of times. Fancy how I looked when he began about Haworth, a little town in Yorkshire, all sorts of stories, as if he knew all about it. After I had sat out a dozen anecdotes of other people, I asked him if he knew any Mortimers there. Oh yes, yes! he said briskly, old Mortimer lived in the brick house opposite the church; famous old fellow before he got so very rheumatic and useless—had a son about Pendleton’s own age. And here he shook his head: ‘Never did any good, sir! never did any good! Jilted in early life, and never got over it.’ You may suppose this made me prick up my ears.”

“My father!” said I.

“To be sure! it could not be anybody else; but it was your grandfather whom old Pendleton would keep talking of. I asked very closely all about him. It appears he only died about ten years ago; long after your father, Milly, and seems to have been tolerably rich, according to Pendleton. There’s none of the family remaining, Pendleton says. The red brick house is all falling to ruins; and how the money went, or{87} whether there was any money, he can’t tell. I have a strong idea of making some inquiries about it. Don’t you think it would be worth while?”

“It seems to me of late that you’re always thinking about money. Why is it?” said I. “Why should we go and trouble ourselves about people that have never inquired after us.”

“You simpleton!” cried Harry. “Who cares whether they like us or no; but that red brick cosy house for my Milly darling, and a little comfort to console her—it would take all the pricks out of my pillow when——”

“Don’t talk, Harry. I’ll not listen to you. I’ll have no inquiries made,” cried I, in desperation. “Every time I comfort myself a little you pull me back again. To-night I am very happy and content, and don’t care for your to-morrows. Be quiet and let my grandfather alone, if I ever had one. What do I care for him? He was either in debt and had no money to leave, or he was living on an annuity, or he endowed a hospital, or something. And the red brick house of course is in Chancery. Let the old gentleman alone. I’ll tell you about baby. He certainly noticed Mrs. Saltoun’s bird swinging in its cage to-day.”

“Nonsense! Pendleton is to write to his brother, who lives there, and ask for all the particulars. He says your grandfather was a character,” said Harry. “He belonged to some good family: Welsh, Pendleton thinks—but professed to scorn all that, and called his son after Arkwright, the cotton-spinner; that’s what the A. means in your father’s name. By Jove! I wouldn’t write myself Richard Arkwright if I could help it. What humbug it is giving fellows other people’s names! They must have had a fancy for it in those days. Guess what Pendleton’s own name is? He signs himself E. B. quite modestly. It’s Edmund Burke, upon my honour!”

“Well,” said I, “we have only got three names among us; and they are all simple enough.”

“Oh, so is Richard Arkwright when it’s a man’s own name,” said Harry. “Now what do you think of my discovery? I confess I think it’s something to know where one’s family belong to. If I could only have taken you to our dear old Rectory, Milly. What a pleasure it would have been to have thought of you there! I could have watched you all round every turn of the garden, although I had been at the other end of the world.”

“You are not going to the other end of the world; and we{88} have no claim upon the Rectory now, any more than on my grandfather,” said I. “Here is a cup of tea for you. Now do be content; and don’t talk, Harry; at least not on that subject. Of all the places in the world I like Edinburgh, a little to the south of the Castle, and close upon Bruntsfield Links.”

“You have no imagination, Milly,” said he. “However, we’ll hear what old Pendleton says; and if there is anything known about it I should be very much tempted, little as we have at present——”

“To throw our poor good money away,” cried I. “You who grudged baby his pretty hood! Oh, Harry, Harry, what wild fancies have you taken into your head?”

“To make my Milly a refuge when I’m away. Not so wild, after all,” he said to himself softly. I made a noise with my teacups, and would not hear him. It was hard work keeping cheerful when he would return and return to the same subject. Sometimes I trembled and wondered, with a sudden pang, was it a presentiment? But all the presentiments I ever heard of were sudden and did not last; and it was natural enough, too, that he should be anxious. If he did have to leave me, would not I work, or beg, or steal, or anything, to have everything comfortable for him? I forgave Harry for looking out for a home for his poor little wife; but yet every time he spoke of it, it went to my heart.

And I must say for myself that I never had the least hope either from my unknown relations or Harry’s. I could not believe in a grandfather, nor any cold strange people belonging to me. If I had friends they should have shown themselves friendly when I needed it most. Now I thought, in my pride, I did not want to know anything about them. I pictured to myself an old morose man, that would have nothing to say to his poor son’s only child. In my mind I took quite a prejudice against the very place, and dreamt all that night of a mouldy old red-brick house, with endless passages, and little steps now and then to throw one down and break one’s limbs in the darkness. Somehow, both Harry’s imagination and mine fixed on that old red-brick house. He thought it would be pleasant to settle me in such a place. I had the most frightful fancies about it. I could see myself going about the old grey faded rooms, and Harry away at the war. I could see a pale creature, that was me, go wringing her hands down the old staircase, and trembling at the window waiting for the post coming in. I could see dreadful shadows of scenes that might be when{89} the letters came, which I would not look at, but could not shut out of my heart. Harry did not think how he was torturing me when he spoke of that old red-brick house. It seemed, somehow, as if all my fears took solid form, and became real when they got a shelter to house themselves in. I grew superstitious, as most people do when their hearts are in great trouble. Going on from less to more I came to settle upon this as a token for evil. If anyhow, by any dreadful chance, something should come of it, and I should ever have that house in my power, then I should know that the light was to depart from me, and that I was to be set down, all by myself, and desolate, to wither down and pine to death where my hard-hearted grandfather had died. In my own mind, and without saying anything to anybody, I settled upon this sign; and grew so assured of it, just by fancying things, that, if I had heard that my grandfather had left me a fortune, and that we should be comfortable all the rest of our lives, I should have sunk down as if the intelligence was a blow. To be poor and happy, and have our own way to make, seemed just enough, somehow; and in my superstition I almost thought God would punish us for wanting more. I thought if wealth should possibly come, happiness would fly away. I made sure if Harry got his will it would be death to me. The thought of it put a new terror into my life. His going away was not now the first thing I was afraid of. I was afraid of his finding that home for me that he was so anxious about—that place where I could be comfortable without him. Every grief in the world came to be implied and suggested to my mind by the mention of that red-brick house.