Chapter XII.

ONE day after this Harry came in with a letter in his hand.

“Here is news, Milly, darling; not such news as we expected, but still news,” said he; “this is not how you are to become a great heiress, certainly; but still it’s interesting. It turns out, after, all, that your grandfather was not rich.”

“Oh! is it Mr. Pendleton’s letter?” said I.

“Pendleton’s brother has something to do with it,” said Harry, with a little excitement; “there was not much money—not any more than enough to pay the debts and give some presents to the old servants—but there is the house. They had no funds to employ in looking up the heir, and nobody cared to take much trouble. So there it stands falling to pieces. Look here, Milly; it’s yours, indisputably yours.”

“But how about Miss Mortimer?” cried I.

Harry stopped short all at once as he was opening the letter, and stared at me. “Miss Mortimer! who is she?” he said, in the most entire amazement. He might well look surprised: but I had so entirely made up my mind about her, and that she was living in the old house, that his question was quite a shock to me.

“Why, Miss Mortimer, to be sure,” I said, faltering a little; and then I could not help laughing at Harry’s astonished face.

“It appears that you know more than Mr. Pendleton does, Milly,” said he; “there is no Miss Mortimer here. I suppose you are only amusing yourself at my expense: but I really am quite in earnest. Mr. Mortimer’s house is entirely yours. He had no child but your father; you are the heir-at-law. I only wish there had been a Miss Mortimer. You may look displeased, Milly darling; but think if there had been a good old lady to take care of you while I’m away!”

“Oh, Harry, you don’t know what you are saying,” cried I; “that Miss Mortimer was an old witch and beauty. Mrs. Saltoun told me that if she should turn out to be a relation of mine, she would speak to you herself, to say that I must not on any account go there.”

“Go where? What Miss Mortimer are you speaking of?” said Harry, completely mystified.{96}

Then I had to confess that I knew nothing of her, and it was all imagination; and Harry shook it off quite lightly, and went on to talk of this house. As if I ever could, after all my fancies, put Miss Mortimer out of that house! As if she had not taken possession, a wonderful old ghost, always to live and reign there! And, moreover, my heart got quite chill within me as Harry spoke. This was my bad omen; this was the sign I had appointed with myself for the coming of every trouble. I got so pale, listening to him, that he was disturbed, and grew quite anxious. Was I ill? What was the matter with me? I said No, with a gasp, and let him go on. He read out of the letter all the description of this dreadful house; but I am sure I did not need any description. I saw it as clear as a picture; large rooms, to be sure, with great faded Turkey carpets on them! a low broad staircase, with myself coming down on the post-morning wringing my hands, and Miss Mortimer sitting all silent by the fire; a large old garden with mossy apple-trees, and a sun-dial somewhere about, some dozen bedrooms or so, all hushed and solemn, as if people had died there. I am not sure that I heard the words of Harry’s description; for what was she good? I saw it perfectly well in my mind, far clearer than I ever could have known it by words.

“And Harry,” cried I, with a start of despair, when he came to a pause, “would you really have me go to live in such a place—a place I never was in in all my life—a place I have no kind feeling about, nor pleasant thoughts—only because it was my grandfather’s house, whom I never saw, and who never cared to see me? I did not think you could have been so cruel. Besides, it would be far too expensive. Servants would have to be kept for it; and you must make up your mind that it would kill me.”

“But it might sell for a good price,” said Harry, “and I might get you a pretty cottage, where you pleased, with the money. I am going to write to old Pendleton to tell him who you are and all about it. You have had your own way with your first bit of fortune; but I should not at all wonder, Milly darling,” he said, laughing, “if you were to offer it, rent free, to your Aunt Connor, that she might find it a very eligible situation. After such a description, Mrs. Connor is not the woman to despise the red-brick house.”

“She might have it altogether, and welcome, for me,” said I. “Oh, Harry, I can’t help thinking it’s an ill omened place. I could never be happy there.”

“Who ever heard of an ill omen now-a-days?” said Harry,{97} “it’s a pagan fancy, Milly. For my part the idea rather captivates me. I should like to live in the house my good father was born in. My bridegroom uncle has it now. Don’t you think I had better write and tell him my little wife is an heiress? However, perhaps the best thing will be to try and sell the house.”

“Oh, much the best thing!” I said. That would be getting rid of it, at all events; and as Harry would not leave off talking of it, I persuaded him with all my might to get done with it so. We were both quite confident that we had only to say who we were and get it without any trouble. That, of course, was all very natural in me that knew nothing about things, but Harry might have known better. He was quite pleased and interested about it. I think he never was quite satisfied not to know who I belonged to; but now that he had hunted up my grandfather, he was quite comforted. And how he did talk of the pretty cottage he was to buy me! Sometimes it was to be in England, in his own county; which he naturally liked best of all places; sometimes near Edinburgh, where we were, because I was fond of it. Sometimes we took walks and looked at all the pretty little houses we could see. He had planned it out in his own mind, all the rooms it was to have, and used to study the upholsterer’s windows, and take me ever so far out of my way to see some pretty table or chair that had taken his fancy. He said if he could only see me settled, and know exactly what I was looking at, and all the things round me, it would be such a comfort when he went away.

This going away was kept so constantly before my mind that I could not forget it for a moment. I lived in a constant state of nervous expectation. Every day when he came in I went to meet him with a pang of fear in my heart. Such constant anxiety would have made a woman ill who had nothing to do; but I was full in the stream of life, and one thing counterbalanced another, and kept everything going. That must be the reason why people do get strength to bear so many things when they are in the midst of life. Young disengaged people would die of half the troubles that middle-aged, hard-labouring people have; but I had a daily dread returning every time Harry returned, and with a shiver of inexpressible relief put off my anxiety to the next day, when I found there was no news. All the evils of life seemed to crowd into that one possibility of Harry’s going away. It was not that I feared any positive harm coming to him, or had made up my mind that he{98} would not come back again; it was the sudden extinction of our bright troubled life that I looked forward to, the going out of our happiness. I did not seem to care where I should be, or what might happen after that time.

In the meantime Harry grew quite a man of business, and entered with something like enjoyment, I thought, into the pursuit of my grandfather’s house. He wrote to Aunt Connor for all the information that could be had about my father, and for the register of his marriage and my birth. He wrote a long letter to that Mr. Pendleton at Haworth, who had, as he said, something to do with it; and old Pendleton, the surgeon, came out to see me, and told me all he remembered about my father. That was not very much; the principal thing was, that he had heard of poor papa being jilted by a relation of his own, a great heiress—in Wales, he thought, but he could not tell where. Of course that must have been Sarah, in poor papa’s drawing, who was getting on the wrong side of her horse; and “he never did any more good,” Mr. Pendleton said. He lingered about at home for some time, and then went wandering about everywhere. He had a little money from his mother, just enough to keep him from being obliged to do anything; and the old surgeon burst out into an outcry about the evils of a little money, which quite frightened me. “When silly people leave a young man just as much as he can live on, they ruin him for life,” said old Mr. Pendleton. “Unless he’s a great genius there’s an end of him. Richard Mortimer, begging your pardon, was not a great genius, Mrs. Langham; but he might have been a good enough soldier, or doctor, or solicitor, or something; or a cotton-spinner, as his name inclined that way,—if it hadn’t been for his little bit of money. Langham, my boy, either have a great fortune or none at all; it will be all the better for your heir.”

“We’ll have a great fortune,” said Harry. “The first step must be to sell this red-brick house.”

Mr. Pendleton gave him an odd look. “There’s a saying about catching the hare first before you cook it,” said the doctor. “Make yourself quite sure they’ll give you a deal of trouble before they’ll let you take possession; and then there’s no end of money wanted for repairs. The last time I saw it, there was a hole that a man could pass through in the roof.”

Harry looked aghast at this new piece of information; nothing that I ever saw had such an effect upon Harry’s courage. He gazed with open eyes and mouth at the disenchanter {99}for a moment. I do think he could see the rain dropping in, and the wind blowing, and damp and decay spreading through the house just as clearly as I saw Miss Mortimer sitting by the fire, and myself going down the stairs. After that I used to think Harry was thinking of the house, whenever it rained much. He used to sigh, and look so grave, and say solemn things about the wet weather destroying property. And I cannot deny that I laughed. Altogether, this house kept us in talk and interest, and did a good deal to amuse us through this winter, which, without something to lighten it, would have passed very slowly, being so full of perpetual anxiety and fears.