Chapter VII.

NEXT morning at breakfast I found a letter waiting me, in an unknown hand—an odd hand, not inelegant, but which somehow gave a kind of foreign look even to the honest English superscription. The address was odd, too. It was Miss Milla Mortimer, a very extraordinary sort of title for me, Millicent. That is the work of diminutives—they are apt to get misunderstood and metamorphosed into caricatures of names.

The letter inside was of a sufficiently odd description to correspond with the address; this is how it was expressed:—

“Madame,

“You will pardon me if I say Madame, when I perhaps should ought to say Mademoiselle. Madame will understand that the titles of honour, which differ in every country, do much of times puzzle a foreigner. Since I had the honour of making an encounter with Mademoiselle, I have more than once repeated my searches; and all in finding no one, it has come to me in the head to go to another place, where there may be better of prospects. I have, then, made the conclusion to go to Manchester, where I shall find, as they say, some countrymen, and will consult with their experience. There are much of places, they say, with Chester in the name. I go to make a little voyage among them. If I have the happiness to find the Contessa, I will take the liberty of making Madame aware of it. If it is to fail, I must submit. I shall return to Chester; and all in making my homage to Madame, will use the boldness of asking if anything of news respecting the Contessa may have come to her recollection. In all cases Madame will permit me to remember with gratitude her bounty to a stranger.

“Luigi S——.”

Sara and I were, as usual, alone at the breakfast-table, and to tell the truth, I prized this interval when Sarah’s eyes were not upon me, nor all the troublous matters conveyed in her looks present to my mind, as quite a holiday season,—when I could look as I liked, say what I pleased, and be afraid of{134} nobody. Besides, though I was more and more uneasy about Sarah, I was not disturbed in my mind about this young man to the degree I had been, nor so entirely mystified about any possible connection between them. Since last evening, thinking it all over, it came to be deeply impressed upon my mind that there was no connection between them: that my poor sister knew nothing whatever about him or his Italian Countess. Simply that Sarah’s mind, poor dear soul, was giving way, and that catching sight of the strange face on the road, she had somehow identified and fixed upon it as the face of an unknown agent of trouble, the “somebody” who always injures, or persecutes, or haunts the tottering mind. It was but little comfort to me to conclude upon this, as you may suppose, but it seemed to explain everything. It cleared up a quite unintelligible mystery. Poor Sarah! poor soul! She who had known such a splendid morning, such an exciting noon, such a dull leaden afternoon of life,—and how dark the clouds were gathering round her towards the night!

But being thus eased in my mind about the young man, the kindness I had instinctively felt to him came strong upon me. I remembered the look he had, quite affectionately, the nice, handsome, smiling, young fellow! Who could it be that he was like? Somebody whom I remembered dimly through the old ages; and his voice, too? His voice made a thrill of strange wondering recollections run through me. Certainly that voice had once possessed some power or influence over my mind. I decided he would not find his Countess in Manchester. Fancy the ridiculous notion! A Countess in Manchester! No. She must belong about Cheshire, somewhere; and I must have known her in my youth.

So I read his note twice over, with a good deal of interest, and then naturally, as we had talked of him together so often, handed it to Sara. Now I did not in the least mean to watch Sara while she read it, but, having my eyes unconsciously upon her face at the moment, was startled, I acknowledge, by seeing her suddenly flush up, and cast a startled glance at me, as if the child expected that something more than usual was to be in the note. Who could tell what romantic fancies might be in her head? It is quite possible her imagination had been attracted by the stranger, and perhaps if she had heard that Mr. Luigi had fallen romantically in love with her, Sara would have been less surprised and much less shocked than I should. However, there was no such matter, but only a sensible, though, I must confess, rather odd and Frenchified{135} note. After the first glance she read it over very calmly and carefully, then laid it down, with something that looked wonderfully like a little shade of pique, and cried out in her sharpest tone:

“Oh, godmamma, how sensible!—to be sure to be an Italian, and young, he must be a perfect miracle of a Luigi. Actually, because there are countrymen of his in Manchester—music teachers and Italian masters, of course—to give up an appointment with a lady, and at such a house as the Park! I think he must be quite the most sensible and pretty-behaved of young men.”

“I think he shows a great deal of sense,” said I, not altogether pleased with the child’s tone; “but if you will excuse me saying so, Sara, I think it is just a little vulgar of you to say ‘at such a house as the Park.’”

Sarah flushed up redder and redder. I quite thought we were to have a quarrel again.

“Oh, of course, godmamma, if I had been speaking of a—of an English gentleman; but you know,” said the wicked little creature, looking boldly in my face, “you set him down at once, whenever you heard of him, as an adventurer,—a count, you know,—one of the fellows that came sneaking into people’s houses and wanted to marry people’s daughters. I am only repeating what you said, godmamma. It was not I that said it. And now you perceive this good respectable young man does not attempt anything of the kind.”

“But then you see we, at the Park, have no daughters to marry,” said I, looking at her rather grimly.

“Oh, to be sure, that makes all the difference,” cried Sara, bursting open her own letters with a half-ashamed, annoyed laugh. I have no doubt she had said twice as much as she meant to say, the impatient little puss, and was ashamed of herself. She had set her heart on seeing Mr. Luigi, that was the plain truth of the matter. Seeing him at the Park, where of course papa could have nothing to say against the introduction, hearing all about his search after the unknown lady, exercising her wiles upon him, turning him into a useless creature like that poor boy Wilde, in Chester, who was good for nothing but to waylay her walks and go errands for her. That was what she wanted, the wicked little coquette. It was just as well Mr. Luigi had taken care of himself, and kept out of the way. I really thought it was right to read her a lecture on the occasion.

“Sara, you are quite disappointed the poor young man is{136} not coming. You wanted to make a prey of him, you artful puss,” said I. “You thought, out here in the country, with nothing else to do, it would be good fun to make him fall in love with you—you know you did! And I think it is not at all a creditable thing, I assure you. How can you excuse yourself for all the damage you have done to that young Wilde?”

“Damage!” cried Sara. “If I am a puss, I may surely pounce upon a mouse that comes in my way,” she said spitefully; and then putting on her most innocent look;—“but, indeed, it is very shocking to have such suspicions of me, especially as I am a fright now, godmamma Sarah says.”

“It is just as well Mr. Luigi does not put himself in your way,” said I; “and it would be very wicked of you to do any harm to him, or attempt such a thing; and I say so particularly, because I think you are quite inclined to it, Sara, which is very wrong and very surprising. You are not such a beauty as your godmamma Sarah was, but you have just the same inclinations. It is something quite extraordinary to me.”

The little puss looked at me with her wicked eyes blazing, and her face flushed and angry. She looked quite beautiful in spite of her short little curls. I am not sure that she might not, when she grew older, be very near as great a beauty as her godmamma. She did not make any answer, but bit her lips, and set her little red mouth, and looked a very little sprite of mischief and saucy daring. She was not abashed by what I said to her. She was a thoughtless child, aware only of a strange mischievous power she had, and thinking no harm.

“For I know,” said I, half to myself, “that poor Mr. Luigi will come back. I feel as if I had known him half a lifetime ago. His voice is a voice I used to hear when I was young. I can’t tell whose voice it is, but I know it. He’ll come back here. He won’t find the lady in Manchester, or any other chester; he’ll find her in Cheshire, if he finds her at all.”

“Did godmamma Sarah say so?” cried Sara, suddenly losing her own self-consciousness in her interest in this bit of mystery.

“Child, do not be rash,” cried I, in some agitation. “Your godmamma knows nothing about her; it is all a mistake.”

“Did you ask her?” said Sara. “Godmamma, it is written in her face. When the rector was speaking, when you were speaking, even when I was speaking, it was quite evident she knew her abroad, and remembered who she was; but she will{137} not tell. It is not a guess; I am perfectly sure of it. She knows all about her, and she will not tell.”

“It is quite a mistake, Sara,” cried I, trembling in spite of myself. “She has taken some fancy into her head about Mr. Luigi, some merely visionary notion that he has some bad intention, I cannot tell you what. But I am certain she knows nothing about this Countess. Child, don’t think you know better than anybody else! I have thought a great deal about it, and made up my mind. Your godmamma has grown fanciful, she has taken this into her head. Don’t be rash in speaking of your fancies; it might give her pain;—and your idea is all a mistake.”

“Will you ask her? or will you let me ask her?” cried Sara. “If she says ‘No,’ I shall be satisfied.”

“I will do no such thing,” said I. “She is my only sister, I will do nothing to molest or vex her; and, Sara, while I am here, neither shall you.”

Sara did not say anything for a few minutes. She allowed me to pick up my letter in silence, for we had finished breakfast. She let me gather up my papers and ring the bell, and make my way to the door. Then, as I stood there waiting for Ellis, she brushed past me rapidly. “Godmamma” said Sara, looking into my face for a moment, “all the same, she knows,” and had passed the next instant, and was gliding upstairs before I had recovered my composure. How pertinacious she was! Against my will this had an effect on me.