Chapter V.

“MEM, he’s been at the market,” said Lizzie, next morning, “and bought a hen; and he smiles and laughs to himself like to bring down the house.”

This was the first bulletin of the important day on which the Italian gentleman was expected home.

The next report was more painful to Lizzie’s feelings. “He’s been at the chapel,” said Lizzie, in a horrified whisper, “and brought hame water to put in the wee bowlie at the maister’s bedhead. Oh, did you see it? it has a cross, and—and—a figure on’t,” said Lizzie, with a deep awe, “and a wee round bowlie for the water. What’ll yon be for? I’m no sure it’s safe to be in the same house.”

Lizzie’s horror, however, did not diminish her curiosity. After a little interval another scrap of information reached my attentive ear. “He has some veal on the kitchen-table,” said Lizzie, “and if he’s no’ working at it himsel’! A man! cutting away and paring away, and putting the pan a’ ready like a woman—and, eh, mem, the wastry’s dreadful. He’s making holes in’t and stuffin’ them fu’ o’ something. Noo he’s puttin’t on the fire.”

That day baby was neglected for the first time. Lizzie was too much excited and interested—not to say that she had an observant eye and believed it quite possible that she might receive a hint from this man of all work—to repress her natural curiosity. The next thing she reported was a half-alarmed statement that “he was away out again and left it at the fire; and what if it was sitting to[A] before he came hame?” Lizzie’s dread of this accident carried her off downstairs to watch Domenico’s stew with friendly anxiety. In about an hour she re-appeared again.

[A] A Scotch expression which signifies burned in the pan.

“He’s come back; and, eh! o’ a’ the things in the world to think upon, it’s a box of thae nasty things he smokes!” cried Lizzie. “If the gentlemen smokes tae, we’ll a’ be driven out of the house.”{186}

Just then, however, another incident occurred which interrupted Lizzie’s observations. As she went out of the room, in silent despair, after her last alarming presentiment, somebody evidently encountered her coming up. “I want Mrs. Langham, please,” cried Miss Cresswell’s voice. “Are you her maid? Oh, I’m not to be shown into the drawing-room. I am to go to her. Where is she?—in the nursery? Show me where to go, please.”

“But you maun go to the drawing-room,” said Lizzie, making, as I felt sure from the little quiver in her voice, her bob to the young lady, and audibly opening the sacred door of our state apartment.

“Maun? do you mean must? I never do anything I must,” said Miss Cresswell. “There now! make haste; show me where Mrs. Langham is.”

“The drawing-room is the place for leddies that come visiting,” said Lizzie, resolutely. “I’ll no let ye in ony other place.”

“You’ll not let me in!—what do you mean, you impertinent child?” cried Miss Cresswell.

“I’m no a child,” cried Lizzie. “I ken my duty; and if I was to loose my good place what good would that do onybody? If ye please, ye’ll come in here.”

The pause of astonishment that followed was evident by the silence; then a little quick impatient step actually passed into that poor little drawing-room. “You strange little soul! but I’ll tell Mrs. Langham,” cried Miss Cresswell.

“I’m no a soul,” said Lizzie; “I’m just like other folk. I’m Mrs. Langham’s lass; and she kens me different from a stranger. What name will I say, if ye please?”

This question was answered by a burst of laughter from the visitor, which I increased by throwing open the door of my concealment and disclosing myself with baby in my arms. He had on his best frock by accident, which explains my rashness.

“How have you managed it?” cried Miss Cresswell; “why, here is a romance-servant. Dear Mrs. Langham, tell me what you have done to make her so original—and let me have baby. I have not come to make a call, as that creature supposed. I have come as a friend—you said I might. Why must I be brought into this room?”

“It is the most cheerful room,” said I, evading the question: “however, Lizzie did not mean to be saucy—she knew no better—but she is the most famous help in the world, though she is little more than a child.”{187}

“But then I suppose you must do a great many things yourself?” said my visitor, looking me very close in the face.

I felt my cheeks grow hot in spite of myself—if Harry had heard her he would have been furious; and I daresay many people would have set this down at once as the impertinence of the rich to the poor. I felt it was no such thing; but still it embarrassed me a little, against my will.

“Do you know some people would be affronted to be asked as much?” said I.

“I know,” cried Miss Cresswell, with a little toss of her head,—“people who can’t understand how miserable it is not to have to do anything. Do you believe in voluntary work? I don’t. I can’t see it’s any good. I can’t see the use of it. I should like to cook the dinner and keep the things tidy. I should like to see everything stand gaping and calling for me till I set it to rights. That’s the pleasure; but as for saving somebody else trouble, why should I do it? I can’t see any advantage whatever in that.”

“Then you would not have me save Lizzie or the landlady some trouble when I can?” said I.

“That is totally a different thing,” said the impetuous little girl; then she started, in a manner to me inexplicable, and gazed out of the window near which she was sitting. “Mr. Luigi!” she exclaimed to herself; “now I should so like to know what he wants here.”

Just then there was the noise of an arrival at the door; of course it must be the Italian gentleman. “Who is he?” said I. “If it is the Italian, he lives here.”

Without making any immediate reply, Miss Cresswell clasped her hands softly together. “How strange!” she exclaimed. Of course it was her own thoughts she was following out, but they seemed sufficiently interesting to rouse my attention. I occupied myself in the meantime with baby, feeling that it would be the merest cruelty to call upon Lizzie at this climax of the day’s excitement. And Miss Cresswell leant forward, carefully drawing out the curtain of the window to shade her, and watching the return of Domenico’s master. Her colour was a little higher than it had been previously, and she seemed to have quite quietly and comfortably forgotten my presence, I was amused; and, if I must confess it, I was in a condition to be easily affronted as well. At last she recovered herself, and blushed violently.

“I don’t know what you will think of me,” she cried; “but it is so strange—my godmamma had the last news of his going,{188} and I have the first intelligence of his return. Do you know, there is quite a story about him. He has come here to seek out a lady whom nobody ever heard of; but I do believe, whatever any one may choose to say, that godmamma Sarah knows.”

“Knows? Will she not tell, then?” said I.

“Look here,” said Miss Cresswell; “she was once a great beauty; and I believe, if you never will tell anybody, that she’s a cruel, wicked old woman. There! I did not mean to say half so much. She got so agitated whenever she heard what Mr. Luigi wanted that nobody could help finding her out; but, though I am certain she knows, she will do everything in the world rather than tell.”

“But why?”

“Oh, I cannot tell you why. I know nothing at all about it; and remember,” cried my imprudent visitor, “that I tell you all this in the greatest secret! I would not tell papa nor any one. I said it to my own godmamma just as it came into my head, and put her into such distress, the dear old soul! My own idea is, that godmamma Sarah does it only for spite; but her sister, you know, has a different opinion, and is frightened, and does not know what she is frightened about. I daresay you will think me very strange to say so,” said Miss Cresswell, again blushing very much, “but I should like to meet Mr. Luigi. I am sure he is somehow connected with my godmothers: I cannot make out how, I am sure; but I am quite certain, however unlikely it may be, that godmamma Sarah knows!”

She seemed quite excited and in earnest about it; so, as all her thoughts were turned that way, I told her our amusing intercourse with Domenico, and what good friends we were. Though she laughed and clapped her hands, she was too much engrossed with her own thoughts evidently to be much amused. She was most anxious to know whether I had heard anything of Mr. Luigi; whether the landlady talked of him; whether I knew how he came to Chester. She told me the story I had heard dimly from Harry in the most clear and distinct manner. On the whole, she filled me with suspicions. If I had not seen her flirting so lately, I should certainly have fancied her in love.

“You know him, then?” said I, after hearing her very steadily to an end.

“Not in the least,” she cried, once more blushing in the most violent, undisguisable way. “How should I know him?{189} Don’t you know I have no brothers or sisters, Mrs. Langham? and can’t you suppose that papa has exactly the same people to dinner year after year? Ah, you are quite different! You have your own place, and can choose your own society—choose me, please, there’s a darling! My name’s Sara; quite a waiting-maid’s name; let me have baby and come and help you. As for saying he would not come to me, it is nonsense. I will tell you exactly how many friends I have,—Godmamma, who is more than a friend, of course, but no relation; my old nurse, whom I never see, and who lives a hundred miles off; and old Miss Fielding, at the rectory. Now only think how much I am alone! You are quite new here; you can choose for yourself—choose me!”

“With all my heart!” said I. I was so much surprised by her ignorance and her free speech, that, though I liked her very much, I really did not know what more to say.

“I suppose, then, I may take off my bonnet?” she said, quite innocently looking up in my face.

If she had rushed to kiss me I could have understood it. If she had declared we were to be friends for ever, I should have quite gone in with her; but, to take off her bonnet! that was quite a different matter. I am sadly afraid I stammered and stared. I wanted a friend as much as she did—but men are such strange creatures. What would Harry say when he came in?

However, Sara Cresswell did not wait till I finished considering. In five minutes after she was sitting on the carpet at the window with little Harry, playing with him. The child was quite delighted. As for me, I was too much taken by surprise to know whether I was pleased or not. Harry was to dine at mess that night; and, of course, I had only meant to have tea all by myself in the little back room. What was to be done? I am sorry to say I was very much tempted to improvise a dinner, and pretend that it was just what I always did. I think the thing that saved me from this was looking at her with her little short curls; she looked so like a child! Besides, if we were really to be friends, was I to begin by deceiving her? Much better she should know at once all our simple ways.

“You will have no dinner,” said I, faltering a little. “Mr. Langham goes out, and I only take tea.”

“That is exactly what I like. Dinners are such bores!” said Sara, with the air of one who belonged to us and had taken possession.{190}

It was getting quite dark, and the lamps were being lighted outside; of course it delighted baby very much to be held up to see them, as his new nurse held him. As she stood there lifting him up, I put my hand upon her pretty hair. She had quite taken my heart.

“Have you had a fever, dear?” said I.

Sara stared at me a moment, then looked deeply affronted, then burst into a strange laugh. “I forgive you, because you called me dear,” she cried, starting off with baby to the other window. I suppose, then, it had not been a fever—some foolish fancy or other,—and no doubt her friends and acquaintance had pretty well avenged it, without any further question from me.