Chapter IX.

“IT is the oddest business altogether that I had ever anything to do with,” said Harry, next morning; “one cannot tell what step to take first. My own idea, of course, is to call on this old Cresswell and get it all out of him. He evidently is the man who knows.”

“Ah, but, Harry, if he is one of those scheming lawyers,” said I, “why should he go and betray his clients for people whom he never heard of before? and, besides, it would be impossible to tell him how we got information about it, for you could not speak of the advertisement without ruining poor Mr. Ward.”

“Milly, I may be sorry enough for your poor Mr. Ward, but I am more interested a great deal in your rights,” said Harry; “besides, if everything came true we could make it up to him. I see nothing for it but going to old Cresswell. He will be glad—since he did think of an advertisement—to have such a rod of terror to hold over the heads of his old ladies; at all events we shall know what it is. It might come to nothing after all,” said Harry, with a little sigh, “and there is nothing more injurious than to be kept uncertain. Why, to tell the truth, I feel extravagant this morning: I got up with the feeling. I should like to go and ruin myself in accordance with the sentiment of the moment. If it’s all true, why should we be economical?—your grandfather’s red brick house on one side, and this Park on the other. We’re lucky people, Milly. I’ll either go and see old Cresswell and have it out with him, or I’ll go and throw away every shilling I have.”

“Ah, Harry, give it to me,” I said, holding out my hands; “but I don’t believe you have any money, so it doesn’t matter. Only—just wait a little, please; don’t let us do things hastily. Think of thrusting our claims suddenly upon two old ladies who perhaps have enjoyed it all their life. Only think of us two, young and happy, disturbing the lives of two old people who are not so fortunate as we are! Not to-day; let us try to get other proof first. Try if Mr. Pendleton knows anything—write to Haworth again. At least, don’t let us be hasty; a{210} day or two cannot matter; and I don’t trust this Mr. Cresswell,” cried I, with some vehemence. “He cannot be honest, or he would not have done such a thing.”

Harry laughed at my earnestness. He said lawyer-villains had gone out of fashion, and that there were no Mr. Gammons now-a-days. The truth is, we had both been reading novels since we came to Chester, and I am not at all sure that Harry was as sceptical about Mr. Gammon as he professed to be. But, to my consolation, he went out without any definite purpose of beginning his proceedings. “I daresay old Cresswell is an old humbug,” said Harry. “I’ll see whether there is not some other old fellow about who is up to everybody’s genealogy; surely there ought to be some such person about the Cathedral. And I’ll write to Pendleton, Milly. To be sure, there is nothing to hurry us. ‘Let us take time, that we may be done the sooner.’ I’ll do nothing desperate to-day.”

When he was gone I felt a little sense of relief. I sat long in the same chair, with the table still littered with the breakfast things, neglecting my duties and even baby. He had been brought downstairs before Harry went out, and was now sitting at my feet on the carpet, playing with my work-basket, which much contented him. I did not observe the havoc that was taking place, but sat still in a tumult of thoughts which I could not describe. I suppose nobody ever did come to a sudden knowledge—or even fancy—that they might be found out heirs of a great estate without feeling fluttered. I was half afraid of the thought, yet it had a strange, vague, bewildering exhilaration in it. Sometimes a trembling shadow would cross my mind of my old spectre; but it had faded again to-day into the agitation of surprised and trembling hopes. One does not always feel the same even about one’s own terrors. And, upon the whole, I felt raised into a kind of general elevation, thrust up above myself into another region, capable of being kinder, more liberal and magnanimous than I had ever felt before. I suppose it must have been the same feeling which Harry had when he said he felt extravagant. I could have emptied my purse to a beggar, I believe,—at least I could have found it in my heart to give him sixpence instead of a penny,—to such an extent had this vague, exhilarating rich feeling carried me away.

Lizzie looked a little mysterious when I called her at last. She was bursting with something to tell; and when I addressed some ordinary question to her, her news broke forth suddenly without any introduction. “Eh, the gentleman’s awa’ again,” cried Lizzie, “and he thinks she maun be found or heard tell{211} o’—he thinks there maun be word of her. The gentleman’s awa’ back where he was, to bring something he left, and ‘Menico says, as sure’s death she maun be found.”

“Who must be found?”

“Eh, mem, it’s the leddy! They came a’ this gate, ower the hills and the seas, to find a leddy. I canna just understand wha she is,” said Lizzie, “but she’s some freend; and ‘Menico’s clear she maun be found now, and he’s dancing like to bring down the house for joy.”

“But you don’t look very joyful, Lizzie; what is the matter?” said I.

Lizzie made a desperate effort to restrain herself, but, failing, burst into violent tears. “Eh, he’s written me a letter!” cried the girl, sobbing; and then, with much fumbling, eyes blind with tears, and a face all glowing with shame, the letter came forth from the bosom of Lizzie’s dress, and was thrust into my hand.

Alas for my self-congratulations over Lizzie’s childish age! Fourteen, after all, it appeared, was no safeguard. But I was as much amused as troubled when I undid Domenico’s letter. It was written on odd thin paper, in a very tolerable hand; it was addressed to the Elizabeth Bain, and its contents were as follows:

“To the my little good Lessee.

“You be good child; if the lady yours will, I take you to the theatre after to-morrow, for gratitude. To me you show of bounty, I to you of thanks. There be grand sight at the theatre which will please to you. Show the Signora yours this letter mine, and ask if permission. It will much please to me to make festa for my little good Lessee. There be none word in English for festa, for because the English not know to make it.

“Domenico.”

“But, Lizzie,” cried I, in surprise, “there is nothing in this to cry about. He only means to be kind, poor fellow. There is not a word in all this that sounds like——”

Love-making, I was about to have said, but paused, partly in respect for the innocence of the girl, and partly ashamed of myself for my instinctive suspicion that flirtation was inevitable when “a foreigner,” however fat, was in the case. Lizzy had wiped her eyes and was looking at me wistfully, quite ready to sob again.

“Oh, it’s no him,” cried Lizzie; “he’s a papist, puir man,{212} and he doesna ken ony better. But oh, mem, it’s me—me that was weel brought up, and learned the catechism and ay gaed to the kirk; and what will I do? what will I do?”

“For pity’s sake, Lizzie, tell me what is the matter?” cried I, really alarmed.

Lizzie burst into tears once more. She wiped her eyes with her apron, with hot and humid hands; then, casting a pathetic glance at me from under the drapery, sobbed forth the dreadful confession, “Oh, mem! though I think burning shame, and ken it’s dreadful, I canna help it—I would like to gang!”

This anti-climax was too much for my gravity, and Lizzie looked on with moist, uncomprehending eyes at the burst of laughter which I could not restrain. Poor Lizzie! I have no doubt she thought me very heartless neither to satisfy her guilty desires after such vanities, nor her scruples of conscience and violent shame at her own weakness. Baby, however, was more sympathetic. Seeing his beloved Lizzie in tears, a fellow-feeling made him scream in concert. He had to be consoled, though his nurse went away wistful, trembling lest I should consent, and lest I should not consent. But privately I confess I was very much relieved and not a little ashamed of myself. To think I should have suspected any absurd love-making between these two! I felt ready to go and ask poor Lizzie’s pardon. But why should not she go to the theatre and satisfy her mind? Domenico could not be less than twenty years older than herself. On the whole, this little episode quite increased the lightness of my spirits. The day was bright, the spring was every hour becoming more sweet, and as I sat there by myself with my child in the little back-room, noting the sunshine, which did not reach us, fall sweet upon the little walled-in gardens at the back, a sudden project which had already glanced through my mind, became feasible on the moment. Yes, I should do it. Lizzie and the baby, for a breath of country air, should go with me. By actual witness of my own eyes I would identify the Park.