PART VI. THE LIEUTENANT’S WIFE. (Continued). Chapter I.

MY dear old relation whom we have found out so suddenly, and whom I am quite ashamed to have once thought to be a kind of usurper of something that belonged to me, has been too much distressed and troubled altogether about this business to have the trouble of writing it down as well; and I have so little, so strangely little, to take up my time just now. The days are somehow all blank, with nothing ever happening in them. In my mind I can always see the ship making way over the sea, with the same rush of green water, and the same low-falling, quiet sky, and no other ships in sight. It has been very quiet weather—that is a great mercy. They should be almost landed there by this time.

But that is not my business just now. My dear Aunt Milly—it is true she is only my father’s cousin, but cousin is an awkward title between people of such different age, and, according to Sara Cresswell, she is my aunt, à la mode de Bretagne, which I don’t mind adopting without any very close inquiry into its meaning—made an engagement with us to come to our house the next morning after that first day we met her. Harry came home from the Cresswells that night in raptures with Aunt Milly. It was rather hard upon me to see him so pleased. Of course I knew very well what made him so pleased. He thought he had secured a home for me. He was never tired{258} praising her in his way. I am not exactly sure whether she herself would have relished the praises he gave her, because he has a sad habit of talking slang like all the rest. But apart from any reason, he took to her, which it is a great pleasure to think of now. When we got home Mr. Luigi’s window was blazing with light just as it had done when he returned before; for Domenico seems to be quite of the opinion that candles are articles of love and welcome as well as of devotion. Harry, who had quite made acquaintance with the Italian gentleman when he was at home before, went in to see him, and I went upstairs to baby. I used to take comfort in getting by myself a little, just at that time. Ten minutes in my own room in the dark did me a great deal of good. When one takes an opportunity and gets it out of one’s heart now and then, one can go on longer and better—at least I have found it so.

Lizzie, always watchful, was very ready to let me hear that she was close at hand. The moment she heard me open my own room-door, she began to move about in the back apartment where she kept watch over baby, and I do believe it was only by dint of strong self-denial that she did not burst in upon me at once. I can’t fancy what she thought would happen if I “gave way.” It must have taken some very terrible shape to her fancy. After I had my moment of repose, I went to baby’s room. He was asleep like a little cherub in Mrs. Goldsworthy’s old wicker-work cradle, which I had trimmed with chintz for him; and Lizzie sat by the table working, but looking up at me with her sharp suspicious eyes—sidelong inquisitive looks, full of doubts of my fortitude, and anxiety for me. It was all affection, poor child. When one has affectionate creatures about one, it is impossible to be hard or shut one’s self up. I had no choice but to stop and tell Lizzie about my new friend.

“Oh, it was thon leddy was at the muckle gates, and warned us away for the kingcough,” cried Lizzie; “I minded her the very moment at the door. I was sure as could be from the first look that it was some friend.”

“Some friend,” in Lizzie’s language meant some relation. I asked in wonder, “Why?”

But Lizzie could not explain why; it was one of those unreasonable impressions which are either instinctively prophetic, or which are adopted unconsciously after the event has proved them true.

“But you were never slow where help was needed or comfort,” said Lizzie, dropping her eyes and ashamed of her own compliment; “and I kent there was somebody to be sent to{259} comfort you; and wha could it be but a friend? For naebody could take you like the way you took me.”

I suppose Lizzie’s view of things, being the simplest, had power over me. I was struck by this way of regarding it. Perhaps I had not just been thinking of what was sent. I felt as if that tight binding over my heart relaxed a little. Ah! so well as the Sender knew all about it—all my loneliness, dismay, and troubles; all my Harry’s risks and dangers; all our life beyond—inscrutable dread life which I dared not attempt to look at—and everything that was in it. I held my breath, and was silent in this wide world that opened out to me through Lizzie’s words.

“And eh, mem,” cried Lizzie, opening her eyes wide, “I was sent for down the stair.”

“Where?” cried I in astonishment.

“I was sent for down the stair,” said Lizzie, with the oddest blush and twist of her person. “Menico, he’s aye been awfu’ ill at me since I wouldna gang to the playhouse after it was a’ settled—as if I could gang to play mysel’ the very day the news came! and eh, when he came up and glowered in at the door, and Mrs. Goldsworthy beside him, and no a person but me in oor house, I was awfu’ feared. Her being English, they were like twa foreigners thegither; and how was I to ken what they were wantin’? The only comfort I had was mindin’ upon the Captain’s sword. It was aye like a protection. But a’ they said was that Mrs. Goldsworthy would stop beside baby, and I was to gang down the stair and speak to the gentleman. I thought shame to look as if I was feared—but I was awfu’ feared for a’ that.”

“And what then?”

“I had to gang,” said Lizzie, holding down her head; “he was sleeping sound, and I kent I could hear the first word of greetin’ that was in his head; I could hear in ony corner o’ the house; and Mrs. Goldsworthy gied me her word she would sit awfu’ quiet and not disturb him. Eh, mem, are ye angry? I never did it afore, and I’ll never do it again.”

“No, you must not do it again,” said I; “but who wanted you downstairs?”

“Eh, it was the Italian gentleman,” said Lizzie; “and it was a’ about the leddy that was here the day. He wanted to ken if she was wanting him; and then he wanted to hear if I kent her, and what friend she was to you; but it was mostly a’ to make certain that it wasn’t him she wanted—as if a leddy like yon was likely to have ony troke wi’ foreigners or strange men!{260} and there was aye the other blatter to Menico in their ain language—and ower again, and ower again to me, if it wasna him she asked for. And me standing close at the door listening for baby, and thinking shame to be there, and awfu’ feared you would be angry. I would like to ken what the like of him had to do wi’ leddies?—and Menico, too, that might have kent better—but there’s naebody will behave to please folk perfect in this world.”

“But this is very strange news,” said I. “What did you say, Lizzie? did you say it was Miss Mortimer, and that she was a relation of mine.”

“Eh, no me!” cried Lizzie. “Ye might think it to see me so silly, but I wasna that daft. I said it was ane on a visit to the leddy. I had nae ado with it ony mair than that, and I’m sure neither had he.”

Here Harry’s voice sounded from below, calling me, and I left Lizzie somewhat amused by her cautious and prudent answer, and not a little curious to see that the Italian was interested about the old lady as well as she about him. I found Harry quite full of the same story. Mr. Luigi had questioned him with great caution about Miss Mortimer, and of course had heard the entire story from Harry of our relationship, and how we found each other out. He had received it very quietly, without expressing any feeling at all, and had asked some very close questions about her and about the Park, and her other sister. Harry could not make him out. Of course neither of us knew the other sister. Evidently it was a mysterious business somehow. But as we knew nothing whatever about it, we soon came to an end of our speculations. The morning, perhaps, as Aunt Milly thought, would clear it all up.