Chapter IV.

OUR little journey was arranged by Aunt Milly in the most comfortable way she could think of for us. Harry would not consent to let her send the carriage all the way. The railway was close to us, and it passed about two miles from the Park, where there was a little station; and the carriage was to meet us there. It was a very short journey, certainly; but I remember when we were all in the train,—all—every one of us,—a family entire and close together,—and especially at the moment when we were passing through the tunnel, and felt in the darkness more entirely separated from the world,—a sudden thought seized upon me: “Oh, if we were only going on, anywhere, anywhere to the end of the world!” Plunging through the darkness, with Harry sitting close by me, and baby on my knee, and nobody able to approach or stop us—going on all together! All sorts of people have their fancies, no doubt. I daresay mine were very homely ones; but I shall never forget the strange thrill that came upon my heart as this wild possibility seized me. When we came slowly into the daylight, and the train stopped, and the door of the carriage flew open, and dear Aunt Milly herself appeared to welcome us, I woke up with a little shiver into real life again. Ah me! one cannot dart into the bowels of the earth and hide one’s self. But life and duty somehow looked cold at me with their piercing daylight eyes after that thought.

Everything familiar stopped short and broke off when we got into the carriage. Aunt Milly was not a great lady. I don’t think anything could ever have made her a great lady; but it was clear she had been a person of consideration for many a year. I never had been in such a carriage before; indeed, I don’t think I had ever been in any carriage but a public one, for, of course, Aunt Connor was not rich enough to have a carriage of her own. But when I sat down by Aunt Milly’s side, I could not help feeling immediately that it all belonged to me. It was a strange feeling, and indeed, if nobody will be shocked, it was a very pleasing feeling. Instead of making me discontented, somehow it quite reconciled me to{274} being poor. My own opinion is, that people of good family, or whatever is equivalent to good family,—people that know they belong to a higher class, whether other people know it or not,—always bear poverty best. It does not humiliate them as it does people who have always been poor. I think I could have stood any remarks upon my bonnet, or even baby’s pelisse, with great equanimity after my visit to the Park; being poor looked so much more like an accidental circumstance after that. Perhaps I don’t explain very well what I mean, so I will just state it plainly, and then you may understand, or disagree with it, just as you choose. The higher one’s rank is, the better one can bear being poor. There! it is not the common opinion, but I believe it all the same for that.

And here was the Park, the very same great modern house that stood (leaning on the trees) in poor papa’s drawing, with two wings drawn out from the main body of the building, and a curious archway and a little paved court at the side before you came to the great door. We went to the great door as we were strangers, and I could see the grave face of my omnibus acquaintance peeping through a round bow-window close to the door before he admitted us, very solemnly and with profoundest abstract air. I wonder if he could remember us. His face looked as blankly respectful as if any idea on any subject whatever would somehow be unbecoming the dignity of the Park. Aunt Milly, who had gradually become fidgety, now took hold of my hand and drew me forward quickly. I went with her, a little astonished, but with no clear idea where I was going. She took me into a very long, very large room, with a great many tall windows on one side, a room so big as to look a perfect maze of furniture to me. I saw nobody in it, and did not think of it as being a room in common use. She had brought me to see some picture, no doubt. But Aunt Milly hurried me up this long room, with her hand upon my wrist, to a screen that seemed drawn so as to shelter one side of the fireplace. When we came in front of this, I was greatly startled to see a lady, with large knitting-pins in her hands, rise slowly from an arm-chair. There was nothing extraordinary in her look; she had fine features, I suppose,—I don’t think I know, very well, what fine features are,—she had white hair, and a pretty cap with soft-coloured ribbons, and a strange, studied, soft-coloured dress. I noticed all this unconsciously, in the midst of the nervous and startled sensation that I had in being brought in front of her so suddenly. She put both her knitting-pins into one hand, and held out the other to me. Then she bent{275} forward a little, meaning me to kiss her, which I did with much awe and with no great sensation of pleasure. Her hand was cold, and so was her cheek. I could scarcely help shrinking away from her touch. Then she spoke, and I, being quite unprepared for it, was still more startled. Her voice was a kind of whisper, very strange and unpleasant; all the s’s came out sharp, with a kind of hiss. I suppose it was because she was so entirely used to it herself that Aunt Milly never mentioned it to me.

“So you are Richard Mortimer’s daughter?” she said. “Sit down: I am very glad to see you. It is I that have been so anxious about finding you for some time past. But where is your husband? I want him to come as well as you.”

“He is in the hall. He will be here presently, Sarah,” said Aunt Milly. “I told Ellis to show him in, and the dear baby, too; but I could not keep back Milly from you for a moment. I knew you would be anxious to see her at once.”

“I wish to see her husband too,” said Miss Mortimer. “So your name is Milly? Because it was our principal family name, I suppose? Your father was a great man for family matters, because his father was such a leveller; otherwise I should have thought he would have called you after me.”

Why, I wondered? but indeed I had very little inclination to speak.

“I want to see your husband particularly. I should like you to live here. Milly says he is going to the Crimea,” said Miss Mortimer. “I hope he’s a reasonable man. Why shouldn’t he leave the army at once? I want him here. You were not the heir to an estate like the Park when he got orders for the Crimea. I see no reason in the world why he should not sell out and stay at home.”

I think she went on saying more, but I did not hear her; the great room swam in my eyes; she seemed all fading away into pale circles. I lost hold of the chair or something I was standing by. I don’t remember anything else till I felt some water dashed on my face, and gradually the pale circles cleared away, and I was in the same room again. I had no idea what had happened to me. I was lying on a sofa, though, now, with my face all wet, and a dreadful singing and buzzing in my ears, and Harry was there. I found out I had fainted. I never did such a thing in all my life before; how very foolish of me! and just when she was talking, too, about that—that chance. I caught hold of Harry’s fingers tight: “Go and speak to her!” I cried out. I could not keep still until{276} he went, for I could see the screen, and knew she was there.

When he disappeared behind the screen, and when, after a moment, Aunt Milly followed, always keeping her eyes on me, I lay perfectly still, grasping my two hands in each other. My mind was all seething up, as if in a fever, round what she had said. I was conscious of nothing else. I could not hear what they were saying now for the noise in my ears; but as I lay still a strange succession of feelings came over me. It was like so many breezes of wind, each cooler,—nay, I mean colder,—than the other. First it occurred to me what other people would say of him, of Harry, whom no one now durst breathe a doubt upon; then I thought of him fighting with himself for my sake, trying to put down his manhood and his honour to save breaking his wife’s heart; then I came to myself last of all. Would I? could I? I groaned aloud in my anguish. Oh, Russian woman, what would you say? There are plenty to be killed and sacrificed. Shall we let our children’s fathers go, to be lost in that smoke and battle? Harry burst out to me from behind the screen when I was in this darkness. I never saw him look as he looked then. He took my two hands and cried out in an appeal and remonstrance, “Milly, do you say so?” looking down at me with his eyes all in a blaze. I could not bear it. I put him away—thrust him away. They say I cried out to God in my despair. I cannot tell anything that I said but “Go!” Oh, Russian woman, I wonder if you made up your mind as I did! No, not if it were to break my heart; we could die, all of us, when the good Lord pleased; but the good Lord never pleased that one of us should make the other fail.