Chapter XI.

THE day after that, was the day we had fixed to go back to Chester. Miss Mortimer did not come downstairs; but Carson came to me with a little packet while I was helping Lizzie to pack up baby’s things. The poor woman looked ill and strange herself. She had a scared terrified expression, as if she were afraid of everybody, and looked so worn-out and exhausted that I could scarcely help telling her, for pity’s sake, to go and get some sleep.

“My missis sends her love,” said Carson, “and she’s very sorry she can’t come downstairs to see you, ma’am, nor the Captain, but hopes it won’t be long till you’re here again; and sends you this, and her love.”

“Is Miss Mortimer ill?” said I.

Carson hesitated before she answered.

“It’s on her nerves,” she said, at last, faltering; “it’s—I mean, to be sure, she’s a little overtired because of overdoing of herself last night. It was out of compliment to the Captain, ma’am, and you. My missis has a great spirit; but it’s the body as is weak.”

“Yes,” said I, unable to restrain the impulse; “but, oh, don’t you think she has just too great a spirit? What if it kills her one of these days?”

The woman flashed up for a moment into an attempt of resentment and dignity, but, partly from her weakness and watching and want of sleep, broke down immediately, and shed a few tears in her apron. The poor creature’s heart was moved. “If it kills her she’ll die; but she’ll never give in,” sobbed Carson; and then, recovering herself all at once—“it’s on the nerves, that’s what it is,” said the faithful servant, and hurried away.

It was some time before I cared to open Miss Mortimer’s packet. It contained two rings, one of them a slight turquoise thing, which was for me, and the other a fine diamond, which{313} was to be given to my husband. “Tell him it’s a family jewel,” said a little accompanying note. I put it down on Harry’s dressing-table, where he would find it when he came in. I would not put such a present on his finger; besides, it was best he should have it direct from herself—she had always received him as the representative of the Mortimers, and not me.

And then Aunt Milly came upstairs to kiss and cry over us. I was very sad myself, as was natural. There was nothing now between me and Harry’s going, but a few weeks—rather a few days. I should look straight into the face of that dreadful approaching moment when we turned our backs on the Park.

I could not cry as Aunt Milly did. I felt to myself as if I had been trifling all this time, taken up with other people’s affairs, and making friends with strangers, while every hour was bringing us closer to that day. Dear Aunt Milly held me fast in her arms, and whispered everything in the world she could think of to console me: that I had baby; that I should have letters regularly; that the war would not last long; that I must trust God, and pray. Ah, as if I did not know all that! if I had not known it and gone over it all in my own mind a thousand times, there might have been some comfort in what she said.

“And look here,” said Aunt Milly, thrusting a purse into my pocket—not into my hand, to give me a chance of putting it back again—“he is our representative, dear. He is not to go a step till he has everything—everything you can so much as think upon to make him comfortable. Now, Milly, don’t say a word. I’ll think you don’t love me if you say a word. Will it be any comfort to you, or me, to think here’s some paltry money left, and Harry gone to fight for us all without something that would make him comfortable? You’d work your fingers off to get it for him, and you have no excuse for denying me. Don’t say anything to Harry, child. Men don’t understand these things. It’s between you and me; and, please God, we’ll tell him all our schemes when we get him back safe, the dear fellow. But, dear, what is that on the table? Sarah’s diamond! that one she has always had such a fancy for. Has she sent it to you?”

“To Harry,” said I.

“To Harry! Dear, dear, what creatures we are!” cried Aunt Milly, much agitated, and bursting in tears again. “Poor Sarah! she’s not so hard-hearted as you and me were thinking,{314} Milly. Oh, God help her; if He would only bring her to deal true and fair, and have out this trouble in the face of day, there might be some comfort yet for her in this very life!”

I made no answer. I did not love Miss Mortimer, as I suppose, in some sort of way, her sister did; and, besides, my thoughts were all turned in another direction again. I had ceased to see the Park and its troubles so acutely as I had done for some days past. My mind was returned to my own private burden. I had little to say to anybody after that. I turned away even from Aunt Milly, with a dreadful feeling that I was not to see her again till Harry was gone. For I knew in my heart, though they never said anything to me, that this was how it was to be.

I had not the heart to talk even to Harry, as we drove slowly back to Chester—slowly, as I fancied. We went in the carriage all the way. We had no railway or tunnel to go through this time. Nothing to help me to a moment’s delusion of plunging away to the end of the world, or into the bowels of the earth, it did not matter which, all together. That was impossible. Miss Mortimer’s carriage put nothing in my mind but the inevitable parting, and all that was to happen to me after Harry was gone.

When we got to our Chester lodgings, Domenico was there, as usual, full of the noisiest, kindest bustle, to help in getting everything in, as if he had belonged to us, instead of belonging to a stranger, who, most likely, had little reason to bear the heirs of the Mortimers any good will. Mr. Luigi was standing at the window all the time, looking at the carriage, the horses, the servants; thinking, perhaps, they might all have been his under different circumstances. How can I tell what he was thinking? I am sure at that moment, though I observed him at the window, I took no pains to imagine what his thoughts were, and did not care. I did not care for anything just then.

It was one of my bad times. It was one of the hundred partings which I had with Harry before the real parting came. When the things were lifted out of the carriage, I could see them all in my own mind lifted in again, all but Harry’s share of them, and myself sitting blind in that corner with all the world dark before me. Well, well; it is no use reasoning over it, as if that would make things any better. Thousands and thousands were just the same as me; did that make it any better, do you suppose? I thought of the poor woman in the{315} Edinburgh High Street, and her hard damp hand that pressed mine. I was a soldier’s wife like all the rest. I went up into my own room and got Harry’s old sash again, and bound it tight over my heart. It gave me a kind of ease, somehow. And to hear baby shouting at sight of his old toys, and Harry calling for his Milly darling, downstairs! It was an agony of happiness and anguish; it was life.