IT is very odd, when there happens to be any one bit of tabooed ground in a family, how impossible it is to keep off it. I daresay every member of a household, above childhood, knows that, more or less. If there is one matter that some two people are quite sure to disagree upon, whom it is quite the business of your life to keep comfortable and on good terms, isn’t that matter always turning up somehow? Doesn’t it float about in the air, and hover over your head, always ready to poke in when it is not wanted, and do what mischief it can? That is my experience, at least. And it was so much the worse in our case, because little Sara had no idea of keeping quiet, and no notion that her innocent mischief and meddling could do any real harm, or have any worse effect than putting her godmamma “in a passion.” Putting people in a passion was fun to the thoughtless little girl; it never came into her little saucy inconsiderate head that Sarah’s passion was not a flash of harmless lightning like her own, or that it meant anything which could disturb and overturn all my sister’s quiet life, and put me into a fever of bewilderment and anxiety. For days after I kept carefully off the subject, thinking it would be better to leave a polite message with Ellis for the Italian young gentleman if he called, and say I was sorry I could not get him any information, than to worry my poor sister, who was so unaccountably disturbed by hearing of him. Not that Sarah said anything about it; but she looked so haggard and anxious that it went to my heart. She came down even earlier than usual and sat up later; listened eagerly to all the conversation going on; sometimes, even, missed her drive; sat on the watch, as one might have supposed; but when she had gone out for her airing one day, I met the carriage,—and, can you believe it, the very blinds were down! If, when all was quiet, and nothing had happened, I used to wonder sometimes what sort of life she had led when she was younger, what friends she might have had, and what was her history when she was abroad, you may fancy how busy my mind was on that subject now.
The more I thought it over, of course, the more I could make nothing of it. And what do you think at last was the conclusion I came to? That Sarah, being a great beauty, and always accustomed to admiration and almost a kind of worship, had forgotten, poor dear soul, that Time had changed all that, and that she was an old woman; and that she imagined the Italian we talked of, to be one of her old lovers come here to look for her, and was quite frightened he should see her, and know she was at the Park, and disturb us all with his raptures and passions. After turning it over for days and days, that was the very best explanation I could come to. Why she should be so tragical about it, to be sure, I could not tell. Perhaps she thought the story of all her old gay doings, if they were to come to my ears, would not sound just what a quiet old maid like me would approve of. Possibly, it might be somebody she had jilted that she was frightened to see; perhaps she was afraid of that Italian revenge one reads of in books. I do suppose people are still stabbed out of jealousy and revenge in Italy; and everybody carries a stiletto about him. If that was what Sarah thought of, no wonder she was frightened, poor dear. And I must say it quite went to my heart to see her so anxious and unsettled, watching every word that was said, and turning her keen eyes towards me—for she would not yield to change her seat, so that she might see for herself who came in—every time the door was opened, to know who it was by my face; and, above all, going out that dreary drive with the carriage blinds down, carrying all her dismal thoughts with her! If she would only have confidence in me, what a difference it would make! I could very soon have relieved her mind about it, I am sure. What was it to me if she had been very gay and foolish when she was young? that was all over, and she was my very own sister. To think that I should stand upon my dignity, or blame Sarah for anything that was past. But then she was so proud! she always was so proud! she would never own to being less than perfect. The best thing was to disabuse her mind, if possible, and to make it evident that this Italian was a young man, far too young ever to have been a lover of Sarah’s. A lover! why, she might have been his mother as far as age was concerned—and that he was seeking, quite openly, an entirely different person. If I had been a courageous woman I should have gone through with my story the first night, and most likely saved my poor sister a great deal of unnecessary anxiety. But I never was brave at going into disagreeable conversation. I can’t say I ever was clever at conversation at all. And when a person runs away with a mistaken idea, and you can’t manage to get it out of her head, and the further you go the worse it becomes, what can you do? I tried to nerve myself up to going into it, but I could not. Whatever it was, it made her vastly uncomfortable, that was evident; and really when Sarah gets into her passions there is no reasoning with her, and I get flustered immediately, and she won’t listen to explanations. So on the whole I never had a more troublesome piece of business on my hands.
As for little Sara Cresswell, she was the greatest tease and plague that ever was in a house. She worried me morning and night about the romance I was making up, and did not hesitate the least to carry on her persecution before Sarah, who looked at her with a kind of silent rage, which the saucy little puss never found out. But occupied and troubled as my mind was, it was impossible not to be amused at that inconsistent little creature and her goings on. She had brought out two great trunks with her, big enough to have held the whole of my wardrobe for winter and summer, though she knew very well we saw no company, and never required her to dress in the evening. And as for her lace and worked muslin, and all that foolish extravagance, that is so much in fashion again, there was no end to the store she had. Years before this I gave her the name of puss in velvet, for a very good reason. What do you think, at eleven years old, she had persuaded that poor innocent helpless man, her unfortunate papa, to do? Why, to get her a velvet frock, to be sure—not a pelisse, but a dress for evenings like any dowager old lady! Did ever anybody hear of anything so preposterous? And she kept up her fancy still, with velvet jackets, and even a little ridiculous velvet apron all trimmed and ornamented. Poor Mr. Cresswell, to be sure, was well off, and, indeed, rich in his way; but she might have ruined any man with her extravagance; and as to being ashamed of it, would lift up her face coolly, and tell you she never pretended to want to save papa’s money. At the same time she was as great as ever on the subject of dividing it all, and keeping just enough to live on. When that condition of things came about, she was to have no servants, but to do everything herself, and so were all the other people who were to share poor Mr. Cresswell’s money among them. When she went into the village with me she gave a wary eye to the cottages, how things were put tidy—and was quite resolved she should do it all, and be as happy as possible. But as for anything genteel, or middling, she scouted at it with the greatest contempt in the world. It was as good as a play to hear her. If my mind had been free to amuse myself, I should have quite enjoyed Sara’s vagaries; but, as it was, I could only be amused and provoked by them now and then. I do believe she was much happier at the Park than at home. That big dull house, with all the unchangeable furniture, was not a place for a fantastical young girl; she poked about the greenhouses in all the back corners where the gardener did not want her, and where she was always sweeping down his flower-pots; she rummaged through the great suites of rooms that nobody ever occupied; she came into the library to help me with my accounts, and tease me out of my wits; she went fishing about the house through all the nooks and corners, and read all the old novels over again; and then she could not persuade and worry me into doing everything she pleased, as she could her father. I believe just at that moment Sara being at the Park was a great comfort to me.