ALL in haste, and in a peremptory tone, to which nobody could be less used to than she was, I had sent little Sara away on some commission, invented on the spur of the moment, when the door closed on Dr. Roberts. The child looked up in my face with an amazed uncomprehension of any order issued to her; I fancy I can see her great eyes growing larger and blacker as she turned, asking what I meant. But Sara had understanding in her, wilful as she was; she saw there was occasion for it, though she could not understand how; and whenever her first surprise was over, she went off and obeyed me with an alacrity which I shall always remember. We two were left alone. I took up some work that lay on the table. I could not tell whether it was mine or Sara’s, or who it belonged to. I bent my head fumbling over it, too agitated to see what I was doing. Now the volcano was about to explode. Now, even, an explanation might be possible.
“What was that I heard from you just now?” cried Sarah, in her shrill whisper. “You were so lost to all common feeling, you were so forgetful of my claims and everybody else’s, that you invited a common foreign impostor to come here—here, without an idea what bad intentions he might have—here to my house!”
“Sarah! for heaven’s sake what do you know about him? What have you to do with this young man?” said I, the words bursting, in spite of myself, from my lips.
I suppose she did not expect this question. She stopped with a flood of other reproaches and accusations ready to be poured forth, staring at me—staring—there is no other word for it. Her looks were dreadful to me. She looked like some baited animal that had turned to bay. Was it my doing? Presently her senses came back to her. And I was glad, really thankful, when I saw that it was mere passion—one of her fits of temper, poor dear soul! that had returned upon her again.
“You dare to ask me such questions?” she cried; “you, a poor simpleton that throws our doors open to any adventurer! This is what I have to do with him. He shall never enter my house. I’ll have him expelled if he comes here. I’ll muster the servants and let them know who’s mistress,—you, a rustical fool that knows nothing of the world, and are ready to throw yourself at anybody’s head that flatters you a little, or me, that knows life and can detect a cheat! What! you’ll go slander me in addition, will you? You worry and drive me out of my senses, and then pretend that I have something to do with every impostor you pick up in the streets. I tell you I’ll have him turned out if he dares to come to this house. I will not have my peace molested for your fool’s tricks and intrigues. An Italian forsooth! a fellow that will cringe to you, and flatter you, and be as smooth as velvet. I’ll have him thrown into prison if he dares to come here!”
“Sarah! Sarah! for what reason? the poor young man has never harmed you,” I cried, holding up my hands.
She gave a strange bitter cry. “Fool! how can you tell whether he has harmed me?” she cried out, wringing her thin hands: then suddenly stopping short, came to herself again, and stared at me once more. Always that stare of blank resistance—the hunted creature brought to bay. She had been standing while she spoke before. Now she dropped into her chair, exhausted, breathless, with a strange look of fury at herself. She thought she had betrayed herself—and most likely so she had, if I had possessed the slightest clue by which to find her mystery out.
“I beg and entreat you to be calm, and not to excite yourself,” cried I, trying, if it were possible, to soothe her. “I know nothing whatever about this young Italian, Sarah. I took an interest in him from his appearance, and something in his voice—and because he was a stranger and had no friends. But I will write to him immediately not to come—he is nothing to me. He has neither flattered me nor asked anything of me. I see no harm in him; but I shall certainly write and say he is not to come. You might know well that there is no stranger in the world for whom I would cross you.”
“Oh, I am used to fair speeches, Milly,” said my sister, “quite used to them; and used to being made no account of when all’s done. I, that might have been so different. I might have had a coronet, and been one of the leaders of life, instead of vegetating here; and, instead of respecting me after I have resigned all that, I am to be badgered to death by your old maid’s folly, and have a vulgar impostor brought in upon me to oust me out of my home. Bring in whom you like, thank heaven, I’m more than a match for you. I tell you, you shall bring nobody here—it is my house, and was my house before you were born. I shall keep it mine, and leave it to whom I like. Your romances and fictions are nothing in this world to me. I am mistress, and I will be mistress. You are only my younger sister, and I have nothing in the world to consult but my own pleasure. I am not to be driven into changing my mind by any persecution. I advise you to give up your schemes before you suffer for them. Nobody, I tell you,—no man in the world with evil designs against me, and my fortune, and my honour, shall come into my house!”
“Sarah! what on earth do you mean? Who is plotting against you? Your fortune and your honour? What are you thinking of? You have gone too far to draw back now,” cried I, in the greatest excitement. “Explain yourself before we go any farther—what do you mean?”
Once more she stared at me blankly and fiercely; but she had got it out, and had more command of herself after she had relieved her mind. Could it be only an outburst of passion? but my spirit was up.
“The house is my house as well as yours,” I cried, when she did not answer. “I have a voice as powerful as yours in everything that has to be done. Yes, I can see what is going to happen. We are the two Mortimers that are to send it out of the name. But I will not give up my rights, either for the prophecy or for any threats. I have never made a scheme against you, nor ever will. You have been wretched about something ever since that day you were so late on your drive. I have seen it, though I cannot tell the reason. This Italian cannot be any connection of yours. He is a young man; he could not be more than born when you were abroad. You might be his mother for age. What fancy is it that you have taken into your mind, about him? What do you suppose you can have to do with him? Sarah, for heaven’s sake! what is the matter? If you ever had the slightest love for me, take me into your confidence, and let me stand by you now.”
For when I was speaking, some of my words, I cannot tell which, had touched some secret spring that I knew nothing of; and dropping down her head upon her hands she gave such a bitter, desperate groan that it went to my very heart. I ran to her and fell on my knees by her side. I kissed her hand, and begged her to have confidence in me. I was ready to promise never to disturb her, never to speak of setting up a will of my own again; but I felt I must not give in; it would be now or never. She would trust me and tell me her trouble whether it was real or only fanciful; and her mind would be relieved when it was told.
But the now passed and the never came. She lifted up her head and pushed me away; she looked at me with cold stony eyes; she relapsed without a moment’s interval into her usual chilly, common-place, fretful, tone—that tone of a discontented mind and closed heart which had disturbed and irritated mine for years. All her old self returned to her in an instant. Even her passion had been elevating and great in comparison. She looked at me with her cold observant eyes, and bade me get up, and not look so like a fool. “But it is impossible to think of teaching you what anybody else of your age and position must have learned thirty years ago,” she said, twitching her dress, which, when I foolishly threw myself down beside her, I had put my knee upon unawares, from under me. I cannot describe to anybody the mortified, indignant feeling with which I scrambled up. Think of going down upon my knees to her, ready to do anything or give up anything in the world for her, and meeting this reception for my pains! I felt almost more bitterly humiliated and ashamed than if I had been doing something wrong. I, who was not a young girl but an elderly woman, long accustomed to be respected and obeyed! If she had studied how to wound me most deeply, she could not have succeeded better. I got up stumbling over my own dress, and hastily went out of the room. I even went out of the house, to calm myself down before I met anybody. I would not like to confess to all the angry thoughts that came into my mind for the next hour in the garden. I walked about thinking to get rid of them, but they only grew more and more vivid. My affection was rejected and myself insulted at the same moment. You would not suppose, perhaps, that one old woman could do as much for another; but I assure you, Sarah had wounded me as deeply as if we had been a couple of young men.
When I found my temper was not going down as it ought to do, but on the contrary my imagination was busy concocting all sorts of revengeful things to say to her, I changed my plan, and went back to the library and looked over the newspapers. Don’t go and think over it, dear good people, when you feel very much insulted and angry. Read the papers or a novel. I went down naturally when I stopped thinking. After all, poor Sarah! poor Sarah! whom did she harm by it? only herself, not me.
But anybody will perceive at a glance that after this I was more completely bewildered than ever, and could not undertake to say to my own mind, far less to anybody else, whether there was or was not any real reason for Sarah’s nervousness, or whether she had actually any sort of connection with this young Italian. Sometimes I made myself miserable with the idea that the whole matter looked like an insane fancy. People when they are going mad, as I have heard, always take up the idea that they are persecuted or wronged somehow. What if Sarah’s mind was tottering, and happening to catch sight of this young man, quite a stranger, and very likely to catch her eye, her fancy took hold of him as the person that was scheming against her? The more I thought over this, the more feasible it looked; though it was a dreadful thing to think that one’s only sister was failing in her reason, and that any night the companion of my life might be a maniac. But what was I to think? How was it possible, no madness being in the case, that a young unknown stranger could threaten the fortune and honour of Sarah Mortimer, born heiress of the Park, and in lawful possession of it for more than a dozen years? What possible reason could there be for her, if she was in her sane senses, fearing the intrigues of anybody, much less a harmless young foreigner? But then that groan! was it a disturbed mind that drew that involuntary utterance out of her? Heaven help us! What could any one think or do in such circumstances? I was no more able to write a note to Mr. Luigi that evening than I was to have gone out and sought him. Things must take their chance. If he came he must come. I could not help myself. Besides, I had no thought for Mr. Luigi and his lost Countess. I could think only of my sister. No! no! little Sara was deceived, clever as she was. Sarah knew no Countess Sermoneta—her mind disturbed and unsettled, had fixed upon the strange face on the way, only as some fanciful instrument of evil to herself.