FOR a few days after I was occupied entirely with my own affairs. We had promised to go to the Park to see that strange sister Sarah, who troubled Aunt Milly’s mind so much; and we had, of course, to make some little preparations for going—more, indeed, than were very convenient at such a time, as you may very well suppose. However, Aunt Connor, who had not paid the last half year’s interest, sent it just then, “all in a lump,” as she said herself, “thinking it would do you more good;” as indeed it did, though perhaps poor Aunt Connor had other motives than that one for not sending it just when it was due. Harry was quite pleased at the thought of going to the Park. He got leave of absence for a few days; and, naturally, it was a satisfaction to him, after feeling that he had been obliged to keep his wife in the shade so long, to say that it was to my relations we were going. And what with all the preparations for his going away as well, I was so very busy that I got little leisure to think. It is very common to say what good opportunities for thought one has in working at one’s needle—and it is very true so far as quiet, leisurely work is concerned; but when it happens to be making shirts and such things—and you know, with most men, merely to say they are made at home is enough to make them feel as if they did not fit,—it is quite a different matter. I was too busy, both mind and fingers, to do much thinking; and that was far better for me than if I had found more leisure. I used to go up to Lizzie’s room, which we called the nursery, and work there. Baby sat on the carpet, well protected with cushions, and furnished with things to play with. He was not very particular—his playthings were of a very humble and miscellaneous order; but I am sure he was as happy as a little king.
“And eh, isn’t it grand that his birthday’s come before the Captain gangs away? He’ll, maybe, be back,” said Lizzie, peering into my face with a sidelong look, “before another year.”
“Hush!” said I, hastily; “but you must remember, Lizzie, to be particularly nice and tidy, and to look as if you were twenty, at least, when we go to the Park.”
Here Lizzie drew herself up a little. “I’ve never been among a housefu’ o’ servants,” said Lizzie, “that’s true—but I’ve been wi’ a leddy, and that suld learn folk manners better nor a’ the flunkeys in the world. For Menico says, as well as I can understand him, that there’s twa men-servants, and as mony maids as would fill a house. Eh, mem, wouldn’t it be a great vexation to see a wheen idle folk aye in the road? Menico’s no like a common man; there’s no an article he canna do; but as for just flunkeys to hand the plates and do about a house—eh, if it was me, I would think they werena men.”
“But Miss Mortimer’s man is not a flunkey; it was he who came with us in the omnibus,” said I.
“Yon gentleman?” said Lizzie, in great dismay. “I thought he was a minister; and eh, to think of him puttin’ on fires and waitin’ at the table! I would far sooner be a woman mysel’.”
“And have you any objection to be a woman apart from that?” said I. “I did not think you had been so ambitious, Lizzie. What would you do if you were a man?”
Lizzie’s colour rose, and her work fell from her hand. “I would gang to the wars with the Captain,” cried the girl, “I would aye make a spring in before him where danger was. I would send word every day how he did, and what he was doing. I would stand by our ain flag if they hacked me in pieces. I wouldna let the Hielanders stay still, no a moment!—I would dash them down on the enemy wi’ a’ their bayonets, and cry ‘Scotland and the Queen!’ and if we were killed, wha’s heeding!—it would be worth a man’s while to die!”
This outburst was more than I could bear. I forgot to think it was only Lizzie, a woman and a child, that spoke. I put my hands over my eyes to shut out the prospect she brought before me, but only saw the picture all the clearer, as my hand, with all its warm pulses beating, shut out the daylight. I could see Harry rushing before them with his sword drawn. I could hear his voice pealing out over their heads; I could see the smoke close over him and swallow him up. Ah, heaven!—pictures and stories are made out of such scenes. This creature by my side had flamed up into exulting enthusiasm at the thought. How many hearts attended those charging regiments, breaking against each other, heart upon heart! It came to my heart to wonder, suddenly, whether there might not be some young Russian woman, like me, imagining that fight. Her husband and my Harry might meet under those dreadful flags,—she and I, would not we meet, too, in our agony? I held out my arms to her with a cry of anguish—we were sisters, though they were foes.
When I looked up Lizzie was crying bitterly, partly with her own excitement, partly, because she saw how cruel her suggestion had been to me. She did not mean it so, poor child. Baby sat playing all the time among his cushions, crowing to himself over the bright-coloured ball he had found under his heap of toys. I thought to myself he would laugh all the same whatever happened, and wondered how I should bear to hear him. But that was enough, that was too much. I stopped myself, as best I could, from going on any further. I got some linen that had to be cut out, and rose up to do it;—it was very delicate work. If I were not very careful, a snip of the scissors, too much or too little, might spoil all the stuff; for Harry was very fastidious, you know, about all his things, like most young men. It took some trouble to steady my hand enough—but I did manage it. I wonder what the Russian woman did, to calm her agitation down.
Lizzie recovered very hastily when she saw what I was doing. She picked up her work, and sewed for a long time so silently and swiftly, that the snip of my scissors and the movement of her arm, as she drew through her needle, were the only sounds, except those which baby made, to be heard in the room. At last she took courage to address me with great humility, asking only if it was “the day after the morn” that we were going to the Park?
I nodded my head in return, and Lizzie took courage to go on. The next question was whether the Italian gentleman would be there?
“The Italian gentleman! what has he to do with the Miss Mortimers?” cried I.
“Eh, it’s no me said it,” cried Lizzie, in alarm; “but yesterday, the day the leddy was here Menico was a’ the gate out there, ance errand wi’ a letter. I said what way did it no go to the post? and he said the post wouldna do. But I wouldna let on the leddy was here.”
“He went out with a letter, did he?” said I, in much surprise. “Was that where he was all day? I did not see him about till it was dark.”
“There maun be another leddy?” said Lizzie, inquisitively; “and he gaed her some grand name or another. He’s awfu’ funny wi’ his names. He ca’s baby Signorino and ragazzino, and I dinna ken a’ what. I looked them up in the dictionary, and they were a’ right meanings enough. But it wasna Miss Mortimer he ca’ed the other leddy. Eh, mem, isn’t Menico getting grand at his English? and I’me aye improving mysel’ too,” said Lizzie, with a little blush and awkward droop of her head.
I was not much in the humour for laughing at poor Lizzie’s self-complacency; but I was rather anxious to hear all the gossip I could get for Aunt Milly’s sake. I asked immediately “Were they kind to Menico at the Park?”
Lizzie hesitated a little in her answer. “He’s rael clever at speaking,” she said, apologetically,—I suppose finding it rather hard to go back so soon after her laudation—“but when it’s a long story it’s no so easy to ken—no a’ he means. But I’m no thinking they were very good to him—for he was awfu’ angry when he came hame. And eh, to see him at his dinner! You would think he hadna seen meat for a week. It’s no a guid account of a house—no meaning ony harm of a great house like the Park,” said Lizzie, reflectively,—“when a man comes awfu’ hungry hame.”
Here there was a little pause while Lizzie threaded her needle. I don’t know whether she was indulging in any melancholy anticipations of the hospitality of the Park. However, presently she resumed her story again.
“And eh, mem! far mair than that,” said Lizzie, making a fresh start, “he brought back the very same letter just as it was—it might be because the leddy was out, or I dinna ken what it might be; but I saw him gi’e it back to the gentleman. And the gentleman, instead of being angry, he just took the letter and shook his head, and set fire to it at the candle. The door was open, and I saw him do it as I came up the stairs. It gaed to my heart to see him burning the good letter,” said Lizzie; “there was, maybe, something in’t that somebody might have likit to hear.”
“But, Lizzie, don’t you know nobody has any business with a letter except the person who wrote it, and the person it is addressed to?” said I.
I spoke, I confess, in an admonitory spirit. We did not get very many letters, but Harry was sadly careless of those he did get.
“Eh, but foreigners are no like other folk,” cried Lizzie; “there’s something awfu’ queer in burning a letter, and it a’ sealed up. I couldna find it in my heart;—and when it’s a long story, it’s awfu’ fickle to understand Domenico, the half o’ what he says.”
Lizzie ended with a sigh of unsatisfied curiosity. Perhaps, if I could have done it, I might have been as anxious to cross-question Domenico as she.