“Ah, but it is different,” said I; “going out to dinner was a matter of choice, this was a matter of necessity.”
“It depends upon how people think,” said Harry, “the priest and the Levite were of quite a different opinion; but if you mean to have friends and pensioners3, and get rich people and poor people about you, Milly darling, we’ll have to think of new supplies. I cannot imagine how it has gone out of my mind all this time. Pendleton actually asked me to-day whether I had heard anything more about your grandfather’s house.”
“My grandfather’s house!” I said; and we both looked at each other and laughed; our removal had put all that out of our heads. Chester, and new places to look at, and new people to see, and just the usual disturbance4 of one’s thoughts in changing about, had betrayed Harry who was so anxious about it, just as much as it had betrayed me.
“I must see after it now in earnest. A thousand pounds or so, you know,” said Harry, with a kind of serio-comic look, “would be worth a great deal to you just now.”
And with this he went out. A thousand pounds or so! twenty would have been nice; aye, or ten, or even five, more than just our regular money. However, I only laughed to myself, and went upstairs to my poor gentleman. After all, I am not so sure that he was a gentleman, or at least anything unusual in himself. He was very independent, and want, and a passionate5 dread6 of being found out, and made a pauper7 of, had carried him to a kind of heroism8 for the moment. But when he got used to me, and consented to let me bring him things, he became very much like other people. He was always eager to get the newspaper and see the news. I carried him up the Chester paper, which Mrs. Goldsworthy took in just now.{197}
When I went into his room, the first thing I saw was two letters on the table. He was just drawing back, and still trembling from his exertion9, for he was still very weak. He put the letters towards me with a little movement of his hand.
“I am writing to ask for work; I’m wonderfully steady now, wonderfully steady; if they would only give me work! Ah, it’s hard times when a man can’t get work,” he said.
I glanced at them as he wished me. “Cresswell?” said I; “I think I know his daughter, Mr. Ward10. I’ll speak to her; perhaps she can make him help you.”
“She can make him do whatever she likes,” said my friend, with his wistful eyes; “it’ll be well for him if she don’t make him do what he’ll repent11.”
“How do you mean?” said I, with some surprise.
“Well!” said my patient, “it’s a story I don’t understand, and I can’t give you the rights of it. I was never more than just about the office an hour or so in the day, getting my copy. You see there’s two rich old ladies about half-a-dozen miles out o’ Chester, and there’s either some flaw in their title, or something that way. I know for certain there was an advertisement written out for the Times, for one Mortimer——”
“Mortimer!”
“Yes,” he said, looking at me in his eager way. “I suppose it had been some day when he had quarrelled with them, and meant to bring in the true owner; when all of a sudden it was withdrawn12, and has never been in the Times to this day; and Miss Cresswell after that spent a long time at the Park. Somebody said in the office it was more than likely the ladies would leave their property to her; and to be sure if that was so, it would be none of her father’s business to hunt up the right heir.”
I felt completely dizzy and bewildered; I kept looking down upon the table, where the letters seemed to be flitting about with the strangest unsteady motion.
“And are the ladies called Mortimer?” I said, almost under my breath.
“Yes; they’re folks well known in Chester, though seldom to be seen here,” said Mr. Ward; “the youngest one, Miss Milly, is a good creature; the other one, and her name is Sarah, was a great beauty in her day. I remember when I was a lad, we young fellows would walk all that way just to see her riding out of the gates, or driving her grey ponies;{198} they called her the beautiful Miss Mortimer in those days. I daresay now she’s as old, and as crazy, and as chilly—but thank heaven, she can never be as poor, and as friendless, and as suffering—as me.”
I could not make any answer for a long time. I stood with my hands clasped together, and my brain in a perfect whirl; these words, Sarah, Miss Mortimer, the Park, going in gusts13 through my mind. What did it mean? I had come upstairs with a smile on my lips about the fabulous14 house of my grandfather. Was this the real story now about to disclose itself? I felt for a moment that overwhelming impatience15 to hear more which makes one giddy when on the verge16 of a discovery; but I did not want to betray myself to the old man.
“And do you mean,” said I, holding fast by the table to keep myself from trembling, “that they are not the lawful17 owners of their estate?”
“Nay, I cannot tell you that,” said my patient, very coolly; “but what could be wanted with an advertisement in the Times for one Mortimer? and old Cresswell holding it back, you know, as soon as it was likely that his girl might get the Park.”
“Do you remember what was the Mortimer’s name that was to be advertised for? I know some Mortimers,” said I, with a little tremble in my voice.
“I can’t say I exactly remember just at this moment,” said the old man, after a little pause. “It wasn’t like a Mortimer name; it was—nay, stay,—it was one of the cotton-spinners’ names; I remember I thought of the spinning-jenny directly; something in that way; I can’t tell exactly what it was.”
I could scarcely stand. I could scarcely keep silent; and yet I durst not, for something that choked the voice in my throat, suggest my father’s name boldly to his recollection. I hurried away and threw myself on a chair in my own room. All was silent there; but with just a door between us Lizzie was playing with my boy; and his crows of infant delight, and her soft but homely18 voice, seemed to break in upon the solitude19 I wanted. I rose from that retreat, and went down to our little drawing room. There it was Domenico’s voice, round and full, singing, whistling, talking, all in a breath. Nowhere could I get quiet enough to think over the extraordinary information I had just received. Or, rather, indeed it was not either Lizzie’s voice, or Domenico’s, but the agitation20 and tumult21 in my own mind; the beating of my heart, and the stir and restlessness that rose{199} in me, that prevented me from thinking. Could it be possible that my father’s languid prophecy, which Aunt Connor reported so lightly, had truth in it after all? The idea excited me beyond the power of thinking. I went out and came in. I took up various kinds of work and threw them down again; I could do nothing till Harry came in, and I had told him. Then I fancied there might possibly seem some sense and coherence22 in the news. If this were to come true, then what prospects23 might be dawning upon us! In this sudden illumination my past dread returned to me, as a fear which has been forgotten for a time always does. The war! if Harry’s wife turned out a great heiress, must not Harry himself cease to be a soldier and enter into his fortune? Ah me! but he would not; he would not if I should ask him on my knees; not, at least, till he had taken his chance of getting killed like all the rest.
This threw me back, with scarcely a moment’s interval24, into the full tide of those thoughts which had tortured me before we came to Chester. I got up from my chair and began to walk about the room in the restlessness of great sudden apprehension25 and terror. All my trouble came back. My fears had but been asleep, the real circumstances were unchanged; even to-day, this very day, Harry might be ordered to the war.
He saw my nervous, troubled look in a moment when he came in; he was struck by it at once. “You look as you once looked in Edinburgh, Milly,” he said, coming up to me; “what is the matter? Something has happened while I have been away?”
“Harry,” cried I, with a little excitement, suddenly remembering that I had news to tell him. “I have found the Park and the Sarah; I have found the estate I am heiress to; I have found out something far more important than that old red-brick house; and, do you know, hearing of this brought everything to my mind directly, all my terrors and troubles. Never mind, I’ll tell you what I heard in the first place. It was from my poor gentleman upstairs.”
Harry, who had heard me with great interest up to this point, suddenly shrugged26 up his shoulders, and put his lips together with that disdainful provoking whew! with which men think they can always put one down.
“Oh, indeed, you need not be scornful!” said I; “he writes papers for a lawyer, and had a very good way of knowing. He says Mr. Cresswell had an advertisement all ready to be put{200} into the Times some months ago, for one Mortimer, whose name reminded him of a spinning-jenny. But it never was sent to the paper, because Miss Cresswell went out to the Park, and it was thought the ladies would make her their heiress; but it was supposed there was some flaw in their title, and that this Mortimer would be the true heir.”
“The Park, and the ladies, and Miss Cresswell, and it was supposed? By Jove, Milly!” cried Harry, with great vehemence27, “do you see how important this is?—have you no better grounds than it was thought, and, it was supposed?”
“You are unreasonable28, Harry; I only heard what he had to say; and, besides, it might not be my father, nor the same people at all. He could not tell me, I only heard what he had to say.”
But this explanation did not satisfy Harry; he became as excited as I had been, but in a different way. He snatched up his hat, and would have gone at once, on the impulse of the moment, to see Mr. Cresswell, had not I detained him. The news had the same influence on Harry that it had on me. It woke us both out of that happy quiescence29 into which we had fallen when we came here. We were no longer dwelling30 at peace, safe in each other’s society; once more we were thrown into all the agitation that belonged to our condition and prospects.
Harry was a soldier, ready to be sent off any day to the camp and the trenches31, gravely anxious about a home and shelter for his wife and child; I, a soldier’s wife, ready at any moment to have the light of my eyes torn from me, and my life cut in twain. After the first hurried burst of consultation32, we were both silent, thinking on these things. Certainly it was better that we should have been aroused. The reality coming at once, all unapprehended and unthought of, would otherwise have been an intolerable blow. Now there was little fear that we could forget again.
It was natural that we should return to the subject again and again during the day. Harry drew my father’s old books, and the drawing he had laughed at, from his own desk, where he had kept them; and with them the envelope, full of formal documents, which he had written to Aunt Connor for with so much haste and importance, to substantiate33 my claim to my grandfather’s house; there they lay, unused, almost unlooked at. Harry shook his head as he drew them out. We neither of us said anything. We were neither of us sorry that we had forgotten all about it for a time. For my own part, I went{201} away upstairs very like to cry. This information, which had thrown us back into so many troubles, might never come to anything; and even if it did, what difference would that make? Harry, if I was found out to be a king’s daughter, would never leave his profession, or shrink from its dangers, while this war lasted. My pleasant forgetfulness was over now. He was looking at this subject in the same light he had looked at it before we left Edinburgh;—it would be a home for me.
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1
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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pensioners
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| n.领取退休、养老金或抚恤金的人( pensioner的名词复数 ) | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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7
pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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12
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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14
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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coherence
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| n.紧凑；连贯；一致性 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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28
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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quiescence
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| n.静止 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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substantiate
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| v.证实；证明...有根据 | |
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