“Child, take pity on me!” I cried; “with one thing and another I am driven out of my wits. Tell me, for heaven’s sake, who was your father? Are you that Luigi’s sister? Who are you? Where did you come from? God help us! I don’t know what to think, or where to turn. Your father, who was he? What do you know about him? Were you born in Italy too? What is the truth of this wild, dreadful mystery? Sarah may know about it perhaps, but I know nothing, nothing! If you would not have me go out of my senses, child, tell me who you are, and who your father was.”
They both gazed at me astonished. “She is Millicent Mortimer,” said her young husband, “the child of Richard Mortimer and Maria Connor; she was born in Ireland. Milly! Milly! the old lady is going to faint.”
For I sank dead down in my chair, as was natural. I put my hands over my face. I fell a-crying and sobbing in that wonderful, blessed relief. If my worst suspicions had come true, I could have stood up and faced it. But my strength went from me in this delicious, unspeakable comfort. Richard Mortimer’s children! The heirs we were looking for! Oh dear! to think I could ever be so distrustful of the good Lord! This was what all the mystery had come to! I sat crying like a fool in my chair, the two looking on at me, thinking me crazy most likely—most likely wondering, in their innocent grieved hearts, at the old woman crying for nothing. How could they tell what a mountain-load of trouble they had taken off my head?
“My dear,” cried I, when I could control myself enough, “if you are Richard Mortimer’s daughter you’re the nearest relation we have. You were to have been advertised for before now—we’ve been seeking you, or trying to seek you, everywhere. I knew there must be something made my heart warm to you so. My dear, we’re the last of the old race; there’s nobody but Richard Mortimer’s children to carry on the name. God help us! I am a silly old woman. I had taken dreadful fears into my head. Why didn’t you come and say it plain out, and turn all my anxiety and troubles into joy? Ah Milly, dear Milly Mortimer!—I could think you were my own child somehow—come and let me kiss you. I am not so weak as this usually, but I’m quite overcome to-day. Come here, child, and let me look at you. It’s pleasant to think there’s a young Mortimer in the world again.”
I was so much engaged with my own feelings, that I did not notice how much the young people were taking it. When I did come to myself a little, they were standing rather irresolute, that pretty young Milly Mortimer looking at me in a kind of longing, reluctant way, either as if she could not take me at my word, or had something on her mind. As for her husband, he was looking at me too, but with a full eager look, which I understood in a moment; his lip trembling and swelling out a little, his eyes full, his whole face telling its story. When he caught my eye he turned his look upon her, and then back to me again. Do you think I did not understand him? He said, “You will take care of my Milly?” clearer than he could have said it in a thousand words; and if my eyes were slow to answer him, you may be sure it was no fault of will or heart. Seeing she was shy to come to me, and recovering myself, I went to the new Milly and kissed her. I can’t tell what a pleasure I took in looking at her. She belonged to me—she was of our very own blood, come from the same old forefathers. I thought nothing strange that I loved her in a moment. It was not love at first sight, it was natural affection. That makes a vast difference. Even Sara Cresswell was not like a child of our own family. To think of another Milly Mortimer, pretty, and happy, and young! such a Milly as I might have been perhaps, but never was. I felt very happy in this child of my family. It was half as good as having a child of one’s own.
Then they showed me some other books with poor Richard Mortimer’s name in them, and his drawing of the Park, and Sarah getting on her horse. Poor fellow! but I rather fear he could not have been any great things of a man. I felt quite easy and light at my heart; nothing seemed to frighten me. And the two young people even, in the little excitement, forgot their own trouble, which was a comfort to me.
“But all this time, my dear,” said I, at length, “you have said nothing about your brother. How did he get to be Italian,—and what did he mean by asking about that lady—and why not come at once to the Park and say out who he was?”
“My brother?” said the young wife, faltering; and gave a wondering look at me, and then turned round, with a habit she seemed to have, to consult her husband with her eyes; “my brother? I am afraid you have not understood. Harry is——”
“I know what Harry is,” cried I; “don’t tell me about him. I mean your brother—your brother. Why, dear, dear child, don’t you understand? I met this man at the door of this very house—Mr. Luigi, you know as they call him; of course he must belong to you.”
“Indeed,” said the new Milly, with very grave, concerned looks, “I never spoke to him but once in my life; we don’t know anything about him. I never had any brother; there were none but me.”