And so she went away after a while, looking very sorrowful; but came back to tell me to put my bonnet on and come with her to Mr. Cresswell’s, who was to drive her home. On our way there I suddenly felt her grasp my arm and point forward a little way before us, where Mr. Luigi was walking slowly along the road by Sara Cresswell’s side. Aunt Milly came almost to a dead stop, looking at them. They were not arm-in-arm, nor did they look as if they had met on purpose. I dare say it was only by accident. Sara, as usual, was dressed in a great velvet jacket, much larger and wider than the one she wore indoors, and held her little head high, as if she quite meant to impress an idea of her dignity upon the Italian, who had to stoop down a long way, and perhaps did stoop down more than Aunt Milly and I saw to be exactly necessary. They went the length of the street together, quite unconscious of the critics behind them, and then separated, Mr. Luigi marching off at a very brisk pace, and Sara continuing her way home. We came up to her just as she reached her own door. She was certainly a very pretty creature, and looked so fresh and blooming in the morning air that I could not have scolded her a great deal, though I own I had a very good mind to do my best in that way, while we were walking behind. The moment she saw us she took guilt to herself. Her face glowed into the most overpowering blush, and the little parasol in her hand fell out of her trembling fingers. But, of course, her spirit did not forsake her. She was not the person to yield to any such emergency.
“We have been walking after you for a long time,” said dear Aunt Milly, in a voice which I have no doubt she supposed to be severe. “I should have called you to wait for us, had I not seen you were otherwise engaged.”
“Oh! then you saw Mr. Luigi, godmamma?” said Sara, quite innocently. “He says he thinks he has found out where the Countess Sermoneta is.”
“The Countess Sermoneta!—oh, child, child, how can you speak so to me?” cried Aunt Milly. “I don’t believe there is any such person in the world. I believe he only makes a fuss about a name, no one ever heard of, to cover his real designs, whatever they may be.”
“Godmamma!” cried Sara, with a flash of fury; “perhaps it will be better to come indoors,” cried the little wicked creature (as Aunt Milly calls her); “nobody, that I ever heard of, took away people’s characters in the open street.”
Aunt Milly went in quickly, shaking her head and deeply troubled. The renewal of this subject swept Sara’s enormity out of her head. We followed, Sara bidding me precede her with a sort of affronted grandeur, which, I confess, was a little amusing to me. When we came into the dining-room, where Aunt Milly went first, the little girl confronted us both, very ready to answer anything we had to say, and confute us to our faces. But much to Sara’s surprise, and perhaps annoyance, Aunt Milly did not say a word on the subject. She shook her head again more energetically than ever. She was so much shaken on this one subject, that other matters evidently glided out of her mind, whenever she was recalled to this.
“No, no! depend upon it there’s no Countess Sermoneta. I believed in it at first, naturally, as everybody else did. It may be a lady, but it isn’t an Italian lady. No, no,” said Aunt Milly, mournfully; “he knows better. He said nothing, you may be sure, about her to me.”
At this moment Mr. Cresswell entered the room, and a little after the brougham came to the door. There was nothing more said on the subject. Sara saw them drive away, with a flutter of fear, I could see; but she need not have been afraid. Aunt Milly had returned into the consideration of her own mystery, which swallowed up Sara’s. I do not think, for my own part, that I had very Christian feelings towards Mr. Luigi as I went home.
Chapter III.
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.