“Hush! you have not known me much longer!” cried Aunt Milly, “No such thing, child! we are both the same relation to you. Poor dear Sarah! I forgot to tell you about her voice. Isn’t it very sad she should have lost her beautiful voice? She is very clever too, Milly,” said Aunt Milly, with a sigh. “When you know her better you will admire her very much.”
“But you know she jilted poor papa,” said I, trying to laugh and shake off my dread of the veiled woman downstairs.
“My dear! she jilted half the county!” said Aunt Milly, rather solemnly and not without a little pride. “Your Aunt Sarah was the greatest beauty that ever was seen when she was as young as you.”
This speech made me smile in spite of myself. Dear Aunt Milly, perhaps, had been a little slighted by the county. She had no compunction about her sister’s prowess. I don’t know that I felt very sorry for her victims myself, even poor papa, I fear. But, ah me! what kind of a woman was this, I wonder, that had been an enchantress in her day! She was an enchantress still. She charmed me, as a serpent, I could suppose, might charm some poor creature. I wonder if there was any pity in her, any feeling that there was a God and a heaven, and not merely the century-old ceiling with the Mortimers’ arms on it, over her where she sat? I don’t believe she cared. I don’t think there was anything in the world but her own will and inclination, whatever it might be, that ruled her in her dreadful solitude. I wonder when she looked across her knitting at such a human creature as Aunt Milly how she felt; whether it ever came into her head to wonder which of them was contrary to nature? But I don’t suppose Miss Mortimer cared anything about nature. In this wonderful world, all so throbbing with life and affection, I think she must have known nothing but herself.
Thinking like this, you may suppose I could not deceive Aunt Milly to make her think I admired her sister. I kept off speaking of her; which, of course, though not quite so unpleasant, tells one’s mind clearly enough. Aunt Milly gave a little sigh.
“My dear, I see you don’t take to Sarah just at once. I was in hopes if you had taken to each other she might, perhaps, have told you something of what is on her mind. Because, you know, after all we have heard, something must be on her mind, whether she shows it or not. I am afraid it is all beginning again now, Milly; but somehow she hasn’t let her courage down as she did when that young man was about before. I suppose she’s more prepared now. She drove out quite calm yesterday, just as usual; though Mr. Luigi’s servant was out here with a letter the very day I saw his master at your house.”
“So I heard,” said I.
“So you heard! Dear! How did you hear? I know things spread in the most dreadful way,” said Aunt Milly, in great distress; “but to think that should have reached Chester already! What did you hear?”
“I heard it only from Lizzie, my little maid,” said I, pointing to the door of the other room. “Mr. Luigi’s servant and she are great friends.”
Aunt Milly followed the movement of my hand with her eyes, a little awe-stricken. “She must speak his language, for he knows no English,” she said, with involuntary respect. “But dear, dear, she’s only a child! To be sure she’ll go and publish it all in the servants’ hall. But speaking of that, my dear, you ought to have a proper nurse. I felt very nervous about baby when I saw her carrying him. She may be big, you know, but she’s only a child.”