“But I must have everything cleared away now, before Harry comes in,” said I; “he must not see all this litter we have been making. He thinks me foolish enough already. Go into the other room, Sara dear, and take a book and wait for me. Lizzie is out with baby. I’ll come to you presently.”
“As if I could not help!” cried Sara, dashing the tears away off her cheek. “Why, oh, Milly, why won’t people let us women do what we were born to? This is twenty times pleasanter than going into the other room and taking a book.”
And so, I daresay, it was. When everything was tidy we did go into the other room. Sara sat near the window, where she could see out without being seen herself. I took up some of Harry’s things that I had begun to make before Aunt Milly’s money came. I would have made them every one myself if I could, but that, to be sure, was impossible; and what a comfort it was to think he would have such a good supply of everything; but still it was a pleasure to me to have that work. We sat talking for some time about other things, about the Park, and Aunt Milly, and Miss Mortimer, but without touching upon anything but the surface,—how I liked them, and all that,—till at last Sara gave a little start and exclamation, and put her hands together. It was something she saw in the street. I rose to look over her shoulder what it was.
“There is Mr. Langham and Mr. Luigi,” cried Sara. “What can they be talking about? Are they coming in, I wonder? How earnest they both look! Now they are turning back again. Oh, Milly, tell me, please! what are they talking about?”
“How can I possibly tell you?” said I; but I suppose there was a little faltering and consciousness in my tone.
Sara sat watching for some time longer. “They walk up and down, quite engrossed in their conversation,” said Sara; “when they reach the end of the pavement, they turn back again, up and down, up and down. Now Mr. Langham seems urging something upon him—now he turns away, he clasps his hands together, he appeals to Mr. Langham. What is it? what is it all about? I never can persuade him to tell me. How does he belong to the Park or the Mortimers? Why are they frightened for him? Oh, Milly, you who have just come from them, tell me what it is? I am not asking from vain curiosity—I—I—I have a right——”
Here Sara stopped, overcome with agitation. I was close behind her. I could not help growing agitated too.
“Sara, tell me!” I cried; “we are both motherless creatures, and you have nobody to guide you. Tell me; you call him he, you don’t say his name. What is he to you?”
Sara turned back and leant her head upon me, and fell into a passion of tears again;—different tears—tears for herself, and out of the anguish of her heart. She was doing wrong—she knew she was doing wrong—she had gone on with it wilfully, knowing it was wrong all the time; and now she had gone too far to draw back.
“Oh, Milly, Milly, papa does not know!” she cried, in such a tone of misery. And, indeed, I don’t wonder. How could she look him in the face knowing how fond of her he was?