“Sara, hush,” said I; “you know quite well your case and mine are not alike; but, at any rate, I am older and wiser now. Must I, or must Harry, go and tell your father?”
Sara looked at me with a degree of affectionate spite and wickedness I never saw equalled. “You would, you treacherous, perfidious creature!” she cried, flinging away from me; “but Mr. Langham wouldn’t!—you need not think it. You will have to go yourself; and papa will think we have had a quarrel, and won’t believe you. Ah, Milly! here they are coming back. Tell me what Mr. Langham was saying to him? Tell me what it all is?”
If I had known ever so well what to tell her, and been as willing as I was able, I would have been prevented by Harry’s coming in. He was looking grave and perplexed. His interview with Luigi had not satisfied him, any more than such a conversation had satisfied anybody else who approached the Italian. Sara stopped short with the most violent blush on her face when she saw him. She withdrew from me, and got into a corner. She went to the window, and pretended to be looking out very earnestly. She answered Harry’s salutation only over my shoulder. The next moment she came whispering to me that it was time for her to go. Evidently, however much she encouraged herself by our example, she could not face Harry. She whispered, “Don’t tell!” and clenched her little fist at me as she went away. Of course I only laughed at her; but it appeared I did not need to tell Harry. He came upstairs, after seeing her out, with a smile on his face.
“Has she been telling you what trouble she has got herself into? Oh, don’t betray her secret,” said Harry. “I have just heard it from the other side. Here are other two fools following our example, Milly. What is to be done for them? It is worse, you know, in their case, as I took pains to show Luigi. Mr. Cresswell is a different person from Aunt Connor; and we two were equal in our poverty. I don’t approve,” said Harry, with a laugh mingling in his gravity, “of such a thing as this.”
“And what did he say?” said I, thinking, no doubt, that my Harry’s wisdom had made the Italian ashamed of himself.
Harry laughed again, but grew rather red. “Word for word what I used to say when I was explaining to myself why I did not go and ask you from your Aunt Connor. I hope they’ll have as good an issue as we have had, Milly, darling,” said Harry, “But here’s some extraordinary mistake again. Either we’re mistaken in our guess, which I can’t think possible, or poor Luigi’s dreadfully mistaken in the laws of England and of civilised life. Perhaps he thinks our being Protestants makes an end of law. I can’t tell what he thinks, nor what to think of the whole concern. He refuses my mediation, Milly; at least he tells me I am wrong.”
“Wrong in what particular?” I asked eagerly.
Harry shook his head. “I can’t tell; but he will not hear of any compensation, or of giving up his pursuit of that poor old lady. When he saw what I meant he grew very hot and angry, and asked if I meant to insult him, but afterwards said to himself, ‘It is in ignorance,’ with a sort of magnanimity which would be simply ridiculous according to my notion of the affair. They’ll have it out their own way, Milly. We can’t interfere, that’s clear; only I wish there was some light thrown upon it,” said Harry, “before I went away, that I might know what your fortune is likely to be. What would you say if this grand Park of yours turned out to be no inheritance for us at all?”
“I should not break my heart; but what could he have to do with the Park?” cried I. “If he were Mr. Mortimer’s son, why should Miss Mortimer be so troubled about it? and how could he, if he is Miss Mortimer’s——”
“Hush, Milly; we don’t know anything about it. Let’s talk of our own concerns,” said Harry, with a sigh. These words plunged me back again into the mood from which Sara had roused me. The other things went like shadows—this was the real life which belonged to us.