“But if she were too much excited it might make her ill,” said I, dreading that visit, without knowing anything to say against it.
“I can’t help it!” cried Aunt Milly, “I am desperate. Think of living and enjoying what doesn’t belong to you! Oh, Milly, Milly! what do you think I must do? I never was in secrets and mysteries before; it’s dreadful to me; and Sarah would not yield to tell what she’s kept hidden so long, not for her life. We’ll see how she looks to-night. I did not think she looked any worse than usual. I would not hurt her, you may be sure, not for any relief to myself; but we can’t go on with this hanging over us, Milly,” she said, with faltering lips. “I’ll write to-morrow; I certainly will write to-morrow. Relations! My dear, dear child, it will be a dreadful disappointment to you; but that is as good as proof.”
Poor Aunt Milly! she was desperate, as she said; and what good it would do writing, or asking, or even demanding anything, that one of the people who knew it would guard at the cost of her life, and the other would disclose only at his own time, I could not see. Luigi had refused to tell her already; he would not tell Sara Cresswell. He was waiting a permission that never, never in this world would be given. And he, too, must be deluded. What could he think our laws or our principles were if he could have any rights, but those of shame? It was all a mystery; I could see that Aunt Milly’s idea was quite a false one. But I dared not tell her that idea of my own, which, perhaps, for anything I knew, might prove as false as hers.
That morning I went out with Lizzie and my boy. He could walk now along the sunny road holding my finger, and trot after his own little shadow, and try to catch the motes in the sunshine, as I suppose all babies do—but, to be sure, it is just as original and strange in every child that does it, for all that. I was walking by him, very tranquil and even contented in my mind. There had been very quiet weather; and little Harry was so well and so beautiful; and I felt so much more as if I could trust my Harry himself in God’s hands without trembling for him every moment, that my heart opened out a little to the beautiful day. I don’t know that I should have borne to see Domenico, much less to speak to him, but for that——
For there was Domenico, unmistakably, on the edge of the common. He was dressed in a white linen suit, all white, as if he wanted to make his enormous bulk and his black beard as remarkable as possible in this beardless and sober-minded country. It was warm weather now, and I daresay he thought the hot summer was coming as in his own home. Baby, with whom he had always been a favourite, gave a little shout at sight of him, and tottered forward a step or two. Of course Domenico’s hat had been in his hand from the first moment he saw me. He threw it down on the grass now, and seized little Harry, and tossed him up in his arms. I was afraid of this play, but my brave boy was not; he actually boxed at Lizzie with his little fists when I begged Domenico to set him down.
“Pardon,” said Domenico; “I—me—make demand of the signora, pardon—it pleases to the piccolo signorino beebee. I—Domenico—here—this,” said the great fellow, punching his breast, that I might be quite sure of the person he meant, “take joy in heart for see the signora another time.”
“Thank you, Domenico,” said I. “I shall never forget how kind you have been. What is it that brings you here?”
Domenico pointed round to various points of the compass, not seeming sure which to fix upon, and then burst into a great laugh at himself. “It pleases to the signora to pardon,” said Domenico; “when not to have the book not clevare to make the speak. Here is the master of me.”
“Your master, Domenico?—where?” cried I.
Once more Domenico looked round to all the points of the compass. “He here—he here—puff—Ecco!—he move far away—to make the time go. Here my master come to make the visit—the signora not to know the other signora? Yes, yes; in that large big palazzo of not any colour. Behold! The my master there go.”