I gave a glance at Sarah, sidelong, as I spoke. I am sure what I said was light enough, and not very serious, but her ear had caught it; it was a sign to me that she was still as much on the watch as ever. She did not speak, nor lift up her head, except with a little momentary start, but she stopped knitting, which was something extraordinary to me.
And little Sara flushed up; whether it was with the recollection of our quarrel, or a private interest of her own in the young stranger, who, to be sure, being a handsome young man, and mysterious, and romantic, was quite likely to excite a foolish young imagination, I cannot tell; but her cheeks certainly reddened up at a great rate, and she looked exactly as if she were ready to pounce and bite, what between curiosity and wrath.
“I met him on the road; it is my belief he passed the gate the other evening when I was looking out. Poor young man! he speaks very good English for an Italian,” said I.
Then Sarah’s whisper interfered and stopped me; she spoke very sharply. “Who are you speaking of?” she said; “there are no Italians here.”
“There is one,” said I; “poor fellow. Little Sara there knows about him. It appears he came expecting to find a lady hereabouts, and can’t find her. I can’t think on the name myself; I never heard it that I know of; but I must allow that the young man looks like a gentleman; and for an Italian——”
“Be silent, Milly! What can a person like you know?” said Sarah, in an irritated shrill tone. “They’re a double-minded, deceitful, intriguing race; they’re vile story-tellers, every one; they’re a people no more fit to be considered like other Christians than dogs are, or slaves. Bah! What do you mean talking to me of Italians? None of you are the least aware of what you are speaking of. I know them well.”
Here little Sara struck boldly into the breach, and saved me from the necessity of struggling out an answer.
“Godmamma, you are frightfully unjust!” cried little Sara. “I wonder how you can speak of a whole people so; and such a people! as if everybody in the world did not know who they are, and what they have done!”
“They have done every kind of fraud and falsehood in existence,” said Sarah, so earnest that her voice sounded like a sort of smothered shriek. “I tell you, child, whoever trusts or believes in them gets deceived and betrayed. Don’t speak to me of Italians—I know them; and if any Italian comes here pretending to ask anything,” she said, suddenly turning round upon me, and catching at me, if I may say so, with her eye, “mind you, Milly, it’s a cheat! I say, recollect it’s a cheat! He does not want any living creature; he wants money, and profit, and what you have to give.”
If she had said all this quietly, and there had been nothing beforehand to rouse my attention, I should not have been surprised; for to be sure, that was very much like what I had always believed; and as for lying, and seeking their own advantage, I rather think that is just about what an English person, who knows no better, thinks of most foreigners, right or wrong. But Sarah’s way of speaking was breathless and excited. She was no more thinking of Italians in general than I was, or than little Sara was. She was thinking on some one thing, and some one person; she alone knew who and what. All her anger, and her quickness, and her dreadful look of being in earnest, were personal to herself; and I cannot describe to anybody how my sister’s unexplainable anxiety and excitement bewildered and excited me.