“Oh, to be sure, that makes all the difference,” cried Sara, bursting open her own letters with a half-ashamed, annoyed laugh. I have no doubt she had said twice as much as she meant to say, the impatient little puss, and was ashamed of herself. She had set her heart on seeing Mr. Luigi, that was the plain truth of the matter. Seeing him at the Park, where of course papa could have nothing to say against the introduction, hearing all about his search after the unknown lady, exercising her wiles upon him, turning him into a useless creature like that poor boy Wilde, in Chester, who was good for nothing but to waylay her walks and go errands for her. That was what she wanted, the wicked little coquette. It was just as well Mr. Luigi had taken care of himself, and kept out of the way. I really thought it was right to read her a lecture on the occasion.
“Sara, you are quite disappointed the poor young man is not coming. You wanted to make a prey of him, you artful puss,” said I. “You thought, out here in the country, with nothing else to do, it would be good fun to make him fall in love with you—you know you did! And I think it is not at all a creditable thing, I assure you. How can you excuse yourself for all the damage you have done to that young Wilde?”
“Damage!” cried Sara. “If I am a puss, I may surely pounce upon a mouse that comes in my way,” she said spitefully; and then putting on her most innocent look;—“but, indeed, it is very shocking to have such suspicions of me, especially as I am a fright now, godmamma Sarah says.”
“It is just as well Mr. Luigi does not put himself in your way,” said I; “and it would be very wicked of you to do any harm to him, or attempt such a thing; and I say so particularly, because I think you are quite inclined to it, Sara, which is very wrong and very surprising. You are not such a beauty as your godmamma Sarah was, but you have just the same inclinations. It is something quite extraordinary to me.”
The little puss looked at me with her wicked eyes blazing, and her face flushed and angry. She looked quite beautiful in spite of her short little curls. I am not sure that she might not, when she grew older, be very near as great a beauty as her godmamma. She did not make any answer, but bit her lips, and set her little red mouth, and looked a very little sprite of mischief and saucy daring. She was not abashed by what I said to her. She was a thoughtless child, aware only of a strange mischievous power she had, and thinking no harm.
“For I know,” said I, half to myself, “that poor Mr. Luigi will come back. I feel as if I had known him half a lifetime ago. His voice is a voice I used to hear when I was young. I can’t tell whose voice it is, but I know it. He’ll come back here. He won’t find the lady in Manchester, or any other chester; he’ll find her in Cheshire, if he finds her at all.”
“Did godmamma Sarah say so?” cried Sara, suddenly losing her own self-consciousness in her interest in this bit of mystery.
“Child, do not be rash,” cried I, in some agitation. “Your godmamma knows nothing about her; it is all a mistake.”
“Did you ask her?” said Sara. “Godmamma, it is written in her face. When the rector was speaking, when you were speaking, even when I was speaking, it was quite evident she knew her abroad, and remembered who she was; but she will not tell. It is not a guess; I am perfectly sure of it. She knows all about her, and she will not tell.”
“It is quite a mistake, Sara,” cried I, trembling in spite of myself. “She has taken some fancy into her head about Mr. Luigi, some merely visionary notion that he has some bad intention, I cannot tell you what. But I am certain she knows nothing about this Countess. Child, don’t think you know better than anybody else! I have thought a great deal about it, and made up my mind. Your godmamma has grown fanciful, she has taken this into her head. Don’t be rash in speaking of your fancies; it might give her pain;—and your idea is all a mistake.”