The Last of the Mortimers: A Story in Two Voices

by Mrs. Oliphant

I durstn’t confess that I had my own vanity in the matter, and being a matron, rather despised a white muslin frock to go out in; for if I had betrayed the least inkling of such a thing, there is no saying what he might not have done; run up a bill, or paid away all the money he had, or something; so I stopped his mouth with some foolish answer, and ran off to get my bonnet. Upstairs baby was sitting on the carpet, with Lizzie beside him, jumping a little paste-board harlequin to please him. Her brown eyes were quite sparkling over the loose-legged, insane figure, as she jerked the string about. I could not help but stand and look at her for a moment with a startled sensation. She was just as much amused as baby was. Only to think of such a child being left in charge of our boy! I went downstairs in consequence with a slower step, after having given Lizzie a superabundance of cautions about taking care of him. Only a girl of fourteen! I daresay all this time you must have been thinking I was mad to trust her; but, indeed, she was a very extraordinary girl; and after all, when you think it, fourteen is quite a trustworthy age. She was old enough to know what she ought to do, and not old enough to be distracted by thoughts of her own. Ah, depend upon it, fourteen is more single-minded than eighteen; and then Lizzie had a woman’s strength and handiness along with her child’s heart.

Not to delay longer about it, we did go to the party. Harry said I looked very well on the whole; he did not think he would have been disposed to exchange with anybody. I had no jewellery at all, which was rather a little humiliating to me; but, to my wonder and delight, Harry did not object to that. “They’ll only think you’re setting up for simplicity,” he said, laughing. “I suppose it’s safer to be thought a little humbug than to have your dreadful destitution known. Come along. Nobody will suspect you have not a bracelet; only mind you behave yourself very innocently, like a little shepherdess, and you’ll take everybody in.”

I cannot say I very much admired this piece of advice; and if Harry had thought me the least likely to take it, I am sure he would not have been so ready with his good counsels. The party disappointed me a great deal. How is it one reads in books of society being so captivating, and intoxicating, and all that, and how, when one is used to it, one can’t do without it? On the contrary, it was as dull—duller than anybody could imagine! Instead of that delightful stream of conversation always kept up, and so easy, and so witty, and so clever, you could see perfectly well that everybody was trying to contrive what they should say, and to find out things that would bear talking about. The poor lady of the house was so anxious to keep up the talk that she ate no dinner in the first place; and in the second, evidently frightened by the pauses that occurred, kept talking loud herself, and dancing on from one subject to another till she was quite breathless. Then there was one man who was expected to make you laugh—people prepared to laugh whenever he opened his lips; but I am sorry to say I was so indiscreet as only to stare at him, and wonder what it was about. I caught the eye of the young lady sitting by him as I did so. She was little,—less than me,—dark, and very, very pretty. She was only Miss somebody, but she was dressed more richly than anybody there, and had the most beautiful bracelets. I could not help feeling a little when I looked at my poor wrists and my white muslin dress—I who was married, and she only a young girl; when, just at that moment, she gave me a quick look, lifting up her eyebrows, and smiling rather disdainfully at the great wit beside her. Immediately we two were put in communication somehow. I suppose it was mesmerism. Her eyes kept seeking mine all the time of dinner. The odd thing about her was that her hair was quite short, hanging in little curls upon her neck, like a child’s; and of all things in the world, for such a child to wear, she was dressed in violet velvet, the most beautiful shade in the world. I suppose Harry would have said she was a little humbug too, and did it for effect; but, to be sure, it must have been wealth and not poverty that did it in her case. When we went up to the drawing-room after dinner, she very soon made her way to me. The other ladies, most of them belonging to the regiment, had come round me, and were doing their best to discover why I had been kept in the dark so long, and whether anything could be found out about me. I stood at bay pretty well, I think; but when Miss Cresswell came in, somehow all at once, like a fresh little breeze, in her soft velvet dress, to the sofa beside me, I really felt I could have laid down my head on her shoulder and cried. To be sure it was very foolish; one can smile and keep up when one is being baited, and when one finds a real friend after being aggravated out of one’s life, it is only natural to feel disposed to cry. I say a real friend, though I never saw her before,—it was mesmerism, I suppose; we took to each other at once.

We had got quite intimate before the gentlemen came upstairs. I had told her where we lived, and she promised to come and see me, and we had found out a great many opinions we had in common. Things were different, however, when the gentlemen appeared. All the young men hovered about Miss Cresswell. There were few young ladies, and she was certainly much the prettiest; and, I am very grieved to have to say it—I cannot deny that she did flirt a little. She was disdainful, and would take no notice of anybody at first, but by degrees she did come to little bursts of flirtation; and I am afraid she liked it too. Then there began to be things said about her and me which displeased me. We were “Art and Nature,” somebody said; and some of the gentlemen evidently entertained the same feeling that Harry indicated, when he said they would suppose me a little humbug. Evidently we were both thought little humbugs, sitting by each other to set each other off. Some of them, I do believe, thought it had all been made up beforehand. Certainly we were a strange contrast; I, in my plain white dress, with no ornaments; she in velvet, with such a quantity of jewellery. But to have people looking at me, and contrasting me with Miss Cresswell, and making jokes upon my dress and hers, was what I did not choose to put up with. People accustomed to society may like it, but I did not. So I got up and took Harry’s arm, and went to look at a picture. Nobody spoke to us for some five minutes or so, but we were close to some ladies talking with all their might. Then some one touched my arm, and I saw Miss Cresswell had followed me, and brought an old gentleman with her. This was her father. I got behind one of the talking ladies to veil my “simplicity,” that there might be no more nonsense about it. The ladies were talking of women working. Oh, so little they knew or pretended to know about it; I wonder what they would have thought if they could have seen my laundry operations; or, indeed, I wonder, under all their fine talk, whether they had not, of mornings, some work to do themselves. However, I only tell this from the glimpse it gave me of my new friend.

“It is all very well to speak of hardships,” cried Miss Cresswell. “I can’t see any hardship in doing one’s work. Ah! don’t you think they are very happy who have something to do?—something they must do whether they like it or not. I hate always doing things if I like! it is the most odious, tiresome stuff! If I like! and if I like it pray, what is the good of it? It is not work any longer, it is only pleasure.”

“My dear child,” said one of the old ladies, “be thankful you have so much ease and leisure. Your business just now is to please your papa.”

Here the old gentleman burst in with a long slow laugh, “To worry him, you mean,” said Mr. Cresswell; “tell her of her duty, Mrs. Scrivin. Ah, my dear lady, she’s contrairy!” he cried, shaking his head with a certain air of complacence and ruefulness. Miss Cresswell gave him such a flashing, wicked look out of her dark eyes, and then seized my hand to lead me away somewhere. She was not a dutiful good girl, it appeared; she did not look like it. Now she was roused up, first by flirting, and then by rebellion and opposition, you could see it in her eyes. I am sorry, I am ashamed to confess it—but I do believe I liked her the better for being so wicked. It is very dreadful to say such a thing, but I am afraid it was true.

Chapter IV.

OUR fat Italian friend below stairs began to give us great amusement just then. Wherever he went he carried under his arm that square volume as fat as himself, in which Lizzie was at present pursuing her occult and bewildered studies. To see Domenico (for that was his name), coming to a sudden halt straight before you, blocking out all the light from that tiny passage which Mrs. Goldsworthy called her “hall,” and announcing, with a flourish of his dictionary, that he had something to communicate, was irresistibly comic certainly; but it was a little embarrassing as well. Domenico’s verbs were innocent of either past, present, or future. I presume he was quite above any considerations of grammar, except that supplied to him by nature, in his own language, and was not aware that such a master of the ceremonies existed to introduce him to the new tongue, which the poor fellow found so crabbed and unmanageable. I have heard of people managing to get on in foreign countries with a language composed of nouns and the infinitive of verbs (I honestly confess, that when I heard this story first, I had very vague ideas of what the infinitive of a verb was); a primitive savage language containing the possibilities of existence; eating, drinking, and sleeping; but quite above the conventional uses of conversation. Domenico’s ambition was far higher, but his information was absolutely confined to those same infinitives. He knew the word only as it stood in the dictionary—what were tenses and numbers to him? But you will perceive that a conversation conducted on these principles was necessarily wanting in precision, and that the conversing persons did not always understand each other with the clearness that might have been desired.

One clear spring morning, a few days after the party, I was going out about household affairs, when Domenico stopped me on the way to the door. He had his coat off, and the immense expanse of man in shirt-sleeves, which presented itself before me, cannot be expressed by description. As usual, he was smiling all over his face; as usual, his red lips and white teeth opened out of his beard with a primitive fulness and genial good-humour; as usual, he seized his beard with one hand as he addressed me, opening out his big dictionary on the table with the other. “Signora,” cried Domenico, “the master my—me, of me,” first pointing at himself, and then, to make assurance sure, boxing his chest emphatically, “the my master,—Signora understand?—come back.”