Маргарет Олифант - The Last of the Mortimers

“Oh, you child!” said I; “suppose papa’s dinner was waiting, or his stockings to mend, would you let them stand till you had finished your novel? Oh, you deluded little thing, is that the good workwoman you would be?”

Before I had finished speaking Sara had started like a little sprite out of her chair, tossed the novel into the corner of a distant sofa, and went off like the wind to the library, where I did my business and kept my papers. I had to hurry after her as quickly as I could. A pretty job she would have made of it, had she done it alone!

IF there is one thing I dislike more than another, it is the housemaid, or even Ellis, meddling with my papers. I don’t scold a great deal, in a general way, but I will allow that I don’t spare any of them when they flutter my accounts and receipts about in setting things to rights. So in the course of nature the things get dusty; and I quite expected to see poor little Sara grow pale and give in before she was half through the year’s accounts. But nobody knows the spirit that is in that child. After she had once roused herself to do it, she held at it without an idea of yielding. I saw her look now and again at her little toys of hands, but I took no notice; and on she went at the papers manfully, putting them in as regular order as I could have done myself. It was not such a very important business after all, but still it’s a comfort to see a person set to anything with a will, especially a little spoilt wilful creature that never had anything to do but her own pleasure all her life.

Nearly an hour after we had come into the library somebody came with a gentle knock to the door; thinking it was Ellis, I said, “Come in,” without looking up, waiting for him to speak. But while I sat quietly going on with my business, with Sara close by rustling her papers, I was quite startled and shaken all at once to hear a voice close by me which I did not hear half a dozen times in a twelvemonth, the voice of Carson, Sarah’s maid.

“Bless me, what’s the matter?” I said, looking up at the sound, being really too much startled to notice what she said.

“Nothing, I hope, ma’am,” said Carson, who was very precise and particular. “But my missis is not come in, ma’am, from her drive, and I thought I’d make bold to ask if she was going anywhere as I didn’t know?”

“Sarah not come back from her drive?” said I, looking at my watch; “why, we’ve had lights this half hour, Carson; it’s getting towards five o’clock.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Carson, briefly, not allowing for my surprise, “that is just what I said.”

This pulled me up a little, as you may suppose; but I was seriously put out about Sarah, when I really saw how the matter stood.

“I know nothing about where she was going. Dear, dear, can anything have happened?” I cried, getting a little flustered and anxious; then I jumped up, as was natural, and looked out at the window; though of course nothing was to be seen there but the shrubbery and a corner of the flower-garden. “But I can’t think what could have happened either. The horses are very steady, and Jacob is care itself; besides, we’d have heard directly if anything had gone wrong. No, no, there can’t have been any accident. My sister was just in her usual, Carson, eh?”

“Just in her usual ma’am,” said Carson, like an echo of my voice.

“Then, dear, what can be the matter? it’s only some accident, of course,” said I; “I don’t mean accident, only some chance turn out of the way, or something. Bless me, to think of Sarah out after nightfall! Why don’t you run out to the road and look for the carriage? Call some of the people about. Ring the bell, child, can’t you?—or no, sit still, Sara. I’ll take a peep out at the great gate myself.”

Saying which, I hurried past Carson, brushing against her, as she did not keep out of my way, and snatched a cloak out of the hall, and ran to the gate. It was only twilight out of doors, though we had our lamp lighted. A nice night, grey, a little frosty, but rather pleasant, with the lights twinkling out of the windows. I said to myself, “Nothing I should like better than a brisk walk down to the village; but Sarah, you know—Sarah’s different.” What could keep her out so late? I can’t say I was alarmed, but I did get a little uneasy, especially as I saw Ellis making his way up one road from the gate of the courtyard, and the houseboy running down another. It was Carson’s doings, no doubt; well, well! I ought to be thankful my sister had a maid that was so fond of her; but taking things out of my hands in this way, not only made me angry, as was natural, but flurried me as well.

As I stood there, however, watching, and thinking I surely heard a sound of wheels somewhere in the distance, somebody went past me very suddenly. I could not see where he sprang from, he appeared in such a sudden unexplainable way. I got quite a fright, and, except that he was a gentleman, and probably a young one, I could tell nothing more about the figure that shot across my eyes. Very odd; could he have been hiding in the bushes? What could he want? Who could it be? I certainly hear the carriage now, and there comes the houseboy up the road waving his arms about; but instead of looking for my sister, I looked after this figure that had passed me. It passed Ellis too, and looked in his face, making him start, as it appeared to me, and so went straight on, till the road turned and I could see it no longer. I felt quite as if I had met with an adventure. Could it be some lover of little Sara’s that had followed her out here?—or, dear, dear! could it have anything to do with delaying Sarah’s drive? Just then the carriage came in sight, and I ran back to the house-door to receive my sister and ask what had detained her. She stepped out of the carriage, looking paler than her ordinary, and with that nervous shake in her hands and head, and looked as if she could quite have clutched hold of Carson, who of course was there to receive her.

“Sarah,” cried I, “what in all the world has kept you so long? We were at our wits’ end, thinking something had happened.”

“You’ll be glad to see nothing has happened,” said Sarah, in her whisper, trying hard to be quite composed and like herself as she took hold of Carson’s arm. “The beauty of the evening, you know, drew me a little further than I generally go.”

This she said looking into my face, nay, into my eyes all the time, as if to defy any suspicions or doubt I might have. Her very determination to show that there was no other reason, made it quite evident that there had been something, whatever it was.

I said nothing of course. I had not the least idea what my own suspicions pointed at, nor what they were. So it was not likely I should make any scene, or put it into the servants’ heads to wonder. So I stood still and asked no more questions, while Sarah passed before me, leaning on Carson’s arm, to go upstairs. It was the most simple and reasonable thing in the world; why should she not have gone further than she intended one night in her life? But she did not, that is all.

When I went back to the library, little Sara, extraordinary to relate, was sitting exactly where I left her, busy about the papers. The wilful creature did not seem to have moved during my absence. She was as busy and absorbed as if there was nothing else to do or think of in the world. And while we had been all of a flutter looking for Sarah, she, sitting quiet and undisturbed, had got the greater part of her work finished.

“Sara, you unfeeling child,” said I, “were you not anxious about your godmamma?”

“No,” said Sara, very simply. “Godmamma Sarah, and coachman Jacob, and those two fat old horses could surely all take care of each other. I wasn’t frightened, godmamma. I never heard of any accidents happening to big old stout carriages and horses like yours. I’ve nearly got my work done while you’ve been away.”