The Last of the Mortimers: A Story in Two VoicesOliphant, Mrs. (Margaret)
General
The Last of the Mortimers: A Story in Two Voices
Oliphant, Mrs. (Margaret)
Fiction
“But what should I have any curiosity about?” said I, agitated and
surprised, taking the paper from him eagerly enough, yet quite at a loss
to account for any interest I could have in his adventure. Ah! had it
happened six months ago, how I should have laughed at Ellis! but it
could not have happened six months ago. Ellis himself would have taken
no notice whatever of such questions then.
“Ma’am,” said Ellis, “the quality has their own ways; if _I_ don’t know
that, who should? I dare say it ain’t nothink to you; but it’s curious
to have parties asking about the Park, as if we was a family as had
romances; and being a pooty young creature, you see, Miss Milly, I
thought it might be possible as you’d like to know.”
“Very well, thank you, Ellis. I know you’re always careful about the
interests of the family,” said I.
“I’ve been at the Park fifty year,” said Ellis, with his best butler’s
bow. I gave him a nod, and went away to the library a great deal more
disturbed than I would let him perceive, but I don’t undertake to say
that he didn’t see it all the same. Here was just the very fuel to set
my smouldering impatience into a blaze. A sudden impulse of doing
something seized upon me like a kind of inspiration. Here was a new
actor in the strange bewildering drama. Who was she? Could she be
Luigi’s wife coming to aid him? As the thought struck me I trembled with
impatience, standing at the window where it was too dark to read that
address. I must wait for the morning, but certainly there was light out
of darkness. However foolish it might be, I could bear it no longer.
Here was a clue to guide my steps, and whether right or wrong, to-morrow
I should plunge into the mystery. The idea took possession of me beyond
all power of resistance. I walked about the library in the dark, quite
excited and tremulous. The wind had risen, and the night was rather
stormy, but I could not go into the comfort and light of that great
drawing-room where Sarah sat knitting. To-morrow, perhaps, I should know
the secret of her death in life.
CHAPTER II.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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