“Go down stairs and ask Mrs. Saltoun to come up,” said I.
She went off in a moment, almost before I could look up, and vanished out of the room without any noise—I suppose because of the high excitement the poor child was in. Mrs. Saltoun came up rather flurried, casting very strange looks at Lizzie. When I saw the dear prim old lady beside that extraordinary creature, and saw the looks she cast at her, the ludicrous part of it seized hold upon me, and I was seized with such a fit of laughing that I could scarcely speak.
“Mrs. Saltoun,” said I, “I don’t know really what you will think of me. I am going to take her for my maid.”
Mrs. Saltoun looked at me and looked at Lizzie, who made her a curtsey. She thought I had gone out of my senses. “It’s to be hoped it’s for lady’s maid and not for bairn’s maid then,” she said, with dreadful sarcasm. If Mrs. Saltoun was so severe, what would Harry say.
“She is an orphan and all alone; and she says she understands about children,” said I, humbly, in self-defence.
“Oh, if you please, I can keep bairns fine,” said Lizzie; “if ye’ll ask the neebors they’ll a’ tell; and oh, if the leddy will try me, dinna turn her against me again! I’m no a lassie in mysel. I’m awfu’ auld in mysel. Afore harm would come to the baby I would die.”
“And, my lass, what good would it do the lady if ye were to die,” said Mrs. Saltoun entering the lists, “after maybe killin’ her bonnie bairn?”
“I would a’ fa’ in pieces first!” cried Lizzie. “I would let them burn spunks in my fingers, or crush my feet as they did langsyne; there’s no a creature in the world I wouldna fecht and fell afore harm came to the wean!”
Mrs. Saltoun was not prepared for such an address; nor for the true fire of enthusiasm and valour that burned through Lizzie’s tears; but she did not give in. I had the satisfaction to look on and listen while the old lady demonstrated in the clearest way that she would never do, without any particular regard for her feelings; and then quietly enjoyed the triumph when Lizzie burst forth upon Mrs. Saltoun, and in two minutes routed her, horse and foot. Half an hour after Mrs. Saltoun and I sat contriving what dress could be got up on the spur of the moment to make the creature presentable; and that very night, while Harry was at mess, she sat in the little kitchen downstairs helping to make up a fresh new printed dress for herself in a fashion which justified part of her assertions, and with a rapidity which I could explain only under the supposition that excitement had still forcible possession of her. I confess I was myself a little excited; though she was only a girl of fourteen and a servant, not to say the most grotesque and awkward-looking person imaginable, it is wonderful what an effect this sudden contact with so strange and characteristic a creature immediately had. My fears about the war faded off for the moment. I could not help being quite occupied with thoughts about the new-comer:—whether, after all, I ever would venture to trust baby with her,—what Harry would say when he saw that odd apparition;—whether I had only been very foolish;—whether I might have resisted. Lizzie Bayne had made herself the heroine of that night.
Chapter IX
TWO days after, when Lizzie made her appearance with a decently made dress, long enough and wide enough to suit her stature, whatever might be her age; with a clean collar, a white apron, and smooth hair, she looked quite presentable. I cannot say she was good-looking; but, undeniably, she looked a capable creature, and with her lively brown eyes, good colour, and clear complexion might improve even in looks by and by. But nobody could do anything for that grotesque awkwardness, which belonged to Lizzie’s age, perhaps, rather than to herself. She still stood upon one foot, and twisted the other round the leg that supported her. She worked uneasily with her big hands, making vain efforts to thrust them into the pinafore which recent improvements had swept away; and she still hung her head in agonies of awkwardness and self-consciousness. A creature so sensitively aware of observation, how could she be trusted with the most precious baby in the world? I repeated this five hundred times the first morning; but never once after I had fairly ventured to place the child in her arms.
“What on earth is that sprite doing here? Has Mrs. Saltoun taken her in, or where does she come from?” said Harry the first day. I felt quite piqued and affronted. I felt myself bound to defend her with all the earnestness in the world.
“Sprite! What do you mean? Why, that is my new maid, Henry, that I told you of; and a capital maid she is,” said I, firing up with all the consciousness of not having taken the wisest step in the world.
“Your new maid!” And Harry said, “Oh!” in the most aggravating manner in the world. I am obliged to confess that Lizzie’s arrival, so much out of the ordinary way, and the excitement of getting her up, of making her fit to appear, and of testing her qualities, had very much aroused my mind out of the heavy thoughts I had been entertaining a few days ago; so that I was no longer so subdued nor so entirely devoted to Harry but what I could be provoked with him now and then.
“There is nothing to cry out about; she is rather young, to be sure, and not the most graceful figure in the world; but she’s good and grateful, poor child, and I am quite content.”
“You must recollect though, Milly, that we can’t afford to keep anybody for charity,” said Harry; “she does not look very gainly; and if she can’t save you the half of your present trouble, I’ll turn out a tyrant, I warn you, and send her away.”
“I am quite the best judge, you may be sure,” said I, with a little internal tremor; “and I tell you I am satisfied. If you attempt to be tyrannical, it is you who shall be sent away.”
“Ah, Milly darling, how’s that! I shall be sent away soon enough,” said Harry, with a little sigh. “I have been thinking that all over since we talked of it the other day. What, you’ve forgot, have you, Milly? Thank heaven! I was only afraid you were fretting over it, and thinking where I should send you to be safe when the time came and I had to go away.”
“Oh, Harry, how cruel!” said I. “I had got it out of my mind just then. Now, I shall never forget it again. And where could you send me? What would it matter, except to be near at hand for the post, and get the earliest news.”
“Unless you were to go to your Aunt Connor; poor Milly,” said he with a pitiful look at me.
“Have you got your orders?” cried I, clasping my hands.
He said, “Nonsense!” getting up hurriedly. “Indeed, Milly, you must consider this question without thinking it is all over the moment I speak of it; and don’t burden yourself with an unsuitable maid. You know, whether we go to the Crimea or not, we are likely very soon to go somewhere. The regiment cannot be long here.”
“Then, Harry, if there is nothing certain don’t let us talk of it,” said I; “when one’s heart is to be broken, one cannot keep always anticipating the moment.” “Don’t make any arrangements; when it comes, that will be time enough. I shall care about nothing but letters. So long as I can have letters I shall do.”
Harry stayed, lingering about me before he went out. “I am not so sure that the Lady Fanshawe idea is a foolish one after all,” he said after awhile. “What fetters you put a man into, you wives and babes! I wish I only knew somebody that would be very good to you if I have to go away. Nineteen! and to be left all by yourself in the world! It’s hard work, Milly, to be a soldier’s wife.”
“If you don’t mean anything particular—if there’s no orders come—have pity on me, and don’t talk, Harry!” I cried out. “When you must go, I’ll bear it. I shall do as well as the other soldiers’ wives. I can never be all by myself as long as you are in the world, though you should be ten thousand miles away. Don’t talk of it. I shall get strength when the day comes; but the day has not come nor the strength; don’t put me to needless torture, Harry.”
“I won’t,” he said again, with that little sigh, and went away leaving me very miserable. Oh! if all this happy life were to finish and come to an end. If I was to waken