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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..959a9da --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #65153 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/65153) diff --git a/old/65153-0.txt b/old/65153-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index b0db7b4..0000000 --- a/old/65153-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,19347 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Within the Precincts, by Mrs. Margaret -Oliphant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Within the Precincts - -Author: Mrs. Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: April 24, 2021 [eBook #65153] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at - http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images - available at The Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WITHIN THE PRECINCTS *** - - - - - COLLECTION - OF - BRITISH AUTHORS - - TAUCHNITZ EDITION. - - VOL. 1823. - - WITHIN THE PRECINCTS BY MRS. OLIPHANT. - - COMPLETE - - - - - - TAUCHNITZ EDITION. - - By the same Author, - - _The Chronicles of Carlingford_: - - THE RECTOR AND THE DOCTOR’S FAMILY 1 vol. - SALEM CHAPEL 2 vols. - THE PERPETUAL CURATE 2 vols. - MISS MARJORIBANKS 2 vols. - PHŒBE, JUNIOR 2 vols. - - * * * * * - - THE LAST OF THE MORTIMERS 2 vols. - MARGARET MAITLAND 1 vol. - AGNES 2 vols. - MADONNA MARY 2 vols. - THE MINISTER’S WIFE 2 vols. - OMBRA 2 vols. - MEMOIR OF COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT 2 vols. - MAY 2 vols. - INNOCENT 2 vols. - FOR LOVE AND LIFE 2 vols. - A ROSE IN JUNE 1 vol. - THE STORY OF VALENTINE & HIS BROTHER 2 vols. - WHITELADIES 2 vols. - THE CURATE IN CHARGE 1 vol. - MRS. ARTHUR 2 vols. - CARITÀ 2 vols. - YOUNG MUSGRAVE 2 vols. - THE PRIMROSE PATH 2 vols. - - - - - WITHIN - THE PRECINCTS - - BY - - MRS. OLIPHANT, - - AUTHOR OF “THE CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,” ETC. - - _COPYRIGHT EDITION._ - - IN THREE VOLUMES. - - VOL. I. - - - LEIPZIG - BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ - 1879. - - _The Right of Translation is reserved._ - - - - - CONTENTS - - OF VOLUME I. - - - Page - -CHAPTER I. St. Michael’s 7 - --- II. The Chevaliers’ Lodges 23 - --- III. The Abbey Precincts 40 - --- IV. Lady Caroline 62 - --- V. At the Deanery 82 - --- VI. Law 103 - --- VII. A New Light 116 - --- VIII. Triumph and Terror 129 - --- IX. Visitors 150 - --- X. The Minor Canon 171 - --- XI. Another Evening at the Deanery 190 - --- XII. Brother and Sister 209 - --- XIII. Captain Despard 227 - --- XIV. The Workroom 242 - --- XV. Romance and Reality 261 - --- XVI. The Signor’s Household 279 - - - - - WITHIN THE PRECINCTS. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -ST. MICHAEL’S. - - -The Abbey Church of St. Michael’s stands on a low hill in a flat and -fertile country. The holy places which are sacred to the great archangel -seem to settle naturally upon a mount; and this, one of the noblest -structures consecrated under his name, had all the effect of a very high -elevation--so wide-spreading was the landscape round, so vast the sweep -of plain, fields, and woods, great parks and commons, and gleaming white -villages like ships at sea, which could be seen from its walls and -terraces. Though the settlement was ecclesiastical, the place had been -walled and defensible in the days when danger threatened wealth whatever -form it assumed. Danger, however, had long been far from the thoughts of -the dignified corporation which held its reverend court upon the hill. -The Abbey was as splendid as any cathedral, and possessed a dean and -chapter, though no bishop. It was of Late Gothic, perpendicular and -magnificent; and the walls and towers which still surrounded it, and -even the old houses within the precincts, were older still than the -Abbey, and could have furnished many “bits” to make the heart of a -mediæval architect glad. The very turf which filled the quadrangle and -clothed the slope of the Dean’s Walk was a production of centuries; the -Chapter House was full of historical documents, and the library of rare -books; and there were antiquarian fanatics who protested that the -wealthy livings belonging to the Abbey, and its old endowments, were the -least of its riches. Nor was this establishment on the hill confined to -ecclesiastical interests only. The beautiful church was the chapel of an -order of knighthood, and opposite to it--forming an integral part of the -pile of buildings--was a line of small ancient houses, forming a kind of -screen and inner wall of defence to the sacred citadel, which were the -lodges of a supplementary order of pensioners--Chevaliers of St. -Michael--which at the time of the foundation had given such a balance, -as the Middle Ages loved, of Christian charity and help, to the -splendour and braggadocio of the more glorious knights. Thus the little -community which inhabited this noble old pile of buildings was varied -and composite. The highest official in it was the costly and -aristocratic Dean, the lowest the lay clerks, who were housed humbly in -the shadow of the church in a little cloister of their own, and who -daily filled the Abbey with the noblest music. The Deanery was close to -the Abbey, and embraced in its irregular group of roofs the great -tower, which showed for miles round, with its lighted windows, rising up -into the night. The canons’ houses, if not equally fine, were still -great old houses, standing on the edge of the hill, their walls rising -straight from the green slopes dotted with trees, round the foot of -which a little red-roofed town had gathered; and the Abbey itself stood -between those stately habitations and the humbler lodges of the -Chevaliers, which shut off the lower level of sloping bank on the other -side. The Dean himself was of a great family, and belonged not only to -the nobility, but, higher still, to the most select circles of fashion, -and had a noble wife and such a position in society as many a bishop -envied; and among his canons were men not only of family, but possessed -of some mild links of connection with the worlds of learning and -scholarship,--even it was said that one had writ a book in days when -books were not so common. The minor canons were of humbler degree; they -formed the link between gods and men, so to speak--between the Olympus -of the Chapter and the common secular sphere below. We will not deceive -the reader nor buoy him up with hopes that this history concerns the -lofty fortunes of the members of that sacred and superior class. To no -such distinction can these humble pages aspire; our office is of a -lowlier kind. On Olympus the doings are all splendid, if not, as old -chronicles tell, much wiser than beneath, amid the humbler haunts of -men. All that we can do is to tell how these higher circles looked, to -eyes gazing keenly upon them from the mullioned windows which gave a -subdued light to the little rooms of the Chevaliers’ lodges on the -southern side of St. Michael’s Hill. - -These lodges were two storeys in height, with small rooms and very solid -masonry, little gardens in front of them, and a tower at each end. Many -creeping plants clung about the old walls, and especially there were -clouds of Virginia creeper which made them glorious in autumn. It was, -however, on a summer afternoon, at the time this history begins, that -Lottie Despard--the only daughter of Captain Despard, a Chevalier not -very long appointed to that office--sat, with her head out through the -open window, framed between the mullions, watching the broad slope of -the Dean’s Walk which lay between her and the church, and led to the -Deanery and the heights beyond. The Deanery was at this moment the most -important place in the world, not only to Lottie, but to many other -spectators who thronged the slope beneath her window. For this day a -great event had happened in St. Michael’s. The Dean’s only daughter, -Augusta Huntington, had been married that morning with all the pomp -imaginable. It had been like a royal wedding, sumptuous in ritual, in -music, and fine company; and now, after taking a little repose during -the time which the wedding-party spent at breakfast, the Abbey -precincts were beginning to fill again with gazing groups, and all the -people within were coming to their windows to see the bride and -bridegroom go away. - -Lottie Despard was beyond all comparison the prettiest, and she was also -the youngest, of all the ladies in the lodges. She was of Irish descent, -and she had the whiteness of skin, the blackness of abundant hair, the -deep blue eyes that so often go with Milesian blood. Such eyelashes had -never been seen at St. Michael’s; indeed, they had never been seen -anywhere “out of Mrs. Jarley’s waxworks!” some ill-natured critics said. -Sometimes, when Lottie was specially pale or weary, they seemed to -overshadow her face; but she was neither weary nor pale at this -particular moment. She was in great excitement, on the contrary, and -flushed with expectation. Though she was only the daughter of a poor -Chevalier, Lottie had advantages which separated her from the rest of -that little company. Her father was of good family, a point on which she -insisted strenuously; and she herself was the possessor of a beautiful -voice. The former particular would not have been of much advantage to -her, for what was the Despards’ old and faded quality to the great -people at St. Michael’s? But a voice is a different matter; and there -had arisen between Miss Huntington and the Chevalier’s daughter a kind -of intimacy very flattering (the neighbours thought) to Lottie. They -had sung together so much and seen so much of each other, that the -lodges expected nothing less than that Lottie would have been asked to -the wedding, or even--greater honour still!--to be a bridesmaid; and -Lottie herself had been wounded and disappointed beyond measure when she -found herself left entirely out. But there was still the possibility -that the bride might show she had not forgotten her humble friend -altogether; and it was for this that Lottie was waiting so anxiously as -the time of departure approached. A word, a sign, a wave of the hand -surely would be vouchsafed to her as the carriage passed. Her heart was -beating loudly as she leant out--a pretty sight to see from without, for -the window was framed in luxuriant wreaths of green, with trailing -tendrils of the young delicate leaves which in autumn flamed like -scarlet flowers against the wall. The people who were gathering on the -road below gave many a look at her. And, though the young ladies from -the shops, who had got half-an-hour’s leave to see how their handiwork -looked in the bride’s travelling-dress, were deeply sensible of the fact -that a poor Chevalier’s daughter was not much richer than themselves, -yet they could not help looking and envying Lottie, if only for the -window at which she could sit in comfort and see everything that went -on, instead of standing in the sun as they had to do. They forgot her, -however, and everything else as the carriage drove up to the Deanery to -take the bridal pair away. The Dean’s daughter was so much the princess -of the community that a compromise had been made between popularity and -decorum; and it was in a carriage partially open, that an admiring -people might behold her as she passed, that she was to drive away. There -was the usual long waiting at the door while the farewells were made, -during which time the outside world looked on respectfully; and then, -with a crowd of “good-byes” thrown after her, and a few--but only a very -few, for the Deanery was nothing if not decorous--white satin slippers, -and a prance and dash of the impatient horses, and a flourish of the -coachman’s whip, and a parting gleam of the wedding favour on his -breast, the bridal pair rolled rapidly past, and all was over. How -quickly they went, everybody said, and how well she looked; and how well -that brown dress looked, though it had been thought rather dowdy for -such an occasion; and the feather in the hat, how well it matched, about -which there had been so much trouble! Some, who had the time, paused to -see the wedding guests disperse, and catch other beatific glimpses of -fine bonnets and gay dresses; but most of the spectators, after this -last and crowning point of the performance, streamed down the slope and -out at the great gateway, and were seen no more. - -Lottie drew in her head from the window the moment the carriage passed. -She grew red when other people grew pale, being pale by nature; and her -face was crimson as she withdrew it from the opening, and came in again -to the little room in which most of her life was spent. Her lips were -closed very tight, her soft forehead contracted; the fire in her blue -eyes, gleaming with anger and disappointment, was (most unwillingly) -quenched in tears. She clasped her hands together with a vehement clasp. -“It would have cost so little to give a look!” she cried; then bit her -lips and clenched her hands and stamped her foot upon the floor, in a -forlorn but vigorous effort to restrain her tears. - -“What does it matter to you?” said a tall young fellow, sufficiently -like Lottie to prove himself her brother, who had looked out lazily over -her head while the carriage was passing. He had his hands in his pockets -and a slouching gait generally, and looked too big for the little room. -She had almost pushed against him in her rapid movement, for his -movements were never rapid; and he had not had time to take one hand out -of his pocket before she flashed round upon him with two red spots on -her cheeks and fury in her heart. - -“What does it matter? Oh, nothing! nothing!” cried Lottie. “Why should -anything matter? It only shows me a little more, a very little more, how -cold the world is, and that nobody has a heart!” - -“Few people have very much, I suppose,” said the young man; “at least, -so the governor says. But what good or harm could it do you to have a -parting sign from _her_? I knew she would never give it you. I knew she -would be thinking of nobody but herself----” - -“What did you know about it?” cried the girl. “You were never a friend -of hers! you were never begged and prayed to go and sing at the Deanery! -she never came down the Abbey Hill to look for you! But me she has done -all that for; and when I thought just for once she would let everybody -see that Lottie Despard was a friend--Oh, Law, for the love of Heaven, -go and work at something, and don’t stand there staring at me!” - -“What am I to work at?” said the young man, with a yawn. “It’s past -working hours; besides, in summer how can anyone work? I can’t make head -nor tail of that Euclid when the sun is shining.” - -“But when the sun is not shining, Law?” - -“Oh! then,” said the youth, with a smile breaking over his somewhat -cloudy face, “I can make out the head, but not the tail, and the sting -is in the tail, you know! Good-bye, Lottie, and never mind any mother’s -daughter of them. They cannot make us anything but what we are, whatever -they may do.” - -“And what are we?” said Lottie to herself, as her brother strolled -lazily out. There was more air to breathe when he was gone, which was -something. She sat down upon the little old faded sofa, and shed a few -more bitter tears of disappointment and mortification. We all like to -think well of ourselves when that is possible; to think well of our -belongings, our people, our position in the world--all that makes up -that external idea of us which we make acquaintance with years before we -know our own real being. No one can tell what the atmosphere of -well-being, of external credit, and public esteem is to a child; and -this Lottie had never known. They had been poor, but poverty is no -hindrance to that feeling of harmony with the world around which is the -higher soul of respectability. But there had not been much about the -Despards to respect. The father had been a good officer in his day, and, -if he had not been without money and interest, and everything that could -help him on, might have been distinguished in his profession. But those -were the days of “purchase,” and Captain Despard had remained Captain -Despard, and had bitterly resented the fact. His wife, too, though she -was Lottie’s mother, had not been of a kind to reclaim for her husband -the failing credit of his life. They had lived as most poor officers on -half pay, with pretensions to gentility and hankerings after pleasure, -do live. They were in debt all round, as need not be said; and Mrs. -Despard’s life would have been rendered miserable by it if she had not -escaped from the contemplation by means of every cheap merry-making or -possible extravagance she could attain to. All had been huggermugger in -Lottie’s early life; a life not destitute of amusements, indeed, but -full of bitterness, small mortifications, snubs, and the cold shoulder -of social contempt. Lottie herself had heard in childish quarrels, -through the frank recriminations of her childish companions, the -frankest statements of what other people thought of her parents; and -this had opened her baby eyes prematurely to the facts of the case. It -must be supposed that there was some respectable grandpapa, some precise -and orderly aunt in the Despard kindred, who had given to Lottie a -nature so different from that of her immediate progenitors. As she grew -older everything about her had looked to Lottie as the fairy splendour -looked in the eyes of the disenchanted human spectator. Her mother’s gay -dresses, which she once thought so pretty, came to look like the -miserable finery they were; her mother’s gaiety had become noise and -excitement. Her father’s grand air grew the poorest false pretension; -for must he not know, Lottie thought, how everybody spoke of him, how -little anyone thought of his assumption? And the house was miserable, -dirty, disorderly, mean, and gaudy, full of riot and waste and want and -poverty--one day a feast, another nothing. Even careless Law--the big -boy who was too much at home, who was scarcely ever at school, and who -often had no clothes to go out in--even Law saw how wretched it was at -home, though he was hopeless as well as careless, and asked his sister -what was the good of minding, what could they do? But Lottie was not of -the kind which can let ill alone, or well either, for that matter. She -did mind; and as she grew older, every week, every day, added to the -flame of impatience in her. Just, however, when ruin seemed coming -beyond the possibility of further staving-off, Mrs. Despard fell ill and -died; and Lottie at sixteen was left alone, miserable, with remorseful -thoughts of having secretly blamed the mother who was now out of reach, -and to whom she could never make amends for those injurious secret -fault-findings; and full of anxieties unspeakable--forlorn wonderings -what she was to do, and eagerness to do something. Her grief, however, -was lightened by the feeling that now she had everything in her hands -and could “make a change,”--even when it was made more heavy by the -thought that she had found fault in her heart with the mother who was -dead. It seemed to the girl that she must be able, by dint of devoting -herself to it, to change everything--to keep the house in order if she -did it with her own hands, to pay the bills, wherever the money came -from. She was overflowing with life and energy and activity, and -disapproved of all the ways of the past. She was like a new king coming -to the throne, a new ministry of idealists bent upon undoing all their -predecessors had done, and doing everything as it ought to be done. -Alas, poor Lottie! the young king with all the stiff precedents of a -hundred years against him, the young ministry confronted by a thousand -problems, and finding their ideal pronounced impracticable on every -side, were nothing to the heaven-born reformer of the household with a -pleasure loving impecunious father to whom debt was second nature, and -who had always preferred fun to respectability. And she dashed at her -reforms too boldly, as was natural to her age, insisting upon brushings -and sweepings till Betty threw up her situation, and asking for money -till her father swore at her. “It is to pay the bills, papa! I want to -pay the bills!” she had said, reduced to plead for that which she -thought she had a right to demand. “D---- the bills!” was all Captain -Despard replied. - -And even Law, when Lottie tried to order him off to school, was -unmanageable. He was no reformer like his sister, but on the whole -preferred going just when it suited him and lounging at home between -whiles. To be sure home was less amusing now that poor mammy, as they -called her, was gone. Her laughter and her complaints, and her odd -visitors, and all her slipshod ways, had kept noise and movement, if -nothing more, about the house. The tawdry women and the shabby men who -had been her friends were all afraid of the dulness which naturally -follows a death in the family. Some of these women, indeed, had come to -Lottie all tears and kisses, offering to stay with her, and asking what -they could do; but their sympathy did not comfort the girl, who even in -her deepest grief was all tingling with plans and desires to be doing, -and an eager activity and impatience to make the changes she wished. But -they fluttered away, every one, when the first excitement was over and -the dulness that is inevitable fell upon the house. To do them justice -there was not one among them who would not have come daily to “sit with” -Lottie, to comfort her with all the news that was going, and tell her -that she must not mope. But Lottie wanted none of their consolations, -and did not miss her mother’s friends when they abandoned her. She did -not miss them, but Law did. Yet he would not go to school; he sat and -made faces at her when she ordered and scolded him. “If I didn’t do what -_she_ told me, do you think I will do what you tell me?” said Law; and -then Lottie wept and prayed. “What will become of you, Law? what will -you ever be good for? Papa has no money to leave us, and you will not be -able to do anything.” - -“Who said I wanted to do anything?” said Law flippantly; and then, “who -said I should not be able to do anything?” he added, with offence. “I -can pick it up whenever I like.” But Lottie, preternaturally, awfully -wise, feeling the burden of the world upon her shoulders, knew that he -could not pick it up when he pleased. She knew that education had to be -acquired painfully, not sipped a little mouthful at a time. She had -never had any education herself, but yet she knew this, as she knew so -many things, by instinct, by constant critical observation of the habits -which she disapproved. There are few more vigorously successful ways of -finding out what is right, than by living among people whom we feel -indignantly to be wrong. - -“You may think what you like,” she said, “Law--but I _know_ that you -cannot learn anything in that way. Three days at home and one at school! -I wonder they let you go at all. I wonder they don’t turn you out. I -wonder they did not turn you out long ago!” - -“And that is just what they are always threatening to do,” said Law -laughing; “but they have not the heart of a mouse, the fellows at the -grammar-school. And they’ll never do it, though I shouldn’t mind. I -should be free then, and never have to trouble my head about anything at -all.” - -“You’ll have to trouble your head when you have to work and don’t know -how,” said Lottie. “Oh, if I was a boy! It’s no use wishing, I am only a -girl; and you are a great lump, neither one nor the other; but if I were -only a boy, and could get something to do, and a little money to pay -those bills----” - -“Oh, dash the bills, as papa says. He doesn’t say ‘dash,’” said Law, -with provoking calm; “but, then, I mustn’t swear.” - -“Oh, Law, I should like to beat you!” said Lottie, clenching her little -fists in impotent anger and setting her teeth. But Law only laughed the -more. - -“You had better not,” he said, when he had got over his laugh, “for I am -a deal stronger than you.” - -And so he was, and so were they all, much stronger than poor Lottie; -even Betty, who would not scrub, but who was too well used to all the -ways of the family and aware of all their troubles, to be sent away. She -fought for a time hard and bitterly, striving with all her might to -clean, and to dust, and to keep things straight, to the infinite -discontent of everybody concerned. But yet perhaps the girl’s struggles -were not utterly without use; for when the next astonishing change came -in their lives, and their little income was suddenly increased by half, -and a removal made necessary, Captain Despard, of his own accord, turned -Lottie’s despair in a moment into hope and joy. He said, “Now, Lottie, -you shall have things your own way. Now you shall see what you can do. -This is a new start for us all. If you can keep us respectable, by Jove, -you shall, and nobody shall stop you. A man ought to be respectable when -he’s made a Chevalier of St. Michael.” Lottie’s heart leaped up, up from -where it lay fathoms deep in unutterable depression and discouragement. -“Oh, papa, papa, do you mean it? Will you keep your word?” she cried, -happy yet dubious; and how he kept it, but with a difference, and how -they set out upon this new chapter in their career, shall be told before -we come back again to Lottie in her proper person, in the little drawing -room in the Chevaliers’ quarters within the Abbey precincts, on Miss -Huntington’s wedding-day. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -THE CHEVALIERS’ LODGES. - - -The name of a Chevalier of St. Michael sounds very splendid to innocent -and uninstructed ears. It is a title which stands alone in England at -least. Poor Knights have been heard of both in flesh and blood and in -confectionery, in other places; but the title Chevalier is preserved in -St. Michael’s, and there alone. Lottie thought it very imposing, and her -heart leaped, partly with a sense of her own injustice all her life to -her father, of whose merits, in youthful irreverence, she had hitherto -thought but little. He must be, she thought involuntarily, a great deal -braver, better, and altogether of more importance than she had supposed, -when his qualities could win him such a distinction from his country; -for that it was a distinction accorded by the country Lottie had no -manner of doubt in those days. She was overawed and overjoyed: first of -all on account of the people in Fairford, where they had hitherto lived, -and who had shown but little respect for the family: but much more on -her own account. She felt reconciled to herself, to her kind, to all her -circumstances, when she reflected that she was the daughter of a -Chevalier of St. Michael, and that Betty would never leave Fairford, and -that Captain Despard had expressed himself in favour of respectability -as a thing to be cultivated. Life suddenly took a new aspect to her. She -thought they would be able to shake off every incumbrance when they went -away. Her father would henceforward live a stately and dignified life as -became his position. He would not haunt the place where billiards were -played, and wear a number of shabby coats, each worse than the other, -but every one with a flower in it. The flower, which most people would -have thought a softening clause, was intolerable to Lottie; it looked -like a piece of braggadocio, a wilful defiance of public opinion or -declaration of independence. But henceforward if he must wear a flower -it must be at least in a tolerable coat; henceforward he would be trim -and smooth, and come in at a respectable hour; henceforward there should -be no bills except weekly ones, and Law should go to school--nay, Law -was too old for school now--but at least he would read with a tutor, and -grow into a creature of whom his sister might be proud. Perhaps this was -but another way of expressing the domestic tyranny of which Lottie’s -will was full. She was so anxious to be able to be proud of her father -and brother; was not that another way of saying that she wanted to get -them up, or down, to her feminine standard, and control and bind and -keep them at her apron-string? So, perhaps, a cynic might have said. -But Lottie was unconscious of any such intention. She was eager to have -something which she had not, the opposite of what she had--and thus, -too, it may be said, she fell into a commonplace. - -But when the family got to St. Michael’s, Lottie’s hopes came to a -melancholy conclusion. Not only did Captain Despard remain very much the -same, which was a thing that most people anticipated--and Law decline -the tutor, upon whom Lottie had set her heart, but St. Michael’s itself -and the Chevaliership turned out something very different from the -girl’s exalted expectations. She found that this office was not looked -upon on the spot as a reward of distinguished merit bestowed by the -country, but only as a sort of retiring pension for a number of old -soldiers whose friends had interest enough to have them thus provided -for. She found a hierarchy of a totally different kind constituted and -reigning, in which the Chevaliers had no place. And she found -herself--she whose chief inspiration was this proud and eager desire to -be somebody--in a place where she could never be other than nobody, and -where no nobler self-denial on the part of her father, no virtue in Law, -could call forth the acclamation of the world. In Fairford there were -people as poor as themselves whom all the world thought well of, and of -whom Lottie was envious; but here she was one of a class who were poor -among the rich, and did not get the social honours which many of them -deserved; while at the same time, close before her eyes, daily visible, -appeared another class which seemed to fulfil all Lottie’s requirements: -refined people with beautiful houses, living serene in an atmosphere of -universal respect. But alas, these were ecclesiastical people, not the -Chevaliers: and showed little disposition to notice Lottie. Lottie did -not like this. She had expected something so different. Society, she -thought, and a brighter world were going to open upon her; and lo! -nothing at all opened upon her that was new. It is very hard, especially -when you feel yourself to be, as the proverb says, as good a gentleman -as the king, to find yourself in contact with a higher class which -ignores you. Most of us have to bear something of the kind, and learn to -take it with philosophy. But Lottie was very young and sadly -disappointed. Nobody took any notice of her save the other Chevaliers, -their wives and daughters, and these were not very much more splendid -people than the society she had been used to. Lottie was sore, and -disappointed, and humbled in her own conceit. - -And there was another way in which the word of promise was kept to her -ear, with far other meaning than she had hoped. Captain Despard had a -very serious interview with his daughter when they arrived in their -little house. He called her out of the little box which was her -drawing-room to the other little box where he had established himself, -and deigned to enter upon the question of income. - -“Now, Lottie,” he said, “you have chosen to bother me lately about -money, and expressed views which I could not sanction about weekly -bills.” - -“Only to save you trouble, papa,” said Lottie; “if we do it every week, -we may hope to keep within our income; but how can you ever do that when -you leave butchers and bakers for a year?” - -“My child,” said Captain Despard, with his grand air, “circumstances -have enabled me to yield to your wishes. I don’t say if it’s a system I -approve or don’t approve. I say to myself, Lottie is my only girl, and -she is like her dear mother; she shall have her way. From this day, my -dear, the new income which I receive from my country will go straight -into your hands. It is but a pittance. A poor soldier stands a poor -chance in these times, but such as it is, my love, it shows your -father’s trust in you. Take it, Lottie, and pay your bills according to -your pleasure. I will ask no questions; weekly, monthly, or once a -quarter, as long as I have a bit of dinner and a cup of coffee when I -want it. Your father’s confidence in you is perfect, Lottie, and I leave -it all to you.” - -“Papa!” said the girl, trembling, half delighted, half frightened, half -taken in by that grand air. But he would hear no more. He kissed her -forehead with the favourite action of the _père noble_, and hurried -away. “No thanks, my child; no thanks,” he said. - -It _was_ a pittance. Lottie stood where he left her gazing after him, -her veins tingling with mingled disappointment and pleasure. To the -inexperienced it seems always possible to do a great deal with a little, -and the power of paying bills at all seemed a heavenly power. But -Captain Despard chuckled to himself as he went away. He had purchased by -that fine address the right to be disagreeable ever after, to wave his -hand loftily, and to decline all knowledge of details. “Keep to your -bargain, my dear, and I’ll keep to mine,” he had the right to say; and -whereas some of his former income always had to be wasted upon the -household, let him make what resistance he would, at least that would be -the case no longer. Thus Lottie had her way, but in such a changed form -that it no longer seemed her way. With the addition of the St. Michael’s -allowance she had hoped that there would be plenty for all needs; but -what was she to do with the St. Michael’s allowance and no more? -Nevertheless, Lottie plucked up a heart. To feel that she had something -was always exhilarating, and inexperience has wild hopes which knowledge -does not venture to share. Her little room was full for a week after of -little bits of paper scribbled over with calculations. She was -determined to do it. If the dinner was not good enough for papa, he must -just go and dine elsewhere. And there was no Betty to make herself -disagreeable, but only a young girl, whom Lottie, heaven save her! meant -to train. Once a week or so Law and she could very well do without a -dinner. They were both still great on bread and butter, and capable, not -knowing anything about digestion, of swallowing innumerable cups of tea. -Her fond hopes of furniture and “picking up things” to make the little -old house pretty, must be relinquished, it was true; but, still, at -nineteen one can put up with a great deal in the present. There is -always the future, so much of the future, like the sky and the plain -from St. Michael’s Hill, spreading above, below, everywhere, without -limit or bound, save in the eyes which can only reach a certain -distance. So Lottie comforted herself for “just now,” and marched on -into her life, colours flying and drums beating, taking as little heed -as she could of those stragglers who would always fall out of the -ranks--her father always shuffling off to some new haunt or other, the -places which such men find out by instinct in the least-known locality, -and large loose-limbed Law, whose vague career was always dubious, and -who could not keep step. Never mind! Lottie herself set out, brave, head -erect, eyes straight, all her faculties in fullest attention to the roll -of her own cheerful drum. - -The earliest part of her career here, however, was brightened yet -disturbed by a discovery which considerably confused her mind in her -outset, and seemed to open better prospects before her. Lottie found out -that she had a voice. She had known that she could sing long before, and -had performed many a time in the little parlour at Fairford to the -admiration of all hearers, singing every new comic song that burst upon -the little provincial world from the music-halls in London, and knowing -no better, so long as she was a child. There was no harm in the songs -she sang, nothing but absolute silliness and flippancy, such as are -natural to that kind of production; but as Lottie grew into womanhood, -and began by instinct to know better, she gave them up, and knowing no -others except some ancient sentimental ditties of her mother’s, gave up -singing so far as a musical creature can give up what is another kind of -breathing to her. But when she heard the choir in the Abbey church, -Lottie woke up, with such a delightful discovery of what music was, and -such an ecstatic finding out of her own powers, as words cannot express. -She had an old jingling worn-out piano, and had “learned to play” from -her mother, who knew nothing about it, except as much as could be taught -to a school-girl twenty years before; but this meagre instruction, and -the bad instrument, and the half-dozen “pieces” which were all Mrs. -Despard’s musical library, had not attracted the pupil, and it was not -till she heard the organ pealing through St. Michael’s, and the -choristers singing like angels--though they were not like angels out of -doors--that Lottie awoke to a real consciousness of her own gift. She -had never had any education herself. Though she was so anxious for -school for Law, it had not occurred to her that she wanted any -schooling. Lottie was narrow-minded and practical. She did not -understand self-culture. She wanted Law to learn, because without -education he could not do anything worth speaking of, could not earn any -money, could not get on in the world. Perhaps it is true that women have -a natural inclination to calculate in this poor way. She did not care a -straw for the cultivation of Law as Law--but that he should be made good -for something, get a good situation, have some hopes of comfort and -prosperity. For herself, what did it matter? She never could know enough -to teach, and Captain Despard would not let his daughter teach; besides, -she had plenty to do at home, and could not be spared. She could read -and write, and do her accounts, the latter very well indeed; and she had -learned to “play” from her mother, and she could sew, rather badly at -first, rather well now by dint of practice. What did a girl want more? -But Lottie discovered now that a girl might want more. - -“Is there any place where they will teach you to sing without money?” -she said one day to old Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, her next-door neighbour, the -old lady of all her neighbours whom Lottie liked best. - -“Me jewel!” cried the old lady; “is it without paying youre meaning? -They send an account if you do but look at them here, me dear.” - -“All of them?” said Lottie; “for I can sing, and I should like to learn -to sing; but, you know, I can’t pay--much----” - -“I know; nothing at all, if you’re like us, me honey. But maybe you’re -better off. O’Shaughnessy, we don’t make a secret of it, rose from the -ranks, and we’ve never had a penny--I don’t care who knows it--barring -our pay.” - -“We are not like that,” said Lottie, drawing herself up. “Papa was -always a gentleman” (“Then I don’t give much for such gentlemen,” -murmured the other Chevalier’s lady, under her breath), “and we have a -little. That is--I mean, that he has a little--papa has a little”--the -girl said on the edge of a confidence; and then stopped suddenly short. - -“It don’t do much for the children, I’ll go bail,” said the old lady. -“That’s the worst of fine gentlemen, me dear. O’Shaughnessy he asks me -for a shillin’ when he wants it, bless him--and that’s the only way when -there’s small pay. Singing, is it? If you’re always to make such a stand -on being a lady, me friend Lottie, I don’t see how I can help you; but -if you will come in free and comfortable, and take a dish of tay when -Rowley’s there--oh, to be sure, puff! my lady’s off--but there’s no harm -in him; and he’ll make you die with laughin’ at him, him and his -airs--but they tell me he has the best voice and the best method of any -of the lay clerks.” - -“A singing man!” - -“Well, and that was what ye wanted!” said the old woman. “You know as -well as me, Miss Lottie, there’s no singin’ woman here.” - -Lottie protested that she could not consent to appear in such -company--that papa would not allow it--that it was impossible. But she -ended by promising to “run in” before old Major O’Shaughnessy began his -rubber, and see this singing man. And the result was that, half out of -friendship for his Irish hosts who did not pretend to be above him, and -half out of pride to be interrogated so graciously about his invalid -daughter by a young lady who gave herself such airs, Rowley, the first -tenor, agreed for so low a rate as had never been heard of before to -train Miss Despard’s beautiful voice. “If the young lady had been a -little boy, and if the Signor could but ha’ gotten hold on it!” Rowley -said, in enthusiasm. It was the voice, which is impersonal, of which he -spoke, and the Signor was the organist. But good fortune had not as yet -thrown him in Lottie’s way. Soon, however, Rowley began to whisper it -about that he had got a pupil who was quite good enough for Exeter Hall, -if not for the Italian Opera, and the whole community was interested. -Lottie herself, and her pretty looks, had not attracted any notice--but -a voice was a very different matter. And then it was that steps were -taken to make, for Lottie’s behalf, a practicable gap in the hedge of -prickles which surrounded the Cloisters and kept intruders out. Miss -Despard was invited to join the St. Michael’s Choral Society, in which -the Divinities on the hill did not disdain to mingle their voices even -with the lower-born outside the Abbey walls. And when it became known -what a voice Lottie’s was, a remarkable thing happened. The Dean -_called!_ It was not Lady Caroline, but the Dean; and a gentleman’s -visit, as is well known, is not the same thing as a lady’s. But Lottie, -who knew nothing of the laws of society, was flattered and happy, and -saw a hundred lovely visions unfolding before her when the Dean invited -her to go to a private practice, which was then going on in the Deanery -drawing-room. “My daughter bade me fetch you, Miss Despard, if you would -be good enough to come,” he said, gravely; but waited very impatiently -till she was ready, in great terror lest “the father” should make his -appearance, and his visit be construed into a call upon Captain Despard. -Lottie put on her hat with her heart leaping and bounding. At last she -had done it! At last Paradise was opening before the Peri! At last the -wrongs of fate were to be set right, and herself conveyed back into her -natural sphere. She went by the Dean’s side demurely, with downcast -eyes, across the slope to the Deanery garden. The very stones felt -elastic under her feet, there was a ringing of excitement and delight in -the air and in her ears. She arrived breathless at the door, though they -had not walked fast. So absorbed was she by all that was about to happen -that Lottie never thought of the sensation that ran through the Abbey -when the Dean was seen walking to his own dignified door in company with -Captain Despard’s daughter. Miss Despard? Lottie? The Chevaliers, and -their wives and daughters, could not believe their eyes. - -Lottie held her head as high as usual when she came back. It no longer -drooped with diffidence and delight. Once more she had come down with a -jar into the realms of reality from those of hope. She was not received -with open arms in that higher celestial world. Miss Augusta Huntington -said, “How do you do, Miss Despard?” very sweetly, but Lady Caroline -only bowed with her eyelids--a new mode of salutation which Lottie did -not understand--and kept aloof; and no one else said anything to Lottie, -except about the music. They gave her a cup of tea when all was over, -but Lottie had to drink it in silence, while the others laughed and -chatted. She was not of them, though they had brought her among them for -the sake of her voice. “Are you going, Miss Despard?” said the Dean’s -daughter, putting on the same sweet smile. “We are so much obliged to -you for coming. The next practice is next Tuesday. Will you come as -early as possible, please?” It was on Lottie’s lips to say “No”--to tell -them that she was a lady too, a better gentlewoman than they were, since -she would not have treated any stranger so. But she was fortunately too -shy to say anything, and made her exit hastily, and not so gracefully as -the others, who were at home. But she would not allow, even to herself, -that she had come down again in that painful tussle with reality, which -is so much different from dreams. She kept very quiet and said nothing, -which seemed the wisest way. And as she walked home with a much more -stately gravity than was her wont--a state put on to console herself for -humiliation and disappointment, and to vindicate, so to speak, her own -dignity to herself, but which the lookers-on gave a very different -interpretation of--Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, nodding and smiling, and in a -state of great excitement, threw up the window and called to her, as she -was going past. “Come up, come up, and tell me all about it,” the old -lady said, so audibly that some of the ladies and gentlemen who had been -in the Deanery turned round to look, and smiled at each other, making -Lottie furious. As she could not stand there and explain before all the -world, Lottie obeyed the call, and rushing upstairs to the kind old -Irishwoman’s little bit of a drawing-room, appeared, crimson with shame -and wrath at the door. - -“How could you call out so loud and make them laugh?” she said, with a -strong inclination to burst into hot tears. - -“Laugh, was it? and sure I’m ready to laugh too. To see you and his -Reverence the Dean, Miss Lottie--no less would serve you!--arm in arm -like a pair of young----” - -“We were not arm in arm,” said Lottie, stamping her foot. Then she had -the sense to perceive that the wicked old Irishwoman would but laugh the -more at her petulance. She put her music on the table with a recovery of -her dignified manners, and sat down. - -“What did he say to ye? and what did me Lady Caroline say to ye? and -were they all wild over yer beautiful voice, me honey?” said the old -lady. “Come, take off your hat, me pet, and ye shall have the best cup -o’ tea in the Abbey. And tell me all about it,” she said. - -“I have had a cup of tea, thank you,” said Lottie. “Oh, yes, they are -all nice enough. Nobody talked to me--but then, I didn’t expect them to -talk to me. They wanted me to sing--and I sang; and that was all.” - -“And what more would you have, me jewel?” said Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. “Now, -you take my advice, Lottie. I’m old, and I know the world. Take what you -can get, me dear, and wait till your time comes. Don’t go and take -offence and throw up the cards, and lose all you’ve got for a tantrum. -Tantrums pass off, but life goes on. If they don’t speak to you, it’s -their loss, for you have a clever little tongue o’ your own. And you’ll -not be long there till they find out that. Don’t say a word, me honey. -I’ll not bother you; but never take offence with the gentry----” - -“The gentry!” cried the girl furious, starting to her feet. “I am as -much a lady as any of them--and more, for I would not be such---- I -would not be unkind----” - -“Well--well--well! There, I have put my foot in it!” said the old lady. -“I was thinking of meself, me dear, as if ye were a girl of my own. But -you _are_ a lady, honey; one has but to look at you,” said the astute -old woman; “and just you wait a bit, and all will come as it -ought--sure, I know it will.” - -Lottie did not much trust the assurance, but she took the advice, -feeling a quick admonition within herself as to the absurdity of her -complaint, and the horrible possibility of anybody supposing that she -felt herself not to be of the gentry, as good as any Dean’s daughter. So -she went to the next practice, taking no notice of any want of courtesy: -and the result was that there arose a kind of intimacy, as has been -indicated, between Miss Huntington at the Deanery and the daughter of -the Chevalier--an intimacy, indeed, of a peculiar kind, in which all -that was given came from the side of the poorer and more insignificant, -and the great young lady was content with taking all that poor Lottie -was so willing to give. She sang the solos in their private little -concerts, and though her science was less perfect than her voice, her -ear was so good that Lottie was able to be of a great deal of use. They -sent for her when they had parties, when there was anyone who wanted -entertaining, and put Lottie to the only unnecessary personal expense -she had ever gone into--a white muslin frock to make her presentable -among that fine company. And thus she had gone and come, and had been -called upon on all occasions, but without making any nearer advance than -at first. Lady Caroline still made her a little inclination of her -eyelids, though now and then she went so far as to say, “How do you do, -Miss Despard?” All of this, however, Lottie would have pardoned, if the -bride, when she went away, had but at least remembered her, and made her -some little sign of farewell. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -THE ABBEY PRECINCTS. - - -The bells began to ring for evensong soon after the bridal party -dispersed. Some of them, indeed, stayed for the beautiful service, which -was a thing that visitors from a distance thought a great deal of, and -there were a number of fine bonnets and dresses in the stalls when -Lottie went in. The daily service was part of the daily life of the -dwellers in the Abbey. There were those who went for devotion, and those -who went for the music, and those who went because they had nothing else -to do. It was an occupation and an amusement at the same time, and some -people thought it a duty. To listen to the service more or less -critically, to note if any of the boys’ voices were breaking, and -whether Rowley sniffed as usual, or Bowler, the great bass, was hoarse; -to observe how the minor canons sang, if they were in too great a hurry -to get through the service, and who it was that read the lessons; to -look at any notable persons that might be there; visitors to the -Deanery, or other persons of distinction; to walk in the nave while the -Signor played the voluntary; and finally to pause and talk to one’s -friends before going home to tea, was the established rule of St. -Michael’s. The old Chevaliers mixed with the ladies, here and there one. -They were obliged to go in the morning, and they seldom repeated their -church going in the afternoon; but still there were always two or three, -and very interesting to strangers were the old soldiers, with their old -moustaches and upright bearing. Some of them might have been veteran -generals well entitled to command an army, and, indeed, there was valour -enough among them, and such achievement as personal bravery is still -capable of--enough to equip a dozen generals; but fortune had not been -on the side of these noble old soldiers; and you may be sure there were -no prosperous commanders among them. They stood about on the terrace in -front of the Lodges and talked for five minutes or so before they went -in to tea. But Lottie, when she came out of chapel and saw the last of -the fine people streaming away in their light dresses through the aisle, -did not feel much disposed to go indoors to Law and the bread and -butter. They could wait. She went and leaned on the low wall close to -the library and gazed out upon the landscape below. At the foot of the -slope was the street of the little old town, a sweep of steep masonry, -with old-fashioned red houses, like trees in autumn, on the other side; -and beyond these the river meandered between its leafy banks in endless -windings, and the great breadth of champaign swept away towards the -horizon. At this time of the year it was rich and cloudy with foliage: -the trees arranging themselves in every kind of way, singly and in -clumps, and groves, and long hedgerows, and surrounding every house and -every village and every church spire as far as you could see. The -billowy greenness thus spreading far into the silvery-grey of the -distance; the sky of a pale blue, faint with summer heat and long -drought: stretched out like a map before the gazer from that mount of -vision. The mottled clouds were floating together and rolling into -masses as if with the intention of putting a stop to this long reign of -brightness, and the level lines of the landscape and the great vault of -the sky dropped together into a haze which also spoke of rain. Lottie -leaned disconsolately over the wall, spreading abroad her thoughts over -this vast breadth of space and silence. She let them go like a flock of -birds flying to all the winds. Thoughts! they were not thoughts but -feelings, vague movements of the mind, half sentiment, half-personal -sensation. Why she should have been so deeply affected by this marriage -she could not have told anyone. She did not herself know. It seemed to -penetrate through and through her system of life, unsettling everything. -After the disappointments of her beginning at St. Michael’s, this -connection with the Deanery had seemed a thread of promise, a clue to -something better; not a very splendid promise indeed, but still -something; a little link of ambition which looked finer and more noble -after it was snapped than it had ever done before. It was not very noble -in itself. Lottie felt vaguely that to have so strong a desire for -admission within that charmed circle was not a very lofty thing. The -people she had seen within it had not satisfied her ideal. Except that -they dressed better (some of them at least), they had been very much -like the humbler classes with which she was acquainted; and to wish for -a footing among them only because they were better off and more highly -thought of than her own neighbours, was not an elevating sentiment. In -the perpetual disappointments to which she had been subject, the slights -she had been obliged to put up with, Lottie had felt a great many pangs -of shame mingled with the stings of humiliation. She had felt that it -was the poorest of ambitions which had taken possession of her. And now -that it was over, this sense of unworthiness still mingled with her -consciousness of failure and exclusion. But though it might not be a -door into heaven, still to feel that it was shut, to be obliged to turn -away, and to see no other door at which she could enter, was hard. Her -heart sank down into painful depths of abandonment, and tears came to -her eyes in spite of herself. She had nothing to cry about, but her lips -quivered and two big tears rose and hung suspended under her long -eyelashes, so filling up the whole space before her, that Lottie saw -nothing but a waving greenness and blueness, a blurred shadow of earth -and sky. - -It was just at this moment, while she was still uncertain whether she -could get these tears swallowed or whether they must fall, betraying -her, that she was aware of some one at her elbow. “I think we shall have -rain, Miss Despard,” said a deliberate voice; “do you not think we shall -have rain? The summer has been so fine that we have no right to grumble. -You were the one lady in all St. Michael’s whom I most wanted to see.” - -“I, Signor? I do not know what you should want with me,” said Lottie, -forced by circumstances into rudeness. She did not want to be rude, but -the shock of his sudden address had brought down that shower, falling -like drops of a thunderstorm, and she would not turn round to show him -her wet eyes. He smiled a little to himself at this petulance, and that -was all. He was used to waywardness in young ladies. He was a spare, -olive-coloured man, not tall, but wiry and close-knit. He had all the -aspect of an Italian and the name; but he was not really an Italian, -being an Englishman born, a good Tory and a good Churchman, and all that -the organist of St. Michael’s ought to be. But he was not disinclined to -keep up a mystery on this score, having a little love of mystery by -nature, and feeling, musically, that his foreign name and looks were in -his favour. How far back the Signor had to go for his claim to be -considered an Italian, nobody knew, but everybody (except the perverse -and disagreeable, who would occasionally say Mr. Rossinetti to annoy -him) called the musician the Signor. His complexion, his moustache, the -wonderful dark eyes, which were the chief feature in his face, were all -of Southern origin; and he spoke with a curious deliberation and clear -pronunciation of every syllable, which almost looked as if, at one time, -there had been difficulties about the language, and as if he had not -courage even yet to take any liberties with it. But his accent was as -good English as could be desired; and in respect to this as well as to -all other questions about his origin the community of St. Michael’s were -entirely in the dark, as he intended them to be. - -“This event,” said the Signor, in his clear slow voice, “will bring our -little societies, our practisings, to an end, Miss Despard. We were -getting on very well. I am sorry to come to an end of anything, and of -these above all.” - -“Yes, I suppose so,” said Lottie, drearily. “Will it, do you think? She -had not very much of a voice.” - -“No; but there are other things besides voice. You have a very beautiful -voice, Miss Despard.” - -“But I have nothing else,” said Lottie, forgetting her precautions and -turning quickly upon him; “that is what you mean to say? And you never -even allowed before that I had a voice.” - -“No, not much else,” said the deliberate organist; “you have no science, -no method. You don’t know how to manage what you have got. It is a fine -organ by nature, but you cannot produce it as you ought, because you do -not know how. To have so much and to do so little is a great pity. It is -a waste of a great gift, it is----” - -“How dare you tell me all this to my face?” said Lottie, transported -with vivid anger. She would have taken it more quietly if she had not -been weakened in spirit by the discouragement into which she had fallen -before. Her fierce, sudden glance was even still unwillingly softened by -the wetness of her eyes. But the Signor did not flinch. There was a kind -of smile in his own as he met her look. He was not afraid of her. He -looked, indeed, amiably, genially at Lottie--as she had never seen him -look before--and as she turned round she became aware that he was not -alone. Over his shoulder, with an alarmed, indignant aspect, which half -amused while it consoled her, was another face with which Lottie was -very well acquainted. It was the face of his favourite pupil, a young -man who followed the Signor about like his shadow, always a few steps -behind him, always in devout contemplation of him. But young Purcell was -not of this mind to-day; he was looking at his beloved master with a -mixture of rage and pathos very droll in their combination. Lottie was -easily moved, and almost before the words of defiance had left her lips -a laugh forced itself after them. She had to turn round again to conceal -the conflict of sudden mirth in her face. - -“Would you rather I said it to others than to you? No, because that -would do you no good----” - -“And do you really think that I--I----” Why should she laugh? Young -Purcell’s face brightened slightly, but took a still more curious look -of bewildered inquiry. As for the Signor, he thought she had become -hysterical, which he believed was a common weakness with womankind in -general, and he was alarmed. - -“I beg you a thousand pardons if I have seemed rude,” he said. “All that -I wanted was to begin the conversation; for I have--a little proposal to -make.” - -“Do you call that beginning a conversation to tell me I am quite -ignorant, and cannot sing, and waste my voice?” said Lottie, recovering -her indignation. “It is not a very civil way.” - -“Miss Despard, I think you will miss the society’s singing, and I want -to tell you it was not good for you. These people were dazzled by your -voice,” said the organist, with unintentional confusion of metaphor, -“and they made use of it. All these fine people, they make use of us, -and often forget to say ‘thank you.’ I was sorry that you should suffer, -_too_; so was Purcell; he knows what it is--a little. And you have had -no teaching, you have not had a thorough professional training as he -has----” - -Lottie turned upon him with flashing eyes; and this time she did not -laugh at the young man who, over the Signor’s shoulder, followed every -movement of hers with such eager attention. His look of wonder and fear -was not less comic than the other changes which had come over his -countenance, but she took no notice of it. “I don’t know what you mean,” -she said, “by professional training. What do I want with professional -training? What has Mr. Purcell to do with it? What do you mean, or how -should I suffer? If they thank me, or if they don’t thank me, what is -that to me?” - -The Signor cast a glance round at young Purcell, who answered with a -look of despair. “If you would but confide in us, we thought we could -help you. Indeed, Miss Despard, it is no presumption on Purcell’s part, -only a fellow-feeling----” - -“Only a feeling--of respect!” This Purcell timidly gasped out, with -alarm painted on every feature. Lottie, turning her back to the wall and -confronting the two musicians, solemnly made them a very awful curtsey. -It was an art she had learned (though the teacher was unaware of the -fact) from Lady Caroline; and therefore it was of the very finest and -most imposing kind. - -“The puzzle is,” she said grandly, in a voice not unlike Lady -Caroline’s, “what the link between us may be.” - -They were both silenced by this speech, and by her imposing aspect -generally; for Lottie was very handsome, and this defiant grandeur -suited her. Purcell felt disposed to sink into the earth, and showed it; -but as for the Signor, he was less alarmed, and, indeed, a little -amused--he had seen a great number of heroines, both in public and -private life. - -“It is always wrong to beat about the bush,” he said. “Perhaps I have -made a mistake; I thought you probably intended to sing, Miss Despard, -as a profession.” - -“I!” Lottie’s voice broke into a half shriek. “I!” The suggestion gave -her a shock which it was hard to get over. She felt a trembling of -giddiness and insecurity, as if the ground had suddenly been cut from -under her; she could have cried for mortification, injured pride, -horrible humbling and downfall. She who had been mourning this change as -taking from her all chance of ascent into the society she had a right -to, the society she really belonged to, and they thought it was -professional work, a profession that she was thinking of! She drew back -unconsciously to the support of the wall, and propped herself by it. -She could have cried, but pride would not let her. “You are mistaken, -altogether mistaken,” she said. “I don’t suppose that you mean to insult -me; but you forget that I am a gentleman’s daughter.” - -Here the ghost of a smile flitted across the Signor’s olive-coloured -face. It was as momentary as the passing of a shadow, but yet Lottie saw -it, and it stung her as nothing else could have done; she was angry -before, but this excited her to passion. She could have flown at him and -strangled him for this smile; she understood it well enough. “You -smile!” she said. “You think, perhaps, that a poor Chevalier, a soldier -who is not rich, is not a gentleman. You think it is only money that -makes a gentleman. There are many people who are of that opinion; but,” -said Lottie with a smile, “you will perhaps not be surprised if I think -differently. I will bid you good evening, please, now.” - -“One moment,” said the Signor; “you must not go away with a wrong -impression. Forgive me the mistake, if it is a mistake. You are -mistaken, too, Miss Despard, if you think a gentleman’s daughter may not -sing--to the great generous public as well as to poor little coteries -that never say thank you. You mistake, too; but never mind. I meant to -have offered, if you would let me, to help you----” - -“Thank you, very much!” said Lottie with great state, “it is not -necessary. When I want lessons, I can--ask for them, M. Rossinetti.” -She had been about to say _pay_, but Lottie was honest, and though she -longed to inflict the insult, would not say what was not true. She did -not even see young Purcell’s pathetic looks as he gazed at her, with the -air of a suppliant on his knees, over his master’s shoulder; but she saw -the half shrug of the Signor’s shoulders as he stood aside to let her -pass. And perhaps had she but known it there was something comic, too, -in the dignity with which she swept past with a little wave of her hand. -It was like Lady Caroline, though Lottie did not intend it to be so. The -two musicians stood looking after her as she walked majestically -homewards, with so many commotions in her bosom. She had to pass through -the little square in which the lay clerks lived, on her way, and as if -to accomplish Lottie’s humiliation, Rowley the tenor--who was her -teacher--was standing at his door as she passed. The Chevaliers of St. -Michael’s took little notice of the lay clerks as, may be supposed -(except the O’Shaughnessys, who were not particular); and though Lottie -was his pupil, Rowley had never transgressed the due limits of -respectfulness or pretended to any friendship with the young lady. But -the wedding had affected the morals of St. Michael’s generally, and made -a revolution for the day; and as Lottie passed, the tenor took advantage -of the opportunity. “How are you, Miss?” he said, with a sniff and a -lurch which showed the source of his boldness; “won’t you come in and -have a chat? won’t you come in and have some tea with my little girl, -Miss Lottie?” Good heavens! what had Lottie done to be addressed in this -way? and she knew that the two others would hear this demonstration of -intimacy. She rushed past, stumbling over her dress, wild with -resentment and mortification. This was what it was to be poor, to be in -a false position, to be a poor gentlewoman among the rich! One -mortification had followed another, so that she did not know how to bear -it. Augusta’s neglect, the Signor’s insulting suggestion, and Rowley’s -familiarity! Lottie did not know which was the most hard to bear. She -never drew breath until she had reached her own door. - -“Is that you, Lottie? and where have you been?” said Law. “Let’s have -tea now; I’ve been waiting and waiting, wanting to go out, and wondering -what had become of you.” He had begun his bread and butter on the spot. - -“Where is papa, Law?” - -“Papa? How should I know? You didn’t expect him, did you? I say, I’m -going out--do make haste. And look here! I wish you’d speak to him, -Lottie. I wish you’d tell him he oughtn’t to; I’d give twenty pounds (if -I had it) not to have such an uncommon name!” - -“It is a very good name--better than anyone else’s I know. The Despards -never were anything but gentlemen.” - -“Oh! it’s a great deal you know about it,” said Law, with a groan. -“Perhaps once upon a time we were somebody when everybody else was -nobody! But when it turns the other way, when we are nobody and -everybody else somebody, and when it’s known where-ever you go whose son -you are----” - -“You don’t need to continue nobody,” she said; “you are a boy, you can -do what you like. If we are down now, _you_ need not stay down, Law. But -then you must not hang about and lose your time any longer. If you will -work, you can soon change that.” - -“Can I!” said the youth; “that shows how much you know. I have never -been taught to do anything. If I had been put apprentice to a butcher or -a baker when I was young--but you never did anything but bully me to -work and go to school. What good is school? If you are to do anything, -you ought to be taught when you are young. I have been mismanaged. I -doubt if I will ever be good for much now.” - -“Oh--h!” cried Lottie, with a deep breath of aspiration from the depths -of her chest, “if it was only me! I should find something to do! I -should not be long like this, lounging about a little bit of a place, -following bad examples, doing no work. Oh, Law! if I could put some of -me into you; if I could change places with you! Fancy what was said to -me to-day: the Signor came up to me when we came out of church, and -asked me if I was going to sing--for a profession.” - -“By Jove!” cried Law! he woke up even from his bread and butter, and -looked at her with sparkling eyes. - -“I had almost said, ‘You may be very glad my brother is not with me to -hear you ask such a question.’ But on the whole I am glad you were not. -I said all that was necessary,” said Lottie with dignity. “He will never -repeat such an insult again.” - -“By Jove!” Law repeated, taking no heed of what she said, but looking at -her with visibly increased respect. “Do you mean to say that he thought -you good enough for that?” - -“Good enough!” she said, with severe contempt. “I always knew I could -sing; even poor mamma knew. But I did not condescend to say much to -them. I said, ‘I am a gentleman’s daughter,’ and walked away.” - -“Well, girls are very funny,” said Law. “How you bully me about working! -morning, noon, and night, you are never done nagging; but the moment it -comes to your own turn----” - -“To my own turn!” Lottie looked at him aghast. - -“To be sure. Oh, that’s all very fine about being a gentleman’s -daughter. We know pretty well what that means, and so does everybody. I -wonder, Lottie, you that have some sense, how you could be so silly? He -must have laughed.” - -“Oh, hold your tongue, Law! I suppose they think nothing counts but -money. When you are poor you are always insulted. I should not care for -money, not for itself, not for the gold and silver,” said Lottie; “nor -even so very much for the nice things that one could buy; but, oh, to be -above people’s remarks, to be known for what you are, not looked down -upon, not insulted----” - -“It depends upon what you call being insulted,” said Law; “if any man -had said that to me, I should have thought him next to an angel. What is -insulting about it? If you like money (and who doesn’t like money?) why -there’s the easiest way in the world of getting it. Sing! I’d sing my -head off,” said Law, “if that was all that was wanted. And you sing _for -pleasure_; you _like_ singing! I can’t tell what you are thinking of. If -I had known you were so good as that--but one never thinks much of one’s -own sister, somehow,” the youth added, with easy frankness. He was so -much excited, however, that he left his tea, and strode up and down the -room (three paces and a half, that was all the size of it) repeating “by -Jove!” to himself. “If you mean not to do it, you had better not let -_him_ know you could do it,” he announced, after an interval. Never in -his life before had the easy-going young man been so moved. “It’s -untold the money they make,” he said. - -As for Lottie, her whole being was in a ferment. She looked at her -brother with a gasp of pain. The bread and butter had no charms for her -on that night of emotion. She took up her basket which was full of -things to mend, and sat down in the window, speechless with vague -passion, pain, discontentment. Lottie was not a wise or enlightened -young woman. She had not even taken the stamp of her age as many people -do who are not enlightened. She had never learned that it was desirable -that women should have professions like men. Her thoughts ran entirely -in the old-fashioned groove, and it seemed to her that for “a -gentleman’s daughter” to work for her living, to be known publicly to -work for her living, was a social degradation beyond words to express. -It implied--what did it not imply? That the family were reduced to the -lowest level of poverty; but that was a small part of it--that the men -were useless, worthless, without pride or honour; that they had no -friends, no means of saving themselves from this betrayal of all the -secrets of pride. These were the foolish feelings in her mind. -Gentlemen’s daughters were governesses sometimes she had heard, and -Lottie pitied the poor girls (orphans--they were always orphans, and -thus set aside from the general rule), with an ache of compassion in her -heart; but it was her private impression that this was a stigma never -to be wiped off, a stain, not upon the girl, but upon her family who -could permit such a sacrifice. Lottie’s view of sacrifice was one which -is rarely expressed, but which exists not the less among women and all -other persons from whom sacrifices are demanded. Could Alcestis have the -same respect after for the man who could let her die for him? Could she -go on living by his side and think just the same of him as if he had -borne his own burden instead of shuffling it off upon her shoulders? The -ancients did not trouble themselves with such questions, but it is a -peculiarity of the modern mind that it does. And Lottie, though her -point of view was very old-fashioned, still looked at it in this modern -way. When Law, whom it was impossible to stir up to any interest in his -own work, became so excited over the thought of a possible profession -for her, she looked at him with something of the feeling with which -Isabella contemplated the caitiff brother in his prison who would have -bought his life by her shame. What! would he be “made a man” in such a -way? would he buy idleness and ease for himself by exposing her to a -life unworthy of “a gentleman’s daughter”? She knew he was lazy, -careless, and loved his own gratification; but it hurt her to her very -heart to think so poorly of Law, who was the only being in the world -whom she had ever been able to love heartily as belonging to herself. - -Let it not be thought, however, that any unwillingness to work for Law, -to make any sacrifice for him, was at the bottom of this disappointment -in him. She was ready to have worked her fingers to the bone, indoors, -in the privacy of the family, for her father and brother. She did not -care what menial offices she did for them. Their “position” demanded the -presence of a servant of some kind in the house, but Lottie was not -afraid of work. She could sweep and dust; she could cook; she could mend -with the most notable of housewives, and sang at her work, and liked her -people all the better because of what she had to do for them in the -course of nature. That was altogether different; there was no shame to a -lady in doing this, no exposure of the family. And Lottie was not of the -kind of woman who requires personal service from men. She was quite -willing to serve them, to wait upon them if necessary, to take that as -her share of the work of life; but to work publicly for her living, what -was that but to proclaim to all the world that they were incapable, that -they were indifferent to their duties, that there was no faith to be put -in them? If Law had leaped up in wrath, if he had said, “No, it is my -place to work; I will work; no one shall say that my sister had to earn -her living,” how happy, how proud Lottie would have been! That was the -ideal for a man. It was what she would do herself if she was in his -place; and, oh, if she could but put herself in his place, and do what -Law would not do! oh, if she could but put herself, a bit of herself, -into him, to quicken the sluggish blood in his veins! When Law, having -exhausted all that was to be said on the subject, went out (and where -did he go when he went out?), Lottie sat at the window and darned and -darned till the light failed her. She ploughed furrows with her needle -in the forefinger of her left hand; but that did not hurt her. Oh, if -she could but move them, inspire them, force them to do their duty, or -at the worst do it for them, so that the world might suppose it was they -who were doing it! That was the aspiration in her heart; and how -hopeless it was! “Oh, if I could put some of me into him!” Lottie -thought, as many a helpless soul has thought before her. But to move out -from the shadow of the house, and betray its nakedness, and take the -burden visibly on herself, that was what Lottie felt she would rather -die than do. - -Meanwhile, in the soft evening, various people were promenading up and -down between the Abbey church and the lodges of the Chevaliers. Some of -the old Chevaliers themselves were out, with their wives hanging on -their arms. Either there would be two old gentlemen together, with the -wife of one by his side, or two ladies with a white-haired old gallant -walking along beside them, talking of various things, perhaps of -politics when there were two men, and of any signs of war that might be -on the horizon; and if two were women, of the wedding, and how Lady -Caroline took the marriage of her only daughter. The Signor was -practising in the Abbey, and the great tones of the organ came rolling -forth in a splendour of softened sound over the slope with its slowly -strolling groups. Some of the townspeople were there too, not mixing -with the others, for the Signor’s practising nights were known. The moon -began to climb after a while behind the Chevaliers’ lodges, and throw a -soft whiteness of broad light upon all the pinnacles of the Abbey; and -Lottie dropped her work on her knee, unable to see any longer. When the -moon rose, she was thrown into shade, and could watch the people with -the light in their faces at her ease. And by and by her attention was -caught by two single figures which passed several times, coming from -different directions, and quite distinct from each other. They both -looked up at her window each time they passed, calling forth her -curiosity, her scorn, her laughter, finally her interest. Watching them -she forgot the immediate presence of her own annoyances. One was the -young musician Purcell, at whom Lottie had secretly laughed for a long -time past, at his longing looks and the way in which the vicissitudes of -her countenance would reflect themselves in his face. But the other she -could not for a long time make out. It was not till, seeing no one, he -stood still for a full half-minute in the light of the moon, and looked -up at her, that she recognised him--and then Lottie’s heart gave a jump. -It was young Rollo Ridsdale, Lady Caroline’s nephew, the best man at the -wedding; and what could he want here? - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -LADY CAROLINE. - - -Lady Caroline was in the drawing-room at the Deanery alone. Now that her -daughter was married this was no unusual circumstance. It was late in -the summer evening, after dinner, and she lay on a great square sofa so -placed that the view from the large window was dimly visible from it, -had she cared for the view. As a matter of fact, at no hour of the -twenty-four, however bright or tempting it might be, did Lady Caroline -care much for the view; but still, when a room is artistically arranged, -such a possibility cannot be altogether kept out of consideration. This -evening, however, there was no light to see anything by. The room was -dark, nothing distinctly visible in it but the great broad Elizabethan -window which filled one end. The upper part of this window was filled -with old painted glass in silvery tinted quarries, soft greys and -yellows, surrounding the golden and ruby glories of several blazons of -arms, and drawing the eye irresistibly with the delight of radiant -colour; underneath opened the great plain all dim and wide, a suggestion -of boundless air and distance rather than a landscape, while in the -room itself nothing was distinct but here and there a glimmer of -reflection from a mirror breaking the long line of the walls. Nor was -its only occupant very distinguishable as she reclined upon her sofa in -absolute stillness and tranquillity. The lace on her head and about her -throat showed faintly white in the corner, that was all. Perhaps if the -mind could have been seen as well as the body, Lady Caroline’s -individual soul, such as it was, would have told for little more amid -the still life around: a something vaguely different from the chairs and -softly cushioned sofas, a little more than one of the dim mirrors, a -little less than a picture, was this human creature to whom all the rest -belonged. She had lived irreproachably on the earth for a number of -years (though not for nearly so many years as the most of her -furniture), and fulfilled all her functions very much as they did, -honestly holding together, affording a temporary place of repose -occasionally, convenient for household meals, and ordinary domestic -necessities. Perhaps now and then Lady Caroline conferred something of -the same kind of solace and support which is given to the weary by a -nice warm soft easy-chair, comfortably cushioned and covered; but that -was about the highest use of which she was capable. She was waiting now -quite tranquilly till it pleased the servants to bring her lights. They -were in no hurry, and she was in no hurry. She never did anything, so -that it was immaterial whether her room was lighted early or late, and -on the whole she liked this dim interval between the active daylight, -when people were always in motion, and the lamps, which suggested work, -or a book, or something of the sort. Lady Caroline, though she had not -very much mind, had a conscience, and knew that it was not quite right -for a responsible creature to be without employment; therefore she made -certain efforts to fulfil the object of her existence by keeping a -serious volume on the table beside her, and putting in a few stitches -now and then in a piece of wool-work. But at this hour there was no -possibility for the most anxious conscience to speak, and Lady -Caroline’s was not anxious, only correct, not troubling itself with any -burden beyond what was necessary. It may be supposed, perhaps, that she -was sad, passing this twilight quite alone, so soon after the marriage -and departure of her only daughter; but this would have been a mistake, -for Lady Caroline was not sad. Of course she missed Augusta. There was -no one now to wake her up when she dozed, as now and then happened, in a -warm afternoon after luncheon; and, as a matter of fact, one or two -visitors had actually been ushered into the drawing-room while her head -was drooping upon her right shoulder, and her cap a little awry. But at -this tranquil hour in the dark, when nobody expected anything of her, -neither without nor within--neither conscience, nor the Dean, nor -society--it cannot be said that any distressful recollection of Augusta -mingled with her thoughts. Nor, indeed, had she any thoughts to mingle -it with, which was perhaps the reason. She was very comfortable in the -corner of her sofa, with nothing to disturb her. Had Jarvis her maid -been at hand to tell her what was going on in the precincts, or any bit -of gossip that might have floated upward from the town, it would -probably have added a little more flavour to her content; but even that -flavour was not necessary to her, and she was quite happy as she was. - -Some one came into the room as she lay in this pleasant quiet. She -thought it was Jeremie coming to light the candles, and said nothing; -but it was not so dignified a person as Mr. Jeremie, the Dean’s butler, -who was generally taken for one of the Canons by visitors unacquainted -with the place. This was indeed a shirt-front as dazzling as Jeremie’s -which came into the soft gloom, but the owner of it was younger and -taller, with a lighter step and less solemn demeanour. He gave a glance -round the room to see if anyone was visible, then advanced steadily with -the ease of an _habitue_ among the sofas and tables. “Are you here, Aunt -Caroline?” he said. “Oh, you are there! Shall I ring for lights? it must -be dull sitting all by yourself in the dark.” - -“If you please, my dear,” said Lady Caroline, who, having no will of her -own to speak of, never set it in opposition to anybody else’s; -answering a question as she did thus promptly, there was no occasion at -the same time to answer a mere remark. - -“I am afraid you are moping,” he said, “missing Augusta. To be sure, it -does make a great difference in the house.” - -“No, my dear,” said Lady Caroline, “I can’t say I was thinking of -Augusta. She is quite happy, you know.” - -“I hope so,” he said, laughing. “If they are not happy now, when should -they be happy? the honeymoon scarcely over, and all sorts of delights -before them.” - -“Yes; that is just what I was going to say,” said Lady Caroline; “so why -should I mope?” - -“Why, indeed?” He took his aunt’s soft hand into his, and caressed it. -Rollo was fond of his aunt, strange though it may appear. She had never -scolded him, though this was the favourite exercise of all the rest of -his family. When he came home in disgrace she had always received him -just the same as if he had come in triumph. Whoever might find fault -with him for wasting his talents, or disappointing the hopes of his -friends, his Aunt Caroline had never done so. He could not help laughing -a little as he spoke, but he caressed her soft white hand as he did so, -compunctious, to make amends to her for the ridicule. Lady Caroline, it -need not be said, attached no idea of ridicule to his laugh. “But I -have come to tell you,” said Rollo, “that I have been out again walking -up and down the Dean’s Walk, as I did the night of the wedding, and I -have not been able to hear a note of your singer--the girl with the -wonderful voice.” - -“Did I say there was a girl with a wonderful voice, my dear? I forget.” - -“Not you, but Augusta; don’t you remember, Aunt Caroline, a girl in the -Cloisters, in--in the Lodges, a Miss--I don’t remember the name. Lottie -something, Augusta called her.” - -“Ah! Augusta was too ready to make friends. It is Miss Despard, I -suppose.” - -“Well; might we not have Miss Despard here some evening? If her voice is -as fine as Augusta said, it might be the making of me, Aunt Caroline. An -English _prima donna_ would make all our fortunes. And unless I hear -her, it is not possible, is it, I appeal to your candour, that I can -judge?” - -“But, my dear!” “But” was a word which scarcely existed in Lady -Caroline’s vocabulary. It meant an objection, and she rarely objected to -anything. Still there was a limit to which instinct and experience alike -bound her. She was not unkind by nature, but rather the reverse, and if -there was anything that approached a passion--nay, not a passion, an -emotion--in her nature, it was for the poor. She who was little moved -by any relationship, even the closest, almost loved the poor, and would -take trouble for them, petting them when they were sick, and pleased to -hear of all their affairs when they were well--conscience and -inclination supplementing each other in this point. But the poor, the -real “poor,” they who are so kind as to be destitute now and then, with -nothing to eat and all their clothes at the pawnbroker’s, and their -existence dependent upon the clergyman’s nod, or the visit of the -district lady--these were very different from the Chevaliers in their -Lodges. There even Lady Caroline drew the line. She did what was -suggested to her in a great many cases, but here she felt that she could -make a stand when necessity required. Not the people in the Lodges! -people who though they lived in small houses on small incomes considered -themselves to be ladies and gentlemen as good as the Royal Family -themselves. The very mildest, the very gentlest, must pause somewhere, -and this is where Lady Caroline made her stand. “My dear,” she said, -something like a flush coming to her sallow cheek, for Jeremie by this -time had brought the lamps and lighted the candles and made her visible; -“I have never visited the people in the Lodges. I have always made a -stand there. There was one of them appointed through my brother -Courtland, you know--your papa, my dear--but when Beatrice asked me to -notice them I was obliged to decline. I really could not do it. I hope I -never shrink from doing my duty to the poor; but these sort of -people--you must really excuse me, Rollo; I could not, I do not think I -could do it.” - -Mr. Ridsdale had never seen anything so near excitement in his aunt’s -manner before. She spoke with little movements of her hands and of her -head, and a pink flush was on her usually colourless face. The sight of -this little flutter and commotion which he had caused amused the young -man. Jeremie was still moving noiselessly about, letting down a loop of -curtain, kindling a distant corner into visibility by lighting one of -the groups of candles upon the wall. The room was still very dim, just -made visible, not much more, and Jeremie’s noiseless presence did not -check the expression of Lady Caroline’s sentiments. She made her little -explanation with a fervour such as, we have said, her nephew had never -before seen in her. He was greatly astonished, but he was also, it must -be allowed, somewhat disposed to laugh. - -“You must pardon me,” he said, “for suggesting anything you don’t like, -Aunt Caroline. But did not Augusta have Miss Despard here?” - -“Oh, yes--with the rest of her people who sang. Augusta was always -having her singing people--who were not in our set at all.” - -“I suppose that is all over now,” said Rollo in a tone of regret. - -“Oh, not quite over. Mrs. Long brought some of them the other day. She -thought it would amuse me. But it never amused me much,” said Lady -Caroline. “Augusta was pleased, and that was all. I don’t want them, -Rollo; they disturb me. They require to have tea made for them, and -compliments. I am not so very fond of music, you are aware.” - -“I know; not fond enough to give up anything for it; but confess it is -often a resource after dinner, when the people are dull?” - -“The people are always just the same, Rollo. If they have a good dinner, -that is all I have to do with them. They ought to amuse themselves.” - -“Yes, yes,” he resumed, laughing. “I know you are never dull, Aunt -Caroline. Your thoughts flow always in the same gentle current. You are -never excited, and you are never bored.” - -A gentle smile came over Lady Caroline’s face; no one understood her so -well. She was astonished that so many people found fault with Rollo. He -was, she thought, her favourite nephew, if it was right to have a -favourite. “It is no credit to me,” she said. “I was always brought up -in that way. But girls do not have such a good training now.” - -“No, indeed--the very reverse, I think--they are either in a whirl of -amusement or else they are bored. But, Aunt Caroline, people in general -are not like you. And for us who have not had the advantage of your -education, it is often very dull, especially after dinner. Now you are -going to have a gathering to-morrow. Don’t you think it would be a good -thing to have a little music in the evening, and ask Miss Despard to -come and sing? Have her to amuse the people, just as you might have -Punch and Judy, you know, or some of the sleight-of-hand men?” - -“I should never think of having either the one or the other, Rollo.” - -“But a great many people do. It was quite the right thing for a time. -Come, Aunt Caroline! My uncle is often bored to death with these duty -dinners. He will bless you if you have a little music afterwards and set -him free.” - -“Do you really think so? I can’t understand why you should all talk of -being bored. I am never bored,” said Lady Caroline. - -“That is your superiority,” said the courtier. “But we poor wretches -often are. And I really must hear this voice. You would not like to -stand in the way of my interests now when I seem really about to have a -chance?” - -“It is a very curious thing to me,” said Lady Caroline, stimulated by so -much argument to deliver herself of an original remark, “that such a -clever young man as you are, Rollo, should require to connect yourself -with singers and theatres. Such a thing was never heard of in my time.” - -“That is just it,” he said, putting on a mournful look. “If I had not -been a clever young man, things would have gone a great deal better with -me. There was nothing of that foolish description I am sure, Aunt -Caroline, in your time.” - -“No,” she said; then added, almost peevishly, “I do not know how to -communicate with the girl, Rollo. She is so out of society.” - -“But only on the other side of the way,” he said. “Come, write her a -note, and I will take it myself, if Jeremie or Joseph are too grand to -go.” - -“Must I write her a note? I never in my life sent a note to the Lodges,” -said Lady Caroline, looking at her hands as if the performance would -soil them. Then she added, with a look of relief, “I very often see her -when I am out for my drive. You can tell the coachman to stop if he sees -her, and I will tell her to come--that will be much the better way.” - -“But if she should be engaged?” - -Lady Caroline gave him a very faint smile of amiable scorn and superior -knowledge. “You forget these people are not in society,” she said. - -To make head against this sublime of contempt was more than Rollo could -do. Lady Caroline vanquished him as she had vanquished many people in -her day, by that invincible might of simple dulness against which -nothing can stand. - -Mr. Rollo Ridsdale was one of the many very clever young men in society -who are always on the eve of every kind of fame and fortune, but never -manage to cross the border between hope and reality. He had been quite -sure of success in a great many different ways: at the university, where -he was certain of a first class, but only managed to “scrape through” -the ordeal of honours in the lowest room;--in diplomacy, where he was -expected to rise to the highest rank, but spoiled all his chances by a -whisper of a state secret, of no importance to anybody, when only an -unpaid attaché;--in the House of Commons, where he broke down in his -maiden speech, after costing what his family described as a “fortune” to -secure his election;--and finally, in commerce, where his honourable -name was just secured from the _éclat_ of a disgraceful bankruptcy by -the sacrifice of a second “fortune” on the part of the family. It is but -fair to add, however, that Rollo had nothing to do with the -disgracefulness of the commercial downfall in which he was all but -involved. And here he was at eight-and-twenty once more afloat, as the -fashionable jackal and assistant of an enterprising _impresario_, -indefatigable in his pursuit of the prima donna of the future, and -talking of nothing but operas. This was why he had made that moonlight -promenade under Lottie Despard’s windows on the evening of his cousin’s -wedding-day. He did not know her, but Lottie knew him as the populace -know all, even the most insignificant, members of the reigning family. -Lady Caroline’s nephew, Augusta’s cousin, was of much more importance -to the community than any of the community had been to him up to this -moment, though the thoughts which passed through Lottie’s mind, as, with -extreme surprise, she recognised him gazing up at her window, suggested -a very different hypothesis. What could Lottie imagine, as, with the -most bewildering astonishment, she identified Mr. Ridsdale, but that he -had seen her as she had seen him, and that it was admiration at least, -if not a more definite sentiment, which brought him to wander in front -of the window, as poor young Purcell did, whose delusion she regarded -without either surprise or compassion? Rollo Ridsdale was a very -different person; and Lottie had been too much bewildered by his -appearance to found any theory upon it, except the vaguest natural -thrill of flattered pleasure and wonder. Was it possible?--When a young -man comes and stares at a lady’s window, going and returning, waiting -apparently for a glimpse of her--what is anyone to suppose?--There is -but one natural and ordinary explanation of such an attitude and -proceeding. And if Lottie’s fancy jumped at this idea, how could she -help it? It gave her a little shock of pleasure and exhilaration in her -depressed state. Why should she have been exhilarated? It is difficult -to say. She did not know anything of Mr. Ridsdale--whether his -admiration was worth having or the reverse. But he was Lady Caroline’s -nephew, who had always been inaccessible to Lottie; he was Augusta’s -cousin, who had neglected her. And if it really could be possible that, -notwithstanding this, he had conceived a romantic passion for Lottie, -what could be more consolatory to the girl who had felt herself -humiliated by the indifference and contempt with which these ladies had -treated her? The idea brought the light back to her eyes, and her -natural gay courage revived again. She would make reprisals, she would -“be even with them,” and pay them back in their coin; and where is the -girl or boy to whom reprisals are not sweet? - -This, however, is a digression from Lady Caroline, who went to her -tranquil couch that night with a heavier heart than she had known for -years. It was a revolution which had occurred in her life. During -Augusta’s reign she had been passively resistant always, protesting -under her breath against the invasion of the singing people of all kinds -into her sacred and exclusive world. She had supported it with heroic -calm, entrenching herself behind the ladies who were really in society, -and whom she could receive without derogation; but to Lottie and the -other people who were outside of her world she had never shown any -civility, as she was glad to think, on surveying the situation that -night. She had not brought it on herself. She had never shown them any -civility. A salutation with her eyelids, a cup of tea from her table, -the privilege of breathing the same air with her--this had been all she -had ever done for her daughter’s _protégées_, and hitherto nobody, she -was obliged to allow, had presumed upon it. But _that_ Miss Despard was -not like the timid and respectful singing ladies from the town. She was -a bold young woman, who thought herself as good as anyone, and looked as -if she ought to be talked to, and taken notice of, as much as anyone. -And it was not possible to get rid of her as the ladies in the town -could be got rid of. Lady Caroline could not go out of her own door, -could not go to Church, without meeting Miss Despard, and feeling what -she called within herself, “the broad stare” of that dangerous girl. And -now was it possible, was it conceivable, that she was herself to take -the initiative and re-invite Miss Despard? Not for years, if indeed ever -in her life, had Lady Caroline gone to bed with such a weight on her -mind. She sighed as she laid down on that bed of down--nay, not of down, -which is old-fashioned and not very wholesome either, now-a-days, people -say--but on her mattress of delicately arranged springs, which moved -with every movement. She sighed as she lay down upon it, and the springs -swayed under her; and she sighed again in the morning as she woke, and -all that had happened came back into her mind. Poor dear Rollo! She did -not like to cross him, or to go against him, since he had made so great -an object of it. Oh! that Augusta had but held her peace, and had not -inflamed his mind about this girl’s voice! After all, her voice was -nothing wonderful; it was just a soprano, as most girl’s voices were; -and that she, Lady Caroline, should be compelled to exert -herself--compelled to go against her principles, to come into personal -contact with a person of a different class! She who had always been -careful to keep herself aloof!--It was very hard upon Lady Caroline. She -sighed at breakfast so that the Dean took notice of it. - -“Is there anything the matter?” he said. “Rollo, do you know what is the -matter? This is the third time I have heard your aunt sigh.” - -“I am sure she does not look as if anything was the matter,” said Rollo, -with that filial flattery which women like, at Lady Caroline’s age. - -She gave him a faint little smile, but shook her head and sighed again. - -“Bless my soul!” said the Dean, “I must look in upon Enderby, and tell -him to come and see you.” - -“Oh, there is nothing the matter with me,” Lady Caroline said; but she -had no objection to see Enderby, who was the doctor and always very -kind. It even pleased her to think of confiding her troubles to him, for -indeed she had the humbling consciousness upon her mind that she had -never been a very interesting patient. She had never had anything but -headaches and mere external ills to tell him about. She had never till -now been able to reveal to him even a headache which had been caused by -trouble of mind. Lady Caroline, though she was dull, had a faint wish -to be interesting as well as other people, and it would be a relief to -pour out this trouble to his sympathising ear. - -The idea of meeting Lottie when she went out was a very happy one, Lady -Caroline thought. She could not but feel that necessity was producing -invention within her. Perhaps she might not meet Lottie, perhaps Lottie -might be frightened and would decline to come. She drove out that -afternoon with a little excitement, full of hope, if she felt also the -palpitation of a little fear. These emotions made quite a pleasant and -unusual stir in the dull fluid that filled her veins. She was half -disturbed and half pleased when she found that Rollo proposed going with -her, a very unusual compliment from a young man. He said it was because -he had hurt his foot and could not walk. “Dear me!” Lady Caroline said, -“I will send Jarvis to see if it is a sprain.” “Oh no, it is not a -sprain,” he said; “a little rest is all it requires.” “You will find -carriage exercise very nice,” Lady Caroline said; “a perfect rest--and -much more amusement than walking, which tires one out directly.” And -thus they set out perfectly pleased with each other. But the coachman -had got his instructions carefully from Rollo’s own lips, and there was -now no possibility of escape for the poor lady, over whom Rollo himself -had mounted guard. They had not gone above a few yards from the Deanery -door, when the carriage suddenly drew up with a jar, to the side of the -high terrace pavement which lay in front of the Lodges. Rollo, who was -on the alert, looked eagerly out, and saw a light erect figure, full of -energy and life, coming up, in the plainest of morning frocks, one of -those simple toilettes which fashion has lately approved. She looked -perfectly fresh, and like the summer morning, as she came along, with a -little basket in her hand; and suddenly it burst upon Rollo, as Lottie -raised her eyes with a glance of astonished interest in them, wondering -why it was that Lady Caroline’s carriage should stop there, that this -unknown girl was extremely handsome--a thing for which the young man had -not been prepared. “Is this Miss Despard? but she will be gone unless -you send to her. Shall I go and call her to you?” he said. - -“Oh, she will come when she sees I want her,” said Lady Caroline. But -the only answer he made was to jump up and let himself out of the -carriage before Joseph could get off from the box. He went up to Lottie -with his hat in his hand, very much surprised in his turn by the vivid -blush which covered her cheeks at sight of him. He was flattered, and he -was surprised; was it a mere trick of unformed manners, the _gaucherie_ -of a girl who had never been in society, and did not know how to behave -herself? or was it that she saw something unusually fascinating in -himself, Rollo? To see so handsome a girl blush at his approach was a -tribute to his attractions, which Rollo was not the man to be -indifferent to. He almost forgot the business side of the transaction, -and his hunt after a prima donna, in the pleasure of such an encounter. -Could she have seen him somewhere before and been “struck” with him? -Rollo wondered. It was an agreeable beginning. He went up to her with -his hat in his hand as if she had been a princess. “I beg your pardon,” -he said, “my aunt, Lady Caroline Huntington, has sent me to beg that you -would let her speak to you for a moment.” Lottie looked at him -bewildered, with eyes that could scarcely meet his. She could hardly -make out what he said, in the sudden confusion and excitement of meeting -thus, face to face, the man whom she had seen under her window. What was -it? Lady Caroline asking to speak with her, awaiting her, in her -carriage, in the sight of all St. Michael’s! Lottie stood still for a -moment, and gazed at this strange sight, unable to move or speak for -wonder. What could Lady Caroline have to say? She could not be going, on -the spot, out of that beautiful chariot with its prancing horses, to -plead her nephew’s suit with the girl who knew nothing of him except his -lover-like watch under her window. Lottie could not trust herself to -make him any reply--or rather she said idiotically, “Oh, thank you,” and -turned half reluctant, confused, and anxious, to obey the call. She went -to the carriage door, and stood without a word, with her eyes full of -wonder, to hear what the great lady had to say. - -But it was not much at any time that Lady Caroline had to say. She -greeted Lottie with the little movement of her eyelids. “How do you do, -Miss Despard?” she said. “I wanted to ask if you would come to the -Deanery this evening for a little music?” There was no excitement in -that calmest of voices. Lottie felt so much ashamed of her wonderful -vague absurd anticipations, that she blushed more hotly than ever. - -“At half-past nine,” said Lady Caroline. - -“You have not presented me to Miss Despard, Aunt Caroline--so I have no -right to say anything; but if I had any right to speak, I should say I -hope--I hope--that Miss Despard is not engaged, and that she will come.” - -How earnest his voice was! and what a strange beginning of acquaintance! -Lottie felt half disposed to laugh, and half to cry, and could not lift -her eyes in her confusion to this man who--was it possible?--was in love -with her, yet whom she did not know. - -“Oh, I am not engaged--I--shall be very happy.” What else could she say? -She stood still, quite unaware what she was doing, and heard him thank -her with enthusiasm, while Lady Caroline sat quite passive. And then the -splendid vision rolled away, and Lottie stood alone wondering, like a -creature in a dream, on the margin of the way. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -AT THE DEANERY. - - -Lottie stood as if in a dream, hearing the ringing of the horses’ hoofs, -the roll of the carriage, and nothing more; all the sounds in the world -seemed to be summed up in these. She could scarcely tell what had -happened to her. A great honour had happened to her, such as might have -impressed the imagination of anyone in that little world of St. -Michael’s, but not so great a thing as she thought. Lady Caroline had -asked her to tea. It was something, it was much; it was what Lady -Caroline had never done to anyone in the Lodges before. Even Mrs. -Seymour, whose husband was really _one of the Seymours_, people said, -and whom Lady Courtland had begged Lady Caroline to be kind to, had not -been so honoured. But for all that, it was not what Lottie thought. She -stood there with her heart beating, feeling as if she had just fallen -from the clouds, in a maze of bewildered excitement, scarcely able to -realise what had befallen her--and yet that which had befallen her was -not what she thought. Most things that happen to us are infinitely -better in thought and in hope than they are in reality; but this was -doubly, trebly the case with poor Lottie, who found the cause of this -new happiness of hers in a delusion, a mistake, most innocently, most -unwittingly occasioned. It was not a thing that anybody had intended. -Rollo Ridsdale had meant no harm when he strolled along the Dean’s Walk -in the evening on two separate nights, looking up at Lottie’s window and -hoping to hear her sing in order that he might tell his partner of a new -voice to be had for the asking. And neither had Lottie meant any harm; -it was not vanity, it was the most natural conclusion from what she saw -with her own eyes. How could she doubt it? He must have seen her when -she was not aware of it, and fallen in love with her, as people say, at -first sight! a romantic compliment that always goes to a girl’s heart. -There was no other interpretation to be put upon the fact of his -lingering about looking up at her window. She had said to herself it was -nonsense; but how could it be nonsense? What other explanation could -anyone give of such a proceeding? And now he had managed to make Lady -Caroline, she who was the queen of the place and unapproachable, take -his cause in hand. For what other possible reason could Lady Caroline, -who never noticed anyone out of her own sphere, have paid this special -and public compliment to Lottie, and invited her to Paradise, as it -were--to tea--not afternoon tea, which means little, but _in the -evening_? But here Lottie’s fancies became so bewildering that she -could not follow herself in her thoughts; much less would it be possible -for us to follow her. For if Lady Caroline had thus interfered on her -nephew’s behalf, securing for him a personal introduction and an -opportunity of making her acquaintance, what could this mean but that -Lady Caroline was on his side and meant to help him and approved of his -sentiments? This thought was too wonderful to be entertained seriously; -it only glanced across the surface of Lottie’s mind, making her laugh -within herself with a bewildered sense that there was something absurd -in it. Lady Caroline stoop from her high estate to lift her, Lottie, to -a place upon that dazzling eminence! The girl felt as if she had been -spun round and round like a teetotum, though it was an undignified -comparison. She did not know where she might find herself when, dizzy -and tottering, she should come to herself. All this time Mrs. -O’Shaughnessy, at her window, where she always sat surveying everything -that went on, had been knocking an impatient summons with her knuckles -on the pane; and this it was at last which brought Lottie to herself. -She obeyed it with some reluctance, yet at the same time she was glad to -sit down somewhere till the giddiness should go off and the hurry of her -thoughts subside. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy met her with a countenance full of -interest and eagerness; a new incident was everything to her. She was as -eager as if it was of vital importance to know every word that Lady -Caroline said. - -“Then what was she saying to ye, me dear?” cried the old lady, from whom -excitement almost took away the breath. - -“She did not say anything,” said Lottie, relieving her feelings by a -little laugh. “She never does say anything; she asked me to tea.” - -“And you call that nothing, ye thankless creature! It’s spoilt ye are, -Lottie, me darling, and I always said that was what would come of it. -She asked you to tea? sure it’ll be afternoon tea for one of the -practisings, like it was in Miss Augusta’s day?” - -“No! I am to go in after dinner. It is not the first time, Mrs. -O’Shaughnessy; Augusta has often asked me. What else did I get my white -frock for?--for there are no parties here to go to. She used to say: -‘Come in, and bring your music.’ It is not me they want, it is my -voice,” said Lottie assuming a superiority of wisdom which she did not -possess. - -“All in good time, me dear,” said Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. “And did my Lady -Caroline bid you to bring your music, too? The daughter is one thing, -and the mother is clean another. I hope you’ve got your frock in order -me darlin’; clean and nice and like a lady? You should send it to Mrs. -Jones to iron it out; she’s the plague of my life, but she’s a beautiful -clear starcher--that I will say for her; and if you want a ribbon or -so, me jewel, or anything I have that ye may take a fancy to--there’s my -brooch with O’Shaughnessy’s miniature, sure ne’er a one of them would -find out who it was. You might say it was your grandpapa, me honey, in -his red coat, with his medals; and fine he’d look on your white -frock----” - -“Thank you!” said Lottie in alarm; “but I never wear anything, you know, -except poor mamma’s little pearl locket.” - -“Sure I know,” said the old woman, with a laugh; “a body can’t wear what -they haven’t got! But you needn’t turn up your little nose at my big -brooch, for when it was made it was the height of the fashion, and now -everything that’s old is the height of the fashion. And so me Lady -Caroline, that’s too grand to say ‘Good morning to ye, ma’am,’ or ‘Good -evening to ye,’ after ye’ve been her neighbour for a dozen years, stops -her grand carriage to bid this bit of a girl to tea, and Miss Lottie -takes it as cool as snowballs, if ye please. Well, well, honey! I don’t -envy ye, not I; but you’re born to luck as sure as the rest of us are -born to trouble, and that all the Abbey can see.” - -“I born to luck! I don’t think there is much sign of it,” said Lottie, -though with a tumultuous leap of the heart which contradicted the words. -“And what is there, I should like to know, that all the Abbey can see?” - -“If you think I’m going to tell you the nonsense that is flying about, -and put fancies in your little head!” said the old Irishwoman, “go your -ways, and see that your frock’s in order; and I’ll run in and see you -dressed, me pet, and I’ll bring the brooch and the box with me best -ribbons; may be at the last you’ll change your mind.” - -Lottie went home with her head in the clouds; was she indeed “born to -luck”? Was she going to be transplanted at once without the tedious -probation which even in poetry, even in story-books, the good heroine -has generally to go through, into that heaven of wealth and rank and -luxurious surroundings which she felt to be her proper sphere? It was -not that Lottie cared for luxury in its vulgarer forms; she liked what -was beautiful and stately--the large noble rooms, the dignified aspect -which life bore when unconnected with those small schemes and -strugglings in which her existence was spent; but above all she liked, -it must be allowed, to be uppermost, to feel herself on the highest -round of the ladder--and hated and resisted with all her soul the idea -of being inferior to anybody. This was the thing above all others which -Lottie could not bear. She had been brought up with the idea that she -belonged by right of nature to the upper classes, a caste entirely -removed by immutable decree of Providence from shop-keepers and persons -engaged in trade, and to whom it was comparatively immaterial whether -they were poor or rich, nothing being able to alter the birthright -which united them with all that was high and separated them from all -that was low. But this right had not been acknowledged at St. Michael’s. -She and her family had been mixed up in the crowd along with the -O’Shaughnessys, and other unexalted people; and nobody, not even the -O’Shaughnessys, had been impressed by the long descent of the Despard -family and its unblemished gentility. Something else then evidently was -requisite to raise her to her proper place, to the sphere to which she -belonged. Lottie would not have minded poverty, or difficulty, or hard -work, had she been secure of her “position”; but that was just the thing -of which in present circumstances she was least secure. It was for this -reason that Lady Caroline’s notice was sweet to her--for this that she -had been so deeply disappointed when no sign of amity was accorded to -her on the wedding-day. And this was why her heart leapt with such -bewildering hope and excitement at the new event in her career. She did -not know Mr. Ridsdale; perhaps his admiration or even his love were -little worth having; and nothing but what are called interested motives -could have possibly moved Lottie to the thrill of pleasure with which -she contemplated his supposed attachment. A girl whose head is turned by -the mere idea of a lover who can elevate her above her neighbours, -without any possibility of love on her part to excuse the bedazzlement, -is not a very fine or noble image; yet Lottie’s head was turned, not -vulgarly, not meanly, but with an intoxication that was full of poetry -and all that is most ethereal in romance. A tender, exquisite gratitude -to the man who thus seemed to have chosen her, without any virtue of -hers, filled her heart; and to the great lady who, though so lofty, and -usually cold as marble to the claims of those beneath her, could thus -forget her pride for Lottie. This feeling of gratitude softened all the -other emotions in her mind. She was ready to be wooed, but then the very -manner of the first step in this process, the lingering outside her -window, which was a sign of the tenderest, most delicate, and -reverential love-making (but she did not think it so in the case of poor -young Purcell), showed what a respectful, ethereal, poetical wooing it -would be. Thus Lottie’s whole being was full of the most tremulous, -delicious happiness, all made up of hope and anticipation, and grateful -admiration of the fine generous sentiments of her supposed lover, even -while it was founded, as you may say, on self-interest and ambition, and -sentiments which were not generous at all. - -And with what a flutter at her heart she put out her white muslin frock, -which (not having any confidence in Mrs. Jones) she ironed herself most -carefully and skilfully, with such interest in keeping it fresh as no -Mrs. Jones in the world could have. For girls who have no ornaments to -speak of, how kind summer is providing roses, which are always the most -suitable of decorations! One knot of them in her hair and one at her -breast--what could Lottie want more? Certainly not the big brooch with -Major O’Shaughnessy in his red coat, which her old friend was so anxious -to pin the roses with. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy thought it would be “such a -finish,” and prove satisfactorily that it was not poverty but fancy that -made Lottie decorate herself with fresh flowers instead of the fine -artificial wreath with a nice long trail down the back, which was what -the old lady herself would have preferred. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, however, -was mollified by the girl’s acceptance of the Indian shawl which she -brought to wrap her in. “And you might just carry it into the room with -you, me dear, as if ye thought ye might feel chilly,” said the old lady, -“for it’s a beauty, and I should like me Lady Caroline to see it. I -doubt if she’s got one like it. Good-night and a pleasant evening to ye, -me honey,” she cried, as, under charge of Law, and with her dress -carefully folded up, Lottie with her beating heart went across the broad -gravel of the Dean’s Walk to the Deanery door. It was a lovely summer -night, not dark at all, and the Signor was practising in the Abbey, and -the music rolling forth in harmonious thunders rose, now more, now less -distinct, as the strain grew softer or louder. A great many people were -strolling about, loitering, when Lottie came out, skimming over the road -in her little white shoes, with the roses in her hair. All the rest of -her modest splendours were hidden by the shawl, but these could not be -hidden. The people about all turned their heads to look at her. She was -going to the Deanery. It was the same in St. Michael’s as visiting the -Queen. - -The Dean’s dinner party had been of a slightly heavy description. There -were several of the great people from the neighbourhood, county people -whom it was necessary to ask periodically. It was so distinctly made a -condition, at the beginning of this story, that we were not to be -expected to describe the doings on Olympus, nor give the reader an -insight into the behaviour of the gods and goddesses, that we feel -ourselves happily free from any necessity of entering into the solemn -grandeur of the dinner. It was like other dinners in that region above -all the clouds. The ladies were fair and the gentlemen wise, and they -talked about other ladies and gentlemen not always perhaps equally wise -or fair. Mr. Rollo Ridsdale was the greatest addition to the party. He -knew all the very last gossip of the clubs. He knew what Lord Sarum said -to Knowsley, upbraiding him for the indiscretion of his last Guildhall -speech. “But everybody knows that Knowsley is nothing if not -indiscreet,” Rollo said; and he knew that, after all, whatever anyone -might say to the contrary, Lady Martingale _had_ gone off with Charley -Crowther, acknowledging that nothing in the world was of any -consequence to her in comparison. “Such an infatuation!” for, as -everybody knew, Charley was no Adonis. Lady Caroline shook her head over -this, as she ate her chicken (or probably it was something much nicer -than chicken that Lady Caroline ate). And thus the _menu_ was worked -through. There was but one young lady in the party, and even she was -married. In Augusta’s time the young people were always represented, but -it did not matter so much now. When all these ladies rose at last in -their heavy dresses that swept the carpet, and in their diamonds which -made a flicker and gleam of light about their heads and throats, and -swept out to the drawing-room: all, with that one exception, over middle -age, all well acquainted with each other, knowing the pedigrees and the -possessions each of each, and with society in general for their common -ground, the reader will tremble to think of such a poor little thing as -Lottie, in her white muslin, with the roses in her hair, standing -trembling in a corner of the big drawing-room, and waiting for the -solemn stream of silk and satin, and society, in which she would have -been engulfed at once, swallowed up and seen no more. And what would -have happened to Lottie, had she been alone, without anyone to stand by -her in the midst of this overflowing, we shrink from contemplating; but -happily she had already found a companion to hold head with her against -the stream. - -For when Lottie came in, she found some one before her in the -drawing-room, a tall, very thin man, with stooping shoulders, who stood -by the corner of the mantelpiece, on which there were candles, holding a -book very close to his eyes. When Lottie went in, with her heart in her -mouth, he turned round, thinking that the opening of the door meant the -coming of the ladies. The entrance, instead, of the one young figure, -white and slender, and of Lottie’s eyes encountering him, full of fright -and anxiety, yet with courage in them--the look that was intended for -Lady Caroline, and which was half a prayer, “Be kind to me!” as well as -perhaps the tenth part of a defiance--made a great impression upon the -solitary inmate of the room. He was as much afraid of what he thought a -beautiful young lady, as Lottie was of the mistress of the house. - -After this first moment, however, when she perceived that there was -nobody alarming, only a gentleman (an _old_ gentleman, Lottie -contemptuously, or rather carelessly concluded, though he was not more -in reality than about five-and-thirty), she regained her composure, and -her heart went back to its natural place. Lottie knew very well who the -gentleman was, though he did not know her. It was Mr. Ashford, one of -the minor canons, a very shy and scholarly person, rather out of his -element in a community which did not pretend to much scholarship or any -special devotion to books. Perhaps he was the only man in St. Michael’s -whom Lottie had ever really desired to make acquaintance with on his own -account; but indeed it was scarcely on his own account, but on account -of Law, about whom she was always so anxious. Mr. Ashford took pupils, -with whom he was said to be very successful. He lived for his pupils, -people said, and thought of nothing else but of how to get them into -shape and push them on. It had been Lottie’s dream ever since she came -to St. Michael’s to get Law under Mr. Ashford’s care; and after she had -recovered the shock of getting into the room, and the mingled thrill of -relief and impatience at finding that there was nobody there as yet to -be afraid of, Lottie, whose heart always rose to any emergency, began to -speculate how she could make friends with Mr. Ashford. She was not -afraid of him: he was short-sighted, and he was awkward and shy, and a -great deal more embarrassed by her look than she was by his. And he was -being badly used--so she thought. Why was not he asked to dinner like -the others? Mr. Ashford did not himself feel the grievance, but Lottie -felt it for him. She ranged herself instantly, instinctively, by his -side. They were the two who were being condescended to, being taken -notice of--they were the natural opponents consequently of the fine -people, the people who condescended and patronised. Mr. Ashford, on his -side, stood and looked at her, and did not know what to do. He did not -know who she was. She was a beautiful young lady, and he knew he had -seen her in the Abbey; but further than this Mr. Ashford knew nothing of -Lottie. The signs which would have betrayed her lowly condition to an -experienced eye said nothing to him. Her white muslin might have been -satin for anything he could tell, her little pearl locket a priceless -ornament. He did not know how to address such a dazzling creature; -though to any ordinary person in society Lottie’s attire would have -suggested bread-and-butter, and nothing dazzling at all. - -“It is a beautiful evening,” said Lottie, a little breathless. “It is -scarcely dark yet, though it is half-past nine o’clock.” - -To both these unquestionable statements Mr. Ashford said “Yes,” and then -he felt himself called upon to make a contribution in return. “I have -just found a book which somebody must have been reading,” he said, -growing red with the effort. - -“Oh, yes! is it a very interesting book? What is it about?” said Lottie, -but this was something for which Mr. Ashford was not prepared. He got -redder than ever and cleared his throat. - -“It does not seem about anything in particular. I have not really had -time to read it;” then he made a hasty dash at an abstract subject, and -said, with a falter in his voice, “Are--are you fond of reading?” This -question at once lit up Lottie’s face. - -“Oh, _very_, very fond! But I have not many books nor much time. I -always envy people who can read everything they please. Mr. Ashford, I -wonder if I might speak to you about something--before they come in,” -said Lottie, coming a step nearer, and looking eagerly at him with her -dangerous blue eyes. - -Mr. Ashford got the better of his shyness in a moment. It did not -embarrass him when there was anything to be done. He smiled upon her -with a most beautiful beaming smile which altogether changed the -character of his face, and put a chair for her, which Lottie, however, -did not take. “Surely,” he said, in his melodious voice, suddenly thawed -out of the dryness which always got into his throat when he spoke first -to a stranger. It has not yet been said that Mr. Ashford’s chief quality -as respected the community at St. Michael’s was an unusually beautiful -mellow voice. “If there is any way in which I can be of use to you?” he -said. - -“Oh, yes; so much use! They say you think a great deal about your -pupils, Mr. Ashford,” said Lottie, “and I have a brother whom nobody -thinks much about----” - -That was the moment Lady Caroline chose to return to the drawing-room. -The door opened, the ladies swept in one by one, the first looking -suspiciously at both Mr. Ashford and Lottie, the second, who knew Mr. -Ashford, giving him a smile of recognition, and looking suspiciously -only at Lottie, the rest following some one example, some the other. -Lottie knew not one of them. She looked trembling for Lady Caroline, and -hoped she would be kind, and save her from the utter desolation of -standing alone in this smiling and magnificent company. But Lady -Caroline coming in last of all, only made her usual salutation to the -stranger. She said, “Good evening, Miss Despard,” as she swept her long -train of rustling silk over the carpet close to Lottie’s trembling feet, -but she put out her hand to Mr. Ashford. “It was so good of you to -come,” she said. Alas! Lottie was not even to have the comfort of -feeling on the same footing with the minor canon. He was carried off -from her just as he had begun to look on her with friendly eyes. The -stream flowed towards the other side of the room, where Lady Caroline -seated herself on her favourite square sofa. Lottie was left standing -all alone against the soft grey of the wall, lighted up by the candles -on the mantelpiece. When a person belonging to one class of society -ventures to put a rash foot on the sacred confines of another, what has -she to expect? It is an old story, and Lottie had gone through it -before, and ought to have had more sense, you will say, than to -encounter it again. But the silly girl felt it as much as if she had not -quite known what would happen to her. She stood still, feeling unable -to move, one wave of mortification and indignation going over her after -another. How could they be so cruel? What did they ask her for, if they -meant to leave her to stand there by herself? And Mr. Ashford, too, was -cruel. She had made up her mind to stand by him; but he had been carried -away by the first touch; he had not stood by her. Lottie could have torn -off the roses with which she had decked herself so hopefully, and -stamped her foot upon them. She almost wished she had the courage to do -it, to cry out to those careless people and let them see what unkindness -they were doing. Meantime she made a very pretty picture without knowing -it. “Look at that pretty, sulky girl against the wall,” said the young -married lady to her mother. “Lady Caroline must have set her there on -purpose to look handsome and ill-tempered. How handsome she is! I never -saw such eyelashes in my life; but as sulky as a thundercloud.” - -“Go and talk to her and then she will not be sulky,” said the mother, -who, though by instinct she had looked suspiciously at Lottie, was not -unkind; nay, was a kind woman when she saw any need for it. Neither were -the others unkind--but they did not see any need for it. It was Lady -Caroline’s business, they thought, to entertain her own guests. - -Lottie, however, had her triumph later when she sang, all the whispered -conversation in the room stopping out of sheer astonishment. Her voice -had developed even within the last month or two, during which there had -been no singing in the Deanery, and as the Signor, who had come in after -his practising, played her accompaniments for her, and did his very best -to aid and heighten the effect of her songs, her success was complete. -He had never accompanied her before, which was a fact Lottie did not -remember. And she did not notice either in her preoccupation, thinking -nothing of this but much of less important matters--that he knew -everything she could sing best, and humoured, and flattered, and coaxed -her voice to display itself to the very fullest advantage, as only a -skilful accompanyist can. No doubt he had his motive. As for Rollo -Ridsdale, he stood on the other side of the piano looking at Lottie with -a gaze which seemed to go through and through her. It meant, in fact, at -once the real enthusiasm of a man who knew exactly what such talent was -worth, and the less practical but still genuine enthusiasm of the -amateur who knew what the music was worth as well as the voice. In the -one point of view he saw Lottie’s defects, in the other he saw all that -could be made of her. An English prima donna! a real native talent as -good as anything that ever came out of Italy, and capable of producing -any amount of national enthusiasm! Rollo’s eyes shone, his face lighted -up, he did not know how to express his delight. He said to himself that -she would make “all our fortunes,” with an exaggeration common to his -kind. “I knew I was to be charmed, Miss Despard, but I did not know what -delight was in store for me,” he said, with eyes that said still more -than his words. Lottie’s eyes with their wonderful lashes sank before -his. He thought it was perhaps a pretty trick to show that remarkable -feature, and since he was sensible at all points to the beautiful, he -did full justice to them. By Jove! how well she would look on the stage. -Those eyelashes themselves! that pose! What a pensive Marguerite, what a -Lucia she would make! He longed to rush up to town by the late train and -rush upon his astonished partner, shouting, “I have found her!” “You -will not deny me one more?” he said, turning to her with glowing eyes. - -Poor silly Lottie! She grew crimson with pleasure and excitement, pale -with excitement and feeling. What did she know about the young fellow’s -motives? She knew only that he had kept watch at her window, lounging -about for a glimpse of her, a thing which to be sure explains itself; -and that every note she sang seemed to make him happier and happier, and -more and more adoring. The incense was delicious to her. She had never -had it before (except perhaps from poor young Purcell--a nobody! what -did he matter?), and the happiness of flattered vanity and soothed pride -raised her to a pinnacle and climax of soft delight, such as she had -never thought possible. It seemed almost more than Lottie could bear. -Even Lady Caroline was so flattered by the plaudits addressed to her on -the entertainment she had provided for her guests, that a sense of -superior discrimination came over her placid mind, pleasantly exciting -its tranquillity. “Yes, I knew that she was going to have a beautiful -voice,” she said. And she smiled, and accepted the thanks with an -agreeable sense that she had deserved them. As for Rollo Ridsdale, it -was he who got Miss Despard’s shawl and wrapped her in it when the -dreadful moment came, as he said, for her departure. “You have no -carriage; you live on the other side of the way; then you must permit me -to see you to your door,” he said, “and to thank you once more for all -the pleasure you have given me. This will be a white day in my -recollection; I shall begin the dates in my history from the time when I -first heard----” - -“Mr. Ashford is going Miss Despard’s way. And, Rollo, your aunt wants -you, I think. We have all been so much delighted that we have forgotten -the progress of time, and Lady Caroline is not very strong. Mr. -Ashford,” said the Dean, “I am sure we may leave to you the privilege of -seeing Miss Despard to her own door.” - -“And I am here,” said the Signor. Nevertheless, poor Lottie felt as if -she had stepped suddenly out of heaven to earth again when she found -herself between the musician and the minor canon outside the Deanery -door. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -LAW. - - -Law went with his sister dutifully to the door in the great cloister. He -did not care much for the honour and glory of going to the Deanery, but -he was pleased to walk with Lottie in her pretty evening dress, with the -roses in her hair. This gave him a certain gratification and sense of -family pride, though he scoffed at that sentiment in general. Law did -not feel that on the whole he had much to be proud of. Still, he was -proud of Lottie, who was a creature quite out of the common, and like -nobody else he had ever seen. He waited till the Deanery door was opened -to her. That was a world of which Law knew nothing, and did not want to -know anything. How Lottie had managed to get among these fine people, -and why she liked to get among them, were equally strange to him. He -admired her for the first, and wondered at her for the last. She was, at -the present moment, the only lady belonging to the Chevaliers who had -got footing in the Deanery; and this was just like Lottie, just what he -would have expected from her, he said to himself; but how she could -stand those old fogies, with their pride and their finery, that was -what he could not tell. All the same, it gave him a certain -gratification to leave her there in her element among the great people. -And when the door closed upon him Law went off about his own business. -He went through the cloister, and a curious little back cloister -beyond--for there were many intricacies about the Abbey, the different -degrees of the hierarchy being very distinct, one cloister for the -Chapter, another for the Minor people, and a third for the lay clerks. -He went through the little square of the minor cloister, and came out -upon a stone staircase which abridged the slopes of St. Michael’s Hill, -and led straight down into the town. The lights had begun to be lighted -in the picturesque street which wound round the foot of the hill; they -twinkled here and there in the shops opposite, and appeared in glimmers -in the villages across the river. The dim misty plain lying doubly broad -in the twilight, stretching out vaguely to the sky, was here and there -defined by one of those twinkles which showed where a group of houses -stood together. The town was all out in the streets, and on the river -this lovely evening: boats floating dimly about the stream, people -walking vaguely up and down the hill. And the air was filled with -pleasant soft, uncertain sounds of talking, of footsteps, now and then -the clocks chiming or striking, and a bugle sounding faint and far from -where the soldiers were quartered, for there was a military depôt not -far off. Law stopped at the head of the Steps, as they were called, and -looked down over all this scene. The mere notion of being out in the -_grand air_, as the French call it, with somehow a fuller sense of space -and width than we can find a word for, was pleasant to Law; but if he -paused, it was neither to enjoy the picture before him, nor was it -because he had no definite place to go to. He knew very well where he -was going. No vagueness on that point was in his mind; and he did not -care a brass farthing for the landscape; but he paused at the head of -the Steps and looked about, just as a child will pause before eating his -cake, a pause of anticipation and spiritual enjoyment of the dainty -before it goes to his lips. Then he ran down the Steps three at a time, -skimming down the long flights, turning the corners like a bird. To take -care of his sister had been duty, but Law was about his own business -now. - -What was Law’s business? In all St. Michael’s there was not a more idle -boy. He was over eighteen, and he did nothing. Vague hopes that he would -get some appointment--that something would turn up for him--that he -would suddenly awake and find himself in an office somehow, doing -something and making money--had been in his own mind and that of his -family all his life. Law had no objection. Had some one taken him and -set him down at once in any office, it was quite possible that he might -have done the best he could in his place, and succeeded as well as most -men; but in the meantime there were a great many preliminaries to go -through, for which Law had never been required or encouraged to fit -himself. In these days of examination, when the pitifullest little bit -of an office builds up those prickly thorns, those red-hot ploughshares -before its door, how was he to get into any office without education? He -had spent all his earlier years, as has been seen, in eluding school as -cleverly as possible, and doing as little as he could of his lessons; -and now here he was on the verge of manhood, with nothing to do and no -great wish to do anything;--a great, straight, powerful young fellow, -without any absolute aim or tendency to evil, but good for nothing, not -capable of anything, with neither purpose nor object in his life. He -could row very well when anyone would give him an oar. He was not amiss -at cricket when anyone asked him to play. He could walk with any man, -and had won a race or two, and was quite capable of competing for a high -jump, or for throwing a cricket-ball, or any of those useful -accomplishments; but as for anything else he was not capable. He hated -books with that sincere and earnest hatred which seems possible only to -those who know books to be the preliminary of everything--a peculiarity -of this examining age. Never before surely was such a candid and -thorough detestation of the tools of knowledge possible. Law knew that -no door could possibly open to him without them, and therefore he hated -and despised them, illogically no doubt, but very cordially all the -same; and so went drifting along upon the stream, not asking what was to -become of him, never thinking much of the subject, though he suffered -greatly from want of pocket-money, and would gladly have made some -exertion from time to time to obtain that, had he known what to do. - -This want of pocket-money is the grand drawback to the education or no -education of the youths of the nineteenth century. So long as they can -have enough of that, what a pleasant life is theirs! For it does you no -particular harm to be supposed to be “working for an examination” so -long as you don’t work much for that, and are exempted, for the sake of -it, from all other kinds of work. Boating and cricketing and running -races, and every kind of exercise, are known now-a-days to be compatible -with the hardest mental labour, and he is a stern parent indeed who -interferes with his son’s training in such essential points. But all -these delights are more or less dependent upon pocket-money. Law, whose -bread and cheese had never yet failed, and whose conscience was not -active, would have found his life quite pleasant but for that; but it -was hard upon him not to be able to pay his subscription to a cricket -club, nor the hire of a boat, nor even the entry money for a race, -though that was sure to repay itself abundantly if he won it. This was -very hard upon him, and often stimulated him to the length of a -resolution that he would work to-morrow and conquer all his subjects, -and “scrape through” by sheer force of will, so as to have an income of -his own. But the habit of idleness unfortunately overcame the resolution -next morning, which was a pity, and Law “loafed,” as he himself said, -not being able to afford to “do anything.” It is needless to inform the -instructed who have to do with youths working for examinations, that it -is cricket and boating and athletics these heroes mean when they talk of -“having something to do.” - -Law, however, had a pleasure before him which had no connection with -pocket-money. He went straight down with the directness of habit, till -he came to a lane very tortuous and narrow, crowded with builders’-yards -and coal-merchants, and affording glimpses of the little wharves where a -little traffic was carried on, edging the river. Threading his way -through them, he came to a red brick house, the front of which overhung -the stream with its projecting gable. Law went in through a door which -stood open always, and showed signs of much and constant use. There were -lodgings upstairs, which were very pleasant in summer, and which were -always let, and made a very comfortable item in the earnings of the -family; but it was not upstairs that Law went, though that would have -done him good. On the first floor, in the room with the square window, -which overlooked and indeed overhung the river, the excellent curate was -living with whom Law occasionally “read,” and to whom no doubt he would -have said he was going had Lottie seen him at this door. But Law had no -intention of disturbing the curate, who for his part did not want his -pupil. He passed the staircase altogether, and pushed open a green baize -door, beyond which was a short passage leading into a room, all ablaze -with gas. The door of the room was wide open, and so were the windows, -to admit all the air that was possible, and round the large table -between sat three or four young women working and talking. They were -very busy; the great table was covered with silk and muslin, and all -kinds of flimsy trimming, and though they chatted they were working as -for bare life. As Law sauntered in they all looked up for a moment, and -threw a smile or a nod or half-a-dozen words at him, but scarcely -intermitted a stitch. “We’re awful busy; we can’t so much as look at -you; we’ve got some wedding things to finish for to-morrow,” said one -fair-haired girl who seemed specially to appropriate his visit. She -pushed her chair a little aside without pausing in her work, as if -accustomed to make room for him; and Law took a chair and placed it -sideways, so that he could lean his idle elbow on the table between this -busy needlewoman and the rest. Perhaps as a stormy sea gives zest to the -enjoyment of tranquillity on shore, so the extreme occupation of this -workroom made him feel his own absolute leisure more delightful. - -“Who is going to be married?” he said. - -“Oh, you know just as well as I do. I am sure you have heard us talking -of it for the last week. Polly, didn’t you tell Mr. Despard all about -it? It’s a lady you know. It’s Miss Hare at the Golden Eagle, who is one -of your papa’s great friends. I don’t know what the Captain will do when -she’s gone. Polly, do you?” - -“I don’t know what the Captain has to do with her, nor me neither,” said -the young lady at the head of the table. The rest of the girls were -sisters, with fair frizzy locks a little out of order after the long -day’s work, what with the warmth of the room, and the fluttering of the -faint breeze from the river that ruffled the well-crimped tresses. But -Polly was of a different stamp. She had a mountain of dark brown hair -upon her head in plaits and curls and puffs innumerable, and though she -was sallow in complexion, had commanding features, a grand aquiline -nose, and brilliant eyes. “The Captain nor me, we hav’nt much to say to -that sort,” said Polly. “I don’t go with them that has a word and a -laugh for everybody. What I like is a young lady that respects herself. -If you work for your living, that’s not to say that you ain’t as good as -the best of them. Stick up for yourself, and other folks will think of -you according, that’s what I say.” - -“I am sure Miss Hare always sticks up for herself,” said the girl by -Law’s side. “Going to be married in a veil, like one of the quality!” - -“And so would I, if it was me,” cried Polly. “The quality! What are they -better than us, only they’ve got a pocketful of money. If I was the -Queen, I’d do away with them all. I’d be the Queen, and all the rest -should be the people. There shouldn’t be one more than another, or one -greater than another, only me. And then shouldn’t I do whatever I -pleased, and cut off their heads if they said a word!” - -This instinctive perception of the secret of despotism made Law laugh, -who thought he knew a great deal better. “It would be a funny world with -Queen Polly over it,” he said. “I hope you’d take me for your prime -minister.” - -Polly gave him a look of saucy malice. “I’d take the Captain,” she said. - -“Has he been here to-night, Emma? I think he’s always coming here,” said -Law, under his breath. It was a kind of growl which the young fellow -gave out when he spoke low, in the voice which not very long ago had -been treble, a soprano, as clear and pure as Lottie’s--but it was -extremely bass now. - -“He wants to know,” said Emma, with a glance at the others as she pinned -her work straight, “if the Captain has been here;” upon which there was -a chorus of laughter, making Law red and angry. He turned upon them -with a furious look. - -“I should like to know how you would all like it,” said the boy, “if -your governor were to come poking in the very same place where----” - -“Oh, you may make yourself quite easy, Mr. Lawrence,” said Polly, with a -toss of her elaborately dressed head. “He don’t meddle with you. The -Captain is a man of taste, he ain’t a boy, like some folks. He knows -what’s what, the Captain does. Other girls may have their fancies; I -don’t say anything against that, but give me a man as knows the world, -and knows what he wants. That’s the sort for me.” - -“She gets more insufferable than ever. I wonder how you can put up with -her,” said Law under his breath. - -“Doesn’t she,” said Emma in a whisper. “I wish she had never come into -our workroom; but she has taste, mother says, and we have to put up with -it. Everything has to give way to the work,” the girl added, threading -her needle; and as she made a knot upon the end of the new thread, she -shook her head with a sigh. - -Everything has to give way to the work! Law could not but smile, feeling -the superiority of his gentlemanhood. With him it was the work that gave -way to everything. “Poor little Em!” he said, with a little laugh. She -was only seventeen, a year younger than he was; her forefinger was -seamed into furrows with her needle, and sometimes bled, which called -forth no sympathy, but only scoldings, from the forewoman or her mother, -when an unlucky red mark appeared on a hem. Emma did not very much mind -the scoldings, which came natural to her, and she never made any -comparison of herself with Law. He was a _gentleman_, that made all the -difference. And it was a great deal nicer, and much more important, to -have such a fine fellow to keep company with, than a young painter or -carpenter, or even a tailor, which was what ’Liza had to be content -with. Mr. Despard was a very different sort of person. As Law whispered -to her, Emma felt her heart swell with pride. She went on with her work -all the same, sometimes threatening to prick him with the needle which -was at the end of that long thread. Emma was only “running a skirt,” not -trusted as yet with the more difficult parts of the work, and she -pointed her needle at Law’s nose when he came too close. But it was very -sweet to her to have him there. Polly might brag as she pleased of the -Captain--the Captain was old, and what was the good of him? He did -nothing but puff Polly up with pride, the younger girls thought, and -nothing would ever come of it. But Law was young, and there was no -telling what might come of that. Emma threatened him with her needle, -but in her heart was very proud of him. And there he sat and talked to -her, while Lottie was having her little triumph among all the fine -people at the Rectory. The Welting girls were all pleased to have Law -there. They liked to talk of Mr. Despard, “from the Abbey,” and how they -“could not keep him out of their workroom.” By and by they began to joke -about his idleness, the only idle one among so busy a company. “Can’t -you give him something simple to do--a skirt to run up or a long hem?” -“Oh, yes,” said Emma. “Do, Polly, he bothers me so I can’t get my skirt -done.” Polly opened her drawer, and drew out from it the current number -of a distinguished periodical, which all these young women admired. - -“I’ll tell you what he can do,” she said, “and make himself useful--for -we’ve got to sit up all night a’most, and there’s nothing makes work go -like reading out loud. Mr. Lawrence, if you want to be as good as your -professions, and help us young ladies on, as are far harder worked than -the like of you knows of even, there’s the last number of the _Family -Herald_, and we’re all that anxious, we don’t know how to bear it, to -hear how Lady Araminta got on----” - -“Oh, give it me,” said Emma, with her eyes sparkling. “Oh, give it me! -Oh, you nasty cruel creature, to have it in your drawer all the time, -and never to tell!” - -“I’ll give it to Mr. Despard,” said Polly, “and we’ll all be done half -as soon again if he’ll read it out loud.” - -“Give it here,” said Law with lordly good-nature, and he began at once -upon his task. How the needles flew as he read! Lady Araminta was a -wonderful heroine. She wore nothing less than velvet and satin, and -carried her diamonds about with her wherever she went, and the title -deeds of her estate in the bosom of her dress. Law leaned his long arm -on the table, sometimes pausing to take breath and playing with Emma’s -pins and cotton. He would thus tantalise them now and then when the -story grew most exciting and his auditors most breathless. He was _bon -prince_ among them all, very good-natured and willing to please them, -though Emma had his special vows. His head was not so much turned as was -the head of virtuous Lottie, listening to the applause of Mr. Rollo -Ridsdale, but he was very happy with this little court about him all the -same. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -A NEW LIGHT. - - -It was late before Law got home. In the first place he read the _Family -Herald_ through to his interested and busy auditors. Their needles flew -like lightning along the lengthy seams; trimmings were as nothing to -them, and even a hem became interesting as he read. When he had pursued -Lady Araminta to the end of this little portion of her history, showing -how she refused that wicked Duke who was at the bottom of all her -troubles, and whose expedients to get her into his power were so -manifold, he began the next story--and so on till all was finished. It -took some time to get through the delightful pennyworth. What good it -did to the poor girls at their work! They were not patient, superior, -noble-minded needlewomen, pensively bearing up against the privations of -their lot, but very commonplace girls, grumbling at their privations -frankly, yet sitting up half the night over wedding finery or funeral -robes, without any very clear idea that it was a hardship, or indeed -more than an inevitable feature of “the dressmaking.” It was under this -simple matter-of-fact aspect that their vigil appeared to them now, and -they did not feel it any very great grievance; but, such as it was, it -was infinitely lightened by Law and the _Family Herald_. He was, to tell -the truth, a little bit interested himself in the stories. He thought -them very finely written. He liked the bits about Araminta’s true, but -alas! poor and unfortunate lover. This lover was tall and strong, -interesting and clever beyond description. He could do whatever he tried -to do, and managed to live comfortably upon nothing at all. Law had a -half notion that this elegant and perfect being was like himself. He -would not have breathed it to anyone, but yet he thought so. And when -one story was finished he began another. He did not mind whether it was -the beginning, or the middle, or the end of the tale; all was the same -to Law; he went stoutly on, and read the whole number through--poetry, -answers to correspondents, and all. It was not very fine literature -perhaps, or, rather, it was very superfine literature, with nobody below -the rank of a baronet in the leading stories; but what it did for these -poor dressmaking girls! They followed Lady Araminta through every turn -of her wonderful fortunes, with eyes that glowed and shone over their -needlework. They identified themselves with her, exclaiming, “That’s -just what I’d have done!” and, “No, I wouldn’t have had him, not I, if -he’d been fifty dukes!” with true enthusiasm. Their needles flew, and -the work got on as by magic; their excitement showing itself in the -speed with which they worked. The wedding things were done an hour -sooner than they would otherwise have been done, under this stimulus, -and it was little more than twelve o’clock when Polly, after folding up -the last dress, in readiness to be sent home first thing in the morning, -said, “Now, Mr. Lawrence, you’ve been a deal of use. If you like, you -can see me home!” - -“As if it was a treat for him to see her home!” Emma cried, who owned -the special allegiance of Law; but the youth for his part had no -objection. It was a beautiful night, and a little additional walk was -nothing but a pleasure to him; and he was quite good-natured, ready to -exert himself in any way that was not legitimate and necessary. Emma, -indeed, did not smile upon this undertaking. She (who had been obliged -to do as much before now without anyone to take care of her) did not see -what Polly wanted with an escort in a quiet place like St. Michael’s. -“You’ll meet nobody worse than the policeman,” she said. - -“Policemen are bad enough, sometimes,” said Polly. - -“Mind you don’t meet the Captain,” said Emma’s elder sister, “and get -him into trouble with his papa.” - -At this Polly laughed, tossing her head with its innumerable plaits and -puffs. “I hope I can manage the Captain,” she said. And whoever had -heard the style of Polly’s conversation as she walked up the sweep of -the steep street by Law’s side, with the soft night air blowing in their -faces, would have recognised at once the superiority of Polly to all the -insinuations addressed to her. All was very quiet in the High Street of -St. Michael’s: they met nobody worse than the policeman, as Emma had -suggested; and everything was still and dark, except the stars shining -far away overhead; for the shop-windows had long been closed, and the -lamps glimmered few and far between. - -“You mustn’t think anything of what these foolish things say about the -Captain,” said Polly; “because I’m a bit more reasonable than the rest, -he likes to have a chat with me now and again. He’s a very well-informed -man is your papa; but you mustn’t think nothing of what they say----” - -“Oh, I don’t!” said Law, with the serenest confidence; “I know the -governor’s way.” - -This, however, was not a reply which pleased Polly. “What do you mean by -the governor’s way?” she cried sharply. “You are not half respectful -enough, if you would like to hear my opinion. You shouldn’t talk of the -Captain like that; he’s a fine man, and he’s one that many in this town -thinks a deal of.” - -“Is he really?” said Law, in genuine surprise; “I did not know that. I -wonder what kind of people they are? Is it far off where you live, -Polly? I haven’t got a latchkey, so I don’t want to be very late.” - -“You never thought of being late so long as you were sitting by Emma; -though what you can see in a little white-haired thing like that, like a -white cat! You haven’t got a latchkey? I should think not at your age. -Mr. Lawrence, take my advice, and never be so late out of bed unless -there is a very good reason for it.” - -“I like that!” cried Law, “when it was you that kept me there all the -time.” - -“I thought it would do you good,” said Polly. “I am almost sure you had -not done a thing besides, or looked into a book for the whole day.” - -“Oh! I should not mind standing an examination in the _Family Herald_,” -Law said with a laugh. He had occupied the post of reader in the -workroom before, and knew a great deal about Lady Araminta. There could -not be any doubt that he was very good-natured, and ready to make -himself of use. - -“I should like to know,” said Polly--and though he could scarcely see -her face, Law felt, with a mixture of amusement and indignation, by the -sound of her voice, that Polly, too, meant to give him good advice--“I -should like to know, Mr. Lawrence, what you intend to be? Are you going -into the army, like the Captain? If I were a young gentleman, that’s -what I should choose above everything.” - -“I can’t afford the army, worse luck,” cried Law; “we haven’t got any -money, and a fellow can’t live on his pay. And there’s those dash’d -examinations to pass everywhere before you can get into anything; it’s -enough to drive a man out of his senses. I sometimes think I shall -emigrate--that’s the only thing you can do without an examination.” - -“But you can’t do that without money--a little money at least,” said -Polly. “If I were you, I should make a push and get in somewhere. I -can’t think how you can stay at home doing nothing, a great strong young -man like you.” - -“Oh! as for being strong, that don’t do much for an exam.,” said Law. -“The little fellows stand the best chance there.” - -“I wouldn’t make jokes about it, if I were you. I wonder how you can go -on living on the Captain, and such a burden on him--both you and your -sister----” - -“Hallo,” said Law in extreme surprise. The mention of Lottie bewildered -him. He was not even angry for the moment--he was so profoundly -astonished. - -“Yes, indeed, you and your sister too. You don’t show any consideration -for the Captain, and how can you expect that he’s always to be thinking -of you? The Captain is a young man still, and he is a fine man, and if -he were to marry again, as would be very natural at his age, where would -you and Miss Despard be?” - -“Let my sister alone, if you please,” said Law, with a momentary flash -of anger; and then he relapsed into a laugh. “The governor should be -much obliged to you, Polly, for taking his part.” - -“Somebody ought to take his part,” said Polly. “I don’t suppose he’s -much over fifty--what I call quite a young man still; and why should he -deny himself and spend all he’s got on two grown-up young people that -ought to be making their own living? A man like the Captain, he wants -his ease and his little comforts and a wife to look after him--that’s -what he wants. He ain’t an old man to give in to his family. If I were -to put upon my folks like that, do you think I’d be walking up St. -Michael’s Hill at this hour of the night, after slaving and stitching -all day? Not a bit of it, Mr. Lawrence. If I were to do as you’re doing, -I might sit at home and make myself comfortable; but I was always one -for being independent, and as for the Captain, poor dear! he oughtn’t to -be spending his money upon them that can do for themselves. It is -himself he ought to be thinking of, to get all the pleasure he can as -long as he’s able to enjoy it. And if he were to marry again, as there’s -nothing more likely, where would you and Miss Lottie be? Oh, yes, I know -your names quite well,” said Polly. “We often talk about you. These sort -of names for short are a mistake. For instance me, my name’s Maria, -that’s a very lady-like name; but what does it matter when everybody -calls me Polly? but, if my name’s common, nobody can say of me that I -don’t behave handsome to my parents,” Polly said with emphasis. As for -Law, he had felt himself growing hot and cold all through this speech. -It plunged him into an entirely new world of thought. He tried to laugh, -but there was no laughter in his mind. - -“It is very kind of you, Polly,” he said, with scorn in his voice, “to -take the trouble to give me so much good advice.” - -“Oh, I assure you it’s not for your sake, but the Captain’s,” said -Polly. “I told him if ever I had a chance with either of you, you should -hear a bit of my mind--and I saw my opportunity to-night--that’s why I -asked you to come with me, Mr. Lawrence. Oh, it wasn’t for the pleasure -of your society! I told the Captain I’d give you a bit of my mind. This -is my home, so I’ll bid you good-night, and I hope you’ll lay to heart -what I say.” - -Law turned up the Abbey Hill when thus dismissed with much secret -excitement in his mind. It was altogether a new idea to him that his -father was as Polly said, quite a young man still, and that it was on -himself, not on his grown-up children, that his money should be spent. -Law had never looked upon the income of the family as belonging -exclusively to his father. It _was_ the family income, and it had seemed -to him that he had just as good a right to have everything he wanted as -his father had. As a matter of fact he did not get all he wanted, as -Captain Despard managed to do; but that was because his father had the -command of everything, not that he had a better right to it than Law. -The idea that he had no right at all, as Polly seemed to think, and that -his father might make the home untenable by marrying somebody, perhaps -Polly herself, struck him as the most extraordinary of revelations. It -was too extraordinary to be thought of calmly--his brain boiled and -bubbled with the extraordinariness and novelty of the thought. The -governor, who was only not an old fogey because he was so much less -respectable, less orderly than old fogeys ought to be!--Law could not -associate his father’s image with the idea of, even, comparative youth. -But he could not dismiss the suggestion from his mind. He tried to -laugh, but something seemed to hang over him like a threat, like a cloud -of evil omen. He walked quickly up the slope to the Abbey gate, trying -to shake off the uneasy feeling in his mind--trying to postpone at least -the new idea which he could not get rid of. When, however, Law had got -into the Precincts he saw a passenger not much less active and -considerably more jaunty than himself on the way before him, walking -with a slight occasional lurch, up the pavement to the Lodges. The lurch -was quite slight, and might not have been noticed by an indifferent eye, -but Law noted it with the jealous observation of one whose own credit -was at stake. It was hard upon a fellow, he thought, that his father -should be seen going home night after night with a lurch in his walk, -and that his name should be recognised in all the lowest quarters of -the town as that of “the Captain’s son.” Why should he suffer for such a -cause? Other old men were respectable, were no shame to their sons, but -on the contrary furnished a margin of honour and reputation upon which -to draw when there was occasion; but this was not the case with Captain -Despard. Other old men--but there suddenly flashed across Law’s mind as -he instinctively placed his father in this class, a recollection of the -words which had just been said to him--“He is what I call a young man -still.” Pricked by this thought, he looked at the figure before him with -eyes suddenly cleared from the mists of habit and tradition, and saw it -in an altogether new light. Captain Despard was straight and active: he -carried his head high, and his step, though to-night slightly irregular, -was both firm and light. To see him walking in front humming and -whistling by turns, perhaps with a certain bravado to show how steady he -was, gave Law the most uncomfortable sensation. It was true what Polly -had said. This was no old fogey, no heavy father; though up to this -moment Law had looked upon the Captain in no other light. He felt a -shiver come over him, a sudden realisation of all the possibilities. Who -should say that the governor ought not to do what he liked best, -whatever that might be? Law felt conscious that he himself, who was so -much younger, did what he liked in indifference to everybody’s opinion, -and he was under no affectionate delusion as to the superior virtue of -his father. What if Polly were right? Polly perhaps had a better chance -of knowing the Captain’s wishes than either his son or his daughter, to -whom he was not likely to talk on such subjects. A chill came over the -lad though the night was so warm. Life had always seemed sure enough to -him, though it had its privations. He had to put up with that chronic -want of pocket-money--and with frequent “rows” from his father, and -passionate remonstrances from Lottie. These were the drawbacks of -existence; but Law was aware that, except in very favourable -circumstances indeed, as when you were born a duke, or at least born to -the possession of five thousand a year or so, existence was very seldom -without drawbacks; this, however, was very much worse than the want of -pocket-money; the governor with a new wife, perhaps Polly! The situation -was too horrible to be realised, but for the moment the idea seemed to -pour a current of ice into Law’s veins. - -He had no latchkey, but as soon as he saw his father he made up his mind -to take advantage of Captain Despard’s entrance in a way which he had -found practicable before this. Light and swift as he was, when the -Captain had fumbled and opened the door, Law stole close behind him and -entered with him in the darkness. “What’s that?” Captain Despard -growled, feeling the movement of the air as his son passed. “I’ll swear -there’s a ghost in this house,” he added, grumbling to himself. Law, -however, was safely out of the way before his father managed to strike a -light, and went, swaying from side to side, up the narrow staircase -which creaked under him. The young fellow, standing back in the -darkness, saw Captain Despard’s face illuminated by the light of the -candle he carried, and gazed at it with eyes sharpened by anxiety. It -was a handsome face--the contour still perfect, the hair crisp and -curling, a heavy military moustache shadowing the well-formed lip. The -Captain was flushed, his eyes were blinking, half-closed, and that -unloveliest look that can be seen on a man’s face, the look of partial -intoxication approaching the sleepy stage, took all spirit and sentiment -from him. Yet Law could not but acknowledge that his father was a -handsome man. He stood quite still, watching that progress upstairs, -half because he was unwilling to be seen, half because he was anxious to -see. Captain Despard was “a fine man,” as Polly had said. Law could see -now, looking at him between the bars of the railing which guarded the -little staircase, that there was nothing in common between him and the -old white-haired Chevaliers, old men not strong enough to be warlike, -but courteous and gentle as becomes old soldiers, who sunned themselves -on the pavement before the Lodges. Captain Despard, middle-aged and -self-assertive, was as different as possible from those old gentlemen -with their honourable scars. He had none of their honours nor of the -grace of old service; but he was strong in life and vigour, a kind of -superiority which Law could appreciate. A grain of pride mingled in the -exasperation with which he acknowledged this to himself--and yet he was -not only exasperated but alarmed. He retired to bed very softly -afterwards, creeping on tiptoe and in the dark up the stairs. There was -still a gleam of light under Lottie’s door, but Law preferred not to -direct his sister’s attention to the late hour of his own return by -going straight to her room to relieve himself of his trouble. He did not -want to be forced into confidences or to betray where he had himself -been, and how he had heard the alarming prophecies which had so suddenly -cleared his sight; and though the temptation was great he resisted it. -Thus the lights were burning all at once in three of the little rooms in -Captain Despard’s house, each illuminating a separate world of -excitement, unsuspected by the others. The Captain’s share of the -disturbance was less of the mind than the body. He had lost some money -which he could not afford to lose, and was annoyed on this account; and -he was excited, but more sleepy, on account of the potations which had -accompanied his play. “By----, I’ll have it back to-morrow night--luck -can’t be so against me one night after another.” This was the only -burden of his simple and uncomplicated reflections. He thought nothing -of his children one way or another. Both his children, however, though -in different ways, were thinking of him. Lottie, though she dared not -openly sit up for her father, remained up in her own room until he came -in, and she had made sure that he did not want anything, and was not -likely to set the house on fire. But Law’s reflections were more serious -than those of the other two. It seemed to the idle lad as if suddenly a -real burden had got on to his shoulders. He was thoroughly frightened -out of the pleasant calm of nature--the sense that everything must go on -as everything had gone since he could remember. In later days, indeed, -things had gone better for Law--Lottie had managed now and then to -scrape a shilling or two off the housekeeping to give him, and of late -she had not bullied him quite so much as usual. The current had been -flowing more evenly--everything had conspired to make the happy-go-lucky -of his life more smooth than before. He woke up with all the more fright -and surprise to the sudden danger now. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -TRIUMPH AND TERROR. - - -Lottie had gone home that night, it need not be said, with her head full -of excitement. Had she not good reason to look upon this evening as of -importance in her life? She had met the man who, before he had ever -spoken to her, had, according to all appearances, placed her on the -highest pinnacle on which a girl can be placed--the throne of a romantic -love. Though it had been a temporary downfall to her to be placed in the -charge of Mr. Ashford and the Signor, instead of crossing the Dean’s -Walk in the company of this secret and poetical lover, yet she was -almost glad to be thus let drop into quietness, to avert any word or -look too much, which might have spoiled the visionary elevation on which -she felt herself. Yes, she was glad that they had never been alone. Had -he whispered an avowal of any kind into her ear, she was not, she knew, -prepared for it; Lottie was honest even in her self-delusion, and she -knew that, however profoundly to her advantage it might be, she could -not make any response to a man whom she did not know, whom she was -speaking to for the first time, notwithstanding her consciousness that -he must have been thinking of her for a long time. She could not have -made any fit reply. She must have said something which probably would -have hurt him in the fervour of his romantic passion; for, though -grateful to him and romantically touched by his evident devotion, Lottie -could not have persuaded herself that he was anything to her except a -delightful wonder and most flattering novelty. No, it was better, much -better, that he did not come; she must have hurt his feelings, -discouraged him, probably driven him away from her; and she was very far -from wishing to drive him away. Lottie thought, with an innocent -calculation, if she saw a little more of him, had a little time given -her to make his acquaintance, that probably she would come to love him -quite naturally and spontaneously; but at present it was not possible -that she could do so, and she felt a natural shrinking from any -premature disclosure of his feelings. Thus it was evidently most -fortunate that the Dean had interposed, that Rollo had not been allowed -to come home with her--fortunate, and yet a little disappointing too. -There had been a very few words exchanged with her companions as they -crossed the Dean’s Walk. Mr. Ashford had most kindly and courteously -reminded her that she had expressed a wish to speak to him about -something. “It is too late now to ask what it was,” he said; “I must not -keep you out of doors at this hour; but if you will permit me, I will -call and inquire in what way I can be of use to you?” “You know in what -way _I_ would like to be of use to you, Miss Despard,” the Signor said -on the other side. All this was very flattering, even though she might -be displeased by the Signor’s reiteration of his disagreeable offer. She -made him a curtsey like Lady Caroline, while to the minor canon she gave -her hand, which perhaps was quite sufficient to mark her different -estimation of them. And indeed the Signor had been very kind about the -accompaniments, which he had certainly played to perfection. This -recollection came to her mind as he thanked her for her singing, -undaunted by the stiffness of her leave-taking. “Indeed, I owe you more, -a great deal more, than you can possibly owe me,” Lottie said, with a -burst of compunction; “I never sang so well before, because I never had -such an accompaniment.” “Then I hope I may accompany you very often -again,” he said, with a smile, as he went away. Thus even with the -Signor, Lottie felt herself in perfect good-humour and charity. A man -who paid such compliments to her voice, how could she be hard upon him, -even if he made a little mistake in respect to her position? And she -went in out of the summer night in a state of celestial satisfaction -with all the people surrounding her--and herself. Even Lady Caroline had -melted into something which was warmth for her. She had said, “I have -enjoyed your singing very much, Miss Despard,” and had touched Lottie’s -hand with two limp fingers--that was something, indeed it was much for -Lady Caroline. And all the other great ladies had spoken, or at least -had smiled upon Lottie, thanking her. What could she have wished for -more? She went up into her little tiny room, which was not much bigger -than Lady Caroline’s grand piano, and throwing off the Indian shawl (if -Mrs. O’Shaughnessy could but have seen it!) on the floor, sat down upon -her little white bed and began to think. To think! nothing of the -sort--to go over everything that had happened, with a dazzle of light -and delight and triumph round her. She seemed to herself to have thrown -down all the boundaries that had hitherto separated her from her lawful -sphere. If a suitor should come from that higher and better world who -could wonder now? Had she not been adopted into it--received to her just -place at last? - -And naturally it was upon Rollo that her recollections chiefly centred; -he was the chief figure of the whole company to Lottie. She remembered -minutely everything he had said and done, the expression of his face -(though she put infinitely more meaning in it than was there), the tone -of his voice. How the room had become at once full of interest, of -excitement, when he came in, clearing away all the dimness! Lottie had -scarcely time even to wonder how and where their next meeting would be, -for thinking of this first meeting. How his face had lighted up when he -saw that she was there; how he had been caught by some one on his way to -her, and kept talking in spite of himself, with his eyes upon her all -the time; how he had escaped and pressed through all the fine company to -get to her side; how he had confessed that he had but a very visionary -right to claim her acquaintance at all, but nevertheless meant to stand -on that right as, for the time being, the son of the house! Lottie had -scarcely forgotten a word of all he said. And, as a matter of fact, -Rollo had been very careful to behave himself with due discretion, not -to make it too apparent that her voice was the thing that most -interested him. She thought that he admired her singing as a part of his -enthusiasm for herself. She had not a suspicion of the real state of the -case. It seemed to her that her voice was a delightful discovery to him, -a something _pardessus le marché_, an added charm; that it was the sole -foundation of his apparent enthusiasm never occurred to the girl; -neither, though she knew that her general triumph was caused by her -singing, did she solely set down to that cause the friendly looks and -smiles and flattering compliments she had received. This was absurd, but -we do not pretend that Lottie was beyond the reach of absurdity. She -knew that it was her singing which had suddenly silenced all the -conversation going on in the room, and called the attention of -everybody; but yet it was surely something more; it was herself, not her -voice, which brought that kindly look to their eyes as they smiled upon -her. It is hard to acknowledge to ourselves that it is for some special, -perhaps accidental, quality we may possess, that we are favoured and -esteemed by our fellow-creatures. Human nature is humbled by the -conviction that it is the possession of a gift worthy of popularity -which makes an individual popular. We all prefer to be prized for -nothing at all, for ourselves. And this, in the face of circumstances, -and clean against all reason, was what Lottie hoped and determinedly -believed. She could not consent to the other idea. To be praised and -made friends with _for her voice_ was intolerable. The only approbation -which is really flattering and delightful is that which is given upon no -ground at all. - -She had been sitting thus for some time on her bed, musing, with eyes -that sparkled and a heart that fluttered with happiness; and had taken -off her evening gown, and loosed the roses from her hair, and wrapped -her white shining satin shoulders in a white cotton dressing-gown; and -had even brushed out those long dark locks, and twisted them up again -close to her head for the night, with innumerable fancies twisted out -and in of all she did, before Captain Despard, fumbling for the -key-hole, opened his own door and came in, in the dark. It was Lottie’s -habit to sit up till he came in, but to-night she had been too much -occupied by her own concerns to hear his approach, and it was only when -he came upstairs that she woke up to think of him. Lottie’s experienced -ear caught the lurch in his step, just as Law’s experienced eye had -caught it. “Again!” she said to herself, with a momentary flash of -anger; but it did not make her wretched as it might have done a more -sensitive daughter. Lottie was accustomed to accept her father without -question, not expecting much of him, and somewhat disposed, when he did -not come up even to the little she expected, to satisfy herself that it -was just like papa. But his entrance relieved her from her habitual -vigil. She heard Law steal upstairs afterwards, and wondered how or when -he had got in, and where he went at night, with more curiosity than she -expended on her father; but even that did not much disturb Lottie, who -had been used all her life to irregular entrances and exits. After a -while all was still in the little house, notwithstanding the anxieties -and excitements collected under its roof. Disquietude and trouble could -not keep Law from sleeping any more than excitement and triumph could -keep his sister; and, as for the Captain, the sleep of the just was -never so profound as that which wrapped him in a not too lovely -tranquillity. The air was all thrilling with emotion of one kind or -another, but they slept as profoundly as if they had not a care in the -world--as soundly as the good O’Shaughnessys next door, who had been -asleep since eleven o’clock, and who had no cares but those of their -neighbours to disquiet them; or old Colonel Dalrymple on the other side, -who dozed through his life. The soft night stilled them all, young and -old and middle-aged, in their kind, just as it held in soft shadow the -Abbey, with all its grey pinnacles and immemorial towers. Nature cared -nothing for the troubles of life; but life submitted to the gentle yoke -of nature, which relieves the soul, while it binds the body, and makes a -temporary truce and armistice with all the army of mortal cares. - -Next morning Law lounged into the little drawing-room after breakfast -with a big book in his hand. He had almost given up the pretence of -reading for some time, so that it was all the more wonderful to see a -book which was not a yellow railway novel in his hand. Lottie had been -up early, awakened by the commotion in her mind, which did not allow her -to rest--or rather which prevented her from going to sleep again when -the early noises of the morning woke her up. Accordingly she had got -through a great deal of her ordinary household work by this time, when -Law, after a breakfast which was later than usual, lounged in upon her. -He was very big, and filled up the little room; and his habit of doing -as little as possible, and his want of money, which made some -imperfections in his toilet inevitable, gave him a look of indolence -and shabbiness such as was not natural to his age, or even to his -disposition, for by nature Law was not lazy. He came sauntering in with -one hand in his pocket, and with his book under the other arm; and he -sat down in the only easy-chair the room contained, exasperating Lottie, -to whom his very bigness seemed an offence. There were times when she -was proud of Law’s size, his somewhat heavy good-looks, his athletic -powers; but this morning, as many times before, the very sight of those -long limbs jarred upon her. What was the use of all that superfluous -length and strength? He took the only easy-chair, and stretched out his -long limbs half across the room, and Lottie at the height of her -activity felt impatience rise and swell within her. She could not put up -with Law that morning. His indolence was an offence to her. - -“What do you want, Law?” she said, in a voice which was not so sweet as -it had been at the Deanery. She gave a rapid glance up at him as she -went on with her darning, and took in the whole picture, the easy-chair -and the lounging attitude. If he had sat upright upon the little hard -wickerwork chair, Lottie would have felt more merciful. - -“Well, I want nothing in particular, except to talk to you a little,” -said Law. “You need not be so cross.” - -“I am not cross; but to see you in an easy-chair, idling away all the -morning----” - -“How do you know I’ve been idling this morning? Look at my book: that’s -Virgil,” said Law, looking at it with simple admiration. “I don’t think -a fellow could do much better than that.” - -“But have you _really_ been reading?” Lottie’s tone modified; she began -to look at him with respect. “Oh, Law, if you only would work! it would -make such a difference, it would make me quite happy. I was speaking to -Mr. Ashford last night. You know Mr. Ashford, the minor canon. He is so -clever with his pupils. If you could but go to him, if he would only -take you, Law!” - -“He would take me fast enough if we could afford the money. I say, -Lottie, the governor was awfully late last night: did you hear him -coming in? I want to tell you something about him--something I have -heard.” - -“I think you were very late, too, Law.” - -“Oh! never mind about that; it does not matter about me. Lottie, listen. -A friend--I mean somebody--was speaking to me about him. Did it ever -come into your head that he was not an old man, and that such a thing -was possible as that he might--it seems too ridiculous to say it--marry -again?” - -“Marry again? you are dreaming!” cried Lottie loudly, in her -astonishment. - -“Yes, while we knew nothing of it. After all, when you come to think of -it, when you look at him, you know, he is not so awfully old. One thinks -he must be, because he is one’s father. But some of these old beggars -are just as silly”--said Law in awestruck tones, “and you can’t stop -them doing things as you can a fellow that is young. It is an awful -shame! a fellow that is under age, as they call it, you can pull him up, -though there’s no harm in him; but an old fellow of fifty, you can’t -stop him, whatever nonsense he may set his face to. That’s what I heard -last night.” - -“It is not true. I don’t believe a single word of it,” said Lottie. “You -must have been in very strange company, Law,” she added with severity, -“to hear all this gossip about papa.” - -Lottie did not mean to pass such a tremendous sentence on her father; -she spoke simply enough. To hear this gossip her brother must have been -in haunts such as those that Captain Despard frequented. She did not -know what they were, but she knew they were evil; therefore she made use -of this weapon instinctively, which she found, as it were, lying by her, -not meaning any censure upon her father, only a necessary reproof to -Law. - -“You may say what you please about bad company,” he said, “but that’s -what I heard; that he wasn’t so old after all; and what would become of -us if he married again? It was not gossip. I believe really, though I -was very angry at the time, that it was meant kindly; it was meant for a -warning. You would have thought so yourself, if you had been there.” - -“I do not believe a word of it,” said Lottie; but she had grown pale. -She did not ask again who had told him or where he had been; she set -herself seriously to prove the thing to be false, which showed that she -was not so sure of not believing it as she pretended to be. “It is all a -falsehood,” she went on. “Is papa a man to do that sort of thing? Marry! -he would have to give us a great many things if he married. He could not -afford to spend his money as he does; he would not be allowed to be -always out in the evenings as he is now. Why, even poor mamma, she did -not give in to him as we are obliged to do; he had to pay a little -attention to her--sometimes. And now he has got more used to do what he -likes than ever, and has more money to spend; do you think he would give -up that _for a wife_?” cried Lottie with disdain. “It only shows that -you don’t know papa.” - -“Ah! but you don’t know----” said Law. He was about to say “Polly,” but -stopped in time. “You don’t know what might be put into his head, -Lottie. He might be made to believe that to get rid of us would put all -right. If he got rid of us, don’t you see? he would want a woman in the -house; and if it was some one he liked himself, that would make herself -agreeable to him, and flatter him, and coddle him--that would please him -better,” said Law, with precocious knowledge of a man’s requirements, -“than you, who are always trying to keep things straight but not to -humour him, Lottie; or me--that am of no use at all.” - -Lottie grew paler and paler during this explanation. She had never -humoured her father, it was true. She had made desperate exertions “to -keep things straight,” to recover the family credit, to pay the bills, -to keep regular hours; but, with the hardihood of youth, she had not -hesitated even to stint her father of a meal when it seemed to her -impetuous determination to be necessary, and she had not flattered him, -nor made his convenience the absolute rule of the household, as some -girls would have been wise enough to do. Lottie had reflected that he -kept the lion’s share of the family income to himself, and was quite -able to make up for any shortcomings in her bill of fare; and she had -carried out her regulations with a high hand, feeling no compulsion upon -her, no primary necessity to please her father. She perceived all this -at a glance while Law spoke, and immediately felt herself confronting -such a breach of all the ordinary usages of her life as made her shiver. -What might he not do? turn them out suddenly from his doors, out upon -the world, at any moment whenever he pleased. He had the power to do it -whenever he pleased, whatever seemed to him good. She drew a long -shivering breath, feeling as if all were over, as if already she heard -the door clanging and barred behind her, and was looking out penniless -and destitute upon the world, not knowing where to go. Was it possible -that such a fate was reserved for her? She became as white as her dress -with that sudden panic of the imagination which is more terrible than -any reality. Law was very anxious and alarmed also, but he had got over -the worst on the previous night, and it gave him a kind of half pleasure -to see how he had frightened Lottie; though, at the same time, the -effect of his communication upon her deepened his own conviction of the -danger about to overtake them. He leaned back in his easy-chair with a -certain solemn satisfaction, and stretched his long legs farther across -the room than ever. - -“You see, Lottie,” he said, “it is what I have told you before; you -never would humour him. I don’t say that he’s not unreasonable, but he -might never perhaps have dropped among those sort of people if you had -laid yourself out to----” - -Lottie sprang to her feet in a sudden gust of passion. She took Law by -the shoulders, and with the sudden surprise of her assault got the -better of him and turned him out of the chair. “You sit there, lolling -all over the room,” she cried, “and tell me my duty, you lazy, idle, -useless boy! If papa turns you out, it will serve you right. You have a -hundred things open to you; you have the whole world open to you; but -you will not so much as take the trouble to pass the door. You would -like to be carried over all the ditches, to be set up on a throne, to -have everything and to do nothing. It will serve you right! And where do -you get all this gossip about papa?” she went on. “Who are the sort of -people you are spending your time with? You thought I did not know how -late you came in last night. Where were you, Law? where are you always, -all these long evenings? You say you are going out, and you never mind -that I am sitting in the house all alone. You go somewhere, but I never -hear that you have been with anybody--anybody in our own class----” - -“In our own class! I wonder what is our own class?” said Law, with a -scornful sense of the weakness of the position. “Would you like me to -take a hand in old O’Shaughnessy’s rubber, or read the papers to old -Dalrymple? They are half as old again as the governor himself. I suppose -that’s what you call my own class.” - -Lottie felt that she had laid herself open to defeat, and the -consciousness subdued her greatly. She sat down again on her little -chair, and looked up at him as he stood leaning upon the door, red with -indignation at her onslaught. Lottie herself was flushed with the -exertion and the shame of having thus afforded him an opportunity for a -scoff. She eluded the dilemma as he proposed it, however, and flung -herself back into the larger question: “You are grown up,” she said, -indignantly; “a great big boy, looking like a man. It is a disgrace to -you to be dependent on papa. It would be a good thing for you, a very -good thing, if he were to--marry, as you say, and cast you off, and -force you to work for yourself. What else have I been saying to you for -years?” - -“And what would it be for you?” said Law, taking, she thought, an unkind -advantage of her; “there are two of us to be considered. What would it -be for you, Lottie, I should like to know? What could you do any more -than I?” - -He stood up against the door, with a provoking smile on his face, and -his big book under his arm, taunting her with her helplessness, even -Lottie felt, with her high notions, which made her helplessness all the -worse. He smiled, looking down upon her from that serene height. “If the -worst came to the worst,” said Law, “I could always carry a hod or ’list -for a soldier. I don’t stand upon our class as you do. I haven’t got a -class. I don’t mind if I take the shilling to-morrow. I have always -thought it would be a jolly life.” - -Lottie gave a scream of horror, and flew upon him, seizing his coat -collar with one hand, while she threatened him with her small nervous -fist, at which Law laughed. “Will you dare to speak of ’listing to me,” -she said, flaming like a little fury; “you, an officer’s son, and a -gentleman born!” Then she broke down, after so many varieties of -excitement. “Oh, Law, for the sake of Heaven, go to Mr. Ashford! I will -get the money somehow,” she said, in a broken voice, melting into tears, -through which her eyes shone doubly large and liquid. “Don’t break my -heart! I want you to be better than we are now, not worse. Climb up as -far, as far as you please, above us; but don’t fall lower. Don’t forget -you are a gentleman, unless you want to break my heart.” - -And then, in the overflow of feeling, she leaned her head upon his -shoulder, which she had just gripped with fury, and cried. Law found -this more embarrassing than her rage, at which he laughed. He was -obliged to allow her to lean upon him, pushing his book out of the way, -and his heart smote him for making Lottie unhappy. By this time it could -not be said that he was unhappy himself. He had shuffled off his burden, -such as it was, upon her shoulders. He shifted his book, and stood -awkwardly enough, permitting her to lean upon him; but it cannot be said -that he was much of a prop to his sister. He held himself so as to keep -her off as far as possible. He was not unkind, but he was shy, and did -not like to be placed in a position which savoured of the ridiculous. “I -wish you wouldn’t cry,” he said, peevishly. “You girls always cry--and -what’s to be got by crying? I don’t want to ’list if I can help it. I’d -rather be an officer--but I can’t be an officer; or get into something; -but I never was bred up to anything; and what can I do?” - -“You can go to Mr. Ashford,” said Lottie, feeling herself repulsed, and -withdrawing from him with a glimmer of indignation relighted in her -eyes. “I met him last night, and I spoke to him about you. He seems very -kind. If you go to him, he will at least tell us whether he thinks you -have a chance for anything. Oh, Law, now that you do see the -necessity----” - -“But it’s a great deal more serious for you,” said the lad, -mischievously. He was not unkind, but it seemed something like fun to -him to treat Lottie as she had treated him so often, holding up before -him the terrors and horrors of his idleness. Because she was a girl, did -that make any difference? She had just as good a right to be bullied as -he had, and to be made to see how little she could do for herself. Emma, -who was younger than Lottie, worked for her living, and why should not -Lottie do the same? why should she be exempted? Thus Law reasoned, whom -Lottie, it must be allowed, had never spared. He watched, with -mischievous curiosity, making an experiment, not knowing whether it -would be successful or not. But the way in which Lottie took it after -this did not give Law the amusement he expected. She sat down again in -her chair, taking no further notice of him and relapsed into her own -thoughts when he could not follow her. His own mind, however, had -recovered its elasticity; for, after all, if the worst came to the -worst, if the governor was such an ass as to marry Polly, it would not -matter so very much to Law. Something, there was no doubt, would turn -up; or he would ’list--that was an alternative not to be despised. He -was tall enough for the Guards, among whom Law had often heard a great -many gentlemen were to be found; and the life was a jolly life--no -bother about books, and plenty of time for amusement. There was nothing -really in the circumstances to appal him now he had considered them -fully. But it was a great deal more serious for Lottie. After all the -bullying he had endured at her hands, Law may perhaps be excused if, in -sheer thoughtlessness, he rather enjoyed the prospect of this turning of -the tables upon his sister. He wondered how she would like it when it -came to her turn, she who was so ready to urge himself to the last -limits of patience. He did not wish anything unpleasant to happen to -her. He would not have had her actually brought into contact with Polly, -or placed under her power. But that Lottie should “just see how she -liked it herself” was pleasant to him. It would not do her any real -harm, and perhaps it would teach her to feel for other people, and -understand that they did not like it either. A slight tinge of remorse -crossed Law’s mind as he saw how pale and serious she looked, sitting -there thinking; but he shifted his Virgil to his other arm, and went -away, steeling his heart against it. It would make her feel for other -people in future. To have it brought home to herself would do her no -harm. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -VISITORS. - - -And what a problem it was with which Lottie Despard was thus left alone! -The house was still, no one moving in it--nothing to distract her -thoughts. Now and then a swell of music from the Abbey, where service -was going on, swept in, filling the silence for a moment; but most of -the inhabitants of the Lodges were at matins, and all was very still in -the sunshine, the Dean’s Walk lying broad and quiet, with scarcely a -shadow to break the light. Downstairs the little maid-of-all-work had -closed the door of the kitchen, so that her proceedings were inaudible. -And the Captain, as in duty bound, was in the Abbey, trolling forth the -responses in a fine baritone, as he might have done had they been the -chorus of a song. Lottie sat like a statue in the midst of this -stillness, her eyes abstracted, her mind absorbed. What a problem to -occupy her! Law, rustling over his books in his own room, grew -frightened as he thought of her. She would break her heart; it would -make her ill; it might almost kill her, he thought. She sat with her -work dropped on her knee, her eyes fixed but not seeing anything; her -mind--what could occupy it but one reflection? the sudden possibility -of a breaking up of all her traditions, an end of her young life--a -dismal sudden survey of the means of maintaining herself, and where she -could go to in case this unthought-of catastrophe should occur at once. -Poor desolate Lottie, motherless, friendless, with no one to consult in -such an emergency, no one to fly to! What could be more terrible than to -be brought face to face with such an appalling change, unwarned, -unprepared? What was she to do? where was she to go? Worse than an -orphan, penniless, homeless, what would become of her? No wonder if -despair was paramount in the poor girl’s thoughts. - -Well--but then despair was not paramount in her thoughts. She made a -stand for a moment with wild panic before the sudden danger. What was it -that was going to happen? Lottie gave a momentary gasp as a swimmer -might do making the first plunge; and then, like the swimmer, lo! struck -off with one quick movement into the sunshine and the smoothest gentle -current. Change! the air was full of it, the world was full of it, the -sky was beautiful with it, and her heart sprang to meet it. Do you think -a girl of twenty on the verge of love, once left free to silence and -musing, was likely to forget her own dreams in order to plunge into dark -reveries as to what would happen to her if her father married again? Not -Lottie, at least. She launched herself indeed on this subject, the -corners of her mouth dropping, a gleam of panic in her eyes; but -something caught her midway. Ah! it was like the touch of a magician’s -wand. What did it matter to Lottie what might happen to other people; -had not everything that was wonderful, everything that was beautiful, -begun to happen to herself? She floated off insensibly into that -delicious current of her own thoughts, losing herself in imaginary -scenes and dialogues. She lost her look of terror without knowing it, a -faint smile came upon her face, a faint colour, now heightening, now -paling, went and came like breath. Sometimes she resumed her work, and -her needle sped through her mending like the shuttle of the Fates; -sometimes it dropped out of her hand altogether, and the work upon her -knee. She lost count of time and of what she was doing. What was she -doing? She was weaving a poem, a play, a romance, as she sat with her -basket of stockings to darn. The _mise en scène_ was varied, but the -personages always the same; two personages--never any more; sometimes -they only looked at each other, saying nothing; sometimes they talked -for hours; and constantly in their talk they were approaching one -subject, which something always occurred to postpone. This indefinite -postponement of the explanation which, even in fiction, is a device -which must be used sparingly, can be indulged in without stint in the -private imagination, and Lottie in her romance took full advantage of -this power. She approached the borders of her _éclaircissement_ a -hundred times, and evaded it with the most delicate skill, feeling by -instinct the superior charm of the vague and undecided, and how love -itself loses its variety, its infinite novelty, and delightfulness, when -it has declared and acknowledged itself. Law, in his room with his big -book, comforting himself under the confused and painful study to which -the shock of last night’s suggestion had driven him by the idea that -Lottie too must be as uncomfortable as himself, was as much mistaken as -it was possible to imagine. His compunction and his satisfaction were -equally thrown away. Still the feeling that he had startled her, and the -hope that it would “do her good,” gave him a little consolation in his -reading, such as it was. And how difficult it was to read with the sun -shining outside, and little puffs of soft delicious air coming in at his -open window, and laying hands upon him, who shall say? He was comforted -to think that next door to him, Lottie, with her basket of clothes to -mend, patching and darning, must be very much disturbed too; but it -would have been hard upon Law had he known that she had escaped from all -this, and was meanly and treacherously enjoying herself in private -gardens of fancy. He had his Emma to be sure--but of her and the very -well-known scenes that enclosed her, and all the matter-of-fact -circumstances around, he felt no inclination to dream. He liked to have -her by him, and for her sake submitted to the chatter of the workroom -(which, on the whole, rather amused him in itself), and was quite -willing to read the _Family Herald_ aloud; but he did not dream of Emma -as Lottie did of the incident which had happened in her career. It was -true there was this fundamental difference between them, that Lottie’s -romance alone had any margin of the unknown and mysterious in it. About -Emma there was nothing that was mysterious or unknown. - -It was not likely, however, that these two young people in their two -different rooms, Law gaping over his Virgil, and feeling his eyes wander -after every fly that lighted on his book, and every bird that chirped in -the deep foliage round the window; and Lottie with her needle and her -scissors, thinking of everything in the world except what she was doing -or what had just been told her, should be left undisturbed for long in -these virtuous occupations. Very soon Law was stopped in the middle of a -bigger yawn than usual by the sound of a step coming up the stairs, -which distracted his not very seriously fixed attention--and Lottie woke -up from the very middle of an imaginary conversation, to hear a mellow -round voice calling her, as it came slowly panting upstairs. “Are you -there then, Lottie, me honey? You’d never let me mount up to the top of -the house, without telling me, if ye weren’t there?” Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, -like many of her country-folks, was half aware of the bull she was -uttering, and there was a sound of laughter in her voice. Lottie, -however, sat still, making no sign, holding her needle suspended in her -fingers, reluctant to have her pleasant thoughts disturbed by any -arrival. But while the brother and sister, each behind a closed door, -thus paused and listened, the Captain (audibly) coming home from morning -service, stepped in after Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, and addressed the -new-comer. “Lottie is in the drawing-room,” he said, “though she does -not answer. I am just going out again when I’ve fetched something--but I -must first see you upstairs;” and then there was an interval of talking -on the stairs and the little landing-place. Lottie made no movement for -her part. She sat amidst her darnings, and awaited what was coming, -feeling that her time for dreams was over. Captain Despard came lightly -up, three steps at a time, after Mrs. O’Shaughnessy had panted to the -drawing-room door. He was jaunty and gay as ever, in his well-brushed -coat with a rosebud in his button-hole. Few, very few, days were there -on which Captain Despard appeared without a flower in his coat. He -managed to get them even in winter, no one could tell how. Sometimes a -flaming red leaf from the Virginia creeper, answered his purpose, but he -was always jaunty, gay, decorated with something or other. He came in -behind the large figure of their neighbour, holding out a glove with a -hole in the finger reproachfully to Lottie. “See how my child neglects -me,” he said. He liked to display himself even to Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, -and stood and talked to her while Lottie, with no very good grace, put -down her darning and mended his glove. - -“When I was a young fellow, my dear lady,” he said, “I never wanted for -somebody to mend my glove; but a man can’t expect to be as interesting -to his daughter as he was in another stage of life.” - -“Oh, Captain, take me word,” said Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, “the likes of you -will always be interesting to one or another. You won’t make me believe -that ye find nobody but your daughter to do whatever ye ask them. Tell -that--to another branch of the service, Captain Despard, me dear -friend.” - -“You do me a great deal too much honour,” he said with the laugh of -flattered vanity; for he was not difficult in the way of compliments. -“Alas, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, who would pay any attention to an old married -man, the father of a grown-up son and daughter, like me?” - -“Sure, and you’re much to be pitied, so old as ye are, with one foot in -the grave, Captain dear,” the old Irishwoman said; and they both -laughed, she enjoying at once her joke, and the pleasure of seeing her -victim’s pleased appreciation of the compliment; while he, conscious of -being still irresistible, eyed himself in the little glass over the -mantelpiece, and was quite unaware of the lurking demon of -good-humoured malice and ridicule in her eyes. - -“Not so bad as that perhaps,” he said, “but bad enough. A man grows old -fast in this kind of life. Matins every morning by cockcrow, to a man -accustomed to take his ease, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. The Major grumbles, I -make no doubt, as well as I.” - -“Sure it’s nothing half as bad as morning parade. That’s what -O’Shaughnessy says; and he never was used to his ease, Captain. I took -better care of him than that. But, Lottie, me honey, here we’re talking -of ourselves, and it’s you I’ve come to hear about. How many hearts did -ye break? how many scalps have ye got, as we used to say in Canada? It -wasn’t for nothing ye put on your finery, and those roses in your hair. -The Captain, he’s the one for a flower in his coat; you’re his own -daughter, Miss Lottie dear.” - -“Were you out last night, my child?” said Captain Despard, taking his -glove from Lottie’s hand. “Ah, at the Deanery. I hope my friend the Dean -is well, and my Lady Caroline? Lady Caroline was once a very fine woman, -Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, though you would not think it. The Courtlands were -neighbours of ours in our better days, and knew all our connections; and -Lady Caroline has always been kind to Lottie. I do not think it -necessary to provide any chaperon for her when she goes there. It is in -society that a girl feels the want of a mother; but where Lady Caroline -is, Lottie can feel at home.” - -“Fancy that now,” said Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, “how a body may be deceived! -I never knew ye were among old friends, Captain. What a comfort to -you--till you find somebody that will be a nice chaperon for your dear -girl!” - -“Yes, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, that would be a satisfaction; but where could -I find one that would satisfy me after Lottie’s dear mother, who was a -pearl of a woman? Good-morning to you, my dear lady; I must be going,” -he said, kissing the fingers of the mended glove. And he went out of the -room humming a tune, which, indeed, was as much a distinction of Captain -Despard as the flower in his coat. He was always cheerful, whatever -happened. His daughter looked up from her work, following him with her -eyes, and Law, shut up in his room next door, stopped reading (which -indeed he was very glad to do), and listened to the light carol of the -Captain’s favourite air and his jaunty step as he went downstairs. No -lurch in that step now, but a happy confidence and cheerful ring upon -the pavement when he got outside, keeping time surely not only to the -tune, but to the Captain’s genial and virtuous thoughts. Mrs. -O’Shaughnessy looked after him without the cloud which was on his -children’s faces. She laughed. “Then, sure, it does one’s heart good,” -she said, “to see a man as pleased with himself as me friend the -Captain. And Lottie, me darlin’, speaking of that, there’s a word I have -to say to you. Ye heard what I said and ye heard what he said about a -chaperon--though, bless the child, it’s not much use, so far as I can -see, that you have for a chaperon----” - -“No use at all,” cried Lottie, “and don’t say anything about it, please. -Papa talks; but nobody pays any attention to him,” she exclaimed, with a -flush of shame. - -“If he’d stop at talking! but Lottie, me dear, when a man at his age -gets women in his head, there’s no telling what is to come of it. I -wouldn’t vex ye, me dear, but there’s gossip about--that the Captain has -thoughts----” - -“Oh, never mind what gossip there is about! there’s gossip about -everything----” - -“And that’s true, me honey. There’s your own self. They tell me a dozen -stories. It’s married ye’re going to be (and that’s natural); and -there’s them that uphold it’s not marriage at all, but music, or maybe -the stage even, which is what I never would have thought likely----” - -Lottie had risen to her feet, her eyes sparkling, her face crimson with -excitement. “Wherever you hear it, please, _please_ say it is a lie. -I--on the stage! Oh, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, could you believe such a thing? -I would rather die!” - -“Dying’s a strong step to take, me dear. I wouldn’t go that length, -Lottie; but at your age, and with your pretty looks, and all the world -before ye, it’s not the thing I would advise. I don’t say but there are -chances for a pretty girl that’s well conducted----” - -“Mrs. O’Shaughnessy! do you dare to speak to me so?” said Lottie with -crimson cheeks, her eyes blazing through indignant tears. Well -conducted! the insult went to her very soul. But this was beyond the -perception of her companion. - -“Just so, me, dear,” she said. “There was Miss O’Neil, that was a great -star in my time, and another stage lady that married the Earl of----, -one of the English earls. I forget his title. Lords and baronets and -that sort of people are thrown in their way, and sometimes a pretty girl -that minds what she is about, or even a plain girl that is clever, comes -in for something that would never---- Who is that, Lottie? Me dear, look -out of the window, and tell me who it is.” - -Lottie did not say a word; she gasped with pain and indignation, -standing erect in the middle of the room. How it made the blood boil in -her veins to have the triumphs of the “stage-ladies” thus held up before -her! She did not care who was coming. In her fantastical self-elevation, -a sort of princess in her own sight, who was there here who would -understand Lottie’s “position” or her feelings? What was the use even of -standing up for herself where everybody would laugh at her? There was -no one in the Chevaliers’ Lodges who could render her justice. They -would all think that to “catch” an earl or a Sir William was enough to -content any girl’s ambition. So long as she was well conducted! To be -well conducted, is not that the highest praise that can be given to -anyone? Yet it made Lottie’s blood boil in her veins. - -While she stood thus flushed and angry, the door was suddenly pushed -open by the untrained “girl,” who was all that the household boasted in -the shape of a servant. “She’s here, sir,” this homely usher said; and -lo, suddenly, into the little room where sat Mrs. O’Shaughnessy taking -up half the space, and where Lottie stood in all the excitement and glow -of passion, there walked Rollo Ridsdale, like a hero of romance, more -perfect in costume, appearance, and manner, more courteous and easy, -more graceful and gracious, than anything that had ever appeared within -that lower sphere. The Captain was jaunty and shabby-genteel, yet even -he sometimes dazzled innocent people with his grand air; but Mr. -Ridsdale was all that the Captain only pretended to be, and the very -sight of him was a revelation. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, sitting with her -knees apart and her hands laid out upon her capacious lap, opened her -mouth and gazed at him as if he had been an angel straight from the -skies. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy knew him, as she knew every one who came -within the Abbey precincts. She was aware of every visit he paid to his -aunt, and saw him from her window every time he passed up and down the -Dean’s Walk, and she had the most intimate acquaintance with all his -connections, and knew his exact place in the Courtland family, and even -that there had been vicissitudes in his life more than generally fall to -the lot of young men of exalted position. And, if it did her good even -to see him from her window, and pleased her to be able to point him out -as the Honourable Rollo Ridsdale, it may be imagined what her feelings -were, when she found herself suddenly under the same roof with him, in -the same room with him. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy sat and stared, devouring his -honourable figure with her eyes, with a vague sensation of delight and -grandeur taking possession of her soul. - -“You must pardon my intrusion at such an early hour, Miss Despard,” he -said. “I wanted your maid to ask if I might come in, and I did not know -she was ushering me into your very presence. But I have my credentials -with me. I bear a note from Lady Caroline, which she charged me to -support with my prayers.” - -The passion melted out of Lottie’s countenance. Her eyes softened--the -very lines of her figure, all proud and erect and vehement, melted too -as if by a spell--the flush of anger on her cheek changed to a rose-red -of gentler feeling. The transformation was exactly what the most -accomplished actress would have desired to make, with the eye of an able -manager inspecting her possibilities. “I beg your pardon,” she said -instinctively, with a sudden sense of guilt. It shocked her to be found -so full of passion, so out of harmony with the melodious visitor who was -in perfect tune and keeping with the sweet morning, and in whose -presence all the vulgarities about seemed doubly vulgar. She felt -humble, yet not humiliated. Here was at last one who would understand -her, who would do her justice. She looked round to find a seat for him, -confused, not knowing what to say. - -“May I come here?” said Rollo, pushing forward for her the little chair -from which she had evidently risen, and placing himself upon the narrow -window-seat with his back to the light. “But let me give up my -credentials first. My aunt is--what shall I say?--a little indolent, -Miss Despard. Dear Aunt Caroline, it is an unkind word--shall I say she -is not fond of action? Pardon if it is I who have acted as secretary. I -do so constantly now that Augusta is away.” - -“Lottie,” said Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, as Lottie, confused, took the note -from his hand, and the chair he offered; “me dear!--you have not -presented me to your friend.” - -Rollo got up instantly and bowed, as Lottie faltered forth his name (“A -real bow,” Mrs. O’Shaughnessy said after; “sure you never get the like -but in the upper classes”), while she herself, not to be outdone, rose -too, and extended a warm hand--(“What does the woman expect me to do -with her hand?” was Mr. Ridsdale’s alarmed commentary on his side). - -“I’m proud to make your acquaintance, sir,” said Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. “Me -husband the Major was once a great friend of an uncle of yours, Mr. -Ridsdale--or maybe it was a cousin; when we were out in Canada, in the -Hundred and Fiftieth--the Honourable Mr. Green; they were together in -musketry practice, and me Major had the pleasure of being of a great -deal of use to the gentleman. Many a time he’s told me of it; and when -we came here, sure it was a pleasure to find out that me Lady Caroline -was aunt--or maybe it was cousin to an old friend. I am very glad to -make your acquaintance,” Mrs. O’Shaughnessy continued, shaking him -warmly by the hand, which she had held all this time. Mr. Ridsdale kept -bowing at intervals, and had done all that he could, without positive -rudeness, to get himself free. - -“Oh, yes,” he said, “I have cousins and uncles and that sort of thing -scattered through the earth in every regiment under the sun; and very -bad soldiers, I don’t doubt, always wanting somebody to look after them. -I am sure Major O’Shaughnessy was very kind. Won’t you sit down?” - -“It wasn’t to make a brag of his kindness--not a bit of that--but he is -a kind man and a good man, Mr. Ridsdale, though I say it that shouldn’t. -I have been married to me Major these forty years, and if anyone knows -it I ought to be the one to know.” - -“Undoubtedly, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. I for one am most ready to take the -fact on your word.” - -“And you’d be in the right of it. A man’s wife, that’s the best judge of -his character. Whatever another may say, she’s the one that knows; and -if she says too much, one way or the other, sure it’s on herself it -falls. But, maybe you’re not interested, Mr. Ridsdale, in an old woman’s -opinions?” - -“I am very much interested, I assure you,” said Rollo, always polite. He -kept an eye upon Lottie reading her note, but he listened to her friend -(if this was her friend) with as much attention, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy -always remembered, as if she had been a duchess at the least. - -Meanwhile Lottie read the note, which purported to come from Lady -Caroline, and had a wavering C. Huntington at the bottom of the page, -which was her genuine autograph. The warmth of the appeal, however, to -her dear Miss Despard, to take pity on the dulness of the Deanery and -come in “quietly” that evening for a little music, was not in any way -Lady Caroline’s. She had consented indeed to permit herself to be sung -to on Rollo’s strenuous representation of the pleasure it had given her. -“You know, Aunt Caroline, you enjoyed it,” he had said; and “Yes, I -know I enjoyed it,” Lady Caroline, much wavering, had replied. It would -not have been creditable not to have enjoyed what was evidently such -very good singing; but it was not she who wrote of the dulness of the -Deanery nor who used such arguments to induce her dear Miss Despard to -come. Lottie’s countenance bending over the note glowed with pleasure as -Mrs. O’Shaughnessy kept up the conversation. Even with those girls who -think they believe that the admiration of men is all they care for, the -approbation of a woman above their own rank is always a more touching -and more thorough triumph than any admiration of men. And Lottie, though -she was so proud, was all humility in this respect; that Lady Caroline -should thus take her up, and encourage her, praise her, invite her, went -to her very heart. She almost cried over the kind words. She raised her -face all softened and glowing with happiness to the anxious messenger -who was listening to Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, and as their eyes met a sudden -smile of such responsive pleasure and satisfaction came to Rollo’s face -as translated Lottie back into the very paradise of her dreams. - -“I can’t say, me dear sir,” said Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, “that things are -just exactly as we wish here, or as we thought we had a right to look -for. The Major and me, we’ve been used to a deal of fine company. -Wherever we’ve gone, was it in Canada, was it the Channel Islands, was -it at the depôt of the regiment, we’ve always been called upon by the -best. But here, sure the position is not what we were led to expect. -Money is all that most people are thinking of. There’s the society in -the town would jump at us. But that does not count, Mr. Ridsdale, you -know, that does not count; for to us in Her Majesty’s service, that have -always been accustomed to the best----” - -“Surely, surely, I quite understand; and you have a right to the best. -Miss Despard,” said the ambassador, “I hope you are considering what -Lady Caroline says, and will not disappoint our hopes. Last night was -triumph, but this will be enjoyment. You, who must know what talent Miss -Despard has--I appeal to you, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy--I am sure from your -kind looks that we will have your aid.” - -“Is it to go and sing for them again, Lottie, me dear?” said the old -lady in an undertone. “That’s just what I don’t like, Mr. -Ridsdale--excuse me if I speak my mind free--me Lady Caroline and his -reverence the Dean, they’re ready enough to take an advantage, and make -their own use of the Chevaliers’----” - -“Do I need to write a note?” said Lottie, interrupting hastily to -prevent the completion of a speech which seemed to threaten the very -foundations of her happiness. “Perhaps it would be more polite to write -a note.” She looked at him with a little anxiety, for the thought -passed through her mind that she had no pretty paper like this, with a -pretty monogram and “The Deanery, St. Michael’s,” printed on its creamy -glaze, and even that she did not write a pretty hand that would do her -credit; and, going further, that she would not know how to begin, -whether she should be familiar, and venture upon saying, “Dear Lady -Caroline,” which seemed rather presumptuous, calling an old lady by her -Christian name--or---- - -“I need not trouble you to write. I am sure you mean to say yes, Miss -Despard, which is almost more than I dared hope. Yes is all we want, and -I shall be so happy to carry it----” - -“Yes is easy said,” said Mrs. O’Shaughnessy; “a great deal easier than -no. Oh, me dear, I don’t object to your going; not a bit; only I take an -interest in ye, and ye must not make yourself too cheap. Know her -talent, Mr. Ridsdale? sure I can’t say that I do. I know herself, and a -better girl, saving for a bit of temper, don’t exist. But a girl is the -better of a spark of temper, and that’s just what you’ve got, me dear -Lottie. No; I don’t know her talent. She has a voice for singing, that I -know well; for to hear her and Rowley when she’s having her lesson, sure -it’s enough to give a deaf person the ear-ache. But that’s the most that -I know.” - -“Then, Miss Despard,” said Rollo, springing to his feet; “if -your--friend is in this condition of doubt, it is impossible she can -ever have heard you; will you not gratify me and convince her by -singing something now? I know it is horrible impertinence on my part, so -recent an acquaintance. But--no, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, you never can have -heard her. I have some songs here that I know you would sing to -perfection. I deserve to be ordered out of the house for my presumption. -I know it; but----” and he clasped his hands and fixed supplicating eyes -upon Lottie, who, blushing, trembling, frightened, and happy, did not -know how to meet those eyes. - -“Sure he’ll be down on his knees next,” cried Mrs. O’Shaughnessy -delighted; “and you wouldn’t have the heart to deny the gentleman when -he begs so pretty. I’ll not say but what I’ve heard her, and heard her -many a time, but maybe the change of the circumstances and the want of -Rowley will make a difference. Come, Lottie, me darling, don’t wait for -pressing, but give us a song, and let us be done with it. If it was a -good song you would sing, and not one of those sacred pieces that make -me feel myself in the Abbey--where we all are, saving your presence, -often enough----” - -“I have a song here that will please you, I know,” said Rollo. “We shall -have you crying in two minutes. You don’t know, my dear Mrs. -O’Shaughnessy, what a glorious organ you are talking of.” - -“Organ! that’s the Abbey all over; but, praised be Heaven, there’s no -organ here, only an old cracked piano----” - -“Oh, indeed,” cried Lottie. “It is not fit to play on, and I don’t think -I can sing at sight; and--I know I can’t play an accompaniment.” - -“That shall be my happy office,” he said, looking at her with those eyes -that dazzled Lottie. They were not dazzling by nature, but he put a -great deal of meaning into them, and Lottie, foolish Lottie, innocently -deceived, put a great deal more. Her eyes sank beneath this look. She -could scarcely keep the tears from coming into them, tears of confused -pleasure and wonder and happiness; and she could not refuse him what he -asked. He opened the wretched old piano, worn out and jingling, and out -of tune as it was. And Mrs. O’Shaughnessy put her knees a little more -apart, and threw her bonnet-strings over her shoulders, and spread out -her warm hands in her lap. There was a little good-humoured cynicism in -her face. She did not expect to enjoy the singing, but all her faculties -were moved by the hint, the scent, of a flirtation; and that she was -prepared to enjoy to the full. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - -THE MINOR CANON. - - -Mr. Ashford had not said much to Miss Despard on the way home; it was -but crossing the road, a brief progress which left little room for -conversation, and the Signor was better acquainted with her than he was. -Besides, the Minor Canon was not a man who could carry on a conversation -with several people at a time, or open his heart to more listeners than -one. He could sometimes be eloquent with a single interlocutor, but he -was a silent man in society, with very little to say for himself, even -when his companions were of the most congenial kind. He was an -unsuccessful man, and carried in his soul, though without any -bitterness, the burden of his own unsuccess. He was a man of “good -connections,” but none of his connections had done anything for him--and -he had considerable talents, which had done nothing for him. He had got -a scholarship, but no other distinction, at the University. Nobody was -at all clear how this came about. He was not idle, he was not careless, -but he did not succeed; his talents were not those that win success. At -twenty he published a little volume of poetry, which was “full of -promise.” At thirty he brought out a learned treatise on some matter of -classical erudition, which, as it is too high for us to understand, we -will not venture to name. And nothing came of that; his poems were not -sold, neither was his treatise. His fellow-scholars (for he was a true -scholar, and a ripe and good one) occupied themselves with pulling holes -in his coat, writing whole pages to show that he had taken a wrong view -of a special passage. And there was something worse than this that he -had done. He had put a wrong accent upon a Greek word! We tremble to -mention such a crime, but it cannot be slurred over, for it was one of -the heaviest troubles in Mr. Ashford’s life. Whether it was his fault or -the printer’s fault will never be known till the day of judgment, and -perhaps not even then: for it seems more than likely that a mistake in -an accent, or even the absence of the accent altogether, will not affect -the reckoning at that decisive moment; but this was what had been done. -Not once--which might have been an accident, or carelessness in -correcting the press, such a misfortune as might occur to any man--but a -dozen times, if not more, had this crime been perpetrated. It disfigured -at least the half of his book. It was a mistake which no properly -conducted fourth-form boy would have been guilty of. So everybody -said;--and it crushed the unlucky man. Even now, five years after, that -incorrect accent coloured his life. He went in mourning for it all his -days. He could not forget it himself, even if other people might have -been willing to forget it. It seemed to justify and explain all the -failures in his career. Everybody had wondered why he did not get a -fellowship after he had taken his degree, but this explained everything. -A man capable of making such a mistake! The buzz that arose in the -University never died out of his ears. Robuster persons might laugh, but -Ernest Ashford never got over it. It weighed him down for the rest of -his days. - -Nor was he a man to thrive much in his profession. He tried a curacy or -two, but he was neither High Church enough for the High, nor Low Church -enough for the Low. And he could not get on with the poor, his rectors -said. Their misery appalled his gentle soul. He emptied his poor pockets -in the first wretched house he went into, and retreated to his lodgings -after he had done so, with a heart all aching and bleeding, and crying -out against the pain he saw. He was not of the fibre which can take -other people’s sufferings placidly, though he had a fine nerve in -bearing his own. This, no doubt, was weakness in him; and in all -probability he got imposed upon on every side; but the fact was he could -not support the wretchedness of others, and when he had given them every -six-pence he had, and had entreated them to be comforted, he fled from -them with anguish in his heart. He could not eat or drink for weeks -after for thinking that there were people in the world near at hand who -had little or nothing on their board. He suffered more from this than -his fellow-curate did from neuralgia, or his rector from biliousness, -and he did what neither of these martyrs felt themselves compelled to -do--he fled from the trouble he could not cope with. They quoted -Scripture to him, and proved, from the text “The poor ye have always -with you,” that nothing better was to be expected. But he answered with -a passionate protestation that God could never mean that, and -fled--which, indeed, was not a brave thing to do, and proved the -weakness of his character. Thus the Church found him wanting, as well as -the University. And when at last he settled down into a corner where at -least he could get his living tranquilly, it was not by means of his -talents or education, but because of a quality which was really -accidental, the possession of a beautiful voice. This possession was so -entirely adventitious that he was not even a learned musician, nor had -he given much of his time to this study. But he had one of those voices, -rich and tender and sweet, which go beyond science, which are delicious -even when they are wrong, and please the hearers when they perplex the -choir and drive the conductor out of his senses. Mr. Ashford did not do -this, having an ear almost as delicate as his voice, but both of these -were gifts of nature, and not improved by training to the degree which -the Signor could have wished. He had been persuaded to try for the Minor -Canonry of St. Michael’s almost against his will; for to be a singing -man, even in the highest grade, did not please his fancy. But no one had -been able to stand before him. The Signor had strongly supported another -competitor, a man with twice the science of Mr. Ashford; but even the -Signor had been obliged to confess that his friend’s voice was not to be -compared with that of the successful candidate. And after knocking about -the world for a dozen years without any real place or standing-ground, -Ernest Ashford found himself at thirty-five suited with a life that was -altogether harmonious to his nature, but which he felt half humiliated -to have gained, not by his talents or his learning, or anything that was -any credit to him, but by the mere natural accidental circumstance of -his beautiful voice. He was half-ashamed and humbled to think that all -his education, which had cost so much, went for nothing in comparison -with this chance talent which had cost him nothing, and that all his -hopes and ambitions, which had mounted high, had come to no loftier -result. But as, by fair means or foul, for a good or bad reason, life -had at last found a suitable career for him, where he could be -independent, and do some sort of work, such as it was, he soon became -content. The worst thing about it (he said) was that it could not be -called work at all. To go twice a day and sing beautiful music in one -of the most beautiful churches in the world, would have been the highest -pleasure, if it had not been the business of his life. He had never even -been troubled by religious doubts which might have introduced a -complication, but was of a nature simply devout, and born to go twice a -day to church. When, however, he found himself thus, as it were, exalted -over the common lot, he made an effort to bring himself down to the -level of common mortality by taking pupils, an experiment which -succeeded perfectly, and brought him into hot water so speedily that he -no longer felt himself elevated above the level of mankind. - -This was the man whom Lottie had seized the opportunity of making -acquaintance with, and speaking to, that evening at the Deanery. Mr. -Ashford was not badly treated at the Deanery to be only a Minor Canon. -He was often enough asked to dinner when there was not anybody of much -consequence about: the Dean was very willing to have him, for he was a -gentleman, and talked very pleasantly, and could be silent (which he -always was when the company was large) in a very agreeable, gentlemanly -sort of way; not the silence of mere dulness and having nothing to say. -But when there was a large dinner-party, and people of consequence were -there, Lady Caroline would often ask Mr. Ashford to come in the evening, -and he had come to understand (without being offended) that on these -occasions he would probably be asked to sing. He was not offended, but -he was amused, and sometimes, with a little well-bred malice, such as he -had never shown in any other emergency of his life, would have a cold, -and be unable to sing. He had not strength of mind to carry out this -little stratagem when there seemed to be much need of his services, but -now and then he would wind himself up to do it, with much simple -satisfaction in his own cleverness. Mr. Ashford was well treated in the -Cloisters generally. The other Canons, those whom Mrs. O’Shaughnessy -called “the real Canons,” were all more or less attentive to him. He had -nothing to complain of in his lot. He had at this moment two pupils in -hand: one, the son of Canon Uxbridge, whom he was endeavouring to -prepare for the simple ordeal of an army examination; and another, who -was clever, the son of the clergyman in the town, and aspiring to a -university scholarship. In consequence of the unfortunate failure of -that Greek accent it was but few engagements of this more ambitious kind -that Mr. Ashford had; his work was usually confined to the simplicity of -the military tests of knowledge; but the rector of St. Michael’s was a -man who knew what he was about, and naturally, with a sharp young -scholar for ever on his traces, the gentle Minor Canon, conscious of -having once committed an inaccuracy, was kept very much upon his p’s and -q’s. - -On the same day on which Rollo Ridsdale wrote for Lady Caroline that -invitation to Lottie, of the terms of which Lady Caroline was so little -aware, the Dean gave a verbal invitation to the same effect to Mr. -Ashford in the vestry. “Will you dine with us to-day, Ashford?” he said. -“My nephew Ridsdale, who is mad about music, and especially about this -girl’s voice who sang last night, has persuaded Lady Caroline to ask her -again. Yourself and the Signor; I believe nobody else is coming. -Ridsdale has got something to do with a new opera company, and he is -wild to find an English prima donna----” - -“Is Miss Despard likely to become a professional singer?” said the Minor -Canon in some surprise. - -“I am sure I can’t tell--why not? They are poor, I suppose, or they -would not be here; and I don’t see why she shouldn’t sing. Anyhow, Rollo -is most anxious to try. He thinks she has a wonderful voice. He is apt -to think anything wonderful which he himself has anything to do with, -you know.” - -“She has a wonderful voice,” said Mr. Ashford, with more decision than -usual. - -“But--pardon me if I interrupt,” cried the Signor, who had come in while -they were talking, “no method; no science. She wants training--the most -careful training. The more beautiful a voice is by nature, the more -evident is the want of education in it,” the musician added, with -meaning. He did not look at Mr. Ashford, but the reference was very -unmistakable. The Dean looked at them, and smiled as he took up his -shovel hat. - -“I leave you to fight it out, Science against Nature,” he said; “as long -as you don’t forget that you are both expected this evening at the -Deanery--and to sit in judgment as well as to dine.” - -“I know what my judgment will be beforehand,” said the Signor; “absolute -want of education--but plenty of material for a good teacher to work -upon.” - -“And mine is all the other way,” Mr. Ashford said, with some of the -vehemence of intellectual opposition, besides a natural partisanship. “A -lovely voice, full of nature, and freshness, and expression--which you -will spoil, and render artificial, and like anybody else’s voice, if you -have your way.” - -“All excellence is the production of Art,” said the Signor. - -“Poeta nascitur,” said the Canon; and though the words are as well known -as any slang, they exercised a certain subduing influence upon the -musician, who was painfully aware that he himself was not educated, -except in a professional way. The two men went out together through the -door into the Great Cloister, from which they passed by an arched -passage to the Minor Cloister, where was Mr. Ashford’s house. Nothing -could be more unlike than the tall, stooping, short-sighted scholar, and -the dark keen Italianism of the Anglicised foreigner--the one man full -of perception, seeing everything within his range at a glance, the -other living in a glimmer of vague impressions, which took form but -slowly in his mind. On the subject of their present discussion, however, -Ashford had taken as distinct a view as the Signor. He had put himself -on Lottie’s side instinctively, with what we have called a natural -partisanship. She was like himself, she sang as the birds sing--and -though his own education, after a few years of St. Michael’s, had so far -progressed musically that he was as well aware of her deficiencies as -the Signor, still he felt himself bound to be her champion. - -“I am not sure how far we have any right to discuss a young lady who has -never done anything to provoke animadversion,” he said, with an -old-fashioned scrupulousness, as they threaded the shady passages. “I -think it very unlikely that such a girl would ever consent to sing for -the public.” - -“That is what she says,” said the Signor, “but she can’t understand what -she is saying. Sing for the public! I suppose that means to her to -appear before a crowd of people, to be stared at, criticised, brought -down to the level of professional singers. The delight of raising a -crowd to one’self, binding them into mutual sympathy, getting at the -heart underneath the cold English exterior, that is what the foolish -girl never thinks of and cannot understand.” - -“Ah!” said the Minor Canon. He was struck by this unexpected poetry in -the Signor, who was not a poetical person. He said, “I don’t think I -thought of that either. I suppose, for my part, I am very old-fashioned. -I don’t like a woman to make an exhibition of herself.” - -“Do you suppose a real artist ever makes an exhibition of herself?” said -the musician almost scornfully. “Do you suppose she thinks of herself? -Oh, yes, of course there are varieties. Men will be men and women women; -but anyone who has genius, who is above the common stock! However,” he -added, calming himself down, and giving a curious, alarmed glance at his -companion, to see whether, perhaps, he was being laughed at for his -enthusiasm, “there are other reasons, that you will allow to be solid -reasons, for which I want to get hold of this Miss Despard. You know -Purcell, my assistant, a young fellow of the greatest promise?” - -“Purcell? oh, yes; you mean the son of----” - -“I mean my pupil,” said the Signor, hurriedly, with a flush of offence. - -“I beg your pardon. I did not mean anything unkind. It was only to make -sure whom you meant. I know he is a good musician and everything that is -good.” - -“He is a very fine fellow,” said the Signor, still flushed and -self-assertive. “There is nobody of whom I have a higher opinion. He is -a better musician than I am, and full of promise. I expect him to reach -the very top of his profession.” - -Mr. Ashford bowed. He had no objection to young Purcell’s success: why -should he be supposed to have any objection to it? but the conversation -had wandered widely away from Miss Despard, in whom he was really -interested, and his attention relaxed in a way which he could not -disguise. This seemed to disturb the Signor still more. He faltered; he -hesitated. At last he said with a sudden burst, “You think this has -nothing to do with the subject we were discussing; but it has. Purcell, -poor fellow! has a--romantic devotion; a passion which I can’t as yet -call anything but unhappy--for Miss Despard.” - -“For Miss Despard?” - -The Minor Canon turned round at his own door with his key in his hand, -lifting his eyes in wonder. “That is surely rather misplaced,” he said -the next moment, with much more sharpness than was usual to him, opening -the door with a little extra energy and animation. He had no reason -whatever for being annoyed, but he was annoyed, though he could not have -told why. - -“How misplaced?” said the Signor, following him up the little oak -staircase, narrow and broken into short flights, which led to the rooms -in which the Minor Canon lived. The landing at the top of the staircase -was as large as any of the rooms to which it led, with that curious -misappropriation of space, but admirable success in picturesque effect, -peculiar to old houses. There was a window in it, with a window-seat, -and such a view as was not to be had out of St. Michael’s, and the walls -were of dark wainscot, with bits of rich old carving here and there. The -Canon’s little library led off from this and had the same view. It was -lighted by three small, deep-set windows set in the outer wall of the -Abbey, and consequently half as thick as the room was large. They were -more like three pictures hung on the dark wall than mere openings for -light, which indeed they supplied but sparingly, the thickness of the -wall casting deep shadows between. And the walls, wherever they were -visible, were dark oak, here and there shining with gleams of -reflection, but making a sombre background, broken only by the russet -colour of old books and the chance ornaments of gilding which -embellished them. Mr. Ashford’s writing-table, covered with books and -papers, stood in front of the centre window. There was room for a -visitor on the inner side, between him and the bookcases on the further -wall, and there was room for somebody in the deep recess of the window -at his left hand; but that was all. - -“How misplaced?” the Signor repeated, coming in and taking possession of -the window-seat. “He is not perhaps what you call a gentleman by birth, -but he is a great deal better. You and I know gentlemen by birth -who--but don’t let us talk blasphemy within the Precincts. I am a Tory. -I take my stand upon birth and blood and primogeniture.” - -“And laugh at them?” - -“Oh, not at all; on the contrary, I think they are very good for the -country; but you and I have known gentlemen by birth--Well! my young -Purcell is not one of these, but sprung from the soil. He is a capital -musician; he is a rising young man. In what is he worse than the -daughter of a commonplace old soldier, a needy, faded gentleman of a -Chevalier?” - -“Gently! gently! I cannot permit you to say anything against the -Chevaliers. They are brave men, and men who have served their -country----” - -“Better than a good musician serves his?” cried the Signor. “You will -not assert as much. Better than we serve the country, who put a little -tune and time into her, an idea of some thing better than fifes and -drums?” - -“My dear Rossinetti,” said Mr. Ashford, with some heat, “England had -music in her before a single maestro had ever come from the South, and -will have after----” - -“No tragedy,” said the Signor, with a low laugh, putting up his hand. “I -am not a maestro, nor do I come from the South. I serve my country when -I teach these knavish boys, that would rather be playing in the streets, -to lengthen their snipped vowels. But suppose they do better who -fight--I say nothing against that. I am not speaking of all the -Chevaliers, but of one, and one who is very unlike the rest--the only -person who has anything to do with the argument--a wretched frequenter -of taverns, admirer of milliners’ girls, who is said to be going to -marry some young woman of that class. Why should not Purcell, the best -fellow in the world, be as good as he?” - -“I don’t know the father--and it is not the father Purcell has a -romantic devotion for. But don’t you see, Rossinetti, we are allowing -ourselves to discuss the affairs of people we know nothing of, people we -have no right to talk about. In short, we are _gossiping_, which is not -a very appropriate occupation.” - -“Oh, there is a great deal of it done by other persons quite as -dignified as we are,” said the Signor, with a smile; but he accepted the -reproof and changed the subject. They sat together and talked, looking -over the great width of the silent country, the trees and the winding -river, the scattered villages, and the illuminated sky. How beautiful it -was! fair enough of itself to make life sweeter to those who had it -before their eyes. But the two men talked and took no notice. They might -have been in a street in London for any difference it made. - -When, however, the Signor was gone, Mr. Ashford, having closed the door -upon his visitor, came straying back to the window in which Rossinetti -had been seated, and stood there gazing out vaguely. In all likelihood -he saw nothing at all, for he was short-sighted, as has been said; but -yet it is natural to seek the relief of the window and look out when -there is something within of a confused and vaguely melancholy character -to occupy one’s thoughts. Twenty-four hours before, Mr. Ashford had not -known who Lottie Despard was. He had seen her in the Abbey, and perhaps -had found, without knowing it, that sympathy in her face which -establishes sometimes a kind of tacit friendship long before words. He -thought now that this must have been the case; but he knew very little -about her still--nothing except that she had a beautiful voice, a face -that interested him, and something she wanted to talk to him about. What -was it she wanted to talk to him about? He could not imagine what it -could be, but he recollected very well how pleasant a thing it was when -this beautiful young lady, lifting the long fringes which veiled them, -turned upon him those beautiful blue eyes which (he thought) were -capable of expressing more feeling than eyes of any other colour. -Probably had Lottie’s eyes been brown or grey, Mr. Ashford would have -been of exactly the same opinion. And to think of this creature as the -beloved of Purcell gave him a shock. Purcell! it was not possible. No -doubt he was a respectable fellow, very much to be applauded and -encouraged:--but Mr. Ashford himself had nothing to do with Miss -Despard; he was pleased to think that he should meet her again and hear -her sing again, and he must try, he said to himself, to find an -opportunity to ask her what it was about which she wanted to speak to -him. Otherwise he had no hand, and wanted to have no hand, in this -little conspiracy of which she seemed the unconscious object. On the -contrary, his whole sympathies were with Lottie against the men who -wanted to entrap her and make her a public singer whether she would or -not. He was glad she did not want it herself, and felt a warm sympathy -with her in those natural prejudices against “making an exhibition of -herself” which the Signor scorned so much. The Signor might scorn those -shrinkings and shyness; they were altogether out of his way; he might -not understand them. But Mr. Ashford understood them perfectly. He liked -Lottie for having them, comprehended her, and felt for her. Anything -rather than _that_, he thought, with a little tremulous warmth, as if -she had been his sister. If there should be any discussion on this -subject to-night at the Deanery, and she was in need of support, he -would stand by her. Having made this resolution he went back to his -writing-table and sat down in his usual place, and put this intrusive -business, which did not in the least concern him, out of his mind. - -The most intrusive subject! What had he to do with it? And yet it was -not at all easy to get it out of his mind. He had not read three lines -when he felt himself beginning to wonder why Rollo Ridsdale had chosen -Miss Despard as his prima donna above everybody else, and why the Signor -concerned himself so much about it. She had certainly a beautiful voice, -but still voices as beautiful had been heard before. It could not be -supposed that there was no one else equal to her. Why should they make -so determined a set at this girl, who was a lady, and who had not -expressed any wish or intention of being a singer? To be sure, she was -very handsome as well, and her face was full of expression. And Rollo -was a kind of enthusiast when he took anything in his head. Then there -was the other imbroglio with the Signor and Purcell. What was Purcell to -the Signor that he should take up his cause so warmly? But, then, still -more mysterious, what was it all to him, Ernest Ashford, that it should -come between him and the book he was reading? Nothing could be more -absurd. He got up after awhile, and went to the window again, where he -finally settled himself with a volume of Shelley, to which he managed to -fix the thoughts which had been so absurdly disturbed by this stranger, -and this question with which he had nothing to do. It was a very idle -way of spending the afternoon, to recline in a deep window looking out -upon miles of air and distance and read Shelley; but it was better than -getting involved in the mere gossip of St. Michael’s and turning over in -his head against his will the private affairs of people whom he -scarcely knew. This was the disadvantage of living in a small circle -with so few interests, he said to himself. But he got delivered from the -gossip by means of the poetry, and so lay there while the brilliant -sunshine slanted from the west, now sending his thoughts abroad over the -leafy English plain, now feeding his fancy with the poet among the -Euganean hills. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - -ANOTHER EVENING AT THE DEANERY. - - -Mr. Ridsdale had perhaps never touched, and rarely heard, anything so -bad as the old cracked piano which Lottie had inherited from her mother, -and which was of the square form now obsolete, of a kind which brokers -(the only dealers in the article) consider very convenient, as combining -the character of a piano and a sideboard. Very often had Lottie’s piano -served the purpose of a sideboard, but it was too far gone to be -injured--nothing could make it worse. Nevertheless Mr. Ridsdale played -the accompaniments upon it, without a word, to Lottie’s admiration and -wonder, for he seemed to be able to draw forth at his fingers’ ends a -volume of sound which she did not suppose to be within the power of the -old instrument. He had brought several songs with him, being fully -minded to hear her that morning, whatever obstacles might be in the way. -But it so happened that there were no obstacles whatever in the way; and -Mrs. O’Shaughnessy was of the greatest service as audience. With the -true talent of a manager, Mr. Ridsdale addressed himself to the -subjugation of his public. He placed before Lottie the song from -“Marta,” to which, hearing it thus named, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy prepared -herself to listen with a certain amiable scorn. “Ah, we shall have you -crying in five minutes,” he said. “Is it me you’re meaning?” she cried -in high scorn. But the fact was that when the melting notes of “The Last -Rose of Summer” came forth from Lottie’s lips, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy was -altogether taken by surprise, and carried out Rollo’s prophecy to the -letter by weeping abundantly. There was much of Mr. Ridsdale’s music -which Lottie could not sing--indeed, it would have been wonderful if she -had been able to do so, as he had brought with him the finest _morceaux_ -of a dozen operas, and Lottie’s musical education had been of the -slightest. But he so praised, and flattered, and encouraged her, that -she went on from song to song at his bidding, making the best attempt at -them that was possible, while Mrs. O’Shaughnessy sat by and listened. -Her presence there was of the utmost consequence to them. It at once -converted Rollo’s visit into something allowable and natural, and it -gave him a pretence for beginning what was really an examination into -Lottie’s powers and compass, at once of voice and of intelligence. -Lottie, innocent of any scheme, or of any motive he could have, save -simple pleasure in her singing, exerted herself to please him with the -same mixture of gratitude and happy prepossession with which she had -thought of him for so long. If she could give a little pleasure to him -who had given her his love and his heart (for what less could it be that -he had given her?), it was her part, she thought, to do so. She felt -that she owed him everything she could do for him, to recompense him for -that gift which he had given her unawares. So she stood by him in a soft -humility, not careful that she was showing her own ignorance, thinking -only of pleasing him. What did it matter, if he were pleased, whether -she attained the highest excellence? She said sweetly, “I know I cannot -do it, but if you wish it I will try,” and attempted feats which in -other circumstances would have appalled her. And the fact was, that thus -forgetting herself, and thinking only of pleasing him, Lottie sang -better than she had ever done in her life, better even than she had done -in the Deanery on the previous night. She committed a thousand faults, -but these faults were as nothing in comparison with the melody of her -voice and the purity of her taste. Rollo became like one inspired. All -the enthusiasm of an amateur, and all the zeal of an enterprising -manager, were in him. The old piano rolled out notes of which in its own -self it was quite incapable under his rapid fingers. He seemed to see -her with all London before her, at her feet, and he (so to speak) at -once the discoverer and the possessor of this new star. No wonder the -old piano grew ecstatic under his touch; he who had gone through so many -vicissitudes, who had made so many failures; at last it seemed evident -to him that his fortune was made. Unfortunately (though that he forgot -for the moment) he had felt his fortune to be made on several occasions -before. - -Mrs. O’Shaughnessy gave a great many nods and smiles when at last he -went away. “I say nothing, me dear, but I have my eyesight,” she said, -“and a blind man could see what’s in the wind. So that is how it is, -Lottie, me darling? Well, well! I always said you were the prettiest -girl that had been in the Lodges this many a year. I don’t envy ye, me -love, your rise in the world. And I hope, Lottie, when ye’re me lady, -ye’ll not forget your old friends.” - -“How should I ever be my lady?” said Lottie; “indeed, Mrs. -O’Shaughnessy, I don’t know what you mean.” - -“No, me honey, the likes of you never do, till the right moment comes,” -said the old lady, going down the narrow stairs. She kissed her hand to -Lottie, who looked after her from the window as she appeared on the -pavement outside, and, with her bonnet-strings flying loose, turned in -at her own door. Her face was covered with smiles and her mind full of a -new interest. She could not refrain from going into the Major’s little -den, and telling him. “Nonsense!” the Major said, incredulously; “one of -your mare’s-nests.” “Sure it was a great deal better than a mare, it was -turtle-doves made the nest I’m thinking of,” said Mrs. O’Shaughnessy; -and she took off her bonnet and seated herself at her window, from which -she inspected the world with a new warmth of interest, determined not to -lose a single incident in this new fairy tale. - -Law came out of his room, where he had been “reading,” when Mrs. -O’Shaughnessy went away. “What has all this shrieking been about,” said -Law, “and thumping on that old beast of a piano? You are always at a -fellow about reading, and when he does read you disturb him with your -noise. How do you think I could get on with all that miauling going on? -Who has been here?” - -“Mr. Ridsdale has been here,” said Lottie demurely. “He brought me a -note from Lady Caroline, and I am going again to the Deanery to-night.” - -Law whistled a long whew--ew! “Again, to-night! she’d better ask you to -go and live there,” said the astounded boy; and he said no more about -his interrupted reading, but put his big book philosophically away; for -who could begin to read again after all the disturbances of the morning, -and after such a piece of news as this? - -Lottie dressed herself with more care than ever that evening. She began -to wish for ornaments, and to realise how few her decorations were; the -little pearl locket was so small, and her arms seemed so bare without -any bracelets. However, she made herself little bands of black velvet, -and got the maid to fasten them on. She had never cared much for -ornaments before. And she spent a much longer time than usual over the -arrangement of her hair. Above all she wanted to look like a lady, to -show that, though their choice of her was above what could have been -expected, it was not above the level of what she was used to. _Their_ -choice of her--that was how it seemed to Lottie. The young lover had -chosen, as it is fit the lover should do; but Lady Caroline had ratified -his selection, and Lottie, proud yet entirely humble in the tender -humility born of gratitude, wanted to show that she could do credit to -their choice. She read the note which purported to be Lady Caroline’s -over and over again; how kind it was! Lady Caroline’s manner perhaps was -not quite so kind. People could not control their manner. The kindest -heart was often belied, Lottie was aware, by a stiffness, an -awkwardness, perhaps only a shyness, which disguised their best -intentions. But the very idea of asking her was kind, and the letter was -so kind that she made up her mind never again to mistake Lady Caroline. -She had a difficulty in expressing herself, no doubt. She was indolent -perhaps. At her age and in her position it was not wonderful if one got -indolent; but in her heart she was kind. This Lottie repeated to herself -as she put the roses in her hair. In her heart Lady Caroline was kind; -the girl felt sure that she could never mistake her, never be -disappointed in her again. And in this spirit she tripped across the -Dean’s Walk, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy watching from her window. It was almost -dark, but it was not one of the Signer’s nights for practice, and only a -few of the inhabitants of the Abbey Precincts were enjoying the air on -the Terrace pavement. They all saw her as she came out in the twilight -with her uncovered head. Law had gone out, and there was nobody to go -with her this time to the Deanery door. But Lottie had no difficulty in -finding an escort: as she came out, looking round her shyly to watch for -a quiet moment when no one was about, Captain Temple came forward, who -lived two doors off, and was passing as she came to the little garden -gate. He was the preux chevalier of all the Chevaliers. He came forward -with a fatherly smile upon his kind face. “You are looking for some one -to go with you,” he said; “your father has gone out. I saw him. Let me -take his place.” - -“Oh, thanks! I am going to the Deanery. I thought Law would have waited -for me.” - -“Law, like others of his age, has his own concerns to think of,” said -Captain Temple, “but I am used to this kind of work. You have heard of -my girl, Miss Despard?” - -“Yes, Captain Temple----.” Lottie, touched suddenly in the sympathetic -sentiment of her own beginning life, looked up at him with wistful eyes. - -“She was a pretty creature, like yourself, my dear. My wife and I often -talk of you, and think you like her. She was lost to us before she went -out of the world, and I think it broke her heart--as well as ours. Take -care of the damp grass with your little white shoes.” - -“Oh, Captain Temple, do not come with me,” said Lottie, with tears in -her eyes. “I can go very well alone. It is too hard upon you.” - -“No--I like it, my dear. My wife cannot talk of it, but I like to talk -of it. You must take care not to marry anyone that will carry you quite -away from your father’s house.” - -“As if that would matter! as if papa would care!” Lottie said in her -heart, with a half pity, half envy, of Captain Temple’s lost daughter; -but this was but a superficial feeling in comparison with the great -compassion she had for him. The old Chevalier took her across the road -as tenderly and carefully as if even her little white shoes were worth -caring for. There was a moist brightness about his eyes as he looked at -her pretty figure. “The roses are just what you ought to wear,” he said. -“And whenever you want anyone to take care of you in this way, send for -me; I shall like to do it. Shall I come back for you in case your father -should be late?” - -“Oh, Captain Temple, papa never minds! but it is quite easy to get -back,” she said, thinking that perhaps this time _he_---- - -“I think it is always best that a young lady should have her own -attendant, and not depend on anyone to see her home,” said the old -Captain. And he rang the bell at the Deanery door, and took off his hat, -with a smile which almost made Lottie forget Lady Caroline. She went -into the drawing-room accordingly much less timidly than she had ever -done before, and no longer felt any fear of Mr. Jeremie, who admitted -her, though he was a much more imposing person than Captain Temple. This -shade of another life which had come over her seemed to protect Lottie, -and strengthen her mind. The drawing-room was vaguely lighted with -clusters of candles here and there, and at first she saw nobody, nor was -there any indication held out to her that the mistress of the house was -in the room, except the solemn tone of Jeremie’s voice announcing her. -Lottie thought Lady Caroline had not come in from the dining-room, and -strayed about looking at the books and ornaments on the tables. She even -began to hum an air quietly to herself, by way of keeping up her own -courage, and it was not till she had almost taken her seat unawares on -Lady Caroline’s dress, extended on the sofa, that she became aware that -she was not alone. “Oh, I beg your pardon,” she cried out in a sudden -panic. “I thought there was no one in the room.” Lady Caroline made no -remark at all, except to say “How do you do, Miss Despard?” That was -what she had made up her mind to say, feeling it to be quite enough for -the occasion--and Lady Caroline did not easily change her mind when it -was once made up. She thought it very impertinent of the girl to come in -and look at the photographs on the tables, and even to take the liberty -of singing, but there was no calculating what these sort of people might -do. She had nearly sat down on Lady Caroline’s feet! “This is what I put -up with for Rollo,” the poor lady said to herself; and it seemed to her -that a great deal of gratitude from Rollo was certainly her due. She did -not move, nor did she ask Miss Despard to sit down; but Lottie, half in -fright, dropped into a chair very near the strange piece of still life -on the sofa. The girl had been very much frightened to see her, and for -a moment was speechless with the horror of it. Nearly to sit down upon -Lady Caroline! and a moment of silence ensued. Lady Caroline did not -feel in the least inclined to begin a conversation. She had permitted -the young woman to be invited, and she had said “How do you do, Miss -Despard?” and she did not know what more could be expected from her. So -they sat close together in the large, half-visible, dimly-illuminated -room, with the large window open to the night, and said nothing to each -other. Lottie, who was the visitor, was embarrassed, but Lady Caroline -was not embarrassed. She felt no more need to speak than did the table -with the photographs upon it which Lottie had stopped to look at. As for -Lottie, she bore it as long as she could, the stillness of the room, -the flicker of the candles, the dash and fall of a moth now and then -flying across the lights, and the immovable figure on the sofa with its -feet tucked up, and floods of beautiful rich silk enveloping them. A -strange sense that Lady Caroline was not living at all, that it was only -the picture of a woman that was laid out on the sofa came over her. In -her nervousness she began to tremble, then felt inclined to laugh. At -last it became evident to Lottie that to speak was a necessity, to break -the spell which might otherwise stupefy her senses too. - -“It is a beautiful night,” was all she managed to say; could anything be -more feeble? but Lady Caroline gave no reply. She made the usual little -movement of her eyelids, which meant an assent; indeed it was not a -remark which required reply. And the silence fell on them again as bad -as ever. The night air blew in, the moths whirled about the candles, -dashed against the globe of the lamp, dropped on the floor with fatal -infinitesimal booms of tragic downfall; and Lady Caroline lay on the -sofa, with eyes directed to vacancy, looking at nothing. Lottie, with -the roses in her hair, and so much life tingling in her, could not -endure it. She wanted to go and shake the vision on the sofa, she wanted -to cry out and make some noise or other to save herself from the spell. -At last, when she could keep silence no longer, she jumped up, throwing -over a small screen which stood near in her vehemence of action. “Shall -I sing you something, Lady Caroline?” she said. - -Lady Caroline was startled by the fall of the screen. She watched till -it was picked up, actually looking at Lottie, which was some advance; -then she said, “If you please, Miss Despard,” in her calm tones. And -Lottie, half out of herself, made a dash at the grand piano, though she -knew she could not play. She struck a chord or two, trembling all over, -and began to sing. This time she did not feel the neglect or unkindness -of the way in which she was treated. It was a totally different -sensation. A touch of panic, a touch of amusement was in it. She was -afraid that she might be petrified too if she did nothing to break the -spell. But as she began to sing, with a quaver in her voice, and a -little shiver of nervous chilliness in her person, the door opened, and -voices, half discerned figures of men, life and movement, came pouring -in. Lottie came to an abrupt stop in the middle of a bar. - -“This will never do,” said the suave Dean: “you make too much noise, -Rollo. You have frightened Miss Despard in the middle of her song.” - -Then Rollo came forward into the light spot round the piano, looking -very pale; he was a good deal more frightened than Lottie was. Could it -be possible that she had made a false note? He was in an agony of -horror and alarm. “I--make a noise!” he said; “my dear uncle!” He looked -at her with appealing eyes full of anguish. “You were not--singing, Miss -Despard? I am sure you were not singing, only trying the piano.” - -“I thought it would perhaps--amuse Lady Caroline.” Lottie did not know -what she had done that was wrong. The Signor wore an air of trouble too. -Only Mr. Ashford’s face, looking at her, as one followed another into -the light, reassured her. She turned to him with a little anxiety. “I -cannot play; it is quite true; perhaps I ought not to have touched the -piano,” she said. - -“You were startled,” said the Minor Canon, kindly. “Your voice fluttered -like those candles in the draught.” The others still looked terribly -serious, and did not speak. - -“And I sang false,” said Lottie; “I heard myself. It was terrible; but I -thought I was stiffening into stone,” she said, in an undertone, and she -gave an alarmed look at Lady Caroline on the sofa. This restored the -spirits of the others spectators, who looked at each other relieved. - -“Thank Heaven, she knew it,” Rollo whispered to the Signor; “it was -fright, pure fright--and my aunt----” - -“What else did you suppose it was?” answered in the same tone, but with -some scorn, the Signor. - -“Miss Despard, don’t think you are to be permitted to accompany -yourself,” said Rollo. “Here are two of us waiting your pleasure. -Signor, I will not pretend to interfere when you are there. May we have -again that song you were so good----?” - -“Ah, pardon me,” he cried coming close to her to get the music. “I do -not want to lose a minute. I have been on thorns this half-hour. I ought -to have been here waiting ready to receive you, as you ought to be -received.” - -“Oh, it did not matter,” said Lottie, confused. “I am sorry I cannot -play. I wanted--to try--to amuse Lady Caroline.” - -By this time the Signor had arranged the music on the piano and began to -play. The Dean had gone off to the other end of the room, where the -evening paper, the last edition, had been laid awaiting him on a little -table on which stood a reading-lamp. The green shade of the lamp -concentrated the light upon the paper, and the white hands of the -reader, and his long limbs and his little table, making a new picture in -the large dim room. On the opposite side sat Lady Caroline, who had -withdrawn her feet hastily from the sofa, and sat bolt upright as a -tribute to the presence of “the gentlemen.” These two pieces of still -life appeared to Lottie vaguely through the partial gloom. The master -and mistress of the house were paying no attention to the visitors. -Such visitors as these were not of sufficient importance to be company, -or to disturb their entertainers in the usual habits of their evening. -Lady Caroline, indeed, seldom allowed herself to be disturbed by anyone. -She put down her feet for the sake of her own dignity, but she did not -feel called upon to make any further sacrifice. And as for Lottie, she -was not happy among these three men. She shrank from Rollo, who was -eyeing her with an anxiety which she could not understand, and longed -for Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, or, indeed, any woman to stand by her. Her heart -sank, and she shivered again with that chill which is of the nerves and -fancy. The Dean with his rustling paper, and Lady Caroline with her -vacant eyes, were at the other end of the room, and Lottie felt -isolated, separated, cast upon the tender mercies of the three -connoisseurs, a girl with no woman near to stand by her. It seemed to -her for the moment as if she must sink into the floor altogether, or -else turn and fly. - -It was Mr. Ashford again who came to Lottie’s aid. “Play something else -first,” he said softly to the Signor, disregarding the anxious looks of -Rollo, who had placed himself on a chair at a little distance, so that -he might be able to see the singer and stop any false note that might be -coming before it appeared. The others were both kind and clever, kinder -than the man whom Lottie thought her lover, and whose anxiety for the -moment took all thought from him, and more clever too. The Signor began -to play Handel, the serious noble music with which Lottie had grown -familiar in the Abbey, and soon Mr. Ashford stepped in and sang in his -beautiful melodious voice. Then the strain changed, preluding a song -which the most angelic of the choristers had sung that morning. The -Minor Canon put the music into Lottie’s hands. “Begin here,” he -whispered. She knew it by ear and by heart, and the paper trembled in -her hands; but they made her forget herself, and she began, her voice -thrilling and trembling, awe and wonder taking possession of her. She -had heard it often, but she had never realised what it was till, all -human, womanish, shivering with excitement and emotion, she began to -sing. It did not seem her own doing at all. The dim drawing-room, with -the Dean reading the paper, the men in their evening coats, the -glimmering reflection of herself which she caught in the long mirror, in -her simple decorations, the roses trembling in her hair, all seemed -horribly inappropriate, almost profane, to Lottie. And the music shook -in her hands, and the notes, instead of remaining steadily before her -eyes, where she could read them, took wings to themselves and floated -about, now here, now there, sometimes gleaming upon her, sometimes -eluding her. Yet she sang, she could not tell how, forgetting -everything, though she saw and felt everything, in a passion, in an -inspiration, penetrated through and through by the music and the poetry, -and the sacredness, above her and all of them. “I know that my Redeemer -liveth.” Oh, how did she dare to sing it, how could those commonplace -walls enclose it, those men stand and listen as if it was _her_ they -were listening to? By and by the Dean laid down his paper. Rollo, in the -background, gazing on her at first in pale anxiety, then with vexed -disapproval (for what did he want with Handel?), came nearer and nearer, -his face catching some reflection of hers as she went on. And when -Lottie ended, in a rapture she could not explain or understand, they all -came pressing round her, dim and blurred figures in her confused eyes. -But the girl was too greatly strained to bear their approach or hear -what they said. She broke away from them, and rushed, scarcely knowing -what she did, to Lady Caroline’s side. Lady Caroline herself was roused. -She made room for the trembling creature, and Lottie threw herself into -the corner of the capacious sofa and covered her face with her hands. - -But when she came to herself she would not sing any more. A mixture of -guilt and exultation was in her mind. “I ought not to have sung it. I am -not good enough to sing it. I never thought what it meant till now,” she -said trembling. “Oh, I hope you will forgive me. I never knew what it -meant before.” - -“Forgive you!” said the Dean. “We don’t know how to thank you, Miss -Despard.” He was the person who ought to know what it meant if anybody -did. And when he had thus spoken he went back to his paper, a trifle -displeased by the fuss she made; as if _she_ could have any new -revelation of the meaning of a thing which, if not absolutely written -for St. Michael’s, as good as belonged to the choir, which belonged to -the Dean and Chapter! There was a certain presumption involved in -Lottie’s humility. He went back to his reading-lamp, and finished the -article which had been interrupted by her really beautiful rendering of -a very fine solo. It was really beautiful; he would not for a moment -deny that. But if Miss Despard turned out to be excitable, and gave -herself airs, like a real prima donna! Heaven be praised, the little -chorister boys never had any nerves, but sang whatever was set before -them, without thinking what was meant, the Dean said to himself. And it -would be difficult to describe Rollo Ridsdale’s disappointment. He sat -down in a low chair by the side of the sofa, and talked to her in a -whisper. “I understand you,” he said; “it is like coming down from the -heaven of heavens, where you have carried us. But the other spheres are -celestial too. Miss Despard, I shall drop down into sheer earth -to-morrow. I am going away. I shall lose the happiness of hearing you -altogether. Will you not have pity upon me, and lead me a little way -into the earthly paradise?” But even these prayers did not move Lottie. -She was too much shaken and disturbed out of the unconscious calm of her -being for anything more. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - -BROTHER AND SISTER. - - -Lottie ran out while Rollo Ridsdale was getting his hat to accompany her -home. She caught up her shawl over her arm without pausing to put it on, -and ran through the dark Cloister and across the Dean’s Walk to her own -door, before he knew she was ready. “The young--lady is gone, sir,” Mr. -Jeremie said, who was rather indignant at having to open the door to -such sort of people. He would have said young woman had he dared. Rollo, -much piqued already in that she had refused to sing for him further, and -half irritated, half attracted by this escapade now, hurried after her; -but when he emerged from the gloom of the Cloister to the fresh dewy air -of the night, and the breadth of the Dean’s Walk, lying half visible in -summer darkness in the soft indistinct radiance of the stars, there was -no one visible, far or near. She had already gone in before he came in -sight of the door. He looked up and down the silent way, on which not a -creature was visible, and listened to the sound of the door closing -behind her. The flight and the sound awoke a new sentiment in his mind. -Ladies were not apt to avoid Rollo. - - Not his the form nor his the eye - That youthful maidens wont to fly. - -He was piqued and he was roused. Heretofore, honestly, there had been -little but music in his thoughts. The girl was very handsome, which was -so much the better--very much the better, for his purpose; but this -sparkle of resistance in her roused something else in his mind. Lottie -had been like an inspired creature as she sang, this evening. He had -never seen on the stage or elsewhere so wonderful an exhibition of -absorbed impassioned feeling. If he could secure her for his prima -donna, nowhere would such a prima donna be seen. It was not that she had -thrown herself into the music, but that the music had possessed her, and -transported her out of herself. This was not a common human creature. -She was no longer merely handsome, but beautiful in the fervour of her -feeling. And for the first time Lottie as Lottie, not merely as a -singer, touched a well-worn but still sensitive chord in his breast. He -stood looking at the door, which still seemed to echo in the stillness -with the jar of closing. What did her flight mean? He was provoked, -tantalised, stimulated. Whatever happened, he must see more of this -girl. Why should she fly from him? He did not choose to return and tell -the story of her flight, which was such an incident as always makes the -man who is baulked present a more or less ridiculous aspect to the -spectators; but he stood outside and waited till the steps of the Minor -Canon and the Signor had become audible turning each towards their -habitation, and even the turning of Mr. Ashford’s latchkey in his door. -Everything was very still in the evening at St. Michael’s. The -respectable and solemn Canons in their great houses, and the old -Chevaliers in their little lodges, went early to bed. Rollo saw no light -anywhere except a dim glow in the window of the little drawing-room -where he had spent the morning, and where no doubt the fugitive was -seated breathless. His curiosity was raised, and his interest, -supplanting that professional eagerness about her voice which he had -expressed so largely. Why did she run away from him? Why did she refuse -to sing for him? These questions suddenly sprang into his mind, and -demanded, if not reply, yet a great deal of consideration. He could not -make up his mind what the cause could be. - -As for Lottie, she could not have given any reasonable answer to these -questions, though she was the only living creature who could know why -she ran away. As a matter of fact, she did not know. The music had been -more than she could bear in the state of excitement in which she was. -Excited about things she would have been ashamed to confess any special -interest in--about her relations with the Deanery, about Lady Caroline, -and, above all, about Rollo--the wonderful strain to which she had all -unconsciously and unthinkingly, at first, given utterance, had caught -at Lottie like a hand from heaven. She had been drawn upward into the -fervour of religious ecstasy, she who was so ignorant; and when she -dropped again to earth, and was conscious once more of Rollo and of Lady -Caroline, there had come upon her a sudden sense of shame and of her own -pettiness and inability to disentangle herself from the links that drew -her to earth which was as passionate as the sudden fervour. How dare she -sing _that_ one moment, and the next be caught down to vulgar life, to -Lady Caroline and Rollo Ridsdale? Lottie would sing no more, and could -not speak, so strong was the conflict within her. She could not even -encounter the momentary _tête-à-tête_ which before she had almost wished -for. She was roused and stirred in all her being as she had never been -before, able to encounter death or grief, she thought vaguely, or -anything that was solemn and grand, but not ordinary talk, not -compliments, not the little tender devices of courtship. She flew from -the possible touch of sentiment, the half-mock, half-real flatteries -that he would be ready to say to her. Love real, and great, and solemn, -the Love of which the Italian poet speaks as twin sister of Death, was -what Lottie’s mind was prepared for; but from anything lower she fled, -with the instinct of a nature highly strained and unaccustomed to though -capable of, passion. Everything was seething in her mind, her heart -beating, the blood coursing through her veins. She felt that she could -not bear the inevitable downfall of ordinary talk. She ran out into the -soft coolness of the night, the great quiet and calm of the sleeping -place, a fugitive driven by this new wind of strange emotion. The shadow -of the Abbey was grateful to her, lying dimly half-way across the broad -silent road--and the dim lamp in her own window seemed to point out a -refuge from her thoughts. She rushed across the empty road, like a ghost -flitting, white and noiseless, and swift as an arrow, from the gate of -the Cloister, wondering whether the maid would hear her knock at once, -or if she would have to wait there at the door till Mr. Ridsdale -appeared. But the door was opened at her first touch, to Lottie’s great -surprise, by Law, who seemed to have been watching for her arrival. He -wore a very discontented aspect, but this Lottie did not at first see, -in her grateful sense of safety. - -“How early you are!” he said. “I did not expect you for an hour yet. It -was scarcely worth while going out at all, if you were to come back so -soon.” - -Lottie made no reply. She went upstairs to the little drawing-room, -where the lamp had been screwed as low as possible to keep alight for -her when she should return. The room was still more dim than Lady -Caroline’s, and looked so small and insignificant in comparison. On the -table was a tray with some bread and butter and a cup of milk, which was -Lottie’s simple supper after her dissipation; for Lady Caroline’s cup of -tea was scarcely enough for a girl who had eaten a not too luxurious -dinner at two o’clock. She had no mind, however, for her supper now; but -sat down on the little sofa and covered her eyes with her hand, and went -back into her thoughts, half to prolong the excitement into which she -had plunged, half to still herself and get rid of this sudden transport. -It would be difficult to say which she wished most; to calm herself down -or to continue that state of exaltation which proved to her new -capabilities in her own being. She thought it was the former desire that -moved her, and that to be quiet was all she wanted; but yet that strong -tide running in her veins, that hot beating of her heart, that expansion -and elevation of everything in her, was full of an incomprehensible -agony of sweetness and exquisite sensation. She did not know what it -was. She covered her eyes to shut out the immediate scene around her. -The little shabby room, the bread and butter, and Law’s slouching figure -manipulating the lamp--these, at least, were accessories which she had -no desire to see. - -“Bother the thing!” said Law, “I can’t get it to burn. Here, Lottie! you -can manage them. Oh! if you like to sit in the dark, I don’t mind. Were -your fine people disagreeable? I always told you they wanted nothing -but that you should sing for them and amuse them. They don’t care a rap -for _you_!” - -Lottie took no notice of this speech. She withdrew her hand from her -face, but still kept her eyes half-closed, unwilling to be roused out of -her dream. - -“They’re all as selfish as old bears,” said Law; “most people are, for -that matter. They never think of you; you’ve got to look after yourself; -it’s their own pleasure they’re thinking of. What can you expect from -strangers when a man that pretends to be one’s own father----?” - -“What are you talking about?” asked Lottie, slowly waking, with a -feeling of disgust and impatience, out of her finer fancies. She could -not keep some shade of scorn and annoyance from her face. - -“You needn’t put on those supercilious looks; you’ll suffer as much from -it as I shall, or perhaps more, for a man can always do for himself,” -said Law; “but you--you’ll find the difference. Lottie,” he continued, -forgetting resentment in this common evil, and sinking his voice, “he’s -down there at the old place again.” - -“What old place?” - -As soon as his complaining voice became familiar, Lottie closed her eyes -again, longing to resume her own thoughts. - -“Oh! the old place. Why, down there; you know--the place where---- I -say!” cried Law, suddenly growing red, and perceiving the betrayal of -himself as well as of his father which was imminent. “Never mind where -it is; it’s where that sharp one, Polly Featherstone, works.” - -Lottie was completely awakened now; she looked up, half-bewildered, from -the dispersing mists. “Of whom are you talking?” she cried. “Law, what -people have you got among--who are they? You frighten me! Who is it you -are talking of?” - -“There’s no harm in them,” cried Law, colouring more and more. “What do -you mean? Do you think they’re---- I don’t know what you mean; they’re -as good as we are,” he added sullenly, walking away with his hands in -his pockets out of the revelations of the lamp. Dim and low as it was, -it disclosed, he was aware, an uncomfortable glow of colour on his face. - -“I don’t know who _they_ may be,” said Lottie, severe, yet blushing too; -“I don’t want to know! But, oh, Law! you that are so young, my only -brother, why should you know people I couldn’t know? Why should you be -ashamed of anyone you go to see?” - -“I was not talking of people _I_ go to see; I wish you wouldn’t be so -absurd; I’m talking of the governor,” said Law, speaking very fast; -“he’s there, I tell you, a man of his time of life, sitting among a lot -of girls, talking away fifteen to the dozen. He might find some other -way of meeting her if he must meet her!” cried Law, his own grievance -breaking out in spite of him. “What has he got to do there among a pack -of girls? it’s disgraceful at his age!” - -Law was very sore, angry, and disappointed. He had gone to his usual -resort in the evening, and had seen his father there before him, and had -been obliged to retire discomfited, with a jibe from Emma to intensify -his trouble. “The Captain’s twice the man you are!” the little -dressmaker had said; “he ain’t afraid of nobody.” Poor Law had gone away -after this, and strolled despondently along the river-side. He did not -know what to do with himself. Lottie was at the Deanery; he was shut out -of his usual refuge, and he had nowhere to go. Though he had no money, -he jumped into a boat and rowed himself dismally about the river, -dropping down below the bridge to where he could see the lighted windows -of the workroom. There he lingered about, nobody seeing or taking any -notice of him. When he approached the bank, he could even hear the sound -of their voices, the laughter with which they received the Captain’s -witticisms. A little wit went a long way in that complaisant circle. He -could make out Captain Despard’s shadow against the window, never still -for a moment, moving up and down, amusing the girls with songs, jokes, -pieces of buffoonery. Law despised these devices; but, oh! how he envied -the skill of the actor. He hung about the river in his boat till it got -quite dark, almost run into sometimes by other boats, indifferent to -everything but this lighted interior, which he could see, though nobody -in it could see him. And when he was tired of this forlorn amusement he -came home, finding the house very empty and desolate. He tried to work, -but how was it possible to work under the sting of such a recollection? -The only thing he could do was to wait for Lottie, to pour forth his -complaint to her, to hope that she might perhaps find some remedy for -this intolerable wrong. It did not occur to him that to betray his -father was also to betray himself, and that Lottie might feel as little -sympathy for him as he did for Captain Despard. This fact flashed upon -him now when it was too late. - -Lottie had not risen from her seat, but as she sat there, everything -round seemed to waver about her, then settle down again in a sudden -revelation of mean, and small, and paltry life, such as she had scarcely -ever realised before. Not only the lofty heaven into which the music had -carried her rolled away like a scroll, but the other world, which was -beautiful also of its kind, from which she had fled, which had seemed -too poor to remain in, after the preceding ecstasy, departed as with a -glimmer of wings; and she found herself awaking in a life where -everything was squalid and poor, where she alone, with despairing -efforts, tried to prop up the house that it might not fall into -dishonoured dust. She had borne with a kind of contemptuous equanimity -Law’s first story about her father. Let him marry again! she had said; -if he could secure the thing he called his happiness in such a way, let -him do it. The idea had filled her with a high scorn. She had not -thought of herself nor of the effect it might have upon her, but had -risen superior to it with lofty contempt, and put it from her mind. But -this was different. With all her high notions of gentility, and all her -longings after a more splendid sphere, this sudden revelation of a -sphere meaner, lower still, struck Lottie with a sudden pang. A pack of -girls! what kind of girls could those be of whom Law spoke? Her blood -rushed to her face scorching her with shame. She who scorned the -Chevaliers and their belongings! She who had “kept her distance” from -her own class, was it possible that she was to be dragged down lower, -lower, to shame itself? Her voice was choked in her throat. She did not -feel able to speak. She could only cry out to him, clasping her hands, -“Don’t tell me any more--oh, don’t tell me any more----” - -“Hillo!” said the lad, “what is the matter with you? Don’t tell you any -more? You will soon know a great deal more if you don’t do something to -put a stop to it. There ought to be a law against it. A man’s children -ought to be able to put a stop to it. I told you before, Lottie, if you -don’t exert yourself and do something----” - -“Oh,” she said, rising to her feet, “what can I do? Can I put honour -into you, and goodness, and make you what I want you to be? Oh, if I -could, Law! I would give you my blood out of my veins if I could. But I -can’t put me into you,” she said, wringing her hands--“and you expect me -to listen to stories--about people I ought not to hear of--about -women--Oh, Law, Law, how dare you speak so to me?” - -“Hold hard!” said Law, “you don’t know what you are speaking of. The -girls are as good girls as you are--” his own cheeks flushed with -indignant shame as he spoke. “You are just like what they say of women. -You are always thinking of something bad. What are you after all, Lottie -Despard? A poor shabby Captain’s daughter! You make your own gowns and -they make other people’s. I don’t see such a dreadful difference in -that.” - -Lottie was overpowered by all the different sensations that succeeded -each other in her. She felt herself swept by what felt like repeated -waves of trouble--shame to hear of these people among whom both her -father and brother found their pleasure, shame to have thought more -badly of them than they deserved, shame to have betrayed to Law her -knowledge that there were women existing of whom to speak was a shame. -She sank down upon the sofa again trembling and agitated, relieved yet -not relieved. “Law,” she said faintly, “we are poor enough ourselves, I -know. But even if we don’t do much credit to our birth, is it not -dreadful to be content with that, to go down lower, to make ourselves -nothing at all?” - -“It is not my fault,” said Law, a little moved, “nor yours neither. I am -very sorry for you, Lottie; for you’ve got such a high mind--it will go -hardest with you. As for me, I’ve got no dignity to stand on, and if he -drives me to it, I shall simply ’list--that’s what I shall do.” - -“’List!” Lottie gazed at him pathetically. She was no longer angry, as -she had been when he spoke of this before. “You are out of your senses, -Law! You, a _gentleman_!” - -“A gentleman!” he said bitterly, “much good it does me. It might, -perhaps, be of some use if we were rich, if we belonged to some great -family which nobody could mistake; but the kind of gentlefolks we -are!--nobody knowing anything about us, except through what _he_ pleases -to do and say. I tell you, if the worst comes to the worst, I will go -straight off to the first sergeant I see, and take the shilling. In the -Guards there’s many a better gentleman than I am, and I’m tall enough -for the Guards,” he said, looking down with a little complacence on his -own long limbs. The look struck Lottie with a thrill of terror and pain. -There were soldiers enough about St. Michael’s to make her keenly and -instantly aware how perfectly their life, as it appeared to her, would -chime in with Law’s habits. They seemed to Lottie to be always lounging -about the streets stretching their long limbs, expanding their broad -chests in the sight of all the serving maidens, visible in their red -coats wherever the idle congregated, wherever there was any commotion -going on. She perceived in a moment, as by a flash of lightning, that -nothing could be more congenial to Law. What work might lie behind, what -difficulties of subordination, tyrannies of hours and places, -distasteful occupations--Lottie knew nothing about. She saw in her -brother’s complacent glance, a something of kin to the swagger of the -tall fellows in their red jackets, spreading themselves out before -admiring nursemaids. Law would do that too. She could not persuade -herself that there was anything in him above the swagger, superior to -the admiration of the maids. A keen sense of humiliation, and the sharp -impatience of a proud spirit, unable to inspire those most near to it -with anything of its own pride and energy, came into her mind. “You do -not mind being a gentleman--you do not care,” she cried. “Oh, I know you -are not like me! But how will you like being under orders, Law, never -having your freedom, never able to do what you please, or to go anywhere -without leave? That is how soldiers live. They are slaves; they have to -obey, always to obey. You could not do anything because you wanted to do -it--you could not spend an evening at home--Oh,” she cried with a -sudden stamp of her foot in impatience with herself, “that is not what I -mean to say; for what would you care for coming home? But you could not -go to that place--that delightful place--that you and papa prefer to -home. I know you don’t care for home,” said Lottie. “Oh, it is a -compliment, a great compliment to me!” - -And, being overwrought and worn out with agitation, she suddenly broke -down and fell a-crying, not so much that she felt the slight and the -pang of being neglected, but because all these agitations had been too -much for her, and she felt for the moment that she could bear no more. - -At the sight of her tears sudden remorse came over Law. He went to her -side and stood over her, touching her shoulder with his hand. “Don’t -cry, Lottie,” he said, with compunction. And then, after a moment, “It -isn’t for you; you’re always jolly and kind. I don’t mind what I say to -you; you might know everything I do if you liked. But home, you know, -home’s not what a fellow cares for. Oh, yes! I care for it in a way--I -care for you; but except you, what is there, Lottie? And I can’t always -be talking to you, can I? A fellow wants a little more than that. So do -you; you want more than me. If I had come into the drawing-room this -morning and strummed on the piano, what would you have done? Sent me off -or boxed my ears if I’d have let you. But that fellow Ridsdale comes -and you like it. You needn’t say no; I am certain you liked it. But -brother and sister, you know that’s not so amusing! Come, Lottie, you -know that as well as I.” - -“I don’t know it, it is not true!” Lottie cried, with a haste and -emphasis which she herself felt to be unnecessary. “But what has that to -do with the matter? Allow that you do not care for your home, Law; but -is it necessary to go off and separate yourself from your family, to -give up your position, everything? I will tell you what we will do. We -will go to Mr. Ashford, and he will let us know honestly what he -thinks--what you are fit for. All examinations are not so hard; there -must be something that you could do.” - -Law made a wry face, but he did not contradict his sister. “I wish he -would cut me out with a pair of scissors and make me fit somewhere,” he -said, with a shrug of his shoulders. Then he added, almost caressingly, -“Take your supper, Lottie; you’re tired, and you want something; I have -had mine. And you have not told me a word about to-night. Why did you -come in so early? How are you and Ridsdale getting on? Oh! what’s the -good of making a fuss about it? Do you think I can’t see as plain as -porridge what _that_ means?” - -“What what means?” cried Lottie, springing from her seat with such -passionate energy as half frightened the lad. “How dare you, Law? Do you -think I am one of the girls you are used to? How dare you speak to me -so?” - -“Why should you make such a fuss about it?” cried Law, laughing, yet -retreating. “If there is nothing between you and Ridsdale, what does the -fellow want loafing about here? Lottie! I say, mind what you’re doing. I -don’t mind taking your advice sometimes, but I won’t be bullied by you.” - -“You had better go to bed, Law!” said Lottie, with dignified contempt. -After all the agitations of the evening it was hard to be brought down -again to the merest vulgarities of gossip like this. She paid no more -attention to her brother, but gathered together her shawl, her gloves, -the shabby little fan which had been her mother’s, and put out the lamp, -leaving him to find his way to his room as he could. She was too -indignant for words. He thought her no better than the dressmaker-girls -he had spoken of, to be addressed with vulgar stupid raillery such as no -doubt they liked. This was the best Lottie had to look for in her own -home. She swept out, throwing the train of her long white skirt from her -hand with a movement which would have delighted Rollo, and went away to -the darkness and stillness of her own little chamber, with scarcely an -answer to the “Good-night” which Law flung at her as he shuffled away. -She sat down on her little bed in the dark without lighting her candle; -it was her self-imposed duty to watch there till she heard her father’s -entrance. And there, notwithstanding her stately withdrawal, poor -Lottie, overcome, sobbed and cried. She had nobody to turn to, nor -anything to console her, except the silence and pitying darkness which -hid her girlish weakness even from herself. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - -CAPTAIN DESPARD. - - -Morning service at the Abbey was more business-like than the severe -ritual in the afternoon. The evening prayers were more pleasurable. -Strangers came to them, new faces, all the visitors about, and there -could be no doubt that the Signor chose his anthems with a view to the -new people who were always coming and going. Sometimes representatives -from every quarter of England, from the Continent--members of “the other -church” even, which Anglicanism venerates and yearns after: and people -from America, pilgrims to the shrine of the past, would gather within -the Abbey, and carry away the fame of the music and the beautiful church -to all the winds. The staff of the Abbey was pleasantly excited, the -service was short, the whole ritual was pleasurable. It was the dull -hour in the afternoon when it is good for people to be occupied in such -an elevating way, and when, coming in with the fresh air hanging about -you in the summer, out of the sunshine, to feel the house so shady and -cool--or in winter from the chill and cold out of doors to a blazing -fire, and lamps, and candles, and tea--you had just time for a little -lounge before dressing for dinner, and so cheated away the heaviest hour -of the day. But in the morning it was business. The Minor Canons felt -it, getting up from their breakfast to sing their way steadily through -litany and versicles. And nobody felt it more than the old Chevaliers as -they gathered in their stalls, many of them white-headed, tottering, one -foot in the grave. It was the chief occupation of their lives--all that -they were now obliged to do. Their whole days were shaped for this. When -the bells began the doors would open, the veterans come out, one by one, -some of them battered enough, with medals on their coats. Captain -Despard was the most jaunty of the brotherhood. Indeed he was about the -youngest of all, and it had been thought a bad thing for the institution -when a man not much over fifty was elected. He was generally the last to -take his place, hurrying in fresh and debonair, with his flower in his -coat, singing with the choir whenever the music pleased him, and even -now and then softly accompanying the Minor Canon, with a cheerful sense -that his adhesion to what was being said must always be appreciated. His -responses were given with a grand air, as if he felt himself to be -paying a compliment to the Divine Hearer. And indeed, though it was the -great drawback of his existence to be compelled to be present there -every morning of his life, still when he was there he enjoyed it. He was -part of the show. The beautiful church, the fine music, and Captain -Despard, had all, he thought, a share in the silent enthusiasm of the -general congregation. And Captain Despard was so far right that many of -the congregation, especially those who came on Sundays and holidays, the -townsfolk, the tobacconists, and tradespeople, and the girls from the -workroom, looked upon him with the greatest admiration, and pointed out -to each other, sometimes awed and respectful, sometimes tittering behind -their prayer-books, where “the Captain” sat in state. The Captain was a -“fine man” everybody allowed--well proportioned, well preserved--a young -man of his age; and his age was mere boyhood in comparison with many of -his peers and brethren. It was ridiculous to see him there among all -those old fellows, the girls said; and as for Polly, as she slipped -humbly into a free seat, the sight of him sitting there in his stall -quite overpowered her. If all went well, she herself would have a place -there by-and-by--not in the stalls indeed, but in the humble yet -dignified places provided for the families of the Chevaliers. It must -not be supposed that even the Chevaliers’ stalls were equal to those -provided for the hierarchy of the Abbey. They were a lower range, and on -a different level altogether, but still they were places of dignity. -Captain Despard put his arms upon the carved supports of his official -seat, and looked around him like a benevolent monarch. When anyone asked -him a question as he went or came he was quite affable, and called to -the verger with a condescending readiness to oblige. - -“You must find a place for this gentleman, Wykeham,” he would say; “this -gentleman is a friend of mine.” Wykeham only growled at these -recommendations, but Captain Despard passed on to his stall with the air -of having secured half a dozen places at least; and his _protégés_ felt -a vague belief in him, even when they did not find themselves much -advanced by it. And there he sat, feeling that every change in his -position was noted, and that he himself was an essential part of the -show--that show which was so good for keeping up all the traditions of -English society, making the Church respected, and enforcing attention to -religion--indeed, a very handsome compliment to the Almighty himself. - -Captain Despard, however, though he admired himself so much, was not, as -has been already hinted, proportionately admired by his brother -Chevaliers, and it was something like a surprise to him when he found -himself sought by two of them at once, as they came out of the Abbey. -One of these was Captain Temple, who had encountered Lottie on the -evening before, going alone to the Deanery. None of all the Chevaliers -of St. Michael’s was so much respected as this old gentleman. He was a -little man, with white hair, not remarkable in personal appearance, -poor, and old; but he was all that a Chevalier ought to be, _sans -reproche_. The story of his early days was the ordinary one of a poor -officer without friends or interest; but in his later life there had -happened to him something which everybody knew. His only daughter had -married a man greatly above her in station, a member of a noble family, -to the great admiration and envy of all beholders. She was a beautiful -girl, very delicate and sensitive; but no one thought of her qualities -in comparison with the wonderful good fortune that had befallen her. A -girl that had been changed at a stroke from poor little Mary Temple, the -poor Chevalier’s daughter, into the Honourable Mrs. Dropmore, with a -chance of a Viscountess’s coronet! was ever such good luck heard of? Her -father and mother were congratulated on all sides with malign -exuberance. Mrs. Temple got credit for being the cleverest of mothers, -that applause, which in England means insult, being largely showered -upon her. Whether she deserved it, poor soul! is nothing to this -history; but if so, she soon had her reward. The girl who had been so -lucky was carried off summarily from the father and mother who had -nothing else to care for in the world. They were not allowed to see her, -or even to communicate with her but in the most limited way. They bore -everything, these poor people, for their child’s sake, encouraging each -other not to complain, to wait until her sweetness had gained the -victory, as sweetness and submission are always said to do--and -encouraging _her_ to think only of her husband, to wait and be patient -until the prejudices of his family were dispelled. But this happy moment -never came for poor Mary. She died after a year’s marriage--wailing for -her mother, who was not allowed to come near her, and did not even know -of her illness. This had almost killed the old people too--and it had -pointed many a moral all the country round; and now this incident, which -had nothing to do with her, came in to influence the career of Lottie -Despard. It was Captain Temple who first came up to his brother -Chevalier as he strolled through the nave of St. Michael’s, on his way -out from the service. A great many people always lingered in the nave to -get every note of the Signor’s voluntary, and it was Captain Despard’s -practice to take a turn up and down to exhibit himself in this last act -of the show before it was over. The sun shone in from the high line of -south windows, throwing a thousand varieties of colour on the lofty -clustered pillars, and the pavement all storied with engraved stones and -brasses. The Captain sauntered up and down, throwing out his chest, and -conscious of admiration round him, while the music rolled forth through -the splendid space, with a voice proportioned to it, and groups of the -early worshippers stood about listening, specks in the vastness of the -Abbey. Just as it ended, with an echoing thunder of sweet sound, the old -Captain, putting on his hat at the door, encountered the younger -warrior for whom he had been lying in wait. - -“May I speak a word to you, Captain Despard?” he said. - -“Certainly, my dear sir; if I can be of use to you in any way, command -me,” said Captain Despard, with the most amiable flourish of his hat. -But he was surprised; for Captain Temple was a man who “kept his -distance,” and had never shown any symptom of admiration for the other -Chevalier. - -“You will forgive me speaking,” said the old man. “But I know that your -evenings are often engaged. You have many occupations; you are seldom at -home in the evening?” - -“My friends are very kind,” said Captain Despard, with another flourish. -“As a matter of fact, I--dine out a great deal. I am very often -engaged.” - -“I thought so. And your son--very often dines out too. May I ask as a -favour that you will allow me to constitute myself the escort of Miss -Despard when she is going anywhere in the evening? I had that pleasure -last night,” said the old man. “I am a very safe person, I need not say: -and fond of--young people. It would be a great pleasure to me.” - -Captain Despard listened with some surprise. Perhaps he saw the reproach -intended, but was too gaily superior to take any notice of it. When the -other had ended, he took off his hat again, and made him a still more -beautiful bow. “How glad I am,” he said, “to be able to give you a great -pleasure so easily! Certainly, Captain Temple, if my little girl’s -society is agreeable to you.” - -“She is at an age when she wants--someone to watch over her,” said the -old Captain. “She is very sweet--and very handsome, Captain Despard.” - -“Is she?” said the other, indifferently. “A child, my dear sir, nothing -more than a child; but good looks belong to her mother’s family--without -thinking of my own side of the house.” - -“She is very handsome. A mother is a great loss to a girl at that age.” - -“You think it is a want that ought to be supplied,” said Captain -Despard, with a laugh, stroking his moustache. “Perhaps you are -right--perhaps you are right. Such an idea, I allow, has several times -crossed my own mind.” - -“Despard,” said another voice, behind him, “I’ve got something to say to -ye. When ye’re at leisure, me dear fellow, step into my place.” - -“Don’t let me detain you,” said the other old man, hurrying away. His -kind stratagem had not succeeded. He was half sorry--and yet, as he had -already prophesied its failure to his wife, he was not so much -displeased after all. Major O’Shaughnessy, who was a heavy personage, -hobbled round to the other side. - -“Despard,” he said, “me dear friend! I’ve got something to say to you. -It’s about Lottie, me boy.” - -“About Lottie?--more communications about Lottie. I’ve had about enough -of her, O’Shaughnessy. There is that solemn old idiot asking if he may -escort her when she goes anywhere. Is he going to give his wife poison, -and offer himself to me as a son-in-law?” said the Captain, with a -laugh. - -“I’ll go bail he didn’t tell you what I’m going to tell you. Listen, -Despard. My pretty Lottie--she’s but a child, and she’s as pretty a one -as you’d wish to see: well, it’s a lover she’s gone and got for herself. -What d’ye think of that? Bless my soul, a lover! What do you make of -that, me fine fellow?” cried the Major, rubbing his fat hands. He was -large of bulk, like his wife, and round and shining, with a bald head, -and large hands that looked bald too. - -“Is this a joke?” said the Captain, drawing himself up; “by George I’ll -have no jokes about my child.” - -“Joke? it is my wife told me, that is as fond of the girl as if she were -her own. ‘Mark my words,’ says Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, ‘she’ll be the -Honourable Mrs. Ridsdale before we know where we are.’ And Temple’s been -at ye, Despard; I know it. The man is off his head with his own bad -luck, and can’t abide the name of an Honourable. But, from all I hear, -there’s little to be said against this one except that he’s poor.” - -“The Honourable----” said Captain Despard, with a bewildered look. Then, -as the good Major talked, he recovered himself. “Well!” he said, when -that speech came to an end, “you may think that it’s very fine, -O’Shaughnessy, and I’m sure I am much obliged to you for telling me, but -you don’t suppose an Honourable is anything out of the way to me? With -her family and her beauty, I would grudge the child to a man without a -title anyhow, even if he weren’t poor.” - -The Major had his mouth open to speak, but he was so bewildered by this -grandeur that he stopped and closed it again, and uttered only a murmur -in his throat. “Well!” he said, when he came to himself, “you know your -own affairs best; but now that your girl is taken out, and into society, -and with her prospects, you’ll be standing by her and giving her more of -your company, Despard? Lottie’s the best of girls: but it might make all -the difference to her, having her father at home, and always ready to -stand up for her--not meaning any offence.” - -“Nor is any taken, O’Shaughnessy; make your mind quite easy,” said the -Captain, looking extremely stately though his coat was shabby. Then he -added, “I’ve got some business down town, and an appointment at twelve -o’clock. I’m sorry to hurry off, but business goes before all. -Good-morning to you, Major!” he said, kissing the ends of his fingers; -then turning back after he had gone a few steps. “My respects to your -wife, and thanks for finding it all out; but I’ve known it these three -weeks at least, though I’m obliged to her all the same.” And so saying, -Captain Despard resumed the humming of his favourite tune, and went -swinging his arm down the Dean’s Walk, the rosebud in his coat showing -like a decoration, and the whole man jaunty and gay as nobody else was -at St. Michael’s. It was a sight to see him as he marched along, keeping -time to the air he was humming; a fine figure of a man! The good Major -stood and looked after him dum-foundered; he was almost too much taken -by surprise to be offended. “Manage your own affairs as you please, my -fine fellow!” he said to himself, and went home in a state of suppressed -fury. But he relented when he saw Lottie, in her print frock, at the -window; and he did not give his wife that insolent message. “What is the -use of making mischief?” the Major said. - -Captain Despard was not, however, so entirely unmoved as he looked. The -news bewildered him first, and then elated him. Where had the girl -picked up the Honourable Mr.----, what was his name? He knew so little -of Lottie and was so little aware of her proceedings, that he had only -heard accidentally of her visits at the Deanery at all, and knew nothing -whatever of Rollo. He must inquire, he said to himself; but in the -meantime did not this free him from all the hesitations with which, to -do him justice, he had been struggling? For if, instead of “presiding -over his establishment”--which was how Captain Despard put it--Lottie -was to be the mistress of a house of her own and ascend into heaven, as -it were, as the Honourable Mrs. Something-or-other, there would be no -doubt that Captain Despard would be left free as the day to do what -pleased himself. This wonderful piece of news seemed to get into his -veins and send the blood coursing more quickly there, and into his head, -and made that whirl with an elation which was perfectly vague and -indefinite. With Lottie as the Honourable Mrs. So-and-so, all obstacles -were removed out of his own way. Law did not count; the Captain was -afraid more or less of his daughter, but he was not at all afraid of his -son. The Honourable Something-or-other! Captain Despard did not even -know his name or anything about him, but already various privileges -seemed to gleam upon him through this noble relation. No doubt such a -son-in-law would be likely to lend a gentleman, who was not over-rich -and connected with him by close family ties, a small sum now and then; -or probably he might think it necessary for his own dignity to make an -allowance to his wife’s father to enable him to appear as a gentleman -ought; and in the shooting season he would naturally, certainly, give so -near a relation a standing invitation to the shooting-box which, by -right of his rank, he must inevitably possess somewhere or other, either -his own or belonging to his noble father. Probably he would have it in -his power to point out to Her Majesty or Commander-in-Chief that to keep -a man who was an honour to his profession, like Captain Henry Despard, -in the position of a Chevalier of St. Michael’s, was equally a disgrace -and a danger to the country. Captain Despard seemed to hear the very -tone in which this best of friends would certify to his merits. “Speak -of failures in arms! What can you expect when General So-and-so is -gazetted to the command of an expedition, and Henry Despard is left in a -Chevalier’s lodge?” he seemed to hear the unknown say indignantly. -Nothing could be more generous than his behaviour; he did nothing but go -about the world sounding the Captain’s praises: “I have the honour to be -his son-in-law,” this right-thinking young man would say. Captain -Despard went down the hill with his head buzzing full of this new -personage who had suddenly stepped into his life. His engagement was no -more important than to play a game at billiards with one of his town -acquaintances, but even there he could not keep from throwing out -mysterious hints about some great good fortune which was about to come -to him. “What! are you going away, Captain? Are you to have promotion? -or is it you they have chosen for the new warden of the Chevaliers?” his -associates asked him, half in curiosity, half in sarcasm. “I am not in -circumstances,” said the Captain solemnly, “to say what are the -improved prospects that are dawning upon my house; but of this you may -rest assured--that my friends in adversity will remain my friends in -prosperity.” “Bravo, Captain!” cried all his friends. Some of them -laughed, but some of them put their faith in Captain Despard. They said -to themselves, “He’s fond of talking a bit big, but he’s got a good -heart, has the Captain!” and they, too, dreamed of little loans and -treats. And, indeed, the Captain got an immediate advantage out of it; -for one of the billiard-players, who was a well-to-do tradesman with -habits not altogether satisfactory to his friends, gave him a luncheon -at the “Black Boar,” not because he expected to profit by the supposed -promotion, but to see how many lies the old humbug would tell in -half-an-hour, as he himself said; for there are practical democrats to -whom it is very sweet to see the pretended aristocrat cover himself with -films of lying. The shopkeeper roared with laughter as the Captain gave -forth his oracular sayings. “Go it, old boy!” he said. They all -believed, however, more or less, in some good luck that was coming, -whatever it might be; and the sensation of faith around him strengthened -Captain Despard in his conviction. He resolved to go home and question -Lottie after this luncheon; but that was of itself a prolonged feast, -and the immediate consequence of it was a disinclination to move, and a -sense that it would be just as well for him not to show himself for -some little time, “till it had gone off”--for the Captain in some things -was a wise man, and prudent as he was wise. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - -THE WORKROOM. - - -There were two factions in the workroom by the side of the river where -Mrs. Wilting’s daughters worked, with Polly Featherston for their -forewoman. One of these, though very small and consisting, indeed, only -of Ellen Wilting, the eldest girl--who was “serious”--and a little -apprentice who was in her class at the Sunday School--was greatly -against the intrusion of “the gentlemen” into the workroom, and thought -it highly improper and a thing likely to bring all the young ladies who -worked there into trouble. Ellen was, contrary to the usual opinion -which would have selected the plainest sister for this _rôle_, the -prettiest of the girls. She was fair-haired, but not frizzy like the -rest; and her face was pale, with a serious expression which made her -very lady-like, many persons thought, and gave her, the others felt not -without envy, a distinction which did not belong to their own pinkness -and whiteness. There were four sisters, of whom Emma--who was the object -of Law’s admiration--was the youngest. Kate and ’Liza came between these -two, and they were both of Polly’s faction, though without any reason -for being so. They thought Ellen was a great deal too particular. What -was the harm if a gentleman came and sat a bit when they were not too -busy, and talked and made them laugh? The object of life to these young -women was to get as much laughing and talking as possible made -consistent with the greatest amount of work done, of gowns and bonnets -made; and anyone who made the long evening appear a little shorter, and -“passed the time” with a little merriment, was a real benefactor to -them. Ellen, for her part, took more serious views of life. She would -have liked to go to morning service every day had that been practicable, -and called it matins as the ladies themselves did, which was very -uncommon in the River Lane; and she was a member of the Choral Society, -and had a pretty voice, and had sung in a chorus along with Miss -Despard, and even with Miss Huntington before she married. All this made -her feel that it was not “nice” to encourage the gentlemen who were of a -different condition in life, and whose visits could not be for any good. -And she would much rather have heard stories read out of the _Monthly -Packet_, or something in which instruction was joined with amusement, -than from the _Family Herald_; except, indeed, when she got interested -in the trials, continued from number to number, of some virtuous young -heroine like the Lady Araminta. Ellen wore a black gown like the young -ladies in the shops, with her pretty fair hair quite simply dressed, -without any of the padding and frizzing which were popular at the time; -and fondly hoped some time or other to wear a little black bonnet like -those of the sisters who had an establishment near. Her mother sternly -forbade this indulgence now, but it was one of the things to which the -young woman looked forward. And it must be allowed that Ellen rather -prided herself on her total unlikeness in every way to Polly -Featherston, who considered herself the head of the workroom, and who -was certainly the ringleader in all its follies. Kate and ’Liza and Emma -and the other apprentice, though they by no means gave their entire -adhesion to Polly, and had many remarks to make upon her in private, yet -were generally led by her as a person who knew the world and was “much -admired,” and always had somebody after her. That this somebody should -be for the moment “a gentleman,” gave Polly an additional advantage. It -must not be supposed that her reputation was anyhow in danger, though -she was known to “keep company” with the Captain; for Polly, though not -“particular,” and ready to talk and laugh with anyone, was known to be -very well able to take care of herself, and much too experienced to be -taken in by any of the admirers whom she was supposed to be able to wind -round her little finger. For this, and for her powers of attracting -admiration, and for her fluent and ready speech, and the dauntless -disposition which made her afraid of nobody and ready to “speak up,” if -need were, even to the very Dean himself, the girls admired her; and -they would not be persuaded by Ellen that Polly ought to be subdued out -of her loud and cheerful talk, and the doors of the workroom closed on -the gentlemen. Little Emma, indeed, the youngest of the girls, was -vehement against this idea, as was easily understood by all the rest. - -“What is the harm?” she cried, with tears in her eyes, tears of vexation -and irritation and alarmed perception of the change it would make if Law -should be shut out; a terrible change, reducing herself, who now enjoyed -some visionary superiority as “keeping company” in her own small person -with a gentleman, into something even lower than ’Liza and Kate, who had -their butchers and bakers, at least, to walk out with on Sunday--a -privilege which Emma seldom dared enjoy with Law. “What is the use,” -Emma said, “of making a fuss? What harm do they do? They make the time -pass. It’s long enough anyhow from eight o’clock in the morning till -nine at night, or sometimes later, and so little time as mother allows -for meals. I am sure I am that tired,” Emma declared, and with reason, -“I often can’t see how to thread my needle; and to have somebody to talk -to passes the time.” - -“We have always plenty of talk even when we are by ourselves,” said -Ellen; “and I am sure we might make better use of our time and have much -more improving conversation if these men would not be always coming -here.” - -“Oh! if you are so fond of improvement,” cried Polly, “I daresay you -would like to have Mr. Sterndale the Scripture Reader come and read to -us; or we might ask Mr. Langton upstairs, who is a clergyman. I -shouldn’t mind having _him_; he is so shy and frightened, and he -wouldn’t know what to say.” - -“Lord!” cried Kate; “fancy being frightened for us!” - -“Oh!” said the better-informed Polly, “there’s heaps as are frightened -for us; and the gooder they are the more frightened they would be; a -curate is always frightened for us girls. He knows he daren’t talk free -in a friendly way, and that makes him as stiff as two sticks. As sure as -fate, if he was pleasant, somebody would say he had a wrong meaning, and -that’s how it’s always in their mind.” - -“A clergyman,” said Ellen authoritatively, “would come to do us good. -But it wouldn’t be his place to come here visiting. It’s our duty to go -to him to relieve our consciences. As for Mr. Sterndale, the Scripture -Reader, I don’t call him a Churchman at all; he might just as well be a -Dissenter. What good can he do anybody? The thing that really does you -good is to go to church. In some places there are always prayers going -on, and then there is half an hour for meditation, and then you go to -work again till the bell rings. And in the afternoon there is even-song -and self-examination, and that passes the time,” cried Ellen, clasping -her hands. “What with matins, and meditation, and something new for -every hour, the days go. They’re gone before you know where you are.” - -The young women were silenced by this enthusiastic statement. For after -all, what could be more desirable than a system which made the days fly? -Polly was the only one who could hold up her head against such an -argument. She did her best to be scornful. “I daresay!” she cried, “but -I should just like to know if the work went as fast! Praying and -meditating are very fine, but if the work wasn’t done, what would your -mother say?” - -“Mother would find it answer, bless you,” said Ellen, her pale face -lighted with enthusiasm; “you do double the work when you can feel -you’re doing your duty, and could die cheerful any moment.” - -“Oh! and to think how few sees their duty, and how most folks turns -their backs upon it!” replied the little apprentice, who was on Ellen’s -side. - -Polly saw that something must be done to turn the tide. The girls were -awed. They could not hold up their commonplace little heads against this -grand ideal. There were little flings of half-alarmed impatience indeed -among them, as when Kate whispered to ’Liza that “one serious one was -enough in a house,” and little Emma ventured a faltering assertion “that -going to church made a day feel like Sunday, and it didn’t seem right -to do any more work.” Polly boldly burst in, and threw forth her -standard to the wind. - -“Week days is week days,” she said oracularly. “We’ve got them to work -in and to have a bit of fun as long as we’re young. Sundays I say -nothing against church--as much as anyone pleases; and it’s a great -thing to have the Abbey to go to, where you see everybody, if Wykeham -the verger wasn’t such a brute. But, if I’m not to have my bit of fun, -I’d rather be out of the world altogether. Now I just wish Mr. Law were -passing this way, for there’s the end of Lady Araminta in the _Family -’Erald_, and it is very exciting, and she won’t hear of marrying the -Earl, let alone the Duke, but gives all her money and everything she has -to the man of her heart.” - -“The baronet!” cried Kate and ’Liza in one breath. “I always knew that -was how it was going to be.” Even Ellen, wise as she was, changed -colour, and looked up eagerly. - -It was Polly who took in that representative of all that the world calls -letters and cultivation, to these girls. Ellen looked wistfully at the -drawer in which the treasure was hidden. “I will read it out if you -like,” she said somewhat timidly. “I can’t get on with this till the -trimming is ready.” Thus even the Church party was vanquished by the -charms of Art. - -That evening the Captain again paid them a visit. It was not often that -he came two days in succession, and Emma, who was the least important of -all, was very impatient of his appearance, notwithstanding the saucy -speech she had made to Law. In her heart she thought there was no -comparison between the father and son. The Captain was an old man. He -had no business to come at all, chatting and making his jokes; it was a -shame to see him turning up night after night. She wondered how Miss -Despard liked to have him always out. Emma regarded Miss Despard with -great interest and awe. She wondered when she met her in the street, as -happened sometimes, what she would say _if she knew_. And Emma wondered, -with a less warm thrill of personal feeling, but yet with much heat and -sympathetic indignation, what Miss Despard would think if she knew of -Polly. She would hate her, and that would be quite natural. Fancy having -Polly brought in over your head in the shape of a stepmother! and if -Emma herself felt indignant at such an idea, what must Miss Despard do -who was a lady, and used to be the mistress? It made the girl’s heart -ache to think that she would have to close the door upon Law again, for -it would never do to have the father and son together. Polly, on the -contrary, bore a look of triumph on her countenance. She pushed her -chair aside a little as Emma had done for Law, thus making room for him -beside her, and she said, with a delighted yet nervous toss of her -mountain of hair, “Ah, Captain, back again! Haven’t you got anything -better to do than to come after a lot of girls that don’t want you? Do -we want him, Kate?” to which playful question Kate replied in good -faith, No, she did not want him; but, with a friendly sense of what was -expected of her, giggled and added that the Captain didn’t mind much -what _she_ thought. The Captain, nothing daunted, drew in a stool close -to Polly, and whispered that, by George, the girl was right; it didn’t -matter much to him what _she_ thought; that it was someone else he would -consult on that subject; upon which Polly tossed her head higher than -ever, and laughed and desired him to Get along! The Captain’s coming was -not nearly so good for the work as Law’s, who was not half so funny, and -whom they all received in a brotherly sort of indifferent, good-humoured -way. The Captain, on the contrary, fixed their attention as at a play. -It was as good as a play to watch him whispering to Polly, and she -arching her neck, and tossing her head, and bidding him Get along! -Sometimes, indeed, he kept them all laughing with his jokes and his -mimicries, himself enjoying the enthusiasm of his audience. But though -on these occasions he was very entertaining, the girls perhaps were -still more entertained when he sat and whispered to Polly, giving them -the gratification of an actual romance, such as it was, enacted before -their eyes. A gentleman, an officer, with such a command of fine -language, and such an air! They gave each other significant glances and -little nudges to call each other’s attention, and wondered what Miss -Despard would think, and what would happen if really, really, some fine -day Polly Featherston were made into a lady, a Chevalier’s wife, and Mr. -Law’s stepmother--what _would_ everybody say? and Miss Despard, would -she put up with it? Even the idea of so exciting an event made the blood -move more quickly in their veins. - -The Captain was not in his jocular mood to-night. He was magnificent, a -thing which occurred now and then. In this state of mind he was in the -habit of telling them splendid incidents of his early days--the things -he said to the Duke of Blank, and what the Duke of Blank replied to him, -and the money he gave for his horses, and how he thought nothing of -presenting any young lady he might be paying attention to (for he was a -sad flirt in those days, the Captain allowed) with a diamond spray worth -a thousand pounds, or a sapphire ring equally valuable, or some pretty -trifle of that description. But he was altogether serious to-night. “I -intended to have come earlier,” he said, “for I have family business -that calls me home soon; but I was detained. It is very tiresome to be -continually called upon for advice and help as I am, especially when in -one’s own affairs something important has occurred.” - -“La, Captain, what has happened?” said Polly. “You ought to tell us. We -just want something to wake us up. You’ve had some money left you; or I -shouldn’t wonder a bit if the Commander-in-Chief----” - -Here she stopped short with sudden excitement, and looked at him. -Captain Despard was fond of intimating to his humbler friends that he -knew the Commander-in-Chief would send for him some day, indignant with -those whose machinations had made him shelve so valuable an officer for -so long. It seemed possible to Polly that this moment had arrived, and -the idea made her black eyes blaze. She seemed to see him at the head of -an expedition, leading an army, and herself the general’s lady. It did -not occur to Polly that there was no war going on at the moment; that -was a matter of detail; and how should she know anything about war or -peace, a young woman whose knowledge of public manners was limited to -murders and police cases? She let her work fall upon her knee, and there -even ran through her mind a rapid calculation, if he was starting off -directly, how long it would take to get the wedding things ready, or if -she could trust the Wiltings to have them packed and sent after her in -case there should not be time enough to wait. - -“No,” the Captain said, with that curl of his lip which expressed his -contempt of the authorities who had so foolishly passed him over. “It is -nothing about the Commander-in-Chief--at least not yet. There will soon -be a means of explaining matters to his Royal Highness which may lead -to----. But we will say nothing on that point for the moment,” he added -grandly, with a wave of his hand. Then he leaned over Polly, and -whispered something which the others tried vainly to hear. - -“Oh!” cried Polly, listening intently. At first her interest failed a -little; then she evidently rose to the occasion, put on a fictitious -excitement, clasped her hands, and cried, “Oh, Captain, _that_ at last!” - -“Yes--that is what has happened. You may not see all its importance at -the first glance. But it is very important,” said the Captain with -solemnity. “In a domestic point of view--and otherwise. People tell you -interest does not matter now-a-days. Ha! ha!” (Captain Despard laughed -the kind of stage-laugh which may be represented by these -monosyllables.) “Trust one who has been behind the scenes. Interest is -everything--always has been, and always will be. This will probably have -the effect of setting me right at the Horse Guards, which is all that is -necessary. And in the meantime,” he added, with a thoughtful air, “it -will make a great difference in a domestic point of view; it will change -my position in many ways, indeed in every way.” - -Polly had been gazing at him during this speech, watching every movement -of his face, and as she watched her own countenance altered. She did -not even pretend to take up her work again, but leaned forward -nervously fingering the thread and the scissors on the table, and -beginning to realise the importance of the crisis. To Captain Despard it -was a delightful opportunity of displaying his importance, and there was -just enough of misty possibility in the castle of cards he was building -up to endow him with a majestic consciousness of something about to -happen. But to Polly it was a great deal more than this. It was the -crisis of something that was at least melodrama, if not tragedy, in her -life. All her hopes were suddenly quickened into almost reality, and the -change in her fortunes, which had been a distant and doubtful if -exciting chance, seemed suddenly in a moment to become real and near. - -The spectacle that this afforded to the other young women in the -workroom it is almost beyond the power of words to describe. Their -bosoms throbbed. A play! plays were nothing to it. They pulled each -other’s gowns under the table. They gave each other little nods, and -looks under their eyebrows. Their elbows met in emphatic commentary. He, -absorbed in his own all-important thoughts, she looking up at him with -that rapt and pale suspense--never was anything more exciting to the -imagination of the beholders. “He won’t look at her,” one whispered; -“she’s all of a tremble,” said another; and “Lord, what _are_ they -making such a fuss about?” breathed Kate. - -“Yes, it will alter our position in every way,” the Captain said, -stroking his moustache, and fixing his eyes on vacancy. Then Polly -touched his arm softly, her cheek, which had been pale, glowing crimson. -_Our_ position! the word gave her inspiration. She touched him shyly at -first to call his attention; then, with some vehemence, “Captain! that -will make----a deal easier,” she said; but what words were between -these broken bits of the sentence, or if any words came between, the -excited listeners could not make out. - -“Yes,” he said with dignity. But he did not look at her. He maintained -his abstracted look, which was so very impressive. They all hung upon, -not only his lips, but every movement. As for Polly, the suspense was -more than she could bear. She was not a patient young woman, nor had she -been trained to deny herself like Ellen, or control her feelings as -women in a different sphere are obliged to do. She resumed her work for -a moment with hurried hands, trying to control her anxiety; then -suddenly threw it in a heap on the table, without even taking the -trouble to fold it tidily. She did not seem to know what she was doing, -they all thought. - -“I am going home,” she said, with a hoarseness in her voice. “There is -nothing very pressing, so it won’t matter. I’ve got such a headache I -don’t know what to do with myself.” - -“Oh, Polly, a headache! that’s not like you--yes, there’s Mrs. -Arrowsmith’s dress that was promised.” - -“I don’t care--and she’s not a regular customer. And it’s only a bit of -an alpaca with no trimmings--you can finish it yourselves. Captain, if -you’re coming my way, you can come--if you like; unless,” said Polly, -with feverish bravado, “you’ve got something to say to the girls more -than you seem to have to me--I’m going home.” - -The Captain woke up from his abstraction, and looked round him, -elevating his eyebrows. “Bless my heart, what is the matter?” he said. -And then he made a grimace, which tempted the girls to laugh -notwithstanding Polly’s tragic seriousness. “I had hoped to have -contributed a little to the entertainment of the evening, my dear young -ladies. I had hoped to have helped you to ‘pass the time,’ as you say. -But when a lady bids me go----” - -“Oh, you needn’t unless you like,” cried Polly; “don’t mind me! I don’t -want nobody to go home with me. I can take care of myself--only leave me -alone if you please. I won’t be made fun of, or taken off. Let me out -into the fresh air, or I think I shall faint.” The Captain took an -unfair advantage of the excited creature. He turned round upon them all -when Polly rushed out to get her jacket and hat, which hung in the hall, -and “took her off” on the spot, making himself so like her, that it was -all they could do to keep from betraying him by their laughter. When -she had put on her “things,” she put her head into the room she had just -left. “Good-night, I’m going,” she said, with a look of impassioned -anxiety and trouble. She was too much absorbed in her own feelings to -see through the mist in which their faces shone to her, the laughter -that was in them. She only saw the Captain standing up in the midst of -them. Was he coming after her? or was he going to fall off from her at -this crisis of his affairs? Perhaps it was foolish of her to rush off -like this, and leave him with all these girls about him. But Polly had -never been used to restrain her feelings, and she could not help it she -vowed to herself. Everything in the future seemed to depend upon whether -he came after her or not. Oh, why could not she have had a little more -patience! oh, why should not he come with her, say something to her -after all that had passed! As great a conflict was in her mind as if she -had been a heroine of romance. The Captain and she had been “keeping -company” for a long time. He had “kept off” others that would not have -shilly-shallyed as he had done. A man’s “intentions” are rarely inquired -into in Polly’s sphere. But if he cared for her the least bit, if he had -any honour in him, she felt that he would follow her now. Polly knew -that she might have been Mrs. Despard long ago if she had consented to -be married privately as the Captain wished. But she was for none of -those clandestine proceedings. She would be married in her parish -church, with white favours and a couple of flys, and something that -might be supposed to be a wedding breakfast. She had held by her notions -of decorum stoutly, and would hear of no hole-and-corner proceedings. -And now when fortune was smiling upon them, when his daughter had got -hold of someone (this was Polly’s elegant way of putting it), and when -the way would be clear, what if he failed her? The workroom with its -blaze of light and its curious spectators had been intolerable to her, -but a cold shudder crossed her when she got out of doors into the -darkness of the lane. Perhaps she ought to have stayed at any cost, not -to have left him in the midst of so many temptations. Her heart seemed -to sink into her shoes. Oh, why had she been so silly! Her hopes seemed -all dropping, disappearing from her. To sink into simple Polly -Featherston, with no dazzling prospect of future elevation, would be -death to her, she felt, now. - -Polly was half way up the lane before the Captain, coming along at his -leisure, made up to her; and, what with passion and fright, she had -scarcely any voice left. “Oh, you have come after all!” was all she -could manage to say. And she hurried on, so rapidly that he protested. -“If you want to talk, how can we talk if we race like this?” he said. -“Who wants to talk?” cried Polly breathless; but nevertheless she -paused in her headlong career. They went up the hill together, on the -steep side next the Abbey, where there never was anybody, and there the -Captain discoursed to Polly about his new hopes. She would have liked it -better had he decided how the old ones were to be realised. But still, -as he was confidential and opened everything to her as to his natural -confidant, her excitement gradually subsided, and her trust in him -returned. She listened patiently while he recounted to her all the -results that would be sure to follow, when an influential son-in-law, a -member of a noble family, brought him to the recollection of the -Commander-in-Chief. - -“They think I’m shelved and superannuated,” he said; “but let me but -have an opening--all I want is an opening; and then you can go and -select the handsomest phaeton and the prettiest pair of ponies, my -lady--” - -Polly laughed and reddened with pleasure at this address, but she said -prudently, “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. I wouldn’t give -up being a Chevalier. It’s a nice little house and a nice little income -too.” - -“Pooh! a nothing,” cried the Captain. This was very fine and gave a -sense of superiority and exaltation. Polly could not but allow a vision -to float before her eyes of the phaeton and the ponies, nay more, of the -march of a regiment with the flags and the music. She even seemed to -see the sentry at her own door, and all the men presenting arms as she -passed (what less could they do to the wife of their commander?). But, -on the other hand, to live here at Michael’s where she was born, and be -seen in her high estate by all the people who had known her as a poor -dressmaker, that was a happiness which she did not like to give up, even -for the glories of a high command far away. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - -ROMANCE AND REALITY. - - -Lottie was entirely unconscious of the intimation that had been made to -her father, and of the excitement which had risen among her neighbours -about Mr. Ridsdale. It did not occur to her that anyone but herself knew -anything about him. The delighted curiosity of the O’Shaughnessys and -the anxious concern of Captain Temple were equally unknown to her. Her -mind was still moved by an echo of the sentiment of their last -meeting--a thrill of emotion half from the music, half from the -awakening feelings, the curiosity, the commotion of her developing -nature. Of all Law’s communications which had excited himself so -powerfully, and which had also to some extent excited her, she -remembered little in comparison. The large dim room at the Deanery, the -faint night air breathing about, blowing the flames of the candles, the -moths that circled about the lights and did themselves to death against -every flame, seemed to glimmer before her eyes continually--everything -else, even the danger of her father’s marriage, the danger of Law’s -imprudence, fell into the background and became distant; everything -receded before the perpetual attraction of this shadowy scene. - -Mr. Ridsdale made a second call upon her in the morning after service, -just at the moment when Captain Temple and Major O’Shaughnessy were -talking to her father. This time he brought no note, and had no excuse -ready to explain his visit. “I came to say good-by,” he said, holding -out his hand and looking rather wistfully into her face. Lottie offered -him her hand demurely. She scarcely met his eyes. Her heart began to -beat as soon as she heard his voice asking for her at the door. It -brought back all the terrors of the previous night. She did not however -ask him to sit down, but stood faltering opposite to him, embarrassed, -not knowing what to do. - -“You would not accept my escort last night,” he said; “I was dreadfully -disappointed when I came out and found you gone. I had been waiting, not -wishing to hurry you. I hope you did not think I was a laggard?” - -“Oh no, it was my fault,” said Lottie, not raising her eyes. “There was -no need for anyone to come with me. It is but two steps, and at that -hour there is no one about. There was no need--for any escort.” - -“May I sit down for a few minutes, Miss Despard? My train is not till -one o’clock.” - -Lottie blushed crimson at this implied reproach. It might be right to be -shy of him, but not to be rude to him. “Oh, I beg your pardon,” she -said, pointing to a chair. - -“You took us all by surprise last night,” he said, carefully placing -hers for her. “I think it was a revelation to everybody. We hear that -music in the Abbey, and we suppose we understand it; till someone like -you suddenly interprets it to us, and we wake up and feel that we never -heard it before.” - -“I never knew what it was--to sing anything like that before,” said -Lottie. It disturbed her even to think about it; “and it had all been so -different--so----” - -“Commonplace? from the ridiculous to the sublime; from poor dear Aunt -Caroline on her sofa to Handel fluting among the angels. It _was_ a step -indeed.” - -“I did not mean that. It was myself I was thinking of--I had been so -full of silly fancies of my own.” - -“But all at once the inspiration came? I should like to be capable of -anything like that; but I am not. I can only listen, and worship,” said -Rollo. There was fervour in his voice--a real something which was not -mere fanaticism about music. And the two young people sat for a few -moments in silence, a most dangerous thing to do, looking at each -other--nay, not looking at each other--for Lottie did not feel either -able or disposed to raise her eyes. She was the first to speak, in order -to break the silence, which alarmed her, though she did not know why. - -“It is wonderful how the Signor plays. I never understood it in the -Abbey. He seems to place you up somewhere above yourself--and make your -voice come independent of you.” - -“Never in his life, I am sure, did he have such a beautiful compliment -paid to him,” said Rollo; “but, Miss Despard, you do him too much -credit. You permitted even me to accompany you--and sang just as -divinely----” - -“Oh no,” said Lottie. Then she blushed and recollected herself. “You -play very well, Mr. Ridsdale; but we could not compare those trumpery -songs with----” - -“Trumpery songs! only Mozart and Bellini, and a few more,” he cried, -with a gasp. “Ah, I know what you mean; you meant the ‘Marta’ song, -which made your good friend, that good woman, cry----” - -“I like the ‘Last Rose of Summer’ very much. I have always liked it. I -used to hear an old fiddler play it in the street when I was a child, -when I was lying in the dark, trying to go to sleep. It was like a -friend keeping me company; but a friend that had a breaking heart, that -cried and took all my thoughts off myself--I shall never forget it,” -said Lottie, the tears coming to her eyes at the recollection. “I like -it better than all the rest.” - -“Miss Despard, do not drive me to despair. Not better than ‘Casta Diva,’ -or Margaret’s song, or----” - -“You forget I don’t know where they come, nor the meaning of them,” said -Lottie, calmly. “I never heard an opera. I think these things are -beautiful, but they only sing to my ear, they don’t come in to _me_.” - -Rollo shook his head. He was half touched, half shocked. It was her -ignorance; but then a woman destined for a prima donna, a woman with -musical genius, _ought_ to know the best by intuition, he thought. All -the same, he was more interested than if she had raved as the -commonplace, half educated amateur raves. “But Handel does,” he said. - -“Ah!” Lottie cried, her face lighting up. But she added, after a moment, -“I am too ignorant to be worth talking to; you will be disgusted. I -never thought much about Handel. It was not Handel, it was _that_.” A -flush of colour came over her face with the recollection. She was too -uninstructed (notwithstanding the neighbourhood of the Abbey) to have -fully woke up to Handel or anyone. “I suppose I have heard it and did -not pay much attention to it,” she said; “it was singing it. One does -not understand at first--till suddenly one hears one’s self, and you -say, ‘What is this that is speaking; what is this? it cannot be _me_!’” - -“I think I understand--a little,” said Rollo doubtfully; “though it is -simply _you_ that makes a something quite familiar, a piece of music we -have all heard a hundred times, become a new revelation to us all in a -moment. I am going away, Miss Despard, and it may be some time before I -return. Would you do me such a great favour--which I have no right to -ask--as to sing me something now before I go?” - -But Lottie would not sing. She said, “Oh no, no,” with a half terror -which he did not understand, and which she did not understand herself. -The tone was one which forbade the repetition of the request. He begged -her pardon anxiously, and there was a little languid conversation about -other subjects, and then he rose. He put out his hand again, looking -into her eyes, which she raised shyly, almost for the first time. Rollo -had a way of looking into the eyes of women to whom he wished to make -himself agreeable. It is sometimes very impertinent, and always daring, -but, especially when the woman’s imagination is on the side of the -gazer, it is very efficacious. Lottie was entirely inexperienced, and -she trembled under this look, but felt it penetrate to her very heart. - -“Till we meet again,” he said, with a smile, holding her hand for that -necessary moment while he said his good-by. “It will not be very long; -and I hope that you will be kind to me, Miss Despard, and let me hear -you----” - -“Good-by,” said Lottie. She could not bear it any longer. She blamed -herself afterwards for being rude, as she sat down and went over the -incident again and again. She seemed to herself to have dismissed him -quite rudely, pulling her hand away, cutting short what he was saying. -But Rollo, for his part, did not feel that it was rude. He went down the -narrow stairs with his heart beating a little quicker than usual, and a -sense that here was something quite fresh and novel, something not like -the little flirtations with which he was so familiar, and which amused -him a great deal in general. This he had just touched, floated over with -his usual easy sentiment, was something quite out of the common. It -startled him with the throb in it. He went away quite thoughtful, his -heart in a most unusual commotion, and forgot until he was miles away -from St. Michael’s that Lottie Despard was to be the English prima -donna, who was to make his fortune, if properly managed. “Ah, to be -sure, that was it!” he said to himself suddenly in the railway carriage, -as he was going to town. He really had forgotten what it was that took -him to town at this unsuitable moment of the year. - -The rest of the morning glided dreamily away after an incident like -this; and it was not till late in the afternoon that Lottie suddenly -awoke to the necessity of making an effort, and shaking off the empire -of dreams: and this was how she became convinced of the necessity for -doing so. She had been sitting, as on the former occasion, with a basket -of mending by her when Rollo came in. She had all the clothes of the -household to keep in order, and naturally they were not done in one -day. After Mr. Ridsdale was gone, she took up her work languidly, -keeping it on her knee while she went over all that had happened, again -and again, as has been recorded. When, at last startled by a sound -outside, she began to work in earnest, then and there a revelation of a -character totally distinct from that made by Handel burst upon her. It -was not a revelation of the same kind, but it was very startling. Lottie -found--_that she had not yet finished the hole in the sock which she had -begun to mend before Mr. Ridsdale’s first visit_! She was still in the -middle of that one hole. She remembered exactly where she stuck her -needle, in the middle of a woolly hillock, as she heard him coming -upstairs; and there it was still, in precisely the same place. This -discovery made her heart jump almost as much as Mr. Ridsdale’s visit had -done. What an evidence of wicked idling, of the most foolish dreaming -and unprofitable thought was in it! Lottie blushed, though she was -alone, to the roots of her hair, and seizing the sock with an -impassioned glow of energy, never took breath till the stern evidence of -that hole was done away with. And then she could not give herself any -rest. She felt her dreams floating about her with folded pinions, ready -to descend upon her and envelope her in their shadow if she gave them -the chance; but she was determined that she would not give them the -chance. As soon as she had finished the pair of socks, and folded them -carefully up, she went to look for Law to suggest that they should go -immediately to Mr. Ashford. Law had only just come in from a furtive -expedition out of doors, and had scarcely time to spread his books open -before him when she entered his room. But he would not go to Mr. -Ashford. It was time enough for that, and he meant in the meantime to -“work up” by himself, he declared. Lottie became more energetic than -ever in the revulsion of feeling, and determination not to yield further -to any vanity. She pleaded with him, stormed at him, but in vain. “At -the worst I can always ’list,” he said, half in dogged resistance to -her, half in boyish mischief to vex her. But he would not yield to her -desire to consult Mr. Ashford, though he had assented at first. He did -not refuse to go “some time,” but nothing that she could say would -induce him to go now. This brought in again all the contradictions and -cares of her life to make her heart sore when she turned back out of the -enchanted land in which for a little while she had been delivered from -these cares. They all came back upon her open-mouthed, like wild beasts, -she thought. Law resisting everything that was good for him, and her -father----. But Lottie could not realise the change that threatened to -come upon her through her father. It seemed like the suggestion of a -dream. Law must be deceived, it must be all a delusion, it was not -possible, it was not credible. The Captain came in early that night, -and he came upstairs into the little drawing-room, to which he had no -habit of coming. He told his daughter in a stately way that he heard her -singing had given great satisfaction at the Deanery. “More than one -person has mentioned it to me,” he said; “that is of course a -satisfaction. And--who is the gentleman you have been having here so -much?” - -“There has been no one here very much,” said Lottie; then she blushed in -spite of herself, though she did not suppose that was what he alluded -to. “You do not mean Mr. Ridsdale?” she said. - -“How many visitors have you got?” he said, in high good humour. “Perhaps -it is Mr. Ridsdale--Lady Caroline’s nephew? Ah, I like the family. It -was he you sang to? Well, no harm; you’ve got a very pretty voice--and -so had your mother before you,” the Captain added, with a carefully -prepared sigh. - -“It was only once,” said Lottie, confused. “Mrs. O’Shaughnessy was here; -it was after we had been singing at the Deanery; it was----” - -“My child,” said the Captain, “I am not finding fault. No harm in -putting your best foot foremost. I wish you’d do it a little more. At -your age you ought to be thinking about getting married. And, to tell -the truth, it would be a great convenience to me, and suit my plans -beautifully, if you would get married. You mustn’t stand -shilly-shallying; let him come to the point: or, if he won’t, my dear, -refer him to me.” - -“I don’t know what you mean,” cried Lottie. Fortunately for her, he had -thought her a child up to the time of their migration to St. Michael’s, -and she had been subjected to very little advice of this description. -But, though she gazed at him with wondering eyes, she knew very well by -the instinct of horror and repulsion in her mind what he meant. It gave -her a shock of pain and shame which ran like electricity to her very -finger points. “I think you must be making a mistake,” she said. “I -scarcely know Mr. Ridsdale at all. He has called here twice--on -business--for Lady Caroline--and now he has gone away.” - -“Gone away!” the Captain said, his face lengthening with disappointment -and dismay; “gone away! then you’re a fool--a greater fool than I -thought you. What’s to become of you, do you ever ask yourself? Good -lord, what a chance to throw away! One of the Courtland family--a fellow -with a turn for music--that you could have turned round your little -finger! And to let him go away! By George,” said the Captain, making a -stride towards her, and clenching his fist in the energy of his -disapproval, “I don’t believe you’re any child of mine. Clever--you -think you’re clever? and so did your mother, poor woman! but you’re an -idiot, that is what you are--an idiot! to let such a chance slip -through your fingers. Good lord! to think such a fool should be a child -of mine!” - -Lottie stood her ground firmly. She was not afraid of the clenched fist, -nor even of the angry voice and eyes, which were more genuine. If there -was a slight tremor in her, it was of her own excited nerves. She made -no reply; if she had spoken, what could she have done but express her -own passionate loathing for his advice, and for his disapproval, and -perhaps even for himself? for she had not been brought up to reverence -the faulty father, whose evil qualities her mother had discussed in -Lottie’s presence as long as she could remember. There had not been any -illusion in his children’s eyes after their babyhood, in respect to -Captain Despard, and perhaps in the present emergency this was well. She -stood and met his fury, pale, but more disdainful than desperate. It was -no more than she would have expected of him had she ever thought of the -emergency at all. - -Law had heard the sound of the battle from afar; he heard his father’s -voice raised, and the sound of the stroke upon the table with which he -had emphasised one of his sentences. It was a god-send to the -unenthusiastic student to be disturbed by anything, and he came in -sauntering with his hands in his pockets, partly with the intention of -taking Lottie’s part, partly for the sake of “the fun,” whatever it -might be. “What’s the row?” he asked. He had slippers on, and shuffled -along heavily, and his coat was very old and smelt of tobacco, though -that was a luxury in which Law could indulge but sparingly. He had his -hands in his pockets, and his hair was well rubbed in all directions by -the efforts he had made over his unbeloved books. Thus it was but a -slovenly angel that came to Lottie’s aid. He stopped the yawn which his -“reading” had brought on, and looked at the belligerents with some hope -of amusement. “I say, don’t bully Lottie,” he exclaimed, but not with -any fervour. He would not have allowed anyone to lay a finger upon her, -but a little bullying, such as she administered to him daily, that -perhaps would do Lottie no harm. However, he was there in her defence if -things should come to any extremity. She was of his faction, and he of -hers; but yet he thought a little bullying of the kind she gave so -liberally might do Lottie no harm. - -“Go away, Law; it is no matter; it is nothing. Papa was only -communicating some of his ideas--forcibly,” said Lottie, with a smile of -defiance; but as there was always a fear in her mind lest these two -should get into collision, she added hastily, “Law, I don’t want you--go -away.” - -“He can stay,” said the Captain. “I have something to say to you both. -Look here. I thought in the first place that she had hit off something -for herself,” he said, turning half round to his son. “I thought she had -caught that fellow, that Ridsdale; from what I had heard, I thought -that was certain--that there would be no difficulty on that side.” - -The Captain had left his original ground. Instead of reproaching Lottie, -in which he was strong, he was in the act of disclosing his own -intentions, and this was much less certain ground. He looked at Law, and -he wavered. Big lout! he knew a great deal too much already. Captain -Despard looked at Law as at a possible rival, a being who had been -thrust into his way. The workroom had no secrets from Law. - -“I think the governor’s right there,” said Law confidentially; “he’s a -big fish, but he’s all right if you give him time.” - -A gleam of sudden fury blazed over Lottie’s face. She, too, clenched her -hands passionately. She stamped her foot upon the floor. “How dare you?” -she said, “how dare you insult me in my own home, you two men? Oh, yes, -I know who you are--my father and my brother, my father and my brother! -the two who ought to protect a girl and take care of her! Oh! is it not -enough to make one hate, and loathe and despise--!” said Lottie, dashing -her white clenched hand into the air. Tears that seemed to burn her came -rushing from her eyes. She looked at them with wild indignation and -rage, in which there was still a certain appeal. How could they, how -could they shame a girl so? They looked at her for a moment in this -rage, which was so impotent and so pitiful, and then they gave a -simultaneous laugh. When an exhibition of passionate feeling does not -overawe, it amuses. It is so ludicrous to see a creature crying out, -weeping, suffering for some trifle which would not in the least affect -ourselves. Lottie was struck dumb by this laugh. She gave a startled -look up at them through those hot seas of salt scalding tears that were -in her eyes. - -“What a fool you are making of yourself!” said the Captain. “Women are -the greatest fools there are on this earth, always with some high-flown -rubbish or other in their stupid heads. Your own home! and who made it -your home, I should like to know? I don’t say you hadn’t a right to -shelter when you were a little thing; but that’s long out of the -question. A girl of twenty ought to be thinking about getting herself a -real home of her own. How are you going to do it? that’s the question. -You are not going to stay here to be a burden upon me all your life; and -what do you mean to do?” - -“I will go to-morrow!” cried Lottie, wildly; “I would go to-night if it -were not dark. I will go--and free you of the burden!” Here she stopped; -all the angry colour went out of her face. She looked at them with great -wide eyes, appalled; and clasped her hands together with a lamentable -cry. “Oh! but I never thought of it before, I never thought of it!” she -cried; “where am I to go?” - -Law’s heart smote him; he drew a step nearer to her. To agree with his -father (however much in his heart he agreed with his father) was -abandoning his sister--and his own side. “He doesn’t mean it,” he said -soothingly in an undertone; “he only wants to bully you, Lottie. Never -mind him, we’ll talk it over after,” and he put his big hand upon her -shoulder to console her. Lottie turned upon him, half furious, half -appealing. She could not see him till two big tears fell out of her -eyes, and cleared her sight a little. She clutched at the hand upon her -shoulder in her distraction and despair. - -“Come with me, Law. Two of us together, we can go anywhere; two can go -anywhere. Oh! how can you tell me never to mind? Do you hear me?” she -cried, seizing his arm with both her hands, half shaking him, half -clinging to him; “say you will come with me, Law!” - -“Stop this stuff!” said the Captain. “I am not telling you to go; I am -telling you what is your plain duty, the only thing a woman is fit for. -Besides, this young fellow would be of great use to me; it’s your duty -to get hold of him for the good of the family. He might say a good word -for me at the Horse Guards; he might get Law something. I never expected -you would have such a chance. Do you think I want you to go away just -when there’s a chance that you might be of some use? Am I a fool, do -you think? You’ll stay where you are, Lottie Despard! you’ll not go -disgracing your family, governessing, or anything of that sort.” - -“Ah!” said Law suddenly, “she’ll wish she had listened to the Signor -now.” - -“To the Signor? what of the Signor? is he after her too?” cried the -Captain eagerly. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush; and though -the Signor had no interest with the Horse Guards, he had money, and -might be of use in many ways. Captain Despard’s eyes lighted up. “Whew!” -he whistled. “Lottie! so, my child, you’ve got two strings to your bow?” - -Lottie turned upon her brother, whose arm she had been holding with both -her hands. She pushed him, flung him from her with an energy of which -she had not appeared capable, and throwing her head high, looked her -father in the face and walked out of the room. Law, confounded by the -force with which she threw him from her, caught at her angrily as she -passed; but she pulled her dress from his hand, and walked past him with -a contempt that stung him--callous as he was. As for the Captain, he -made no effort to detain her, partly because of his surprise, partly -that he was anxious to have more information about (as he supposed) this -second suitor. She went straight to her own room, while they stood -listening till she had shut the door upon herself and her passion. Then -the Captain ventured to laugh again, but low, not to be heard; for the -look of any creature driven to bay is alarming, and Lottie’s sudden -withdrawal was a relief. - -“Whoever gets her will catch a Tartar! eh, Law?” he said. “But now that -she’s gone, let’s hear all about the Signor.” - -There was no light in Lottie’s room; nothing but the faint starlight -outside, and as much of the familiar glimmer of the few feeble lamps in -the Dean’s Walk as could get in through her small window. How is it that -so small a bit of space, such four straight walls, should hold in such a -throbbing, palpitating, agitated being, with projects wide enough and -fury hot enough to burst them like a child’s toy? It was in her to have -torn her hair or anything that came in the way of her fevered hands; to -have filled the air with cries; to have filled the whole world with her -protest against the intolerable shame and wretchedness which they were -trying to force upon her thoughts! But she only threw herself on her bed -in the dark and silence, letting no sound or movement betray her. She -was not prostrated as by unkindness, or stung by reproach; but wounded, -shamed, desecrated--the very sanctity of her dreams turned into a horror -to her. And Law gone against her--Law gone over to the other side! - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - -THE SIGNOR’S HOUSEHOLD. - - -The Despard family became a great centre of interest to many people both -within and without the Abbey precincts at this period of their history. -Without any doing, so to speak, of theirs, Fate mixed them up both with -the great and the small, so that their proceedings moved a great many -circles of thought and feeling beyond that in which they themselves -stood. We have said without any doing of theirs--but this, perhaps, is -true only in respect to Lottie, who took no steps consciously to produce -the _rapprochement_ which had taken place so strangely between the -heaven of the Deanery and the earth of the Lodges. She had not done -anything to recommend herself to Lady Caroline or Lady Caroline’s -nephew. And yet with both she had become an important “factor,” to use a -fashionable term, in the immediate concerns of life. The Captain was not -so innocent of purpose in the commotion he had begun to make. But still -he had not calculated upon the interest that would be excited by his -proceedings. The community at St. Michael’s was quiet and had little to -rouse its interest. Sometimes a Canon would be translated to a higher -and a better stall--sometimes an old Chevalier would die and be replaced -by another veteran not much less old than he--sometimes a son would “go -wrong” and create a great deal of whispered communication and shaking of -heads. At the present time there were no daughters to marry except -Lottie, so that the pleasanter strain of possibility was little thought -of. All this made it very inspiring, very agitating to the dwellers -round the Abbey, when a family within the precincts gave them so much to -think about. A girl likely to make a very good match in a romantic way: -a man likely to make a very bad one, in a way which might have been -quite as romantic had it not been on the wrong side, such as would -debase, not exalt his class; these two probabilities coming together had -a great effect upon the popular mind. In the Chevaliers’ Lodges there -was very little else talked about. Captain Temple, the most respected of -all the Chevaliers, could not keep still, so excited was he. He had -spoken to “the father,” he told his wife, to put him on his guard, and -to show him how necessary it was to take proper care of his child. That -was all he could do: but he could not content himself with thus doing -what he could. He paced about his little sitting-room, disturbing Mrs. -Temple at her wool-work. She was not like her husband. She was a still, -composed, almost stern woman, with a passionate heart, to which she gave -very little expression. She could not talk of her daughter as Captain -Temple could. The remembrance of the years during which her child was -separated from her was terrible to her. When her husband talked as he -was accustomed to do of this great grief of theirs, she never stopped -him, but she herself was dumb. She closed all her windows, as it were, -and retired into a fortress of silent anguish, out of which no cry came; -but she listened to him all the same. This was what she did now, though -it pained her to hear of this other girl who stood between life and -death, between good and evil, as once her child had stood. She would -have helped Lottie with all her heart, but she could not bear to hear -her talked of--though this was precisely what she had to bear. - -“I told him it was his duty to look after his daughter,” said Captain -Temple, pacing--three steps one way, four the other--about the room. -“But he won’t--you will see he won’t. A beautiful girl, far too good for -him, a girl who deserves a better fate. She puts me in mind of our own -dear girl, Lucy. I have told you so before.” - -To this Mrs. Temple made no reply. He had told her so a great many times -before. She selected a new shade of her Berlin wool, and set her elbow -rigidly against the arm of her chair, that she might thread her needle -without trembling, but she made no reply. - -“She puts me constantly in mind of her. The way she holds her head, and -her walk, and---- I beg your pardon, my dear. I know you don’t like this -kind of talk; but if you knew how I seem to see her wherever I -go--wherever I go! I wonder if she is permitted to come and walk by her -old father’s side, God bless her. Ah! well, it was Despard’s daughter we -were talking of. To think _he_ should have this girl who takes no care -of her--and we to whom ours was everything!” - -The poor woman made a spasmodic movement, and turned her eyes upon him -dumbly. She could not bear it. The needle fell out of her hands, and she -stooped to hunt for it on the carpet. She would not stop him to whom it -was so great a relief to talk; but it was death to her. - -“But I told him,” said Captain Temple. “I showed him his duty, Lucy. I -told him he ought to be thankful he had such a daughter to watch over. -And what more could I do? I set the whole thing before him. There was -nothing more that I could do?” - -“Then you must be satisfied, William, and perhaps it will have some -effect; we must wait and see,” said Mrs. Temple, coming to the surface -again with her needle, which she had found, in her hand. She managed to -get it threaded this time with great exertion, while her husband set off -again upon his restricted promenade, shaking his white head. Captain -Temple, it may be recollected, had not said so much to Captain Despard -as he thought he had said--but if he had said everything that man could -say it is not probable that it would have made much difference. The kind -old Chevalier shook his white head. His eyes were full of moisture and -his heart of tenderness. He did not feel willing to wait and see, as his -wife suggested. He wanted to do something there and then for Lottie, to -go to her and warn her, to keep watch at her door, and prevent the -entrance of the wolf--anything, he did not mind what it was so long as -he could secure her safety. - -The other subject was discussed that same evening in another and very -different scene, when Mrs. Purcell, the Signor’s housekeeper, asked her -old fellow-servant, Pickering, what news there was in the precincts, and -if anything was stirring. It was the most delicious moment for a gossip, -when tea was over in the kitchen, and dinner upstairs, and twilight was -beginning to drop over the country, bringing quiet and coolness after -the blaze of the day. Mrs. Purcell sat by the open window, which was cut -in the very boundary wall of the Abbey precincts, as in the side of a -precipice. It was not safe for anyone of uncertain nerves to look -straight down upon the slope of St. Michael’s Hill, on which the walls -were founded, and on the steep street winding below. But Mrs. Purcell -had her nerves in the most steady and well-regulated condition. She was -not afraid to sit at the head of the precipice, and even to look out and -look down when the shop windows began to be lighted. She liked to see -the lights coming out below. It was cheerful and felt like “company” -when she sat alone. Old Pickering had just come in after an errand into -the town. He was the man-servant, while she was the housekeeper, but the -work of the establishment was chiefly done by a sturdy young woman who -was under the orders of both. - -“News--I don’t know much about news,” said old Pick. “It wants young -folks to make news; and there ain’t many of that sort about here.” - -“Dear!” said Mrs. Purcell (but it must not be supposed that this -exclamation meant any special expression of affection to old Pickering). -“There’s heaps of young folks! There’s the Signor, and there’s my -John----” - -“Master? you may call him young, if it don’t go again your -conscience--my notion is as he never was no younger than he is now. So -you may put what name to it you please. But you don’t ask me for news of -master, nor Mr. John neither--him, oh ah, there’ll be news of him one of -these days. He’ll get a cathedral, or he’ll be had up to London. We’ll -see him, with his baton in his hand, afore the biggest chorus as can be -got together; and won’t he lead ’em grand!” said old Pick. “When he was -but a little thing in his white surplice I seen it in his eye.” - -“You were always one that did my John justice,” said the housekeeper, -warmly. “Just to think of it, Pick--one day a bit of a mite in his -surplice, and the next, as you may say, with his baton, leading the -chief in the land! We bring children into the world, but we can’t tell -what’s to come of them,” she added, with pious melancholy. “Them as is -fortunate shouldn’t be proud. The young men as I’ve seen go to the bad -since I’ve been here!” - -“That should be a real comfort to you,” said Pickering, and they paused -both, to take full advantage of this consolation. Then, drawing a long -breath, Mrs. Purcell resumed-- - -“And so it should, Pick--when I see my boy that respectable, and as good -as any gentleman’s son, and reflect on what I’ve seen! But pride’s not -for the like of us--seeing the Lord can bring us low as fast as He’s set -us up.” The good woman dropped her voice, with that curious dread lest -envious fate should take her satisfaction amiss, which seems inherent in -humanity. As for old Pick, sentiment was not in his way. He took up a -little old-fashioned silver salver which stood on the table with some -notes upon it, waiting the sound of the Signer’s bell, and began to -polish it with his handkerchief. “Them girls,” he said, “there’s no -trust to be put in them. The times I’ve told her to be careful with my -plate. She says she haven’t the time, but you and me knows better than -that. What is there to do in this house? We gives no trouble, and as for -master, he’s dining out half his time.” - -“She’ll find the difference,” said Mrs. Purcell, “when she’s under a -lady. There’s many a thing I does myself. Instead of calling Maryanne -till I’m hoarse, I takes and does it myself; but a lady will never do -that. Ah, Pick, it’s experience as teaches. They don’t put any faith in -what we tell them; and her head full of soldiers, and I don’t know -what--as if a soldier ever brought anything but harm to a servant girl.” - -“They are all alike,” said old Pick. “There’s them Despards in the -Lodges--all the Abbey’s talking of them. The Captain--you know the -Captain? the one as sings out as if it all belonged to him--though he’s -neither tenor, nor alto, nor bass, but a kind of a jumble, and as often -as not sings the air!” said the old chorister, with contempt which was -beyond words. Mrs. Purcell looked upon the Captain from another point of -view. - -“He’s a fine handsome man,” she said. “He looks like a lord when he -comes marching up the aisle, not an old Methusaleh, like most of ’em.” - -“Ah!” cried Pickering, with a groan, “that’s the way the women are led -away. He’s a fine fellow, he is! oh, yes, he’s like a lord, with bills -in every shop in the town, and not a penny to pay ’em.” - -“Them shops!” said Mrs. Purcell. “I don’t wonder, if a gentleman’s of a -yielding disposition. They offer you this, and they offer you that, and -won’t take an answer. It’s their own fault. They didn’t ought to put -their temptations in folk’s way. It’s like dodging a bait about a poor -fish’s nose; and then swearing it will make up lovely, and be far more -becoming than what you’ve got on. I think it’s scandalous, for my part. -They deserve to lose their money now and again.” - -“They say he’s going to be married,” said old Pick, stolidly. - -“Married! You’re dreaming, Pick! Lord bless us,” said Mrs. Purcell, -“that’s news, that is! Married? I don’t believe a word of it; at his -age!” - -“You said just now he wasn’t a Methusaleh, and no more he is; he’s a -fine handsome man. He thinks a deal of himself, and that’s what makes -other folks think a deal of him. The women’s as bad as the shops,” said -old Pick; “they bring it on themselves. Here’s a man as is never out of -mischief. I’ve seen him regularly coming home--well--none the better for -his liquor; and gamblin’ day and night, playing billiards, betting, I -don’t know what. We all know what that comes to; and a grown-up family -besides----” - -“Dear!” said Mrs. Purcell, in great concern. She knew a good deal about -Miss Despard, and her feelings were very mingled in respect to her. In -the first place, to know that her John was in love with _a lady_ -flattered and excited her, and had made her very curious about Lottie, -every detail of whose looks, and appearance generally, she had studied. -A Chevalier’s daughter might not be any very great thing; but it was a -wonderful rise in the world for Mrs. Purcell’s son to be able to permit -himself to fall in love with such a person. On the other hand, Miss -Despard was poor, and might interfere with John’s chance of rising in -the world. But anyhow, everything about her was deeply interesting to -John’s mother. She paused to think what effect such a change would have -upon her son before she asked any further questions. What would Miss -Despard do? It was not likely she would care for a stepmother after -being used to be mistress of the house--would she be ready to accept -anyone that asked her, in order to get “a home of her own”? And would -John insist upon marrying her? and would he be able to keep a wife? -These questions all hurried through Mrs. Purcell’s mind on receipt of -this startling news. “Dear! dear!” she said--and for a long time it was -all she could say. The interests were so mixed that she did not know -what to desire. Now or never, perhaps, was the time for John to secure -the wife he wanted; but even in that case, would it be right for him to -marry? Mrs. Purcell did not know what to think. “Did you hear who the -lady was?” she asked, in a faint voice. - -“Lady?--no lady at all--a girl that works for her living. I know her -well enough by sight. One of the dressmaker’s girls in the River Lane. -Ladies is silly enough, but not so silly as that; though I don’t know -neither,” said old Pick, “what women-folks will do for a husband is -wonderful. They’ll face the world for a husband. It don’t matter what -sort he is, nor if he’s worth having----” - -“They haven’t took that trouble for you, anyhow,” said Mrs. Purcell -faintly, standing up amid her preoccupations for her own side. - -“I’ve never given ’em the chance,” said Pick, with a chuckle. “Lord -bless you! they’ve tried a plenty, but I’ve never given ’em the chance. -Many’s the story I could tell you. They’ve done their best, poor things. -Some has been that enterprising, I never could keep in the same room -with ’em. But I’ve kep’ single, and I’ll keep single till my dying day. -So will master, if I can judge. There’s some has the way of it, and some -hasn’t. It would be a clever one,” said old Pickering, caressing his -chin with an astute smile, “to get the better of me.” - -The housekeeper threw at him a glance of mingled indignation and -derision. She gave her head a toss. It was not possible for feminine -flesh and blood to hear this unmoved. “You’re so tempting,” she said, -with angry energy. “’Andsome and well to do, and worth a woman’s while.” - -“Bless you, they don’t stick at that,” said the old man with a grin. “I -could tell you of things as has happened--some to myself--some to other -folks----” - -“Dear!” cried Mrs. Purcell, “and me to think you were an old stick of an -old bachelor, because nobody would have you, Pick! There’s some, as a -body reads it in their face--as dry as an east wind, and cutting like an -east wind does, that is never happy but when it’s blighting up -something. I daresay it’s all a story about Captain Despard--just like -the rest.” - -“None of ’em likes it, when you speak free,” said old Pick, chuckling to -himself. “Some pretends, just to please a man; but women does hang -together, whoever says different, and they none of them likes to hear -the truth. About Captain Despard, it’s a story if you please, but it’s -true. The girl she makes no secret, she tells everybody as she’ll soon -make a difference in the house. She’ll pack off the son to do for -himself, and the daughter----” - -“What of the daughter, Pick? Oh, the shameless hussy, to talk like that -of a poor motherless young girl----” - -“If she wasn’t motherless, what would Polly have to do with her? It -can’t be expected as a second wife should cry her eyes out because the -first’s gone.” - -“Polly!” said Mrs. Purcell, with bated breath; “and she says she’ll pack -the son about his business; and the daughter?--What is she going to do -about the daughter, when she’s got the poor misfortunate man under her -thumb? And who’s Polly, that you know so much about her? She’s a pretty -kind of acquaintance, so far as I can see, for a man as considers -himself respectable, and comes out of a gentleman’s house.” - -“That’s the other side,” said Pick, still chuckling to himself. “I said -women hangs together. So they do, till you come to speak of one in -particular, and then they fly at her. I don’t know nothing against -Polly. If the Captain’s in love with her, it ain’t her fault; if she -wants to better herself, it’s no more than you or me would do in her -place. She’s as respectable as most of the folks I know. To work for -your living ain’t a disgrace.” - -“It’s no disgrace; but a stepmother that is a dressmaking girl will be -something new to Miss Despard. Oh, I can’t smile! A dressmaker as---- -And young, I suppose, like herself? Oh, trust a man for that; she’s sure -to be young. Poor thing, poor thing! I’m that sorry for her, I can’t -tell what to do. A lady, Pick; they may be poor, but I’ve always heard -there was no better gentlefolks anywhere to be found. And a woman that -the likes of you calls Polly. Oh, that’s enough, that’s enough for me! A -nice, good, respectable girl, that knows what’s her due--you don’t call -_her_ Polly. Polly--there’s a deal in a name.” - -“Aha!” said old Pick, rubbing his hands, “I knew as soon as I named one -in particular what you would say. Fly at her, that’s what all you women -do. A name is neither here nor there. I’ve known as good women called -Polly as was ever christened Mary; eh? ain’t they the same name? I had a -sister Polly; I had a----” - -“Dear, dear!” said Mrs. Purcell, softly. She was paying no attention to -him; her mind was much disturbed. She turned away instinctively from the -gathering gloom of evening in which her old companion stood, and cast -her anxious eyes upon the wide landscape outside--the sky between grey -and blue, the lights beginning to twinkle far down in the steep street. -There was something in the great space and opening which seemed to give -counsel and support in her perturbation. For she did not know what to do -for the best. At such a moment would not John have a better chance than -he might ever have? And yet, if he got his heart’s desire, was it quite -certain that it would be good for John? The Signor’s housekeeper was -just as anxious about her boy as if she had been a great lady. Twinges -of maternal jealousy, no doubt, went through her mind. If John married, -he would be separated from his mother, and his wife would look down upon -her and teach him to despise her--a mother who was in service. What -could she expect if her son married a lady? All these thoughts went -through her mind as she looked out with anxiety, which drew deep lines -upon her forehead. But, on the whole, she was not selfish, and -considered it all anxiously, ready to make any sacrifice for that which -in the long run would be most good for John. - -In the meantime old Pickering talked on. When he was set a-going it was -difficult to bring him to a stop. He was quite aware that at the present -moment he ought not to stay there talking; he knew he ought to be -lighting the lamps, and kept listening with expectant ear for a sharp -tinkle of the Signor’s bell, which should warn him of his retarded -duties. But for all that he talked on. Dinner was over for some time, -and Pick knew very well that he ought to carry in the notes which he had -piled again upon the salver after giving it that polish with his -handkerchief. However, though he knew his duty, he took no steps towards -performing it, but moved leisurely about, and put various articles back -into the old polished cupboard with glass doors, which showed all the -best china, and was the pride of Mrs. Purcell’s heart. When Maryanne -came in, he emptied the salver again and showed her how imperfectly she -had cleaned it. “I can’t think how folks can be so stupid,” Pickering -said. “How do you think you are ever to better yourself if you don’t -take a lesson when it’s giv’ you? and proud you should be that anyone -would take the trouble. If I see it like this again I’ll--I don’t know -what I shan’t do.” He knew very well that it was what ought to have been -his own work that he was thus criticising, and, as it happened, so did -Maryanne, whose spirit was working up to a determination not to be -longer put upon. But for all that he found fault, (always waiting to -hear the bell ringing sharply, with a quaver of impatience in it,) and -she submitted, though she was aware that she was being put upon. Mrs. -Purcell, in the window, paid no attention to them. She kept gazing out -upon the wide world of grey-blue clouds, and asking herself what would -be best for John. - -They were disturbed in all these occupations by a step which came -briskly downstairs, perhaps betokening, Pickering thought, that the -Signor was going out again, and that his own delay about the lamps had -been a wise instinct. But, after all, it was not the Signor’s step; it -was young Purcell, who came along the little winding passage full of -corners, and entered the housekeeper’s room, scattering the little party -assembled there. Maryanne fled as a visitor from the outer world flies -from the chamber of a servant of the court, at the advent of the queen. -Though she would assure herself sometimes that Mrs. Purcell’s son was -“no better nor me,” yet in his presence Maryanne recognised the -difference. He was “the young master” even in Pick’s eyes, who stopped -talking, and put the notes back once more upon the salver with a great -air of business, as if in the act of hastening with them to the Signor. -Mrs. Purcell was the only one who received her son with tranquillity. -She turned her eyes upon him quietly, with a smile, with a serene pride -which would not have misbecome an empress. No one in the house, not the -Signor himself, had ascended to such a height of being as the -housekeeper; no one else had produced such a son. - -“Go and light the candles in the study, Pick,” said young Purcell. “The -Signor is in the dark, and he’s composing. Quick and carry him the -lights. Don’t bother him with those letters now. He is doing something -beautiful,” he said, turning to his mother. “There’s a phrase in it I -never heard equalled. He has been sitting out on the terrace getting -inspiration. I must run back and keep old Pick from disturbing him, -making a noise----” - -“Stay a moment, Johnny, my own dear----” - -“What’s the matter, mother? Oh, I know; you’ve heard of this last offer. -But if I take any I’ll take St. Ermengilde’s, where I could still go on -living at home, the Signor says. It’s less money, but so long as I can -help him and see _her_ now and again, and please you----” - -“Ah, John, your mother’s last; but that’s natural,” said Mrs. Purcell, -shaking her head, “quite natural. I don’t complain. Is it another organ -you’ve got the offer of? Well, to be sure! and there are folks that say -merit isn’t done justice to! John, I’ve been hearing something,” said -the housekeeper, putting out her hand to draw him to her; “something as -perhaps you ought to know.” - -The young man looked at her eagerly. In this place he bore a very -different aspect from that under which he had appeared to Lottie. Here -it was he who was master of the situation, the centre of a great many -hopes and wishes. He looked at her closely in the dusk, which made it -hard to see what was in her face. He was a good son, but he was his -mother’s social superior, and there was a touch of authority, even in -the kindness of his voice. - -“Something I ought to know? I know it already: that Mr. Ridsdale has -been visiting at the Lodges. That is nothing so extraordinary. If you -think a little attention from a fashionable fop will outweigh the -devotion of years!” said the young man, with a flush of high-flown -feeling. He had a great deal of sentiment and not very much education, -and naturally he was high-flown. “People may say what they like,” he -went on in an agitated voice, “but merit does carry the day. They’ve -offered me St. Ermengilde over the heads of half-a-dozen. Is it -possible, can you suppose, that she should be so blind!” - -“That wasn’t it,” said Mrs. Purcell quietly; “it’s something quite -different, my dear. Shut the door, that we mayn’t have old Pick coming -in again (it was he that told me), and you shall hear.” - - - END OF VOL. I. - - - - - COLLECTION - - OF - - BRITISH AUTHORS - - TAUCHNITZ EDITION. - - VOL. 1824. - - WITHIN THE PRECINCTS BY MRS. OLIPHANT. - - IN THREE VOLUMES. - - VOL. II. - - - - - WITHIN - THE PRECINCTS - - BY - - MRS. OLIPHANT, - - AUTHOR OF “THE CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,” ETC. - - _COPYRIGHT EDITION._ - - IN THREE VOLUMES. - - VOL. II. - - LEIPZIG - - BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ - - 1879. - - _The Right of Translation is reserved._ - - - - - CONTENTS - - OF VOLUME II. - - - Page - -CHAPTER XVII. The Musician at Home 7 - - -- XVIII. Young Purcell 26 - - -- XIX. Business, or Love? 44 - - -- XX. An unconscious Trial 60 - - -- XXI. Searchings of Heart 77 - - -- XXII. A Chance for Law 97 - - -- XXIII. Good Advice 115 - - -- XXIV. A Crisis 134 - - -- XXV. What Followed 150 - - -- XXVI. The Fool’s Paradise 167 - - -- XXVII. A Terrible Interruption 184 - - -- XXVIII. The Captain’s Wife 202 - - -- XXIX. The Heavings of the Earthquake 223 - - -- XXX. Lottie’s Fate 244 - - -- XXXI. What other People thought 261 - - -- XXXII. What Rollo had to Marry on 277 - - - - - WITHIN THE PRECINCTS. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - -THE MUSICIAN AT HOME. - - -The Signor’s house was one of those which, when general peacefulness had -made the battlements round St. Michael’s unnecessary, had grown within -the outer wall. It was more like a growth than a building. Windows which -looked, as we have said, as if cut in the side of a precipice, gave -light to the small panelled chambers which were connected by bits of -quaint passages, here and there by a little flight of stairs, with tiny -vestibules and landing-places, wasting the little space there was. Room -after room had no doubt been added as necessity arose, and each new room -had to be connected somehow with the others. The house occupied more -space than a comfortable ugly modern house with tolerably sized rooms -would have done, and when the Signor came into possession it had been a -miracle of picturesque awkwardness, not a room in it capable of holding -more than three or four people at a time, yet as many rooms as would -have lodged a dozen--the least possible use for the greatest possible -expenditure of space. The Signor, however, had built on the inner side a -dining-room in red brick, which made existence possible, though it -failed in the point of beauty. To tell the truth, the musician’s -dining-room was an eyesore to all the antiquaries and all the critics. -Nobody knew by what neglect of the architect, by what partiality of the -Board of Works, it had been permitted to be built. It was of no style at -all, neither Gothic, like the original building, nor Queen Anne, like -the fashion. He had failed in his duty in every respect. It was a square -box with a large window filling up one side. It was lighted with gas. It -had red curtains in bold and uncompromising rep, and a large mahogany -sideboard of the worst period. How he had been allowed to build this -monstrosity nobody knew. It had been made the subject of a painful -discussion in the Chapter itself, where Canon Skeffington (the Honble. -and Revd.) complained so bitterly of the injury done to his best -principles and highest feelings, that the Dean was irritated, and took -up the cudgels on his side on behalf of his favourite musician. “He has -a right, I suppose, to make himself comfortable like the rest of us,” -the head of the community said. “No right to make my life a burden to -me,” said the Honourable Canon; and, he added, almost weeping, “I cannot -look out of my window without seeing the thing. You talk at your ease, -you others----” But what was to be done? The Chapter could not take so -bold a step as to invade the rights of private property, tear down the -Signor’s red curtains, burn his sideboard, destroy his walls. He had to -be left to the enjoyment of his villainous erection. The Signor laughed -in his sleeve, but in public was remorseful, bemoaning his own ignorance -of art, and declaring that if he could afford it, rather than give pain -to Canon Skeffington--but then he could not afford it--and what was to -be done? He kept his dining-room, which was big enough to accommodate -his friends, but for himself the Signor had better taste than he -professed to have. His favourite sitting-room was in the same position -and had the same view as that of his housekeeper, but its window was -between two buttresses of the wall, which held in their gigantic arms a -little square shelf of green turf, a small projection of the hill, which -above and below was covered with masonry, leaving this little ledge of -grass, like one of the hanging gardens of Scripture, hung high in the -air above the town and the landscape. The Signor’s window opened upon -this little terrace. His room within was low and dark, but in summer at -least this mattered little, for its dim light and shadowy walls made a -pleasant shelter, like a bower in a wood, from the lightness and -brightness outside. There was a heavy beam across the roof, from which -hung a little chandelier of old Venice glass, reflected in a tall old -mirror among the oak panels over the mantelpiece, and not much more -bright than they were. On one side were the carved doors of a cupboard -in the wall, which was full of old music, the Signor’s chief treasures, -and on the other was a range of low bookshelves, also filled with music -books of every size and kind. The piano stood in the corner near the -window, with the keyboard close to the light. There were a few chairs -about the room, and a writing-table piled with papers. This was all the -furniture of the dim little chamber, and it was impossible to imagine a -greater contrast than existed between it and the new building which had -so shocked Canon Skeffington. And the Signor was not in this particular -much unlike his house. A touch of sentiment, which some people were -disposed to call high-flown, mingled in him with a curious undercurrent -of cynicism, which few people suspected at all. He liked to jar upon the -Canon Skeffingtons of existence and ruffle their tempers and their -finest feelings. But in his heart he had feelings equally fine, and was -as easily _froissé_ as they. He mocked at them on the very points in -which he himself was weak, affecting an insensibility which he did not -feel, building the vile modern room with profound enjoyment of their -delicate distress, but retiring out of it himself to the shelter of this -dim romantic chamber. The combination was very like the Signor. - -On this particular evening, when young Purcell went to call for lights, -the Signor was seated out on his little terrace enjoying the twilight -and a cigarette together. There were two chairs on the scrap of grass, -and a little table with an inkstand upon it, and the cup in which the -Signor had taken his black coffee after dinner. He was leaning back in -his chair puffing out the fragrant smoke from his cigarette, lazily -watching it as it floated upwards, and now and then noting down a bar or -two of music upon a piece of paper in his hand. Sometimes he took the -cigarette from his mouth and hummed a scrap of an air, keeping time with -his head and hand. There was no one who was more popular in the country -as a composer of graceful drawing-room songs than Signor Rossinetti. It -was something refined, something elegant that was expected from him, -delicate soprano melodies, fine combinations for tenors and altos. It -was very seldom that he took any trouble about the bass, but his tenor -songs were justly considered exquisite. He liked to have a pretty set of -verses on hand, and “set” them in the intervals of more serious -business. The summer evening, when he sat out after dinner upon his -scrap of terrace, was the time when he had most inspiration. His pupil -and _protégé_, young Purcell, thought there was no intellectual pleasure -higher and more elevating, than to sit out here in the shadow of the -great grey buttresses, with the cheerful distant noises of the High -Street floating upward from the foot of the wall, and to watch the -Signor composing his song. The young fellow would run in to the piano -and “try over” every line of the symphony as it came welling out from -that fount of music. He said often that, except one thing, there was no -such delight in the world. To see genius working under his very eyes, -what a privilege it was! To Purcell it seemed that his master read his -heart, and uttered his deepest sentiments for him in those compositions. -To-night his mind had been lulled out of great commotion and disturbance -by the rosy vision of love and happiness that had breathed through the -notes. It was glad, it was sad, it was full of suggestion, it wrung the -very heart of Purcell--“’Twas in the time of roses, they plucked them as -they passed.” Would that time ever come for him? He thought the Signor -had read the depths of his heart, the wistful longing which was -sometimes hope and sometimes despair, the pictures he made to himself of -one day wandering by _her_ side, one day gathering roses for her. He -murmured over and over the tune of the refrain in a kind of ecstasy as -he went to his mother’s room, his fancy excited, his head all on fire, -half with the delicious sense of being friend to such a genius, and -sharing, as it were, the very inspiration that produced such beautiful -things--and half with the pride and delight of being so deeply in love -and hanging on so exquisite an edge of anguish. The Signor himself did -not know how much those pretty compositions of his went to his pupil’s -heart; but he was flattered--as who would not be?--by this never-failing -appreciation of his work, and youthful enthusiasm. It pleased him -vaguely, just as the floating sounds from below, the voices and noises, -all softened by the warm air of the summer evening, and even by the -dimness of the twilight, pleased him. How harmonious they became as they -soared upwards, all that was harsh taken out of them, filling the -solitude with a genial sense of human fellowship! Perhaps the Signor -was, like many others, not too fond of his fellow-creatures close at -hand; but as they went and came, far down at his feet, talking, calling -to each other, shouting their wares, singing now and then, making a -sound of their steps upon the pavement, and a movement of their -breathing in the air, he was transported with the hum, and felt that he -loved them. This always gave him inspiration, this and the glimmer of -the river and of the distant villages scattered over the plain, throwing -up here and there a dim point of a spire among the trees. When Purcell -left him, he put aside the bit of music-paper on which he had been -jotting down his chords. He raised his eyes to the profound unfathomable -blue above, and swung back upon his chair. He was half giddy with the -sense of circling depths of infinity above him, though himself raised so -high. The Signor was not without a feeling that he was raised very high, -not only in locality, but in soul; yet there was a heaven above which -made his head giddy when he looked up--a heaven full of stars, from -Palestrina to Mendelssohn, all shining over him, serene, unapproachable, -not even holding out any encouragement to him, passive and splendid as -the other stars which hid themselves in that still-luminous blue. Would -any one ever look up at that sky and recall his name as also among the -ranks of the unapproachable? The Signor turned his eyes from it with a -sigh as he heard some one enter the room, and came down to earth, -letting his chair drop upon its four legs, and his mind return to the -present. He watched through the open window the advent of old Pickering -carrying the lamp. The old man put it down on the table, and lighted -some candles on the mantelpiece in front of the dim mirror, which gave -them back with a blurred, enlarged reflection. His master sat outside -and watched him pottering about the room, setting the chairs against the -wall, and vainly attempting to make everything “straight.” It was a -standing grievance to old Pick that he was not allowed to close the -window and draw the curtains as it was right to do. The Signor outside -sat and watched him with a gentle amusement. He liked to feel the -oddness and superiority of his own tastes, thrown into evidence by the -mighty anxiety of old Pick to shut the window. A smile came over his -face. To ordinary mortals, in ordinary houses, it was not necessary to -seek inspiration from the skies and the wide world of evening air. As -Pick approached the window, with his usual look of wistful anxiety to be -allowed to do what was right, and tacit disapproval of lawless habits, -the Signor stepped through, smiling. “I think you will shut me out some -night, Pick,” he said, “and then you will have my blood on your -soul--for what could I do upon the terrace? I should fall asleep and -tumble over, and be picked up in little pieces at the foot of the hill.” - -“Ah! I don’t feel no fear of that, sir,” said Pickering, shaking his -head; “you’ve got too good a voice for that, sir. I don’t make no doubt -that you could hold an A sharp till you frighted the whole Abbey. And -besides I always looks out; I’ve got the habit in this house. Even the -girl, she’ll go and stand at the window, as if the view was any matter -to her; it’s a thing as carries one away. But I don’t hold with leaving -all open when the lights are lighted. Bless you, the top windows in the -street with a spyglass, or even with good eyes like what I had when I -was young, they could see in.” - -“Much good it would do them,” said the Signor, sitting down before his -piano. And indeed it is quite true that as he sat close to the window, -relieved against the light of the lamp within, there were eyes at the -top windows opposite which could catch with difficulty the outline of -the Signor’s pale profile and black moustache. Some of the young ladies -in the shops would climb up occasionally and show that exciting -prospect to a friend. But it was an amusement which palled after the -first moment, and certainly did no harm to the Signor. - -“Maybe not much good, sir,” said old Pick, who always would have the -last word; “but it might do harm. You never can tell what folks will -say. The less they know the more they’ll talk; and that’s true all the -world over; though I will say for the Abbey as it’s as bad or worse than -most other places.” - -“Why should it be worse, Pick?” - -“I don’t know, sir--unless it’s the clergy and the chevaliers. You see, -when gentlemen has little or nothing to do, they’re brought down to the -level of the women, so far as that goes--and as gentlemen always does -things more thorough than the women when they’re once started, the -consequence nat’rally is--Leastways that’s my notion of it,” said -Pick;--“the women haven’t the strength to start a real talking as does -harm. They tries hard--as hard as they knows how--but bless you, in that -as in most things, they wants a man to show ’em the way.” - -“That is a new view, Pick. I thought if there was one thing in which the -ladies had the advantage of us----” - -“There ain’t one thing, sir, not one. For my part, I can tell in a -minute a story as will hang together, a real crusher, one as will drive -folks distracted and ruin a family. You’ll never get that out of a -woman’s tongue. Nay, nay, they hasn’t the force for it; they’re poor -creatures at the best; they can make a person uncomfortable, but they -can’t do no more. And when I say the Abbey’s as bad or maybe worse, I -mean that the gentlemen has little to do, and they has to amuse -themselves the same as the women. That’s what I mean to say.” - -The Signor gave a half attention to Pick’s long speech while he sat at -his piano. All the time he was running over his new composition with one -hand, correcting a note here and there, changing a harmony. “’Twas in -the time of roses--the time of roses,” he hummed softly under his -breath. But the smile on his lip was for Pick, and he gave him a -negligent half attention, amused by his chatter, and by the peculiar -views he held forth. He looked up at him as Pick stopped, singing with a -little flourish in the accompaniment, which meant satisfaction in having -at last got the phrase to his mind--“’Twas in the time of roses--the -time of roses----” Old Pick was not surprised by the utterance of a -sentiment so foreign to his subject. He knew his master’s ways, and he -took a certain interest in his master’s productions, such as old -servants often benevolently accord to the doings of their “family.” He -could not tell what folks saw in them--still, as the Signor’s -productions, he looked upon them with kindly toleration all the same. - -“You may say, sir,” he cried, “‘the time o’ roses’--that’s just the -very thing; for, I daresay, but for that rose in his button-hole, and -the jaunty looks of him, a young girl wouldn’t have seen nothing in him. -But I don’t know neither--women is the queerest things on the face of -this whole earth. Flatter them, or make them think they’re bettering -themselves, and there’s nothing they won’t do.” - -“Who is it that wears flowers in his button-hole?” said the Signor. He -wore them himself, and he was curious and slightly excited, wondering if -any gossip could by any chance have got up about himself. The idea of -such a thing kindled him into interest; his right hand dropped off from -the piano, though with the other hand he kept softly sounding notes in -the bass, and he turned towards his old servant with a look of animation -altogether new. What interest is there like that with which one -anticipates hearing something about oneself? - -But at this moment Purcell’s steps were heard coming quickly along the -passage, and he came in with his head erect, and his eyes gleaming, and -pushed old Pick out of his way. “That will do, Pick,” he said, with a -glimmer of impatience, “that will do! I will set things right for the -master, myself.” - -“What is the matter, boy?” - -“Matter or no matter, if you think I’ll leave it to the first that comes -to look after my master--” said old Pick, standing his ground. He would -not yield; he was very friendly in general to Mr. John, and ready to do -what he ordered, but there are limits to everything. He stood his ground -steadily, arranging and re-arranging the papers on the table, while -young Purcell went forward to the Signor. The young fellow put himself -behind the musician, between him and the window, and stooped to whisper -in his ear. His glowing eyes, his eager aspect, made a great impression -on the Signor, who was very impressionable. He was possessed by some new -thought. “Master,” he said, breathless, “I have a hundred things to say -to you. I have heard something new. I want your advice, I want your -help.” He was breathless, as if he had been running a race, though all -he had really done had been to come along a few yards of passage. The -Signor was easily moved by the sight of emotion, and he was fond of his -_protégé_. “Go, Pick,” he said immediately, “and bring us some tea.” - -“Tea, sir!” said the old man in consternation. “You never takes it. If -it’s nothing but to get rid of old Pick, I’ll go. I’ll go; never fear -but I’ll go.” - -“I want some tea,” said the Signor authoritatively; “foolish old man, -would you spoil my new song for want of a cup of tea? Go to Mrs. -Purcell, and tell her, with my compliments, I want some of her special -brew--the very best, as she used to make it for me when I had headaches. -Quick, my head threatens to ache now. Well! what is it, boy? Has the -Queen sent for you to be the head of her orchestra, or is the Dean -coming to pay us a visit? It must be something very important to judge -by your face.” - -“Oh, sir,” cried young Purcell, “what a heart you have! making up a -headache and a whole story to save old Pick’s feelings--and me that am -really no better than he is, pushing him out of the way!” - -“Nobody is any better than any other,” said the Signor in his measured -tones. “I have tried to teach you so all your life. But I will allow -that some are worse than others,” he added, with a smile. His disciple -was too much occupied, however, with the urgency of his own case to -notice what he said. - -“Master,” said the young man, “I have hurried back to tell you I have -changed my mind; I will take the organ at Sturminster after all.” - -An almost imperceptible change came over the Signor’s face--that slight -stiffening of the muscles of the mouth--continuance of the easy and -genial smile of real satisfaction into the forced and uncomfortable one -of pretended equanimity--which is the sign above all others of -disappointment and displeasure, became visible in his face. “Well----” -he said slowly; “why not--if you think it will be more to your -advantage? After all, that is the grand test.” - -“It is not that,” said young Purcell, shrinking a little; “you can’t -think that I would leave you only for my advantage. No, master, it is -not that. You must hear it all before you judge.” - -“Certainly,” said the Signor. He kept the same smile rigid upon his -face. “And in the meantime here is old Pick with the tea,” he added, -“and we must drink it for the sake of his feelings. What, Pick, is it -made already? I don’t think your mother can be so careful as usual, boy, -about her brew.” - -“I don’t put no faith in tea that stands long to draw, sir,” said Pick. -“I like it myself with all the scent in it. Water as boils hard, and not -a minute lost. That’s my maxim. It’s fresh made with plenty of tea in, -and I’ll warrant it good. Smell that,” he said, taking off the lid of -the teapot. The Signor listened to him quietly, taking no notice of -Purcell’s impatience. He smiled on the old man and let him talk. He was -wounded and offended by his pupil’s sudden change after the decision of -an hour ago; and though he had a great desire to hear what reason could -be given for this difference of feeling, his annoyance and disgust at -the change found expression in this apparent carelessness of it. He kept -Pick talking with secret malice, while Purcell fretted. The young fellow -did not know how to contain himself. He collected the music-books that -were on the piano, and put them back on the shelves. Then he took them -down again; he shifted the candles; he roamed from corner to corner, -moving the chairs about, throwing into disorder the things on the -table; now and then he cast a piteous look at his master; but the Signor -sat, in serene malice sounding the bass notes in his accompaniment, -putting artful questions to old Pickering, and leading him on to talk. -It was the old man himself at length who brought the suspense to an end -by recollecting something it was necessary for him to do. “They’d have -kep’ me there all night,” he said to Mrs. Purcell, with pretended -impatience, as he got back to the housekeeper’s room. “Dear!” said Mrs. -Purcell, astonished; she could not understand how the Signor could waste -time talking to old Pick at a moment so momentous for her John. - -When old Pickering was gone, the Signor still said nothing. He turned to -the piano and began to play; he was like a woman offended, who will not -approach the subject on which she is dying to be informed. At last -Purcell, approaching humbly with wistful eyes, ventured to put one hand -lightly upon his arm. - -“Master,” said the young man, “let me speak to you. I cannot do anything -till I have spoken to you.” - -“To me, boy? Speak then, as much as you please,” said the Signor, -nodding at him with an air of ingenuous wonder while he rang out the end -of the melody. “’Twas in the time of roses,” he sang; then swinging -himself round on his stool, “You want to speak to me? Why didn’t you say -so sooner? Speak then, I am all attention,” he said. - -Then Purcell began, once more breathless with agitation and excitement: -“I think there seems a chance for me, sir,” he said; “my mother has just -been telling me. It is such a chance as never may happen again. You know -I love St. Michael’s better than anything in the world--except one -thing. Master, _she_ is in trouble; her home is about to be made -impossible to her; now or never; if I had a home to offer her, she might -accept it. This is why I said I would take Sturminster. St. Ermengilde -is more to my mind, a thousand times more to my mind; and to be near -you, to have the benefit of your advice, that would be everything for -me. But, dear master,” said the young man, “must I not think of her -first? and here is a chance for me, perhaps the only chance I may have -in my life.” - -“Has anything happened to Miss Despard?” said the Signor in great -surprise. He recognised the justice of the plea, and he listened with -great interest and sympathy, and a curious feeling which was neither -sympathy nor interest. Lottie was to the Signor a mysterious creature, -exciting an altogether different kind of feeling from that which he felt -for his pupil. He was almost sentimentally attached to his pupil, and -entered into the history and prospects of his love with an enthusiasm -quite unlike that with which a mature Englishman generally interests -himself in anybody’s love-affairs. But along with this sentiment there -existed another almost directly opposite to it, an interest in Lottie -as a being of a totally different class from Purcell, of whom it would -be profoundly curious to know the history, and the means by which she -might perhaps be brought to look favourably on--nay, to marry--Purcell; -which seemed to the Signor quite “on the cards.” How she might be -brought to this, in what way she would reconcile herself to be Purcell’s -wife; how she would bow a spirit, evidently so proud, to the young -musician’s origin and to his ways of talking, which, though refined -enough, were still at the bottom those of a man whose mother was “in -service:” all this was captivating as a matter of study to the Signor; -he got, or expected to get, a great deal of amusement out of it, -expecting that Lottie’s struggles in fitting herself for the position -would be wonderful enough: so that his interest cannot be called -entirely benevolent. But between this keen and half-malign interest and -the sentimental interest he took in Purcell’s “happiness,” it may be -imagined that the crisis was nearly as exciting to him as it was to -Purcell himself. He listened to the story with the warmest interest, and -agreed that there was nothing for it but to accept Sturminster. “But you -must not lose a day,” he said; “you must secure the lady at once, there -is not a moment to lose.” - -“Secure?” Purcell said, growing red and growing white; “then you think -there is a hope, a--likelihood----” - -“Think? I think there is an almost certainty!” cried the Signor. He -became quite excited himself for the sake of his pupil and for his own -sake, for the keen intellectual interest he felt in this curious problem -as to what Lottie would do. “You must go to-morrow,” he cried, with all -the eagerness of a personal interest; “you must not lose a single day.” - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - -YOUNG PURCELL. - - -Next morning found young Purcell in a state of excitement and nervous -agitation still greater than that of the previous night. He had not -slept during the natural time for sleep, and in consequence, according -to the fashion of youth unaccustomed to watching, had fallen very fast -and heavily asleep, out of sheer fatigue in the morning, waking only -with an indescribable sense of guilt to hear the bells ringing for the -morning service in the Abbey. Such a thing had never happened to him -before, and his shame and sense of wrong-doing were more than reason. He -jumped up in dismay, but even the most hurried toilet could not get him -in time; and his mother appeared at his door as he prepared to rush out -half-dressed, preventing his exit. “You wouldn’t go out without your -breakfast?” she cried with horror. The virtuous and carefully regulated -life of the chorister and musical student trained under the Signor’s eye -and his mother’s constant care, had made a late morning and an omitted -breakfast seem like something criminal. Besides, a sense of the crisis -had got into the air. The Signor had left an anxious message, begging -his _protégé_ not to hurry himself, to take his time, and to keep up his -courage. His mother kissed him wistfully, and served him with a noble -breakfast, as if he wanted strengthening in the most material way, for -the important piece of work before him. Even old Pick looked at him with -respectful curiosity as at a man on the edge of a very serious step -indeed, a curiosity mingled with awe and a little grim humour and -admiration. The boy was going to do what Pick had never had the courage -to do; and though the old man thought the young one a fool, and hugged -himself on his superior wisdom, yet it cannot be denied that he looked -with a certain respect on the bold youth who was about to make such a -venture. He put his breakfast on the table, not grudging the trouble, -though the Signor’s breakfast had long been over, and he shook his head -behind Mr. John’s chair. “Take a good breakfast, it will do you a deal -of good,” he said, as he left the hero of the occasion. Purcell, though -his mother was only the housekeeper, was the son of the house; he took -his meals with the master, though it was his mother who prepared their -dishes in the kitchen. It was a false position, perhaps, but he had not -yet found any trouble in it. He had been a little curly-headed boy in -the choir when Mrs. Purcell came first to take charge of the Signor’s -house; she had been the sole servant then, and had scrubbed and brushed -and cooked, diligently keeping everything in order. Old Pickering had -gone through the same sort of training which had made John Purcell a -gentleman. He, too, had been a chorister, and had progressed into a -lay-clerk, with possibilities of rising to something better. But Pick -was one of the unsuccessful ones; his voice failed him, his science -never had been great, and a little after Mrs. Purcell’s advent he had -come to the Signor also to be provided for. The organist had a large -heart and a somewhat indolent temper; the easiest way to provide for the -old singing-man was to take him into his own household, and this was -what had been done. As for Pick, he had settled very easily into his new -place, having been the son of the master of a little tavern; and though -it cost him an effort to acknowledge the little soprano, whose surplice -he had put on so often, in the light of a young master, yet the effort -was made. Pick was conscientious, he did not do anything by halves; and -the first time that the Signor’s pupil was permitted to play the -voluntary in the Abbey, the old man made his fellow-servants jump, and -gave the youth a shock of mingled alarm and pleasure, by suddenly -addressing him as Mr. John. Nobody had expected such an heroic act of -submission, but Pick knew his place and all that was suitable in the -circumstances. “Him as the Signor puts in his own place has a right to -be respected,” he said; and he never wavered in that noble -self-abnegation, nor let any one suppose that it was painful to him. -All this had happened long before the period of which we are writing; -but what sensation, what emotion, it had caused at the time! Pick stood -now, pausing behind the young musician’s chair, and lifted up his hands -and shook his head. To think this boy, whom he had, so to speak, brought -up, should show so much courage! Pick himself had never made such a -venture, nor even the Signor, who was the master of both; and yet this -boy was going to do it. The old man shook his head, not knowing what -might come of it; but in his heart he felt a respect reaching to -admiration, for the courage which was so much beyond anything he had -ever known. - -Courage, however, was the last quality in which, on this particular -morning, young Purcell could be said to excel. To devote your life in -secret to a beloved object; to dream of her night and day; to make -impassioned resolutions, and determine to win glory and wealth for her, -is not so hard for a fanciful youth; but to go into her presence, look -into the face that dazzles you--confront the goddess of your distant -worship, and without any preliminaries to lead up to this great step, -and prepare her for it, quite off-hand and impromptu ask her to marry -you! This is a very different matter. The young man sat alone and tried -to eat his breakfast, trembling to think of what was before him. The -circumstances were such as to add tenfold to the natural tremors of -such a crisis. She was a lady, and far above him--not rich indeed, nor -occupying any very exalted position in reality--but her dignity was very -imposing to the young man, who had always recognised this grace of what -seemed to him rank, as one of her particular charms. Purcell was -painfully aware that he himself had no right to the name of gentleman. -Many a less worthy claimant has borne it, with no thought that it was -inappropriate, and Purcell had anxiously and painfully endeavoured to -acquire all its outside appearances. He knew, as well as any, how to -behave himself in society, and passed muster very well among other young -men. He was a little over-anxious, perhaps, a little too fine in his -language, too deferential and polite, not sufficiently at his ease, to -get much enjoyment out of his social experiences; but this was a fault -on the right side. Notwithstanding his modest sense of his own “merits,” -Purcell could not persuade himself that he was Lottie’s equal. He knew -he was not her equal. She had been as a star to him, far away and out of -reach--and though in the fervour of imaginative passion the hope of -winning her had seemed like heaven, yet the actual enterprise of wooing -her, when brought thus close, seemed very appalling indeed--a quest more -dangerous and alarming than ever knight errant set forth upon. His knees -knocked together, great beads of moisture came upon his forehead--how -was he to do it? how was he to present himself, to explain the hopes -which, looked at thus in cold blood, appeared even to himself -impossible, not to say presumptuous in the highest degree? How was he -ever, he asked himself, to make her aware what he meant? She would not -understand him. She would think he meant something else, anything -else--rather than that he, a poor musician, the son of the Signor’s -house-keeper, wanted to MARRY her, the daughter of a gentleman. It would -be impossible to make her understand him. This seemed the first -difficulty of all, and it was an appalling one. She would not even know -what he meant. In this respect indeed Purcell was mistaken, for Lottie -already knew well enough what were the hopes in his heart--resenting -them highly as one of the wrongs of fate against her; but this he had no -way of knowing. If he could but have got anyone to smooth the way for -him, to tell what it was he wanted to say, to set him a-going, he -thought he could find eloquence enough to carry him on--but how could he -make that _premier pas_? Thus, while the household was all expectant, -excited by what was coming, Purcell sat over his breakfast and trembled, -too frightened to move or think, though with a consciousness that this -desperate step must be taken. The Signor in the Abbey, rolling forth -melodious thunders out of the organ, kept thinking of him with a smile, -and a half sigh. Like Pick, he had a certain admiration for the valour -of the boy thus pushing forward before himself into the mysteries of -life; but the Signor’s thoughts were more tender and less cynical than -those of his servant. He could not help wondering how it was that in his -own person he had let all such chances slip. How was it? As he followed -his pupil in imagination to the feet of his love, that young creature -seemed very fair, very much to be desired. No doubt, to have such a one -by your side, sharing your life with you, would make existence bear a -very different appearance. Why was it he had never done what Purcell was -going to do? This question seemed to flow into the music he was playing, -and to go circling round and round the Abbey in the morning sunshine. -Why? Life was endurable enough, a calm sort of routine, with now and -then a pleasurable sensation in it, but nothing more; and no doubt it -might have been made more of. The Signor could not answer his own -question. He did not want to make himself the rival of his pupil, or to -do anything similar to what young Purcell was doing. He had no wish to -make any violent change in life, which was well enough as it was. But -only it was odd that a simple fellow like John Purcell should thus -boldly have pushed before him into a completer existence--very odd; the -boy was bold. Whether he succeeded or not, his very agitation and ardour -had in them a higher touch of emotion than any that had been in the life -of his master. He laughed within himself at the boy’s temerity--but the -laugh was mingled with a sigh. - -And Mrs. Purcell, for her part, was in high excitement, longing for her -boy to be gone on his errand, longing for him to be back again. That her -John should marry a lady was the climax of grandeur and happiness. To be -sure, it ought to have been a rich lady or great lady. He deserved a -princess, his mother felt. Still, as things were, it was a kind of -intoxication to think even of the daughter of a Chevalier. Why did he -linger, as if breakfast was worth thinking of? She listened for every -sound, for the door shutting, for his step in the hall, and was very -cross when Maryanne made a noise, so that she could not hear what was -going on upstairs. As for old Pick, he brushed Mr. John’s hat with a -grim smile on his face, and hung about the hall to watch him go out. - -“The young un’s off at last,” he said with a chuckle, marching into the -kitchen: when just before the end of the service in the Abbey, when all -the air about was ringing with the echo of the Amens, Purcell at last -screwed his courage to the sticking-point, and went out, to meet his -fate. - -Poor young fellow, he could not have been more alarmed had he gone to -face a lion instead of a lady. The lion would have been nothing. He -would have called out for succour, and used whatever weapons he could -lay hold of; but nobody could help him with Lottie--no shield would -cover him from the lightnings of her eyes. It was all embarrassing, all -terrible; even if by any chance things should turn out in his favour, he -did not know what he should do. What could he call her? Not Lottie, that -was too familiar. Not Miss Despard. All these different and disjointed -thoughts seemed to float about his head in the maze of excitement he was -in--he was past thinking, but such questions kept floating in and out of -his mind. It was the most extraordinary relief when, going to the door -of Captain Despard’s house, he found that Lottie was out. If she had -been there, it seemed to Purcell that he would have run away--but she -was not there. He asked when she was expected back and went on, -recovering his breath. He could not go home again, where presently the -Signor would come from the Abbey and question him. The service, however, -was not so nearly over as he thought. It was a saint’s day, and there -was a sermon. The precincts were very still and deserted, for most -people were at church. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, sitting at her window, saw -the young musician walk across the broad silent sunshine, but he did not -see her. He went up the Dean’s walk, hearing his own step echo through -the silence, and past the Deanery, and out upon the slopes beyond. It -was shady and sweet under the trees, which rose up close against the old -wall--and all was very quiet during the time of matins, though the town -went on with its usual hum down below at the foot of the hill. Purcell -began to recover himself a little and take breath as he came to this -shelter and refuge. Many a time had he strayed under these trees, -thinking of _her_, wondering if he ever might be able to approach her. -It was strange to be here, however, in the morning, the hour of work and -engagements, which he never had to himself, and to hear the far-off -sound of the organ pealing out after the sermon was over. All the common -occupations of life seemed to be suspended for Purcell. He felt as -ordinary men feel on an occasional stolen Sunday, when work is -suspended, and the duty of church-going put aside. All was so sweet, and -serene, and still--no one to disturb his thoughts: the sound of the -organ in the distance keeping him aware of the fact that he was -singularly, unprecedentedly liberated from his usual occupations: and -the tremor of agitation dying away into an excitement which was more -bearable, which left room for all the sweeter musings, of which _she_ -was the centre. He sat down on the root of a tree, and let himself -breathe. Then came the first notes of the voluntary, and a distant hum -as of the congregation dispersing. Few people were likely to come here -at this hour in the morning, but still Purcell felt that he had but a -moment in which to indulge himself, and that soon he must turn back. - -As he sat thus trying to collect himself, a sudden sound close by, the -rustle of a dress among the bushes, the soft sound of a footstep caught -his ear. He looked up--and his heart jumped into his throat. There She -stood before him, a little basket in her hand. There was a by-way into -the town by the slopes, and Lottie had been about her marketing. She was -in her usual simple morning frock, clean print and nothing more, and -though her head was sufficiently full of dreams and her mind of -anxieties, she was at present lingering upon neither, but going straight -from one place to another, as became the active morning hour and the -consciousness of various things to do. When she saw Purcell spring to -his feet suddenly in the midst of the path, for the moment Lottie was -startled. She made him a little gracious but indifferent sign of -recognition, as courtesy required--for ridiculous as were the notions in -his head, she could not be rude to him--and was passing on, not wanting -any further parley, when she was struck by the agitation in his face. He -was staring at her as if she had been a ghost--his mouth was open, his -breath coming quick, his colour changing. Excitement did not improve his -appearance. She had almost laughed, then checked herself remorsefully, -and became so much the more sympathetic for her temporary movement of -mirth. - -“Is there anything the matter?” she said kindly. “I am afraid you are -ill. Has anything--gone wrong?” She did not know what to say, he looked -at her with such solemn eyes. - -“Oh, nothing--nothing has gone wrong. I am not ill. Miss Despard--I did -not expect to see you here.” - -“No--but I hope it is not I who have frightened you,” said Lottie. “I -sometimes go to the Bridge road this way.” - -“You have not frightened me,” said Purcell, who found it easier to -repeat her words than to say anything original; “but I--did not know you -went this way.” - -It was all that Lottie could do, once more, to keep herself from -laughing. She gave him a little nod, and was about to pass, saying, -“What a lovely morning it is!” the stereotyped English remark; when he -made a hurried step after her, and, holding up his hands, entreated her, -in a piteous voice, to stay a moment. “Miss Despard--what startled me -was that I was looking for you. Oh, stay a moment, and let me speak to -you!” he said. - -Lottie stood still, arrested in her progress, throwing a wondering look -upon him. What could he want with her? Her first glance was simple -surprise--her second--Was it possible he could mean _that_?--could he be -bold enough, rash enough? Next moment she blushed for her own folly. To -be afraid of young Purcell! That was foolishness indeed. She stood -still there, one foot put out to go on, her basket in her hand. - -“Please say what it is, Mr. Purcell. I have got something to do. I ought -to be at home.” - -The morning is not the moment for a love tale. How much more congenial -would have been the evening, the twilight, the subdued poetic hour, -after the sun had disappeared, that great busybody who shows every -imperfection, and is himself so perpetually moving on! Something to do -was in every line of Lottie’s energetic figure. She had no time for -lingering, nor wish to linger. “Please say what it is.” Only business -should be treated in this summary way, not love. - -“Miss Despard,” said the young musician, whose limbs were trembling -under him, “I wanted to say a great deal to you; it is very -important--for me. Things are going well with me,” he added, with -desperation, after a momentary pause. “I have been appointed to a -church--a fine church--with a good instrument. They are to give me a -good salary, and they say I can have as much teaching as I like. I shall -be very well off.” - -“I am glad to hear you are so fortunate,” said Lottie. Her eyes were -full of surprise, and for a moment there was a gleam of amusement in -them. That he should waylay her to tell her this, seemed a curious piece -of ostentation or folly. “I am very glad,” she repeated; “but you must -forgive me if I have to hasten home, for I have a great many things to -do.” - -“One moment,” he said, putting out his hand to stop her. “That was not -all. The Signor thinks--you know the Signor, Miss Despard, there is not -a better musician in the country--he thinks I will make progress. He -thinks I may rise--as high as any one can rise in our profession. He -tells me I may be a rich man yet before I die.” - -“Indeed, I hope all he says will come true,” said Lottie; “but why you -should take the trouble to tell me----” - -Then suddenly she caught his eye, and stopped short, and blushed an -angry red. She saw what was coming in a moment, which did not, however, -prevent her from drawing herself up with a great deal of dignity, and -adding, “I don’t know what you mean.” - -“Miss Despard,” he said with a gasp, “there is no comparison between me -and you. But you are not so well off--not happy. They say--you know how -people will talk--that there is something going to happen that will make -you very uncomfortable.” - -“Stop!” she said, with an involuntary cry, half of anger, half of -amazement. Then she laughed. “Do you want me to acknowledge that you are -much better off than I am?” she said; “but there is no need to compare -you with me.” - -“It could not be done, Miss Lottie. I know it could not be done. You -are a lady, and far above me. I know I am not your equal--in some -things.” - -Lottie began to be too angry to laugh, but yet she was provoked to -ridicule, which is the keenest of weapons. She made him a little mocking -curtsey. “It is very kind of you to say so, I am sure, for we are quite -poor people, Mr. Purcell; not fortunate, and getting on in the world -like you.” - -“No, Miss Despard,” he said, simply, “that was just what I wanted to -say. If you had been as well off as I could wish, I should not have -ventured to say anything. I have always loved you, and thought of you -above all the world. Since you first came to St. Michael’s, I have never -thought of any one but you. It has been my hope that some time or other -I might be able to--but it was only just yesterday that I heard -something that made me settle--two things----” - -She did not speak, being, indeed, too angry and annoyed for speech; but -she felt a kind of contemptuous, wrathful interest in what he was -saying, and curiosity to know what it was that had induced him to make -this venture; and, accordingly, gave him a glance, in which there was an -impatient question. Purcell was not too discriminating. He felt -encouraged by being listened to, from whatsoever motive. - -“Two things,” he said, with stolid steadiness. “One, to take -Sturminster. I had settled before I would not take it, but St. -Ermengilde’s. But when I heard _that_, I changed my mind, though it did -not please the Signor. Sturminster will make me independent; it will -give me a home. And then I settled to tell you, Miss Lottie: if you are -uncomfortable at home, if you don’t like things that may be going to -happen: to tell you that there’s another home ready for you, if you will -have it; a home that may be made very comfortable; a place of your own, -to do what you like with, that will be waiting for you, whenever you -please, at a moment’s notice, the sooner the better. If you would say -yes, I would go directly, I would go to-morrow, and prepare; and nobody -would be able to give you trouble or make you uncomfortable any longer. -Only say the word, and there is nothing, nothing I would not do----” - -Lottie stood and gazed at him, wondering, bitterly ashamed and -humiliated, and yet not without a sense that so much simple devotion was -worth more than to be crushed, or scorned, or flung from her, as she -wished to fling it. She restrained herself with an effort. “What do you -mean?” she said. “Is it possible that you are asking me to _marry_ you, -Mr. Purcell? That cannot be what you mean.” - -“What else could it be?” he said, turning on her a look of genuine -surprise. “You don’t suppose, Miss Despard, that I could be thinking of -anything else?” - -His cheeks grew crimson, and so did hers. A cry of anger and shame and -confusion came from her breast. She stamped her foot impatiently on the -ground. “You would never, never have ventured to ask me, never, if I had -not been helpless and friendless and poor!” - -“No,” he said again, with a simplicity in which she could not help -feeling a certain nobleness. “I would not have ventured, for I am not -what you call a gentleman; but when I heard you were in trouble, I could -not keep silent. I thought to myself, Miss Lottie shall not be unhappy -because of having no home to go to----” - -“Oh!” said Lottie, putting out her hand to stop him. She could not bear -any more. Her heart was sick with the mortification of such a suit. She -could have crushed and trampled upon her humble lover, in rage and -shame, and yet she could not but see the generosity and truth in his -heart. If he had been less worthy, it would have been less hard upon -her. “It is not a thing that can be,” she cried hastily. “Oh, don’t say -another word. I know you are kind, but it is not a thing that can be.” - -“Not now?” he said, looking at her wistfully; “well: but perhaps another -time? perhaps when you need it more--I am not in any hurry. Perhaps I am -young to marry; the Signor thinks so. But another time, Miss Lottie? -Whenever you want me, you have but to say the word.” - -“Oh, don’t think of it. I will never, never say the word. Forget it -altogether, Mr. Purcell. I am very, very much obliged to you, but indeed -it can never be.” - -The young man’s countenance fell. Then he recovered himself. “I can’t -think you are taking everything into consideration. We should have a -nice home, plenty of everything, and I should never spare trouble to -give you everything you were used to----” - -“Oh, go away, go away!” she cried. - -And as they stood there, some one else, his shadow slowly moving before -him, came round the corner of the pathway, among the chestnut-trees; and -Purcell felt that his opportunity was over. He was not sorry for it. He -had done what was set before him, and if he had not succeeded, he was -not discouraged. There was still hope for another time. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - -BUSINESS, OR LOVE? - - -It was not only in the mind of young Purcell that Lottie’s circumstances -and prospects were the subject of thought. Rollo Ridsdale had not -watched and worshipped as the young musician had done. Nor had he, even -on his first introduction to her, looked upon Lottie as anything but the -possessor of a beautiful voice, of which use might be made, for her -benefit no doubt in the long run, but primarily for his own. She was not -a divinity; she was not even a woman; she was a valuable stock-in-trade, -a most important implement with which to work. Rollo had gone through a -very effectual training in this kind. He had run through the little -money he possessed so soon, and had learned the use of his wits so -early, that the most energetic of tradesmen was not more alive to all -the charms of gain than he. The means, perhaps, may be of a different -kind, but it does not very much matter in principle whether a man is -trained to sharp bargains in bric-à-brac or in cotton bales; and it is -not essentially a loftier trade to speculate in pictures and china than -in shares and stocks. This young aristocrat had kept his eyes very wide -open to anything that might come in his way. He was not a director of -companies chiefly because his poor little Honourable was not a -sufficiently valuable possession to be traded upon, though it had some -small value pecuniarily. Lord Courtland himself might indeed have made a -few hundreds a year out of his title, but to his second son the name was -not worth so much. It secured him some advantages. It gave him the -_entrée_ to places where things were to be “picked up,” and it helped -him to puff and even to dispose of the wares which he might have in -hand. It kept him afloat; it ameliorated poverty; it took away all -objections to the sale and barter in which, profitably or unprofitably, -he spent so much of his life. Had he gone upon the Stock Exchange, -society might have made comments upon the strange necessity; but when -Rollo’s collection of _objets d’art_ was sold, nobody found anything to -object to in the transaction, which put a comfortable sum in his pocket, -and enabled him to go forth to fresh fields and pastures new; neither -was there anything unbecoming his nobility in the enterprise which he -had now in hand. Theatres are not generally a very flourishing branch of -commerce; yet it cannot be denied that those who ruin themselves by them -embark in the enterprise with as warm an inclination towards gain as any -shopkeeper could boast of. Rollo had thought of Lottie’s voice as -something quite distinct from any personality. It was a commodity he -would like to buy, as he would have liked to buy a picture, or anything -rare and beautiful, of which he could be sure that he would get more -than his own money for it. In that, as in other things, he would have -bought in the cheapest market and sold in the dearest. He would have -thought it only right and natural to secure at a low rate the early -services of a prima donna. A certain amount of enthusiasm no doubt -mingled with the business; just as, had Rollo bought a picture and sold -it again, he would have derived a considerable amount of enjoyment from -it over and above the profit which went into his pocket; but still he -would not have bought the picture, or sought out the future prima donna, -on any less urgent and straightforward stimulus than that of gain. -Probably, too, the artistic temperament--those characteristics which -have to answer for so many things--influenced him more in the pursuit of -the talent which was to make his fortune, than any man is ever -influenced by bales of cotton or railway shares. To hear that “shirtings -are firm” does not thrill the heart as it does to hear the melody of a -lovely new voice, which you feel will pay you nobly by transporting the -rest of the world as it does yourself. Neither could any amount of -coupons fill you with delight like that small scrap of a Bellini by -which you hope to _faire fortune_. But, nevertheless, to make his -fortune was what Rollo thought of just as much as the man who sells -dusters over his counter. If a new kind of duster could be found more -efficacious than any previously known, a something that would dust by -itself, that would sell by the million, no doubt the shopkeeper, too, -would feel a moment’s enthusiasm; yet in this he would be quite inferior -to the inventor of a new prima donna, who, added to his enjoyment of all -that the public gave to hear her, would have the same enjoyment as had -the public, without giving anything for it at all. - -This had been the simple enthusiasm in Rollo’s mind up to his last -meeting with Lottie Despard. He had pursued her closely that he might -fully understand and know all the qualities of her voice--of the slave -he wanted to buy: to know exactly what training it would want, and how -much would have to be done to it before it could appear before the -public, and begin to pay back what he had given for it. And point by -point, as he pursued this quest of his, he had noted in her the -qualities of beauty, the grace, the expression, the perfection of form -and feature, which were so many additional advantages. The rush of -colour to her cheek, of spirit or softness to her eyes, had delighted -him, as proving in her the power to be an actress as well as a singer. -He studied all her looks, interpreted her character to himself, and -watched her movements with this end, with a frank indifference to every -other, not even thinking what interpretation might be put, what -interpretation she might herself put, upon this close and anxious -attention. It was not till the evening when, overcome by the feelings -which music and excitement had roused in her, Lottie had fled alone to -her home, avoiding his escort, that he had suddenly awoke to the -consciousness that it was no mere voice, but a young and beautiful -woman, with whom he was dealing. The awakening gave him a shock--yet -there was pleasure in it, and a flattering consciousness that his prima -donna had all along been regarding him in no abstract, but an entirely -individual, way. Rollo had been brought up among artificial sentiments. -He had been used to hear people talk of the effect of music upon their -imagination--of the sensations it gave them, and the manner in which -they were dominated by it. But he had never seen any one honestly moved -like Lottie--abandoning the sphere of her social success, silent in the -height of her triumph. When he saw that she could not and would not sing -again after that wonderful sacred song, he was himself more vividly -impressed than he had ever been by music. It took her voice from her, -and her breath--transported her out of herself. How strange it was, yet -how real, how natural! just (when you came to think of it) as a pure and -elevated mind ought to be touched: though he had never yet seen the -fumes of art get so completely into any head before. The reality of -Lottie’s emotion had awakened Rollo. He was not touched himself by -Handel, but he was touched by Lottie. He suddenly saw _her_ through the -mist of his own preconceived ideas, and through the cloud of -conventionalities, those of art and those of society alike. Never in his -life before had he so suddenly and distinctly come in contact with a -genuine human creature, as God had made her--feeling, moving, living -according to the dictates of nature, not as she had been trained to live -and feel. This is not to say that he had met with no genuine people in -his life. His father and mother were real enough, and so was his aunt, -Lady Caroline--very real, each in his or her little setting of -conveniences and necessities. He knew them, and was quite indifferent to -knowing them. But Lottie was altogether detached from the atmosphere in -which these good people lived. And he had discovered her suddenly, -making acquaintance with her in a moment--finding her out as an -astronomer, all alone with the crowds of heaven, finds out a new star. -This was how it made so great an impression on him. He had discovered -her, standing quite alone among all the women who knew how to express -and to control their emotions. She was not trained either to one or the -other. The emotion, the enthusiasm in her got the upper hand of her, not -she of them. A man who is only used to men and women in the secondary -stages of well-sustained emotion is apt to be doubly impressed by the -sight of genuine and artless passion, of whatever kind it may be. He -went to town thinking not of the prima donna he had found, but of the -woman who had suddenly made heaven and earth real to him, as they were -to her. He posted up to London--that is, he flew thither in the express -train, according to the dictates of his first impulse; but he was so -entirely carried away by this second one, that he had almost forgotten -his primary purpose altogether. “Ah! that is it,” he said to himself -when the prima donna idea once more flashed across his mind. He did not -want to lose sight of this, or to be negligent of anything that would -help to make his fortune. - -Rollo was in the greatest need of having his fortune made. He had -nothing except very expensive habits. He was obliged to spend a great -deal of money in order to live, and he was obliged to live (or so, at -least, he thought); and he had no money at all. Therefore a prima donna -or something else was absolutely necessary. Accordingly he wound himself -up with great energy, and tried to think no more of that other world -which Lottie’s touch had plunged him into. In the meantime, in this -world of theatres, drawing-rooms, and fashionable coteries, where people -are compelled to live, whether they will or not, at an enormous cost in -money, and where accordingly money must be hunted wherever scent of it -can be found, it was necessary that some one, or something, should make -Rollo Ridsdale’s fortune. He rushed to his impresario, and roused a -faint enthusiasm momentarily in the mind of that man of great -undertakings. An English prima donna, a native article, about whom the -English would go wild! Yes! But would they go wild over an English prima -donna? Would not the first step be, ere she was presented to the public -at all, to fit her with an Italian name? Signorina Carlotta -Desparda--that was what she would have to be called. The impresario -shook his head. “And besides, these native articles never turn out what -we are led to expect,” he said. He shook his head; he was sorry, very -sorry, to disappoint his _confrère_, but----” - -“But--I tell you, you never heard such a voice; the compass of it--the -sweetness of it! _simpatica_ beyond what words can say--fresh as a -lark’s--up to anything you can put before her--and with such power of -expression. We shall be fools, utter fools, if we neglect such a -chance.” - -“You are very warm,” said the manager, rubbing his hands. “She is -pretty, I suppose?” - -“No,” said Rollo; “she is beautiful--and with the carriage of a queen.” -(Poor Lottie, in her white frock; how little she knew that there was -anything queenlike about her!) “Come down and see her. That is all I ask -of you. Come and hear her----” - -“Where may that be?” said the Manager. “I am leaving town on Monday. -Can’t we have her up to your rooms, or somewhere at hand?” - -“My rooms!” said Rollo, thunderstruck. He knew very little about Lottie, -except that she was a poor Chevalier’s daughter; but he felt that he -could have as easily invited one of the Princesses to come and sing in -his rooms, that the representatives of the new opera company might judge -of her gifts. His face grew so long that his colleague laughed. - -“Is she a personage then, Ridsdale? Is she one of your great friends?” -he said. - -“She is one of my--friends; but she is not a great personage,” said -Rollo, gloomily, pulling the little peaked beard which he cultivated, -and thinking that it would be as difficult to get his manager invited to -the Deanery as it would be to bring Lottie to Jermyn Street. These were -difficulties which he had not foreseen. He went over the circumstances -hurriedly, trying to think what he could do. Could he venture to go in -suddenly to the Chevalier’s lodge, as he had done with Lady Caroline’s -credentials in his pocket, but this time without any credentials, and -without further ceremony proceed to test the powers of the girl, who he -knew was not always compliant nor to be reckoned on? What if she should -decline to be tried? What if she had no intention of becoming a singer -at all? What if the Manager should condemn her voice as untrained (which -it was), or even mistake it altogether, mixing it up with the cracked -tones of the old piano, and the jingle of the Abbey bells? He had not -thought of all these difficulties before. He had not taken time to ask -if Lottie would be docile, if Lady Caroline would be complaisant. He -pulled his beard, his face growing longer and longer. At last he said,-- - -“I’ll tell you what we can do. We can go to Mrs. O’Shaughnessy----” - -“Who on earth is Mrs. O’Shaughnessy?” said the Manager. - -“But very likely there is no piano there! You see, this is a difficulty -I did not think of. I have heard this lady only in the house of--one of -my relations, a very rigid old person, who hates theatres, and thinks -opera an invention of the devil.” How Rollo dared slander poor Lady -Caroline so, who liked an opera-box as well as any one else, it is -impossible to say. - -“Well--it doesn’t seem to matter much what are the qualities of the -voice if we can’t hear it,” the Manager said carelessly; and he told his -fashionable partner of the singer he had heard of in Milan, who was to -distance all the singers then on the operatic stage. “They are all like -that,” he said--“like this private nightingale of yours, Ridsdale--till -you hear them; and then they turn out to be very much like the rest. To -tell the truth, I am not so very sorry this particular _protégée_ of -yours has broken down; for I don’t believe the time has come for an -English prima donna, if it ever comes. We’ve got no confidence in -ourselves, so far as art goes--especially musical art. English opera, -sir; there’s many fine pieces, but you’ll never keep it up in England. -It might make a hit, perhaps, in Germany, or even France, but not here. -Your English prima donna would be considered fit for the music halls. -We’d have to dress her up in vowels, and turn her into an Italian. -Contemptible? Oh, yes, it’s contemptible; but, if we’re to make our own -money out of it, we mustn’t trouble ourselves about what’s contemptible. -What we’ve got to do is to please the public. I’m just as glad that this -idea of yours has broken down.” - -“Broken down! I will never allow it has broken down. It is much easier -and pleasanter, of course, to go to Milan than to go to St. Michael’s,” -said Rollo disdainfully. “But never mind; if you don’t start till -Monday, trust me to arrange it somehow. Your new Milanese, of course, -will be like all the rest. She will have been brought up to it. She will -know how to do one thing, and no more; but this is genius--owing nothing -to education and everything to nature. Capable of--I could not say what -such a voice and such a woman is not capable of----” - -“Bravo, Ridsdale!” said his partner. “She is capable of stirring you up -thoroughly, that is clear--and I hope she will be kind to you,” he -said, with a big laugh, full of insinuations. The man was vulgar and -fat, but a mountain of energy, and Rollo though disgusted, could not -afford to quarrel with him. - -“You are entirely out in your notion,” he said, with that air of dignity -which is apt to look fictitious in such circumstances. He was not -himself easily shocked, nor would this interpretation of his motives -have appeared to him at all unlikely in the case of another man; -therefore, as was natural, his gravity and look of disgust only -confirmed the suspicions of the other, and amused him the more. - -“Bravo, my boy; go in and win!” he said, chuckling; “promise whatever -you like, if you find it necessary, and trust to me to back you up.” - -To say “I am unable to understand what you mean,” as Rollo did, with -cold displeasure, yet consciousness, did but increase the ecstasy of the -fat Manager over the evident fact that his fastidious friend was “caught -at last.” - -Rollo went away with a great deal of offended dignity, holding himself -stiffly erect, body and soul. He had never been so entirely disgusted, -revolted, by the coarse character of the ideas and insinuations, which -in themselves were not particularly novel, he was aware. It was because -everything grew coarse under the touch of such a fellow as this, he said -to himself; and it must be allowed that vice, stripped of all sentiment -and adornment, was a disgusting spectacle. Rollo had never been a -vicious man. He had taken it calmly in others, acknowledging that, if -they liked it, he had no right to interfere; but he had not cared for it -much himself--he was not a man of passions. A dilettante generally does -avoid these coarser snares of humanity; and there had always been a -sense of nausea in his mind when he was brought in contact with the -vicious. But this nausea had been more physical than spiritual. It was -not virtue but temperament which produced it; his own temptations were -not in this kind. Nevertheless, he knew that to show any exaggerated -feeling on the subject would only expose him to laughter, and he was not -courageous enough either to blame warmly in others, or to decry -strenuously in himself, the existence of unlawful bonds. What did it -matter to anybody if he were virtuous? his neighbours were not on that -account to be baulked of their cakes and ale; his disinclination towards -sins of the grosser kind was not a thing he was proud of--it was a -constitutional peculiarity, like inability to ascend heights or to go to -sea without suffering. He was not at all sure that it was not a sign of -weakness--a thing to be kept out of sight. Accordingly he took his part -in the social gossip, which has no warmer interest than this, like -everybody else, never pretended to any superiority, and took it for -granted that now and then everybody “went wrong.” He would have been a -monster if he had done anything else. Why, even his good aunt -Caroline--the best and stupidest of women, to whom, if she had desired -it, no opportunity of going wrong had ever presented itself--liked to -hear these stories and believed them implicitly, and was convinced that -not to go wrong was quite exceptional. Rollo was not the man to -emancipate himself from such a complete and universal understanding. He -allowed it calmly, and did not pretend either to disapprove or to doubt. -Probably he had himself coldly, and as a matter of course, “gone wrong” -too in his day, and certainly he had never given himself out as at all -better than his neighbours. Was it only the coarseness of his vulgar -associate which made the suggestion so deeply disgusting to him now? - -He asked himself this question as, disappointed and annoyed, he left the -Manager’s ostentatious rooms; and a new sense of unkindness, -ungenerosity, unmanliness in having exposed a harmless person, a woman -whose reputation should be sacred, to such animadversions, suddenly came -into his mind, he could not tell how. This view of the matter had never -occurred to Rollo before. The women he had heard discussed--and he had -heard almost everybody discussed, from the highest to the lowest--had -nothing sacred about them to the laughing gossips who discussed all they -had done, or might have done, or might be going to do. This, too, was a -new idea to him. Who was there whom he had not heard spoken of? ladies a -thousand times more important than Miss Despard, the poor Chevalier’s -daughter at St. Michael’s--and nobody had seemed to think there was any -harm in it. A man’s duty not to let a woman be lightly spoken of? Pooh! -What an exaggerated sentimental piece of nonsense! Why should not women -take their chance, like any one else? Rollo was like most other persons -when in a mental difficulty of this kind. He was not so much discussing -with himself as he was the arena of a discussion which unseen arguers -were holding within him. While one of these uttered this Pooh! another -replied, with a heat and fervour altogether unknown to the clubs, What -had Lottie Despard done to subject herself to these suggestions? she who -knew nothing about society and its evil thoughts--she who had it in her -to be uplifted and transported by the music at which these other people, -at the best, would clap their hands and applaud. The argument in Rollo’s -mind went all against himself and his class. He hated not only his -manager-partner, whom it was perfectly right and natural to hate, but -himself and all the rest of his kind. He was so much disgusted, that he -almost made up his mind to let fortune and the English prima donna go -together, and to take no further step to make the girl known to those -who were so incapable of appreciating her. But when he came that -length, Rollo had reached the end of his tether, struck against the -uttermost limits of his horizon--and thus was brought back suddenly to -the question how he was best to make his prize known? - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - -AN UNCONSCIOUS TRIAL. - - -It turned out, however, that Rollo could not accomplish the object, -which he had aimed at with so much eagerness and hope, in the only -legitimate way. He could not get his Manager invited to the Deanery. “I -don’t think your aunt would like it; I don’t think I could sanction it,” -the Dean said, whom he met at his club. Unfortunately the Dean had -somewhere encountered the partner by whose aid Rollo expected to make -his fortune, and he made it the subject of a little discourse, which -Rollo received with impatience. “I would have nothing to do with him if -I were you,” his Reverence said; “he is not a kind of man to be any -credit to his associates. You can’t touch pitch without being defiled. I -would not have anything to say to him if I were you.” - -“Nor should I, uncle, if I were you,” said Rollo, with a rueful smile. -He was not aware that this was not original; he was not thinking, -indeed, of originality, but of the emergency, which he felt was very -difficult to deal with. - -“Nonsense!” said the Dean; “don’t tell me there are not a great many -better occupations going than that of managing a theatre----” - -“Opera--opera. Give us our due at least----” - -“What difference is there?” said the Dean sternly. “The opera has ruined -just as many men as the theatre. Talk of making your fortune? Did you -ever hear of the lessee of a theatre making a fortune? Plenty have been -ruined by it, and never one made rich that I ever heard of. Why can’t -you go into diplomacy or to a public office, or get your Uncle Urban to -give you something? You ought not to have anything to do with such a -venture as this.” - -“My dear uncle,” said Rollo, “you know well enough how many things I -have tried. Uncles are very kind (as in your case), but they can’t take -all their relations upon their shoulders; and you knew this was what I -was doing, and Aunt Caroline knew----” - -“Ah! yes; I recollect that was what all the singing was about; but she -could not stand that Manager fellow. I could not stand him myself; as -for your aunt, you could not expect it. She is very good-natured, but -you could not ask her to go so far as that.” - -“He is a man who goes everywhere,” said Rollo; “he is a man who can -behave himself perfectly well wherever he is.” - -“Oh, bless you, she would see through him at a glance!” cried the Dean. -“I don’t mean to say your aunt is clever, Rollo, but instinct goes a -long way. She would see through him. Miss Despard was quite different; -she was perfectly _comme il faut_. Girls are wonderful sometimes in that -way. Though they may have no advantages, they seem to pick up and look -just as good as any one: whereas a man like that---- By the way, I am -very sorry for the poor thing. They say her father, a disreputable sort -of gay man who never should have got the appointment, is going to marry -some low woman. It will be hard upon the girl.” - -What an opportunity was this of seizing hold upon her--of overcoming any -objection that might arise! Rollo felt himself Lottie’s best friend as -he heard of this complication. While she might help to make his fortune -he could make her independent, above the power of any disreputable -father or undesirable home. He could not bear to think that such a girl -should be lost in conditions so wretched, and, though the Dean was -obdurate, he did not lose hope. But between Thursday and Monday is not a -very long time for such negotiations, and the Manager was entirely -preoccupied by his Milanese, whom another impresario was said to be on -the track of, and in whom various connoisseurs were interested. It is -impossible to describe the scorn and incredulity with which Rollo -himself heard his partner’s account of this new singer. He put not the -slightest faith in her. - -“I know how she will turn out,” he said. “She will shriek like a -peacock; she will have to be taught her own language; she will be -coached up for one _rôle_ and good for nothing else; and she will smell -of garlic enough to kill you.” - -“Oh, garlic will never kill me!” said the vulgar partner who gave Rollo -so much trouble. - -In the meantime he wrote to the Signor to see what could be done, and -begged with the utmost urgency that he would arrange something. “Perhaps -the old Irishwoman next door would receive us,” Rollo said, “even if she -has got no piano. Try, my dear Rossinetti, I implore you; try your -best.” The Signor was very willing to serve the Dean’s nephew; but he -was at the moment very much put out by Lottie’s reception of young -Purcell, as much as if it had been himself that had been refused. - -“Who is Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, and how am I to communicate with her?” he -cried; and he did not throw himself into the work with any zeal. All -that he would do at last, moved by Rollo’s repeated letters, was to bid -him bring his friend down to the service on Sunday afternoon, when he -would see Lottie at least, and hear something of her voice. The Manager -grinned at this invitation. He was not an enthusiast for Handel, and -shrugged his shoulders at sacred music generally as much out of his -line; but he ended, having no better engagement on hand, by consenting -to go. It was the end of the season; the opera was over, and all its -fashionable patrons dispersed; and St. Michael’s was something to talk -of at least. So the two connoisseurs arrived on a warm afternoon of -early August, when the grey pinnacles of the Abbey blazed white in -excessive sunshine, and the river showed like glowing metal here and -there through the broad valley, too brilliant to give much refreshment -to the eyes. - -As it happened, it was a chance whether Lottie would attend the service -that afternoon at all. She was sorry for poor Purcell, and embarrassed -to face the congregation in the Abbey, some of whom at least must know -the story. She was certain the Signor knew it, from the glance he had -thrown at her; and Mrs. Purcell, she felt sure, would gloom at her from -the free seats, and the hero himself look wistful and reproachful from -the organ-loft. She had very nearly made up her mind not to go. Would it -not be better to go out on the slopes, and sit down under a tree, and -hear the music softly pealing at a distance, and get a little rest out -of her many troubles? Lottie had almost decided upon this, when -suddenly, by a caprice, she changed her mind and went. Everything came -true as she had divined. Mrs. Purcell fixed her eyes upon her from the -moment she sat down in her place, with a gloomy interest which sadly -disconcerted Lottie; and so did old Pick, who sat by his fellow servant -and chuckled over the conclusion of Mr. John’s romance; while once at -least Lottie caught the pale dulness of the Signor’s face looking -disapproval, and at every spare moment the silent appeal of Purcell’s -eyes looking down from over the railing of the organ-loft. Lottie’s -heart revolted a little in resistance to all these pitiful and -disapproving looks. Why should they insist upon it? If she could not -accept young Purcell, what was it to the Signor and old Pick?--though -his mother might be forgiven if she felt the disappointment of her boy. -The girl shrank a little from all those glances, and gave herself up -altogether to her devotions. Was it to her devotions? There was the -Captain chanting all the responses within hearing, cheerful and -self-confident, as if the Abbey belonged to him; and there, too, was -Law, exchanging glances of a totally different description with the -people in the free seats. It was to two fair-haired girls whom Lottie -had seen before--who were, indeed, constant in their attendance on the -Sunday afternoon--that Law was signalling; and they, on their part, -tittered and whispered, and looked at the Captain in his stall, and at -another woman in a veil whom Lottie did not make out. This was enough to -distract her from the prayers, to which, however, if only to escape from -the confusion of her own thoughts, she did her very best to give full -attention. But---- She put up her prayer-book in front of her face, and -hid herself at least from all the crowd, so full each of his and her own -concerns. She was silent during the responses, hearing nothing but her -father’s voice with its tone of proprietorship, and only allowed herself -to sing when the Captain’s baritone was necessarily silent. Lottie’s -voice had become known to the people who sat near her. They looked for -her as much as they looked for little Rowley himself, who was the first -soprano; but to-day they did not get much from Lottie. Now and then she -forgot herself, as in the “Magnificat,” when she burst forth suddenly -unawares, almost taking it out of the hands of the boys; but while she -was singing Lottie came to herself almost as suddenly, and stopped -short, with a quaver and shake in her voice as if the thread of sound -had been suddenly broken. Raising her eyes in the midst of the canticle, -she had seen Rollo Ridsdale within a few places of her, holding his book -before him very decorously, yet looking from her to a large man by his -side with unmistakable meaning. The surprise of seeing him whom she -believed to be far away, the agitation it gave her to perceive that she -herself was still the chief point of interest to him, and the sudden -recalling thus of her consciousness, gave her a shock which extinguished -her voice altogether. There was a thrill in the music as if a string had -broken; and then the hymn went on more feebly, diminished in sweetness -and volume, while she stood trembling, holding herself up with an -effort. He had come back again, and again his thoughts were full of -her, his whole attention turned to her. An instantaneous change took -place in Lottie’s mind. Instead of the jumble of annoyances and -vexations that had been around her--the reproachful looks on one side, -the family discordance on the other--her father and Law both jarring -with all that Lottie wished and thought right--a flood of celestial calm -poured into her soul. She was no longer angry with the two fair-haired -girls who tittered and whispered through the service, looking up to Law -with a hundred telegraphic communications. She was scarcely annoyed when -her father’s voice pealed forth again in pretentious incorrectness. She -did not mind what was happening around her. The sunshine that came in -among the pinnacles and fretwork above in a golden mist, lighting up -every detail, yet confusing them in a dazzle and glory which common eyes -could not bear, made just such an effect on the canopies of the stalls -as Rollo’s appearance made on Lottie’s mind. She was all in a dazzle and -mist of sudden calm and happiness which seemed to make everything -bright, yet blurred everything in its soft, delicious glow. - -“Don’t think much of her,” said the Manager, as they came out. The two -were going back again at once to town, but Rollo’s partner had supposed -that at least they would first pay a visit to the Deanery. He was a man -who counted duchesses on his roll of acquaintances, but he liked to add -a Lady Caroline whenever the opportunity occurred, and deans, too, had -their charm. He was offended when he saw that Rollo had no such -intention, and at once divined that he was not considered a proper -person to be introduced to the heads of such a community. This increased -his determination not to yield to his partner in this fancy of his, -which, indeed, he had always considered presumptuous, finding voices -being his own share of the work--a thing much too important to be -trusted to an amateur. “The boy has a sweet little pipe of his own; but -as for your _prima donna_, Ridsdale, if you think that sort of thing -would pay with us---- No, no! my good fellow; she’s a deuced handsome -girl, and I wish you joy; I don’t wonder that she should have turned -your head; but for our new house, not if I know it, my boy. A very nice -voice for an amateur, but that sort of thing does not do with the -public.” - -“You scarcely heard her at all; and the few notes she did sing were so -mixed up with those scrubby little boys----” - -“Oh! I heard her, and I don’t care to hear her again--unless it were in -a drawing-room. Why, there’s Rossinetti,” said the _impresario_; “he’ll -tell you just the same as I do. Do you know what we’re down here for, -Rossinetti, eh? Deluded by Ridsdale to come and hear some miraculous -voice; and it turns out to be only a charming young lady who has -bewitched him, as happens to the best of us. Pretty voice for a -drawing-room, nice amateur quality; but for the profession---- I tell him -you must know that as well as I.” - -“Come into my place and rest a little; there is no train just yet,” -said the Signor. He had left Purcell to play the voluntary, and led -the strangers through the nave, which was still crowded with people -listening to the great strains of the organ. “Come out this way” he -said; “I don’t want to be seen. Purcell plays quite as well as I do; -but if they see me they will stream off, and hurt his feelings. Poor -boy! he has had enough to vex him already.” - -These words were on his lips when, coming out by a private door, the -three connoisseurs suddenly came upon Lottie, who was walking home with -Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. The Signor, who was noted for a womanish heat of -partisanship and had not forgiven her for the disappointment of his -pupil, darted a violent glance at her as he took off his hat. It might -have been himself that she had rejected, so full of offence was his -look; and this fixed the attention of the big Manager, who took off his -hat too, with a smile of secret amusement, and watched the scene, making -a private memorandum to the effect that Rossinetti evidently had been -hit also; and no wonder! a handsome girl as you could see in a summer -day, with a voice that was a very nice voice, a really superior voice -for an amateur. - -As for Rollo, he hastened up to Mrs. O’Shaughnessy with fervour, and -held out his hand; and how happy and how proud was that kind woman! She -curtseyed as she took his hand as if he had been the Prince of Wales, -nearly pulling him down, too, ere she recovered herself; and her -countenance shone, partly with the heat, partly with the delight. - -“And I hope I see _you_ well, sir,” she said; “and glad to see you back -in St. Michael’s. There’s nothing like young people for keeping a place -cheerful. Though we don’t go into society, me and me Major, yet it’s a -pleasure to see the likes of you about.” - -Rollo had time to turn to Lottie with very eloquent looks while this -speech was being addressed to him. “I am only here for half an hour,” he -said; “I could not resist the temptation of coming for the service.” - -“Oh! me dear sir, you wouldn’t care so much for the sarvice if ye had as -much of it as we have,” said Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, going on well pleased. -She liked to hear herself talking, and she had likewise a quick -perception of the fact that, while she talked, communications of a -different kind might go on between “the young folks.” “Between -ourselves, it’s not me that they’ll get to stop for their playing,” she -said, all the more distinctly that the Signor was within hearing. “I’d -go five miles to hear a good band. The music was beautiful in the -regiment when O’Shaughnessy was adjutant. And for me own part, Mr. -Ridsdale, I’d not give the drums and the fifes for the most elegant -music you could play. I don’t say that I’m a judge, but I know what I -like.” - -“Why did you stop so soon?” Rollo said, aside. “Ah! Miss Despard, was it -not cruel?--A good band is an excellent thing, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. I -shall try to get my uncle to have the band from the depôt to play once a -week, next time I come here.--Thanks all the same for those few notes; I -shall live upon them,” he added fervently, “till I have the chance of -hearing you again.” - -Lottie made no reply. It was unnecessary with Mrs. O’Shaughnessy there, -and talking all the time. And, indeed, what had she to say? The words -spread themselves like a balm into every corner of her heart. He would -not have gone so far, nor spoken so warmly, if it had not been for the -brutal indifference of the big Manager, who stood looking on at a -distance, with an air of understanding a great deal more than there was -to understand. The malicious knowingness in this man’s eyes made Rollo -doubly anxious in his civilities; and then he felt it necessary to make -up to Lottie for the other’s blasphemy in respect to her voice, though -of this Lottie knew nothing at all. - -“I shall not even have time to see my aunt,” he said; “how fortunate -that I have had this opportunity of a word with you! I did not know -whether I might take the liberty to call.” - -“And welcome, Mr. Ridsdale,” said Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. “Lottie’s but a -child, so to speak; but I and the Major would be proud to see you. And -of an afternoon we’re always at home, and, though I say it as shouldn’t, -as good a cup of tea to offer ye as ye’d get from me Lady Caroline -herself. It’s ready now, if you’ll accept the refreshment, you and--your -friend.” - -“A thousand thanks, but we must not stay. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, if you see -my aunt will you explain how it was I could not come to see her? And be -sure you tell her you met me at the Abbey door, or she will not like it. -Miss Despard, Augusta is coming home, and I hope to be at the Deanery -next month. _Then_ I trust you will be more generous, and not stop -singing as soon as you see me. What had I done?” he cried in his -appealing voice. “Yes, Rossinetti, I’m coming.--Not Good-bye, Mrs. -O’Shaughnessy; only, as the French say, Till we meet again.” - -“And I hope that will not be long,” said the good woman, delighted. She -swept along the Dean’s Walk, letting her dress trail after her and -holding her head high; she was too much excited to think of holding up -her skirts. “Did ye hear him, Lottie, me honey? ‘If you see my aunt,’ -says he. Lord bless the man! as if me Lady Caroline was in the way of -looking in and taking a cup of tea! Sure, I’d make her welcome, and -more sense than shutting herself up in that old house, and never -stirring, no, not to save her life. ‘If ye see my aunt,’ says he. Oh, -yes! me darlint, I’ll see her, shut up in her state, and looking as -if---- He’ll find the difference when he comes to the Deanery, as he -says. Not for you, Lottie, me dear; you’re one of themselves, so to -speak. But it’s not much thanks me Lady Caroline will give him for -sending her a message by Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. I thought I’d burst out in -his face, ‘Tell her ye met me by the Abbey door.’ That’s to save me -lady’s feelings, Lottie. But I’ll do his bidding next time I see her; -I’ll make no bones of it, I’ll up and give her my message. Lord! just to -see how me lady would take it. See if I don’t now. For him, he’s a -jewel, take me word for it, Lottie; and ye’ll be a silly girl, me honey, -if you let a gentleman like Mr. Ridsdale slip through your fingers. A -real gentleman--ye can see as much by his manners. If I’d been a -duchess, Lottie, me dear, what more could he say?” - -Lottie made no reply to this speech, any more than to the words Rollo -himself had addressed to her. Her mind was all in a confused maze of -happy thoughts and anticipations. His looks, his words, were all turned -to the same delicious meaning; and he was coming back to the Deanery, -when she was to be “more generous” to him. No compliment could have been -so penetrating as that soft reproach. Lottie had no words to spend upon -her old friend, who, for her part, was sufficiently exhilarated to -require no answer. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy rang the changes upon this subject -all the way to the Lodges. “‘When you see my aunt,’ says he.” The idea -that she was in the habit of visiting Lady Caroline familiarly not only -amused but flattered her, though it was difficult enough to understand -how this latter effect could come about. - -Rollo was himself moved more than he could have imagined possible by -this encounter. He said nothing as he followed his companions to the -Signor’s house, and did not even remark what they were saying, so -occupied was he in going over again the trivial events of the last few -minutes. As he did so, it occurred to him for the first time that Lottie -had not so much as spoken to him all the time; not a word had she said, -though he had found no deficiency in her. It was evident, then, that -there might be a meeting which should fill a man’s mind with much -pleasant excitement and commotion, and leave on his thoughts a very -delightful impression, without one word said by the lady. This idea -amused him in the pleasant agitation of his being to which the encounter -at the church door had given rise. He forgot what he had come for, and -the rudeness of his partner, and the refusal of that personage to think -at all of Lottie. He did not want any further discussion of this -question; he had forgotten, even, that it could require to be -discussed. Somehow all at once, yet completely, Lottie had changed -character to him; he did not want to talk her over with anyone, and he -forgot altogether the subject upon which the conversation must -necessarily turn when he followed the Signor and his big companion -through the groups of people who began to emerge from the Abbey. There -were a great many who stared at Rollo, knowing who he was, but none who -roused him from his preoccupation. Fortunately the Dean had a cold and -was not visible, and Lady Caroline did not profess to go to church in -the afternoon--“It was too soon after lunch, and there were so many -people, and one never felt that one had the Abbey to one’s self,” her -ladyship said. - -The Manager went off to Italy the next day, after his Milanese, without -being at all restrained by Rollo, who was glad to get rid of him, and to -have no more said about the English _prima donna_. He did not quite like -it even, so perverse was he, when the Signor, sitting out upon his -terrace, defended her against the _impresario’s_ hasty verdict: “She has -a beautiful voice, so far as that goes,” the Signor said, with the -gravity of a judge; “you are mistaken if you do not admire her voice; we -have had occasion to hear it, and we know what it is, so far as that -goes.” - -“You dog!” said the jovial Manager, with a large fat laugh. “I see -something else if I don’t see that. Ah, Rossinetti! hit too?” - -“Do you happen to know what he means?” said the Signor with profound -gravity, turning his fine eyes upon Ridsdale. “Ah! it is a pleasantry, I -suppose. I have not the same appreciation of humour that I might have -had, had I been born an Englishman,” he said, with a seriousness that -was portentous, without relaxing a muscle. - -Rollo, who was not aware of the vehement interest with which the Signor -espoused Purcell’s cause, felt the Manager’s suspicions echo through his -own mind. He knew how entirely disinclined he felt to enter upon this -question. Was his companion right, and had the Signor been hit too? It -seemed to Rollo that the wonder was how anyone could avoid that -catastrophe. The Manager made very merry, as they went back to town, -upon Lottie’s voice and the character of the admiration which it had -excited; but all this Rollo received with as much solemnity of aspect as -characterised the Signor. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - -SEARCHINGS OF HEART. - - -It was not to be supposed that the visit of Rollo and his companion -should pass unnoticed in so small a community as that of St. Michael’s, -where everybody knew him, and in which he had all the importance -naturally belonging to a member, so to speak, of the reigning family. -Everybody noticed his appearance in the Abbey, and it soon became a -matter of general talk that he was not at the Deanery, but had come down -from town expressly for the service, returning by as early a train -afterwards as the Sunday regulations of the railway allowed. What did he -come for? Not to see his relations, which would have been a -comprehensible reason for so brief a visit. He had been seen talking to -somebody at the north door, and he had been seen following the Signor, -in company with a large and brilliant person who wore more rings and -studs and _breloques_ than had ever been seen at St. Michael’s. Finally, -this remarkable stranger, who was evidently a friend of the Signor as -well as of Rollo, had been visible on the little green terrace outside -Rossinetti’s sitting-room, smoking cigarettes and drinking claret-cup, -and tilting up his chair upon two legs in a manner which suggested a -tea-garden, critics said, more than a studious nook sheltered among the -buttresses of the Abbey. Public opinion was instinctively unfavourable -to Rollo’s companion; but what was the young prince, Lady Caroline’s -nephew, doing there? Then the question arose, who was it to whom Rollo -had been talking at the north door? All the Canons and their wives, and -the ladies in the Lodges, and even the townspeople, when the story -reached them, cried out “Impossible!” when they were told that it was -Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. But that lady had no intention of concealing the -honour done her. She published it, so to speak, on the housetops. She -neglected no occasion of making her friends acquainted with all the -particulars of the interview. “And who should it have been but me?” she -said. “Is there e’er another one at St. Michael’s that knows as much of -his family? Who was it but an uncle of his, or maybe it might be a -cousin, that was in the regiment with us and O’Shaughnessy’s greatest -friend? Many’s the good turn the Major’s done him; and, say the worst -you can o’ the Ridsdales, it’s not ungrateful they are. It’s women that -are little in their ways. What does a real gentleman care for our little -quarrels and the visiting list at the Deanery? ‘When ye see me aunt,’ -says he, ‘Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, ye’ll tell her----’ Sure he took it for -certain that me Lady Caroline was a good neighbour, and would step in -of an afternoon for her bit of talk and her cup o’ tea. ‘You’ll tell -her,’ says he, ‘that I hadn’t time to go and see her.’ And, please God, -I will do it when I’ve got the chance. If her ladyship forgets her -manners, it shall ne’er be said that O’Shaughnessy’s wife was wanting in -good breeding to a family the Major had such close connections with.” - -“But do you really know--Mr. Ridsdale’s family?” said Lottie, after one -of these brilliant addresses, somewhat bewildered by her recollection of -what had passed. “And, sure, didn’t you hear me say so? Is it doubting -me word you are?” said Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, with a twinkle in her eye. -Lottie was bewildered--but it did not matter much. At this moment -nothing seemed to matter very much. She had been dull, and she had been -troubled by many things before the wonderful moment in which she had -discovered Rollo close to her in the Abbey--much troubled, foreseeing -with dismay the closing in around her of a network of new associations -in which there could be nothing but pain and shame, and dull with a -heavy depression of dulness which no ray of light in the present, no -expectation in the future, seemed to brighten. Purcell’s hand held out -to her, tenderly, yet half in pity, had been the only personal -encouragement she had; and that had humbled her to the dust, even though -she struggled with herself to do him justice. Her heart had been as -heavy as lead. There had seemed to her nothing that was hopeful, -nothing that was happy before her. Now all the heaviness had flown away. -Why? Why, for no reason at all, because this young man, whom she -supposed (without any warrant for the foolish idea) to love her, had -come back for an hour or two; because he was coming back on a visit. The -visit was not to her, nor had she probable share in the enjoyments to be -provided for Lady Caroline’s nephew; and Lottie did not love him to make -his very presence a delight to her. She did not love him--yet. This was -the unexpressed feeling in her mind; but when a girl has got so far as -this it may be supposed that the visit of the lover whom she does not -love--yet, must fill her with a thousand delightful tremors. How could -she doubt his sentiments? What was it that brought him back and back -again to St. Michael’s? And to be led along that flowery way to the -bower of bliss at the end of it, to be persuaded into love by all the -flatteries and worship of a lover so delicately impassioned--could a -girl’s imagination conceive anything more exquisite?--No, she was not in -love--yet---- But there was no reason why she should not be, except the -soft maidenly reluctance, the shy retreat before one who kept advancing, -the instinct of coy resistance to an inevitable delight. - -Into this delicate world of happiness, in which there was nothing real, -but all imagination, Lottie was delivered over that bright Sunday. She -had no defence against it, and she did not wish to have any. She gave -herself up to the dream. After that interval of heaviness, of darkness, -when there was no pleasant delusion to support her, and life, with all -its difficulties and dangers, became so real, confronting her at every -point, what an escape it was for Lottie to find herself again under the -dreamy skies of that fool’s paradise! It was the Garden of Eden to her. -She thought it was the true world, and the other the false one. The -vague terror and disgust with which her father’s new plans filled her -mind floated away like a mist; and, as for Law, what so easy as to carry -him with her into the better world where she was going? Her mind in a -moment was lightened of its load. She had left home heavily; she went -back scarcely able to keep from singing in the excess of her -light-heartedness, more lifted above earth than if any positive good had -come to her. So long as the good is coming, and exists in the -imagination only, how much more entrancing is it than anything real that -ever can be ours! - -The same event, however, which had so much effect upon Lottie acted upon -her family too in a manner for which she was far from being prepared. -Captain Despard came in as much elated visibly as she was in her heart. -There had been but little intercourse among them since the evening when -the Captain had made those inquiries about Rollo, which Lottie resented -so deeply. The storm had blown over, and she had nominally forgiven Law -for going over to the enemy’s side; but Lottie’s heart had been shut -even against her brother since that night. He had forsaken her, and she -had not been able to pass over his desertion of her cause. However, her -heart had softened with her happiness, and she made his tea for him now -more genially than she had done for weeks before. They seated themselves -round the table with, perhaps, less constraint than usual--a result due -to the smiling aspect of the Captain as well as to the softened -sentiment in Lottie’s heart. Once upon a time a family tea was a -favourite feature in English literature, from Cowper down to Dickens, -not to speak of the more exclusively domestic fiction of which it is the -chosen banquet. A great deal has been said of this nondescript (and -indigestible) meal. But perhaps there must be a drawing of the curtains, -a wheeling-in of the sofa, a suggestion of warmth and comfort in -contradistinction to storms and chills outside, as in the Opium-eater’s -picture of his cottage, to carry out the ideal--circumstances altogether -wanting to the tea of the Despards, which was _eaten_ (_passez-moi le -mot_, for is it not the bread-and-butter that makes the meal?) in the -warmest hour of an August afternoon. The window, indeed, was open, and -the Dean’s Walk, by which the townspeople were coming and going in -considerable numbers, as they always did on Sunday, was visible with -its gay groups, and the prospect outside was more agreeable than the -meal within. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, next door, had loosed her cap-strings, -and fanned herself at intervals as she sipped her tea. “It’s hot, but -sure it cools you after,” she was saying to her Major. The Despards, -however, were not fat, and did not show the heat like their neighbours. -Law sat at the table and pegged away resolutely at his bread-and-butter, -having nothing to take his mind off his food, and no very exciting -prospect of supper to sustain him. But the Captain took his tea -daintily, as one who had heard of a roast fowl and sausages to be ready -by nine o’clock, and was, therefore, more or less indifferent to the -bread-and-butter. He patted Lottie on the shoulder as she gave him his -tea. - -“My child,” he said, “I was wrong the other day. It is not every man -that would own it so frankly; but I have always been a candid man, -though it has damaged me often. When I am in the wrong I am bound to -confess it. Take my hand, Lottie, my love. I made a mistake.” - -Lottie looked at him surprised. He had taken her hand and held it, -shaking it, half-playfully, in his own. - -“My love,” he said, “you are not so candid as your poor father. You will -get on all the better in the world. I withdraw everything I said, -Lottie. All is going well; all is for the best. I make no doubt you can -manage your own affairs a great deal better than I.” - -“What is it you mean, papa?” - -“We will say no more, my child. I give you free command over yourself. -That was a fine anthem this afternoon, and I have no doubt those were -well repaid who came from a distance to hear it. Don’t you think so, -Lottie? Many people come from a great distance to hear the service in -the Abbey, and no doubt the Signor made it known that there was to be -such a good anthem to-day.” - -Lottie did not make any reply. She looked at him with mingled wonder and -impatience. What did he mean? It had not occurred to her to connect -Rollo with the anthem, but she perceived by the look on her father’s -face that something which would be displeasing to her was in his mind. - -“What’s the row?” said Law. “Who was there? I thought it was always the -same old lot.” - -“And so it is generally the same old lot. _We_ don’t vary; but when -pretty girls like Lottie say their prayers regularly heaven sends -somebody to hear them. Oh, yes; there is always somebody sent to hear -them. But you are quite right to allow nothing to be said about it, my -child,” said the Captain. “Not a word, on the honour of a gentleman. -Your feelings shall be respected. But it may be a comfort to you, my -love, to feel that whatever happens your father is behind you, -Lottie--knows and approves. My dear, I say no more.” - -“By Jove! What is it?” cried Law. - -“It is nothing to you,” said his father. “But look here, Law. See that -you don’t go out all over the place and leave your sister by herself, -without anyone to take care of her. My engagements I can’t always give -up, but don’t let me hear that there’s nobody to walk across the road -with Lottie when she’s asked out.” - -“Oh, that’s it, is it?” said Law. “I thought they’d had enough of you at -the Deanery, Lottie. That’s going to begin again, then, I suppose?” - -“I am not invited to the Deanery,” said Lottie, with as much state and -solemnity as she could summon up, though she trembled; “neither is it -going to begin again. There is no occasion for troubling Law or you -either. I always have taken care of myself hitherto, and I suppose I -shall do it till the end.” - -“You need not get on your high horse, my child,” said Captain Despard, -blandly. “Don’t suppose that I will interfere; but it will be a -consolation to you to remember that your father is watching over you, -and that his heart goes with you,” he added, with an unctuous roll in -his voice. He laid his hand for a moment on her head, and said, “Bless -you, my love,” before he turned away. The Captain’s emotion was great; -it almost brought the tears to his manly eyes. - -“What _is_ the row?” said Law, when his father had gone. Law’s attention -had been fully occupied during the service with his own affairs, and he -did not know of the reappearance of Rollo. “One would think he was going -to cry over you, Lottie. What have you done? Engagements! he has always -got some engagement or other. I never knew a fellow with such a lot of -friends--I shouldn’t wonder if he was going to sup somewhere to-night. I -wonder what they can see in him,” said Law, with a sigh. - -“Law, are you going out too?” - -“Oh, I suppose so; there is nothing to do in the house. What do you -suppose a fellow can do? Reading is slow work; and, besides, it’s -Sunday, and it’s wrong to work on Sunday. I shall go out and look round -a bit, and see if I can see anyone I know.” - -“Do you ever think, I wonder,” said Lottie--“papa and you--that if it is -so dull for you in the house, it must sometimes be a little dull for -me?” - -She was not in the habit of making such appeals, but to-night there was -courage and a sense of emancipation in her which made her strong. - -“You? Oh, well, I don’t know--you are a girl,” said Law, “and girls are -used to it. I don’t know what you would do if you wanted to have a -little fun, eh? I dare say you don’t know yourself. Yes, I shouldn’t -wonder if it was dull; but what can anyone do? It’s nature, I suppose,” -said Law. “There isn’t any fun for girls, as there is for us. Well, is -there? How should I know?” - -But there was “fun” for Emma and her sisters of the workroom, Law -reminded himself with a compunction. “I’ll tell you what, Lottie,” he -said hastily; “you must just do as other girls do. You must get some one -to walk with you, and talk, and all that, you know. There’s nothing else -to be done; and you might have plenty. There’s that singing fellow, that -young Purcell; they say he’s in love with you. Well, he’s better than -nobody; and you could give him the sack as soon as you saw somebody you -liked better. I thought at one time that Ridsdale----” - -“I think, Law,” said Lottie, “you had better go out for your walk.” - -He laughed. He was half-pleased to have roused and vexed her, yet -half-sorry too. Poor Lottie! Now that she was abandoned by her grand -admirer and all her fine friends, it must be dull for her, staying in -the house by herself; but then what could he do, or anyone? It was -nature. Nature, perhaps, might be to blame for not providing “fun” for -girls, but it was not for Law to set nature right. When he had got his -hat, however, and brushed his hair before going out, he came back and -looked at Lottie with a compunction. He could not give up meeting Emma -in order to take his sister for a walk, though, indeed, this idea -actually did glance across his mind as a rueful possibility. No, he -could not go; he had promised Emma to meet her in the woods, and he must -keep his word. But he was very sorry for Lottie. What a pity she had -not some one of her own--Purcell, if nobody better! and then, when the -right one came, she might throw him off. But Law did not dare to repeat -his advice to this effect. He went and looked at her remorsefully. -Lottie had seated herself upstairs in the little drawing-room; she was -leaning her elbow on the ledge of the little deep window, and her head -upon her hand. The attitude was pensive; and Law could not help thinking -that to be a girl, and sit there all alone looking out of a window -instead of roaming about as he did, would be something very terrible. -The contrast chilled him and made him momentarily ashamed of himself. -But then he reflected that there were a great many people passing up and -down, and that he had often heard people say it was amusing to sit at a -window. Very likely Lottie thought so; probably, on the whole, she liked -that better than going out. This must be the case, he persuaded himself, -or else she would have been sure to manage to get some companion; -therefore he said nothing to her, but went downstairs very quietly and -let himself out softly, not making any noise with the door. Law had a -very pleasant walk with Emma under the trees, and enjoyed himself, but -occasionally there would pass a shadow over him as he thought of Lottie -sitting at the window in the little still house all alone. - -But indeed, for that evening at least, Lottie was not much to be -pitied. She had her dreams to fall back upon. She had what is absolutely -necessary to happiness--not only something to look back to, but -something to look forward to. That is the true secret of -bliss--something that is coming. With that to support us can we not bear -anything? After a while, no doubt, Lottie felt, as she had often felt -before, that it was dull. There was not a sound in the little house; -everybody was out except herself; and it was Sunday, and she could not -get her needlework to occupy her hands and help on her thoughts. As the -brightness waned slowly away, and the softness of the evening lights and -then the dimness of the approaching dark stole on, Lottie had a great -longing to get out of doors; but she could not go and leave the house, -for even the maid was out, having her Sunday walk with her young man. It -was astonishing how many girls had gone wandering past the window, each -with her young man. Not much wonder, perhaps, that Law had suggested -this sole way of a little “fun” for a girl. Poor Law! he did not know -any better; he did not mean any harm. She laughed now at the suggestion -which had made her angry at the time, for to-night Lottie could afford -to laugh. But when she heard the maid-servant come in, Lottie, wearied -with her long vigil, and longing for a breath of cool air after the -confinement of the house, agreed with herself that there would be no -harm in taking one little turn upon the slopes. The townspeople had -mostly gone. Now and then a couple of the old Chevaliers would come -strolling homeward, having taken a longer walk in the calm of the Sunday -evening than their usual turn on the Slopes. Captain Temple and his wife -had gone by arm-in-arm. Perhaps they had been down to the evening -service in the town, perhaps only out for a walk, like everybody else. -Gradually the strangers were disappearing; the people that belonged to -the Precincts were now almost the only people about, and there was no -harm in taking a little walk alone; but it was not a thing Lottie cared -much to do. With a legitimate errand she would go anywhere; but for a -walk! The girl was shy, and full of all those natural conventional -reluctances which cannot be got out of women; but she could not stay in -any longer. She went out with a little blue shawl folded like a -scarf--as was the fashion of the time--over her shoulders, and flitted -quickly along the Dean’s Walk to the slopes. All was sweet in the soft -darkness and in the evening dews, the grass moist, the trees or the sky -sometimes distilling a palpable dewdrop, the air coming softly over all -those miles of country to touch with the tenderest salutation Lottie’s -cheek. She looked out upon the little town nestling at the foot of the -hill with all its twinkling lights, and upon the stars that shone over -the long glimmer of the river, which showed here and there, through all -the valley, pale openings of light in the dark country. How sweet and -still it was! The openness of the horizon, the distance, was the thing -that did Lottie good. She cast her eyes to the very farthest limit of -the world that lay within her sight and drew a long breath. Perhaps it -was this that caught the attention of some one who was passing. Lottie -had seated herself in a corner under a tree, and she did not see this -wayfarer, who was behind her; and the reader knows that she did not sigh -for sorrow, but only to relieve a bosom which was very full of fanciful -anticipations, hopes, and dreams. It was not likely, however, that Mr. -Ashford would know that. He too was taking his evening walk; and when he -heard the sigh in which so many tender and delicious fancies exhaled -into the air, he thought--who could wonder?--that it was somebody in -trouble; and, drawing a little nearer to see if he could help, as was -the nature of the man, found to his great surprise--as she, too, -startled, turned round her face upon him--that it was Lottie Despard who -was occupying the seat which was his favourite seat also. They both said -“I beg your pardon” simultaneously, though it would be hard to tell why. - -“I think I have seen you here before,” he said. “You like this time of -the evening, Miss Despard, like myself--and this view?” - -“Yes,” said Lottie; “but I have been sitting indoors all the afternoon, -and got tired of it at last. I did not like to come out all by myself; -but I thought no one would see me now.” - -“Surely you may come here in all safety by yourself.” The Minor Canon -had too much good breeding to suggest any need of a companion or any -pity for the girl left alone. Then he said suddenly, “This is an -admirable chance for me. The first time we met, Miss Despard, you -mentioned something about which you wished to consult me----” - -“Ah!” cried Lottie, coming back out of her dreams. Yes, she had wanted -to consult him, and the opportunity must not be neglected. “It was about -Law, Mr. Ashford. Law--his name is Lawrence, you know, my brother; he is -a great boy, almost a man--more than eighteen. But I am afraid he is -very backward. I want him so very much to stand his examination. It -seems that nothing--nothing can be done without that now.” - -“His examination--for what?” - -“Oh, Mr. Ashford,” said Lottie, “for anything! I don’t mind what it is. -I thought, perhaps, if you would take him it would make him see the good -of working. We are--poor; I need not make any fuss about saying that; -here we are all poor; and if I could but see Law in an office earning -his living, I think,” cried Lottie, with the solemnity of a martyr, “I -think I should not care what happened. That was all. I wanted him to -come to you, that you might tell us what he would be fit for.” - -“He would make a good soldier,” said Mr. Ashford, smiling; “though there -is an examination for that too.” - -“There are examinations for everything, I think,” said Lottie, shaking -her head mournfully; “that is the dreadful thing; and you see, Mr. -Ashford, we are poor. He has not a penny; he must work for his living; -and how is he to get started? That is what I am always saying. But what -is the use of speaking? You know what boys are. Perhaps if I had been -able to insist upon it years ago--but then I was very young too. I had -no sense, any more than Law.” - -The Minor Canon was greatly touched. The evening dew got into his -eyes--he stood by her in the soft summer darkness, wondering. He was a -great deal older than Lottie--old enough to be her father, he said to -himself; but he had no one to give him this keen, impatient anxiety, -this insight into what boys are. “Was there no one but you to insist -upon it?” he said, in spite of himself. - -“Well,” said Lottie meditatively, “do gentlemen--generally--take much -trouble about what boys are doing? I suppose they have got other things -to think of.” - -“You have not much opinion of men, Miss Despard,” said the Minor Canon, -with a half-laugh. - -“Oh, indeed I have!” cried Lottie. “Why do you say that? I was not -thinking about men--but only---- And then boys themselves, Mr. Ashford; -you know what they are. Oh! I think sometimes if I could put some of me -into him. But you can’t do that. You may talk, and you may coax, and you -may scold, and try every way--but what does it matter? If a boy won’t do -anything, what is to be done with him? That is why I wanted so much, so -very much, to bring him to you.” - -“Miss Despard,” said the Minor Canon, “you may trust me that if there is -anything I can do for him I will do it. As it happens, I am precisely in -want of some one to--to do the same work as another pupil I have. That -would be no additional trouble to me, and would not cost anything. Don’t -you see? Let him come to me to-morrow and begin.” - -“Oh, Mr. Ashford,” said Lottie, “I knew by your face you were kind--but -how very, very good you are! But then,” she added sorrowfully, “most -likely he could not do the same work as your other pupil. I am afraid he -is very backward. If I were to tell you what he is doing you might know. -He is reading Virgil--a book about as big as himself,” she said, with a -little laugh, that was very near crying. “Won’t you sit down here?” - -“Virgil is precisely the book my other pupil is doing,” said Mr. -Ashford, laughing too, very tenderly, at her small joke, poor child! -while she made room for him anxiously on the bench. There they sat -together for a minute in silence--all alone, as it might be, in the -world, nothing but darkness round them, faint streaks of light upon the -horizon, distant twinkles of stars above and homely lamps below. The -man’s heart softened strangely within him over this creature, who, for -all the pleasure she had, came out here, and apologised to him for -coming alone. She who, neglected by everybody, had it in her to push -forward the big lout of a brother into worthy life, putting all her -delicate strength to that labour of Hercules--he felt himself getting -quite foolish, moved beyond all his experiences of emotion, as, at her -eager invitation, he sat down there by her side. - -And as he did so other voices and steps became audible among the trees -of somebody coming that way. Lottie had turned to him, and was about to -say something, when the sound of the approaching voices reached them. He -could see her start--then draw herself erect, close into the corner of -the bench. The voices were loudly pitched, and attempted no concealment. - -“La, Captain, how dark it is! Let’s go home; mother will be looking for -us,” said one. - -“My dear Polly,” said the other--and though Mr. Ashford did not know -Captain Despard, he divined the whole story in a moment as the pair -brushed past arm-in-arm--“my dear Polly, your home will be very close -at hand next time I bring you here.” - -Lottie said nothing--her heart jumped up into her throat, beating so -violently that she could not speak. And to the Minor Canon the whole -family story seemed to roll out like the veiled landscape before him as -he looked compassionately at the girl sitting speechless by his side, -while her father and his companion, all unconscious in the darkness, -brushed against her, sitting there unseen under the shadowy trees. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - -A CHANCE FOR LAW. - - -Mr. Ashford took Lottie home that evening, walking with her to her own -door. There was not much said; for, notwithstanding the armour of -personal hope and happiness which she had put on, the shock of this -personal encounter with her father and the woman who was to be her -father’s wife made the girl tremble with secret excitement, in spite of -herself. The woman: it was this, the sight and almost touch of this new, -unknown, uncomprehended being brushing past her in the darkness which -overwhelmed Lottie. That first contact made the girl sick and faint. She -could not talk to Mr. Ashford any more--her voice seemed to die out of -her throat, where her heart was fluttering. She could not think even -what she had been saying. It was all confused, driven aside into a -corner, by that sudden apparition. Mr. Ashford, on his side, said little -more than Lottie. It seemed to him that he had a sudden insight into all -that was happening. He had heard, though without paying much attention, -the common gossip about Captain Despard, who was not considered by -anybody within the Precincts as a creditable inmate; but this curious -little scene, of which he had been a witness, had placed him at once in -the midst of the little drama. He seemed to himself to have shared in -the shock Lottie had received. He walked softly by her side, saying -little, full of compassion, but too sympathetic even to express his -sympathy. He would not hurt her by seeming to be sorry for her. When -they parted he held her hand for a moment with a kind, serious grasp, as -if he had been her father, and said: - -“You will send him to me to-morrow, Miss Despard? I shall expect him -to-morrow.” - -“Oh--Law!” she said, with a little start and recovery. Poor Law had gone -out of her mind. - -“Poor child!” he said, as he turned towards his house; but before he had -crossed the road he was met by Captain Temple coming the other way. - -“Was that Miss Despard?” asked the old man. “Is it she you were saying -good-night to? My wife told me she had gone towards the Slopes, and I -was on my way to bring her home.” - -“I met her there, and I have just brought her home,” said the Minor -Canon. He could scarcely make out in the dark who his questioner was. - -“That is all right--that is all right,” said the old Chevalier. “She is -left too much alone, and she should have some one to take care of her. I -feel much obliged to you, Mr. Ashford, for I take a great interest in -the young lady.” - -“It is--Captain Temple?” said Mr. Ashford, peering at the old man with -contracted, short-sighted eyes. “I beg your pardon. Yes, Miss Despard is -quite safe; she has been talking to me about her brother. What kind of -boy is he? I only know he is a big fellow, and not very fond of his -work.” - -Captain Temple shook his head. “What can you expect? It is not the boy’s -fault; but she is the one I take an interest in. You know I had once a -girl of my own--just such another, Mr. Ashford--just such another. I -always think of her when I see this pretty creature. Poor things--how -should they know the evil that is in the world? They think everybody as -good as themselves, and when they find out the difference it breaks -their sweet hearts. I can’t look at a young girl like that, not knowing -what her next step is to bring her, without tears in my eyes.” - -The Minor Canon did not make any reply; his heart was touched, but not -as Captain Temple’s was touched. He looked back at the dim little house, -where as yet there were no lights--not thinking of Lottie as an -all-believing and innocent victim, but rather as a young Britomart, a -helmeted and armed maiden, standing desperate in defence of her little -stronghold against powers of evil which she was noways ignorant of. It -did not occur to him that these images might be conjoined, and both be -true. - -“I take a great interest in her,” said old Captain Temple again, “and so -does my wife, Mr. Ashford. My wife cannot talk of our loss as I do; but, -though she says little, I can see that she keeps her eye upon Lottie. -Poor child! She has no mother, and, for that matter, you might say no -father either. She has a claim upon all good people. She may be thrown -in your way sometimes, when none of us can be of any use to her. It -would make me happy if you would say that you would keep an eye upon her -too, and stand by her when she wants a friend.” - -“You may be sure I will do that--if ever it should be in my power.” - -“Thanks. You will excuse me speaking to you? Most people allow the right -we have in our trouble to think of another like our own. I am quite -happy to think you will be one of her knights too, Mr. Ashford. So will -my wife. Ah, we owe a great deal--a great deal--to innocence. Good -night, and my best thanks.” - -Mr. Ashford could not smile at the kind old Chevalier and his monomania. -He went home very seriously to his dark little house, where no one had -lighted his lamp. He was not so well served as the Signor. There was a -faint light on the stairs, but none in his dark wainscoted library, -where the three small deep windows were more than ever like three -luminous yet dim pictures hanging upon a gloomy wall. When he had -lighted his reading-lamp the pictures were put out, and the glimmering -dim interior, with its dark reflections and the touches of gilding and -faded brown of his books, came into prominence. He half smiled to think -of himself as one of Lottie Despard’s knights; but outside of this calm -and still place what a glimpse had been afforded him of the tumults and -miseries of the common world, within yet outside all the calm precincts -of ordered and regular life! The girl with whom he had been talking -stood _aux prises_ with all these forces, while he, so much more able -for that battle, was calm and sheltered. To see her struggling against -the impassibility of a nature less noble than her own--to think of her -all forlorn and solitary, piteous in her youth and helplessness, on the -verge of so many miseries, wrung his heart with pity, with tenderness, -with---- Was it something of envy too? All the powers of life were -surging about Lottie, contending in her and around her; forces vulgar -yet powerful, calling forth in that bit of a girl, in that slim -creature, made, the man thought, for all the sweetness and protections -of life, all its heroic qualities instead--while for such as he, -thirty-five, and a man, fate held nothing but quiet, and mastery of all -circumstances, Handel and the Abbey! What a travesty and interchange of -all that was fit and natural!--for him ought to be the struggle, for -her the peace; but Providence had not ordained it so. - -How often is this so! times without number; the weak have to struggle -while the strong look on. Women and children labour while full-grown men -rest; the sick and the feeble have all the powers of darkness to -encounter, while the athlete yawns his unoccupied force away. So this -strange paradox of a world runs on. The Minor Canon, who was of very -gentle mould, with a heart open as day to melting charities, sat and -thought of it with a giddiness and vertigo of the heart. He could not -change it. He could not take up Lottie’s trouble and give her his calm. -One cannot stand in another’s place--not you in mine, nor I in -yours--though you may be a hundred times more capable of my work than I. -This was what Ernest Ashford thought sitting among his peaceful books, -and following Lottie Despard in imagination into the little lodge which -was her battlefield. Sympathy gave him the strongest mental perception -of all that took place there. The only thing he had no clue to was the -sweet and secret flood of consolation which subdued her sense of all her -troubles--which already had drowned the dread of the future, and floated -over with brightness the difficulties of the present in Lottie’s heart. - -Next morning Law arrived at the house of the Minor Canon, considerably -to his own surprise, with his big Virgil under his arm. “I don’t know -whether you meant it, or if she understood you,” he said, shy and -uncomfortable, looking down at his shoes, and presenting the top of his -head rather than his face to Mr. Ashford’s regard, “but my sister -said----” - -“Yes; I meant it fully. Sit down and tell me what you have been doing, -and whereabouts you are in your work. I have a pupil coming presently -with whom probably you might read----” - -“Well, you must know that I haven’t been what you might call working -very hard, you know,” said Law, still butting at his future instructor -with the top of his head. He sat down as Mr. Ashford directed him, but -he did not give up the earnest contemplation of his boots. “It isn’t so -easy to get into the way of it when you’re working alone. I left school -a long time ago--and I don’t know that it was much of a school--and -latterly I was a little bit irregular--and so, you know----” - -“I see,” said the Minor Canon; “however, it is not too late to do -better. What is that big book under your arm--Virgil? Very well. -Construe a passage for me, and let me see how you get on.” - -“Shall I do a bit I know, or a bit I don’t know?” said Law, raising his -head this time with a doubtful gleam, half of merriment. “Of course, I -want to put my best foot foremost--but I don’t want to take you in all -the same.” - -“I must trust you entirely on that point--or give me the book, I will -choose, and chance shall decide.” - -“Oh, hang it!” said Law under his breath. He would have been honest and -avowed what he knew; but this kind of Sortes did not please him. The -perspiration came out on his forehead. Of course it was a very hard bit, -or what Law thought a very hard bit, that turned up--and the way in -which he struggled through it, growing hotter and hotter, redder and -redder, was a sight to see. - -“That will do,” Mr. Ashford said, compassionate, yet horrified. “That -will do.” And he took the book out of his would-be pupil’s hands with a -sigh, and smoothed down the page, which Law had ruffled in his vain -efforts, with a regretful touch, as though asking pardon of Virgil. -“Suppose we have a little talk on this subject?” he said. “No doubt you -have made up your mind what you would like to do?” - -“Not I,” said Law. “It will have to be some office or other--that’s the -only way in which a fellow who has no money seems to be able to make a -living. A very poor living, so far as I hear--but still it is something, -I suppose. That is not what I would like by nature. I’d like to go out -to Australia or New Zealand. I hate the notion of being cooped up to a -desk. But I suppose that is how it will have to be.” - -“Because of your sister? You would not abandon her? It does you a great -deal of credit,” said the Minor Canon, with warmth. - -“Well, because of her in one way,” said Law; “because she is always so -strong against it, and because I have no money for a start. You don’t -suppose that I would mind otherwise? No; Lottie is all very well, but I -don’t see why a man should give into her in everything. She will have to -think for herself in future, and so shall I. So, if you will tell me -what you think I could do, Mr. Ashford; I should say you don’t think I -can do anything after that try,” said Law, with an upward glance of -investigation, half-wistful, half-ashamed. - -“Have you read English literature much? That tells nowadays,” said the -Minor Canon. “If you were to give any weight to my opinion, I would tell -you to get the papers for the army examination, and try for that.” - -“Ah! that’s what I should like,” cried Law; “but it’s impossible. -Fellows can’t live on their pay. Even Lottie would like me to go into -the army. But it’s not to be done. You can’t live on your pay. English! -Oh, I’ve read a deal of stories--_Harry Lorrequer_ and _Soapy Sponge_, -and that sort of--rot.” - -“I am afraid that will not do much good,” said the Minor Canon, shaking -his head. “And, indeed, I fear, if you are going to be successful, you -must set to work in a more serious way. Perhaps you are good at -figures--mathematics?--no!--science, perhaps--natural history----” - -“If you mean the Zoological Gardens, I like that,” said Law, beginning -to see the fun of this examination; “and I should be very fond of -horses, if I had the chance. But that has nothing to say to an office. -Figures, ha? yes, I know. But I always hated counting. I see you think -there is nothing to be made of me. That is what I think myself. I have -often told her so. I shall have to ’list, as I have told her.” Law -looked at his companion with a little curiosity as he said this, hoping -to call forth an alarmed protestation. - -But Mr. Ashford was not horrified. He was about to say, “It is the very -best thing you could do,” but stopped, on consideration, for Lottie’s -sake. - -“You are a man to look at,” he said, “though you are young. Has it never -occurred to you till now to think what you would like to be? You did not -think you could go on for ever stumbling over ten lines of Virgil? I beg -your pardon, I don’t mean to be rude; but the most of us have to live by -something, and a young man like you ought to have a notion what he is -going to be about. You thought of the Civil Service?” - -“I suppose Lottie did,” said Law, getting up and seizing his book. “It -is all her doing, from first to last; it is she that has always been -pushing and pushing. Yes; what’s the use of trying Virgil? I always felt -it was all bosh. I don’t know it, and what’s more, I don’t want to know -it. I am not one for reading; it’s not what I would ever have chosen; it -is all Lottie, with her nagging and her pushing. And so I may go home -and tell her you don’t think me fit for anything?” he added suddenly, -with a slight break of unexpected feeling in his voice. - -“Don’t do anything of the kind. If you would only be open with me, tell -me what are your own ideas and intentions----” - -“That’s what everybody says,” said Law, with a smile of half-amused -superiority; “open your mind. But what if you’ve got no mind to open? -_I_ don’t care what I do; I don’t intend anything; get me in somewhere, -and I’ll do the best I can. A fellow can’t speak any fairer than that.” - -The Minor Canon looked at him with that gaze of baffled inquiry which is -never so effectually foiled as by the candid youth who has no intentions -of his own and no mind to open. Law stood before him, stretching out his -useless strength, with his useless book again under his arm--a human -being thoroughly wasted; no place for him in the Civil Service, no good -use in any of the offices. Why shouldn’t he ’list if he wished it? It -was the very best thing for him to do. But when Mr. Ashford thought of -Lottie this straightforward conclusion died on his lips. - -“Why couldn’t you live on your pay?” he said hurriedly. “It is only to -exercise a little self-denial. You would have a life you liked and were -fit for, and a young subaltern has just as much pay as any clerkship you -could get. Why not make an effort, and determine to live on your pay? If -you have the resolution you could do it. It would be better certainly -than sitting behind a desk all day long.” - -“Wouldn’t it!” said Law, with a deep breath. “Ah! but you wouldn’t -require to keep a horse, sitting behind your desk; you wouldn’t have -your mess to pay. A fellow must think of all that. I suppose you’ve had -enough of me?” he added, looking up with a doubtful smile. “I may go -away?” - -“Don’t go yet.” There sprang up in the Minor Canon’s mind a kindness for -this impracticable yet thoroughly practical-minded boy, who was not wise -enough to be good for anything, yet who was too wise to plunge into rash -expenses and the arduous exertion of living on an officer’s pay--curious -instance of folly and wisdom, for even an officer’s pay was surely -better than no pay at all. Mr. Ashford did not want to throw Law off, -and yet he could not tell what to do with him. “Will you stay and try -how much you can follow of young Uxbridge’s work?” he said. “I daresay -you have not for the moment anything much better to do.” - -Law gave a glance of semi-despair from the window upon the landscape, -and the distance, and the morning sunshine. No! he had nothing better to -do. It was not that he had any pleasures in hand, for pleasures cost -money, and he had no money to spend; and he knew by long experience that -lounging about in the morning without even a companion is not very -lively. Still he yielded and sat down, with a sigh. Mere freedom was -something, and the sensation of being obliged to keep in one place for -an hour or two, and give himself up to occupation, was disagreeable; a -fellow might as well be in an office at once. But he submitted. “Young -Uxbridge?” he said. “What is he going in for? The Guards, I suppose.” -Law sighed; ah! that was the life. But he was aware that for himself he -might just as easily aspire to be a prince as a Guardsman. He took his -seat at the table resignedly, and pulled the books towards him, and -looked at them with a dislike that was almost pathetic. Hateful tools! -but nothing was to be done without them. If he could only manage to get -in somewhere by means of the little he knew of them, Law vowed in his -soul he would never look at the rubbish again. - -Young Uxbridge, when he came in spick and span, in the freshest of -morning coats and fashionable ties--for which things Law had a keen eye, -though he could not indulge in them--looked somewhat askance at the -slouching figure of the new pupil. But, though he was the son of a canon -and in the best society, young Uxbridge was not more studious, and he -was by nature even less gifted, than Law. Of two stupid young men, one -may have all the advantage over another which talent can give, without -having any talent to brag of. Law was very dense with respect to books, -but he understood a great deal more quickly what was said to him, and -had a play of humour and meaning in his face, and sense of the amusing -and absurd, if nothing more, which distinguished him from his companion, -who was steadily level and obtuse all round, and never saw what anything -meant. Thus, though one knew more than the other, the greater ignoramus -was the more agreeable pupil of the two; and the Minor Canon began to -take an amused interest in Law as Law. He kept him to luncheon after the -other was gone, and encouraged the boy to talk, giving him such a meal -as Law had only dreamt of. He encouraged him to talk, which perhaps was -not quite right of Mr. Ashford, and heard a great deal about his family, -and found out that, though Lottie was right, Law was not perhaps so -utterly wrong as he thought. Law was very wrong; yet when he thus heard -both sides of the question, the Minor Canon perceived that it was -possible to sympathise with Lottie in her forlorn and sometimes -impatient struggle against the _vis inertiæ_ of this big brother, and -yet on the other hand to have an amused pity for the big brother, too, -who was not brutal but only dense, gaping with wonder at the finer -spirit that longed and struggled to stimulate him into something above -himself. So stimulated Law never would be. He did not understand even -what she wanted, what she would have; but he was not without some good -in him. No doubt he would make an excellent settler in the back-woods, -working hard there though he would not work here, and ready to defend -himself against any tribe of savages; and he would not make a bad -soldier. But to be stimulated into a first-class man in an examination, -or an any-class man, to be made into a male Lottie of fine perceptions -and high ambition, that was what Law would never be. - -“But she is quite right,” said Law; “something must be done. I suppose -you have heard, Mr. Ashford, as everybody seems to have heard, that the -governor is going to marry again?” - -“I did hear it. Will that make a great difference to your sister and -you?” - -“Difference? I should think it would make a difference. As it happens, I -know P----, the woman he is going to marry. She makes no secret of it -that grown-up sons and daughters shouldn’t live at home. I shall have to -leave, whatever happens; and Lottie--well, in one way Lottie has more -need to leave than I have: I shouldn’t mind her manners and that sort of -thing--but Lottie does mind.” - -“Very naturally,” said the Minor Canon. - -“Perhaps,” said Law; “but I don’t know where she gets her ideas from, -for we never were so very fine. However, I might stand it, but Lottie -never will be able to stand it; and the question follows, what is she -to do? For myself, as I say, I could ’list, and there would be an end of -the matter.” - -“But in that case you would not be of much use to your sister.” - -Law shrugged his shoulders. “I should be of use to myself, which is the -first thing. And then, you know--but perhaps you don’t know--all this is -obstinacy on Lottie’s part, for she might be as well off as anyone. She -might, if she liked, instead of wanting help, be able to help us all. -She might start me for somewhere or other, or even make me an allowance, -so that I could get into the army in the right way. When I think of what -she is throwing away it makes me furious; she might make my fortune if -she liked--and be very comfortable herself, too.” - -“And how is all this to be done?” said the Minor Canon somewhat -tremulously, with a half-fantastic horror in his mind of some brutal -alternative that might be in Lottie’s power, some hideous marriage or -sacrifice of the conventional kind. He waited for Law’s answer in more -anxiety than he had any right to feel, and Law on his side had a gleam -of righteous indignation in his eyes, and for the moment felt himself -the victim of a sister’s cruelty, defrauded by her folly and unkindness -of a promotion which was his due. - -“Look here,” he said solemnly; “all this she could do without troubling -herself one bit, if she chose; she confessed it to me herself. The -Signor has made her an offer to bring her out as a singer, and to teach -her himself first for nothing. That is to say, of course, she would pay -him, I suppose, when he had finished her, and she had got a good -engagement. You know they make loads of money, these singers--and she -has got as fine a voice as any of them. Well, now, fancy, Mr. Ashford, -knowing that she could set us all up in this way, and give me a thorough -good start--she’s refused; and after that she goes and talks about me!” - -For a moment Mr. Ashford was quite silenced by this sudden assault. A -bold thrust is not to be met by fine definitions, and for the first -moment the Minor Canon was staggered. Was there not some natural justice -in what the lout said? Then he recovered himself. - -“But,” he said, “there are a great many objections to being a singer.” -He was a little inarticulate, the sudden attack having taken away his -breath. “A lady might well have objections; and the family might have -objections.” - -“Oh! I don’t mind,” said Law; “if I did I should soon have told her; and -you may be sure the governor doesn’t mind. Not likely! The thing we want -is money, and she could make as much money as ever she pleases. And yet -she talks about me! I wish I had her chance; the Signor would not have -to speak twice; I would sing from morning to night if they liked.” - -“Would you work so hard as that? Then why don’t you work a little at -your books; the one is not harder than the other?” - -“Work! Do you call singing a lot of songs _work_?” said the contemptuous -Law. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - -GOOD ADVICE. - - -“Oh, he did not say much,” Law replied to Lottie’s questioning when he -went home in the afternoon. “He was very jolly--asked me to stay, and -gave me lunch. How they live, those fellows! Cutlets, and cold grouse, -and _pâté de foie gras_--something like. You girls think you know about -housekeeping; you only know how to pinch and scrape, that’s all.” - -Lottie did not reply, as she well might, that _pâtés de foie gras_ were -not bought off such allowances as hers; she answered rather with -feminine heat, as little to the purpose as her brother’s taunt, “As if -it mattered what we ate! If you had grouse or if you had -bread-and-cheese, what difference does it make? You care for such mean -things, and nothing at all about your character or your living. _What_ -did Mr. Ashford say?” - -“My character?” said Law. “I’ve done nothing wrong. As for my living, -I’m sure I don’t know how _that’s_ to be got, neither does he. He thinks -I should emigrate or go into the army--just what I think myself. He’s -_very_ jolly; a kind of man that knows what you mean, and don’t just go -off on his own notions. I think,” said Law, “that he thinks it very -queer of you, when you could set me up quite comfortably, either in the -army or abroad, not to do it. He did not say much, but I could see that -he thought it very queer.” - -“I--could set you up--what is it you mean, Law?” Lottie was too much -surprised at first to understand. “How could I set you up?” she went on, -faltering. “You don’t mean that you told Mr. Ashford about---- Oh, Law, -you are cruel. Do you want to bring us down to the dust, and leave us no -honour, no reputation at all? First thinking to enlist as a common -soldier, and then--me!” - -“Well, then you. Why not you as well as me, Lottie? You’ve just as good -a right to work as I have; you’re the eldest. If I am to be bullied for -not reading, which I hate, why should you refuse to sing, which you -like? Why, you’re always squalling all over the place, even when there’s -nobody to hear you--you could make a very good living by it; and what’s -more,” said Law, with great gravity, “be of all the use in the world to -me.” - -“How could I be of use to you?” said Lottie, dropping her work upon her -knee and looking up at him with wondering eyes. This was a point of view -which had not struck her before, but she had begun to perceive that her -indignation was wasted, and that it was she only in her family who had -any idea that a girl should be spared anything. “Law,” she said -piteously, “do you think it is because I don’t want to work? Am I ever -done working? You do a little in the morning, but I am at it all the -day. Do you think Mary could keep the house as it is and do everything?” - -“Pshaw!” answered Law, “anybody could do that.” - -Lottie was not meek by nature, and it was all she could do to restrain -her rising temper. “Mary has wages, and I have none,” she said. “I don’t -mind the work; but if there is one difference between the common people -and gentlefolk, it is that girls who are ladies are not sent out to -work. It is for men to work out in the world, and for women to work at -home. Would you like everybody to be able to pay a shilling and go and -see your sister? Oh, Law, it is for you as much as for me that I am -speaking. Everybody free to stare and to talk, and I standing there -before them all, to sing whatever they told me, and to be cheered, -perhaps, and people clapping their hands at me--at me, your sister, a -girl---- Law! you would not have it; I know you could not bear it. You -would rush and pull me away, and cover me with a cloak, and hide me from -those horrible people’s eyes.” - -“Indeed I should do nothing of the sort,” said Law; “I’d clap you too--I -should like it. If they were hissing it would be a different matter. -Besides, you know, you could change your name. They all change their -names. You might be Miss Smith, which would hurt nobody. Come, now, if -you are going to be reasonable, Lottie, and discuss the matter--why, -your great friend Miss Huntington sang at a concert once--not for any -good, not to be paid for it--only to make an exhibition of herself (and -she was not much to look at either). Don’t you remember? It would be -nothing worse than that, and heaps of ladies do that. Then it is quite -clear you must do something, and what else would you like to do?” - -Lottie frowned a little, not having taken this question into -consideration, as it would have been right for her to do; but the things -that concerned other people had always seemed to her so much more -important. She never had any doubt of her own capabilities and energies. -When the question was thus put to her she paused. - -“Just now I am at home; I have plenty to do,” she said. Then, after -another pause, “If things change here--if I cannot stay here, Law, why -shouldn’t we go together? You must get an appointment, and I would take -care of you. I could make the money go twice as far as you would. I -could help you if you had work to do at home--copying or anything--I -would do it. It would not cost more for two of us than for one. I could -do everything for you, even your washing; and little things besides. Oh, -I don’t doubt I could get quantities of little things to do,” said -Lottie, with a smile of confidence in her own powers; “and no one need -be the wiser. You would be thought to have enough for us both.” - -“Listen to me, now,” said Law, who had shown many signs of impatience, -not to say consternation. “What you mean is (_if_ you know what you -mean), that you intend to live upon me. You needn’t stare; you don’t -think what you’re saying, but that is what you really mean when all is -done. Look here, Lottie; if I were to get a place I should live in -lodgings. I should bring in other fellows to see me. I shouldn’t want to -have my sister always about. As for not spending a penny more, that -means that you would give me dinners like what we have now; but when I -have anything to live on, of my own, I shall not stand that. I shall not -be content, I can tell you, to live as we live now. I want to be free if -I get an appointment; I don’t want to have you tied round my neck like a -millstone; I want to have my liberty and enjoy myself. If it comes to -that, I’d rather marry than have a sister always with me; but at first I -shall want to have my fling and enjoy myself. And what is the use of -having money,” said Law, with the genuine force of conviction, “unless -you can spend it upon yourself?” - -Lottie was altogether taken by surprise. It was the first time they had -thus discussed the question. She made no reply to this utterance of -sound reason. She sat with her work on her knee, and her hands resting -upon it, staring at her brother. This revelation of his mind was to her -altogether new. - -“But, on the other side,” said Law, feeling more and more confidence in -himself as he became used to the sound of his own voice, and felt -himself to be unanswerable, “on the other side, a singer gets jolly -pay--far better than any young fellow in an office; and you could quite -well afford to give me an allowance, so that I might get into the army -as a fellow ought. You might give me a hundred or two a year and never -feel it; and with that I could live upon my pay. And you needn’t be -afraid that I should be ashamed of you,” said generous Law; “not one -bit. I should stand by you and give you my countenance as long as you -conducted yourself to my satisfaction. I should never forsake you. When -you sang anywhere I’d be sure to go and clap you like a madman, -especially if you went under another name (they all do); that would -leave me more free. Now you must see, Lottie, a young fellow in an -office could not be much good to you, but you could be of great use to -me.” - -Still Lottie did not make any reply. No more terrible enlightenment ever -came to an unsuspecting listener. She saw gradually rising before her as -he spoke, not only a new Law, but a new version of herself till this -moment unknown to her. This, as was natural, caught her attention most; -it made her gasp with horror and affright. Was this herself--Lottie? It -was the Lottie her brother knew. That glimpse of herself through Law’s -eyes confounded her. She seemed to see the coarse and matter-of-fact -young woman who wanted to live upon her brother’s work; to make his -dinners scanty in order that she might have a share, to interfere with -his companions and his pleasures--so distinctly, that her mouth was -closed and her very heart seemed to stop beating. Was this herself? Was -this how she appeared to other people’s eyes? She was too much -thunderstruck, overawed by it, to say anything. The strange difference -between this image and her own self-consciousness, her conviction that -it was for Law’s advantage she had been struggling; her devotion to the -interests of the family before everything, filled her with confusion and -bewilderment. Could it be she that was wrong, or was it he that was -unjust and cruel? The wonder and suddenness of it gave more poignant and -terrible force to the image of her which was evidently in Law’s mind. -All the selfish obtuseness of understanding, the inability to perceive -what she meant, or to understand the object of her anxiety, which had so -wounded and troubled her in Law, her brother had found in her. To him it -was apparent that what Lottie wanted was not his good, but that she -might have some one to work for her, some one to save her from working. -She gazed not at Law, but at the visionary representation of herself -which Law was seeing, with a pang beyond any words. She could not for -the moment realise the brighter image which he made haste to present -before her of the generous sister who made him an allowance, and enabled -him to enter the army “as a fellow ought,” and of whom he promised never -to be ashamed. It is much to be doubted whether Lottie had any warm -sense of humour at the best of times; certainly she showed herself quite -devoid of it now. She was so hurt and sore that she could not speak. It -was not true. How could he be so cruel and unjust to her? But yet could -it be at all true? Was it possible that this coarse picture was like -Lottie, would be taken for Lottie by anyone else? She kept looking at -him after he had stopped speaking, unable to take her eyes from him, -looking like a dumb creature who has no other power of remonstrance. -Perhaps in other circumstances Lottie would have been so foolish and -childish as to cry; now she battled vaguely, dismally, with a sense of -heartbreaking injustice, yet asking herself could any part of it be -true? - -“Don’t stare at me so,” said Law; “you look as if you had never seen a -fellow before. Though he was civil and did not say anything, it was easy -to see that was what old Ashford thought. And I’ve got to go back to him -to-morrow, if that will please you; and, by the way, he said he’d -perhaps come and see you and tell you what he thought. By Jove, it’s -getting late. If I don’t get out at once he’ll come and palaver, and I -shall have to stay in and lose my afternoon, as I lost the morning. I’m -off, Lottie. You need not wait for me for tea.” - -It did not make much difference to her when he went away, plunging down -the little staircase in two or three long steps. Lottie sat like an -image in stone, all the strength taken from her. She seemed to have -nothing left to say to herself--no ground to stand on, no -self-explanation to offer. She had exhausted all her power of -self-assertion for the moment; now she paused and looked at herself as -her father and brother saw her--a hard, scanty, parsimonious -housekeeper, keeping them on the simplest fare, denying them -indulgences, standing in their way. What if she kept the house, as she -fondly hoped, like a gentleman’s house, sweet and fresh, and as fair as -its faded furniture permitted? What did they care for tidiness and -order? What if she managed, by infinite vigilance and precaution, to pay -her bills and keep the credit of the household, so far as her power -went, unimpaired? They did not mind debts and duns, except at the mere -moment of encountering the latter, and were entirely indifferent to the -credit of the name. She was in her father’s way, who before this time -would have married the woman who brushed past Lottie on the Slopes but -for having this useless grown-up daughter, whom he did not know how to -dispose of; and if Law got an appointment (that almost impossible, yet -fondly cherished, expectation which had kept a sort of forlorn -brightness in the future), it now turned out that she would be in Law’s -way as much or more than in her father’s. Lottie’s heart contracted with -pain; her spirit failed her. She, who had felt so strong, so capable, so -anxious to inspire others with her own energy and force; she, who had -felt herself the support of her family, their standard-bearer, the only -one who was doing anything to uphold the falling house--in a moment she -had herself fallen too, undermined even in her own opinion. Many a blow -and thrust had she received in the course of her combative life, and -given back with vigour and a stout heart. Never before had she lost her -confidence in herself; the certainty that she was doing her best, that -with her was the redeeming force, the honourable principle which might -yet convert the others, and save the family, and elevate the life of the -house. What she felt now was that she herself, the last prop of the -Despards, was overthrown and lying in ruin. Was it possible that she was -selfish too, seeking her own ease like the rest, avoiding what she -disliked just the same as they did? A sudden moisture of intense pain -suffused Lottie’s eyes. She was too heartstruck, too fallen to weep. She -covered her face with her hands, though there was no one to cover it -from, with the natural gesture of anguish, seeking to be hidden even -from itself. - -Lottie did not pay much attention, although she heard steps coming up -the stair. What did it matter? Either it was Law, who had stricken her -so wantonly to the ground; or her father, who did not care what happened -to her; or Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, who did not count. Few other people -mounted the stairs to the little drawing-room in Captain Despard’s -house. But when she raised her head, all pale and smileless, and saw -that the visitor was Mr. Ashford, Lottie scarcely felt that this was a -stranger, or that there was any occasion to exert herself and change her -looks and tones. Did not he think so too? She rose up, putting down her -work, and made him a solemn salutation. She did not feel capable of -anything more. The Minor Canon drew back his hand, which she did not -see, with the perturbation of a shy man repulsed. Lottie was not to him -so unimportant a person as she was to her brother. She was surrounded by -all the unconscious state of womanhood and mystery and youth--a creature -with qualities beyond his ken, wonderful to him, as unknown though -visible, and attracting his imagination more than any other of these -wonderful mystic creatures, of whom he had naturally encountered many in -his life, had ever done. His heart, which had so swelled with pity and -admiration on Sunday evening, was not less sympathetic and admiring -now, notwithstanding that it was through Law’s eyes that he had been -seeing her to-day; and this repulse, which was so unlike her candour and -frankness yesterday, gave him a little pain. He wanted to be of use to -her, and he wanted to tell her so--and to repel him while he had these -generous purposes in his mind seemed hard. He sat down, however, -embarrassed, on the chair she pointed him to; and looking at her, when -thus brought nearer, he discovered, even with his short-sighted eyes, -how pale she was and how woebegone. Some one had been vexing her, no -doubt, poor child! This took the shyness out of Mr. Ashford’s voice. - -“I have come to make my report,” he said, in as even a tone as he could -command, “about Lawrence. He has told you--that he has been with me most -of the day?” - -“Yes.” When Lottie saw that more than this monosyllable was expected -from her, she made an effort to rouse herself. “I fear it is not -anything very encouraging that you have to say?” - -“I have two things to say, Miss Despard--if you will permit me. Did you -ever read Lord Chesterfield’s Letters? But no, perhaps they are not -reading for such as you. There are many wickednesses in them which would -disgust you, but there is one most tragic, touching thing in them----” - -He made a pause; and Lottie, who was young and variable, and ready to -be interested in spite of herself, looked up and asked “What is that?” - -“I wonder if I may say it?--it is the effort of the father to put -himself--not a good man, but a fine, subtle, ambitious, aspiring -spirit--into his son; and the complete and terrible failure of the -attempt.” - -“I do not know--what that can have to do with Law and me.” - -“Yes. Pardon me for comparing you in your generous anxiety to a man who -was not a hero. But, Miss Despard, you see what I mean. You will never -put yourself into Law. He does not understand you; he is not capable of -it. You must give up the attempt. I am only a new acquaintance, but I -think I must be an old friend, somehow. I want you to give up the -attempt.” - -He looked at her with such a kind comprehension and pity in his eyes, -that Lottie’s heart sprang up a little from its profound depression, -like a trodden-down flower, to meet this first gleam of sunshine. She -did not quite see what he meant even now, but it was something that -meant kindness and approval of her. “He cannot think _that_ of me!” she -said to herself. - -“I am glad you will hear me out,” he said, with a look of relief, “for -the rest is better. Law is not stupid. He would not be your brother if -he were stupid. He is a little too prudent, I think. He will not hear -of emigrating, because he has no money, nor of trying for the army, -because he could not live on his pay. Right enough, perhaps, in both -cases; but a hot-headed boy would not mind these considerations, and a -fellow of resolution might succeed in either way.” - -“He has always been like that,” said Lottie. “You see Law does not want -anything very much except to be as well off as possible. He would never -make up his mind what to try for. He says, anything; and anything -means---- Oh! Mr. Ashford, I want to ask you something about myself. Do -you think it is just as bad and selfish of me to refuse to be--oh! a -public singer? I thought I was right,” said Lottie, putting out her -hands with unconscious dramatic action, as if groping her way; “but now -I am all in doubt. I don’t know what to think. Is it just the same? Is -it as bad of me?” - -She looked at him anxiously, as if he could settle the question, and the -Minor Canon did not know what reply to make. He was on both -sides--feeling with her to the bottom of his heart; yet seeing, too, -where the reason lay. - -“I am very sure you are doing nothing either bad or selfish,” he said; -but hesitated and added no more. - -“You won’t tell me,” she cried; “that must mean that you are against me. -Mr. Ashford, I have always heard that there was a great difference -between girls and boys; like this: that for a boy to work was always -honourable, but for a girl to work was letting down the family. Mamma--I -don’t know if she was a good judge--always said so. She said it was -better to do anything than work, so as that people should know. There -was a lady, who was an officer’s wife, just as good as we were, but they -all said she was a governess once, and were disagreeable to her. It -seemed a kind of disgrace to all the children. Their mother was a -governess----” - -“But that is very bad; very cruel,” said the Minor Canon. “I am sure, in -your heart, that is not a thing of which you can approve.” - -“No,” said Lottie, doubtfully; “except just this--that it would be far -more credit, far more _right_, if the men were to try hard and keep the -girls at home. That is what I thought. Oh, it is not the work I think -of! Work! I like it. I don’t mind what I do. But there must always be -somebody for the work at home. Do you suppose Mary could manage for them -if I were not here? There would be twice as much spent, and everything -would be different. And do you not think, Mr. Ashford, that it would be -more credit to them--better for everyone, more honourable for Law, if he -were at work and I at home, rather than that people should say, ‘His -sister is a singer?’ Ah! would you let your own sister be a singer if -you were as poor as we are? Or would you rather fight it out with the -world, and keep her safe at home, only serving you?” - -“My sister!” said the Minor Canon. He was half-affronted, half-touched, -and wholly unreasonable. “That she should never do! not so long as her -brother lived to work for her--nor would I think it fit either that she -should serve me.” - -“Ah, but there you are wrong,” said Lottie, whose face was lighted up -with a smile of triumph. “I thought you would be on my side! But there -you are wrong. She would be happy, proud to serve you. Do you think I -mean we are to be idle, not to take our share? Oh, no, no! In nature a -man works and rests; but a woman never rests. Look at the poor people. -The man has his time to himself in the evenings, and his wife serves -him. It is quite right--it is her share. I should never, never grumble -at that. Only,” cried Lottie, involuntarily clasping her hands, “not to -be sent outside to work there! I keep Mary for the name of the thing; -because it seems right to have a servant; but if we could not afford to -keep Mary do you think I would make a fuss? Oh, no, Mr. Ashford, no! I -could do three times what she does. I should not mind what I did. But if -it came to going out, to having it known, to letting people say, ‘His -sister is a governess,’ or (far worse) ‘His sister is a singer’--it is -that I cannot bear.” - -Mr. Ashford was carried away by this torrent of words, and by the -natural eloquence of her eyes and impassioned voice, and varying -countenance. He did not know what to say. He shook his head, but when he -came to himself, and found his footing again, made what stand he could. -“You forget,” he said, “that all this would be of no use for yourself or -your future----” - -“For me!” Lottie took the words out of his mouth with a flush and glow -of beautiful indignation. “Was it _me_ I was thinking of? Oh, I thought -you understood!” she cried. - -“Let me speak, Miss Despard. Yes, I understand. You would be their -servant; you would work all the brightness of your life away. You would -never think of yourself; and when it suited them to make a change--say -when it suited Law to marry--you would be thrown aside, and you would -find yourself without a home, wearied, worn out with your work, -disappointed, feeling the thanklessness, the bitterness of the world.” - -Lottie’s face clouded over. She looked at him, half-defiant, -half-appealing. “That is not how--one’s brother would behave. You would -not do it----” - -“No; perhaps I would not do it--but, on the other hand,” said Mr. -Ashford, “I might do--what was as bad. I might make a sacrifice. I -might--give up marrying the woman whom I loved for my sister’s sake. -Would that be a better thing to do?” - -Their eyes met when he spoke of the woman he loved--that is, he looked -at Lottie, who was gazing intently at him; and strangely enough, they -could not tell why, both blushed, as if the sudden contact of their -looks had set their faces aglow. Lottie instinctively drew back without -knowing it; and he, leaning towards her, repeated, almost with -vehemence: - -“Would that be a better thing to do?” - -Lottie hid her face in her hands. “Oh, no, no!” she said, her sensitive -frame trembling. Mr. Ashford was old, and Law was but a boy--how could -there be any question of the woman either loved? - -“Forgive me, Miss Despard, if I seem to go against you--my heart is all -with you; but you ought to be independent,” he said. “Either the woman -would be sacrificed or the man would be sacrificed. And that kind of -sacrifice is bad for everybody. Don’t be angry with me. Sacrifices -generally are bad; the more you do for others, the more selfish they -become. Have you not seen that even in your little experience? There are -many people who never have it in their power to be independent; but -those who have should not neglect it--even if it is not in a pleasant -way.” - -“Even if it is by--being a singer?” She lifted her head again, and once -more fixed upon him eyes which were full of unshed tears. Taking counsel -had never been in Lottie’s way; but neither had doubt ever been in her -way till now. Everything before had been very plain. Right and -wrong--two broad lines straight before her; now there was right and -wrong on both sides, and her landmarks were removed. She looked at her -adviser as women look, to see not only what he said, but whatsoever -shade of unexpressed opinion might cross his face. - -“It is not so dreadful after all,” he said. “It is better than many -other ways. I am afraid life is hard, as you say, upon a girl, Miss -Despard. She must be content with little things. This is one of the few -ways in which she can really get independence--and--stop, hear me -out--the power to help others too.” - -Lottie had almost begun a passionate remonstrance; but these last words -stopped her. Though she might not like the way, still was it possible -that this might be a way of setting everything right? She stopped gazing -at her counsellor, her eyelids puckered with anxiety, her face quite -colourless, and expressing nothing but this question. Not a pleasant -way--a way of martyrdom to her pride--involving humiliation, every pang -she could think of; but still, perhaps, a way of setting everything -right. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - -A CRISIS. - - -When Lottie got up next morning the world seemed to have changed to her. -It had changed a little in reality, as sometimes one day differs from -another in autumn, the world having visibly made a more marked -revolution than usual in a single night. It had got on to the end of -August, and there were traces of many fiery fingers upon the leaves on -the Slopes. It had been a very fine summer, but it was coming -prematurely to an end, everybody said, and about the horizon there began -to be veils of luminous mist in the morning, and soft haze that veiled -the evening light. This autumnal aspect of the world seemed to have come -on in that one night. The Virginian creeper round the window had -“turned” in several patches of scarlet and yellow all at once. It was -beautiful, but it was the first step towards winter and the chills--the -first evidence of a year decaying which makes the spectator pause and -think. When Lottie woke she felt in her heart that consciousness of -something, she knew not what, something that had happened to her, that -over-shadowed her, and forced itself upon her before she could tell -what it was, which is the way care manifests itself at our bedsides: -something that made her heart heavy the first thing on awaking. Then she -remembered what it was. Lottie, we have said, was not a girl who was in -the habit of taking advice; but for that once she had taken it, seizing -upon the first trustworthy witness she could find who would bring an -impartial eye to the problem of her life. She had been very strong in -her own opinion before, but when reason was put before her Lottie could -not shut her eyes to it. Neither could she dawdle and delay when there -was anything to do. She awoke with the consciousness that some ghost was -lurking behind her white curtains. Then with a start and shiver -remembered and realised it, and, drawing herself together, made up her -mind to act at once. What was the use of putting off? Putting off was -the reason why Law was so backward, and Lottie was not one of those who -let the grass grow under their feet. The more disagreeable the first -step was, the more reason was there that it should be taken to-day. She -went downstairs with a gleam of resolution in her eyes. After the shock -of finding out that there is a painful thing to do, the determination to -do it at once is a relief. It brings an almost pleasure into the pain to -set your face to it bravely and get done with it; there is thus an -exhilaration even in what is most disagreeable. So Lottie felt. Her -despondency and depression were gone. She had something definite to do, -and she would do it, let what obstacle soever stand in the way. She made -the family tea and cut the bread with more energy than usual. She was -the first visible, as she always was, but her mind was fully occupied -with her own affairs, and she was glad enough to be alone for half an -hour. After that she had to go up again and knock at her father’s door, -to remind him that there was but little time for breakfast before the -bell began to ring for matins; but she had taken her own breakfast and -begun her work before the Captain and Law came downstairs. When she had -poured out their tea for them she sat down in the window-seat with her -sewing. She did not take any share in their talk, neither did she watch, -as she often did, the stir of morning life in the Dean’s Walk--the -tradesmen’s carts going about, the perambulators from the town pushing -upward, with fresh nursemaids behind, to the shady walk on the Slopes; -now and then a tall red soldier showing against the grey wall of the -Abbey opposite; the old Chevaliers beginning to turn out, taking their -little morning promenade before the bells began. The stir was usually -pleasant to Lottie, but she took no notice of it to-day. She was going -to matins herself this morning--not perhaps altogether for devotion, but -with the idea, after the service, of lying in wait at the north gate for -the exit of the Signor. - -How it was that the subject came under discussion Lottie did not know. -She woke to it only when it came across herself and touched upon her own -thoughts. It was Law who was saying something (it was fit for him to say -so!), grumbling about the inequality of education, and that girls had -just as good a right to work as boys. - -“I should like to know,” he said, “why I should have to get hold of a -lot of books, and trot over to old Ashford, and work like a slave till -one o’clock, while she sits as cool and as fresh as can be, and never -stirs?” He was not addressing anybody in particular, but grumbling to -the whole world at large, which was Law’s way. Generally his father took -no notice of him, but some prick of sensation in the air no doubt moved -him to-day. - -“Speak of things you know something about,” said the Captain; “that’s -the best advice I can give you, Law. And let Lottie alone. Who wants her -to work? The fresher she looks and the better she looks, the more likely -she is to get a husband; and that’s a girl’s first duty. Is that the -bell?” said Captain Despard, rising, drawing himself up, and pulling his -collar and wristbands into due display. “Let me hear nothing about work. -No daughter of mine shall ever disgrace herself and me in that way. Get -yourself a husband, my child; that’s the only work I’ll ever -permit--that’s all a lady can do. A good husband, Lottie. If I heard of -some one coming forward I’d be happier, I don’t deny. Bring him to the -scratch, my dear; or if you’re in difficulty refer him to me.” - -He was gone before Lottie could utter a word of the many that rushed to -her lips. She turned upon Law instead, who sat and chuckled behind his -roll. “If it had not been for you he would not have insulted me so!” she -cried. - -“Oh, insulted you! You need not be so grand. They say you may have -Purcell if you like,” said Law, “or even the Signor; but it’s the other -fellow, Ridsdale, you know, your old flame, the governor is thinking of. -If you could catch _him_ now! though I don’t believe a fellow like that -could mean anything. But even Purcell is better than nothing. If you -would take my advice----” - -Lottie did not stay to hear any more. He laughed as she rushed out of -the room, putting up her hands to her ears. But Law was surprised that -she did not strike a blow for herself before she left him. Her -self-restraint had a curious effect upon the lad. “Is anything up?” he -said to himself. Generally it was no difficult matter to goad Lottie to -fury with allusions like this. He sat quite still and listened while she -ran upstairs into her own room, which was overhead. Then Law -philosophically addressed himself to what was left of the breakfast. He -had an excellent appetite; and the bell ringing outside which called so -many people, but not him, and the sight of the old Chevaliers streaming -across the road, and the morning congregation hurrying along to the door -in the cloisters, pleased him as he finished his meal, without even his -sister’s eye upon him to remark the ravages he made in the butter. But -when he heard Lottie’s step coming down stairs again Law stopped, not -without a sense of guilt, and listened intently. She did not come in, -which was a relief, but his surprise was great when he heard her walk -past the open door of the little dining-room, and next moment saw her -flit past the window on the way to the Abbey. He got up, though he had -not finished, and stared after her till she, too, disappeared in the -cloister. “Something must be up,” he repeated to himself. - -Lottie’s silence, however, was not patience, neither was it any want of -susceptibility to what had been said. Even this, probably, she would -have felt more had her mind not been preoccupied by her great -resolution. But when she found herself in the Abbey, abstracted from all -external circumstances, the great voice of the organ filling the -beautiful place, the people silently filling up the seats, the choir in -their white robes filing in, it seemed very strange to Lottie that the -service could go on as it did, undisturbed by the beats of her heart and -the commotion of her thoughts. Enough trouble and tumult to drown even -the music were in that one corner where she leant her shoulder against -the old dark oak, finding some comfort in the physical support. And she -did not, it must be allowed, pay very much attention to the service; her -voice joined in the responses fitfully, but her heart wandered far away. -No, not far away. Mr. Ashford’s counsel, and her father’s, kept coming -and going through her mind. Truth to tell, Captain Despard’s decision -against the possibility of work gave work an instant value in his -daughter’s eyes. We do not defend Lottie for her undutifulness; but as -most of the things she had cared for in her life had been opposed by her -father, and all the things against which she set her face in fierceness -of youthful virtue were supported by him, it could scarcely be expected -that his verdict would be very effectual with her. It gave her a little -spirit and encouragement in her newly-formed resolution, and it helped -her a little to overcome the prejudice in her mind when she felt that -her father was in favour of that prejudice. He did not want her to work, -to bring the discredit of a daughter who earned her own living upon him; -he wanted to sell her to any one who would offer for her, to make her -“catch” some man, to put forth wiles to attract him and bring him into -her net. Lottie, who believed in love, and who believed in womanhood, -with such a faith as perhaps girls only possess: what silent rage and -horror filled her at this thought! She believed in womanhood, not so -much in herself. For the sake of that abstraction, not for her own, she -wanted to be wooed reverently, respected above all. A man, to be a -perfect man, ought to look upon every woman as a princess of romance: -not for her individual sake so much as for his sake, that he might fall -short of no nobleness and perfection. This was Lottie’s theory -throughout. She would have Law reverence his sister, and tenderly care -for her, because that would prove Law to be of the noblest kind of men. -She wanted to be worshipped in order to prove triumphantly to herself -that the man who did so was an heroic lover. This was how Rollo had -caught her imagination, her deceived imagination, which put into Rollo’s -looks and words so much that was not really there. This simple yet -superlative thread of romance ran through all her thoughts. She leaned -back upon the carved oak of the stall, preoccupied, while the choristers -chanted, thinking more of all this than of the service. And then, with a -sudden pang, there came across her mind the thought of the descent that -would be necessary from that white pedestal of her maidenhood, the -sheltered and protected position of the girl at home, which alone seemed -to be fit and right. She would have to descend from that, and gather up -her spotless robes about her, and come out to encounter the storms of -the world. All that had elevated her in her own conceit was going from -her--and what, oh! what could he, or anyone, find afterwards in her? He -would turn away most likely with a sigh or groan from a girl who could -thus throw away her veil and her crown and stand up and confront the -world. Lottie seemed to see her downfall with the eyes of her visionary -lover, and the anguish that brought with it crushed her very heart. - -Did it ever occur to her that an alternative had been offered for her -acceptance? Once, for a moment, she saw Purcell’s melancholy face look -down upon her from the organ-loft, and gave him a kind, half-sad, -half-amused momentary thought. Poor fellow! she could have cried for the -pain she must have given him, and yet she could have laughed, though she -was ashamed of the impulse. Poor boy! it must have been only a delusion; -he would forget it; he would find somebody of his own class, she said to -herself, uneasy to think she had troubled him, yet with the only -half-smile that circumstances had afforded her for days past. Captain -Despard, had he known, would have thought Purcell’s suit well worthy of -consideration in the absence of a better; and the Signor, whom Lottie -had made up her mind to address, darted fiery glances at her from the -organ-loft, taking up his pupil’s cause with heat and resentment; but -she herself sailed serenely over the Purcell incident altogether, -looking down upon it from supreme heights of superiority. It did not -occur to her as a thing to be seriously thought of, much less in her -confusion and anguish, as a reasonable way of escape. And thus the -morning went on, the chanting and the reading, and all those outcries -to God and appeals to His mercy which His creatures utter daily with so -much calm. Did anybody mean it when they all burst forth, “Lord have -mercy upon us, Christ have mercy upon us?” This cry woke Lottie, and her -dreaming soul came back, and she held up her clasped hands in a -momentary passion of entreaty. The sudden wildness of the cry in the -midst of all that stately solemnity of praying caught her visionary -soul. It was as if all the rest had missed His ear, all the music and -the poetry, King David harping on his harp, and Handel with his blind -face raised to heaven; and nothing was left but to snatch at the -garments of the Master as He went away, not hearing, not looking, or -appearing not to look and hear. This poor young soul in the midst of her -self-questionings and struggles woke up to the passionate reality of -that cry. “Lord have mercy upon us, Christ have mercy upon us!” and then -it went away from her again in thunders of glorious music, in solemnity -of well-known words, and she lost herself once more in her own thoughts. - -Lottie withdrew timidly into the aisle when the service was over. She -knew the Signor would pass that way, and it seemed to her that it would -be easier to speak to him there than to go to his house, which was the -only other alternative. But the Signor, when he came out, was encircled -by a group of his pupils, and darted a vengeful, discouraging glance at -her as he passed. He would not pause nor take any notice of the step she -made towards him, the wistful look in her face. If he had seen it, it -would have given him a certain pleasure to disappoint Lottie, for the -Signor had a womanish element in him, and was hot and merciless in his -partisanship. He cast a glance at her that might have slain her, that -was as far from encouraging her as anything could be, and passed quickly -by, taking no other notice. Thus her mission was fruitless; and it was -the same in the afternoon, when she went out by the north door and made -believe to be passing when the musician came out. To do him justice, he -had no notion that she wanted him, but wondered a little to find her a -second time in his way. He was obliged, as it was outside the Abbey, to -take off his hat to her; but he did so in the most grudging, hasty way, -and went on talking with his pupils, pretending to be doubly engaged and -deeply interested in what the lads were saying. There was no chance -then, short of going to his house, of carrying out her resolution for -this day. - -But in the evening, when all was still, Lottie, who had been sitting at -home working and thinking till her heart was sick and her brain -throbbing, put on her hat and went out in the dusk to get the air at the -door. It was a lovely, quiet night, the moon rising over the grey -pinnacles of the Abbey, marking out its great shadow upon the Dean’s -Walk, and the mignonette smelling sweet in all the little gardens. A few -of the old Chevaliers were still about, breathing the sweetness of the -evening like Lottie herself. Captain Temple, who was among them, came up -to her with his old-fashioned fatherly gallantry as soon as he saw her. -“Will you take a turn, my dear?” he said. He had no child, and she had -never had, so to speak, any father, at least in this way. They went up -and down the terrace pavement, and then they crossed the road to the -Abbey, from which, though it was so late, the tones of the great organ -were beginning to steal out upon the night. “Is this a ghost that is -playing, or what can the Signor be thinking of?” Captain Temple said. -Old Wykeham, that gruff old guardian of the sacred place, was standing -with his keys in his hands at the south door. He had not his usual rusty -gown nor his velvet cap, being then in an unofficial capacity; but -Wykeham would not have been Wykeham without his keys. And though he was -gruff he knew to whom respect was due. “Yessir, there’s something going -on inside. One o’ the Signor’s fancies. He have got some friends inside, -a playing his voluntaries to them. And if you like, Captain, I will let -you in in a moment, sir.” “Shall we go, my dear?” the old Captain said. -And next moment they were in the great gloom of the Abbey, which was so -different in its solemnity from the soft summer dark outside. There was -a gleam of brilliant light in the organ-loft where the Signor was -playing, which threw transverse rays out on either side into the -darkness, showing vaguely the carved work of the canopies over the -stalls, and the faded banners that hung over them. Down in the deep -gloom of the choir below a few figures were dimly perceptible. Lottie -and her kind old companion did not join these privileged listeners. They -kept outside in the nave, where the moon, which had just climbed the -height of the great windows, had suddenly burst in, throwing huge -dimly-coloured pictures of the painted glass upon the floor. Lottie, who -was not so sensible as she might have been, preferred this partial -light, notwithstanding the mystic charm of the darkness, which was -somewhat awful to look in upon through the open door of the choir. She -put her hand, a little tremulous, on the old Captain’s arm, and stood -and listened, feeling all her troubles calmed. What was it that thus -calmed her perturbed soul? She thought it was the awe of the place, the -spell of the darkness and the moonlight, the music that made it all -wonderful. The Signor was playing a strange piece of old music when the -two came in. It was an old litany, and Lottie thought as she listened -that she could hear an unseen choir in the far distance, high among the -grey pinnacles, on the edge of the clouds, intoning in intricate -delicate circles of harmony the responses. Was it the old monks? Was it -the angels? Who could tell? “Lottie, my love, that is the _vox humana_ -stop,” said the kind old Captain, who knew something about it; and as -he, too, was no wiser than other people, he began to whisper an -explanation to her of how it was. But Lottie cared nothing about stops. -She could hear the solemn singers of the past quiring far off at some -unseen altar, the softened distant sweetness of the reply. Her heart -rose up into the great floating circling atmosphere of song. She seemed -to get breath again, to get rest to her soul: a strange impulse came -over her. She, who was so shy, so uncertain of her power, so bitterly -unwilling to adopt the trade that was being forced upon her: it was all -that she could do to keep herself from singing, joining to those -mystical spiritual voices her own that was full of life and youth. Her -breast swelled, her lips came apart, her voice all but escaped from her, -soaring into that celestial distance. All at once the strain stopped, -and she with it, coming down to the Abbey nave again, where she stood in -the midst of the dim reflected rubies and amethysts and silvery whites -of a great painted window, giddy and leaning upon the old Chevalier. - -“It was the _vox humana_. It is too theatrical for my taste, my dear. It -was invented by----” - -“Oh, hush, hush!” cried Lottie, under her breath; “he is beginning -again.” - -This time it was the “Pastoral Symphony” the Signor played--music that -was never intended for the chill of winter, but for the gleaming stars, -the soft falling dews, the ineffable paleness and tenderness of spring. -It came upon Lottie like those same dews from heaven. She grasped the -old man’s arm, but she could not keep herself from the response which no -longer seemed to come back from any unseen and mystic shrine. Why should -the old monks come back to sing, or the angels have the trouble, who -have so much else to do, when Lottie was there? When the “Pastoral -Symphony” was over the Signor went on, and she with him. Surely there -must have been some secret understanding that no one knew of--not -themselves. He played on unconscious, and she lifted up her head to the -moonlight and her voice to heaven and sang-- - - There were shepherds watching their flocks by night. - -Lottie let go her hold of the Captain’s arm. She wanted no support now. -She wanted nothing but to go on, to tell all that divine story from end -to end. It got possession of her. She did not remember even the changes -of the voices; the end of one strain and another was nothing to her. She -sang through the whole of the songs that follow each other without a -pause or a falter. And like her, without questioning, without -hesitation, the Signor played on. It was not till she had proclaimed -into the gloom that “His yoke is easy and His burden light” that she -came to herself. The last chords thrilled and vibrated through the -great arches and died away in lingering echoes in the vast gloom of the -roof. And then there was a pause. - -Lottie came to herself. She was not overwhelmed and exhausted by the -effort, as she had been at the Deanery. She felt herself come down, as -out of heaven, and slowly became aware of Captain Temple looking at her -with a disturbed countenance, and old Wykeham in all the agitation of -alarm. “If I’d have known I’d never have let you in. It’s as much as my -place is worth,” the old man was saying; and Captain Temple, very kindly -and fatherly, but troubled too, and by no means happy, gave her his arm -hurriedly. “I think we had better go, my dear,” he said; “I think we had -better go.” - -Some one stopped them at the door--some one who took her hand in his -with a warmth which enthusiasm permitted. - -“I knew it must be you, if it were not one of the angels,” he said; “one -or the other. I have just come; and what a welcome I have had--too good -for a king!” - -“I did not know you were here, Mr. Ridsdale,” said Lottie, faintly, -holding fast by Captain Temple’s arm. - -“But I knew you were here; it was in the air,” he said, half-whispering. -“Good-night; but good-night lasts only till to-morrow, thank heaven.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - -WHAT FOLLOWED. - - -Captain Temple was not happy about the events of that evening. He had -begun to grow very fond of Lottie, and he was not pleased that she -should have “made an exhibition of herself.” He went over it so often to -his wife that Mrs. Temple learned the incident by heart. There was in -her mind, mingled with an intense silent interest in the girl who was -like her own, a feeling of repulsion too, equally intense and silent, -which joined with the opposite sentiment, and kept Lottie as constantly -present to her mind as she was in the Captain’s talk. And, though it -sometimes appeared to her that she would die of this girl, who reminded -her at every step that she had lost her child, yet she could not check -her husband’s ever-flowing, continually repeated talk on the subject. -Mrs. Temple thought this was all for his sake. Sometimes, in the -bitterness of her loss, she would cry out that she loathed the very name -of this other, who was so well and bright and full of life, while her -child was dead and gone; but, notwithstanding, Lottie had gradually come -to hold a large place in her life. How could she help thinking of her? -Grudging her very life and brightness, repenting her grudge, praying -God’s blessing on the girl whom she thus injured, avoiding her, fearing -the sight of her, watching for her whom she feared; how could it be but -that Mrs. Temple, in her lonely hours, should think of Lottie? She was -the confidant now of the old Captain’s regret. - -“I thought she was a sweet, modest girl,” he said, shaking his head; -“shy, even--as I like a girl to be--very like---- My dear, I cannot bear -a girl to make an exhibition of herself----” - -“But if there was no one to see her, and if you were in the dark?” - -“That is true, my dear; but if they did not see her they heard her. Such -a voice! I wish you had been there--but that sort of public use of -it--and to have the confidence to sing when she was not asked!” Captain -Temple shook his head. He seemed to have done nothing but shake his head -since last night. - -“Do you think that the more she has a beautiful voice the less she -should let it be heard?” said his wife. “I am not so taken up with this -Miss Despard as you are; but still I think you are unjust to her.” - -“Perhaps I am unjust to her. How can I help being taken up with her? If -you knew her as well you would be taken up with her too. And I wish you -did; it would be a comfort to you. In everything she does, her walk, -every little gesture, I see something that reminds me---- I know you -don’t like to speak of it, my dear.” - -Mrs. Temple set her face like a rock while the old Captain talked on. He -did nothing but speak of it, and she would not stop him. Had she not -noticed the girl’s walk? When Lottie passed Mrs. Temple turned from the -window, feeling as if some one had given her a blow. Yet what had she -gone to the window for but to watch for Lottie? And she was more just to -her than was the old Captain, who could not bear any falling off in his -ideal, who thought that a girl should never make an exhibition of -herself, and did nothing for a week after but shake his head. - -The singing, however, made a great excitement in the Cloisters. It was -only a select few who had been there to hear; and they thought it was -all the Signor’s arrangement, who had provided for them so much greater -a pleasure than they expected--or, rather, an additional pleasure. “Who -was it?” everybody asked. Was it possible it could be little Rowley? But -it was inconceivable that a mere child like that could have taken the -contralto solo as well as the soprano. But was it certain that there was -only one voice? The darkness was deceptive, and all the circumstances -were so unusual, so out of the ordinary. When you came to think of it, -it could not be one voice. It must have been little Rowley and Mellor, -the big boy, whose contralto was famous. At that distance, and in the -dark, it was easy to deceive yourself and think there was only one -person singing. There was nothing talked about next morning but this -wonderful incident, and both the people who had been there and the -people who had not been there (who were piqued, and felt themselves -neglected, as a matter of course) discussed it with the utmost -excitement. Even before the hour of matins, old Pick, who was out upon -his master’s business and Mrs. Purcell’s errands, was twice interviewed -on the subject. The first time it was Rowley, the tenor, who assailed -him, whose boy was the first soprano, and whose rights were attacked. “I -should just like to know what the Signor is up to,” Rowley said. “He’s -always got some new fad or other in his head. He’ll have us all up next -into that organ-loft, like a set of Christy Minstrels. Hanged if I’ll -go!” - -“Anyhow, you’ll wait till you’re asked,” said old Pick. - -“I don’t advise him to ask _me_. And, look here! I want to know who it -was. If he’s bringing in somebody in the dark, on the sly, to put them -boys’ noses out!--you never can tell what a foreign fellow’s up to. I -don’t know a voice like that, not in the Abbey. If he’s smuggling in a -new boy, without no warning, to take the bread out of folks’ mouths, by -George, I won’t stand it! I’ll go to the Dean about it! Tommy’s cried -hisself hoarse. He couldn’t eat his breakfast, poor little beggar! and -he’s got ‘Hear my prayer’ this morning. Hanged if I don’t think it’s all -a scheme against me and my boy! That ain’t a child’s voice. There’s a -touch of falsetto in it, if I know anything about music. It won’t last, -not a month. I’ve heard them come out like that, that you could hear -them a mile off, just before they break.” - -“Then you were there, Mr. Rowley?” said old Pick; “I thought there was -only the folks from the Deanery there.” - -“I wasn’t there. Catch me in the Abbey when I’m not wanted! I have -enough of it, practising and bothering from morning till night. The -Signor’s very good for the organ. I don’t say nothing against that; but -he don’t know much about Englishmen. You do no justice to your voice -when you never give yourself no rest; but he can’t understand that. I -heard it outside. Pick, there’s a good old fellow, you know what it is -yourself, and I’m sure we’re always glad to see you when you look in at -our little place. Tell us what’s up--who is it? Tommy will have to go in -time. I don’t say nothing against that. But he’s not twelve, poor little -beggar, and his voice is as clear as a bell. He’s fit to fret himself -into a fever if they take the first solos from him. Tell us what the -Signor’s up to, and who he’s got coming in? I say it’s a shame,” said -the tenor, rising again into vehemence. “Them that is on the spot, and -belonging to the place, and bred up in the Abbey all their lives, hanged -if they should be turned out for strangers! I don’t see the fun of -that.” - -“If you’ve done, Mr. Rowley, I think I’ll go,” said Pick; upon which -Rowley swore under his breath that it wasn’t like an old friend to give -a fellow no answer, and that he didn’t know what he and Tommy had done -to offend the Signor. To this old Pick made no reply, being himself -extremely indignant not to know anything about the mystery in question. -He had heard of no new boy--“nor anything as is new,” Pick said to -himself with warmth as he hurried through the enclosure which belonged -to the lay clerks, where a great many people were at the doors and -windows, and the excitement was general. It was natural that Pick should -be indignant. So little as there ever was to hear or report within the -Precincts, to think something should have happened under his very nose, -in the Abbey, and he not know! The Signor was a good master, and the -place was comfortable; but there are things which no man can be expected -to stand. Even Mr. John had not said a word about any novelty. If he had -told his mother, then the housekeeper had been as treacherous as the -rest, and had not breathed a word to Pick. It was a thing that no man -could be expected to put up with. Here were two ladies now bearing down -upon him, full of curiosity--and that Pick should have to confess that -he didn’t know! - -“Oh, Pickering! you must know--who was it that was singing in the Abbey -last night? A very extraordinary thing for the Signor to countenance. He -did not ask _us_; he knew it would be of no use, for neither my husband -nor I approve of such proceedings; making the Abbey, our beautiful -Abbey, into a kind of music-hall! I hear it was a lady: the very worst -taste, and anything _so_ unecclesiastical! Women don’t _exist_ in the -Church--not as taking any part--but these are points which foreigners -never will understand,” said the lady, with a sigh. - -“It was odd having such a performance at all, for a few privileged -persons. I thought the Abbey, at least,” said the second lady, “was for -all.” - -“Don’t go, Pickering; you haven’t answered my question. If I were you, -being a man of experience, and having known the Abbey so long as you -have done, I would give a hint to your master. You should tell him -people here don’t like that sort of thing. It may do very well abroad, -or even in town, where there are all sorts; but it does not do in St. -Michael’s. You should tell him, especially as he is only half English, -to be more careful. Stop a little, Pickering! You have not answered my -question yet.” - -“Beg your pardon, ma’am, but you didn’t give me no time,” said Pick. - -“Do not be impertinent, Pickering. I asked you a plain question, and I -told you what I should do in your place. A man like you, that has been -so long about the Abbey, might be of great use to your master. You -should tell him that in England a lady is never suffered to open her -mouth in church. I never heard of anything so unecclesiastical. I wonder -the Dean does not interfere--a man of good Church principles as he is, -and with so much at stake. I really wonder the Dean does not interfere.” - -“Oh, the Dean!” said the other lady; “and as for Church principles----” - -But just then there was a tremble in the air with the first movement of -the matin bells, and, without compromising his dignity or showing his -ignorance, old Pick made good his escape. He went home in anything but -an amiable state of mind, and went straight to the kitchen, where Mrs. -Purcell was busy, as was natural at this time of the day, putting all in -order and arranging for the Signor’s dinner. The luncheon Mary Anne was -quite equal to, but some one was coming to dinner, for whom Mrs. Purcell -intended to exercise all her powers. Pick went in with a fierce glow of -indignant animation, with his roll of commissions fulfilled and -unfulfilled. - -“There’s no sweetbreads to be had,” he said, “till Saturday; they’ll -save you a pair on Saturday, if you send the order with the man when he -comes; but they’ll be six-and-six, if you think that too dear. (Dear! I -should think it was dear. How much o’ that goes to the veal, I wonder, -and the man as fed it?) And as for game! you might as well go a-shooting -on the Slopes; and what there is bringing its weight in gold. I wouldn’t -give in, if I was you, to that fashion about grouse. It’s all a fashion. -Nobody ever thought of grouse in my young days, and coming after they’ve -eat everything as they can set their face to. What should they want with -it? I’ve brought you the lemons. Many a man wouldn’t be seen carrying a -bag o’ lemons all the way up the hill; and everything’s kep’ from me, -just because I’m too humble-minded, and don’t make no stand, nor mind -what I do.” - -“What’s been kep’ from you, Pick?” said Mrs. Purcell, pausing in her -work to look at him. Then she added, “There’s been a deal of talking in -the study. I’ve picked up a word or two about some woman, for they were -going on about She; and She--but whether it’s that Miss Despard, or who -it is, John’s never said a word to me.” - -“It don’t need a witch to tell that it’s a woman,” said Pick; but he was -relieved. “That fellow Rowley’s been at me, and one of the ladies round -the corner; but they both had so much to say that I got off, and neither -the one nor the other found out as I hadn’t a notion what they were -talking about,” the old man added, with a chuckle. “It’s some new voice, -as far as I can make out, as master has got hold of for the Abbey: and -quite right too. Tommy Rowley’s got a pretty little bit of a voice, and -he’s only twelve; but some voices goes sooner than others. The ladies -thought as it was a woman; but that’s impossible. They were quite in a -way. They said it was uneck--some thin’ or other--Dissenting-like, as I -took it up--and that the Signor ought to be ashamed of hisself----” - -“Master?” said Mrs. Purcell, opening her eyes wide; “but I hope you -didn’t stand there and hear them say any harm of the Signor?” - -“They told me as I was to give him good advice,” said Pick, still -chuckling; “but all the same, ma’am, I don’t think as Mr. John should -keep a thing from his mother. Where’s the young man as owes as much to -his mother as that young man owes to you?” - -“Not to me, to his own deservings; he’s been a lad that has done credit -to everyone as has been kind to him, Pick, and never forgets nobody as -has been kind to him; but he’s not the young man he was. He’s lost all -his smiles and his fun since he had that disappointment. I don’t wish -Miss Despard no harm, but I wish she had been a hundred miles from here, -and my John had never seen her. Young women have a great deal to answer -for,” said Mrs. Purcell, with a sigh. - -“Young women haven’t much to answer for, so far as I’m concerned; nor -master neither, so far as I can see,” said Pick, going off to his work -with a comfortable consciousness that, this being the case, it did not -matter so much about Mr. John. - -But, if the community was thus stirred in general, words cannot tell the -excitement that this strange incident created in the organ-loft. The -Signor told Purcell after, that he could not tell what it was that made -him go on when he had come to an end of the “Pastoral Symphony,” and -play “There were Shepherds.” He had not meant to do it. He had intended -to make the other the finale of his performance. There was such a -feeling of night in it, the Signor said, the grass growing in the dark, -and the stars shining, and the dew coming down. He meant to end there; -he knew Mr. Ridsdale was a modern man and an opera man, and did not care -so very much for Handel. Still he had meant to end with that; but when -it came to the last chords he was not his own master, and he went on. As -for Purcell, there was no need for anyone to tell him whose that voice -was. Though he was at the moment helping to “blow,” he nearly -compromised the whole performance by darting to the other side of the -organ-loft and gazing down into the darkness to see her. Happily the -other man who was there, the professional blower, was taken by no such -vagaries and kept on steadily. “And I saw her,” Purcell said, “standing -in the moonlight with all the colours of the rainbow about her, like the -nimbus round the heads in Mr. Clayton’s new window.” The young fellow -was quite struck by this sight. He thought it must mean something: he -thought even she must be relenting towards himself, and had taken this -strange way of showing it. The Signor was greatly moved too, but he did -not take that view of the subject. He was a true artist himself, and he -knew that there are impulses which get the better of people who are of -this race. He patted his assistant on the arm, and told him not to build -on it. But what then could it mean? young Purcell said; and it was -difficult to answer. They both of them came down from their lofty -gallery afterwards in great excitement, and the Signor, confused, -received the enthusiastic thanks of his audience. “What a pleasure you -have given us!” they said; “you have been better than your word. What -exquisite playing, and what an exquisite voice! You don’t mean to say -that was a boy, Signor?”--They asked the question, but they all -believed, of course, that it was a boy. To think that little Rowley, -because it was dark and nobody saw him, should have been able to sing -like that! No one suspected the truth except Rollo Ridsdale, who came up -to the musician in the dark nave and gripped him by the arm, so that he -hurt the sensitive Italian-Englishman, whose nerves were all on the -surface. “Did you do it on purpose?” Rollo cried, excited too--“I shall -give up the opera and take to oratorios--did you do it on purpose?” “Did -_you_ do it on purpose?” said the Signor, who up to this moment had -supposed in his excitement that Ridsdale’s coming must have had -something to do with it. But after that question, which Rollo did not -distinctly hear, the Signor changed his tone and hid his own -astonishment, and accepted the applauses addressed to him on the -admirable device by which he had given his hearers a double pleasure. -And Purcell and he went home with their heads full of a hundred -conjectures. Who had brought her in? how did she know of it even? Old -Wykeham had kept his own counsel--he did not know whether he might not -be supposed to have taken too much upon him had it been known; and, -though he heard the two musicians talking of this miracle, he threw no -light upon it, which he might have done so easily. Who could have told -her? who could have brought her in? Purcell could not but think that her -coming was a sign of relenting, that she was thus making a kind of -celestial intimation that all was not over. This raised him into a very -ecstasy of hope. - -The Signor had other thoughts. He thought of nothing else all night; the -sympathy and comprehension of an artist filling his mind and driving -away the almost dislike with which, after her rejection of his -_protégé_, he had been disposed to regard Lottie. Whatever might happen -to Purcell, here was something which had never happened to himself in -his life before. No doubt it had been a sudden impulse, like that which -had made her fly trembling and pale with excitement, from himself and -them all, in the drawing-room of the Deanery. This time the impulse had -been the other way, and she had obeyed it. He had subjugated her by -waiting her time, and, by what was much more pleasant to think of, the -spell of his music, which had gone to her heart. Let it not be supposed -that any sentiment about Lottie had begun to creep into the Signor’s -heart. Young women, as Pick said, had little to answer for as far as he -was concerned. He was all artist and not much else; but, with a glow -through his being which answered, let us suppose, to the high throb of -satisfaction which goes through persons who talk about their hearts, he -said to himself, “She shall not escape me this time!” He knew more of -Lottie than Rollo Ridsdale did. And he knew that he could make more of -her than Rollo could make of her. He could make of her much more than -was dreamed of in Rollo’s philosophy. He knew what she needed, and he -could give it to her. In his hands, the Signor thought, this simple -English girl might rise to the level of the Malibrans, of the Pastas. -There should be no one able to stand before her. - -It is to be feared he was thinking of this more than of the music as he -played through King in F, which was the service for that morning. And he -left Purcell to play the voluntary and stole out unobserved, though it -was indecorous, before the congregation had dispersed. He threaded -through the dim aisles and the cloisters, before Wykeham had time to -call attention to him by hobbling after him with his jangling keys. He, -like Lottie, had resolved to give himself no time to think of it, to do -it at once. Ridsdale!--What a vain fool he was, talking about giving up -opera and taking to oratorios! What could he do with her, if he had got -her? His manager had rejected Lottie, and gone off after that voice at -Milan. What fools they all were! and what would be the advantage to -Ridsdale of having this voice untrained on his hands? What could he do -with her? but there was nothing she might not do under the guidance of -the Signor. - -It was still early when he reached the little house: Lottie had not -attempted to go out this morning to see the Signor, she was too much -shaken by her escapade of last night. How could she have done it? She, -who had loathed the idea of becoming a singer! She had made a singer of -herself by her own act and deed, and she felt the full meaning of what -she had done. She had got up early, unable in her excitement to sleep, -and tingling still with the consequences of this strange, -unpremeditated, unintended self-betrayal. What was it that had made her -do it? She had got her work, and she had placed herself near the -window--not so near as to be seen, yet near enough to be able to glance -out and see anyone who might be coming that way. There were things to be -done in the house, domestic operations of more importance than the -needlework. But Lottie said to herself that they could wait--oh, they -could wait! In the meantime what was best was, that she should be ready -in case anyone called, ready to see anybody that might come over the -road across the sunshine, in the morning quiet. “Good night; but only -till to-morrow”--what was it that had conveyed to her the consciousness -that he was there? The Abbey had been dark--she had not been thinking of -him--certainly she had not known that he was looked for; and yet, what -but the sense that he was there would have made her do what she had -done? She had sung unwillingly, unwittingly, in spite of herself, -because he was there. It all seemed quite plain to Lottie. He it was -(she thought) who had first made her aware that this gift of hers was -anything worth thinking of; he it was who had first given her the -supreme pleasure of consciousness, who had shown to her the happiness -she could bestow. Her voice (as she thought), if after all it was really -worth anything, if it was the thing he thought it, the thing it sounded -like last night--belonged to him. It was his spiritually; he had -discovered it, and revealed it to herself. She had not been aware what -she was doing; but unconsciously it was to him she was singing, when her -voice escaped from her: it was a welcome to him--and he had accepted it -as his welcome. Lottie gave a glance from her window, and thought she -saw some one coming across the broad sunshine in the Dean’s Walk. Her -heart gave a louder beat--_he_ was coming. She made no mystery now about -it; the preliminaries were all over. He came for her--who else? he had -never concealed it; he had come for her long ago. She could not tell how -long ago it was since he had first caught a glimpse of her at the -window. Always since then it had been for her that he came: content at -first to watch outside her window; then, with a lover’s ingenuity, -finding out ways of meeting her; then venturing, bold yet timid, always -reverential, to her home--and now at length what was coming? He was -coming. And she had withdrawn the veil from her heart, and seen and -acknowledged what was there. It was for him she sang: without knowing -it, her heart had been aware of his presence; and now he was coming. -Lottie drew back in the shade of the great leaves which garlanded her -window. The next moment he would be here---- - -But it was only the Signor. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - -THE FOOL’S PARADISE. - - -The Signor came in with some suppressed excitement about him, which he -concealed under an air of perfect calm, but which betrayed itself in the -gleam of his eyes and the rapidity of his movements. He saw in a moment -that he had bitterly disappointed Lottie, whose countenance changed as -she saw him--changed from glowing expectation to that sudden pallor and -sickness of departing hope which seems to carry all the life out of a -face. He saw it, and he understood; he had the quickness of perception -which belonged to his Italian origin, and he had, as we have said, a -great deal that was feminine in him--this among the rest, that he could -divine and read the meanings of a face. He saw at once what it was. She -had expected, not him, but another. The Signor was very sorry for -Lottie. He had been angry, almost spitefully angry, about her rejection -of his favourite pupil; but she had made her peace with him last night, -and all her offences had been condoned. He was very sorry for her. She -had been looking for Ridsdale, and Ridsdale had not come. The Signor -felt that he himself was a much safer and better visitor for her; but, -all the same, he was sorry for Lottie. He bowed with a depth of respect, -which, indeed, he showed to all ladies. He was more of an Italian than -an Englishman in this point; he was always ceremonious and stately to -women, bowing to the ground, taking the hand offered to him -reverentially, as if he meant to kiss it. This ceremony gave Lottie a -little time to recover herself, and after all it was very early. The -voluntary was still sounding from the Abbey (how had the Signor got away -so soon?), and though _he_ had not appeared yet, that was not to say -that he was not coming. She took her seat again, with the colour coming -back. - -“I do not know how to speak to you,” he said; “how to thank you for last -night----” - -“Oh! so long as you do not think me very presumptuous--very bold. -I--could not help it. It was the music that went to my head,” said -Lottie, very tremulous, giving a hasty glance at him and then turning -her head away. - -“It is just because the music goes to your head that I have such high -hopes--Miss Despard,” said the Signor; “let bygones be bygones, won’t -you? and let us be friends.” - -“We never quarrelled that I know of,” said Lottie, slightly alarmed; -and, for his part, the Signor was confused, thinking of Purcell, of -whose misadventure he had, of course, no right to know. - -“You were not pleased with me,” he said. “I did not worship your voice -as some people do. I told you plainly that you wanted instruction. So -you do still. Your voice is lovely, Miss Despard, and you have the soul -of an artist. You can forget yourself. Little singers never forget -themselves; they are always in the foreground, seeing their own -personality everywhere; but it is very different with you.” - -Lottie did not say anything in reply. She felt vaguely that he was -giving her praise, but she did not mind. Was that someone coming in -below? but it was only Captain Despard returning in after matins. The -Signor, always so quick, felt again the flutter in her, and knew what -her expectation was. - -“You were once very angry with me for making a--an application to you. -You thought I meant to be disrespectful? Ah, no. I could not fail of -respect to a lady, Miss Despard; but I saw in you what I see still more -clearly now.” - -“Signor!” said Lottie, rousing herself up to seize the opportunity, with -a bewildered feeling that it was right to do it, that if she did not do -it now, she never might; and, finally, that to do it might propitiate -fate and make it unnecessary to be done--“Signor--let me tell you first. -I went to the Abbey yesterday on purpose to see you, to say to you---- -ah, here is some one coming to interrupt us.” - -“Yes, there is some one coming to interrupt us,” cried the Signor -almost bitterly; this time there could be no doubt who it was; “but -first, one word before he comes. You were coming to tell me that you -consented--that you would be my pupil?” - -She could scarcely pay any attention to him, he saw. What a thing to -think of, that a girl like this, a woman with genius, should let an -empty-headed coxcomb come between her and all that was worth caring for, -between her and Art! She gave him a confused, half-guilty look, which -seemed like a confession of weakness, and nodded only in reply. Nodded! -when a proposal was made to her such as the Muse might have made to her -chief favourite, when the gates of the Palace of Art were being rolled -open wide to admit her. In that moment, Lottie, all pre-occupied by the -advent of a mere man of fashion, in music not more than a charlatan, in -honour not much to brag of, gave her consent to the arrangement which -was to fashion her life by--a nod. Heaven and earth! what a -demonstration of female folly! Could the Signor be anything but vexed? -He could hardly restrain his impatience, as Rollo came in, all eager and -smiling, easy and cordial even to himself. The Signor, though he was as -innocent of sentiment as old Pick, looked like nothing in the world so -much as a scared, jealous, and despairing lover, watching, in spite of -himself, the entrance of the conquering hero, for whom all the songs -were sung and all the welcomes said. - -“I might have known I should find Rossinetti here,” said Rollo, “as he -is an earlier bird than I am. Where could we all flock this morning but -here? You have been thanking Miss Despard for her divine singing last -night. My life, what singing it was! I have never heard anything like -it. Miss Despard, I have come to announce to you my conversion. I abjure -opera as I abjure the pope. Henceforward Handel is my creed--so long as -you are his interpreter,” he added, sinking his voice. - -“Yes,” said the Signor. “Miss Despard will sing very well if she works; -but we are far yet from the highest excellence of which such a voice as -hers is capable. I will take my leave now. Perhaps you have a friend who -would bring you to my house? that would be the best. No doubt I could -come here; but if you will come to my house, my piano is a very good -one, and that would be the best. Don’t think it is anything to be -remarked; my pupils constantly do it. They bring a maid with them, or, -if it is needful, I send for Mrs.----, for my housekeeper. My young -ladies are most unflatteringly at their ease with me.” - -“You are going to take lessons?” Rollo asked quickly. “I congratulate -you, Rossinetti. My good fellow, you are a great genius, and I know very -little, but I never was so envious of you before. All the same you know -lessons are--teaching is--well, we must admit, not much more than a -pretence in the present case. The habit of singing, that is all Miss -Despard wants.” - -“You must pardon me that I don’t agree with you,” the Signor said, -somewhat stiffly. “Miss Despard does not want flattery from me. She will -get plenty of that by and by; but she does want teaching, _senza -complimenti_, and that she shall have if she will take it. It rests with -her whether or not she will take it. If she does take it as I would have -her do--then,” said the Signor, with a gleam in his eyes of suppressed -enthusiasm, “then I flatter myself----” - -Rollo was provoked. Though he was very sweet-tempered, he did not like -to be crowed over in this way, and his pleasant hyperbole flattened out; -besides, there is something in the presence of a young woman which makes -men, ever so slightly pitted against each other, pugnacious. He laughed. -“I see,” he said, “you won’t flatter Miss Despard, Rossinetti, but you -flatter yourself.” - -“I will send you word about hours,” said the Signor hastily. “I beg your -pardon, I did not quite catch your last observation. Good morning, Miss -Despard. To-morrow or after to-morrow I shall hope to begin.” - -“Good-bye, for the moment; we shall meet later,” said Rollo, with a -smile and a nod, turning to open the door for his--not rival certainly, -but competitor. He opened the door and closed it behind the Signor with -quite unnecessary attention, his face full of suppressed laughter and -malicious satisfaction. Rollo felt that he remained master of the field. -He came back to where Lottie, agitated and happy, was sitting, rubbing -his hands with triumph. “The Signor is an excellent musician, but he is -a prig, Miss Despard, if you will permit the word; and now that we have -got rid of him,” said Rollo, dropping into that other seat beside her, -“let me say----” - -What did he say? Lottie remembered most of the words for years and -years. When she heard the sound of them again in other conversations, in -sentences that had no relation to her, from other people, and even -addressed to other people, she would hold her breath. Foolish girl! they -were well-worn words, such as perhaps every woman possessing such a -gift, or even a much smaller gift than Lottie’s, has heard to weariness; -but the most common approbation, which afterwards becomes the mere -accompaniment and petty murmur of existence, one time in one’s life is -divine--as he told her her voice was, as he let her infer she too was, -and everything about her. Lottie was not used to anything like flattery. -Even in the best of circumstances, fathers and brothers are seldom -enthusiastic; and kind Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, though she had given her -countenance to Rowley’s lessons, did not in the least conceal that she -was bored by them; and the tenor was a great deal too much occupied with -his own voice, and the compliments that had been paid to him, to leave -him much time for complimenting his pupil. It was true that the Signor’s -wish to teach her was of itself the essence of flattery; but he never -had given her any credit for her singing, and always had seen the faults -of it. So that it was Rollo who had first revealed to her that heaven of -praise which is so doubly sweet to the neophyte when it is supposed to -be not her excellence, but his love, which inspires it. Lottie had no -defence against the enthusiasm, the admiration, the rhapsodies of her -companion. If they were excessive, that was not because he was failing -in truth, but only abounding in love. So she thought. The very -atmosphere around her turned into happiness. Her eyes were dazzled with -it. She could not look at him nor lift her face except in momentary -sudden glances, so much was the air full of this suffused, subdued, but -penetrating glory. And, strangely enough, though he did not feel half so -much as she supposed him to feel, Rollo himself was moved by this -something in the air which rayed out from her exquisite dawn of bliss -and of love. He said naturally a great deal more than he intended--and, -what was more wonderful, he felt a great deal more than he could have -supposed possible--and without the least purpose or thought, dropped -moment by moment deeper and deeper into that curious kind of rapture -which is tolerably expressed by the phrase, falling in love. Reason had -nothing to do with it, nor intention; and he had not come here driven -by a passion which was more strong than he was, as Lottie thought. But, -nevertheless, whether it was the magnetic influence of that sentiment in -her which he had called forth without knowing it, and which now touched -him with sympathetic life: or the more commonplace result of her beauty, -and of their close propinquity, and her loneliness, and the generous -impulse of protection and kindness that was in him: certain it is that -all Lottie’s ideas of him realised themselves in the young man’s mind in -the most miraculous way. He had always been, all his friends knew, -ridiculously sympathetic all his life. Never before had it taken this -precise form; but then, never before had Rollo met with the same -combination of circumstances. He had flirted with a great many people, -and foolish girls, who were not prudent enough to remember his younger -brotherhood and impecunious position, had liked his company and been -very willing to roam along the first beginnings of the primrose path by -his side; but nothing more than the lightest exchanges of sentiment had -ever come to pass. And then he had believed of several women that they -were “making a set” at him, and desiring to “catch” him. No degree of -younger brotherhood, no amount of impecuniosity, will prevent a man from -thinking that some woman or other is trying to “catch” him; but never in -all his life had Rollo come across a creature like Lottie, simply, -solemnly, gratefully convinced that he was in love with her. Lottie had -not been in love with him when she thought she found this out. But her -certainty as to _his_ sentiments had been absolute. And now this -certainty was realising itself. It was a very different thing from the -love which points directly and, as a matter of course, to the natural -conclusion. He thought of nothing of the kind. He did not choose her out -of all the world, as Lottie thought. But it came to very much the same -thing as they sat together, talking about everything, dropping into -mutual confidences, wasting the sweet autumnal morning. Lottie knew that -all her domestic businesses were waiting for her, but did not care. And -Rollo knew that, if he were questioned as to where he had been, he would -have to invent an explanation other than the true one. But what did this -matter? They sat and talked, forgetting even music, which was the one -thing hitherto which had occupied them when together. He did not ask her -to sing to him, which was a thing which made Lottie very happy, -notwithstanding that it was his admiration of her voice only which had -made her recognise and be glad of that possession. She had sung for him -gladly, but now she was more pleased not to be asked to sing. What did -they want with music? It would be hard to describe how well they came to -know each other during that long morning’s talk. He told her about -himself, and she told him about herself, and thus they skimmed over -very dangerous ground as to the beginning of their own acquaintance. -Lottie, with a girl’s shrinking from premature avowal, hurried over that -point lest he might perhaps tell her how he had seen her, and dreamed of -her, long before he dared claim acquaintance. Poor Lottie! but for that -fond delusion she might have heard the real cause of his first eagerness -to make her acquaintance, and been disenchanted. But what would it have -mattered? By this time, things had gone too far to make it an advantage -to her now to be undeceived. - -This was the beginning of the time which was the crown and flower of -life to Lottie Despard. Deceived, and yet not deceived; creating really -the sentiment which she believed in, yet not as she believed it: she -herself all simple and trustful, impassioned in everything she -undertook, then and there, to the last fibre of her being, gave her -heart to Rollo Ridsdale--loved him, believing herself as fully justified -as ever woman was, by the possession of his love, to bestow her own; and -bestowing it purely, freely, without doubt or _arrière pensée_. His rank -and the pleasure of thinking that some one out of the world above her, -the world which she aspired to, and felt herself to belong to, was -seeking her, had dazzled Lottie at the first;--but by this time it did -not matter to her who or what Rollo was. Sometimes even, she thought -that she would prefer him to be more on her own level: then stopped and -reproved herself proudly for wanting to take anything from him who -deserved everything. His position as a patrician, his supposed wealth -(how was Lottie to know that such a man, possessing everything, could be -just as poor, and perhaps not much more honourable in respect to debt -and such matters, than her father?), the grace and nobleness of all his -surroundings, were part of his nature, she thought in her simplicity. To -shut him up in small rooms, confine him to the limited horizon of common -life, and its poor little routine of duties, would be to take something -from Rollo; and she did not want to take anything from him, rather to -add any honour and glory that might be wanting. She did not know how -long or how short a time they had been together on that wonderful -morning before they first began to talk (as Lottie said) like friends. -It lasted no more than a moment, and yet it was a new life all luminous -and great, throwing the twenty years of the other life which had -preceded it, entirely into shade. She had to stand still to steady -herself and accustom her eyes to the ordinary atmosphere when he went -away. Everything was changed. Her head went round. She did not know how -to go downstairs (too late, much too late!) and look after the household -matters which she had postponed; and when she did go to them, went -hazily like one in a dream. What a change had come upon life! Yesterday, -even Rollo was no more than a distant vision of possibilities to her; -now she seemed to know him thoroughly, to know all about him; to feel -that she could tell him whatever might happen, that it would be natural -to confide everything to him--everything! her heart threw wide open its -doors. She did not think even that he might wonder to find himself so -entirely received into her life. Lottie had none of the experience which -the most ordinary encounter with the world, which even ballroom tattle -and the foolish commerce of flirtations give. She came to this first -chapter, all innocent and original in heart and thought, with the -frankness as well as the timidity of a nature unalarmed and (in this -kind) knowing no evil. Love was to her an angel, the first of the -angels--inspiring awe, but no terror. She went to her work feeling as if -she walked to some noble strain of music. Nothing could irritate her, -nothing put her out. - -That evening Lottie went out upon the Slopes in the dusk to breathe the -evening air and give herself that fresher, sweeter medium for her -dreams. Law was out, the Captain was out as usual; and the little house -was very still with only Mary in the kitchen (for most of her time -hanging about the back entrance looking for the baker), and Lottie -upstairs. Somehow to-night Lottie did not wait for Captain Temple, who -had constituted himself her escort, but as soon as it began to be really -evening stole out by herself and made her way quickly up the Dean’s -Walk, not anxious to join anyone. She wanted to be alone for her -thoughts. It was not that the slightest idea of meeting Rollo entered -into her mind--how should it? The dinners at the Deanery were not like -the afternoon meal in the Chevaliers’ lodges, out of which all the -inhabitants streamed as soon as that was over, to get the good of the -summer night. Summer--for, though it was beginning to be autumn, it was -still summer--warm, soft, delicious evenings with so much dusk in them, -and misty sweetness. Lottie wanted nothing at that moment of dreamy -happiness but silence and her own thoughts; more, however, was in store -for her. The Deanery dinner was a family dinner that evening, and while -the Dean read the evening paper, and Lady Caroline put up her feet on -the sofa, what was a young man to do? He said he would go over to the -Signor’s and talk music and smoke a cigar; and the elder people, though -they were fond of Rollo, were not sorry to be rid of him. He wanted, -perhaps, to enjoy his triumph over the Signor, or to find out what his -plans were and expectations of Lottie’s voice; or, perhaps, only he -wanted a little variety, feeling the company of his venerated relations -too much pleasure. But, though he was not so full of dreams as Lottie, -something of the same charmed mood was in his mind. And when caprice -made him take the turn up to the Slopes also, instead of going the other -way through the Cloisters to the musician’s house--and when the two -caught sight of each other, they both started with genuine surprise, and -there was on Lottie’s side even a little alarm. She was too shy to beg -him in so many words to go away, but it was only the want of courage -which kept her from saying so. It was too much; it did not seem right to -meet him again; but then Lottie reflected that to the merest -acquaintance she was bound to be polite. Mr. Ridsdale had the same -thought. He was unfeignedly delighted to see her, finding this way of -escape from all possibility of dulness much more complete than he -thought; but yet he felt that perhaps a second encounter so soon, and in -a place open to all eyes, might be dangerous; notwithstanding, what -could a man do? He was bound to be civil. He could not run away from a -lady when he met her, simply because he admired her--a reason, on the -contrary, to keep him by her side. So they took a stroll together, this -way and that way, from one end to the other: it was not a very long way. -He told her that he was going to the Signor’s, and she accepted the -explanation very demurely, notwithstanding the fact that the Signor -lived on the lower side of the Deanery and this was on the upper side; -and she told him that she had only just come out, having missed Captain -Temple, who would appear presently:--“He is my usual companion--he is -very old, the oldest of all the Chevaliers--and he is very, very kind to -me.” Each accepted what the other thus said with a kind of solemnity; -and they made two turns up and down, stopping now and then to look out -upon the plain so broad and blue, with the soft autumn mists hanging on -the horizon. “Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,” Rollo said; and -they stood still and gazed, following the river in its silvery windings, -and silent as if their minds were absorbed in these atmospheric -influences and that dusky bridal of the earth and sky. When Captain -Temple came up Rollo asked to be introduced to him, and was very civil. -“Miss Despard has been waiting for you, and I have kept her company,” he -said, so that the old Captain thanked him civilly, if a little stiffly; -and then the two turned their backs upon each other, Rollo hastening -down to the Cloisters to keep, as he said, his appointment, and Lottie -turning away without so much as a parting glance, without shaking hands. -Captain Temple, alarmed at first, took heart, and thought it was nothing -but politeness when he saw how they parted. “You were quite right, my -dear, quite right to wait, and I am much obliged to Mr. Ridsdale; I -cannot think how I missed you.” Lottie did not make a direct reply, but -compelled herself to talk, and very demurely, with much praise of the -lovely night, went with him home. - -If Captain Temple had but known! And after this how many meetings there -were, so happily accidental, so easily explainable, and yet requiring no -such explanation! How well they began to know each other’s habits and -each other’s likings; and how sweet were all the dewy misty paths in -that fool’s paradise! or on the Slopes, if you prefer it; it does not -matter much about a name. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - -A TERRIBLE INTERRUPTION. - - -While the time went on in this dream for Lottie it did not stand still -with the rest of the world. Her absorption in her own affairs, which for -the moment had become complete, and withdrew her thoughts from much that -had previously occupied them, was very agreeable to her father and -brother. Lottie had exercised no control that she was aware of upon her -father; but now that her keen eyes were veiled with dreams, and her mind -abstracted from what was going on round her, it is inconceivable how -much more free and at his ease the Captain felt. He had a jauntier air -than ever, when he walked down into the town after he was released from -matins; and he came in later at night. Captain Despard’s doings at this -time were much talked of in the lodges. He had never been approved by -his brother Chevaliers. The old gentlemen felt that this younger man, -with his jauntiness and his love of pleasure, was no credit to them; and -if the gossip was true about his intentions, some of them thought that -something ought to be done. The ladies were still more indignant. They -were threatened in their dignity more than their husbands were. An -officer was an officer, whatever happened; but if this man, who was in -himself so objectionable, should bring in a dressmaker girl among them, -it was the Chevaliers’ wives who would be the sufferers. The gentlemen -thought vaguely that something should be done; but the ladies were for -carrying it to Parliament, or to the Queen herself. Was there not some -old statute forbidding a Chevalier to marry? If there was not, there -ought to be, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy said, with a twinkle in her eye. There -was nobody, indeed, so much aggrieved as Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, who lived -next door, and was already intimate with the family; and though there -were times when she made a joke of it, there were also times when she -was ready to go to the Queen on the subject. - -“If there isn’t a law there ought to be one!” Mrs. O’Shaughnessy -declared. “What do they want with wives at their age, if they haven’t -got ’em already? D’ye think I’d like to hear of me Major with a second, -and me not cold in my grave?” - -It was suggested that the Chevaliers should “speak to” this dangerous -member of their corporation; but the old gentlemen, it was found, did -not care to undertake this. Who would do it? There was not one of them -who could use the privilege of friendship with this flighty, dissipated -fellow, who was young at fifty to the other veterans; and they had not -the same confidence in the efficacy of “speaking to” a culprit which -the ladies had. - -So the little world within the Precincts looked on in great -perturbation, sorry for Lottie, but still more sorry for themselves, -whose credit was threatened by this danger. And jauntier and jauntier -grew the Captain. He wore his hat more and more over his left ear--he -got a new tie, louder and brighter than any that had ever been seen in -the Precincts. His new suit was of a larger stripe. Altogether, things -were ripening for some new event. Something was going to happen; -everybody felt it, in the air, in the heaviness of the autumn weather. -Lottie’s proceedings, which might otherwise have given much anxiety to -the community, were veiled by the interest attaching to her father’s; -which, indeed, was well for Lottie, who was not at all times quite aware -what she was doing, or where her steps were tending, as she walked and -wandered--not in her sleep, but in her dreams. - -There was another who took advantage of Lottie’s abstraction, and that -was Law. He had begun by going quite regularly to Mr. Ashford, -“reading,” as it was called, with the Minor Canon, whom he liked, and -who was kind to him, and sharing the instructions which were being given -to young Uxbridge, the son of the Canon. For a little while there had -been gloom and consternation in this young man’s home because of Law. He -was not a companion for her boy, Mrs. Uxbridge thought; but when this -was suggested to the Minor Canon he smiled so grimly, and answered with -such uncompromising brutality, that, of course, he could have no -possible objections to young Mr. Uxbridge’s removal, that the mother -nearly fainted, and Mr. Uxbridge himself, a large and stately person, -had to stammer forth an apology. There was a dangerous gleam in -Ashford’s eye, enough to appal the Chapter, notwithstanding his -inferiority to them, and there was nothing for it but to let him have -his way. And for a week or two Law was exemplary--he allowed that for -the first time in his life he could feel he was getting on; he became -what he called “thick” with Uxbridge, who took him out boating and -cricketing; and so far all went well. But when Lottie’s vigilance all at -once relaxed--when she began to steal out herself, and come in with her -eyes all dazzled and dreamy, often not knowing when she was spoken to, -taking so much less heed than usual of other people’s proceedings, Law’s -industry began to flag. Sometimes he “shirked” altogether; very often he -never looked at his books, except under Mr. Ashford’s eye. He made -Uxbridge idle too, who was but too much disposed to take a bad example. -Uxbridge had a boat of his own, and they went on the river for days -together. Sometimes a cricket match ended in a dinner, to which Law -would be invited with his friend. He got into better company, but it is -doubtful whether this was much to the advantage of his morals, and it -certainly was not at all to the advantage of his studies. The Minor -Canon remonstrated, and Lottie would now and then wake up and make an -appeal to him. - -“Are you working, Law? I hope you are working. Does Mr. Ashford think -you are getting on?” she would say. But these were not like the -energetic protests of old. And when Law answered that he was getting on -pretty well, but that old Ashford didn’t say much--it wasn’t his -way--Lottie accepted the reply, and asked no more questions. And Law -accordingly took “his fling,” being left free on all sides. Why -shouldn’t he take his fling? The others were doing it--even Lottie; did -she think he was blind not to see how often that fellow Ridsdale was -spooning about, and how many more walks she took than she used to? -Captain Temple got tired of coming for her. Very often she had gone -before he came--and would run back breathless, and so sorry to have -missed him. What did all that mean if not that Lottie was taking her -fling too? And his father--Captain Despard--was speeding very quickly -towards such a thing as would startle the whole town, not to speak of -the Abbey. It would be hard if Law were the only one to have his nose -kept to the grindstone; and this, we may be sure, was the last thing he -meant to allow. - -As for Lottie, she carried on the business of her life in a way. The -house did not suffer--the dinner was always punctual, and the stockings -mended, notwithstanding dreams. She found time, indeed, for more actual -occupation than before. She went to the Signor’s--Mrs. O’Shaughnessy -generally, but sometimes Captain Temple, going with her when she went -for her lessons--and she went to the Abbey more frequently than she had -been used to do. These lessons were moments of excitement for the -Signor’s household. When it was the old Captain who had accompanied Miss -Despard, Mrs. Purcell was had in from her room, where she sat expectant -among her jam cupboards; and profound was her interest. She sat near the -door hemming some dusters, while the lesson went on; but sometimes would -drop her work and cross her hands, and raise her eyes to the dusky -heaven of the ceiling. - -“Dear, bless me!” said the housekeeper, “that was a note!” for she had -learned a little about music after all her experiences. Her son rarely -made his appearance at all; he would loiter about the passage and catch -a glimpse of Lottie as she went in or out, and sometimes he would come -in suddenly very red and agitated, to turn over the music or look for -some song that was wanted. Lottie was very anxious always to be friendly -to him; but though these lessons seemed to poor young Purcell the things -which chiefly made life desirable, yet he was not sufficiently at his -ease to make any reply to her greeting, except by a deeper blush and an -embarrassed bow. And very often--so often that the Signor had almost -wound himself up to the point of remonstrating, and old Pick had been -charged to say that his master was engaged, and that no one could -enter--Rollo Ridsdale would stray in by accident and form one of the -party. It was very strange that, though old Pick had orders so precise, -yet Rollo somehow always got in. How was it? - -“I don’t know myself,” old Pick would say, with a grin; “he’s the -perseveringest gentleman I ever see--and awful fond of music. It must -cost him a deal,” Pickering said. - -Rollo strolled in sometimes at the beginning, before due precautions had -been taken, sometimes near the end, when they were relaxed. He made -himself very agreeable. As for Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, she was his slave, -and she was quite persuaded by this time that she herself was nearly -connected with the Courtland family, and that Rollo’s uncle--or was it a -cousin?--had been not only the Major’s but her own dearest friend. -Captain Temple, when he was the chaperon, was more suspicious; but, -notwithstanding his objection to young men, and especially to -Honourables, in connection with young women, Rollo ended by making the -old Chevalier his friend. He had the gift of disarming prejudice--being -kind himself by nature, and of a friendly disposition, such as makes -friends. And Rollo was very careful under the eyes of all these keen -observers. He confined himself to music. He looked unutterable things; -but he did not speak the applause, that was implied in his looks. He -said only, “I must not say anything, Miss Despard--I dare not, for -Rossinetti; but I think the more.” - -Lottie did not want him to applaud her. It was enough for her that he -heard her; but it was only when he was there that she did herself full -justice. And it is not to be supposed that the Signor was ignorant of -the changed tone in her voice which showed when he appeared. It was too -great a vexation to him to be ignored. Art, pure art, was not as yet, if -it ever would be, the spring of Lottie’s life. It was “that fellow.” Her -voice grew softer and more exquisite, full of pathos and meaning--her -notes more liquid and sweet. If the Signor had been Rollo’s rival in -reality he could scarcely have been more annoyed--he whose aspiration -was to make a true artist of this creature, to whom heaven had given so -glorious a medium of expression, but who as yet knew nothing about art. - -Thus September stole away. Never before had Ridsdale been so long at the -Deanery. He gave sometimes one reason and sometimes another for his -delay. It was very convenient for him, as the place was central, and he -was often obliged to run up to town to see after business connected with -the Opera. His company meant to open their house in spring; and the -manager being in Italy, there was a great deal to do which fell upon -Rollo. He had invitations without number, but he neglected them all. So -long as his aunt would have him there was no place so convenient for him -as the Deanery. And Lady Caroline was very willing to have him. She had -always been kind to him. If her feelings had been strong enough to -justify anyone in considering himself her favourite, then Rollo might -have done so. She had always been kind; and a habit of kindness is as -good as any other habit, and is the best pledge of continuance. And she -liked in a way to have him there. He never gave her any trouble--now and -then he succeeded in something that was very like amusing her. And he no -longer demanded of her that she should invite Miss Despard daily, or -trouble herself with the other people who sang. Two or three times only -during the month did he ask for an invitation for the girl in whose -voice he was so much interested. And he was very domestic--triumphantly -disproving all the stories that had been told of him. He never cared to -dine anywhere but at home while he was at the Deanery--he did not care -for company. He was a very nice companion for the Dean at dinner, and -after dinner he would stroll out and smoke a cigar. If he gave trouble -at Courtland it was only, Lady Caroline thought with gentle complacency, -because they did not know how to manage him; for anyone more happy to be -quiet she never saw. And thus September passed; the partridges did not -tempt him away, any more than the grouse had done. He did not care, he -declared, about sport of any kind. Music and books, and his stroll of an -evening on the Slopes to smoke his cigar--these were all the virtuous -amusements Rollo desired--with these he was as happy as the day was -long. And in October, Augusta, coming home from her bridal tour, was to -visit her mother, and there would be a little society once more at the -Deanery. It came to be understood that Rollo would stay for this. It -would be something to make amends to him for the quiet of the past. - -October began: it was a beautiful autumn; the trees on the Slopes were -all red and yellow, like painted trees, and the face of the country -brilliant with sunshine. Everything was smooth and fair without and -within, so far as appearances went; and, had there been no results to -follow, little exception could have been taken to the proceedings of the -persons concerned in this history, who were each and all following their -own pleasure and doing what seemed good in their own eyes. The Captain -was perhaps the most safe and most virtuous of the whole, seeing that -there was no reason why he should not marry Polly if he desired very -much to do so, except that it would make his children uncomfortable and -disturb the equanimity of his brother Chevaliers and their belongings. -But he was in no way bound to consider the dignity of his brethren in -the order, neither was he required by any law to sacrifice his own -comfort for that of his son and daughter--both of them quite capable of -taking thought for themselves. He may, therefore, be left out of the -question; for, whether for good or evil, he was doing nothing more than -he had a right to do. But in the case of the others: how pleasant would -this episode of life have been had there been no consequences to follow! -It was a most charming episode in the experience of Rollo Ridsdale. He -was not a vicious man, but yet he had never been so virtuous, so free of -evil, in all his consciousness before--his chief companion a perfectly -pure-minded girl, his chief occupation to explore and study her fresh -young heart and imagination, and vigorous intelligent nature. If only it -could all go on to some as perfect conclusion, there could be no doubt -that it was good for the speculative man of fashion. It restored him, -body and soul,--regular hours, quiet, all the most luxurious comforts of -life, and the delight and exhilaration of a romance to amuse the mental -and sentimental side of him. The cleverest doctor that ever existed -could not have recommended a more admirably curative process--if only -there had been no responsibilities involved and nothing painful to -follow. And Law--if Law had only had the prospect of a small estate, a -small inheritance at the end, enough to live on, what a perfectly -pleasant “time” he was having! He was doing no harm, only boating, -cricketing, beginning now as the season went on to think of -football--none of them wicked pursuits: if only there had been no -examinations to think of, no work of life to prepare for. Lottie was the -least to blame of the three; the consequences did not trouble her. She -might perhaps be allowing herself to be absorbed too much by the new and -wonderful influence which had taken possession of her: the _vita nuova_ -might have become too entirely the law of her being; but well or ill she -still did her duty, and her realisation of the result was perfectly -simple. What but one thing could all this lead to? No doubt invaded -Lottie’s inexperienced mind; how could she doubt that Rollo loved her? -What proof was wanting that man could give? They had not yet spoken of -that love, though they had several times approached to the very verge of -an explanation, from which generally it was she who shrank with a shy -prolonging of that delicious uncertainty which was no uncertainty at -all. How could Lottie have any doubt? It was not necessary even for her -to say to herself that he was good and true. True!--she no more thought -of falsehood than Eve had thought of the serpent before he hissed his -first question into her ear. She did not understand what lying meant, -practical lying of this kind. She let the sweet current sweep her on -with many a heart-beat; but why should she be distrustful of it? What -could love lead to but happiness? Lottie could not think of anything -more. - -And thus the time went on. Augusta Huntington (Mrs. Daventry) was coming -home with her husband in a day or two; and though Lottie thought she -would be glad to see her old friend, she had a little secret fear of -anything now happening. All was very well as it was. To meet Rollo -accidentally as he smoked his cigar on the Slopes would not be so easy -if his cousin were at the Deanery. He would not be able to get out so -easily, and probably she would find a great many new ways of employing -him which would take him out of Lottie’s way. She did not like to look -forward to it; and after Augusta’s visit Rollo too would go away. It -would be almost winter, and he could not stop any longer. All the -shooting and the deerstalking and the round of visits to great people, -on which he ought to be going, he had given up for her. What could the -reason be but for her? The thought that this moment of happiness was -approaching an end, was sad to Lottie, even though it should, as was -natural, be followed by greater happiness still. How her dull life had -flowered and blossomed out, made beautiful by the thought that he was -near her, this man who loved her--who had loved her long before she had -loved him, but whom now she too--! He was near, she remembered every -morning when she woke; some time in the day she would be sure to see -him--nay, half a dozen times in the day, if only strolling down the -Dean’s Walk looking at her window, and in the Abbey, and perhaps, while -she took her lesson, listening to her with soft eyes; perhaps walking -home with her; perhaps just turning round that old elm-tree on the -Slopes as she came out for her evening walk; always looking for her so -eagerly, seeking her, with a hundred little tender cares, and something -in his eyes which was more than all. Could it be possible to be happier -than now? She was keeping off the _éclaircissement_ with delicious shy -malice, running away from it, prolonging a little longer, and a little -longer, this happy uncertainty. Some time, however, it must come, and -then no doubt she would be more happy--though not with such happiness as -this. - -On one of those lovely russet-coloured afternoons, full of haze made -golden by the sunshine, already turning to the west, Lottie, walking up -St. Michael’s Hill, towards the Abbey, had seen a fly driving along the -street which had caught her eye as she passed. She knew it very well; it -was Jobling’s fly--a nice respectable clean cab, looking for all the -world like a shabby well-dressed man in a frock coat and high hat. There -are many shabby respectable well-preserved things which resemble each -other. The reason why this neat and clean vehicle caught her eye was -that the man who was driving it wore a white wedding-favour, which is a -thing which no person of twenty can see without remark. Lottie, like -others of her age, was half amused, half interested, and could not help -wondering who it was. It was going to the railway, and some one looked -out hastily as Lottie passed, looking at her, the girl thought, -withdrawing as hastily again when she was seen to turn her eyes that -way. Who could it be? Lottie thought she would ask Law, who knew all the -news, who had been married; but she had forgotten all about it long -before she saw Law. She had too many things to think of and to do, to -remember so small a matter as that; and Law did not come in till late. -When he did come they took their simple supper together amicably, not -saying much; but she forgot the question. Now that Lottie did not bully -him they were very good friends. They said a few friendly words to each -other, and that was all, and then they bade each other good night. They -were all alone, the Captain having left home for a few days, and had a -very good opportunity for talk. But Lottie did not seize the opportunity -to put disagreeable questions. She was altogether so much more amicable -than she had been used to be. - -Three days after, Captain Despard was to come home. It did not disturb -Lottie that Captain Temple questioned her very closely as to where her -father had gone. “Was he alone, do you know?” the old man said. “Alone? -Oh, yes, I suppose so,” said Lottie. What did it matter? She could see -Rollo behind the old beech-tree. Of course it was a drawback that the -Captain should be with her so often, but it pleased the kind old man; -they met and they had their little talk, which perhaps was all the more -unlike the common intercourse of earth that worlds of meaning had to be -trusted to a tone, to a sudden meeting in the dusk (when you could see -nobody, Captain Temple said) of two pairs of eyes: and when all is -unutterable is not this as good a way of utterance as any? And then -Lottie said she must go home. Papa was coming home. He had been gone -three days. As they went back the old Captain was more and more kind to -Lottie. He kept her at the door for a moment with her hand between his -two old kind hands. “My dear, don’t be afraid to send for me or to come -to me when you want anything--my wife and I will always be ready to be -of use to you. You will not forget, Lottie?” “Oh, no, Captain Temple,” -she said; “you are always so kind to me; how could I forget?” And she -went in smiling to herself, wondering what he could think she would -want. But he was always kind, as kind as a father; far, far kinder than -her own father, she could not but remember, with a little shrug of her -shoulders. Had papa come in? Mary said “No,” and Lottie went into the -little dining-room to see that the supper was prettily arranged. There -was nothing more than cold meat, and cheese, and bread and butter; but -the bouquet in the middle, which was made up of brilliantly-coloured -leaves, was pretty; and the white tablecloth and the plates and glasses -looked bright. In her happiness she began to sing softly as she pulled -the leaves into a prettier form in the long clear glass they were -grouped in. The lamp was lighted, the table was bright, the door stood -open. Lottie, through her singing, heard steps coming up the pavement -outside, and voices. All of a sudden she paused, thinking she heard her -father’s voice. Who could he be bringing with him, without any -preparation? She cast a hasty glance at the beef, and saw with -satisfaction that there would be enough for a stranger; enough, but not -perhaps too much--he might have let her know. Then she heard his voice -quite close to the window, which was open, for the night was warm for -October--“Look in, and you will see her,” he said. “Oh, I know her very -well,” said another voice, with a laugh. Lottie turned round, with her -heart beating, towards the window, where something white was visible. -What could it mean?--was it a woman?--_a woman_ with her father at this -hour of the evening? She grew pale, she could not tell why, and gazed -first at the window, then at the door, with a flutter of tears which she -could not understand. How foolish it was! “Come in--this way--don’t be -afraid! The passage is narrow and the house is small, but there is -plenty of room for happiness when once you are in it,” said her -father’s voice in the doorway, coming through the little crooked hall. -Then the door was pushed wide open, and he came in leading some one by -the hand. It was a woman very gaily dressed, with a mountain of brown -hair and a white bonnet perched upon it, who laughed, but was nervous -too; upon whom Lottie gazed with wondering eyes and blanched cheeks. Who -was this whom he was bringing in without warning, without notice? The -Captain was very jaunty; his hat was still on his head over his left -ear. He had a bunch of violets somewhat crushed in his coat. He smiled a -smile which was rather ghastly as Lottie gazed, struck dumb with the -horror of what was coming. “Mrs. Despard,” he said with a flourish, “let -me present you with a ready-made daughter. Lottie, my child, come here -and welcome your new mamma.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII. - -THE CAPTAIN’S WIFE - - -Lottie could do nothing but stand bewildered and gaze at this new -claimant of her regard. Surprise took all the meaning, all the -intelligence out of her face. She stood with her eyes wide open, her -lips dropping apart. Her new mamma! She had the indescribable misfortune -of not being able to think upon her own mother with any reverence or -profound affection. Mrs. Despard was but “poor mamma” to her--no more. -Lottie could not shut her eyes to the deficiencies of that poor woman, -of whom the best that could be said was that she was dead, and beyond -the reach of blame. There was no cherished and vaunted idea, therefore, -to be outraged; but perhaps all the more Lottie’s soul rose up in -rebellion against the title as applied to anyone else. She had known -what was coming, and yet she was as entirely taken by surprise as if -this idea had never been suggested to her. With eyes suddenly cleared -out of all the dazzling that had clouded them, she looked at the woman -thus brought in upon her--this intruder, who, however, had more right to -be there than even Lottie had--the Captain’s wife. If this event had -happened a month or two ago, while she retained all her natural vigour, -no doubt, foolish as it was, Lottie would have made some show of -resistance. She would have protested against the sudden arrival. She -would have withdrawn from company so undesirable. She would have tried, -however absurd it might have been, to vindicate herself, to hold the -new-comer at arm’s length. But this had all become impossible now. At no -other moment could she have been so entirely taken by surprise. All the -apprehensions about her father which had been communicated to her on -former occasions had died out of her mind. She had never said very much -about this danger, or been alarmed by it, as Law was. It had not -occurred to her to inquire how it would affect herself. And now she was -taken altogether by surprise. She stood struck dumb with amazement, and -gazed at the woman, instinctively taking in every particular of her -appearance, as only a woman could do. Unconsciously to herself, Lottie -appraised the other, saw through her, calculating the meaning of her and -all her finery. No man could have done it, and she was not herself aware -of having done it; but Polly knew very well what that look meant. -Notwithstanding her own confidence in her bridal array, even Polly felt -it coming to pieces, felt it being set down for what it was worth; and, -naturally, the feeling that this was so made her angry and defiant. - -“How do you do, miss?” she said, feeling that even her voice sounded -more vulgar than it need have done. “I hope as we shall be good friends. -Your pa has played you a nice trick, hasn’t he? But men is men, and when -they’re like he is there’s allowances to be made for them.” Polly was -aware that this speech was in her very worst style. She had not intended -to call Lottie Miss; but with that girl standing staring, in a plain -cotton frock, looking a lady, every inch of her, from the crown of her -head to the sole of her foot--a bride, in a fine bonnet covered with -orange-blossoms, and a bright silk dress that matched, was not in -possession of her faculties. Bold as she was, she could not but be -conscious of a tremor which mingled with her very defiance. “Well, I’m -sure, what a pretty table!” she resumed. “They might have known we were -coming home, Captain. There ain’t much on it, perhaps--not like the nice -chicken and sausages you’d have got at mother’s. But mother would never -have set it out so pretty, that I’ll allow.” Then Polly looked round -upon the dim old walls, faintly lighted by the lamp. “So this is the -dining-room,” she said; “this is my new ’ome. To think I never should -have been inside the door till now! Let me alone, Harry. I don’t want -none of your huggings. I want to make acquaintance with my new ’ome. You -know well enough I married just as much for the sake of living in the -Lodges as for you--don’t you, now?” she said, with a laugh. Perhaps -only fathers and mothers, and not even these long-suffering persons -always, can look on at the endearments of newly-married couples with -tolerance. Lottie was offended, as if their endearments had been -insulting to herself. She looked at them with an annoyed contempt. No -sympathetic touch of fellow-feeling moved her. To compare this, as she -thought, hideous travesty of love with her own, would have but hardened -her the more against them. She turned away, and shut the window, and -drew down the blind with an energy uncalled for by such simple duties. -When the Captain led his wife upstairs, that she might take off her -bonnet, Lottie sat down and tried to think. But she could not think. It -had all happened in a moment, and her mind was in an angry confusion, -not capable of reason. She could not realise what had happened, or what -was going to happen--an indignant sense of being intruded upon, of -having to receive and be civil to an unwelcome visitor, and an -impatience almost beyond bearing of this strait into which her father -had plunged her, filled her mind. Something more, she dimly felt, lay -behind--something more important, more serious; but in the meantime she -did not feel that her occupation was gone, or her kingdom taken from -her. A disagreeable person to entertain--a most unwelcome, uncongenial -guest. For the moment she could not realise anything more. But her mind -was in the most painful ferment, her heart beating. How was she to -behave to this new, strange visitor? What was she to say to her? She -must sit down at table with her, she supposed. She was Captain -Despard’s--guest. What more? But Lottie knew very well she was something -more. - -Mary came in, bringing tea, which she placed at the head of the table, -where Lottie usually sat. Mary’s eyes were dancing in her head with -curiosity and excitement. “What is it, miss? oh, what is it, miss? -What’s happened?” said Mary. But Lottie made her no reply. She did not -herself know what had happened. She waited for the return of “the woman” -with a troubled mind. Everything was ready, and Lottie stood by ready to -take her seat the moment they should come back. She heard them come -downstairs, laughing and talking. The woman’s voice filled all the -house. It flowed on in a constant stream, loud enough to be heard in the -kitchen, where Mary was listening with all her ears. “Very nice on the -whole,” the new-comer was saying; “but of course I shall make a few -changes. I’ve always heard that a room should be like its mistress. -There’s not half enough pretty things to please me. I do love a pretty -room, and plenty of antimacassars and pink ribbons. Oh, I shan’t tell -you what I am going to do to it!--not a word. Gentlemen must be taught -their place. I am going to make it look very nice, and that should be -enough for you. Oh yes, I am quite ready for supper. I haven’t touched -a bit of anything since five o’clock, when we had tea. Poor Harry! I can -see how you have been put upon.” This was said at the foot of the -stairs, where not only Lottie but Mary could hear every word. Mary -understood it all, but Lottie did not understand it. She could not -receive Polly’s programme into her mind, nor think what was meant by it. -While she still stood waiting, the two came in--the bride, with her -tower of hair upon her head, and all her cheap ribbons and bangles. She -came in, drawing herself away from the Captain’s encircling arm. -“Behave!” said Polly, shaking a finger at him; and she swept in and -round the table, almost pushing against the surprised spectator who -stood looking on, and deposited herself in Lottie’s chair. “It’s best to -begin as you mean to end,” said Polly; “I’m not tired to speak of, and -I’ll take my own place at once. You can sit here, Miss Lottie, between -him and me.” - -Still, Lottie did not know what to think or to say. She stood still, -bewildered, and then took the place pointed out to her. What did it -mean? It was easy enough to see what it meant, if her head had not been -so confused. “Yes, dear,” said Polly, “a little bit of cold beef--just a -very little bit. I am not fond of cold victuals. That’s not how we’ve -been living, is it? and that’s not how I mean you to live. Oh, no, I -don’t blame Lottie. Unmarried girls don’t know any better. They don’t -study a man like his wife knows how to do. I can see how it’s been; oh, -I can see! Too many mouths to feed, and the meat has to be bought -according. Who is your butcher, miss? Oh, _him_! I don’t hold with him. -I shall send for Jones to-morrow; he’s the man for my money. Wasn’t that -a lovely sweetbread that we had at our wedding breakfast? You didn’t -remark? Oh, nonsense, I’m sure you remarked! It _was_ a beauty! Well, -that was from Jones’s. I’ll send for him to-morrow. Do you take sugar in -your tea, Miss Lottie? Dear! I shouldn’t have thought it; so careful a -young lady. ’Enery, darling, what are you drinking? Do you take tea?” - -“I don’t mind what I take, my love, so long as you give it me,” said the -gallant Captain; “tea or poison, I’d take it from that hand; and I don’t -want anything but to look at you at the head of my table. This is how it -should be. To think how long I have been denying myself, forgetting what -happiness was!” - -“You poor dear Harry! all for the sake of your children! Well, I hope -you’ll find it repaid. They ought to be grateful. The times and times -that you and me has talked it over, and given it up for their sakes! -You’re very quiet, miss; you don’t say much,” added Polly; “but I dare -say it was a surprise to you, seeing me come home?” - -“Why don’t you speak up and make yourself pleasant?” said the Captain, -with a kind of growl, under his breath. - -Lottie came to herself a little by dint of this pressure. She did not -seem to know how it had come about, or what the emergency meant. “I beg -your pardon,” she said, her head swimming and everything going round -with her, “I am--taken very much by surprise. If I had known what was -going to happen I--might have been more prepared.” - -“I can understand that,” said Polly. “Hold your tongue, Captain. She is -quite right. You ought to have written and told her, as I asked you. But -now that you do know I hope you mean to be friendly, miss. Them that -treats me well, I treats them well. I don’t wonder that you don’t like -it at first,” she added graciously; “a girl no older than yourself! But -he would have it, you know, and what could I do? When a man’s in that -way, it’s no use talking to him. I resisted as long as I could, but I -had to give in at the last.” - -“By George!” said the Captain, helping the beef. He had some one to -stand by him now, who he felt might be a match for Lottie; but he was -still a little afraid of Lottie, and consequently eager to crow over her -in the strength of his backer. “The trouble I’ve had to bring matters to -this point!” he said. “But never mind, my love, it is all right now you -are here. At one time I thought it never was going to be accomplished. -But perseverance----” - -“Perseverance does a deal; but, bless you, I never had no doubt on the -subject,” said the new Mrs. Despard, taking up her teacup in a way that -was very offensive to Lottie. The Captain looked at her from the other -end of the table with a kind of adoration; but nevertheless the Captain -himself, with all his faults, was painfully aware of her double -negatives, and thought to himself, even when he looked at her so -admiringly, that he must give her a few lessons. He had never paid much -attention to Lottie, and yet he could not help getting a glimpse of his -new wife through Lottie’s eyes. - -“Where is my son?” said Polly. “Harry, darling, where is that dear Law? -He won’t be so much surprised, will he? He had a notion how things were -going. But I’ve got a great deal to say to him, I can tell you. I don’t -approve of his goings on. There’s a many things as I mean to put a stop -to. Nobody shall say as I don’t do my duty by your children. I shall -tell him----” - -“Do you know Law?” said Lottie. This gave her a little chill of horror; -though indeed she remembered that Law had spoken of some one--some one -about whom Lottie had not cared to inquire. - -“Oh, yes, miss, I know Law.” (Polly did not know how it was that she -said Miss to Lottie. She did not mean to do it. She did it, not in -respect, but in derision; but the word came to her lips, whether she -would or not.) “Law and I are old friends. Time was when I didn’t feel -sure--not quite sure, you know,” she said, with a laugh of mingled -vanity and malice, “if it was to be the father or the son; but, Lord, -there’s no comparison,” she added hastily, seeing that even on the -Captain’s fine countenance this boast produced a momentary cloud. “Law -will never be as fine a man as his father. He hasn’t got the Captain’s -carriage, nor he ain’t so handsome. Bless us, are you listening, Harry? -I didn’t mean you to hear. I don’t think you handsome a bit, now, do I? -I’m sure I’ve told you times and times----” - -The two thus exchanging glances and pretty speeches across the table -were too much occupied with themselves to think of anything else. And no -one heard Law’s approach till he pushed open the door, and with a -“Hillo!” of absolute amazement, stood thunderstruck, gazing upon this -astonishing spectacle. The sight that Law beheld was not a disagreeable -sight in itself: the table, all bright with its bouquet of crimson -leaves, which the Captain had pushed to one side in order that he might -see his wife--and the three faces round it, two of them beaming with -triumph and satisfaction. The young man stood at the door and took it -all in, with a stare at first, of dismay. Opposite to him sat Lottie, -put out of her place, looking stunned, as if she had fallen from a -height and did not know where she was. As he stood there she lifted her -eyes to him with a look of wondering and bewildered misery which went to -Law’s heart; but the next moment he burst into a loud laugh, in spite of -himself. To see the governor casting languishing looks at Polly was more -than his gravity could bear. He could think of nothing, after the first -shock, but “what a joke” it was. A man in love, especially a man in the -first imbecility of matrimonial bliss, is a joke at any time; but when -it’s your governor, Law said to himself! He gave a great roar of -laughter. “Polly, by Jove!” he said; “so you’ve been and done it!” It -had alarmed him much beforehand, and no doubt it might be tragical -enough after; but for the moment it was the best joke that Law had -encountered for years. - -“Yes, we’ve been and done it,” said Polly, rising and holding out her -hand to him. “Come here and kiss me, my son. I am delighted to see you. -It’s so nice to hear a good laugh, and see a bright face. Lottie, Law, -hasn’t found her tongue yet. She hasn’t a word to throw at a dog, much -less her new mamma. But you, it’s a pleasure to see you. Ah!” said -Polly, with effusion, “the gentlemen for me! Ladies, they’re spiteful, -and they’re jealous, and they’re stuck up; but gentlemen does you -justice. You mustn’t call me Polly, however, though I forgive you the -first time. You must know that =I= am your mamma.” - -Law laughed again, but it was not a pleasant laugh; and he grasped the -hand which his father held out to him with a desire to crush it, if he -could, which was natural enough. Law thought it a joke, it is true; but -he was angry at bottom, though amused on the surface. And he did hurt -his father’s somewhat flabby, unworking hand. The Captain, however, -would not complain. He was glad even to be met with a semblance of -cordiality at such a moment. He helped Law largely to the beef, in the -satisfaction of this family union, and this was a sign of anxiety which -Law did not despise. - -“Oh, and I assure you I mean to be a mother to you,” said Polly. “It -shan’t be said now that you haven’t anyone to look after you. _I_ mean -to look after you. I am not at all satisfied with some of your goings -on. A gentleman shouldn’t make too free with them that are beneath him. -Yes, yes, Harry, darling; it’s too early to begin on that point; but he -shall know my mind, and _I_ mean to look after him. Now this is what I -call comfortable,” said Mrs. Despard, looking round with a beaming -smile; “quite a family party, and quite a nice tea; though the beef’s -dry to my taste (but =I= never was one for cold victuals), and everybody -satisfied----” - -“Lottie,” said the Captain, looking up from his beef with some -sternness, “you seem the only exception. Don’t you think, my child, when -you see everybody so happy, that you might find a word to say?” - -“Oh, don’t hurry her,” said Polly; “we’ve took her by surprise. I told -you not to, but you would. We’ll have a nice long talk to-morrow, when -she gives me over the housekeeping; and when she sees as I mean to act -like a mother, why things will come right between her and me.” - -The Despards were not highly educated people, but yet a shiver ran -through them when Polly, unconscious, said, “We’ve took her by -surprise.” The Captain even shrank a little, and took a great deal too -much mustard, and made himself cough; while Law, in spite of himself, -laughed, looking across the table to the place where Lottie sat. Lottie -noticed it the least of all. She heard every word they all said, and -remembered every word, the most trifling; but at the moment she scarcely -distinguished the meaning of them. She said, “I think, papa, if you -don’t mind, I will go to my room. I am rather tired; and perhaps I had -better give some orders to Mary.” - -“Oh, never mind; never mind about Mary, if it’s on my account. I shall -look after her myself,” said Polly. “What’s good enough for the Captain -is good enough for me; at least, till I settle it my own way, you know. -I don’t want to give any trouble at all, till I can settle things my own -way.” - -“It is not I that have to be consulted,” said Captain Despard; “but if -you are going to sit sulky and not say a word, I don’t see--what do you -think, my pet?--that it matters whether you go or stay----” - -“Oh, don’t mind me, Miss,” said Polly. She could not look Miss Despard -in the face and call her Lottie, knowing, however she might consent to -waive her own rights, that Miss Despard was still Miss Despard, whatever -Polly might do. Not a thing on her that was worth five shillings, not a -brooch even; nothing like a bracelet; a bit of a cotton frock, no more; -but she was still Miss Despard, and unapproachable. Polly, with her -bracelets on each wrist, rings twinkling on her hands as she took her -supper, in a blue silk, and knowing herself to be an officer’s -lady--Mrs. Captain Despard--with all this, could not speak to her -husband’s daughter except as Miss. She could not understand it, but -still it was so. - -The little crooked hall was full of boxes when Lottie came out; and Mary -stood among them, wondering how she was to get them upstairs. Perhaps -she had been listening a little at the door, for Mary’s consternation -was as great as Lottie’s. “Do you think, Miss, it’s real and true? Do -you think as she’s married, sure? Mother wouldn’t let me stay a day if -there was anything wrong, and I don’t know as I’ll stay anyhow,” Mary -said. - -“Wrong? what could be wrong?” said Lottie. She was less educated in -knowledge of this kind than the little maid-of-all-work. It troubled her -to see the boxes littering the hall, but _she_ could not carry them -upstairs. For a moment the impulse to do it, or, at least, to help Mary -in doing it, came into her mind; but, on second thoughts, she refrained. -What had she to do with this new-comer into the house, who was not even -a visitor, who had come to remain? Lottie went upstairs without saying -any more. She went first into the little faded drawing-room, where there -was no light except that which came from the window and the lamp in the -Dean’s Walk. It was not beautiful. She had never had any money to -decorate it, to make it what it might have been, nor pretty furniture to -put into it. But she sat down on her favourite little chair, in the -dark, and felt as if she had gone to sit by somebody that was dead, who -had been a dear friend. How friendly and quiet the little room had been! -giving her a centre for her life, a refuge for her thoughts. But all -that was over. She had never known before that she had liked it or -thought of it much; but now, all at once, what a gentle and pleasant -shelter it had been! As Lottie thought of everything, the tears came -silently and bitterly into her eyes. She herself had been ungrateful, -unkind to the little old house, the venerable old place, the kind -people. They had all been kind to her. She had visited her own -disappointment upon them, scorning the neighbours because they were less -stately than she expected them to be; visiting upon them her own -discontent with her position, her own disappointment in being less -important than she expected. Lottie was hard upon herself, for she had -not been unkind to anyone, but was, on the contrary, a favourite with -her neighbours--the only girl in the place, and allowed by the old -people to have a right to whims and fancies. Now, in the face of this -strange, incomprehensible misfortune, she felt the difference. Her quiet -old room! where kind voices had spoken to her, where _he_ had come, -saying such words as made her heart beat; where she had sung to him, and -received those tender applauses which had been like treasure to Lottie. -She seemed to see a series of past scenes like pictures rising before -her. Not often had Rollo been there--yet two or three times; and Mrs. -O’Shaughnessy, with her mellow brogue, and Mr. Ashford, and even the -stately person of the Dean himself. She had been at home here, to -receive them, whoever came. The room had never been invaded by anything -that was unfriendly or unpleasing. Now--what was it that woman said of -changes--making it look nice? Lottie had not understood the words when -they were said, but they came back upon her now. - -By-and-by she heard some one coming upstairs, and, starting, rose to -steal away to her own room, afraid to meet the stranger again; but no -light made its appearance, and Law put in his head at the door, then -seeing something moving against the window, came to her, and threw -himself down on the window-seat. “They’re going on so downstairs, that I -couldn’t stand it,” said Law; “it’s enough to make a fellow sick”--and -then, after a pause, “Well! I told you what was coming, but you wouldn’t -believe me; what do you think of it now?” - -“Oh, Law, what does it mean?--Are we not dreaming? Can it be true?” - -“True! of course it is true. I told you what was going to happen.” Then -his tone softened. “Poor Lottie, it’s you I’m sorry for. If you could -only see yourself beside her! And where were his eyes, that he couldn’t -see?” Here Law paused abruptly, wondering all at once whether the -difference would be as marked between his sister and the girls whom he -too liked to spend his evenings with. He was sure that Emma was not -like that woman; but still the thought subdued his indignation. “I say,” -he added hastily, “I want to give you a bit of advice. Just you give in -to her, Lottie. Fighting is no good: she has got a tongue that you -couldn’t stand, and the things she would say you wouldn’t understand. I -understand her well enough; but you wouldn’t know what she meant, and it -would make you angry and hurt you. Give in, Lottie. Since the governor’s -been so silly, she has a right. And don’t you make any stand as if you -could do it--for you can’t. It is a great deal better not to resist----” - -“What do you mean by resist? How can I resist? The house is papa’s, I -suppose?” said Lottie. “The thing is, I don’t understand it. I can’t -understand it: that somebody should be coming to stay here, to be one of -us, to be mixed up in everything--whom we don’t know----” - -“To be mistress,” said Law, “that’s the worst--not to be mixed up with -us, but to be over us. To take everything out of your hands----” - -“Do you think I care for that? I do not mind who is mistress,” said -Lottie, all unaware of her own characteristics. Law was wiser than she -was in this respect. He shook his head. - -“That’s the worst,” he said; “she’ll be mistress--she’ll change -everything. Oh, I know Polly well; though I suppose, for decency, I -mustn’t say Polly now.” - -“How is it you know her so well? And how did papa know her?” said -Lottie. “I should have thought you never could have met such women. Ah! -you told me once about--others. Law! you can’t like company like that; -surely, you can’t like company like that! how did you get to know her?” -Law was very much discomfited by this sudden question. In the midst of -his sympathy and compassion for his sister, it was hard all at once to -be brought to book, when he had forgotten the possibility of such a -danger. - -“Well, you know,” he said, “fellows do; I don’t know how it is--you come -across some one, and then she speaks to you, and then you’re forced to -speak back; or perhaps it’s you that speaks first--it isn’t easy to -tell. This was as simple as anything,” Law went on, relieved by the -naturalness of his own explanation. “They all work in the same house -where Langton lives, my old coach, you know, before I went to old -Ashford. I don’t know how the governor got there. Perhaps it was the -same way. Going in and out, you know, day after day, why, how could you -help it? And when a woman speaks to you, what can you do, but say -something? That’s exactly how it was.” - -“But, Law,” she said, grasping his arm--all this conversation was so -much easier in the dark--“Law, you will take care? she said she was not -quite sure whether it was to be the father or the son. Ah! a woman who -could say that, Law----” - -“It’s a lie,” said Law, fiercely, “and she knows it. I never thought -anything of her--never. It’s a lie, if she were to swear it! Polly! why, -she’s thirty, she’s---- I give my word of honour, it’s a lie.” - -“But, Law! oh, Law dear----” - -“I know what you’re going to say. I’ll take care of myself; no fear of -me getting entangled,” said Law briskly. Then he stopped, and, still -favoured by the dark, took her hands in his. “Lottie, it’s my turn now. -I know you won’t stand questioning, nor being talked to. But, look -here--don’t shilly-shally if you can care for anybody, and he’ll marry -you and give you a place of your own--You needn’t jump up as if I had -shot you. If you talk about such things to me, I may surely talk to you. -And mind what I say. I don’t expect you’ll be able to put up with your -life here----” - -“I hear them stirring downstairs,” said Lottie, drawing her hands out of -his hold. “Don’t keep me, don’t hold me, Law. I cannot see her again -to-night.” - -“You won’t give me any answer,” said the lad regretfully. There was real -feeling in his voice--“But, Lottie, mind what I say. I don’t believe -you’ll be able to put up with it, and if there’s anyone you care for and -he’ll marry you----” - -Lottie freed herself from him violently, and fled. Even in the dark -there were things that Law could not be permitted to say, or she to -hear. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX. - -THE HEAVINGS OF THE EARTHQUAKE. - - -The next morning dawned very strangely on all the members of the little -household. Lottie was down early, as she generally was; but the -advantages of early rising were neutralised by the condition of the -little maid, Mary, who was too much excited to do her work, and kept -continually coming back to pour her doubts and her difficulties into -Lottie’s ear. “I can’t get no rest till I’ve told mother,” Mary said. -“If there’s anything wrong, mother won’t let me stay, not a day. And -even if there’s nothing wrong, I don’t know as I’ll stay. I haven’t got -no fault to find with you, Miss; nor the Captain, nor even Mr. Law: -though he’s a dreadful bother with his boots cleaning; but to say as -you’re beginning as you mean to end, and then to give all that trouble! -every blessed thing, I had to drag it upstairs. Mr. Law was very kind; -he took up the big box--I couldn’t ha’ done it; but up and down, up and -down, all the little boxes and the bags, and the brown paper -parcels--‘It saves trouble if you begins as you means to end,’ she -says----” - -“I don’t want to hear what Mrs. Despard says,” said Lottie. Mrs. -Despard: it was her mother’s name. And though that mother had not been -an ideal mother, or one of those who are worshipped in their children’s -memories, it is wonderful, what a gush of tender recollections came into -Lottie’s mind with the name. Poor mamma! she had been very kind in her -way, always ready to indulge and to pardon, if indifferent to what -happened in more important matters. She had never exacted anything, -never worried her children about idleness or untidiness, or any of those -minor sins which generally make a small girl’s life a burden to her. -Lottie’s mind went back to her, lying on her sofa, languid, perhaps -lazy--badly dressed; yet never anything but a lady, with a kind of -graciousness in her faded smile, and grace in her faded gown. Not a -woman to be held in adoration, and yet--the girl sighed, but set to work -to make the little brown dining-room neat, to get the table set, making -up for Mary’s distracted service by her own extra activity. For amid all -the horrors of last night there was one which had cut Lottie very -deeply, and that was the many references to the cold beef, and the -bride’s dislike of “cold victuals.” It is inconceivable, among all the -more important matters involved, how deeply wounded Lottie’s pride had -been by this reproach. She resolved that no one should be able to speak -so to-day; and she herself put on her hat and went out to the shop on -the Abbey Hill almost as soon as it had opened, that this intolerable -reproach should not be in the interloper’s power. She met more than one -of the old Chevaliers as she came up, for most of them kept early hours -and paced the terrace pavement in the morning as if it had been morning -parade. They all looked at her curiously, and one or two stopped her to -say “good morning.” “And a fine morning it is, and you look as fresh as -a flower,” one of the old gentlemen said; and another laid his hand on -her shoulder, patting her with a tender fatherly touch. “God bless you, -my dear, the sight of you is a pleasure,” said this old man. How little -she had thought or cared for them, and how kind they were in her -trouble! She could see that everybody knew. Lottie did not know whether -she did not half resent the universal knowledge. Most likely they had -known it before she did. The whole town knew it, and everybody within -the Precincts. Captain Despard had got married! Such a thing had not -occurred before in the memory of man. Many people believed, indeed, that -there was a law against it, and that Captain Despard was liable to be -turned out of his appointment. Certainly it was unprecedented; for the -old Chevaliers before they came to St. Michael’s had generally passed -the age at which men marry. The whole scene seemed to have taken a -different aspect to Lottie. Since her home had become impossible to -her, it had become dear. For the first time she felt how good it was to -look across upon the noble old buttresses of the Abbey, to inhabit that -“retired leisure,” that venerable quietness. If only that woman were not -there! But that woman was there, and everything was changed. Lottie had -been rudely awakened, dragged, as it were, out of her dreams. She could -not think as she usually did of the meetings that were sure to come -somehow in the Abbey, or on the Slopes--or count how long it would be -till the afternoon or evening, when she should see him. This, though it -was her life, had been pushed out of the way. She thought of all last -night’s remarks about the cold beef and the poor fare, and the changes -that were going to be made. Would she think bacon good enough for -breakfast?--would she be satisfied with the rolls, which Lottie herself -felt to be a holiday indulgence? Pride, and nothing but pride, had -thrown the girl into such excesses. She could not endure those -criticisms again. Her brain was hot and hazy, without having any power -of thought. The confusion of last night was still in her. Would it all -turn out a dream? or would the door open by-and-by and show this -unaccustomed figure? Lottie did not feel that she could be sure of -anything. The first to come down was Law, who had been forced from his -bed for once by sympathy. Law was very kind to Lottie. “I thought I -wouldn’t leave you to face her by yourself,” he said; “they’re coming -down directly.” Then Lottie knew that it was no dream. - -The bride came down in a blue merino dress, as blue as the silk of last -night. Polly was of opinion that she looked well in blue; and it was not -one of the ethereal tints that are now used, but a good solid, full -blue, quite uncompromising in point of colour. And the hair on her head -was piled up as if it would reach the skies, or the ceiling at least. -She came down arm-in-arm with her husband, the two smiling upon each -other, while Law and Lottie stood one on each side of the table with no -smiles, looking very serious. It was Mrs. Despard who did the most of -the conversation; for the Captain was passive, feeling, it must be -allowed, somewhat embarrassed by the presence of his children, who did -not embarrass her at all. But she did not think the bacon very good. She -thought it badly cooked. She thought the girl could not have been well -trained to send it up like that. And she was not pleased either with the -rolls; but announced her intention of changing the baker as well as the -butcher. “We’ve always gone to Willoughby’s, as long as I can recollect, -and I don’t fancy any bread but his.” Lottie did not say anything, she -was nearly as silent as on the previous night; and Law, who was -opposite, though he made faces at her now and then, and did his best to -beguile his sister into a laugh, did not contribute much to the -conversation. He got up as soon as he had swallowed his breakfast and -got his books. “I’m off to old Ashford,” he said. - -“Where are you going, Law?--you must never get up from table without -asking my leave--it is dreadful unmannerly. You have got into such -strange ways; you want me to bring you back to your manners, all of you. -Who are you going to?--not to Mr. Langton as you used to do--I’m glad of -that.” - -“I don’t see why you should be glad of that. I’m going to old Ashford,” -said Law, gloomily. “He is a much better coach than Langton. I have not -anything to do to-day, Lottie; I shall be back at twelve o’clock.” - -“Dear me,” said Mrs. Despard, “how long is Law going on going to school -like a little boy? I never heard of such a thing, at his age. He should -be put into something where he could earn a little money for himself, -instead of costing money; a great, strong young fellow like that. I -think you’re all going to sleep here. You want me, as anybody can see, -to wake you up, and save you from being put upon, my poor man. But I -hope I know how to take care of my own husband, and see that he gets the -good of what he has, and don’t just throw it away upon other folks. And -I begin as I means to end,” said Polly, with a little toss of her head. -Law, stopped by the sound of her voice, had turned round at the door, -and contemplated her with gloomy looks; but seeing it was not to come to -anything bad, went away. And the bell began, and the Captain rose. His -bride came to him fondly, and brushed a crumb or two off his coat and -arranged the flower in his button-hole. “Now you look quite sweet,” she -said with genuine enthusiasm. “I ain’t going in the morning, when none -but the regular folks is there, but I mean to go, my dear, in the -afternoon. It’s only proper respect, living in the Precincts; but you -won’t be long, dear? You’ll come home to your poor little wife, that -don’t know what to do without her handsome husband? Now, won’t you, -dear?” - -“I’ll be back as fast as my legs can carry me,” said the Captain. “Come -and meet me, my pet. Lottie will tell you when the voluntary begins----” - -“Oh, I can tell very well without Lottie,” said the bride, hanging upon -him till he reached the door. All these endearments had an indescribable -effect upon the girl, who was compelled to stand by. Lottie turned her -back to them and re-arranged the ornaments on the mantelpiece, with -trembling hands, exasperated almost beyond the power of self-restraint. -But when the Captain was gone, looking back in his imbecility to kiss -his hand to his bride, the situation changed at once. Polly turned -round, sharp and business-like, in a moment. “Ring the bell, Miss,” she -said, “and tell the girl to clear them things away. And then, if you -will just hand me over the keys, and let me see your housekeeping things -and your stores and all that, we may settle matters without any trouble. -I likes to begin as I mean to end,” said Polly peremptorily. Lottie -stood and looked at her for a moment, her spirit rekindling, her mind -rising up in arms against the idea of obedience to this stranger. But -what would be the use of trying to resist? Resist! what power had she? -The very pride which rebelled against submission made the submission -inevitable. She could not humiliate herself by a vain struggle. Polly, -who was very doubtful of the yielding of this natural adversary, and -rather expected to have a struggle for her “rights,” was quite -bewildered by the meekness with which the proud girl, who scarcely took -any notice of her, she thought, acquiesced in the orders she gave. -Lottie rang the bell. She said, “You will prefer, I am sure, to give -Mary her orders without me. There are not many keys, but I will go and -get what I have.” - -“Not many keys! and you call yourself a housekeeper?” said Polly. Lottie -turned away as the little maid came in, looking impertinent enough to be -a match for the new mistress; but Lottie was no match for her. She went -and got out her little housekeeping-book, which she had kept so neatly. -She gathered the keys of the cupboards, which generally stood unlocked, -for there was not so much in them that she should lock them up. Lottie -had all the instincts of a housekeeper. It gave her positive pain to -hand over the symbols of office--to give up her occupation. Her heart -sank as she prepared to do it. All her struggles about the bills, her -anxious thought how this and that was to be paid, seemed elements of -happiness now. She could not bear to give them up. The pain of this -compulsory abdication drove everything else out of her head. Love, they -say, is all a woman’s life, but only part of a man’s; yet Lottie forgot -even Rollo--forgot his love and all the consolation it might bring, in -this other emergency, which was petty enough, yet all-important to her. -She trembled as she got together these little symbols of her domestic -sovereignty. She heard the new mistress of the house coming up the -stairs as she did so, talking all the way. “I never heard such -impudence,” Polly was saying. “Speak back to her mistress! a bit of a -chit of a maid-of-all-work like that. I suppose she’s been let do -whatever she pleased; but she’ll find out the difference.” Behind -Polly’s voice came a gust of weeping from below, and a cry of, “I’m -going to tell mother:” thus hostilities had commenced all along the -line. - -“I can’t think how ever you got on with a creature like that,” said -Polly, throwing herself down in the easy-chair. “She don’t know how to -do a single thing, as far as I can see; but some folks never seem to -mind. She shan’t stay here not a day longer than I can help. I’ve given -her warning on the spot. To take impudence from a servant the very first -day! But that’s always the way when things are let go; the moment they -find a firm hand over them there’s a to-do. To be sure it wasn’t to be -looked for that you could know much, Miss, about managing a house.” - -“Mary is a very good girl,” said Lottie hastily. “She has always done -what I told her. Here are the keys of the cupboards, since you wish for -them; but there are not any stores to lock away. I get the things every -week, just enough to use----” - -“And don’t lock them up!” Polly threw up her hands. “That’s one way of -housekeeping; but how should you know any better, poor thing, brought up -like that! I’m sure I don’t mean to be hard upon you; but you should -have thought a bit of your papa, and not have wasted his money. However, -that’s all over now. A man wants a nice ’ome to come back to, he wants a -nice dinner on the table, he wants somebody that can talk to him, to -keep him out of mischief. Oh, I know very well the Captain’s been fond -of having his fling. I ain’t one of the ignorant ones, as don’t know a -man’s ways. And I like that sort much the best myself. I like a man to -be a man, and know what’s what. But you’ll soon see the difference, now -that he’s got some one to amuse him, and some one to make him -comfortable at home. So these are all, Miss Lottie? And what’s this? oh, -a book! I don’t think much of keeping books. You know how much you has -to spend, and you spend it; that’s my way.” - -Lottie made no reply. She felt it to be wiser for herself, but no doubt -it was less respectful to Polly, who paused now and then for a reply, -then went on again, loving to hear herself talk, yet feeling the -contempt involved in this absence of all response. At last she cried -angrily, “Have you lost your tongue, Miss, or do you think as I’m not -good enough to have an answer, though I’m your papa’s wife?” - -“I beg your pardon,” said Lottie; “I--don’t know what to say to you. We -don’t know each other. I don’t understand---- Don’t you see,” she cried -suddenly, unable to restrain herself, “that since you came into the -house you have done nothing but--find fault with all my--arrangements--” -(these mild words came with the utmost difficulty; but Lottie was too -proud to quarrel). “You can’t think that I could like that. I have done -my best, and if you try as I have done, you will find it is not so easy. -But I don’t want to defend myself; that is why I don’t say anything. -There can be no good in quarrelling, whether you think me a bad -housekeeper or not.” - -“I ain’t so sure of that,” said Polly. “Have a good flare-up, and be -done with it, that’s my way. I don’t hold with your politeness, and -keeping yourself to yourself. I’d rather quarrel than be always bursting -with spite and envy, like some folks. It stands to reason as you must -hate me, taking things out of your hands; and it stands to reason as I -should think more of my own husband than of keeping up your brother and -you in idleness. But for all that, and though we might fight now and -then--everybody does, I don’t care nothing for a girl as is always the -same--I don’t see why we shouldn’t get on neither. The Captain says as -you’ve a very good chance of a husband yourself. And though I’m just -about your own age, I’ve had a deal of experience. I know how to bring a -man to the point, if he’s shilly-shallying, or won’t speak up like a -man, as a girl has a right to expect.” - -“Oh! stop, stop, stop!” cried Lottie, wild with horror. She cast a -hurried glance round, to see what excuse she could make for getting -away. Then she seized eagerly upon her music which lay on the old square -piano. “I must go to my lesson,” she said. - -“Your lesson! Are you having lessons too? Upon my word! Oh, my poor -husband! my poor Captain! No wonder as he has nothing but cold beef to -eat,” said Polly, with all the fervour of a deliverer, finding out one -misery after another. “And if one might make so bold as to ask, Miss, -who is it as has the honour to give lessons to you?” - -“The Signor--Mr. Rossinetti,” Lottie added, after a moment. It seemed -desecration to talk of any of the familiar figures within the Abbey -precincts by their familiar title to this intruder. - -“Oh! I’m not so ignorant as not to know who the Signor is. That will be -half-a-guinea, or at the least seven-and-six a lesson!” she said, -raising her hands in horror. “Oh, my poor ’usband! This is how his money -goes! Miss,” said Polly, severely, “you can’t expect as I should put up -with such goings on. I have your papa to think of, and I won’t see him -robbed--no, not whatever you may do. For I call that robbery, just -nothing else. Half-a-guinea a lesson, and encouraging Law to waste his -time! I can’t think how you can do it: with that good, dear, sweet, -confiding man letting you have your own way, and suspecting nothing,” -cried Polly, clasping her hands. Then she got up suddenly. “I declare,” -she cried, “church is near over, and me not ready to go out and meet -him! I can’t go out a figure, in a common rag like this, and me a bride. -I must put on my silk. Of course, he wants to show me off a bit before -his friends. I’ll run and get ready, and we can talk of this another -time.” - -Thus Lottie escaped for the moment. She was asked a little later to see -if Mrs. Despard’s collar was straight, and to pin on her veil. “Do I -look nice?” said Polly triumphant, and at the same time mollified by the -services which Lottie rendered without objection. She had put on her -“blue silk” and the bonnet with the orange-blossoms, and neckties enough -to stock a shop. “Perhaps, as there’s nothing ordered, and I mean to -make a change with the tradespeople, the Captain and me won’t come back -to dinner,” said Polly. “There’s your favourite cold beef, Miss, for Law -and you.” Lottie felt that she began to breathe when, rustling and -mincing, her strange companion swept out, in the face of all the people -who were dispersing from matins, to meet her husband. Polly liked the -wondering encounter of all their eyes. With her blue silk sweeping the -pavement after her, and her pink parasol, and the orange-blossoms on her -bonnet, her figure descending the Dean’s Walk alone, while all the -others issued out of the Abbey doors, was conspicuous enough. She was -delighted to find that everybody looked at her, and even that some stood -still to watch her, looking darkly at her finery. These were the people -who were jealous, envious of her fine clothes and her happiness, or -jealous of her handsome husband, who met her presently, but who perhaps -was not so much delighted to see her amidst all his fellow-Chevaliers as -she thought. Captain Despard was not a man of very fine perceptions; but -though his blooming young wife was a splendid object indeed beside the -dark, little old figure of Mrs. Temple, he had seen enough to feel that -the presence of the old lady brought out into larger prominence -something which the younger lacked. But he met her with effusive -delight, and drew her hand within his arm, and thus they disappeared -together. Outside the Precincts there was no need to make any -comparison, and Polly’s brilliancy filled all hearts with awe. - -When Law returned, he found Lottie seated in her little chair, with her -face hidden in her hands. It was not that she was crying, as he feared -at first. The face she raised to him was crimson with excitement. “Oh, -Law!” she said, “Law, Law!” Lottie had got beyond the range of words. -After a while she told him all the events of the morning, which did not -look half so important when they were told, and they tried to lay their -heads together and think what was best to be done. But what could anyone -do? Mary could scarcely put the remnants of the cold beef on the table, -for her eagerness to tell that she had been to mother, and mother would -not hear of her staying. “Places isn’t so hard to get as all that, for a -girl with a good character,” she said. When she was gone, Lottie looked -piteously at her brother. - -“What kind of a place could I get?” she said. “What am I fit for? Oh, -Law! I think it is a mistake to be brought up a lady. I never thought it -before, but I do now. How can we go on living here? and where are we to -go?” - -“That’s what I always said,” said Law. He was horribly grave, but he had -not a word to say except that he had got a match at football, and -perhaps might stay and sup with the fellows afterwards. “I’m just as -well out of the way, for what can I do for you? only make things worse,” -he said. And though he had been so kind and sympathetic at first, Law -stole away, glad to escape, and left Lottie alone, to bear it as she -might. She had no lesson that day, though she had pretended to have one. -She would not go to the Abbey, where the new member of the family meant -to appear, she knew. Lottie stayed in the familiar room which was hers -no longer, until the silence became too much for her, and she felt that -any human voice would be a relief. She went out in the afternoon, when -all seemed quiet, when everybody had gone to the Abbey for the evening -service. There would be nobody about, and it seemed to Lottie that the -shame was upon her, that it was she who must shrink from all eyes. Mrs. -O’Shaughnessy, however, knocking on the window violently, instantly -gave her to understand that this was impracticable. The girl tried to -resist, being afraid of what she might say, and of what might be said to -her. But as she hurried on, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy’s maid rushed after her. -Lottie had to go to her old friend, though very reluctantly. Mrs. -O’Shaughnessy had a bad cold. She was sitting wrapped up in a shawl, and -a visitor with something to tell was beyond price to her. “Come and tell -me all about it, then!” she cried, “me poor darlin’!” enveloping Lottie -in her large embrace. “And tell the Major, Sally, and let nobody come -in.” The Major came instantly to the call, and Lottie tried to tell her -story to the kind couple who sat on either side of her, with many an -exclamation. - -“I knew that was what it would come to,” Mrs. O’Shaughnessy said. - -“And I never thought Despard (saving your presence, my dear) could have -been such a fool!” cried the Major. - -“Oh, sure, Major, you’re old enough to know that every man is a fool -where a woman’s concerned.” - -But what was Lottie to do? They petted her and condoled with her, -soothing her with their sympathy, and all the tender words they could -think of; but they could throw no light upon one point: what could the -girl do? Nothing, but put up with it. They shook their heads, but could -give her no comfort. If Law had but been doing something instead of -idling all his time away! But then Law was not doing anything. What was -he good for, any more than Lottie? - -“Mary can get another place. Her mother will not let her stay, and she -can get another place, she says; but here are two of us, Law and I, and -we are good for nothing!” cried Lottie. How her thoughts were altered -from the time when she thought it necessary to stay at home, to do no -visible work, for the credit of the family! Lottie was not young enough -to feel that it was necessary to be consistent. “We are young and strong -and able to work, but we are good for nothing!” she said. And they both -looked at her blankly, not knowing what to say. - -By-and-by Lottie escaped again into the open air, notwithstanding their -anxious invitation that she should stay with them. She was too wretched -to stay, and there had come upon her a longing to see another face in -which there might be comfort. As she went out she almost walked into -Captain Temple’s arms, who was walking slowly along looking up at her -window. The old man took both her hands into his. “My poor child!” he -said. He was not so frankly inquisitive as the good people she had just -left, but he drew her hand through his arm and walked with her, bending -over her. - -“I do not want to tempt you from your duty, my dear; you’ll do what is -right, I am sure you will do what is right. But I can’t bear to think -you are in trouble, and we so near. And my wife,” said the old man -slightly faltering, “my wife thinks so, too.” He was not quite so sure -of his wife. She had the restraining effect upon her husband which a -more reserved and uncommunicative mind has over an impulsive one. He -knew what he would like to do, but he was not sure of her, and this put -hesitation into his speech. - -“Oh! Captain Temple,” cried Lottie, moved at last to tears, “what am I -to do? If I cannot bear it, what am I to do?” - -“Come and speak to my wife,” he said; “come, dear, and see my wife. She -can’t talk about everything as I do, but she has more sense than anyone, -and knows the world. Come with me, Lottie, and see what Mrs. Temple -says.” - -He thought the sight of the girl in her trouble would be enough, and -that his wife would certainly say what it was on his own lips to say. -Just then, however, there was a sound of doors opening, and old Wykeham -came out and looked upon the world with a defiant countenance from the -south door of the Abbey, which was a sign that service was over; and the -notes of the voluntary began to peal out into the air. Lottie drew her -arm from that of her old friend--she could not bear the eyes of the -crowd. “Another time, another time; but I must go now,” she cried, -escaping from him and turning towards the Slopes. The old Captain’s -first impulse was to follow. He stood for a moment gazing after her as -she sped along, slim and swift and young, up the deserted road. It was -beginning to grow dark, and the evening was colder than it had been yet. -Where was she going? To her favourite haunt on the Slopes to get the -wind in her face; to let her thoughts go, like birds, into the wide -space and distance? If that had been all! The old man thought of an -alternative which filled him with alarm. He took a step after her, and -then he paused again, and shaking his head, turned back, meeting all the -people as they streamed out of the Abbey. Poor child! if she did meet -_him_ there, what then? It would comfort her to see her lover; and if he -was good, as the anxious old Chevalier hoped, had not the lover more -power to save her than all the world? There was no question of taking -Lottie from her father and mother, separating her from her home. If this -young man were to offer her a home of her own, where could there be so -good a solution to the problem? Captain Temple turned and walked home -with a sigh. It was not his way of delivering Lottie, but perhaps it was -the way that would be most for her happiness, and who was he that he -should interfere? He let her go to her fate with a sigh. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX. - -LOTTIE’S FATE. - - -Lottie went up the Dean’s Walk hastily, feeling as if she had taken -flight. And she was taking flight. She could not bear to meet the people -coming from the Abbey, among whom no doubt her father and his wife would -be. Lottie was scarcely aware that there was anything else in her mind. -She hurried to the Slopes as the natural refuge of her trouble. The wind -blowing fresh in her face, the great sweep of distance, the air and the -clouds, the familiar rustle of the trees, seemed to have become part of -her, a necessity of her living. And the Slopes were almost deserted now. -In October the night comes early, the afternoon is short, even before -the winds become chill; already it was darkening, though the afternoon -service was but newly over. The trees were beginning to lose their -gorgeous apparel: every breeze shook down hosts of leaves, shreds of -russet brown and pale gold; the wind was wistful and mournful, with a -sigh in it that promised rain. Lottie saw nobody about. She stole -through the trees to her favourite corner, and leaned upon the low -parapet, looking over the familiar scene. She was so familiar with it, -every line; and yet it seemed to her to-night like scenery in a theatre -which by-and-by would collapse and split asunder, and give place to -something different. It would vanish from her sight, and in place of it -there would appear the dim background of one of the little rooms at -home, with a figure in a blue gown relieved against it, tossing about a -mountain of braids and plaits. Lottie did not feel sure that this figure -would not appear at her very side, lay an imperative hand on her -shoulder, and order her to give up the secrets of her own being. Thus -she carried her care within her. She stood leaning over the parapet, -with the trees rustling around, scarcely aware what she was thinking of. -Did she expect anyone? She would have said, No. The night was overcast -and growing dismal, why should she expect anyone? What reason could he -have for coming out here? He could have no instinctive knowledge of her -misery, to bring him, and he had no longer that excuse of his cigar -after dinner as on the happy nights when the air was still like summer. -No! it was only for the stillness, only for the air, only to fling her -troublesome thoughts out to the horizon and empty her mind, and thus -feel it possible to begin again, that she had come. And never had that -stillness been so still before. By-and-by this scene would melt away, -and it would be the little dining-room in the Lodge, with the white -tablecloth and the lamp lighted upon it. She had been weary of her home, -she had half despised it; but never had she been disgusted, afraid of -it, never loathed the thought of going back to it before. And she could -not talk to anybody about this; they were all very kind, ready to be -sorry for her, to do anything they could for her, but she could not bear -their sympathy to-night. - -All at once, in the silence which was so full of the whisper of the -leaves and the sighs of the wind, that she had not heard any footstep, -there came a voice close to her elbow which made Lottie start. - -“Is it really you, Miss Despard? I had almost given up hopes;--and -alone! I thought you were never to be alone again?” said Rollo, with -pleasure in his voice. - -How it startled her! She looked round upon him with so much fright in -her eyes that he was half vexed, half angered. Was it possible that -Lottie after all was just like the rest, pretending to be astonished by -his appearance when she knew as well---- - -“You surely are not surprised to see me?” he said, with a short laugh. - -“I did not think of seeing you,” she said quietly, and looked away from -him again. - -Rollo was angry, yet he was touched by something in her tone; and there -must be something to cause this sudden change. She had always been so -frank and simple in her welcome of him, always with a light of pleasure -on her face when he came in sight; but she would not so much as let him -see her face now. She looked round with that first start, then turned -again and resumed her dreamy gaze into the night. And there was -dejection in every line of her figure as she stood dimly outlined -against the waning light. Suddenly there came into Rollo’s mind a -recollection that he had heard something to account for this, without -accusing her of petty pretence or affectation. - -“Something has happened,” he said, with a sense of relief which -surprised himself. “I remember now. I fear you are not happy about it.” - -“No,” she said, with a sigh. Then Lottie made a little effort to recover -herself; perhaps he would not care about her troubles. “It has been a -great shock,” she said, “but perhaps it may not be so bad after a -while.” - -“Tell me,” said Rollo; “you know how much interest I take in everything -that concerns you. Surely, Miss Despard, after this long time that we -have been seeing each other, you know that? Won’t you tell me? I cannot -bear to see you so sad, so unlike yourself.” - -“Perhaps that is the best thing that could happen,” said Lottie, “that -I should be unlike myself. I wish I could be like someone with more -sense; I have been so foolish! Everybody knows that we are poor; I never -concealed it, but I never thought---- Oh! how silly we have been, Law -and I! I used to scold him, but I never saw that I was just the same -myself. We ought to have learned to do something, if it were only a -trade. We are both young and strong, but we are good for nothing, not -able to do anything. I used to scold him: but I never thought that I was -just as bad myself.” - -“Don’t say so, don’t say so! You were quite right to scold him; men -ought to work. But you” cried Rollo with real agitation, “it is not to -be thought of. You! don’t speak of such a thing. What is the world -coming to, when you talk of working, while such a fellow as I----” - -“Ah! that is quite different,” said Lottie. “You are rich, or, at least, -you are the same as if you were rich; but we are really poor, we have no -money: and everything we have, it is papa’s. I suppose he has a right to -do whatever he likes with it; it seems strange, but I suppose he has a -right. And, then, what is to become of us? How could I be so silly as -not to think of that before? It is all my own fault; don’t think I am -finding fault with papa, Mr. Ridsdale. I suppose he has a right, and I -don’t want to grumble; it only--seems natural--to tell you.” Lottie did -not know what an admission she was making. She sighed again into that -soft distant horizon, then turned to him with a smile trembling about -her lips. It was a relief to tell him--she could speak to him as she -could not speak to Captain Temple or Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, though she had -known them so much longer. “Perhaps I am only out of temper,” she said. -She could not but feel more light of heart standing beside him with -nobody near; they seemed to belong to each other so. - -“How good, how sweet of you to say so,” he cried. “Then treat me as if -it were natural; come and sit down--nobody will interrupt us--and tell -me everything I want to know.” - -They had met together in Lottie’s little drawing-room before, in the eye -of day, and three or four times under Lady Caroline’s eye; but never -before like this, in the twilight, all alone in the world, as it were, -two of them, and no more. Lottie hesitated for a moment; but what could -be wrong in it? There was nobody to disturb them, and her heart was so -full; and to talk to him was so pleasant. She seemed able to say more to -him than to any other. He understood her at half a word, whereas to the -others she had to say everything, to say even more than she meant before -they saw what she meant. She sat down, accordingly, in the corner of -the seat, and told him all that had happened; herself beginning to see -some humour in it as she told the story, half laughing one moment, half -crying the next. And Rollo went into it with all his heart. All their -meetings had produced their natural effect; for the last fortnight he -had felt that he ought to go away, but he had not gone away. He could -not deprive himself of her, of their intercourse, which was nothing yet -implied so much, those broken conversations, and the language of looks, -that said so much more than words. Never, perhaps, had his intercourse -with any girl been so simple, yet so unrestrained. If the old Captain -sometimes looked at him with suspicion, he was the only one who did so; -and Lottie had neither suspicion nor doubt of him, nor had any question -as to his “intentions” arisen in her mind. She told him her grief now, -not dully, with the heavy depression that cannot be moved, but with -gleams of courage, of resolution, even of fun, unable to resist the -temptation of Polly’s absurdity, seeing it now as she had not been able -to see it before. “I never knew before,” she said fervently, “what a -comfort it was to talk things over--but, then, whom could I talk them -over with? Law, who thinks it best not to think, never to mind--but -sometimes one is obliged to mind: or Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, whom I cannot -say everything to---- or;--Mr. Ridsdale!” said Lottie, in alarm--“pray, -pray forgive me if I have bored you. I have been pouring out everything -to you. I never thought--I did not intend----” - -“Don’t tell me that,” he said. “I hoped you did intend to confide in me, -to trust to my sympathy. Who can be so much interested? to whom can it -be so important----?” He leaned forward closer to her, and Lottie -instinctively drew away from him a hairs-breadth; but she thought that -quite natural too, as natural as that she should be able to speak to him -better than to anyone else. They had both made the whole avowal of their -hearts in saying these words; but it had not been done in words which -frightened either or changed their position towards each other. -Meanwhile she was content enough, quieted by the sense of leaning her -trouble upon him, while he was gradually growing into agitation. Lottie -had got all her emergency required--his sympathy, his support, the -understanding that was so dear to her. After all her trouble she had a -moment of ease; her heart was no longer sore, but soothed with the balm -of his tender pity and indignation. - -But that which calmed Lottie threw Rollo into ever-increasing agitation. -A man who has said so much as that to a girl, especially to one who is -in difficulty and trouble, is bound even to himself to say more. The -crisis began for him where for her it momentarily ended. To love her -and as good as tell her so, to receive, thus ingenuously given, that -confession of instinctive reliance upon him which was as good as a -betrayal of her love; and to let her go and say nothing more--could a -man do that and yet be a man? Rollo was not a man who had done right all -the days of his life. He had been in very strange company, and had gone -through many an adventure; but he was a man whom vice had never done -more than touch. Even among people of bad morals he had not known how to -abandon the instincts of honour; and in such an emergency what was he to -do? Words came thronging to his lips, but his mind was distracted with -his own helplessness. What had he to offer? how could he marry? he asked -himself with a kind of despair. Yet something must be thought of, -something suggested. “Lottie,” he said after that strange -pause--“Lottie--I cannot call you Miss Despard any more, as if I were a -stranger. Lottie, you know very well that I love you. I am as poor as -you are, but I cannot bear this. You must trust to me for -everything--you must--Lottie, you are not afraid to trust yourself to -me--you don’t doubt me?” he cried. His mind was driven wildly from one -side to another. Marry! how could he marry in his circumstances? Was it -possible that there was anything else that would answer the purpose, any -compromise? His heart beat wildly with love and ardour and shame. What -would she say? Would she understand him, though he could not understand -himself? - -“Mr. Ridsdale!” cried Lottie, shrinking back from him a little. She -covered her face with her hands and began to cry, being overcome with so -many emotions, one heaped on another. At another moment she would not -have been surprised; she would have been able to lift her eyes to the -glow of the full happiness which, in half-light, had been for weeks past -the illumination of her life. But for the moment it dazzled her. She put -up her hands between her and that ecstasy of light. - -As for Rollo, very different were the thoughts in his mind. He thought -Lottie as wise as himself: he thought she had investigated his words; -had not found in them the one that is surety for all, and shrank from -him. Shame overwhelmed him: the agony of a mind which was really honest -and a heart which was full of tenderness, yet found themselves on the -verge of dishonour. “Lottie!” he cried with anguish in his voice, “you -do not understand me--you will not listen to me. Do not shrink as if I -meant any harm.” - -Then she uncovered her face, and he saw dimly through the twilight a -countenance all trembling with emotion and happiness and astonishment. -“Harm!” she said, with wonder in her voice--“harm!” His heart seemed to -stand still, and all his confused thinkings broken off in the -unspeakable contrast between the simplicity of her innocence thinking no -evil, and the mere knowledge in his mind which, if nothing more, made -guilt possible. Such a contrast shamed and horrified, and filled with an -adoration of penitence, the man who might have drawn her into evil, -ambiguously, had it been possible. He found himself with one knee on the -cold gravel, before he knew, pressing his suit upon her with passion. -“Lottie, you must marry me, you must be my wife, you must let me be the -one to work, to take care of you, to protect you from all trouble,” he -cried. But what did Lottie want with those more definite words which he -had thought she missed and waited for? Had she not known his secret long -ago before he ever spoke a word to her? Had she not been led delicately, -tenderly, step by step, through infinite dreams and visions, towards -this climax? She cried with happiness and trouble, and the sense of -deliverance. - -“Oh, why should you kneel to me?” she said. “Do you think it needs -_that_?” While he, more happy than ever he had been in his life, -alarmed, disturbed, shaken out of all his habits and traditions, held -her fast, like a new-found treasure, and lavished every tender word upon -her that language could supply. He owed her a million apologies, of not -one of which Lottie was conscious. How could it have been possible for -her to suppose that even for a second, in his inmost thoughts, he had -been less than reverent of her? And he--had he meant any harm! He did -not think he had meant any harm; yet how, in the name of heaven, was he -to marry--how was he to marry--in his present circumstances? While he -was pouring out upon Lottie his love and worship, telling her how she -had gathered to herself day by day all his thoughts and wishes, this -question rose up again in his heart. - -“I know,” said Lottie, very low--her voice still trembling with the -first ecstasy of feeling. It was like the dove’s voice, all tenderness -and pathos, coming out of her very heart. “I guessed it long--oh, long -ago----” - -“How did you do that? Whisper, darling--tell me--when did you first -think----?” - -Is not this the A B C of lovers? and yet her tone implied a little more -than the happy divining of the easy secret. She laughed softly--a -variety of music in his ear--the two faces were so close. - -“You did not think I knew anything about it. I saw you--looking up at my -window--the very night of the wedding. Do you remember?” Again Lottie’s -low happy laugh broke into the middle of her words. “I could not think -what it meant. And then another time before I knew you--and then---- -You did not suppose I saw you. I could not believe it,” she said, with a -soft sigh of content. Laugh or sigh, what did it matter, they meant the -same: the delight of a discovery which was no discovery--the happy right -of confessing a consciousness which she dared not have betrayed an hour -ago--of being able to speak of it all: the two together, alone in all -the world, wanting nothing and no one. This was what Lottie meant. But -her disclosures struck her lover dumb. What would she say if she knew -his real object then? A prima donna who was to make his fortune--a new -voice to be produced in an opera! He shuddered as he drew her closer to -him, with terror--with compunction, though he had meant no harm. And he -loved her now if he did not love her then; with all his heart now--all -the more tenderly, he thought, that she had mistaken him, that she had -been so innocently deceived. - -By this time it had got dark, though they did not observe it; yet not -quite dark, for it is rarely dark out of doors under the free skies, as -it is within four walls. It was Lottie who suddenly awoke to this fact -with a start. - -“It must be late--I must go home,” she said. And when she looked about -among the ghostly trees which waved and bent overhead, sombre and -colourless in the dark--she thought, with a thrill of horror, that -hours must have passed since she came here. Rollo too was slightly -alarmed. They were neither of them in a condition to measure time; and -though so much had happened, it had flown like a moment. They came out -from among the trees in the happy gloom, arm-in-arm. Nobody could -recognise them, so dark as it was--and indeed nobody was in the way to -recognise them--and the Abbey clock struck as they emerged upon the -Dean’s Walk, reassuring them. Rollo was still in time for dinner, though -Lottie might be too late for tea; and the relief of discovering that it -was not so late as they thought gave them an excuse for lingering. He -walked to the Lodges with her, and then she turned back with him; and -finally they strayed round the Abbey in the darkness, hidden by it, yet -not so entirely hidden as they thought. Only one little jar came to the -perfect blessedness of this progress homeward. - -“Shall you tell them?” Lottie whispered, just before she took leave of -her lover, with a movement of her hand towards the Deanery. - -This gave Rollo a _serrement de cœur_. He replied hastily, “Not -to-night,” with something like a shiver, and then he added, “Where shall -I see you to-morrow?” - -This question struck Lottie with the same shock and jar of feeling. -Would not he come and claim her to-morrow? This was what she had -thought. She did not know what to reply, and a sudden sensation of -undefined trouble--of evil not yet so entirely over as she hoped--came -into her mind; but he added, before she could speak-- - -“In the old place--that blessed corner which I love better than any -other in the world. Will you come while everybody is at the Abbey, -Lottie? for we must talk over everything.” - -This melted the little momentary vexation away, and she promised. And -thus they parted perforce--opposite Captain Despard’s door. How glad -Lottie was that the door was open! It stood open all through the summer, -and the habits of the summer were scarcely over. By the light in the -dining-room downstairs and the sound of the voices she divined that tea -was not yet over. But she was not able to encounter Mrs. Despard -to-night. She did not want to see anyone. Her heart was still so full of -delicious tumult, her eyes of sweet tears. She had gone out so -sorrowful, so indignant, not knowing what was to become of her. And now -she knew what was to become of her--the most beautiful, happy fate. He -had said he was poor. What did it matter if he was poor? Was she not -used to that? Lottie knew, and said to herself with secret joy, that she -was the right wife for a poor man. He might have got the noblest of -brides, and she would not have been so fit for him; but _she_ was fit -for that post if ever a young woman was. She would take care of the -little he had, which one might be sure he would never do himself--he was -too generous, too kind for that; Lottie loved him for his prodigality, -even while she determined to control it. She would take care of him and -do everything for him, as no woman used to wealth could do. And she -would spur him on so that he should do great things--things which he had -not done heretofore, only because he had not stimulus enough. He should -have stimulus enough now, with a wife who would exult in all he did, and -support him with sympathy and help. It was not any passive position that -she mapped out for herself. She knew what it meant to be poor, far -better than Rollo did. And she did not mind it. Why should she mind it? -She had been used to it all her life. She would not care what she did. -But he should never have to blush for his wife as a drudge. She would -never forget her position, and his position, which was so much greater -than hers. This was the first time that Lottie thought of his position. -She did so now with a heightening of colour, and louder throb of her -heart. By this time she was sitting in her own room without even a -candle, glad of the seclusion and of the darkness in which she could -think, unbetrayed even to herself. Her heart gave a bound, and a flush -came to her cheek. There could be no doubt now about her position. No -one could dream, no one could think that Rollo’s wife was ever to be -looked down upon. This gave her a distinct thrill of pleasure; and then -she passed it by, to return to a dearer subject--Himself! how anxious he -had been! as if it were possible she could have resisted his love. He -had wooed her, she thought, as if she had been a princess--doubling -Lottie’s happiness by doing in this respect the thing she felt to be -most right and fit, though, oh! so unnecessary in respect to herself! -Could he really have any doubt how it would turn out? The thought of -this humility in her hero brought tears of love and happiness to -Lottie’s eyes. Was she the same girl who had sat here in gloom and -darkness only last night, wondering what was to become of her? But how -was she to know how soon fate would unfold like a flower, and show her -what was in store for her? How happy she was--how good, how thankful to -God--how charitable to others! She could have gone downstairs and said -something kind even to Polly, had it not been for fear of betraying -herself. Everything that was tender and sweet blossomed out in her -heart. She was so happy. Is not that the moment in which the heart is -most pure, most kind, most humble and tender? God’s hand seemed to be -touching her, blessing her--and she in her turn was ready to bless all -the world. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI. - -WHAT OTHER PEOPLE THOUGHT. - - -The appearance of the new Mrs. Despard in the Abbey made a very great -impression. The brilliancy of her blue silk and the bushiness of her -orange-blossoms were calculated to strike awe into all beholders. There -was scarcely a lady within the Precincts who did not feel herself -personally insulted by the appearance of the milliner girl flaunting in -her bridal finery and taking her place by right among them. As for the -wives of the Chevaliers, their indignation was too great for words. -Mingled curiosity and enmity had brought them out in larger numbers than -usual, to see the creature, if she was so lost to every feeling of shame -as to show herself; and it is scarcely necessary to say that Polly was -in that particular entirely lost to every feeling of shame. She came in -with her Captain, clinging to his arm, and whispering to him, even in -the sacred quiet of the Abbey, and as the pair were late, and almost the -entire congregation had assembled, nothing was wanting to the full -enjoyment of her triumph. Polly felt, when she raised her head, after -that momentary homage to the sacred place which even in her state of -excitement she felt bound to make, that one object of her life was -attained, that everybody was staring at her, and that in her blue silk -she was more the centre of regard than the Dean himself under his -canopy, or the Minor Canon just about to begin the service, who -perceptibly paused, in acknowledgment of the little rustle and commotion -which accompanied her entrance. The feelings of the ladies among whom -this intruder pushed her way may be imagined. It was all that Mrs. -O’Shaughnessy could do, she said afterwards, to refrain from throwing -her hymn-book at the head of the jaunty Captain, as he handed his bride -into her place, before taking his own among his brother Chevaliers. The -ladies in the Abbey were divided from their partners, being placed in a -lower row, and to see the Captain pass on to his stall with a swing of -elation in his step after handing his bride to her seat, was enough to -make any veteran blaspheme. Why should a man be so proud of himself -because he has got a new wife? The imbecile glow of vanity and -self-congratulation which in such circumstances comes over the -countenance, nay, the entire person, even of the wisest, conveys -exasperation to every looker-on. The sentiment of indignation, however, -against Captain Despard was mingled with pity; but scarcely even -contempt sufficed to soften the feeling with which Polly in her blue -silk was universally regarded. Polly was an intruder, an aggressor. The -very way in which she tossed her head upwards with its bristling crown -of artificial flowers was an offence. The ladies might have their little -differences now and then, and it was an undoubted fact that Mrs. -Dalrymple, for instance, who was very well connected, had never been -able to endure Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, who had no connections at all; but -now they all clung together as with one impulse. They crowded upon each -other in the seat, so as to leave a clear space between them and Polly, -who, unabashed, took full advantage of it, and spread out her flounces, -her blue silken skirts around her, with a rustle of defiance. Mrs. -Temple was the one who was left next to Mrs. Despard. This lady, who -took no notice at first, soon roused up, and putting on her spectacles, -looked very seriously at the intruder. Polly faced round upon her, with -dauntless readiness, but Mrs. Temple’s look was so serious, that even -Polly felt somewhat discomfited. She felt this new observer’s eyes upon -her all the time. “Who was that old woman who stared at me so?” she -asked, scarcely taking the trouble to whisper, as her husband led her -round the nave while the voluntary was being played. “That! that’s the -wife of an old idiot who gives himself no end of airs,” said the -Captain. “I thought as much,” said Polly, tossing her head, “but she’ll -find I can stare just as well as she can. Two can play at that game.” -She spoke so loudly that some of the people near said, “Hush-sh!” The -Signor was just then playing a very delicate cadenza in the minor key. - -Mrs. Temple took her old husband’s arm without a word, and went straight -home. He had not himself been at the service, but met her at the door; -where he too saw the bride in her blue silk. The old Captain did nothing -but shake his head. He could not trust himself to speak. “What are -things coming to?” he said at last, as they got within their own door. -“When that young fellow was made a Chevalier, I said nothing could come -of it but mischief to the community.” Captain Despard, being only fifty, -was a young fellow to this veteran. “Never mind the community,” said -Mrs. Temple, which was a bold thing to say. It was getting late in the -October afternoon, and within the little sitting-rooms of the Lodges it -seemed dark, coming in even from the grey afternoon skies outside. Mrs. -Temple rang for the lamp before she went upstairs to take off her -bonnet. She was very full of thought, and sighed as she went. Her own -girl, for whom she would so gladly have died, was gone, leaving father -and mother desolate--and here was another poor girl who lived, but had -no one to care for her. Strange are the decrees of Providence. Mrs. -Temple sighed as she came downstairs again to where her old Captain sat -gazing at the lamp with a sorrowful face. “Yes, my dear,” he said as she -came in, “you were right to say never mind the community. After all, I -suppose there is no community in the world that has not its black sheep. -Nobody will be so foolish as to confound _us_ with such a fellow; but -when I think of that poor girl----” - -“That is what I have been thinking of,” said Mrs. Temple; “but perhaps,” -she added, still unwilling to betray her interest in Lottie, that -interest which was half opposition, “perhaps she may not feel it so much -as we suppose.” - -“Feel it! I have not liked to say very much about her, my dear. She -reminds me so of our own----and I know you could not bear to talk of -that,” said the good Captain, innocent of the fact that he had talked of -little else for months past. “But if you only knew her better! There is -something in her walk--in the turn of her head--that so reminds me--but -I never liked to say much about it. You must not think she does not feel -it. I met her and was talking with her just before I came for you. But -for leaving you alone I should have taken her for a walk; it would have -done her good. I believe she rushed off to the Slopes after all.” - -“I do not think she would get much good on the Slopes,” said Mrs. -Temple, thinking of the little wind of gossip about Mr. Rollo Ridsdale -which had begun to breathe about the Lodges. - -“She would get fresh air--and quiet; she likes that; she is a very -thoughtful girl, my dear--very serious, just like our own poor----. You -must forgive me if I am always seeing resemblances. Lottie is very fond -of the twilight. I have gone with her so often I know her tastes. Many a -time I have done the same with----. When I feel her little arm in mine, -I could almost think sometimes that other days have come back.” - -The shadow of Mrs. Temple’s cap quivered on the wall. The thought of the -little arm in his, the other days, which this simple touch brought back, -was not sweet but terrible to her. A film floated before her eyes, and -something choking and intolerable rose in her throat. “I do not -suppose,” she said hastily, “that a girl brought up like that can mind -as one thinks.” - -The Captain shook his head. “I wish you knew her better,” he said, with -that soft answer which turns away irritation. The servant-maid came in -with the tray at this moment, and Mrs. Temple began to pour out the tea. -She was a little tired, having had many things to do that day, and it -occurred to her suddenly that to lean back in her easy-chair as the -Captain was doing, and to have her cup of tea brought to her, would be -sweet. To have some one to wait upon her tenderly and read her wishes in -her eyes, and divine her thoughts before they came to her lips, that -would be sweet. But could anyone do that except a child, could anything -but love do it, and that sacred influence which is in the blood, the -same blood running in the different veins of parent and child? These -thoughts went through her mind without anybody being the wiser. She gave -her husband his tea, and sat down in her turn to rest a little. There -was nothing said in the still little room. The two together, did not -they know all each other’s thoughts and wishes and recollections? They -were old, and what could happen to them except the going out to the -Abbey, the coming in to tea? But if there had been three instead of -two--and one young, with all a dawning world before her feet--everything -would have borne a very different aspect. Ah! Mrs. Temple moved quickly, -as she had the habit of doing when that recollection, always present to -her mind, struck suddenly like a new blow. And here was a creature, -helpless, forlorn, without a mother to fly to. The mother who had no -child stood doubtful between earth and heaven, asking, speechless, what -she was to do: pass by on the other side as if there was no mother in -her? or pardon God for taking her child, and hold out her hand to His? -She did not know what to do. Things were not easy for her as for her -husband. It was cruel of this girl even to live, to pass by a poor -woman’s windows who had lost her child; yet what was the woman to do -when this creature who was living, who was an offence to her, was in -trouble? Let her sink and never hold out a hand? But what then would the -other girl in heaven think of her mother? Mrs. Temple was torn by this -conflict of which she gave no sign, while perhaps the old Captain in his -kind and simple heart, yearning over the young creature who was so -helpless and desolate, was unjust to his wife and thought her less than -kind. - -And it was not only in Captain Temple’s house that Polly’s appearance -was the cause of excitement. The Signor put his hand upon the arm of his -young assistant as they went out together by the north door. “Did you -see them?” he said, with meaning. Young Purcell was pale with -excitement. He had done nothing but watch Polly promenading through the -nave on her husband’s arm, and the very fact of Lottie’s superiority to -himself made him feel with more horror the impossibility of any harmony -between her and Polly, whom he considered so much inferior to himself. -He had watched her from the organ-loft, while the Signor played the -voluntary, with feelings indescribable; and so did his mother, who was -also in the Abbey, and who gaped at the fine young woman with a mixture -of consternation and admiration, by no means sure of her inferiority, -yet feeling that a crisis had arrived, and that whatever Miss Despard -might have said before, she could not but be glad now of any offer of an -’ome. Mrs. Purcell did not stay for the voluntary, but went home quickly -to see after “her dinner,” very full of thought, and tremulous with -expectation. The young lady was proud, she would not have anything to -say to John before--but now, no doubt she would send for him and all -would be settled. The housekeeper knew that a young stepmother was a -strong argument against the peace of a girl who had been used to have -everything her own way, and she felt with a tremor of her heart, half -pride, half pain, that now at last she would have to resign her boy, and -see him pass from beyond her ken into those regions of gentility with -which the Signor’s housekeeper had nothing to do. Very likely John, or -John’s wife who was “such a lady,” would want her to leave her -comfortable situation. Mrs. Purcell did not like the idea of it, but -still, if it would help to make her boy happy--perhaps even it might -remove a stumbling-block out of John’s way if she were to take it into -her own hands, and give up her situation. The thought made her heart -heavy, for she liked her place, and the Signor, and her comfortable -rooms, and the power of laying by a little money. But John was the first -person to be considered. What could a young lady object to in his -position? _he_ was all that a gentleman could wish to be; but a mother -who was in service might no doubt be an objection. Mrs. Purcell made up -her mind hurriedly, that if it proved needful she would not wait to be -asked, but would herself take the initiative and make the sacrifice; but -she did so with a heavy heart. To give up not only her boy, who, when he -was married, would not, she knew, be much more to his mother, but her -occupation likewise, and her chief comforts, and her master who was, in -a way, like another son to her, a foster-son, much greater and richer -than she, but still dependent on her for his comfort--it was hard--but -still she could do it for her John’s sake. Meanwhile her John, feeling -the Signor’s hand heavy with meaning on his arm, answered with tremulous -excitement, “Yes---- I saw it. It is terrible, terrible! a desecration. -To think she should have to put up with _that_ even for a day!” - -“I wonder what will be the issue,” said the Signor, meditatively. “Her -heart is not in her work now. If she becomes an artist, it will be -against her will--Art is not what she is thinking of. I wonder what will -come of it. Will she feel the hollowness of this world and throw herself -into her profession, or will she----” - -“Master,” said the young musician, fervently, “sooner or later she will -turn to me. It is not possible that a man could love a young lady as I -do, and have an ’ome to offer her, as I have----” - -Purcell was educated--he did not forget his h’s in general; but how many -people are there who, beguiled by that familiar phrase, forget all -precautions, and plunge recklessly into the pitfall of an ’ome! - -“You think so?” said the Signor. He did not himself put any confidence -in this result, and was even surprised, after his recent experience, -that the young man should be sanguine; but still, after all, who ought -to have such true intuitions as the hero himself? and there is no -telling what perseverance mingled with enthusiasm may do. The Signor was -not satisfied with his pupil. She would not devote herself to her work -as he wished. She had no abstract devotion to art, as art. The Signor -felt, musing over it, that it was possible she might take to it more -warmly if by any chance she became Purcell’s wife. John was a very good -fellow, and when he was disappointed, the Signor was very angry with -Lottie; but, still, he thought it probable that Lottie, if she married -him, would not find much to satisfy her in Purcell, and, therefore, -would be driven to art. And of all results that could be attained, was -not this the best? In the meantime, however, he was very doubtful -whether by this means it ever would be attained. - -“Yes, master,” said the young man; “how can I help thinking so? I can -give her, if not very much, at least independence and the comforts of an -’ome. She would not be dragged down by anything about me. My mother’s -position may be doubtful,” he said, with passing embarrassment; “but you -have been so good, you have never made her like a common servant, and at -Sturminster nobody need ever know.” - -“Your mother has been very good, and done a great deal for you; you must -never let anyone ignore your mother.” - -“Certainly not,” said the young man. “She _is_ my mother; that ought to -be enough for anybody. And I shall have her come to see me the same as -if she were a duchess; but, still, there is no need of publishing to -everybody what she is when she is at home.” - -“That is true, that is true,” said the Signor. “Then you really think -there is a chance that this is how it will end?” - -“Master,” said Purcell, pausing at the door before they entered. It was -one of the Italian traditions which had lingered in the Signor’s -habitual bearing, to stand still now and then as he was walking, by way -of giving emphasis to a sentence. They paused now, looking at each other -before they went in, and the colour came to the young fellow’s face. -“Master,” he said, “it may look self-sufficient--but how can it end -otherwise? There is no one else who will offer her what I can offer -her; and it would be like saying she had no sense, which is very far -from the case, to think she would stand out for ever. She is a lady, she -is above me in birth; but, thanks to you, I know how to behave like a -gentleman; and surely, sooner or later, this is how it must end.” - -“Amen, with all my heart,” said the Signor, turning in at the door, -which old Pick held open behind, waiting, as one who knew his master’s -way. - -It was Mr. Ashford who had intoned the service that afternoon, and his -attention had been so caught by Polly’s entrance that he had made a kind -of stumble in the beginning--a pause which was perceptible. After that, -during the singing of the anthem and at other moments when his attention -was free, he had looked down upon that gorgeous apparition from his high -desk with a look of compassion on his face. The compassion, it is -needless to say, was not for Polly, who wanted none of it. He watched -her behind his book, or behind the hand which supported his head, with -the most curious alarmed attention. And when he passed her with her -husband going out, Mr. Ashford looked at her in a way which Polly -thought to be flattering. “That’s one as takes an interest in us,” she -said. “It’s Ashford, the Minor Canon. It must be you he takes an -interest in,” whispered the Captain, and Polly laughed and tossed her -head. Mr. Ashford went home with the same strange look on his face, -softened, and touched, and pitiful. “Poor thing,” he said to himself, -“poor girl!” and when he got in he sat for a long time in the centre -window, in the dark, looking out, and trying to think out some way of -help. What could he do for her? Poor thing! with all her better -instincts and higher feelings, with her impulse of taking care of -everybody and keeping her father and brother right, what would become of -her now? Mr. Ashford asked himself, with many an anxious thought, what -could be done? A man could do nothing--where it was a girl that was in -the case a man was more helpless than a baby. He could do nothing to -help her; he could not even show his sympathy without probably doing -more harm than good to the sufferer. He sat in the window-seat, gazing -out on the dusk and the dim horizon, as if they could help him in his -musings. If he had only had a mother or sister--any woman to whom he -could have appealed, he thought he must have done so on behalf of this -girl. But he had neither sister nor mother. He was a man very much alone -in the world. He had a brother, a poor clergyman, with a large family, -and a wife, who would not understand in the least why Ernest should -interest himself in a stranger--_a girl_. If he wanted some one to spend -his money upon, why not take one of the children? he thought he heard -her say; and certainly she would not understand, much less respond to, -any appeal he could make to _her_. What could he do? If any other -suggestion swept across Mr. Ashford’s face in the dark or through his -heart, nobody was there to see or divine it. He sat thus without ringing -for his lamp till it was quite late, and was much discomposed to be -found sitting in the dark when a messenger arrived with a note from the -Deanery about the extra service for the next saint’s-day. He was annoyed -to be found so, being conscious, perhaps, of reasons for the vigil which -he would not have cared to enter upon; for he was shy and sensitive, and -it had often happened to him to be laughed at, because of his undue -anxiety about others. “What is it to you?” had been often said to him, -and never with more occasion than now. For, after all, what did it -matter to the Minor Canon what became of Lottie Despard? Whether she and -her stepmother should “get on” together, or if they should never “get -on,” but yet might manage to live under the same roof a cat-and-doggish -life--what was it to him? One way or other, it would not take sixpence -out of his pocket, or affect his comfort in any way. But yet he could -not get it out of his head. No one in the house had thought of coming to -his room to light his lamp, to see that all was in order for him. He was -not served with precision, as was the Signor, for he was fond of saving -his servants trouble and making excuses for them. And when the man came -from the Deanery and followed the maid into the study, where she went -groping, declaring that her master was not at home, the Minor Canon was -uncomfortable, finding himself thus taken by surprise. “You need not -wait for an answer. I will send one in the morning,” he said, when the -candles on the writing-table had been lit with a match, and he had read -the note. He felt that his confused and troubled thoughts might be read -in his eyes. But nobody had any clue to the subject of these thinkings; -and how could anyone suspect that it was a matter of such absolute -indifference to himself that was occupying his thoughts--a thing with -which he had nothing in the world to do? - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII. - -WHAT ROLLO HAD TO MARRY ON. - - -The moment after a man has made a proposal of marriage, and has been -accepted, is not always a moment of unmitigated blessedness. There are -ups and downs in the whole business from beginning to end. Sometimes the -man has the best of it, and sometimes the woman. When either side has -betrayed itself without a response on the other, when the man seems to -waver in his privilege of choice, when the woman hesitates in her -crowning prerogative of acceptance or rejection, then there are -intervals on either side which are not enviable; but when all these -preliminaries are over, and the explanation has been made, and the two -understand each other--then the lady’s position is, for the first few -days at least, the most agreeable. She has no parents to interview, no -pecuniary investigations to submit to, nor has she to enter upon the -question of ways and means, settlements and income for the future. But -when a man who knows he has nothing to marry upon is beguiled by -circumstances, by a sudden emergency, or by strain of feeling into the -momentous offer, and, after the first enthusiasm of acceptance, looks -himself in the face, as it were, and asks himself how it is to be done, -there is something terrible in the hours that follow. How was it to be -done? Rollo Ridsdale left Lottie at her door, and went across the road -towards the Deanery in a state of mind which was indescribable. He was -not an immaculate man, nor had he now spoken of love, for the first -time; but yet he was real in his love, and the response had been sweet -to him--sweet and terrible, as conveying every risk and danger that life -could bring, as well as every delight. He had lingered with his love -until the last available moment, and yet it was a relief to turn his -back upon her, to go away into the chaos of his own life and try to find -a way out of this maze in which he had involved himself. How was he to -marry? what was he to do? He felt giddy as he walked along, steadily -enough to outward seeming, but in his soul groping like a blind man. He -had asked Lottie Despard to marry him, and she had consented. He wanted -nothing better than her companionship, her love, the delight and comfort -of her to be his own; but, good heavens!--but, by Jove!--but, in the -name of everything worth swearing by--how was it to be done?--how was he -to marry? what was he to do? The happiness was delicious--it was a -taste of Paradise, a whiff of Elysium--but----. Rollo did not know where -he was going as he crossed the Dean’s Walk. He went--steadily enough, -his legs carrying him, his knowledge of the place guiding him -mechanically, but his whole soul in a maze of thought. How was he to do -it? How could he, a man with nothing, not much better than an -adventurer, living upon chances and windfalls--how could he weight -himself with the support of another--marry a wife? It was preposterous, -it was terrible--yet it was sweet. Poor child, she was in want of his -arm to shelter her, in want of some one to take care of her, and he -could not tolerate the idea that anyone but himself should give her the -succour she needed; but how was he to do it? The question seemed to get -into the air and whisper round him--how was he to do it? He had nothing, -or what to such a man was nothing, and worse than nothing. He managed to -live no one could tell how. True, in living he did not know how Rollo -managed to spend a good deal of money--more than many a family is reared -upon; but there is proportion in everything, and he never could tell -from one year’s end to another how he had got through. And he had asked -a girl to marry him! He groaned within himself when he came back to this -centre thought, this pivot of all his reflections, though it was sweet. -He had asked her to marry him; he had pledged himself to take her away -out of her troubles, to throw open a refuge to her, to make her escape -practicable: speedily, certainly, easily, so far as she knew--and how -was he to do it? If the question went through his mind once, it flew and -circled in wavering rounds about him, like a moth or a bat in summer, a -hundred times at least as he went from the Chevalier’s lodge to the -Deanery door. He had no time for thinking, since the hour of dinner -approached, and the Dean waited for no one; but he thought and thought -all the same. What was he to do? He marry! how was he to do it? Yet it -must be done. He did nothing but ask himself this while he brushed his -hair and tied his evening tie. He had nothing, not a penny--he had a -valet and a dressing-case, with gold tops to all the bottles, and the -most expensive clothes from the dearest tailor--but he had nothing, and -everybody knew that he had nothing. The situation was appalling. A cold -dew came out on his forehead; he to do such a thing! but yet he had done -it--he had committed himself--and now the question that remained -was--not how to get out of it, which under any other circumstances would -have been his clear duty, but how to do it? This was the problem he -tried to solve while he was dressing, which flitted about his head while -he sat at dinner, between every mouthful of his soup, and fluttered all -through the dessert. How was he to do it? And when the evening was -over--when Lady Caroline had gone to bed, and the Dean to his study, -Rollo at length ventured out into the Deanery garden with his cigar, in -spite of the black looks of Mr. Jeremie, who wanted to shut up the house -and get to bed himself at a reasonable hour, as a dean’s butler has a -right to do. - -It was cold--but he did not feel the cold--and the wind was still -strong, blowing the black branches wildly about the leaden sky. The -Dean’s garden was bounded by the Slopes, only a low and massive grey -wall, as old as the buttresses amid which the lawn was set, separating -it from the larger grounds, which were open to the community--and Rollo -leaning on that wall could almost see the spot where he had sat with -Lottie, when she had clasped her hands on his arm, leaning upon him with -delicious trust, and giving up all her future into his hands. Even then -what a difference there had been between them!--she throwing herself -upon him in utter faith and confidence, feeling herself delivered -completely and at once from all the troubles that overwhelmed her; while -he, even in the thrill of pleasure which that soft weight and pressure -gave him, felt his heart jump with such sudden alarm as words could not -describe. Now, when he thought it over, the alarm was more than the -pleasure. Lottie, retired into her little chamber, was at that hour -going over the whole scene with the tenderest happiness and -reliance--feeling safe with him, feeling free of all responsibility, not -even forecasting the future, safe and relieved from all the anxieties of -the past, caring for nothing but this moment, this exquisite climax of -life, this perfect union that had begun and was never to end. Very, very -different were Rollo’s thoughts. How was he to do it? Marry! the very -idea seemed impossible. It involved disclosure, and disclosure would be -madness. What would his relations say to him?--what would his friends -say to him? His tradesmen would send in their bills, his associates -would contemplate him with the very horror of astonishment. Ridsdale -married! as well cut his throat at once. Had he ever thought of the -little _ménage_ on which Lottie’s thoughts (had they been free to plan -anything) would have dwelt with simple pride and happiness, he would -have been disposed really to cut his throat. In such a case Lottie would -have been sure of her own powers--sure that if they were poor she could -make their money go twice as far as Rollo by himself could make it -go--and could much more than balance her share of the expenses by the -housewifely powers which it would have been her delight and her ambition -to exercise. But to Rollo love in a cottage was a simple folly, meaning -nothing. The very idea was so foreign to him that it never entered into -his mind at all. What did enter into his mind, as the only hope in the -blank of the future, was of a very different description. It was the -original idea which had first of all moved him towards this girl, who -gradually had awakened within him so many other sentiments: her voice. -Should he be able to produce this as he hoped, then there would be a way -of escape from the difficulty. The Manager had behaved like a fool, but -Rollo had not changed his opinion. Though he had fallen in love with the -singer, and his sentiments in regard to her had thus been modified, he -had never changed his opinion. She possessed a magnificent organ; and -though (which seemed to him very strange) Handel at present was her only -inspiration, yet he felt that with proper care that voice could do -anything, and that in it might yet lie all the elements of fortune. -Casting about around all his horizon for something like salvation, this -was the only light that Rollo perceived. It, perhaps, was not the most -desirable of lights. To marry a singer in full heyday of her powers, -admired by all the world, and making a great deal of money, was not a -thing that any younger son would hesitate to do; but an unknown singer, -with all her way to make, and her very education still so imperfect, -that was a very different matter; but still it was the only chance. In -former times, perhaps, a man would have thought it necessary to pretend -at least a desire to snatch his bride from the exposure of publicity, -from the stage, or even from the concert-room--a determination to work -for her rather than to let her work for him; but along with -circumstances sentiments change, and the desire of women for work is apt -to be supported from an undesirable side by those who once would have -thought their honour concerned in making women’s work unnecessary. In -civilisation there can be no advance without its attendant drawback. Mr. -Ridsdale had fallen in love, a thing no young man can entirely guard -against, and he had engaged to marry Lottie Despard, partly because he -was in love with her, partly because she was in want of protection and -succour. But he did not know in what way he could keep a wife; and short -of breaking his word and abandoning her altogether (things which at this -moment it seemed utterly impossible to do), what other way was open to -him than to consider how his wife could keep him? This was a great deal -more easy. He had nothing--no money, no profession--but she had a -profession, a something which was worth a great deal of money, which -only required cultivation to be as good as a fortune. Rollo’s heart -perceptibly lightened as he thought of this. It did not make the social -difficulties much easier, or soften the troubles which he must -inevitably have with his family; but still, whereas the other matter had -been impossible, this brought it within the range of things that could -be contemplated. He could not refrain from one sigh (in the undercurrent -of his mind--not dwelt upon or even acknowledged, a thing which he would -have been ashamed of had he admitted it to himself)--one sigh that the -idea of marriage had come in at all. She might have found in him all the -succour, all the companionship, all the support she wanted without -_that_; and it would have done her no harm in her after career. But that -was a secret thought--an inadvertence, a thing which he dared not permit -himself to think, as it were, in the daylight, in his own full -knowledge. He knew very well what a fool he would appear to -everybody--how the idea that he, Rollo, with all his experience, should -be thus taken in at last, would cause infinite surprise and laughter -among his friends--but still there came a gleam of possibility into the -matter when he thought of Lottie’s gift. By that means they might do it. -It was not quite out of the question, quite impossible. Rollo had been -so lost in thought that he had not seen Mr. Jeremie looking out from the -window through which he had gone into the garden; but as he arrived at -this, which was a kind of conclusion, if not a very satisfactory one, he -became at last aware of the respectable butler’s anxiety. - -“Her ladyship, sir, don’t hold with leaving the windows open,” said Mr. -Jeremie, who did not hold with staying out of bed to attend upon a young -man’s vagaries. There had been nothing of this kind in Miss Augusta’s -time--not even when Mr. Daventry came courting. Rollo tossed the end of -his cigar over the wall and came in, somewhat relieved in his mind, -though the relief was not very great. It left all the immediate question -unsolved--what his family would say, and what was to be done in the -meantime--but it gave a feeble light of possibility in the future. He -had calculated on Lottie’s voice to make his fortune when he thought of -it only as a speculator. He had much more right to look upon her as -likely to make his fortune now. - -In the morning the same thought was the first in Rollo’s mind; but the -faint light of hope it gave was surrounded by clouds that were full of -trouble. Supposing that in the course of time, when she was thoroughly -established in her profession, trained and started, she could manage to -attain that most necessary thing called an income, with which to meet -the world--this was a contingency which still lay in the future; whereas -it might be necessary to act at once. The very urgency and anxiety of -Rollo’s thoughts will show that he neither wanted to abandon Lottie nor -to allow her to guess that he was alarmed by his engagement to her. The -whole scope and object of his deliberations was to make the thing -possible. But for this why should he have troubled himself about it at -all? He might have “let things take their course”--he might have gone on -enjoying the delights of love-making, and all a lover’s privileges, -without going any further. Lottie was not the kind of girl who ever -would have hurried matters, or insisted upon the engagement being kept. -He knew well enough that she would never “pull him up.” But he was in -love with Lottie--he wanted to deliver her from her troubles--he wanted -to have her for his own--if he could only see how it was to be done. -Evidently there were various conditions which must be insisted on--which -Lottie must yield to. Public notice must not be called to the tie -between them more than was absolutely necessary. Everything must be -conducted carefully and privately--not to make any scandal--and not to -compel the attention of his noble family. Rollo did not want to be sent -for by his father, to be remonstrated with by his elder brother, to have -all his relatives preaching sermons to him. Even his aunt Caroline, -passive, easy-going soul--even she would be roused, he felt, to -violence, could she divine what was in the air. Marry Miss Despard! the -idea would drive her out of all the senses she possessed. Kind as she -was, and calm as she was, Rollo felt that in such circumstances she -would no longer be either kind or calm; and if even Lady Caroline were -driven to bay, what would be the effect of such a step on Lord -Courtland, who had no calm of nature with which to meet the revelation? -Therefore his heart was heavy as he went out, as soon as the bells had -ceased ringing for matins, to meet his love on the Slopes. His heart was -heavy, yet he was not a cool or indifferent lover. The thought of seeing -her again was sweet to him; but the cares were many, and he did not know -how to put into language which would not vex or hurt her the things that -must be said. He tried to wrap them up in honeyed words, but he was not -very successful; and at last he decided to leave it all to -Providence--to take no thought for what he was to say. “The words will -be put into my mouth at the right time,” he said to himself piously. He -could not exactly forecast what shape the conversation might take, or -how this special subject should be introduced. He would not settle what -he had to say, but would leave it to fate. - -The morning sunshine lay as usual unbroken upon the Dean’s Walk. It had -been feeble and fitful in the morning, as sunshine has often begun to be -in October, but now had warmed into riper glory. The paths on the Slopes -were strewed with fallen leaves, which the winds of last night had blown -about in clouds. Rollo was first at the trysting-place; and when he saw -Lottie appear suddenly round the bole of the big elm-tree, she seemed to -be walking to him, her foot all light and noiseless, upon a path of -gold. Her steps seemed to have a fairy tinkle upon that yellow pavement. -The movement of her figure was like music, with a flowing liquid measure -in it. The little veil that dropped over her hat, the ribbons at her -neck, the soft sweep of her dark merino gown, commonest yet prettiest of -fabrics, all united in one soft line. There was nobody by, and it was -the first heavenly morning upon which they had belonged to each other. -She came to him as if out of paradise, out of heaven, all radiant with -happiness and celestial trust and love. A glow of tenderness and -gladness came over the young man. He forgot all about the difficulties, -about money, about his family, about how they were to live and what was -to be done. He went to meet her, ardent and eager, forgetting everything -but herself. It was the _vita nuova_ all over again--a new earth and new -skies. It seemed to both of them that they had never lived before, that -this was the birthday of a glorified existence. Even last night, in the -agitation of their happiness, had not been like this first new day. When -they stepped into each other’s sight, realising the mutual property, the -mutual right, the incomprehensible sweetness of belonging to each other, -everything else seemed to be swept out of the world. There was nothing -visible but themselves, the sweet sky, and genial air: the leaves -dropping softly, all crimson and golden, the sun shining on them with a -sympathetic surprise of pleasure. For the moment, even to the young man -of the world, everything was simple, primitive, and true, all -complication and conventionalities swept away; and if so to Rollo, how -much more to Lottie, thus advancing sweetly, with a soft measure in her -step, not hurried or eager, but in modest faith and innocence, into her -lover’s arms! - -And, lo! in a moment all his calculations proved needless. Instead of -talking seriously to each other, making their mutual arrangements, -deciding what was to be done, as would have been far the wisest way of -employing the solitude of this sweet morning, which seemed to brighten -expressly for them--what did the two do but fall into an aimless -delicious whispering about their two happy selves, and nothing more! -They had things to say to each other which came by stress of nature, and -had to be said, yet were nothing--while the things of real importance -were thrust aside. They fell a-gossiping about themselves, about each -other, going over all the old ground, repeating the last evening’s -tender follies, about--when you first began to think--and when I first -knew--and what had been in the one heart and in the other, when both had -to talk of other things, and make no sign. What need to follow all the -course of that foolishness? There was nothing in earth or heaven so -deeply interesting to Lottie as to hear how Rollo was thinking of her -while he stood and talked to somebody else, watching her from far; and -how his heart would beat when he saw her coming, and how he blasphemed -old Captain Temple, yet blessed him next moment for bringing her here; -and what he had really meant when he said this and that, which had -perplexed her at the time; nor to Rollo than to know how she had watched -for him, and looked for his sympathy, and felt herself backed up and -supported the moment he appeared. There was not a day of the past month -but had its secret history, which each longed to disclose to the -other--and scarcely an hour, scarcely a scrap of conversation which did -not contain a world of unrevealed meaning to be unfolded and -interpreted. Talk of an hour! they had ample enough material for a -century without being exhausted; and as for arrangements, as for the (so -to speak) business of the matter, who thought of it? For Lottie was not -an intelligent young woman, intending to be married, but a happy girl in -love; and Rollo, though he knew better, was in love too, and wished for -nothing better than these delightful confidences. The hours went by like -a moment. They had already been aroused two or three times by the roll -of baby carriages propelled by nursemaids before the greater volume of -music from the Abbey proclaimed that service was over. “Already!” they -both cried, with wonder and dismay; and then, for the first time, there -was a pause. - -“I had so much to talk to you about,” he said, “and we have not had time -to say a word, have we? Ah! when can we have a good long time to -ourselves? Can you escape your Captain to-night, my darling? I should -like to shake him by the hand, to thank him for taking care of you; but -couldn’t you escape from him, my Lottie, to-night?” - -Lottie grew a little pale; her heart sank, not with distrust, but with -perhaps a little, a very little disappointment. Was this still how it -was to be? Just the same anxious diplomacies to secure a meeting, the -same risks and chances? This gave her a momentary chill. “It is very -difficult,” she said. “He is the only one I have to take care of me. He -would think it unkind.” - -“You must not say now the only one, my Lottie--not the only one--my -substitute for a little while, who will soon have to give me up his -place.” - -“But he will not like to give it up now; not till he knows; perhaps not -even then--for his daughter, you know----” - -“Ah! it was she who married Dropmore. Lottie, my love, my darling, I -cannot live through the evening without you. Could you not come again, -at the same time as last night? It is early dark, heaven be praised. -Take your walk with him, and then give him the slip, and come here, -sweet, here to me. I shall be watching, counting the moments. It is bad -enough to be obliged to get through the day without you. Ah! it is the -Signor’s day. The Signor is all rapt up in his music. He will never -suspect anything. I shall be able to see you at least, to hear you, to -look at you, my lovely darling----” - -After a moment said Lottie, “That was one thing I wanted to ask you -about. You know why the Signor gives me lessons. Will it be right _now_ -to go on with him? _now_ that everything is changed? Should not I give -them up?” - -“Give them up!” cried Rollo, with a look of dismay. “My darling, what -are you thinking of? They are more necessary, more important than ever. -Of course, we will pay for them after. Oh! no fear but he will be -repaid; but no, no, my love, my sweet, you must not give them up!” - -She looked at him with something like anxiety in her eyes, not knowing -what he could mean. What was it? Lottie could not but feel a little -disappointed. It seemed that everything was to go on just the same as -before. - -“I shall see you there,” he said. “So long as we are in the same place -everything is sweet; and I have always taken so much interest in your -dear voice that no one can suspect. And to-night you will come--promise -me, my darling--just after the service, when it is getting dark?” - -“Yes,” she whispered, with a sigh--then started from his side. “I saw -some one among the trees. The old Chevaliers are coming up for their -morning walk. Let me go now--you must let me go--Mr. Ridsdale----” - -“‘Mr. Ridsdale!’ How can I let my Lottie go before she has called me by -my right name?” - -“Oh, I must not stay. I see people coming,” said Lottie, disappointed, -troubled, afraid of being seen, yet angry with herself for being afraid. -“Mr. Ridsdale--Rollo, dear Rollo--let me go now----” - -“Till it is time for the Signor----” And he did let her go, with a hasty -withdrawal on his own part, for unmistakably there were people to be -seen moving about among the trees; not, indeed, coming near their -corner, yet within sight of them. Lottie left him hurriedly, not looking -back. She was ashamed, though she had no cause for shame. She ran down -the bank to the little path which led to the foot of the hill and to the -town. She could not go up and run the risk of being seen going home by -the Dean’s Walk. She drew her veil over her face, and her cheeks burned -with blushes; she was ashamed, though she had done no wrong. And Rollo -stood looking down after her, watching her with a still more acute pang. -There were things which were very painful to him which did not affect -her. That a girl like Lottie should go away alone, unattended, and walk -through the street, with no one with her, a long round, annoyed him -beyond measure. He ought to have gone with her, or some one ought to be -with her. But then, what could he do? He might as well give up the whole -matter at once as betray all he was meditating to his people in this -way. But he watched her, leaning over the low parapet, with trouble and -shame. The girl whom he loved ought not to go about unattended, and this -relic of chivalry, fallen into conventionality, moved him more than -greater things. He did not object, like Ferdinand, to let his Miranda -carry his load for him; but it did trouble him that she should walk -through St. Michael’s by herself, though in the sweet security of the -honest morning. Thus minds differ all over the world. - - - END OF VOL. II. - - PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER. - - - - - COLLECTION - - OF - - BRITISH AUTHORS - - TAUCHNITZ EDITION. - - VOL. 1825 - - WITHIN THE PRECINCTS BY MRS. OLIPHANT. - - IN THREE VOLUMES. - - VOL. III. - - - - - WITHIN - THE PRECINCTS - - BY - - MRS. OLIPHANT, - - AUTHOR OF “THE CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,” ETC. - - _COPYRIGHT EDITION._ - - IN THREE VOLUMES. - - VOL. III. - - LEIPZIG - - BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ - - 1879. - - _The Right of Translation is reserved._ - - - - - CONTENTS - - OF VOLUME III. - - - Page - -CHAPTER XXXIII. Lottie’s Side of the Question 7 - - ---- XXXIV. A Crisis 31 - - ---- XXXV. Family Duty: according to Mrs. Despard 50 - - ---- XXXVI. Family Duty: by a Finer Artist 73 - - ---- XXXVII. Another Chance 91 - - ---- XXXVIII. Lottie Resentful 111 - - ---- XXXIX. Lottie Subdued 131 - - ---- XL. The Effect of Good Fortune: Law 153 - - ---- XLI. The Effect of Good Fortune: Rollo 167 - - ---- XLII. “----till Friday” 190 - - ---- XLIII. The End of the Dream 212 - - ---- XLIV. Après? 235 - - ---- XLV. Conclusion 252 - - - - - WITHIN THE PRECINCTS. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII. - -LOTTIE’S SIDE OF THE QUESTION. - - -Lottie made her way down the Slopes alone, with feelings which had -greatly changed from those of a few minutes ago. How happy she had been! -The hour that had passed under the falling leaves had been like -paradise; but the portals of exit from paradise are perhaps never so -sweet as those of entrance. Her coming away was with a sense of -humiliation and shame. As she wound her way down her favourite by-road -winding among the shrubs and trees, she could not help feeling that she -was making her escape, as if from some guilty meeting, some clandestine -rendezvous. In all her life Lottie had never known this sensation -before. She had been shy, and had shrunk from the gaze of people who had -stared at her, in admiration of her beauty or of her singing, but in her -shyness there had always been the pride of innocence; and never before -had she been afraid to meet any eye, or felt it necessary to steal -away, to keep out of sight as if she were guilty. She had not done -anything wrong, but yet she had all the feeling of having done something -wrong--the desire to escape, the horror of detection. To some the secret -meeting, the romance and mystery, would have been only an additional -happiness, but Lottie, proud and frank and open-hearted, could not bear -the very thought of doing anything of which she was ashamed. The -sensation hurt and humiliated her. All had been very different _before_: -to meet her lover unawares, yet not without intention, with a delightful -element of chance in each encounter--to look out secretly for him, yet -wonder innocently to find him--to let her steps be drawn here or there -by a sense of his presence, with a fond pretence of avoiding him, a -sweet certainty of meeting him--all these risks and hazards of emotion -had been natural. But Lottie felt with a sudden jar of her nerves and -mind that this ought not to continue so. She had felt a little wondering -disappointment on the previous night when he had asked her to meet him -again, without any suggestion that he should go to her, or make the new -bond between them known. Even then there had been a faint jar, a sigh of -unfulfilled expectation. But now their hurried parting, her own flight, -the little panic lest they should be seen, and discovery follow, made -Lottie’s heart sick. How well she could imagine how this ought to have -been! They ought not to have fled from each other, or been afraid of any -man’s eye. It ought not to have mattered whether the Signor or anyone -suspected. Blushing and shy, yet with full faith in the sympathy of all -who saw her, Lottie should have walked down the Dean’s Walk with her -betrothed: she should have avoided no one. She should have been -shamefaced but not ashamed. What a difference between the two! all the -difference that there is between the soft blush of happiness and the -miserable burning of guilt. And this was what ought to have been. Half -the misery of Lottie--as half the misery of all imaginative -inexperienced women--arose from the pain and disappointment of feeling -that those she loved did not come up to the ideal standard she had set -up in her soul. She was disappointed, not so much because of the false -position in which she herself was placed (for this, except -instinctively, she had but little realised), but because Rollo was not -doing, not yet, all that it seemed right for him to do. She would have -forced and beaten (had she been able) Law into the fulfilment of his -duty, she would even have made him generous to herself, not for the sake -of herself, but that he should be a model of brotherhood, an example of -all a true man ought to be; and if this was so in the case of her -brother, how much more with her lover? If to be harsh as a tyrant or -indifferent as a sultan, was the highest ideal of a man’s conduct, how -much happier many a poor creature would be! It seems a paradox to say -so, but it is true enough; for the worst of all, in a woman’s mind, is -to feel that the wrong done to _her_ is worse wrong to _him_, an -infringement of the glory of the being whom she would fain see perfect. -This, however, is a mystery beyond the comprehension of the crowd. -Lottie was used to being disappointed with Law--was she fated to another -disappointment more cruel and bitter? She did not ask herself the -question, she would not have thought it even, much less said it for all -the world; but secretly there was a wonder, a pang, a faintness of -failure in her heart. - -It is not without an effort, however, that the heart will permanently -admit any such disappointment. As Lottie went her ways thus drooping, -ashamed and discouraged, thinking of everything that had been done and -that ought to have been done, there drifted vaguely across her mind a -kind of picture of Rollo’s meeting with her father, and what it would -be. She had no sooner thought of this than a glow of alarm came over her -face, bringing insensibly consolation to her mind. Rollo and her father! -What would the Captain say to him? He would put on his grand air, in -which even Lottie had no faith; he would exhibit himself in all his vain -greatness, in all his self-importance, jaunty and fine, to his future -son-in-law. He would give Lottie herself a word of commendation in -passing, and he would spread himself forth before the stranger as if it -was he whom Rollo wanted and cared for. Lottie’s steps quickened out of -the languid pace into which they had fallen, and her very forehead grew -crimson as she realised that meeting. Thank heaven, it had not taken -place yet! Rollo had been too wise, too kind, too delicate to humble his -love by hurrying into the presence of the Captain, into the house where -the Captain’s new wife now reigned supreme. The new wife--she too would -have a share in it, she would be called into counsel, she would give her -advice in everything, and claim a right to interfere. Oh, Lottie -thought, how foolish she had been! how much wiser was Rollo, no doubt -casting about in his mind how it was best to be done, and pondering over -it carefully to spare her pain. She felt herself enveloped in one blush -from the crown of her head to the sole of her feet; but how sweet was -that shame! It was she who was foolish, not he who had failed. Her -cheeks burned with a penitential flush, but he was faultless. There was -nothing in him to disappoint, but only the most delicate kindness, the -tenderest care of her. How could she have thought otherwise? It was not -possible that Rollo should like secret meetings, should fear discovery. -In the first days of their acquaintance he had shown no reluctance to -come to the humble little lodge. But now--his finer feeling shrank from -it now--he wanted to take his love away from that desecrated place, not -to shame her by prying into its ignoble mysteries. He was wiser, better, -kinder than anyone. And she was ashamed of _herself_, not any longer of -anything else, ashamed of her poor, mean, unworthy interpretation of -him; and as happy in her new, changed consciousness of guilt, and -penitence and self-disgust--as happy as if, after her downfall into -earth, she had now safely got back into heaven. - -By this time she had got out of the wooded Slopes, and over the stile, -and into the steep thoroughfare at the foot of the Abbey walls, the -pavement of St. Michael’s Hill. Lottie did not feel that there was any -harm in walking through the street alone, as Rollo thought there was. -She wanted no attendant. A little bodyguard, invisible, but with a -radiance going out from them which shone about her, attended upon her -way--love and innocence and happiness, no longer with drooping heads but -brave and sweet, a band invisible, guaranteeing their charge against all -ills. As she went along the street with this shining retinue, there was -nothing in all the world that could have harmed her; and nobody wanted -to harm the girl--of whom, but that she was proud, no soul in St. -Michael’s had an unkind word to say. Everybody knew the domestic -trouble that had come upon her, and all the town was sorry for -Lottie--all the more that there was perhaps a human satisfaction in -being sorry for one whose fault was that she was proud. She met Captain -Temple as she entered the Abbey Gate. Many thoughts about her had been -in the kind old man’s heart all the morning, and it was partly to look -for her, after vain walks about the Abbey Precincts, that he was turning -his steps towards the town. He came up to her eagerly, taking her hand -between his. He thought she must have been wandering out disconsolate, -no matter where, to get away from the house which was no longer a fit -home for one like her. He was so disturbed and anxious about her, that -the shadow which was in his mind seemed to darken over Lottie, and cast -a reflection of gloom upon her face. “You have been out early, my dear? -Why did you not send for me to go with you? After matins I am always at -your service,” he said. - -But there was none of the gloom which Captain Temple imagined in -Lottie’s face. She looked up at him out of the soft mist of her own -musings with a smile. “I went out before matins,” she said; “I have been -out a long time. I had--something to do.” - -“My poor child! I fear you have been wandering, keeping out of the way,” -said the old Captain. Then another thought seized him. Had she begun -already to serve the new wife and do her errands? “My dear,” he said, -“what have you been doing? you must not be too good--you must not forget -yourself too much. Your duty to your father is one thing, but you must -not let yourself be made use of now--you must recollect your own -position, my dear.” - -“My position?” she looked up at him bewildered; for she was thinking -only of Rollo, while he thought only of her father’s wife. - -“Yes, Lottie, my dear child, you have thought only of your duty -hitherto, but you must not yield to every encroachment. You must not -allow it to be supposed that you give up everything.” - -“Ah,” said Lottie, lifting to him eyes which seemed to swim in a haze of -light; “to give up everything would be so---- I don’t know what you -mean,” she added hastily, in a half-terrified tone. As for Captain -Temple, he was quite bewildered, and did not know what to think. - -“Need I explain, my dear, what I mean? There can be but one thing that -all your friends are thinking of. This new relation, this new -connection. I could not sleep all night for thinking of you, in the -house with that woman. My poor child! and my wife too. You were the last -thing we talked of at night, the first thing in the morning----” - -“Ah,” said Lottie again, coming back to reality with a long-drawn -breath. “I was not thinking of her; but I understand you now.” - -Lottie had, however, some difficulty in thinking of _her_, even now; for -one moment, being thus recalled to the idea, her countenance changed; -but soon came back to its original expression. Her eyes were dewy and -sweet--a suspicion of tears in them like the morning dew on flowers with -the sunshine reflected in it, the long eyelashes moist, but the blue -beneath as clear as a summer sky; and the corners of her mouth would run -into curves of smiling unawares; her face was not the face of one upon -whom the cares of the world were lying heavy, but of one to whom some -new happiness had come. She was not thinking of what he was saying, but -of something in her own mind. The kind old Captain could not tell what -to think; he was alarmed, though he did not know why. - -“Then it is not so bad,” he said, “as you feared?” - -“What is not so bad? Things at home? Oh, Captain Temple! But I try not -to think about it,” Lottie said hastily, with a quiver in her lip. She -looked at him wistfully, with a sudden longing. “I wish--I wish--but it -is better not to say anything.” - -“You may trust to me, my dear; whatever is in your heart I will never -betray you; you may trust to me.” - -Lottie’s eyes filled with tears as she looked at him, but she shook her -head. They were not bitter tears, only a little bitter-sweet of -happiness that wanted expression, but which she dared not reveal. If she -could but have told him! If Rollo, failing her father, would but come -and speak to this kind and true friend! But she shook her head. She was -no longer free to say and do whatever pleased her out of her own heart. -She must think of _him_; and while he did not speak, what could she say? -She put out her hand to her old friend again with a little sudden -artifice unlike Lottie. “I have been out all the morning,” she said; “I -must make haste and get back now.” - -“I am very glad you are not unhappy,” said the old Captain, looking at -her regretfully. He was not quite sincere. To tell the truth it gave him -a shock to find that Lottie was not unhappy; how could she put up with -such a companion, with such a fate? He went in to his wife, who had been -watching furtively at the window while this conversation was going on, -to talk it all over. Mrs. Temple was almost glad to find something below -perfection in the girl about whom secretly she thought as much as her -husband talked. “We have been thinking too much about it,” she said; “if -she can find the stepmother congenial, it will be better for her.” - -“Congenial! you are talking folly. How could she be congenial?” cried -Captain Temple, with great heat, but he did not know what to make of -it. He was disappointed in Lottie. When he had met her the day before -she had been quivering with pain and shame, revolted and outraged, as it -was right and natural she should be: but now it seemed to have passed -altogether from her mind. He could not make it out. He was disappointed; -he went on talking of this wonder all day long and shaking his white -head. - -As for Lottie, when she went home, she passed through the house, light -and silent as a ghost, to her own little room, where, abstracted from -everything else, she could live in the new little world of her own which -had come out of the mists into such sudden and beautiful life. It was -very unlike Lottie, but what more does the young soul want when the -_vita nuova_ has just begun, but such a possibility of self-abstraction -and freedom to pursue its dreams? Rapt in these, she gave up her -occupation, her charge, without a sigh. When she was called to table she -came quite gently, and took no notice of anything that passed there, -having enough in her own mind to keep her busy. Law was as much -astonished as Captain Temple. He had thought that Lottie would not -endure it for a day; but, thanks to that happy preoccupation, Lottie -sailed serenely through these troubled waters for more than a week, -during which she spent a considerable portion of her time on the Slopes, -though the weather grew colder and colder every day, and the rest in -her own room, in which she sat fireless, doing her accustomed -needlework, her darnings and mendings, mechanically, while Polly -remodelled the drawing-room, covering it up with crocheted -antimacassars, and all the cheap and coarse devices of vulgar -upholstery. While this was going on, she too was content to have Lottie -out of the way. Polly pervaded the house with high-pitched voice and -noisy step; and she filled it with savoury odours, giving the two men -hot suppers, instead of poor Lottie’s cold beef, which they had often -found monotonous. The Captain now came in for this meal, which in former -times he had rarely favoured; he spent the evenings chiefly at home, -having not yet dropped out of the fervour of the honeymoon; and on the -whole even Law was not sure that there was not something to be said for -the new administration of the house. There was no cold beef--that was an -improvement patent to the meanest capacity. As for Polly, nothing had -yet occurred to mar her glory and happiness. She wore her blue silk -every day, she walked gloriously about the streets in her -orange-blossoms, pointed out by everybody as one of the ladies of the -Abbey. She went to the afternoon service and sat in her privileged seat, -and looked down with dignified sweetness upon “the girls” who were as -she once was. She felt herself as a goddess, sitting there in the -elevated place to which she had a right, and it seemed to her that to be -a Chevalier’s wife was as grand as to be a princess. But Polly did not -soil her lips with so vulgar a word as wife. She called herself a -Chevalier’s lady, and her opinion of her class was great. “Chevalier -means the same thing as knight, and, instead of being simple missis, I -am sure we should all be My lady,” Polly said, “if we had our rights.” -Even her husband laughed, but this did not change her opinion. It was -ungrateful of the other Chevaliers’ ladies that they took no notice of -this new champion of their order. But for the moment Polly, in the -elation of her success, did not mind this, and was content to wait for -the recognition which sooner or later she felt would be sure to come. - -This elation kept her from interfering with Lottie, whose self-absorbed -life in her own room, and her exits and entrances, Mrs. Despard -tolerated and seemed to accept as natural; she had so many things to -occupy and to please her, that she could afford to let her step-daughter -alone. And thus Lottie pursued for a little time that life out of nature -to which she had been driven. She lived in those moments on the Slopes, -and in the hours she spent at the Signor’s piano, singing; and then -brooded over these intervals of life in the silence. Her lessons had -increased to three in the week, and these hours of so-called study were -each like a drama of intense and curious interest. Rollo was always -there--a fact which he explained to the Signor by his professional -interest in the new singer, and which to Lottie required no explanation; -and there too was her humble lover, young Purcell, who as she grew -familiar with the sight of him, and showed no displeasure at his -appearance, grew daily a little more courageous, sometimes daring to -turn the leaves of the music, and even to speak to her. Mrs. -O’Shaughnessy, who sat by, watching them all with lively but not -extravagant interest, was the only one in the little party who was not -more or less excited. As for Lottie, this lesson was the centre of all -her life. If music be the food of love, love was the very inspiration of -music to her; the two re-acted upon each other, raising her to such a -height of primitive heroic passion as nobody near her divined--as -nobody, indeed, except perhaps the Signor, with his Italian -susceptibility, was capable of divining. He saw indeed with -dissatisfaction, with an interest which was almost angry, that it was -not art that moved her, and that the secret of the astonishing progress -she made, was not in his instructions. What was it? The Signor was -angry, for he felt no certainty that this wonderful progress was real. -Something made her sing like an angel. What was it? not art. The natural -qualities of her voice were not to be gainsayed; but the musician felt -that the training under which she seemed to be advancing visibly, was -all fictitious, and that it was something else that inspired her. But -Rollo had no such enlightenment. He remarked with all the technicality -of an amateur how her high notes gained in clearness, and her low notes -in melody, at every new effort. It was wonderful; but then the Signor -was a wonderful teacher, a wonderful accompanyist, and what so natural -as that a creature of genius like this, should grow under his teaching -like a flower? Though it was to him she sang, and though her love for -him was her inspiration, Rollo was as unaware of this as old Pickering -in the hall, who listened and shook his head, and decided in his heart -that a woman with a voice like that was a deal too grand for Mr. John. -“She’s more like Jenny Lind than anything,” old Pick said; and in this -Mr. Ridsdale agreed, as he sat and listened, and thought over the means -which should be employed to secure her success. As for young Purcell, he -stood entranced and turned over the leaves of the music. Should he ever -dare to speak to her again, to offer her his love, as he had once -ventured to do,--she who seemed born to enthral the whole world? But -then, the young fellow thought, who was there but he who had an ’ome to -offer Lottie? He was the nobler of the two between whom she stood, the -two men who loved her: all his thought was, that she being unhappy, -poor, her father’s house made wretched to her, he had an ’ome to offer -her; whereas Rollo thought of nothing but of the success she must -achieve in which he would have his share. In order to achieve that -success Rollo had no mind to lend her even his name; but the idea that -it was a thing certain, comforted him much in the consciousness of his -own imprudent engagement, and gave a kind of sanction to his love. To -marry a woman with such a faculty for earning money could not be called -entirely imprudent. These were the calculations, generous and the -reverse, which were made about her. Only Lottie herself made no -calculations, but sang out of the fulness of her heart, and the delicate -passion that possessed her; and the Signor stood and watched, -dissatisfied, sympathetic, the only one that understood at all, though -he but poorly, the high emotion and spring-tide of life which produced -that flood of song. - -In this highly-strained unnatural way, life went on amid this little -group of people, few of whom were conscious of any volcano under their -feet. It went on day by day, and they neither perceived the gathering -rapidity of movement in the events, nor any other sign that to-day -should not be as yesterday. Shortly after the explanation had taken -place between Rollo and Lottie, Augusta Huntington, now Mrs. Daventry, -arrived upon her first visit home. She was the Dean’s only child, and -naturally every honour was done to her. All the country round, everyone -that was of sufficient importance to meet the Dean’s daughter, was -invited to hail her return. The Dean himself took the matter in hand to -see that no one was overlooked. They would all like, he thought, to see -Augusta, the princess royal of the reigning house; and Augusta was -graciously pleased to like it too. One of these entertainments ended in -a great musical party, to which all who had known Miss Huntington, all -the singers in the madrigals and choruses of which she had been so fond, -were asked. When Lottie’s invitation came, there was a great thrill and -commotion in Captain Despard’s house. Lottie did not even suspect the -feeling which had been roused on the subject when she took out her white -muslin dress, now, alas, no longer so fresh as at first, and inspected -it anxiously. It would do still with judicious ironing, but what must -she do for ornaments, now that roses were no longer to be had? This -troubled Lottie’s mind greatly, though it may be thought a frivolous -question, until a few hours before the time, when two different presents -came for her, of flowers: one being a large and elaborate bouquet, the -other a bunch of late roses, delicate, lovely, half-opened buds, which -could only have come out of some conservatory. One of these was from -Rollo, and who could doubt which it was? Who but he would have -remembered her sole decoration, and found for her in winter those -ornaments of June? What did she care who sent the other? She decked -herself with her roses, in a glow of grateful tenderness, as proud as -she was happy, to find herself thus provided by his delicate care and -forethought. It did not even occur to Lottie to notice the dark looks -that were thrown at her as she came downstairs all white and shining, -and was wrapped by Law (always ostentatiously attentive to his sister in -Polly’s presence) in the borrowed glory of Mrs. O’Shaughnessy’s great -Indian shawl. - -The party was large and crowded, and Lottie, all alone in it, was -frightened and confused at first; but they were all very kind to her, -she thought. Lady Caroline said, “How do you do, Miss Despard?” with -something like a smile, and looked as if she might have given Lottie her -hand, had not the girl been afraid; and Augusta, when she found her out, -came forward with a welcome which was almost effusive. “I hear you have -improved so much,” she said, taking in at one glance all the particulars -of Lottie’s appearance, with a wondering question within herself where -the roses came from, though she perceived at once that it was the same -white muslin frock. And when Lottie sang, which the Signor managed she -should do with great effect towards the close of the evening, Augusta -rushed to her with great eyes of astonishment. “Where did you get all -that voice?” she cried; “you did not have that voice when I went away.” -“I flatter myself it was I that found Miss Despard out,” said Rollo, -suffering himself to look at her, which hitherto he had only done when -there was a shield of crowding groups between him and his cousin. Before -this he had managed to make the evening sweet to Lottie by many a -whispered word: but when he looked at her now, unawares, under Augusta’s -very eyes, with that fond look of proprietorship which is so -unmistakable by the experienced, and to which Lottie responded shyly by -a smile and blush, and conscious tremor of happiness, neither of them -knew what a fatal moment it was. Augusta, looking on, suddenly woke up -to the meaning of it, the meaning of Rollo’s long stay at the Deanery, -and various other wonders. She gave the pair but one look, and then she -turned away. But Lottie did not see that anything strange had happened. -She was so happy that even when Rollo too left her, her heart was -touched and consoled by the kindly looks of the people whom she knew in -the crowd, the ladies who had heard her sing before at the Deanery, and -who were gracious to her, and Mr. Ashford who kept by her side and -watched over her--“like a father,” Lottie said to herself, with -affectionate gratitude, such as might have become that impossible -relationship. The Minor Canon did not leave her for the rest of the -evening, and he it was who saw her home, waiting till the door was -opened, and pressing kindly her trembling cold hand: for, she could not -tell how, the end of the evening was depressing and discouraging, and -the pleasure went all out of it when Rollo whispered to her in passing, -“Take care, for heaven’s sake, or Augusta will find us out!” Why should -it matter so much to him that Augusta should find it out? Was not she -more to him than Augusta? Lottie shrank within herself and trembled with -a nervous chill. She was half grateful to, half angry with even Mr. -Ashford. Why should he be so much more kind to her, so much more careful -of her than the man who had promised her his love and perpetual care? - -But even now when she stole in, shivering with the cold of -disappointment and discouragement, through the dark house to her room -Lottie did not know all that this evening had wrought. And she scarcely -noticed the gloom on Polly’s face, nor the strain of angry monologue -which her father’s wife gave vent to, next morning. Polly wondered what -was the good of being a married lady, when a young unmarried girl that -was nobody, was took such notice of, and her betters left at ’ome? Did -people know no manners? gentlefolks! they called themselves -gentlefolks, and behaved like that? If that was politeness, Polly -thanked heaven it was not the kind as she had been taught. But the -outburst came when Lottie, taking no notice, scarcely even hearing what -was said, showed herself with her music in her hands going out to her -lesson. Polly came out of her husband’s room and planted herself -defiantly in Lottie’s way. “Where are you going again,” she said, “Miss? -where are you going again? is this to be always the way of it? Do you -mean never to stay at home nor do anything to help nor make yourself -agreeable? I declare it is enough to put a saint in a passion. But I -won’t put up with it, I can tell you. I did not come here to be treated -like this, like the dirt under your feet.” - -Lottie was almost too much taken by surprise to speak. It was the first -absolute shock of collision. “I am going for my lesson,” she said. - -“Your lesson!” cried Polly. “Oh my patience, oh my poor ’usband! that is -the way his money goes--lessons for you and lessons for Law, and I don’t -know what! You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, you two. You ought to -be making your living both of you, if you were honest, instead of living -on your father as wants all he’s got for himself. But you shan’t go to -any lesson if I can help it,” she cried. “You’ll stay at home and try -and be of a little use, or you’ll march off this very day, and find some -one else to put up with you and your lessons. It shan’t be me. I won’t -stand by and see my ’usband wronged. You’ll ruin him between you, that’s -what you’ll do; go back, Miss, and put down them books this moment. I -won’t have it, I tell you. I’ll not see my ’usband eaten up by the likes -of you.” - -Polly’s diction suffered from her passion, and so did her appearance. -Her face grew scarlet, her eyes flashed with fury. She put out her hand -to push Lottie back, who shrank from her with a cry of dismay-- - -“Let me pass, please,” said Lottie piteously. She could not quarrel with -this woman, she could not even enter so much into conflict with her as -to brush past her, and thus escape. She shrank with pain and horror from -the excited creature in her way. - -“It’s you that will have to go back,” said Polly, “not me. I’m the -mistress of this house, you’ll please to recollect, Miss Lottie. Your -father’s been a deal too good, he’s let you do just what you pleased, -but that’s not my style. I begins as I mean to end. You shan’t stay -here, I tell you, whatever you may think, if you want to trample upon -me, and eat up every penny he has. Go and take off your things this -moment, and see if you can’t be a little use in the house.” - -Lottie was struck dumb and could not tell what to say. She had not been -cared for much in her life, but she had never been restrained, and the -sensation was new to her. She did not know how to reply. “I do not wish -to be in your way,” she cried. “I shall not stay long nor trouble you -long, but please do not interfere with me while I am here. I must go.” - -“And I say you shan’t go!” said Polly, raising her voice after the -manner of her kind, and stamping her foot upon the floor. “If you -disobey me, I won’t have you here not another day. I’ll turn you out if -it was twelve o’clock at night. I’ll show you that I am mistress in my -own house. Do you think I’m going to be outfaced by you, and treated -like the dirt below your feet? Go and take off your things this moment, -and try if you can’t settle to a bit of work. Out of this house you -shan’t go, not a single step.” - -“I say, stand out of the way,” said Law; he had come out of the -dining-room with his hands in his pockets, having just finished his -dinner. Law was not easily moved, but he had now made up his mind that -he was on Lottie’s side. “Don’t give yourself airs to her. She is not of -your sort,” he said. “The governor may let you do many things, but not -bully her. Look here, Polly, you’d better stand out of her way.” - -“And who are you, you lazy, useless lout, that dares to call me Polly?” -she cried. “Polly, indeed! your father’s wife, and far better than you. -I’ll make him put you to the door, too, you idle low fellow, spending -your time with a pack of silly, dressing, useless girls----” - -“I say, stop that,” cried Law, growing red and seizing her suddenly by -the arm; he stood upon no ceremony with Polly, though she was his -father’s wife; but he gave an uneasy alarmed glance at Lottie. “There’s -some one waiting for you outside,” he cried. “Lottie, go.” - -She did not wait for any more. Trembling and horrified, she ran past and -got out breathless, hastily closing the door behind her. The door had -been open, and Mrs. O’Shaughnessy outside--drawing her skirts round her, -physically and metaphorically, so as to avoid all pollution, yet -listening to everything she could hear, was walking up and down the -pavement. “Me poor child!” the good Irishwoman said, half sorry, half -delighted to hear the first of the scandal. “Already! has it come to -this? Me heart is sore for ye, Lottie me dear!” - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV. - -A CRISIS. - - -Lottie scarcely knew how she got through that afternoon. Rollo presented -himself for but a moment at the Signor’s, in great concern that he could -not stay, and begging a hundred pardons with his eyes, which he could -not put into words. Lady Caroline and Augusta had made an engagement for -him from which he could not get free. “At the elm-tree!” he whispered in -the only moment when he could approach Lottie. Her heart, which was -beating still with the mingled anger, and wonder, and fright of her late -encounter, sank within her. She could only look at him with a glance -which was half appeal and half despair. And when he went away the day -seemed to close in, the clouds to gather over the very window by which -she was standing, and heaven and earth to fail her. Rollo’s place was -taken by a spectator whose sympathy was more disinterested than that of -Rollo, and his pity more tender; but what was that to Lottie, who wanted -only the one man whom she loved, not any other? What a saving of -trouble and pain there would be in this world if the sympathy of one did -as well as that of another! There was poor Purcell turning over the -music, gazing at her with timid eyes full of devotion, and longing to -have the courage and the opportunity to offer her again that ’ome which -poor Lottie so much wanted, which seemed opened to her nowhere else in -the whole world. And on the other side stood Mr. Ashford without any -such definite intention as Purcell, without any perception as yet of -anything in himself but extreme “interest in,” and compassion for, this -solitary creature, but roused to the depths of his heart by the sight of -her, anxious to do anything that could give her consolation, and ready -to stand by her against all the world. The Minor Canon had been passing -when that scene took place in the hall of Captain Despard’s house with -its open door. He had heard Polly’s loud voice, and he had seen Law rush -out, putting on his hat, and flushed with unusual feeling. “I don’t mind -what she says to me as long as she keeps off Lottie!” the young man had -said; and careless as Law was, the tears had come to his eyes, and he -had burst forth, “My poor Lottie! what is she to do?” Mr. Ashford’s -heart had been wrung by this outcry. What could he do?--he was -helpless--an unmarried man; of what use could he ever be to a beautiful, -friendless girl? He felt how impotent he was with an impatience and -distress which did not lessen that certainty. He could do nothing for -her, and yet he could not be content to do nothing. This was why he came -to the Signor’s, sitting down behind backs beside Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, -who distracted him by much pantomimic distress, shaking her head and -lifting up her hands and eyes, and would fain have whispered to him all -the time of Lottie’s singing had not the Signor sternly interfered. -(“Sure these musical folks they’re as big tyrants as the Rooshians -themselves,” Mrs. O’Shaughnessy said indignantly.) This was all the -Minor Canon could do--to come and stand by the lonely girl, though no -one but himself knew what his meaning was. It could not be any help to -Lottie, who was not even conscious of it. Perhaps, after all, the sole -good in it was to himself. - -Lottie had never sung so little well. She did not sing badly. She took -trouble; the Signor felt she tried to do her best, to work at it, to -occupy herself with the music by way of getting rid of things more -urgent which would press themselves upon her. In short, for the time -Lottie applied herself to it with some faint conception of the purposes -of art. To have recourse to art as an opiate against the pangs of the -inner being, as an escape from the harms of life, is perhaps not the -best way of coming at it, but the Signor knew that this was one of the -most beaten ways towards that temple which to him enshrined everything -that was best in the world. It was, perhaps, the only way in which -Lottie was likely to get at it, and he saw and understood the effort. -But it could not be said that the effort was very successful. The -others, who were thinking only of her, felt that Lottie did not do so -well as usual. She was not in voice, Purcell said to himself; and to the -Minor Canon it seemed very natural that after the scene which she had -just gone through poor Lottie should have but little heart for her work. -It was easily explained. The Signor, however, who knew nothing of the -circumstances, came to the most true conclusion. The agitation of that -episode with Polly would not have harmed her singing, however it might -have troubled herself, had Lottie’s citadel of personal happiness been -untouched. But the flag was lowered from that donjon, the sovereign was -absent. There was no inspiration left in the dull and narrowed world -where Lottie found herself left. Her first opening of vigorous -independent life had been taken from her, and for the first time the -life of visionary passion and enthusiasm was laid low. She did not give -in. She made a brave effort, stilling her excited nerves, commanding her -depressed heart. The Signor himself was more excited than he had been by -all the previous easy triumphs of her inspiration. Now was the test of -what she had in her. Happiness dies, love fails, but art is for ever. -Could she rise to the height of this principle, or would she drop upon -the threshold of the sacred place incapable of answering to the guidance -of art alone? Never before had he felt the same anxious interest in -Lottie. He thought she was groping for that guidance, though without -knowing it, in mere instinct of pain to find something that would not -fail her. She did not rise so high as she had done under the other -leading; but to the Signor this seemed to be in reality Lottie’s first -step, though she did not know it, on the rugged ascent which is the -artist’s way of life. Strait is the path and narrow is the way in that, -as in all excellence. The Signor praised her more than he had ever -praised her before, to the surprise of the lookers-on; the generous -enthusiasm of the artist glowed in him. If he could, he would have -helped her over the roughness of the way, just as the Minor Canon, -longing and pitiful, would have helped her if he could, over the -roughness of life. But the one man was still more powerless than the -other to smooth her path. Here it was not sex, nor circumstances, which -were in fault, but the rigid principles of art, which are less yielding -than rocks; every step, however painful, in that thorny way the neophyte -must tread for herself. The Signor knew it; but the more his beginner -stumbled, the more eager was he to cheer her on. - -“I am afraid I sang very badly,” Lottie said, coming out with Mrs. -O’Shaughnessy and the Minor Canon, who went along with them he scarcely -knew why. He could do nothing for the girl, but he did not like to leave -her--to seem (to himself) to desert her. Only himself was in the least -degree aware that he was standing by Lottie in her trouble. - -“Me child, you all think a deal too much about it. It was neither better -nor worse; that’s what I don’t like in all your singing. It may be fine -music, but it’s always the same thing over and over. If it was a tune -that a body could catch--but it’s little good the best tune would have -been to me this day. I didn’t hear you, Lottie, for thinking what was to -become of you. What will ye do? Will you never mind, but go back? Sure -you’ve a right to your father’s house whatever happens, and I wouldn’t -be driven away at the first word. There is nothing would please her so -well. I’d go back!” - -“Oh, don’t say any more!” cried Lottie with a movement of sudden pride. -But when she caught the pitying look of the Minor Canon her heart -melted. “Mr. Ashford will not be angry because I don’t like to speak of -it,” she said, raising her eyes to him. “He knows that things are -not--not very happy--at home.” - -Then Mr. Ashford awoke to the thought that he might be intruding upon -her. He took leave of the ladies hurriedly. But when she had given him -her hand, he stood holding it for a minute. “I begin to like Law very -much,” he said. To feel that this was the way in which he could give her -most pleasure was a delicate instinct, but it was not such a pleasure as -it would have been a month ago. Lottie did not speak, but a gleam of -satisfaction rose in her eyes. “If there is anything I can do,” he said -faltering, “to be of use----” - -What could he do? Nothing? He knew that, and so did she. It was only to -himself that this was a consolation, he said to himself when they were -gone. He went away to his comfortable house; and she, slim and light, -turned to the other side of the Abbey, with Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, with -nowhere in the world to go to. Was that so? was it really so? But still -he, with that house of his, a better home than the one which young -Purcell was so eager to offer her, what could he do? Nothing; unless it -were one thing which had not before entered his thoughts, and now, when -it had got in, startled him so, that, middle-aged as he was, he felt his -countenance turn fiery red, and went off at a tremendous pace, as if he -had miles to go. He had only a very little way to go before he reached -his own door, and yet he had travelled more than miles between that and -the dwelling of the Signor. - -As for Lottie, she went home with Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, not knowing what -she was to do after. The elm-tree--that was the only place in the world -that seemed quite clear to her. For a moment, in the sickness of her -disappointment to see Rollo abandon her, she had said to herself that -she would not go; but soon a longing to tell him her trouble came upon -her. After the Abbey bells had roused all the echoes, and the usual -congregation had come from all quarters for the evening service, she -left Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, and went slowly towards the Slopes. It was -still early, and the wintry afternoon was cold. There was an east wind -blowing, parching the landscape, and turning all its living tints into -lines of grey. Lottie was not very warmly clothed. She had her merino -gown and little cloth jacket, very plain garments, not like the furs in -which Augusta had come home; but, then, Lottie was not used to living -like Augusta, and perhaps her thinner wrap kept her as warm. She went up -the Dean’s Walk languidly, knowing that it was too early, but unable to -rest. She would have to go home after all, to steal in and hide herself -in her room, for this night at least; but, after that, what was she to -do? The O’Shaughnessys had not a room to give her. She had no relations -whom she might go to; what was to become of her? When she got to the -elm-tree there was nobody there. She had known it was too early. She sat -down and thought, but what could thinking do? What could she make of it? -She looked over the wide landscape which had so often stilled and -consoled her, but it was all dead and unresponsive, dried up by that -east wind; the earth and the sky, and even the horizon on which they -met, all drawn in pale outlines of grey. Her face was blank and pale, -like the landscape, when the lover for whom she was waiting appeared. -The wind, which was so cold, had driven everybody else away. They had it -all to themselves, this chilly wintry landscape, the shadowy trees, with -a few ragged garments of yellow or faded brown still clinging to them. -Rollo came up breathless, his feet ringing upon the winding path. He -came and placed himself beside her, with a thousand apologies that she -should have had to wait. “It was a trick of Augusta’s,” he said; “I am -sure she suspects something.” Lottie felt that this repeated suggestion -that someone suspected ought not to be made to her. But her paleness and -sadness roused Rollo to the most hearty concern. “Something has -happened,” he said; “I can see it, darling, in your eyes. Tell me what -it is. Have not I a right to know everything?” Indeed he was so anxious -and so tender that Lottie forgot all about offence and her -disappointment, and everything that was painful. Who had she beside to -relieve her burdened heart to, to lean upon in her trouble? She told him -what had happened, feeling that with every word she uttered her load was -being lightened. Oh! how good it is to be able to say forth everything, -to tell someone to whom all that happens to you is interesting! As she -told Polly’s insults, even Polly herself seemed to grow more -supportable. Rollo listened to every word with anxious interest, with -excitement, and indignation and grief. He held her closer to him, -saying, “My poor darling, my poor Lottie!” with outbursts of rage and -tender pity. Lottie’s heart grew lighter and lighter as she went on. He -seemed to her to be taking it all on his shoulders, the whole of the -burden. His eyes shone with love and indignation. It was not a thing -which could be borne; she must not bear it, he would not allow her to -bear it, he cried. Finally, a great excitement seemed to get possession -of him all at once. A sudden impulse seized upon him. He held her closer -than ever, with a sudden tightening of his clasp, and hasty resolution. -“Lottie!” he cried; and she could feel his heart suddenly leap into wild -beating, and looked up trembling and expectant, sure that he had found -some way of deliverance. “Lottie, my love! you must not put up with this -another day. You must come away at once. Why not this very night? I -could not rest and think you were bearing such indignity. You must be -brave, and trust yourself to me. You will not be afraid, my darling, to -trust yourself to me?” - -“To-night!” she said, with a cry of answering excitement, alarm, and -wonder. - -“Why not to-night?” he cried, with more and more energy. “I know a place -where I could take you. A quiet, safe place, with people to take care of -you, who would not suffer you to be annoyed even when I was not there -myself to watch over you. Lottie, dearest, you would not be afraid to -trust yourself to me?” - -“No, Rollo, why should I be afraid?--but----” The suddenness of this -prospect of deliverance, which she did not understand, took away -Lottie’s breath. - -“But--there are no buts. You would be taken care of as if you were in a -palace. You would have everything to make your life pleasant. You could -work at your music----” - -“Ah!” she said, interrupting him; his excitement roused no alarm in her -mind. She was incapable of understanding any meaning in him that was -inconsistent with honour. “Would it be so necessary to think of the -music?” she said. It seemed to her that for Rollo Ridsdale’s wife it -need not be any longer a point essential. A host of other duties, more -sweet, more homely, came before her dazzled eyes. - -“Above all things!” he said, with a sudden panic, “without that what -would you--how could I?----“--the suggestion was insupportable--“but we -can discuss this after,” he said. “Lottie, my Lottie, listen! Trust -yourself to me--let me take you away out of all this misery into -happiness. Such happiness! I scarcely can put it into words. Why should -you have another day of persecution, when you can be free, if you will, -this very night?” - -His countenance seemed aflame as he bent towards her in the wintry -twilight; she could feel the tumultuous beating of his heart. It was no -premeditated villany, but a real impulse, acted upon, without any pause -for thought, with that sudden and impassioned energy which is often more -subtle than the craftiest calculation. Even while his heart beat thus -wildly with awakened passion, Rollo answered the feeble resistance of -his conscience by asking himself what harm could it do her? it would not -interfere with her career. As for Lottie, she raised herself up within -his arm and threw back her head and looked at him, not shrinking from -him nor showing any horror of the suggestion. There was a pause--only -for a moment, but it felt like half-an-hour, while wild excitement, -love, and terror coursed through his veins. Surely she understood him, -and was not alarmed? If she had understood him and flung away from him -in outraged virtue, Rollo would have been abject in guilt and -penitence. For the moment, however, though his heart beat with alarm, -there was a sense of coming triumph in all his being. - -Lottie raised her drooping shoulders, she threw back her head and looked -at him, into the glowing face that was so close to her. Her heart had -given one answering leap of excitement, but was not beating like his. At -that moment, so tremendous to him, it was not passion, but reflection, -that was in her eyes. - -“Let me think--let us think,” she said. “Oh, Rollo! it is a great -temptation. To go away, to be safe with you----” - -“My darling, my own darling! you shall never have cause to fear, never -to doubt me; my love will be as steady, as true----” So high had the -excitement of suspense grown, that he had scarcely breath to get out the -words. - -“Do you think I doubt that?” she said, her voice sounding so calm, so -soft to his excited ear. “That is not the question; there are so many -other things to think of. If you will not think for yourself, I must -think for you. Oh, Rollo, no! I don’t see how it could be. Listen to me; -you are too eager, oh! thank you, dear Rollo, too fond of me, to take -everything into consideration--but _I_ must. Rollo! no, no; it would -never do; how could it ever do, if you will only think? Supposing even -that it did not matter for me, how could you marry your wife from any -place but her home? It would not be creditable,” said Lottie, shaking -her head with all the gentle superiority of reason, “it would not be -right or becoming for you.” - -His arm relaxed round her; he tried to say something, but it died away -in his throat. For the moment the man was conscious of nothing but a -positive pang of gratitude for a danger escaped; he was safe, but he -scarcely dared breathe. Had she understood him as he meant her to -understand him, what vengeance would have flashed upon him, what -thunderbolt scathed him! But for very terror he would have shrunk and -hid his face now in the trembling of the catastrophe escaped. - -“More than that, even,” said Lottie, going on all unaware; “I have -nothing, you know; and how could I take money--_money to live -upon_--from _you_!--till I was married to you? No! it is impossible, -impossible, Rollo. Oh! thank you, thank you a thousand times for having -thought more of me than of anything else; but you see, don’t you see, -how impossible it is? I will never forget,” said the girl softly, -drawing a little closer to him who had fallen away from her in the -strange tumult of failure--yet deliverance--which took all strength -from him, “I will never forget that you were ready to forget everything -that was reasonable, everything that was sensible, and even your own -credit, for me!” - -Another pause, but this time indescribable. In her bosom gratitude, -tender love, and that sweet sense of calmer judgment, of reason less -influenced by passion than it would be fitting or right for his to be, -which a woman loves to feel within herself--her modest prerogative in -the supreme moment; in his a tumult of love, disappointment, relief, -horror of himself, anger and shame, and the thrill of a hairbreadth -escape. He could not say a word; what he had done seemed incredible to -him. The most tremendous denunciation would not have humbled him as did -her unconsciousness. He had made her the most villainous proposal, and -she had not even known what it meant; to her it had seemed all -generosity, love, and honour. His arm dropped from around her, he had no -force to hold her, and some inarticulate exclamation--he could not tell -what--sounded hoarsely in utter confusion and shame in his throat. - -“You are not angry?” she said, almost wooing him in her turn. “Rollo, it -is not that I do not trust you, you know; who should I trust but you? If -that were all, I would put my hand in yours; you should take me -wherever you pleased. But then there are the other things to be -considered. And, Rollo, don’t be angry,” she said, drawing his arm -within hers, “I can bear anything now. After talking to you, after -feeling your sympathy, I can bear anything. What do I care for a woman -like that? Of course I knew,” said Lottie, with tears in her eyes, “that -you did feel for me, that you thought of me, that you were always on my -side. But one wants to have it said over again to make assurance sure. -Now I can bear anything, now I can go home--though it is not much -home--and wait, till you come and fetch me, Rollo, openly, in the light, -in the day.” - -Here, because she was so happy, Lottie put her hands up to her face and -laid those hands upon his shoulder and cried there in such a heavenly -folly of pain and blessedness as words could not describe. That he -should not claim her at once, that was a pain to her; and to think of -that strange, horrible house to which she must creep back, that was pain -which no happiness could altogether drive out of her thoughts. But yet, -how happy she was! What did it matter if for the moment her heart was -often sore? A little while and all would be well; a little while and she -would be delivered out of all these troubles. It was only a question of -courage, of endurance, of fortitude, and patience; and Lottie had got -back her inspiration, and felt herself capable of bearing anything, -everything, with a stout heart. But Rollo had neither recovered his -speech nor his self-possession; shame and anger were in his heart. He -had not been found out, but the very awe of escape was mingled with -intolerable anger; anger no doubt chiefly against himself, but also a -little against her, though why he could not have said. The -unconsciousness of her innocence, which had impressed him so deeply at -first and confounded all his calculations, began to irritate him. How -was it possible she did not understand? was there stupidity as well as -innocence in it? Most people would have had no difficulty in -understanding, it would have been as clear as noonday--or, rather, as -clear as gaslight; as evident as any “intention” could be. He could not -bear this superiority, this obtuseness of believing; it offended him, -notwithstanding that he had made by it what he felt to be the greatest -escape of his life. - -They parted after this not with the same enthusiasm on Rollo’s part as -that which existed on Lottie’s. She was chilled, too, thinking he was -angry with her for not yielding to his desire; and this overcast her -happiness, but not seriously. They stole down by the side of the Abbey, -in the shadow--Lottie talking, Rollo silent. When they came within sight -of the cloister gate and the line of the lodges opposite, Lottie -withdrew her hand from his arm. The road looked empty and dark; but who -could tell what spectator might suddenly appear? She took his _rôle_ in -the eagerness of her heart to make up to him for any vexation her -refusal might have given. “Don’t come any further,” she whispered; “let -us part here; someone might see us.” In her eagerness to make up to him -for her own unkindness, she allowed the necessity for keeping that -secret--though to think of it as a secret had wounded her before. -Nevertheless, when he took her at her word and left her, Lottie, like -the fanciful girl she was, felt a pang of disappointment and painfully -realised her own desolateness, the dismal return all alone to the house -out of which every quality of kindness had gone. Her heart sank, and -with reluctant, lingering steps she came out of the Abbey shadow and -began to cross the Dean’s Walk, her forlorn figure moving slowly against -the white line of the road and the grey of the wintry sky. - -Someone was standing at the door as she came in sight of her father’s -house. It was Captain Despard himself, looking out. “Is that you, -Lottie?” he called out, peering into the gloom. “Come in, come in; where -have you been? You must not stay out again, making everybody anxious.” -Then he came out a step or two from his door and spoke in a whisper: -“You know what a woman’s tongue is,” he said; “they have a great deal -to answer for; but when they get excited, what can stop them? You must -try not to pay any attention; be sensible, and don’t mind--no more than -I do,” Captain Despard said. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXV. - -FAMILY DUTY: ACCORDING TO MRS. DESPARD. - - -There are some victories which feel very much like defeats. When Polly -had scattered her adversaries on every side, driven forth Lottie and got -rid of Law, and silenced Captain Despard--who sat in his room and heard -everything but thought it wisest not to interfere--she retired upstairs -to her drawing-room and celebrated her triumph by shedding torrents of -tears. She had intended to make everybody very wretched, and she had -done so; supposing, perhaps (though she did not really know what her -motive was), that some pleasure would come to herself out of the -discomfiture of the others. But pleasure rarely comes by that means, and -when she had thus chased everybody out of her way, Polly threw herself -down and burst forth into angry sobs and tears. It is not to be supposed -that Captain Despard entertained any romantic illusions about his bride; -he knew very well what Polly was. He had, as facts proved, been -sufficiently fond of her to marry her, but he did not expect of her more -than Polly could give, nor was he shocked to find that she had a temper -and could give violent utterance to its vagaries; all this he had known -very well before. Knowing it, however, he thought it wise to keep out of -the way and not mix himself up in a fray with which evidently he had -nothing to do. Had she gone a step further with Lottie it is possible -that he might have interfered, for, after all, Lottie was his child; and -though he might himself be hard upon her at times, there is generally a -mingled sentiment of family pride and feeling which makes us unwilling -to allow one who belongs to us to be roughly treated by a stranger. But -when Law put himself in the breach, his father sat close and took no -notice; he did not feel impelled to turn his wife’s batteries upon -himself out of consideration for Law. Nor did it make any impression -upon the Captain when he heard her angry sobs overhead. “She will come -to if she is left to herself,” he said, and he did not allow himself to -be disturbed. Polly, in her passion, threw herself on the carpet, -leaning her head upon a chair. She had changed the room after her own -fashion. She had lined the curtains with pink muslin, and fastened her -crochet-work upon the chairs with bows of pink ribbon; she had covered -the old piano with a painted cover, and adorned it with vases and paper -flowers. She had made the faded little room which had seemed a fit home -enough, in its grey and worn humility, for Lottie’s young beauty, into -something that looked very much like a dressmaker’s ante-room, or that -terrible chamber, “handsomely fitted up with toilet requisites,” where -the victims of the photographic camera prepare for the ordeal. But the -loveliness of her handiwork did not console Polly; she got no comfort -out of the pink bows, nor even from the antimacassars--a point in which -Lottie’s room was painfully deficient. She flung herself upon the carpet -and sobbed. What was the use of being a lady, a Chevalier’s wife, and -living here in the heart of the Abbey, if no one called upon her or took -any notice of her? Polly was not of a patient nature; it did not occur -to her even that there was still time for the courtesies she had set her -heart upon gaining. She had looked every day for some one to come, and -no one had ever come; no one had made any advances to her at the Abbey, -which was the only place in which she could assert her position as a -lady and a Chevalier’s wife. Even Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, who had risen from -the ranks, who lived next door, who was not a bit better, nay, who was -much less good than Polly to begin with (for what is a trooper’s wife? -and she had been nothing but a trooper’s wife)--even Mrs. O’Shaughnessy -had passed the door as if she did not see it, and had waited outside -till Miss Lottie came to her. Polly’s dreams had been very different. -She had seen herself in imagination the admired of all admirers; she was -by far the youngest of all the Chevaliers’ wives, and the gentlemen, at -least, she was sure would rally round her. Women might be spiteful, but -men always did justice to a woman when she was handsome and young. Was -not that written in all the records? She expected that the ladies would -be spiteful--_that_ would be indeed a part of her triumph. They would be -jealous of her superior attractions, of her youth, of her husband’s -adoration of her; the old things would be in a flutter of alarm lest -their old men should come within her influence. But Polly had felt -pretty sure that the old gentlemen would admire her and rally round her. -To make the women envious and the men enthusiastic, was not that always -the way? certainly such was the course of events in the _Family Herald_. -The heroine might have one friend devoted to her fortunes, a confidant -more admiring, more faithful even than her lover; but all the rest of -womankind was leagued against her. And so it had been in most of the -novels Polly had read. But that neither men nor women should take any -notice, that was a thing for which she was not prepared, and which she -declared to herself she would not bear. - -She had seen enough already from her windows to make her furious. She -had seen Mrs. O’Shaughnessy ostentatiously waiting for Lottie, walking -up and down outside, making signs to the girl upstairs. She had seen -Captain Temple pass and repass, looking up at the same window. She had -seen the greetings that met Lottie wherever she appeared. The Chevaliers -and their wives had not always looked upon Miss Despard with such -favourable eyes. They had thought her proud, and they had resented her -pride; but now that Lottie was in trouble it was round her they had all -rallied. It was the party at the Deanery, however, which had been the -last drop in Polly’s cup. How was she to know that on the highest -elevation she could reach as the lady of a Chevalier, she was still -beneath the notice of Lady Caroline, and as far as ever from the heaven -of the highest society? Polly did not know. The elevation to which she -herself had risen was so immense in her own consciousness that there -seemed no distinction of ranks above her. She thought, as Lottie had -once thought, though from a different point of view, that gentlefolks -were all one; that a gentleman’s wife, if not so rich or so grand, was -still on a level with Lady Caroline herself, and within the circle which -encompassed the Queen. “You can’t be no better than a gentleman,” Polly -said to herself. You might, it was true, be a lord, which some people -thought better, but even a lord was scarcely above an officer. All this -glorious ambition, however, what was it going to end in? She watched the -carriages going to the Deanery, and with still more furious feelings -she watched Lottie in her white dress crossing the Dean’s Walk. And she -left at home, at the window, neglected, left out, though she was Mrs. -Despard, and the other nobody! Was it possible that it might be better -even to be a dressmaker, forewoman in the workroom, acknowledged to have -the best eye for cutting out, and to be the quickest worker of the lot, -superior so far among her equals--than to be ignored and neglected and -treated as the dust under their feet by a set of poor gentlefolks? Polly -felt that she must wreak her vengeance on somebody. - -When she had got her fit of crying over accordingly, she jumped up to -her feet and hurried to her room to put on her “things.” It was her -“best things” that she put on. Indeed, Polly had been wearing her best -things every day with an extravagance which rather touched her -conscience, though it delighted her fancy. She made herself very fine -indeed that wintry afternoon, and pattered downstairs upon a pair of -high heels which were more splendid than comfortable, and burst into the -little room where Captain Despard sat attentive to all these sounds, and -wondering what was coming next. Few people realise the advantage of a -silly wife to a man who is not over wise. The Captain, though he had a -high opinion of himself, was aware at the bottom of his heart that other -people scarcely shared that sentiment. And to have a wife whom he was -fond of, and whose acquisition flattered his vanity, and who was -unmistakably, though clever enough, less clever, less instructed, than -he was, gave him a sense of superiority which was very pleasant to him. -He looked upon her follies with much more indulgence than he had ever -felt for Lottie, who did not give him the same consolation. - -“Well, what is it now?” he said, with a smile. - -“I want you to come out with me,” Polly said. “I want to buy some -things. My old muff is shabby, I couldn’t wear it in the Abbey. Though -they’re a set of old frights and frumps, I don’t wish your wife to be -looked down upon by them, Harry. I can see them looking at all my -things, counting up what everything costs, and whispering behind my -back. That old Mrs. Jones has trimmed her bonnet exactly like mine, -though she looks as if she was too grand to see me. They ain’t above -copying me, that’s one thing.” - -“No wonder,” said the admiring husband; “for it is long since anything -so young and so handsome has been among them before. Don’t they wish -they could copy your face as well as your bonnet! that’s all.” - -“Oh, get along!” said Polly, well pleased; “you’re always flattering. -Come and buy me a muff. I don’t know what kind to get. Grebe is sweetly -pretty and ermine is delicious, but sealskin, perhaps, is the most -genteel; that always looks lady-like. Did you see Mrs. Daventry go by in -her carriage? Ah!” Polly sighed; how could she help it? She was very -fine in her blue silk, but Augusta was finer. “She has just come from -France, you know, and then, of course, they are rich. She had on a -velvet with sable _that_ deep----! Ah! it’s hard to see folks that are -no better than you with things that are so much better,” cried Polly; -“but, after all, though velvet and sable are very nice, give me -sealskin--that’s always lady-like. A sealskin jacket!--if I had that, I -don’t think there is anything more I should wish for in the world.” - -“Are they very dear?” said the Captain, with a sudden fit of liberality. -He had a native love of buying, which is very general with impecunious -persons, and at present was in a prodigal mood. - -“Dear! Oh, not for the good they are,” said Polly. “You never want -another winter mantle all your life. You’re set up. That makes them -cheap in the end; but they cost a deal of money. I haven’t seen nobody -with one in all the Abbey, except the Canon’s ladies.” - -“Then you shall have one!” said Captain Despard. He looked like a -prince, Polly thought, as he stood there glowing with generous purpose. -The sound of the “O--Oh!” with which she received the offer rang -through the Lodges. Such a shriek of pleasure had not been heard there -since there had been Chevaliers in St. Michael’s. They went out -together, all beaming, arm in arm, the bride clinging fondly to her -husband, the Captain looking down with delighted protection upon his -bride. This sight, which is so pretty in some cases, and calls forth, if -much amusement, often a great deal of sympathy, roused anything but -friendly feelings in the Lodges, where the good people were getting -ready for the afternoon service. Old fool was the best name they had for -the bridegroom, though he was not very old; and Polly was a grievance -which the ladies could not tolerate. They looked after her from their -windows with feelings which were far from Christian. It was a thing they -ought not to have been exposed to. There should have been an appeal to -the Queen, if the gentlemen had the least energy. “But even the Queen, -bless her! could not keep a man from marrying,” the Warden said, -deprecatingly. He did not like it any more than they did; but it is only -when you are yourself of the executive that you know the difficulties of -action; that is why the ladies are such critics--they have not got it to -do. - -Captain and Mrs. Captain Despard (Polly had got beautiful glazed cards -printed stiff and strong with this title upon them) walked down to the -best shop in St. Michael’s, which is a very good shop indeed; and there -they bought a _beautiful sealskin_. Impossible to tell the pride, the -happiness, the glory with which Polly acquired this new possession. She -had not expected it. These were the days when sealskins were still a -hope, a desire, an aspiration to the female mind, a property which -elevated its possessor, and identified her among her peers. “That lady -with the sealskin,” who would think of pointing out anybody by so -general a description now? are they not even going out of fashion? But -Polly, for one, could not realise the possibility that such a thing -could ever happen. And she had not anticipated such a bliss; the -happiness was doubled by being unforeseen. This, indeed, was a proof of -the blessedness of being a married lady, of having bettered herself, of -having married a gentleman. Her mind was in a confusion of delight. -Nevertheless she did not forget that she had come out with another and -quite distinct purpose. The fact that she had herself been so fortunate -did not turn her from her mission. Was it not more her duty than ever to -do everything that could be done for her husband’s family? When she had -decided upon her sealskin, Polly began to shiver. She said, “It is a -very cold day. I don’t know why it should be so cold so early in the -year. Don’t you think it is very cold, Harry? I have come out without -any wrap. Do you know I think I will put the sealskin _on_.” Why should -not she? The proprietor of the shop accomplished the sale with a pang. -He knew Captain Despard well enough and he knew Polly, and he trembled -when he thought of his bill. But what could he be but civil? He put it -on for her--though how any ordinary sealskin could have covered a bosom -so swelling with pride and bliss it is hard to say. And the pair went -out together as they came in, except that one was almost speechless with -the proud consciousness of drawing all eyes. “It is not the appearance,” -said Polly, “but it _is_ so deliciously warm; there never was anything -like it. And now I am set up. I shall not cost you any more for a winter -cloak, not for years and years.” “I thought you said it was to last for -ever,” said the Captain, equally delighted. They promenaded all the way -down St. Michael’s Hill, the admired of all beholders. If the remarks -that were made were not precisely such as Polly hoped, still there was -no doubt that remarks were made by everybody, and that the sealskin had -all the honour it deserved. Sometimes, indeed, there would be a bitter -in the sweet, as when the Captain took off his hat with jaunty grace to -some lady whom he knew. “Who is that?” Polly would ask sharply; but the -ladies all hurried by, and never stopped to be introduced; and no man -took off his hat to Polly. Even against this, however, the happiness -that wrapped her round defended Mrs. Despard. And how the people -stared!--people who had seen her going up and down with a little bundle -of patterns on her way to her work, on her way to try on a dress--people -in the shops, who had been her equals if not her superiors--to see them -gazing out at her with big eyes, at her fine sealskin and her fine -husband, that comforted her soul. She walked slowly, getting the full -good of her triumph. But when she had got to the foot of the hill she -dismissed her escort. “Now you may go,” she said; “you always had plenty -to do in the old days. I don’t want you to say _I_ tie you to my -apron-string. You may go now.” - -“This is a pretty way to dismiss your husband,” said Captain Despard; -“and where are you going, may I ask, that you send me away?” - -“Oh, I will tell you fast enough. I am not going anywhere you can -disapprove of. I am going to see the girls,” said Polly, “that is all.” - -“The girls! My love, you must recollect,” said Captain Despard with -dignity, “that the girls, as you call them, are not fit companions for -you.” - -“You may trust me to know my place,” said Polly, “and to keep them in -theirs. I should think you may trust _me_.” - -Fortified by this assurance, the Captain left his lovely bride. He -turned back to kiss his hand to her when he was half way up the hill, -prolonging the sweet sorrow of the parting, and Polly blew him a kiss -with infantine grace. It was “as good as a play.” “Lord, what fools -they are!” said the fishmonger on the hill, who was a cynic! and the -young ladies in the draper’s shop shook their heads at each other and -said, “Poor gentleman!” with the profoundest commiseration. - -When he had left her, Polly threw out her skirts and smoothed the fur of -her lovely new coat with a caressing hand. She felt that she loved it. -It was more entirely delightful than even her husband--a happiness -without alloy. She walked very slowly, enjoying every step of the way. -She gave a penny to the beggar at the corner in the fulness of her -satisfaction. So far her happiness had evidently a fine moral influence -on Polly; and she was going to pay a visit, which was also very kind, to -“the girls” in the River Lane. She was not one to forget old friends. -She sailed along in her pride and glory through the quarter where she -was so well known, and curved her nostrils at the smells, and allowed -disgust to steal over her face when her path was crossed by an unlovely -figure. Polly flattered herself that she was a fine lady complete; and -there was no doubt that the imitation was very good in the general, so -long as you did not enter into details. - -At the entrance of the River Lane, however, she ceased to stand upon -ceremony with herself. She picked up her skirts and went on at a more -business-like rate of speed. Some one was coming up against the light, -which by this time of the afternoon came chiefly from the west, someone -with his shoulders up to his ears, who took off his hat to Polly, and -pleased her until she perceived that it was only Law. “You here!” she -said: and as she looked at him the moral influence of the sealskin -almost vanished. Thus she went in state to visit the scenes in which so -much of her previous life had passed. But a new sentiment was in Polly’s -eyes. She felt that she had a duty to do--a duty which was superior to -benevolence. She pushed open the green swing door with a delicious sense -of the difference. The girls were talking fast and loud when she opened -the door, discussing some subject or other with all the natural chatter -of the workroom. There was a pause when the sound of her heels and the -rustle of her silk was heard--a hush ran round the table. How well Polly -knew what it meant! “They will think it is a customer,” she said to -herself; and never customer swept in more majestically. They were all at -work when she entered, as if they did not know what it was to chatter, -and Ellen rose respectfully at the first appearance of the lady. - -“Mother is upstairs, ma’am, but I can take any orders,” she said; and -then with a shriek cried out “Polly!” - -“Polly!” echoed all the girls. - -Here was a visitor indeed. They got up and made a circle round her, -examining her and all she “had on.” “In a sealskin!” ’Liza and Kate -cried in a breath, with an admiration which amounted to awe. One of them -even put forth her hand to stroke it in her enthusiasm. For an instant -Polly allowed this fervour of admiration to have its way. Then she said, -languidly-- - -“Give me a chair, please, and send Mrs. Welting to me. I wish to speak -to Mrs. Welting. I am sorry to interrupt your work, young ladies--it is -Mrs. Welting I want to see.” - -“But, Polly!” the girls cried all together. They were too much startled -to know what to say. They stood gaping in a circle round her. - -“I thought you had come to see us like a friend--like what you used to -be.” - -“And weren’t we all just glad to see you again, Polly--and quite the -lady!” cried another. They would not take their dismissal at the first -word. - -“Young ladies,” said Polly, “I’ve not come in any bad spirit. I don’t -deny as I’ve passed many a day here. My family (though always far above -the dressmaking) was not well off, and I shall always be thankful to -think as I did my best for them. But now that I’m married, in a -different position,” said Polly, “though always ready to stand your -friend, when you want a friend, or to recommend you among the Abbey -ladies, you can’t think as I can go on with you like you were in my own -sphere. Where there’s no equality there can’t be no friendship. Perhaps -you wouldn’t mind opening a window? It’s rather early to put on my -sealskin, but one never knows at this time of the year--and I’m ’eated -with my walk. Send Mrs. Welting to me, please.” - -There was a great commotion among the girls. The two passive ones stood -with open mouth, struck dumb by this magnificence. - -“Lor!” cried Kate, finding no other word that could express her emotion. - -Emma, though she was the youngest, was the most vehement of all. “I know -what she’s come for. She’s come to make mischief,” cried Emma. “I -wouldn’t fetch mother. I wouldn’t go a step. Let her speak straight out -what she’s got to say.” - -“There’s reason in everything,” said Ellen. “You mayn’t mean to keep us -up like friends. Just as you like, I’m sure; none of us is wanting to -keep it up; but mother takes no hand in the business, and that you know -as well as me.” - -“Send Mrs. Welting to me,” cried Polly, waving her hand majestically. -She did not condescend to any further reply. She leant back on her chair -and unfastened her beloved mantle at the throat. Then she 5 got out a -laced handkerchief and fanned herself. “Me that thought it was so cold,” -Polly remarked to herself, “and it’s like summer!” She did not pay any -further attention to the young women, who consulted together with great -indignation and excitement at a little distance. - -“What can she have to say to mother? I wouldn’t call mother, not if she -was to sit there for a week,” said Emma, who had a presentiment as to -the subject of the visit. - -“Lord! just look at her in her sealskin,” interrupted Kate, who could -think of nothing else. - -But Ellen, who was the serious one, paused and hesitated. “We can’t tell -what it may be--and if it turned out to be a job, or something she had -got us from some of the Abbey ladies! She’s not bad natured,” said -Ellen, full of doubts. - -All this time Polly waved her handkerchief about, with its edge of lace, -fanning herself. She looked at no one--she was too much elevated above -all the associations of the place to deign to take any notice. Had not -she always been above it? With her disengaged hand she smoothed the fur -of her sealskin, rubbing it knowingly upward. She was altogether -unconscious of their talk and discussion. What could _they_ have in -common with Mrs. Despard? To see her, if any of her former associates -had been cool enough to notice it, was still “as good as a play.” - -The upshot was, that while the others, with much ostentation of dragging -their seats to the other end of the table, sat down and resumed their -work with as much appearance of calm as possible, Ellen ran upstairs in -obedience to her own more prudent suggestions, and reappeared shortly -with her mother, a large, comely woman, who, not knowing who the visitor -was, was a little expectant, hoping for a very good order--a trousseau, -or perhaps mourning. “Or it might be the apartments,” Mrs. Welting said. -And when she entered the workroom she made the lady a curtsey, then -cried out, as her daughters had done, “Why, bless my heart, Polly! The -idea of taking me in like this, you saucy things,” she cried, turning, -laughing, upon the girls. But she did not get any response from these -indignant young women, nor from Polly, who made no reply to her -salutation, but sat still, delicately fanning herself. - -Mrs. Welting stood between the two opposed parties, wondering what was -the matter. Since Polly was here, she could have come only in -friendship. “I’m sure I’m very glad to see you,” she said, “and looking -so well and so ’andsome. And what a lovely sealskin you’ve got on!” - -“Mrs. Welting,” said Polly, with great dignity, taking no notice of -these friendly remarks, “I asked for you because I’ve something to say -that is very particular. You don’t take much charge of the business, but -it is you as one must turn to about the girls. Mrs. Welting, you mayn’t -know, but there’s goings on here as always gave me a deal of annoyance. -And now I’ve come to tell you they must be put a stop to. I never could -endure such goings on, and I mean to put a stop to them now.” - -“Lord bless us!” said Mrs. Welting. She was really alarmed. She gave a -glance round upon her girls, all bursting with self-defence, and made -them a sign to be silent. Then she turned to her visitor with a mixture -of anxiety and defiance. “Speak up, Polly,” she said; “nobody shall say -as I won’t listen, if there’s anything against my girls; but speak up, -for you’ve gone too far to stop now.” - -“How hot it is, to be sure!” said Mrs. Despard, “in this close bit of a -place. I wish someone would open a window. I can’t think how I could -have put up with it so long. And I wonder what my ’usband would say if -he heard me spoke to like that? I thought you would have the sense to -understand that I’ve come here for your good. It wasn’t to put myself on -an equality with folks like you, working for your living. I don’t want -to be stuck up, but a lady must draw the line somewhere. Mrs. Welting, I -don’t suppose you know it--you ain’t often in the workroom--it would be -a deal better if you was. There’s gentlemen comes here, till the place -is known all over the town; and there is one young gentleman as I take a -deal of interest in as makes me and his papa very uneasy all along of -coming here----” - -“Gentlemen! coming here!” cried Mrs. Welting, looking round upon her -daughters with mingled anger and dismay. - -“I know what I’m talking about,” said Polly; “let them contradict me if -they dare. He comes here mostly every day. One of the girls is that -silly as to think he’s after her. After her! I hope as he has more -sense; he knows what’s what a deal too well for that. He takes his fun -out of them--that is what he does. But you may think yourself what kind -of feelings his family has--the Captain and me. That’s the one that -encourages him most,” Mrs. Despard added, pointing out Emma with her -finger. “She is always enticing the poor boy to come here.” - -“Oh, you dreadful, false, wicked story!” cried Emma, flushed and crying. -“Oh, mother, it ain’t nothing of the kind! It was she as brought him -first. She didn’t mind who came when she was here. She said it was no -harm, it was only a bit of fun. We was always against it--at least Ellen -was,” added the culprit, bursting forth into sobs and tears. - -“Yes, I always was,” said Ellen, demurely--it was not in human nature -not to claim the palm of superior virtue--“but it was not Emma, it was -Polly that began. I’ve heard her argue as it was no harm. She was the -first with the Captain, and then when young Mr. Despard----” - -“I am not going to sit here, and listen to abuse of my family,” said -Polly, rising. “I wouldn’t have mentioned no names, for I can’t abide to -have one as belongs to me made a talk about in a place like this. I came -to give you a warning, ma’am, not these hardened things. It isn’t for -nothing a lady in my position comes down to the River Lane. I’ve got my -beautiful silk all in a muddle, and blacks upon a white bonnet is -ruination. I did it for your sake, Mrs. Welting, for I’ve always had a -respect for you. And now I’ve done my Christian duty,” said Polly, with -vehemence, shaking the dust from her blue silk. “There’s them that talk -about it, like that little Methody Ellen, but there ain’t many that do -it. But don’t let anybody suppose,” she cried, growing hotter and -hotter, “that I mean to do it any more! If you let him come here after -this, I won’t show you any mercy--we’ll have the law of you, my ’usband -and I. There’s laws against artful girls as entice poor innocent young -men. Don’t you go for to think,” cried Mrs. Despard, sweeping out while -they all gazed after her, speechless, “because I’ve once done my -Christian duty that I’m going to do it any more!” - -We will not attempt to describe the commotion that followed--the -reproaches, the tears, the fury of the girls betrayed, of which none was -more hot than that of Ellen, who had to stand and hear herself called a -Methody--she who was conscious of being an Anglican and a Catholic -without blemish, and capable of anything in the world before Dissent. - -Polly sailed up the hill, triumphant in that consciousness of having -done her duty as a Christian, but equally determined not to do it any -more; and what with the consciousness of this noble performance, and -what with the sealskin, found it in her power to be almost agreeable to -her step-daughter, when the Captain, who, after all, was Lottie’s -father, and did not like the idea that his girl should be banished from -his house, had met her and brought her in. - -“She has not had the careful bringing-up that you have had, my child,” -the Captain said. “She hasn’t had your advantages. You must have a -little patience with her, for my sake.” Captain Despard had always been -irresistible when he asked tenderly, with his head on one side, and an -insinuating roll in his voice, that anything should be done for his -sake. - -Lottie, who was happy in the sense of her lover’s readiness to sacrifice -everything for her sake (as she thought), and to whom the whole world -seemed fairer in consequence, yielded without any struggle; while Polly, -on her part, put on her most gracious looks. - -“If you take every word I say for serious,” said Polly, “I don’t know -whatever I shall do. I never was used to have my words took up hasty -like that. I say a deal of naughtiness that I don’t mean--don’t I, -Harry? You and me would never have come together, should we, if you’d -always gone and taken me at my word?” And so the reconciliation was -effected, and things went on as before. There was no similar occurrence -in respect to Law, whose looks at Polly were murderous; but, then, Law -had no delicacy of sentiment, and, whatever had happened, would have -come into his meals all the same. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVI. - -FAMILY DUTY: BY A FINER ARTIST. - - -Rollo did not come away from the strange excitement of that interview on -the Slopes with the same feelings which filled the mind of Lottie. The -first intense sensation of shame with which he had realised the villany -of the proposal which Lottie did not understand soon changed into a -different sentiment. He had felt its guilt, its treacherous cruelty, -under the guise of devotion, far more bitterly and intensely than as if -she had understood and denounced him; and the relief of his escape from -an indignation and horror which must have been as overwhelming as the -confidence, had made him feel how great a danger he had run, and how -terrible to him, as well as to her, would have been the discovery of his -base intention. How could he ever think that Lottie, proud, and pure, -and fearless of evil as she was, could have fallen into such a snare! He -felt himself a fool as well as a villain; perceiving, too, by the light -of fact, what he would not have understood in theory, that the very -uncomprehension of innocence makes guilt contemptible as well as -terrible. If she could have understood him, he would scarcely have felt -so mean, so miserable, so poor a creature as he did now; not even a gay -and fine betrayer, but a pitiful cheat and would-be criminal, false to -everything that nature trusts in. Rollo had not been irreproachable -hitherto; but such sins as he had indulged in had been done among those -who were sinners like himself, among people who had a cynical -comprehension of the worth of promises and the value of vows. He had -never tried that _rôle_ of the seducer before; and the fact that his own -shame and horror were real made them all the more hard to bear. Shame, -however, of this bitter kind is not an improving influence. Soon it -began to turn to anger equally bitter. He tried to think that Lottie was -partly to blame, that she had “led him on,” that he never would have -gone so far but for “encouragement” from her. Even it flashed across his -mind that she was not so unconscious as she appeared, but had pretended -ignorance in order to rivet her chains upon him, and force him to the -more honourable way which was so much more for her interest. He tried to -force this idea into his own mind, which was not sufficiently depraved -to receive it; but yet it was not long before he was angry, irritated -against the girl who would not understand him, and sore with the -humiliation she had inflicted unawares. - -Other influences, too, came in to break the purer spell of honourable -love under which Rollo, to his own surprise, had so entirely fallen. -With the return of Augusta and her husband, the world seemed to have -come back and seized him. Even the society of Augusta, of itself, had an -immediate influence, breaking up the magic of the seclusion in which he -had been content to live. Lady Caroline was not a woman who could be -called unworldly, but she was passive, and did not take any initiative -even in the way of gossip. She liked to hear it; there came a little -gleam of interest to her eyes when the stories of the great world were -brought to her, when she was told who was going to marry who, and by -what schemes and artifices the marriage had been brought about; and who -had most frequently and boldly broken the marriage vow, and by whom it -had been most politely eluded; and how everybody lived and cheated, and -nothing was as it seemed; and all that is done for money, and that is -done for pleasure, in that busy, small, narrow-minded village -society--which is the world. But though she loved to hear, she could not -begin; for, unless people told her what was going on, how, she sometimes -asked piteously, was she to know? As for the Dean, he was not in the -habit of it any more than his wife, though when he went to town he would -bring down invariably a piece of news from his club--of somebody’s -appointment, or somebody’s good luck, or somebody’s wedding. “Now, why -can’t you go and do likewise?” he would say to Rollo. But all this was -mild and secondary in comparison with Augusta, who brought the very air -of what Mr. Jenkins calls the Upper Ten into the Deanery, perfuming all -the rooms and all the meals with stories of fortunes won and lost, of -squabbles, ministerial and domestic, of marriages and dinners alike -“arranged,” and all the wonderful _dessous des cartes_ and _behind the -scenes_ with which so many people are acquainted in fashionable life. -Who so well as Augusta knew that when the Duke of Mannering gave up his -governorship, it was not from any political reason, but because the life -he led was such that the place was far too hot to hold him, and -Government was only too glad to send out Algy Fairfax, though he was -only a younger son, and had no particular interest, simply to smooth -things down? And what a lucky thing it was for Algy to be there just at -the right moment, when there was nobody else handy, and just when Lord -Arthur was there, who had got him to explain matters to his elder -brother, and knew what he could do! It was what old Lady Fairfax had -been scheming for all her life, just as she had been scheming to catch -young Snellgrove for Mina. Of course she had succeeded. Mina was almost -distracted, everybody knew. It was she who had that affair with Lord -Colbrookdale, and now everybody said she was wildly in love with -Reginald Fane, her cousin; but she might just as well be in love with -St. Paul’s, for he had not a penny, and she was to be married directly. -Did you hear about her settlements? They were simply ridiculous. But -that old woman was wonderful. There was nothing she did not think of, -and everything she wanted she got. And then there was that story about -poor young Jonquil, of the War Department, who married somebody quite -out of the question, a poor clergyman’s daughter, or something of that -sort, without a penny (though he might have had the rich Miss Windsor -Brown for the asking, people said), and of the dreadful end he had come -to, living down in some horrid weedy little cottage about Kew, and -wheeling out two babies in a perambulator. All these tales, and a -thousand more, Augusta told, filling the Deanery with a shameful train -of people, all doing something they did not want to do, or forcing -others to do it, or following their pleasure through every law, human -and divine. Lady Caroline sat in her easy-chair (she was not allowed to -put up her feet except in the evening, after dinner, when Augusta was at -home), and listened with half-closed eyes, but unfailing attention. “I -knew his father very well,” she would say now and then, or “his mother -was a great friend of mine.” As for Rollo, he knew all the people of -whom these stories were told. He had seen the things beginning of which -his cousin knew all the conclusions, and what went on behind the scenes, -and thus he was carried back after the idyll of the last six weeks to -his own proper world. He began to feel that there was no world but that, -that nothing else could make up for the want of it; and a shudder ran -over him when he thought of Jonquil’s fate. Augusta, for her part, did -not conceal her surprise to find him at the Deanery. “What is Rollo -doing here?” she said to her mother. - -“I am sure, my dear, I do not know. He seems to like it, and we are very -glad to have him,” Lady Caroline replied. But that did not satisfy Mrs. -Daventry’s curiosity. What could a young man of fashion, a man of the -world, do here? - -“I wonder what he is after,” she said; “I wonder what his object can be. -It can’t be only your society and papa’s. I should just like to know -what he is up to. He is not a fool, to have gone and got entangled -somehow. I wonder what he can mean by it!” Augusta cried; but her mother -could give her no idea. Lady Caroline thought it was natural enough. - -“I don’t see that it is so strange,” she said. “Autumn is a terrible -time. To sleep in a strange bed night after night, and never settle down -anywhere! Rollo likes to be comfortable; and then there is this Miss -Despard. You have heard about Miss Despard?” - -“What about Miss Despard?” Augusta said, pricking up her ears. - -“She is to be the prima donna,” said Lady Caroline. “He thinks she will -make his fortune. He has always got some wild scheme in his head. He -used to annoy me very much to have her here----” - -“And did you have her here?” cried Augusta, roused into sudden -excitement. “Oh, why didn’t I know of it! I thought there must be some -reason! Lottie Despard! And were you obliged to have her here, mamma? -What a bore it must have been for you!” - -“I did not like it, my dear,” her ladyship said. But after a while she -added, conscience compelling her, “She sang very nicely, Augusta; she -has a pretty voice.” - -“She has plenty of voice, but she cannot sing a note,” said Augusta, -with vehemence, who was herself, without any voice to speak of, a very -well-trained musician. She would not say any more to frighten Lady -Caroline, but she took her measures without delay. And the result of -Augusta’s enquires was that Rollo found his feet entangled in a web of -engagements which separated him from Lottie. But though he was sore and -angry, he had not given up Lottie, nor had he any intention so to do. -When, however, the day came for Lottie’s next lesson, Mrs. Daventry -herself did the Signor the honour of calling upon him just before his -pupil appeared. “You know the interest I always took in Lottie. Please -let me stay. We have so many musical friends in town that I am sure I -can be of use to her,” Mrs. Daventry said; and the consequence was that -when Lottie and her companion entered the Signor’s sitting-room, the -great chair between the fire and the window in which Mrs. O’Shaughnessy -usually placed herself was found to be already occupied by the much -greater lady, whose sudden appearance in this cordial little company put -everybody out. Augusta sat leaning back in the big chair, holding a -screen between her cheek and the fire, her fine Paris bonnet, her furs, -and her velvet making a great appearance against the dark wall, and her -smiles and courtesy confounding every individual of the familiar party. -She was more refined, far less objectionable than Polly, and did her -spiriting in a very different way; but there could be little doubt that -the fine artist was also the most effectual. She put the entire party -out, from the least to the greatest, though the sweetest of smiles was -on her face. Even the Signor was not himself with this gracious -personage superintending his exertions. He was a good English Tory, of -the most orthodox sentiments; but he was at the same time an impatient -Italian, of despotic tastes, and did not easily tolerate the position of -second in his own house. Rollo, who had determined to be present, -whatever happened, but who, by a refinement of cruelty, did not know his -cousin was coming, came in with all the ease of habit, and had already -betrayed the fact of his constant attendance at these strange lessons, -when Augusta called to him, covering him with confusion. “We shall be -quite a family party,” she said. “I’m so glad you take an interest in -poor Lottie _too_.” Rollo could not but ask himself what was the meaning -of this sudden friendliness and interest; but he was obliged to place -himself by her side when she called him. And when Lottie came in, at -whom he did not dare to look, his position became very uncomfortable. -Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, finding her seat occupied, and herself compelled to -take a lower place, sat down on a chair near the door, with wrath which -made her countenance flame. She had stood up in the room a minute before -she seated herself, looking round for a more comfortable place, and had -greeted Mr. Ridsdale joyously as an old friend. But even Rollo, usually -so polite, who never saw her without doing his very best to make himself -agreeable, even he never attempted to introduce her to his cousin, and -the good woman sat down accordingly, against the wall, silent and -fuming, while Augusta took the chief place. The stranger in the midst -of them turned the whole party upside down. Even Purcell was so occupied -by the conversation that was kept up in whispers by Augusta, in her -corner, even during the singing, that he missed to turn the leaves at -the proper moment. Augusta knew very well what she was doing. She had a -respect for the Signor, but she had higher purposes in hand. She kept -Rollo by her side, and kept up a conversation with him through all, -which was, like her usual conversation, deeply pervaded by the essence -of society and “the Upper Ten.” She kept it up in a whisper when Lottie -began to sing. “Don’t you think she is handsome? She is a little like -Lady Augustus Donjon about the eyes--don’t you think so? Oh, I never -told you that good story about the Augustus Donjons,” said Mrs. -Daventry; and she told her story, all through the song, half audible. - -“Wasn’t it good?” Augusta said; and then, “That is such a pretty song; -and, Lottie, you are so improved, I should never have known it to be the -same voice. Yes, wasn’t it good, Rollo? Augustus Donjon is always the -first to laugh himself, and even the children have got it in the -nursery. She is such a jolly woman, she never minds. What are we going -to have next? Oh, that will be very nice!” said Augusta. - -Was it wonderful that Purcell should lose the place? The young fellow -did all he could to stop the fine lady with furious glances; and the -Signor, though his back was turned to her, felt the whisper and the -indignity run through every nerve of him. Even in his back you could -see, Purcell thought, how horribly annoyed he was. His sensitive -shoulders winced and shuddered, his elbows jerked. He could not attend -to his accompaniment, he could not attend to his pupil. In the very -midst of a song he said aloud, distracted by the s’s of a whisper which -was louder than usual, “This must never happen again.” As for Lottie, -she did not know what she was doing. She sang--because it was the hour -for her lesson, because she found herself standing there by the side of -the Signor’s piano--but not for any other reason. She had neither -inspiration, nor had she that nascent sense that Art might perhaps -console for other losses which she had once felt when Rollo was away. -She was distracted by the whispering behind her, from which she could -not withdraw her attention. Why did he listen? Why did he allow Augusta -to draw him into unfaithfulness to her? And yet, how could he help it? -Was it not all Augusta’s fault? But with whomsoever the fault lay, -Lottie was the victim. Her voice could not be got out. And the reader -knows that Augusta was right--that this poor girl, though she had the -voice of an angel, did not as yet know how to sing, and had no science -to neutralise the impressions made upon her which took away all her -heart and her voice. She went on making a brave fight; but when once the -Signor faltered in his accompaniment, and said loud out, “This must -never happen again,” and when Purcell forgot to turn the page, what is -it to be supposed Lottie could do, who was not the tenth part of a -musician such as they were? She faltered, she went wrong. Tune she could -not help keeping, it was in her nature: even her wrong notes were never -out of harmony; but in time she went wildly floundering, not even kept -right by the Signor. Even that did not matter very much, seeing that -none of these people, who generally were so critical, so censorious, so -ready to be hard upon her out of pure anxiety for her, were in a state -of mind to perceive the mistakes she was making. And it was only vaguely -that Lottie herself was aware of them. Her whole attention was attracted -in spite of herself by the whispering in the corner. - -“Oh, thank you so much!” Augusta broke forth, when she came to the end. -“What a charming bit that is! It is Schubert, of course, but I don’t -know it. The time was a little odd, but the melody was beautiful.” - -“You know my weakness,” said the Signor stiffly, turning round. “I -cannot answer for myself when people are talking. I am capable of doing -anything that is wrong.” - -“Oh! I remember,” cried Mrs. Daventry; “you used to be very stern with -all our little societies. Not a word were we allowed to say. We all -thought it hard, but of course it was better for us in the long run. And -are you as tyrannical as ever, Signor?” - -“Not so tyrannical since ladies come here, and carry on their charming -conversation all the same. I only wish I could have profited by it. It -seemed amusing and instructive. If I were not unhappily one of those -poor creatures who can only do one thing at a time----” - -“Oh, Signor, how very severe you are!” said Augusta. “I was only telling -my cousin some old stories which I am sure you must have heard weeks -ago. You know the Donjons? No! Oh, I thought everybody knew the Augustus -Donjons! They go everywhere; they have friends in music and friends in -art, and you meet all sorts of people at their house. Lottie, when you -are a great singer, I hope you will remember me, and send me cards now -and then for one of your concerts. There are so many things going on -now, and all so expensive, that people in our circumstances really can’t -do everything. Spencer has stalls where we go when there is anything -particular; but I assure you, now-a-days, one can no more afford a box -at the opera----! You know, Signor; but I daresay your friends always -find you places somewhere.” - -“That is true. If everything else fails, a friend of mine who plays -second violin will lend me his instrument,” said the Signor, “or a -box-keeper now and then will be glad of an evening’s holiday. They are -_blasés_, these people. They do not care if Patti sings. They will -rather have a holiday and go to a music-hall.” - -Augusta looked at her cousin, puzzled. She did not see the irony. After -all, she thought, there was not, perhaps, so very much difference -between a musician and those perfectly gentlemanlike people who showed -you to your box or your stall. She had often thought how nice they -looked. The Signor saw her bewilderment, and added, with a smile--“You -have never recognised me in my borrowed part?” - -“Oh, Signor!--certainly not. I never meant to say anything that would -suggest--to imply anything that might----indeed, I hope you will not -think I have been indiscreet,” cried Augusta. “But, Rollo, we must go, -we must certainly go. I told mamma you would come with me to see the old -Skeffingtons. Spencer is away, and I must return their call. Signor, I -do hope you will forgive me. I meant nothing that was disagreeable. I am -sure we are all put to worse straits than that, in order to get a little -amusement without ruining ourselves. Oh, Rollo, _please_ come away!” - -Rollo had snatched an instant as Lottie gathered her music together. -“It is not my fault,” he said. “She never lets me alone. I did not know -she was coming here to-day. Do not put on that strange look.” - -“Have I a strange look?” Lottie said. What ups and downs were hers!--the -other day so triumphant, and now again so cast down and discouraged. The -tears were standing in her eyes, but she looked at him bravely. “It does -not matter,” she said; “perhaps she does not mean it. It takes away my -heart, and then I have not any voice.” - -“Oh, my love!” he whispered under his breath. “And I must put up with it -all. At the elm-tree, dear, to-night.” - -“Oh, no, no!” she said. - -“Why no no? it is not my fault. Dear, for pity----” - -“What are you saying to Miss Despard, Rollo? I am jealous of you, -Lottie; my cousin never comes to my lessons. And, indeed, I wonder the -Signor allows it. It is very delightful for us, but how you can work, -really _work_ with such a train!” Augusta turned round and looked -severely at Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. “If I were the Signor I should not admit -one creature except your maid.” - -But this was an indignity which mortal could not endure. The kind -Irishwoman rose to her feet as quickly as the low chair would permit. -“And sure, I agree with the lady,” she said. “Lottie, me love, I can -bear a deal for you, and I’ve stood your friend through thick and thin, -as all here knows. But come again to the Signor’s I won’t, not if you -were to go down on your knees--unless he gives his word of honour that -them that hasn’t a scrap of manners, them that don’t know how to behave -themselves, that whispers when you’re singing, and interrupts when -you’re speaking, will never be here again to insult you--at least not -when Mistress O’Shaughnessy’s here.” - -Leaving this fine outburst of indignation to vibrate through the room, -Mrs. O’Shaughnessy turned upon her heel, and, grasping Lottie by the -arm, took the _pas_ from Augusta, and marched out with blazing eyes and -countenance flushed with war. “Ye can bring the music,” she said to old -Pick, who had been listening, and whose disappointment at Lottie’s -break-down was great, “and there’ll be a shilling for you. I’d scorn to -be beholden to one of them.” Rollo made an anxious attempt, but in vain, -to catch Lottie’s eyes as she was swept past him. But Lottie would not -return his glance. Augusta had done a great deal more execution with her -subtle tactics than Polly with hers--which, perhaps, were not more -brutal because they were so much less refined. - -“What an odious woman!” Augusta cried; “walking out of the room before -_me_. But, Rollo, she was quite right, though she was so impudent. You -ought not to go there. Mamma says you want Lottie Despard for your new -opera. She would never do. She has a voice, but she doesn’t know how to -sing. A good audience would never put up with her.” - -“That is all a mistake,” said Rollo; “it may be very well to know how to -sing, but it is much better to have a voice.” - -“I could not have supposed you were so old-fashioned; never say that in -public if you want anyone to have any opinion of you. But even if you -are so sure of her you should keep away; you should not interfere with -her training. The fact is,” said Augusta, very seriously, “I am -dreadfully afraid you have got into some entanglement even now.” - -“You are very kind,” said Rollo, smiling, “to take such care of me.” - -“I wish I could take a great deal more care. I am almost sure you have -got into some entanglement, though, of course, you will say no. But, -Rollo, you know, you might as well hang yourself at once. You could -never hold up your head again. I don’t know what on earth would become -of you. Uncle Courtland would wash his hands of you, and what could any -of your friends do? It would be moral suicide,” said Augusta, with -solemnity. “I told you about young Jonquil, and the state he was in. -Rollo! that’s the most miserable thing that can happen to a man; other -things may go wrong, and mend again; your people may interpose, or a -hundred things may happen; but this sort of thing is without hope. Oh, -Rollo, take it to heart! There are many things a man may do that don’t -tell half so much against him. You would be poor, and everybody would -give you up. For goodness’ sake, Rollo, think of what I say.” - -He gave her an answer which was not civil; and, as he went along by her -side to old Canon Skeffington’s, there suddenly gleamed across his mind -a recollection of the elm-tree on the Slopes, and all the sweetness of -the stolen hours which had passed there. And Lottie had said “No.” Why -should she have said “No?” It seemed to him that he cared for nothing -else so much as to know why for this first time she had refused to meet -him. Had she began to understand his proposition? had she found out what -it was he meant? Was she afraid of him, or indignant, or----? But she -had not looked indignant. Of all things in the world, there was nothing -he wanted so much as to know what Lottie meant by that refusal. Yet, -notwithstanding, he did take to heart what Augusta said. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVII. - -ANOTHER CHANCE. - - -Mr. Ashford, the Minor Canon, had, anyone would have supposed, as -tranquil yet as pleasantly occupied a life as a man could have. He had -not very much of a clergyman’s work to do. There was no need for him to -harass himself about the poor, who are generally a burden upon the -shoulders or hung about the neck of the parish priest; he was free from -that weight which he had found himself unable to bear. He had only the -morning and evening prayers to think of, very rarely even a sermon. Most -clergymen like that part of their duties; they like to have it in their -power to instruct, to edify, or even to torture the community in -general, with perfect safety from any reprisals; but Ernest Ashford in -that, as in many other things, was an exception to the general rule in -his profession. He was not fond of sermons, and consequently it was a -very happy thing for him that so few were required of him. He was now -and then tormented by his pupils, which brought his life within the -ordinary conditions of humanity; otherwise, with his daily duty in the -beautiful Abbey, which was a delight to him, and the leisure of his -afternoons and evenings, and the landscape that lay under his window, -and the antique grace of his little house, and all his books, no -existence could have been more unruffled and happy. He was as far lifted -above those painful problems of common life which he could not solve, -and which had weighed upon him like personal burdens in the beginning of -his career, as his window was above the lovely sweep of country at the -foot of the hill. What had he to do but sing Handel, to read and to -muse, and to be content? These were the natural conditions of his life. - -But it would appear that these conditions are not fit for perverse -humanity; for few indeed are the persons so happily exempt from ordinary -troubles who do not take advantage of every opportunity to drag -themselves into the arena and struggle like their neighbours. Mrs. -Ashford did this in what may be called the most wanton and unprovoked -way. What business had he to take any interest in Lottie Despard? She -was out of his sphere; the Abbey stood between them, a substantial -obstacle; and many things a great deal more important--social -differences, circumstances that tended to separate rather than to bring -together. And it was not even in the orthodox and regular way that he -had permitted this girl to trouble his life. He might have fallen in -love with her, seeing her so often in the Abbey (for Lottie’s looks were -remarkable enough to attract any man), and nobody could have found -fault. It is true, a great many people would have found fault, in all -likelihood people who had nothing to do with it and no right to -interfere, but who would, as a matter of course, have pitied the poor -man who had been beguiled, and indignantly denounced the designing girl; -but no one would have had any right to interfere. As a clergyman of the -Church of England Mr. Ashford had absolute freedom to fall in love if he -pleased, and to marry if he pleased, and nobody would have dared to say -a word. But he had not done this: he had not fallen in love, and he did -not think of marriage; but being himself too tranquil in his well-being, -without family cares or anxieties, perhaps out of the very forlornness -of his happiness, his attention had been fixed--was it upon the first -person he had encountered in the midst of a moral struggle harder, and -therefore nobler, than his own quiescent state? Perhaps this was all. He -could never be sure whether it was the girl fighting to keep her father -and brother out of the mire, fighting with them to make them as honest -and brave herself, or whether it was simply Lottie that interested him. -Possibly it was better not to enter into this question. She was the most -interesting person within his range. His brethren the Canons, Minor and -Major, were respectable or dignified clergymen, very much like the rest -of the profession. Within the Abbey precincts there was nobody with any -particular claim upon the sympathy of his fellows, or whose moral -position demanded special interest. The Uxbridges were anxious about -their son, who was a careless boy, not any better than Law; but then the -father and mother were quite enough to support that anxiety, and kept it -to themselves as much as possible. It was not a matter of life and -death, as in Law’s case, who had neither father nor mother to care what -became of him, but only Lottie--a creature who herself ought to have -been cared for and removed far from all such anxieties. Even the -deficiency in Lottie’s character--the pain with which she was brought to -see that she must herself adopt the profession which was within her -reach, and come out from the shelter of home and the menial work with -which she was contented, to earn money and make an independence for -herself--had given her a warmer hold upon the spectator, who, finding -himself unable to struggle against the world and himself, had withdrawn -from that combat, yet never could quite pardon himself for having -withdrawn. She, poor child, could not withdraw; she was compelled to -confront the thing she hated by sheer force of necessity, and had done -so--compelled, indeed, but only as those who can are compelled. Would -she have fled from the contemplation of want and pain as he had done? -Would she have allowed herself incapable to bear the consequences of the -duty set before her, whatever it might be? Sometimes Mr. Ashford would -ask himself this question: though what could be more ridiculous than the -idea that a girl of twenty could judge better than a man of -five-and-thirty? But he was interested in her by very reason of her -possession of qualities which he did not possess. He had given her good -advice, and she had taken it; but even while he gave it and pressed it -upon her he had been thinking what would she have said to his problems, -how would she have decided for him? All this increased his interest in -Lottie. He realised, almost more strongly than she did herself, all the -new difficulties that surrounded her; he divined her love, which pained -him not less than the other troublous circumstances in her lot, since he -could not imagine it possible that any good could come out of such a -connection. That Rollo Ridsdale would marry anyone but an heiress his -superior knowledge of the world forced him to doubt; he could not -believe in a real honest love, ending in a marriage, between the -Chevalier’s daughter and Lady Caroline’s nephew. And accordingly this, -which seemed to Lottie to turn her doubtful future into a certainty of -happiness, seemed to Mr. Ashford the worst of all the dangers in her -lot. It would be no amusement for her, as it would be for the other; -and what was to become of the girl with her father’s wife in possession -of her home and such a lover in possession of her heart? His -spectatorship got almost more than he could bear at times; nobody seemed -to see as he did, and he was the last person in the world who could -interfere to save her. Could anyone save her? He could not tell; he knew -no one who would take the office upon himself; but least of all could he -do it. He watched with interest which had grown into the profoundest -anxiety--an anxiety which in its turn was increased tenfold by the sense -that there was nothing which he could do. - -Such were the feelings in his mind when the Signor joined him on his -homeward way after service on the afternoon when Mrs. Daventry had so -interrupted Lottie’s lesson. Augusta had sailed up the aisle and out by -the door in the cloisters which adjoined the Deanery, as they came out -of the room where all the surplices were hanging in their old presses, -and where the clergy robed themselves. The two men came out when the -rustle and flutter of the party of ladies were still in the air, and old -Wykeham looking after them with cynical criticism. The hassocks in the -aisles, which had been placed there for the convenience of the -overflowing congregations, too great for the Abbey choir, which crowded -every corner now and then, were all driven about like boats at sea by -the passage of these billows of trailing silk, and Wykeham had stooped -to put them back into their places. Stooping did not suit the old man, -and he could not do without his natural growl. “I wish they’d stick to -’em,” he said; “plenty of dirt sticks to ’em. They sweeps up the aisles -and saves us trouble; but I’d just like one o’ them heavy hassocks to -stick.” - -“And so should I,” said the Signor under his breath. “They are -insufferable,” he said with vehemence as he emerged into the cloister. -“I have made up my mind I shall not allow any intrusion again.” - -“Who are insufferable, and what is the intrusion you are going to -prevent?” said the Minor Canon with a smile. - -“Ashford,” said the Signor with much heat, “I am not going to have you -come any more to Miss Despard’s lessons. Don’t say anything to me on the -subject; I know all about interest and so forth, but I can’t permit it. -It’s ruin to her, and it irritates me beyond bearing. Interest? if you -take any real interest in her you would see that nothing could be less -for her welfare, nothing more destructive of any chances she may -have----” - -“My dear Rossinetti, I never was present at Miss Despard’s lesson but -once.” - -“It was once too much, then,” the Signor cried. “The girl is getting -ruined. That woman, that Mrs. Daventry--you should have heard her -whispering behind our backs with her fan in front of her face, then -stopping a moment to say, ‘What a pretty song: how much you have -improved.’” - -The Signor made an attempt to mimic Augusta, but he had no talent that -way, and the mincing tone to which he gave utterance was like nothing -that had ever been heard before. But if his imitation was bad his -disgust was quite genuine. He could not think of anything else; he -returned again and again to the subject as they went on. - -“The upper classes,” he said, “are famous for good manners. This is -their good manners: Two of them thrust themselves in for their amusement -to a place where a poor girl is working hard at art, and a man who has -spent most of his life in learning is trying to transmit his knowledge -to her. And the moment that girl begins singing _they_ begin their -loathsome chatter about Mr. this and My Lady that. Do not say anything -to me, Ashford; I tell you, you shall not come, you nor anyone else, -again.” - -“Is she making progress?” said the Minor Canon. - -“Progress? how could she, with that going on? No; sometimes she will -sing like an angel, sometimes like--anyone. It drives me wild! And then -our gracious patrons appear--Mr. Ridsdale (who ought to know better) and -Mrs. Daventry. I ought to know better too; I will defend my doors from -henceforth. To be sure, I did not mean that; _you_ may come if you -like.” - -“And Mr. Ridsdale talked? How did she bear it?” said Mr. Ashford -nervously. - -“It is I who will not bear it,” said the musician. “And these are people -who pretend to love music--pretend to know: it is insufferable. If she -ever becomes a great singer----” - -“If? I thought you had no doubt.” - -“How was I to know I should be intruded upon like this? Poor girl. I -think, after all, the best thing for her will be to marry my boy, John -Purcell, and live a quiet life.” - -“Marry--Purcell?” - -“Why not? He is a very good musician; he will live to make a great deal -of money: he has genius--positively genius. The best thing she could do -would be to marry him. She is too sensitive. Susceptibility belongs to -the artist temperament, but then it must be susceptibility within -control. Her voice flutters like a flame when the wind is blowing. -Sometimes it blows out altogether. And he loves her. She will do best to -marry my John.” - -“You cannot have so little perception, Rossinetti. How can you entertain -such an idea for a moment? Purcell?” - -“In what is he so inferior?” said the Signor with quiet gravity. “He is -young, not like you and me. That is a great deal. He is an excellent -musician, and he has a home to offer to her. I should advise it if she -would take my advice. It would not harm her in her career to marry a -musician, if finally she accepts her career. She has not accepted it -yet,” said the Signor with a sigh. - -“Then all your certainty is coming to nothing,” said Mr. Ashford, “and -Ridsdale’s----” - -“Ah, Ridsdale--that is what harms her. Something might be done if he -were out of the way. He is an influence that is too much for me. Either -she has heard of his new opera, and expects to have her place secured in -it, under his patronage, or else she hopes--something else.” The Signor -kept his eyes fixed upon his companion. He wanted to surprise Mr. -Ashford’s opinion without giving his own. - -“Do you think,” said the Minor Canon indignantly, “even with the little -you know of her, that she is a girl to calculate upon having a place -secured to her, or upon anyone’s patronage?” - -“Then she hopes for--something else; which is a great deal worse for her -happiness,” said the Signor. Then there was a pause. They had reached -Mr. Ashford’s door, but he did not ask his companion to go in. The -Signor paused, but he had not ended what he had to say: “With the -little I know of her”--he said--“do you know more?” - -This was not an easy question to answer. He could not say, I have been -watching her for weeks; I know almost all that can be found out; but, -serious man as he was, Mr. Ashford was embarrassed. He cleared his -throat, and indeed even went through a fit of coughing to gain time. -“Her brother is my pupil,” he said at last, “and, unfortunately, he -likes better to talk than to work. I have heard a great deal about her. -I think I know enough to say that she would not hope--anything that she -had not been wooed and persuaded to believe in----” - -“Then you think--you really suppose--you are so credulous, so optimist, -so romantic,” cried the Signor with a _crescendo_ of tone and -gesticulation--“you think that a man of the world, a man of society, -with no money, would marry--for love?” - -The musician broke into a short laugh. “You should have heard them,” he -added after a dramatic pause, “this very day whispering, chuchotéing, in -my room while she was singing--talking--oh, don’t you know what about? -About girls who marry rich men while (they say) their hearts are -breaking for poor ones--about women using the most shameless arts to -entrap a rich man, and even playing devotion to a woman with money; and -the only one to be really pitied of all is the poor fellow, who has -followed his heart, who is poor, who lives at Kew, and has two babies in -a perambulator. I laugh at him myself,” said the Signor--“the fool, to -give up his club and society because he took it into his silly head to -love!” - -“Rossinetti,” said the Minor Canon, “I know there are quantities of -these wretched stories about; but human nature is human nature, after -all, not the pitiful thing they make it out. I don’t believe they are -true.” - -“What! after all the newspapers--the new branch of literature that has -sprung from them?” cried the Signor. Then he paused again and subsided. -“I am of your opinion,” he said. “The fire would come down from heaven -if it was true; but _they_ believe it: that is the curious thing. You -and I, we are not in society; we are charitable; we say human nature -never was so bad as that; but they believe it. Rollo Ridsdale would be -ashamed to behave like a man, as you and I would feel ourselves forced -to behave, as my boy John is burning to do.” - -“You and I.” The Minor Canon scarcely knew how it was that he repeated -these words; they caught his ear and dropped from his lips before he was -aware. - -The Signor looked at him with a smile which was half satire and a -little bit sympathy. He said, “That is what you are coming to, Ashford. -I see it in your eye.” - -“You are speaking--folly,” said Mr. Ashford; then he added hastily, “I -have got one of my boys coming. I must go in.” - -“Good-day,” said the other with his dark smile. He had penetrated the -secret thoughts that had not as yet taken any definite form in his -friend’s breast. Sometimes another eye sees more clearly than our own -what is coming uppermost in our minds--or at least its owner believes -so. The Signor was all the more likely to be right in this, that he had -no belief in the calm sentiment of “interest” as actuating a man not yet -too old for warmer feelings, in respect to a woman. He smiled -sardonically at Platonic affection--as most people indeed do, unless the -case is their own. He knew but one natural conclusion in such -circumstances, and settled that it would be so without more ado. And -such reasoning is sure in the majority of cases to be right, or to help -to make itself right by the mere suggestion. To be sure he took an -“interest”--a great interest--in Lottie himself; but that was in the way -of art. - -Mr. Ashford had no boy coming that he knew of when he said this to -escape from the Signor; but, as sometimes happens, the expedient -justified itself, and he had scarcely seated himself in his study when -some one came up the oak staircase two or three steps at a time, and -knocked at his door. In answer to the “Come in,” which was said with -some impatience--for the Minor Canon had a great deal to think about, -and had just decided to subject himself to a cross-examination--who -should open the door but Law--Law, without any book under his arm, and -with a countenance much more awake and alive than on the occasions when -he carried that sign of study. “Can I speak to you?” Law said, casting a -glance round the room to see that no one else was there. He came in half -suspicious, but with serious meaning on his face. Then he came and -placed himself in the chair which stood between Mr. Ashford’s -writing-table and his bookcases. “I want to ask your advice,” he said. - -“Well; I have done nothing else but give you my advice for some time -past, Law.” - -“Yes--to work--I know. You have given me a great deal of that sort of -advice. What good is it, Mr. Ashford? I’ve gone on week after week, and -what will it ever come to? Well, I know what you are going to say. I -work, but I don’t work. I don’t care a bit about it. I haven’t got my -heart in it. It is quite true. But you can’t change your disposition; -you can’t change your nature.” - -“Stop a little, Law. So far as work is concerned you often can, if you -will----” - -“Ah, but there’s the rub,” said Law, looking his Mentor in the face. “I -don’t want to--that is the simple fact. I don’t feel that I’ve the least -desire to. I feel as if I won’t even when I know I ought. I think it’s -more honest now at last to tell you the real truth.” - -“I think I knew it pretty well some time ago,” said the Minor Canon with -a smile. “It is a very common complaint. Even that can be got over with -an effort. Indeed, I am glad you have found it out. Perhaps even, you -know, it is not your brain at all but your will that is at fault.” - -“Mr. Ashford,” said Law solemnly, “what is the good of talking? You know -and I know that I never could make anything of it if I were to work, as -we call it, till I was fifty. I never could pass any examination. They -would be fools indeed if they let me in. I am no real good for anything -like that. You know it well enough; why shouldn’t you say it? Here are -you and me alone--nobody to overhear us, nobody to be vexed. What is the -use of going on in the old way? I shall never do any good. You know it -just as well as I.” - -“Law,” said Mr. Ashford, “I will not contradict you. I believe you are -right. If there was any other way of making your living I should say -you were right. Books are not your natural tools; but they open the door -to everything. The forest service, the telegraph service--all that sort -of thing would suit you.” - -At this point Law got up with excitement, and began walking up and down -the room. “That is all very well,” he said. “Mr. Ashford, what is the -use of deceiving ourselves? I shall never get into any of these. I’ve -come to ask your advice once for all. I give up the books; I could only -waste more time, and I’ve wasted too much already. It has come to this: -I’ll emigrate or I’ll ’list. I don’t see how I’m to do that even, for -I’ve no money--not enough to take me to London, let alone Australia. Why -shouldn’t I do the other? It’s good enough; if there was a war it would -be good enough. Even garrison duty I shouldn’t mind. It wouldn’t hurt -_my_ pride,” the lad said with a sudden flush of colour that belied his -words; “and I might go away from here, so that it would not hurt _her_. -That’s all, Mr. Ashford,” he said with suppressed feeling. “Only -her--she’s the only one that cares; and if I went away from here she -would never know.” - -“Has anything happened to drive you to a decision at once? Is there -anything new--anything----?” - -“There is always something new,” said Law. “That woman has been to--to -the only place I ever cared to go--to shut the door against me. They -were her own friends too--at least people as good as--a great deal -better than she. She has been there to bully them on my account, to say -they are not to have me. Do you think I’ll stand that? What has she to -do with me?” - -“It must be a great deal worse for your sister, Law.” - -“Well, isn’t that what I say? Do you think I can stand by and see Lottie -bullied? Once she drove her out of the house. By Jove, if Lottie hadn’t -come home I’d have killed her. I shouldn’t have stopped to think; I -should have killed her,” said Law, whose own wrong had made him -desperate. “Do you think I can stand by and see Lottie bullied by that -woman? She’s brought it partly upon herself. She was too hard in the -house with her management both upon the governor and me. She meant it -well, but she was too hard. But still she’s Lottie, and I can’t see her -put upon. Do you think I am made of stone,” cried Law indignantly, “or -something worse than stone?” - -“But if you were in Australia what better would she be? There you would -certainly be of no use to her.” - -Law was momentarily staggered, but he recovered himself. “She would know -I was doing for myself,” he said, “which might mean something for her, -too, in time. I might send for her. At least,” said the lad, “she would -not have me on her hands; she would only have herself to think of; and -if she got on in her singing--the fact is, I can’t stand it, and one way -or other I must get away.” - -“What would you do if you were in Australia, Law?” - -“Hang it all!” said the young man, tears of vexation and despite -starting to his eyes, “a fellow must be good for something somewhere. -You can’t be useless all round; I’m strong enough. And here’s one thing -I’ve found out,” Law added with a laugh: “it doesn’t go against your -pride to do things in the Colonies which you durstn’t do here. You can -do--whatever you _can_ do out there. It doesn’t matter being a -gentleman. A gentleman can drive a cart or carry a load in Australia. -That is the kind of place for me. I’d do whatever turned up.” - -Said Mr. Ashford suddenly, “I know a man out there----” and then he -paused. “Law, what would your sister do? There would be no one to stand -by her. Even you, you have not much in your power, but you are always -some one. You can give her a little sympathy. Even to feel that there -are two of you must be something.” - -“Mr. Ashford,” said Law, “you will do her more good than I should. What -have I been to poor Lottie? Only a trouble. Two of us--no; I can’t take -even that to myself. I’ve worried her more than anything else. She would -be the first to thank you. You know a man----?” - -“I know a man,” said the Minor Canon--“I had forgotten him till now--a -man who owes me a good turn; and I think he would pay it. If I were sure -you would really do your best, and not forget the claims she has upon -your kindness----” - -“Would you like me to send for her as soon as I had a home for her?” Law -asked with fervour. There was a subdued twinkle in his eye, but yet he -was too much in earnest not to be ready to make any promise. - -“That would be the right thing to do,” said the Minor Canon with -excessive gravity, “though perhaps the bush is not exactly the kind of -place to suit her. If you will promise to do your very best----” - -“I will,” said the lad, “I will. I am desperate otherwise; you can see -for yourself, Mr. Ashford. Give me only an opening; give me anything -that I can work at. If I were to ’list I never should make much money by -that. There’s only just this one thing,” said Law: “If I had a friend to -go to, and a chance of employment, and would promise to pay it back, I -suppose I might get a loan somewhere--a loan on good interest,” he -continued, growing anxious and a little breathless--“perhaps from one of -those societies, or some old money-lender, or something--to take me -out?” - -The Minor Canon laughed. “If this is what you are really set upon, and -you will do your best,” he said, “I will see your father, and you need -not trouble your mind about the interest. Perhaps we shall be able to -manage that.” - -“Oh, Mr. Ashford, what a good fellow you are! what a good friend you -are!” cried Law, beaming with happiness. The tears once more came into -his eyes, and then there came a glow of suppressed malice and fun behind -that moisture. “Lottie will be more obliged even than I,” he said; “and -I could send for her as soon as I got settled out there.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVIII. - -LOTTIE RESENTFUL. - - -Lottie was sadly disheartened by the events of that day. She came home -alike depressed and indignant, her heart and her pride equally wounded. -She had scarcely seen Rollo for the two intervening days, and the -meeting at the Signor’s had appeared to her before it came a piece of -happiness which was certain, and with which no one could interfere. He -would resist all attempts to wile him away for that afternoon, she was -sure; he would not disappoint her and take all her inspiration from her -again. Since that last meeting under the elm-tree she had been more full -of happy confidence in him than ever. His readiness and eagerness to -take her away at once, overcoming, as she thought, all the scruples and -prejudices of his class, in order to secure deliverance for her, had -filled her mind with that soft glow of gratitude which it is so sweet to -feel to those we love. The elation and buoyant sense of happiness in her -mind had floated her over all the lesser evils in her path. What did -they matter, what did anything matter, in comparison? She was -magnanimous, tolerant, ready to believe the best, unready to be -offended, because of this private solace of happiness in her bosom, but -all the more for those undoubting certainties she had felt the contrast -of the actual scene. She did not even think that Rollo might be innocent -of his cousin’s visit, or that he knew nothing of her coming till he had -walked unawares into the snare. Lottie did not know this. She saw him by -Augusta’s side, talking to her and listening to her. She was conscious -through all her being of the rustle of whispering behind her, which went -on in spite of her singing. She would not look at him to see what -piteous apologies he was making with his eyes, and when Mrs. -O’Shaughnessy in sudden wrath dragged her away Lottie was glad of the -sudden exit, the little demonstration of offence and independence of -which she herself might have failed to take the initiative. She went -home tingling with the wound, her nerves excited, her mind irritated. -She would not go to meet him, as he had asked her. She went home -instead, avoiding everybody, and shut herself up in her own room. She -was discouraged too and deeply annoyed with herself, because in the -presence of the unkindly critic who had been listening to her, Lottie -felt she had not done well. Generally her only care, her only thought, -was to please Rollo; but that day she would have wished for the -inspiring power that now and then came upon her, as when she had sung in -the Abbey not knowing of his presence. She would have liked to sing like -that, overawing Augusta and her whispering; but she had not done so. She -had failed while that semi-friend who was her enemy looked on. She felt, -with a subtle certainty beyond all need of proof, that Augusta was her -enemy. Augusta had at once suspected, though Rollo had said that she -would never suspect; and she wanted to make her cousin see how little -Lottie was his equal, how even in her best gifts she was nothing. It was -bitter to Lottie to think that she had done all she could to prove -Augusta right. Why was it that she could not sing then, as, two or three -times in her life, she had felt able to sing, confounding all who had -been unfavourable to her? Lottie chafed at the failure she had made. She -was angry with herself, and this made her more angry both with Augusta -and with him. In the heat of her self-resentment she began to sing over -her music softly to herself, noting where she had failed. Had the Signor -been within hearing how he would have rejoiced over that -self-instruction. Her friends had been so much mortified that it opened -her eyes to her own faults. She saw where she had been wrong. There is -no such stimulant of excellence as the sense of having done badly. -Lottie’s art education advanced under the sting of this failure as it -had never done before. She threw herself into it with fervour. As she -ran over the notes she seemed to hear the “sibilant s’s” behind her, -pursuing her, and the chance words she had caught. “Like him--she did -not care a straw for him.” “The old lady made it all up,” “and the -settlements were astonishing.” That and a great deal more Lottie’s -jealous ears had picked up, almost against her will, and the words -goaded her on like so many pricks. She thought she never could suffer it -to be possible that Augusta or any other fine lady should do less than -listen when she sang again. - -While Lottie sat there cold in the wintry twilight (yet warm with -injured pride and mortification) till there was scarcely light enough to -see, humming over her music, Rollo, getting himself with difficulty free -of his cousin and all the visitors and commotion of the Deanery, rushed -up to the elm-tree, and spent a very uncomfortable moment there, waiting -in the cold, and wondering if it was possible that she would not come. -It did not occur to him that Lottie, always so acquiescent and -persuadable, could stand out now, especially as he was not really to -blame. He stood about under the elm, now and then taking a little walk -up and down to keep himself warm, watching the light steal out of the -wide landscape and everything darken round him, for half and hour and -more. No one was there; not an old Chevalier ventured upon a turn in -the dark, not a pair of lovers confronted the north wind. Rollo -shivered, though he was more warmly clad than Lottie would have been. He -walked up and down with an impatience that helped to keep him warm, -though with dismay that neutralised that livelier feeling. He had no -desire to lose his love in this way. It might be foolish to imperil his -comfort, his position, his very living, for her, but yet now at least -Rollo had no intention of throwing her away. He knew why she sang badly -that afternoon, and instead of alarming him this knowledge brought a -smile upon his face. Augusta had behaved like a woman without a heart, -and Lottie was no tame girl to bear whatever anyone pleased, but a -creature full of fire and spirit, not to be crushed by a fashionable -persecutor. Rollo felt it hard that he should wait in the cold, and be -disappointed after all; but he was not angry with Lottie. She had a -right to be displeased. He was all the more anxious not to lose her, not -to let her get free from him, that she had thus asserted herself. His -love, which had been a little blown about by those fashionable gales -that had been blowing round him, blazed up all the hotter for this -temporary restraint put upon it. She who had trusted him with such an -exquisite trust only the other evening, who had not in her innocence -seen anything but devotion in the sudden proposal into which (he -persuaded himself) only passion could have hurried him--her first -rebellion against him tightened the ties that bound him to her. Give her -up! it would be giving up heaven, throwing away the sweetest thing in -his life. He was cold, but his heart burned as he paced his little -round, facing the north wind and listening for every rustling sound -among the withered leaves that lay around him, thinking it might be her -step. The darkness, and the chill, and the solitude all seemed to show -him more clearly how sweet the intercourse had been which had made him -unconscious of either darkness or cold before. Augusta repeating her -endless monotonous stories of universal guile and selfishness had made -him half ashamed of his best feelings. He was ashamed now of her and her -influence, ashamed of having been made her tool for the humiliation of -his love. What a difference there was between them! Was there anyone -else in the world so tender, so pure, so exquisite in her love and -trust, as Lottie, the creature whose sensitive heart he had been made to -wound? When at last, discouraged and penitent, he turned homeward, Rollo -had the intention trembling in his mind of making Lottie the most -complete amends for everything that had ever been done to harm her. He -paused at the gates of the cloister, and looked across at the light in -her window with a yearning which surprised him. He seemed to have a -thousand things to say to her, and to be but half a being when he had -not her to confide in, to tell all his affairs to--although he had never -told her one of his affairs. This fact did not seem to affect his -longing. He went so far as to walk across the Dean’s Walk, to see what -he thought was her shadow on the blind. It was not Lottie’s shadow, but -Polly’s, who had taken her place; but this the lover did not know. - -Meanwhile Lottie had been disturbed in her seclusion by a sharp knock at -her door. “Do you mean to stay there all night, Miss?” cried Polly’s -sharp voice. “You might pay me the compliment to keep me company now and -again as long as you stay in my house. If you think it is civil to stay -there, shut up in your room, and me all alone in the drawing-room, I -don’t. I can’t think where your hearts is, you two,” Polly went on, a -whimper breaking into the tone of offence with which she spoke. “To see -one as is not much older than yourself, and never did you no harm, and -not a soul to keep her company. Was it for that I give up all my own -folks, to come and sit dressed up in a corner because I’m Mrs. Despard, -and never see a soul?” - -Lottie had opened her door before this speech was half done. She said -with a little alarm, “Please don’t speak so loud. We need not let the -maid in the kitchen know.” - -“Do you think I care for the maid in the kitchen? She’s my servant. I’ll -make her know her place. Never one of them sort of folks takes any -freedom with me. I have always been known for one as allowed no -freedoms--no, nor no followers, nor perquisites, nor nothing of the -kind. They soon find out as I ain’t one to be turned round their finger. -Now you,” said Polly, leading the way into the little drawing-room, -“you’re one of the soft sort. I dare say they did what they liked with -you!” - -“I don’t think so,” said Lottie, following. She put her music softly -down upon the old piano, which Polly had swathed in a cover, and the -changed aspect of the room moved her half to laughter, half to anger and -dismay. - -“There are few as knows themselves,” said Polly. “That girl, that Mary -as you had, I couldn’t have put up with her for a day. Some folks never -sees when things is huggermugger, but I’m very particular. Your -Pa--dear, good, easy man--I dare say he’s put up with a deal; but to be -sure no better was to be expected, for you never had no training, I -suppose?” - -Lottie was almost too much taken by surprise to reply--she, who had felt -that if there was one thing in the world she could do it was -house-keeping! The confusion that is produced in the mind by the sudden -perception of another’s opinion of us which is diametrically opposed to -our own seized her; otherwise she would have been roused to instant -wrath. This, which was something so entirely opposite to what she could -have expected, raised only a kind of ludicrous bewilderment in her mind. -“I--don’t know what you mean,” said Lottie. “Papa has not very much -money to give for house-keeping. Perhaps you are making a mistake.” - -“Oh, it is likely that I should make a mistake! Do you think I don’t -know my own husband’s income? Do you think,” said Polly with scorn, -“that he has any secrets from _me_?” - -Lottie was cold with her imprisonment in her fireless room. She drew her -little chair to the blazing fire and sat down by the side. Polly had -placed herself in the largest chair in the room, directly in front of -it. The fire was heaped up in the little grate, and blazed, being -largely supplied. It was very comfortable, but it went against the rules -of the economy which Lottie had strenuously prescribed to herself. “Papa -spends a great deal of money himself,” she said; “you will find that you -must be very sparing at home.” - -“My dear,” said Polly in a tone of condescending patronage which brought -the colour to Lottie’s face, “I am not one as can be sparing at home. -Pinching ain’t my way. I couldn’t do it, not if I was to be made a -countess for it. Some folks can scrape and cut down and look after -everything, but it ain’t my nature. What I like is a free hand. Plenty -to eat and plenty to drink, and no stinting nowhere--that’s what will -always be the law in my house.” - -Lottie made no reply. She felt that it was almost a failure from her -duty to put out her hands to the warmth of the too beautiful fire. Some -one would have to suffer for it. Her mind began to run over her own -budget of ways and means, to try, as had been her old habit, where she -could find something to cut off to make up for the extravagance. “These -coals burn very fast,” she said at last. “They are not a thrifty kind. I -used to have the----” - -“I know,” said Polly, “you used to have slates and think it was -economy--poor child!--but the best for me: the best is always the -cheapest in the end. If anyone thinks as I will put up with seconds, -either coals or bread!--but since we’re on the subject of money,” -continued Polly, “I’ll tell you my mind, Miss, and I don’t mean it -unfriendly. The thing as eats up my husband’s money, it ain’t a bright -fire or a good dinner, as is his right to have; it’s your brother Law, -Miss, and you.” - -“You have told me that before,” Lottie said, with a strenuous effort at -self-control. - -“And I’ll tell it you again--and again--till it has its effect,” cried -Polly: “it’s true. I don’t mean to be unfriendly. I wonder how you can -live upon your Pa at your age. Why, long before I was your age I was -doing for myself. My Pa was very respectable, and everybody belonging to -us; but do you think I’d have stayed at home and eat up what the old -folks had for themselves? They’d have kept me and welcome, but I -wouldn’t hear of it. And do you mean to say,” said Polly, folding her -arms and fixing her eyes upon her step-daughter, “as you think yourself -better than me?” - -Lottie returned the stare with glowing eyes, her lips falling apart from -very wonder. She gave a kind of gasp of bewilderment, but made no reply. - -“I don’t suppose as you’ll say so,” said Polly; “and why shouldn’t you -think of your family as I did of mine? You mightn’t be able to work as I -did, but there’s always things you could do to save your Pa a little -money. There’s lessons. There’s nothing ungenteel in lessons. I am not -one as would be hard upon a girl just starting in the world. You’ve got -your room here, that don’t cost you nothing; and what’s a daily -governess’s work? Nothing to speak of--two or three hours’ teaching (or -you might as well call it playing), and your dinner with the children, -and mostly with the lady of the house--and all the comforts of ’ome -after, just as if you wasn’t out in the world at all; a deal different -from sitting at your needle, working, working, as I’ve done, from -morning to night.” - -“But I don’t know anything,” said Lottie. “I almost think you are quite -right. Perhaps it is all true; it doesn’t matter nowadays, and ladies -ought to work as well as men. But--I don’t know anything.” A half-smile -came over her face. Notwithstanding that she was angry with Rollo, -still--he who would have carried her away on the spot rather than that -she should bear the shadow of a humiliation at home--was it likely----? -Lottie’s mind suddenly leaped out of its anger and resentment with a -sudden rebound. He did not deserve that she should be so angry with him. -Was it his fault? and in forgiving him her temper and her heart got -suddenly right again, and all was well. She even woke to a little -amusement in the consciousness that Polly was advising her for her good. -The extravagant coals, the extravagant meals, would soon bring their own -punishment; and though Lottie could not quite free herself from -irritation on these points, yet she was amused by the thought of all -this good advice. - -“That’s nonsense,” said Polly promptly. “Now here’s a way you could -begin at once, and it would be practice for you, and it would show at -least that you was willing. I’ve been very careless,” she said, getting -up from her chair and opening the old piano. She had to push off the -cover first, and the noise and commotion of this complicated movement -filled Lottie with alarm. “I’ve done as a many young ladies do before -they see how silly it is. I’ve left off my music. You mayn’t believe it, -but it’s true. I can’t tell even if I know my notes,” said Polly, -jauntily but clumsily placing her hands upon the keyboard and letting -one finger fall heavily here and there like a hammer. “I don’t remember -a bit. It’s just like a great silly, isn’t it? But you never think when -you are young, when your head’s full of your young man and all that sort -of thing. It’s when you’ve settled down, and got married, and have time -to think, that you find it out.” - -Polly was a great deal less careful of her language as she became -accustomed to her new surroundings. She was fully herself by this time, -and at her ease. She sat down before the piano and ran her finger along -the notes. “It’s scandalous,” she said. “We’re taught when we’re young, -and then we thinks no more of it. Now, Miss, if you was willing to do -something for your living, if you was really well disposed and wanted to -make a return, you might just look up some of your old lesson-books and -begin with me. I’d soon pick up,” said Polly, making a run of sound up -and down the keys with the back of her fingers, and thinking it -beautiful; “it would come back to me in two or three lessons. You -needn’t explain nothing about it; we might just say as we were learning -some duets together. It would all come back to me if you would take a -little trouble; and I shouldn’t forget it. I never forget it when -anyone’s of use to me.” - -“But,” cried Lottie, who had been vainly endeavouring to break in, “I -cannot play.” - -“Cannot play!” Polly turned round upon the piano-stool with a -countenance of horror. Even to turn round upon that stool was something -delightful to her, like a lady in a book, like one of the heroines in -the _Family Herald_; but this intimation chilled the current of her -blood. - -“No--only two or three little things, and that chiefly by ear. I never -learned as I ought. I hated it; and I was scarcely ever taught, only -by--someone who did not know much,” said Lottie with a compunction in -her mind. Only by someone who did not know much--This was her mother, -poor soul, whom Polly had replaced. Lottie’s heart swelled as she spoke. -Poor, kind, silly mamma! she had not known very much; but it seemed -cruel to allow it in the presence of her supplanter. - -“Goodness--gracious--me!” said Polly. She said each word separately, as -if she were telling beads. She cast at Lottie a glance of sovereign -contempt. “You to set up for being a lady,” she cried, “and can’t _play -the piano_! I never heard of such a thing in all my born days.” - -If she had claimed not to be able to work, Polly could have understood -it; but if there is a badge of ladyhood, or even a pretence at ladyhood, -in the world, is it not this? She was horrified; it felt like a coming -down in the world even to Polly herself. - -Again Lottie did not make any reply. She was simple enough to be half -ashamed of herself and half angry at the criticism which for the first -time touched her; for it was a fact that she was ignorant, and a -shameful fact. She could not defend, but she would not excuse herself. -As for Polly, there was in her a mingling of triumph and regret. - -“I _am_ surprised,” she said. “I thought one who pretended to be a lady -ought at least to know that much. And you ought to be a lady, I am sure, -if ever anyone was, for your Pa is a perfect gentleman. Dear, dear--if -you can’t play the piano, goodness gracious, what have you been doing -all your life? That was the one thing I thought was sure--and you are -musical, for I’ve heard as you could sing. If it’s only that you won’t -take any trouble to oblige,” said Polly angrily, “say it out. Oh, it -won’t be no surprise to me. I’ve seen it in your face already--say it -out!” - -“I have told you nothing but the truth,” said Lottie. “I am sorry for -it. I can sing--a little--but I can’t play.” - -“It’s just the same as if you said you could write but couldn’t read,” -said Polly; “but I’ve always been told as I’ve a nice voice. It ain’t -your loud kind, that you could hear from this to the Abbey, but -sweet--at least so folks say. You can teach me to sing if you like,” she -said, after a pause. “I never learned singing. One will do as well as -the other, and easier too.” - -This was a still more desperate suggestion. Lottie quailed before the -task that was offered to her. “I can show you the scales,” she said -doubtfully; “that is the beginning of everything; but singing is harder -to teach than playing. The Signor thinks I don’t know anything. They say -I have a voice, but that I don’t know how to sing.” - -“The fact is,” cried Polly, shutting down the piano with a loud bang and -jar which made the whole instrument thrill, and snapped an old -attenuated chord which went out of existence with a creak and a groan, -“the fact is, you don’t want to do nothing for me. You don’t think me -good enough for you. I am only your father’s wife, and one as has a -claim upon your respect, and deserves to have the best you can do. If it -was one of your fine ladies as don’t care a brass farthing for you--oh, -you’d sing and you’d play the piano safe enough: but you’ve set your -mind against me. I seen it the first day I came here--and since then the -life you’ve led me! Never a civil word--never a pleasant look; yes and -no, with never a turn of your head; you think a deal of yourself. And -you needn’t suppose I care--not I--not one bit; but you shan’t stand up -to my face and refuse whatever I ask you. You’ll have to do what I tell -you or you’ll have to go.” - -“I will go,” said Lottie in a low voice. She thought of Rollo’s sudden -proposal, of the good people whom he said he would take her to, of the -sudden relief and hope, the peace and ease that were involved. Ought she -not to take him at his word? For the moment she thought she would do so. -She would let him know that she was ready, ready to go anywhere, only to -escape from this. How foolish she had been to be angry with Rollo--he -who wanted nothing better than to deliver her at a stroke, to carry her -away into happiness. Her heart softened with a great gush of tenderness. -She would yield to him; why should she not yield to him? She might think -that he ought to marry his wife from her father’s house, but he had not -seemed to think so. He thought of nothing but to deliver her from this -humiliation--and what would it matter to him? a poor Chevalier’s house -or a poor quiet lodging, what would it matter? She would go. She would -do as Rollo said. - -“You will go?” cried Polly; “and where will you go? Who have you got to -take you in? People ain’t so fond of you. A woman as can do nothing for -herself, who wants her? and isn’t even obliging. Oh, you are going to -your room again, to be sulky there? But I tell you I won’t have it. You -shall sit where the family sits or you shall go out of the place -altogether. And you’ll come to your meals like other people, and you’ll -mix with them as is there, and not set up your white face, as if you -were better than all the world. You’re not so grand as you think you -are, Miss Lottie Despard. If it comes to that I’m a Despard as well as -you; and I’m a married woman, with an ’usband to work for me--an -’usband,” cried Polly, “as doesn’t require to work for me, as has enough -to keep me like a lady--if it wasn’t that he has a set of lazy grown-up -children as won’t do nothing for themselves, but eat us out of ’ouse and -’ome!” - -Was it possible that this humiliation had come to Lottie--to Lottie of -all people--she who had felt that the well-being of the house hung upon -her, and that she alone stood between her family and utter downfall? She -sat still, not even attempting now to escape, her ears tingling, her -heart beating. It was incredible that it was she, her very self, Lottie, -who was bearing this. It must be a dream; it was impossible that it -could be true. - -And thus Lottie sat the whole of the evening, too proud to withdraw, and -bore the brunt of a long series of attacks, which were interrupted, -indeed, by the supper, to which Polly had to give some personal care, -and by Captain Despard’s entrance and Law’s. Polly told her story to her -husband with indignant vehemence. “I asked her,” she said, “to help me a -bit with my music--I know you’re fond of music, Harry--and I thought -we’d learn up some duets or something, her and me, to please you; and -she says she can’t play the piano! and, then, not to show no offence, I -said as singing would do just as well, and then she says she can’t -sing!” The Captain received this statement with much caressing of his -wife and smoothing of her ruffled plumes. He said, “Lottie, another time -you’ll pay more attention,” with a severe aspect; and not even Law had a -word to say in her defence. As to Law, indeed, he was very much -preoccupied with his own affairs; his eyes were shining, his face full -of secret importance and meaning. Lottie saw that he was eager to catch -her eye, but she did not understand the telegraphic communications he -addressed to her. Nor did she understand him much better when he pulled -her sleeve and whispered, “I am going to Australia,” when the tedious -evening was over. Law’s career had fallen out of her thoughts in the -troubles of those few weeks past. She had even ceased to ask how he was -getting on, or take any interest in his books; she remembered this with -a pang when she found herself at last safe in the shelter of her room. -She had given up one part of her natural duty when the other was taken -from her. Australia? What could he mean? She thought she would question -him to-morrow; but to-morrow brought her another series of petty -struggles, and once more concentrated her mind upon her own affairs. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIX. - -LOTTIE SUBDUED. - - -“I waited half an hour. I was not very happy,” said Rollo. “It is never -cold when you are here, but last night the wind went through and through -me. That is the consequence of being alone. And you, my Lottie, had you -no compunctions? Could you make yourself happy without any thought of -the poor fellow freezing under the elm-tree?” - -“Happy!” Lottie cried. She was happy now. Last night she had been alone, -no one in the world caring what became of her; now she felt safe, as if -the world held nothing but friends; but she shivered, notwithstanding -her lover’s supporting arm. - -“Not happy then? Does it not answer, darling? Can you endure the woman? -Is she better than at first? I like her,” said Rollo, “for you know it -was her arrival which opened your heart to me--which broke the -ice--which brought us together. I shall always feel charitably towards -her for that.” - -Lottie shivered again. “No, it is not because of the cold,” she said. “I -do not suppose you could understand if I were to tell you. Home! I have -not any home!” cried the girl. “I was thinking--if it was really true -what you said the other night--if it would make no difference to you, -Rollo, to take your wife out of some poor little lodging instead of out -of her father’s house--are you sure you would not mind?” she said, -looking wistfully, anxiously into his face. In the waning light all he -could see distinctly was this wistful dilation of her eyes, gazing -intently to read, before he could utter it, his answer in his face. “I -could manage to live somehow,” she went on, tremulously. “Though I -cannot give lessons, I can work, very well. I think I am almost sure I -could get work. No; I would not take money from you; I could not, -Rollo:--not until--no, no; that would be quite impossible; rather stay -here and bear it all than that. But if really, truly, to marry a poor -girl, living in a poor little room, working for her bread, would not -make any difference to you----. Oh, I know, I know it is not what ought -to be--even here, even at home, I am not equal to you. You ought to have -some one a great deal better off--a great deal higher in the world. But -if you would not think it--discreditable; if you would not be -ashamed---- oh, Rollo,” she cried, “I cannot bear it! it is impossible -to bear it!--I would ask you to do what you offered and take me away!” - -It is impossible to describe the feelings with which Rollo listened to -these unexpected words. To see a bird walk into the snare must awake -compunctions in the most experienced trapper. The same sensation does -not attend a sudden fall; but the sight of an innocent creature going -calmly into the death set before it, as if into safety and shelter--a -man must be hard indeed to see that unmoved. And Rollo was no villain. -His heart gave one wild leap again, as it had done when, in the hurrying -of passion, not with deliberation (as he had always been comforted to -think), he had laid that snare. The thrill of his hairbreadth escape -from her horror and loathing, the leap of sudden, horrified delight to -find her in his power all at once, by her own act and deed, transported -him for the moment with almost uncontrollable power; and then this -sudden passion in his mind was met by the stream, the torrent, of a more -generous impulse, a nobler passion, which carried everything before it. -A man may trap his prey with guile, he may take advantage of the -half-willingness of a frail resistance; but to turn to shame the perfect -and tender confidence of innocence, who but a villain could do that? and -Rollo was no villain. He grasped her almost convulsively in his arms as -she spoke; he tried to interrupt her, the words surging, almost -incoherent, to his lips. “Lottie! my Lottie!” he cried, “this is not how -it must be. Do you think I will let you go to live alone, to work, as -you say?” He took her hand hastily, and kissed the little cold fingers -with lips that trembled. “No, my love, my darling, not that--but I will -go to town to-morrow and settle how we can be married--at once, without -an hour’s delay. Oh, yes, it is possible, dear--quite possible. It is -the only thing to do. Why, why did I not think of it before? I will go -and settle everything, and get the licence. That is the way. My darling, -you must not say a word. You had made up your mind to marry me some -time, and why not to-morrow--next day--as soon as I can settle? What -should we wait for? who should we think of except ourselves? And I want -you, my love; and you, thank heaven, Lottie, have need of me.” - -He held her close to him, in a grasp which was almost fierce--fierce in -the strain of virtue and honour, in which his own nature, with all its -easy principles and vacillations, was caught too. He wanted to be off -and do it at once, without losing a moment, lest his heart should fail. -He would do it, whatever might oppose. She should never know that less -worthy thoughts had been in his mind. She should find that her trust was -not vain. His blood ran in his veins like a tumultuous river, and his -heart beat so that Lottie herself was overawed by the commotion as he -held her against it. She was half frightened by his vehemence and tried -to speak, but he would not let her at first. “No,” he said, “no, you -must not say anything. You must not oppose me. It must be done first, -and then we can think of it after. There is nothing against it, and -everything in its favour. You must not say a word but Yes,” he cried. - -“But, Rollo, Rollo, let me speak. It might be good for me, but would it -not be wrong for you? Oh, let me speak! Am I so selfish that I would -make you take a sudden resolution, perhaps very foolish, perhaps very -imprudent, for my sake? Rollo, Rollo, don’t! I will bear anything. It -would be wrong for you to do this.” - -“No; not wrong, but right--not wrong, but right,” he cried, bewildering -her with his vehemence. Lottie’s own heart was stirred, but not like -this. She wondered and was troubled, even in the delight of the thought -that everything in the world was as nothing to him in comparison with -his love for herself. - -“But, Rollo,” she cried again, trembling in his grasp, “if this is -really possible--if it is not wrong--why should you go to London to do -it? It would be quite as easy here----” - -“Lottie, you will sacrifice something for me, will you not?” he said. -“If it were done here, all would be public; it would be spoken of -everywhere; and I want it to be quiet. I have not much money. You will -make this sacrifice for me, dear----” - -“Oh,” said Lottie, compunctious, “I wish I had said nothing about it; I -wish I had not disturbed you with my paltry little troubles. Do not -think of them any more. I can bear anything when I know you are thinking -of me. It was only yesterday when--when all seemed uncertain, that it -seemed more than I could bear.” - -“And it is more than you ought to bear,” he said. “No, I am glad that -you told me. We will go away, Lottie--to Italy, to the sunshine, to the -country of music, where you will learn best of all--we will go away from -the very church door.” - -And then he told her how it could be done. To-morrow he would go and -settle everything. His plans all took form with lightning speed, though -he had never thought of them till now. There would be many things to do; -but in three days from that time he would meet her in the same place, -and tell her all the arrangements he had made:--and the next morning -after that (“Saturday is a lucky day,” he said) they would go to town, -if not together, yet by the same train--and go to the church, where he -would have arranged everything. Rollo Ridsdale was an adventurer born. -He was used to changing the conditions of his life in a moment, in the -twinkling of an eye. But it all seemed a dream to Lottie--not one of her -usual waking dreams, but a dream of the night, with no possibility in -it, which would dissolve into the mists presently and leave nothing but -a happy recollection. She acquiesced in everything, being too much taken -by surprise to oppose a plan in which he was so vehement. - -“May I tell Law?” she asked, always in her dream, not feeling as if -there was any reality in the idea she suggested. And he said No at -first, but afterwards half relented, and it was agreed that on Friday -everything was to be decided, but nothing done till then. Thus, though -they had met without a thought that this stolen interview would be more -decisive than any other of the same kind, they parted with a decision -that concerned their entire lives. - -They walked closer together after this, in the safe gloom of the -darkness, till they had again reached the door of the cloisters which -led to the Deanery. No one was about, and Rollo was full of restless -excitement. He would not hear what she said about prudence, and walked -across with her to her own door. There was not a creature to be seen up -or down; the lamps flickered in the cold wind, and all the population -had gone in to the comfort of warm rooms and blazing fires. He kissed -her hand tenderly as he took leave of her. - -“Till Friday,” he said. - -Lottie went in, still in her dream, walking, she thought, in her sleep. -She hoped this sleep would last for ever--that it might not be rashly -disturbed by waking, or even by that which would be almost as bad as -waking--_coming true_. She could scarcely feel that she wanted it to -come true; it was enough as it was, a bewildering happiness that tingled -to the very ends of her fingers, that made her feel as if she were -walking on air. She went softly upstairs, caring for nothing but to get -to her room, where, though it was dark and cold, she could still go on -with this wonderful vision. That seemed all she wanted. But, alas! -something very different was in store for Lottie. As she went with soft -steps up the stairs the door of the little drawing-room was suddenly -opened, letting out a warm stream of ruddy light. Then a sound of -laughter reached her ears, and Polly’s voice---- - -“Come in, come in; we are waiting for you; we are both here,” with -another gay outburst. - -Lottie came to herself, and to all the disagreeable realities of her -life, with a start of pain. She had to obey, though nothing could be -more disagreeable to her. She went in with dazzled eyes into the room -full of firelight. She remembered now that she had remarked outside that -no lamp was lighted, and had supposed with relief that Mrs. Despard was -out. But Mrs. Despard had not been out. She had been lurking in the -ruddy gloom near the window, her husband by her side. They greeted -Lottie with another laugh, as she came in with her pale, astonished face -within the circle of the fire. - -“So that’s how you spend your afternoons, miss, as I never could think -where you were,” cried Polly; “but why didn’t you bring in your beau -with you? I’d have given him his tea and a nice leg of a goose, as -comfortable as could be.” - -“My child,” said the Captain on his side, “I congratulate you. I’ve been -expecting something of this kind for a long time. I’ve had my eye upon -you. But why didn’t you bring Mr. Ridsdale in, as Mrs. Despard says?” - -Lottie felt as if she had been turned into stone. She stood all dark in -her winter dress, the firelight playing upon her, and seeking in vain to -catch at some possibility of reflection. She had not even a button that -would give back the light. And she had not a word to say. - -“Come, come, you need not be so put out,” said the Captain, not -unkindly. “We saw you coming; and very proper of Mr. Ridsdale not to -leave you at the Deanery, but to see you home to your own door. You -thought no one was paying any attention--but I hope,” Captain Despard -added, “that I think more than that of my child. I don’t doubt from what -I saw, Lottie, that you understand each other; and why hasn’t he come -before now to speak to me? You might have known that such a suitor would -not be received unfavourably. Happy myself,” said the Captain, throwing -out his chest, “would I have put any obstacle between you and your -happiness, my dear?” - -“I did not think--I did not know--I think--you are mistaken,” Lottie -faltered, not knowing what to say. - -“Mistaken, indeed! Oh, we’ve gone through all that too lately to be -mistaken, haven’t we, Harry?” cried Mrs. Despard. “We know all about it. -You couldn’t come to those as would understand you better. Don’t be -frightened; you haven’t been found out in anything wrong. If that was -wrong I’ve a deal to answer for,” Polly cried, laughing. “I should think -you must be frozen with cold after wandering about on them Slopes, or -wherever you have been. How foolish young people are, to be sure, -getting their deaths of cold. We never were as foolish as that, were we, -Harry? Come and warm yourself, you silly girl. You needn’t be afraid of -him or me.” - -Amid their laughter, however, Lottie managed to get away, to take off -her hat, and to try as best she could to realise this new phase of the -situation. What her father had said was very reasonable. Why had not -Rollo come, as the Captain said? How that would have simplified -everything, made everything legitimate! She sighed, not able to -understand her lover, feeling that for once her father was right; but -Rollo had said that this could not be, that it would be necessary to -keep everything quiet. Her dream of happiness was disturbed. Dreams are -better, so much better, than reality. In them there is never any jar -with fact and necessity; they can adapt themselves to everything, fit -themselves into every new development. But now that she was fully awoke -it was less easy to steer her way through all the obstacles. Rollo’s -reluctance to declare himself, and her father’s right to know, and the -pain of leaving her home in a clandestine way, all rushed upon her, -dispersing her happiness to the winds. She had felt that to awake would -be to lose the sweetness which had wrapped her about; and now the rude -encounter with the world had come, and Lottie felt that even with that -prospect of happiness before her it was difficult to bear what she would -have to bear;--Polly’s innuendoes and, worse still, Polly’s sympathy, -and the questions of her father appalled her as she looked forward to -them. During this strange courtship of hers, so perplexed and mixed up -as it was with her music and the “career” which they all, even Rollo, -had tried to force upon her (though surely there need be no more of that -_now_), and the changes that had taken place at home, Lottie had almost -lost herself. She was no longer the high-spirited girl, full of energy -and strength, who had reigned over this little house and dragged Law’s -heavy bulk along through so many difficulties. She had dreamed so much, -and taken refuge so completely from the troubles of her position in -those dreams, that now she seemed to have lost her own characteristics, -and had no vigour to sustain her when she had actual difficulties to -face. She tried to recall herself to herself as she smoothed her hair, -which had been blown about by the breeze. From the beginning she had -been pained by Rollo’s reserve, though she had persuaded herself it was -natural enough; but now, in this new, strange revolution of affairs--a -revolution caused entirely, she said to herself, by her father’s own -proceedings--what could she do but stand firm on her own side? She would -not betray the great purpose in hand. She would still her own heart, and -keep her composure, and not allow any agitation or any irritation to -wrest from her the secret which Rollo desired to keep. To smooth her -ruffled hair was not generally a long process with Lottie; but it was -more difficult to arrange her agitated thoughts, and there had been -various calls for her from below, where the others had gone for their -evening meal, before she was ready to follow. - -Finally Law was sent upstairs with an urgent demand for her presence. - -“They’ve gone to tea,” said Law, knocking at her door; and then he -added, in a low tone, “Open, Lottie. I want to speak to you. I have got -lots to say to you.” - -She heard him, but she did not attach any meaning to his words. What he -said to her on the night before had left no definite impression on her -mind. Law had lost his sister, who thought of him above all. In the -midst of a pressing crisis in our own individual life, which of us has -time to think of others? She was afraid to talk to Law, afraid to betray -herself. Love made Lottie selfish and self-absorbed, a consequence just -as apt to follow as any other. She was afraid of betraying herself to -him; her mind was too full of this wonderful revolution in her own life -to be able to take in Law’s desire, on his side, not to know about her, -but to expound himself. She came out upon him hastily, and brushed past -him, saying, “I am ready.” She did not think of Law, not even when he -followed her, grumbling and murmuring--“I told you I wanted to speak to -you.” How difficult it is to realise the wants of another when one’s -heart is full of one’s own concerns! Neither brother nor sister had room -in their minds for anything but the momentous event in their respective -lives which was coming; but Law was aggrieved, for he had always -hitherto possessed Lottie’s sympathy as a chattel of his own. - -Polly and the Captain were seated at table when the two younger members -of the family went in, and never had Captain Despard been more dignified -or genial. “Lottie, my child, a bit of the breast,” he said--“a delicate -bit just fit for a lady. I’ve saved it up for you, though you are late. -You are very late; but for once in a way we will make allowances, -especially as Mrs. Despard is not offended, but takes your side.” - -“Oh, _I_ know,” said Polly, “I am not one as is hard upon natural -feelings. Pride I can’t abide, nor stuck-up ways, but when it comes to -keeping company----” - -“Is anyone keeping company with Lottie?” said Law, looking up fiercely; -and then the elder pair laughed. - -“But, my love, it is not a phrase that is used in good society,” the -Captain said. - -“Oh, bother good society!” said Polly. She was in an exuberant mood, and -beyond the influence of that little topdressing of too transparent -pretence with which occasionally she attempted to impose upon her -step-children. Lottie, in whose mind indignation and disgust gradually -overcame the previous self-absorption, listened to every word, unable to -escape from the chatter she hated, with that keen interest of dislike -and impatience which is more enthralling than affection; but she -scarcely ventured to raise her eyes, and kept herself rigidly on her -guard lest any rash word should betray her. It was not till the meal was -over that she was brought to actual proof. Then her father detained her -as she was about to escape. Law, more impatient than ever with the -pressure of his own affairs, which it seemed impossible to find any -opportunity of confiding to his sister, had got up at once and gone out. -The Captain threw out his chest majestically and waved his hand as -Lottie was about to follow. - -“My child, I have got something to say to you,” he said. - -Mrs. Despard was standing by the fire, warming herself with frank ease, -with a good ankle well displayed. Lottie, on her way to the door, -unwillingly arrested, stood still because she could not help it. But the -Captain occupied with majesty his seat at the foot of the table between -his wife and his daughter. “My love,” he said, with his favourite -gesture, throwing back his well-developed shoulders, “I have every faith -in my daughter, and Mr. Ridsdale is in every way quite satisfactory. -Your family is as good as his, but my Lord Courtland’s son is not one to -be turned away from any door; and as you have no fortune, Lottie, I -should not be exacting as to settlements. I suppose he knows that you -have no fortune, my dear?” - -“La, Harry!” said Polly from the side of the fire, “how should he think -she had a fortune? Fortunes don’t grow on every tree. And how do you -know as he has got _that_ far? A young man may keep company with a girl -for long enough, and yet never go as far as _that_.” - -“You must allow me to know best, my love,” said the Captain. “I hope he -is not trifling with my girl’s affections. If he is he has Harry Despard -to deal with, I’d have him to know. By Jove, if I thought _that_!” - -“I dare say it’s nothing but keeping company,” said Polly, holding up -her foot to the fire. “Taking a walk together, or a talk; there’s -nothing wrong in that. She wants her bit of fun as well as other girls. -I’m not the one to stand up for Miss Lottie, for it’s not what she’d do -for me; but if it’s only her bit of fun you shouldn’t be hard upon her, -Harry; if my pa had hauled me up for that----” - -Lottie could not bear it any longer. “Do you wish me to stay,” she said, -“papa? can you wish me to stay?” The Captain looked from his wife in her -easy attitude to his daughter, pale with indignation and horror. - -“My love,” he said, with mild remonstrance, “there are different ways of -speaking in different spheres. Lottie is an only daughter, and has been -very carefully brought up. But, my child,” the Captain added, turning to -Lottie, “you must not be neglected now. I will make it my business -to-morrow to see Mr. Ridsdale, to ascertain what his intentions are. -Your interests shall not suffer from any carelessness.” - -“Papa,” cried Lottie in despair, “you will not do anything so cruel; you -could not treat me so! Wait--only wait--a few days--three or four days!” - -Polly was so much interested that she let her dress drop over her ankles -and turned round. “Don’t you see,” she said, “that she feels he’s coming -to the point without any bother? That’s always a deal the best way. It -can’t do no harm, as I can see, to wait for three or four days.” - -“By Jove, but it will, though,” said Captain Despard with sudden -impatience, “all the harm in the world. You’ll allow me to understand my -own business. It is clearly time for a man to interfere. I shall see Mr. -Ridsdale to-morrow, if all the women in the world were to try their -skill and hold me back. Hold your tongue, Mrs. Despard; be quiet, -Lottie. When a man is a husband and a father he is the best judge of his -own duties. It is now my time to interfere.” - -Polly was really concerned; she had a fellow feeling for the girl whose -rights were thus interfered with. “Don’t you mind,” she said, turning to -Lottie with a half-audible whisper. “If he’s coming to the point himself -it won’t do no harm, and if he ain’t it will give him a push, and let -him see what’s expected of him. I ain’t one for interfering myself, but -if you can’t help it you must just put up with it; and I don’t think, -after all, it will do so very much harm.” - -Now Lottie ought to have been grateful for this well-intentioned and -amiable remark, but she was not. On the contrary, her anger rose more -wildly against the stranger who thus attempted to console her, than it -did against her father, whose sudden resolution was so painful to her. -She gave Polly a look of wrath, and, forgetting even civility, darted -out of the room and upstairs in vehement resentment. Polly was not so -much angry as amazed to the point of consternation. She gasped for the -breath which was taken away by Lottie’s sudden flight. “Well!” she -exclaimed, “that’s manners, that is! that’s what you call being brought -up careful! A young unmarried girl, as is nothing and nobody, rushing -out of a room like that before a married lady and her Pa’s wife!” - -Lottie, however, was in a passion of alarm, which drove everything else -out of her head. Of all things that seemed to her most to be avoided, a -meeting between her father and Rollo at this crisis was the worst. She -left her room no more that evening, but sat and pondered what she could -do to avert the danger. True, without a meeting between them it would be -impossible that her love should have its legitimate sanction, and that -the beginning of her new life should be honest and straightforward, as -it ought. But partly because she had schooled herself to think (by way -of excusing Rollo’s silence) that a meeting between him and her father -would only make him less respectful of the Captain’s pretensions and the -“family” which Lottie still with forlorn faith believed in, and partly -because the visit of a father to ask a lover’s “intentions” was perhaps -the very last way in which a beginning of intercourse could be agreeably -established, it seemed to Lottie that she would do anything in the world -to prevent this meeting. With this view she wrote one little note and -then another to warn Rollo--writing with cold fingers but a beating -heart, hot with anxiety and trouble, upon the corner of her little -dressing-table--for there was no room for any other convenience of a -table in the small, old-fashioned chamber. But when she had at last -achieved a composition of one which seemed to express feebly yet -sufficiently what she wanted to say, the question arose, How was it to -get to Rollo? She had no one to send. She dared not trust it to Law, for -that would involve an explanation, and there was no one else at Lottie’s -command. A thought of Captain Temple floated across her mind; but how -could she employ him upon such an errand, which would involve a still -more difficult explanation? At last she burnt regretfully by the flame -of her candle the very last of these effusions, and decided that she -must trust to the chances of the morrow. She had promised to be at the -elm-tree in the morning to bid Rollo good-by. She must manage, then, to -get him to go away before matins were over and her father free. But it -was with an anxious heart that Lottie, when her candle burned out, crept -cold and troubled to bed, chilled to the bone, yet with a brow which -burned and throbbed with excitement. Law did not come in till after she -had fallen asleep. Law, whom she had watched over so anxiously, was, at -this crisis of Lottie’s personal history and his own, left entirely to -himself. - -In the morning she managed to run out immediately after breakfast, just -as the air began to vibrate with the Abbey bells, and, after some -anxious waiting under the elm, at last, to her great relief, saw Rollo -coming. Lottie was not able to disguise her anxiety or her desire for -his departure. “Never mind speaking to me,” she said. “Do not waste -time. Oh, Rollo, forgive me--no, it is not to get rid of you,” she -cried, and then she told him the incident of last night. - -Rollo’s eyes gave forth a gleam of disgust when he heard of the chance -of being stopped by Captain Despard to enquire his “intentions.” He -laughed, and Lottie thought instinctively that this was a sound of -merriment which she would never wish to hear again. But his face -brightened as he turned to Lottie, who was so anxious to save him from -this ordeal. “My faithful Lottie!” he said, pressing her close to him. -There was nobody stirring in the winterly morning; but yet day requires -more reserve than the early darkness of night. - -“But go, go, Rollo. I want you to be gone before they are out of the -Abbey,” she cried, breathless. - -“My dear love--my only love,” he said, holding both her hands in his. - -“Oh, Rollo, is it not only for a day or two? You are so serious, you -frighten me--but go, go, that you may not meet anyone,” she said. - -“Yes, it is only for a day or two, my darling,” he replied. “On Friday, -my Lottie, at five under this tree. You won’t fail me?” - -“Never,” she said, with her blue eyes full of sweet tears. And then they -kissed in the eye of day, all the silent world looking on. - -“No,” he said, with fervour--“never; you will never fail me; you will -always be true.” - -And so they parted, she watching jealously while he took his way, not by -the common road, but down the windings of the Slopes, that he might be -safe, that no one might annoy him. “Till Friday!” he called to her in -the silence, waving his hand as he turned the corner out of her sight. -She drew a long breath of relief when she saw him emerge alone farther -down upon the road that led to the railway. The Signor was only then -beginning the voluntary, and Captain Despard evidently could not ask -Rollo Ridsdale his “intentions” that day. Lottie waved her hand to her -lover, though he was too far off to see her, and said to herself, “Till -Friday,” with a sudden realisation all of these words implied--another -life, a new heaven and a new earth; love, and tenderness, and worship -instead of the careless use and wont of the family; to be first instead -of last; to be happy and at rest instead of tormented at everybody’s -caprice; to be with Rollo, who loved her, always, for ever and ever, -with no more risk of losing him or being forgotten. Her heart overflowed -with sweetness, her eyes with soft tears of joy. Out of that enchanted -land she went back for a little while into common life, but not in any -common way. The sunshine, which had been slow to shine, broke out over -the Dean’s Walk as she emerged from under the shadow of the trees; the -path was cleared for her; the music pealed out from the Abbey. -Unconsciously her steps fell into a kind of stately movement, keeping -time. In her blessedness she moved softly on towards the shadow of the -house in which she had now but a few days to live--like a princess -walking to her coronation, like a martyr to her agony. Who could tell in -which of the two the best similitude lay? - - - - -CHAPTER XL. - -THE EFFECT OF GOOD FORTUNE: LAW. - - -Law had left Mr. Ashford, not knowing, as the vulgar have it, if he -stood on his head or his heels. He had somewhat despised the Minor -Canon, not only as a clergyman and an instructor, intending to put -something into Law’s luckless brains, yet without force enough to do it -effectually, but as a man, much too mild and gentle to make any head -against the deceitfulness of mankind, and all those guiles and pretences -in which an unwilling student like Law knows himself so much more -profoundly informed than any of his pastors and teachers can be. The -sense of superiority with which such a youth, learned in all manner of -“dodges” and devices for eluding work, contemplates the innocent senior -who has faith in his excuses, was strong in Law’s mind towards his last -tutor, who was so much less knowing than any of the others, that he had -taken him “for nothing,” without even the pay which his earlier -instructor, Mr. Langton, had been supposed to receive: supposed--for -Captain Despard was paymaster, and he was not any more to be trusted to -for recollecting quarter-day than Law was to be trusted to for doing his -work. But Mr. Ashford had never said anything about pay. He had taken -Law for his sister’s sake, “for love,” as the young man said lightly; -taken him as an experiment, to see what could be made of him, and kept -him on without a word on either side of remuneration. This curious -conduct, which might have made the pupil grateful, had no such result, -but filled him instead with a more entire contempt for the intellects of -his benefactor. It is easy, in the estimation of young men like Law, to -be learned and wise in book-learning, yet a “stupid” in life; and if -anything could have made this fact more clear, it would have been the -irregularity of the business transaction as between a non-paying pupil -and a “coach” who gave just as much attention to him as if he had been -an important source of revenue. “What a soft he must be! What a stupid -he is,” had been Law’s standing reflection. But he had liked all the -same the object of his scorn, and had felt “old Ashford” to be “very -jolly,” notwithstanding his foolish believingness, and still more -foolish indifference to his own profit. It was this which had made him -go to the Minor Canon with such a frankness of appeal--but he had not -been in the least prepared for the reply he received. It took away his -breath. Though it was a superlative proof of the same “softness” which -had made Mr. Ashford receive a pupil who paid him nothing, the dazzled -youth could no longer regard it with contempt. Though he was tolerably -fortified against invasions of emotion, there was something in this -which penetrated to his heart. Suddenly, in a moment, to be lifted out -of his dull struggle with books which he could not understand, and -hopeless anticipation of an ordeal he could never pass, and to have the -desire of his heart given to him, without any trouble of his, without -price or reward, was all very wonderful to Law. At first he could not -believe it. To think “old Ashford” was joking--to think that a man so -impractical did not put the ordinary meaning into his words--this was -the first natural explanation; but when the Minor Canon’s first -recollection that “he knew a man” brightened into the prospect of money -to pay the young emigrant’s passage, and an actual beginning of his -career, Law did not know, as we have said, whether he was standing upon -solid ground or floating in the air. The happiness was almost too much -for him. He went up to London next day by Mr. Ashford’s suggestion, and, -at his cost, to learn all particulars about the voyage, but kept his own -secret until it had gained so much of solid foundation as the actual -sight of a ship which was bound for Australia, a printed account of the -times of sailing, and fares, and an outfitter’s list of indispensables, -could give; then, still dazzled by the sudden fulfilment of his wishes, -but feeling his own importance, and the seriousness of his position as a -future emigrant, Law had endeavoured to find an opportunity of -communicating the great news to Lottie, but had failed, as has been -seen. And having thus failed, and seeing in her none of the eager desire -to know what he was about, which he thought would have been natural in -circumstances so profoundly interesting, Law got up from the table and -went out with a certain sense of injury in his mind. He saw there was -“something up” in respect to his sister herself, but he did not take -very much interest in that. Yet he thought it curiously selfish of her, -almost incomprehensibly selfish, to ask no question, show no concern in -what was happening to him. He had said, “I am going to Australia!” but -had he said, “I am going to play football,” she could not have taken it -more calmly; and she had never asked a question since. What funny -creatures women are, one time so anxious about you, another time caring -nothing, Law said to himself; but he was not at all conscious that it -might have been natural for him too to take some interest in Lottie’s -affairs. He did not. It was some rubbish, he supposed, about that fellow -Ridsdale. He thought of the whole business with contempt. Far more -important, beyond all comparison, were those affairs which were his -own. - -And when he went out, a little angry, irritated, but full of excitement -and elation, and eager to find somebody who would take due interest in -the story of his good fortune, where could Law’s footsteps stray but to -the place where they had turned so often in his idleness and -hopelessness? He had gone once before since the visit of Polly, and had -been confronted by Mrs. Welting, now established in the workroom, to the -confusion of all the little schemes of amusement by which the girls had -solaced the tedium of their lives. “Mother” had been glad enough to be -allowed to look after her house in quiet, and the rest of the family, -without troubling herself about her girls. But the sharp prick of -Polly’s denunciation had given Mrs. Welting new ideas of her duty. Would -she let it be said by an artful creature like that, who had done the -same thing herself, as _her_ daughters were laying themselves out to -catch a gentleman? Not for all the world! She would not have a girl of -hers marry a gentleman, not for anything, Mrs. Welting said. She forbade -the little expeditions they were in the habit of making in turns for -thread and buttons. She would not allow even the _Family Herald_. She -scolded “for nothing at all,” resenting her compulsory attendance there, -and banishment from her domestic concerns. The workroom was quite -changed. There was no jollity in it, no visitors, not half so much -chatter as had been carried on gaily while Polly was paramount. “She -took all the good herself, but she never could bear seeing anyone else -happy,” Emma said, who was doubly aggrieved. And it could not be said -that the work improved under this discipline. The moment altogether was -not happy; and when Law, by dint of wandering about the windows, and -whistling various airs known to the workroom, made his presence known, -Emma, when her mother withdrew, as she did perforce as the evening got -on, and it became necessary to look after the family supper, the younger -children, and her lodgers--came cautiously out to meet him, with a cloak -about her shoulders. “I haven’t got a moment to stay,” Emma said. -“Mother would take off my head if she found me out!” Yet she suffered -herself to be drawn a few steps from the door, and round the corner to -the riverside, where, on this wintry evening, there was nobody about, -and the river itself in the darkness was only discernible by the white -swell and foam round the piers of the bridge, by which it rushed on its -headlong passage to the weir. Here, now going, now coming, a few wary -steps at a time, awaiting a possible warning from the window of the -lighted workroom, the two wandered in the damp darkness, and Emma, -opening large eyes of astonishment, heard of all that was about to -happen. “Old Ashford has behaved like a brick,” Law said. “He is going -to give me introductions to people he knows, and he means to give me my -passage-money too, and something to begin upon!” - -“Lor!” cried Emma, “what is it for? Is he going to marry your sister?” -Her attention was awakened, but she did not think she had anything to do -with it; she was so much afraid of not hearing any possible tap on the -window, or not having time to run home before her absence was -discovered. - -“Now look here, Emma,” said Law. He did not speak with any enthusiasm of -tenderness, but calmly, as having something serious to propose. “If I go -away, you know, it’s for life; it’s not gone to-day and back to-morrow, -like a soldier ordered off to the Colonies. I’m going to make my living, -and my fortune, if I can, and settle there for life. No, nobody’s -knocking at the window. Can’t you give me your attention for a moment? I -tell you, if I go, it’s for life.” - -“Lor!” said Emma, startled. “You don’t mean to say as you’ve come to say -good-bye, Mr. Law? and you as always said you were so true. But I do -believe none of you young men ever remembers nor thinks what he’s been -saying,” she added with a half whimper. A lover’s desertion is never a -pleasant thing in any condition of life. - -“It’s just because of that I’m here,” said Law, sturdily. “I remember -all I’ve ever said. I’ve come to put it to you, Emma, straightforward. -I am going away, as I tell you, for life. Will you come with me? that’s -the question. There is not very much to spare, and there’s the outfit to -get, but it will go hard if I can’t draw old Ashford for your -passage-money,” said the grateful recipient of the Minor Canon’s bounty; -“and it would be a new start and a new life, and I’d do the best I could -for you. Emma, you must make up your mind quick, for there isn’t much -time. The boat sails--well, I can’t exactly tell you when she sails; but -in a fortnight or so----” - -“A fortnight!” Emma cried, with a sense of dismay. - -“Yes. We needn’t have a very grand wedding, need we? Emigrants must be -careful both of their money and their time.” - -“Emigrants? I don’t know what you mean by emigrants--it don’t sound -much,” said the girl, with a cloud upon her face. - -“No, it is not very fine. It means people that are going to settle far -away, on the other side of the world. Australia is--I don’t know how -many thousand miles away.” - -“Can you go there by land?” said Emma. “You needn’t laugh--how was I to -know? Oh, I can’t abide going in a ship.” - -“That’s a pity, for you can’t go in anything else. But it’s a fine big -ship, and every care taken. Look here, Emma, you must make up your mind. -Will you go?” - -“Oh, I don’t know,” cried Emma; “I can’t tell; how long would you be in -the ship? It isn’t what I ever expected,” she said in a plaintive voice. -“A hurry, and a fuss, and then a long sea-voyage. Oh, I don’t think I -should like it, Mr. Law.” - -“The question is, do you like me?” said Law, with a little thrill in his -deep yet boyish bass. “You couldn’t like the parting and all that--it -wouldn’t be natural; but do you like _me_ well enough to put up with it? -I don’t want you to do anything you don’t like, but when I go it will be -for good, and you must just make up your mind which you like best--to go -with me, though there’s a good deal of trouble, or to stay at home, and -good-bye to me for ever.” - -At this, Emma began to cry. “Oh, I shouldn’t like to say good-bye for -ever,” she said; “I always hated saying good-bye. I don’t know what to -do; it would be good-bye to mother, and Ellen, and them all. And never -to come back again would be awful! I shouldn’t mind if it was for a year -or two years, but never to come back--I don’t know what to do.” - -“We might come home on a visit, if we got very rich,” said Law, “or we -might have some of the others out to see us.” - -“Oh, for a visit!” said Emma. “But they’d miss me dreadful in the -workroom. Oh, I wish I knew what to say.” - -“You must choose for yourself--you must please yourself,” said Law, a -little piqued by the girl’s many doubts; then he softened again. “You -know, Emma,” he said, “when a girl gets married it’s very seldom she has -her own people near her, and I don’t know that it’s a good thing when -she has. People say, at least, husband and wife ought to be enough for -each other. And, supposing it was only to London, it would still be away -from them.” - -“Oh, but it would be different,” cried Emma; “if one could come back now -and again, and see them all; but to live always hundreds of thousands of -miles away.” - -“Not hundreds of thousands; but a long voyage that takes months----” - -“Months!” Emma uttered a cry. “Too far to have mother if you were ill,” -she said, casting her mind over the eventualities of the future; “too -far, a deal too far for a trip to see one. I don’t think it would be -nice at all. Mr. Law, couldn’t you, oh, couldn’t you stop at home?” - -“Perhaps you’d tell me what I should do if I stayed at home,” said Law, -not without a touch of contempt. “It’s more than I can tell. No, I can’t -stay at home. There is nothing I could do here. It is Australia or -nothing, Emma; you must make up your mind to that.” - -“Oh, but I don’t see why you shouldn’t stay in London; there are always -places to be got there; you might look in the papers and see. Mother -used to get the _Times_ from the public-house, a penny an hour, when -Willie was out of a place. Did you ever answer any advertisement, or -try--really try?” - -“All that is nothing to the purpose,” said Law, with some impatience. -“The advertisements may be all very well, but I know nothing about them. -I am going to Australia whether or not. I’ve quite made up my mind. Now -the thing is, will you come too?” - -Emma did not know what answer to make. The going away was appalling, but -to lose her gentleman-lover, though he was banished from the workroom, -was a great humiliation. Then she could not but feel that there was a -certain excitement and importance in the idea of preparing for a sudden -voyage, and being married at seventeen, the first of the family. But -when she thought of the sea and the ship, and the separation from -everything, Emma’s strength of mind gave way. She could not do that. The -end was that, driven back and forward between the two, she at last -faltered forth a desire to consult “Mother” before deciding. Law, though -he was contemptuous of this weakness, yet could not say anything -against it. Perhaps it was necessary that a girl should own such a -subjection. “If you do, I can tell you beforehand what she will say,” he -cried. “Then Ellen; I’ll ask Ellen,” said Emma. “Oh, I can’t settle it -out of my own head.” And then the girl started, hearing the signal on -the window, and fled from him, breathless. “Mother’s come to shut up,” -she said. Law walked away, not without satisfaction, when this end had -been attained. He was more anxious to have the question settled than he -was anxious to have Emma. Indeed, he was not at all blind to the fact -that he was too young to marry, and that there were disadvantages in -hampering himself even in Australia with such a permanent companion. -Then, too, all that he could hope for from Mr. Ashford was enough for -his own outfit and passage, and he did not see how hers was to be -managed. But, still, Law had been “keeping company” with Emma for some -time, and he acknowledged the duties of that condition according to the -interpretation put upon it in the order to which Emma belonged. Clearly, -when good fortune came to a young man who was keeping company with a -young woman, it was right that he should offer her a share of it. If she -did not accept it, so much the better; he would have done what honour -required without any further trouble. As Law walked up the hill again, -he reflected that on the whole it would be much better if he were -allowed to go to Australia alone. No one could know how things would -turn out. Perhaps the man Mr. Ashford knew might be of little use, -perhaps he might have to go from one place to another; or he might not -succeed at first; or many things might happen which would make a wife an -undesirable burden. He could not but hope that things might so arrange -themselves as that Emma should drop back into her natural sphere in the -workroom, and he be left free. Poor little Emma! if this were the case, -he would buy her a locket as a keepsake off Mr. Ashford’s money, and -take leave of her with comfort. But in the other case, if she should -make up her mind to go with him, Law was ready to accept the -alternative. His good fortune put him doubly on his honour. He would -prefer to be free, yet, if he were held to it, he was prepared to do his -duty. He would not let her perceive that he did not want her. But, on -the whole, he would be much better satisfied if “Mother” interfered. -Having disposed of this matter, Law began to think of his outfit, which -was very important, wondering, by the way, if Emma went, whether her -family would provide hers? but yet keeping this question, as uncertain, -quite in the background. He recalled to himself the list he had got in -his pocket, with its dozens of shirts and socks, with no small -satisfaction. Was it possible that he could become the owner of all -that? The thought of becoming the owner of a wife he took calmly, hoping -he might still avoid the necessity; but to have such a wardrobe was -exciting and delightful. He determined to get Lottie to show him how to -mend a hole and sew on a button. To think that Lottie knew nothing about -his plans, and had never asked him what he meant, bewildered him when he -thought of it. What could be “up” in respect to her? Something like -anxiety crossed Law’s mind; at least, it was something as much like -anxiety as he was capable of--a mingling of surprise and indignation; -for were not his affairs a great deal more important than anything -affecting herself could be? This was the idea of both. Law was going to -Australia, but Lottie was going to be married, a still more important -event! and each felt that in heaven and earth no other such absorbing -interest existed. It must be said, however, for Lottie, that Law’s -whispered communication counted for nothing with her, since she knew no -way in which it could be possible. Wild hopes that came to nothing had -gleamed across his firmament before. How could he go to Australia? As -easy to say that he was going to the moon; and in this way it took no -hold upon her mind; while he, for his part, had no clue whatever to the -disturbing influence in Lottie’s thoughts. - - - - -CHAPTER XLI. - -THE EFFECT OF GOOD FORTUNE: ROLLO. - - -The night after that decisive talk upon the Slopes was a trying one for -Rollo Ridsdale. He went home with the fumes of his resolution in his -mind. Now the die was cast. Whatever prudence might say against it, the -decision was made, and his life settled for him, partly by -circumstances, but much more by his personal will and deed. And he did -not regret what he had done. It was a tremendous risk to run; but he had -confidence that Lottie’s voice was as good as a fortune, and that in the -long run there would be nothing really imprudent in it. Of course it -must be kept entirely “quiet.” No indiscreet announcements in the -newspapers, no unnecessary publicity must be given to the marriage. -Whosoever was absolutely concerned should know; but for the general -public, what did it matter to them whether the bond which bound a man of -fashion to a celebrated singer was legitimate or not? Lottie would not -wish for society, she would not feel the want of society, and -particularly in the interval, while she was still not a celebrated -singer, it was specially necessary that all should be kept “quiet.” He -would take her to Italy, and it would be not at all needful to introduce -any stray acquaintance who might happen to turn up, to his wife. In -short, there was no occasion for introducing anyone to her. Lottie would -not want anything. She would be content with himself. Poor darling! what -wonderful trust there was in her! By this time he was able to half-laugh -at his own guilty intention, which she had so completely extinguished by -her inability to understand it, her perfect acceptance of it as all that -was honourable and tender. He was going to do the right thing -now--certainly the right thing, without any mistake about it; but still -that it should be made to look like the wrong thing, was the idea in -Rollo’s mind. He would take her to Italy and train her for her future -career; but neither at the present time nor in the future would it be -necessary to put the dots upon the i’s in respect to her position. As -for Lottie, he knew very well that she, having no doubt about her -position, would not insist upon any publication of it. It would never -once occur to her that there was any possibility of being misconstrued. - -With these thoughts in his mind, Rollo dressed very hastily for dinner, -as he had lingered with Lottie to the last moment. And as it happened, -this was the very evening which Augusta chose for discussing openly the -subject to which she had, without speaking of it, already devoted all -her powers of research since she had arrived at home. In the evening -after dinner Rollo was the only one of the gentlemen who came into the -drawing-room. Augusta’s husband was an inoffensive and silent man, with -what are called “refined tastes.” For one thing he was in a mild way an -antiquary. He did not enter very much into his wife’s life, nor she into -his. She was fashionable, he had refined tastes; they were perfectly -good friends; and though not yet married six months, followed each their -own way. Spencer Daventry had gone to his father-in-law’s study -accordingly, to investigate some rare books, and his wife was in the -drawing-room alone--that is, not exactly alone, for Lady Caroline was -“on the sofa.” When Lady Caroline was on the sofa she did not trouble -anybody much, and even the coming in of the lamps had not disturbed her. -She had “just closed her eyes.” Her dress was carefully drawn over her -feet by Mrs. Daventry’s care, and a wadded _couvre-pied_ in crimson -satin laid over them. Augusta liked to see to every little decorum, and -would have thought the toe of her mother’s innocent shoe an improper -revelation. Perhaps it was by her orders that Mr. Daventry had not come -in. There was no company that evening, and when Rollo entered the -drawing-room, he saw at once that he had fallen into a trap. Augusta -sat on a comfortable chair by the fire, with a small table near her and -a lamp upon it. The other lights were far away, candles twinkling in the -distance on the piano, and here and there against the walls: but only -this one spot by the fire in warm and full light; and a vacant chair -stood invitingly on the other side of Augusta’s table. No more snug -arrangement for a _tête-à-tête_ could have been, for Lady Caroline was -nothing but a bit of still life--more still almost than the rest of the -furniture. Augusta looked up as her cousin came in, with a smile. - -“Alone?” she said; “then come here, Rollo, and let us have a talk.” - -Rollo would not have been Rollo if he had felt any repugnance to this -amusement. Needless to say that in their boy and girl days there had -been passages of something they were pleased to call love between the -cousins; and equally needless to add that all this had long been over, -both being far too sensible (though one had been led astray by Lottie, -to his own consternation and confusion) to think of any serious -conclusion to such a youthful folly. Rollo sat down with mingled -pleasure and alarm. He liked a confidential talk with any woman; but in -this case he was not without fear. - -And his fears were thoroughly well founded as it turned out. After a -few preliminaries about nothing at all, Augusta suddenly plunged into -her subject. - -“I am very glad,” she said, “to have a chance of speaking to you, by -ourselves. Mamma does not pay any attention; it is quite the same as if -she were not there. You know I’ve always taken a great interest in you, -Rollo. We are cousins, and we are very old friends--more like brother -and sister.” - -“I demur to the brother and sister; but as old friends as memory can -go,” said he; “and very happy to be permitted all the privileges of a -cousin--with such a good fellow as Daventry added on.” - -“Oh, yes. Spencer’s very nice,” said she. “He takes very kindly to my -people; but it is not about Spencer I want to talk to you, Rollo, but -about yourself.” - -“That’s so much the better,” said Rollo; “for I might not have liked -bridal raptures, not being able, you know, Augusta, quite to forget----” - -“Oh, that’s all nonsense,” said Augusta, with the faintest of blushes; -“bridal fiddlesticks! People in the world keep clear of all that -nonsense, heaven be praised. No, Rollo, it’s about yourself. I am very -anxious about you.” - -“Angelic cousin!--but there is no cause for anxiety that I know of in -me.” - -“Oh, yes, Rollo, there is great cause of anxiety. I must speak to you -quite frankly. When I was married you had never seen Lottie Despard----” - -“Miss Despard!” He repeated the name in a surprised tone and with eyes -full of astonishment. He was glad of the opportunity of looking to the -buckles of his armour and preparing for the onset; and therefore he made -the surprise of the exclamation as telling as he could. “What can she -have to do with your anxiety?” he said. - -“Yes, Lottie Despard. Oh, she has a great deal to do with it. Rollo, how -can you think that any good can come of such a flirtation either to you -or the girl?” - -“Flirtation, Augusta?” - -“Yes, flirtation, or something worse. Why do you always go to her -lessons? Oh, I know you always go. She can’t sing a bit, poor thing; and -it only fills her poor heart with vanity and nonsense; and you meet her -when you walk out. Don’t contradict me, please. Should I say so, if I -had not made quite sure? I know the view you men take of honour. You -think when a girl is concerned you are bound to deny everything. So you -may be sure I did not say it till I had made quite sure. Now, Rollo, I -ask you what can possibly come of anything of this kind? Of course you -only mean to amuse yourself; and of course it is the girl’s fault if she -gets herself talked about; for she must know as well as I do that there -can be nothing in it; but for all that----” - -“You take away my breath,” said Rollo; “you seem to know so much better -than I do the things that have happened or are happening to myself.” - -“I do,” said Augusta, “for I have been thinking about it, and you have -not. You have just done what was pleasant at the moment, and never taken -any thought. You are doing a great deal of harm to Lottie, poor thing, -filling her head with silly fancies, and turning her against people of -her own class. And suppose some really _nice_ girl were to turn up, some -one with money, what would she think of you, dangling for ever after a -young woman who is not even in society? I am taking it for granted that -it is only a silly flirtation: for as for anything worse,” said Augusta, -with severity, “it cannot be supposed for a moment that _I_ could speak -to you of that; but you know very well, Rollo, a man of the world, like -you, how very dreadful, how fatal all those sort of entanglements are, -even when you don’t look at them from a high moral point of view.” - -“You make me out a pretty character,” said Rollo, with an angry smile. -“I never knew I was a Lovelace till now.” - -“Oh, all you men are the same,” said Augusta, “if women will let you. -Women have themselves to thank when anything happens, for it is of ten -times more importance to them than it is to you. A man is none the worse -for things that would ruin a girl for ever. But, still, you are not in a -position to be careless of what people say. You have not a penny, Rollo; -and I don’t believe in your opera. The only way in which you will ever -have anything is by a suitable marriage. Suppose that any of your -relations were to find a really nice person for you, and you were to -spoil it all by a folly like this! That is how I look at it. To ruin -yourself for a girl’s pretty face! and her voice--when she can’t sing a -note!” - -“Am I to infer that you have got a nice person for me?” said Rollo, -furious inwardly, yet keeping his temper, and turning the conversation -in this direction by way of diverting it from more dangerous subjects. -And then Augusta (drawing somewhat upon her imagination, it must be -allowed) told him of a very nice person indeed. Rollo listened, by way -of securing his escape; but by and by he got slightly interested, in -spite of himself. This really nice girl was coming to the Deanery for -two or three days. She had a hundred thousand pounds. She had heard of -Rollo Ridsdale, and already “took an interest” in him. It was perhaps -partly fiction, for the visit of this golden girl to the Deanery was not -by any means settled--but yet there was in it a germ of fact. “It is an -opportunity that never may occur again,” Augusta said, like a shop that -is selling off. And indeed it was a sale which she would have greatly -liked to negotiate, though Rollo was less the buyer than the piece of -goods of which sale was to be made. - -A hundred thousand pounds! He could not help thinking of it later in the -evening, when he smoked his cigar, and as he went to bed. His affairs -seemed to him to be managed by some malign and tricky spirit. Just at -this moment, when he was pledged to the most imprudent marriage that -could be conceived, was it not just his luck that fate should take the -opportunity of dangling such a prize before him? A hundred thousand -pounds! Why was it not Lottie that had this money? or why, as she had no -money, had she been thrown in his way? To be sure she had a voice, which -was as good as a fortune, but not equal to a hundred thousand pounds. -However, he said to himself, there was no help for it now. All this -happened before the brief interview on the hill, which sent him off to -town before the hour he intended, and which proved to him, over and over -again, her trust in him, which was beyond anything he had ever dreamed -of. That she should guard him even from her father, that she should -believe in him, to the disdain of every safeguard which the vulgar mind -relied on, astonished, confounded, and impressed his mind beyond -description. To deceive her would be the easiest thing in the world, -but, at the same time, would it not be the most impossible thing, the -last that any man not a villain could do? And there was besides a -glimmering perception in Rollo’s mind that deception would only be -practicable up to a certain point, and that the scorn and horror and -indignation with which Lottie would turn upon the criminal who had -intended shame to her, would be something as much unlike the ordinary -rage of a wronged woman as her trust was beyond the ordinary suspicious -smoothness of ordinary belief. Shame and she had nothing to do with each -other. She might die in the agony of the discovery, but first her eyes, -her lips, the passion of her indignant purity would slay. With a deep -regret he thought of the easier tie. Augusta’s words had been those of a -silly woman when she spoke of fatal entanglements. On the contrary, -marriage was the fatal thing. The other--what harm would it have done? -None to Lottie in her career; no one would have thought any the worse of -her. People would be sure to suppose that something of the kind had -occurred in a singer’s life, whether it was true or not. It would have -done her no harm; and it would not have done Rollo any harm. To think of -it as fatal was the greatest folly. On the contrary, they would have -been of use to each other now, and after they would each have been free -to consult their own interests. He could not help thinking very -regretfully of this so easy, agreeable expedient, which would have been -anything but fatal. To be sure, this was not, as Augusta said, a high -moral point of view; but Rollo did not pretend to be a moralist. All -these thoughts poured through his mind again as he went to London, with -the full intention of getting a license for his marriage, and making all -the arrangements which would bind Lottie to him as his wife. He was -obliged to do this; he could not help himself. Much rather would he have -done anything else--taken the other alternative--but it was not -possible. There was but this one thing to do--a thing which put it -entirely out of his power for ever and ever to consider the claims of -any really nice person with a hundred thousand pounds at her disposal. -Rollo did not pretend to himself that he took the decisive step with any -satisfaction. He was no triumphant bridegroom; but he was a true lover, -and not a villain, and regretfully but steadfastly he gave himself up to -what he had to do. - -It was too late to do anything in respect to the license when he arrived -in town, but there were many other things to be settled, in order to -make a considerably long absence practicable, and these he arranged in -his own mind as he approached his journey’s end. For one thing, he had -the funds to provide; and that, as will be readily perceived, was no -small matter. He walked out of the railway station, pondering this in -his mind. It was a grave question, not one to be lightly solved. He did -not want to return to town till the season should have begun. No doubt -five months’ honeymooning would bore any man, but he felt it to be too -important to think of mere personal amusement; and he could always make -expeditions himself to more lively places, and get a share of any -amusement that might be going, when he had settled down Lottie to her -studies, under the best masters that were to be had. All this was quite -easily settled; but for an absence of five months, if you have not any -income to speak of, it is necessary to have an understanding with your -bankers, or somebody else. He meant to try his bankers, for his -confidence in Lottie’s future success was extreme, and he felt justified -in speaking of it as money which his future wife would be entitled to. -All these plans he was laying very deliberately in his head, calculating -how much he would need, and various other particulars, when the face of -a man approaching in a hansom suddenly struck him. It was Rixon, his -father’s confidential servant, a man who had been in Lord Courtland’s -service as long as anybody could recollect. What was he doing there? The -hansom was directing its course towards the railway from which Rollo -had just come, and Rixon’s countenance was of an extreme gravity. What -could it mean? Could anything have happened? Rollo saw the hansom pass, -but its occupant did not see him. He could not banish from his thoughts -the idea that something must have happened--that it was to tell him -something, some news more or less terrible that Rixon was on his way to -the railway which went to St. Michael’s. After a moment’s hesitation he -turned and went back to the station, not being able to divest himself of -this idea. To be sure Rixon might be going somewhere on business of his -own; he might be looking grave about his own affairs. Still Rollo turned -and went back; in any case it was best to know. The man was standing -among several others, waiting to take his ticket for the train, when -Rollo re-entered the station; he was getting his money out of his pocket -to pay his fare; but looking up as he did this, Rixon started, put his -money back, and immediately disengaged himself from the _queue_. It was -then a message from home of sufficient importance to be sent by special -envoy. Rollo had time to examine this bearer of ill-news as he -approached. What but ill-news was ever so urgent? special messengers do -not travel about to stray sons of a family with news of birth or bridal. -There is but one thing which calls for such state, and that is death. -Rollo ran over all the chances in a moment, in his mind. His father--if -it were his father there would be a little delay, a little ready money, -more need than ever, and a very good excuse, for keeping everything -quiet. It was not absolute want of feeling that suggested this thought. -If it was his father there would be many reasons for being sorry. Home, -with your brother at the head of affairs, is not home like your father’s -house. And Lord Courtland, though his second son had worn out his -kindness, was still kind more or less. Rollo was not insensible; he felt -the dull consciousness of a blow before he received it, as he fixed his -eyes upon Rixon’s mournful countenance, and the band on his hat. - -“What is the matter?” he said, as the man approached. “What has -happened? You were going to me? Tell me at once what it is.” - -“I beg your pardon, Sir,” said Rixon, with the perpetual apology of a -well-bred servant. “Yes, Sir, I was going to St. Michael’s. My lord sent -me to tell you----” - -“Thank heaven, that it is not my father! You mean that my father sent -you? That is a relief,” said Rollo, drawing a long breath. - -“Yes, my--Sir!” said Rixon, with confusion, “My lord is in the enjoyment -of perfect health--at least as good as is compatible with the great -misfortune, the catastrophe that has--snatched----” - -“What do you mean?” said Rollo. Rixon was fond of long words. He -laughed, “You are always mysterious. But if my father is all right----” - -“Oh, don’t! my--don’t, Sir!” said the man, “laughing is not what ought -to be on your lips at such a moment. Your brother has had an -accident----” - -“My brother--Ridsdale? Good heavens! Can’t you speak out? What has -happened?” said Rollo, with blanched cheeks. Horror, fear, hope, all -sprung up within him, indistinguishable the one from the other. The -moment seemed a year during which he stood waiting for Rixon’s next -words. - -“It is too true, my lord,” said the man, and the address threw around -Rollo a sudden gleam of growing light. “Your brother had a terrible -accident on the hunting-field. His horse stumbled on King’s Mead, at -that bad fence by Willowbrook. He was taken up insensible, and died -before he could be got home. Things are in a terrible state at -Courtlands. I was sent to let your lordship know. My lord would be glad -if you would come home at once.” - -Rollo staggered back, and put himself against the wall. A cold moisture -burst out over him. He grew so pale that Rixon thought he was going to -faint. The man said afterwards that he could not have believed that Mr. -Ridsdale had so much feeling. And partly it was feeling as Rixon -thought. For the first moment the thought that his brother, upon whom -fate had always smiled--Ridsdale! _Ridsdale!_--the very impersonation of -prosperity and good fortune, should be lying dead, actually dead, at his -age, with all his prospects, appalled him. It seemed too much, -unnatural, beyond all possibility of belief. Then the blood rushed back -through all his veins with a flush and suffusion of sudden heat. The -change alarmed the messenger of so much evil and so much good. He put -out his hand to support his young master. “My lord, my lord!” he said -(they were words which Rixon loved to repeat, and which added to his own -dignity as a gentleman’s gentleman), “remember your father; now that -your lamented brother is gone, all his lordship’s trust is in you.” - -Rollo waved his hand, not caring for the moment to speak. “Let me -alone!” he said. “Let me alone! leave me to myself.” And it did not take -him long to recover and shake off the horrible impression, and realise -the astounding change that had occurred. Perhaps it is not possible that -the death of a brother, which produces so extraordinary and beneficial a -change in the situation and prospects of the next in succession, can be -regarded with the natural feeling which such an event uncomplicated by -loss or gain of a pecuniary kind calls forth. There was a sudden shock, -then a consciousness that something was expected from him, some show of -grief and profound distress; and then a bewildering, overwhelming, -stupefying, yet exciting realisation of the change thus suddenly -accomplished in himself. He was no longer merely Rollo, a fashionable -adventurer, dealing in every kind of doubtful speculation, and -legitimatised gambling, a man of no importance to anyone, and free to -carry out whatever schemes might come into his head; but now--an -altogether different person--Lord Ridsdale, his father’s heir; the -future head of a great family; a future peer; and already endowed with -all the importance of an heir-apparent. The world seemed to go round and -round with Rollo, and when it settled again out of the whirling and pale -confusion as of an earthquake, it was not any longer the same world. The -proportion of things had changed in the twinkling of an eye. The distant -and the near had changed places. What was close to him before receded; -what was far away became near. In the hurry of his thoughts he could not -even think. Pain mingled with everything, with the giddiness of a -strange elation, with the bewilderment of a surprise more startling than -any that had ever come to him before in all his life. Ridsdale!--he who -had always been so smiling and prosperous; he to whom everything was -forgiven; whose sins were only peccadilloes; whose lightest schoolboy -successes were trumpeted abroad, whose movements were recorded -where-ever he went; it was inconceivable that he should be lying--dead; -inconceivable that Rollo, the detrimental, the one in the family whom -all disapproved of, should be put in his place, and succeed to all his -privileges and exemptions. It did not seem possible. It needed Rixon -saying my lord to him at every moment, to make the curious fiction seem -true. Rixon got a cab to drive his young master to the other station, by -which he must go to Courtlands; and Rollo--leaving all his former life -behind him, leaving his license, his marriage, his bride, in the -opposite direction, fading into misty spectres--turned his back upon all -that had been most important to him half an hour ago, and drove away. - -He went through that day like a dream--the whole course of his existence -turned into another channel. He got home, rolling up to the familiar -door with sensations so different from any that had ever moved him when -entering that door before. He looked at it this time with a feeling of -proprietorship. It had been his home for all his early life; but now it -was going to be _his own_, which is very different. He looked at the -very trees with a different feeling, wondering why so many should be -marked for cutting down. What had they been doing to want to get rid of -so many trees? When he went into the room where his brother lay dead, it -was to him as if a waxen image lay there, as if it were all a skilful -scene, arranged to make believe that such a change, one man substituted -for another, could be _real_. To Rollo it did not seem to be real. It -was the younger son who had died, with all his busy schemes--his plans -for the future, his contrivances to get money, and the strange -connections which he had formed. Rollo, who was the founder of the new -opera, the partner of the bustling manager; it was he who was lying on -that bed. All his plans would be buried with him--his Bohemianism, his -enterprises, his----. What was it that the poor fool had gone in for, -the last of all his undertakings, the thing in which he had been happily -arrested ere he could harm himself or embarrass the family?--his -love----. It was when standing by the bed on which his brother lay dead -that this thought suddenly darted into the new Lord Ridsdale’s mind. He -turned away with a half groan. Providence had interposed to prevent that -foolish fellow from consummating his fate. He had not yet reached the -highest pitch of folly when the blow fell. Something there was which the -family had escaped. When the key was turned again in the door, and he -went back to another darkened room and heard all about the accident, it -was almost on his lips to contradict the speakers, and tell them it was -not Ridsdale that was dead. But he did not do so. He preserved his -decorum and seriousness. He was “very feeling.” Lord Courtland, who had -been afraid of his son’s levity, and had trembled lest Rollo, who had -never been on very intimate terms with his brother, should show less -sorrow than was becoming, was deeply satisfied. “How little we know what -is in a man till he’s tried,” he said to his sister, Lady Beatrice. Lady -Courtland, the mother of the young man, was happily long ago dead. - -Thus, after setting out in the morning--full of tender ardour, -notwithstanding his many doubts--to make the arrangements for his -marriage, Rollo found himself at night one of the chief mourners in a -house full of weeping. It was late at night when he got to his own room, -and was able really to set himself to consider his own affairs. Which -were his own affairs? The cares of the head of the family, the earl’s -heir and right hand--or those strangely different anxieties which had -been in the mind of the second son? When he sat down to think it over, -once more there came a giddiness and bewilderment over Rollo’s being. He -seemed scarcely able to force back upon himself the events which had -happened at St. Michael’s only this morning. The figure of Lottie -appeared to him through the mist, far, far away, dimly apparent at the -end of a long vista. Lottie. What had he intended to do? He had meant to -get a license for his marriage to her, to arrange how he could get -money--if money was to be had by hook or by crook--to see about the -tickets for their journey, to decide where to go to--even to provide -travelling-wraps for his bride. All this he had come to London to do -only this morning, and now it almost cost him an effort to recollect -what it was. He would have been glad to evade the subject, to feel that -he had a right to rest after such a fatiguing day; but the revolution in -and about him was such that he could not rest. St. Michael’s and all its -scenes passed before him like dissolving views, fading off into the -mist, then rising again in spectral indistinctness. He could not think -they belonged to him, or that the central figure in all these pictures -was his own. Was it not rather his brother--he who had died? It seemed -to Lord Ridsdale that he was settling Rollo’s affairs for him, thinking -what was best to be done. He had been horribly imprudent, and had -planned a still greater imprudence to come, when death arrested him in -mid-career; but, Heaven be praised, the heedless fellow had been stopped -before he committed himself! Rollo shuddered to think what would have -happened had the family been hampered by a wife. A wife! What a fool he -had been; what a dream he had been absorbed in; folly, unmitigated, -inexcusable; but, thank Heaven, he had been stopped in time. -Lottie--that was her name, and she had been very fond of him; poor girl, -it would be a great disappointment for her. Thus Rollo thought, not -feeling that he had anything to do with it. It was all over, so -completely over, that there was scarcely a struggle in his mind, -scarcely any controversy with himself, on the subject. No advocate, -heavenly or diabolical, spoke on Lottie’s behalf. The whole affair was -done with--it was impossible--there was no room even for consideration. -For Lord Ridsdale to marry a nameless girl, the highest possibility in -whose lot was to become a singer, and who had to be educated before even -that was practicable, was not to be thought of. It was a bad thing for -the poor girl; poor thing! no doubt it was hard upon her. - -Thus--was it any doing of Rollo’s? Providence itself opened a door of -escape for him from his unwary folly. Law did not act in the same way; -when good fortune came to him, by a mere savage and uncultivated -sentiment of honour, he had gone to the girl who had been his sweetheart -to propose that she should share it. Lord Ridsdale, however, was not of -this vulgar strain. The savage virtues were not in his way--they were -not possible in his circumstances. _Noblesse oblige_; he could not raise -Lottie to the sublime elevation of the rank he had so unexpectedly -fallen into. That was not possible. The matter was so clear that it -barred all question. There was not a word to be said on her side. - -Nevertheless, had it not been for all the trouble about poor Ridsdale’s -funeral, and the attentions required by the father, whose manner had so -entirely changed to his surviving son, and who was now altogether -dependent upon him--the new heir to the honours of the Courtland family -might have broken off with his old love in a more considerate way. But -he had no time to think. The very day had come before he could -communicate with her; and then it had to be done abruptly. And, after -all, a little more or less, what did it matter? The important point, for -her sake especially, was that the change should be perfectly definite -and clear. Poor Lottie! he was so sorry for her. It would be better, -much better for her to hate him now, if she could; and, above all, it -was the kindest thing to her to make the disruption distinct, beyond all -possibility either of doubt or of hope. - - - - -CHAPTER XLII. - ---“TILL FRIDAY.” - - -Captain Despard put on his best coat after his return from the Abbey on -the morning of Rollo’s departure. He brushed his hat with more than his -usual care; he found, after much investigation, among what he called his -papers, an ancient and shabby card-case: and thus equipped set forth on -his solemn mission. He had a bit of red geranium in his button-hole -which looked cheerful against the damp and gloom of the morning. Polly, -looking out after him, thought her Captain a finished gentleman, and -felt a swell of pride expand her bosom--of pride and of anxiety as -well--for if, by good fortune, the Captain should succeed in his -mission, then Polly felt that there would be a reasonable chance of -getting “her house to herself.” Lottie’s proud withdrawal from all the -concerns of the house had indeed given her step-mother a great deal less -trouble than she had expected; but she could not escape from the idea of -Lottie’s criticism; and the sight of the girl, sitting there, looking as -if she knew better, though she never said anything, was to Polly as -gall and wormwood. If she would have spoken, there would have been less -harm. Mrs. Despard was always ready for a conflict of tongues, and knew -that she was not likely to come off second best; but Lottie’s silence -exasperated her; and it was the highest object of her desires to get her -house to herself. Lottie was coming down the Dean’s Walk, calm, and -relieved, and happy, after seeing her lover make his way down the -Slopes, when the Captain turned towards the cloisters. Her heart gave a -jump of irritation and excitement, followed by a gleam of angry -pleasure. This mission, which was an insult to her and to Rollo alike, -would be a failure, thank Heaven; but still it was a shame that it -should ever have been undertaken. Oh, how unlike, she thought, the -perfect trust and faith that was between them, to intrude this vulgar -inquiry, this coarse interference, into the perfection of their love! It -brought the tears to Lottie’s eyes to think how ready he was to throw -prudence to the winds for her sake, to accept all the risks of life -rather than leave her to suffer; the only question between them being -whether it was right for her to accept such a sacrifice. Lottie did not -think of the approval of his family as she ought to have done, and as -for the approval of her own, though the secret vexed her a little, yet -she was glad to escape from the noisy congratulations to which she would -have been subjected, and her father’s unctuous satisfaction had her -prospects been known. A few days longer, and the new wife whose presence -was an offence to Lottie would have her house to herself. The two, upon -such opposite sides, used the very same words; Lottie, too, was thankful -above measure that Mrs. Despard would have her house to herself. She -calculated the days--Wednesday, Thursday, Friday; Friday was the day on -which she was to meet him, in the afternoon, while all the world at St. -Michael’s was at the afternoon service, and when the Signor, on the -organ, which had been the accompaniment to all the story of their love, -would be filling the wintry air with majestic and tender and solemn -sound. She seemed to hear the pealing of that wonderful symphony, and -Rollo’s voice against it, like a figure standing out against a noble -background, telling her all he had done, and when and how the crowning -event of their story was to be. Her heart was beating loudly, yet -softly, in Lottie’s breast. Supreme expectation, yet satisfaction, an -agitated calm, a pathetic happiness, feelings too exquisite in their -kind to be without a touch of pain, filled all her being. The happiness -she had most prized all her life was to have her ideal fulfilled in -those she loved; and was it possible that any man could have more nobly -done what a true lover should do, than Rollo was doing it? She was -happy, in that he loved her above prudence and care and worldly -advantage; but she was almost happier in that this generosity, this -tender ardour, this quick and sudden action of the deliverer, was all -that poet could have asked or imagination thought of. These were her -fancies, poor girl; the fancies of a foolish, inexperienced creature, -knowing nothing--and far enough from the truth that the charitable may -forgive her, Heaven knows! - -When she went in, Polly called her, with a certain imperiousness. She -was on her way to her room, that sole bower of safety; but this Mrs. -Despard had made up her mind not to allow. “You may show me those scales -you were speaking of,” said Polly. “I daresay I’ll remember as soon as I -see them. It will take up your attention, and it will take up my -attention till your pa comes back. I’m that full of sympathy (though it -can’t be said as you deserve it), that though I have nothing to do with -it, I am just as anxious as you are.” - -“I am not anxious,” Lottie said proudly; but she would not condescend to -say more. She brought out an old music-book with easy lessons for a -beginner, at which she had herself laboured in her childhood, and placed -it before her scholar. The notes were like Hebrew and Greek to Polly, -and she could not twist her fingers into the proper places; these -fingers were not like a child’s pliable joints, and how to move each -one separately was a problem which she could not master. She sat at the -piano with the greatest seriousness, striking a note a minute, with much -strain of the unaccustomed hand--and now and then looking up jealously -to see if her instructress was laughing at her; but Lottie was too -preoccupied to smile. She heard her father coming back in what she felt -to be angry haste; and then, with her heart beating, listened to his -step upon the stairs. At this Polly too was startled, and jumping up -from her laborious exercise, snatched the old music-book from its place -and opened it at random at another page. - -“Me and Miss Lottie, we’ve been practising our duet,” she said. “La, -Harry! is that you back so soon?” - -“The fellow’s gone,” said Captain Despard, throwing down his hat and -cane; that hat which had been brushed for nothing, which had not even -overawed Mr. Jeremie, who gazed at him superciliously, holding the -Deanery door half open, and not impressed at all by the fine manners of -the Chevalier. “The fellow’s gone! He did not mean to go yesterday, that -odious menial as good as confessed. He has heard I was coming, and he -has fled. There could not be a worse sign. My poor child! Lottie!” said -the Captain, suddenly catching a gleam of something like enjoyment in -her eyes, “you do not mean to tell me that you were the traitor. You! -Was it you told him? You may be a fool, but so great a fool as _that_ -couldn’t be!” - -Lottie scorned to deny what she had done. She was too proud and too rash -to think that she was betraying herself by the acknowledgment. She met -her father’s eye with involuntary defiance. “You would not listen to -me,” she said, “and I could not bear it. It was a disgrace; it was -humbling me to the dust. I warned him you were coming----” As she spoke -she suddenly perceived all that was involved in the confession, and grew -crimson-red, and then pale. - -“So, miss,” said Polly, “you’re nicely caught. Keeping company all this -time, and never to say a word to nobody; but if I were your pa, you -shouldn’t be let off like that. Was it for nothing but a bit of fun -you’ve been going on with the gentleman? That’s carrying it a deal too -far, that is. And when your pa takes it in hand to bring him to the -point, you ups and tells him, and frightens him away! I’d just like to -know--and, Harry, I’d have you to ask her--what she means by it? What do -you mean by it, miss? Do you mean to live on here for ever, and eat us -out of house and home? If you won’t work for your living, nor do -anything to get an ’usband, I’d just like to know what you mean to do?” - -“Hold your tongue,” said her husband. “Let her alone. It is I that must -speak. Lottie, is it really true that you have betrayed your father? -You have separated yourself from me and put yourself on the side of a -villain!” - -“Mr. Ridsdale is not a villain,” said Lottie, passionately. “What has he -done? He has done nothing that can give you any right to interfere with -him. I told him, because I would not have him interfered with. He has -done nothing wrong.” - -“He has trifled with my child’s affections,” said the Captain. “He has -filled our minds with false expectations. By Jove, he had better not -come in the way of Harry Despard, if that’s how he means to behave. I’ll -horsewhip the fellow--I’ll kill him; I’ll show him up, if he were twenty -times the Dean’s nephew. And you, girl, what can anyone say to -you--never thinking of your own interest, or of what’s to become of you, -as Mrs. Despard says?” - -“Her own interest!” cried Polly. “Oh, she’ll take care of herself, never -fear. She knows you won’t turn her to the door, Harry. You’re too soft, -and they knows it. They’ll hang upon you and eat up everything you have, -till you have the courage to tell them as you won’t put up with it. Oh, -you needn’t turn upon me, Miss Lottie. As long as there was a chance of -a good ’usband I never said a word; but when you goes and throws your -chance away out of wilful pride, then I’m bound to speak. Your poor pa -has not a penny, and all that he has he wants for himself; and I want -my house to myself, Harry; you always promised I was to have my house to -myself. I don’t want none of your grown-up daughters, as think -themselves a deal better than me. I think I will go out of my mind with -Miss Lottie’s lessons, and Mr. Law’s lessons, and all the rest. I never -would have married you--you know I shouldn’t--if I hadn’t thought as I -was to have my house to myself.” - -“My love,” said the Captain, deprecatingly, “you know it is not my -fault. You know that if I could I would give you everything. I had very -good reason to think----” - -“Papa,” said Lottie, who had been standing by trembling, but less with -fear than passionate disgust and anger, “do you agree in what she says?” - -“Of course he agrees,” says Polly. “He hasn’t got any choice; he’s -obliged to say the same as me. He promised me when I married him as you -shouldn’t be long in my way. He told me as you was going to be married. -One girl don’t like another girl for everlasting in her road; and you -never took no trouble to make yourself agreeable, not even about the -music. Harry, do you hear me? Speak up, and say the truth for once. Tell -her if she goes on going against me and you, and all we do for her, like -this, that you won’t have her here.” - -“My child,” said the Captain, who, to do him justice, was by no means -happy in his task, “you see me in a difficult position, a most difficult -position. What can I say? Mrs. Despard is right. When I married it was -my opinion that you, too, would soon make a happy and brilliant -marriage. How far that influenced me I need not say. I thought you would -be established yourself, and able to help your brother and--and even -myself. I’m disappointed, I cannot deny it; and if you have now, instead -of fulfilling my expectations, done your best, your very best, to -balk----” - -The Captain hesitated and faltered, and tried to swagger, but in vain. -He had the traditions of a gentleman lingering about him, and Lottie was -his child, when all was said. He could not look at her, or meet her -eyes; and Lottie, for her part, who could see nothing but from her own -side of the question, who did not at all realise his, nor recognise any -extenuating circumstances in the plea that he had thought her about to -marry, so blazed upon him with lofty indignation as to have altogether -consumed her father had he been weak enough to look at her. She did not -even glance at Polly, who stood by, eager to rush into the fray. - -“In that case,” she said, with a passionate solemnity, “you shall be -satisfied, papa. A few days and you shall be satisfied. I will not ask -any shelter from you after--a few days.” - -Though it was happiness Lottie looked forward to, and there could no -longer in this house be anything but pain and trouble for her, these -words seemed to choke her. To leave her father’s house thus; to make the -greatest of changes in her life, thus; all Lottie’s sense of what was -fit and seemly was wounded beyond description. She turned away, -listening to none of the questions which were showered upon her. “What -did she mean? Where was she going? When did she intend to go? What was -she thinking of?” To all these Lottie made no reply; she did not even -wait to hear them, but swept away with something of the conscious -stateliness of the injured, which it is so hard for youth to deny -itself. Heaven knows her heart was full enough; yet there was in -Lottie’s deportment, as she swept out of the room, perhaps a touch of -the injured heroine, a suggestion of a tragedy queen. - -She went into her own room, where she found consolation very speedily in -such preparations for her departure as she could make. She took out her -white muslin dress, the simple garment which was so associated with -thoughts of Rollo, and spent an hour of painful yet pleasant -consideration over it, wondering how it could be made to serve for -Saturday. Such a marriage made the toilette of a bride impossible; but -Lottie could not bear the thought of standing by her lover’s side, and -pledging him her faith, in her poor little brown frock which she had -worn all the winter past. She thought that, carefully pinned up under -her cloak, she might wear this, her only white gown, to be a little like -a bride. It had been washed, but it had not suffered much. The folds -might be a little stiffer and less flowing than before they had -undergone the indignity of starch; but still they were fresh and white, -and Lottie did not think it would be noticed that the dress was not new. -Perhaps it was more appropriate that in her poverty and desolation she -should go to him in the gown she had worn, not in one made new and -lovely, as if there were people who cared. “Nobody cares,” she said to -herself, but without the usual depression which these words convey. She -filled up the bodice of her little dress, which had been made open at -the throat for evening use, and made it fit close. She put her pearl -locket upon a bit of white ribbon. Doing this consoled her for the pangs -she had borne. All the money she had of her own was one sovereign, which -she had kept from the time of her mother’s death as a last supreme -resource in case of emergency; surely she might use it now. Taking this -precious coin from the little old purse in which it was put away, in the -deepest corner of an old Indian box, purse and box and coin all coming -from her mother, Lottie went out to make a few purchases. She was -forlorn, but her heart was light. She went down to the great shop not -far from the Abbey gates, of which St. Michael’s was proud, and bought -some tulle and white ribbons. Poor child! her heart yearned for a little -sprig of orange-blossom, but she did not venture to ask for anything -that would betray her. It seemed to Lottie that she met everybody in the -place as she went home with her little parcel in her hand. She met Mr. -Ashford, for one, who was greatly surprised that she did not stop to -speak to him about Law, and who was, indeed, to tell the truth, somewhat -disappointed and chagrined that his liberality to his pupil had as yet -met with no response except from that pupil himself. The Minor Canon -looked at her wistfully; but Lottie, being full of her own thoughts, did -nothing but smile in reply to his bow. Then she met Captain Temple, who, -less shy, came to her side eagerly, complaining and upbraiding her that -she had deserted him. - -“I never see you,” said the old man, “and my wife says the same, who -takes so much interest in you. We hope, my dear,” he said, kind yet half -vexed with her, “that all is going better--going well now?” - -“Indeed it is not, Captain Temple,” Lottie said, tears coming suddenly -to her eyes. She could not but wonder what he would think of her if he -knew--if he would disapprove of her; and this sudden thought brought a -look of anxiety and sudden emotion into her face. - -“My poor child!” cried the old Chevalier. The ready moisture sprang to -his eyes also. “Lottie,” he said, “my wife takes a great interest in -you; she would be very fond of you if she knew you better. Come to us, -my dear, and we will take care of you.” He said it with the fervour of -uncertainty, for he was not sure, after all, how far he could calculate -on his wife, and this gave a tremulous heat to his proposition. - -But Lottie shook her head and smiled, though the tears were in her eyes. -Oh, if she only dared to tell him what was the deliverance which was so -near! He went with her to her door, repeating to her this offer of -service. - -“You might be like our own child,” he said. “My wife cannot talk of -it--but she would be very fond of you, my dear, when she knew you. If -things go on badly, you will come to us?--say you will come to us, -Lottie.” - -And while these words were in her ears, old Mrs. Dalrymple came out to -her door, to ask if Lottie would not come in, if she would come to -tea--if she would stay with them for a day or two. - -“It is only next door, to be sure; but it would be a change,” the old -lady said. The ladies in the Lodges had forgiven her for her foolish -pride, and for the notice the great people had taken of her, and for all -the signs of discontent that Lottie had shown on her first coming to the -Abbey. Now that the girl was in trouble they were all good to her, -compassionate of her forlorn condition, and making common cause with her -against the infliction of the stepmother, who was an insult to every one -of them. There was not one Chevalier’s wife who was not personally -insulted, outraged in her most tender feelings, by the intrusion of -Polly, and this quickened their sympathies to the poor girl, who was the -most cruelly injured of all. - -When Mrs. O’Shaughnessy saw the little group at her neighbour’s door, -she too came out. “It’s her own fault, my dear lady, if she ever eats a -meal there,” said Mrs. O’Shaughnessy; “me and the Major, we are both as -fond of her as if she was our own.” - -Lottie stood amongst them and cried softly, taking care that her tears -did not drop upon the little parcel with the tulle, which was connected -with still dearer hopes. - -“I don’t deserve that you should all be so good to me,” she said. And -indeed it was true; for Lottie had been very haughty in her time to the -kind people who forgave her in her trouble. - -Thus it was that she shared the dinner of the good O’Shaughnessys, and -only went home in the afternoon, after Polly and the Captain had been -seen to go out; when Lottie shut herself up in her room, and with much -excitement began the “confection” for which she had bought the -materials. It is needless to say that with so little money as she had -ever had, Lottie had learnt, _tant bien que mal_, to make most of her -own articles of apparel. How she had sighed to have her dresses come -home all complete from the dressmaker’s, like Augusta Huntington’s! but -as sighing did no good, Lottie had fitted herself with her gowns, and -trimmed her little straw hats, and the occasional bonnet which she -permitted herself for going to church in, since ever she was able to use -her needle and her scissors. She had never, however, made anything so -ambitious as the little tulle bonnet which she meant to be married in. -She would have preferred a veil, could anyone doubt? but with no better -tiring-room than the waiting-room at the railway, how was she to put -herself into a veil? She had to give up that idea with a sigh. But, her -pale cheeks glowing with two roses, and her blue eyes lighted up with -the fires of invention, she sat all the afternoon, with her door locked, -making that bonnet. If she but had a little sprig of orange-blossom to -mark what it meant! but here Lottie’s courage failed her. _That_ she -could not venture to buy. - -In this way the days glided on till Friday came. Lottie packed up the -things she cared for--the few books, the little trifling possessions of -no value, which yet were dear to her to be removed afterwards, and put -up her little bonnet (bonnets were worn very small, the fashion books -said) in a tiny parcel which she could carry in her hand. Thus all her -preparations were made. When she was not in her room making these last -arrangements, she was out of doors--in the Abbey or on the Slopes--or -with the friends who sought her so kindly, and gave her such meals as -she would accept, and would have given her a great many more, -overwhelmed her, indeed, with eating and drinking if she would have -consented. To some of these Lottie allowed herself the privilege of -saying that it was only for a few days she should remain in her father’s -house. She would not tell where she was going; to friends--yes, -certainly to friends; but she would not say any more. This gave great -relief to the minds of the Chevaliers generally, except to Captain -Temple, who did not like it. The announcement even drew from him -something like a reproach to his wife. - -“If you had come forward--if you had gone to her when she was in -trouble,” he said, “we might have had a child again to comfort us.” The -old Captain was sadly put out, and did nothing but roam about all the -day restless and lamenting. He went to the Signor’s to hear what Lottie -thought would be her last lesson, and thus bemoaned himself. - -“Going away!” the Signor said in great surprise; and Lottie sang so well -that day that the musician felt the desertion doubly. She sang fitfully -but finely, saying to herself all the time, “To-morrow--to-morrow!” and -taking her leave, as she supposed, joyfully, regretfully of Art. That -day Lottie thought nothing whatever about Art. Her spirit was moved to -its very depths. To-morrow the man whom she loved was coming to take her -away from all that was petty, all that was unlovely in her life. From -the hardness of fate, from the unkindness of her family, from the house -that was desecrated, from the existence which was not made sweet by any -love--he was coming to deliver her. The air was all excitement, all -agitation, to Lottie. It was not so much that she was glad--happiness -was in it, and trouble, and regret, and agitation, made up by all these -together. It was life in its strongest strain, tingling, throbbing, at -the highest pressure. The earth was elastic under her feet, the whole -world was full of this which was about to happen; and how she sang! -Those lessons of hers were as a drama to the Signor, but he did not -understand this art. He had understood the struggle she made to get hold -of her powers on the day when Rollo was not there, and Lottie had made a -proud, forlorn attempt to devote herself to Song, as Song; he had -understood the confusion and bewildered discouragement of the day when -Mrs. Daventry assisted at the lesson; but this time the Signor was -puzzled. There was nothing to excite her, only Mrs. O’Shaughnessy and -Captain Temple, listeners who cared nothing for art, but only for -Lottie; yet how she sang! He made her a little solemn compliment, almost -for the first time. - -“Miss Despard,” he said, “you change from lesson to lesson--it is always -another voice I hear; but this is the one I should like to retain; this -is the one that shows what wonderful progress we have made.” - -Lottie smiled in a way which nearly won the Signor’s steady heart. A -golden dazzlement of light got into her eyes, as if the slanting -afternoon sun was in them. She did not speak, but she gave him her -hand--a thing which was very rare with Lottie. The Signor was flattered -and touched; but he would not have been so flattered had he known that -she was saying to herself, “It is the last time--it is the last!” - -Mr. Ashford met the party coming out, and walked with them along the -north side of the Abbey and through the cloisters. He could not make out -why Lottie said nothing to him about her brother. To tell the truth, he -wanted to have something for his money, and it did not seem that he was -likely to get anything. He said to her at last, abruptly, “I hope you -think Law is likely to do well, Miss Despard?” - -“Law?” she said, looking up with wondering eyes. - -He was so confounded by her look of bewilderment that he did not say -anything more. - -Next day dawned bright and fair, as it ought. A fair, clear, sunny -winter’s day--not a leaf, even of those few that hung upon the ends of -the boughs, stirring--not a cloud. Earth in such a day seems hanging -suspended in the bright sphere, not certain yet whether she will turn -back again to the careless summer, or go through her winter spell of -storm duty. Lottie had all her preparations made; her dress ready to put -on in the morning; her little bonnet done up in a parcel incredibly -small, a veil looped about it; and the great cloak, a homely waterproof, -which was to cover her from head to foot, and conceal her finery, hung -out all ready. Everything ready--nothing now to be done but to meet him -on the Slopes, and to hear how all had been settled, and arrange for the -final meeting on the wedding morning. Even her railway fare, so many -shillings, was put ready. She would not let him pay even that for her -until she belonged to him. She went out with the dreamy sweetness of the -approaching climax in her eyes when the last rays of the sunset were -catching all the Abbey pinnacles. She scarcely saw the path over which -her light feet skimmed. The people who passed her glided like the -people in a dream; the absorbing sweet agitation of happiness and fear, -and hope and content, was in all her veins; her eyes were suffused with -light as eyes get suffused with tears--an indescribable elation and -alarm, sweet panic, yet calm, was in her breast. Mr. Ashford met her -going along, swift and light, and with that air of abstraction from -everything around her. She did not see him, nor anyone; but she -remembered after, that she _had_ seen him, and the very turn of the road -where he made a half pause to speak to her, which she had not taken any -notice of. In this soft rapture Lottie went to the corner of the bench -under the elm-tree. It was too early, but she placed herself there to -wait till he should come to her. This was the place where he was certain -to come. By-and-by she would hear his step, skimming too, almost as -light and quick as her own--or hear him vaulting over the low wall from -the Deanery--or perhaps, to attract less notice, coming up the winding -way from the Slopes. Where she sat was within reach of all the three. It -was a little chilly now that the sun had gone down, but Lottie did not -feel it. She sat down with a smile of happy anticipation on her face, -hearing the Abbey bells in the clear frosty air, and then the bursting -forth of the organ and all the strains of the music. These filled up her -thoughts for the time, and it was not till the larger volume of sound -of the voluntary put Lottie in mind of the length of time she had -waited, that she woke up to think of the possibility that something -might have detained her lover. It was strange that he should be so late. -The light was waning, and the sounds about were eerie; the wind that had -lain so still all day woke up, and wandered chilly among the bare -shrubberies, tossing off the late leaves. She shivered a little with the -cold and the waiting. Why did not he come? the hour of stillness was -passing fast, the organ pealing, the light fading moment by moment. Why -was not Rollo here? - -At last there was a step. It was not light and quick like his step; but -something might have happened to make it sound differently--something in -the air, or something in him, some gravity of movement befitting the -importance of the occasion. So anxiety beguiles itself, trying to -believe what it wishes. The step came nearer, and Lottie roused herself, -a little alarmed, wondering if anything (she could not tell what) could -have happened to him--and looked round. A figure--a man coming her -way--her heart jumped into her throat, then sank down, down, with a -flutter of fright and pain. It was not Rollo--but what then? it might be -only some chance passer-by, not having anything to do with her and him. -Another moment, and she waited with an agonised hope that he was -passing along without taking any notice, and that he had indeed nothing -at all to do with her. But the steady step came on--nearer, nearer. She -raised her head, she opened her eyes that had been veiled in such sweet -dreams, with a wideness of fear and horror. What could he have to do -with her? What had he come to tell her? The man came up to her straight, -without any hesitation. He said, “Are you Miss Despard, ma’am? I was -sent to give you this from my lord.” - -My lord--who was my lord? She took it with a gasp of terror. It was not -Rollo that was my lord. The man, a middle-aged, respectable servant, -gave her a look of grave pity and went away. Lottie sat still for a -moment with the letter in her hand, thinking with wild impatience that -the sound of those heavy departing steps would prevent her from hearing -Rollo’s light ones when he came. My lord--who was my lord? Suddenly an -idea seized upon her. The light was almost gone. She tore the letter -open, and read it by the faint chill shining of the skies, though it was -almost too dark to see. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIII. - -THE END OF THE DREAM. - - -Captain Temple was an old soldier, whose habit it was to get up very -early in the morning. He said afterwards that he had never got up so -early as on that morning, feeling a certain pride in it, as showing the -magical power of sympathy and tenderness. He woke before it was light. -It had been raining in the night, and the morning was veiled with -showers; when the light came at last, it was white and misty. He was -ready to go out before anyone was stirring. Not a soul, not even the -milkman, was astir in the Dean’s Walk. The blinds were still down over -his neighbours’ windows. The only one drawn up, he noticed in passing, -was Lottie’s. Was she too early, like himself? the question went through -his mind as he passed. Poor child! her life was not a happy one. How -different, he could not help feeling, how different his own girl would -have been had she but been spared to them! He shook his white head, -though he was all alone, wailing, almost remonstrating, with Providence. -How strange that the blessing should be with those who did not know how -to prize it, while those who did were left desolate! The Captain’s step -rang through the silent place. There was no one about; the Abbey stood -up grey and still with the morning mists softly breaking from about it, -and here and there, behind and around, smoke rose from some homely roof, -betraying the first signs of waking life, Captain Temple walked briskly -to the Slopes; it was his favourite walk. He made one or two turns up -and down all the length of the level promenade, thinking about her--how -often she had come with him here: but lately she had avoided him. He -paused when he had made two or three turns, and leaned over the low -parapet wall, looking down upon the misty landscape. The river ran -swiftly at the foot of the hill, shewing in a pale gleam here and there. -The bare branches of the trees were all jewelled coldly with drops of -rain. It began to drizzle again as he stood gazing over the misty wet -champaign in the stillness of the early morning. He was the only -conscious tenant of this wide world of earth and sky. Smoke rising from -the houses in the town, and a faint stir was beginning; but here on the -hill there was no stir or waking movement, save only his own. - -What was that? a sound--he turned round quickly--he could not tell what -it was; was there someone about after all, someone else as early as -himself? But he could see nobody. There was not a step nor a visible -movement, but there was a sense of a human presence, a feeling of -somebody near him. He turned round with an anxiety which he could not -explain to himself. Why should he be anxious? but it pleased him -afterwards to remember that all his sensations this morning were -strange, uncalled for, beyond his own control. He peered anxiously about -among the bushes and bare stems of the trees. At last it seemed to him -that he saw something in the corner of the bench under the elm-tree. He -turned that way, now with his old heart beating, but altogether -unprepared for the piteous sight that met his eyes. She was so slim, so -slight, her dress so heavy and clinging with the rain, that a careless -passer-by might never have seen her. He hurried to the place with a -little cry. Her head drooped upon the rough wooden back of the seat, her -hands were wrapped in her cloak, nothing visible of her but a face as -white as death, and wet--was it with rain or with tears? Her eyes were -closed, her long dark eyelashes drooping over her cheek. But for her -frightful paleness she would have looked like a child who had lost its -way, and cried itself to sleep. “Lottie!” cried the old man; “Lottie!” -But she made no response. She did not even open her eyes. Was she -sleeping, or, good God----! He put his hand on her shoulder. “Lottie, -Lottie, my dear child!” he cried into her ear. When after a while a deep -sigh came from her breast, the old man could have wept for joy. She was -living then. He thought for a moment what was to be done; some help -seemed indispensable to him; then rushed away down through the cloisters -to the house of Mr. Ashford, which was one of the nearest. The Minor -Canon was coming downstairs; he had something to do which called him out -early. He paused in some surprise at the sight of his visitor, but -Captain Temple stopped the question on his lips. “Will you come with -me?” he cried; “come with me--I want you,” and caught him by the sleeve -in his eagerness. Mr. Ashford felt that there was that in the old man’s -haggard face which would not bear questioning. He followed him, scarcely -able in the fulness of his strength to keep up with the nervous steps of -his guide. “God knows if she has been there all night,” the Captain -said. “I cannot get her to move. And now the whole place will be astir. -If I could get her home before anybody knows! They have driven her out -of her sweet senses,” he said, gasping for breath as he hurried along. -“I came for you because you are her friend, and I could trust you. Oh, -why is a jewel like that given to those who do not prize it, Mr. -Ashford, and taken from those that do? Why is it? why is it? they have -broken her heart.” The Minor Canon asked no questions; he felt that he -too knew by instinct what it was. The rain had come on more heavily, -small and soft, without any appearance of storm, but penetrating and -continuous. The Captain hurried on to the corner where he had left her. -Lottie had moved her head; she had been roused by his first appeal from -the stupor into which she had fallen; her eyes were open, her mind -slowly coming, if not to itself, at least to some consciousness of the -external world and her place in it. The instinct that so seldom abandons -a woman, that of concealing her misery, had begun to dawn in her--the -first sign of returning life. - -“Lottie, Lottie, my dear child, you must not sit here in the rain. Come, -my pet, come. We have come to fetch you. Come to your mother, or at -least to one who will be like a mother. Come, my poor dear, come home -with me.” The old man was almost sobbing as he took into his her cold -hands. - -Lottie did her best to respond. She attempted to smile, she attempted to -speak mechanically. “Yes,” she said, under her breath; “I will -come--directly. It is--raining.” Her voice was almost gone; it was all -they could do to make out what she said. - -“And here is a kind friend who will give you his arm, who will help you -along,” said Captain Temple. He stopped short--frightened by the change -that came over her face; an awful look of hope, of wonder, woke in her -eyes, which looked preternaturally large, luminous, and drowsy. She -stirred in her seat, moving with a little moan of pain, and attempted to -turn round to look behind her. - -“Who is it?” she whispered. “Who is it? is it--you?” - -Who did she expect it to be? Mr. Ashford, greatly moved, stepped forward -quickly and raised her from her seat. It was no time for politeness. He -drew her arm within his, not looking at her. “Support her,” he said -quickly to Captain Temple, “on the other side.” The Minor Canon never -looked at Lottie as he half carried her along that familiar way. He did -not dare to spy into her secret, but he guessed at it. The hand which he -drew through his arm held a letter. He knew none of the steps which had -led to this, but he thought he knew what had happened. As for Captain -Temple, he did not do much of his share of the work; he held her elbow -with his trembling hand, and looked pitifully into her face, knowing -nothing at all. “My poor dear,” he said, “you shall not go back--you -shall not be made miserable; you are mine now. I have found you, and I -shall keep you, Lottie. It is not like a stepmother that my Mary will -be. My love, we will say nothing about it, we will not blame anyone; but -now you belong to me.” What he said was as the babbling of a child to -Lottie, and to the other who divined her; but they let him talk, and the -old man seemed to himself to understand the position entirely. “They -have driven her out of her senses,” he said to his wife; “so far as I -can see she has been out on the Slopes all night, sitting on that bench. -She will be ill, she is sure to be ill--she is drenched to the skin. -Think if it had been our own girl! But I will never let her go into the -hands of those wretches again.” - -No one of the principal actors in this strange incident ever told the -story, yet it was known all through the Abbey precincts in a few -hours--with additions--that Captain Despard’s new wife had driven her -step-daughter out of the house by her ill-usage; turned her to the door, -some said; and that the poor girl, distracted and solitary, had spent -the night on the Slopes, in the cold, in the rain, and had been found -there by Captain Temple. “When we were all in our comfortable beds,” the -good people cried with angry tears, and an indignation beyond words. -Captain Despard came in from matins in a state of alarm indescribable, -and besought his wife to keep indoors, not to allow herself to be seen. -No one in the house had known of Lottie’s absence during the night. She -was supposed to be “sulky,” as Polly called it, and shut up in her own -room. When she did not appear at breakfast, indeed, there had been some -surprise, and a slight consternation, but even then no very lively -alarm. “She’s gone off, as she said she would,” Polly said, tossing her -head; and the Captain had, though with some remorse and compunction, -satisfied himself that it was only an escapade on Lottie’s part, which -would be explained by the post, or which Law would know about, or Mrs. -O’Shaughnessy. Law had gone out early, before breakfast. It was natural -to suppose he would know--or still more likely that his sister had gone -with him, on some foolish walk, or other expedition. “I don’t mean to -hurt your feelings,” Polly cried, “but I shouldn’t break my heart, -Harry, if they’d gone for good, and left us the house to ourselves.” -When Captain Despard came in from matins, however, the case was very -different; he came in pale with shame and consternation, and ready to -blame his wife for everything. “This is what has come of your nagging -and your impudence,” he said; and Polly flew to arms, as was natural, -and there was a hot and dangerous encounter. The Captain went out, -swearing and fuming, recommending her if she prized her own safety not -to show herself out of doors. “You will be mobbed,” he said; “and you -will well deserve it.” - -“I’m going to put my hat on,” said Polly, “and let them all see what a -coward you are, as won’t stand up for your wife.” But when he had -slammed the door emphatically after him, Polly sat down and had a good -cry, and did not put on her hat. Oh, what a foolish thing it is, she -repeated, to marry a man with grown-up children! It was nature, and not -anything she had done, that was in fault. - -Lottie made no resistance when she found herself in Mrs. Temple’s care. -To have her wet things taken off, to have a hundred cares lavished upon -her, as she lay aching and miserable in the bed that had been prepared -for her, soothed her at least, if they did nothing more. Chilled in -every bit of her body, chilled to her heart, the sensation of warmth, -when at last it stole over her, broke a little the stony front of her -wretchedness. She never knew how she had passed that miserable night. -The fabric of her happiness had fallen down on every side, and crushed -her. Her heart had been so confident, her hopes so certain. She had not -doubted, as women so often do, or even thought it within the compass of -possibility that Rollo could fail her. How could she suppose it? and, -when it came, she was crushed to the ground. The earth seemed to have -opened under her feet; everything failed her when that one thing in -which all her faith was placed failed. She had sat through the darkness, -not able to think, conscious of nothing but misery, not aware how the -time was passing, taking no note of the coming of the night, or of the -bewildering chimes from the Abbey of hour after hour and quarter after -quarter. Quarter or hour, what did it matter to her? what did she know -of the hurrying, flying time, or its stupefying measures? It began to -rain, and she did not care. She cared for nothing--not the cold, nor the -dark, nor the whispering of the night wind among the bare branches, the -mysterious noises of the night. The pillars of the earth, the arch of -the sweet sky, had fallen. There was nothing in all the world but dismal -failure and heart-break to Lottie. In the long vigil, even the cause of -this horrible downfall seemed to fade out of her mind. The pain in her -heart, the oppression of her brain, the failing of all things--hope, -courage, faith--was all she was conscious of. Rollo--her thoughts -avoided his name, as a man who is wounded shrinks from any touch; and at -last everything had fallen into one stupor of misery. That it was the -night which she was spending there, under the dark sky, just light -enough to show the darker branches waving over it, the rain falling from -it, Lottie was unconscious. She had nowhere to go, she had no wish to go -anywhere; shelter was indifferent to her, and one place no more -miserable than another. When Captain Temple roused her, there came -vaguely to her mind a sense that her feelings must be hid, that she must -try to be as other people, not betraying her own desolation; and this -was the feeling that again woke feebly in her when Mrs. Temple took her -place by the bedside where Lottie was lying. She tried to make some -feeble excuse, an excuse which in the desperation of her mind did not -sound so artificial as it was. “I give you a great deal of trouble,” she -faltered. - -“Oh, my dear,” said Mrs. Temple, with tears, “do not say so; let me do -what I can for you--only trust in me, trust in me.” - -Lottie could not trust in anyone. She tried to smile. She was past all -confidences, past all revelation of herself or her trouble. And thus -she lay for days, every limb aching with the exposure, her breathing -difficult, her breast throbbing, her heart beating, her voice gone. - -Downstairs there was many an anxious talk over her between the three -most intimately concerned. The old Captain held by his simple idea that -she had been driven from home by her stepmother, that idea which all the -Abbey had adopted. The Minor Canon was not of that opinion. He came -every day to ask for the patient, and would sit and listen to all they -could tell him, and to the Captain’s tirades against Polly. “I think -there was something more than that,” he would say. And Mrs. Temple -looked at him with a look of understanding. “I think so too,” she said. -Mrs. Temple had disengaged out of Lottie’s cold hand the letter which -she had been grasping unawares. She had not been able to resist looking -at it, telling herself that she ought to know what was the cause. These -two alone had any idea of it, and no one spoke to Lottie, nor did she -speak to anyone of the cause of her vigil. She lay in a silent paradise -of warmth and rest, cared for and watched at every turn she made, as she -had never been in her life before. And by degrees the pain stole out of -her limbs, her cough was got under, and the fever in her veins subdued. -Of two things only Lottie did not mend. Her heart seemed dead in her -bosom, and her voice was gone. She could neither sing any more, nor be -happy any more; these are things which neither doctor nor nurse can -touch, but for all the rest her natural health and strength soon -triumphed. Her brain, which had tottered for a moment, righted itself -and regained its force. She had no fever, though everybody expected it. -She did not fall into “a decline,” as was universally thought. She got -better, but she did not get happy, nor did she recover her voice. When -she was able to be brought downstairs, the good people who had taken her -up made a little _fête_ of her recovery. Mr. Ashford was asked to -dinner, and the room was filled with flowers, rare hothouse flowers, on -which the old Captain spent a great deal more than he could afford to -spend. “To please the poor child, my dear,” he said, apologetically; and -Mrs. Temple had not a word to say. She winced still when in his simple -way he would speak of “our own girl,” but in her heart she made a kind -of religion of Lottie, feeling sometimes, poor soul, as if she were thus -heaping coals of fire, whatever they may be, upon the head--though it -might be blasphemy to put it into words--of Him who had bereaved her. He -had taken her child from her, and she had been angry, and perhaps had -sinned in the bitterness of her grief; but now here was a child who was -His--for are not all the helpless His?--whom she would not cast from -her, whom she would take to her bosom and cherish, to show Him (was -it?) that she was more tender than even the Father of all. “Thou hast -taken mine from me, but I have not closed my heart to thine,” was what, -all unawares, the woman’s heart said; for she was angry still, being a -mother, and unable to see why she should have been bereaved. - -A few days after Lottie had begun to be brought downstairs (for this was -done without any will of hers), a visit was paid to her which had no -small effect upon her life. She was seated in the invalid’s place near -the fire, a little table by her side with flowers on it, and a new book, -and _Punch_, and the illustrated papers, all the little innocent -_gâteries_ of which the old Captain could think, the trifles which make -the days of a happy convalescent sweet, and which Lottie tried hard to -look as if she cared for; and with Mrs. Temple near her, watching her to -see lest she should be too warm or too cold, lest she should want -anything, with the anxious care of a mother. There was a prancing of -horses outside the door, a tremendous knock, a rustle of silk, and -wafting of perfume, and the door was opened and Mrs. Daventry announced. -Augusta came in with a sweep which filled Mrs. Temple’s little -drawing-room. There did not seem room for its legitimate inmates in that -redundant presence. Mrs. Temple ran to her patient, thinking Lottie was -about to faint, but she recovered herself enough to smile faintly at -Augusta when she spoke, which was as much as she did to anyone. Augusta -seated herself opposite the convalescent, her train falling round her in -heavy masses--the one all wealth and commotion and importance, the other -so pale, so slight in her weakness, her brown merino dress hanging -loosely upon her. Mrs. Temple was not made much account of by the fine -lady, who made her a slight salutation, half bow, half curtsey, and took -no further notice of “the people of the house.” - -“Well,” she said, “how are you, and what has been the matter? There are -the most extraordinary stories told about you. I have come to find out -what is really the matter, Lottie. Mamma wishes to know too. You know -you were always a kind of favourite with mamma.” - -“I will tell you about her illness,” said Mrs. Temple. “She is scarcely -well enough yet to enter into details.” - -“Oh,” said Augusta, gazing blankly upon the “person of the house,”--then -she returned to Lottie again. “I don’t want you to enter into details; -but they say the most extraordinary things; they say you were turned out -of doors, and stayed all night on the Slopes--that, of course, can’t be -true--but I wish you would tell me what is true, that I may give the -right version of the story. Mamma is quite anxious to know.” - -“Lottie, my dear, I will tell Mrs. Daventry,” said Mrs. Temple, “it is -too much for you;” and she held her point and recounted her little story -with a primness which suited her voice and manner. Many were the -demonstrations of impatience which the fine lady made, but it was not in -her power to struggle against Mrs. Temple’s determination. She turned to -Lottie again as soon as the tale was told. - -“Is that true? Only a very bad cold, and influenza from getting wet? Oh, -we heard a great deal more than that; and your voice--we heard you had -quite lost your voice. I promised the Signor to inquire. He is quite -anxious, he always thought so much of your voice. He is an odd man,” -said Augusta, giving a blow in passing, “he thinks so differently from -other people about many things. I promised to find out for him all about -it. Have you really, really lost your voice, as everybody says?” - -It was curious that Lottie, who had never been concerned about her -voice, who had never cared anything about it, who had not wanted to be a -singer at all, should feel, even in the midst of the greater and deeper -unhappiness that possessed her, a distinct sting of pain as she heard -this question. Her paleness was flushed with a sudden painful colour. -She looked at Mrs. Temple wistfully again. - -“You can hear that she is hoarse,” said Mrs. Temple; “a very common -consequence of a cold. She has lost her voice for the moment, but we -hope to find it again.” - -“I think she must be dumb altogether, as she never answers me,” said -Augusta, fretfully. Then she tried another subject, with a triumphant -certainty of success. “I don’t know if you have heard of our trouble,” -she said, looking at her black dress. “You remember, Lottie, my cousin, -Mr. Ridsdale? Oh, yes; you knew him a little, I think.” - -Once more Lottie’s pale face flushed with painful overwhelming colour. -She looked up with alarmed and troubled eyes. - -“Oh, I see you remember him; he was such a flirt, he was always making -himself agreeable to women. It did not matter who they were,” said -Augusta, fixing her eyes on her victim’s face, “or what class of people, -so long as they were at all nice-looking, or could sing, or draw, or -anything. I remember I sent him out to try whether he could not hear you -sing the very day I was married. He was another of the people who -believed in you, Lottie. He did not hear you then, so he made mamma ask -you, you remember. He had something to do with a new opera company, and -he was always on the look-out for a new voice.” - -Once more Lottie turned her eyes upon Mrs. Temple, eyes full of anguish -and wonder. Who else could she turn to?--not to the cruel executioner -who sat opposite to her, with a lurking smile about her heartless -mouth. How cruel a woman can be with a fair face, and no signs of the -savage in her! Augusta saw that her arrow had struck home, and was -encouraged to do more. - -“Oh, yes; he was in a great state about your voice. He said it would -make his fortune and yours too. He was always ridiculously sanguine. You -know how he used to flatter you, Lottie, and go to all your lessons. Oh, -you must not tell me that you don’t remember, for I could see you liked -it. Well,” said Augusta, who did not lose a single change of colour, no -quiver of her victim’s lips, or flutter of her bosom, “that sort of -thing is all over now. Oh, I daresay he will continue to take a great -interest as an amateur; but his position is now entirely changed. My -poor cousin Ridsdale, Rollo’s eldest brother, was killed in the -hunting-field about a fortnight ago. Such a shock for us all! but it has -made a great change for Rollo. He is Lord Ridsdale now, and my uncle -Courtland’s heir. His servant came last Friday week to fetch some things -he had left at the Deanery--for he had gone away for the day only, not -knowing what had happened. Poor fellow; and yet, of course, though he -was truly grieved and all that, it is great good fortune for him. We are -not likely _now_” Augusta added, with a faint smile, “to see much of him -here.” - -Lottie did not say a word. She sat, no longer changing colour, perfectly -pale, with the great blue eyes that had so expanded and dilated during -her illness, fixed upon the vacant air. To hear him named was still -something, and filled her with a sick excitement, an anguish of interest -and agitation. After the long silence, after the cutting of all ties, -after his cruel desertion of her, after the blow which had all but -killed her, to hear of him had been something. Pain--yet a pain she was -more eager to undergo than to meet any pleasure. But Lottie had not -calculated upon the cruel, treacherous, yet careless, blow which fell -upon her now, upon her quivering wounds. To hear her voice, was that -what it was? not to see her because he loved her, but to hear her -singing. Till now she had at least had her past. He was false, and had -forsaken her, she knew, but once he had loved her; the Rollo who gazed -up in the moonlight at her window had still been hers, though another -Rollo had betrayed her trust and broken her heart. But now! the blood -ebbed away from her face, and seemed to fail from her heart; the beating -of it grew confused and muffled in her ears. She gazed with her great -eyes, all strained and pained with gazing, at nothing. To hear her sing, -not seeking her, but only running after a new voice! She sat with her -hands clasped upon her lap in a kind of piteous appeal, and sometimes -would look at the one and then the other, asking them--was it true, -could it be true? - -“I must go,” said Augusta, having fired her shot, “and I am glad to -have such a good account of you. Only a bad cold and a hoarseness, such -as are quite common. Mamma will be pleased to hear, and so will the -Signor. I can’t tell him anything about your voice, because you have not -let me hear it, Lottie. Oh, quite prudent--much the best thing not to -use it at all; though with an old friend, to be sure--you look rather -ill, I am bound to say.” - -Lottie sat still in the same attitude after this cruel visitor was gone, -all her thoughts going back upon that time, which after all was only a -few months, yet which seemed her life. She had given him up, or rather -she had accepted his abandonment of her, without a struggle, without a -hope; it had been to her as a doom out of Heaven. She had not even -blamed him. It had killed her, she thought. She had not resisted, but it -had killed her. Now, however, she could not submit. In her heart she -fought wildly against this last, most cruel blow. He was not hers, he -was cut off from her, by his own murderous hand; but to give up the -lover who had loved her before he knew her, who had watched under her -window and wiled her heart away, that she could not do. She fought -against it passionately in her soul. The afternoon went on without a -sound, nothing but the ashes softly falling from the fire, the soft -movement of Mrs. Temple’s arm as she worked; but the silence tingled all -the time with the echo of Augusta’s words, and with the hot conflict of -recollections in her own heart, opposing and denying them. Mrs. Temple -worked quietly by and watched, divining something of the struggle, -though she did not know what it was. At last, all at once in the -stillness, the girl broke forth passionately: “Oh, no, no,” she cried, -“not that! I will not believe it. Not that; it is not true.” - -“What is not true, dear? tell me,” her companion said, laying down her -work, and coming forward with tender hands outstretched, and pity in her -eyes. - -“You heard her,” Lottie said, “you heard her. That it was to hear me -singing--that it was all for my voice. No, no, not that! It could not -be--_that_ was not true. You could not believe _that_ was true.” - -And Lottie looked at her piteously, clasping her hands, entreating her -with those pathetic eyes for a little comfort. “Not that, not that,” she -said. “My singing, was it likely? Oh you cannot think _that_!” she -cried. - -Mrs. Temple did all she could to soothe her. “My poor child, it is all -over--over and ended--what does it matter now?” - -“It matters all the world to me,” Lottie cried. Kind as her new guardian -was, she could not understand that even when her happiness and her hopes -were all crushed, it was a bitterness more exquisite, a sting the girl -could not bear to believe that her foundations had been sand, that she -had been deluded from the beginning, that the love she trusted in had -never been. This sting was so keen and sharp that it woke her from the -apathy of despair that was creeping over her. She was roused to -struggle, to a passion of resistance and denial. “How can anyone but I -know how it was? It all came from that; without that I should never have -thought--we should never have met. It was the beginning. How can anyone -know but me?” she cried, contending as against some adversary. When the -first strain of this conflict was over, she turned, faltering, to her -kind guardian. “I had a letter,” she said; “it was _the_ letter. I -cannot find it.” She gave her a look of entreaty which went to Mrs. -Temple’s heart. - -“I have got your letter, Lottie. I have it in my desk, put away. No one -has seen it. Let me put it into the fire.” - -“Ah, no! perhaps there may be something in it different from what I -thought.” - -She held out her hands supplicating, and Mrs. Temple went to her desk -and took out an envelope. Within was something all stained and blurred. -The rain had half washed the cruel words away. Once for all, as Rollo’s -last act and deed, and suicidal exit from this history, the letter shall -be copied here. Imagine how Lottie had been sitting, all happiness and -soft agitation and excitement, waiting for him when this curt epistle -came:-- - - - “DEAR LOTTIE,-- - - “An extraordinary change has happened in my life--not my doing, but - that of Providence. It gives me new duties, and a new existence - altogether. What we have been thinking of cannot be. It is - impossible in every way. For me to do what I promised to you was, - when we parted, a sacrifice which I was willing to make, but now is - an impossibility. I am afraid you will feel this very much--and - don’t think I don’t feel it; but it is an impossibility. I have - things to do and a life to lead that makes it impossible. I hope - soon someone will be raised up for you when you want it most, to - give you the help and assistance I would so gladly have given. - Could I but know that you assented to this, that you saw the reason - for my conduct, I should be as happy as I now can ever be; and I - hope that you will do so when you can look at it calmly. Farewell, - dear Lottie, think of me with as little anger as you can, for it is - not I, but Providence. Your voice will soon make you independent; - it is only a momentary disappointment, I know, and I cannot help - it. To do what we settled to do is now an impossibility--an - impossibility. Dear Lottie, farewell! - - “R. R.” - - -Underneath, _Forgive me_ was scrawled hastily, as if by an afterthought. - -In the calm warm room, in the dull afternoon, under the eyes of her -tender nurse, Lottie read over again this letter, which she had read -with incredulous wonder, with stupefying misery, by the dim light of the -evening under the black waving branches of the leafless trees. She gave -a cry of anguish, of horror, of indignation and shame, and with -trembling hands folded it up, and put it within its cover, and thrust it -back into Mrs. Temple’s keeping. “Oh, take it, take it,” she cried -wildly; “keep it, it has killed me. Perhaps--perhaps! the other is true -too.” - - - - -CHAPTER XLIV. - -APRÈS? - - -Law had been living a busy life at the time of this crisis and climax of -his sister’s existence. He had spent day after day in London, lost in -that dangerous and unaccustomed delight of spending money, which is only -tasted in its full flavour by those who are little accustomed to have -any money to spend. Law was tempted by a hundred things which would have -been no temptation at all to more experienced travellers--miracles of -convenience and cheapness, calculated to smooth the path of the -emigrant, but which were apt, on being bought, to turn out both -worthless and expensive--and many a day the young fellow came home -penitent and troubled, though he started every morning with an -ever-renewed confidence in his own wisdom. Lottie’s sudden illness had -checked these preparations in mid-career. He had lost the ship in which -he meant to have made his voyage, and though he bore the delay with -Christian resignation, it was hard to keep from thinking sometimes that -Lottie could not have chosen a worse moment for being ill--a little -later, or a little earlier, neither would have mattered half so -much--but at the very moment when he was about to sail! However, he -allowed impartially that it was not his sister’s fault, and did not deny -her his sympathy. Law, however, had never been satisfied about the cause -of her illness. He did not know why she should have sat out on the -Slopes all night. Polly--he refused the idea that it was Polly. Mrs. -Despard was bad enough, but not so bad as that; nor did Lottie care -enough for the intruder to allow herself to be driven out in this way. -But Law kept this conviction to himself, and outwardly accepted the -story, not even asking any explanation from his sister. Whatever was the -real reason, it was no doubt the same cause which kept her from -listening to him when he had tried to tell her of the new step in his -own career, and the unexpected liberality of the Minor Canon. “If it had -but been he!” Law said to himself--for indeed he, who knew the value of -money, never entertained any doubt as to Mr. Ashford’s meaning in -befriending him; he was a great deal more clear about this than Mr. -Ashford himself. - -He lost his passage by the ship with which he had originally intended to -go. It was a great disappointment, but what could he do? He could not -start off for the Antipodes when his sister might be dying. And as for -his own affairs, they had not come to any satisfactory settlement. -Instead of saying yes or no to his question to her, Emma, when he had -seen her, had done everything a girl could do to make him change his -intention. To make _him_ change his intention!--the very idea of this -filled him with fierce scorn. It was quite simple that she should make -up her mind to leave everything she cared for, for love of him; but that -he should change his purpose for love of her, was an idea so absurd that -Law laughed at the simplicity of it. As well expect the Abbey tower to -turn round with the wind as the weathercock did; but yet Law did not -object to stroll down to the River Lane in the evenings, when he had -nothing else to do, sometimes finding admission to the workroom when the -mother was out of the way, demanding to know what was Emma’s decision, -and smiling at her entreaties. She cried, clasping her hands with much -natural eloquence, while she tried to persuade him; but Law laughed. - -“Are you coming with me?” he said--he gave no answer to the other -suggestion--and by this time he had fully made up his mind that she did -not mean to come, and was not very sorry. He had done his duty by -her--he had not been false, nor separated himself from old friends when -prosperity came; no one could say that of him. But still he was not -sorry to make his start alone--to go out to the new world unencumbered. -Nevertheless, though they both knew this was how it would end, it still -amused Law in his unoccupied evenings to do his little love-making at -the corner of the River Lane, by the light of the dull lamp, and it -pleased Emma to be made love to. They availed themselves of this -diversion of the moment, though it often led to trouble, and sometimes -to tears; and Emma for her part suffered many scoldings in consequence. -The game, it is to be supposed, was worth the candle, though it was -nothing but a game after all. - -On the day after Mrs. Daventry’s visit, Lottie sent for her brother. He -found her no longer a languid invalid, but with a fire of fervid energy -in her eyes. - -“Law,” she said, “I want you to tell me what you are going to do. You -told me once, and I did not pay any attention--I had other--other things -in my mind. Tell me now, Law.” - -Then he told her all that had happened, and all he had been doing. “It -was your sense, Lottie, after all,” he said. “You were always the one -that had the sense. Who would have thought when I went to old Ashford to -be coached, that he would come forward like this, and set me up for -life? Nor he wouldn’t have done that much either,” Law added, with a -laugh, “but for you!” - -“Law,” cried Lottie, with that fire in her eyes, “this was what we -wanted all the time, though we did not know it. It was always an office -I was thinking of--and that I would be your housekeeper--your servant if -we were too poor to keep a servant; but this is far better. Now we are -free--we have only each other in the world. When must we go?” - -“We!” cried Law, completely taken aback. He looked at her with dismay. -“You don’t mean you are coming? You don’t suppose I--can take you.” - -“Yes,” she cried, “yes,” with strange vehemence. “Were we not always to -be together? I never thought otherwise--that was always what I -meant--until----” - -“Ah,” said Law, “that is just it--until! When you’re very young,” he -continued, with great seriousness, “you think like that--yes, you think -like that. A sister comes natural--you’ve always been used to her; but -then, Lottie, you know as well as I do that don’t last.” - -“Oh, yes--it lasts,” cried Lottie: “other things come and go. You -suppose you want something more--and then trouble comes, and you -remember that there is nobody so near. Who could be so near? I know all -you like and what is best for you, and we have always been together. -Law, I have had things to make me unhappy--and I have no home, no place -to live in.” - -“I thought,” said Law, severely, “that they were very kind to you here.” - -“Kind! it is more than that,” cried Lottie, her hot eyes moistening. -“They are like--I do not know what they are like--like nothing but -themselves; but I do not belong to them. What right have I to be here? -and oh, Law, you don’t know----. To walk about here again--to live, -where one has almost died--to see the same things--the place--where it -all happened----” - -Lottie was stopped by the gasp of weeping that came into her throat. She -ended with a low cry of passionate pain. “I must go somewhere. I cannot -stay here. We will go together, and work together; and some time, -perhaps--some time--we shall not be unhappy, Law.” - -“I am not unhappy now,” said the young man. “I don’t know why you should -be so dismal. Many a fellow would give his ears to be in my place. But -you--that’s quite a different thing. A man can go to many a place where -he can’t drag his sister after him. Besides, you’ve got no outfit,” -cried Law, delighted to find so simple a reason, “and no money to get -one. Old Ashford has been awfully kind; but I don’t think it would be -nice to draw him for an outfit for you. It wouldn’t be kind,” said Law, -with a grin, “it would be like the engineer fellow in Shakespeare--burst -with his own boiler. You know that would never do.” - -“A woman does not need an outfit, as a man does,” said Lottie; “a woman -can put up with anything. If you go away, what is to become of me? When -you are young, whatever you may have had to make you unhappy, you cannot -die when you please. That would be the easiest way of all--but it is -not possible; you cannot die when you please.” - -“Die--who wants to die?” said Law. “Don’t you know it’s wicked to talk -so. Why, there’s your singing. You’ll be able to make a great deal more -money than I ever shall; and of course you may come over starring to -Australia when you’re a great singer; but it would be ruin to you now to -go there. Don’t be carried away by it because I’m lucky just now, -because it’s my turn,” he said; “everybody wants to hold on by a fellow -when he’s in luck--but it is really you who are the lucky one of the -family.” - -“My voice is gone,” said Lottie, “my home is gone. I have nothing in the -world but you. All I used to have a little hope in is over. There are -only two of us in the world, brother and sister. What can I do but go -with you? I have nobody but you.” - -“Oh, that’s bosh,” said Law, getting up from his seat in impatience. “I -don’t believe a word they say about your voice. You’ll see it’ll soon -come back if you give it a chance; and as for having nobody but me, I -never knew a girl that had so many friends--there’s these old Temples, -and heaps of people; and it seems to me you may marry whoever you like -all round. A girl has no right to turn up her nose at that. Besides, -what made old Ashford so kind to me? You don’t find men doing that sort -of thing for nothing in this world. I always think it’s kindest to -speak out plain,” said Law, reddening, however, with a sense of cruelty, -“not to take you in with pretending. Look here, Lottie. I can’t take you -with me. I have got no more than I shall want for myself, and I may have -to knock about a great deal there before I get anything. And to tell the -truth,” said Law, reddening still more, “if I was to take a woman with -me, it would be more natural to take--someone else. A fellow expects to -marry, to make himself comfortable when he gets out there. Now you can’t -do that if you have a sister always dragging after you. I’ve told you -this before, Lottie--you know I have. I don’t want to hurt your feelings -when you’ve been ill--but what can a fellow do? To say what you mean -once for all, that is the best for both you and me.” - -Law made his exit abruptly when he had given forth this confession. He -could say what was necessary boldly enough, but he did not like to face -his sister’s disappointment. It was a comfort to him to meet Mr. Ashford -at the door. - -“Lottie is upstairs,” he said. “She wants me to take her with me, but I -have told her I can’t take her with me. I wish you would say a word to -her.” - -Law rushed away with a secret chuckle when he had sent to his sister a -new suitor to console her. If one lover proves unsatisfactory, what can -be better than to replace him by another? Law felt himself bound in -gratitude and honour to do all that he could for Mr. Ashford, who had -been so kind to him; and was it not evidently the best thing--far the -best thing for Lottie too? - -The Minor Canon went upstairs with a little quickening of his pulse. He -had been a great deal about Captain Temple’s little house since the -morning when he had brought Lottie there, and her name and the thought -of her had been in his mind constantly. He had not defended himself -against this preoccupation, for would it not have been churlish to put -the poor girl out of his mind when she was so desolate, and had no other -place belonging to her? Rather he had thrown open all his doors and -taken in her poor pale image, and made a throne for her, deserted, -helpless, abandoned as she was. A generous soul cannot take care of -itself when a friend is in trouble. Mr. Ashford, who had been on the -edge of the precipice, half consciously, for some time, holding himself -back as he could, thinking as little about her as he could, now let -himself go. He felt as the Quixotes of humanity are apt to feel, that -nothing he could give her should be withheld now. If it did not do her -any good, still it would be something--it was all he could do. He let -himself go. He thought of her morning and night, cherishing her name in -his heart. Poor Lottie--life and love had alike been traitors to her. -“Though all men forsake thee, yet will not I,” he said, as once was said -rashly to a greater than man. What could he ever be to her, wrung as -her heart was by another? but that did not matter. If it was any -compensation to her, she should have his heart to do what she liked -with. This was the sentiment in the mind of the Minor Canon, who ought, -you will say, to have known better, but who never had been practical, as -the reader knows. He went upstairs with his heart beating. How gladly he -would have said a hundred words to her, and offered her all he had, to -make up for the loss of that which she could not have. But what his -generosity would have thrown at her feet, his delicacy forbade him to -offer. Lottie, in her disappointment and desertion (which he only -divined, yet was certain of) was sacred to him. Mrs. Temple was absent -about her household concerns, and there was nobody in the drawing-room -upstairs except Lottie, who in her excitement and despair did not hear -his step, nor think that anyone might be coming. She was walking about -the room, with her hands clasped and strained against her breast, her -weak steps full of feverish energy, her eyes glowing with a fire of -despair. “What shall I do? what shall I do?” she was moaning in the -anguish of her heart. - -When Ernest Ashford opened the door, her back was turned to him, so that -he heard this moan, and saw the passionate misery of her struggle, -before she knew that he was there. When she saw him a momentary gleam of -anger came over her face; then she put force upon herself, and dropped -her hands by her side like a culprit, and tried to receive him as she -ought. As she ought--for was not he her brother’s benefactor, whom all -this time she had been neglecting, not thanking him as he had a right to -be thanked? The change from that anguish and despair which she had been -indulging when alone, to the sudden softening of courtesy and -compunction and gratitude which, after a pathetic momentary interval of -struggling with herself, came over her face, was one of those sudden -variations which had transported Rollo in the beginning of their -acquaintance by its power of expression. But this change, which would -have pleased the other, went to the heart of the Minor Canon, to whom -Lottie had never appeared in the light of an actress or singer, but only -as herself. - -“Mr. Ashford,” she said faintly. “I wanted to see you--to thank you----” - -She was trembling, and he came up to her tenderly--but with a tenderness -that never betrayed its own character--grave and calm, for all that his -heart was beating--and took her hand and arm into his, and led her to -her chair. “You must not thank me for anything,” he said. - -“For Law----” - -“No; not for Law. If it would give you any ease or any comfort, you -should have everything I have. That is not saying much. You should have -all I can do or think,” he said, with a thrill in his voice, which was -all that betrayed his emotion. “The misery of human things is that all I -can do is not what you want, Lottie--and that what you want is out of my -power.” - -He asked no permission to call her by her name; he was not aware he did -it--nor was she. - -“I want nothing,” she said, with a passionate cry. “Oh, do not think I -am so miserable and weak. I want nothing. Only, if Law could take me -with him--take me away--to a new place--to a new life.” - -He sat down beside her, and softly pressed the hand which he held in his -own. Yes, this was the misery of human things, as he said--he did not -repeat the words, but they were in his face. That which she wanted was -not for her, nor was his desire for him; other gifts might be thrown at -their feet, and lie there unheeded, but not that for which they pined -and were ready to die. - -“Do you think it must not be?” she said. Lottie was willing to make him -the judge of her fate--to allow him to decide for her how it was to be. -Yes, but only in that way in which he was powerless. He smiled, with a -sense of this irony, which is more tragic than any solemn verdict of -fate. - -“I do not think it could be,” he said, “except with perfect consent and -harmony; and Law--does not wish it. He is like the rest of us. He does -not care for what he can have, though another man might give his life -for it. It is the way of the world.” - -“I am used to it,” said Lottie, bowing her head; “you need not say it is -the way of the world to break it to me, Mr. Ashford. Oh, how well I -ought to know! I am used to being rejected. Papa, and Law, and----” - -She put her hand over her hot eyes, but she did not mean to drop into -self-pity. “Nobody cares to have me,” she said after a moment, with the -quiver of a smile on her lips. “I must make up my mind to it--and when -you are young you cannot die whenever you please. I must do something -for myself.” - -“That is it,” said the Minor Canon, bitterly--“always the same; between -those you love and those that love you there is a great gulf; therefore -you must do something for yourself.” - -She looked at him wondering, with sad eyes. He was angry, but not with -her--with life and fate; and Lottie did not blush as she divined his -secret. It was too serious for that. It was not her fault or his fault; -neither of them had done it or could mend it. Had she but known! had he -but known! Now there was nothing to be done but to unite what little -wisdom they had over the emergency, and decide what she was to do--for -herself. Her father had no place for her in his house. Law would not -have her with him; her lover had forsaken her; and to those who would -have had her, who would have cherished her, there was no response in -Lottie’s heart. Yet here she stood with her problem of existence in her -hands, to be solved somehow. She looked piteously at the man who loved -her, but was her friend above all, silently asking that counsel of which -she stood so much in need. What was she to do? - -Just then the door opened, and Mrs. Temple came in with Dr. Enderby, who -had been kind to Lottie, as they all were, and who regulated everybody’s -health within the Precincts, from Lady Caroline downward. The good -doctor, who had daughters of his own, looked with kind eyes upon the -girl, who was so much less happy than they. He took her slender wrist -into his hand, and looked into her luminous, over-clear eyes, wet with -involuntary tears. - -“She is looking a great deal better. She will soon be quite herself,” he -said cheerfully; but winked his own eyelids to throw off something, -which was involuntary too. - -“Yes, yes,” said Captain Temple, who had come in after him. “She will -soon be quite herself; but you must give her her orders to stay with us, -doctor. We want to be paid for nursing her--and now she will be able to -run about on all our errands, and save us a great deal of trouble, and -keep us happy with her pretty voice and her singing. Did you ever hear -her sing, doctor? The Signor is very anxious about her. We must begin -our lessons again, my pretty Lottie, as soon as ever the doctor gives -leave.” - -Dr. Enderby looked very grave. “There is no hurry about that,” he said, -“let her have a little more time. The Signor must be content to wait.” - -Now Lottie had said, and they all had said, that her voice was gone; but -when the doctor’s face grew so grave, a cold chill struck to their -hearts. She gave him a startled look of alarmed inquiry, she who had -suddenly realised, now that all dreams were over, that question of -existence which is the primitive question in this world. Before -happiness, before love, before everything that makes life lovely, this -mere ignoble foundation of a living, must come. When one is young, as -Lottie said, one cannot die at one’s own pleasure--and suddenly, just as -she had got to realise that necessity, was it possible that this other -loss was really coming too? She looked at him with anxious eyes, but he -would not look at her, to give her any satisfaction; then she laid her -hand softly on his arm. - -“Doctor,” she said, “tell me true--tell me the worst there is to tell. -Shall I never have my voice again? is it gone, gone?” - -“We must not ask such searching questions,” said the doctor, with a -smile. “We don’t know anything about _never_ in our profession. We know -to-day, and perhaps to-morrow--something about them--but no more.” - -He tried to smile, feeling her gaze upon him, and made light of her -question. But Lottie was not to be evaded. All the little colour there -was ebbed out of her face. - -“Shall I never sing again?” she said. “No--that is not what I mean; -shall I never be able to sing as I did once? Is it over? Oh, Doctor, -tell me the truth, is that over too?” - -They were all surrounding him with anxious faces. The doctor got up -hurriedly and told them he had an appointment. “Do not try to sing,” he -said, “my dear,” patting her on the shoulder. “It will be better for -you, for a long time, if you do not even try;” and before anyone could -speak again he had escaped, and was hurrying away. - -When he was gone, Lottie sat still, half stupefied, yet quivering with -pain and the horror of a new discovery. She could not speak at first. -She looked round upon them with trembling lips, and great tears in her -eyes. Then all at once she slid down upon her knees at Mrs. Temple’s -feet. - -“Now all is gone,” she said, “all is gone--not even _that_ is left. Take -me for your servant instead of the one that is going away. I can work--I -am not afraid to work. I know all the work of a house. Let me be your -servant instead of the one who is going away.” - -“Oh, Lottie, hush, hush! are you not my child?” said Mrs. Temple, with a -great outcry of weeping, clasping her shoulders and drawing the -upturned face to her breast. But Lottie insisted gently and kept her -position. In this thing at least she was not to be balked. - -“Your servant,” she said, “instead of the one that is going away. I am -an honest girl, though they all cast me off. I cannot sing but I can -work--your servant, or else I cannot be your child.” - - - - -CHAPTER XLV. - -CONCLUSION. - - -If this history had proposed to settle and bring to a dramatic -conclusion even one single human life, the writer would falter here, -feeling her task all unfulfilled; for what have we been able to do more -than to bring our poor Lottie at the end of all things to a kind of -dead-lock of all the possibilities of life? Such stoppages in the course -of human affairs are, however, at least as common as a distinct climax -or catastrophe. For one girl or boy whose life lies all fair before them -after the first effort, how many are there who have to leave the chapter -incomplete, and, turning their backs upon it, to try a second beginning, -perhaps with less satisfaction, and certainly with a somewhat disturbed -and broken hope! Lottie Despard had arrived at this point. Her love had -not ended as happy loves end. It had been cut short by a cruel hand; her -fabric of happiness had fallen to the ground; her visionary shelter, the -house of her dreams, had crumbled about her, leaving nothing but bare -walls and broken rafters. Her misery and dismay, the consternation of -her young soul when, instead of that fair and pleasant future which was -to be her resting-place, she found around her a miserable ruin, we have -scarcely attempted to say. What words can tell such a convulsion and -rending of earth and sky? She had believed in her lover, and in her love -as something above the weakness of ordinary humanity. She had believed -herself at last to have found in him the ideal after which she had -sighed all her life. His generous ardour to help her whenever he found -her in want of help, the enthusiasm of a love which she believed had -been given at first sight, like the love the poets tell of, had filled -Lottie’s heart with all the sweetness of a perfect faith. Impossible to -say how she had trusted in him, with what pure and perfect delight and -approbation her soul had given itself up to him, glad beyond all -expression not only to find him hers, but to have found him at all, the -one man known to her for whom no excuse had to be made. The discovery -that he was a traitor killed her morally--at least it seemed so to the -poor girl when, all crushed and bleeding from a hundred wounds, she was -taken to the house of her friends. But even that was scarcely a more -horrible blow than the stroke administered delicately by Augusta while -still the injured soul had not staunched its own bleeding or recovered -from the first mortal overthrow. The earth that had been so solid opened -round her in yawning mouths of hell, leaving no ground to stand upon. -There was nothing that was not changed. She had not only lost her -future, which was all happiness, and in which she had believed like a -child; but she had lost her past. She had been deceived; or, worse -still, she had deceived herself, seeking her own overthrow. The -knowledge that it had not been love that brought Rollo under her window -first, that it was altogether another sentiment, _business_, regard for -his own interests--seemed to throw upon herself the blame of all that -came after. Soul and heart, the girl writhed under the consciousness of -having thus anticipated and brought on her fate. So vain, so foolish, so -easily deceived, who was in fault but herself? Those thoughts gave her a -false strength, or feverish impassioned power for a time. It was her own -doing. She had been the deceiver of herself. - -But who could deliver her from the dying pangs of love in her heart, -those longings which are unquenchable, those protestations of nature -against loss, those visions of excuses that might still be made, and -suggestions of impossible explanation which in her mind she knew to be -impossible even while her fancy framed them? Sometimes Lottie would find -herself dreaming unawares that someone else, not Rollo, had written that -cruel letter; that it was not by his will he had left her to bear the -brunt of her disappointment under the elm-tree; that _it_ was a forgery, -and he detained by some act of cruel treachery and deceit. Sometimes a -flood of passionate longing and yearning would sweep over her--a -longing only to see him, to hear his voice, to ask why, why he could -have been so cruel. Love does not die in a moment, nor does it come to a -violent end when the object is proved unworthy, as some people think. -With Lottie it was a lingering and painful conclusion, full of memories, -full of relentings; the ground that had been gained by days of painful -self-suppression being lost by one sudden burst of remembrance, the -sight of something that brought up before her one of the scenes that -were past. - -While this process was going on wistful looks were directed to Lottie’s -lonely path by more than one spectator. The household of the Signor was -deeply moved by the hapless fate of the young lady for whom young -Purcell sighed with unavailing faithfulness. He could not be made to see -that it was unavailing, and the Signor, blinded by his partiality for -his pupil, did not or would not see it; and, as was natural, Mrs. -Purcell could not understand the possibility of any girl being -indifferent to John’s devotion. She thought Lottie’s troubles would -indeed be at an end, and her future happiness secured, if her eyes were -but opened to his excellence. So strong was this feeling in the mind of -the family that the Signor himself took the matter in hand, and sallied -forth with the anxious sympathy of all the household to put the case -before Captain Temple, who was now recognised as Lottie’s guardian. “In -every country but England,” the Signor said, “the friends arrange such -matters. Surely it is much more judicious than the other way. There is -some guarantee at least that it is not mere youthful folly. Now here is -a young lady who is in very unfortunate circumstances, who has been -obliged to leave her father’s house----” - -“I beg your pardon, Signor,” said the Captain, trying hard to keep his -temper, “but I do not think my house is a very bad exchange for Captain -Despard’s.” - -“Nobody who knows Captain Temple can have any doubt of that,” the Signor -said with a wave of his hand, “but what can her situation be in your -house? You are not her relation. She has no claim, she has no right, -nothing to depend upon; and if anything were to happen to you----” - -“To be sure,” said Captain Temple, with profound gravity, not -untinctured with offence, “there is much to be said on that point. We -are mortal like everybody else.” - -Explanations were not the Signor’s strong point; he was wanting in tact -everybody knew. “I am making a mess of it,” he said, “as I always do. -Captain Temple, you are a man of sense, you know that marriage is -something more than a matter of sentiment. John Purcell is a very rising -musician, there is nothing in our profession he may not hope for; he -loves Miss Despard, and he could give her a home. Will you not -recommend her to consider his suit, and be favourable to him? His origin -perhaps is an objection--but he is a very good fellow, and he could -provide for her.” - -Captain Temple kept his temper; he was always very proud of this -afterwards. He bowed the Signor out, then came fuming upstairs to his -wife. “Young Purcell!” he cried, “the housekeeper’s son! as if all that -was wanted was somebody to provide for her; but when a man has that -taint of foreign notions,” said the old Captain gravely, “nothing will -wear it out.” - -Mrs. Temple did not respond as her husband would have wished. Indeed -this was very often the case; she had not his quick impulses nor his -ready speech. She said with a sigh, “I almost think the Signor is right. -I wish we could do what he says. I know a man who is very fond of her, -who would be very suitable, who would be sure to make her happy. I think -if I could marry her to him I would take the responsibility; but she -will not see it in the same light.” - -“Who is it? who is it?” Captain Temple said with lively curiosity. And -when Mr. Ashford’s name was mentioned to him, after some protestations -of incredulity, he could find nothing to say but a fretful “Do you want -to be rid of Lottie?” He for his part did not want to be rid of her. She -was delightful to the old man. She walked with him and sat with him, -and though she had not sufficiently recovered to talk much to him, yet -she listened to him while he talked, which did almost as well. The old -Chevalier was more happy than he had been since his own child married -and went away from him. Why should Lottie be married and carried away -from him too, for no better reason than that a man could provide for -her? This indeed was the weak point in Captain Temples armour. He could -not provide for his adopted daughter; but he was angry when this was -suggested to him. He had got a new interest, a new pleasure in life, and -he did not like the idea of dying and losing it. Why should not he live -for years and keep the shelter of a father’s roof over this girl, who -was like his own? - -As for the Minor Canon, it had only been when he took the girl home from -her vigil on the Slopes that he allowed himself fully to confess the -state of his feelings towards her. When he had drawn her hand within his -arm and felt her light weight upon him, holding up by close clasping of -his own, the soft arm which he held, the floodgates had opened. He knew -very well by instinct and by observation that Lottie loved, not him, but -another man. He felt very sure that what had happened had little to do -with her stepmother but a great deal to do with her lover; and yet at -that very moment, the most discouraging and hopeless, those gates opened -and the stream flowed forth, and he no longer attempted any disguise -either with himself or with Mrs. Temple, who saw through and through -him. Law, whom nobody supposed to have any discrimination, had seen -through and through him long ago. Law felt that it was not at all likely -that any man would sacrifice so much money and trouble on _his_ account; -and indeed from the beginning of their acquaintance he had read in “old -Ashford’s” eye an expression of weakness of which the astute youth was -very willing to take advantage. When, however, Mr. Ashford himself -gained this point of making no further resistance, and attempting no -further concealment, the acknowledgment to himself of the new sentiment, -little hopeful as it was, had brought him a sense of happiness and -freedom. Love in his heart was sweet, even though it had no return. It -made life other than it had ever been. It opened possibilities which to -the middle-aged Minor Canon had all been closed before. Handel may be a -consolation or even a delight; and pupils, though neither consolatory -nor delightful, at least keep a man from the sense that his life is -useless; but neither of these things make up the sum of human -requirements, nor do they help to reveal the _fin mot_ of that mortal -enigma which is more hard to solve than all the knots of philosophy. It -seemed to Mr. Ashford when he gave up all resistance, and let this flood -of tenderness for one creature take possession of his heart, that a -sudden illumination had been given to him, a light that cleared up many -difficult matters, and made the whole world more clear. With this -lantern in his hand he thought he might even go back to tread the darker -ways of the world with more fortitude and calm. The miseries of the poor -seemed to him more bearable, the burdens of humanity less overwhelming. -Why? but he could not have told why. Perhaps because life itself was -more worth having, more beautiful, more divine with love in it; a poor -man, though he was starving, could not be so poor with that to keep him -alive. He remembered in his early experiences, when he had fled from the -horrible mystery of want and pain, to have seen that other presence -which then he took no note of, in the poorest places--gleaming in the -eyes of a woman, in a man’s rough face, which knew no other -enlightenment. This, then, was what it was. In the sweetness of the -heavenly discovery perhaps he went too far, and felt in it the -interpretation and compensation of all. Naturally, a man who has found a -new happiness does exalt it above the dimensions of any human -possession. It made the Minor Canon feel his own life too sheltered and -peaceful, it made of him a man among other men. It seemed to him now -that he wanted to go and help his brothers who were suffering, whose -suffering had appalled him, from whom he had fled in excess of pity. - -But he did not say one word of his love to Lottie, except those vague -words which have been recorded. What was the use? She knew it as he knew -it; and what could it matter? After the first impulse of speech, which -was for her sake rather than his--to comfort her wounded pride, her -sense of humiliation, if nothing else, by the knowledge that she was -priceless to another if rejected by one--no desire to speak was in his -mind. He surrounded her with every care he was permitted to give, with a -thousand unexpressed tendernesses, with a kind of ideal worship, such as -was most likely to soothe her wounds and to please her, at least, with a -sense that she was beloved. In this way the winter went slowly on. Law -did not sail till the early spring, being detained by the Minor Canon as -he would, if he could, have detained a ray of sunshine that warmed her. -And thus Lottie was surrounded by all the fairest semblances of life. - -The fairest semblances! How often they collect about those who can -derive no advantage from them! A good man loved her, but Lottie could -not accept his love; the kindest domestic shelter was given to her, but -she had no right to it--she was not the daughter of these kind people, -and they would not make her their servant as she had asked them to do. -Musing in her own mind over all that lay about her, this seemed the only -true standing ground that she could hope for. Now that she wanted a way -of living, a real occupation, her voice had failed her and she could not -sing; now that she had the doors of marriage opened before her, her -heart was too sick even to contemplate that possibility; now that she -had a home where she was beloved, it was not her home but the house of a -stranger. To all this she had no right. If they would let her be their -servant, that would be true; if Mr. Ashford would see that she was not -worth loving, that would be true; if she could take up the trade she had -despised, in that there would be an honest refuge. All these things were -out of her reach. She said nothing about the thoughts in her heart, but -they burned within her; and nobody understood them, except perhaps Mr. -Ashford, to whom she never confided them. Law thought her very well off -indeed, and declared frankly that he would leave England with an easy -mind: “You are one that will always fall on your feet,” he said, with -perfect satisfaction. Captain Despard even, who had at first resented -the new arrangement of affairs, came at last in his finest manner and -made very pretty speeches to Captain Temple and his wife. “If, as I -understand, my daughter’s society is a real pleasure to you,” he said, -“I am always glad when I or mine can be of use to my neighbours, and -certainly, my dear Madam, she shall stay. Indeed, in the present state -of my domestic circumstances,” he added, with a wave of his hand, not -perceiving Captain Temple’s angry eagerness to speak, which his wife -subdued with a supplicating gesture, “I will not conceal from you that -it is an ease to my mind to know that Lottie is among the friends of her -own choice. My wife and she,” Captain Despard said, with a little shrug -of his shoulders--“we all know what ladies are, and that occasionally -unpleasantnesses will occur--my wife and she have not got on together.” -Thus Lottie was left by those who belonged to her. And when she retired -to the room that was her own in the new home--which was so like the -little room in the old, but so much more dainty, with everything in it -that the old people could think of to make her comfortable, and all the -little decorations which a mother invents for her child, Lottie would -stand in the midst of these evidences of love and kindness, and ask -herself what she could do--she had never been so well off in her life, -what could she do? She had “no claim” upon the Temples, as the Signor -said, “no right” to their kindness. The Captain’s niece, who lived in -St. Michael’s, looked at the interloper, as the nearest relative of a -foolish old couple who were wasting their means upon a stranger might be -excused for looking. What was she doing but living on their charity? -What could she do? Oh, that she had now the voice which she had cared so -little for when she had it! How strange, how strange it all seemed to -her now! She had, she said to herself, a trade, an honest trade in her -hands, and she had not cared for it, had struggled against its exercise, -had not wished to qualify herself for its use; and now it was lost to -her. This was the only thing that was Lottie’s fault; the other strange -paradoxes about her had come without any doing of hers. But the result -of all was that, with love and kindness on every side, she had no place -that belonged to her, no right to anything. After the kind people who -were so good to her had gone to their rest, the girl would sit and think -over this problem. What was she to do? To be obliged to think of this -did her good; it took her mind away from the wounds of her heart, it -brought in new objects--new thoughts. She could not dwell for ever, as a -disengaged mind might have done, amid the ruined temples and palaces of -her love; she could not sink to the ground, and conclude, as in happier -circumstances a broken-hearted girl might have been tempted to do, that -all was over. On the contrary, life not being over, nor any end -procurable by means of hers, an entire world of new difficulties and -troubles was brought in which Lottie had to meet, and, as she might, -find a solution for. - -On the day before Law’s departure, which had been so often delayed, she -went back to her father’s house, under her brother’s guardianship, to -take away the few little possessions which remained there. Law had been -a very faithful guardian of Lottie’s little belongings. There was -nothing that Polly would have liked better than to enter and rummage -through her step-daughter’s things, searching for secrets through all -the little drawers and boxes which Lottie had taken a girlish pleasure -in keeping in good order. But Law had stood up like a dragon for his -sister’s property; and Captain Despard, who sometimes put himself on -Lottie’s side, by a certain _esprit de famille_ against the wife, who, -after all, was an alien and not one of them, supported Law. Thus the men -of her family, though they had not hesitated to treat her carelessly and -even harshly themselves, yet made a certain stand against the -interference of any other. It was a day in early April when Lottie -reluctantly went into her father’s house on this errand. Polly was out; -the house was vacant and quiet as when it had been her own, and it is -not to be described with what a yearning the girl looked at the shabby -furniture, the old piano, the faded rooms in which she had spent many a -troubled and many a dull day, and beat her wings against the bars of her -cage, and wished for a hundred things which were never to be hers. The -reader knows how far Lottie had been from being happy: but yet she -thought she had been happy, and that nothing better could have been -desired than to be the household Providence, and “take care,” as she -called it, of her father and brother. All that was over. She could not -bear to go into the little drawing-room, where he had visited her, where -she had lived in such a world of dreams. Her heart beat as she went up -the old stairs. She was far better off with the Temples, who could not -pet or serve her enough; yet with what a yearning she came into the -house which had once been hers, but in which now there was no place for -her! In her own room, thanks to Law’s care, she found everything as she -had left it; and it is not to be told what anguish filled Lottie’s -breast as she looked at her little white dress, all carefully prepared -for the event which was never to happen, and the little box with the -bonnet which she had made in such sweet agitation and tumult of heart. -And there was the pearl locket upon its white ribbon, her sole ornament. -She gathered these things together and carried them, not letting even -Law touch them, to her new home. She could not speak as she went up and -shut herself in her room. A little fire was burning there, a luxury -unknown to Lottie in the days when she was her own mistress, and no one -cared how chilly she might be. Then with old Lear’s “climbing sorrow” in -her throat, she undid the little bit of maidenly finery for which she -had so much wanted a sprig of orange blossom. It was a nothing, a little -knot of tulle and ribbon--a piece of vanity not worthy a thought; so any -moralist would have said who had seen Lottie stand speechless, tearless, -a great sob in her throat, with the poor little bonnet in her hand. A -bonnet, there is nothing tragic in that. She put it upon her fire and -watched the light stuff flame and fall into sudden ashes. It was the -affair of a moment; but those hopes, those prospects of which it had -been the token, her life itself, with all that was beautiful in it, -seemed ended too. - -Then she sat down for the hundredth time and confronted the waste of -darkness that was her life. What was she to do? Perhaps it was the final -ending of her dream, symbolised by the destruction of that bit of tulle -and ribbon, which moved her. For the first time her dreamy -self-questions took a different tone. She asked herself, not what am I -to do? but something more definite. Law was going away the next day, the -only being except her father to whom she had any right, on whom she had -any claim--going away in comfort, in high hope, as much as she could -have desired for him. By whose doing? She had given up the care of Law, -selfishly absorbed in her own hopes; and who was it who had taken her -place and done the thing which Lottie had only wished and longed to do? -She seemed to see him standing before her, with tenderness beyond words -in his eyes. Always her good angel: how often he had interposed to help -her!--from that early time at the Deanery when she had sung false in her -agitation, and he had covered the error and beguiled her into the divine -song which at that very moment she could hear thrilling all the air, -pealing from the Abbey. Was it because this happened to be the afternoon -anthem that she thought of that simple beginning of the Minor Canon’s -benefits? Never since had he failed her; though of all the people upon -whom Lottie had no claim, he it was on whom she had the least claim. He -had saved Law from his aimless idleness, and it was he who had awakened -herself out of the miserable dream that had almost cost her her life. -How could she repay him for all he had done for her? In one way, one -only way. She shuddered, then stilled herself, and faced the thought -with all the courage she had left. Marry him! If he would have her, if -he wanted her, why should not she marry him? She trembled as the words -came into her mind. It was not she that said them; something seemed to -say them in her mind, without any will of hers. So good a man, so kind. -Did it matter so much whether she liked it, whether she did not like it, -so long as it pleased him? Perhaps this was not the right way in which -such a calculation ought to be made, but Lottie did not think of that. -At all times it had been easier for her to think of others than of -herself. Only once had she pleased herself, and no good had come of it. -Her heart began to beat with a heroic impulse. She was not worth his -having, she whom everyone had cast off; but if he thought so? She -shuddered, yet her heart rose high in her bosom. She would do her best, -she would be a good wife, that would be within her power. She would -serve him humbly, that he might forgive her for not loving him. She rose -up to her feet unconsciously as this great resolution came upon her -mind. - -“Lottie,” said Law at her door, “the service is over, and the Signor is -practising. Come over to the Abbey with me. I’d like to wander about the -old place a little the last night I am here. Come, it’ll be something to -think of,” said Law, more moved than he liked to show, “when we’re -thousands of miles separate over the sea.” - -Lottie did not wait to be asked again. She hurried to him, glad to be -thus delivered from the thoughts that were getting too much for her. -Long, long months had passed since the brother and sister had gone to -church together, their close vicinity to the Abbey and its frequent -services had broken up the old childish Sunday habits. And it was not -going to church in the ordinary way, but only roaming through to the -silent beautiful place all deserted, with the organ pealing through its -silence. Law’s heart was touched, though he was too successful and -prosperous now to be easily moved. He strayed about the majestic -stillness of the nave with tears in his eyes, thinking--this time -to-morrow! This time to-morrow he would probably be prosaically ill or -prosaically comfortable, and thinking little of what he left. But for -the moment it seemed to Law that when he once was gone, his heart would -turn like that of any poet, to the sweet friends to whom that day he had -said farewell. - -The Abbey was altogether still except for the music. No one was about; -the last ray of the westerly sun had got in among the canopy work over -the stalls, and tangled itself there. Underneath the shadows of the -evening were creeping dimly, and through the great vault the organ -pealed. What bursts of wonderful sound, what glories in the highest, -what quiverings of praise unspeakable! Lottie raised her face unawares -to the gallery from which that music came. How her life had gone along -with it, shaping itself to that high accompaniment! It had run through -everything, delight and misery alike, good and evil. Her heart was moved -already, and trembling under the touch of new impulses, resolutions, -emotions. She stood still unawares, with her face turned that way, a new -light coming upon it; once more the music got into her soul. With her -head raised, her arms falling by her side, her heart going upwards in an -ecstasy of sudden feeling, she stood spell-bound. She did not hear--how -should she?--a whisper in the organ-loft, a noiseless change of music, -nor see the anxious faces looking out upon her from among the fretwork -of the carved screen. The torrent of sound changed; it breathed into a -celestial softness of sorrow and hope; tears dropped liquid like a -falling of rain; a counter stream of melody burst forth. Lottie did not -know what she was doing, the spell upon her was broken. “I know that my -Redeemer liveth:” she lifted up her voice and sang. - -In the organ loft there was a group which clustered together, scarcely -venturing to breathe. The Signor was the one who had most command of -himself. “I always knew it would come back,” he said in sharp staccato -syllables, as he played on. Young Purcell, who loved her, sat down in -the shadow and laughed and cried, blubbering not with dignity. The Minor -Canon, who did not once take his eyes from her, waiting the moment that -she might falter or want succour, watched, looking over the carved rail -with face lighted up like her own. - -Thus was Lottie restored to Art; was it to Love too? - - -THE END. - - -PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WITHIN THE PRECINCTS *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Within the Precincts</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Mrs. Margaret Oliphant</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: April 24, 2021 [eBook #65153]</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images available at The Internet Archive)</div> - -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WITHIN THE PRECINCTS ***</div> -<hr class="full" /> - -<div class="c"> -<a href="images/cover.jpg"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" height="500" alt="" /></a> -</div> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="" -style="margin:1em auto;border:4px double gray;"> -<tr><td class="c"> -<a href="#CONTENTS1">Contents of Volume I</a><br /> -<a href="#CONTENTS2">Contents of Volume II</a><br /> -<a href="#CONTENTS3">Contents of Volume III</a> -</td></tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_1" id="page_1">{vol.-I-1}</a></span> </p> - -<p class="c">COLLECTION<br /> -<small>OF</small><br /> -<big>B R I T I S H A U T H O R S</big><br /><br /> -TAUCHNITZ EDITION.<br /><br /> - -VOL. 1823.<br /><br /> - -WITHIN THE PRECINCTS BY MRS. OLIPHANT.<br /><br /> - -IN THREE VOLUMES.<br /><br /> - -COMPLETE</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2">{vol.-I-2}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="TAUCHNITZ_EDITION" id="TAUCHNITZ_EDITION"></a>TAUCHNITZ EDITION.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">By the same Author,</span></h2> - -<p class="c"><i>The Chronicles of Carlingford</i>:</p> -<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td>THE RECTOR AND THE DOCTOR’S FAMILY</td><td align="left">1 vol.</td></tr> -<tr><td>SALEM CHAPEL</td><td align="left">2 vols.</td></tr> -<tr><td>THE PERPETUAL CURATE</td><td align="left">2 vols.</td></tr> -<tr><td>MISS MARJORIBANKS</td><td align="left">2 vols.</td></tr> -<tr><td>PHŒBE, JUNIOR</td><td align="left">2 vols.</td></tr> -<tr><td><hr style="width: 15%;" /></td></tr> -<tr><td>THE LAST OF THE MORTIMERS</td><td align="left">2 vols.</td></tr> -<tr><td>MARGARET MAITLAND</td><td align="left">1 vol.</td></tr> -<tr><td>AGNES</td><td align="left">2 vols.</td></tr> -<tr><td>MADONNA MARY</td><td align="left">2 vols.</td></tr> -<tr><td>THE MINISTER’S WIFE</td><td align="left">2 vols.</td></tr> -<tr><td>OMBRA</td><td align="left">2 vols.</td></tr> -<tr><td>MEMOIR OF COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT</td><td align="left">2 vols.</td></tr> -<tr><td>MAY</td><td align="left">2 vols.</td></tr> -<tr><td>INNOCENT</td><td align="left">2 vols.</td></tr> -<tr><td>FOR LOVE AND LIFE</td><td align="left">2 vols.</td></tr> -<tr><td>A ROSE IN JUNE</td><td align="left">1 vol.</td></tr> -<tr><td>THE STORY OF VALENTINE & HIS BROTHER 2 vols.</td></tr> -<tr><td>WHITELADIES</td><td align="left">2 vols.</td></tr> -<tr><td>THE CURATE IN CHARGE</td><td align="left">1 vol.</td></tr> -<tr><td>MRS. ARTHUR</td><td align="left">2 vols.</td></tr> -<tr><td>CARITÀ</td><td align="left">2 vols.</td></tr> -<tr><td>YOUNG MUSGRAVE</td><td align="left">2 vols.</td></tr> -<tr><td>THE PRIMROSE PATH</td><td align="left">2 vols.</td></tr> -</table> -<hr style="width: 15%;" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3">{vol.-I-3}</a></span> </p> - -<h1> -WITHIN<br /> -THE PRECINCTS</h1> - -<p class="c">BY<br /> -<br /> -MRS. OLIPHANT,<br /> -<br /><small> -AUTHOR OF “THE CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,” ETC.</small><br /> -<br /> -<i>COPYRIGHT EDITION.</i><br /> -<br /> -IN THREE VOLUMES.<br /> -<br /> -VOL. I.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -LEIPZIG<br /> -BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ<br /> -1879.<br /> -<br /><small> -<i>The Right of Translation is reserved.</i></small><br /></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4">{vol.-I-4}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5">{vol.-I-5}</a></span> </p> - -<h2><a name="CONTENTS1" id="CONTENTS1"></a>CONTENTS<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">OF VOLUME I.</span></h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="3" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td colspan="3"> </td><td class="rt">Page</td></tr> -<tr><td class="c"><small>CHAPTER</small></td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">I.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_I">St. Michael’s</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">7</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">II.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_II">The Chevaliers’ Lodges</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">23</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">III.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_III">The Abbey Precincts</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">40</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">IV.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">Lady Caroline</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">62</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">V.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_V">At the Deanery</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">82</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">VI.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">Law</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">103</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">VII.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">A New Light</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">116</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">VIII.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">Triumph and Terror</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">129</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">IX.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">Visitors</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">150</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">X.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_X">The Minor Canon</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">171</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">XI.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">Another Evening at the Deanery</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">190</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">XII.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">Brother and Sister</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">209</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">XIII.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">Captain Despard</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">227</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">XIV.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">The Workroom</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">242</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">XV.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">Romance and Reality</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">261</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">XVI.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">The Signor’s Household</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">279</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6">{vol.-I-6}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7">{vol.-I-7}</a></span> </p> - -<h1>WITHIN THE PRECINCTS.</h1> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">ST. MICHAEL’S.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> Abbey Church of St. Michael’s stands on a low hill in a flat and -fertile country. The holy places which are sacred to the great archangel -seem to settle naturally upon a mount; and this, one of the noblest -structures consecrated under his name, had all the effect of a very high -elevation—so wide-spreading was the landscape round, so vast the sweep -of plain, fields, and woods, great parks and commons, and gleaming white -villages like ships at sea, which could be seen from its walls and -terraces. Though the settlement was ecclesiastical, the place had been -walled and defensible in the days when danger threatened wealth whatever -form it assumed. Danger, however, had long been far from the thoughts of -the dignified corporation which held its reverend court upon the hill. -The Abbey was as splendid as any cathedral, and possessed a dean and -chapter, though no bishop. It was of Late Gothic, perpendicular and -magnificent; and the walls and towers which still surrounded it, and -even the old<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8">{vol.-I-8}</a></span> houses within the precincts, were older still than the -Abbey, and could have furnished many “bits” to make the heart of a -mediæval architect glad. The very turf which filled the quadrangle and -clothed the slope of the Dean’s Walk was a production of centuries; the -Chapter House was full of historical documents, and the library of rare -books; and there were antiquarian fanatics who protested that the -wealthy livings belonging to the Abbey, and its old endowments, were the -least of its riches. Nor was this establishment on the hill confined to -ecclesiastical interests only. The beautiful church was the chapel of an -order of knighthood, and opposite to it—forming an integral part of the -pile of buildings—was a line of small ancient houses, forming a kind of -screen and inner wall of defence to the sacred citadel, which were the -lodges of a supplementary order of pensioners—Chevaliers of St. -Michael—which at the time of the foundation had given such a balance, -as the Middle Ages loved, of Christian charity and help, to the -splendour and braggadocio of the more glorious knights. Thus the little -community which inhabited this noble old pile of buildings was varied -and composite. The highest official in it was the costly and -aristocratic Dean, the lowest the lay clerks, who were housed humbly in -the shadow of the church in a little cloister of their own, and who -daily filled the Abbey with the noblest music. The Deanery was close to -the Abbey, and embraced<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9">{vol.-I-9}</a></span> in its irregular group of roofs the great -tower, which showed for miles round, with its lighted windows, rising up -into the night. The canons’ houses, if not equally fine, were still -great old houses, standing on the edge of the hill, their walls rising -straight from the green slopes dotted with trees, round the foot of -which a little red-roofed town had gathered; and the Abbey itself stood -between those stately habitations and the humbler lodges of the -Chevaliers, which shut off the lower level of sloping bank on the other -side. The Dean himself was of a great family, and belonged not only to -the nobility, but, higher still, to the most select circles of fashion, -and had a noble wife and such a position in society as many a bishop -envied; and among his canons were men not only of family, but possessed -of some mild links of connection with the worlds of learning and -scholarship,—even it was said that one had writ a book in days when -books were not so common. The minor canons were of humbler degree; they -formed the link between gods and men, so to speak—between the Olympus -of the Chapter and the common secular sphere below. We will not deceive -the reader nor buoy him up with hopes that this history concerns the -lofty fortunes of the members of that sacred and superior class. To no -such distinction can these humble pages aspire; our office is of a -lowlier kind. On Olympus the doings are all splendid, if not, as old -chronicles tell, much wiser than beneath,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10">{vol.-I-10}</a></span> amid the humbler haunts of -men. All that we can do is to tell how these higher circles looked, to -eyes gazing keenly upon them from the mullioned windows which gave a -subdued light to the little rooms of the Chevaliers’ lodges on the -southern side of St. Michael’s Hill.</p> - -<p>These lodges were two storeys in height, with small rooms and very solid -masonry, little gardens in front of them, and a tower at each end. Many -creeping plants clung about the old walls, and especially there were -clouds of Virginia creeper which made them glorious in autumn. It was, -however, on a summer afternoon, at the time this history begins, that -Lottie Despard—the only daughter of Captain Despard, a Chevalier not -very long appointed to that office—sat, with her head out through the -open window, framed between the mullions, watching the broad slope of -the Dean’s Walk which lay between her and the church, and led to the -Deanery and the heights beyond. The Deanery was at this moment the most -important place in the world, not only to Lottie, but to many other -spectators who thronged the slope beneath her window. For this day a -great event had happened in St. Michael’s. The Dean’s only daughter, -Augusta Huntington, had been married that morning with all the pomp -imaginable. It had been like a royal wedding, sumptuous in ritual, in -music, and fine company; and now, after taking a little repose during -the time which the wed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11">{vol.-I-11}</a></span>ding-party spent at breakfast, the Abbey -precincts were beginning to fill again with gazing groups, and all the -people within were coming to their windows to see the bride and -bridegroom go away.</p> - -<p>Lottie Despard was beyond all comparison the prettiest, and she was also -the youngest, of all the ladies in the lodges. She was of Irish descent, -and she had the whiteness of skin, the blackness of abundant hair, the -deep blue eyes that so often go with Milesian blood. Such eyelashes had -never been seen at St. Michael’s; indeed, they had never been seen -anywhere “out of Mrs. Jarley’s waxworks!” some ill-natured critics said. -Sometimes, when Lottie was specially pale or weary, they seemed to -overshadow her face; but she was neither weary nor pale at this -particular moment. She was in great excitement, on the contrary, and -flushed with expectation. Though she was only the daughter of a poor -Chevalier, Lottie had advantages which separated her from the rest of -that little company. Her father was of good family, a point on which she -insisted strenuously; and she herself was the possessor of a beautiful -voice. The former particular would not have been of much advantage to -her, for what was the Despards’ old and faded quality to the great -people at St. Michael’s? But a voice is a different matter; and there -had arisen between Miss Huntington and the Chevalier’s daughter a kind -of intimacy very flattering (the neighbours thought) to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12">{vol.-I-12}</a></span> Lottie. They -had sung together so much and seen so much of each other, that the -lodges expected nothing less than that Lottie would have been asked to -the wedding, or even—greater honour still!—to be a bridesmaid; and -Lottie herself had been wounded and disappointed beyond measure when she -found herself left entirely out. But there was still the possibility -that the bride might show she had not forgotten her humble friend -altogether; and it was for this that Lottie was waiting so anxiously as -the time of departure approached. A word, a sign, a wave of the hand -surely would be vouchsafed to her as the carriage passed. Her heart was -beating loudly as she leant out—a pretty sight to see from without, for -the window was framed in luxuriant wreaths of green, with trailing -tendrils of the young delicate leaves which in autumn flamed like -scarlet flowers against the wall. The people who were gathering on the -road below gave many a look at her. And, though the young ladies from -the shops, who had got half-an-hour’s leave to see how their handiwork -looked in the bride’s travelling-dress, were deeply sensible of the fact -that a poor Chevalier’s daughter was not much richer than themselves, -yet they could not help looking and envying Lottie, if only for the -window at which she could sit in comfort and see everything that went -on, instead of standing in the sun as they had to do. They forgot her, -however, and everything else as the carriage drove up to the Deanery to -take<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13">{vol.-I-13}</a></span> the bridal pair away. The Dean’s daughter was so much the princess -of the community that a compromise had been made between popularity and -decorum; and it was in a carriage partially open, that an admiring -people might behold her as she passed, that she was to drive away. There -was the usual long waiting at the door while the farewells were made, -during which time the outside world looked on respectfully; and then, -with a crowd of “good-byes” thrown after her, and a few—but only a very -few, for the Deanery was nothing if not decorous—white satin slippers, -and a prance and dash of the impatient horses, and a flourish of the -coachman’s whip, and a parting gleam of the wedding favour on his -breast, the bridal pair rolled rapidly past, and all was over. How -quickly they went, everybody said, and how well she looked; and how well -that brown dress looked, though it had been thought rather dowdy for -such an occasion; and the feather in the hat, how well it matched, about -which there had been so much trouble! Some, who had the time, paused to -see the wedding guests disperse, and catch other beatific glimpses of -fine bonnets and gay dresses; but most of the spectators, after this -last and crowning point of the performance, streamed down the slope and -out at the great gateway, and were seen no more.</p> - -<p>Lottie drew in her head from the window the moment the carriage passed. -She grew red when other people grew pale, being pale by nature; and her -face<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14">{vol.-I-14}</a></span> was crimson as she withdrew it from the opening, and came in again -to the little room in which most of her life was spent. Her lips were -closed very tight, her soft forehead contracted; the fire in her blue -eyes, gleaming with anger and disappointment, was (most unwillingly) -quenched in tears. She clasped her hands together with a vehement clasp. -“It would have cost so little to give a look!” she cried; then bit her -lips and clenched her hands and stamped her foot upon the floor, in a -forlorn but vigorous effort to restrain her tears.</p> - -<p>“What does it matter to you?” said a tall young fellow, sufficiently -like Lottie to prove himself her brother, who had looked out lazily over -her head while the carriage was passing. He had his hands in his pockets -and a slouching gait generally, and looked too big for the little room. -She had almost pushed against him in her rapid movement, for his -movements were never rapid; and he had not had time to take one hand out -of his pocket before she flashed round upon him with two red spots on -her cheeks and fury in her heart.</p> - -<p>“What does it matter? Oh, nothing! nothing!” cried Lottie. “Why should -anything matter? It only shows me a little more, a very little more, how -cold the world is, and that nobody has a heart!”</p> - -<p>“Few people have very much, I suppose,” said the young man; “at least, -so the governor says. But what good or harm could it do you to have a -parting sign<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15">{vol.-I-15}</a></span> from <i>her</i>? I knew she would never give it you. I knew she -would be thinking of nobody but herself——”</p> - -<p>“What did you know about it?” cried the girl. “You were never a friend -of hers! you were never begged and prayed to go and sing at the Deanery! -she never came down the Abbey Hill to look for you! But me she has done -all that for; and when I thought just for once she would let everybody -see that Lottie Despard was a friend—Oh, Law, for the love of Heaven, -go and work at something, and don’t stand there staring at me!”</p> - -<p>“What am I to work at?” said the young man, with a yawn. “It’s past -working hours; besides, in summer how can anyone work? I can’t make head -nor tail of that Euclid when the sun is shining.”</p> - -<p>“But when the sun is not shining, Law?”</p> - -<p>“Oh! then,” said the youth, with a smile breaking over his somewhat -cloudy face, “I can make out the head, but not the tail, and the sting -is in the tail, you know! Good-bye, Lottie, and never mind any mother’s -daughter of them. They cannot make us anything but what we are, whatever -they may do.”</p> - -<p>“And what are we?” said Lottie to herself, as her brother strolled -lazily out. There was more air to breathe when he was gone, which was -something. She sat down upon the little old faded sofa, and shed a few -more bitter tears of disappointment and mortification. We all like to -think well of ourselves when that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16">{vol.-I-16}</a></span> is possible; to think well of our -belongings, our people, our position in the world—all that makes up -that external idea of us which we make acquaintance with years before we -know our own real being. No one can tell what the atmosphere of -well-being, of external credit, and public esteem is to a child; and -this Lottie had never known. They had been poor, but poverty is no -hindrance to that feeling of harmony with the world around which is the -higher soul of respectability. But there had not been much about the -Despards to respect. The father had been a good officer in his day, and, -if he had not been without money and interest, and everything that could -help him on, might have been distinguished in his profession. But those -were the days of “purchase,” and Captain Despard had remained Captain -Despard, and had bitterly resented the fact. His wife, too, though she -was Lottie’s mother, had not been of a kind to reclaim for her husband -the failing credit of his life. They had lived as most poor officers on -half pay, with pretensions to gentility and hankerings after pleasure, -do live. They were in debt all round, as need not be said; and Mrs. -Despard’s life would have been rendered miserable by it if she had not -escaped from the contemplation by means of every cheap merry-making or -possible extravagance she could attain to. All had been huggermugger in -Lottie’s early life; a life not destitute of amusements, indeed, but -full of bitterness, small morti<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17">{vol.-I-17}</a></span>fications, snubs, and the cold shoulder -of social contempt. Lottie herself had heard in childish quarrels, -through the frank recriminations of her childish companions, the -frankest statements of what other people thought of her parents; and -this had opened her baby eyes prematurely to the facts of the case. It -must be supposed that there was some respectable grandpapa, some precise -and orderly aunt in the Despard kindred, who had given to Lottie a -nature so different from that of her immediate progenitors. As she grew -older everything about her had looked to Lottie as the fairy splendour -looked in the eyes of the disenchanted human spectator. Her mother’s gay -dresses, which she once thought so pretty, came to look like the -miserable finery they were; her mother’s gaiety had become noise and -excitement. Her father’s grand air grew the poorest false pretension; -for must he not know, Lottie thought, how everybody spoke of him, how -little anyone thought of his assumption? And the house was miserable, -dirty, disorderly, mean, and gaudy, full of riot and waste and want and -poverty—one day a feast, another nothing. Even careless Law—the big -boy who was too much at home, who was scarcely ever at school, and who -often had no clothes to go out in—even Law saw how wretched it was at -home, though he was hopeless as well as careless, and asked his sister -what was the good of minding, what could they do? But Lottie was not of -the kind which can let ill<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18">{vol.-I-18}</a></span> alone, or well either, for that matter. She -did mind; and as she grew older, every week, every day, added to the -flame of impatience in her. Just, however, when ruin seemed coming -beyond the possibility of further staving-off, Mrs. Despard fell ill and -died; and Lottie at sixteen was left alone, miserable, with remorseful -thoughts of having secretly blamed the mother who was now out of reach, -and to whom she could never make amends for those injurious secret -fault-findings; and full of anxieties unspeakable—forlorn wonderings -what she was to do, and eagerness to do something. Her grief, however, -was lightened by the feeling that now she had everything in her hands -and could “make a change,”—even when it was made more heavy by the -thought that she had found fault in her heart with the mother who was -dead. It seemed to the girl that she must be able, by dint of devoting -herself to it, to change everything—to keep the house in order if she -did it with her own hands, to pay the bills, wherever the money came -from. She was overflowing with life and energy and activity, and -disapproved of all the ways of the past. She was like a new king coming -to the throne, a new ministry of idealists bent upon undoing all their -predecessors had done, and doing everything as it ought to be done. -Alas, poor Lottie! the young king with all the stiff precedents of a -hundred years against him, the young ministry confronted by a thousand -problems, and finding their ideal pronounced<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19">{vol.-I-19}</a></span> impracticable on every -side, were nothing to the heaven-born reformer of the household with a -pleasure loving impecunious father to whom debt was second nature, and -who had always preferred fun to respectability. And she dashed at her -reforms too boldly, as was natural to her age, insisting upon brushings -and sweepings till Betty threw up her situation, and asking for money -till her father swore at her. “It is to pay the bills, papa! I want to -pay the bills!” she had said, reduced to plead for that which she -thought she had a right to demand. “D—— the bills!” was all Captain -Despard replied.</p> - -<p>And even Law, when Lottie tried to order him off to school, was -unmanageable. He was no reformer like his sister, but on the whole -preferred going just when it suited him and lounging at home between -whiles. To be sure home was less amusing now that poor mammy, as they -called her, was gone. Her laughter and her complaints, and her odd -visitors, and all her slipshod ways, had kept noise and movement, if -nothing more, about the house. The tawdry women and the shabby men who -had been her friends were all afraid of the dulness which naturally -follows a death in the family. Some of these women, indeed, had come to -Lottie all tears and kisses, offering to stay with her, and asking what -they could do; but their sympathy did not comfort the girl, who even in -her deepest grief was all tingling with plans and desires<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20">{vol.-I-20}</a></span> to be doing, -and an eager activity and impatience to make the changes she wished. But -they fluttered away, every one, when the first excitement was over and -the dulness that is inevitable fell upon the house. To do them justice -there was not one among them who would not have come daily to “sit with” -Lottie, to comfort her with all the news that was going, and tell her -that she must not mope. But Lottie wanted none of their consolations, -and did not miss her mother’s friends when they abandoned her. She did -not miss them, but Law did. Yet he would not go to school; he sat and -made faces at her when she ordered and scolded him. “If I didn’t do what -<i>she</i> told me, do you think I will do what you tell me?” said Law; and -then Lottie wept and prayed. “What will become of you, Law? what will -you ever be good for? Papa has no money to leave us, and you will not be -able to do anything.”</p> - -<p>“Who said I wanted to do anything?” said Law flippantly; and then, “who -said I should not be able to do anything?” he added, with offence. “I -can pick it up whenever I like.” But Lottie, preternaturally, awfully -wise, feeling the burden of the world upon her shoulders, knew that he -could not pick it up when he pleased. She knew that education had to be -acquired painfully, not sipped a little mouthful at a time. She had -never had any education herself, but yet she knew this, as she knew so -many things, by instinct, by constant critical observation of the habits -which she dis<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21">{vol.-I-21}</a></span>approved. There are few more vigorously successful ways of -finding out what is right, than by living among people whom we feel -indignantly to be wrong.</p> - -<p>“You may think what you like,” she said, “Law—but I <i>know</i> that you -cannot learn anything in that way. Three days at home and one at school! -I wonder they let you go at all. I wonder they don’t turn you out. I -wonder they did not turn you out long ago!”</p> - -<p>“And that is just what they are always threatening to do,” said Law -laughing; “but they have not the heart of a mouse, the fellows at the -grammar-school. And they’ll never do it, though I shouldn’t mind. I -should be free then, and never have to trouble my head about anything at -all.”</p> - -<p>“You’ll have to trouble your head when you have to work and don’t know -how,” said Lottie. “Oh, if I was a boy! It’s no use wishing, I am only a -girl; and you are a great lump, neither one nor the other; but if I were -only a boy, and could get something to do, and a little money to pay -those bills——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, dash the bills, as papa says. He doesn’t say ‘dash,’<span class="lftspc">”</span> said Law, -with provoking calm; “but, then, I mustn’t swear.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Law, I should like to beat you!” said Lottie, clenching her little -fists in impotent anger and setting her teeth. But Law only laughed the -more.</p> - -<p>“You had better not,” he said, when he had got over his laugh, “for I am -a deal stronger than you.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22">{vol.-I-22}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>And so he was, and so were they all, much stronger than poor Lottie; -even Betty, who would not scrub, but who was too well used to all the -ways of the family and aware of all their troubles, to be sent away. She -fought for a time hard and bitterly, striving with all her might to -clean, and to dust, and to keep things straight, to the infinite -discontent of everybody concerned. But yet perhaps the girl’s struggles -were not utterly without use; for when the next astonishing change came -in their lives, and their little income was suddenly increased by half, -and a removal made necessary, Captain Despard, of his own accord, turned -Lottie’s despair in a moment into hope and joy. He said, “Now, Lottie, -you shall have things your own way. Now you shall see what you can do. -This is a new start for us all. If you can keep us respectable, by Jove, -you shall, and nobody shall stop you. A man ought to be respectable when -he’s made a Chevalier of St. Michael.” Lottie’s heart leaped up, up from -where it lay fathoms deep in unutterable depression and discouragement. -“Oh, papa, papa, do you mean it? Will you keep your word?” she cried, -happy yet dubious; and how he kept it, but with a difference, and how -they set out upon this new chapter in their career, shall be told before -we come back again to Lottie in her proper person, in the little drawing -room in the Chevaliers’ quarters within the Abbey precincts, on Miss -Huntington’s wedding-day.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23">{vol.-I-23}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">THE CHEVALIERS’ LODGES.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> name of a Chevalier of St. Michael sounds very splendid to innocent -and uninstructed ears. It is a title which stands alone in England at -least. Poor Knights have been heard of both in flesh and blood and in -confectionery, in other places; but the title Chevalier is preserved in -St. Michael’s, and there alone. Lottie thought it very imposing, and her -heart leaped, partly with a sense of her own injustice all her life to -her father, of whose merits, in youthful irreverence, she had hitherto -thought but little. He must be, she thought involuntarily, a great deal -braver, better, and altogether of more importance than she had supposed, -when his qualities could win him such a distinction from his country; -for that it was a distinction accorded by the country Lottie had no -manner of doubt in those days. She was overawed and overjoyed: first of -all on account of the people in Fairford, where they had hitherto lived, -and who had shown but little respect for the family: but much more on -her own account. She felt reconciled to herself, to her kind, to all her -circumstances, when she reflected that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24">{vol.-I-24}</a></span> she was the daughter of a -Chevalier of St. Michael, and that Betty would never leave Fairford, and -that Captain Despard had expressed himself in favour of respectability -as a thing to be cultivated. Life suddenly took a new aspect to her. She -thought they would be able to shake off every incumbrance when they went -away. Her father would henceforward live a stately and dignified life as -became his position. He would not haunt the place where billiards were -played, and wear a number of shabby coats, each worse than the other, -but every one with a flower in it. The flower, which most people would -have thought a softening clause, was intolerable to Lottie; it looked -like a piece of braggadocio, a wilful defiance of public opinion or -declaration of independence. But henceforward if he must wear a flower -it must be at least in a tolerable coat; henceforward he would be trim -and smooth, and come in at a respectable hour; henceforward there should -be no bills except weekly ones, and Law should go to school—nay, Law -was too old for school now—but at least he would read with a tutor, and -grow into a creature of whom his sister might be proud. Perhaps this was -but another way of expressing the domestic tyranny of which Lottie’s -will was full. She was so anxious to be able to be proud of her father -and brother; was not that another way of saying that she wanted to get -them up, or down, to her feminine standard, and control and bind and -keep<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25">{vol.-I-25}</a></span> them at her apron-string? So, perhaps, a cynic might have said. -But Lottie was unconscious of any such intention. She was eager to have -something which she had not, the opposite of what she had—and thus, -too, it may be said, she fell into a commonplace.</p> - -<p>But when the family got to St. Michael’s, Lottie’s hopes came to a -melancholy conclusion. Not only did Captain Despard remain very much the -same, which was a thing that most people anticipated—and Law decline -the tutor, upon whom Lottie had set her heart, but St. Michael’s itself -and the Chevaliership turned out something very different from the -girl’s exalted expectations. She found that this office was not looked -upon on the spot as a reward of distinguished merit bestowed by the -country, but only as a sort of retiring pension for a number of old -soldiers whose friends had interest enough to have them thus provided -for. She found a hierarchy of a totally different kind constituted and -reigning, in which the Chevaliers had no place. And she found -herself—she whose chief inspiration was this proud and eager desire to -be somebody—in a place where she could never be other than nobody, and -where no nobler self-denial on the part of her father, no virtue in Law, -could call forth the acclamation of the world. In Fairford there were -people as poor as themselves whom all the world thought well of, and of -whom Lottie was envious; but here she was one of a class who were poor -among the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26">{vol.-I-26}</a></span> rich, and did not get the social honours which many of them -deserved; while at the same time, close before her eyes, daily visible, -appeared another class which seemed to fulfil all Lottie’s requirements: -refined people with beautiful houses, living serene in an atmosphere of -universal respect. But alas, these were ecclesiastical people, not the -Chevaliers: and showed little disposition to notice Lottie. Lottie did -not like this. She had expected something so different. Society, she -thought, and a brighter world were going to open upon her; and lo! -nothing at all opened upon her that was new. It is very hard, especially -when you feel yourself to be, as the proverb says, as good a gentleman -as the king, to find yourself in contact with a higher class which -ignores you. Most of us have to bear something of the kind, and learn to -take it with philosophy. But Lottie was very young and sadly -disappointed. Nobody took any notice of her save the other Chevaliers, -their wives and daughters, and these were not very much more splendid -people than the society she had been used to. Lottie was sore, and -disappointed, and humbled in her own conceit.</p> - -<p>And there was another way in which the word of promise was kept to her -ear, with far other meaning than she had hoped. Captain Despard had a -very serious interview with his daughter when they arrived in their -little house. He called her out of the little box which was her -drawing-room to the other little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27">{vol.-I-27}</a></span> box where he had established himself, -and deigned to enter upon the question of income.</p> - -<p>“Now, Lottie,” he said, “you have chosen to bother me lately about -money, and expressed views which I could not sanction about weekly -bills.”</p> - -<p>“Only to save you trouble, papa,” said Lottie; “if we do it every week, -we may hope to keep within our income; but how can you ever do that when -you leave butchers and bakers for a year?”</p> - -<p>“My child,” said Captain Despard, with his grand air, “circumstances -have enabled me to yield to your wishes. I don’t say if it’s a system I -approve or don’t approve. I say to myself, Lottie is my only girl, and -she is like her dear mother; she shall have her way. From this day, my -dear, the new income which I receive from my country will go straight -into your hands. It is but a pittance. A poor soldier stands a poor -chance in these times, but such as it is, my love, it shows your -father’s trust in you. Take it, Lottie, and pay your bills according to -your pleasure. I will ask no questions; weekly, monthly, or once a -quarter, as long as I have a bit of dinner and a cup of coffee when I -want it. Your father’s confidence in you is perfect, Lottie, and I leave -it all to you.”</p> - -<p>“Papa!” said the girl, trembling, half delighted, half frightened, half -taken in by that grand air. But he would hear no more. He kissed her -forehead with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28">{vol.-I-28}</a></span> the favourite action of the <i>père noble</i>, and hurried -away. “No thanks, my child; no thanks,” he said.</p> - -<p>It <i>was</i> a pittance. Lottie stood where he left her gazing after him, -her veins tingling with mingled disappointment and pleasure. To the -inexperienced it seems always possible to do a great deal with a little, -and the power of paying bills at all seemed a heavenly power. But -Captain Despard chuckled to himself as he went away. He had purchased by -that fine address the right to be disagreeable ever after, to wave his -hand loftily, and to decline all knowledge of details. “Keep to your -bargain, my dear, and I’ll keep to mine,” he had the right to say; and -whereas some of his former income always had to be wasted upon the -household, let him make what resistance he would, at least that would be -the case no longer. Thus Lottie had her way, but in such a changed form -that it no longer seemed her way. With the addition of the St. Michael’s -allowance she had hoped that there would be plenty for all needs; but -what was she to do with the St. Michael’s allowance and no more? -Nevertheless, Lottie plucked up a heart. To feel that she had something -was always exhilarating, and inexperience has wild hopes which knowledge -does not venture to share. Her little room was full for a week after of -little bits of paper scribbled over with calculations. She was -determined to do it. If the dinner was not good enough for papa, he must -just go and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29">{vol.-I-29}</a></span> dine elsewhere. And there was no Betty to make herself -disagreeable, but only a young girl, whom Lottie, heaven save her! meant -to train. Once a week or so Law and she could very well do without a -dinner. They were both still great on bread and butter, and capable, not -knowing anything about digestion, of swallowing innumerable cups of tea. -Her fond hopes of furniture and “picking up things” to make the little -old house pretty, must be relinquished, it was true; but, still, at -nineteen one can put up with a great deal in the present. There is -always the future, so much of the future, like the sky and the plain -from St. Michael’s Hill, spreading above, below, everywhere, without -limit or bound, save in the eyes which can only reach a certain -distance. So Lottie comforted herself for “just now,” and marched on -into her life, colours flying and drums beating, taking as little heed -as she could of those stragglers who would always fall out of the -ranks—her father always shuffling off to some new haunt or other, the -places which such men find out by instinct in the least-known locality, -and large loose-limbed Law, whose vague career was always dubious, and -who could not keep step. Never mind! Lottie herself set out, brave, head -erect, eyes straight, all her faculties in fullest attention to the roll -of her own cheerful drum.</p> - -<p>The earliest part of her career here, however, was brightened yet -disturbed by a discovery which consider<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30">{vol.-I-30}</a></span>ably confused her mind in her -outset, and seemed to open better prospects before her. Lottie found out -that she had a voice. She had known that she could sing long before, and -had performed many a time in the little parlour at Fairford to the -admiration of all hearers, singing every new comic song that burst upon -the little provincial world from the music-halls in London, and knowing -no better, so long as she was a child. There was no harm in the songs -she sang, nothing but absolute silliness and flippancy, such as are -natural to that kind of production; but as Lottie grew into womanhood, -and began by instinct to know better, she gave them up, and knowing no -others except some ancient sentimental ditties of her mother’s, gave up -singing so far as a musical creature can give up what is another kind of -breathing to her. But when she heard the choir in the Abbey church, -Lottie woke up, with such a delightful discovery of what music was, and -such an ecstatic finding out of her own powers, as words cannot express. -She had an old jingling worn-out piano, and had “learned to play” from -her mother, who knew nothing about it, except as much as could be taught -to a school-girl twenty years before; but this meagre instruction, and -the bad instrument, and the half-dozen “pieces” which were all Mrs. -Despard’s musical library, had not attracted the pupil, and it was not -till she heard the organ pealing through St. Michael’s, and the -choristers singing like angels<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31">{vol.-I-31}</a></span>—though they were not like angels out of -doors—that Lottie awoke to a real consciousness of her own gift. She -had never had any education herself. Though she was so anxious for -school for Law, it had not occurred to her that she wanted any -schooling. Lottie was narrow-minded and practical. She did not -understand self-culture. She wanted Law to learn, because without -education he could not do anything worth speaking of, could not earn any -money, could not get on in the world. Perhaps it is true that women have -a natural inclination to calculate in this poor way. She did not care a -straw for the cultivation of Law as Law—but that he should be made good -for something, get a good situation, have some hopes of comfort and -prosperity. For herself, what did it matter? She never could know enough -to teach, and Captain Despard would not let his daughter teach; besides, -she had plenty to do at home, and could not be spared. She could read -and write, and do her accounts, the latter very well indeed; and she had -learned to “play” from her mother, and she could sew, rather badly at -first, rather well now by dint of practice. What did a girl want more? -But Lottie discovered now that a girl might want more.</p> - -<p>“Is there any place where they will teach you to sing without money?” -she said one day to old Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, her next-door neighbour, the -old lady of all her neighbours whom Lottie liked best.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32">{vol.-I-32}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Me jewel!” cried the old lady; “is it without paying youre meaning? -They send an account if you do but look at them here, me dear.”</p> - -<p>“All of them?” said Lottie; “for I can sing, and I should like to learn -to sing; but, you know, I can’t pay—much——”</p> - -<p>“I know; nothing at all, if you’re like us, me honey. But maybe you’re -better off. O’Shaughnessy, we don’t make a secret of it, rose from the -ranks, and we’ve never had a penny—I don’t care who knows it—barring -our pay.”</p> - -<p>“We are not like that,” said Lottie, drawing herself up. “Papa was -always a gentleman” (“Then I don’t give much for such gentlemen,” -murmured the other Chevalier’s lady, under her breath), “and we have a -little. That is—I mean, that he has a little—papa has a little”—the -girl said on the edge of a confidence; and then stopped suddenly short.</p> - -<p>“It don’t do much for the children, I’ll go bail,” said the old lady. -“That’s the worst of fine gentlemen, me dear. O’Shaughnessy he asks me -for a shillin’ when he wants it, bless him—and that’s the only way when -there’s small pay. Singing, is it? If you’re always to make such a stand -on being a lady, me friend Lottie, I don’t see how I can help you; but -if you will come in free and comfortable, and take a dish of tay when -Rowley’s there—oh, to be sure, puff! my lady’s off—but there’s no harm -in him; and he’ll<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33">{vol.-I-33}</a></span> make you die with laughin’ at him, him and his -airs—but they tell me he has the best voice and the best method of any -of the lay clerks.”</p> - -<p>“A singing man!”</p> - -<p>“Well, and that was what ye wanted!” said the old woman. “You know as -well as me, Miss Lottie, there’s no singin’ woman here.”</p> - -<p>Lottie protested that she could not consent to appear in such -company—that papa would not allow it—that it was impossible. But she -ended by promising to “run in” before old Major O’Shaughnessy began his -rubber, and see this singing man. And the result was that, half out of -friendship for his Irish hosts who did not pretend to be above him, and -half out of pride to be interrogated so graciously about his invalid -daughter by a young lady who gave herself such airs, Rowley, the first -tenor, agreed for so low a rate as had never been heard of before to -train Miss Despard’s beautiful voice. “If the young lady had been a -little boy, and if the Signor could but ha’ gotten hold on it!” Rowley -said, in enthusiasm. It was the voice, which is impersonal, of which he -spoke, and the Signor was the organist. But good fortune had not as yet -thrown him in Lottie’s way. Soon, however, Rowley began to whisper it -about that he had got a pupil who was quite good enough for Exeter Hall, -if not for the Italian Opera, and the whole community was interested. -Lottie herself, and her pretty<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34">{vol.-I-34}</a></span> looks, had not attracted any notice—but -a voice was a very different matter. And then it was that steps were -taken to make, for Lottie’s behalf, a practicable gap in the hedge of -prickles which surrounded the Cloisters and kept intruders out. Miss -Despard was invited to join the St. Michael’s Choral Society, in which -the Divinities on the hill did not disdain to mingle their voices even -with the lower-born outside the Abbey walls. And when it became known -what a voice Lottie’s was, a remarkable thing happened. The Dean -<i>called!</i> It was not Lady Caroline, but the Dean; and a gentleman’s -visit, as is well known, is not the same thing as a lady’s. But Lottie, -who knew nothing of the laws of society, was flattered and happy, and -saw a hundred lovely visions unfolding before her when the Dean invited -her to go to a private practice, which was then going on in the Deanery -drawing-room. “My daughter bade me fetch you, Miss Despard, if you would -be good enough to come,” he said, gravely; but waited very impatiently -till she was ready, in great terror lest “the father” should make his -appearance, and his visit be construed into a call upon Captain Despard. -Lottie put on her hat with her heart leaping and bounding. At last she -had done it! At last Paradise was opening before the Peri! At last the -wrongs of fate were to be set right, and herself conveyed back into her -natural sphere. She went by the Dean’s side demurely, with downcast -eyes, across the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35">{vol.-I-35}</a></span> slope to the Deanery garden. The very stones felt -elastic under her feet, there was a ringing of excitement and delight in -the air and in her ears. She arrived breathless at the door, though they -had not walked fast. So absorbed was she by all that was about to happen -that Lottie never thought of the sensation that ran through the Abbey -when the Dean was seen walking to his own dignified door in company with -Captain Despard’s daughter. Miss Despard? Lottie? The Chevaliers, and -their wives and daughters, could not believe their eyes.</p> - -<p>Lottie held her head as high as usual when she came back. It no longer -drooped with diffidence and delight. Once more she had come down with a -jar into the realms of reality from those of hope. She was not received -with open arms in that higher celestial world. Miss Augusta Huntington -said, “How do you do, Miss Despard?” very sweetly, but Lady Caroline -only bowed with her eyelids—a new mode of salutation which Lottie did -not understand—and kept aloof; and no one else said anything to Lottie, -except about the music. They gave her a cup of tea when all was over, -but Lottie had to drink it in silence, while the others laughed and -chatted. She was not of them, though they had brought her among them for -the sake of her voice. “Are you going, Miss Despard?” said the Dean’s -daughter, putting on the same sweet smile. “We are so much obliged to -you for coming.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36">{vol.-I-36}</a></span> The next practice is next Tuesday. Will you come as -early as possible, please?” It was on Lottie’s lips to say “No”—to tell -them that she was a lady too, a better gentlewoman than they were, since -she would not have treated any stranger so. But she was fortunately too -shy to say anything, and made her exit hastily, and not so gracefully as -the others, who were at home. But she would not allow, even to herself, -that she had come down again in that painful tussle with reality, which -is so much different from dreams. She kept very quiet and said nothing, -which seemed the wisest way. And as she walked home with a much more -stately gravity than was her wont—a state put on to console herself for -humiliation and disappointment, and to vindicate, so to speak, her own -dignity to herself, but which the lookers-on gave a very different -interpretation of—Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, nodding and smiling, and in a -state of great excitement, threw up the window and called to her, as she -was going past. “Come up, come up, and tell me all about it,” the old -lady said, so audibly that some of the ladies and gentlemen who had been -in the Deanery turned round to look, and smiled at each other, making -Lottie furious. As she could not stand there and explain before all the -world, Lottie obeyed the call, and rushing upstairs to the kind old -Irishwoman’s little bit of a drawing-room, appeared, crimson with shame -and wrath at the door.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37">{vol.-I-37}</a></span></p> - -<p>“How could you call out so loud and make them laugh?” she said, with a -strong inclination to burst into hot tears.</p> - -<p>“Laugh, was it? and sure I’m ready to laugh too. To see you and his -Reverence the Dean, Miss Lottie—no less would serve you!—arm in arm -like a pair of young——”</p> - -<p>“We were not arm in arm,” said Lottie, stamping her foot. Then she had -the sense to perceive that the wicked old Irishwoman would but laugh the -more at her petulance. She put her music on the table with a recovery of -her dignified manners, and sat down.</p> - -<p>“What did he say to ye? and what did me Lady Caroline say to ye? and -were they all wild over yer beautiful voice, me honey?” said the old -lady. “Come, take off your hat, me pet, and ye shall have the best cup -o’ tea in the Abbey. And tell me all about it,” she said.</p> - -<p>“I have had a cup of tea, thank you,” said Lottie. “Oh, yes, they are -all nice enough. Nobody talked to me—but then, I didn’t expect them to -talk to me. They wanted me to sing—and I sang; and that was all.”</p> - -<p>“And what more would you have, me jewel?” said Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. “Now, -you take my advice, Lottie. I’m old, and I know the world. Take what you -can get, me dear, and wait till your time comes. Don’t go and take -offence and throw up the cards,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38">{vol.-I-38}</a></span> and lose all you’ve got for a tantrum. -Tantrums pass off, but life goes on. If they don’t speak to you, it’s -their loss, for you have a clever little tongue o’ your own. And you’ll -not be long there till they find out that. Don’t say a word, me honey. -I’ll not bother you; but never take offence with the gentry——”</p> - -<p>“The gentry!” cried the girl furious, starting to her feet. “I am as -much a lady as any of them—and more, for I would not be such—— I -would not be unkind——”</p> - -<p>“Well—well—well! There, I have put my foot in it!” said the old lady. -“I was thinking of meself, me dear, as if ye were a girl of my own. But -you <i>are</i> a lady, honey; one has but to look at you,” said the astute -old woman; “and just you wait a bit, and all will come as it -ought—sure, I know it will.”</p> - -<p>Lottie did not much trust the assurance, but she took the advice, -feeling a quick admonition within herself as to the absurdity of her -complaint, and the horrible possibility of anybody supposing that she -felt herself not to be of the gentry, as good as any Dean’s daughter. So -she went to the next practice, taking no notice of any want of courtesy: -and the result was that there arose a kind of intimacy, as has been -indicated, between Miss Huntington at the Deanery and the daughter of -the Chevalier—an intimacy, indeed, of a peculiar kind, in which all -that was given came from the side of the poorer and more insignificant, -and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39">{vol.-I-39}</a></span> great young lady was content with taking all that poor Lottie -was so willing to give. She sang the solos in their private little -concerts, and though her science was less perfect than her voice, her -ear was so good that Lottie was able to be of a great deal of use. They -sent for her when they had parties, when there was anyone who wanted -entertaining, and put Lottie to the only unnecessary personal expense -she had ever gone into—a white muslin frock to make her presentable -among that fine company. And thus she had gone and come, and had been -called upon on all occasions, but without making any nearer advance than -at first. Lady Caroline still made her a little inclination of her -eyelids, though now and then she went so far as to say, “How do you do, -Miss Despard?” All of this, however, Lottie would have pardoned, if the -bride, when she went away, had but at least remembered her, and made her -some little sign of farewell.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40">{vol.-I-40}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">THE ABBEY PRECINCTS.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> bells began to ring for evensong soon after the bridal party -dispersed. Some of them, indeed, stayed for the beautiful service, which -was a thing that visitors from a distance thought a great deal of, and -there were a number of fine bonnets and dresses in the stalls when -Lottie went in. The daily service was part of the daily life of the -dwellers in the Abbey. There were those who went for devotion, and those -who went for the music, and those who went because they had nothing else -to do. It was an occupation and an amusement at the same time, and some -people thought it a duty. To listen to the service more or less -critically, to note if any of the boys’ voices were breaking, and -whether Rowley sniffed as usual, or Bowler, the great bass, was hoarse; -to observe how the minor canons sang, if they were in too great a hurry -to get through the service, and who it was that read the lessons; to -look at any notable persons that might be there; visitors to the -Deanery, or other persons of distinction; to walk in the nave while the -Signor played the voluntary; and finally to pause and talk to on<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41">{vol.-I-41}</a></span>e’s -friends before going home to tea, was the established rule of St. -Michael’s. The old Chevaliers mixed with the ladies, here and there one. -They were obliged to go in the morning, and they seldom repeated their -church going in the afternoon; but still there were always two or three, -and very interesting to strangers were the old soldiers, with their old -moustaches and upright bearing. Some of them might have been veteran -generals well entitled to command an army, and, indeed, there was valour -enough among them, and such achievement as personal bravery is still -capable of—enough to equip a dozen generals; but fortune had not been -on the side of these noble old soldiers; and you may be sure there were -no prosperous commanders among them. They stood about on the terrace in -front of the Lodges and talked for five minutes or so before they went -in to tea. But Lottie, when she came out of chapel and saw the last of -the fine people streaming away in their light dresses through the aisle, -did not feel much disposed to go indoors to Law and the bread and -butter. They could wait. She went and leaned on the low wall close to -the library and gazed out upon the landscape below. At the foot of the -slope was the street of the little old town, a sweep of steep masonry, -with old-fashioned red houses, like trees in autumn, on the other side; -and beyond these the river meandered between its leafy banks in endless -windings, and the great breadth<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42">{vol.-I-42}</a></span> of champaign swept away towards the -horizon. At this time of the year it was rich and cloudy with foliage: -the trees arranging themselves in every kind of way, singly and in -clumps, and groves, and long hedgerows, and surrounding every house and -every village and every church spire as far as you could see. The -billowy greenness thus spreading far into the silvery-grey of the -distance; the sky of a pale blue, faint with summer heat and long -drought: stretched out like a map before the gazer from that mount of -vision. The mottled clouds were floating together and rolling into -masses as if with the intention of putting a stop to this long reign of -brightness, and the level lines of the landscape and the great vault of -the sky dropped together into a haze which also spoke of rain. Lottie -leaned disconsolately over the wall, spreading abroad her thoughts over -this vast breadth of space and silence. She let them go like a flock of -birds flying to all the winds. Thoughts! they were not thoughts but -feelings, vague movements of the mind, half sentiment, half-personal -sensation. Why she should have been so deeply affected by this marriage -she could not have told anyone. She did not herself know. It seemed to -penetrate through and through her system of life, unsettling everything. -After the disappointments of her beginning at St. Michael’s, this -connection with the Deanery had seemed a thread of promise, a clue to -something better; not a very splendid<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43">{vol.-I-43}</a></span> promise indeed, but still -something; a little link of ambition which looked finer and more noble -after it was snapped than it had ever done before. It was not very noble -in itself. Lottie felt vaguely that to have so strong a desire for -admission within that charmed circle was not a very lofty thing. The -people she had seen within it had not satisfied her ideal. Except that -they dressed better (some of them at least), they had been very much -like the humbler classes with which she was acquainted; and to wish for -a footing among them only because they were better off and more highly -thought of than her own neighbours, was not an elevating sentiment. In -the perpetual disappointments to which she had been subject, the slights -she had been obliged to put up with, Lottie had felt a great many pangs -of shame mingled with the stings of humiliation. She had felt that it -was the poorest of ambitions which had taken possession of her. And now -that it was over, this sense of unworthiness still mingled with her -consciousness of failure and exclusion. But though it might not be a -door into heaven, still to feel that it was shut, to be obliged to turn -away, and to see no other door at which she could enter, was hard. Her -heart sank down into painful depths of abandonment, and tears came to -her eyes in spite of herself. She had nothing to cry about, but her lips -quivered and two big tears rose and hung suspended under her long -eyelashes, so filling up the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44">{vol.-I-44}</a></span> whole space before her, that Lottie saw -nothing but a waving greenness and blueness, a blurred shadow of earth -and sky.</p> - -<p>It was just at this moment, while she was still uncertain whether she -could get these tears swallowed or whether they must fall, betraying -her, that she was aware of some one at her elbow. “I think we shall have -rain, Miss Despard,” said a deliberate voice; “do you not think we shall -have rain? The summer has been so fine that we have no right to grumble. -You were the one lady in all St. Michael’s whom I most wanted to see.”</p> - -<p>“I, Signor? I do not know what you should want with me,” said Lottie, -forced by circumstances into rudeness. She did not want to be rude, but -the shock of his sudden address had brought down that shower, falling -like drops of a thunderstorm, and she would not turn round to show him -her wet eyes. He smiled a little to himself at this petulance, and that -was all. He was used to waywardness in young ladies. He was a spare, -olive-coloured man, not tall, but wiry and close-knit. He had all the -aspect of an Italian and the name; but he was not really an Italian, -being an Englishman born, a good Tory and a good Churchman, and all that -the organist of St. Michael’s ought to be. But he was not disinclined to -keep up a mystery on this score, having a little love of mystery by -nature, and feeling, musically, that his foreign name<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45">{vol.-I-45}</a></span> and looks were in -his favour. How far back the Signor had to go for his claim to be -considered an Italian, nobody knew, but everybody (except the perverse -and disagreeable, who would occasionally say Mr. Rossinetti to annoy -him) called the musician the Signor. His complexion, his moustache, the -wonderful dark eyes, which were the chief feature in his face, were all -of Southern origin; and he spoke with a curious deliberation and clear -pronunciation of every syllable, which almost looked as if, at one time, -there had been difficulties about the language, and as if he had not -courage even yet to take any liberties with it. But his accent was as -good English as could be desired; and in respect to this as well as to -all other questions about his origin the community of St. Michael’s were -entirely in the dark, as he intended them to be.</p> - -<p>“This event,” said the Signor, in his clear slow voice, “will bring our -little societies, our practisings, to an end, Miss Despard. We were -getting on very well. I am sorry to come to an end of anything, and of -these above all.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I suppose so,” said Lottie, drearily. “Will it, do you think? She -had not very much of a voice.”</p> - -<p>“No; but there are other things besides voice. You have a very beautiful -voice, Miss Despard.”</p> - -<p>“But I have nothing else,” said Lottie, forgetting her precautions and -turning quickly upon him; “that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46">{vol.-I-46}</a></span> is what you mean to say? And you never -even allowed before that I had a voice.”</p> - -<p>“No, not much else,” said the deliberate organist; “you have no science, -no method. You don’t know how to manage what you have got. It is a fine -organ by nature, but you cannot produce it as you ought, because you do -not know how. To have so much and to do so little is a great pity. It is -a waste of a great gift, it is——”</p> - -<p>“How dare you tell me all this to my face?” said Lottie, transported -with vivid anger. She would have taken it more quietly if she had not -been weakened in spirit by the discouragement into which she had fallen -before. Her fierce, sudden glance was even still unwillingly softened by -the wetness of her eyes. But the Signor did not flinch. There was a kind -of smile in his own as he met her look. He was not afraid of her. He -looked, indeed, amiably, genially at Lottie—as she had never seen him -look before—and as she turned round she became aware that he was not -alone. Over his shoulder, with an alarmed, indignant aspect, which half -amused while it consoled her, was another face with which Lottie was -very well acquainted. It was the face of his favourite pupil, a young -man who followed the Signor about like his shadow, always a few steps -behind him, always in devout contemplation of him. But young Purcell was -not of this mind to-day; he was looking at his be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47">{vol.-I-47}</a></span>loved master with a -mixture of rage and pathos very droll in their combination. Lottie was -easily moved, and almost before the words of defiance had left her lips -a laugh forced itself after them. She had to turn round again to conceal -the conflict of sudden mirth in her face.</p> - -<p>“Would you rather I said it to others than to you? No, because that -would do you no good——”</p> - -<p>“And do you really think that I—I——” Why should she laugh? Young -Purcell’s face brightened slightly, but took a still more curious look -of bewildered inquiry. As for the Signor, he thought she had become -hysterical, which he believed was a common weakness with womankind in -general, and he was alarmed.</p> - -<p>“I beg you a thousand pardons if I have seemed rude,” he said. “All that -I wanted was to begin the conversation; for I have—a little proposal to -make.”</p> - -<p>“Do you call that beginning a conversation to tell me I am quite -ignorant, and cannot sing, and waste my voice?” said Lottie, recovering -her indignation. “It is not a very civil way.”</p> - -<p>“Miss Despard, I think you will miss the society’s singing, and I want -to tell you it was not good for you. These people were dazzled by your -voice,” said the organist, with unintentional confusion of metaphor, -“and they made use of it. All these fine people, they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48">{vol.-I-48}</a></span> make use of us, -and often forget to say ‘thank you.’ I was sorry that you should suffer, -<i>too</i>; so was Purcell; he knows what it is—a little. And you have had -no teaching, you have not had a thorough professional training as he -has——”</p> - -<p>Lottie turned upon him with flashing eyes; and this time she did not -laugh at the young man who, over the Signor’s shoulder, followed every -movement of hers with such eager attention. His look of wonder and fear -was not less comic than the other changes which had come over his -countenance, but she took no notice of it. “I don’t know what you mean,” -she said, “by professional training. What do I want with professional -training? What has Mr. Purcell to do with it? What do you mean, or how -should I suffer? If they thank me, or if they don’t thank me, what is -that to me?”</p> - -<p>The Signor cast a glance round at young Purcell, who answered with a -look of despair. “If you would but confide in us, we thought we could -help you. Indeed, Miss Despard, it is no presumption on Purcell’s part, -only a fellow-feeling——”</p> - -<p>“Only a feeling—of respect!” This Purcell timidly gasped out, with -alarm painted on every feature. Lottie, turning her back to the wall and -confronting the two musicians, solemnly made them a very awful curtsey. -It was an art she had learned (though the teacher was unaware of the -fact) from Lady Caroline;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49">{vol.-I-49}</a></span> and therefore it was of the very finest and -most imposing kind.</p> - -<p>“The puzzle is,” she said grandly, in a voice not unlike Lady -Caroline’s, “what the link between us may be.”</p> - -<p>They were both silenced by this speech, and by her imposing aspect -generally; for Lottie was very handsome, and this defiant grandeur -suited her. Purcell felt disposed to sink into the earth, and showed it; -but as for the Signor, he was less alarmed, and, indeed, a little -amused—he had seen a great number of heroines, both in public and -private life.</p> - -<p>“It is always wrong to beat about the bush,” he said. “Perhaps I have -made a mistake; I thought you probably intended to sing, Miss Despard, -as a profession.”</p> - -<p>“I!” Lottie’s voice broke into a half shriek. “I!” The suggestion gave -her a shock which it was hard to get over. She felt a trembling of -giddiness and insecurity, as if the ground had suddenly been cut from -under her; she could have cried for mortification, injured pride, -horrible humbling and downfall. She who had been mourning this change as -taking from her all chance of ascent into the society she had a right -to, the society she really belonged to, and they thought it was -professional work, a profession that she was thinking of! She drew back -unconsciously to the support of the wall, and propped herself by it. -She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50">{vol.-I-50}</a></span> could have cried, but pride would not let her. “You are mistaken, -altogether mistaken,” she said. “I don’t suppose that you mean to insult -me; but you forget that I am a gentleman’s daughter.”</p> - -<p>Here the ghost of a smile flitted across the Signor’s olive-coloured -face. It was as momentary as the passing of a shadow, but yet Lottie saw -it, and it stung her as nothing else could have done; she was angry -before, but this excited her to passion. She could have flown at him and -strangled him for this smile; she understood it well enough. “You -smile!” she said. “You think, perhaps, that a poor Chevalier, a soldier -who is not rich, is not a gentleman. You think it is only money that -makes a gentleman. There are many people who are of that opinion; but,” -said Lottie with a smile, “you will perhaps not be surprised if I think -differently. I will bid you good evening, please, now.”</p> - -<p>“One moment,” said the Signor; “you must not go away with a wrong -impression. Forgive me the mistake, if it is a mistake. You are -mistaken, too, Miss Despard, if you think a gentleman’s daughter may not -sing—to the great generous public as well as to poor little coteries -that never say thank you. You mistake, too; but never mind. I meant to -have offered, if you would let me, to help you——”</p> - -<p>“Thank you, very much!” said Lottie with great state, “it is not -necessary. When I want lessons, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51">{vol.-I-51}</a></span> can—ask for them, M. Rossinetti.” -She had been about to say <i>pay</i>, but Lottie was honest, and though she -longed to inflict the insult, would not say what was not true. She did -not even see young Purcell’s pathetic looks as he gazed at her, with the -air of a suppliant on his knees, over his master’s shoulder; but she saw -the half shrug of the Signor’s shoulders as he stood aside to let her -pass. And perhaps had she but known it there was something comic, too, -in the dignity with which she swept past with a little wave of her hand. -It was like Lady Caroline, though Lottie did not intend it to be so. The -two musicians stood looking after her as she walked majestically -homewards, with so many commotions in her bosom. She had to pass through -the little square in which the lay clerks lived, on her way, and as if -to accomplish Lottie’s humiliation, Rowley the tenor—who was her -teacher—was standing at his door as she passed. The Chevaliers of St. -Michael’s took little notice of the lay clerks as, may be supposed -(except the O’Shaughnessys, who were not particular); and though Lottie -was his pupil, Rowley had never transgressed the due limits of -respectfulness or pretended to any friendship with the young lady. But -the wedding had affected the morals of St. Michael’s generally, and made -a revolution for the day; and as Lottie passed, the tenor took advantage -of the opportunity. “How are you, Miss?” he said, with a sniff and a -lurch<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52">{vol.-I-52}</a></span> which showed the source of his boldness; “won’t you come in and -have a chat? won’t you come in and have some tea with my little girl, -Miss Lottie?” Good heavens! what had Lottie done to be addressed in this -way? and she knew that the two others would hear this demonstration of -intimacy. She rushed past, stumbling over her dress, wild with -resentment and mortification. This was what it was to be poor, to be in -a false position, to be a poor gentlewoman among the rich! One -mortification had followed another, so that she did not know how to bear -it. Augusta’s neglect, the Signor’s insulting suggestion, and Rowley’s -familiarity! Lottie did not know which was the most hard to bear. She -never drew breath until she had reached her own door.</p> - -<p>“Is that you, Lottie? and where have you been?” said Law. “Let’s have -tea now; I’ve been waiting and waiting, wanting to go out, and wondering -what had become of you.” He had begun his bread and butter on the spot.</p> - -<p>“Where is papa, Law?”</p> - -<p>“Papa? How should I know? You didn’t expect him, did you? I say, I’m -going out—do make haste. And look here! I wish you’d speak to him, -Lottie. I wish you’d tell him he oughtn’t to; I’d give twenty pounds (if -I had it) not to have such an uncommon name!”</p> - -<p>“It is a very good name—better than anyone els<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53">{vol.-I-53}</a></span>e’s I know. The Despards -never were anything but gentlemen.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! it’s a great deal you know about it,” said Law, with a groan. -“Perhaps once upon a time we were somebody when everybody else was -nobody! But when it turns the other way, when we are nobody and -everybody else somebody, and when it’s known where-ever you go whose son -you are——”</p> - -<p>“You don’t need to continue nobody,” she said; “you are a boy, you can -do what you like. If we are down now, <i>you</i> need not stay down, Law. But -then you must not hang about and lose your time any longer. If you will -work, you can soon change that.”</p> - -<p>“Can I!” said the youth; “that shows how much you know. I have never -been taught to do anything. If I had been put apprentice to a butcher or -a baker when I was young—but you never did anything but bully me to -work and go to school. What good is school? If you are to do anything, -you ought to be taught when you are young. I have been mismanaged. I -doubt if I will ever be good for much now.”</p> - -<p>“Oh—h!” cried Lottie, with a deep breath of aspiration from the depths -of her chest, “if it was only me! I should find something to do! I -should not be long like this, lounging about a little bit of a place, -following bad examples, doing no work. Oh, Law! if I could put some of -me into you; if I could change places with you! Fancy what was said to -me to-day:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54">{vol.-I-54}</a></span> the Signor came up to me when we came out of church, and -asked me if I was going to sing—for a profession.”</p> - -<p>“By Jove!” cried Law! he woke up even from his bread and butter, and -looked at her with sparkling eyes.</p> - -<p>“I had almost said, ‘You may be very glad my brother is not with me to -hear you ask such a question.’ But on the whole I am glad you were not. -I said all that was necessary,” said Lottie with dignity. “He will never -repeat such an insult again.”</p> - -<p>“By Jove!” Law repeated, taking no heed of what she said, but looking at -her with visibly increased respect. “Do you mean to say that he thought -you good enough for that?”</p> - -<p>“Good enough!” she said, with severe contempt. “I always knew I could -sing; even poor mamma knew. But I did not condescend to say much to -them. I said, ‘I am a gentleman’s daughter,’ and walked away.”</p> - -<p>“Well, girls are very funny,” said Law. “How you bully me about working! -morning, noon, and night, you are never done nagging; but the moment it -comes to your own turn——”</p> - -<p>“To my own turn!” Lottie looked at him aghast.</p> - -<p>“To be sure. Oh, that’s all very fine about being a gentleman’s -daughter. We know pretty well what that means, and so does everybody. I -wonder, Lottie,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55">{vol.-I-55}</a></span> you that have some sense, how you could be so silly? He -must have laughed.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, hold your tongue, Law! I suppose they think nothing counts but -money. When you are poor you are always insulted. I should not care for -money, not for itself, not for the gold and silver,” said Lottie; “nor -even so very much for the nice things that one could buy; but, oh, to be -above people’s remarks, to be known for what you are, not looked down -upon, not insulted——”</p> - -<p>“It depends upon what you call being insulted,” said Law; “if any man -had said that to me, I should have thought him next to an angel. What is -insulting about it? If you like money (and who doesn’t like money?) why -there’s the easiest way in the world of getting it. Sing! I’d sing my -head off,” said Law, “if that was all that was wanted. And you sing <i>for -pleasure</i>; you <i>like</i> singing! I can’t tell what you are thinking of. If -I had known you were so good as that—but one never thinks much of one’s -own sister, somehow,” the youth added, with easy frankness. He was so -much excited, however, that he left his tea, and strode up and down the -room (three paces and a half, that was all the size of it) repeating “by -Jove!” to himself. “If you mean not to do it, you had better not let -<i>him</i> know you could do it,” he announced, after an interval. Never in -his life before had the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56">{vol.-I-56}</a></span> easy-going young man been so moved. “It’s -untold the money they make,” he said.</p> - -<p>As for Lottie, her whole being was in a ferment. She looked at her -brother with a gasp of pain. The bread and butter had no charms for her -on that night of emotion. She took up her basket which was full of -things to mend, and sat down in the window, speechless with vague -passion, pain, discontentment. Lottie was not a wise or enlightened -young woman. She had not even taken the stamp of her age as many people -do who are not enlightened. She had never learned that it was desirable -that women should have professions like men. Her thoughts ran entirely -in the old-fashioned groove, and it seemed to her that for “a -gentleman’s daughter” to work for her living, to be known publicly to -work for her living, was a social degradation beyond words to express. -It implied—what did it not imply? That the family were reduced to the -lowest level of poverty; but that was a small part of it—that the men -were useless, worthless, without pride or honour; that they had no -friends, no means of saving themselves from this betrayal of all the -secrets of pride. These were the foolish feelings in her mind. -Gentlemen’s daughters were governesses sometimes she had heard, and -Lottie pitied the poor girls (orphans—they were always orphans, and -thus set aside from the general rule), with an ache of compassion in her -heart; but it was her private impression<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57">{vol.-I-57}</a></span> that this was a stigma never -to be wiped off, a stain, not upon the girl, but upon her family who -could permit such a sacrifice. Lottie’s view of sacrifice was one which -is rarely expressed, but which exists not the less among women and all -other persons from whom sacrifices are demanded. Could Alcestis have the -same respect after for the man who could let her die for him? Could she -go on living by his side and think just the same of him as if he had -borne his own burden instead of shuffling it off upon her shoulders? The -ancients did not trouble themselves with such questions, but it is a -peculiarity of the modern mind that it does. And Lottie, though her -point of view was very old-fashioned, still looked at it in this modern -way. When Law, whom it was impossible to stir up to any interest in his -own work, became so excited over the thought of a possible profession -for her, she looked at him with something of the feeling with which -Isabella contemplated the caitiff brother in his prison who would have -bought his life by her shame. What! would he be “made a man” in such a -way? would he buy idleness and ease for himself by exposing her to a -life unworthy of “a gentleman’s daughter”? She knew he was lazy, -careless, and loved his own gratification; but it hurt her to her very -heart to think so poorly of Law, who was the only being in the world -whom she had ever been able to love heartily as belonging to herself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58">{vol.-I-58}</a></span></p> - -<p>Let it not be thought, however, that any unwillingness to work for Law, -to make any sacrifice for him, was at the bottom of this disappointment -in him. She was ready to have worked her fingers to the bone, indoors, -in the privacy of the family, for her father and brother. She did not -care what menial offices she did for them. Their “position” demanded the -presence of a servant of some kind in the house, but Lottie was not -afraid of work. She could sweep and dust; she could cook; she could mend -with the most notable of housewives, and sang at her work, and liked her -people all the better because of what she had to do for them in the -course of nature. That was altogether different; there was no shame to a -lady in doing this, no exposure of the family. And Lottie was not of the -kind of woman who requires personal service from men. She was quite -willing to serve them, to wait upon them if necessary, to take that as -her share of the work of life; but to work publicly for her living, what -was that but to proclaim to all the world that they were incapable, that -they were indifferent to their duties, that there was no faith to be put -in them? If Law had leaped up in wrath, if he had said, “No, it is my -place to work; I will work; no one shall say that my sister had to earn -her living,” how happy, how proud Lottie would have been! That was the -ideal for a man. It was what she would do herself if she was in his -place; and, oh, if she could but put<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59">{vol.-I-59}</a></span> herself in his place, and do what -Law would not do! oh, if she could but put herself, a bit of herself, -into him, to quicken the sluggish blood in his veins! When Law, having -exhausted all that was to be said on the subject, went out (and where -did he go when he went out?), Lottie sat at the window and darned and -darned till the light failed her. She ploughed furrows with her needle -in the forefinger of her left hand; but that did not hurt her. Oh, if -she could but move them, inspire them, force them to do their duty, or -at the worst do it for them, so that the world might suppose it was they -who were doing it! That was the aspiration in her heart; and how -hopeless it was! “Oh, if I could put some of me into him!” Lottie -thought, as many a helpless soul has thought before her. But to move out -from the shadow of the house, and betray its nakedness, and take the -burden visibly on herself, that was what Lottie felt she would rather -die than do.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, in the soft evening, various people were promenading up and -down between the Abbey church and the lodges of the Chevaliers. Some of -the old Chevaliers themselves were out, with their wives hanging on -their arms. Either there would be two old gentlemen together, with the -wife of one by his side, or two ladies with a white-haired old gallant -walking along beside them, talking of various things, perhaps of -politics when there were two men, and of any signs<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60">{vol.-I-60}</a></span> of war that might be -on the horizon; and if two were women, of the wedding, and how Lady -Caroline took the marriage of her only daughter. The Signor was -practising in the Abbey, and the great tones of the organ came rolling -forth in a splendour of softened sound over the slope with its slowly -strolling groups. Some of the townspeople were there too, not mixing -with the others, for the Signor’s practising nights were known. The moon -began to climb after a while behind the Chevaliers’ lodges, and throw a -soft whiteness of broad light upon all the pinnacles of the Abbey; and -Lottie dropped her work on her knee, unable to see any longer. When the -moon rose, she was thrown into shade, and could watch the people with -the light in their faces at her ease. And by and by her attention was -caught by two single figures which passed several times, coming from -different directions, and quite distinct from each other. They both -looked up at her window each time they passed, calling forth her -curiosity, her scorn, her laughter, finally her interest. Watching them -she forgot the immediate presence of her own annoyances. One was the -young musician Purcell, at whom Lottie had secretly laughed for a long -time past, at his longing looks and the way in which the vicissitudes of -her countenance would reflect themselves in his face. But the other she -could not for a long time make out. It was not till, seeing no one, he -stood still for a full<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61">{vol.-I-61}</a></span> half-minute in the light of the moon, and looked -up at her, that she recognised him—and then Lottie’s heart gave a jump. -It was young Rollo Ridsdale, Lady Caroline’s nephew, the best man at the -wedding; and what could he want here?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62">{vol.-I-62}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">LADY CAROLINE.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Lady Caroline</span> was in the drawing-room at the Deanery alone. Now that her -daughter was married this was no unusual circumstance. It was late in -the summer evening, after dinner, and she lay on a great square sofa so -placed that the view from the large window was dimly visible from it, -had she cared for the view. As a matter of fact, at no hour of the -twenty-four, however bright or tempting it might be, did Lady Caroline -care much for the view; but still, when a room is artistically arranged, -such a possibility cannot be altogether kept out of consideration. This -evening, however, there was no light to see anything by. The room was -dark, nothing distinctly visible in it but the great broad Elizabethan -window which filled one end. The upper part of this window was filled -with old painted glass in silvery tinted quarries, soft greys and -yellows, surrounding the golden and ruby glories of several blazons of -arms, and drawing the eye irresistibly with the delight of radiant -colour; underneath opened the great plain all dim and wide, a suggestion -of boundless air and distance rather than a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63">{vol.-I-63}</a></span> landscape, while in the -room itself nothing was distinct but here and there a glimmer of -reflection from a mirror breaking the long line of the walls. Nor was -its only occupant very distinguishable as she reclined upon her sofa in -absolute stillness and tranquillity. The lace on her head and about her -throat showed faintly white in the corner, that was all. Perhaps if the -mind could have been seen as well as the body, Lady Caroline’s -individual soul, such as it was, would have told for little more amid -the still life around: a something vaguely different from the chairs and -softly cushioned sofas, a little more than one of the dim mirrors, a -little less than a picture, was this human creature to whom all the rest -belonged. She had lived irreproachably on the earth for a number of -years (though not for nearly so many years as the most of her -furniture), and fulfilled all her functions very much as they did, -honestly holding together, affording a temporary place of repose -occasionally, convenient for household meals, and ordinary domestic -necessities. Perhaps now and then Lady Caroline conferred something of -the same kind of solace and support which is given to the weary by a -nice warm soft easy-chair, comfortably cushioned and covered; but that -was about the highest use of which she was capable. She was waiting now -quite tranquilly till it pleased the servants to bring her lights. They -were in no hurry, and she was in no hurry. She never did anything, so -that it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64">{vol.-I-64}</a></span> was immaterial whether her room was lighted early or late, and -on the whole she liked this dim interval between the active daylight, -when people were always in motion, and the lamps, which suggested work, -or a book, or something of the sort. Lady Caroline, though she had not -very much mind, had a conscience, and knew that it was not quite right -for a responsible creature to be without employment; therefore she made -certain efforts to fulfil the object of her existence by keeping a -serious volume on the table beside her, and putting in a few stitches -now and then in a piece of wool-work. But at this hour there was no -possibility for the most anxious conscience to speak, and Lady -Caroline’s was not anxious, only correct, not troubling itself with any -burden beyond what was necessary. It may be supposed, perhaps, that she -was sad, passing this twilight quite alone, so soon after the marriage -and departure of her only daughter; but this would have been a mistake, -for Lady Caroline was not sad. Of course she missed Augusta. There was -no one now to wake her up when she dozed, as now and then happened, in a -warm afternoon after luncheon; and, as a matter of fact, one or two -visitors had actually been ushered into the drawing-room while her head -was drooping upon her right shoulder, and her cap a little awry. But at -this tranquil hour in the dark, when nobody expected anything of her, -neither without nor within—neither conscience, nor the Dean, nor -society<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65">{vol.-I-65}</a></span>—it cannot be said that any distressful recollection of Augusta -mingled with her thoughts. Nor, indeed, had she any thoughts to mingle -it with, which was perhaps the reason. She was very comfortable in the -corner of her sofa, with nothing to disturb her. Had Jarvis her maid -been at hand to tell her what was going on in the precincts, or any bit -of gossip that might have floated upward from the town, it would -probably have added a little more flavour to her content; but even that -flavour was not necessary to her, and she was quite happy as she was.</p> - -<p>Some one came into the room as she lay in this pleasant quiet. She -thought it was Jeremie coming to light the candles, and said nothing; -but it was not so dignified a person as Mr. Jeremie, the Dean’s butler, -who was generally taken for one of the Canons by visitors unacquainted -with the place. This was indeed a shirt-front as dazzling as Jeremie’s -which came into the soft gloom, but the owner of it was younger and -taller, with a lighter step and less solemn demeanour. He gave a glance -round the room to see if anyone was visible, then advanced steadily with -the ease of an <i>habitue</i> among the sofas and tables. “Are you here, Aunt -Caroline?” he said. “Oh, you are there! Shall I ring for lights? it must -be dull sitting all by yourself in the dark.”</p> - -<p>“If you please, my dear,” said Lady Caroline, who, having no will of her -own to speak of, never set it in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66">{vol.-I-66}</a></span> opposition to anybody else’s; -answering a question as she did thus promptly, there was no occasion at -the same time to answer a mere remark.</p> - -<p>“I am afraid you are moping,” he said, “missing Augusta. To be sure, it -does make a great difference in the house.”</p> - -<p>“No, my dear,” said Lady Caroline, “I can’t say I was thinking of -Augusta. She is quite happy, you know.”</p> - -<p>“I hope so,” he said, laughing. “If they are not happy now, when should -they be happy? the honeymoon scarcely over, and all sorts of delights -before them.”</p> - -<p>“Yes; that is just what I was going to say,” said Lady Caroline; “so why -should I mope?”</p> - -<p>“Why, indeed?” He took his aunt’s soft hand into his, and caressed it. -Rollo was fond of his aunt, strange though it may appear. She had never -scolded him, though this was the favourite exercise of all the rest of -his family. When he came home in disgrace she had always received him -just the same as if he had come in triumph. Whoever might find fault -with him for wasting his talents, or disappointing the hopes of his -friends, his Aunt Caroline had never done so. He could not help laughing -a little as he spoke, but he caressed her soft white hand as he did so, -compunctious, to make amends to her for the ridicule. Lady Caroline, it -need not be said, attached no idea<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67">{vol.-I-67}</a></span> of ridicule to his laugh. “But I -have come to tell you,” said Rollo, “that I have been out again walking -up and down the Dean’s Walk, as I did the night of the wedding, and I -have not been able to hear a note of your singer—the girl with the -wonderful voice.”</p> - -<p>“Did I say there was a girl with a wonderful voice, my dear? I forget.”</p> - -<p>“Not you, but Augusta; don’t you remember, Aunt Caroline, a girl in the -Cloisters, in—in the Lodges, a Miss—I don’t remember the name. Lottie -something, Augusta called her.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! Augusta was too ready to make friends. It is Miss Despard, I -suppose.”</p> - -<p>“Well; might we not have Miss Despard here some evening? If her voice is -as fine as Augusta said, it might be the making of me, Aunt Caroline. An -English <i>prima donna</i> would make all our fortunes. And unless I hear -her, it is not possible, is it, I appeal to your candour, that I can -judge?”</p> - -<p>“But, my dear!” “But” was a word which scarcely existed in Lady -Caroline’s vocabulary. It meant an objection, and she rarely objected to -anything. Still there was a limit to which instinct and experience alike -bound her. She was not unkind by nature, but rather the reverse, and if -there was anything that approached a passion—nay, not a passion, an -emotion—in her nature, it was for the poor. She who was little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68">{vol.-I-68}</a></span> moved -by any relationship, even the closest, almost loved the poor, and would -take trouble for them, petting them when they were sick, and pleased to -hear of all their affairs when they were well—conscience and -inclination supplementing each other in this point. But the poor, the -real “poor,” they who are so kind as to be destitute now and then, with -nothing to eat and all their clothes at the pawnbroker’s, and their -existence dependent upon the clergyman’s nod, or the visit of the -district lady—these were very different from the Chevaliers in their -Lodges. There even Lady Caroline drew the line. She did what was -suggested to her in a great many cases, but here she felt that she could -make a stand when necessity required. Not the people in the Lodges! -people who though they lived in small houses on small incomes considered -themselves to be ladies and gentlemen as good as the Royal Family -themselves. The very mildest, the very gentlest, must pause somewhere, -and this is where Lady Caroline made her stand. “My dear,” she said, -something like a flush coming to her sallow cheek, for Jeremie by this -time had brought the lamps and lighted the candles and made her visible; -“I have never visited the people in the Lodges. I have always made a -stand there. There was one of them appointed through my brother -Courtland, you know—your papa, my dear—but when Beatrice asked me to -notice them I was obliged to decline. I really could not do it. I hope I -never<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69">{vol.-I-69}</a></span> shrink from doing my duty to the poor; but these sort of -people—you must really excuse me, Rollo; I could not, I do not think I -could do it.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Ridsdale had never seen anything so near excitement in his aunt’s -manner before. She spoke with little movements of her hands and of her -head, and a pink flush was on her usually colourless face. The sight of -this little flutter and commotion which he had caused amused the young -man. Jeremie was still moving noiselessly about, letting down a loop of -curtain, kindling a distant corner into visibility by lighting one of -the groups of candles upon the wall. The room was still very dim, just -made visible, not much more, and Jeremie’s noiseless presence did not -check the expression of Lady Caroline’s sentiments. She made her little -explanation with a fervour such as, we have said, her nephew had never -before seen in her. He was greatly astonished, but he was also, it must -be allowed, somewhat disposed to laugh.</p> - -<p>“You must pardon me,” he said, “for suggesting anything you don’t like, -Aunt Caroline. But did not Augusta have Miss Despard here?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes—with the rest of her people who sang. Augusta was always -having her singing people—who were not in our set at all.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose that is all over now,” said Rollo in a tone of regret.</p> - -<p>“Oh, not quite over. Mrs. Long brought some of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70">{vol.-I-70}</a></span> them the other day. She -thought it would amuse me. But it never amused me much,” said Lady -Caroline. “Augusta was pleased, and that was all. I don’t want them, -Rollo; they disturb me. They require to have tea made for them, and -compliments. I am not so very fond of music, you are aware.”</p> - -<p>“I know; not fond enough to give up anything for it; but confess it is -often a resource after dinner, when the people are dull?”</p> - -<p>“The people are always just the same, Rollo. If they have a good dinner, -that is all I have to do with them. They ought to amuse themselves.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes,” he resumed, laughing. “I know you are never dull, Aunt -Caroline. Your thoughts flow always in the same gentle current. You are -never excited, and you are never bored.”</p> - -<p>A gentle smile came over Lady Caroline’s face; no one understood her so -well. She was astonished that so many people found fault with Rollo. He -was, she thought, her favourite nephew, if it was right to have a -favourite. “It is no credit to me,” she said. “I was always brought up -in that way. But girls do not have such a good training now.”</p> - -<p>“No, indeed—the very reverse, I think—they are either in a whirl of -amusement or else they are bored. But, Aunt Caroline, people in general -are not like you. And for us who have not had the advantage of your -education, it is often very dull, especially after dinner.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71">{vol.-I-71}</a></span> Now you are -going to have a gathering to-morrow. Don’t you think it would be a good -thing to have a little music in the evening, and ask Miss Despard to -come and sing? Have her to amuse the people, just as you might have -Punch and Judy, you know, or some of the sleight-of-hand men?”</p> - -<p>“I should never think of having either the one or the other, Rollo.”</p> - -<p>“But a great many people do. It was quite the right thing for a time. -Come, Aunt Caroline! My uncle is often bored to death with these duty -dinners. He will bless you if you have a little music afterwards and set -him free.”</p> - -<p>“Do you really think so? I can’t understand why you should all talk of -being bored. I am never bored,” said Lady Caroline.</p> - -<p>“That is your superiority,” said the courtier. “But we poor wretches -often are. And I really must hear this voice. You would not like to -stand in the way of my interests now when I seem really about to have a -chance?”</p> - -<p>“It is a very curious thing to me,” said Lady Caroline, stimulated by so -much argument to deliver herself of an original remark, “that such a -clever young man as you are, Rollo, should require to connect yourself -with singers and theatres. Such a thing was never heard of in my time.”</p> - -<p>“That is just it,” he said, putting on a mournful<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72">{vol.-I-72}</a></span> look. “If I had not -been a clever young man, things would have gone a great deal better with -me. There was nothing of that foolish description I am sure, Aunt -Caroline, in your time.”</p> - -<p>“No,” she said; then added, almost peevishly, “I do not know how to -communicate with the girl, Rollo. She is so out of society.”</p> - -<p>“But only on the other side of the way,” he said. “Come, write her a -note, and I will take it myself, if Jeremie or Joseph are too grand to -go.”</p> - -<p>“Must I write her a note? I never in my life sent a note to the Lodges,” -said Lady Caroline, looking at her hands as if the performance would -soil them. Then she added, with a look of relief, “I very often see her -when I am out for my drive. You can tell the coachman to stop if he sees -her, and I will tell her to come—that will be much the better way.”</p> - -<p>“But if she should be engaged?”</p> - -<p>Lady Caroline gave him a very faint smile of amiable scorn and superior -knowledge. “You forget these people are not in society,” she said.</p> - -<p>To make head against this sublime of contempt was more than Rollo could -do. Lady Caroline vanquished him as she had vanquished many people in -her day, by that invincible might of simple dulness against which -nothing can stand.</p> - -<p>Mr. Rollo Ridsdale was one of the many very clever young men in society -who are always on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73">{vol.-I-73}</a></span> eve of every kind of fame and fortune, but never -manage to cross the border between hope and reality. He had been quite -sure of success in a great many different ways: at the university, where -he was certain of a first class, but only managed to “scrape through” -the ordeal of honours in the lowest room;—in diplomacy, where he was -expected to rise to the highest rank, but spoiled all his chances by a -whisper of a state secret, of no importance to anybody, when only an -unpaid attaché;—in the House of Commons, where he broke down in his -maiden speech, after costing what his family described as a “fortune” to -secure his election;—and finally, in commerce, where his honourable -name was just secured from the <i>éclat</i> of a disgraceful bankruptcy by -the sacrifice of a second “fortune” on the part of the family. It is but -fair to add, however, that Rollo had nothing to do with the -disgracefulness of the commercial downfall in which he was all but -involved. And here he was at eight-and-twenty once more afloat, as the -fashionable jackal and assistant of an enterprising <i>impresario</i>, -indefatigable in his pursuit of the prima donna of the future, and -talking of nothing but operas. This was why he had made that moonlight -promenade under Lottie Despard’s windows on the evening of his cousin’s -wedding-day. He did not know her, but Lottie knew him as the populace -know all, even the most insignificant, members of the reigning family. -Lady Caroline’s nephew,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74">{vol.-I-74}</a></span> Augusta’s cousin, was of much more importance -to the community than any of the community had been to him up to this -moment, though the thoughts which passed through Lottie’s mind, as, with -extreme surprise, she recognised him gazing up at her window, suggested -a very different hypothesis. What could Lottie imagine, as, with the -most bewildering astonishment, she identified Mr. Ridsdale, but that he -had seen her as she had seen him, and that it was admiration at least, -if not a more definite sentiment, which brought him to wander in front -of the window, as poor young Purcell did, whose delusion she regarded -without either surprise or compassion? Rollo Ridsdale was a very -different person; and Lottie had been too much bewildered by his -appearance to found any theory upon it, except the vaguest natural -thrill of flattered pleasure and wonder. Was it possible?—When a young -man comes and stares at a lady’s window, going and returning, waiting -apparently for a glimpse of her—what is anyone to suppose?—There is -but one natural and ordinary explanation of such an attitude and -proceeding. And if Lottie’s fancy jumped at this idea, how could she -help it? It gave her a little shock of pleasure and exhilaration in her -depressed state. Why should she have been exhilarated? It is difficult -to say. She did not know anything of Mr. Ridsdale—whether his -admiration was worth having or the reverse. But he was Lady Caroline’s -nephew, who had always been inac<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75">{vol.-I-75}</a></span>cessible to Lottie; he was Augusta’s -cousin, who had neglected her. And if it really could be possible that, -notwithstanding this, he had conceived a romantic passion for Lottie, -what could be more consolatory to the girl who had felt herself -humiliated by the indifference and contempt with which these ladies had -treated her? The idea brought the light back to her eyes, and her -natural gay courage revived again. She would make reprisals, she would -“be even with them,” and pay them back in their coin; and where is the -girl or boy to whom reprisals are not sweet?</p> - -<p>This, however, is a digression from Lady Caroline, who went to her -tranquil couch that night with a heavier heart than she had known for -years. It was a revolution which had occurred in her life. During -Augusta’s reign she had been passively resistant always, protesting -under her breath against the invasion of the singing people of all kinds -into her sacred and exclusive world. She had supported it with heroic -calm, entrenching herself behind the ladies who were really in society, -and whom she could receive without derogation; but to Lottie and the -other people who were outside of her world she had never shown any -civility, as she was glad to think, on surveying the situation that -night. She had not brought it on herself. She had never shown them any -civility. A salutation with her eyelids, a cup of tea from her table, -the privilege of breathing the same air with her—this had been all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76">{vol.-I-76}</a></span> she -had ever done for her daughter’s <i>protégées</i>, and hitherto nobody, she -was obliged to allow, had presumed upon it. But <i>that</i> Miss Despard was -not like the timid and respectful singing ladies from the town. She was -a bold young woman, who thought herself as good as anyone, and looked as -if she ought to be talked to, and taken notice of, as much as anyone. -And it was not possible to get rid of her as the ladies in the town -could be got rid of. Lady Caroline could not go out of her own door, -could not go to Church, without meeting Miss Despard, and feeling what -she called within herself, “the broad stare” of that dangerous girl. And -now was it possible, was it conceivable, that she was herself to take -the initiative and re-invite Miss Despard? Not for years, if indeed ever -in her life, had Lady Caroline gone to bed with such a weight on her -mind. She sighed as she laid down on that bed of down—nay, not of down, -which is old-fashioned and not very wholesome either, now-a-days, people -say—but on her mattress of delicately arranged springs, which moved -with every movement. She sighed as she lay down upon it, and the springs -swayed under her; and she sighed again in the morning as she woke, and -all that had happened came back into her mind. Poor dear Rollo! She did -not like to cross him, or to go against him, since he had made so great -an object of it. Oh! that Augusta had but held her peace, and had not -inflamed his mind about this girl’s voice!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77">{vol.-I-77}</a></span> After all, her voice was -nothing wonderful; it was just a soprano, as most girl’s voices were; -and that she, Lady Caroline, should be compelled to exert -herself—compelled to go against her principles, to come into personal -contact with a person of a different class! She who had always been -careful to keep herself aloof!—It was very hard upon Lady Caroline. She -sighed at breakfast so that the Dean took notice of it.</p> - -<p>“Is there anything the matter?” he said. “Rollo, do you know what is the -matter? This is the third time I have heard your aunt sigh.”</p> - -<p>“I am sure she does not look as if anything was the matter,” said Rollo, -with that filial flattery which women like, at Lady Caroline’s age.</p> - -<p>She gave him a faint little smile, but shook her head and sighed again.</p> - -<p>“Bless my soul!” said the Dean, “I must look in upon Enderby, and tell -him to come and see you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, there is nothing the matter with me,” Lady Caroline said; but she -had no objection to see Enderby, who was the doctor and always very -kind. It even pleased her to think of confiding her troubles to him, for -indeed she had the humbling consciousness upon her mind that she had -never been a very interesting patient. She had never had anything but -headaches and mere external ills to tell him about. She had never till -now been able to reveal to him even a headache which had been caused by -trouble of mind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78">{vol.-I-78}</a></span> Lady Caroline, though she was dull, had a faint wish -to be interesting as well as other people, and it would be a relief to -pour out this trouble to his sympathising ear.</p> - -<p>The idea of meeting Lottie when she went out was a very happy one, Lady -Caroline thought. She could not but feel that necessity was producing -invention within her. Perhaps she might not meet Lottie, perhaps Lottie -might be frightened and would decline to come. She drove out that -afternoon with a little excitement, full of hope, if she felt also the -palpitation of a little fear. These emotions made quite a pleasant and -unusual stir in the dull fluid that filled her veins. She was half -disturbed and half pleased when she found that Rollo proposed going with -her, a very unusual compliment from a young man. He said it was because -he had hurt his foot and could not walk. “Dear me!” Lady Caroline said, -“I will send Jarvis to see if it is a sprain.” “Oh no, it is not a -sprain,” he said; “a little rest is all it requires.” “You will find -carriage exercise very nice,” Lady Caroline said; “a perfect rest—and -much more amusement than walking, which tires one out directly.” And -thus they set out perfectly pleased with each other. But the coachman -had got his instructions carefully from Rollo’s own lips, and there was -now no possibility of escape for the poor lady, over whom Rollo himself -had mounted guard. They had not gone above a few yards from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79">{vol.-I-79}</a></span> the Deanery -door, when the carriage suddenly drew up with a jar, to the side of the -high terrace pavement which lay in front of the Lodges. Rollo, who was -on the alert, looked eagerly out, and saw a light erect figure, full of -energy and life, coming up, in the plainest of morning frocks, one of -those simple toilettes which fashion has lately approved. She looked -perfectly fresh, and like the summer morning, as she came along, with a -little basket in her hand; and suddenly it burst upon Rollo, as Lottie -raised her eyes with a glance of astonished interest in them, wondering -why it was that Lady Caroline’s carriage should stop there, that this -unknown girl was extremely handsome—a thing for which the young man had -not been prepared. “Is this Miss Despard? but she will be gone unless -you send to her. Shall I go and call her to you?” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, she will come when she sees I want her,” said Lady Caroline. But -the only answer he made was to jump up and let himself out of the -carriage before Joseph could get off from the box. He went up to Lottie -with his hat in his hand, very much surprised in his turn by the vivid -blush which covered her cheeks at sight of him. He was flattered, and he -was surprised; was it a mere trick of unformed manners, the <i>gaucherie</i> -of a girl who had never been in society, and did not know how to behave -herself? or was it that she saw something unusually fascinating in -himself, Rollo? To see so handsome a girl blush at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80">{vol.-I-80}</a></span> his approach was a -tribute to his attractions, which Rollo was not the man to be -indifferent to. He almost forgot the business side of the transaction, -and his hunt after a prima donna, in the pleasure of such an encounter. -Could she have seen him somewhere before and been “struck” with him? -Rollo wondered. It was an agreeable beginning. He went up to her with -his hat in his hand as if she had been a princess. “I beg your pardon,” -he said, “my aunt, Lady Caroline Huntington, has sent me to beg that you -would let her speak to you for a moment.” Lottie looked at him -bewildered, with eyes that could scarcely meet his. She could hardly -make out what he said, in the sudden confusion and excitement of meeting -thus, face to face, the man whom she had seen under her window. What was -it? Lady Caroline asking to speak with her, awaiting her, in her -carriage, in the sight of all St. Michael’s! Lottie stood still for a -moment, and gazed at this strange sight, unable to move or speak for -wonder. What could Lady Caroline have to say? She could not be going, on -the spot, out of that beautiful chariot with its prancing horses, to -plead her nephew’s suit with the girl who knew nothing of him except his -lover-like watch under her window. Lottie could not trust herself to -make him any reply—or rather she said idiotically, “Oh, thank you,” and -turned half reluctant, confused, and anxious, to obey the call. She went -to the carriage door, and stood without a word,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81">{vol.-I-81}</a></span> with her eyes full of -wonder, to hear what the great lady had to say.</p> - -<p>But it was not much at any time that Lady Caroline had to say. She -greeted Lottie with the little movement of her eyelids. “How do you do, -Miss Despard?” she said. “I wanted to ask if you would come to the -Deanery this evening for a little music?” There was no excitement in -that calmest of voices. Lottie felt so much ashamed of her wonderful -vague absurd anticipations, that she blushed more hotly than ever.</p> - -<p>“At half-past nine,” said Lady Caroline.</p> - -<p>“You have not presented me to Miss Despard, Aunt Caroline—so I have no -right to say anything; but if I had any right to speak, I should say I -hope—I hope—that Miss Despard is not engaged, and that she will come.”</p> - -<p>How earnest his voice was! and what a strange beginning of acquaintance! -Lottie felt half disposed to laugh, and half to cry, and could not lift -her eyes in her confusion to this man who—was it possible?—was in love -with her, yet whom she did not know.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I am not engaged—I—shall be very happy.” What else could she say? -She stood still, quite unaware what she was doing, and heard him thank -her with enthusiasm, while Lady Caroline sat quite passive. And then the -splendid vision rolled away, and Lottie stood alone wondering, like a -creature in a dream, on the margin of the way.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82">{vol.-I-82}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">AT THE DEANERY.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Lottie</span> stood as if in a dream, hearing the ringing of the horses’ hoofs, -the roll of the carriage, and nothing more; all the sounds in the world -seemed to be summed up in these. She could scarcely tell what had -happened to her. A great honour had happened to her, such as might have -impressed the imagination of anyone in that little world of St. -Michael’s, but not so great a thing as she thought. Lady Caroline had -asked her to tea. It was something, it was much; it was what Lady -Caroline had never done to anyone in the Lodges before. Even Mrs. -Seymour, whose husband was really <i>one of the Seymours</i>, people said, -and whom Lady Courtland had begged Lady Caroline to be kind to, had not -been so honoured. But for all that, it was not what Lottie thought. She -stood there with her heart beating, feeling as if she had just fallen -from the clouds, in a maze of bewildered excitement, scarcely able to -realise what had befallen her—and yet that which had befallen her was -not what she thought. Most things that happen to us are infinitely -better in thought and in hope than they are in reality;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83">{vol.-I-83}</a></span> but this was -doubly, trebly the case with poor Lottie, who found the cause of this -new happiness of hers in a delusion, a mistake, most innocently, most -unwittingly occasioned. It was not a thing that anybody had intended. -Rollo Ridsdale had meant no harm when he strolled along the Dean’s Walk -in the evening on two separate nights, looking up at Lottie’s window and -hoping to hear her sing in order that he might tell his partner of a new -voice to be had for the asking. And neither had Lottie meant any harm; -it was not vanity, it was the most natural conclusion from what she saw -with her own eyes. How could she doubt it? He must have seen her when -she was not aware of it, and fallen in love with her, as people say, at -first sight! a romantic compliment that always goes to a girl’s heart. -There was no other interpretation to be put upon the fact of his -lingering about looking up at her window. She had said to herself it was -nonsense; but how could it be nonsense? What other explanation could -anyone give of such a proceeding? And now he had managed to make Lady -Caroline, she who was the queen of the place and unapproachable, take -his cause in hand. For what other possible reason could Lady Caroline, -who never noticed anyone out of her own sphere, have paid this special -and public compliment to Lottie, and invited her to Paradise, as it -were—to tea—not afternoon tea, which means little, but <i>in the -evening</i>? But here Lotti<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84">{vol.-I-84}</a></span>e’s fancies became so bewildering that she -could not follow herself in her thoughts; much less would it be possible -for us to follow her. For if Lady Caroline had thus interfered on her -nephew’s behalf, securing for him a personal introduction and an -opportunity of making her acquaintance, what could this mean but that -Lady Caroline was on his side and meant to help him and approved of his -sentiments? This thought was too wonderful to be entertained seriously; -it only glanced across the surface of Lottie’s mind, making her laugh -within herself with a bewildered sense that there was something absurd -in it. Lady Caroline stoop from her high estate to lift her, Lottie, to -a place upon that dazzling eminence! The girl felt as if she had been -spun round and round like a teetotum, though it was an undignified -comparison. She did not know where she might find herself when, dizzy -and tottering, she should come to herself. All this time Mrs. -O’Shaughnessy, at her window, where she always sat surveying everything -that went on, had been knocking an impatient summons with her knuckles -on the pane; and this it was at last which brought Lottie to herself. -She obeyed it with some reluctance, yet at the same time she was glad to -sit down somewhere till the giddiness should go off and the hurry of her -thoughts subside. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy met her with a countenance full of -interest and eagerness; a new incident was everything to her. She was as -eager as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85">{vol.-I-85}</a></span> if it was of vital importance to know every word that Lady -Caroline said.</p> - -<p>“Then what was she saying to ye, me dear?” cried the old lady, from whom -excitement almost took away the breath.</p> - -<p>“She did not say anything,” said Lottie, relieving her feelings by a -little laugh. “She never does say anything; she asked me to tea.”</p> - -<p>“And you call that nothing, ye thankless creature! It’s spoilt ye are, -Lottie, me darling, and I always said that was what would come of it. -She asked you to tea? sure it’ll be afternoon tea for one of the -practisings, like it was in Miss Augusta’s day?”</p> - -<p>“No! I am to go in after dinner. It is not the first time, Mrs. -O’Shaughnessy; Augusta has often asked me. What else did I get my white -frock for?—for there are no parties here to go to. She used to say: -‘Come in, and bring your music.’ It is not me they want, it is my -voice,” said Lottie assuming a superiority of wisdom which she did not -possess.</p> - -<p>“All in good time, me dear,” said Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. “And did my Lady -Caroline bid you to bring your music, too? The daughter is one thing, -and the mother is clean another. I hope you’ve got your frock in order -me darlin’; clean and nice and like a lady? You should send it to Mrs. -Jones to iron it out; she’s the plague of my life, but she’s a beautiful -clear starcher—that I will say for her; and if you want a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86">{vol.-I-86}</a></span> ribbon or -so, me jewel, or anything I have that ye may take a fancy to—there’s my -brooch with O’Shaughnessy’s miniature, sure ne’er a one of them would -find out who it was. You might say it was your grandpapa, me honey, in -his red coat, with his medals; and fine he’d look on your white -frock——”</p> - -<p>“Thank you!” said Lottie in alarm; “but I never wear anything, you know, -except poor mamma’s little pearl locket.”</p> - -<p>“Sure I know,” said the old woman, with a laugh; “a body can’t wear what -they haven’t got! But you needn’t turn up your little nose at my big -brooch, for when it was made it was the height of the fashion, and now -everything that’s old is the height of the fashion. And so me Lady -Caroline, that’s too grand to say ‘Good morning to ye, ma’am,’ or ‘Good -evening to ye,’ after ye’ve been her neighbour for a dozen years, stops -her grand carriage to bid this bit of a girl to tea, and Miss Lottie -takes it as cool as snowballs, if ye please. Well, well, honey! I don’t -envy ye, not I; but you’re born to luck as sure as the rest of us are -born to trouble, and that all the Abbey can see.”</p> - -<p>“I born to luck! I don’t think there is much sign of it,” said Lottie, -though with a tumultuous leap of the heart which contradicted the words. -“And what is there, I should like to know, that all the Abbey can see?”</p> - -<p>“If you think I’m going to tell you the nonsense<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87">{vol.-I-87}</a></span> that is flying about, -and put fancies in your little head!” said the old Irishwoman, “go your -ways, and see that your frock’s in order; and I’ll run in and see you -dressed, me pet, and I’ll bring the brooch and the box with me best -ribbons; may be at the last you’ll change your mind.”</p> - -<p>Lottie went home with her head in the clouds; was she indeed “born to -luck”? Was she going to be transplanted at once without the tedious -probation which even in poetry, even in story-books, the good heroine -has generally to go through, into that heaven of wealth and rank and -luxurious surroundings which she felt to be her proper sphere? It was -not that Lottie cared for luxury in its vulgarer forms; she liked what -was beautiful and stately—the large noble rooms, the dignified aspect -which life bore when unconnected with those small schemes and -strugglings in which her existence was spent; but above all she liked, -it must be allowed, to be uppermost, to feel herself on the highest -round of the ladder—and hated and resisted with all her soul the idea -of being inferior to anybody. This was the thing above all others which -Lottie could not bear. She had been brought up with the idea that she -belonged by right of nature to the upper classes, a caste entirely -removed by immutable decree of Providence from shop-keepers and persons -engaged in trade, and to whom it was comparatively immaterial whether -they were poor or rich, nothing being able to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88">{vol.-I-88}</a></span> alter the birthright -which united them with all that was high and separated them from all -that was low. But this right had not been acknowledged at St. Michael’s. -She and her family had been mixed up in the crowd along with the -O’Shaughnessys, and other unexalted people; and nobody, not even the -O’Shaughnessys, had been impressed by the long descent of the Despard -family and its unblemished gentility. Something else then evidently was -requisite to raise her to her proper place, to the sphere to which she -belonged. Lottie would not have minded poverty, or difficulty, or hard -work, had she been secure of her “position”; but that was just the thing -of which in present circumstances she was least secure. It was for this -reason that Lady Caroline’s notice was sweet to her—for this that she -had been so deeply disappointed when no sign of amity was accorded to -her on the wedding-day. And this was why her heart leapt with such -bewildering hope and excitement at the new event in her career. She did -not know Mr. Ridsdale; perhaps his admiration or even his love were -little worth having; and nothing but what are called interested motives -could have possibly moved Lottie to the thrill of pleasure with which -she contemplated his supposed attachment. A girl whose head is turned by -the mere idea of a lover who can elevate her above her neighbours, -without any possibility of love on her part to excuse the bedazzlement, -is not a very fine or noble<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89">{vol.-I-89}</a></span> image; yet Lottie’s head was turned, not -vulgarly, not meanly, but with an intoxication that was full of poetry -and all that is most ethereal in romance. A tender, exquisite gratitude -to the man who thus seemed to have chosen her, without any virtue of -hers, filled her heart; and to the great lady who, though so lofty, and -usually cold as marble to the claims of those beneath her, could thus -forget her pride for Lottie. This feeling of gratitude softened all the -other emotions in her mind. She was ready to be wooed, but then the very -manner of the first step in this process, the lingering outside her -window, which was a sign of the tenderest, most delicate, and -reverential love-making (but she did not think it so in the case of poor -young Purcell), showed what a respectful, ethereal, poetical wooing it -would be. Thus Lottie’s whole being was full of the most tremulous, -delicious happiness, all made up of hope and anticipation, and grateful -admiration of the fine generous sentiments of her supposed lover, even -while it was founded, as you may say, on self-interest and ambition, and -sentiments which were not generous at all.</p> - -<p>And with what a flutter at her heart she put out her white muslin frock, -which (not having any confidence in Mrs. Jones) she ironed herself most -carefully and skilfully, with such interest in keeping it fresh as no -Mrs. Jones in the world could have. For girls who have no ornaments to -speak of, how kind summer is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90">{vol.-I-90}</a></span> providing roses, which are always the most -suitable of decorations! One knot of them in her hair and one at her -breast—what could Lottie want more? Certainly not the big brooch with -Major O’Shaughnessy in his red coat, which her old friend was so anxious -to pin the roses with. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy thought it would be “such a -finish,” and prove satisfactorily that it was not poverty but fancy that -made Lottie decorate herself with fresh flowers instead of the fine -artificial wreath with a nice long trail down the back, which was what -the old lady herself would have preferred. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, however, -was mollified by the girl’s acceptance of the Indian shawl which she -brought to wrap her in. “And you might just carry it into the room with -you, me dear, as if ye thought ye might feel chilly,” said the old lady, -“for it’s a beauty, and I should like me Lady Caroline to see it. I -doubt if she’s got one like it. Good-night and a pleasant evening to ye, -me honey,” she cried, as, under charge of Law, and with her dress -carefully folded up, Lottie with her beating heart went across the broad -gravel of the Dean’s Walk to the Deanery door. It was a lovely summer -night, not dark at all, and the Signor was practising in the Abbey, and -the music rolling forth in harmonious thunders rose, now more, now less -distinct, as the strain grew softer or louder. A great many people were -strolling about, loitering, when Lottie came out, skimming over the road -in her little white<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91">{vol.-I-91}</a></span> shoes, with the roses in her hair. All the rest of -her modest splendours were hidden by the shawl, but these could not be -hidden. The people about all turned their heads to look at her. She was -going to the Deanery. It was the same in St. Michael’s as visiting the -Queen.</p> - -<p>The Dean’s dinner party had been of a slightly heavy description. There -were several of the great people from the neighbourhood, county people -whom it was necessary to ask periodically. It was so distinctly made a -condition, at the beginning of this story, that we were not to be -expected to describe the doings on Olympus, nor give the reader an -insight into the behaviour of the gods and goddesses, that we feel -ourselves happily free from any necessity of entering into the solemn -grandeur of the dinner. It was like other dinners in that region above -all the clouds. The ladies were fair and the gentlemen wise, and they -talked about other ladies and gentlemen not always perhaps equally wise -or fair. Mr. Rollo Ridsdale was the greatest addition to the party. He -knew all the very last gossip of the clubs. He knew what Lord Sarum said -to Knowsley, upbraiding him for the indiscretion of his last Guildhall -speech. “But everybody knows that Knowsley is nothing if not -indiscreet,” Rollo said; and he knew that, after all, whatever anyone -might say to the contrary, Lady Martingale <i>had</i> gone off with Charley -Crowther, acknowledging that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92">{vol.-I-92}</a></span> nothing in the world was of any -consequence to her in comparison. “Such an infatuation!” for, as -everybody knew, Charley was no Adonis. Lady Caroline shook her head over -this, as she ate her chicken (or probably it was something much nicer -than chicken that Lady Caroline ate). And thus the <i>menu</i> was worked -through. There was but one young lady in the party, and even she was -married. In Augusta’s time the young people were always represented, but -it did not matter so much now. When all these ladies rose at last in -their heavy dresses that swept the carpet, and in their diamonds which -made a flicker and gleam of light about their heads and throats, and -swept out to the drawing-room: all, with that one exception, over middle -age, all well acquainted with each other, knowing the pedigrees and the -possessions each of each, and with society in general for their common -ground, the reader will tremble to think of such a poor little thing as -Lottie, in her white muslin, with the roses in her hair, standing -trembling in a corner of the big drawing-room, and waiting for the -solemn stream of silk and satin, and society, in which she would have -been engulfed at once, swallowed up and seen no more. And what would -have happened to Lottie, had she been alone, without anyone to stand by -her in the midst of this overflowing, we shrink from contemplating; but -happily she had already found a companion to hold head with her against -the stream.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93">{vol.-I-93}</a></span></p> - -<p>For when Lottie came in, she found some one before her in the -drawing-room, a tall, very thin man, with stooping shoulders, who stood -by the corner of the mantelpiece, on which there were candles, holding a -book very close to his eyes. When Lottie went in, with her heart in her -mouth, he turned round, thinking that the opening of the door meant the -coming of the ladies. The entrance, instead, of the one young figure, -white and slender, and of Lottie’s eyes encountering him, full of fright -and anxiety, yet with courage in them—the look that was intended for -Lady Caroline, and which was half a prayer, “Be kind to me!” as well as -perhaps the tenth part of a defiance—made a great impression upon the -solitary inmate of the room. He was as much afraid of what he thought a -beautiful young lady, as Lottie was of the mistress of the house.</p> - -<p>After this first moment, however, when she perceived that there was -nobody alarming, only a gentleman (an <i>old</i> gentleman, Lottie -contemptuously, or rather carelessly concluded, though he was not more -in reality than about five-and-thirty), she regained her composure, and -her heart went back to its natural place. Lottie knew very well who the -gentleman was, though he did not know her. It was Mr. Ashford, one of -the minor canons, a very shy and scholarly person, rather out of his -element in a community which did not pretend to much scholarship or any -special<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94">{vol.-I-94}</a></span> devotion to books. Perhaps he was the only man in St. Michael’s -whom Lottie had ever really desired to make acquaintance with on his own -account; but indeed it was scarcely on his own account, but on account -of Law, about whom she was always so anxious. Mr. Ashford took pupils, -with whom he was said to be very successful. He lived for his pupils, -people said, and thought of nothing else but of how to get them into -shape and push them on. It had been Lottie’s dream ever since she came -to St. Michael’s to get Law under Mr. Ashford’s care; and after she had -recovered the shock of getting into the room, and the mingled thrill of -relief and impatience at finding that there was nobody there as yet to -be afraid of, Lottie, whose heart always rose to any emergency, began to -speculate how she could make friends with Mr. Ashford. She was not -afraid of him: he was short-sighted, and he was awkward and shy, and a -great deal more embarrassed by her look than she was by his. And he was -being badly used—so she thought. Why was not he asked to dinner like -the others? Mr. Ashford did not himself feel the grievance, but Lottie -felt it for him. She ranged herself instantly, instinctively, by his -side. They were the two who were being condescended to, being taken -notice of—they were the natural opponents consequently of the fine -people, the people who condescended and patronised. Mr. Ashford, on his -side, stood and looked at her, and did<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95">{vol.-I-95}</a></span> not know what to do. He did not -know who she was. She was a beautiful young lady, and he knew he had -seen her in the Abbey; but further than this Mr. Ashford knew nothing of -Lottie. The signs which would have betrayed her lowly condition to an -experienced eye said nothing to him. Her white muslin might have been -satin for anything he could tell, her little pearl locket a priceless -ornament. He did not know how to address such a dazzling creature; -though to any ordinary person in society Lottie’s attire would have -suggested bread-and-butter, and nothing dazzling at all.</p> - -<p>“It is a beautiful evening,” said Lottie, a little breathless. “It is -scarcely dark yet, though it is half-past nine o’clock.”</p> - -<p>To both these unquestionable statements Mr. Ashford said “Yes,” and then -he felt himself called upon to make a contribution in return. “I have -just found a book which somebody must have been reading,” he said, -growing red with the effort.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes! is it a very interesting book? What is it about?” said Lottie, -but this was something for which Mr. Ashford was not prepared. He got -redder than ever and cleared his throat.</p> - -<p>“It does not seem about anything in particular. I have not really had -time to read it;” then he made a hasty dash at an abstract subject, and -said, with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96">{vol.-I-96}</a></span> falter in his voice, “Are—are you fond of reading?” This -question at once lit up Lottie’s face.</p> - -<p>“Oh, <i>very</i>, very fond! But I have not many books nor much time. I -always envy people who can read everything they please. Mr. Ashford, I -wonder if I might speak to you about something—before they come in,” -said Lottie, coming a step nearer, and looking eagerly at him with her -dangerous blue eyes.</p> - -<p>Mr. Ashford got the better of his shyness in a moment. It did not -embarrass him when there was anything to be done. He smiled upon her -with a most beautiful beaming smile which altogether changed the -character of his face, and put a chair for her, which Lottie, however, -did not take. “Surely,” he said, in his melodious voice, suddenly thawed -out of the dryness which always got into his throat when he spoke first -to a stranger. It has not yet been said that Mr. Ashford’s chief quality -as respected the community at St. Michael’s was an unusually beautiful -mellow voice. “If there is any way in which I can be of use to you?” he -said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes; so much use! They say you think a great deal about your -pupils, Mr. Ashford,” said Lottie, “and I have a brother whom nobody -thinks much about——”</p> - -<p>That was the moment Lady Caroline chose to return to the drawing-room. -The door opened, the ladies swept in one by one, the first looking -suspiciously<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97">{vol.-I-97}</a></span> at both Mr. Ashford and Lottie, the second, who knew Mr. -Ashford, giving him a smile of recognition, and looking suspiciously -only at Lottie, the rest following some one example, some the other. -Lottie knew not one of them. She looked trembling for Lady Caroline, and -hoped she would be kind, and save her from the utter desolation of -standing alone in this smiling and magnificent company. But Lady -Caroline coming in last of all, only made her usual salutation to the -stranger. She said, “Good evening, Miss Despard,” as she swept her long -train of rustling silk over the carpet close to Lottie’s trembling feet, -but she put out her hand to Mr. Ashford. “It was so good of you to -come,” she said. Alas! Lottie was not even to have the comfort of -feeling on the same footing with the minor canon. He was carried off -from her just as he had begun to look on her with friendly eyes. The -stream flowed towards the other side of the room, where Lady Caroline -seated herself on her favourite square sofa. Lottie was left standing -all alone against the soft grey of the wall, lighted up by the candles -on the mantelpiece. When a person belonging to one class of society -ventures to put a rash foot on the sacred confines of another, what has -she to expect? It is an old story, and Lottie had gone through it -before, and ought to have had more sense, you will say, than to -encounter it again. But the silly girl felt it as much as if she had not -quite known what would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98">{vol.-I-98}</a></span> happen to her. She stood still, feeling unable -to move, one wave of mortification and indignation going over her after -another. How could they be so cruel? What did they ask her for, if they -meant to leave her to stand there by herself? And Mr. Ashford, too, was -cruel. She had made up her mind to stand by him; but he had been carried -away by the first touch; he had not stood by her. Lottie could have torn -off the roses with which she had decked herself so hopefully, and -stamped her foot upon them. She almost wished she had the courage to do -it, to cry out to those careless people and let them see what unkindness -they were doing. Meantime she made a very pretty picture without knowing -it. “Look at that pretty, sulky girl against the wall,” said the young -married lady to her mother. “Lady Caroline must have set her there on -purpose to look handsome and ill-tempered. How handsome she is! I never -saw such eyelashes in my life; but as sulky as a thundercloud.”</p> - -<p>“Go and talk to her and then she will not be sulky,” said the mother, -who, though by instinct she had looked suspiciously at Lottie, was not -unkind; nay, was a kind woman when she saw any need for it. Neither were -the others unkind—but they did not see any need for it. It was Lady -Caroline’s business, they thought, to entertain her own guests.</p> - -<p>Lottie, however, had her triumph later when she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99">{vol.-I-99}</a></span> sang, all the whispered -conversation in the room stopping out of sheer astonishment. Her voice -had developed even within the last month or two, during which there had -been no singing in the Deanery, and as the Signor, who had come in after -his practising, played her accompaniments for her, and did his very best -to aid and heighten the effect of her songs, her success was complete. -He had never accompanied her before, which was a fact Lottie did not -remember. And she did not notice either in her preoccupation, thinking -nothing of this but much of less important matters—that he knew -everything she could sing best, and humoured, and flattered, and coaxed -her voice to display itself to the very fullest advantage, as only a -skilful accompanyist can. No doubt he had his motive. As for Rollo -Ridsdale, he stood on the other side of the piano looking at Lottie with -a gaze which seemed to go through and through her. It meant, in fact, at -once the real enthusiasm of a man who knew exactly what such talent was -worth, and the less practical but still genuine enthusiasm of the -amateur who knew what the music was worth as well as the voice. In the -one point of view he saw Lottie’s defects, in the other he saw all that -could be made of her. An English prima donna! a real native talent as -good as anything that ever came out of Italy, and capable of producing -any amount of national enthusiasm! Rollo’s eyes shone, his face lighted -up, he did not know how<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100">{vol.-I-100}</a></span> to express his delight. He said to himself that -she would make “all our fortunes,” with an exaggeration common to his -kind. “I knew I was to be charmed, Miss Despard, but I did not know what -delight was in store for me,” he said, with eyes that said still more -than his words. Lottie’s eyes with their wonderful lashes sank before -his. He thought it was perhaps a pretty trick to show that remarkable -feature, and since he was sensible at all points to the beautiful, he -did full justice to them. By Jove! how well she would look on the stage. -Those eyelashes themselves! that pose! What a pensive Marguerite, what a -Lucia she would make! He longed to rush up to town by the late train and -rush upon his astonished partner, shouting, “I have found her!” “You -will not deny me one more?” he said, turning to her with glowing eyes.</p> - -<p>Poor silly Lottie! She grew crimson with pleasure and excitement, pale -with excitement and feeling. What did she know about the young fellow’s -motives? She knew only that he had kept watch at her window, lounging -about for a glimpse of her, a thing which to be sure explains itself; -and that every note she sang seemed to make him happier and happier, and -more and more adoring. The incense was delicious to her. She had never -had it before (except perhaps from poor young Purcell—a nobody! what -did he matter?), and the happiness of flattered vanity and soothed pride -raised her to a pinnacle and climax of soft de<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101">{vol.-I-101}</a></span>light, such as she had -never thought possible. It seemed almost more than Lottie could bear. -Even Lady Caroline was so flattered by the plaudits addressed to her on -the entertainment she had provided for her guests, that a sense of -superior discrimination came over her placid mind, pleasantly exciting -its tranquillity. “Yes, I knew that she was going to have a beautiful -voice,” she said. And she smiled, and accepted the thanks with an -agreeable sense that she had deserved them. As for Rollo Ridsdale, it -was he who got Miss Despard’s shawl and wrapped her in it when the -dreadful moment came, as he said, for her departure. “You have no -carriage; you live on the other side of the way; then you must permit me -to see you to your door,” he said, “and to thank you once more for all -the pleasure you have given me. This will be a white day in my -recollection; I shall begin the dates in my history from the time when I -first heard——”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Ashford is going Miss Despard’s way. And, Rollo, your aunt wants -you, I think. We have all been so much delighted that we have forgotten -the progress of time, and Lady Caroline is not very strong. Mr. -Ashford,” said the Dean, “I am sure we may leave to you the privilege of -seeing Miss Despard to her own door.”</p> - -<p>“And I am here,” said the Signor. Nevertheless,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102">{vol.-I-102}</a></span> poor Lottie felt as if -she had stepped suddenly out of heaven to earth again when she found -herself between the musician and the minor canon outside the Deanery -door.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103">{vol.-I-103}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">LAW.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Law</span> went with his sister dutifully to the door in the great cloister. He -did not care much for the honour and glory of going to the Deanery, but -he was pleased to walk with Lottie in her pretty evening dress, with the -roses in her hair. This gave him a certain gratification and sense of -family pride, though he scoffed at that sentiment in general. Law did -not feel that on the whole he had much to be proud of. Still, he was -proud of Lottie, who was a creature quite out of the common, and like -nobody else he had ever seen. He waited till the Deanery door was opened -to her. That was a world of which Law knew nothing, and did not want to -know anything. How Lottie had managed to get among these fine people, -and why she liked to get among them, were equally strange to him. He -admired her for the first, and wondered at her for the last. She was, at -the present moment, the only lady belonging to the Chevaliers who had -got footing in the Deanery; and this was just like Lottie, just what he -would have expected from her, he said to himself; but how she could -stand those old fogies, with their<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104">{vol.-I-104}</a></span> pride and their finery, that was -what he could not tell. All the same, it gave him a certain -gratification to leave her there in her element among the great people. -And when the door closed upon him Law went off about his own business. -He went through the cloister, and a curious little back cloister -beyond—for there were many intricacies about the Abbey, the different -degrees of the hierarchy being very distinct, one cloister for the -Chapter, another for the Minor people, and a third for the lay clerks. -He went through the little square of the minor cloister, and came out -upon a stone staircase which abridged the slopes of St. Michael’s Hill, -and led straight down into the town. The lights had begun to be lighted -in the picturesque street which wound round the foot of the hill; they -twinkled here and there in the shops opposite, and appeared in glimmers -in the villages across the river. The dim misty plain lying doubly broad -in the twilight, stretching out vaguely to the sky, was here and there -defined by one of those twinkles which showed where a group of houses -stood together. The town was all out in the streets, and on the river -this lovely evening: boats floating dimly about the stream, people -walking vaguely up and down the hill. And the air was filled with -pleasant soft, uncertain sounds of talking, of footsteps, now and then -the clocks chiming or striking, and a bugle sounding faint and far from -where the soldiers were quartered, for there was a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105">{vol.-I-105}</a></span> military depôt not -far off. Law stopped at the head of the Steps, as they were called, and -looked down over all this scene. The mere notion of being out in the -<i>grand air</i>, as the French call it, with somehow a fuller sense of space -and width than we can find a word for, was pleasant to Law; but if he -paused, it was neither to enjoy the picture before him, nor was it -because he had no definite place to go to. He knew very well where he -was going. No vagueness on that point was in his mind; and he did not -care a brass farthing for the landscape; but he paused at the head of -the Steps and looked about, just as a child will pause before eating his -cake, a pause of anticipation and spiritual enjoyment of the dainty -before it goes to his lips. Then he ran down the Steps three at a time, -skimming down the long flights, turning the corners like a bird. To take -care of his sister had been duty, but Law was about his own business -now.</p> - -<p>What was Law’s business? In all St. Michael’s there was not a more idle -boy. He was over eighteen, and he did nothing. Vague hopes that he would -get some appointment—that something would turn up for him—that he -would suddenly awake and find himself in an office somehow, doing -something and making money—had been in his own mind and that of his -family all his life. Law had no objection. Had some one taken him and -set him down at once in any office, it was quite possible that he might -have done<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106">{vol.-I-106}</a></span> the best he could in his place, and succeeded as well as most -men; but in the meantime there were a great many preliminaries to go -through, for which Law had never been required or encouraged to fit -himself. In these days of examination, when the pitifullest little bit -of an office builds up those prickly thorns, those red-hot ploughshares -before its door, how was he to get into any office without education? He -had spent all his earlier years, as has been seen, in eluding school as -cleverly as possible, and doing as little as he could of his lessons; -and now here he was on the verge of manhood, with nothing to do and no -great wish to do anything;—a great, straight, powerful young fellow, -without any absolute aim or tendency to evil, but good for nothing, not -capable of anything, with neither purpose nor object in his life. He -could row very well when anyone would give him an oar. He was not amiss -at cricket when anyone asked him to play. He could walk with any man, -and had won a race or two, and was quite capable of competing for a high -jump, or for throwing a cricket-ball, or any of those useful -accomplishments; but as for anything else he was not capable. He hated -books with that sincere and earnest hatred which seems possible only to -those who know books to be the preliminary of everything—a peculiarity -of this examining age. Never before surely was such a candid and -thorough detestation of the tools of knowledge possible. Law knew<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107">{vol.-I-107}</a></span> that -no door could possibly open to him without them, and therefore he hated -and despised them, illogically no doubt, but very cordially all the -same; and so went drifting along upon the stream, not asking what was to -become of him, never thinking much of the subject, though he suffered -greatly from want of pocket-money, and would gladly have made some -exertion from time to time to obtain that, had he known what to do.</p> - -<p>This want of pocket-money is the grand drawback to the education or no -education of the youths of the nineteenth century. So long as they can -have enough of that, what a pleasant life is theirs! For it does you no -particular harm to be supposed to be “working for an examination” so -long as you don’t work much for that, and are exempted, for the sake of -it, from all other kinds of work. Boating and cricketing and running -races, and every kind of exercise, are known now-a-days to be compatible -with the hardest mental labour, and he is a stern parent indeed who -interferes with his son’s training in such essential points. But all -these delights are more or less dependent upon pocket-money. Law, whose -bread and cheese had never yet failed, and whose conscience was not -active, would have found his life quite pleasant but for that; but it -was hard upon him not to be able to pay his subscription to a cricket -club, nor the hire of a boat, nor even the entry money for a race, -though that was sure to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108">{vol.-I-108}</a></span> repay itself abundantly if he won it. This was -very hard upon him, and often stimulated him to the length of a -resolution that he would work to-morrow and conquer all his subjects, -and “scrape through” by sheer force of will, so as to have an income of -his own. But the habit of idleness unfortunately overcame the resolution -next morning, which was a pity, and Law “loafed,” as he himself said, -not being able to afford to “do anything.” It is needless to inform the -instructed who have to do with youths working for examinations, that it -is cricket and boating and athletics these heroes mean when they talk of -“having something to do.”</p> - -<p>Law, however, had a pleasure before him which had no connection with -pocket-money. He went straight down with the directness of habit, till -he came to a lane very tortuous and narrow, crowded with builders’-yards -and coal-merchants, and affording glimpses of the little wharves where a -little traffic was carried on, edging the river. Threading his way -through them, he came to a red brick house, the front of which overhung -the stream with its projecting gable. Law went in through a door which -stood open always, and showed signs of much and constant use. There were -lodgings upstairs, which were very pleasant in summer, and which were -always let, and made a very comfortable item in the earnings of the -family; but it was not upstairs that Law went, though that would have -done him good. On the first floor, in the room<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109">{vol.-I-109}</a></span> with the square window, -which overlooked and indeed overhung the river, the excellent curate was -living with whom Law occasionally “read,” and to whom no doubt he would -have said he was going had Lottie seen him at this door. But Law had no -intention of disturbing the curate, who for his part did not want his -pupil. He passed the staircase altogether, and pushed open a green baize -door, beyond which was a short passage leading into a room, all ablaze -with gas. The door of the room was wide open, and so were the windows, -to admit all the air that was possible, and round the large table -between sat three or four young women working and talking. They were -very busy; the great table was covered with silk and muslin, and all -kinds of flimsy trimming, and though they chatted they were working as -for bare life. As Law sauntered in they all looked up for a moment, and -threw a smile or a nod or half-a-dozen words at him, but scarcely -intermitted a stitch. “We’re awful busy; we can’t so much as look at -you; we’ve got some wedding things to finish for to-morrow,” said one -fair-haired girl who seemed specially to appropriate his visit. She -pushed her chair a little aside without pausing in her work, as if -accustomed to make room for him; and Law took a chair and placed it -sideways, so that he could lean his idle elbow on the table between this -busy needlewoman and the rest. Perhaps as a stormy sea gives zest to the -enjoyment of tranquillity on shore, so the extreme<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110">{vol.-I-110}</a></span> occupation of this -workroom made him feel his own absolute leisure more delightful.</p> - -<p>“Who is going to be married?” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, you know just as well as I do. I am sure you have heard us talking -of it for the last week. Polly, didn’t you tell Mr. Despard all about -it? It’s a lady you know. It’s Miss Hare at the Golden Eagle, who is one -of your papa’s great friends. I don’t know what the Captain will do when -she’s gone. Polly, do you?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what the Captain has to do with her, nor me neither,” said -the young lady at the head of the table. The rest of the girls were -sisters, with fair frizzy locks a little out of order after the long -day’s work, what with the warmth of the room, and the fluttering of the -faint breeze from the river that ruffled the well-crimped tresses. But -Polly was of a different stamp. She had a mountain of dark brown hair -upon her head in plaits and curls and puffs innumerable, and though she -was sallow in complexion, had commanding features, a grand aquiline -nose, and brilliant eyes. “The Captain nor me, we hav’nt much to say to -that sort,” said Polly. “I don’t go with them that has a word and a -laugh for everybody. What I like is a young lady that respects herself. -If you work for your living, that’s not to say that you ain’t as good as -the best of them. Stick up for yourself, and other folks will think of -you according, that’s what I say.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111">{vol.-I-111}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I am sure Miss Hare always sticks up for herself,” said the girl by -Law’s side. “Going to be married in a veil, like one of the quality!”</p> - -<p>“And so would I, if it was me,” cried Polly. “The quality! What are they -better than us, only they’ve got a pocketful of money. If I was the -Queen, I’d do away with them all. I’d be the Queen, and all the rest -should be the people. There shouldn’t be one more than another, or one -greater than another, only me. And then shouldn’t I do whatever I -pleased, and cut off their heads if they said a word!”</p> - -<p>This instinctive perception of the secret of despotism made Law laugh, -who thought he knew a great deal better. “It would be a funny world with -Queen Polly over it,” he said. “I hope you’d take me for your prime -minister.”</p> - -<p>Polly gave him a look of saucy malice. “I’d take the Captain,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Has he been here to-night, Emma? I think he’s always coming here,” said -Law, under his breath. It was a kind of growl which the young fellow -gave out when he spoke low, in the voice which not very long ago had -been treble, a soprano, as clear and pure as Lottie’s—but it was -extremely bass now.</p> - -<p>“He wants to know,” said Emma, with a glance at the others as she pinned -her work straight, “if the Captain has been here;” upon which there was -a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112">{vol.-I-112}</a></span> chorus of laughter, making Law red and angry. He turned upon them -with a furious look.</p> - -<p>“I should like to know how you would all like it,” said the boy, “if -your governor were to come poking in the very same place where——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you may make yourself quite easy, Mr. Lawrence,” said Polly, with a -toss of her elaborately dressed head. “He don’t meddle with you. The -Captain is a man of taste, he ain’t a boy, like some folks. He knows -what’s what, the Captain does. Other girls may have their fancies; I -don’t say anything against that, but give me a man as knows the world, -and knows what he wants. That’s the sort for me.”</p> - -<p>“She gets more insufferable than ever. I wonder how you can put up with -her,” said Law under his breath.</p> - -<p>“Doesn’t she,” said Emma in a whisper. “I wish she had never come into -our workroom; but she has taste, mother says, and we have to put up with -it. Everything has to give way to the work,” the girl added, threading -her needle; and as she made a knot upon the end of the new thread, she -shook her head with a sigh.</p> - -<p>Everything has to give way to the work! Law could not but smile, feeling -the superiority of his gentlemanhood. With him it was the work that gave -way to everything. “Poor little Em!” he said, with a little laugh. She -was only seventeen, a year younger<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113">{vol.-I-113}</a></span> than he was; her forefinger was -seamed into furrows with her needle, and sometimes bled, which called -forth no sympathy, but only scoldings, from the forewoman or her mother, -when an unlucky red mark appeared on a hem. Emma did not very much mind -the scoldings, which came natural to her, and she never made any -comparison of herself with Law. He was a <i>gentleman</i>, that made all the -difference. And it was a great deal nicer, and much more important, to -have such a fine fellow to keep company with, than a young painter or -carpenter, or even a tailor, which was what ’Liza had to be content -with. Mr. Despard was a very different sort of person. As Law whispered -to her, Emma felt her heart swell with pride. She went on with her work -all the same, sometimes threatening to prick him with the needle which -was at the end of that long thread. Emma was only “running a skirt,” not -trusted as yet with the more difficult parts of the work, and she -pointed her needle at Law’s nose when he came too close. But it was very -sweet to her to have him there. Polly might brag as she pleased of the -Captain—the Captain was old, and what was the good of him? He did -nothing but puff Polly up with pride, the younger girls thought, and -nothing would ever come of it. But Law was young, and there was no -telling what might come of that. Emma threatened him with her needle, -but in her heart was very proud of him. And there he sat and talked to -her, while<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114">{vol.-I-114}</a></span> Lottie was having her little triumph among all the fine -people at the Rectory. The Welting girls were all pleased to have Law -there. They liked to talk of Mr. Despard, “from the Abbey,” and how they -“could not keep him out of their workroom.” By and by they began to joke -about his idleness, the only idle one among so busy a company. “Can’t -you give him something simple to do—a skirt to run up or a long hem?” -“Oh, yes,” said Emma. “Do, Polly, he bothers me so I can’t get my skirt -done.” Polly opened her drawer, and drew out from it the current number -of a distinguished periodical, which all these young women admired.</p> - -<p>“I’ll tell you what he can do,” she said, “and make himself useful—for -we’ve got to sit up all night a’most, and there’s nothing makes work go -like reading out loud. Mr. Lawrence, if you want to be as good as your -professions, and help us young ladies on, as are far harder worked than -the like of you knows of even, there’s the last number of the <i>Family -Herald</i>, and we’re all that anxious, we don’t know how to bear it, to -hear how Lady Araminta got on——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, give it me,” said Emma, with her eyes sparkling. “Oh, give it me! -Oh, you nasty cruel creature, to have it in your drawer all the time, -and never to tell!”</p> - -<p>“I’ll give it to Mr. Despard,” said Polly, “and we’ll all be done half -as soon again if he’ll read it out loud.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115">{vol.-I-115}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Give it here,” said Law with lordly good-nature, and he began at once -upon his task. How the needles flew as he read! Lady Araminta was a -wonderful heroine. She wore nothing less than velvet and satin, and -carried her diamonds about with her wherever she went, and the title -deeds of her estate in the bosom of her dress. Law leaned his long arm -on the table, sometimes pausing to take breath and playing with Emma’s -pins and cotton. He would thus tantalise them now and then when the -story grew most exciting and his auditors most breathless. He was <i>bon -prince</i> among them all, very good-natured and willing to please them, -though Emma had his special vows. His head was not so much turned as was -the head of virtuous Lottie, listening to the applause of Mr. Rollo -Ridsdale, but he was very happy with this little court about him all the -same.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116">{vol.-I-116}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">A NEW LIGHT.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was late before Law got home. In the first place he read the <i>Family -Herald</i> through to his interested and busy auditors. Their needles flew -like lightning along the lengthy seams; trimmings were as nothing to -them, and even a hem became interesting as he read. When he had pursued -Lady Araminta to the end of this little portion of her history, showing -how she refused that wicked Duke who was at the bottom of all her -troubles, and whose expedients to get her into his power were so -manifold, he began the next story—and so on till all was finished. It -took some time to get through the delightful pennyworth. What good it -did to the poor girls at their work! They were not patient, superior, -noble-minded needlewomen, pensively bearing up against the privations of -their lot, but very commonplace girls, grumbling at their privations -frankly, yet sitting up half the night over wedding finery or funeral -robes, without any very clear idea that it was a hardship, or indeed -more than an inevitable feature of “the dressmaking.” It was under this -simple matter-of-fact aspect that their vigil<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117">{vol.-I-117}</a></span> appeared to them now, and -they did not feel it any very great grievance; but, such as it was, it -was infinitely lightened by Law and the <i>Family Herald</i>. He was, to tell -the truth, a little bit interested himself in the stories. He thought -them very finely written. He liked the bits about Araminta’s true, but -alas! poor and unfortunate lover. This lover was tall and strong, -interesting and clever beyond description. He could do whatever he tried -to do, and managed to live comfortably upon nothing at all. Law had a -half notion that this elegant and perfect being was like himself. He -would not have breathed it to anyone, but yet he thought so. And when -one story was finished he began another. He did not mind whether it was -the beginning, or the middle, or the end of the tale; all was the same -to Law; he went stoutly on, and read the whole number through—poetry, -answers to correspondents, and all. It was not very fine literature -perhaps, or, rather, it was very superfine literature, with nobody below -the rank of a baronet in the leading stories; but what it did for these -poor dressmaking girls! They followed Lady Araminta through every turn -of her wonderful fortunes, with eyes that glowed and shone over their -needlework. They identified themselves with her, exclaiming, “That’s -just what I’d have done!” and, “No, I wouldn’t have had him, not I, if -he’d been fifty dukes!” with true enthusiasm. Their needles flew, and -the work got on as by magic;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118">{vol.-I-118}</a></span> their excitement showing itself in the -speed with which they worked. The wedding things were done an hour -sooner than they would otherwise have been done, under this stimulus, -and it was little more than twelve o’clock when Polly, after folding up -the last dress, in readiness to be sent home first thing in the morning, -said, “Now, Mr. Lawrence, you’ve been a deal of use. If you like, you -can see me home!”</p> - -<p>“As if it was a treat for him to see her home!” Emma cried, who owned -the special allegiance of Law; but the youth for his part had no -objection. It was a beautiful night, and a little additional walk was -nothing but a pleasure to him; and he was quite good-natured, ready to -exert himself in any way that was not legitimate and necessary. Emma, -indeed, did not smile upon this undertaking. She (who had been obliged -to do as much before now without anyone to take care of her) did not see -what Polly wanted with an escort in a quiet place like St. Michael’s. -“You’ll meet nobody worse than the policeman,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Policemen are bad enough, sometimes,” said Polly.</p> - -<p>“Mind you don’t meet the Captain,” said Emma’s elder sister, “and get -him into trouble with his papa.”</p> - -<p>At this Polly laughed, tossing her head with its innumerable plaits and -puffs. “I hope I can manage the Captain,” she said. And whoever had -heard the style of Polly’s conversation as she walked up the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119">{vol.-I-119}</a></span> sweep of -the steep street by Law’s side, with the soft night air blowing in their -faces, would have recognised at once the superiority of Polly to all the -insinuations addressed to her. All was very quiet in the High Street of -St. Michael’s: they met nobody worse than the policeman, as Emma had -suggested; and everything was still and dark, except the stars shining -far away overhead; for the shop-windows had long been closed, and the -lamps glimmered few and far between.</p> - -<p>“You mustn’t think anything of what these foolish things say about the -Captain,” said Polly; “because I’m a bit more reasonable than the rest, -he likes to have a chat with me now and again. He’s a very well-informed -man is your papa; but you mustn’t think nothing of what they say——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t!” said Law, with the serenest confidence; “I know the -governor’s way.”</p> - -<p>This, however, was not a reply which pleased Polly. “What do you mean by -the governor’s way?” she cried sharply. “You are not half respectful -enough, if you would like to hear my opinion. You shouldn’t talk of the -Captain like that; he’s a fine man, and he’s one that many in this town -thinks a deal of.”</p> - -<p>“Is he really?” said Law, in genuine surprise; “I did not know that. I -wonder what kind of people they are? Is it far off where you live, -Polly? I haven’t got a latchkey, so I don’t want to be very late.”</p> - -<p>“You never thought of being late so long as you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120">{vol.-I-120}</a></span> were sitting by Emma; -though what you can see in a little white-haired thing like that, like a -white cat! You haven’t got a latchkey? I should think not at your age. -Mr. Lawrence, take my advice, and never be so late out of bed unless -there is a very good reason for it.”</p> - -<p>“I like that!” cried Law, “when it was you that kept me there all the -time.”</p> - -<p>“I thought it would do you good,” said Polly. “I am almost sure you had -not done a thing besides, or looked into a book for the whole day.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! I should not mind standing an examination in the <i>Family Herald</i>,” -Law said with a laugh. He had occupied the post of reader in the -workroom before, and knew a great deal about Lady Araminta. There could -not be any doubt that he was very good-natured, and ready to make -himself of use.</p> - -<p>“I should like to know,” said Polly—and though he could scarcely see -her face, Law felt, with a mixture of amusement and indignation, by the -sound of her voice, that Polly, too, meant to give him good advice—“I -should like to know, Mr. Lawrence, what you intend to be? Are you going -into the army, like the Captain? If I were a young gentleman, that’s -what I should choose above everything.”</p> - -<p>“I can’t afford the army, worse luck,” cried Law; “we haven’t got any -money, and a fellow can’t live on his pay. And there’s those dash’d -examinations to pass everywhere before you can get into anything; i<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121">{vol.-I-121}</a></span>t’s -enough to drive a man out of his senses. I sometimes think I shall -emigrate—that’s the only thing you can do without an examination.”</p> - -<p>“But you can’t do that without money—a little money at least,” said -Polly. “If I were you, I should make a push and get in somewhere. I -can’t think how you can stay at home doing nothing, a great strong young -man like you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! as for being strong, that don’t do much for an exam.,” said Law. -“The little fellows stand the best chance there.”</p> - -<p>“I wouldn’t make jokes about it, if I were you. I wonder how you can go -on living on the Captain, and such a burden on him—both you and your -sister——”</p> - -<p>“Hallo,” said Law in extreme surprise. The mention of Lottie bewildered -him. He was not even angry for the moment—he was so profoundly -astonished.</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed, you and your sister too. You don’t show any consideration -for the Captain, and how can you expect that he’s always to be thinking -of you? The Captain is a young man still, and he is a fine man, and if -he were to marry again, as would be very natural at his age, where would -you and Miss Despard be?”</p> - -<p>“Let my sister alone, if you please,” said Law, with a momentary flash -of anger; and then he relapsed into a laugh. “The governor should be -much obliged to you, Polly, for taking his part.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122">{vol.-I-122}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Somebody ought to take his part,” said Polly. “I don’t suppose he’s -much over fifty—what I call quite a young man still; and why should he -deny himself and spend all he’s got on two grown-up young people that -ought to be making their own living? A man like the Captain, he wants -his ease and his little comforts and a wife to look after him—that’s -what he wants. He ain’t an old man to give in to his family. If I were -to put upon my folks like that, do you think I’d be walking up St. -Michael’s Hill at this hour of the night, after slaving and stitching -all day? Not a bit of it, Mr. Lawrence. If I were to do as you’re doing, -I might sit at home and make myself comfortable; but I was always one -for being independent, and as for the Captain, poor dear! he oughtn’t to -be spending his money upon them that can do for themselves. It is -himself he ought to be thinking of, to get all the pleasure he can as -long as he’s able to enjoy it. And if he were to marry again, as there’s -nothing more likely, where would you and Miss Lottie be? Oh, yes, I know -your names quite well,” said Polly. “We often talk about you. These sort -of names for short are a mistake. For instance me, my name’s Maria, -that’s a very lady-like name; but what does it matter when everybody -calls me Polly? but, if my name’s common, nobody can say of me that I -don’t behave handsome to my parents,” Polly said with emphasis. As for -Law, he had felt himself growing hot and cold all through this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123">{vol.-I-123}</a></span> speech. -It plunged him into an entirely new world of thought. He tried to laugh, -but there was no laughter in his mind.</p> - -<p>“It is very kind of you, Polly,” he said, with scorn in his voice, “to -take the trouble to give me so much good advice.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I assure you it’s not for your sake, but the Captain’s,” said -Polly. “I told him if ever I had a chance with either of you, you should -hear a bit of my mind—and I saw my opportunity to-night—that’s why I -asked you to come with me, Mr. Lawrence. Oh, it wasn’t for the pleasure -of your society! I told the Captain I’d give you a bit of my mind. This -is my home, so I’ll bid you good-night, and I hope you’ll lay to heart -what I say.”</p> - -<p>Law turned up the Abbey Hill when thus dismissed with much secret -excitement in his mind. It was altogether a new idea to him that his -father was as Polly said, quite a young man still, and that it was on -himself, not on his grown-up children, that his money should be spent. -Law had never looked upon the income of the family as belonging -exclusively to his father. It <i>was</i> the family income, and it had seemed -to him that he had just as good a right to have everything he wanted as -his father had. As a matter of fact he did not get all he wanted, as -Captain Despard managed to do; but that was because his father had the -command of everything, not that he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124">{vol.-I-124}</a></span> had a better right to it than Law. -The idea that he had no right at all, as Polly seemed to think, and that -his father might make the home untenable by marrying somebody, perhaps -Polly herself, struck him as the most extraordinary of revelations. It -was too extraordinary to be thought of calmly—his brain boiled and -bubbled with the extraordinariness and novelty of the thought. The -governor, who was only not an old fogey because he was so much less -respectable, less orderly than old fogeys ought to be!—Law could not -associate his father’s image with the idea of, even, comparative youth. -But he could not dismiss the suggestion from his mind. He tried to -laugh, but something seemed to hang over him like a threat, like a cloud -of evil omen. He walked quickly up the slope to the Abbey gate, trying -to shake off the uneasy feeling in his mind—trying to postpone at least -the new idea which he could not get rid of. When, however, Law had got -into the Precincts he saw a passenger not much less active and -considerably more jaunty than himself on the way before him, walking -with a slight occasional lurch, up the pavement to the Lodges. The lurch -was quite slight, and might not have been noticed by an indifferent eye, -but Law noted it with the jealous observation of one whose own credit -was at stake. It was hard upon a fellow, he thought, that his father -should be seen going home night after night with a lurch in his walk, -and that his name should be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125">{vol.-I-125}</a></span> recognised in all the lowest quarters of -the town as that of “the Captain’s son.” Why should he suffer for such a -cause? Other old men were respectable, were no shame to their sons, but -on the contrary furnished a margin of honour and reputation upon which -to draw when there was occasion; but this was not the case with Captain -Despard. Other old men—but there suddenly flashed across Law’s mind as -he instinctively placed his father in this class, a recollection of the -words which had just been said to him—“He is what I call a young man -still.” Pricked by this thought, he looked at the figure before him with -eyes suddenly cleared from the mists of habit and tradition, and saw it -in an altogether new light. Captain Despard was straight and active: he -carried his head high, and his step, though to-night slightly irregular, -was both firm and light. To see him walking in front humming and -whistling by turns, perhaps with a certain bravado to show how steady he -was, gave Law the most uncomfortable sensation. It was true what Polly -had said. This was no old fogey, no heavy father; though up to this -moment Law had looked upon the Captain in no other light. He felt a -shiver come over him, a sudden realisation of all the possibilities. Who -should say that the governor ought not to do what he liked best, -whatever that might be? Law felt conscious that he himself, who was so -much younger, did what he liked in indifference to everybody’s opinion, -and he was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126">{vol.-I-126}</a></span> under no affectionate delusion as to the superior virtue of -his father. What if Polly were right? Polly perhaps had a better chance -of knowing the Captain’s wishes than either his son or his daughter, to -whom he was not likely to talk on such subjects. A chill came over the -lad though the night was so warm. Life had always seemed sure enough to -him, though it had its privations. He had to put up with that chronic -want of pocket-money—and with frequent “rows” from his father, and -passionate remonstrances from Lottie. These were the drawbacks of -existence; but Law was aware that, except in very favourable -circumstances indeed, as when you were born a duke, or at least born to -the possession of five thousand a year or so, existence was very seldom -without drawbacks; this, however, was very much worse than the want of -pocket-money; the governor with a new wife, perhaps Polly! The situation -was too horrible to be realised, but for the moment the idea seemed to -pour a current of ice into Law’s veins.</p> - -<p>He had no latchkey, but as soon as he saw his father he made up his mind -to take advantage of Captain Despard’s entrance in a way which he had -found practicable before this. Light and swift as he was, when the -Captain had fumbled and opened the door, Law stole close behind him and -entered with him in the darkness. “What’s that?” Captain Despard -growled, feeling the movement of the air as his son<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127">{vol.-I-127}</a></span> passed. “I’ll swear -there’s a ghost in this house,” he added, grumbling to himself. Law, -however, was safely out of the way before his father managed to strike a -light, and went, swaying from side to side, up the narrow staircase -which creaked under him. The young fellow, standing back in the -darkness, saw Captain Despard’s face illuminated by the light of the -candle he carried, and gazed at it with eyes sharpened by anxiety. It -was a handsome face—the contour still perfect, the hair crisp and -curling, a heavy military moustache shadowing the well-formed lip. The -Captain was flushed, his eyes were blinking, half-closed, and that -unloveliest look that can be seen on a man’s face, the look of partial -intoxication approaching the sleepy stage, took all spirit and sentiment -from him. Yet Law could not but acknowledge that his father was a -handsome man. He stood quite still, watching that progress upstairs, -half because he was unwilling to be seen, half because he was anxious to -see. Captain Despard was “a fine man,” as Polly had said. Law could see -now, looking at him between the bars of the railing which guarded the -little staircase, that there was nothing in common between him and the -old white-haired Chevaliers, old men not strong enough to be warlike, -but courteous and gentle as becomes old soldiers, who sunned themselves -on the pavement before the Lodges. Captain Despard, middle-aged and -self-assertive, was as different as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128">{vol.-I-128}</a></span> possible from those old gentlemen -with their honourable scars. He had none of their honours nor of the -grace of old service; but he was strong in life and vigour, a kind of -superiority which Law could appreciate. A grain of pride mingled in the -exasperation with which he acknowledged this to himself—and yet he was -not only exasperated but alarmed. He retired to bed very softly -afterwards, creeping on tiptoe and in the dark up the stairs. There was -still a gleam of light under Lottie’s door, but Law preferred not to -direct his sister’s attention to the late hour of his own return by -going straight to her room to relieve himself of his trouble. He did not -want to be forced into confidences or to betray where he had himself -been, and how he had heard the alarming prophecies which had so suddenly -cleared his sight; and though the temptation was great he resisted it. -Thus the lights were burning all at once in three of the little rooms in -Captain Despard’s house, each illuminating a separate world of -excitement, unsuspected by the others. The Captain’s share of the -disturbance was less of the mind than the body. He had lost some money -which he could not afford to lose, and was annoyed on this account; and -he was excited, but more sleepy, on account of the potations which had -accompanied his play. “By——, I’ll have it back to-morrow night—luck -can’t be so against me one night after another.” This was the only -burden of his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129">{vol.-I-129}</a></span> simple and uncomplicated reflections. He thought nothing -of his children one way or another. Both his children, however, though -in different ways, were thinking of him. Lottie, though she dared not -openly sit up for her father, remained up in her own room until he came -in, and she had made sure that he did not want anything, and was not -likely to set the house on fire. But Law’s reflections were more serious -than those of the other two. It seemed to the idle lad as if suddenly a -real burden had got on to his shoulders. He was thoroughly frightened -out of the pleasant calm of nature—the sense that everything must go on -as everything had gone since he could remember. In later days, indeed, -things had gone better for Law—Lottie had managed now and then to -scrape a shilling or two off the housekeeping to give him, and of late -she had not bullied him quite so much as usual. The current had been -flowing more evenly—everything had conspired to make the happy-go-lucky -of his life more smooth than before. He woke up with all the more fright -and surprise to the sudden danger now.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130">{vol.-I-130}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">TRIUMPH AND TERROR.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Lottie</span> had gone home that night, it need not be said, with her head full -of excitement. Had she not good reason to look upon this evening as of -importance in her life? She had met the man who, before he had ever -spoken to her, had, according to all appearances, placed her on the -highest pinnacle on which a girl can be placed—the throne of a romantic -love. Though it had been a temporary downfall to her to be placed in the -charge of Mr. Ashford and the Signor, instead of crossing the Dean’s -Walk in the company of this secret and poetical lover, yet she was -almost glad to be thus let drop into quietness, to avert any word or -look too much, which might have spoiled the visionary elevation on which -she felt herself. Yes, she was glad that they had never been alone. Had -he whispered an avowal of any kind into her ear, she was not, she knew, -prepared for it; Lottie was honest even in her self-delusion, and she -knew that, however profoundly to her advantage it might be, she could -not make any response to a man whom she did not know, whom she was -speaking to for the first<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131">{vol.-I-131}</a></span> time, notwithstanding her consciousness that -he must have been thinking of her for a long time. She could not have -made any fit reply. She must have said something which probably would -have hurt him in the fervour of his romantic passion; for, though -grateful to him and romantically touched by his evident devotion, Lottie -could not have persuaded herself that he was anything to her except a -delightful wonder and most flattering novelty. No, it was better, much -better, that he did not come; she must have hurt his feelings, -discouraged him, probably driven him away from her; and she was very far -from wishing to drive him away. Lottie thought, with an innocent -calculation, if she saw a little more of him, had a little time given -her to make his acquaintance, that probably she would come to love him -quite naturally and spontaneously; but at present it was not possible -that she could do so, and she felt a natural shrinking from any -premature disclosure of his feelings. Thus it was evidently most -fortunate that the Dean had interposed, that Rollo had not been allowed -to come home with her—fortunate, and yet a little disappointing too. -There had been a very few words exchanged with her companions as they -crossed the Dean’s Walk. Mr. Ashford had most kindly and courteously -reminded her that she had expressed a wish to speak to him about -something. “It is too late now to ask what it was,” he said; “I must not -keep you out of doors at this hour;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132">{vol.-I-132}</a></span> but if you will permit me, I will -call and inquire in what way I can be of use to you?” “You know in what -way <i>I</i> would like to be of use to you, Miss Despard,” the Signor said -on the other side. All this was very flattering, even though she might -be displeased by the Signor’s reiteration of his disagreeable offer. She -made him a curtsey like Lady Caroline, while to the minor canon she gave -her hand, which perhaps was quite sufficient to mark her different -estimation of them. And indeed the Signor had been very kind about the -accompaniments, which he had certainly played to perfection. This -recollection came to her mind as he thanked her for her singing, -undaunted by the stiffness of her leave-taking. “Indeed, I owe you more, -a great deal more, than you can possibly owe me,” Lottie said, with a -burst of compunction; “I never sang so well before, because I never had -such an accompaniment.” “Then I hope I may accompany you very often -again,” he said, with a smile, as he went away. Thus even with the -Signor, Lottie felt herself in perfect good-humour and charity. A man -who paid such compliments to her voice, how could she be hard upon him, -even if he made a little mistake in respect to her position? And she -went in out of the summer night in a state of celestial satisfaction -with all the people surrounding her—and herself. Even Lady Caroline had -melted into something which was warmth for her. She had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133">{vol.-I-133}</a></span> said, “I have -enjoyed your singing very much, Miss Despard,” and had touched Lottie’s -hand with two limp fingers—that was something, indeed it was much for -Lady Caroline. And all the other great ladies had spoken, or at least -had smiled upon Lottie, thanking her. What could she have wished for -more? She went up into her little tiny room, which was not much bigger -than Lady Caroline’s grand piano, and throwing off the Indian shawl (if -Mrs. O’Shaughnessy could but have seen it!) on the floor, sat down upon -her little white bed and began to think. To think! nothing of the -sort—to go over everything that had happened, with a dazzle of light -and delight and triumph round her. She seemed to herself to have thrown -down all the boundaries that had hitherto separated her from her lawful -sphere. If a suitor should come from that higher and better world who -could wonder now? Had she not been adopted into it—received to her just -place at last?</p> - -<p>And naturally it was upon Rollo that her recollections chiefly centred; -he was the chief figure of the whole company to Lottie. She remembered -minutely everything he had said and done, the expression of his face -(though she put infinitely more meaning in it than was there), the tone -of his voice. How the room had become at once full of interest, of -excitement, when he came in, clearing away all the dimness! Lottie had -scarcely time even to wonder how and where<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134">{vol.-I-134}</a></span> their next meeting would be, -for thinking of this first meeting. How his face had lighted up when he -saw that she was there; how he had been caught by some one on his way to -her, and kept talking in spite of himself, with his eyes upon her all -the time; how he had escaped and pressed through all the fine company to -get to her side; how he had confessed that he had but a very visionary -right to claim her acquaintance at all, but nevertheless meant to stand -on that right as, for the time being, the son of the house! Lottie had -scarcely forgotten a word of all he said. And, as a matter of fact, -Rollo had been very careful to behave himself with due discretion, not -to make it too apparent that her voice was the thing that most -interested him. She thought that he admired her singing as a part of his -enthusiasm for herself. She had not a suspicion of the real state of the -case. It seemed to her that her voice was a delightful discovery to him, -a something <i>pardessus le marché</i>, an added charm; that it was the sole -foundation of his apparent enthusiasm never occurred to the girl; -neither, though she knew that her general triumph was caused by her -singing, did she solely set down to that cause the friendly looks and -smiles and flattering compliments she had received. This was absurd, but -we do not pretend that Lottie was beyond the reach of absurdity. She -knew that it was her singing which had suddenly silenced all the -conversation going on in the room, and called the at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135">{vol.-I-135}</a></span>tention of -everybody; but yet it was surely something more; it was herself, not her -voice, which brought that kindly look to their eyes as they smiled upon -her. It is hard to acknowledge to ourselves that it is for some special, -perhaps accidental, quality we may possess, that we are favoured and -esteemed by our fellow-creatures. Human nature is humbled by the -conviction that it is the possession of a gift worthy of popularity -which makes an individual popular. We all prefer to be prized for -nothing at all, for ourselves. And this, in the face of circumstances, -and clean against all reason, was what Lottie hoped and determinedly -believed. She could not consent to the other idea. To be praised and -made friends with <i>for her voice</i> was intolerable. The only approbation -which is really flattering and delightful is that which is given upon no -ground at all.</p> - -<p>She had been sitting thus for some time on her bed, musing, with eyes -that sparkled and a heart that fluttered with happiness; and had taken -off her evening gown, and loosed the roses from her hair, and wrapped -her white shining satin shoulders in a white cotton dressing-gown; and -had even brushed out those long dark locks, and twisted them up again -close to her head for the night, with innumerable fancies twisted out -and in of all she did, before Captain Despard, fumbling for the -key-hole, opened his own door and came in, in the dark. It was Lottie’s -habit to sit<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136">{vol.-I-136}</a></span> up till he came in, but to-night she had been too much -occupied by her own concerns to hear his approach, and it was only when -he came upstairs that she woke up to think of him. Lottie’s experienced -ear caught the lurch in his step, just as Law’s experienced eye had -caught it. “Again!” she said to herself, with a momentary flash of -anger; but it did not make her wretched as it might have done a more -sensitive daughter. Lottie was accustomed to accept her father without -question, not expecting much of him, and somewhat disposed, when he did -not come up even to the little she expected, to satisfy herself that it -was just like papa. But his entrance relieved her from her habitual -vigil. She heard Law steal upstairs afterwards, and wondered how or when -he had got in, and where he went at night, with more curiosity than she -expended on her father; but even that did not much disturb Lottie, who -had been used all her life to irregular entrances and exits. After a -while all was still in the little house, notwithstanding the anxieties -and excitements collected under its roof. Disquietude and trouble could -not keep Law from sleeping any more than excitement and triumph could -keep his sister; and, as for the Captain, the sleep of the just was -never so profound as that which wrapped him in a not too lovely -tranquillity. The air was all thrilling with emotion of one kind or -another, but they slept as profoundly as if they had not a care in the -world—as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137">{vol.-I-137}</a></span> soundly as the good O’Shaughnessys next door, who had been -asleep since eleven o’clock, and who had no cares but those of their -neighbours to disquiet them; or old Colonel Dalrymple on the other side, -who dozed through his life. The soft night stilled them all, young and -old and middle-aged, in their kind, just as it held in soft shadow the -Abbey, with all its grey pinnacles and immemorial towers. Nature cared -nothing for the troubles of life; but life submitted to the gentle yoke -of nature, which relieves the soul, while it binds the body, and makes a -temporary truce and armistice with all the army of mortal cares.</p> - -<p>Next morning Law lounged into the little drawing-room after breakfast -with a big book in his hand. He had almost given up the pretence of -reading for some time, so that it was all the more wonderful to see a -book which was not a yellow railway novel in his hand. Lottie had been -up early, awakened by the commotion in her mind, which did not allow her -to rest—or rather which prevented her from going to sleep again when -the early noises of the morning woke her up. Accordingly she had got -through a great deal of her ordinary household work by this time, when -Law, after a breakfast which was later than usual, lounged in upon her. -He was very big, and filled up the little room; and his habit of doing -as little as possible, and his want of money, which made some -imperfections in his toilet inevitable, gave him a look of indolence -and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138">{vol.-I-138}</a></span> shabbiness such as was not natural to his age, or even to his -disposition, for by nature Law was not lazy. He came sauntering in with -one hand in his pocket, and with his book under the other arm; and he -sat down in the only easy-chair the room contained, exasperating Lottie, -to whom his very bigness seemed an offence. There were times when she -was proud of Law’s size, his somewhat heavy good-looks, his athletic -powers; but this morning, as many times before, the very sight of those -long limbs jarred upon her. What was the use of all that superfluous -length and strength? He took the only easy-chair, and stretched out his -long limbs half across the room, and Lottie at the height of her -activity felt impatience rise and swell within her. She could not put up -with Law that morning. His indolence was an offence to her.</p> - -<p>“What do you want, Law?” she said, in a voice which was not so sweet as -it had been at the Deanery. She gave a rapid glance up at him as she -went on with her darning, and took in the whole picture, the easy-chair -and the lounging attitude. If he had sat upright upon the little hard -wickerwork chair, Lottie would have felt more merciful.</p> - -<p>“Well, I want nothing in particular, except to talk to you a little,” -said Law. “You need not be so cross.”</p> - -<p>“I am not cross; but to see you in an easy-chair, idling away all the -morning——”</p> - -<p>“How do you know I’ve been idling this morning?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139">{vol.-I-139}</a></span> Look at my book: that’s -Virgil,” said Law, looking at it with simple admiration. “I don’t think -a fellow could do much better than that.”</p> - -<p>“But have you <i>really</i> been reading?” Lottie’s tone modified; she began -to look at him with respect. “Oh, Law, if you only would work! it would -make such a difference, it would make me quite happy. I was speaking to -Mr. Ashford last night. You know Mr. Ashford, the minor canon. He is so -clever with his pupils. If you could but go to him, if he would only -take you, Law!”</p> - -<p>“He would take me fast enough if we could afford the money. I say, -Lottie, the governor was awfully late last night: did you hear him -coming in? I want to tell you something about him—something I have -heard.”</p> - -<p>“I think you were very late, too, Law.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! never mind about that; it does not matter about me. Lottie, listen. -A friend—I mean somebody—was speaking to me about him. Did it ever -come into your head that he was not an old man, and that such a thing -was possible as that he might—it seems too ridiculous to say it—marry -again?”</p> - -<p>“Marry again? you are dreaming!” cried Lottie loudly, in her -astonishment.</p> - -<p>“Yes, while we knew nothing of it. After all, when you come to think of -it, when you look at him, you know, he is not so awfully old. One thinks -he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140">{vol.-I-140}</a></span> must be, because he is one’s father. But some of these old beggars -are just as silly”—said Law in awestruck tones, “and you can’t stop -them doing things as you can a fellow that is young. It is an awful -shame! a fellow that is under age, as they call it, you can pull him up, -though there’s no harm in him; but an old fellow of fifty, you can’t -stop him, whatever nonsense he may set his face to. That’s what I heard -last night.”</p> - -<p>“It is not true. I don’t believe a single word of it,” said Lottie. “You -must have been in very strange company, Law,” she added with severity, -“to hear all this gossip about papa.”</p> - -<p>Lottie did not mean to pass such a tremendous sentence on her father; -she spoke simply enough. To hear this gossip her brother must have been -in haunts such as those that Captain Despard frequented. She did not -know what they were, but she knew they were evil; therefore she made use -of this weapon instinctively, which she found, as it were, lying by her, -not meaning any censure upon her father, only a necessary reproof to -Law.</p> - -<p>“You may say what you please about bad company,” he said, “but that’s -what I heard; that he wasn’t so old after all; and what would become of -us if he married again? It was not gossip. I believe really, though I -was very angry at the time, that it was meant kindly; it was meant for a -warning. You<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141">{vol.-I-141}</a></span> would have thought so yourself, if you had been there.”</p> - -<p>“I do not believe a word of it,” said Lottie; but she had grown pale. -She did not ask again who had told him or where he had been; she set -herself seriously to prove the thing to be false, which showed that she -was not so sure of not believing it as she pretended to be. “It is all a -falsehood,” she went on. “Is papa a man to do that sort of thing? Marry! -he would have to give us a great many things if he married. He could not -afford to spend his money as he does; he would not be allowed to be -always out in the evenings as he is now. Why, even poor mamma, she did -not give in to him as we are obliged to do; he had to pay a little -attention to her—sometimes. And now he has got more used to do what he -likes than ever, and has more money to spend; do you think he would give -up that <i>for a wife</i>?” cried Lottie with disdain. “It only shows that -you don’t know papa.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! but you don’t know——” said Law. He was about to say “Polly,” but -stopped in time. “You don’t know what might be put into his head, -Lottie. He might be made to believe that to get rid of us would put all -right. If he got rid of us, don’t you see? he would want a woman in the -house; and if it was some one he liked himself, that would make herself -agreeable to him, and flatter him, and coddle him—that would please him -better,” said Law, with precocious<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142">{vol.-I-142}</a></span> knowledge of a man’s requirements, -“than you, who are always trying to keep things straight but not to -humour him, Lottie; or me—that am of no use at all.”</p> - -<p>Lottie grew paler and paler during this explanation. She had never -humoured her father, it was true. She had made desperate exertions “to -keep things straight,” to recover the family credit, to pay the bills, -to keep regular hours; but, with the hardihood of youth, she had not -hesitated even to stint her father of a meal when it seemed to her -impetuous determination to be necessary, and she had not flattered him, -nor made his convenience the absolute rule of the household, as some -girls would have been wise enough to do. Lottie had reflected that he -kept the lion’s share of the family income to himself, and was quite -able to make up for any shortcomings in her bill of fare; and she had -carried out her regulations with a high hand, feeling no compulsion upon -her, no primary necessity to please her father. She perceived all this -at a glance while Law spoke, and immediately felt herself confronting -such a breach of all the ordinary usages of her life as made her shiver. -What might he not do? turn them out suddenly from his doors, out upon -the world, at any moment whenever he pleased. He had the power to do it -whenever he pleased, whatever seemed to him good. She drew a long -shivering breath, feeling as if all were over, as if already she heard -the door clanging and barred behind her, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143">{vol.-I-143}</a></span> was looking out penniless -and destitute upon the world, not knowing where to go. Was it possible -that such a fate was reserved for her? She became as white as her dress -with that sudden panic of the imagination which is more terrible than -any reality. Law was very anxious and alarmed also, but he had got over -the worst on the previous night, and it gave him a kind of half pleasure -to see how he had frightened Lottie; though, at the same time, the -effect of his communication upon her deepened his own conviction of the -danger about to overtake them. He leaned back in his easy-chair with a -certain solemn satisfaction, and stretched his long legs farther across -the room than ever.</p> - -<p>“You see, Lottie,” he said, “it is what I have told you before; you -never would humour him. I don’t say that he’s not unreasonable, but he -might never perhaps have dropped among those sort of people if you had -laid yourself out to——”</p> - -<p>Lottie sprang to her feet in a sudden gust of passion. She took Law by -the shoulders, and with the sudden surprise of her assault got the -better of him and turned him out of the chair. “You sit there, lolling -all over the room,” she cried, “and tell me my duty, you lazy, idle, -useless boy! If papa turns you out, it will serve you right. You have a -hundred things open to you; you have the whole world open to you; but -you will not so much as take the trouble to pass<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144">{vol.-I-144}</a></span> the door. You would -like to be carried over all the ditches, to be set up on a throne, to -have everything and to do nothing. It will serve you right! And where do -you get all this gossip about papa?” she went on. “Who are the sort of -people you are spending your time with? You thought I did not know how -late you came in last night. Where were you, Law? where are you always, -all these long evenings? You say you are going out, and you never mind -that I am sitting in the house all alone. You go somewhere, but I never -hear that you have been with anybody—anybody in our own class——”</p> - -<p>“In our own class! I wonder what is our own class?” said Law, with a -scornful sense of the weakness of the position. “Would you like me to -take a hand in old O’Shaughnessy’s rubber, or read the papers to old -Dalrymple? They are half as old again as the governor himself. I suppose -that’s what you call my own class.”</p> - -<p>Lottie felt that she had laid herself open to defeat, and the -consciousness subdued her greatly. She sat down again on her little -chair, and looked up at him as he stood leaning upon the door, red with -indignation at her onslaught. Lottie herself was flushed with the -exertion and the shame of having thus afforded him an opportunity for a -scoff. She eluded the dilemma as he proposed it, however, and flung -herself back into the larger question: “You are grown up,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145">{vol.-I-145}</a></span>” she said, -indignantly; “a great big boy, looking like a man. It is a disgrace to -you to be dependent on papa. It would be a good thing for you, a very -good thing, if he were to—marry, as you say, and cast you off, and -force you to work for yourself. What else have I been saying to you for -years?”</p> - -<p>“And what would it be for you?” said Law, taking, she thought, an unkind -advantage of her; “there are two of us to be considered. What would it -be for you, Lottie, I should like to know? What could you do any more -than I?”</p> - -<p>He stood up against the door, with a provoking smile on his face, and -his big book under his arm, taunting her with her helplessness, even -Lottie felt, with her high notions, which made her helplessness all the -worse. He smiled, looking down upon her from that serene height. “If the -worst came to the worst,” said Law, “I could always carry a hod or ’list -for a soldier. I don’t stand upon our class as you do. I haven’t got a -class. I don’t mind if I take the shilling to-morrow. I have always -thought it would be a jolly life.”</p> - -<p>Lottie gave a scream of horror, and flew upon him, seizing his coat -collar with one hand, while she threatened him with her small nervous -fist, at which Law laughed. “Will you dare to speak of ’listing to me,” -she said, flaming like a little fury; “you, an officer’s son, and a -gentleman born!” Then she broke<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146">{vol.-I-146}</a></span> down, after so many varieties of -excitement. “Oh, Law, for the sake of Heaven, go to Mr. Ashford! I will -get the money somehow,” she said, in a broken voice, melting into tears, -through which her eyes shone doubly large and liquid. “Don’t break my -heart! I want you to be better than we are now, not worse. Climb up as -far, as far as you please, above us; but don’t fall lower. Don’t forget -you are a gentleman, unless you want to break my heart.”</p> - -<p>And then, in the overflow of feeling, she leaned her head upon his -shoulder, which she had just gripped with fury, and cried. Law found -this more embarrassing than her rage, at which he laughed. He was -obliged to allow her to lean upon him, pushing his book out of the way, -and his heart smote him for making Lottie unhappy. By this time it could -not be said that he was unhappy himself. He had shuffled off his burden, -such as it was, upon her shoulders. He shifted his book, and stood -awkwardly enough, permitting her to lean upon him; but it cannot be said -that he was much of a prop to his sister. He held himself so as to keep -her off as far as possible. He was not unkind, but he was shy, and did -not like to be placed in a position which savoured of the ridiculous. “I -wish you wouldn’t cry,” he said, peevishly. “You girls always cry—and -what’s to be got by crying? I don’t want to ’list if I can help it. I’d -rather be an officer—but I can’t be an officer; or get into<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147">{vol.-I-147}</a></span> something; -but I never was bred up to anything; and what can I do?”</p> - -<p>“You can go to Mr. Ashford,” said Lottie, feeling herself repulsed, and -withdrawing from him with a glimmer of indignation relighted in her -eyes. “I met him last night, and I spoke to him about you. He seems very -kind. If you go to him, he will at least tell us whether he thinks you -have a chance for anything. Oh, Law, now that you do see the -necessity——”</p> - -<p>“But it’s a great deal more serious for you,” said the lad, -mischievously. He was not unkind, but it seemed something like fun to -him to treat Lottie as she had treated him so often, holding up before -him the terrors and horrors of his idleness. Because she was a girl, did -that make any difference? She had just as good a right to be bullied as -he had, and to be made to see how little she could do for herself. Emma, -who was younger than Lottie, worked for her living, and why should not -Lottie do the same? why should she be exempted? Thus Law reasoned, whom -Lottie, it must be allowed, had never spared. He watched, with -mischievous curiosity, making an experiment, not knowing whether it -would be successful or not. But the way in which Lottie took it after -this did not give Law the amusement he expected. She sat down again in -her chair, taking no further notice of him and relapsed into her own -thoughts when<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148">{vol.-I-148}</a></span> he could not follow her. His own mind, however, had -recovered its elasticity; for, after all, if the worst came to the -worst, if the governor was such an ass as to marry Polly, it would not -matter so very much to Law. Something, there was no doubt, would turn -up; or he would ’list—that was an alternative not to be despised. He -was tall enough for the Guards, among whom Law had often heard a great -many gentlemen were to be found; and the life was a jolly life—no -bother about books, and plenty of time for amusement. There was nothing -really in the circumstances to appal him now he had considered them -fully. But it was a great deal more serious for Lottie. After all the -bullying he had endured at her hands, Law may perhaps be excused if, in -sheer thoughtlessness, he rather enjoyed the prospect of this turning of -the tables upon his sister. He wondered how she would like it when it -came to her turn, she who was so ready to urge himself to the last -limits of patience. He did not wish anything unpleasant to happen to -her. He would not have had her actually brought into contact with Polly, -or placed under her power. But that Lottie should “just see how she -liked it herself” was pleasant to him. It would not do her any real -harm, and perhaps it would teach her to feel for other people, and -understand that they did not like it either. A slight tinge of remorse -crossed Law’s mind as he saw how pale and serious she looked, sitting -there thinking; but he shifted his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149">{vol.-I-149}</a></span> Virgil to his other arm, and went -away, steeling his heart against it. It would make her feel for other -people in future. To have it brought home to herself would do her no -harm.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150">{vol.-I-150}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">VISITORS.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">And</span> what a problem it was with which Lottie Despard was thus left alone! -The house was still, no one moving in it—nothing to distract her -thoughts. Now and then a swell of music from the Abbey, where service -was going on, swept in, filling the silence for a moment; but most of -the inhabitants of the Lodges were at matins, and all was very still in -the sunshine, the Dean’s Walk lying broad and quiet, with scarcely a -shadow to break the light. Downstairs the little maid-of-all-work had -closed the door of the kitchen, so that her proceedings were inaudible. -And the Captain, as in duty bound, was in the Abbey, trolling forth the -responses in a fine baritone, as he might have done had they been the -chorus of a song. Lottie sat like a statue in the midst of this -stillness, her eyes abstracted, her mind absorbed. What a problem to -occupy her! Law, rustling over his books in his own room, grew -frightened as he thought of her. She would break her heart; it would -make her ill; it might almost kill her, he thought. She sat with her -work dropped on her knee, her eyes fixed but not seeing anything; her -mind<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151">{vol.-I-151}</a></span>—what could occupy it but one reflection? the sudden possibility -of a breaking up of all her traditions, an end of her young life—a -dismal sudden survey of the means of maintaining herself, and where she -could go to in case this unthought-of catastrophe should occur at once. -Poor desolate Lottie, motherless, friendless, with no one to consult in -such an emergency, no one to fly to! What could be more terrible than to -be brought face to face with such an appalling change, unwarned, -unprepared? What was she to do? where was she to go? Worse than an -orphan, penniless, homeless, what would become of her? No wonder if -despair was paramount in the poor girl’s thoughts.</p> - -<p>Well—but then despair was not paramount in her thoughts. She made a -stand for a moment with wild panic before the sudden danger. What was it -that was going to happen? Lottie gave a momentary gasp as a swimmer -might do making the first plunge; and then, like the swimmer, lo! struck -off with one quick movement into the sunshine and the smoothest gentle -current. Change! the air was full of it, the world was full of it, the -sky was beautiful with it, and her heart sprang to meet it. Do you think -a girl of twenty on the verge of love, once left free to silence and -musing, was likely to forget her own dreams in order to plunge into dark -reveries as to what would happen to her if her father married again? Not -Lottie, at least. She launched herself indeed on this subject, the -corners of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152">{vol.-I-152}</a></span> her mouth dropping, a gleam of panic in her eyes; but -something caught her midway. Ah! it was like the touch of a magician’s -wand. What did it matter to Lottie what might happen to other people; -had not everything that was wonderful, everything that was beautiful, -begun to happen to herself? She floated off insensibly into that -delicious current of her own thoughts, losing herself in imaginary -scenes and dialogues. She lost her look of terror without knowing it, a -faint smile came upon her face, a faint colour, now heightening, now -paling, went and came like breath. Sometimes she resumed her work, and -her needle sped through her mending like the shuttle of the Fates; -sometimes it dropped out of her hand altogether, and the work upon her -knee. She lost count of time and of what she was doing. What was she -doing? She was weaving a poem, a play, a romance, as she sat with her -basket of stockings to darn. The <i>mise en scène</i> was varied, but the -personages always the same; two personages—never any more; sometimes -they only looked at each other, saying nothing; sometimes they talked -for hours; and constantly in their talk they were approaching one -subject, which something always occurred to postpone. This indefinite -postponement of the explanation which, even in fiction, is a device -which must be used sparingly, can be indulged in without stint in the -private imagination, and Lottie in her romance took full advantage of -this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153">{vol.-I-153}</a></span> power. She approached the borders of her <i>éclaircissement</i> a -hundred times, and evaded it with the most delicate skill, feeling by -instinct the superior charm of the vague and undecided, and how love -itself loses its variety, its infinite novelty, and delightfulness, when -it has declared and acknowledged itself. Law, in his room with his big -book, comforting himself under the confused and painful study to which -the shock of last night’s suggestion had driven him by the idea that -Lottie too must be as uncomfortable as himself, was as much mistaken as -it was possible to imagine. His compunction and his satisfaction were -equally thrown away. Still the feeling that he had startled her, and the -hope that it would “do her good,” gave him a little consolation in his -reading, such as it was. And how difficult it was to read with the sun -shining outside, and little puffs of soft delicious air coming in at his -open window, and laying hands upon him, who shall say? He was comforted -to think that next door to him, Lottie, with her basket of clothes to -mend, patching and darning, must be very much disturbed too; but it -would have been hard upon Law had he known that she had escaped from all -this, and was meanly and treacherously enjoying herself in private -gardens of fancy. He had his Emma to be sure—but of her and the very -well-known scenes that enclosed her, and all the matter-of-fact -circumstances around, he felt no inclination to dream. He liked to have -her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154">{vol.-I-154}</a></span> by him, and for her sake submitted to the chatter of the workroom -(which, on the whole, rather amused him in itself), and was quite -willing to read the <i>Family Herald</i> aloud; but he did not dream of Emma -as Lottie did of the incident which had happened in her career. It was -true there was this fundamental difference between them, that Lottie’s -romance alone had any margin of the unknown and mysterious in it. About -Emma there was nothing that was mysterious or unknown.</p> - -<p>It was not likely, however, that these two young people in their two -different rooms, Law gaping over his Virgil, and feeling his eyes wander -after every fly that lighted on his book, and every bird that chirped in -the deep foliage round the window; and Lottie with her needle and her -scissors, thinking of everything in the world except what she was doing -or what had just been told her, should be left undisturbed for long in -these virtuous occupations. Very soon Law was stopped in the middle of a -bigger yawn than usual by the sound of a step coming up the stairs, -which distracted his not very seriously fixed attention—and Lottie woke -up from the very middle of an imaginary conversation, to hear a mellow -round voice calling her, as it came slowly panting upstairs. “Are you -there then, Lottie, me honey? You’d never let me mount up to the top of -the house, without telling me, if ye weren’t there?” Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, -like many of her country-<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155">{vol.-I-155}</a></span>folks, was half aware of the bull she was -uttering, and there was a sound of laughter in her voice. Lottie, -however, sat still, making no sign, holding her needle suspended in her -fingers, reluctant to have her pleasant thoughts disturbed by any -arrival. But while the brother and sister, each behind a closed door, -thus paused and listened, the Captain (audibly) coming home from morning -service, stepped in after Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, and addressed the -new-comer. “Lottie is in the drawing-room,” he said, “though she does -not answer. I am just going out again when I’ve fetched something—but I -must first see you upstairs;” and then there was an interval of talking -on the stairs and the little landing-place. Lottie made no movement for -her part. She sat amidst her darnings, and awaited what was coming, -feeling that her time for dreams was over. Captain Despard came lightly -up, three steps at a time, after Mrs. O’Shaughnessy had panted to the -drawing-room door. He was jaunty and gay as ever, in his well-brushed -coat with a rosebud in his button-hole. Few, very few, days were there -on which Captain Despard appeared without a flower in his coat. He -managed to get them even in winter, no one could tell how. Sometimes a -flaming red leaf from the Virginia creeper, answered his purpose, but he -was always jaunty, gay, decorated with something or other. He came in -behind the large figure of their neighbour, holding out a glove with a -hole in the finger reproach<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156">{vol.-I-156}</a></span>fully to Lottie. “See how my child neglects -me,” he said. He liked to display himself even to Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, -and stood and talked to her while Lottie, with no very good grace, put -down her darning and mended his glove.</p> - -<p>“When I was a young fellow, my dear lady,” he said, “I never wanted for -somebody to mend my glove; but a man can’t expect to be as interesting -to his daughter as he was in another stage of life.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Captain, take me word,” said Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, “the likes of you -will always be interesting to one or another. You won’t make me believe -that ye find nobody but your daughter to do whatever ye ask them. Tell -that—to another branch of the service, Captain Despard, me dear -friend.”</p> - -<p>“You do me a great deal too much honour,” he said with the laugh of -flattered vanity; for he was not difficult in the way of compliments. -“Alas, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, who would pay any attention to an old married -man, the father of a grown-up son and daughter, like me?”</p> - -<p>“Sure, and you’re much to be pitied, so old as ye are, with one foot in -the grave, Captain dear,” the old Irishwoman said; and they both -laughed, she enjoying at once her joke, and the pleasure of seeing her -victim’s pleased appreciation of the compliment; while he, conscious of -being still irresistible, eyed himself in the little glass over the -mantelpiece, and was quite<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157">{vol.-I-157}</a></span> unaware of the lurking demon of -good-humoured malice and ridicule in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“Not so bad as that perhaps,” he said, “but bad enough. A man grows old -fast in this kind of life. Matins every morning by cockcrow, to a man -accustomed to take his ease, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. The Major grumbles, I -make no doubt, as well as I.”</p> - -<p>“Sure it’s nothing half as bad as morning parade. That’s what -O’Shaughnessy says; and he never was used to his ease, Captain. I took -better care of him than that. But, Lottie, me honey, here we’re talking -of ourselves, and it’s you I’ve come to hear about. How many hearts did -ye break? how many scalps have ye got, as we used to say in Canada? It -wasn’t for nothing ye put on your finery, and those roses in your hair. -The Captain, he’s the one for a flower in his coat; you’re his own -daughter, Miss Lottie dear.”</p> - -<p>“Were you out last night, my child?” said Captain Despard, taking his -glove from Lottie’s hand. “Ah, at the Deanery. I hope my friend the Dean -is well, and my Lady Caroline? Lady Caroline was once a very fine woman, -Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, though you would not think it. The Courtlands were -neighbours of ours in our better days, and knew all our connections; and -Lady Caroline has always been kind to Lottie. I do not think it -necessary to provide any chaperon for her when she goes there. It is in -society that a girl feels<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158">{vol.-I-158}</a></span> the want of a mother; but where Lady Caroline -is, Lottie can feel at home.”</p> - -<p>“Fancy that now,” said Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, “how a body may be deceived! -I never knew ye were among old friends, Captain. What a comfort to -you—till you find somebody that will be a nice chaperon for your dear -girl!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, that would be a satisfaction; but where could -I find one that would satisfy me after Lottie’s dear mother, who was a -pearl of a woman? Good-morning to you, my dear lady; I must be going,” -he said, kissing the fingers of the mended glove. And he went out of the -room humming a tune, which, indeed, was as much a distinction of Captain -Despard as the flower in his coat. He was always cheerful, whatever -happened. His daughter looked up from her work, following him with her -eyes, and Law, shut up in his room next door, stopped reading (which -indeed he was very glad to do), and listened to the light carol of the -Captain’s favourite air and his jaunty step as he went downstairs. No -lurch in that step now, but a happy confidence and cheerful ring upon -the pavement when he got outside, keeping time surely not only to the -tune, but to the Captain’s genial and virtuous thoughts. Mrs. -O’Shaughnessy looked after him without the cloud which was on his -children’s faces. She laughed. “Then, sure, it does one’s heart good,” -she said, “to see a man as pleased<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159">{vol.-I-159}</a></span> with himself as me friend the -Captain. And Lottie, me darlin’, speaking of that, there’s a word I have -to say to you. Ye heard what I said and ye heard what he said about a -chaperon—though, bless the child, it’s not much use, so far as I can -see, that you have for a chaperon——”</p> - -<p>“No use at all,” cried Lottie, “and don’t say anything about it, please. -Papa talks; but nobody pays any attention to him,” she exclaimed, with a -flush of shame.</p> - -<p>“If he’d stop at talking! but Lottie, me dear, when a man at his age -gets women in his head, there’s no telling what is to come of it. I -wouldn’t vex ye, me dear, but there’s gossip about—that the Captain has -thoughts——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, never mind what gossip there is about! there’s gossip about -everything——”</p> - -<p>“And that’s true, me honey. There’s your own self. They tell me a dozen -stories. It’s married ye’re going to be (and that’s natural); and -there’s them that uphold it’s not marriage at all, but music, or maybe -the stage even, which is what I never would have thought likely——”</p> - -<p>Lottie had risen to her feet, her eyes sparkling, her face crimson with -excitement. “Wherever you hear it, please, <i>please</i> say it is a lie. -I—on the stage! Oh, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, could you believe such a thing? -I would rather die!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160">{vol.-I-160}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Dying’s a strong step to take, me dear. I wouldn’t go that length, -Lottie; but at your age, and with your pretty looks, and all the world -before ye, it’s not the thing I would advise. I don’t say but there are -chances for a pretty girl that’s well conducted——”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. O’Shaughnessy! do you dare to speak to me so?” said Lottie with -crimson cheeks, her eyes blazing through indignant tears. Well -conducted! the insult went to her very soul. But this was beyond the -perception of her companion.</p> - -<p>“Just so, me, dear,” she said. “There was Miss O’Neil, that was a great -star in my time, and another stage lady that married the Earl of——, -one of the English earls. I forget his title. Lords and baronets and -that sort of people are thrown in their way, and sometimes a pretty girl -that minds what she is about, or even a plain girl that is clever, comes -in for something that would never—— Who is that, Lottie? Me dear, look -out of the window, and tell me who it is.”</p> - -<p>Lottie did not say a word; she gasped with pain and indignation, -standing erect in the middle of the room. How it made the blood boil in -her veins to have the triumphs of the “stage-ladies” thus held up before -her! She did not care who was coming. In her fantastical self-elevation, -a sort of princess in her own sight, who was there here who would -understand Lottie’s “position” or her feelings? What was the use even of -standing up for herself where everybody<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161">{vol.-I-161}</a></span> would laugh at her? There was -no one in the Chevaliers’ Lodges who could render her justice. They -would all think that to “catch” an earl or a Sir William was enough to -content any girl’s ambition. So long as she was well conducted! To be -well conducted, is not that the highest praise that can be given to -anyone? Yet it made Lottie’s blood boil in her veins.</p> - -<p>While she stood thus flushed and angry, the door was suddenly pushed -open by the untrained “girl,” who was all that the household boasted in -the shape of a servant. “She’s here, sir,” this homely usher said; and -lo, suddenly, into the little room where sat Mrs. O’Shaughnessy taking -up half the space, and where Lottie stood in all the excitement and glow -of passion, there walked Rollo Ridsdale, like a hero of romance, more -perfect in costume, appearance, and manner, more courteous and easy, -more graceful and gracious, than anything that had ever appeared within -that lower sphere. The Captain was jaunty and shabby-genteel, yet even -he sometimes dazzled innocent people with his grand air; but Mr. -Ridsdale was all that the Captain only pretended to be, and the very -sight of him was a revelation. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, sitting with her -knees apart and her hands laid out upon her capacious lap, opened her -mouth and gazed at him as if he had been an angel straight from the -skies. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy knew him, as she knew every one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162">{vol.-I-162}</a></span> who came -within the Abbey precincts. She was aware of every visit he paid to his -aunt, and saw him from her window every time he passed up and down the -Dean’s Walk, and she had the most intimate acquaintance with all his -connections, and knew his exact place in the Courtland family, and even -that there had been vicissitudes in his life more than generally fall to -the lot of young men of exalted position. And, if it did her good even -to see him from her window, and pleased her to be able to point him out -as the Honourable Rollo Ridsdale, it may be imagined what her feelings -were, when she found herself suddenly under the same roof with him, in -the same room with him. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy sat and stared, devouring his -honourable figure with her eyes, with a vague sensation of delight and -grandeur taking possession of her soul.</p> - -<p>“You must pardon my intrusion at such an early hour, Miss Despard,” he -said. “I wanted your maid to ask if I might come in, and I did not know -she was ushering me into your very presence. But I have my credentials -with me. I bear a note from Lady Caroline, which she charged me to -support with my prayers.”</p> - -<p>The passion melted out of Lottie’s countenance. Her eyes softened—the -very lines of her figure, all proud and erect and vehement, melted too -as if by a spell—the flush of anger on her cheek changed to a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163">{vol.-I-163}</a></span> rose-red -of gentler feeling. The transformation was exactly what the most -accomplished actress would have desired to make, with the eye of an able -manager inspecting her possibilities. “I beg your pardon,” she said -instinctively, with a sudden sense of guilt. It shocked her to be found -so full of passion, so out of harmony with the melodious visitor who was -in perfect tune and keeping with the sweet morning, and in whose -presence all the vulgarities about seemed doubly vulgar. She felt -humble, yet not humiliated. Here was at last one who would understand -her, who would do her justice. She looked round to find a seat for him, -confused, not knowing what to say.</p> - -<p>“May I come here?” said Rollo, pushing forward for her the little chair -from which she had evidently risen, and placing himself upon the narrow -window-seat with his back to the light. “But let me give up my -credentials first. My aunt is—what shall I say?—a little indolent, -Miss Despard. Dear Aunt Caroline, it is an unkind word—shall I say she -is not fond of action? Pardon if it is I who have acted as secretary. I -do so constantly now that Augusta is away.”</p> - -<p>“Lottie,” said Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, as Lottie, confused, took the note -from his hand, and the chair he offered; “me dear!—you have not -presented me to your friend.”</p> - -<p>Rollo got up instantly and bowed, as Lottie faltered forth his name (“A -real bow,” Mrs. O’Shaughnessy said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164">{vol.-I-164}</a></span> after; “sure you never get the like -but in the upper classes”), while she herself, not to be outdone, rose -too, and extended a warm hand—(“What does the woman expect me to do -with her hand?” was Mr. Ridsdale’s alarmed commentary on his side).</p> - -<p>“I’m proud to make your acquaintance, sir,” said Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. “Me -husband the Major was once a great friend of an uncle of yours, Mr. -Ridsdale—or maybe it was a cousin; when we were out in Canada, in the -Hundred and Fiftieth—the Honourable Mr. Green; they were together in -musketry practice, and me Major had the pleasure of being of a great -deal of use to the gentleman. Many a time he’s told me of it; and when -we came here, sure it was a pleasure to find out that me Lady Caroline -was aunt—or maybe it was cousin to an old friend. I am very glad to -make your acquaintance,” Mrs. O’Shaughnessy continued, shaking him -warmly by the hand, which she had held all this time. Mr. Ridsdale kept -bowing at intervals, and had done all that he could, without positive -rudeness, to get himself free.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes,” he said, “I have cousins and uncles and that sort of thing -scattered through the earth in every regiment under the sun; and very -bad soldiers, I don’t doubt, always wanting somebody to look after them. -I am sure Major O’Shaughnessy was very kind. Won’t you sit down?”</p> - -<p>“It wasn’t to make a brag of his kindness—not a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165">{vol.-I-165}</a></span> bit of that—but he is -a kind man and a good man, Mr. Ridsdale, though I say it that shouldn’t. -I have been married to me Major these forty years, and if anyone knows -it I ought to be the one to know.”</p> - -<p>“Undoubtedly, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. I for one am most ready to take the -fact on your word.”</p> - -<p>“And you’d be in the right of it. A man’s wife, that’s the best judge of -his character. Whatever another may say, she’s the one that knows; and -if she says too much, one way or the other, sure it’s on herself it -falls. But, maybe you’re not interested, Mr. Ridsdale, in an old woman’s -opinions?”</p> - -<p>“I am very much interested, I assure you,” said Rollo, always polite. He -kept an eye upon Lottie reading her note, but he listened to her friend -(if this was her friend) with as much attention, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy -always remembered, as if she had been a duchess at the least.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile Lottie read the note, which purported to come from Lady -Caroline, and had a wavering C. Huntington at the bottom of the page, -which was her genuine autograph. The warmth of the appeal, however, to -her dear Miss Despard, to take pity on the dulness of the Deanery and -come in “quietly” that evening for a little music, was not in any way -Lady Caroline’s. She had consented indeed to permit herself to be sung -to on Rollo’s strenuous representation of the pleasure it had given her. -“You know, Aunt<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166">{vol.-I-166}</a></span> Caroline, you enjoyed it,” he had said; and “Yes, I -know I enjoyed it,” Lady Caroline, much wavering, had replied. It would -not have been creditable not to have enjoyed what was evidently such -very good singing; but it was not she who wrote of the dulness of the -Deanery nor who used such arguments to induce her dear Miss Despard to -come. Lottie’s countenance bending over the note glowed with pleasure as -Mrs. O’Shaughnessy kept up the conversation. Even with those girls who -think they believe that the admiration of men is all they care for, the -approbation of a woman above their own rank is always a more touching -and more thorough triumph than any admiration of men. And Lottie, though -she was so proud, was all humility in this respect; that Lady Caroline -should thus take her up, and encourage her, praise her, invite her, went -to her very heart. She almost cried over the kind words. She raised her -face all softened and glowing with happiness to the anxious messenger -who was listening to Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, and as their eyes met a sudden -smile of such responsive pleasure and satisfaction came to Rollo’s face -as translated Lottie back into the very paradise of her dreams.</p> - -<p>“I can’t say, me dear sir,” said Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, “that things are -just exactly as we wish here, or as we thought we had a right to look -for. The Major and me, we’ve been used to a deal of fine company. -Wherever we’ve gone, was it in Canada, was it the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167">{vol.-I-167}</a></span> Channel Islands, was -it at the depôt of the regiment, we’ve always been called upon by the -best. But here, sure the position is not what we were led to expect. -Money is all that most people are thinking of. There’s the society in -the town would jump at us. But that does not count, Mr. Ridsdale, you -know, that does not count; for to us in Her Majesty’s service, that have -always been accustomed to the best——”</p> - -<p>“Surely, surely, I quite understand; and you have a right to the best. -Miss Despard,” said the ambassador, “I hope you are considering what -Lady Caroline says, and will not disappoint our hopes. Last night was -triumph, but this will be enjoyment. You, who must know what talent Miss -Despard has—I appeal to you, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy—I am sure from your -kind looks that we will have your aid.”</p> - -<p>“Is it to go and sing for them again, Lottie, me dear?” said the old -lady in an undertone. “That’s just what I don’t like, Mr. -Ridsdale—excuse me if I speak my mind free—me Lady Caroline and his -reverence the Dean, they’re ready enough to take an advantage, and make -their own use of the Chevaliers’——”</p> - -<p>“Do I need to write a note?” said Lottie, interrupting hastily to -prevent the completion of a speech which seemed to threaten the very -foundations of her happiness. “Perhaps it would be more polite to write -a note.” She looked at him with a little anxiety, for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168">{vol.-I-168}</a></span> the thought -passed through her mind that she had no pretty paper like this, with a -pretty monogram and “The Deanery, St. Michael’s,” printed on its creamy -glaze, and even that she did not write a pretty hand that would do her -credit; and, going further, that she would not know how to begin, -whether she should be familiar, and venture upon saying, “Dear Lady -Caroline,” which seemed rather presumptuous, calling an old lady by her -Christian name—or——</p> - -<p>“I need not trouble you to write. I am sure you mean to say yes, Miss -Despard, which is almost more than I dared hope. Yes is all we want, and -I shall be so happy to carry it——”</p> - -<p>“Yes is easy said,” said Mrs. O’Shaughnessy; “a great deal easier than -no. Oh, me dear, I don’t object to your going; not a bit; only I take an -interest in ye, and ye must not make yourself too cheap. Know her -talent, Mr. Ridsdale? sure I can’t say that I do. I know herself, and a -better girl, saving for a bit of temper, don’t exist. But a girl is the -better of a spark of temper, and that’s just what you’ve got, me dear -Lottie. No; I don’t know her talent. She has a voice for singing, that I -know well; for to hear her and Rowley when she’s having her lesson, sure -it’s enough to give a deaf person the ear-ache. But that’s the most that -I know.”</p> - -<p>“Then, Miss Despard,” said Rollo, springing to his feet; “if -your—friend is in this condition of doubt, it is impossible she can -ever have heard you; will you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169">{vol.-I-169}</a></span> not gratify me and convince her by -singing something now? I know it is horrible impertinence on my part, so -recent an acquaintance. But—no, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, you never can have -heard her. I have some songs here that I know you would sing to -perfection. I deserve to be ordered out of the house for my presumption. -I know it; but——” and he clasped his hands and fixed supplicating eyes -upon Lottie, who, blushing, trembling, frightened, and happy, did not -know how to meet those eyes.</p> - -<p>“Sure he’ll be down on his knees next,” cried Mrs. O’Shaughnessy -delighted; “and you wouldn’t have the heart to deny the gentleman when -he begs so pretty. I’ll not say but what I’ve heard her, and heard her -many a time, but maybe the change of the circumstances and the want of -Rowley will make a difference. Come, Lottie, me darling, don’t wait for -pressing, but give us a song, and let us be done with it. If it was a -good song you would sing, and not one of those sacred pieces that make -me feel myself in the Abbey—where we all are, saving your presence, -often enough——”</p> - -<p>“I have a song here that will please you, I know,” said Rollo. “We shall -have you crying in two minutes. You don’t know, my dear Mrs. -O’Shaughnessy, what a glorious organ you are talking of.”</p> - -<p>“Organ! that’s the Abbey all over; but, praised be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170">{vol.-I-170}</a></span> Heaven, there’s no -organ here, only an old cracked piano——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, indeed,” cried Lottie. “It is not fit to play on, and I don’t think -I can sing at sight; and—I know I can’t play an accompaniment.”</p> - -<p>“That shall be my happy office,” he said, looking at her with those eyes -that dazzled Lottie. They were not dazzling by nature, but he put a -great deal of meaning into them, and Lottie, foolish Lottie, innocently -deceived, put a great deal more. Her eyes sank beneath this look. She -could scarcely keep the tears from coming into them, tears of confused -pleasure and wonder and happiness; and she could not refuse him what he -asked. He opened the wretched old piano, worn out and jingling, and out -of tune as it was. And Mrs. O’Shaughnessy put her knees a little more -apart, and threw her bonnet-strings over her shoulders, and spread out -her warm hands in her lap. There was a little good-humoured cynicism in -her face. She did not expect to enjoy the singing, but all her faculties -were moved by the hint, the scent, of a flirtation; and that she was -prepared to enjoy to the full.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171">{vol.-I-171}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">THE MINOR CANON.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Ashford</span> had not said much to Miss Despard on the way home; it was -but crossing the road, a brief progress which left little room for -conversation, and the Signor was better acquainted with her than he was. -Besides, the Minor Canon was not a man who could carry on a conversation -with several people at a time, or open his heart to more listeners than -one. He could sometimes be eloquent with a single interlocutor, but he -was a silent man in society, with very little to say for himself, even -when his companions were of the most congenial kind. He was an -unsuccessful man, and carried in his soul, though without any -bitterness, the burden of his own unsuccess. He was a man of “good -connections,” but none of his connections had done anything for him—and -he had considerable talents, which had done nothing for him. He had got -a scholarship, but no other distinction, at the University. Nobody was -at all clear how this came about. He was not idle, he was not careless, -but he did not succeed; his talents were not those that win success. At -twenty he published a little volume of poetry, which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172">{vol.-I-172}</a></span> was “full of -promise.” At thirty he brought out a learned treatise on some matter of -classical erudition, which, as it is too high for us to understand, we -will not venture to name. And nothing came of that; his poems were not -sold, neither was his treatise. His fellow-scholars (for he was a true -scholar, and a ripe and good one) occupied themselves with pulling holes -in his coat, writing whole pages to show that he had taken a wrong view -of a special passage. And there was something worse than this that he -had done. He had put a wrong accent upon a Greek word! We tremble to -mention such a crime, but it cannot be slurred over, for it was one of -the heaviest troubles in Mr. Ashford’s life. Whether it was his fault or -the printer’s fault will never be known till the day of judgment, and -perhaps not even then: for it seems more than likely that a mistake in -an accent, or even the absence of the accent altogether, will not affect -the reckoning at that decisive moment; but this was what had been done. -Not once—which might have been an accident, or carelessness in -correcting the press, such a misfortune as might occur to any man—but a -dozen times, if not more, had this crime been perpetrated. It disfigured -at least the half of his book. It was a mistake which no properly -conducted fourth-form boy would have been guilty of. So everybody -said;—and it crushed the unlucky man. Even now, five years after, that -incorrect accent coloured his life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173">{vol.-I-173}</a></span> He went in mourning for it all his -days. He could not forget it himself, even if other people might have -been willing to forget it. It seemed to justify and explain all the -failures in his career. Everybody had wondered why he did not get a -fellowship after he had taken his degree, but this explained everything. -A man capable of making such a mistake! The buzz that arose in the -University never died out of his ears. Robuster persons might laugh, but -Ernest Ashford never got over it. It weighed him down for the rest of -his days.</p> - -<p>Nor was he a man to thrive much in his profession. He tried a curacy or -two, but he was neither High Church enough for the High, nor Low Church -enough for the Low. And he could not get on with the poor, his rectors -said. Their misery appalled his gentle soul. He emptied his poor pockets -in the first wretched house he went into, and retreated to his lodgings -after he had done so, with a heart all aching and bleeding, and crying -out against the pain he saw. He was not of the fibre which can take -other people’s sufferings placidly, though he had a fine nerve in -bearing his own. This, no doubt, was weakness in him; and in all -probability he got imposed upon on every side; but the fact was he could -not support the wretchedness of others, and when he had given them every -six-pence he had, and had entreated them to be comforted, he fled from -them with anguish in his heart. He could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174">{vol.-I-174}</a></span> not eat or drink for weeks -after for thinking that there were people in the world near at hand who -had little or nothing on their board. He suffered more from this than -his fellow-curate did from neuralgia, or his rector from biliousness, -and he did what neither of these martyrs felt themselves compelled to -do—he fled from the trouble he could not cope with. They quoted -Scripture to him, and proved, from the text “The poor ye have always -with you,” that nothing better was to be expected. But he answered with -a passionate protestation that God could never mean that, and -fled—which, indeed, was not a brave thing to do, and proved the -weakness of his character. Thus the Church found him wanting, as well as -the University. And when at last he settled down into a corner where at -least he could get his living tranquilly, it was not by means of his -talents or education, but because of a quality which was really -accidental, the possession of a beautiful voice. This possession was so -entirely adventitious that he was not even a learned musician, nor had -he given much of his time to this study. But he had one of those voices, -rich and tender and sweet, which go beyond science, which are delicious -even when they are wrong, and please the hearers when they perplex the -choir and drive the conductor out of his senses. Mr. Ashford did not do -this, having an ear almost as delicate as his voice, but both of these -were gifts of nature, and not improved by training to the degree<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175">{vol.-I-175}</a></span> which -the Signor could have wished. He had been persuaded to try for the Minor -Canonry of St. Michael’s almost against his will; for to be a singing -man, even in the highest grade, did not please his fancy. But no one had -been able to stand before him. The Signor had strongly supported another -competitor, a man with twice the science of Mr. Ashford; but even the -Signor had been obliged to confess that his friend’s voice was not to be -compared with that of the successful candidate. And after knocking about -the world for a dozen years without any real place or standing-ground, -Ernest Ashford found himself at thirty-five suited with a life that was -altogether harmonious to his nature, but which he felt half humiliated -to have gained, not by his talents or his learning, or anything that was -any credit to him, but by the mere natural accidental circumstance of -his beautiful voice. He was half-ashamed and humbled to think that all -his education, which had cost so much, went for nothing in comparison -with this chance talent which had cost him nothing, and that all his -hopes and ambitions, which had mounted high, had come to no loftier -result. But as, by fair means or foul, for a good or bad reason, life -had at last found a suitable career for him, where he could be -independent, and do some sort of work, such as it was, he soon became -content. The worst thing about it (he said) was that it could not be -called work at all. To go twice a day and sing beautiful<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176">{vol.-I-176}</a></span> music in one -of the most beautiful churches in the world, would have been the highest -pleasure, if it had not been the business of his life. He had never even -been troubled by religious doubts which might have introduced a -complication, but was of a nature simply devout, and born to go twice a -day to church. When, however, he found himself thus, as it were, exalted -over the common lot, he made an effort to bring himself down to the -level of common mortality by taking pupils, an experiment which -succeeded perfectly, and brought him into hot water so speedily that he -no longer felt himself elevated above the level of mankind.</p> - -<p>This was the man whom Lottie had seized the opportunity of making -acquaintance with, and speaking to, that evening at the Deanery. Mr. -Ashford was not badly treated at the Deanery to be only a Minor Canon. -He was often enough asked to dinner when there was not anybody of much -consequence about: the Dean was very willing to have him, for he was a -gentleman, and talked very pleasantly, and could be silent (which he -always was when the company was large) in a very agreeable, gentlemanly -sort of way; not the silence of mere dulness and having nothing to say. -But when there was a large dinner-party, and people of consequence were -there, Lady Caroline would often ask Mr. Ashford to come in the evening, -and he had come to understand (without being offended) that on these<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177">{vol.-I-177}</a></span> -occasions he would probably be asked to sing. He was not offended, but -he was amused, and sometimes, with a little well-bred malice, such as he -had never shown in any other emergency of his life, would have a cold, -and be unable to sing. He had not strength of mind to carry out this -little stratagem when there seemed to be much need of his services, but -now and then he would wind himself up to do it, with much simple -satisfaction in his own cleverness. Mr. Ashford was well treated in the -Cloisters generally. The other Canons, those whom Mrs. O’Shaughnessy -called “the real Canons,” were all more or less attentive to him. He had -nothing to complain of in his lot. He had at this moment two pupils in -hand: one, the son of Canon Uxbridge, whom he was endeavouring to -prepare for the simple ordeal of an army examination; and another, who -was clever, the son of the clergyman in the town, and aspiring to a -university scholarship. In consequence of the unfortunate failure of -that Greek accent it was but few engagements of this more ambitious kind -that Mr. Ashford had; his work was usually confined to the simplicity of -the military tests of knowledge; but the rector of St. Michael’s was a -man who knew what he was about, and naturally, with a sharp young -scholar for ever on his traces, the gentle Minor Canon, conscious of -having once committed an inaccuracy, was kept very much upon his p’s and -q’s.</p> - -<p>On the same day on which Rollo Ridsdale wrote<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178">{vol.-I-178}</a></span> for Lady Caroline that -invitation to Lottie, of the terms of which Lady Caroline was so little -aware, the Dean gave a verbal invitation to the same effect to Mr. -Ashford in the vestry. “Will you dine with us to-day, Ashford?” he said. -“My nephew Ridsdale, who is mad about music, and especially about this -girl’s voice who sang last night, has persuaded Lady Caroline to ask her -again. Yourself and the Signor; I believe nobody else is coming. -Ridsdale has got something to do with a new opera company, and he is -wild to find an English prima donna——”</p> - -<p>“Is Miss Despard likely to become a professional singer?” said the Minor -Canon in some surprise.</p> - -<p>“I am sure I can’t tell—why not? They are poor, I suppose, or they -would not be here; and I don’t see why she shouldn’t sing. Anyhow, Rollo -is most anxious to try. He thinks she has a wonderful voice. He is apt -to think anything wonderful which he himself has anything to do with, -you know.”</p> - -<p>“She has a wonderful voice,” said Mr. Ashford, with more decision than -usual.</p> - -<p>“But—pardon me if I interrupt,” cried the Signor, who had come in while -they were talking, “no method; no science. She wants training—the most -careful training. The more beautiful a voice is by nature, the more -evident is the want of education in it,” the musician added, with -meaning. He did not look at Mr. Ashford, but the reference was very -unmistakable. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179">{vol.-I-179}</a></span> Dean looked at them, and smiled as he took up his -shovel hat.</p> - -<p>“I leave you to fight it out, Science against Nature,” he said; “as long -as you don’t forget that you are both expected this evening at the -Deanery—and to sit in judgment as well as to dine.”</p> - -<p>“I know what my judgment will be beforehand,” said the Signor; “absolute -want of education—but plenty of material for a good teacher to work -upon.”</p> - -<p>“And mine is all the other way,” Mr. Ashford said, with some of the -vehemence of intellectual opposition, besides a natural partisanship. “A -lovely voice, full of nature, and freshness, and expression—which you -will spoil, and render artificial, and like anybody else’s voice, if you -have your way.”</p> - -<p>“All excellence is the production of Art,” said the Signor.</p> - -<p>“Poeta nascitur,” said the Canon; and though the words are as well known -as any slang, they exercised a certain subduing influence upon the -musician, who was painfully aware that he himself was not educated, -except in a professional way. The two men went out together through the -door into the Great Cloister, from which they passed by an arched -passage to the Minor Cloister, where was Mr. Ashford’s house. Nothing -could be more unlike than the tall, stooping, short-sighted scholar, and -the dark keen Italianism of the Anglicised foreigner—the one man full -of perception, seeing every<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180">{vol.-I-180}</a></span>thing within his range at a glance, the -other living in a glimmer of vague impressions, which took form but -slowly in his mind. On the subject of their present discussion, however, -Ashford had taken as distinct a view as the Signor. He had put himself -on Lottie’s side instinctively, with what we have called a natural -partisanship. She was like himself, she sang as the birds sing—and -though his own education, after a few years of St. Michael’s, had so far -progressed musically that he was as well aware of her deficiencies as -the Signor, still he felt himself bound to be her champion.</p> - -<p>“I am not sure how far we have any right to discuss a young lady who has -never done anything to provoke animadversion,” he said, with an -old-fashioned scrupulousness, as they threaded the shady passages. “I -think it very unlikely that such a girl would ever consent to sing for -the public.”</p> - -<p>“That is what she says,” said the Signor, “but she can’t understand what -she is saying. Sing for the public! I suppose that means to her to -appear before a crowd of people, to be stared at, criticised, brought -down to the level of professional singers. The delight of raising a -crowd to one’self, binding them into mutual sympathy, getting at the -heart underneath the cold English exterior, that is what the foolish -girl never thinks of and cannot understand.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” said the Minor Canon. He was struck by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181">{vol.-I-181}</a></span> this unexpected poetry in -the Signor, who was not a poetical person. He said, “I don’t think I -thought of that either. I suppose, for my part, I am very old-fashioned. -I don’t like a woman to make an exhibition of herself.”</p> - -<p>“Do you suppose a real artist ever makes an exhibition of herself?” said -the musician almost scornfully. “Do you suppose she thinks of herself? -Oh, yes, of course there are varieties. Men will be men and women women; -but anyone who has genius, who is above the common stock! However,” he -added, calming himself down, and giving a curious, alarmed glance at his -companion, to see whether, perhaps, he was being laughed at for his -enthusiasm, “there are other reasons, that you will allow to be solid -reasons, for which I want to get hold of this Miss Despard. You know -Purcell, my assistant, a young fellow of the greatest promise?”</p> - -<p>“Purcell? oh, yes; you mean the son of——”</p> - -<p>“I mean my pupil,” said the Signor, hurriedly, with a flush of offence.</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon. I did not mean anything unkind. It was only to make -sure whom you meant. I know he is a good musician and everything that is -good.”</p> - -<p>“He is a very fine fellow,” said the Signor, still flushed and -self-assertive. “There is nobody of whom I have a higher opinion. He is -a better musician than<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182">{vol.-I-182}</a></span> I am, and full of promise. I expect him to reach -the very top of his profession.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Ashford bowed. He had no objection to young Purcell’s success: why -should he be supposed to have any objection to it? but the conversation -had wandered widely away from Miss Despard, in whom he was really -interested, and his attention relaxed in a way which he could not -disguise. This seemed to disturb the Signor still more. He faltered; he -hesitated. At last he said with a sudden burst, “You think this has -nothing to do with the subject we were discussing; but it has. Purcell, -poor fellow! has a—romantic devotion; a passion which I can’t as yet -call anything but unhappy—for Miss Despard.”</p> - -<p>“For Miss Despard?”</p> - -<p>The Minor Canon turned round at his own door with his key in his hand, -lifting his eyes in wonder. “That is surely rather misplaced,” he said -the next moment, with much more sharpness than was usual to him, opening -the door with a little extra energy and animation. He had no reason -whatever for being annoyed, but he was annoyed, though he could not have -told why.</p> - -<p>“How misplaced?” said the Signor, following him up the little oak -staircase, narrow and broken into short flights, which led to the rooms -in which the Minor Canon lived. The landing at the top of the staircase -was as large as any of the rooms to which it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183">{vol.-I-183}</a></span> led, with that curious -misappropriation of space, but admirable success in picturesque effect, -peculiar to old houses. There was a window in it, with a window-seat, -and such a view as was not to be had out of St. Michael’s, and the walls -were of dark wainscot, with bits of rich old carving here and there. The -Canon’s little library led off from this and had the same view. It was -lighted by three small, deep-set windows set in the outer wall of the -Abbey, and consequently half as thick as the room was large. They were -more like three pictures hung on the dark wall than mere openings for -light, which indeed they supplied but sparingly, the thickness of the -wall casting deep shadows between. And the walls, wherever they were -visible, were dark oak, here and there shining with gleams of -reflection, but making a sombre background, broken only by the russet -colour of old books and the chance ornaments of gilding which -embellished them. Mr. Ashford’s writing-table, covered with books and -papers, stood in front of the centre window. There was room for a -visitor on the inner side, between him and the bookcases on the further -wall, and there was room for somebody in the deep recess of the window -at his left hand; but that was all.</p> - -<p>“How misplaced?” the Signor repeated, coming in and taking possession of -the window-seat. “He is not perhaps what you call a gentleman by birth, -but he is a great deal better. You and I know gentlemen by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184">{vol.-I-184}</a></span> birth -who—but don’t let us talk blasphemy within the Precincts. I am a Tory. -I take my stand upon birth and blood and primogeniture.”</p> - -<p>“And laugh at them?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, not at all; on the contrary, I think they are very good for the -country; but you and I have known gentlemen by birth—Well! my young -Purcell is not one of these, but sprung from the soil. He is a capital -musician; he is a rising young man. In what is he worse than the -daughter of a commonplace old soldier, a needy, faded gentleman of a -Chevalier?”</p> - -<p>“Gently! gently! I cannot permit you to say anything against the -Chevaliers. They are brave men, and men who have served their -country——”</p> - -<p>“Better than a good musician serves his?” cried the Signor. “You will -not assert as much. Better than we serve the country, who put a little -tune and time into her, an idea of some thing better than fifes and -drums?”</p> - -<p>“My dear Rossinetti,” said Mr. Ashford, with some heat, “England had -music in her before a single maestro had ever come from the South, and -will have after——”</p> - -<p>“No tragedy,” said the Signor, with a low laugh, putting up his hand. “I -am not a maestro, nor do I come from the South. I serve my country when -I teach these knavish boys, that would rather be playing in the streets, -to lengthen their snipped vowels. But sup<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185">{vol.-I-185}</a></span>pose they do better who -fight—I say nothing against that. I am not speaking of all the -Chevaliers, but of one, and one who is very unlike the rest—the only -person who has anything to do with the argument—a wretched frequenter -of taverns, admirer of milliners’ girls, who is said to be going to -marry some young woman of that class. Why should not Purcell, the best -fellow in the world, be as good as he?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know the father—and it is not the father Purcell has a -romantic devotion for. But don’t you see, Rossinetti, we are allowing -ourselves to discuss the affairs of people we know nothing of, people we -have no right to talk about. In short, we are <i>gossiping</i>, which is not -a very appropriate occupation.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, there is a great deal of it done by other persons quite as -dignified as we are,” said the Signor, with a smile; but he accepted the -reproof and changed the subject. They sat together and talked, looking -over the great width of the silent country, the trees and the winding -river, the scattered villages, and the illuminated sky. How beautiful it -was! fair enough of itself to make life sweeter to those who had it -before their eyes. But the two men talked and took no notice. They might -have been in a street in London for any difference it made.</p> - -<p>When, however, the Signor was gone, Mr. Ashford, having closed the door -upon his visitor, came straying back to the window in which Rossinetti -had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186">{vol.-I-186}</a></span> seated, and stood there gazing out vaguely. In all likelihood -he saw nothing at all, for he was short-sighted, as has been said; but -yet it is natural to seek the relief of the window and look out when -there is something within of a confused and vaguely melancholy character -to occupy one’s thoughts. Twenty-four hours before, Mr. Ashford had not -known who Lottie Despard was. He had seen her in the Abbey, and perhaps -had found, without knowing it, that sympathy in her face which -establishes sometimes a kind of tacit friendship long before words. He -thought now that this must have been the case; but he knew very little -about her still—nothing except that she had a beautiful voice, a face -that interested him, and something she wanted to talk to him about. What -was it she wanted to talk to him about? He could not imagine what it -could be, but he recollected very well how pleasant a thing it was when -this beautiful young lady, lifting the long fringes which veiled them, -turned upon him those beautiful blue eyes which (he thought) were -capable of expressing more feeling than eyes of any other colour. -Probably had Lottie’s eyes been brown or grey, Mr. Ashford would have -been of exactly the same opinion. And to think of this creature as the -beloved of Purcell gave him a shock. Purcell! it was not possible. No -doubt he was a respectable fellow, very much to be applauded and -encouraged:—but Mr. Ashford himself had nothing to do with Miss -Despard;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187">{vol.-I-187}</a></span> he was pleased to think that he should meet her again and hear -her sing again, and he must try, he said to himself, to find an -opportunity to ask her what it was about which she wanted to speak to -him. Otherwise he had no hand, and wanted to have no hand, in this -little conspiracy of which she seemed the unconscious object. On the -contrary, his whole sympathies were with Lottie against the men who -wanted to entrap her and make her a public singer whether she would or -not. He was glad she did not want it herself, and felt a warm sympathy -with her in those natural prejudices against “making an exhibition of -herself” which the Signor scorned so much. The Signor might scorn those -shrinkings and shyness; they were altogether out of his way; he might -not understand them. But Mr. Ashford understood them perfectly. He liked -Lottie for having them, comprehended her, and felt for her. Anything -rather than <i>that</i>, he thought, with a little tremulous warmth, as if -she had been his sister. If there should be any discussion on this -subject to-night at the Deanery, and she was in need of support, he -would stand by her. Having made this resolution he went back to his -writing-table and sat down in his usual place, and put this intrusive -business, which did not in the least concern him, out of his mind.</p> - -<p>The most intrusive subject! What had he to do with it? And yet it was -not at all easy to get it out of his mind. He had not read three lines -when he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188">{vol.-I-188}</a></span> felt himself beginning to wonder why Rollo Ridsdale had chosen -Miss Despard as his prima donna above everybody else, and why the Signor -concerned himself so much about it. She had certainly a beautiful voice, -but still voices as beautiful had been heard before. It could not be -supposed that there was no one else equal to her. Why should they make -so determined a set at this girl, who was a lady, and who had not -expressed any wish or intention of being a singer? To be sure, she was -very handsome as well, and her face was full of expression. And Rollo -was a kind of enthusiast when he took anything in his head. Then there -was the other imbroglio with the Signor and Purcell. What was Purcell to -the Signor that he should take up his cause so warmly? But, then, still -more mysterious, what was it all to him, Ernest Ashford, that it should -come between him and the book he was reading? Nothing could be more -absurd. He got up after awhile, and went to the window again, where he -finally settled himself with a volume of Shelley, to which he managed to -fix the thoughts which had been so absurdly disturbed by this stranger, -and this question with which he had nothing to do. It was a very idle -way of spending the afternoon, to recline in a deep window looking out -upon miles of air and distance and read Shelley; but it was better than -getting involved in the mere gossip of St. Michael’s and turning over in -his head against his will the private<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189">{vol.-I-189}</a></span> affairs of people whom he -scarcely knew. This was the disadvantage of living in a small circle -with so few interests, he said to himself. But he got delivered from the -gossip by means of the poetry, and so lay there while the brilliant -sunshine slanted from the west, now sending his thoughts abroad over the -leafy English plain, now feeding his fancy with the poet among the -Euganean hills.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190">{vol.-I-190}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">ANOTHER EVENING AT THE DEANERY.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Ridsdale</span> had perhaps never touched, and rarely heard, anything so -bad as the old cracked piano which Lottie had inherited from her mother, -and which was of the square form now obsolete, of a kind which brokers -(the only dealers in the article) consider very convenient, as combining -the character of a piano and a sideboard. Very often had Lottie’s piano -served the purpose of a sideboard, but it was too far gone to be -injured—nothing could make it worse. Nevertheless Mr. Ridsdale played -the accompaniments upon it, without a word, to Lottie’s admiration and -wonder, for he seemed to be able to draw forth at his fingers’ ends a -volume of sound which she did not suppose to be within the power of the -old instrument. He had brought several songs with him, being fully -minded to hear her that morning, whatever obstacles might be in the way. -But it so happened that there were no obstacles whatever in the way; and -Mrs. O’Shaughnessy was of the greatest service as audience. With the -true talent of a manager, Mr. Ridsdale addressed himself to the -subjugation of his public. He placed be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191">{vol.-I-191}</a></span>fore Lottie the song from -“Marta,” to which, hearing it thus named, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy prepared -herself to listen with a certain amiable scorn. “Ah, we shall have you -crying in five minutes,” he said. “Is it me you’re meaning?” she cried -in high scorn. But the fact was that when the melting notes of “The Last -Rose of Summer” came forth from Lottie’s lips, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy was -altogether taken by surprise, and carried out Rollo’s prophecy to the -letter by weeping abundantly. There was much of Mr. Ridsdale’s music -which Lottie could not sing—indeed, it would have been wonderful if she -had been able to do so, as he had brought with him the finest <i>morceaux</i> -of a dozen operas, and Lottie’s musical education had been of the -slightest. But he so praised, and flattered, and encouraged her, that -she went on from song to song at his bidding, making the best attempt at -them that was possible, while Mrs. O’Shaughnessy sat by and listened. -Her presence there was of the utmost consequence to them. It at once -converted Rollo’s visit into something allowable and natural, and it -gave him a pretence for beginning what was really an examination into -Lottie’s powers and compass, at once of voice and of intelligence. -Lottie, innocent of any scheme, or of any motive he could have, save -simple pleasure in her singing, exerted herself to please him with the -same mixture of gratitude and happy prepossession with which she had -thought of him for so long. If she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192">{vol.-I-192}</a></span> could give a little pleasure to him -who had given her his love and his heart (for what less could it be that -he had given her?), it was her part, she thought, to do so. She felt -that she owed him everything she could do for him, to recompense him for -that gift which he had given her unawares. So she stood by him in a soft -humility, not careful that she was showing her own ignorance, thinking -only of pleasing him. What did it matter, if he were pleased, whether -she attained the highest excellence? She said sweetly, “I know I cannot -do it, but if you wish it I will try,” and attempted feats which in -other circumstances would have appalled her. And the fact was, that thus -forgetting herself, and thinking only of pleasing him, Lottie sang -better than she had ever done in her life, better even than she had done -in the Deanery on the previous night. She committed a thousand faults, -but these faults were as nothing in comparison with the melody of her -voice and the purity of her taste. Rollo became like one inspired. All -the enthusiasm of an amateur, and all the zeal of an enterprising -manager, were in him. The old piano rolled out notes of which in its own -self it was quite incapable under his rapid fingers. He seemed to see -her with all London before her, at her feet, and he (so to speak) at -once the discoverer and the possessor of this new star. No wonder the -old piano grew ecstatic under his touch; he who had gone through so many -vicissitudes, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193">{vol.-I-193}</a></span> had made so many failures; at last it seemed evident -to him that his fortune was made. Unfortunately (though that he forgot -for the moment) he had felt his fortune to be made on several occasions -before.</p> - -<p>Mrs. O’Shaughnessy gave a great many nods and smiles when at last he -went away. “I say nothing, me dear, but I have my eyesight,” she said, -“and a blind man could see what’s in the wind. So that is how it is, -Lottie, me darling? Well, well! I always said you were the prettiest -girl that had been in the Lodges this many a year. I don’t envy ye, me -love, your rise in the world. And I hope, Lottie, when ye’re me lady, -ye’ll not forget your old friends.”</p> - -<p>“How should I ever be my lady?” said Lottie; “indeed, Mrs. -O’Shaughnessy, I don’t know what you mean.”</p> - -<p>“No, me honey, the likes of you never do, till the right moment comes,” -said the old lady, going down the narrow stairs. She kissed her hand to -Lottie, who looked after her from the window as she appeared on the -pavement outside, and, with her bonnet-strings flying loose, turned in -at her own door. Her face was covered with smiles and her mind full of a -new interest. She could not refrain from going into the Major’s little -den, and telling him. “Nonsense!” the Major said, incredulously; “one of -your mare’s-nests.” “Sure it was a great deal better than a mare, it was -turtle-doves made the nest I’m thinking of,” said Mrs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194">{vol.-I-194}</a></span> O’Shaughnessy; -and she took off her bonnet and seated herself at her window, from which -she inspected the world with a new warmth of interest, determined not to -lose a single incident in this new fairy tale.</p> - -<p>Law came out of his room, where he had been “reading,” when Mrs. -O’Shaughnessy went away. “What has all this shrieking been about,” said -Law, “and thumping on that old beast of a piano? You are always at a -fellow about reading, and when he does read you disturb him with your -noise. How do you think I could get on with all that miauling going on? -Who has been here?”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Ridsdale has been here,” said Lottie demurely. “He brought me a -note from Lady Caroline, and I am going again to the Deanery to-night.”</p> - -<p>Law whistled a long whew—ew! “Again, to-night! she’d better ask you to -go and live there,” said the astounded boy; and he said no more about -his interrupted reading, but put his big book philosophically away; for -who could begin to read again after all the disturbances of the morning, -and after such a piece of news as this?</p> - -<p>Lottie dressed herself with more care than ever that evening. She began -to wish for ornaments, and to realise how few her decorations were; the -little pearl locket was so small, and her arms seemed so bare without -any bracelets. However, she made herself little bands of black velvet, -and got the maid to fasten<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195">{vol.-I-195}</a></span> them on. She had never cared much for -ornaments before. And she spent a much longer time than usual over the -arrangement of her hair. Above all she wanted to look like a lady, to -show that, though their choice of her was above what could have been -expected, it was not above the level of what she was used to. <i>Their</i> -choice of her—that was how it seemed to Lottie. The young lover had -chosen, as it is fit the lover should do; but Lady Caroline had ratified -his selection, and Lottie, proud yet entirely humble in the tender -humility born of gratitude, wanted to show that she could do credit to -their choice. She read the note which purported to be Lady Caroline’s -over and over again; how kind it was! Lady Caroline’s manner perhaps was -not quite so kind. People could not control their manner. The kindest -heart was often belied, Lottie was aware, by a stiffness, an -awkwardness, perhaps only a shyness, which disguised their best -intentions. But the very idea of asking her was kind, and the letter was -so kind that she made up her mind never again to mistake Lady Caroline. -She had a difficulty in expressing herself, no doubt. She was indolent -perhaps. At her age and in her position it was not wonderful if one got -indolent; but in her heart she was kind. This Lottie repeated to herself -as she put the roses in her hair. In her heart Lady Caroline was kind; -the girl felt sure that she could never mistake her, never be -disappointed in her again. And in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196">{vol.-I-196}</a></span> this spirit she tripped across the -Dean’s Walk, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy watching from her window. It was almost -dark, but it was not one of the Signer’s nights for practice, and only a -few of the inhabitants of the Abbey Precincts were enjoying the air on -the Terrace pavement. They all saw her as she came out in the twilight -with her uncovered head. Law had gone out, and there was nobody to go -with her this time to the Deanery door. But Lottie had no difficulty in -finding an escort: as she came out, looking round her shyly to watch for -a quiet moment when no one was about, Captain Temple came forward, who -lived two doors off, and was passing as she came to the little garden -gate. He was the preux chevalier of all the Chevaliers. He came forward -with a fatherly smile upon his kind face. “You are looking for some one -to go with you,” he said; “your father has gone out. I saw him. Let me -take his place.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, thanks! I am going to the Deanery. I thought Law would have waited -for me.”</p> - -<p>“Law, like others of his age, has his own concerns to think of,” said -Captain Temple, “but I am used to this kind of work. You have heard of -my girl, Miss Despard?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Captain Temple——.” Lottie, touched suddenly in the sympathetic -sentiment of her own beginning life, looked up at him with wistful eyes.</p> - -<p>“She was a pretty creature, like yourself, my dear.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197">{vol.-I-197}</a></span> My wife and I often -talk of you, and think you like her. She was lost to us before she went -out of the world, and I think it broke her heart—as well as ours. Take -care of the damp grass with your little white shoes.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Captain Temple, do not come with me,” said Lottie, with tears in -her eyes. “I can go very well alone. It is too hard upon you.”</p> - -<p>“No—I like it, my dear. My wife cannot talk of it, but I like to talk -of it. You must take care not to marry anyone that will carry you quite -away from your father’s house.”</p> - -<p>“As if that would matter! as if papa would care!” Lottie said in her -heart, with a half pity, half envy, of Captain Temple’s lost daughter; -but this was but a superficial feeling in comparison with the great -compassion she had for him. The old Chevalier took her across the road -as tenderly and carefully as if even her little white shoes were worth -caring for. There was a moist brightness about his eyes as he looked at -her pretty figure. “The roses are just what you ought to wear,” he said. -“And whenever you want anyone to take care of you in this way, send for -me; I shall like to do it. Shall I come back for you in case your father -should be late?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Captain Temple, papa never minds! but it is quite easy to get -back,” she said, thinking that perhaps this time <i>he</i>—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198">{vol.-I-198}</a></span>—</p> - -<p>“I think it is always best that a young lady should have her own -attendant, and not depend on anyone to see her home,” said the old -Captain. And he rang the bell at the Deanery door, and took off his hat, -with a smile which almost made Lottie forget Lady Caroline. She went -into the drawing-room accordingly much less timidly than she had ever -done before, and no longer felt any fear of Mr. Jeremie, who admitted -her, though he was a much more imposing person than Captain Temple. This -shade of another life which had come over her seemed to protect Lottie, -and strengthen her mind. The drawing-room was vaguely lighted with -clusters of candles here and there, and at first she saw nobody, nor was -there any indication held out to her that the mistress of the house was -in the room, except the solemn tone of Jeremie’s voice announcing her. -Lottie thought Lady Caroline had not come in from the dining-room, and -strayed about looking at the books and ornaments on the tables. She even -began to hum an air quietly to herself, by way of keeping up her own -courage, and it was not till she had almost taken her seat unawares on -Lady Caroline’s dress, extended on the sofa, that she became aware that -she was not alone. “Oh, I beg your pardon,” she cried out in a sudden -panic. “I thought there was no one in the room.” Lady Caroline made no -remark at all, except to say “How do you do, Miss Despard?” That was -what she had made up her mind to say, feeling<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199">{vol.-I-199}</a></span> it to be quite enough for -the occasion—and Lady Caroline did not easily change her mind when it -was once made up. She thought it very impertinent of the girl to come in -and look at the photographs on the tables, and even to take the liberty -of singing, but there was no calculating what these sort of people might -do. She had nearly sat down on Lady Caroline’s feet! “This is what I put -up with for Rollo,” the poor lady said to herself; and it seemed to her -that a great deal of gratitude from Rollo was certainly her due. She did -not move, nor did she ask Miss Despard to sit down; but Lottie, half in -fright, dropped into a chair very near the strange piece of still life -on the sofa. The girl had been very much frightened to see her, and for -a moment was speechless with the horror of it. Nearly to sit down upon -Lady Caroline! and a moment of silence ensued. Lady Caroline did not -feel in the least inclined to begin a conversation. She had permitted -the young woman to be invited, and she had said “How do you do, Miss -Despard?” and she did not know what more could be expected from her. So -they sat close together in the large, half-visible, dimly-illuminated -room, with the large window open to the night, and said nothing to each -other. Lottie, who was the visitor, was embarrassed, but Lady Caroline -was not embarrassed. She felt no more need to speak than did the table -with the photographs upon it which Lottie had stopped to look at. As for -Lottie,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200">{vol.-I-200}</a></span> she bore it as long as she could, the stillness of the room, -the flicker of the candles, the dash and fall of a moth now and then -flying across the lights, and the immovable figure on the sofa with its -feet tucked up, and floods of beautiful rich silk enveloping them. A -strange sense that Lady Caroline was not living at all, that it was only -the picture of a woman that was laid out on the sofa came over her. In -her nervousness she began to tremble, then felt inclined to laugh. At -last it became evident to Lottie that to speak was a necessity, to break -the spell which might otherwise stupefy her senses too.</p> - -<p>“It is a beautiful night,” was all she managed to say; could anything be -more feeble? but Lady Caroline gave no reply. She made the usual little -movement of her eyelids, which meant an assent; indeed it was not a -remark which required reply. And the silence fell on them again as bad -as ever. The night air blew in, the moths whirled about the candles, -dashed against the globe of the lamp, dropped on the floor with fatal -infinitesimal booms of tragic downfall; and Lady Caroline lay on the -sofa, with eyes directed to vacancy, looking at nothing. Lottie, with -the roses in her hair, and so much life tingling in her, could not -endure it. She wanted to go and shake the vision on the sofa, she wanted -to cry out and make some noise or other to save herself from the spell. -At last, when she could keep silence no longer, she jumped up, throwing -over<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201">{vol.-I-201}</a></span> a small screen which stood near in her vehemence of action. “Shall -I sing you something, Lady Caroline?” she said.</p> - -<p>Lady Caroline was startled by the fall of the screen. She watched till -it was picked up, actually looking at Lottie, which was some advance; -then she said, “If you please, Miss Despard,” in her calm tones. And -Lottie, half out of herself, made a dash at the grand piano, though she -knew she could not play. She struck a chord or two, trembling all over, -and began to sing. This time she did not feel the neglect or unkindness -of the way in which she was treated. It was a totally different -sensation. A touch of panic, a touch of amusement was in it. She was -afraid that she might be petrified too if she did nothing to break the -spell. But as she began to sing, with a quaver in her voice, and a -little shiver of nervous chilliness in her person, the door opened, and -voices, half discerned figures of men, life and movement, came pouring -in. Lottie came to an abrupt stop in the middle of a bar.</p> - -<p>“This will never do,” said the suave Dean: “you make too much noise, -Rollo. You have frightened Miss Despard in the middle of her song.”</p> - -<p>Then Rollo came forward into the light spot round the piano, looking -very pale; he was a good deal more frightened than Lottie was. Could it -be possible that she had made a false note? He was in an agony<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202">{vol.-I-202}</a></span> of -horror and alarm. “I—make a noise!” he said; “my dear uncle!” He looked -at her with appealing eyes full of anguish. “You were not—singing, Miss -Despard? I am sure you were not singing, only trying the piano.”</p> - -<p>“I thought it would perhaps—amuse Lady Caroline.” Lottie did not know -what she had done that was wrong. The Signor wore an air of trouble too. -Only Mr. Ashford’s face, looking at her, as one followed another into -the light, reassured her. She turned to him with a little anxiety. “I -cannot play; it is quite true; perhaps I ought not to have touched the -piano,” she said.</p> - -<p>“You were startled,” said the Minor Canon, kindly. “Your voice fluttered -like those candles in the draught.” The others still looked terribly -serious, and did not speak.</p> - -<p>“And I sang false,” said Lottie; “I heard myself. It was terrible; but I -thought I was stiffening into stone,” she said, in an undertone, and she -gave an alarmed look at Lady Caroline on the sofa. This restored the -spirits of the others spectators, who looked at each other relieved.</p> - -<p>“Thank Heaven, she knew it,” Rollo whispered to the Signor; “it was -fright, pure fright—and my aunt——”</p> - -<p>“What else did you suppose it was?” answered in the same tone, but with -some scorn, the Signor.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203">{vol.-I-203}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Miss Despard, don’t think you are to be permitted to accompany -yourself,” said Rollo. “Here are two of us waiting your pleasure. -Signor, I will not pretend to interfere when you are there. May we have -again that song you were so good——?”</p> - -<p>“Ah, pardon me,” he cried coming close to her to get the music. “I do -not want to lose a minute. I have been on thorns this half-hour. I ought -to have been here waiting ready to receive you, as you ought to be -received.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it did not matter,” said Lottie, confused. “I am sorry I cannot -play. I wanted—to try—to amuse Lady Caroline.”</p> - -<p>By this time the Signor had arranged the music on the piano and began to -play. The Dean had gone off to the other end of the room, where the -evening paper, the last edition, had been laid awaiting him on a little -table on which stood a reading-lamp. The green shade of the lamp -concentrated the light upon the paper, and the white hands of the -reader, and his long limbs and his little table, making a new picture in -the large dim room. On the opposite side sat Lady Caroline, who had -withdrawn her feet hastily from the sofa, and sat bolt upright as a -tribute to the presence of “the gentlemen.” These two pieces of still -life appeared to Lottie vaguely through the partial gloom. The master -and mistress of the house were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204">{vol.-I-204}</a></span> paying no attention to the visitors. -Such visitors as these were not of sufficient importance to be company, -or to disturb their entertainers in the usual habits of their evening. -Lady Caroline, indeed, seldom allowed herself to be disturbed by anyone. -She put down her feet for the sake of her own dignity, but she did not -feel called upon to make any further sacrifice. And as for Lottie, she -was not happy among these three men. She shrank from Rollo, who was -eyeing her with an anxiety which she could not understand, and longed -for Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, or, indeed, any woman to stand by her. Her heart -sank, and she shivered again with that chill which is of the nerves and -fancy. The Dean with his rustling paper, and Lady Caroline with her -vacant eyes, were at the other end of the room, and Lottie felt -isolated, separated, cast upon the tender mercies of the three -connoisseurs, a girl with no woman near to stand by her. It seemed to -her for the moment as if she must sink into the floor altogether, or -else turn and fly.</p> - -<p>It was Mr. Ashford again who came to Lottie’s aid. “Play something else -first,” he said softly to the Signor, disregarding the anxious looks of -Rollo, who had placed himself on a chair at a little distance, so that -he might be able to see the singer and stop any false note that might be -coming before it appeared. The others were both kind and clever, kinder -than the man whom Lottie thought her lover, and whose<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205">{vol.-I-205}</a></span> anxiety for the -moment took all thought from him, and more clever too. The Signor began -to play Handel, the serious noble music with which Lottie had grown -familiar in the Abbey, and soon Mr. Ashford stepped in and sang in his -beautiful melodious voice. Then the strain changed, preluding a song -which the most angelic of the choristers had sung that morning. The -Minor Canon put the music into Lottie’s hands. “Begin here,” he -whispered. She knew it by ear and by heart, and the paper trembled in -her hands; but they made her forget herself, and she began, her voice -thrilling and trembling, awe and wonder taking possession of her. She -had heard it often, but she had never realised what it was till, all -human, womanish, shivering with excitement and emotion, she began to -sing. It did not seem her own doing at all. The dim drawing-room, with -the Dean reading the paper, the men in their evening coats, the -glimmering reflection of herself which she caught in the long mirror, in -her simple decorations, the roses trembling in her hair, all seemed -horribly inappropriate, almost profane, to Lottie. And the music shook -in her hands, and the notes, instead of remaining steadily before her -eyes, where she could read them, took wings to themselves and floated -about, now here, now there, sometimes gleaming upon her, sometimes -eluding her. Yet she sang, she could not tell how, forgetting -everything, though she saw and felt everything, in a passion,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206">{vol.-I-206}</a></span> in an -inspiration, penetrated through and through by the music and the poetry, -and the sacredness, above her and all of them. “I know that my Redeemer -liveth.” Oh, how did she dare to sing it, how could those commonplace -walls enclose it, those men stand and listen as if it was <i>her</i> they -were listening to? By and by the Dean laid down his paper. Rollo, in the -background, gazing on her at first in pale anxiety, then with vexed -disapproval (for what did he want with Handel?), came nearer and nearer, -his face catching some reflection of hers as she went on. And when -Lottie ended, in a rapture she could not explain or understand, they all -came pressing round her, dim and blurred figures in her confused eyes. -But the girl was too greatly strained to bear their approach or hear -what they said. She broke away from them, and rushed, scarcely knowing -what she did, to Lady Caroline’s side. Lady Caroline herself was roused. -She made room for the trembling creature, and Lottie threw herself into -the corner of the capacious sofa and covered her face with her hands.</p> - -<p>But when she came to herself she would not sing any more. A mixture of -guilt and exultation was in her mind. “I ought not to have sung it. I am -not good enough to sing it. I never thought what it meant till now,” she -said trembling. “Oh, I hope you will forgive me. I never knew what it -meant before.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207">{vol.-I-207}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Forgive you!” said the Dean. “We don’t know how to thank you, Miss -Despard.” He was the person who ought to know what it meant if anybody -did. And when he had thus spoken he went back to his paper, a trifle -displeased by the fuss she made; as if <i>she</i> could have any new -revelation of the meaning of a thing which, if not absolutely written -for St. Michael’s, as good as belonged to the choir, which belonged to -the Dean and Chapter! There was a certain presumption involved in -Lottie’s humility. He went back to his reading-lamp, and finished the -article which had been interrupted by her really beautiful rendering of -a very fine solo. It was really beautiful; he would not for a moment -deny that. But if Miss Despard turned out to be excitable, and gave -herself airs, like a real prima donna! Heaven be praised, the little -chorister boys never had any nerves, but sang whatever was set before -them, without thinking what was meant, the Dean said to himself. And it -would be difficult to describe Rollo Ridsdale’s disappointment. He sat -down in a low chair by the side of the sofa, and talked to her in a -whisper. “I understand you,” he said; “it is like coming down from the -heaven of heavens, where you have carried us. But the other spheres are -celestial too. Miss Despard, I shall drop down into sheer earth -to-morrow. I am going away. I shall lose the happiness of hearing you -altogether. Will you not have pity upon me, and lead me a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208">{vol.-I-208}</a></span> little way -into the earthly paradise?” But even these prayers did not move Lottie. -She was too much shaken and disturbed out of the unconscious calm of her -being for anything more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209">{vol.-I-209}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">BROTHER AND SISTER.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Lottie</span> ran out while Rollo Ridsdale was getting his hat to accompany her -home. She caught up her shawl over her arm without pausing to put it on, -and ran through the dark Cloister and across the Dean’s Walk to her own -door, before he knew she was ready. “The young—lady is gone, sir,” Mr. -Jeremie said, who was rather indignant at having to open the door to -such sort of people. He would have said young woman had he dared. Rollo, -much piqued already in that she had refused to sing for him further, and -half irritated, half attracted by this escapade now, hurried after her; -but when he emerged from the gloom of the Cloister to the fresh dewy air -of the night, and the breadth of the Dean’s Walk, lying half visible in -summer darkness in the soft indistinct radiance of the stars, there was -no one visible, far or near. She had already gone in before he came in -sight of the door. He looked up and down the silent way, on which not a -creature was visible, and listened to the sound of the door closing -behind her. The flight and the sound awoke a new sentiment in his mind. -Ladies were not apt to avoid Rollo.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210">{vol.-I-210}</a></span></p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Not his the form nor his the eye<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That youthful maidens wont to fly.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">He was piqued and he was roused. Heretofore, honestly, there had been -little but music in his thoughts. The girl was very handsome, which was -so much the better—very much the better, for his purpose; but this -sparkle of resistance in her roused something else in his mind. Lottie -had been like an inspired creature as she sang, this evening. He had -never seen on the stage or elsewhere so wonderful an exhibition of -absorbed impassioned feeling. If he could secure her for his prima -donna, nowhere would such a prima donna be seen. It was not that she had -thrown herself into the music, but that the music had possessed her, and -transported her out of herself. This was not a common human creature. -She was no longer merely handsome, but beautiful in the fervour of her -feeling. And for the first time Lottie as Lottie, not merely as a -singer, touched a well-worn but still sensitive chord in his breast. He -stood looking at the door, which still seemed to echo in the stillness -with the jar of closing. What did her flight mean? He was provoked, -tantalised, stimulated. Whatever happened, he must see more of this -girl. Why should she fly from him? He did not choose to return and tell -the story of her flight, which was such an incident as always makes the -man who is baulked present a more or less ridiculous aspect to the -spectators; but he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211">{vol.-I-211}</a></span> stood outside and waited till the steps of the Minor -Canon and the Signor had become audible turning each towards their -habitation, and even the turning of Mr. Ashford’s latchkey in his door. -Everything was very still in the evening at St. Michael’s. The -respectable and solemn Canons in their great houses, and the old -Chevaliers in their little lodges, went early to bed. Rollo saw no light -anywhere except a dim glow in the window of the little drawing-room -where he had spent the morning, and where no doubt the fugitive was -seated breathless. His curiosity was raised, and his interest, -supplanting that professional eagerness about her voice which he had -expressed so largely. Why did she run away from him? Why did she refuse -to sing for him? These questions suddenly sprang into his mind, and -demanded, if not reply, yet a great deal of consideration. He could not -make up his mind what the cause could be.</p> - -<p>As for Lottie, she could not have given any reasonable answer to these -questions, though she was the only living creature who could know why -she ran away. As a matter of fact, she did not know. The music had been -more than she could bear in the state of excitement in which she was. -Excited about things she would have been ashamed to confess any special -interest in—about her relations with the Deanery, about Lady Caroline, -and, above all, about Rollo—the wonderful strain to which she had all -unconsciously<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212">{vol.-I-212}</a></span> and unthinkingly, at first, given utterance, had caught -at Lottie like a hand from heaven. She had been drawn upward into the -fervour of religious ecstasy, she who was so ignorant; and when she -dropped again to earth, and was conscious once more of Rollo and of Lady -Caroline, there had come upon her a sudden sense of shame and of her own -pettiness and inability to disentangle herself from the links that drew -her to earth which was as passionate as the sudden fervour. How dare she -sing <i>that</i> one moment, and the next be caught down to vulgar life, to -Lady Caroline and Rollo Ridsdale? Lottie would sing no more, and could -not speak, so strong was the conflict within her. She could not even -encounter the momentary <i>tête-à-tête</i> which before she had almost wished -for. She was roused and stirred in all her being as she had never been -before, able to encounter death or grief, she thought vaguely, or -anything that was solemn and grand, but not ordinary talk, not -compliments, not the little tender devices of courtship. She flew from -the possible touch of sentiment, the half-mock, half-real flatteries -that he would be ready to say to her. Love real, and great, and solemn, -the Love of which the Italian poet speaks as twin sister of Death, was -what Lottie’s mind was prepared for; but from anything lower she fled, -with the instinct of a nature highly strained and unaccustomed to though -capable of, passion. Everything was seething in her mind, her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213">{vol.-I-213}</a></span> heart -beating, the blood coursing through her veins. She felt that she could -not bear the inevitable downfall of ordinary talk. She ran out into the -soft coolness of the night, the great quiet and calm of the sleeping -place, a fugitive driven by this new wind of strange emotion. The shadow -of the Abbey was grateful to her, lying dimly half-way across the broad -silent road—and the dim lamp in her own window seemed to point out a -refuge from her thoughts. She rushed across the empty road, like a ghost -flitting, white and noiseless, and swift as an arrow, from the gate of -the Cloister, wondering whether the maid would hear her knock at once, -or if she would have to wait there at the door till Mr. Ridsdale -appeared. But the door was opened at her first touch, to Lottie’s great -surprise, by Law, who seemed to have been watching for her arrival. He -wore a very discontented aspect, but this Lottie did not at first see, -in her grateful sense of safety.</p> - -<p>“How early you are!” he said. “I did not expect you for an hour yet. It -was scarcely worth while going out at all, if you were to come back so -soon.”</p> - -<p>Lottie made no reply. She went upstairs to the little drawing-room, -where the lamp had been screwed as low as possible to keep alight for -her when she should return. The room was still more dim than Lady -Caroline’s, and looked so small and insignificant<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214">{vol.-I-214}</a></span> in comparison. On the -table was a tray with some bread and butter and a cup of milk, which was -Lottie’s simple supper after her dissipation; for Lady Caroline’s cup of -tea was scarcely enough for a girl who had eaten a not too luxurious -dinner at two o’clock. She had no mind, however, for her supper now; but -sat down on the little sofa and covered her eyes with her hand, and went -back into her thoughts, half to prolong the excitement into which she -had plunged, half to still herself and get rid of this sudden transport. -It would be difficult to say which she wished most; to calm herself down -or to continue that state of exaltation which proved to her new -capabilities in her own being. She thought it was the former desire that -moved her, and that to be quiet was all she wanted; but yet that strong -tide running in her veins, that hot beating of her heart, that expansion -and elevation of everything in her, was full of an incomprehensible -agony of sweetness and exquisite sensation. She did not know what it -was. She covered her eyes to shut out the immediate scene around her. -The little shabby room, the bread and butter, and Law’s slouching figure -manipulating the lamp—these, at least, were accessories which she had -no desire to see.</p> - -<p>“Bother the thing!” said Law, “I can’t get it to burn. Here, Lottie! you -can manage them. Oh! if you like to sit in the dark, I don’t mind. Were -your fine people disagreeable? I always told you they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215">{vol.-I-215}</a></span> wanted nothing -but that you should sing for them and amuse them. They don’t care a rap -for <i>you</i>!”</p> - -<p>Lottie took no notice of this speech. She withdrew her hand from her -face, but still kept her eyes half-closed, unwilling to be roused out of -her dream.</p> - -<p>“They’re all as selfish as old bears,” said Law; “most people are, for -that matter. They never think of you; you’ve got to look after yourself; -it’s their own pleasure they’re thinking of. What can you expect from -strangers when a man that pretends to be one’s own father——?”</p> - -<p>“What are you talking about?” asked Lottie, slowly waking, with a -feeling of disgust and impatience, out of her finer fancies. She could -not keep some shade of scorn and annoyance from her face.</p> - -<p>“You needn’t put on those supercilious looks; you’ll suffer as much from -it as I shall, or perhaps more, for a man can always do for himself,” -said Law; “but you—you’ll find the difference. Lottie,” he continued, -forgetting resentment in this common evil, and sinking his voice, “he’s -down there at the old place again.”</p> - -<p>“What old place?”</p> - -<p>As soon as his complaining voice became familiar, Lottie closed her eyes -again, longing to resume her own thoughts.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216">{vol.-I-216}</a></span></p> -<p>“Oh! the old place. Why, down there; you know—the place where—— I -say!” cried Law, suddenly growing red, and perceiving the betrayal of -himself as well as of his father which was imminent. “Never mind where -it is; it’s where that sharp one, Polly Featherstone, works.”</p> - -<p>Lottie was completely awakened now; she looked up, half-bewildered, from -the dispersing mists. “Of whom are you talking?” she cried. “Law, what -people have you got among—who are they? You frighten me! Who is it you -are talking of?”</p> - -<p>“There’s no harm in them,” cried Law, colouring more and more. “What do -you mean? Do you think they’re—— I don’t know what you mean; they’re -as good as we are,” he added sullenly, walking away with his hands in -his pockets out of the revelations of the lamp. Dim and low as it was, -it disclosed, he was aware, an uncomfortable glow of colour on his face.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know who <i>they</i> may be,” said Lottie, severe, yet blushing too; -“I don’t want to know! But, oh, Law! you that are so young, my only -brother, why should you know people I couldn’t know? Why should you be -ashamed of anyone you go to see?”</p> - -<p>“I was not talking of people <i>I</i> go to see; I wish you wouldn’t be so -absurd; I’m talking of the governor,” said Law, speaking very fast; -“he’s there, I tell you, a man of his time of life, sitting among a lot -of girls, talking away fifteen to the dozen. He might find some other -way of meeting her if he must meet<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217">{vol.-I-217}</a></span> her!” cried Law, his own grievance -breaking out in spite of him. “What has he got to do there among a pack -of girls? it’s disgraceful at his age!”</p> - -<p>Law was very sore, angry, and disappointed. He had gone to his usual -resort in the evening, and had seen his father there before him, and had -been obliged to retire discomfited, with a jibe from Emma to intensify -his trouble. “The Captain’s twice the man you are!” the little -dressmaker had said; “he ain’t afraid of nobody.” Poor Law had gone away -after this, and strolled despondently along the river-side. He did not -know what to do with himself. Lottie was at the Deanery; he was shut out -of his usual refuge, and he had nowhere to go. Though he had no money, -he jumped into a boat and rowed himself dismally about the river, -dropping down below the bridge to where he could see the lighted windows -of the workroom. There he lingered about, nobody seeing or taking any -notice of him. When he approached the bank, he could even hear the sound -of their voices, the laughter with which they received the Captain’s -witticisms. A little wit went a long way in that complaisant circle. He -could make out Captain Despard’s shadow against the window, never still -for a moment, moving up and down, amusing the girls with songs, jokes, -pieces of buffoonery. Law despised these devices; but, oh! how he envied -the skill of the actor. He hung about the river in his boat till it got -quite dark, almost run into<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218">{vol.-I-218}</a></span> sometimes by other boats, indifferent to -everything but this lighted interior, which he could see, though nobody -in it could see him. And when he was tired of this forlorn amusement he -came home, finding the house very empty and desolate. He tried to work, -but how was it possible to work under the sting of such a recollection? -The only thing he could do was to wait for Lottie, to pour forth his -complaint to her, to hope that she might perhaps find some remedy for -this intolerable wrong. It did not occur to him that to betray his -father was also to betray himself, and that Lottie might feel as little -sympathy for him as he did for Captain Despard. This fact flashed upon -him now when it was too late.</p> - -<p>Lottie had not risen from her seat, but as she sat there, everything -round seemed to waver about her, then settle down again in a sudden -revelation of mean, and small, and paltry life, such as she had scarcely -ever realised before. Not only the lofty heaven into which the music had -carried her rolled away like a scroll, but the other world, which was -beautiful also of its kind, from which she had fled, which had seemed -too poor to remain in, after the preceding ecstasy, departed as with a -glimmer of wings; and she found herself awaking in a life where -everything was squalid and poor, where she alone, with despairing -efforts, tried to prop up the house that it might not fall into -dishonoured dust. She had borne with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219">{vol.-I-219}</a></span> kind of contemptuous equanimity -Law’s first story about her father. Let him marry again! she had said; -if he could secure the thing he called his happiness in such a way, let -him do it. The idea had filled her with a high scorn. She had not -thought of herself nor of the effect it might have upon her, but had -risen superior to it with lofty contempt, and put it from her mind. But -this was different. With all her high notions of gentility, and all her -longings after a more splendid sphere, this sudden revelation of a -sphere meaner, lower still, struck Lottie with a sudden pang. A pack of -girls! what kind of girls could those be of whom Law spoke? Her blood -rushed to her face scorching her with shame. She who scorned the -Chevaliers and their belongings! She who had “kept her distance” from -her own class, was it possible that she was to be dragged down lower, -lower, to shame itself? Her voice was choked in her throat. She did not -feel able to speak. She could only cry out to him, clasping her hands, -“Don’t tell me any more—oh, don’t tell me any more——”</p> - -<p>“Hillo!” said the lad, “what is the matter with you? Don’t tell you any -more? You will soon know a great deal more if you don’t do something to -put a stop to it. There ought to be a law against it. A man’s children -ought to be able to put a stop to it. I told you before, Lottie, if you -don’t exert yourself and do something<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220">{vol.-I-220}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” she said, rising to her feet, “what can I do? Can I put honour -into you, and goodness, and make you what I want you to be? Oh, if I -could, Law! I would give you my blood out of my veins if I could. But I -can’t put me into you,” she said, wringing her hands—“and you expect me -to listen to stories—about people I ought not to hear of—about -women—Oh, Law, Law, how dare you speak so to me?”</p> - -<p>“Hold hard!” said Law, “you don’t know what you are speaking of. The -girls are as good girls as you are—” his own cheeks flushed with -indignant shame as he spoke. “You are just like what they say of women. -You are always thinking of something bad. What are you after all, Lottie -Despard? A poor shabby Captain’s daughter! You make your own gowns and -they make other people’s. I don’t see such a dreadful difference in -that.”</p> - -<p>Lottie was overpowered by all the different sensations that succeeded -each other in her. She felt herself swept by what felt like repeated -waves of trouble—shame to hear of these people among whom both her -father and brother found their pleasure, shame to have thought more -badly of them than they deserved, shame to have betrayed to Law her -knowledge that there were women existing of whom to speak was a shame. -She sank down upon the sofa again trembling and agitated, relieved yet -not relieved. “Law,” she said faintly, “we are poor enough ourselves, I -know.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221">{vol.-I-221}</a></span> But even if we don’t do much credit to our birth, is it not -dreadful to be content with that, to go down lower, to make ourselves -nothing at all?”</p> - -<p>“It is not my fault,” said Law, a little moved, “nor yours neither. I am -very sorry for you, Lottie; for you’ve got such a high mind—it will go -hardest with you. As for me, I’ve got no dignity to stand on, and if he -drives me to it, I shall simply ’list—that’s what I shall do.”</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">’</span>List!” Lottie gazed at him pathetically. She was no longer angry, as -she had been when he spoke of this before. “You are out of your senses, -Law! You, a <i>gentleman</i>!”</p> - -<p>“A gentleman!” he said bitterly, “much good it does me. It might, -perhaps, be of some use if we were rich, if we belonged to some great -family which nobody could mistake; but the kind of gentlefolks we -are!—nobody knowing anything about us, except through what <i>he</i> pleases -to do and say. I tell you, if the worst comes to the worst, I will go -straight off to the first sergeant I see, and take the shilling. In the -Guards there’s many a better gentleman than I am, and I’m tall enough -for the Guards,” he said, looking down with a little complacence on his -own long limbs. The look struck Lottie with a thrill of terror and pain. -There were soldiers enough about St. Michael’s to make her keenly and -instantly aware how perfectly their life, as it appeared to her, would -chime in with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222">{vol.-I-222}</a></span> Law’s habits. They seemed to Lottie to be always lounging -about the streets stretching their long limbs, expanding their broad -chests in the sight of all the serving maidens, visible in their red -coats wherever the idle congregated, wherever there was any commotion -going on. She perceived in a moment, as by a flash of lightning, that -nothing could be more congenial to Law. What work might lie behind, what -difficulties of subordination, tyrannies of hours and places, -distasteful occupations—Lottie knew nothing about. She saw in her -brother’s complacent glance, a something of kin to the swagger of the -tall fellows in their red jackets, spreading themselves out before -admiring nursemaids. Law would do that too. She could not persuade -herself that there was anything in him above the swagger, superior to -the admiration of the maids. A keen sense of humiliation, and the sharp -impatience of a proud spirit, unable to inspire those most near to it -with anything of its own pride and energy, came into her mind. “You do -not mind being a gentleman—you do not care,” she cried. “Oh, I know you -are not like me! But how will you like being under orders, Law, never -having your freedom, never able to do what you please, or to go anywhere -without leave? That is how soldiers live. They are slaves; they have to -obey, always to obey. You could not do anything because you wanted to do -it—you could not spend an evening at home—Oh,” she cried<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223">{vol.-I-223}</a></span> with a -sudden stamp of her foot in impatience with herself, “that is not what I -mean to say; for what would you care for coming home? But you could not -go to that place—that delightful place—that you and papa prefer to -home. I know you don’t care for home,” said Lottie. “Oh, it is a -compliment, a great compliment to me!”</p> - -<p>And, being overwrought and worn out with agitation, she suddenly broke -down and fell a-crying, not so much that she felt the slight and the -pang of being neglected, but because all these agitations had been too -much for her, and she felt for the moment that she could bear no more.</p> - -<p>At the sight of her tears sudden remorse came over Law. He went to her -side and stood over her, touching her shoulder with his hand. “Don’t -cry, Lottie,” he said, with compunction. And then, after a moment, “It -isn’t for you; you’re always jolly and kind. I don’t mind what I say to -you; you might know everything I do if you liked. But home, you know, -home’s not what a fellow cares for. Oh, yes! I care for it in a way—I -care for you; but except you, what is there, Lottie? And I can’t always -be talking to you, can I? A fellow wants a little more than that. So do -you; you want more than me. If I had come into the drawing-room this -morning and strummed on the piano, what would you have done? Sent me off -or boxed my ears if I’d have let you. But that fellow<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224">{vol.-I-224}</a></span> Ridsdale comes -and you like it. You needn’t say no; I am certain you liked it. But -brother and sister, you know that’s not so amusing! Come, Lottie, you -know that as well as I.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know it, it is not true!” Lottie cried, with a haste and -emphasis which she herself felt to be unnecessary. “But what has that to -do with the matter? Allow that you do not care for your home, Law; but -is it necessary to go off and separate yourself from your family, to -give up your position, everything? I will tell you what we will do. We -will go to Mr. Ashford, and he will let us know honestly what he -thinks—what you are fit for. All examinations are not so hard; there -must be something that you could do.”</p> - -<p>Law made a wry face, but he did not contradict his sister. “I wish he -would cut me out with a pair of scissors and make me fit somewhere,” he -said, with a shrug of his shoulders. Then he added, almost caressingly, -“Take your supper, Lottie; you’re tired, and you want something; I have -had mine. And you have not told me a word about to-night. Why did you -come in so early? How are you and Ridsdale getting on? Oh! what’s the -good of making a fuss about it? Do you think I can’t see as plain as -porridge what <i>that</i> means?”</p> - -<p>“What what means?” cried Lottie, springing from her seat with such -passionate energy as half frightened the lad. “How dare you, Law? Do you -think I am<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225">{vol.-I-225}</a></span> one of the girls you are used to? How dare you speak to me -so?”</p> - -<p>“Why should you make such a fuss about it?” cried Law, laughing, yet -retreating. “If there is nothing between you and Ridsdale, what does the -fellow want loafing about here? Lottie! I say, mind what you’re doing. I -don’t mind taking your advice sometimes, but I won’t be bullied by you.”</p> - -<p>“You had better go to bed, Law!” said Lottie, with dignified contempt. -After all the agitations of the evening it was hard to be brought down -again to the merest vulgarities of gossip like this. She paid no more -attention to her brother, but gathered together her shawl, her gloves, -the shabby little fan which had been her mother’s, and put out the lamp, -leaving him to find his way to his room as he could. She was too -indignant for words. He thought her no better than the dressmaker-girls -he had spoken of, to be addressed with vulgar stupid raillery such as no -doubt they liked. This was the best Lottie had to look for in her own -home. She swept out, throwing the train of her long white skirt from her -hand with a movement which would have delighted Rollo, and went away to -the darkness and stillness of her own little chamber, with scarcely an -answer to the “Good-night” which Law flung at her as he shuffled away. -She sat down on her little bed in the dark without lighting her candle; -it was her self-imposed duty to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226">{vol.-I-226}</a></span> watch there till she heard her father’s -entrance. And there, notwithstanding her stately withdrawal, poor -Lottie, overcome, sobbed and cried. She had nobody to turn to, nor -anything to console her, except the silence and pitying darkness which -hid her girlish weakness even from herself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227">{vol.-I-227}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">CAPTAIN DESPARD.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Morning</span> service at the Abbey was more business-like than the severe -ritual in the afternoon. The evening prayers were more pleasurable. -Strangers came to them, new faces, all the visitors about, and there -could be no doubt that the Signor chose his anthems with a view to the -new people who were always coming and going. Sometimes representatives -from every quarter of England, from the Continent—members of “the other -church” even, which Anglicanism venerates and yearns after: and people -from America, pilgrims to the shrine of the past, would gather within -the Abbey, and carry away the fame of the music and the beautiful church -to all the winds. The staff of the Abbey was pleasantly excited, the -service was short, the whole ritual was pleasurable. It was the dull -hour in the afternoon when it is good for people to be occupied in such -an elevating way, and when, coming in with the fresh air hanging about -you in the summer, out of the sunshine, to feel the house so shady and -cool—or in winter from the chill and cold out of doors to a blazing -fire, and lamps, and candles, and tea—you had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228">{vol.-I-228}</a></span> just time for a little -lounge before dressing for dinner, and so cheated away the heaviest hour -of the day. But in the morning it was business. The Minor Canons felt -it, getting up from their breakfast to sing their way steadily through -litany and versicles. And nobody felt it more than the old Chevaliers as -they gathered in their stalls, many of them white-headed, tottering, one -foot in the grave. It was the chief occupation of their lives—all that -they were now obliged to do. Their whole days were shaped for this. When -the bells began the doors would open, the veterans come out, one by one, -some of them battered enough, with medals on their coats. Captain -Despard was the most jaunty of the brotherhood. Indeed he was about the -youngest of all, and it had been thought a bad thing for the institution -when a man not much over fifty was elected. He was generally the last to -take his place, hurrying in fresh and debonair, with his flower in his -coat, singing with the choir whenever the music pleased him, and even -now and then softly accompanying the Minor Canon, with a cheerful sense -that his adhesion to what was being said must always be appreciated. His -responses were given with a grand air, as if he felt himself to be -paying a compliment to the Divine Hearer. And indeed, though it was the -great drawback of his existence to be compelled to be present there -every morning of his life, still when he was there he enjoyed it. He was -part of the show. The beauti<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229">{vol.-I-229}</a></span>ful church, the fine music, and Captain -Despard, had all, he thought, a share in the silent enthusiasm of the -general congregation. And Captain Despard was so far right that many of -the congregation, especially those who came on Sundays and holidays, the -townsfolk, the tobacconists, and tradespeople, and the girls from the -workroom, looked upon him with the greatest admiration, and pointed out -to each other, sometimes awed and respectful, sometimes tittering behind -their prayer-books, where “the Captain” sat in state. The Captain was a -“fine man” everybody allowed—well proportioned, well preserved—a young -man of his age; and his age was mere boyhood in comparison with many of -his peers and brethren. It was ridiculous to see him there among all -those old fellows, the girls said; and as for Polly, as she slipped -humbly into a free seat, the sight of him sitting there in his stall -quite overpowered her. If all went well, she herself would have a place -there by-and-by—not in the stalls indeed, but in the humble yet -dignified places provided for the families of the Chevaliers. It must -not be supposed that even the Chevaliers’ stalls were equal to those -provided for the hierarchy of the Abbey. They were a lower range, and on -a different level altogether, but still they were places of dignity. -Captain Despard put his arms upon the carved supports of his official -seat, and looked around him like a benevolent monarch. When anyone asked -him a question as he went or<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230">{vol.-I-230}</a></span> came he was quite affable, and called to -the verger with a condescending readiness to oblige.</p> - -<p>“You must find a place for this gentleman, Wykeham,” he would say; “this -gentleman is a friend of mine.” Wykeham only growled at these -recommendations, but Captain Despard passed on to his stall with the air -of having secured half a dozen places at least; and his <i>protégés</i> felt -a vague belief in him, even when they did not find themselves much -advanced by it. And there he sat, feeling that every change in his -position was noted, and that he himself was an essential part of the -show—that show which was so good for keeping up all the traditions of -English society, making the Church respected, and enforcing attention to -religion—indeed, a very handsome compliment to the Almighty himself.</p> - -<p>Captain Despard, however, though he admired himself so much, was not, as -has been already hinted, proportionately admired by his brother -Chevaliers, and it was something like a surprise to him when he found -himself sought by two of them at once, as they came out of the Abbey. -One of these was Captain Temple, who had encountered Lottie on the -evening before, going alone to the Deanery. None of all the Chevaliers -of St. Michael’s was so much respected as this old gentleman. He was a -little man, with white hair, not remarkable in personal appearance, -poor, and old; but he was all that a Chevalier ought to be, <i>sans -reproche</i>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231">{vol.-I-231}</a></span> The story of his early days was the ordinary one of a poor -officer without friends or interest; but in his later life there had -happened to him something which everybody knew. His only daughter had -married a man greatly above her in station, a member of a noble family, -to the great admiration and envy of all beholders. She was a beautiful -girl, very delicate and sensitive; but no one thought of her qualities -in comparison with the wonderful good fortune that had befallen her. A -girl that had been changed at a stroke from poor little Mary Temple, the -poor Chevalier’s daughter, into the Honourable Mrs. Dropmore, with a -chance of a Viscountess’s coronet! was ever such good luck heard of? Her -father and mother were congratulated on all sides with malign -exuberance. Mrs. Temple got credit for being the cleverest of mothers, -that applause, which in England means insult, being largely showered -upon her. Whether she deserved it, poor soul! is nothing to this -history; but if so, she soon had her reward. The girl who had been so -lucky was carried off summarily from the father and mother who had -nothing else to care for in the world. They were not allowed to see her, -or even to communicate with her but in the most limited way. They bore -everything, these poor people, for their child’s sake, encouraging each -other not to complain, to wait until her sweetness had gained the -victory, as sweetness and submission are always said to do—and -en<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232">{vol.-I-232}</a></span>couraging <i>her</i> to think only of her husband, to wait and be patient -until the prejudices of his family were dispelled. But this happy moment -never came for poor Mary. She died after a year’s marriage—wailing for -her mother, who was not allowed to come near her, and did not even know -of her illness. This had almost killed the old people too—and it had -pointed many a moral all the country round; and now this incident, which -had nothing to do with her, came in to influence the career of Lottie -Despard. It was Captain Temple who first came up to his brother -Chevalier as he strolled through the nave of St. Michael’s, on his way -out from the service. A great many people always lingered in the nave to -get every note of the Signor’s voluntary, and it was Captain Despard’s -practice to take a turn up and down to exhibit himself in this last act -of the show before it was over. The sun shone in from the high line of -south windows, throwing a thousand varieties of colour on the lofty -clustered pillars, and the pavement all storied with engraved stones and -brasses. The Captain sauntered up and down, throwing out his chest, and -conscious of admiration round him, while the music rolled forth through -the splendid space, with a voice proportioned to it, and groups of the -early worshippers stood about listening, specks in the vastness of the -Abbey. Just as it ended, with an echoing thunder of sweet sound, the old -Captain, putting on his hat at the door, en<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233">{vol.-I-233}</a></span>countered the younger -warrior for whom he had been lying in wait.</p> - -<p>“May I speak a word to you, Captain Despard?” he said.</p> - -<p>“Certainly, my dear sir; if I can be of use to you in any way, command -me,” said Captain Despard, with the most amiable flourish of his hat. -But he was surprised; for Captain Temple was a man who “kept his -distance,” and had never shown any symptom of admiration for the other -Chevalier.</p> - -<p>“You will forgive me speaking,” said the old man. “But I know that your -evenings are often engaged. You have many occupations; you are seldom at -home in the evening?”</p> - -<p>“My friends are very kind,” said Captain Despard, with another flourish. -“As a matter of fact, I—dine out a great deal. I am very often -engaged.”</p> - -<p>“I thought so. And your son—very often dines out too. May I ask as a -favour that you will allow me to constitute myself the escort of Miss -Despard when she is going anywhere in the evening? I had that pleasure -last night,” said the old man. “I am a very safe person, I need not say: -and fond of—young people. It would be a great pleasure to me.”</p> - -<p>Captain Despard listened with some surprise. Perhaps he saw the reproach -intended, but was too gaily superior to take any notice of it. When the -other had ended, he took off his hat again, and made him a still<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234">{vol.-I-234}</a></span> more -beautiful bow. “How glad I am,” he said, “to be able to give you a great -pleasure so easily! Certainly, Captain Temple, if my little girl’s -society is agreeable to you.”</p> - -<p>“She is at an age when she wants—someone to watch over her,” said the -old Captain. “She is very sweet—and very handsome, Captain Despard.”</p> - -<p>“Is she?” said the other, indifferently. “A child, my dear sir, nothing -more than a child; but good looks belong to her mother’s family—without -thinking of my own side of the house.”</p> - -<p>“She is very handsome. A mother is a great loss to a girl at that age.”</p> - -<p>“You think it is a want that ought to be supplied,” said Captain -Despard, with a laugh, stroking his moustache. “Perhaps you are -right—perhaps you are right. Such an idea, I allow, has several times -crossed my own mind.”</p> - -<p>“Despard,” said another voice, behind him, “I’ve got something to say to -ye. When ye’re at leisure, me dear fellow, step into my place.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t let me detain you,” said the other old man, hurrying away. His -kind stratagem had not succeeded. He was half sorry—and yet, as he had -already prophesied its failure to his wife, he was not so much -displeased after all. Major O’Shaughnessy, who was a heavy personage, -hobbled round to the other side.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235">{vol.-I-235}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Despard,” he said, “me dear friend! I’ve got something to say to you. -It’s about Lottie, me boy.”</p> - -<p>“About Lottie?—more communications about Lottie. I’ve had about enough -of her, O’Shaughnessy. There is that solemn old idiot asking if he may -escort her when she goes anywhere. Is he going to give his wife poison, -and offer himself to me as a son-in-law?” said the Captain, with a -laugh.</p> - -<p>“I’ll go bail he didn’t tell you what I’m going to tell you. Listen, -Despard. My pretty Lottie—she’s but a child, and she’s as pretty a one -as you’d wish to see: well, it’s a lover she’s gone and got for herself. -What d’ye think of that? Bless my soul, a lover! What do you make of -that, me fine fellow?” cried the Major, rubbing his fat hands. He was -large of bulk, like his wife, and round and shining, with a bald head, -and large hands that looked bald too.</p> - -<p>“Is this a joke?” said the Captain, drawing himself up; “by George I’ll -have no jokes about my child.”</p> - -<p>“Joke? it is my wife told me, that is as fond of the girl as if she were -her own. ‘Mark my words,’ says Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, ‘she’ll be the -Honourable Mrs. Ridsdale before we know where we are.’ And Temple’s been -at ye, Despard; I know it. The man is off his head with his own bad -luck, and can’t abide the name of an Honourable. But, from all I hear, -there’s little to be said against this one except that he’s poor.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236">{vol.-I-236}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“The Honourable——” said Captain Despard, with a bewildered look. Then, -as the good Major talked, he recovered himself. “Well!” he said, when -that speech came to an end, “you may think that it’s very fine, -O’Shaughnessy, and I’m sure I am much obliged to you for telling me, but -you don’t suppose an Honourable is anything out of the way to me? With -her family and her beauty, I would grudge the child to a man without a -title anyhow, even if he weren’t poor.”</p> - -<p>The Major had his mouth open to speak, but he was so bewildered by this -grandeur that he stopped and closed it again, and uttered only a murmur -in his throat. “Well!” he said, when he came to himself, “you know your -own affairs best; but now that your girl is taken out, and into society, -and with her prospects, you’ll be standing by her and giving her more of -your company, Despard? Lottie’s the best of girls: but it might make all -the difference to her, having her father at home, and always ready to -stand up for her—not meaning any offence.”</p> - -<p>“Nor is any taken, O’Shaughnessy; make your mind quite easy,” said the -Captain, looking extremely stately though his coat was shabby. Then he -added, “I’ve got some business down town, and an appointment at twelve -o’clock. I’m sorry to hurry off, but business goes before all. -Good-morning to you, Major!” he said, kissing the ends of his fingers; -then turning back after he had gone a few steps. “My re<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237">{vol.-I-237}</a></span>spects to your -wife, and thanks for finding it all out; but I’ve known it these three -weeks at least, though I’m obliged to her all the same.” And so saying, -Captain Despard resumed the humming of his favourite tune, and went -swinging his arm down the Dean’s Walk, the rosebud in his coat showing -like a decoration, and the whole man jaunty and gay as nobody else was -at St. Michael’s. It was a sight to see him as he marched along, keeping -time to the air he was humming; a fine figure of a man! The good Major -stood and looked after him dum-foundered; he was almost too much taken -by surprise to be offended. “Manage your own affairs as you please, my -fine fellow!” he said to himself, and went home in a state of suppressed -fury. But he relented when he saw Lottie, in her print frock, at the -window; and he did not give his wife that insolent message. “What is the -use of making mischief?” the Major said.</p> - -<p>Captain Despard was not, however, so entirely unmoved as he looked. The -news bewildered him first, and then elated him. Where had the girl -picked up the Honourable Mr.——, what was his name? He knew so little -of Lottie and was so little aware of her proceedings, that he had only -heard accidentally of her visits at the Deanery at all, and knew nothing -whatever of Rollo. He must inquire, he said to himself; but in the -meantime did not this free him from all the hesitations with which, to -do him justice, he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238">{vol.-I-238}</a></span> had been struggling? For if, instead of “presiding -over his establishment”—which was how Captain Despard put it—Lottie -was to be the mistress of a house of her own and ascend into heaven, as -it were, as the Honourable Mrs. Something-or-other, there would be no -doubt that Captain Despard would be left free as the day to do what -pleased himself. This wonderful piece of news seemed to get into his -veins and send the blood coursing more quickly there, and into his head, -and made that whirl with an elation which was perfectly vague and -indefinite. With Lottie as the Honourable Mrs. So-and-so, all obstacles -were removed out of his own way. Law did not count; the Captain was -afraid more or less of his daughter, but he was not at all afraid of his -son. The Honourable Something-or-other! Captain Despard did not even -know his name or anything about him, but already various privileges -seemed to gleam upon him through this noble relation. No doubt such a -son-in-law would be likely to lend a gentleman, who was not over-rich -and connected with him by close family ties, a small sum now and then; -or probably he might think it necessary for his own dignity to make an -allowance to his wife’s father to enable him to appear as a gentleman -ought; and in the shooting season he would naturally, certainly, give so -near a relation a standing invitation to the shooting-box which, by -right of his rank, he must inevitably possess somewhere or other, either -his own<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239">{vol.-I-239}</a></span> or belonging to his noble father. Probably he would have it in -his power to point out to Her Majesty or Commander-in-Chief that to keep -a man who was an honour to his profession, like Captain Henry Despard, -in the position of a Chevalier of St. Michael’s, was equally a disgrace -and a danger to the country. Captain Despard seemed to hear the very -tone in which this best of friends would certify to his merits. “Speak -of failures in arms! What can you expect when General So-and-so is -gazetted to the command of an expedition, and Henry Despard is left in a -Chevalier’s lodge?” he seemed to hear the unknown say indignantly. -Nothing could be more generous than his behaviour; he did nothing but go -about the world sounding the Captain’s praises: “I have the honour to be -his son-in-law,” this right-thinking young man would say. Captain -Despard went down the hill with his head buzzing full of this new -personage who had suddenly stepped into his life. His engagement was no -more important than to play a game at billiards with one of his town -acquaintances, but even there he could not keep from throwing out -mysterious hints about some great good fortune which was about to come -to him. “What! are you going away, Captain? Are you to have promotion? -or is it you they have chosen for the new warden of the Chevaliers?” his -associates asked him, half in curiosity, half in sarcasm. “I am not in -circumstances,” said the Captain solemnly, “to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240">{vol.-I-240}</a></span> say what are the -improved prospects that are dawning upon my house; but of this you may -rest assured—that my friends in adversity will remain my friends in -prosperity.” “Bravo, Captain!” cried all his friends. Some of them -laughed, but some of them put their faith in Captain Despard. They said -to themselves, “He’s fond of talking a bit big, but he’s got a good -heart, has the Captain!” and they, too, dreamed of little loans and -treats. And, indeed, the Captain got an immediate advantage out of it; -for one of the billiard-players, who was a well-to-do tradesman with -habits not altogether satisfactory to his friends, gave him a luncheon -at the “Black Boar,” not because he expected to profit by the supposed -promotion, but to see how many lies the old humbug would tell in -half-an-hour, as he himself said; for there are practical democrats to -whom it is very sweet to see the pretended aristocrat cover himself with -films of lying. The shopkeeper roared with laughter as the Captain gave -forth his oracular sayings. “Go it, old boy!” he said. They all -believed, however, more or less, in some good luck that was coming, -whatever it might be; and the sensation of faith around him strengthened -Captain Despard in his conviction. He resolved to go home and question -Lottie after this luncheon; but that was of itself a prolonged feast, -and the immediate consequence of it was a disinclination to move, and a -sense that it would be just as well for him not to show himself for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241">{vol.-I-241}</a></span> -some little time, “till it had gone off”—for the Captain in some things -was a wise man, and prudent as he was wise.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242">{vol.-I-242}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">THE WORKROOM.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">There</span> were two factions in the workroom by the side of the river where -Mrs. Wilting’s daughters worked, with Polly Featherston for their -forewoman. One of these, though very small and consisting, indeed, only -of Ellen Wilting, the eldest girl—who was “serious”—and a little -apprentice who was in her class at the Sunday School—was greatly -against the intrusion of “the gentlemen” into the workroom, and thought -it highly improper and a thing likely to bring all the young ladies who -worked there into trouble. Ellen was, contrary to the usual opinion -which would have selected the plainest sister for this <i>rôle</i>, the -prettiest of the girls. She was fair-haired, but not frizzy like the -rest; and her face was pale, with a serious expression which made her -very lady-like, many persons thought, and gave her, the others felt not -without envy, a distinction which did not belong to their own pinkness -and whiteness. There were four sisters, of whom Emma—who was the object -of Law’s admiration—was the youngest. Kate and ’Liza came between these -two, and they were both of Polly’s faction, though<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243">{vol.-I-243}</a></span> without any reason -for being so. They thought Ellen was a great deal too particular. What -was the harm if a gentleman came and sat a bit when they were not too -busy, and talked and made them laugh? The object of life to these young -women was to get as much laughing and talking as possible made -consistent with the greatest amount of work done, of gowns and bonnets -made; and anyone who made the long evening appear a little shorter, and -“passed the time” with a little merriment, was a real benefactor to -them. Ellen, for her part, took more serious views of life. She would -have liked to go to morning service every day had that been practicable, -and called it matins as the ladies themselves did, which was very -uncommon in the River Lane; and she was a member of the Choral Society, -and had a pretty voice, and had sung in a chorus along with Miss -Despard, and even with Miss Huntington before she married. All this made -her feel that it was not “nice” to encourage the gentlemen who were of a -different condition in life, and whose visits could not be for any good. -And she would much rather have heard stories read out of the <i>Monthly -Packet</i>, or something in which instruction was joined with amusement, -than from the <i>Family Herald</i>; except, indeed, when she got interested -in the trials, continued from number to number, of some virtuous young -heroine like the Lady Araminta. Ellen wore a black gown like the young -ladies in the shops, with her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244">{vol.-I-244}</a></span> pretty fair hair quite simply dressed, -without any of the padding and frizzing which were popular at the time; -and fondly hoped some time or other to wear a little black bonnet like -those of the sisters who had an establishment near. Her mother sternly -forbade this indulgence now, but it was one of the things to which the -young woman looked forward. And it must be allowed that Ellen rather -prided herself on her total unlikeness in every way to Polly -Featherston, who considered herself the head of the workroom, and who -was certainly the ringleader in all its follies. Kate and ’Liza and Emma -and the other apprentice, though they by no means gave their entire -adhesion to Polly, and had many remarks to make upon her in private, yet -were generally led by her as a person who knew the world and was “much -admired,” and always had somebody after her. That this somebody should -be for the moment “a gentleman,” gave Polly an additional advantage. It -must not be supposed that her reputation was anyhow in danger, though -she was known to “keep company” with the Captain; for Polly, though not -“particular,” and ready to talk and laugh with anyone, was known to be -very well able to take care of herself, and much too experienced to be -taken in by any of the admirers whom she was supposed to be able to wind -round her little finger. For this, and for her powers of attracting -admiration, and for her fluent and ready speech, and the dauntless -disposition which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245">{vol.-I-245}</a></span> made her afraid of nobody and ready to “speak up,” if -need were, even to the very Dean himself, the girls admired her; and -they would not be persuaded by Ellen that Polly ought to be subdued out -of her loud and cheerful talk, and the doors of the workroom closed on -the gentlemen. Little Emma, indeed, the youngest of the girls, was -vehement against this idea, as was easily understood by all the rest.</p> - -<p>“What is the harm?” she cried, with tears in her eyes, tears of vexation -and irritation and alarmed perception of the change it would make if Law -should be shut out; a terrible change, reducing herself, who now enjoyed -some visionary superiority as “keeping company” in her own small person -with a gentleman, into something even lower than ’Liza and Kate, who had -their butchers and bakers, at least, to walk out with on Sunday—a -privilege which Emma seldom dared enjoy with Law. “What is the use,” -Emma said, “of making a fuss? What harm do they do? They make the time -pass. It’s long enough anyhow from eight o’clock in the morning till -nine at night, or sometimes later, and so little time as mother allows -for meals. I am sure I am that tired,” Emma declared, and with reason, -“I often can’t see how to thread my needle; and to have somebody to talk -to passes the time.”</p> - -<p>“We have always plenty of talk even when we are by ourselves,” said -Ellen; “and I am sure we might make better use of our time and have much -more im<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246">{vol.-I-246}</a></span>proving conversation if these men would not be always coming -here.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! if you are so fond of improvement,” cried Polly, “I daresay you -would like to have Mr. Sterndale the Scripture Reader come and read to -us; or we might ask Mr. Langton upstairs, who is a clergyman. I -shouldn’t mind having <i>him</i>; he is so shy and frightened, and he -wouldn’t know what to say.”</p> - -<p>“Lord!” cried Kate; “fancy being frightened for us!”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” said the better-informed Polly, “there’s heaps as are frightened -for us; and the gooder they are the more frightened they would be; a -curate is always frightened for us girls. He knows he daren’t talk free -in a friendly way, and that makes him as stiff as two sticks. As sure as -fate, if he was pleasant, somebody would say he had a wrong meaning, and -that’s how it’s always in their mind.”</p> - -<p>“A clergyman,” said Ellen authoritatively, “would come to do us good. -But it wouldn’t be his place to come here visiting. It’s our duty to go -to him to relieve our consciences. As for Mr. Sterndale, the Scripture -Reader, I don’t call him a Churchman at all; he might just as well be a -Dissenter. What good can he do anybody? The thing that really does you -good is to go to church. In some places there are always prayers going -on, and then there is half an hour for meditation, and then you go to -work again till the bell rings.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247">{vol.-I-247}</a></span> And in the afternoon there is even-song -and self-examination, and that passes the time,” cried Ellen, clasping -her hands. “What with matins, and meditation, and something new for -every hour, the days go. They’re gone before you know where you are.”</p> - -<p>The young women were silenced by this enthusiastic statement. For after -all, what could be more desirable than a system which made the days fly? -Polly was the only one who could hold up her head against such an -argument. She did her best to be scornful. “I daresay!” she cried, “but -I should just like to know if the work went as fast! Praying and -meditating are very fine, but if the work wasn’t done, what would your -mother say?”</p> - -<p>“Mother would find it answer, bless you,” said Ellen, her pale face -lighted with enthusiasm; “you do double the work when you can feel -you’re doing your duty, and could die cheerful any moment.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! and to think how few sees their duty, and how most folks turns -their backs upon it!” replied the little apprentice, who was on Ellen’s -side.</p> - -<p>Polly saw that something must be done to turn the tide. The girls were -awed. They could not hold up their commonplace little heads against this -grand ideal. There were little flings of half-alarmed impatience indeed -among them, as when Kate whispered to ’Liza that “one serious one was -enough in a house,” and little Emma ventured a faltering assertion “that -going<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248">{vol.-I-248}</a></span> to church made a day feel like Sunday, and it didn’t seem right -to do any more work.” Polly boldly burst in, and threw forth her -standard to the wind.</p> - -<p>“Week days is week days,” she said oracularly. “We’ve got them to work -in and to have a bit of fun as long as we’re young. Sundays I say -nothing against church—as much as anyone pleases; and it’s a great -thing to have the Abbey to go to, where you see everybody, if Wykeham -the verger wasn’t such a brute. But, if I’m not to have my bit of fun, -I’d rather be out of the world altogether. Now I just wish Mr. Law were -passing this way, for there’s the end of Lady Araminta in the <i>Family -’Erald</i>, and it is very exciting, and she won’t hear of marrying the -Earl, let alone the Duke, but gives all her money and everything she has -to the man of her heart.”</p> - -<p>“The baronet!” cried Kate and ’Liza in one breath. “I always knew that -was how it was going to be.” Even Ellen, wise as she was, changed -colour, and looked up eagerly.</p> - -<p>It was Polly who took in that representative of all that the world calls -letters and cultivation, to these girls. Ellen looked wistfully at the -drawer in which the treasure was hidden. “I will read it out if you -like,” she said somewhat timidly. “I can’t get on with this till the -trimming is ready.” Thus even the Church party was vanquished by the -charms of Art.</p> - -<p>That evening the Captain again paid them a visit.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249">{vol.-I-249}</a></span> It was not often that -he came two days in succession, and Emma, who was the least important of -all, was very impatient of his appearance, notwithstanding the saucy -speech she had made to Law. In her heart she thought there was no -comparison between the father and son. The Captain was an old man. He -had no business to come at all, chatting and making his jokes; it was a -shame to see him turning up night after night. She wondered how Miss -Despard liked to have him always out. Emma regarded Miss Despard with -great interest and awe. She wondered when she met her in the street, as -happened sometimes, what she would say <i>if she knew</i>. And Emma wondered, -with a less warm thrill of personal feeling, but yet with much heat and -sympathetic indignation, what Miss Despard would think if she knew of -Polly. She would hate her, and that would be quite natural. Fancy having -Polly brought in over your head in the shape of a stepmother! and if -Emma herself felt indignant at such an idea, what must Miss Despard do -who was a lady, and used to be the mistress? It made the girl’s heart -ache to think that she would have to close the door upon Law again, for -it would never do to have the father and son together. Polly, on the -contrary, bore a look of triumph on her countenance. She pushed her -chair aside a little as Emma had done for Law, thus making room for him -beside her, and she said, with a delighted yet nervous toss of her -mountain of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250">{vol.-I-250}</a></span> hair, “Ah, Captain, back again! Haven’t you got anything -better to do than to come after a lot of girls that don’t want you? Do -we want him, Kate?” to which playful question Kate replied in good -faith, No, she did not want him; but, with a friendly sense of what was -expected of her, giggled and added that the Captain didn’t mind much -what <i>she</i> thought. The Captain, nothing daunted, drew in a stool close -to Polly, and whispered that, by George, the girl was right; it didn’t -matter much to him what <i>she</i> thought; that it was someone else he would -consult on that subject; upon which Polly tossed her head higher than -ever, and laughed and desired him to Get along! The Captain’s coming was -not nearly so good for the work as Law’s, who was not half so funny, and -whom they all received in a brotherly sort of indifferent, good-humoured -way. The Captain, on the contrary, fixed their attention as at a play. -It was as good as a play to watch him whispering to Polly, and she -arching her neck, and tossing her head, and bidding him Get along! -Sometimes, indeed, he kept them all laughing with his jokes and his -mimicries, himself enjoying the enthusiasm of his audience. But though -on these occasions he was very entertaining, the girls perhaps were -still more entertained when he sat and whispered to Polly, giving them -the gratification of an actual romance, such as it was, enacted before -their eyes. A gentleman, an officer, with such a command of fine -language, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251">{vol.-I-251}</a></span> such an air! They gave each other significant glances and -little nudges to call each other’s attention, and wondered what Miss -Despard would think, and what would happen if really, really, some fine -day Polly Featherston were made into a lady, a Chevalier’s wife, and Mr. -Law’s stepmother—what <i>would</i> everybody say? and Miss Despard, would -she put up with it? Even the idea of so exciting an event made the blood -move more quickly in their veins.</p> - -<p>The Captain was not in his jocular mood to-night. He was magnificent, a -thing which occurred now and then. In this state of mind he was in the -habit of telling them splendid incidents of his early days—the things -he said to the Duke of Blank, and what the Duke of Blank replied to him, -and the money he gave for his horses, and how he thought nothing of -presenting any young lady he might be paying attention to (for he was a -sad flirt in those days, the Captain allowed) with a diamond spray worth -a thousand pounds, or a sapphire ring equally valuable, or some pretty -trifle of that description. But he was altogether serious to-night. “I -intended to have come earlier,” he said, “for I have family business -that calls me home soon; but I was detained. It is very tiresome to be -continually called upon for advice and help as I am, especially when in -one’s own affairs something important has occurred.”</p> - -<p>“La, Captain, what has happened?” said Polly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252">{vol.-I-252}</a></span> “You ought to tell us. We -just want something to wake us up. You’ve had some money left you; or I -shouldn’t wonder a bit if the Commander-in-Chief——”</p> - -<p>Here she stopped short with sudden excitement, and looked at him. -Captain Despard was fond of intimating to his humbler friends that he -knew the Commander-in-Chief would send for him some day, indignant with -those whose machinations had made him shelve so valuable an officer for -so long. It seemed possible to Polly that this moment had arrived, and -the idea made her black eyes blaze. She seemed to see him at the head of -an expedition, leading an army, and herself the general’s lady. It did -not occur to Polly that there was no war going on at the moment; that -was a matter of detail; and how should she know anything about war or -peace, a young woman whose knowledge of public manners was limited to -murders and police cases? She let her work fall upon her knee, and there -even ran through her mind a rapid calculation, if he was starting off -directly, how long it would take to get the wedding things ready, or if -she could trust the Wiltings to have them packed and sent after her in -case there should not be time enough to wait.</p> - -<p>“No,” the Captain said, with that curl of his lip which expressed his -contempt of the authorities who had so foolishly passed him over. “It is -nothing about the Commander-in-Chief—at least not yet. There will<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253">{vol.-I-253}</a></span> soon -be a means of explaining matters to his Royal Highness which may lead -to——. But we will say nothing on that point for the moment,” he added -grandly, with a wave of his hand. Then he leaned over Polly, and -whispered something which the others tried vainly to hear.</p> - -<p>“Oh!” cried Polly, listening intently. At first her interest failed a -little; then she evidently rose to the occasion, put on a fictitious -excitement, clasped her hands, and cried, “Oh, Captain, <i>that</i> at last!”</p> - -<p>“Yes—that is what has happened. You may not see all its importance at -the first glance. But it is very important,” said the Captain with -solemnity. “In a domestic point of view—and otherwise. People tell you -interest does not matter now-a-days. Ha! ha!” (Captain Despard laughed -the kind of stage-laugh which may be represented by these -monosyllables.) “Trust one who has been behind the scenes. Interest is -everything—always has been, and always will be. This will probably have -the effect of setting me right at the Horse Guards, which is all that is -necessary. And in the meantime,” he added, with a thoughtful air, “it -will make a great difference in a domestic point of view; it will change -my position in many ways, indeed in every way.”</p> - -<p>Polly had been gazing at him during this speech, watching every movement -of his face, and as she watched her own countenance altered. She did -not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254">{vol.-I-254}</a></span> even pretend to take up her work again, but leaned forward -nervously fingering the thread and the scissors on the table, and -beginning to realise the importance of the crisis. To Captain Despard it -was a delightful opportunity of displaying his importance, and there was -just enough of misty possibility in the castle of cards he was building -up to endow him with a majestic consciousness of something about to -happen. But to Polly it was a great deal more than this. It was the -crisis of something that was at least melodrama, if not tragedy, in her -life. All her hopes were suddenly quickened into almost reality, and the -change in her fortunes, which had been a distant and doubtful if -exciting chance, seemed suddenly in a moment to become real and near.</p> - -<p>The spectacle that this afforded to the other young women in the -workroom it is almost beyond the power of words to describe. Their -bosoms throbbed. A play! plays were nothing to it. They pulled each -other’s gowns under the table. They gave each other little nods, and -looks under their eyebrows. Their elbows met in emphatic commentary. He, -absorbed in his own all-important thoughts, she looking up at him with -that rapt and pale suspense—never was anything more exciting to the -imagination of the beholders. “He won’t look at her,” one whispered; -“she’s all of a tremble,” said another; and “Lord, what <i>are</i> they -making such a fuss about?” breathed Kate.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255">{vol.-I-255}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Yes, it will alter our position in every way,” the Captain said, -stroking his moustache, and fixing his eyes on vacancy. Then Polly -touched his arm softly, her cheek, which had been pale, glowing crimson. -<i>Our</i> position! the word gave her inspiration. She touched him shyly at -first to call his attention; then, with some vehemence, “Captain! that -will make——a deal easier,” she said; but what words were between -these broken bits of the sentence, or if any words came between, the -excited listeners could not make out.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said with dignity. But he did not look at her. He maintained -his abstracted look, which was so very impressive. They all hung upon, -not only his lips, but every movement. As for Polly, the suspense was -more than she could bear. She was not a patient young woman, nor had she -been trained to deny herself like Ellen, or control her feelings as -women in a different sphere are obliged to do. She resumed her work for -a moment with hurried hands, trying to control her anxiety; then -suddenly threw it in a heap on the table, without even taking the -trouble to fold it tidily. She did not seem to know what she was doing, -they all thought.</p> - -<p>“I am going home,” she said, with a hoarseness in her voice. “There is -nothing very pressing, so it won’t matter. I’ve got such a headache I -don’t know what to do with myself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256">{vol.-I-256}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Polly, a headache! that’s not like you—yes, there’s Mrs. -Arrowsmith’s dress that was promised.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t care—and she’s not a regular customer. And it’s only a bit of -an alpaca with no trimmings—you can finish it yourselves. Captain, if -you’re coming my way, you can come—if you like; unless,” said Polly, -with feverish bravado, “you’ve got something to say to the girls more -than you seem to have to me—I’m going home.”</p> - -<p>The Captain woke up from his abstraction, and looked round him, -elevating his eyebrows. “Bless my heart, what is the matter?” he said. -And then he made a grimace, which tempted the girls to laugh -notwithstanding Polly’s tragic seriousness. “I had hoped to have -contributed a little to the entertainment of the evening, my dear young -ladies. I had hoped to have helped you to ‘pass the time,’ as you say. -But when a lady bids me go——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you needn’t unless you like,” cried Polly; “don’t mind me! I don’t -want nobody to go home with me. I can take care of myself—only leave me -alone if you please. I won’t be made fun of, or taken off. Let me out -into the fresh air, or I think I shall faint.” The Captain took an -unfair advantage of the excited creature. He turned round upon them all -when Polly rushed out to get her jacket and hat, which hung in the hall, -and “took her off” on the spot, making himself so like her, that it was -all they could do<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257">{vol.-I-257}</a></span> to keep from betraying him by their laughter. When -she had put on her “things,” she put her head into the room she had just -left. “Good-night, I’m going,” she said, with a look of impassioned -anxiety and trouble. She was too much absorbed in her own feelings to -see through the mist in which their faces shone to her, the laughter -that was in them. She only saw the Captain standing up in the midst of -them. Was he coming after her? or was he going to fall off from her at -this crisis of his affairs? Perhaps it was foolish of her to rush off -like this, and leave him with all these girls about him. But Polly had -never been used to restrain her feelings, and she could not help it she -vowed to herself. Everything in the future seemed to depend upon whether -he came after her or not. Oh, why could not she have had a little more -patience! oh, why should not he come with her, say something to her -after all that had passed! As great a conflict was in her mind as if she -had been a heroine of romance. The Captain and she had been “keeping -company” for a long time. He had “kept off” others that would not have -shilly-shallyed as he had done. A man’s “intentions” are rarely inquired -into in Polly’s sphere. But if he cared for her the least bit, if he had -any honour in him, she felt that he would follow her now. Polly knew -that she might have been Mrs. Despard long ago if she had consented to -be married privately as the Captain wished. But she was for none<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258">{vol.-I-258}</a></span> of -those clandestine proceedings. She would be married in her parish -church, with white favours and a couple of flys, and something that -might be supposed to be a wedding breakfast. She had held by her notions -of decorum stoutly, and would hear of no hole-and-corner proceedings. -And now when fortune was smiling upon them, when his daughter had got -hold of someone (this was Polly’s elegant way of putting it), and when -the way would be clear, what if he failed her? The workroom with its -blaze of light and its curious spectators had been intolerable to her, -but a cold shudder crossed her when she got out of doors into the -darkness of the lane. Perhaps she ought to have stayed at any cost, not -to have left him in the midst of so many temptations. Her heart seemed -to sink into her shoes. Oh, why had she been so silly! Her hopes seemed -all dropping, disappearing from her. To sink into simple Polly -Featherston, with no dazzling prospect of future elevation, would be -death to her, she felt, now.</p> - -<p>Polly was half way up the lane before the Captain, coming along at his -leisure, made up to her; and, what with passion and fright, she had -scarcely any voice left. “Oh, you have come after all!” was all she -could manage to say. And she hurried on, so rapidly that he protested. -“If you want to talk, how can we talk if we race like this?” he said. -“Who wants to talk?” cried Polly breathless; but nevertheless she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259">{vol.-I-259}</a></span> -paused in her headlong career. They went up the hill together, on the -steep side next the Abbey, where there never was anybody, and there the -Captain discoursed to Polly about his new hopes. She would have liked it -better had he decided how the old ones were to be realised. But still, -as he was confidential and opened everything to her as to his natural -confidant, her excitement gradually subsided, and her trust in him -returned. She listened patiently while he recounted to her all the -results that would be sure to follow, when an influential son-in-law, a -member of a noble family, brought him to the recollection of the -Commander-in-Chief.</p> - -<p>“They think I’m shelved and superannuated,” he said; “but let me but -have an opening—all I want is an opening; and then you can go and -select the handsomest phaeton and the prettiest pair of ponies, my -lady—”</p> - -<p>Polly laughed and reddened with pleasure at this address, but she said -prudently, “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. I wouldn’t give -up being a Chevalier. It’s a nice little house and a nice little income -too.”</p> - -<p>“Pooh! a nothing,” cried the Captain. This was very fine and gave a -sense of superiority and exaltation. Polly could not but allow a vision -to float before her eyes of the phaeton and the ponies, nay more, of the -march of a regiment with the flags and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260">{vol.-I-260}</a></span> music. She even seemed to -see the sentry at her own door, and all the men presenting arms as she -passed (what less could they do to the wife of their commander?). But, -on the other hand, to live here at Michael’s where she was born, and be -seen in her high estate by all the people who had known her as a poor -dressmaker, that was a happiness which she did not like to give up, even -for the glories of a high command far away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261">{vol.-I-261}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">ROMANCE AND REALITY.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Lottie</span> was entirely unconscious of the intimation that had been made to -her father, and of the excitement which had risen among her neighbours -about Mr. Ridsdale. It did not occur to her that anyone but herself knew -anything about him. The delighted curiosity of the O’Shaughnessys and -the anxious concern of Captain Temple were equally unknown to her. Her -mind was still moved by an echo of the sentiment of their last -meeting—a thrill of emotion half from the music, half from the -awakening feelings, the curiosity, the commotion of her developing -nature. Of all Law’s communications which had excited himself so -powerfully, and which had also to some extent excited her, she -remembered little in comparison. The large dim room at the Deanery, the -faint night air breathing about, blowing the flames of the candles, the -moths that circled about the lights and did themselves to death against -every flame, seemed to glimmer before her eyes continually—everything -else, even the danger of her father’s marriage, the danger of Law’s -imprudence, fell into the background and became distant;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262">{vol.-I-262}</a></span> everything -receded before the perpetual attraction of this shadowy scene.</p> - -<p>Mr. Ridsdale made a second call upon her in the morning after service, -just at the moment when Captain Temple and Major O’Shaughnessy were -talking to her father. This time he brought no note, and had no excuse -ready to explain his visit. “I came to say good-by,” he said, holding -out his hand and looking rather wistfully into her face. Lottie offered -him her hand demurely. She scarcely met his eyes. Her heart began to -beat as soon as she heard his voice asking for her at the door. It -brought back all the terrors of the previous night. She did not however -ask him to sit down, but stood faltering opposite to him, embarrassed, -not knowing what to do.</p> - -<p>“You would not accept my escort last night,” he said; “I was dreadfully -disappointed when I came out and found you gone. I had been waiting, not -wishing to hurry you. I hope you did not think I was a laggard?”</p> - -<p>“Oh no, it was my fault,” said Lottie, not raising her eyes. “There was -no need for anyone to come with me. It is but two steps, and at that -hour there is no one about. There was no need—for any escort.”</p> - -<p>“May I sit down for a few minutes, Miss Despard? My train is not till -one o’clock.”</p> - -<p>Lottie blushed crimson at this implied reproach. It might be right to be -shy of him, but not to be rude<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263">{vol.-I-263}</a></span> to him. “Oh, I beg your pardon,” she -said, pointing to a chair.</p> - -<p>“You took us all by surprise last night,” he said, carefully placing -hers for her. “I think it was a revelation to everybody. We hear that -music in the Abbey, and we suppose we understand it; till someone like -you suddenly interprets it to us, and we wake up and feel that we never -heard it before.”</p> - -<p>“I never knew what it was—to sing anything like that before,” said -Lottie. It disturbed her even to think about it; “and it had all been so -different—so——”</p> - -<p>“Commonplace? from the ridiculous to the sublime; from poor dear Aunt -Caroline on her sofa to Handel fluting among the angels. It <i>was</i> a step -indeed.”</p> - -<p>“I did not mean that. It was myself I was thinking of—I had been so -full of silly fancies of my own.”</p> - -<p>“But all at once the inspiration came? I should like to be capable of -anything like that; but I am not. I can only listen, and worship,” said -Rollo. There was fervour in his voice—a real something which was not -mere fanaticism about music. And the two young people sat for a few -moments in silence, a most dangerous thing to do, looking at each -other—nay, not looking at each other—for Lottie did not feel either -able or disposed to raise her eyes. She was the first to speak, in order -to break the silence, which alarmed her, though she did not know why.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264">{vol.-I-264}</a></span></p> - -<p>“It is wonderful how the Signor plays. I never understood it in the -Abbey. He seems to place you up somewhere above yourself—and make your -voice come independent of you.”</p> - -<p>“Never in his life, I am sure, did he have such a beautiful compliment -paid to him,” said Rollo; “but, Miss Despard, you do him too much -credit. You permitted even me to accompany you—and sang just as -divinely——”</p> - -<p>“Oh no,” said Lottie. Then she blushed and recollected herself. “You -play very well, Mr. Ridsdale; but we could not compare those trumpery -songs with——”</p> - -<p>“Trumpery songs! only Mozart and Bellini, and a few more,” he cried, -with a gasp. “Ah, I know what you mean; you meant the ‘Marta’ song, -which made your good friend, that good woman, cry——”</p> - -<p>“I like the ‘Last Rose of Summer’ very much. I have always liked it. I -used to hear an old fiddler play it in the street when I was a child, -when I was lying in the dark, trying to go to sleep. It was like a -friend keeping me company; but a friend that had a breaking heart, that -cried and took all my thoughts off myself—I shall never forget it,” -said Lottie, the tears coming to her eyes at the recollection. “I like -it better than all the rest.”</p> - -<p>“Miss Despard, do not drive me to despair. Not better than ‘Casta Diva,’ -or Margaret’s song, or<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265">{vol.-I-265}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>“You forget I don’t know where they come, nor the meaning of them,” said -Lottie, calmly. “I never heard an opera. I think these things are -beautiful, but they only sing to my ear, they don’t come in to <i>me</i>.”</p> - -<p>Rollo shook his head. He was half touched, half shocked. It was her -ignorance; but then a woman destined for a prima donna, a woman with -musical genius, <i>ought</i> to know the best by intuition, he thought. All -the same, he was more interested than if she had raved as the -commonplace, half educated amateur raves. “But Handel does,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Ah!” Lottie cried, her face lighting up. But she added, after a moment, -“I am too ignorant to be worth talking to; you will be disgusted. I -never thought much about Handel. It was not Handel, it was <i>that</i>.” A -flush of colour came over her face with the recollection. She was too -uninstructed (notwithstanding the neighbourhood of the Abbey) to have -fully woke up to Handel or anyone. “I suppose I have heard it and did -not pay much attention to it,” she said; “it was singing it. One does -not understand at first—till suddenly one hears one’s self, and you -say, ‘What is this that is speaking; what is this? it cannot be <i>me</i>!’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>“I think I understand—a little,” said Rollo doubtfully; “though it is -simply <i>you</i> that makes a something quite familiar, a piece of music we -have all heard a hundred times, become a new revelation to us all in a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266">{vol.-I-266}</a></span> -moment. I am going away, Miss Despard, and it may be some time before I -return. Would you do me such a great favour—which I have no right to -ask—as to sing me something now before I go?”</p> - -<p>But Lottie would not sing. She said, “Oh no, no,” with a half terror -which he did not understand, and which she did not understand herself. -The tone was one which forbade the repetition of the request. He begged -her pardon anxiously, and there was a little languid conversation about -other subjects, and then he rose. He put out his hand again, looking -into her eyes, which she raised shyly, almost for the first time. Rollo -had a way of looking into the eyes of women to whom he wished to make -himself agreeable. It is sometimes very impertinent, and always daring, -but, especially when the woman’s imagination is on the side of the -gazer, it is very efficacious. Lottie was entirely inexperienced, and -she trembled under this look, but felt it penetrate to her very heart.</p> - -<p>“Till we meet again,” he said, with a smile, holding her hand for that -necessary moment while he said his good-by. “It will not be very long; -and I hope that you will be kind to me, Miss Despard, and let me hear -you——”</p> - -<p>“Good-by,” said Lottie. She could not bear it any longer. She blamed -herself afterwards for being rude, as she sat down and went over the -incident again and again. She seemed to herself to have dismissed him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267">{vol.-I-267}</a></span> -quite rudely, pulling her hand away, cutting short what he was saying. -But Rollo, for his part, did not feel that it was rude. He went down the -narrow stairs with his heart beating a little quicker than usual, and a -sense that here was something quite fresh and novel, something not like -the little flirtations with which he was so familiar, and which amused -him a great deal in general. This he had just touched, floated over with -his usual easy sentiment, was something quite out of the common. It -startled him with the throb in it. He went away quite thoughtful, his -heart in a most unusual commotion, and forgot until he was miles away -from St. Michael’s that Lottie Despard was to be the English prima -donna, who was to make his fortune, if properly managed. “Ah, to be -sure, that was it!” he said to himself suddenly in the railway carriage, -as he was going to town. He really had forgotten what it was that took -him to town at this unsuitable moment of the year.</p> - -<p>The rest of the morning glided dreamily away after an incident like -this; and it was not till late in the afternoon that Lottie suddenly -awoke to the necessity of making an effort, and shaking off the empire -of dreams: and this was how she became convinced of the necessity for -doing so. She had been sitting, as on the former occasion, with a basket -of mending by her when Rollo came in. She had all the clothes of the -household to keep in order, and naturally they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268">{vol.-I-268}</a></span> were not done in one -day. After Mr. Ridsdale was gone, she took up her work languidly, -keeping it on her knee while she went over all that had happened, again -and again, as has been recorded. When, at last startled by a sound -outside, she began to work in earnest, then and there a revelation of a -character totally distinct from that made by Handel burst upon her. It -was not a revelation of the same kind, but it was very startling. Lottie -found—<i>that she had not yet finished the hole in the sock which she had -begun to mend before Mr. Ridsdale’s first visit</i>! She was still in the -middle of that one hole. She remembered exactly where she stuck her -needle, in the middle of a woolly hillock, as she heard him coming -upstairs; and there it was still, in precisely the same place. This -discovery made her heart jump almost as much as Mr. Ridsdale’s visit had -done. What an evidence of wicked idling, of the most foolish dreaming -and unprofitable thought was in it! Lottie blushed, though she was -alone, to the roots of her hair, and seizing the sock with an -impassioned glow of energy, never took breath till the stern evidence of -that hole was done away with. And then she could not give herself any -rest. She felt her dreams floating about her with folded pinions, ready -to descend upon her and envelope her in their shadow if she gave them -the chance; but she was determined that she would not give them the -chance. As soon as she had finished the pair of socks,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269">{vol.-I-269}</a></span> and folded them -carefully up, she went to look for Law to suggest that they should go -immediately to Mr. Ashford. Law had only just come in from a furtive -expedition out of doors, and had scarcely time to spread his books open -before him when she entered his room. But he would not go to Mr. -Ashford. It was time enough for that, and he meant in the meantime to -“work up” by himself, he declared. Lottie became more energetic than -ever in the revulsion of feeling, and determination not to yield further -to any vanity. She pleaded with him, stormed at him, but in vain. “At -the worst I can always ’list,” he said, half in dogged resistance to -her, half in boyish mischief to vex her. But he would not yield to her -desire to consult Mr. Ashford, though he had assented at first. He did -not refuse to go “some time,” but nothing that she could say would -induce him to go now. This brought in again all the contradictions and -cares of her life to make her heart sore when she turned back out of the -enchanted land in which for a little while she had been delivered from -these cares. They all came back upon her open-mouthed, like wild beasts, -she thought. Law resisting everything that was good for him, and her -father——. But Lottie could not realise the change that threatened to -come upon her through her father. It seemed like the suggestion of a -dream. Law must be deceived, it must be all a delusion, it was not -possible, it was not credible. The Captain came in early<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270">{vol.-I-270}</a></span> that night, -and he came upstairs into the little drawing-room, to which he had no -habit of coming. He told his daughter in a stately way that he heard her -singing had given great satisfaction at the Deanery. “More than one -person has mentioned it to me,” he said; “that is of course a -satisfaction. And—who is the gentleman you have been having here so -much?”</p> - -<p>“There has been no one here very much,” said Lottie; then she blushed in -spite of herself, though she did not suppose that was what he alluded -to. “You do not mean Mr. Ridsdale?” she said.</p> - -<p>“How many visitors have you got?” he said, in high good humour. “Perhaps -it is Mr. Ridsdale—Lady Caroline’s nephew? Ah, I like the family. It -was he you sang to? Well, no harm; you’ve got a very pretty voice—and -so had your mother before you,” the Captain added, with a carefully -prepared sigh.</p> - -<p>“It was only once,” said Lottie, confused. “Mrs. O’Shaughnessy was here; -it was after we had been singing at the Deanery; it was——”</p> - -<p>“My child,” said the Captain, “I am not finding fault. No harm in -putting your best foot foremost. I wish you’d do it a little more. At -your age you ought to be thinking about getting married. And, to tell -the truth, it would be a great convenience to me, and suit my plans -beautifully, if you would get married.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271">{vol.-I-271}</a></span> You mustn’t stand -shilly-shallying; let him come to the point: or, if he won’t, my dear, -refer him to me.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what you mean,” cried Lottie. Fortunately for her, he had -thought her a child up to the time of their migration to St. Michael’s, -and she had been subjected to very little advice of this description. -But, though she gazed at him with wondering eyes, she knew very well by -the instinct of horror and repulsion in her mind what he meant. It gave -her a shock of pain and shame which ran like electricity to her very -finger points. “I think you must be making a mistake,” she said. “I -scarcely know Mr. Ridsdale at all. He has called here twice—on -business—for Lady Caroline—and now he has gone away.”</p> - -<p>“Gone away!” the Captain said, his face lengthening with disappointment -and dismay; “gone away! then you’re a fool—a greater fool than I -thought you. What’s to become of you, do you ever ask yourself? Good -lord, what a chance to throw away! One of the Courtland family—a fellow -with a turn for music—that you could have turned round your little -finger! And to let him go away! By George,” said the Captain, making a -stride towards her, and clenching his fist in the energy of his -disapproval, “I don’t believe you’re any child of mine. Clever—you -think you’re clever? and so did your mother, poor woman! but you’re an -idiot, that is what you are—an idiot! to let<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272">{vol.-I-272}</a></span> such a chance slip -through your fingers. Good lord! to think such a fool should be a child -of mine!”</p> - -<p>Lottie stood her ground firmly. She was not afraid of the clenched fist, -nor even of the angry voice and eyes, which were more genuine. If there -was a slight tremor in her, it was of her own excited nerves. She made -no reply; if she had spoken, what could she have done but express her -own passionate loathing for his advice, and for his disapproval, and -perhaps even for himself? for she had not been brought up to reverence -the faulty father, whose evil qualities her mother had discussed in -Lottie’s presence as long as she could remember. There had not been any -illusion in his children’s eyes after their babyhood, in respect to -Captain Despard, and perhaps in the present emergency this was well. She -stood and met his fury, pale, but more disdainful than desperate. It was -no more than she would have expected of him had she ever thought of the -emergency at all.</p> - -<p>Law had heard the sound of the battle from afar; he heard his father’s -voice raised, and the sound of the stroke upon the table with which he -had emphasised one of his sentences. It was a god-send to the -unenthusiastic student to be disturbed by anything, and he came in -sauntering with his hands in his pockets, partly with the intention of -taking Lottie’s part, partly for the sake of “the fun,” whatever it -might be. “What’s the row?” he asked. He had slippers on,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273">{vol.-I-273}</a></span> and shuffled -along heavily, and his coat was very old and smelt of tobacco, though -that was a luxury in which Law could indulge but sparingly. He had his -hands in his pockets, and his hair was well rubbed in all directions by -the efforts he had made over his unbeloved books. Thus it was but a -slovenly angel that came to Lottie’s aid. He stopped the yawn which his -“reading” had brought on, and looked at the belligerents with some hope -of amusement. “I say, don’t bully Lottie,” he exclaimed, but not with -any fervour. He would not have allowed anyone to lay a finger upon her, -but a little bullying, such as she administered to him daily, that -perhaps would do Lottie no harm. However, he was there in her defence if -things should come to any extremity. She was of his faction, and he of -hers; but yet he thought a little bullying of the kind she gave so -liberally might do Lottie no harm.</p> - -<p>“Go away, Law; it is no matter; it is nothing. Papa was only -communicating some of his ideas—forcibly,” said Lottie, with a smile of -defiance; but as there was always a fear in her mind lest these two -should get into collision, she added hastily, “Law, I don’t want you—go -away.”</p> - -<p>“He can stay,” said the Captain. “I have something to say to you both. -Look here. I thought in the first place that she had hit off something -for herself,” he said, turning half round to his son. “I thought she had -caught that fellow, that Ridsdale;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274">{vol.-I-274}</a></span> from what I had heard, I thought -that was certain—that there would be no difficulty on that side.”</p> - -<p>The Captain had left his original ground. Instead of reproaching Lottie, -in which he was strong, he was in the act of disclosing his own -intentions, and this was much less certain ground. He looked at Law, and -he wavered. Big lout! he knew a great deal too much already. Captain -Despard looked at Law as at a possible rival, a being who had been -thrust into his way. The workroom had no secrets from Law.</p> - -<p>“I think the governor’s right there,” said Law confidentially; “he’s a -big fish, but he’s all right if you give him time.”</p> - -<p>A gleam of sudden fury blazed over Lottie’s face. She, too, clenched her -hands passionately. She stamped her foot upon the floor. “How dare you?” -she said, “how dare you insult me in my own home, you two men? Oh, yes, -I know who you are—my father and my brother, my father and my brother! -the two who ought to protect a girl and take care of her! Oh! is it not -enough to make one hate, and loathe and despise—!” said Lottie, dashing -her white clenched hand into the air. Tears that seemed to burn her came -rushing from her eyes. She looked at them with wild indignation and -rage, in which there was still a certain appeal. How could they, how -could they shame a girl so? They looked at her for a moment in this -rage, which was so impotent and so pitiful, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275">{vol.-I-275}</a></span> then they gave a -simultaneous laugh. When an exhibition of passionate feeling does not -overawe, it amuses. It is so ludicrous to see a creature crying out, -weeping, suffering for some trifle which would not in the least affect -ourselves. Lottie was struck dumb by this laugh. She gave a startled -look up at them through those hot seas of salt scalding tears that were -in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“What a fool you are making of yourself!” said the Captain. “Women are -the greatest fools there are on this earth, always with some high-flown -rubbish or other in their stupid heads. Your own home! and who made it -your home, I should like to know? I don’t say you hadn’t a right to -shelter when you were a little thing; but that’s long out of the -question. A girl of twenty ought to be thinking about getting herself a -real home of her own. How are you going to do it? that’s the question. -You are not going to stay here to be a burden upon me all your life; and -what do you mean to do?”</p> - -<p>“I will go to-morrow!” cried Lottie, wildly; “I would go to-night if it -were not dark. I will go—and free you of the burden!” Here she stopped; -all the angry colour went out of her face. She looked at them with great -wide eyes, appalled; and clasped her hands together with a lamentable -cry. “Oh! but I never thought of it before, I never thought of it!” she -cried; “where am I to go?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276">{vol.-I-276}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Law’s heart smote him; he drew a step nearer to her. To agree with his -father (however much in his heart he agreed with his father) was -abandoning his sister—and his own side. “He doesn’t mean it,” he said -soothingly in an undertone; “he only wants to bully you, Lottie. Never -mind him, we’ll talk it over after,” and he put his big hand upon her -shoulder to console her. Lottie turned upon him, half furious, half -appealing. She could not see him till two big tears fell out of her -eyes, and cleared her sight a little. She clutched at the hand upon her -shoulder in her distraction and despair.</p> - -<p>“Come with me, Law. Two of us together, we can go anywhere; two can go -anywhere. Oh! how can you tell me never to mind? Do you hear me?” she -cried, seizing his arm with both her hands, half shaking him, half -clinging to him; “say you will come with me, Law!”</p> - -<p>“Stop this stuff!” said the Captain. “I am not telling you to go; I am -telling you what is your plain duty, the only thing a woman is fit for. -Besides, this young fellow would be of great use to me; it’s your duty -to get hold of him for the good of the family. He might say a good word -for me at the Horse Guards; he might get Law something. I never expected -you would have such a chance. Do you think I want you to go away just -when there’s a chance that you might be of some use? Am I a fool, do -you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277">{vol.-I-277}</a></span> think? You’ll stay where you are, Lottie Despard! you’ll not go -disgracing your family, governessing, or anything of that sort.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” said Law suddenly, “she’ll wish she had listened to the Signor -now.”</p> - -<p>“To the Signor? what of the Signor? is he after her too?” cried the -Captain eagerly. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush; and though -the Signor had no interest with the Horse Guards, he had money, and -might be of use in many ways. Captain Despard’s eyes lighted up. “Whew!” -he whistled. “Lottie! so, my child, you’ve got two strings to your bow?”</p> - -<p>Lottie turned upon her brother, whose arm she had been holding with both -her hands. She pushed him, flung him from her with an energy of which -she had not appeared capable, and throwing her head high, looked her -father in the face and walked out of the room. Law, confounded by the -force with which she threw him from her, caught at her angrily as she -passed; but she pulled her dress from his hand, and walked past him with -a contempt that stung him—callous as he was. As for the Captain, he -made no effort to detain her, partly because of his surprise, partly -that he was anxious to have more information about (as he supposed) this -second suitor. She went straight to her own room, while they stood -listening till she had shut the door upon herself and her passion. Then -the Captain ventured to laugh again, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278">{vol.-I-278}</a></span> low, not to be heard; for the -look of any creature driven to bay is alarming, and Lottie’s sudden -withdrawal was a relief.</p> - -<p>“Whoever gets her will catch a Tartar! eh, Law?” he said. “But now that -she’s gone, let’s hear all about the Signor.”</p> - -<p>There was no light in Lottie’s room; nothing but the faint starlight -outside, and as much of the familiar glimmer of the few feeble lamps in -the Dean’s Walk as could get in through her small window. How is it that -so small a bit of space, such four straight walls, should hold in such a -throbbing, palpitating, agitated being, with projects wide enough and -fury hot enough to burst them like a child’s toy? It was in her to have -torn her hair or anything that came in the way of her fevered hands; to -have filled the air with cries; to have filled the whole world with her -protest against the intolerable shame and wretchedness which they were -trying to force upon her thoughts! But she only threw herself on her bed -in the dark and silence, letting no sound or movement betray her. She -was not prostrated as by unkindness, or stung by reproach; but wounded, -shamed, desecrated—the very sanctity of her dreams turned into a horror -to her. And Law gone against her—Law gone over to the other side!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279">{vol.-I-279}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">THE SIGNOR’S HOUSEHOLD.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> Despard family became a great centre of interest to many people both -within and without the Abbey precincts at this period of their history. -Without any doing, so to speak, of theirs, Fate mixed them up both with -the great and the small, so that their proceedings moved a great many -circles of thought and feeling beyond that in which they themselves -stood. We have said without any doing of theirs—but this, perhaps, is -true only in respect to Lottie, who took no steps consciously to produce -the <i>rapprochement</i> which had taken place so strangely between the -heaven of the Deanery and the earth of the Lodges. She had not done -anything to recommend herself to Lady Caroline or Lady Caroline’s -nephew. And yet with both she had become an important “factor,” to use a -fashionable term, in the immediate concerns of life. The Captain was not -so innocent of purpose in the commotion he had begun to make. But still -he had not calculated upon the interest that would be excited by his -proceedings. The community at St. Michael’s was quiet and had little to -rouse its interest. Sometimes a Canon would be translated to a higher -and a better stall—sometimes an old Chevalier would die and be replaced -by another veteran not much less<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280">{vol.-I-280}</a></span> old than he—sometimes a son would “go -wrong” and create a great deal of whispered communication and shaking of -heads. At the present time there were no daughters to marry except -Lottie, so that the pleasanter strain of possibility was little thought -of. All this made it very inspiring, very agitating to the dwellers -round the Abbey, when a family within the precincts gave them so much to -think about. A girl likely to make a very good match in a romantic way: -a man likely to make a very bad one, in a way which might have been -quite as romantic had it not been on the wrong side, such as would -debase, not exalt his class; these two probabilities coming together had -a great effect upon the popular mind. In the Chevaliers’ Lodges there -was very little else talked about. Captain Temple, the most respected of -all the Chevaliers, could not keep still, so excited was he. He had -spoken to “the father,” he told his wife, to put him on his guard, and -to show him how necessary it was to take proper care of his child. That -was all he could do: but he could not content himself with thus doing -what he could. He paced about his little sitting-room, disturbing Mrs. -Temple at her wool-work. She was not like her husband. She was a still, -composed, almost stern woman, with a passionate heart, to which she gave -very little expression. She could not talk of her daughter as Captain -Temple could. The remembrance of the years during which her child was -separated<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281">{vol.-I-281}</a></span> from her was terrible to her. When her husband talked as he -was accustomed to do of this great grief of theirs, she never stopped -him, but she herself was dumb. She closed all her windows, as it were, -and retired into a fortress of silent anguish, out of which no cry came; -but she listened to him all the same. This was what she did now, though -it pained her to hear of this other girl who stood between life and -death, between good and evil, as once her child had stood. She would -have helped Lottie with all her heart, but she could not bear to hear -her talked of—though this was precisely what she had to bear.</p> - -<p>“I told him it was his duty to look after his daughter,” said Captain -Temple, pacing—three steps one way, four the other—about the room. -“But he won’t—you will see he won’t. A beautiful girl, far too good for -him, a girl who deserves a better fate. She puts me in mind of our own -dear girl, Lucy. I have told you so before.”</p> - -<p>To this Mrs. Temple made no reply. He had told her so a great many times -before. She selected a new shade of her Berlin wool, and set her elbow -rigidly against the arm of her chair, that she might thread her needle -without trembling, but she made no reply.</p> - -<p>“She puts me constantly in mind of her. The way she holds her head, and -her walk, and—— I beg your pardon, my dear. I know you don’t like this -kind of talk; but if you knew how I seem to see<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282">{vol.-I-282}</a></span> her wherever I -go—wherever I go! I wonder if she is permitted to come and walk by her -old father’s side, God bless her. Ah! well, it was Despard’s daughter we -were talking of. To think <i>he</i> should have this girl who takes no care -of her—and we to whom ours was everything!”</p> - -<p>The poor woman made a spasmodic movement, and turned her eyes upon him -dumbly. She could not bear it. The needle fell out of her hands, and she -stooped to hunt for it on the carpet. She would not stop him to whom it -was so great a relief to talk; but it was death to her.</p> - -<p>“But I told him,” said Captain Temple. “I showed him his duty, Lucy. I -told him he ought to be thankful he had such a daughter to watch over. -And what more could I do? I set the whole thing before him. There was -nothing more that I could do?”</p> - -<p>“Then you must be satisfied, William, and perhaps it will have some -effect; we must wait and see,” said Mrs. Temple, coming to the surface -again with her needle, which she had found, in her hand. She managed to -get it threaded this time with great exertion, while her husband set off -again upon his restricted promenade, shaking his white head. Captain -Temple, it may be recollected, had not said so much to Captain Despard -as he thought he had said—but if he had said everything that man could -say it is not probable that it would have made much difference. The kind -old Chevalier shook his white head. His<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283">{vol.-I-283}</a></span> eyes were full of moisture and -his heart of tenderness. He did not feel willing to wait and see, as his -wife suggested. He wanted to do something there and then for Lottie, to -go to her and warn her, to keep watch at her door, and prevent the -entrance of the wolf—anything, he did not mind what it was so long as -he could secure her safety.</p> - -<p>The other subject was discussed that same evening in another and very -different scene, when Mrs. Purcell, the Signor’s housekeeper, asked her -old fellow-servant, Pickering, what news there was in the precincts, and -if anything was stirring. It was the most delicious moment for a gossip, -when tea was over in the kitchen, and dinner upstairs, and twilight was -beginning to drop over the country, bringing quiet and coolness after -the blaze of the day. Mrs. Purcell sat by the open window, which was cut -in the very boundary wall of the Abbey precincts, as in the side of a -precipice. It was not safe for anyone of uncertain nerves to look -straight down upon the slope of St. Michael’s Hill, on which the walls -were founded, and on the steep street winding below. But Mrs. Purcell -had her nerves in the most steady and well-regulated condition. She was -not afraid to sit at the head of the precipice, and even to look out and -look down when the shop windows began to be lighted. She liked to see -the lights coming out below. It was cheerful and felt like “company” -when she sat alone. Old Pickering<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284">{vol.-I-284}</a></span> had just come in after an errand into -the town. He was the man-servant, while she was the housekeeper, but the -work of the establishment was chiefly done by a sturdy young woman who -was under the orders of both.</p> - -<p>“News—I don’t know much about news,” said old Pick. “It wants young -folks to make news; and there ain’t many of that sort about here.”</p> - -<p>“Dear!” said Mrs. Purcell (but it must not be supposed that this -exclamation meant any special expression of affection to old Pickering). -“There’s heaps of young folks! There’s the Signor, and there’s my -John——”</p> - -<p>“Master? you may call him young, if it don’t go again your -conscience—my notion is as he never was no younger than he is now. So -you may put what name to it you please. But you don’t ask me for news of -master, nor Mr. John neither—him, oh ah, there’ll be news of him one of -these days. He’ll get a cathedral, or he’ll be had up to London. We’ll -see him, with his baton in his hand, afore the biggest chorus as can be -got together; and won’t he lead ’em grand!” said old Pick. “When he was -but a little thing in his white surplice I seen it in his eye.”</p> - -<p>“You were always one that did my John justice,” said the housekeeper, -warmly. “Just to think of it, Pick—one day a bit of a mite in his -surplice, and the next, as you may say, with his baton, leading the -chief in the land! We bring children into the world, but we can’t tell -what’s to come of them,” she added, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285">{vol.-I-285}</a></span> pious melancholy. “Them as is -fortunate shouldn’t be proud. The young men as I’ve seen go to the bad -since I’ve been here!”</p> - -<p>“That should be a real comfort to you,” said Pickering, and they paused -both, to take full advantage of this consolation. Then, drawing a long -breath, Mrs. Purcell resumed—</p> - -<p>“And so it should, Pick—when I see my boy that respectable, and as good -as any gentleman’s son, and reflect on what I’ve seen! But pride’s not -for the like of us—seeing the Lord can bring us low as fast as He’s set -us up.” The good woman dropped her voice, with that curious dread lest -envious fate should take her satisfaction amiss, which seems inherent in -humanity. As for old Pick, sentiment was not in his way. He took up a -little old-fashioned silver salver which stood on the table with some -notes upon it, waiting the sound of the Signer’s bell, and began to -polish it with his handkerchief. “Them girls,” he said, “there’s no -trust to be put in them. The times I’ve told her to be careful with my -plate. She says she haven’t the time, but you and me knows better than -that. What is there to do in this house? We gives no trouble, and as for -master, he’s dining out half his time.”</p> - -<p>“She’ll find the difference,” said Mrs. Purcell, “when she’s under a -lady. There’s many a thing I does myself. Instead of calling Maryanne -till <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286">{vol.-I-286}</a></span>I’m hoarse, I takes and does it myself; but a lady will never do -that. Ah, Pick, it’s experience as teaches. They don’t put any faith in -what we tell them; and her head full of soldiers, and I don’t know -what—as if a soldier ever brought anything but harm to a servant girl.”</p> - -<p>“They are all alike,” said old Pick. “There’s them Despards in the -Lodges—all the Abbey’s talking of them. The Captain—you know the -Captain? the one as sings out as if it all belonged to him—though he’s -neither tenor, nor alto, nor bass, but a kind of a jumble, and as often -as not sings the air!” said the old chorister, with contempt which was -beyond words. Mrs. Purcell looked upon the Captain from another point of -view.</p> - -<p>“He’s a fine handsome man,” she said. “He looks like a lord when he -comes marching up the aisle, not an old Methusaleh, like most of ’em.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” cried Pickering, with a groan, “that’s the way the women are led -away. He’s a fine fellow, he is! oh, yes, he’s like a lord, with bills -in every shop in the town, and not a penny to pay ’em.”</p> - -<p>“Them shops!” said Mrs. Purcell. “I don’t wonder, if a gentleman’s of a -yielding disposition. They offer you this, and they offer you that, and -won’t take an answer. It’s their own fault. They didn’t ought to put -their temptations in folk’s way. It’s like dodging a bait about a poor -fish’s nose; and then swearing it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287">{vol.-I-287}</a></span> will make up lovely, and be far more -becoming than what you’ve got on. I think it’s scandalous, for my part. -They deserve to lose their money now and again.”</p> - -<p>“They say he’s going to be married,” said old Pick, stolidly.</p> - -<p>“Married! You’re dreaming, Pick! Lord bless us,” said Mrs. Purcell, -“that’s news, that is! Married? I don’t believe a word of it; at his -age!”</p> - -<p>“You said just now he wasn’t a Methusaleh, and no more he is; he’s a -fine handsome man. He thinks a deal of himself, and that’s what makes -other folks think a deal of him. The women’s as bad as the shops,” said -old Pick; “they bring it on themselves. Here’s a man as is never out of -mischief. I’ve seen him regularly coming home—well—none the better for -his liquor; and gamblin’ day and night, playing billiards, betting, I -don’t know what. We all know what that comes to; and a grown-up family -besides——”</p> - -<p>“Dear!” said Mrs. Purcell, in great concern. She knew a good deal about -Miss Despard, and her feelings were very mingled in respect to her. In -the first place, to know that her John was in love with <i>a lady</i> -flattered and excited her, and had made her very curious about Lottie, -every detail of whose looks, and appearance generally, she had studied. -A Chevalier’s daughter might not be any very great thing; but it was a -wonderful rise in the world for Mrs. Purcel<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288">{vol.-I-288}</a></span>l’s son to be able to permit -himself to fall in love with such a person. On the other hand, Miss -Despard was poor, and might interfere with John’s chance of rising in -the world. But anyhow, everything about her was deeply interesting to -John’s mother. She paused to think what effect such a change would have -upon her son before she asked any further questions. What would Miss -Despard do? It was not likely she would care for a stepmother after -being used to be mistress of the house—would she be ready to accept -anyone that asked her, in order to get “a home of her own”? And would -John insist upon marrying her? and would he be able to keep a wife? -These questions all hurried through Mrs. Purcell’s mind on receipt of -this startling news. “Dear! dear!” she said—and for a long time it was -all she could say. The interests were so mixed that she did not know -what to desire. Now or never, perhaps, was the time for John to secure -the wife he wanted; but even in that case, would it be right for him to -marry? Mrs. Purcell did not know what to think. “Did you hear who the -lady was?” she asked, in a faint voice.</p> - -<p>“Lady?—no lady at all—a girl that works for her living. I know her -well enough by sight. One of the dressmaker’s girls in the River Lane. -Ladies is silly enough, but not so silly as that; though I don’t know -neither,” said old Pick, “what women-folks will do for a husband is -wonderful. They’ll face the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289">{vol.-I-289}</a></span> world for a husband. It don’t matter what -sort he is, nor if he’s worth having——”</p> - -<p>“They haven’t took that trouble for you, anyhow,” said Mrs. Purcell -faintly, standing up amid her preoccupations for her own side.</p> - -<p>“I’ve never given ’em the chance,” said Pick, with a chuckle. “Lord -bless you! they’ve tried a plenty, but I’ve never given ’em the chance. -Many’s the story I could tell you. They’ve done their best, poor things. -Some has been that enterprising, I never could keep in the same room -with ’em. But I’ve kep’ single, and I’ll keep single till my dying day. -So will master, if I can judge. There’s some has the way of it, and some -hasn’t. It would be a clever one,” said old Pickering, caressing his -chin with an astute smile, “to get the better of me.”</p> - -<p>The housekeeper threw at him a glance of mingled indignation and -derision. She gave her head a toss. It was not possible for feminine -flesh and blood to hear this unmoved. “You’re so tempting,” she said, -with angry energy. “<span class="lftspc">’</span>Andsome and well to do, and worth a woman’s while.”</p> - -<p>“Bless you, they don’t stick at that,” said the old man with a grin. “I -could tell you of things as has happened—some to myself—some to other -folks——”</p> - -<p>“Dear!” cried Mrs. Purcell, “and me to think you were an old stick of an -old bachelor, because nobody<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290">{vol.-I-290}</a></span> would have you, Pick! There’s some, as a -body reads it in their face—as dry as an east wind, and cutting like an -east wind does, that is never happy but when it’s blighting up -something. I daresay it’s all a story about Captain Despard—just like -the rest.”</p> - -<p>“None of ’em likes it, when you speak free,” said old Pick, chuckling to -himself. “Some pretends, just to please a man; but women does hang -together, whoever says different, and they none of them likes to hear -the truth. About Captain Despard, it’s a story if you please, but it’s -true. The girl she makes no secret, she tells everybody as she’ll soon -make a difference in the house. She’ll pack off the son to do for -himself, and the daughter——”</p> - -<p>“What of the daughter, Pick? Oh, the shameless hussy, to talk like that -of a poor motherless young girl——”</p> - -<p>“If she wasn’t motherless, what would Polly have to do with her? It -can’t be expected as a second wife should cry her eyes out because the -first’s gone.”</p> - -<p>“Polly!” said Mrs. Purcell, with bated breath; “and she says she’ll pack -the son about his business; and the daughter?—What is she going to do -about the daughter, when she’s got the poor misfortunate man under her -thumb? And who’s Polly, that you know so much about her? She’s a pretty -kind of acquaintance, so far as I can see, for a man as con<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291">{vol.-I-291}</a></span>siders -himself respectable, and comes out of a gentleman’s house.”</p> - -<p>“That’s the other side,” said Pick, still chuckling to himself. “I said -women hangs together. So they do, till you come to speak of one in -particular, and then they fly at her. I don’t know nothing against -Polly. If the Captain’s in love with her, it ain’t her fault; if she -wants to better herself, it’s no more than you or me would do in her -place. She’s as respectable as most of the folks I know. To work for -your living ain’t a disgrace.”</p> - -<p>“It’s no disgrace; but a stepmother that is a dressmaking girl will be -something new to Miss Despard. Oh, I can’t smile! A dressmaker as—— -And young, I suppose, like herself? Oh, trust a man for that; she’s sure -to be young. Poor thing, poor thing! I’m that sorry for her, I can’t -tell what to do. A lady, Pick; they may be poor, but I’ve always heard -there was no better gentlefolks anywhere to be found. And a woman that -the likes of you calls Polly. Oh, that’s enough, that’s enough for me! A -nice, good, respectable girl, that knows what’s her due—you don’t call -<i>her</i> Polly. Polly—there’s a deal in a name.”</p> - -<p>“Aha!” said old Pick, rubbing his hands, “I knew as soon as I named one -in particular what you would say. Fly at her, that’s what all you women -do. A name is neither here nor there. I’ve known as good<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292">{vol.-I-292}</a></span> women called -Polly as was ever christened Mary; eh? ain’t they the same name? I had a -sister Polly; I had a——”</p> - -<p>“Dear, dear!” said Mrs. Purcell, softly. She was paying no attention to -him; her mind was much disturbed. She turned away instinctively from the -gathering gloom of evening in which her old companion stood, and cast -her anxious eyes upon the wide landscape outside—the sky between grey -and blue, the lights beginning to twinkle far down in the steep street. -There was something in the great space and opening which seemed to give -counsel and support in her perturbation. For she did not know what to do -for the best. At such a moment would not John have a better chance than -he might ever have? And yet, if he got his heart’s desire, was it quite -certain that it would be good for John? The Signor’s housekeeper was -just as anxious about her boy as if she had been a great lady. Twinges -of maternal jealousy, no doubt, went through her mind. If John married, -he would be separated from his mother, and his wife would look down upon -her and teach him to despise her—a mother who was in service. What -could she expect if her son married a lady? All these thoughts went -through her mind as she looked out with anxiety, which drew deep lines -upon her forehead. But, on the whole, she was not selfish, and -considered it all anxiously, ready to make any sacrifice<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293">{vol.-I-293}</a></span> for that which -in the long run would be most good for John.</p> - -<p>In the meantime old Pickering talked on. When he was set a-going it was -difficult to bring him to a stop. He was quite aware that at the present -moment he ought not to stay there talking; he knew he ought to be -lighting the lamps, and kept listening with expectant ear for a sharp -tinkle of the Signor’s bell, which should warn him of his retarded -duties. But for all that he talked on. Dinner was over for some time, -and Pick knew very well that he ought to carry in the notes which he had -piled again upon the salver after giving it that polish with his -handkerchief. However, though he knew his duty, he took no steps towards -performing it, but moved leisurely about, and put various articles back -into the old polished cupboard with glass doors, which showed all the -best china, and was the pride of Mrs. Purcell’s heart. When Maryanne -came in, he emptied the salver again and showed her how imperfectly she -had cleaned it. “I can’t think how folks can be so stupid,” Pickering -said. “How do you think you are ever to better yourself if you don’t -take a lesson when it’s giv’ you? and proud you should be that anyone -would take the trouble. If I see it like this again I’ll—I don’t know -what I shan’t do.” He knew very well that it was what ought to have been -his own work that he was thus criticising, and, as it happened, so did -Maryanne, whose spirit<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294">{vol.-I-294}</a></span> was working up to a determination not to be -longer put upon. But for all that he found fault, (always waiting to -hear the bell ringing sharply, with a quaver of impatience in it,) and -she submitted, though she was aware that she was being put upon. Mrs. -Purcell, in the window, paid no attention to them. She kept gazing out -upon the wide world of grey-blue clouds, and asking herself what would -be best for John.</p> - -<p>They were disturbed in all these occupations by a step which came -briskly downstairs, perhaps betokening, Pickering thought, that the -Signor was going out again, and that his own delay about the lamps had -been a wise instinct. But, after all, it was not the Signor’s step; it -was young Purcell, who came along the little winding passage full of -corners, and entered the housekeeper’s room, scattering the little party -assembled there. Maryanne fled as a visitor from the outer world flies -from the chamber of a servant of the court, at the advent of the queen. -Though she would assure herself sometimes that Mrs. Purcell’s son was -“no better nor me,” yet in his presence Maryanne recognised the -difference. He was “the young master” even in Pick’s eyes, who stopped -talking, and put the notes back once more upon the salver with a great -air of business, as if in the act of hastening with them to the Signor. -Mrs. Purcell was the only one who received her son with tranquillity. -She turned her eyes upon him quietly, with a smile, with a serene pride<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295">{vol.-I-295}</a></span> -which would not have misbecome an empress. No one in the house, not the -Signor himself, had ascended to such a height of being as the -housekeeper; no one else had produced such a son.</p> - -<p>“Go and light the candles in the study, Pick,” said young Purcell. “The -Signor is in the dark, and he’s composing. Quick and carry him the -lights. Don’t bother him with those letters now. He is doing something -beautiful,” he said, turning to his mother. “There’s a phrase in it I -never heard equalled. He has been sitting out on the terrace getting -inspiration. I must run back and keep old Pick from disturbing him, -making a noise——”</p> - -<p>“Stay a moment, Johnny, my own dear——”</p> - -<p>“What’s the matter, mother? Oh, I know; you’ve heard of this last offer. -But if I take any I’ll take St. Ermengilde’s, where I could still go on -living at home, the Signor says. It’s less money, but so long as I can -help him and see <i>her</i> now and again, and please you——”</p> - -<p>“Ah, John, your mother’s last; but that’s natural,” said Mrs. Purcell, -shaking her head, “quite natural. I don’t complain. Is it another organ -you’ve got the offer of? Well, to be sure! and there are folks that say -merit isn’t done justice to! John, I’ve been hearing something,” said -the housekeeper, putting out her hand to draw him to her; “something as -perhaps you ought to know.”</p> - -<p>The young man looked at her eagerly. In this place he bore a very -different aspect from that under<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296">{vol.-I-296}</a></span> which he had appeared to Lottie. Here -it was he who was master of the situation, the centre of a great many -hopes and wishes. He looked at her closely in the dusk, which made it -hard to see what was in her face. He was a good son, but he was his -mother’s social superior, and there was a touch of authority, even in -the kindness of his voice.</p> - -<p>“Something I ought to know? I know it already: that Mr. Ridsdale has -been visiting at the Lodges. That is nothing so extraordinary. If you -think a little attention from a fashionable fop will outweigh the -devotion of years!” said the young man, with a flush of high-flown -feeling. He had a great deal of sentiment and not very much education, -and naturally he was high-flown. “People may say what they like,” he -went on in an agitated voice, “but merit does carry the day. They’ve -offered me St. Ermengilde over the heads of half-a-dozen. Is it -possible, can you suppose, that she should be so blind!”</p> - -<p>“That wasn’t it,” said Mrs. Purcell quietly; “it’s something quite -different, my dear. Shut the door, that we mayn’t have old Pick coming -in again (it was he that told me), and you shall hear.”</p> - -<p class="fint">END OF VOL. I.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5001" id="page_5001">{vol.-II-1}</a></span></p> - -<p class="c">COLLECTION<br /> -<small>OF</small><br /> -<big>B R I T I S H A U T H O R S</big><br /><br /> -TAUCHNITZ EDITION.<br /><br /> - -VOL. 1824.<br /><br /> - -WITHIN THE PRECINCTS BY MRS. OLIPHANT.<br /><br /> - -IN THREE VOLUMES.<br /><br /> -VOL. II.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5003" id="page_5003">{vol.-II-3}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5002" id="page_5002">{vol.-II-2}</a></span> </p> - -<h1> -WITHIN<br /> -THE PRECINCTS</h1> - -<p class="c">BY<br /> -<br /> -MRS. OLIPHANT,<br /> -<br /><small> -AUTHOR OF “THE CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,” ETC.</small><br /> -<br /> -<i>COPYRIGHT EDITION.</i><br /> -<br /> -IN THREE VOLUMES.<br /> -<br /> -VOL. II.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -LEIPZIG<br /> -BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ<br /> -1879.<br /> -<br /><small> -<i>The Right of Translation is reserved.</i></small><br /></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5004" id="page_5004">{vol.-II-4}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5005" id="page_5005">{vol.-II-5}</a></span> </p> - -<h2><a name="CONTENTS2" id="CONTENTS2"></a>CONTENTS<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">OF VOLUME II.</span></h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="3" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td colspan="3"> </td><td class="rt">Page</td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">CHAPTER</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">XXVII.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">The Musician at Home</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">7</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">XVIII.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">Young Purcell</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">26</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">XIX.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">Business, or Love?</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">44</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XX">XX.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XX">An unconscious Trial</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XX">60</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">XXI.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">Searchings of Heart</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">77</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">XXII.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">A Chance for Law</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">97</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">XXIII.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">Good Advice</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">115</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">XXIV.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">A Crisis</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">134</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">XXV.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">What Followed</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">150</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">XXVI.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">The Fool’s Paradise</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">167</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII">XXVII.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII">A Terrible Interruption</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII">184</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII">XXVIII.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII">The Captain’s Wife</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII">202</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX">XXIX.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX">The Heavings of the Earthquake</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX">223</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXX">XXX.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXX">Lottie’s Fate</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXX">244</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI">XXXI.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI">What other People thought</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI">261</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII">XXXII.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII">What Rollo had to Marry on</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII">277</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5007" id="page_5007">{vol.-II-7}</a></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5006" id="page_5006">{vol.-II-6}</a></span> </p> - -<h1>WITHIN THE PRECINCTS.</h1> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">THE MUSICIAN AT HOME.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> Signor’s house was one of those which, when general peacefulness had -made the battlements round St. Michael’s unnecessary, had grown within -the outer wall. It was more like a growth than a building. Windows which -looked, as we have said, as if cut in the side of a precipice, gave -light to the small panelled chambers which were connected by bits of -quaint passages, here and there by a little flight of stairs, with tiny -vestibules and landing-places, wasting the little space there was. Room -after room had no doubt been added as necessity arose, and each new room -had to be connected somehow with the others. The house occupied more -space than a comfortable ugly modern house with tolerably sized rooms -would have done, and when the Signor came into possession it had been a -miracle of picturesque awkwardness, not a room in it capable of holding -more than three or four people at a time, yet as many rooms as would -have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5008" id="page_5008">{vol.-II-8}</a></span> lodged a dozen—the least possible use for the greatest possible -expenditure of space. The Signor, however, had built on the inner side a -dining-room in red brick, which made existence possible, though it -failed in the point of beauty. To tell the truth, the musician’s -dining-room was an eyesore to all the antiquaries and all the critics. -Nobody knew by what neglect of the architect, by what partiality of the -Board of Works, it had been permitted to be built. It was of no style at -all, neither Gothic, like the original building, nor Queen Anne, like -the fashion. He had failed in his duty in every respect. It was a square -box with a large window filling up one side. It was lighted with gas. It -had red curtains in bold and uncompromising rep, and a large mahogany -sideboard of the worst period. How he had been allowed to build this -monstrosity nobody knew. It had been made the subject of a painful -discussion in the Chapter itself, where Canon Skeffington (the Honble. -and Revd.) complained so bitterly of the injury done to his best -principles and highest feelings, that the Dean was irritated, and took -up the cudgels on his side on behalf of his favourite musician. “He has -a right, I suppose, to make himself comfortable like the rest of us,” -the head of the community said. “No right to make my life a burden to -me,” said the Honourable Canon; and, he added, almost weeping, “I cannot -look out of my window without seeing the thing. You talk at your ease, -you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5009" id="page_5009">{vol.-II-9}</a></span> others——” But what was to be done? The Chapter could not take so -bold a step as to invade the rights of private property, tear down the -Signor’s red curtains, burn his sideboard, destroy his walls. He had to -be left to the enjoyment of his villainous erection. The Signor laughed -in his sleeve, but in public was remorseful, bemoaning his own ignorance -of art, and declaring that if he could afford it, rather than give pain -to Canon Skeffington—but then he could not afford it—and what was to -be done? He kept his dining-room, which was big enough to accommodate -his friends, but for himself the Signor had better taste than he -professed to have. His favourite sitting-room was in the same position -and had the same view as that of his housekeeper, but its window was -between two buttresses of the wall, which held in their gigantic arms a -little square shelf of green turf, a small projection of the hill, which -above and below was covered with masonry, leaving this little ledge of -grass, like one of the hanging gardens of Scripture, hung high in the -air above the town and the landscape. The Signor’s window opened upon -this little terrace. His room within was low and dark, but in summer at -least this mattered little, for its dim light and shadowy walls made a -pleasant shelter, like a bower in a wood, from the lightness and -brightness outside. There was a heavy beam across the roof, from which -hung a little chandelier of old Venice glass, reflected in a tall old -mirror<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5010" id="page_5010">{vol.-II-10}</a></span> among the oak panels over the mantelpiece, and not much more -bright than they were. On one side were the carved doors of a cupboard -in the wall, which was full of old music, the Signor’s chief treasures, -and on the other was a range of low bookshelves, also filled with music -books of every size and kind. The piano stood in the corner near the -window, with the keyboard close to the light. There were a few chairs -about the room, and a writing-table piled with papers. This was all the -furniture of the dim little chamber, and it was impossible to imagine a -greater contrast than existed between it and the new building which had -so shocked Canon Skeffington. And the Signor was not in this particular -much unlike his house. A touch of sentiment, which some people were -disposed to call high-flown, mingled in him with a curious undercurrent -of cynicism, which few people suspected at all. He liked to jar upon the -Canon Skeffingtons of existence and ruffle their tempers and their -finest feelings. But in his heart he had feelings equally fine, and was -as easily <i>froissé</i> as they. He mocked at them on the very points in -which he himself was weak, affecting an insensibility which he did not -feel, building the vile modern room with profound enjoyment of their -delicate distress, but retiring out of it himself to the shelter of this -dim romantic chamber. The combination was very like the Signor.</p> - -<p>On this particular evening, when young Purcell<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5011" id="page_5011">{vol.-II-11}</a></span> went to call for lights, -the Signor was seated out on his little terrace enjoying the twilight -and a cigarette together. There were two chairs on the scrap of grass, -and a little table with an inkstand upon it, and the cup in which the -Signor had taken his black coffee after dinner. He was leaning back in -his chair puffing out the fragrant smoke from his cigarette, lazily -watching it as it floated upwards, and now and then noting down a bar or -two of music upon a piece of paper in his hand. Sometimes he took the -cigarette from his mouth and hummed a scrap of an air, keeping time with -his head and hand. There was no one who was more popular in the country -as a composer of graceful drawing-room songs than Signor Rossinetti. It -was something refined, something elegant that was expected from him, -delicate soprano melodies, fine combinations for tenors and altos. It -was very seldom that he took any trouble about the bass, but his tenor -songs were justly considered exquisite. He liked to have a pretty set of -verses on hand, and “set” them in the intervals of more serious -business. The summer evening, when he sat out after dinner upon his -scrap of terrace, was the time when he had most inspiration. His pupil -and <i>protégé</i>, young Purcell, thought there was no intellectual pleasure -higher and more elevating, than to sit out here in the shadow of the -great grey buttresses, with the cheerful distant noises of the High -Street floating upward from the foot of the wall, and to watch the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5012" id="page_5012">{vol.-II-12}</a></span> -Signor composing his song. The young fellow would run in to the piano -and “try over” every line of the symphony as it came welling out from -that fount of music. He said often that, except one thing, there was no -such delight in the world. To see genius working under his very eyes, -what a privilege it was! To Purcell it seemed that his master read his -heart, and uttered his deepest sentiments for him in those compositions. -To-night his mind had been lulled out of great commotion and disturbance -by the rosy vision of love and happiness that had breathed through the -notes. It was glad, it was sad, it was full of suggestion, it wrung the -very heart of Purcell—“<span class="lftspc">’</span>Twas in the time of roses, they plucked them as -they passed.” Would that time ever come for him? He thought the Signor -had read the depths of his heart, the wistful longing which was -sometimes hope and sometimes despair, the pictures he made to himself of -one day wandering by <i>her</i> side, one day gathering roses for her. He -murmured over and over the tune of the refrain in a kind of ecstasy as -he went to his mother’s room, his fancy excited, his head all on fire, -half with the delicious sense of being friend to such a genius, and -sharing, as it were, the very inspiration that produced such beautiful -things—and half with the pride and delight of being so deeply in love -and hanging on so exquisite an edge of anguish. The Signor himself did -not know how much those pretty compositions of his went to his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5013" id="page_5013">{vol.-II-13}</a></span> pupil’s -heart; but he was flattered—as who would not be?—by this never-failing -appreciation of his work, and youthful enthusiasm. It pleased him -vaguely, just as the floating sounds from below, the voices and noises, -all softened by the warm air of the summer evening, and even by the -dimness of the twilight, pleased him. How harmonious they became as they -soared upwards, all that was harsh taken out of them, filling the -solitude with a genial sense of human fellowship! Perhaps the Signor -was, like many others, not too fond of his fellow-creatures close at -hand; but as they went and came, far down at his feet, talking, calling -to each other, shouting their wares, singing now and then, making a -sound of their steps upon the pavement, and a movement of their -breathing in the air, he was transported with the hum, and felt that he -loved them. This always gave him inspiration, this and the glimmer of -the river and of the distant villages scattered over the plain, throwing -up here and there a dim point of a spire among the trees. When Purcell -left him, he put aside the bit of music-paper on which he had been -jotting down his chords. He raised his eyes to the profound unfathomable -blue above, and swung back upon his chair. He was half giddy with the -sense of circling depths of infinity above him, though himself raised so -high. The Signor was not without a feeling that he was raised very high, -not only in locality, but in soul; yet there was a heaven above which -made<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5014" id="page_5014">{vol.-II-14}</a></span> his head giddy when he looked up—a heaven full of stars, from -Palestrina to Mendelssohn, all shining over him, serene, unapproachable, -not even holding out any encouragement to him, passive and splendid as -the other stars which hid themselves in that still-luminous blue. Would -any one ever look up at that sky and recall his name as also among the -ranks of the unapproachable? The Signor turned his eyes from it with a -sigh as he heard some one enter the room, and came down to earth, -letting his chair drop upon its four legs, and his mind return to the -present. He watched through the open window the advent of old Pickering -carrying the lamp. The old man put it down on the table, and lighted -some candles on the mantelpiece in front of the dim mirror, which gave -them back with a blurred, enlarged reflection. His master sat outside -and watched him pottering about the room, setting the chairs against the -wall, and vainly attempting to make everything “straight.” It was a -standing grievance to old Pick that he was not allowed to close the -window and draw the curtains as it was right to do. The Signor outside -sat and watched him with a gentle amusement. He liked to feel the -oddness and superiority of his own tastes, thrown into evidence by the -mighty anxiety of old Pick to shut the window. A smile came over his -face. To ordinary mortals, in ordinary houses, it was not necessary to -seek inspiration from the skies and the wide world of evening air.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5015" id="page_5015">{vol.-II-15}</a></span> As -Pick approached the window, with his usual look of wistful anxiety to be -allowed to do what was right, and tacit disapproval of lawless habits, -the Signor stepped through, smiling. “I think you will shut me out some -night, Pick,” he said, “and then you will have my blood on your -soul—for what could I do upon the terrace? I should fall asleep and -tumble over, and be picked up in little pieces at the foot of the hill.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! I don’t feel no fear of that, sir,” said Pickering, shaking his -head; “you’ve got too good a voice for that, sir. I don’t make no doubt -that you could hold an A sharp till you frighted the whole Abbey. And -besides I always looks out; I’ve got the habit in this house. Even the -girl, she’ll go and stand at the window, as if the view was any matter -to her; it’s a thing as carries one away. But I don’t hold with leaving -all open when the lights are lighted. Bless you, the top windows in the -street with a spyglass, or even with good eyes like what I had when I -was young, they could see in.”</p> - -<p>“Much good it would do them,” said the Signor, sitting down before his -piano. And indeed it is quite true that as he sat close to the window, -relieved against the light of the lamp within, there were eyes at the -top windows opposite which could catch with difficulty the outline of -the Signor’s pale profile and black moustache. Some of the young ladies -in the shops would climb up occasionally and show that exciting -prospect<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5016" id="page_5016">{vol.-II-16}</a></span> to a friend. But it was an amusement which palled after the -first moment, and certainly did no harm to the Signor.</p> - -<p>“Maybe not much good, sir,” said old Pick, who always would have the -last word; “but it might do harm. You never can tell what folks will -say. The less they know the more they’ll talk; and that’s true all the -world over; though I will say for the Abbey as it’s as bad or worse than -most other places.”</p> - -<p>“Why should it be worse, Pick?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know, sir—unless it’s the clergy and the chevaliers. You see, -when gentlemen has little or nothing to do, they’re brought down to the -level of the women, so far as that goes—and as gentlemen always does -things more thorough than the women when they’re once started, the -consequence nat’rally is—Leastways that’s my notion of it,” said -Pick;—“the women haven’t the strength to start a real talking as does -harm. They tries hard—as hard as they knows how—but bless you, in that -as in most things, they wants a man to show ’em the way.”</p> - -<p>“That is a new view, Pick. I thought if there was one thing in which the -ladies had the advantage of us——”</p> - -<p>“There ain’t one thing, sir, not one. For my part, I can tell in a -minute a story as will hang together, a real crusher, one as will drive -folks distracted and ruin a family. You’ll never get that out of a -woma<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5017" id="page_5017">{vol.-II-17}</a></span>n’s tongue. Nay, nay, they hasn’t the force for it; they’re poor -creatures at the best; they can make a person uncomfortable, but they -can’t do no more. And when I say the Abbey’s as bad or maybe worse, I -mean that the gentlemen has little to do, and they has to amuse -themselves the same as the women. That’s what I mean to say.”</p> - -<p>The Signor gave a half attention to Pick’s long speech while he sat at -his piano. All the time he was running over his new composition with one -hand, correcting a note here and there, changing a harmony. “<span class="lftspc">’</span>Twas in -the time of roses—the time of roses,” he hummed softly under his -breath. But the smile on his lip was for Pick, and he gave him a -negligent half attention, amused by his chatter, and by the peculiar -views he held forth. He looked up at him as Pick stopped, singing with a -little flourish in the accompaniment, which meant satisfaction in having -at last got the phrase to his mind—“<span class="lftspc">’</span>Twas in the time of roses—the -time of roses——” Old Pick was not surprised by the utterance of a -sentiment so foreign to his subject. He knew his master’s ways, and he -took a certain interest in his master’s productions, such as old -servants often benevolently accord to the doings of their “family.” He -could not tell what folks saw in them—still, as the Signor’s -productions, he looked upon them with kindly toleration all the same.</p> - -<p>“You may say, sir,” he cried, “<span class="lftspc">‘</span>the time o<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5018" id="page_5018">{vol.-II-18}</a></span>’ roses’—that’s just the -very thing; for, I daresay, but for that rose in his button-hole, and -the jaunty looks of him, a young girl wouldn’t have seen nothing in him. -But I don’t know neither—women is the queerest things on the face of -this whole earth. Flatter them, or make them think they’re bettering -themselves, and there’s nothing they won’t do.”</p> - -<p>“Who is it that wears flowers in his button-hole?” said the Signor. He -wore them himself, and he was curious and slightly excited, wondering if -any gossip could by any chance have got up about himself. The idea of -such a thing kindled him into interest; his right hand dropped off from -the piano, though with the other hand he kept softly sounding notes in -the bass, and he turned towards his old servant with a look of animation -altogether new. What interest is there like that with which one -anticipates hearing something about oneself?</p> - -<p>But at this moment Purcell’s steps were heard coming quickly along the -passage, and he came in with his head erect, and his eyes gleaming, and -pushed old Pick out of his way. “That will do, Pick,” he said, with a -glimmer of impatience, “that will do! I will set things right for the -master, myself.”</p> - -<p>“What is the matter, boy?”</p> - -<p>“Matter or no matter, if you think I’ll leave it to the first that comes -to look after my master—” said old Pick, standing his ground. He would -not yield;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5019" id="page_5019">{vol.-II-19}</a></span> he was very friendly in general to Mr. John, and ready to do -what he ordered, but there are limits to everything. He stood his ground -steadily, arranging and re-arranging the papers on the table, while -young Purcell went forward to the Signor. The young fellow put himself -behind the musician, between him and the window, and stooped to whisper -in his ear. His glowing eyes, his eager aspect, made a great impression -on the Signor, who was very impressionable. He was possessed by some new -thought. “Master,” he said, breathless, “I have a hundred things to say -to you. I have heard something new. I want your advice, I want your -help.” He was breathless, as if he had been running a race, though all -he had really done had been to come along a few yards of passage. The -Signor was easily moved by the sight of emotion, and he was fond of his -<i>protégé</i>. “Go, Pick,” he said immediately, “and bring us some tea.”</p> - -<p>“Tea, sir!” said the old man in consternation. “You never takes it. If -it’s nothing but to get rid of old Pick, I’ll go. I’ll go; never fear -but I’ll go.”</p> - -<p>“I want some tea,” said the Signor authoritatively; “foolish old man, -would you spoil my new song for want of a cup of tea? Go to Mrs. -Purcell, and tell her, with my compliments, I want some of her special -brew—the very best, as she used to make it for me when I had headaches. -Quick, my head threatens to ache now. Well! what is it, boy? Has the -Queen sent for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5020" id="page_5020">{vol.-II-20}</a></span> you to be the head of her orchestra, or is the Dean -coming to pay us a visit? It must be something very important to judge -by your face.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, sir,” cried young Purcell, “what a heart you have! making up a -headache and a whole story to save old Pick’s feelings—and me that am -really no better than he is, pushing him out of the way!”</p> - -<p>“Nobody is any better than any other,” said the Signor in his measured -tones. “I have tried to teach you so all your life. But I will allow -that some are worse than others,” he added, with a smile. His disciple -was too much occupied, however, with the urgency of his own case to -notice what he said.</p> - -<p>“Master,” said the young man, “I have hurried back to tell you I have -changed my mind; I will take the organ at Sturminster after all.”</p> - -<p>An almost imperceptible change came over the Signor’s face—that slight -stiffening of the muscles of the mouth—continuance of the easy and -genial smile of real satisfaction into the forced and uncomfortable one -of pretended equanimity—which is the sign above all others of -disappointment and displeasure, became visible in his face. “Well——” -he said slowly; “why not—if you think it will be more to your -advantage? After all, that is the grand test.”</p> - -<p>“It is not that,” said young Purcell, shrinking a little; “you can’t -think that I would leave you only for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5021" id="page_5021">{vol.-II-21}</a></span> my advantage. No, master, it is -not that. You must hear it all before you judge.”</p> - -<p>“Certainly,” said the Signor. He kept the same smile rigid upon his -face. “And in the meantime here is old Pick with the tea,” he added, -“and we must drink it for the sake of his feelings. What, Pick, is it -made already? I don’t think your mother can be so careful as usual, boy, -about her brew.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t put no faith in tea that stands long to draw, sir,” said Pick. -“I like it myself with all the scent in it. Water as boils hard, and not -a minute lost. That’s my maxim. It’s fresh made with plenty of tea in, -and I’ll warrant it good. Smell that,” he said, taking off the lid of -the teapot. The Signor listened to him quietly, taking no notice of -Purcell’s impatience. He smiled on the old man and let him talk. He was -wounded and offended by his pupil’s sudden change after the decision of -an hour ago; and though he had a great desire to hear what reason could -be given for this difference of feeling, his annoyance and disgust at -the change found expression in this apparent carelessness of it. He kept -Pick talking with secret malice, while Purcell fretted. The young fellow -did not know how to contain himself. He collected the music-books that -were on the piano, and put them back on the shelves. Then he took them -down again; he shifted the candles; he roamed from corner to corner, -moving the chairs about, throwing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5022" id="page_5022">{vol.-II-22}</a></span> into disorder the things on the -table; now and then he cast a piteous look at his master; but the Signor -sat, in serene malice sounding the bass notes in his accompaniment, -putting artful questions to old Pickering, and leading him on to talk. -It was the old man himself at length who brought the suspense to an end -by recollecting something it was necessary for him to do. “They’d have -kep’ me there all night,” he said to Mrs. Purcell, with pretended -impatience, as he got back to the housekeeper’s room. “Dear!” said Mrs. -Purcell, astonished; she could not understand how the Signor could waste -time talking to old Pick at a moment so momentous for her John.</p> - -<p>When old Pickering was gone, the Signor still said nothing. He turned to -the piano and began to play; he was like a woman offended, who will not -approach the subject on which she is dying to be informed. At last -Purcell, approaching humbly with wistful eyes, ventured to put one hand -lightly upon his arm.</p> - -<p>“Master,” said the young man, “let me speak to you. I cannot do anything -till I have spoken to you.”</p> - -<p>“To me, boy? Speak then, as much as you please,” said the Signor, -nodding at him with an air of ingenuous wonder while he rang out the end -of the melody. “<span class="lftspc">’</span>Twas in the time of roses,” he sang; then swinging -himself round on his stool, “You want to speak to me? Why didn’t you say -so sooner? Speak then, I am all attention,” he said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5023" id="page_5023">{vol.-II-23}</a></span></p> - -<p>Then Purcell began, once more breathless with agitation and excitement: -“I think there seems a chance for me, sir,” he said; “my mother has just -been telling me. It is such a chance as never may happen again. You know -I love St. Michael’s better than anything in the world—except one -thing. Master, <i>she</i> is in trouble; her home is about to be made -impossible to her; now or never; if I had a home to offer her, she might -accept it. This is why I said I would take Sturminster. St. Ermengilde -is more to my mind, a thousand times more to my mind; and to be near -you, to have the benefit of your advice, that would be everything for -me. But, dear master,” said the young man, “must I not think of her -first? and here is a chance for me, perhaps the only chance I may have -in my life.”</p> - -<p>“Has anything happened to Miss Despard?” said the Signor in great -surprise. He recognised the justice of the plea, and he listened with -great interest and sympathy, and a curious feeling which was neither -sympathy nor interest. Lottie was to the Signor a mysterious creature, -exciting an altogether different kind of feeling from that which he felt -for his pupil. He was almost sentimentally attached to his pupil, and -entered into the history and prospects of his love with an enthusiasm -quite unlike that with which a mature Englishman generally interests -himself in anybody’s love-affairs. But along with this sentiment there -existed another almost directly opposite to it, an<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5024" id="page_5024">{vol.-II-24}</a></span> interest in Lottie -as a being of a totally different class from Purcell, of whom it would -be profoundly curious to know the history, and the means by which she -might perhaps be brought to look favourably on—nay, to marry—Purcell; -which seemed to the Signor quite “on the cards.” How she might be -brought to this, in what way she would reconcile herself to be Purcell’s -wife; how she would bow a spirit, evidently so proud, to the young -musician’s origin and to his ways of talking, which, though refined -enough, were still at the bottom those of a man whose mother was “in -service:” all this was captivating as a matter of study to the Signor; -he got, or expected to get, a great deal of amusement out of it, -expecting that Lottie’s struggles in fitting herself for the position -would be wonderful enough: so that his interest cannot be called -entirely benevolent. But between this keen and half-malign interest and -the sentimental interest he took in Purcell’s “happiness,” it may be -imagined that the crisis was nearly as exciting to him as it was to -Purcell himself. He listened to the story with the warmest interest, and -agreed that there was nothing for it but to accept Sturminster. “But you -must not lose a day,” he said; “you must secure the lady at once, there -is not a moment to lose.”</p> - -<p>“Secure?” Purcell said, growing red and growing white; “then you think -there is a hope, a—likelihood<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5025" id="page_5025">{vol.-II-25}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>“Think? I think there is an almost certainty!” cried the Signor. He -became quite excited himself for the sake of his pupil and for his own -sake, for the keen intellectual interest he felt in this curious problem -as to what Lottie would do. “You must go to-morrow,” he cried, with all -the eagerness of a personal interest; “you must not lose a single day.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5026" id="page_5026">{vol.-II-26}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">YOUNG PURCELL.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Next</span> morning found young Purcell in a state of excitement and nervous -agitation still greater than that of the previous night. He had not -slept during the natural time for sleep, and in consequence, according -to the fashion of youth unaccustomed to watching, had fallen very fast -and heavily asleep, out of sheer fatigue in the morning, waking only -with an indescribable sense of guilt to hear the bells ringing for the -morning service in the Abbey. Such a thing had never happened to him -before, and his shame and sense of wrong-doing were more than reason. He -jumped up in dismay, but even the most hurried toilet could not get him -in time; and his mother appeared at his door as he prepared to rush out -half-dressed, preventing his exit. “You wouldn’t go out without your -breakfast?” she cried with horror. The virtuous and carefully regulated -life of the chorister and musical student trained under the Signor’s eye -and his mother’s constant care, had made a late morning and an omitted -breakfast seem like something criminal. Besides, a sense of the crisis -had got into the air. The Signor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5027" id="page_5027">{vol.-II-27}</a></span> had left an anxious message, begging -his <i>protégé</i> not to hurry himself, to take his time, and to keep up his -courage. His mother kissed him wistfully, and served him with a noble -breakfast, as if he wanted strengthening in the most material way, for -the important piece of work before him. Even old Pick looked at him with -respectful curiosity as at a man on the edge of a very serious step -indeed, a curiosity mingled with awe and a little grim humour and -admiration. The boy was going to do what Pick had never had the courage -to do; and though the old man thought the young one a fool, and hugged -himself on his superior wisdom, yet it cannot be denied that he looked -with a certain respect on the bold youth who was about to make such a -venture. He put his breakfast on the table, not grudging the trouble, -though the Signor’s breakfast had long been over, and he shook his head -behind Mr. John’s chair. “Take a good breakfast, it will do you a deal -of good,” he said, as he left the hero of the occasion. Purcell, though -his mother was only the housekeeper, was the son of the house; he took -his meals with the master, though it was his mother who prepared their -dishes in the kitchen. It was a false position, perhaps, but he had not -yet found any trouble in it. He had been a little curly-headed boy in -the choir when Mrs. Purcell came first to take charge of the Signor’s -house; she had been the sole servant then, and had scrubbed and brushed -and cooked,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5028" id="page_5028">{vol.-II-28}</a></span> diligently keeping everything in order. Old Pickering had -gone through the same sort of training which had made John Purcell a -gentleman. He, too, had been a chorister, and had progressed into a -lay-clerk, with possibilities of rising to something better. But Pick -was one of the unsuccessful ones; his voice failed him, his science -never had been great, and a little after Mrs. Purcell’s advent he had -come to the Signor also to be provided for. The organist had a large -heart and a somewhat indolent temper; the easiest way to provide for the -old singing-man was to take him into his own household, and this was -what had been done. As for Pick, he had settled very easily into his new -place, having been the son of the master of a little tavern; and though -it cost him an effort to acknowledge the little soprano, whose surplice -he had put on so often, in the light of a young master, yet the effort -was made. Pick was conscientious, he did not do anything by halves; and -the first time that the Signor’s pupil was permitted to play the -voluntary in the Abbey, the old man made his fellow-servants jump, and -gave the youth a shock of mingled alarm and pleasure, by suddenly -addressing him as Mr. John. Nobody had expected such an heroic act of -submission, but Pick knew his place and all that was suitable in the -circumstances. “Him as the Signor puts in his own place has a right to -be respected,” he said; and he never wavered in that noble -self-abnegation, nor let<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5029" id="page_5029">{vol.-II-29}</a></span> any one suppose that it was painful to him. -All this had happened long before the period of which we are writing; -but what sensation, what emotion, it had caused at the time! Pick stood -now, pausing behind the young musician’s chair, and lifted up his hands -and shook his head. To think this boy, whom he had, so to speak, brought -up, should show so much courage! Pick himself had never made such a -venture, nor even the Signor, who was the master of both; and yet this -boy was going to do it. The old man shook his head, not knowing what -might come of it; but in his heart he felt a respect reaching to -admiration, for the courage which was so much beyond anything he had -ever known.</p> - -<p>Courage, however, was the last quality in which, on this particular -morning, young Purcell could be said to excel. To devote your life in -secret to a beloved object; to dream of her night and day; to make -impassioned resolutions, and determine to win glory and wealth for her, -is not so hard for a fanciful youth; but to go into her presence, look -into the face that dazzles you—confront the goddess of your distant -worship, and without any preliminaries to lead up to this great step, -and prepare her for it, quite off-hand and impromptu ask her to marry -you! This is a very different matter. The young man sat alone and tried -to eat his breakfast, trembling to think of what was before him. The -circumstances were such as to add<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5030" id="page_5030">{vol.-II-30}</a></span> tenfold to the natural tremors of -such a crisis. She was a lady, and far above him—not rich indeed, nor -occupying any very exalted position in reality—but her dignity was very -imposing to the young man, who had always recognised this grace of what -seemed to him rank, as one of her particular charms. Purcell was -painfully aware that he himself had no right to the name of gentleman. -Many a less worthy claimant has borne it, with no thought that it was -inappropriate, and Purcell had anxiously and painfully endeavoured to -acquire all its outside appearances. He knew, as well as any, how to -behave himself in society, and passed muster very well among other young -men. He was a little over-anxious, perhaps, a little too fine in his -language, too deferential and polite, not sufficiently at his ease, to -get much enjoyment out of his social experiences; but this was a fault -on the right side. Notwithstanding his modest sense of his own “merits,” -Purcell could not persuade himself that he was Lottie’s equal. He knew -he was not her equal. She had been as a star to him, far away and out of -reach—and though in the fervour of imaginative passion the hope of -winning her had seemed like heaven, yet the actual enterprise of wooing -her, when brought thus close, seemed very appalling indeed—a quest more -dangerous and alarming than ever knight errant set forth upon. His knees -knocked together, great beads of moisture came upon his forehead—how -was he to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5031" id="page_5031">{vol.-II-31}</a></span> do it? how was he to present himself, to explain the hopes -which, looked at thus in cold blood, appeared even to himself -impossible, not to say presumptuous in the highest degree? How was he -ever, he asked himself, to make her aware what he meant? She would not -understand him. She would think he meant something else, anything -else—rather than that he, a poor musician, the son of the Signor’s -house-keeper, wanted to MARRY her, the daughter of a gentleman. It would -be impossible to make her understand him. This seemed the first -difficulty of all, and it was an appalling one. She would not even know -what he meant. In this respect indeed Purcell was mistaken, for Lottie -already knew well enough what were the hopes in his heart—resenting -them highly as one of the wrongs of fate against her; but this he had no -way of knowing. If he could but have got anyone to smooth the way for -him, to tell what it was he wanted to say, to set him a-going, he -thought he could find eloquence enough to carry him on—but how could he -make that <i>premier pas</i>? Thus, while the household was all expectant, -excited by what was coming, Purcell sat over his breakfast and trembled, -too frightened to move or think, though with a consciousness that this -desperate step must be taken. The Signor in the Abbey, rolling forth -melodious thunders out of the organ, kept thinking of him with a smile, -and a half sigh. Like Pick, he had a certain admiration for the valour<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5032" id="page_5032">{vol.-II-32}</a></span> -of the boy thus pushing forward before himself into the mysteries of -life; but the Signor’s thoughts were more tender and less cynical than -those of his servant. He could not help wondering how it was that in his -own person he had let all such chances slip. How was it? As he followed -his pupil in imagination to the feet of his love, that young creature -seemed very fair, very much to be desired. No doubt, to have such a one -by your side, sharing your life with you, would make existence bear a -very different appearance. Why was it he had never done what Purcell was -going to do? This question seemed to flow into the music he was playing, -and to go circling round and round the Abbey in the morning sunshine. -Why? Life was endurable enough, a calm sort of routine, with now and -then a pleasurable sensation in it, but nothing more; and no doubt it -might have been made more of. The Signor could not answer his own -question. He did not want to make himself the rival of his pupil, or to -do anything similar to what young Purcell was doing. He had no wish to -make any violent change in life, which was well enough as it was. But -only it was odd that a simple fellow like John Purcell should thus -boldly have pushed before him into a completer existence—very odd; the -boy was bold. Whether he succeeded or not, his very agitation and ardour -had in them a higher touch of emotion than any that had been in the life -of his master. He laughed within<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5033" id="page_5033">{vol.-II-33}</a></span> himself at the boy’s temerity—but the -laugh was mingled with a sigh.</p> - -<p>And Mrs. Purcell, for her part, was in high excitement, longing for her -boy to be gone on his errand, longing for him to be back again. That her -John should marry a lady was the climax of grandeur and happiness. To be -sure, it ought to have been a rich lady or great lady. He deserved a -princess, his mother felt. Still, as things were, it was a kind of -intoxication to think even of the daughter of a Chevalier. Why did he -linger, as if breakfast was worth thinking of? She listened for every -sound, for the door shutting, for his step in the hall, and was very -cross when Maryanne made a noise, so that she could not hear what was -going on upstairs. As for old Pick, he brushed Mr. John’s hat with a -grim smile on his face, and hung about the hall to watch him go out.</p> - -<p>“The young un’s off at last,” he said with a chuckle, marching into the -kitchen: when just before the end of the service in the Abbey, when all -the air about was ringing with the echo of the Amens, Purcell at last -screwed his courage to the sticking-point, and went out, to meet his -fate.</p> - -<p>Poor young fellow, he could not have been more alarmed had he gone to -face a lion instead of a lady. The lion would have been nothing. He -would have called out for succour, and used whatever weapons he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5034" id="page_5034">{vol.-II-34}</a></span> could -lay hold of; but nobody could help him with Lottie—no shield would -cover him from the lightnings of her eyes. It was all embarrassing, all -terrible; even if by any chance things should turn out in his favour, he -did not know what he should do. What could he call her? Not Lottie, that -was too familiar. Not Miss Despard. All these different and disjointed -thoughts seemed to float about his head in the maze of excitement he was -in—he was past thinking, but such questions kept floating in and out of -his mind. It was the most extraordinary relief when, going to the door -of Captain Despard’s house, he found that Lottie was out. If she had -been there, it seemed to Purcell that he would have run away—but she -was not there. He asked when she was expected back and went on, -recovering his breath. He could not go home again, where presently the -Signor would come from the Abbey and question him. The service, however, -was not so nearly over as he thought. It was a saint’s day, and there -was a sermon. The precincts were very still and deserted, for most -people were at church. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, sitting at her window, saw -the young musician walk across the broad silent sunshine, but he did not -see her. He went up the Dean’s walk, hearing his own step echo through -the silence, and past the Deanery, and out upon the slopes beyond. It -was shady and sweet under the trees, which rose up close against the old -wall—and all was very quiet<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5035" id="page_5035">{vol.-II-35}</a></span> during the time of matins, though the town -went on with its usual hum down below at the foot of the hill. Purcell -began to recover himself a little and take breath as he came to this -shelter and refuge. Many a time had he strayed under these trees, -thinking of <i>her</i>, wondering if he ever might be able to approach her. -It was strange to be here, however, in the morning, the hour of work and -engagements, which he never had to himself, and to hear the far-off -sound of the organ pealing out after the sermon was over. All the common -occupations of life seemed to be suspended for Purcell. He felt as -ordinary men feel on an occasional stolen Sunday, when work is -suspended, and the duty of church-going put aside. All was so sweet, and -serene, and still—no one to disturb his thoughts: the sound of the -organ in the distance keeping him aware of the fact that he was -singularly, unprecedentedly liberated from his usual occupations: and -the tremor of agitation dying away into an excitement which was more -bearable, which left room for all the sweeter musings, of which <i>she</i> -was the centre. He sat down on the root of a tree, and let himself -breathe. Then came the first notes of the voluntary, and a distant hum -as of the congregation dispersing. Few people were likely to come here -at this hour in the morning, but still Purcell felt that he had but a -moment in which to indulge himself, and that soon he must turn back.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5036" id="page_5036">{vol.-II-36}</a></span></p> - -<p>As he sat thus trying to collect himself, a sudden sound close by, the -rustle of a dress among the bushes, the soft sound of a footstep caught -his ear. He looked up—and his heart jumped into his throat. There She -stood before him, a little basket in her hand. There was a by-way into -the town by the slopes, and Lottie had been about her marketing. She was -in her usual simple morning frock, clean print and nothing more, and -though her head was sufficiently full of dreams and her mind of -anxieties, she was at present lingering upon neither, but going straight -from one place to another, as became the active morning hour and the -consciousness of various things to do. When she saw Purcell spring to -his feet suddenly in the midst of the path, for the moment Lottie was -startled. She made him a little gracious but indifferent sign of -recognition, as courtesy required—for ridiculous as were the notions in -his head, she could not be rude to him—and was passing on, not wanting -any further parley, when she was struck by the agitation in his face. He -was staring at her as if she had been a ghost—his mouth was open, his -breath coming quick, his colour changing. Excitement did not improve his -appearance. She had almost laughed, then checked herself remorsefully, -and became so much the more sympathetic for her temporary movement of -mirth.</p> - -<p>“Is there anything the matter?” she said kindly. “I am afraid you are -ill. Has anything—gone wrong?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5037" id="page_5037">{vol.-II-37}</a></span>” She did not know what to say, he looked -at her with such solemn eyes.</p> - -<p>“Oh, nothing—nothing has gone wrong. I am not ill. Miss Despard—I did -not expect to see you here.”</p> - -<p>“No—but I hope it is not I who have frightened you,” said Lottie. “I -sometimes go to the Bridge road this way.”</p> - -<p>“You have not frightened me,” said Purcell, who found it easier to -repeat her words than to say anything original; “but I—did not know you -went this way.”</p> - -<p>It was all that Lottie could do, once more, to keep herself from -laughing. She gave him a little nod, and was about to pass, saying, -“What a lovely morning it is!” the stereotyped English remark; when he -made a hurried step after her, and, holding up his hands, entreated her, -in a piteous voice, to stay a moment. “Miss Despard—what startled me -was that I was looking for you. Oh, stay a moment, and let me speak to -you!” he said.</p> - -<p>Lottie stood still, arrested in her progress, throwing a wondering look -upon him. What could he want with her? Her first glance was simple -surprise—her second—Was it possible he could mean <i>that</i>?—could he be -bold enough, rash enough? Next moment she blushed for her own folly. To -be afraid of young Purcell! That was foolishness indeed. She stood<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5038" id="page_5038">{vol.-II-38}</a></span> -still there, one foot put out to go on, her basket in her hand.</p> - -<p>“Please say what it is, Mr. Purcell. I have got something to do. I ought -to be at home.”</p> - -<p>The morning is not the moment for a love tale. How much more congenial -would have been the evening, the twilight, the subdued poetic hour, -after the sun had disappeared, that great busybody who shows every -imperfection, and is himself so perpetually moving on! Something to do -was in every line of Lottie’s energetic figure. She had no time for -lingering, nor wish to linger. “Please say what it is.” Only business -should be treated in this summary way, not love.</p> - -<p>“Miss Despard,” said the young musician, whose limbs were trembling -under him, “I wanted to say a great deal to you; it is very -important—for me. Things are going well with me,” he added, with -desperation, after a momentary pause. “I have been appointed to a -church—a fine church—with a good instrument. They are to give me a -good salary, and they say I can have as much teaching as I like. I shall -be very well off.”</p> - -<p>“I am glad to hear you are so fortunate,” said Lottie. Her eyes were -full of surprise, and for a moment there was a gleam of amusement in -them. That he should waylay her to tell her this, seemed a curious piece -of ostentation or folly. “I am very glad,” she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5039" id="page_5039">{vol.-II-39}</a></span> repeated; “but you must -forgive me if I have to hasten home, for I have a great many things to -do.”</p> - -<p>“One moment,” he said, putting out his hand to stop her. “That was not -all. The Signor thinks—you know the Signor, Miss Despard, there is not -a better musician in the country—he thinks I will make progress. He -thinks I may rise—as high as any one can rise in our profession. He -tells me I may be a rich man yet before I die.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed, I hope all he says will come true,” said Lottie; “but why you -should take the trouble to tell me——”</p> - -<p>Then suddenly she caught his eye, and stopped short, and blushed an -angry red. She saw what was coming in a moment, which did not, however, -prevent her from drawing herself up with a great deal of dignity, and -adding, “I don’t know what you mean.”</p> - -<p>“Miss Despard,” he said with a gasp, “there is no comparison between me -and you. But you are not so well off—not happy. They say—you know how -people will talk—that there is something going to happen that will make -you very uncomfortable.”</p> - -<p>“Stop!” she said, with an involuntary cry, half of anger, half of -amazement. Then she laughed. “Do you want me to acknowledge that you are -much better off than I am?” she said; “but there is no need to compare -you with me.”</p> - -<p>“It could not be done, Miss Lottie. I know it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5040" id="page_5040">{vol.-II-40}</a></span> could not be done. You -are a lady, and far above me. I know I am not your equal—in some -things.”</p> - -<p>Lottie began to be too angry to laugh, but yet she was provoked to -ridicule, which is the keenest of weapons. She made him a little mocking -curtsey. “It is very kind of you to say so, I am sure, for we are quite -poor people, Mr. Purcell; not fortunate, and getting on in the world -like you.”</p> - -<p>“No, Miss Despard,” he said, simply, “that was just what I wanted to -say. If you had been as well off as I could wish, I should not have -ventured to say anything. I have always loved you, and thought of you -above all the world. Since you first came to St. Michael’s, I have never -thought of any one but you. It has been my hope that some time or other -I might be able to—but it was only just yesterday that I heard -something that made me settle—two things——”</p> - -<p>She did not speak, being, indeed, too angry and annoyed for speech; but -she felt a kind of contemptuous, wrathful interest in what he was -saying, and curiosity to know what it was that had induced him to make -this venture; and, accordingly, gave him a glance, in which there was an -impatient question. Purcell was not too discriminating. He felt -encouraged by being listened to, from whatsoever motive.</p> - -<p>“Two things,” he said, with stolid steadiness. “One, to take -Sturminster. I had settled before I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5041" id="page_5041">{vol.-II-41}</a></span> would not take it, but St. -Ermengilde’s. But when I heard <i>that</i>, I changed my mind, though it did -not please the Signor. Sturminster will make me independent; it will -give me a home. And then I settled to tell you, Miss Lottie: if you are -uncomfortable at home, if you don’t like things that may be going to -happen: to tell you that there’s another home ready for you, if you will -have it; a home that may be made very comfortable; a place of your own, -to do what you like with, that will be waiting for you, whenever you -please, at a moment’s notice, the sooner the better. If you would say -yes, I would go directly, I would go to-morrow, and prepare; and nobody -would be able to give you trouble or make you uncomfortable any longer. -Only say the word, and there is nothing, nothing I would not do——”</p> - -<p>Lottie stood and gazed at him, wondering, bitterly ashamed and -humiliated, and yet not without a sense that so much simple devotion was -worth more than to be crushed, or scorned, or flung from her, as she -wished to fling it. She restrained herself with an effort. “What do you -mean?” she said. “Is it possible that you are asking me to <i>marry</i> you, -Mr. Purcell? That cannot be what you mean.”</p> - -<p>“What else could it be?” he said, turning on her a look of genuine -surprise. “You don’t suppose, Miss Despard, that I could be thinking of -anything else?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5042" id="page_5042">{vol.-II-42}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>His cheeks grew crimson, and so did hers. A cry of anger and shame and -confusion came from her breast. She stamped her foot impatiently on the -ground. “You would never, never have ventured to ask me, never, if I had -not been helpless and friendless and poor!”</p> - -<p>“No,” he said again, with a simplicity in which she could not help -feeling a certain nobleness. “I would not have ventured, for I am not -what you call a gentleman; but when I heard you were in trouble, I could -not keep silent. I thought to myself, Miss Lottie shall not be unhappy -because of having no home to go to——”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” said Lottie, putting out her hand to stop him. She could not bear -any more. Her heart was sick with the mortification of such a suit. She -could have crushed and trampled upon her humble lover, in rage and -shame, and yet she could not but see the generosity and truth in his -heart. If he had been less worthy, it would have been less hard upon -her. “It is not a thing that can be,” she cried hastily. “Oh, don’t say -another word. I know you are kind, but it is not a thing that can be.”</p> - -<p>“Not now?” he said, looking at her wistfully; “well: but perhaps another -time? perhaps when you need it more—I am not in any hurry. Perhaps I am -young to marry; the Signor thinks so. But another time,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5043" id="page_5043">{vol.-II-43}</a></span> Miss Lottie? -Whenever you want me, you have but to say the word.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t think of it. I will never, never say the word. Forget it -altogether, Mr. Purcell. I am very, very much obliged to you, but indeed -it can never be.”</p> - -<p>The young man’s countenance fell. Then he recovered himself. “I can’t -think you are taking everything into consideration. We should have a -nice home, plenty of everything, and I should never spare trouble to -give you everything you were used to——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, go away, go away!” she cried.</p> - -<p>And as they stood there, some one else, his shadow slowly moving before -him, came round the corner of the pathway, among the chestnut-trees; and -Purcell felt that his opportunity was over. He was not sorry for it. He -had done what was set before him, and if he had not succeeded, he was -not discouraged. There was still hope for another time.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5044" id="page_5044">{vol.-II-44}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">BUSINESS, OR LOVE?</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was not only in the mind of young Purcell that Lottie’s circumstances -and prospects were the subject of thought. Rollo Ridsdale had not -watched and worshipped as the young musician had done. Nor had he, even -on his first introduction to her, looked upon Lottie as anything but the -possessor of a beautiful voice, of which use might be made, for her -benefit no doubt in the long run, but primarily for his own. She was not -a divinity; she was not even a woman; she was a valuable stock-in-trade, -a most important implement with which to work. Rollo had gone through a -very effectual training in this kind. He had run through the little -money he possessed so soon, and had learned the use of his wits so -early, that the most energetic of tradesmen was not more alive to all -the charms of gain than he. The means, perhaps, may be of a different -kind, but it does not very much matter in principle whether a man is -trained to sharp bargains in bric-à-brac or in cotton bales; and it is -not essentially a loftier trade to speculate in pictures and china than -in shares and stocks. This young aristocrat<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5045" id="page_5045">{vol.-II-45}</a></span> had kept his eyes very wide -open to anything that might come in his way. He was not a director of -companies chiefly because his poor little Honourable was not a -sufficiently valuable possession to be traded upon, though it had some -small value pecuniarily. Lord Courtland himself might indeed have made a -few hundreds a year out of his title, but to his second son the name was -not worth so much. It secured him some advantages. It gave him the -<i>entrée</i> to places where things were to be “picked up,” and it helped -him to puff and even to dispose of the wares which he might have in -hand. It kept him afloat; it ameliorated poverty; it took away all -objections to the sale and barter in which, profitably or unprofitably, -he spent so much of his life. Had he gone upon the Stock Exchange, -society might have made comments upon the strange necessity; but when -Rollo’s collection of <i>objets d’art</i> was sold, nobody found anything to -object to in the transaction, which put a comfortable sum in his pocket, -and enabled him to go forth to fresh fields and pastures new; neither -was there anything unbecoming his nobility in the enterprise which he -had now in hand. Theatres are not generally a very flourishing branch of -commerce; yet it cannot be denied that those who ruin themselves by them -embark in the enterprise with as warm an inclination towards gain as any -shopkeeper could boast of. Rollo had thought of Lottie’s voice as -something quite distinct<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5046" id="page_5046">{vol.-II-46}</a></span> from any personality. It was a commodity he -would like to buy, as he would have liked to buy a picture, or anything -rare and beautiful, of which he could be sure that he would get more -than his own money for it. In that, as in other things, he would have -bought in the cheapest market and sold in the dearest. He would have -thought it only right and natural to secure at a low rate the early -services of a prima donna. A certain amount of enthusiasm no doubt -mingled with the business; just as, had Rollo bought a picture and sold -it again, he would have derived a considerable amount of enjoyment from -it over and above the profit which went into his pocket; but still he -would not have bought the picture, or sought out the future prima donna, -on any less urgent and straightforward stimulus than that of gain. -Probably, too, the artistic temperament—those characteristics which -have to answer for so many things—influenced him more in the pursuit of -the talent which was to make his fortune, than any man is ever -influenced by bales of cotton or railway shares. To hear that “shirtings -are firm” does not thrill the heart as it does to hear the melody of a -lovely new voice, which you feel will pay you nobly by transporting the -rest of the world as it does yourself. Neither could any amount of -coupons fill you with delight like that small scrap of a Bellini by -which you hope to <i>faire fortune</i>. But, nevertheless, to make his -fortune was what Rollo thought of just as much as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5047" id="page_5047">{vol.-II-47}</a></span> the man who sells -dusters over his counter. If a new kind of duster could be found more -efficacious than any previously known, a something that would dust by -itself, that would sell by the million, no doubt the shopkeeper, too, -would feel a moment’s enthusiasm; yet in this he would be quite inferior -to the inventor of a new prima donna, who, added to his enjoyment of all -that the public gave to hear her, would have the same enjoyment as had -the public, without giving anything for it at all.</p> - -<p>This had been the simple enthusiasm in Rollo’s mind up to his last -meeting with Lottie Despard. He had pursued her closely that he might -fully understand and know all the qualities of her voice—of the slave -he wanted to buy: to know exactly what training it would want, and how -much would have to be done to it before it could appear before the -public, and begin to pay back what he had given for it. And point by -point, as he pursued this quest of his, he had noted in her the -qualities of beauty, the grace, the expression, the perfection of form -and feature, which were so many additional advantages. The rush of -colour to her cheek, of spirit or softness to her eyes, had delighted -him, as proving in her the power to be an actress as well as a singer. -He studied all her looks, interpreted her character to himself, and -watched her movements with this end, with a frank indifference to every -other, not even thinking what interpretation<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5048" id="page_5048">{vol.-II-48}</a></span> might be put, what -interpretation she might herself put, upon this close and anxious -attention. It was not till the evening when, overcome by the feelings -which music and excitement had roused in her, Lottie had fled alone to -her home, avoiding his escort, that he had suddenly awoke to the -consciousness that it was no mere voice, but a young and beautiful -woman, with whom he was dealing. The awakening gave him a shock—yet -there was pleasure in it, and a flattering consciousness that his prima -donna had all along been regarding him in no abstract, but an entirely -individual, way. Rollo had been brought up among artificial sentiments. -He had been used to hear people talk of the effect of music upon their -imagination—of the sensations it gave them, and the manner in which -they were dominated by it. But he had never seen any one honestly moved -like Lottie—abandoning the sphere of her social success, silent in the -height of her triumph. When he saw that she could not and would not sing -again after that wonderful sacred song, he was himself more vividly -impressed than he had ever been by music. It took her voice from her, -and her breath—transported her out of herself. How strange it was, yet -how real, how natural! just (when you came to think of it) as a pure and -elevated mind ought to be touched: though he had never yet seen the -fumes of art get so completely into any head before. The reality of -Lottie’s emotion had awakened Rollo. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5049" id="page_5049">{vol.-II-49}</a></span> was not touched himself by -Handel, but he was touched by Lottie. He suddenly saw <i>her</i> through the -mist of his own preconceived ideas, and through the cloud of -conventionalities, those of art and those of society alike. Never in his -life before had he so suddenly and distinctly come in contact with a -genuine human creature, as God had made her—feeling, moving, living -according to the dictates of nature, not as she had been trained to live -and feel. This is not to say that he had met with no genuine people in -his life. His father and mother were real enough, and so was his aunt, -Lady Caroline—very real, each in his or her little setting of -conveniences and necessities. He knew them, and was quite indifferent to -knowing them. But Lottie was altogether detached from the atmosphere in -which these good people lived. And he had discovered her suddenly, -making acquaintance with her in a moment—finding her out as an -astronomer, all alone with the crowds of heaven, finds out a new star. -This was how it made so great an impression on him. He had discovered -her, standing quite alone among all the women who knew how to express -and to control their emotions. She was not trained either to one or the -other. The emotion, the enthusiasm in her got the upper hand of her, not -she of them. A man who is only used to men and women in the secondary -stages of well-sustained emotion is apt to be doubly impressed by the -sight of genuine and artless<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5050" id="page_5050">{vol.-II-50}</a></span> passion, of whatever kind it may be. He -went to town thinking not of the prima donna he had found, but of the -woman who had suddenly made heaven and earth real to him, as they were -to her. He posted up to London—that is, he flew thither in the express -train, according to the dictates of his first impulse; but he was so -entirely carried away by this second one, that he had almost forgotten -his primary purpose altogether. “Ah! that is it,” he said to himself -when the prima donna idea once more flashed across his mind. He did not -want to lose sight of this, or to be negligent of anything that would -help to make his fortune.</p> - -<p>Rollo was in the greatest need of having his fortune made. He had -nothing except very expensive habits. He was obliged to spend a great -deal of money in order to live, and he was obliged to live (or so, at -least, he thought); and he had no money at all. Therefore a prima donna -or something else was absolutely necessary. Accordingly he wound himself -up with great energy, and tried to think no more of that other world -which Lottie’s touch had plunged him into. In the meantime, in this -world of theatres, drawing-rooms, and fashionable coteries, where people -are compelled to live, whether they will or not, at an enormous cost in -money, and where accordingly money must be hunted wherever scent of it -can be found, it was necessary that some one, or something, should make -Rollo Ridsdale’s fortune. He rushed to his impre<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5051" id="page_5051">{vol.-II-51}</a></span>sario, and roused a -faint enthusiasm momentarily in the mind of that man of great -undertakings. An English prima donna, a native article, about whom the -English would go wild! Yes! But would they go wild over an English prima -donna? Would not the first step be, ere she was presented to the public -at all, to fit her with an Italian name? Signorina Carlotta -Desparda—that was what she would have to be called. The impresario -shook his head. “And besides, these native articles never turn out what -we are led to expect,” he said. He shook his head; he was sorry, very -sorry, to disappoint his <i>confrère</i>, but——”</p> - -<p>“But—I tell you, you never heard such a voice; the compass of it—the -sweetness of it! <i>simpatica</i> beyond what words can say—fresh as a -lark’s—up to anything you can put before her—and with such power of -expression. We shall be fools, utter fools, if we neglect such a -chance.”</p> - -<p>“You are very warm,” said the manager, rubbing his hands. “She is -pretty, I suppose?”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Rollo; “she is beautiful—and with the carriage of a queen.” -(Poor Lottie, in her white frock; how little she knew that there was -anything queenlike about her!) “Come down and see her. That is all I ask -of you. Come and hear her——”</p> - -<p>“Where may that be?” said the Manager. “I am leaving town on Monday. -Can’t we have her up to your rooms, or somewhere at hand?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5052" id="page_5052">{vol.-II-52}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“My rooms!” said Rollo, thunderstruck. He knew very little about Lottie, -except that she was a poor Chevalier’s daughter; but he felt that he -could have as easily invited one of the Princesses to come and sing in -his rooms, that the representatives of the new opera company might judge -of her gifts. His face grew so long that his colleague laughed.</p> - -<p>“Is she a personage then, Ridsdale? Is she one of your great friends?” -he said.</p> - -<p>“She is one of my—friends; but she is not a great personage,” said -Rollo, gloomily, pulling the little peaked beard which he cultivated, -and thinking that it would be as difficult to get his manager invited to -the Deanery as it would be to bring Lottie to Jermyn Street. These were -difficulties which he had not foreseen. He went over the circumstances -hurriedly, trying to think what he could do. Could he venture to go in -suddenly to the Chevalier’s lodge, as he had done with Lady Caroline’s -credentials in his pocket, but this time without any credentials, and -without further ceremony proceed to test the powers of the girl, who he -knew was not always compliant nor to be reckoned on? What if she should -decline to be tried? What if she had no intention of becoming a singer -at all? What if the Manager should condemn her voice as untrained (which -it was), or even mistake it altogether, mixing it up with the cracked -tones of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5053" id="page_5053">{vol.-II-53}</a></span> old piano, and the jingle of the Abbey bells? He had not -thought of all these difficulties before. He had not taken time to ask -if Lottie would be docile, if Lady Caroline would be complaisant. He -pulled his beard, his face growing longer and longer. At last he said,—</p> - -<p>“I’ll tell you what we can do. We can go to Mrs. O’Shaughnessy——”</p> - -<p>“Who on earth is Mrs. O’Shaughnessy?” said the Manager.</p> - -<p>“But very likely there is no piano there! You see, this is a difficulty -I did not think of. I have heard this lady only in the house of—one of -my relations, a very rigid old person, who hates theatres, and thinks -opera an invention of the devil.” How Rollo dared slander poor Lady -Caroline so, who liked an opera-box as well as any one else, it is -impossible to say.</p> - -<p>“Well—it doesn’t seem to matter much what are the qualities of the -voice if we can’t hear it,” the Manager said carelessly; and he told his -fashionable partner of the singer he had heard of in Milan, who was to -distance all the singers then on the operatic stage. “They are all like -that,” he said—“like this private nightingale of yours, Ridsdale—till -you hear them; and then they turn out to be very much like the rest. To -tell the truth, I am not so very sorry this particular <i>protégée</i> of -yours has broken down; for I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5054" id="page_5054">{vol.-II-54}</a></span> don’t believe the time has come for an -English prima donna, if it ever comes. We’ve got no confidence in -ourselves, so far as art goes—especially musical art. English opera, -sir; there’s many fine pieces, but you’ll never keep it up in England. -It might make a hit, perhaps, in Germany, or even France, but not here. -Your English prima donna would be considered fit for the music halls. -We’d have to dress her up in vowels, and turn her into an Italian. -Contemptible? Oh, yes, it’s contemptible; but, if we’re to make our own -money out of it, we mustn’t trouble ourselves about what’s contemptible. -What we’ve got to do is to please the public. I’m just as glad that this -idea of yours has broken down.”</p> - -<p>“Broken down! I will never allow it has broken down. It is much easier -and pleasanter, of course, to go to Milan than to go to St. Michael’s,” -said Rollo disdainfully. “But never mind; if you don’t start till -Monday, trust me to arrange it somehow. Your new Milanese, of course, -will be like all the rest. She will have been brought up to it. She will -know how to do one thing, and no more; but this is genius—owing nothing -to education and everything to nature. Capable of—I could not say what -such a voice and such a woman is not capable of——”</p> - -<p>“Bravo, Ridsdale!” said his partner. “She is capable of stirring you up -thoroughly, that is clear—and I hope<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5055" id="page_5055">{vol.-II-55}</a></span> she will be kind to you,” he -said, with a big laugh, full of insinuations. The man was vulgar and -fat, but a mountain of energy, and Rollo though disgusted, could not -afford to quarrel with him.</p> - -<p>“You are entirely out in your notion,” he said, with that air of dignity -which is apt to look fictitious in such circumstances. He was not -himself easily shocked, nor would this interpretation of his motives -have appeared to him at all unlikely in the case of another man; -therefore, as was natural, his gravity and look of disgust only -confirmed the suspicions of the other, and amused him the more.</p> - -<p>“Bravo, my boy; go in and win!” he said, chuckling; “promise whatever -you like, if you find it necessary, and trust to me to back you up.”</p> - -<p>To say “I am unable to understand what you mean,” as Rollo did, with -cold displeasure, yet consciousness, did but increase the ecstasy of the -fat Manager over the evident fact that his fastidious friend was “caught -at last.”</p> - -<p>Rollo went away with a great deal of offended dignity, holding himself -stiffly erect, body and soul. He had never been so entirely disgusted, -revolted, by the coarse character of the ideas and insinuations, which -in themselves were not particularly novel, he was aware. It was because -everything grew coarse under the touch of such a fellow as this, he said -to himself; and it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5056" id="page_5056">{vol.-II-56}</a></span> must be allowed that vice, stripped of all sentiment -and adornment, was a disgusting spectacle. Rollo had never been a -vicious man. He had taken it calmly in others, acknowledging that, if -they liked it, he had no right to interfere; but he had not cared for it -much himself—he was not a man of passions. A dilettante generally does -avoid these coarser snares of humanity; and there had always been a -sense of nausea in his mind when he was brought in contact with the -vicious. But this nausea had been more physical than spiritual. It was -not virtue but temperament which produced it; his own temptations were -not in this kind. Nevertheless, he knew that to show any exaggerated -feeling on the subject would only expose him to laughter, and he was not -courageous enough either to blame warmly in others, or to decry -strenuously in himself, the existence of unlawful bonds. What did it -matter to anybody if he were virtuous? his neighbours were not on that -account to be baulked of their cakes and ale; his disinclination towards -sins of the grosser kind was not a thing he was proud of—it was a -constitutional peculiarity, like inability to ascend heights or to go to -sea without suffering. He was not at all sure that it was not a sign of -weakness—a thing to be kept out of sight. Accordingly he took his part -in the social gossip, which has no warmer interest than this, like -everybody else, never pretended to any superiority, and took it for -granted that now and then everybody<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5057" id="page_5057">{vol.-II-57}</a></span> “went wrong.” He would have been a -monster if he had done anything else. Why, even his good aunt -Caroline—the best and stupidest of women, to whom, if she had desired -it, no opportunity of going wrong had ever presented itself—liked to -hear these stories and believed them implicitly, and was convinced that -not to go wrong was quite exceptional. Rollo was not the man to -emancipate himself from such a complete and universal understanding. He -allowed it calmly, and did not pretend either to disapprove or to doubt. -Probably he had himself coldly, and as a matter of course, “gone wrong” -too in his day, and certainly he had never given himself out as at all -better than his neighbours. Was it only the coarseness of his vulgar -associate which made the suggestion so deeply disgusting to him now?</p> - -<p>He asked himself this question as, disappointed and annoyed, he left the -Manager’s ostentatious rooms; and a new sense of unkindness, -ungenerosity, unmanliness in having exposed a harmless person, a woman -whose reputation should be sacred, to such animadversions, suddenly came -into his mind, he could not tell how. This view of the matter had never -occurred to Rollo before. The women he had heard discussed—and he had -heard almost everybody discussed, from the highest to the lowest—had -nothing sacred about them to the laughing gossips who discussed all they -had done, or might have done, or might be going to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5058" id="page_5058">{vol.-II-58}</a></span> do. This, too, was a -new idea to him. Who was there whom he had not heard spoken of? ladies a -thousand times more important than Miss Despard, the poor Chevalier’s -daughter at St. Michael’s—and nobody had seemed to think there was any -harm in it. A man’s duty not to let a woman be lightly spoken of? Pooh! -What an exaggerated sentimental piece of nonsense! Why should not women -take their chance, like any one else? Rollo was like most other persons -when in a mental difficulty of this kind. He was not so much discussing -with himself as he was the arena of a discussion which unseen arguers -were holding within him. While one of these uttered this Pooh! another -replied, with a heat and fervour altogether unknown to the clubs, What -had Lottie Despard done to subject herself to these suggestions? she who -knew nothing about society and its evil thoughts—she who had it in her -to be uplifted and transported by the music at which these other people, -at the best, would clap their hands and applaud. The argument in Rollo’s -mind went all against himself and his class. He hated not only his -manager-partner, whom it was perfectly right and natural to hate, but -himself and all the rest of his kind. He was so much disgusted, that he -almost made up his mind to let fortune and the English prima donna go -together, and to take no further step to make the girl known to those -who were so incapable of appreciating her. But when he came that -length,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5059" id="page_5059">{vol.-II-59}</a></span> Rollo had reached the end of his tether, struck against the -uttermost limits of his horizon—and thus was brought back suddenly to -the question how he was best to make his prize known?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5060" id="page_5060">{vol.-II-60}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">AN UNCONSCIOUS TRIAL.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> turned out, however, that Rollo could not accomplish the object, -which he had aimed at with so much eagerness and hope, in the only -legitimate way. He could not get his Manager invited to the Deanery. “I -don’t think your aunt would like it; I don’t think I could sanction it,” -the Dean said, whom he met at his club. Unfortunately the Dean had -somewhere encountered the partner by whose aid Rollo expected to make -his fortune, and he made it the subject of a little discourse, which -Rollo received with impatience. “I would have nothing to do with him if -I were you,” his Reverence said; “he is not a kind of man to be any -credit to his associates. You can’t touch pitch without being defiled. I -would not have anything to say to him if I were you.”</p> - -<p>“Nor should I, uncle, if I were you,” said Rollo, with a rueful smile. -He was not aware that this was not original; he was not thinking, -indeed, of originality, but of the emergency, which he felt was very -difficult to deal with.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5061" id="page_5061">{vol.-II-61}</a></span></p> -<p>“Nonsense!” said the Dean; “don’t tell me there are not a great many -better occupations going than that of managing a theatre——”</p> - -<p>“Opera—opera. Give us our due at least——”</p> - -<p>“What difference is there?” said the Dean sternly. “The opera has ruined -just as many men as the theatre. Talk of making your fortune? Did you -ever hear of the lessee of a theatre making a fortune? Plenty have been -ruined by it, and never one made rich that I ever heard of. Why can’t -you go into diplomacy or to a public office, or get your Uncle Urban to -give you something? You ought not to have anything to do with such a -venture as this.”</p> - -<p>“My dear uncle,” said Rollo, “you know well enough how many things I -have tried. Uncles are very kind (as in your case), but they can’t take -all their relations upon their shoulders; and you knew this was what I -was doing, and Aunt Caroline knew——”</p> - -<p>“Ah! yes; I recollect that was what all the singing was about; but she -could not stand that Manager fellow. I could not stand him myself; as -for your aunt, you could not expect it. She is very good-natured, but -you could not ask her to go so far as that.”</p> - -<p>“He is a man who goes everywhere,” said Rollo; “he is a man who can -behave himself perfectly well wherever he is.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, bless you, she would see through him at a glance!” cried the Dean. -“I don’t mean to say your<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5062" id="page_5062">{vol.-II-62}</a></span> aunt is clever, Rollo, but instinct goes a -long way. She would see through him. Miss Despard was quite different; -she was perfectly <i>comme il faut</i>. Girls are wonderful sometimes in that -way. Though they may have no advantages, they seem to pick up and look -just as good as any one: whereas a man like that—— By the way, I am -very sorry for the poor thing. They say her father, a disreputable sort -of gay man who never should have got the appointment, is going to marry -some low woman. It will be hard upon the girl.”</p> - -<p>What an opportunity was this of seizing hold upon her—of overcoming any -objection that might arise! Rollo felt himself Lottie’s best friend as -he heard of this complication. While she might help to make his fortune -he could make her independent, above the power of any disreputable -father or undesirable home. He could not bear to think that such a girl -should be lost in conditions so wretched, and, though the Dean was -obdurate, he did not lose hope. But between Thursday and Monday is not a -very long time for such negotiations, and the Manager was entirely -preoccupied by his Milanese, whom another impresario was said to be on -the track of, and in whom various connoisseurs were interested. It is -impossible to describe the scorn and incredulity with which Rollo -himself heard his partner’s account of this new singer. He put not the -slightest faith in her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5063" id="page_5063">{vol.-II-63}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I know how she will turn out,” he said. “She will shriek like a -peacock; she will have to be taught her own language; she will be -coached up for one <i>rôle</i> and good for nothing else; and she will smell -of garlic enough to kill you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, garlic will never kill me!” said the vulgar partner who gave Rollo -so much trouble.</p> - -<p>In the meantime he wrote to the Signor to see what could be done, and -begged with the utmost urgency that he would arrange something. “Perhaps -the old Irishwoman next door would receive us,” Rollo said, “even if she -has got no piano. Try, my dear Rossinetti, I implore you; try your -best.” The Signor was very willing to serve the Dean’s nephew; but he -was at the moment very much put out by Lottie’s reception of young -Purcell, as much as if it had been himself that had been refused.</p> - -<p>“Who is Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, and how am I to communicate with her?” he -cried; and he did not throw himself into the work with any zeal. All -that he would do at last, moved by Rollo’s repeated letters, was to bid -him bring his friend down to the service on Sunday afternoon, when he -would see Lottie at least, and hear something of her voice. The Manager -grinned at this invitation. He was not an enthusiast for Handel, and -shrugged his shoulders at sacred music generally as much out of his -line; but he ended, having no better engagement on hand, by consenting -to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5064" id="page_5064">{vol.-II-64}</a></span> go. It was the end of the season; the opera was over, and all its -fashionable patrons dispersed; and St. Michael’s was something to talk -of at least. So the two connoisseurs arrived on a warm afternoon of -early August, when the grey pinnacles of the Abbey blazed white in -excessive sunshine, and the river showed like glowing metal here and -there through the broad valley, too brilliant to give much refreshment -to the eyes.</p> - -<p>As it happened, it was a chance whether Lottie would attend the service -that afternoon at all. She was sorry for poor Purcell, and embarrassed -to face the congregation in the Abbey, some of whom at least must know -the story. She was certain the Signor knew it, from the glance he had -thrown at her; and Mrs. Purcell, she felt sure, would gloom at her from -the free seats, and the hero himself look wistful and reproachful from -the organ-loft. She had very nearly made up her mind not to go. Would it -not be better to go out on the slopes, and sit down under a tree, and -hear the music softly pealing at a distance, and get a little rest out -of her many troubles? Lottie had almost decided upon this, when -suddenly, by a caprice, she changed her mind and went. Everything came -true as she had divined. Mrs. Purcell fixed her eyes upon her from the -moment she sat down in her place, with a gloomy interest which sadly -disconcerted Lottie; and so did old Pick, who sat by his fellow servant -and chuckled over the conclusion of Mr. John’s romance;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5065" id="page_5065">{vol.-II-65}</a></span> while once at -least Lottie caught the pale dulness of the Signor’s face looking -disapproval, and at every spare moment the silent appeal of Purcell’s -eyes looking down from over the railing of the organ-loft. Lottie’s -heart revolted a little in resistance to all these pitiful and -disapproving looks. Why should they insist upon it? If she could not -accept young Purcell, what was it to the Signor and old Pick?—though -his mother might be forgiven if she felt the disappointment of her boy. -The girl shrank a little from all those glances, and gave herself up -altogether to her devotions. Was it to her devotions? There was the -Captain chanting all the responses within hearing, cheerful and -self-confident, as if the Abbey belonged to him; and there, too, was -Law, exchanging glances of a totally different description with the -people in the free seats. It was to two fair-haired girls whom Lottie -had seen before—who were, indeed, constant in their attendance on the -Sunday afternoon—that Law was signalling; and they, on their part, -tittered and whispered, and looked at the Captain in his stall, and at -another woman in a veil whom Lottie did not make out. This was enough to -distract her from the prayers, to which, however, if only to escape from -the confusion of her own thoughts, she did her very best to give full -attention. But—— She put up her prayer-book in front of her face, and -hid herself at least from all the crowd, so full each of his and her own -concerns. She was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5066" id="page_5066">{vol.-II-66}</a></span> silent during the responses, hearing nothing but her -father’s voice with its tone of proprietorship, and only allowed herself -to sing when the Captain’s baritone was necessarily silent. Lottie’s -voice had become known to the people who sat near her. They looked for -her as much as they looked for little Rowley himself, who was the first -soprano; but to-day they did not get much from Lottie. Now and then she -forgot herself, as in the “Magnificat,” when she burst forth suddenly -unawares, almost taking it out of the hands of the boys; but while she -was singing Lottie came to herself almost as suddenly, and stopped -short, with a quaver and shake in her voice as if the thread of sound -had been suddenly broken. Raising her eyes in the midst of the canticle, -she had seen Rollo Ridsdale within a few places of her, holding his book -before him very decorously, yet looking from her to a large man by his -side with unmistakable meaning. The surprise of seeing him whom she -believed to be far away, the agitation it gave her to perceive that she -herself was still the chief point of interest to him, and the sudden -recalling thus of her consciousness, gave her a shock which extinguished -her voice altogether. There was a thrill in the music as if a string had -broken; and then the hymn went on more feebly, diminished in sweetness -and volume, while she stood trembling, holding herself up with an -effort. He had come back again, and again his thoughts were full of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5067" id="page_5067">{vol.-II-67}</a></span> -her, his whole attention turned to her. An instantaneous change took -place in Lottie’s mind. Instead of the jumble of annoyances and -vexations that had been around her—the reproachful looks on one side, -the family discordance on the other—her father and Law both jarring -with all that Lottie wished and thought right—a flood of celestial calm -poured into her soul. She was no longer angry with the two fair-haired -girls who tittered and whispered through the service, looking up to Law -with a hundred telegraphic communications. She was scarcely annoyed when -her father’s voice pealed forth again in pretentious incorrectness. She -did not mind what was happening around her. The sunshine that came in -among the pinnacles and fretwork above in a golden mist, lighting up -every detail, yet confusing them in a dazzle and glory which common eyes -could not bear, made just such an effect on the canopies of the stalls -as Rollo’s appearance made on Lottie’s mind. She was all in a dazzle and -mist of sudden calm and happiness which seemed to make everything -bright, yet blurred everything in its soft, delicious glow.</p> - -<p>“Don’t think much of her,” said the Manager, as they came out. The two -were going back again at once to town, but Rollo’s partner had supposed -that at least they would first pay a visit to the Deanery. He was a man -who counted duchesses on his roll of acquaintances, but he liked to add -a Lady Caroline<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5068" id="page_5068">{vol.-II-68}</a></span> whenever the opportunity occurred, and deans, too, had -their charm. He was offended when he saw that Rollo had no such -intention, and at once divined that he was not considered a proper -person to be introduced to the heads of such a community. This increased -his determination not to yield to his partner in this fancy of his, -which, indeed, he had always considered presumptuous, finding voices -being his own share of the work—a thing much too important to be -trusted to an amateur. “The boy has a sweet little pipe of his own; but -as for your <i>prima donna</i>, Ridsdale, if you think that sort of thing -would pay with us—— No, no! my good fellow; she’s a deuced handsome -girl, and I wish you joy; I don’t wonder that she should have turned -your head; but for our new house, not if I know it, my boy. A very nice -voice for an amateur, but that sort of thing does not do with the -public.”</p> - -<p>“You scarcely heard her at all; and the few notes she did sing were so -mixed up with those scrubby little boys——”</p> - -<p>“Oh! I heard her, and I don’t care to hear her again—unless it were in -a drawing-room. Why, there’s Rossinetti,” said the <i>impresario</i>; “he’ll -tell you just the same as I do. Do you know what we’re down here for, -Rossinetti, eh? Deluded by Ridsdale to come and hear some miraculous -voice; and it turns out to be only a charming young lady who has -bewitched<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5069" id="page_5069">{vol.-II-69}</a></span> him, as happens to the best of us. Pretty voice for a -drawing-room, nice amateur quality; but for the profession—— I tell him -you must know that as well as I.”</p> - -<p>“Come into my place and rest a little; there is no train just yet,” -said the Signor. He had left Purcell to play the voluntary, and led -the strangers through the nave, which was still crowded with people -listening to the great strains of the organ. “Come out this way” he -said; “I don’t want to be seen. Purcell plays quite as well as I -do; but if they see me they will stream off, and hurt his feelings. -Poor boy! he has had enough to vex him already.”</p> - -<p>These words were on his lips when, coming out by a private door, the -three connoisseurs suddenly came upon Lottie, who was walking home with -Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. The Signor, who was noted for a womanish heat of -partisanship and had not forgiven her for the disappointment of his -pupil, darted a violent glance at her as he took off his hat. It might -have been himself that she had rejected, so full of offence was his -look; and this fixed the attention of the big Manager, who took off his -hat too, with a smile of secret amusement, and watched the scene, making -a private memorandum to the effect that Rossinetti evidently had been -hit also; and no wonder! a handsome girl as you could see in a summer -day, with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5070" id="page_5070">{vol.-II-70}</a></span> voice that was a very nice voice, a really superior voice -for an amateur.</p> - -<p>As for Rollo, he hastened up to Mrs. O’Shaughnessy with fervour, and -held out his hand; and how happy and how proud was that kind woman! She -curtseyed as she took his hand as if he had been the Prince of Wales, -nearly pulling him down, too, ere she recovered herself; and her -countenance shone, partly with the heat, partly with the delight.</p> - -<p>“And I hope I see <i>you</i> well, sir,” she said; “and glad to see you back -in St. Michael’s. There’s nothing like young people for keeping a place -cheerful. Though we don’t go into society, me and me Major, yet it’s a -pleasure to see the likes of you about.”</p> - -<p>Rollo had time to turn to Lottie with very eloquent looks while this -speech was being addressed to him. “I am only here for half an hour,” he -said; “I could not resist the temptation of coming for the service.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! me dear sir, you wouldn’t care so much for the sarvice if ye had as -much of it as we have,” said Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, going on well pleased. -She liked to hear herself talking, and she had likewise a quick -perception of the fact that, while she talked, communications of a -different kind might go on between “the young folks.” “Between -ourselves, it’s not me that they’ll get to stop for their playing,” she -said, all the more distinctly that the Signor was within hearing. “I’d -go five miles to hear a good band. The music<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5071" id="page_5071">{vol.-II-71}</a></span> was beautiful in the -regiment when O’Shaughnessy was adjutant. And for me own part, Mr. -Ridsdale, I’d not give the drums and the fifes for the most elegant -music you could play. I don’t say that I’m a judge, but I know what I -like.”</p> - -<p>“Why did you stop so soon?” Rollo said, aside. “Ah! Miss Despard, was it -not cruel?—A good band is an excellent thing, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. I -shall try to get my uncle to have the band from the depôt to play once a -week, next time I come here.—Thanks all the same for those few notes; I -shall live upon them,” he added fervently, “till I have the chance of -hearing you again.”</p> - -<p>Lottie made no reply. It was unnecessary with Mrs. O’Shaughnessy there, -and talking all the time. And, indeed, what had she to say? The words -spread themselves like a balm into every corner of her heart. He would -not have gone so far, nor spoken so warmly, if it had not been for the -brutal indifference of the big Manager, who stood looking on at a -distance, with an air of understanding a great deal more than there was -to understand. The malicious knowingness in this man’s eyes made Rollo -doubly anxious in his civilities; and then he felt it necessary to make -up to Lottie for the other’s blasphemy in respect to her voice, though -of this Lottie knew nothing at all.</p> - -<p>“I shall not even have time to see my aunt,” he said; “how fortunate -that I have had this opportunity<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5072" id="page_5072">{vol.-II-72}</a></span> of a word with you! I did not know -whether I might take the liberty to call.”</p> - -<p>“And welcome, Mr. Ridsdale,” said Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. “Lottie’s but a -child, so to speak; but I and the Major would be proud to see you. And -of an afternoon we’re always at home, and, though I say it as shouldn’t, -as good a cup of tea to offer ye as ye’d get from me Lady Caroline -herself. It’s ready now, if you’ll accept the refreshment, you and—your -friend.”</p> - -<p>“A thousand thanks, but we must not stay. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, if you see -my aunt will you explain how it was I could not come to see her? And be -sure you tell her you met me at the Abbey door, or she will not like it. -Miss Despard, Augusta is coming home, and I hope to be at the Deanery -next month. <i>Then</i> I trust you will be more generous, and not stop -singing as soon as you see me. What had I done?” he cried in his -appealing voice. “Yes, Rossinetti, I’m coming.—Not Good-bye, Mrs. -O’Shaughnessy; only, as the French say, Till we meet again.”</p> - -<p>“And I hope that will not be long,” said the good woman, delighted. She -swept along the Dean’s Walk, letting her dress trail after her and -holding her head high; she was too much excited to think of holding up -her skirts. “Did ye hear him, Lottie, me honey? ‘If you see my aunt,’ -says he. Lord bless the man! as if me Lady Caroline was in the way of -looking in and taking a cup of tea! Sure, I’d make her welcome, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5073" id="page_5073">{vol.-II-73}</a></span> -more sense than shutting herself up in that old house, and never -stirring, no, not to save her life. ‘If ye see my aunt,’ says he. Oh, -yes! me darlint, I’ll see her, shut up in her state, and looking as -if—— He’ll find the difference when he comes to the Deanery, as he -says. Not for you, Lottie, me dear; you’re one of themselves, so to -speak. But it’s not much thanks me Lady Caroline will give him for -sending her a message by Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. I thought I’d burst out in -his face, ‘Tell her ye met me by the Abbey door.’ That’s to save me -lady’s feelings, Lottie. But I’ll do his bidding next time I see her; -I’ll make no bones of it, I’ll up and give her my message. Lord! just to -see how me lady would take it. See if I don’t now. For him, he’s a -jewel, take me word for it, Lottie; and ye’ll be a silly girl, me honey, -if you let a gentleman like Mr. Ridsdale slip through your fingers. A -real gentleman—ye can see as much by his manners. If I’d been a -duchess, Lottie, me dear, what more could he say?”</p> - -<p>Lottie made no reply to this speech, any more than to the words Rollo -himself had addressed to her. Her mind was all in a confused maze of -happy thoughts and anticipations. His looks, his words, were all turned -to the same delicious meaning; and he was coming back to the Deanery, -when she was to be “more generous” to him. No compliment could have been -so penetrating as that soft reproach. Lottie had no<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5074" id="page_5074">{vol.-II-74}</a></span> words to spend upon -her old friend, who, for her part, was sufficiently exhilarated to -require no answer. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy rang the changes upon this subject -all the way to the Lodges. “<span class="lftspc">‘</span>When you see my aunt,’ says he.” The idea -that she was in the habit of visiting Lady Caroline familiarly not only -amused but flattered her, though it was difficult enough to understand -how this latter effect could come about.</p> - -<p>Rollo was himself moved more than he could have imagined possible by -this encounter. He said nothing as he followed his companions to the -Signor’s house, and did not even remark what they were saying, so -occupied was he in going over again the trivial events of the last few -minutes. As he did so, it occurred to him for the first time that Lottie -had not so much as spoken to him all the time; not a word had she said, -though he had found no deficiency in her. It was evident, then, that -there might be a meeting which should fill a man’s mind with much -pleasant excitement and commotion, and leave on his thoughts a very -delightful impression, without one word said by the lady. This idea -amused him in the pleasant agitation of his being to which the encounter -at the church door had given rise. He forgot what he had come for, and -the rudeness of his partner, and the refusal of that personage to think -at all of Lottie. He did not want any further discussion of this -question; he had forgotten, even, that it could require to be -discussed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5075" id="page_5075">{vol.-II-75}</a></span> Somehow all at once, yet completely, Lottie had changed -character to him; he did not want to talk her over with anyone, and he -forgot altogether the subject upon which the conversation must -necessarily turn when he followed the Signor and his big companion -through the groups of people who began to emerge from the Abbey. There -were a great many who stared at Rollo, knowing who he was, but none who -roused him from his preoccupation. Fortunately the Dean had a cold and -was not visible, and Lady Caroline did not profess to go to church in -the afternoon—“It was too soon after lunch, and there were so many -people, and one never felt that one had the Abbey to one’s self,” her -ladyship said.</p> - -<p>The Manager went off to Italy the next day, after his Milanese, without -being at all restrained by Rollo, who was glad to get rid of him, and to -have no more said about the English <i>prima donna</i>. He did not quite like -it even, so perverse was he, when the Signor, sitting out upon his -terrace, defended her against the <i>impresario’s</i> hasty verdict: “She has -a beautiful voice, so far as that goes,” the Signor said, with the -gravity of a judge; “you are mistaken if you do not admire her voice; we -have had occasion to hear it, and we know what it is, so far as that -goes.”</p> - -<p>“You dog!” said the jovial Manager, with a large fat laugh. “I see -something else if I don’t see that. Ah, Rossinetti! hit too?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5076" id="page_5076">{vol.-II-76}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Do you happen to know what he means?” said the Signor with profound -gravity, turning his fine eyes upon Ridsdale. “Ah! it is a pleasantry, I -suppose. I have not the same appreciation of humour that I might have -had, had I been born an Englishman,” he said, with a seriousness that -was portentous, without relaxing a muscle.</p> - -<p>Rollo, who was not aware of the vehement interest with which the Signor -espoused Purcell’s cause, felt the Manager’s suspicions echo through his -own mind. He knew how entirely disinclined he felt to enter upon this -question. Was his companion right, and had the Signor been hit too? It -seemed to Rollo that the wonder was how anyone could avoid that -catastrophe. The Manager made very merry, as they went back to town, -upon Lottie’s voice and the character of the admiration which it had -excited; but all this Rollo received with as much solemnity of aspect as -characterised the Signor.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5077" id="page_5077">{vol.-II-77}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">SEARCHINGS OF HEART.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was not to be supposed that the visit of Rollo and his companion -should pass unnoticed in so small a community as that of St. Michael’s, -where everybody knew him, and in which he had all the importance -naturally belonging to a member, so to speak, of the reigning family. -Everybody noticed his appearance in the Abbey, and it soon became a -matter of general talk that he was not at the Deanery, but had come down -from town expressly for the service, returning by as early a train -afterwards as the Sunday regulations of the railway allowed. What did he -come for? Not to see his relations, which would have been a -comprehensible reason for so brief a visit. He had been seen talking to -somebody at the north door, and he had been seen following the Signor, -in company with a large and brilliant person who wore more rings and -studs and <i>breloques</i> than had ever been seen at St. Michael’s. Finally, -this remarkable stranger, who was evidently a friend of the Signor as -well as of Rollo, had been visible on the little green terrace outside -Rossinetti’s sitting-room, smoking cigarettes and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5078" id="page_5078">{vol.-II-78}</a></span> drinking claret-cup, -and tilting up his chair upon two legs in a manner which suggested a -tea-garden, critics said, more than a studious nook sheltered among the -buttresses of the Abbey. Public opinion was instinctively unfavourable -to Rollo’s companion; but what was the young prince, Lady Caroline’s -nephew, doing there? Then the question arose, who was it to whom Rollo -had been talking at the north door? All the Canons and their wives, and -the ladies in the Lodges, and even the townspeople, when the story -reached them, cried out “Impossible!” when they were told that it was -Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. But that lady had no intention of concealing the -honour done her. She published it, so to speak, on the housetops. She -neglected no occasion of making her friends acquainted with all the -particulars of the interview. “And who should it have been but me?” she -said. “Is there e’er another one at St. Michael’s that knows as much of -his family? Who was it but an uncle of his, or maybe it might be a -cousin, that was in the regiment with us and O’Shaughnessy’s greatest -friend? Many’s the good turn the Major’s done him; and, say the worst -you can o’ the Ridsdales, it’s not ungrateful they are. It’s women that -are little in their ways. What does a real gentleman care for our little -quarrels and the visiting list at the Deanery? ‘When ye see me aunt,’ -says he, ‘Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, ye’ll tell her——’ Sure he took it for -certain that me Lady Caroline was a good neighbour,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5079" id="page_5079">{vol.-II-79}</a></span> and would step in -of an afternoon for her bit of talk and her cup o’ tea. ‘You’ll tell -her,’ says he, ‘that I hadn’t time to go and see her.’ And, please God, -I will do it when I’ve got the chance. If her ladyship forgets her -manners, it shall ne’er be said that O’Shaughnessy’s wife was wanting in -good breeding to a family the Major had such close connections with.”</p> - -<p>“But do you really know—Mr. Ridsdale’s family?” said Lottie, after one -of these brilliant addresses, somewhat bewildered by her recollection of -what had passed. “And, sure, didn’t you hear me say so? Is it doubting -me word you are?” said Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, with a twinkle in her eye. -Lottie was bewildered—but it did not matter much. At this moment -nothing seemed to matter very much. She had been dull, and she had been -troubled by many things before the wonderful moment in which she had -discovered Rollo close to her in the Abbey—much troubled, foreseeing -with dismay the closing in around her of a network of new associations -in which there could be nothing but pain and shame, and dull with a -heavy depression of dulness which no ray of light in the present, no -expectation in the future, seemed to brighten. Purcell’s hand held out -to her, tenderly, yet half in pity, had been the only personal -encouragement she had; and that had humbled her to the dust, even though -she struggled with herself to do him justice. Her heart had been as -heavy as lead. There had seemed to her nothing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5080" id="page_5080">{vol.-II-80}</a></span> that was hopeful, -nothing that was happy before her. Now all the heaviness had flown away. -Why? Why, for no reason at all, because this young man, whom she -supposed (without any warrant for the foolish idea) to love her, had -come back for an hour or two; because he was coming back on a visit. The -visit was not to her, nor had she probable share in the enjoyments to be -provided for Lady Caroline’s nephew; and Lottie did not love him to make -his very presence a delight to her. She did not love him—yet. This was -the unexpressed feeling in her mind; but when a girl has got so far as -this it may be supposed that the visit of the lover whom she does not -love—yet, must fill her with a thousand delightful tremors. How could -she doubt his sentiments? What was it that brought him back and back -again to St. Michael’s? And to be led along that flowery way to the -bower of bliss at the end of it, to be persuaded into love by all the -flatteries and worship of a lover so delicately impassioned—could a -girl’s imagination conceive anything more exquisite?—No, she was not in -love—yet—— But there was no reason why she should not be, except the -soft maidenly reluctance, the shy retreat before one who kept advancing, -the instinct of coy resistance to an inevitable delight.</p> - -<p>Into this delicate world of happiness, in which there was nothing real, -but all imagination, Lottie was delivered over that bright Sunday. She -had no defence<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5081" id="page_5081">{vol.-II-81}</a></span> against it, and she did not wish to have any. She gave -herself up to the dream. After that interval of heaviness, of darkness, -when there was no pleasant delusion to support her, and life, with all -its difficulties and dangers, became so real, confronting her at every -point, what an escape it was for Lottie to find herself again under the -dreamy skies of that fool’s paradise! It was the Garden of Eden to her. -She thought it was the true world, and the other the false one. The -vague terror and disgust with which her father’s new plans filled her -mind floated away like a mist; and, as for Law, what so easy as to carry -him with her into the better world where she was going? Her mind in a -moment was lightened of its load. She had left home heavily; she went -back scarcely able to keep from singing in the excess of her -light-heartedness, more lifted above earth than if any positive good had -come to her. So long as the good is coming, and exists in the -imagination only, how much more entrancing is it than anything real that -ever can be ours!</p> - -<p>The same event, however, which had so much effect upon Lottie acted upon -her family too in a manner for which she was far from being prepared. -Captain Despard came in as much elated visibly as she was in her heart. -There had been but little intercourse among them since the evening when -the Captain had made those inquiries about Rollo, which Lottie resented -so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5082" id="page_5082">{vol.-II-82}</a></span> deeply. The storm had blown over, and she had nominally forgiven Law -for going over to the enemy’s side; but Lottie’s heart had been shut -even against her brother since that night. He had forsaken her, and she -had not been able to pass over his desertion of her cause. However, her -heart had softened with her happiness, and she made his tea for him now -more genially than she had done for weeks before. They seated themselves -round the table with, perhaps, less constraint than usual—a result due -to the smiling aspect of the Captain as well as to the softened -sentiment in Lottie’s heart. Once upon a time a family tea was a -favourite feature in English literature, from Cowper down to Dickens, -not to speak of the more exclusively domestic fiction of which it is the -chosen banquet. A great deal has been said of this nondescript (and -indigestible) meal. But perhaps there must be a drawing of the curtains, -a wheeling-in of the sofa, a suggestion of warmth and comfort in -contradistinction to storms and chills outside, as in the Opium-eater’s -picture of his cottage, to carry out the ideal—circumstances altogether -wanting to the tea of the Despards, which was <i>eaten</i> (<i>passez-moi le -mot</i>, for is it not the bread-and-butter that makes the meal?) in the -warmest hour of an August afternoon. The window, indeed, was open, and -the Dean’s Walk, by which the townspeople were coming and going in -considerable numbers, as they always did on Sunday, was visible<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5083" id="page_5083">{vol.-II-83}</a></span> with -its gay groups, and the prospect outside was more agreeable than the -meal within. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, next door, had loosed her cap-strings, -and fanned herself at intervals as she sipped her tea. “It’s hot, but -sure it cools you after,” she was saying to her Major. The Despards, -however, were not fat, and did not show the heat like their neighbours. -Law sat at the table and pegged away resolutely at his bread-and-butter, -having nothing to take his mind off his food, and no very exciting -prospect of supper to sustain him. But the Captain took his tea -daintily, as one who had heard of a roast fowl and sausages to be ready -by nine o’clock, and was, therefore, more or less indifferent to the -bread-and-butter. He patted Lottie on the shoulder as she gave him his -tea.</p> - -<p>“My child,” he said, “I was wrong the other day. It is not every man -that would own it so frankly; but I have always been a candid man, -though it has damaged me often. When I am in the wrong I am bound to -confess it. Take my hand, Lottie, my love. I made a mistake.”</p> - -<p>Lottie looked at him surprised. He had taken her hand and held it, -shaking it, half-playfully, in his own.</p> - -<p>“My love,” he said, “you are not so candid as your poor father. You will -get on all the better in the world. I withdraw everything I said, -Lottie. All is going well; all is for the best. I make no doubt you can -manage your own affairs a great deal better than I.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5084" id="page_5084">{vol.-II-84}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“What is it you mean, papa?”</p> - -<p>“We will say no more, my child. I give you free command over yourself. -That was a fine anthem this afternoon, and I have no doubt those were -well repaid who came from a distance to hear it. Don’t you think so, -Lottie? Many people come from a great distance to hear the service in -the Abbey, and no doubt the Signor made it known that there was to be -such a good anthem to-day.”</p> - -<p>Lottie did not make any reply. She looked at him with mingled wonder and -impatience. What did he mean? It had not occurred to her to connect -Rollo with the anthem, but she perceived by the look on her father’s -face that something which would be displeasing to her was in his mind.</p> - -<p>“What’s the row?” said Law. “Who was there? I thought it was always the -same old lot.”</p> - -<p>“And so it is generally the same old lot. <i>We</i> don’t vary; but when -pretty girls like Lottie say their prayers regularly heaven sends -somebody to hear them. Oh, yes; there is always somebody sent to hear -them. But you are quite right to allow nothing to be said about it, my -child,” said the Captain. “Not a word, on the honour of a gentleman. -Your feelings shall be respected. But it may be a comfort to you, my -love, to feel that whatever happens your father is behind you, -Lottie—knows and approves. My dear, I say no more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5085" id="page_5085">{vol.-II-85}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“By Jove! What is it?” cried Law.</p> - -<p>“It is nothing to you,” said his father. “But look here, Law. See that -you don’t go out all over the place and leave your sister by herself, -without anyone to take care of her. My engagements I can’t always give -up, but don’t let me hear that there’s nobody to walk across the road -with Lottie when she’s asked out.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, that’s it, is it?” said Law. “I thought they’d had enough of you at -the Deanery, Lottie. That’s going to begin again, then, I suppose?”</p> - -<p>“I am not invited to the Deanery,” said Lottie, with as much state and -solemnity as she could summon up, though she trembled; “neither is it -going to begin again. There is no occasion for troubling Law or you -either. I always have taken care of myself hitherto, and I suppose I -shall do it till the end.”</p> - -<p>“You need not get on your high horse, my child,” said Captain Despard, -blandly. “Don’t suppose that I will interfere; but it will be a -consolation to you to remember that your father is watching over you, -and that his heart goes with you,” he added, with an unctuous roll in -his voice. He laid his hand for a moment on her head, and said, “Bless -you, my love,” before he turned away. The Captain’s emotion was great; -it almost brought the tears to his manly eyes.</p> - -<p>“What <i>is</i> the row?” said Law, when his father had gone. Law’s attention -had been fully occupied during<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5086" id="page_5086">{vol.-II-86}</a></span> the service with his own affairs, and he -did not know of the reappearance of Rollo. “One would think he was going -to cry over you, Lottie. What have you done? Engagements! he has always -got some engagement or other. I never knew a fellow with such a lot of -friends—I shouldn’t wonder if he was going to sup somewhere to-night. I -wonder what they can see in him,” said Law, with a sigh.</p> - -<p>“Law, are you going out too?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I suppose so; there is nothing to do in the house. What do you -suppose a fellow can do? Reading is slow work; and, besides, it’s -Sunday, and it’s wrong to work on Sunday. I shall go out and look round -a bit, and see if I can see anyone I know.”</p> - -<p>“Do you ever think, I wonder,” said Lottie—“papa and you—that if it is -so dull for you in the house, it must sometimes be a little dull for -me?”</p> - -<p>She was not in the habit of making such appeals, but to-night there was -courage and a sense of emancipation in her which made her strong.</p> - -<p>“You? Oh, well, I don’t know—you are a girl,” said Law, “and girls are -used to it. I don’t know what you would do if you wanted to have a -little fun, eh? I dare say you don’t know yourself. Yes, I shouldn’t -wonder if it was dull; but what can anyone do? It’s nature, I suppose,” -said Law. “There isn’t any fun for girls, as there is for us. Well, is -there? How should I know?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5087" id="page_5087">{vol.-II-87}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>But there was “fun” for Emma and her sisters of the workroom, Law -reminded himself with a compunction. “I’ll tell you what, Lottie,” he -said hastily; “you must just do as other girls do. You must get some one -to walk with you, and talk, and all that, you know. There’s nothing else -to be done; and you might have plenty. There’s that singing fellow, that -young Purcell; they say he’s in love with you. Well, he’s better than -nobody; and you could give him the sack as soon as you saw somebody you -liked better. I thought at one time that Ridsdale——”</p> - -<p>“I think, Law,” said Lottie, “you had better go out for your walk.”</p> - -<p>He laughed. He was half-pleased to have roused and vexed her, yet -half-sorry too. Poor Lottie! Now that she was abandoned by her grand -admirer and all her fine friends, it must be dull for her, staying in -the house by herself; but then what could he do, or anyone? It was -nature. Nature, perhaps, might be to blame for not providing “fun” for -girls, but it was not for Law to set nature right. When he had got his -hat, however, and brushed his hair before going out, he came back and -looked at Lottie with a compunction. He could not give up meeting Emma -in order to take his sister for a walk, though, indeed, this idea -actually did glance across his mind as a rueful possibility. No, he -could not go; he had promised Emma to meet her in the woods, and he must -keep his word. But he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5088" id="page_5088">{vol.-II-88}</a></span> was very sorry for Lottie. What a pity she had -not some one of her own—Purcell, if nobody better! and then, when the -right one came, she might throw him off. But Law did not dare to repeat -his advice to this effect. He went and looked at her remorsefully. -Lottie had seated herself upstairs in the little drawing-room; she was -leaning her elbow on the ledge of the little deep window, and her head -upon her hand. The attitude was pensive; and Law could not help thinking -that to be a girl, and sit there all alone looking out of a window -instead of roaming about as he did, would be something very terrible. -The contrast chilled him and made him momentarily ashamed of himself. -But then he reflected that there were a great many people passing up and -down, and that he had often heard people say it was amusing to sit at a -window. Very likely Lottie thought so; probably, on the whole, she liked -that better than going out. This must be the case, he persuaded himself, -or else she would have been sure to manage to get some companion; -therefore he said nothing to her, but went downstairs very quietly and -let himself out softly, not making any noise with the door. Law had a -very pleasant walk with Emma under the trees, and enjoyed himself, but -occasionally there would pass a shadow over him as he thought of Lottie -sitting at the window in the little still house all alone.</p> - -<p>But indeed, for that evening at least, Lottie was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5089" id="page_5089">{vol.-II-89}</a></span> not much to be -pitied. She had her dreams to fall back upon. She had what is absolutely -necessary to happiness—not only something to look back to, but -something to look forward to. That is the true secret of -bliss—something that is coming. With that to support us can we not bear -anything? After a while, no doubt, Lottie felt, as she had often felt -before, that it was dull. There was not a sound in the little house; -everybody was out except herself; and it was Sunday, and she could not -get her needlework to occupy her hands and help on her thoughts. As the -brightness waned slowly away, and the softness of the evening lights and -then the dimness of the approaching dark stole on, Lottie had a great -longing to get out of doors; but she could not go and leave the house, -for even the maid was out, having her Sunday walk with her young man. It -was astonishing how many girls had gone wandering past the window, each -with her young man. Not much wonder, perhaps, that Law had suggested -this sole way of a little “fun” for a girl. Poor Law! he did not know -any better; he did not mean any harm. She laughed now at the suggestion -which had made her angry at the time, for to-night Lottie could afford -to laugh. But when she heard the maid-servant come in, Lottie, wearied -with her long vigil, and longing for a breath of cool air after the -confinement of the house, agreed with herself that there would be no -harm in taking one little turn upon the slopes. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5090" id="page_5090">{vol.-II-90}</a></span> townspeople had -mostly gone. Now and then a couple of the old Chevaliers would come -strolling homeward, having taken a longer walk in the calm of the Sunday -evening than their usual turn on the Slopes. Captain Temple and his wife -had gone by arm-in-arm. Perhaps they had been down to the evening -service in the town, perhaps only out for a walk, like everybody else. -Gradually the strangers were disappearing; the people that belonged to -the Precincts were now almost the only people about, and there was no -harm in taking a little walk alone; but it was not a thing Lottie cared -much to do. With a legitimate errand she would go anywhere; but for a -walk! The girl was shy, and full of all those natural conventional -reluctances which cannot be got out of women; but she could not stay in -any longer. She went out with a little blue shawl folded like a -scarf—as was the fashion of the time—over her shoulders, and flitted -quickly along the Dean’s Walk to the slopes. All was sweet in the soft -darkness and in the evening dews, the grass moist, the trees or the sky -sometimes distilling a palpable dewdrop, the air coming softly over all -those miles of country to touch with the tenderest salutation Lottie’s -cheek. She looked out upon the little town nestling at the foot of the -hill with all its twinkling lights, and upon the stars that shone over -the long glimmer of the river, which showed here and there, through all -the valley, pale openings of light in the dark country.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5091" id="page_5091">{vol.-II-91}</a></span> How sweet and -still it was! The openness of the horizon, the distance, was the thing -that did Lottie good. She cast her eyes to the very farthest limit of -the world that lay within her sight and drew a long breath. Perhaps it -was this that caught the attention of some one who was passing. Lottie -had seated herself in a corner under a tree, and she did not see this -wayfarer, who was behind her; and the reader knows that she did not sigh -for sorrow, but only to relieve a bosom which was very full of fanciful -anticipations, hopes, and dreams. It was not likely, however, that Mr. -Ashford would know that. He too was taking his evening walk; and when he -heard the sigh in which so many tender and delicious fancies exhaled -into the air, he thought—who could wonder?—that it was somebody in -trouble; and, drawing a little nearer to see if he could help, as was -the nature of the man, found to his great surprise—as she, too, -startled, turned round her face upon him—that it was Lottie Despard who -was occupying the seat which was his favourite seat also. They both said -“I beg your pardon” simultaneously, though it would be hard to tell why.</p> - -<p>“I think I have seen you here before,” he said. “You like this time of -the evening, Miss Despard, like myself—and this view?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Lottie; “but I have been sitting indoors all the afternoon, -and got tired of it at last. I did not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5092" id="page_5092">{vol.-II-92}</a></span> like to come out all by myself; -but I thought no one would see me now.”</p> - -<p>“Surely you may come here in all safety by yourself.” The Minor Canon -had too much good breeding to suggest any need of a companion or any -pity for the girl left alone. Then he said suddenly, “This is an -admirable chance for me. The first time we met, Miss Despard, you -mentioned something about which you wished to consult me——”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” cried Lottie, coming back out of her dreams. Yes, she had wanted -to consult him, and the opportunity must not be neglected. “It was about -Law, Mr. Ashford. Law—his name is Lawrence, you know, my brother; he is -a great boy, almost a man—more than eighteen. But I am afraid he is -very backward. I want him so very much to stand his examination. It -seems that nothing—nothing can be done without that now.”</p> - -<p>“His examination—for what?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Ashford,” said Lottie, “for anything! I don’t mind what it is. -I thought, perhaps, if you would take him it would make him see the good -of working. We are—poor; I need not make any fuss about saying that; -here we are all poor; and if I could but see Law in an office earning -his living, I think,” cried Lottie, with the solemnity of a martyr, “I -think I should not care what happened. That was all. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5093" id="page_5093">{vol.-II-93}</a></span> wanted him to -come to you, that you might tell us what he would be fit for.”</p> - -<p>“He would make a good soldier,” said Mr. Ashford, smiling; “though there -is an examination for that too.”</p> - -<p>“There are examinations for everything, I think,” said Lottie, shaking -her head mournfully; “that is the dreadful thing; and you see, Mr. -Ashford, we are poor. He has not a penny; he must work for his living; -and how is he to get started? That is what I am always saying. But what -is the use of speaking? You know what boys are. Perhaps if I had been -able to insist upon it years ago—but then I was very young too. I had -no sense, any more than Law.”</p> - -<p>The Minor Canon was greatly touched. The evening dew got into his -eyes—he stood by her in the soft summer darkness, wondering. He was a -great deal older than Lottie—old enough to be her father, he said to -himself; but he had no one to give him this keen, impatient anxiety, -this insight into what boys are. “Was there no one but you to insist -upon it?” he said, in spite of himself.</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Lottie meditatively, “do gentlemen—generally—take much -trouble about what boys are doing? I suppose they have got other things -to think of.”</p> - -<p>“You have not much opinion of men, Miss Despard,” said the Minor Canon, -with a half-laugh.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5094" id="page_5094">{vol.-II-94}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Oh, indeed I have!” cried Lottie. “Why do you say that? I was not -thinking about men—but only—— And then boys themselves, Mr. Ashford; -you know what they are. Oh! I think sometimes if I could put some of me -into him. But you can’t do that. You may talk, and you may coax, and you -may scold, and try every way—but what does it matter? If a boy won’t do -anything, what is to be done with him? That is why I wanted so much, so -very much, to bring him to you.”</p> - -<p>“Miss Despard,” said the Minor Canon, “you may trust me that if there is -anything I can do for him I will do it. As it happens, I am precisely in -want of some one to—to do the same work as another pupil I have. That -would be no additional trouble to me, and would not cost anything. Don’t -you see? Let him come to me to-morrow and begin.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Ashford,” said Lottie, “I knew by your face you were kind—but -how very, very good you are! But then,” she added sorrowfully, “most -likely he could not do the same work as your other pupil. I am afraid he -is very backward. If I were to tell you what he is doing you might know. -He is reading Virgil—a book about as big as himself,” she said, with a -little laugh, that was very near crying. “Won’t you sit down here?”</p> - -<p>“Virgil is precisely the book my other pupil is doing,” said Mr. -Ashford, laughing too, very tenderly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5095" id="page_5095">{vol.-II-95}</a></span> at her small joke, poor child! -while she made room for him anxiously on the bench. There they sat -together for a minute in silence—all alone, as it might be, in the -world, nothing but darkness round them, faint streaks of light upon the -horizon, distant twinkles of stars above and homely lamps below. The -man’s heart softened strangely within him over this creature, who, for -all the pleasure she had, came out here, and apologised to him for -coming alone. She who, neglected by everybody, had it in her to push -forward the big lout of a brother into worthy life, putting all her -delicate strength to that labour of Hercules—he felt himself getting -quite foolish, moved beyond all his experiences of emotion, as, at her -eager invitation, he sat down there by her side.</p> - -<p>And as he did so other voices and steps became audible among the trees -of somebody coming that way. Lottie had turned to him, and was about to -say something, when the sound of the approaching voices reached them. He -could see her start—then draw herself erect, close into the corner of -the bench. The voices were loudly pitched, and attempted no concealment.</p> - -<p>“La, Captain, how dark it is! Let’s go home; mother will be looking for -us,” said one.</p> - -<p>“My dear Polly,” said the other—and though Mr. Ashford did not know -Captain Despard, he divined the whole story in a moment as the pair -brushed past<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5096" id="page_5096">{vol.-II-96}</a></span> arm-in-arm—“my dear Polly, your home will be very close -at hand next time I bring you here.”</p> - -<p>Lottie said nothing—her heart jumped up into her throat, beating so -violently that she could not speak. And to the Minor Canon the whole -family story seemed to roll out like the veiled landscape before him as -he looked compassionately at the girl sitting speechless by his side, -while her father and his companion, all unconscious in the darkness, -brushed against her, sitting there unseen under the shadowy trees.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5097" id="page_5097">{vol.-II-97}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">A CHANCE FOR LAW.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Ashford</span> took Lottie home that evening, walking with her to her own -door. There was not much said; for, notwithstanding the armour of -personal hope and happiness which she had put on, the shock of this -personal encounter with her father and the woman who was to be her -father’s wife made the girl tremble with secret excitement, in spite of -herself. The woman: it was this, the sight and almost touch of this new, -unknown, uncomprehended being brushing past her in the darkness which -overwhelmed Lottie. That first contact made the girl sick and faint. She -could not talk to Mr. Ashford any more—her voice seemed to die out of -her throat, where her heart was fluttering. She could not think even -what she had been saying. It was all confused, driven aside into a -corner, by that sudden apparition. Mr. Ashford, on his side, said little -more than Lottie. It seemed to him that he had a sudden insight into all -that was happening. He had heard, though without paying much attention, -the common gossip about Captain Despard, who was not considered by -anybody within the Precincts as a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5098" id="page_5098">{vol.-II-98}</a></span> creditable inmate; but this curious -little scene, of which he had been a witness, had placed him at once in -the midst of the little drama. He seemed to himself to have shared in -the shock Lottie had received. He walked softly by her side, saying -little, full of compassion, but too sympathetic even to express his -sympathy. He would not hurt her by seeming to be sorry for her. When -they parted he held her hand for a moment with a kind, serious grasp, as -if he had been her father, and said:</p> - -<p>“You will send him to me to-morrow, Miss Despard? I shall expect him -to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>“Oh—Law!” she said, with a little start and recovery. Poor Law had gone -out of her mind.</p> - -<p>“Poor child!” he said, as he turned towards his house; but before he had -crossed the road he was met by Captain Temple coming the other way.</p> - -<p>“Was that Miss Despard?” asked the old man. “Is it she you were saying -good-night to? My wife told me she had gone towards the Slopes, and I -was on my way to bring her home.”</p> - -<p>“I met her there, and I have just brought her home,” said the Minor -Canon. He could scarcely make out in the dark who his questioner was.</p> - -<p>“That is all right—that is all right,” said the old Chevalier. “She is -left too much alone, and she should have some one to take care of her. I -feel<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5099" id="page_5099">{vol.-II-99}</a></span> much obliged to you, Mr. Ashford, for I take a great interest in -the young lady.”</p> - -<p>“It is—Captain Temple?” said Mr. Ashford, peering at the old man with -contracted, short-sighted eyes. “I beg your pardon. Yes, Miss Despard is -quite safe; she has been talking to me about her brother. What kind of -boy is he? I only know he is a big fellow, and not very fond of his -work.”</p> - -<p>Captain Temple shook his head. “What can you expect? It is not the boy’s -fault; but she is the one I take an interest in. You know I had once a -girl of my own—just such another, Mr. Ashford—just such another. I -always think of her when I see this pretty creature. Poor things—how -should they know the evil that is in the world? They think everybody as -good as themselves, and when they find out the difference it breaks -their sweet hearts. I can’t look at a young girl like that, not knowing -what her next step is to bring her, without tears in my eyes.”</p> - -<p>The Minor Canon did not make any reply; his heart was touched, but not -as Captain Temple’s was touched. He looked back at the dim little house, -where as yet there were no lights—not thinking of Lottie as an -all-believing and innocent victim, but rather as a young Britomart, a -helmeted and armed maiden, standing desperate in defence of her little -stronghold against powers of evil which she was no<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5100" id="page_5100">{vol.-II-100}</a></span>ways ignorant of. It -did not occur to him that these images might be conjoined, and both be -true.</p> - -<p>“I take a great interest in her,” said old Captain Temple again, “and so -does my wife, Mr. Ashford. My wife cannot talk of our loss as I do; but, -though she says little, I can see that she keeps her eye upon Lottie. -Poor child! She has no mother, and, for that matter, you might say no -father either. She has a claim upon all good people. She may be thrown -in your way sometimes, when none of us can be of any use to her. It -would make me happy if you would say that you would keep an eye upon her -too, and stand by her when she wants a friend.”</p> - -<p>“You may be sure I will do that—if ever it should be in my power.”</p> - -<p>“Thanks. You will excuse me speaking to you? Most people allow the right -we have in our trouble to think of another like our own. I am quite -happy to think you will be one of her knights too, Mr. Ashford. So will -my wife. Ah, we owe a great deal—a great deal—to innocence. Good -night, and my best thanks.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Ashford could not smile at the kind old Chevalier and his monomania. -He went home very seriously to his dark little house, where no one had -lighted his lamp. He was not so well served as the Signor. There was a -faint light on the stairs, but none in his dark wainscoted library, -where the three<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5101" id="page_5101">{vol.-II-101}</a></span> small deep windows were more than ever like three -luminous yet dim pictures hanging upon a gloomy wall. When he had -lighted his reading-lamp the pictures were put out, and the glimmering -dim interior, with its dark reflections and the touches of gilding and -faded brown of his books, came into prominence. He half smiled to think -of himself as one of Lottie Despard’s knights; but outside of this calm -and still place what a glimpse had been afforded him of the tumults and -miseries of the common world, within yet outside all the calm precincts -of ordered and regular life! The girl with whom he had been talking -stood <i>aux prises</i> with all these forces, while he, so much more able -for that battle, was calm and sheltered. To see her struggling against -the impassibility of a nature less noble than her own—to think of her -all forlorn and solitary, piteous in her youth and helplessness, on the -verge of so many miseries, wrung his heart with pity, with tenderness, -with—— Was it something of envy too? All the powers of life were -surging about Lottie, contending in her and around her; forces vulgar -yet powerful, calling forth in that bit of a girl, in that slim -creature, made, the man thought, for all the sweetness and protections -of life, all its heroic qualities instead—while for such as he, -thirty-five, and a man, fate held nothing but quiet, and mastery of all -circumstances, Handel and the Abbey! What a travesty and interchange of -all that was fit and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5102" id="page_5102">{vol.-II-102}</a></span> natural!—for him ought to be the struggle, for -her the peace; but Providence had not ordained it so.</p> - -<p>How often is this so! times without number; the weak have to struggle -while the strong look on. Women and children labour while full-grown men -rest; the sick and the feeble have all the powers of darkness to -encounter, while the athlete yawns his unoccupied force away. So this -strange paradox of a world runs on. The Minor Canon, who was of very -gentle mould, with a heart open as day to melting charities, sat and -thought of it with a giddiness and vertigo of the heart. He could not -change it. He could not take up Lottie’s trouble and give her his calm. -One cannot stand in another’s place—not you in mine, nor I in -yours—though you may be a hundred times more capable of my work than I. -This was what Ernest Ashford thought sitting among his peaceful books, -and following Lottie Despard in imagination into the little lodge which -was her battlefield. Sympathy gave him the strongest mental perception -of all that took place there. The only thing he had no clue to was the -sweet and secret flood of consolation which subdued her sense of all her -troubles—which already had drowned the dread of the future, and floated -over with brightness the difficulties of the present in Lottie’s heart.</p> - -<p>Next morning Law arrived at the house of the Minor Canon, considerably -to his own surprise, with his big Virgil under his arm. “I don’t know -whether<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5103" id="page_5103">{vol.-II-103}</a></span> you meant it, or if she understood you,” he said, shy and -uncomfortable, looking down at his shoes, and presenting the top of his -head rather than his face to Mr. Ashford’s regard, “but my sister -said——”</p> - -<p>“Yes; I meant it fully. Sit down and tell me what you have been doing, -and whereabouts you are in your work. I have a pupil coming presently -with whom probably you might read——”</p> - -<p>“Well, you must know that I haven’t been what you might call working -very hard, you know,” said Law, still butting at his future instructor -with the top of his head. He sat down as Mr. Ashford directed him, but -he did not give up the earnest contemplation of his boots. “It isn’t so -easy to get into the way of it when you’re working alone. I left school -a long time ago—and I don’t know that it was much of a school—and -latterly I was a little bit irregular—and so, you know——”</p> - -<p>“I see,” said the Minor Canon; “however, it is not too late to do -better. What is that big book under your arm—Virgil? Very well. -Construe a passage for me, and let me see how you get on.”</p> - -<p>“Shall I do a bit I know, or a bit I don’t know?” said Law, raising his -head this time with a doubtful gleam, half of merriment. “Of course, I -want to put my best foot foremost—but I don’t want to take you in all -the same.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5104" id="page_5104">{vol.-II-104}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I must trust you entirely on that point—or give me the book, I will -choose, and chance shall decide.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, hang it!” said Law under his breath. He would have been honest and -avowed what he knew; but this kind of Sortes did not please him. The -perspiration came out on his forehead. Of course it was a very hard bit, -or what Law thought a very hard bit, that turned up—and the way in -which he struggled through it, growing hotter and hotter, redder and -redder, was a sight to see.</p> - -<p>“That will do,” Mr. Ashford said, compassionate, yet horrified. “That -will do.” And he took the book out of his would-be pupil’s hands with a -sigh, and smoothed down the page, which Law had ruffled in his vain -efforts, with a regretful touch, as though asking pardon of Virgil. -“Suppose we have a little talk on this subject?” he said. “No doubt you -have made up your mind what you would like to do?”</p> - -<p>“Not I,” said Law. “It will have to be some office or other—that’s the -only way in which a fellow who has no money seems to be able to make a -living. A very poor living, so far as I hear—but still it is something, -I suppose. That is not what I would like by nature. I’d like to go out -to Australia or New Zealand. I hate the notion of being cooped up to a -desk. But I suppose that is how it will have to be.”</p> - -<p>“Because of your sister? You would not abandon<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5105" id="page_5105">{vol.-II-105}</a></span> her? It does you a great -deal of credit,” said the Minor Canon, with warmth.</p> - -<p>“Well, because of her in one way,” said Law; “because she is always so -strong against it, and because I have no money for a start. You don’t -suppose that I would mind otherwise? No; Lottie is all very well, but I -don’t see why a man should give into her in everything. She will have to -think for herself in future, and so shall I. So, if you will tell me -what you think I could do, Mr. Ashford; I should say you don’t think I -can do anything after that try,” said Law, with an upward glance of -investigation, half-wistful, half-ashamed.</p> - -<p>“Have you read English literature much? That tells nowadays,” said the -Minor Canon. “If you were to give any weight to my opinion, I would tell -you to get the papers for the army examination, and try for that.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! that’s what I should like,” cried Law; “but it’s impossible. -Fellows can’t live on their pay. Even Lottie would like me to go into -the army. But it’s not to be done. You can’t live on your pay. English! -Oh, I’ve read a deal of stories—<i>Harry Lorrequer</i> and <i>Soapy Sponge</i>, -and that sort of—rot.”</p> - -<p>“I am afraid that will not do much good,” said the Minor Canon, shaking -his head. “And, indeed, I fear, if you are going to be successful, you -must set to work in a more serious way. Perhaps you are good<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5106" id="page_5106">{vol.-II-106}</a></span> at -figures—mathematics?—no!—science, perhaps—natural history——”</p> - -<p>“If you mean the Zoological Gardens, I like that,” said Law, beginning -to see the fun of this examination; “and I should be very fond of -horses, if I had the chance. But that has nothing to say to an office. -Figures, ha? yes, I know. But I always hated counting. I see you think -there is nothing to be made of me. That is what I think myself. I have -often told her so. I shall have to ’list, as I have told her.” Law -looked at his companion with a little curiosity as he said this, hoping -to call forth an alarmed protestation.</p> - -<p>But Mr. Ashford was not horrified. He was about to say, “It is the very -best thing you could do,” but stopped, on consideration, for Lottie’s -sake.</p> - -<p>“You are a man to look at,” he said, “though you are young. Has it never -occurred to you till now to think what you would like to be? You did not -think you could go on for ever stumbling over ten lines of Virgil? I beg -your pardon, I don’t mean to be rude; but the most of us have to live by -something, and a young man like you ought to have a notion what he is -going to be about. You thought of the Civil Service?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose Lottie did,” said Law, getting up and seizing his book. “It -is all her doing, from first to last; it is she that has always been -pushing and pushing. Yes; what’s the use of trying Virgil? I always felt -it was all bosh. I don’t know it, and what’s more,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5107" id="page_5107">{vol.-II-107}</a></span> I don’t want to know -it. I am not one for reading; it’s not what I would ever have chosen; it -is all Lottie, with her nagging and her pushing. And so I may go home -and tell her you don’t think me fit for anything?” he added suddenly, -with a slight break of unexpected feeling in his voice.</p> - -<p>“Don’t do anything of the kind. If you would only be open with me, tell -me what are your own ideas and intentions——”</p> - -<p>“That’s what everybody says,” said Law, with a smile of half-amused -superiority; “open your mind. But what if you’ve got no mind to open? -<i>I</i> don’t care what I do; I don’t intend anything; get me in somewhere, -and I’ll do the best I can. A fellow can’t speak any fairer than that.”</p> - -<p>The Minor Canon looked at him with that gaze of baffled inquiry which is -never so effectually foiled as by the candid youth who has no intentions -of his own and no mind to open. Law stood before him, stretching out his -useless strength, with his useless book again under his arm—a human -being thoroughly wasted; no place for him in the Civil Service, no good -use in any of the offices. Why shouldn’t he ’list if he wished it? It -was the very best thing for him to do. But when Mr. Ashford thought of -Lottie this straightforward conclusion died on his lips.</p> - -<p>“Why couldn’t you live on your pay?” he said hurriedly. “It is only to -exercise a little self-denial.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5108" id="page_5108">{vol.-II-108}</a></span> You would have a life you liked and were -fit for, and a young subaltern has just as much pay as any clerkship you -could get. Why not make an effort, and determine to live on your pay? If -you have the resolution you could do it. It would be better certainly -than sitting behind a desk all day long.”</p> - -<p>“Wouldn’t it!” said Law, with a deep breath. “Ah! but you wouldn’t -require to keep a horse, sitting behind your desk; you wouldn’t have -your mess to pay. A fellow must think of all that. I suppose you’ve had -enough of me?” he added, looking up with a doubtful smile. “I may go -away?”</p> - -<p>“Don’t go yet.” There sprang up in the Minor Canon’s mind a kindness for -this impracticable yet thoroughly practical-minded boy, who was not wise -enough to be good for anything, yet who was too wise to plunge into rash -expenses and the arduous exertion of living on an officer’s pay—curious -instance of folly and wisdom, for even an officer’s pay was surely -better than no pay at all. Mr. Ashford did not want to throw Law off, -and yet he could not tell what to do with him. “Will you stay and try -how much you can follow of young Uxbridge’s work?” he said. “I daresay -you have not for the moment anything much better to do.”</p> - -<p>Law gave a glance of semi-despair from the window upon the landscape, -and the distance, and the morning sunshine. No! he had nothing better to -do.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5109" id="page_5109">{vol.-II-109}</a></span> It was not that he had any pleasures in hand, for pleasures cost -money, and he had no money to spend; and he knew by long experience that -lounging about in the morning without even a companion is not very -lively. Still he yielded and sat down, with a sigh. Mere freedom was -something, and the sensation of being obliged to keep in one place for -an hour or two, and give himself up to occupation, was disagreeable; a -fellow might as well be in an office at once. But he submitted. “Young -Uxbridge?” he said. “What is he going in for? The Guards, I suppose.” -Law sighed; ah! that was the life. But he was aware that for himself he -might just as easily aspire to be a prince as a Guardsman. He took his -seat at the table resignedly, and pulled the books towards him, and -looked at them with a dislike that was almost pathetic. Hateful tools! -but nothing was to be done without them. If he could only manage to get -in somewhere by means of the little he knew of them, Law vowed in his -soul he would never look at the rubbish again.</p> - -<p>Young Uxbridge, when he came in spick and span, in the freshest of -morning coats and fashionable ties—for which things Law had a keen eye, -though he could not indulge in them—looked somewhat askance at the -slouching figure of the new pupil. But, though he was the son of a canon -and in the best society, young Uxbridge was not more studious, and he -was by nature even less gifted, than Law. Of two stupid young men,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5110" id="page_5110">{vol.-II-110}</a></span> one -may have all the advantage over another which talent can give, without -having any talent to brag of. Law was very dense with respect to books, -but he understood a great deal more quickly what was said to him, and -had a play of humour and meaning in his face, and sense of the amusing -and absurd, if nothing more, which distinguished him from his companion, -who was steadily level and obtuse all round, and never saw what anything -meant. Thus, though one knew more than the other, the greater ignoramus -was the more agreeable pupil of the two; and the Minor Canon began to -take an amused interest in Law as Law. He kept him to luncheon after the -other was gone, and encouraged the boy to talk, giving him such a meal -as Law had only dreamt of. He encouraged him to talk, which perhaps was -not quite right of Mr. Ashford, and heard a great deal about his family, -and found out that, though Lottie was right, Law was not perhaps so -utterly wrong as he thought. Law was very wrong; yet when he thus heard -both sides of the question, the Minor Canon perceived that it was -possible to sympathise with Lottie in her forlorn and sometimes -impatient struggle against the <i>vis inertiæ</i> of this big brother, and -yet on the other hand to have an amused pity for the big brother, too, -who was not brutal but only dense, gaping with wonder at the finer -spirit that longed and struggled to stimulate him into <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5111" id="page_5111">{vol.-II-111}</a></span>something above -himself. So stimulated Law never would be. He did not understand even -what she wanted, what she would have; but he was not without some good -in him. No doubt he would make an excellent settler in the back-woods, -working hard there though he would not work here, and ready to defend -himself against any tribe of savages; and he would not make a bad -soldier. But to be stimulated into a first-class man in an examination, -or an any-class man, to be made into a male Lottie of fine perceptions -and high ambition, that was what Law would never be.</p> - -<p>“But she is quite right,” said Law; “something must be done. I suppose -you have heard, Mr. Ashford, as everybody seems to have heard, that the -governor is going to marry again?”</p> - -<p>“I did hear it. Will that make a great difference to your sister and -you?”</p> - -<p>“Difference? I should think it would make a difference. As it happens, I -know P——, the woman he is going to marry. She makes no secret of it -that grown-up sons and daughters shouldn’t live at home. I shall have to -leave, whatever happens; and Lottie—well, in one way Lottie has more -need to leave than I have: I shouldn’t mind her manners and that sort of -thing—but Lottie does mind.”</p> - -<p>“Very naturally,” said the Minor Canon.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps,” said Law; “but I don’t know where she gets her ideas from, -for we never were so very fine. However, I might stand it, but Lottie -never will be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5112" id="page_5112">{vol.-II-112}</a></span> able to stand it; and the question follows, what is she -to do? For myself, as I say, I could ’list, and there would be an end of -the matter.”</p> - -<p>“But in that case you would not be of much use to your sister.”</p> - -<p>Law shrugged his shoulders. “I should be of use to myself, which is the -first thing. And then, you know—but perhaps you don’t know—all this is -obstinacy on Lottie’s part, for she might be as well off as anyone. She -might, if she liked, instead of wanting help, be able to help us all. -She might start me for somewhere or other, or even make me an allowance, -so that I could get into the army in the right way. When I think of what -she is throwing away it makes me furious; she might make my fortune if -she liked—and be very comfortable herself, too.”</p> - -<p>“And how is all this to be done?” said the Minor Canon somewhat -tremulously, with a half-fantastic horror in his mind of some brutal -alternative that might be in Lottie’s power, some hideous marriage or -sacrifice of the conventional kind. He waited for Law’s answer in more -anxiety than he had any right to feel, and Law on his side had a gleam -of righteous indignation in his eyes, and for the moment felt himself -the victim of a sister’s cruelty, defrauded by her folly and unkindness -of a promotion which was his due.</p> - -<p>“Look here,” he said solemnly; “all this she could do without troubling -herself one bit, if she chose; she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5113" id="page_5113">{vol.-II-113}</a></span> confessed it to me herself. The -Signor has made her an offer to bring her out as a singer, and to teach -her himself first for nothing. That is to say, of course, she would pay -him, I suppose, when he had finished her, and she had got a good -engagement. You know they make loads of money, these singers—and she -has got as fine a voice as any of them. Well, now, fancy, Mr. Ashford, -knowing that she could set us all up in this way, and give me a thorough -good start—she’s refused; and after that she goes and talks about me!”</p> - -<p>For a moment Mr. Ashford was quite silenced by this sudden assault. A -bold thrust is not to be met by fine definitions, and for the first -moment the Minor Canon was staggered. Was there not some natural justice -in what the lout said? Then he recovered himself.</p> - -<p>“But,” he said, “there are a great many objections to being a singer.” -He was a little inarticulate, the sudden attack having taken away his -breath. “A lady might well have objections; and the family might have -objections.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! I don’t mind,” said Law; “if I did I should soon have told her; and -you may be sure the governor doesn’t mind. Not likely! The thing we want -is money, and she could make as much money as ever she pleases. And yet -she talks about me! I wish I had her chance; the Signor would not have -to speak<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5114" id="page_5114">{vol.-II-114}</a></span> twice; I would sing from morning to night if they liked.”</p> - -<p>“Would you work so hard as that? Then why don’t you work a little at -your books; the one is not harder than the other?”</p> - -<p>“Work! Do you call singing a lot of songs <i>work</i>?” said the contemptuous -Law.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5115" id="page_5115">{vol.-II-115}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">GOOD ADVICE.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">“Oh</span>, he did not say much,” Law replied to Lottie’s questioning when he -went home in the afternoon. “He was very jolly—asked me to stay, and -gave me lunch. How they live, those fellows! Cutlets, and cold grouse, -and <i>pâté de foie gras</i>—something like. You girls think you know about -housekeeping; you only know how to pinch and scrape, that’s all.”</p> - -<p>Lottie did not reply, as she well might, that <i>pâtés de foie gras</i> were -not bought off such allowances as hers; she answered rather with -feminine heat, as little to the purpose as her brother’s taunt, “As if -it mattered what we ate! If you had grouse or if you had -bread-and-cheese, what difference does it make? You care for such mean -things, and nothing at all about your character or your living. <i>What</i> -did Mr. Ashford say?”</p> - -<p>“My character?” said Law. “I’ve done nothing wrong. As for my living, -I’m sure I don’t know how <i>that’s</i> to be got, neither does he. He thinks -I should emigrate or go into the army—just what I think myself. He’s -<i>very</i> jolly; a kind of man that knows what<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5116" id="page_5116">{vol.-II-116}</a></span> you mean, and don’t just go -off on his own notions. I think,” said Law, “that he thinks it very -queer of you, when you could set me up quite comfortably, either in the -army or abroad, not to do it. He did not say much, but I could see that -he thought it very queer.”</p> - -<p>“I—could set you up—what is it you mean, Law?” Lottie was too much -surprised at first to understand. “How could I set you up?” she went on, -faltering. “You don’t mean that you told Mr. Ashford about—— Oh, Law, -you are cruel. Do you want to bring us down to the dust, and leave us no -honour, no reputation at all? First thinking to enlist as a common -soldier, and then—me!”</p> - -<p>“Well, then you. Why not you as well as me, Lottie? You’ve just as good -a right to work as I have; you’re the eldest. If I am to be bullied for -not reading, which I hate, why should you refuse to sing, which you -like? Why, you’re always squalling all over the place, even when there’s -nobody to hear you—you could make a very good living by it; and what’s -more,” said Law, with great gravity, “be of all the use in the world to -me.”</p> - -<p>“How could I be of use to you?” said Lottie, dropping her work upon her -knee and looking up at him with wondering eyes. This was a point of view -which had not struck her before, but she had begun to perceive that her -indignation was wasted, and that it was she only in her family who had -any idea that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5117" id="page_5117">{vol.-II-117}</a></span> a girl should be spared anything. “Law,” she said -piteously, “do you think it is because I don’t want to work? Am I ever -done working? You do a little in the morning, but I am at it all the -day. Do you think Mary could keep the house as it is and do everything?”</p> - -<p>“Pshaw!” answered Law, “anybody could do that.”</p> - -<p>Lottie was not meek by nature, and it was all she could do to restrain -her rising temper. “Mary has wages, and I have none,” she said. “I don’t -mind the work; but if there is one difference between the common people -and gentlefolk, it is that girls who are ladies are not sent out to -work. It is for men to work out in the world, and for women to work at -home. Would you like everybody to be able to pay a shilling and go and -see your sister? Oh, Law, it is for you as much as for me that I am -speaking. Everybody free to stare and to talk, and I standing there -before them all, to sing whatever they told me, and to be cheered, -perhaps, and people clapping their hands at me—at me, your sister, a -girl—— Law! you would not have it; I know you could not bear it. You -would rush and pull me away, and cover me with a cloak, and hide me from -those horrible people’s eyes.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed I should do nothing of the sort,” said Law; “I’d clap you too—I -should like it. If they were hissing it would be a different matter. -Besides, you know, you could change your name. They all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5118" id="page_5118">{vol.-II-118}</a></span> change their -names. You might be Miss Smith, which would hurt nobody. Come, now, if -you are going to be reasonable, Lottie, and discuss the matter—why, -your great friend Miss Huntington sang at a concert once—not for any -good, not to be paid for it—only to make an exhibition of herself (and -she was not much to look at either). Don’t you remember? It would be -nothing worse than that, and heaps of ladies do that. Then it is quite -clear you must do something, and what else would you like to do?”</p> - -<p>Lottie frowned a little, not having taken this question into -consideration, as it would have been right for her to do; but the things -that concerned other people had always seemed to her so much more -important. She never had any doubt of her own capabilities and energies. -When the question was thus put to her she paused.</p> - -<p>“Just now I am at home; I have plenty to do,” she said. Then, after -another pause, “If things change here—if I cannot stay here, Law, why -shouldn’t we go together? You must get an appointment, and I would take -care of you. I could make the money go twice as far as you would. I -could help you if you had work to do at home—copying or anything—I -would do it. It would not cost more for two of us than for one. I could -do everything for you, even your washing; and little things besides. Oh, -I don’t doubt I could get quantities of little things to do,” said -Lottie,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5119" id="page_5119">{vol.-II-119}</a></span> with a smile of confidence in her own powers; “and no one need -be the wiser. You would be thought to have enough for us both.”</p> - -<p>“Listen to me, now,” said Law, who had shown many signs of impatience, -not to say consternation. “What you mean is (<i>if</i> you know what you -mean), that you intend to live upon me. You needn’t stare; you don’t -think what you’re saying, but that is what you really mean when all is -done. Look here, Lottie; if I were to get a place I should live in -lodgings. I should bring in other fellows to see me. I shouldn’t want to -have my sister always about. As for not spending a penny more, that -means that you would give me dinners like what we have now; but when I -have anything to live on, of my own, I shall not stand that. I shall not -be content, I can tell you, to live as we live now. I want to be free if -I get an appointment; I don’t want to have you tied round my neck like a -millstone; I want to have my liberty and enjoy myself. If it comes to -that, I’d rather marry than have a sister always with me; but at first I -shall want to have my fling and enjoy myself. And what is the use of -having money,” said Law, with the genuine force of conviction, “unless -you can spend it upon yourself?”</p> - -<p>Lottie was altogether taken by surprise. It was the first time they had -thus discussed the question. She made no reply to this utterance of -sound reason.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5120" id="page_5120">{vol.-II-120}</a></span> She sat with her work on her knee, and her hands resting -upon it, staring at her brother. This revelation of his mind was to her -altogether new.</p> - -<p>“But, on the other side,” said Law, feeling more and more confidence in -himself as he became used to the sound of his own voice, and felt -himself to be unanswerable, “on the other side, a singer gets jolly -pay—far better than any young fellow in an office; and you could quite -well afford to give me an allowance, so that I might get into the army -as a fellow ought. You might give me a hundred or two a year and never -feel it; and with that I could live upon my pay. And you needn’t be -afraid that I should be ashamed of you,” said generous Law; “not one -bit. I should stand by you and give you my countenance as long as you -conducted yourself to my satisfaction. I should never forsake you. When -you sang anywhere I’d be sure to go and clap you like a madman, -especially if you went under another name (they all do); that would -leave me more free. Now you must see, Lottie, a young fellow in an -office could not be much good to you, but you could be of great use to -me.”</p> - -<p>Still Lottie did not make any reply. No more terrible enlightenment ever -came to an unsuspecting listener. She saw gradually rising before her as -he spoke, not only a new Law, but a new version of herself till this -moment unknown to her. This, as was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5121" id="page_5121">{vol.-II-121}</a></span> natural, caught her attention most; -it made her gasp with horror and affright. Was this herself—Lottie? It -was the Lottie her brother knew. That glimpse of herself through Law’s -eyes confounded her. She seemed to see the coarse and matter-of-fact -young woman who wanted to live upon her brother’s work; to make his -dinners scanty in order that she might have a share, to interfere with -his companions and his pleasures—so distinctly, that her mouth was -closed and her very heart seemed to stop beating. Was this herself? Was -this how she appeared to other people’s eyes? She was too much -thunderstruck, overawed by it, to say anything. The strange difference -between this image and her own self-consciousness, her conviction that -it was for Law’s advantage she had been struggling; her devotion to the -interests of the family before everything, filled her with confusion and -bewilderment. Could it be she that was wrong, or was it he that was -unjust and cruel? The wonder and suddenness of it gave more poignant and -terrible force to the image of her which was evidently in Law’s mind. -All the selfish obtuseness of understanding, the inability to perceive -what she meant, or to understand the object of her anxiety, which had so -wounded and troubled her in Law, her brother had found in her. To him it -was apparent that what Lottie wanted was not his good, but that she -might have some one to work for her, some one to save her from working. -She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5122" id="page_5122">{vol.-II-122}</a></span> gazed not at Law, but at the visionary representation of herself -which Law was seeing, with a pang beyond any words. She could not for -the moment realise the brighter image which he made haste to present -before her of the generous sister who made him an allowance, and enabled -him to enter the army “as a fellow ought,” and of whom he promised never -to be ashamed. It is much to be doubted whether Lottie had any warm -sense of humour at the best of times; certainly she showed herself quite -devoid of it now. She was so hurt and sore that she could not speak. It -was not true. How could he be so cruel and unjust to her? But yet could -it be at all true? Was it possible that this coarse picture was like -Lottie, would be taken for Lottie by anyone else? She kept looking at -him after he had stopped speaking, unable to take her eyes from him, -looking like a dumb creature who has no other power of remonstrance. -Perhaps in other circumstances Lottie would have been so foolish and -childish as to cry; now she battled vaguely, dismally, with a sense of -heartbreaking injustice, yet asking herself could any part of it be -true?</p> - -<p>“Don’t stare at me so,” said Law; “you look as if you had never seen a -fellow before. Though he was civil and did not say anything, it was easy -to see that was what old Ashford thought. And I’ve got to go back to him -to-morrow, if that will please you; and, by the way, he said he’d -perhaps come and see you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5123" id="page_5123">{vol.-II-123}</a></span> and tell you what he thought. By Jove, it’s -getting late. If I don’t get out at once he’ll come and palaver, and I -shall have to stay in and lose my afternoon, as I lost the morning. I’m -off, Lottie. You need not wait for me for tea.”</p> - -<p>It did not make much difference to her when he went away, plunging down -the little staircase in two or three long steps. Lottie sat like an -image in stone, all the strength taken from her. She seemed to have -nothing left to say to herself—no ground to stand on, no -self-explanation to offer. She had exhausted all her power of -self-assertion for the moment; now she paused and looked at herself as -her father and brother saw her—a hard, scanty, parsimonious -housekeeper, keeping them on the simplest fare, denying them -indulgences, standing in their way. What if she kept the house, as she -fondly hoped, like a gentleman’s house, sweet and fresh, and as fair as -its faded furniture permitted? What did they care for tidiness and -order? What if she managed, by infinite vigilance and precaution, to pay -her bills and keep the credit of the household, so far as her power -went, unimpaired? They did not mind debts and duns, except at the mere -moment of encountering the latter, and were entirely indifferent to the -credit of the name. She was in her father’s way, who before this time -would have married the woman who brushed past Lottie on the Slopes but -for having this useless grown-<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5124" id="page_5124">{vol.-II-124}</a></span>up daughter, whom he did not know how to -dispose of; and if Law got an appointment (that almost impossible, yet -fondly cherished, expectation which had kept a sort of forlorn -brightness in the future), it now turned out that she would be in Law’s -way as much or more than in her father’s. Lottie’s heart contracted with -pain; her spirit failed her. She, who had felt so strong, so capable, so -anxious to inspire others with her own energy and force; she, who had -felt herself the support of her family, their standard-bearer, the only -one who was doing anything to uphold the falling house—in a moment she -had herself fallen too, undermined even in her own opinion. Many a blow -and thrust had she received in the course of her combative life, and -given back with vigour and a stout heart. Never before had she lost her -confidence in herself; the certainty that she was doing her best, that -with her was the redeeming force, the honourable principle which might -yet convert the others, and save the family, and elevate the life of the -house. What she felt now was that she herself, the last prop of the -Despards, was overthrown and lying in ruin. Was it possible that she was -selfish too, seeking her own ease like the rest, avoiding what she -disliked just the same as they did? A sudden moisture of intense pain -suffused Lottie’s eyes. She was too heartstruck, too fallen to weep. She -covered her face with her hands, though there was no one to cover it -from, with the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5125" id="page_5125">{vol.-II-125}</a></span> natural gesture of anguish, seeking to be hidden even -from itself.</p> - -<p>Lottie did not pay much attention, although she heard steps coming up -the stair. What did it matter? Either it was Law, who had stricken her -so wantonly to the ground; or her father, who did not care what happened -to her; or Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, who did not count. Few other people -mounted the stairs to the little drawing-room in Captain Despard’s -house. But when she raised her head, all pale and smileless, and saw -that the visitor was Mr. Ashford, Lottie scarcely felt that this was a -stranger, or that there was any occasion to exert herself and change her -looks and tones. Did not he think so too? She rose up, putting down her -work, and made him a solemn salutation. She did not feel capable of -anything more. The Minor Canon drew back his hand, which she did not -see, with the perturbation of a shy man repulsed. Lottie was not to him -so unimportant a person as she was to her brother. She was surrounded by -all the unconscious state of womanhood and mystery and youth—a creature -with qualities beyond his ken, wonderful to him, as unknown though -visible, and attracting his imagination more than any other of these -wonderful mystic creatures, of whom he had naturally encountered many in -his life, had ever done. His heart, which had so swelled with pity and -admiration on Sunday evening, was not less sympathetic and ad<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5126" id="page_5126">{vol.-II-126}</a></span>miring -now, notwithstanding that it was through Law’s eyes that he had been -seeing her to-day; and this repulse, which was so unlike her candour and -frankness yesterday, gave him a little pain. He wanted to be of use to -her, and he wanted to tell her so—and to repel him while he had these -generous purposes in his mind seemed hard. He sat down, however, -embarrassed, on the chair she pointed him to; and looking at her, when -thus brought nearer, he discovered, even with his short-sighted eyes, -how pale she was and how woebegone. Some one had been vexing her, no -doubt, poor child! This took the shyness out of Mr. Ashford’s voice.</p> - -<p>“I have come to make my report,” he said, in as even a tone as he could -command, “about Lawrence. He has told you—that he has been with me most -of the day?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.” When Lottie saw that more than this monosyllable was expected -from her, she made an effort to rouse herself. “I fear it is not -anything very encouraging that you have to say?”</p> - -<p>“I have two things to say, Miss Despard—if you will permit me. Did you -ever read Lord Chesterfield’s Letters? But no, perhaps they are not -reading for such as you. There are many wickednesses in them which would -disgust you, but there is one most tragic, touching thing in them——”</p> - -<p>He made a pause; and Lottie, who was young and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5127" id="page_5127">{vol.-II-127}</a></span> variable, and ready to -be interested in spite of herself, looked up and asked “What is that?”</p> - -<p>“I wonder if I may say it?—it is the effort of the father to put -himself—not a good man, but a fine, subtle, ambitious, aspiring -spirit—into his son; and the complete and terrible failure of the -attempt.”</p> - -<p>“I do not know—what that can have to do with Law and me.”</p> - -<p>“Yes. Pardon me for comparing you in your generous anxiety to a man who -was not a hero. But, Miss Despard, you see what I mean. You will never -put yourself into Law. He does not understand you; he is not capable of -it. You must give up the attempt. I am only a new acquaintance, but I -think I must be an old friend, somehow. I want you to give up the -attempt.”</p> - -<p>He looked at her with such a kind comprehension and pity in his eyes, -that Lottie’s heart sprang up a little from its profound depression, -like a trodden-down flower, to meet this first gleam of sunshine. She -did not quite see what he meant even now, but it was something that -meant kindness and approval of her. “He cannot think <i>that</i> of me!” she -said to herself.</p> - -<p>“I am glad you will hear me out,” he said, with a look of relief, “for -the rest is better. Law is not stupid. He would not be your brother if -he were stupid. He is a little too prudent, I think. He will<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5128" id="page_5128">{vol.-II-128}</a></span> not hear -of emigrating, because he has no money, nor of trying for the army, -because he could not live on his pay. Right enough, perhaps, in both -cases; but a hot-headed boy would not mind these considerations, and a -fellow of resolution might succeed in either way.”</p> - -<p>“He has always been like that,” said Lottie. “You see Law does not want -anything very much except to be as well off as possible. He would never -make up his mind what to try for. He says, anything; and anything -means—— Oh! Mr. Ashford, I want to ask you something about myself. Do -you think it is just as bad and selfish of me to refuse to be—oh! a -public singer? I thought I was right,” said Lottie, putting out her -hands with unconscious dramatic action, as if groping her way; “but now -I am all in doubt. I don’t know what to think. Is it just the same? Is -it as bad of me?”</p> - -<p>She looked at him anxiously, as if he could settle the question, and the -Minor Canon did not know what reply to make. He was on both -sides—feeling with her to the bottom of his heart; yet seeing, too, -where the reason lay.</p> - -<p>“I am very sure you are doing nothing either bad or selfish,” he said; -but hesitated and added no more.</p> - -<p>“You won’t tell me,” she cried; “that must mean that you are against me. -Mr. Ashford, I have always heard that there was a great difference -between girls<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5129" id="page_5129">{vol.-II-129}</a></span> and boys; like this: that for a boy to work was always -honourable, but for a girl to work was letting down the family. Mamma—I -don’t know if she was a good judge—always said so. She said it was -better to do anything than work, so as that people should know. There -was a lady, who was an officer’s wife, just as good as we were, but they -all said she was a governess once, and were disagreeable to her. It -seemed a kind of disgrace to all the children. Their mother was a -governess——”</p> - -<p>“But that is very bad; very cruel,” said the Minor Canon. “I am sure, in -your heart, that is not a thing of which you can approve.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Lottie, doubtfully; “except just this—that it would be far -more credit, far more <i>right</i>, if the men were to try hard and keep the -girls at home. That is what I thought. Oh, it is not the work I think -of! Work! I like it. I don’t mind what I do. But there must always be -somebody for the work at home. Do you suppose Mary could manage for them -if I were not here? There would be twice as much spent, and everything -would be different. And do you not think, Mr. Ashford, that it would be -more credit to them—better for everyone, more honourable for Law, if he -were at work and I at home, rather than that people should say, ‘His -sister is a singer?’ Ah! would you let your own sister be a singer if -you were as poor as we are? Or would you rather fight it out with the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5130" id="page_5130">{vol.-II-130}</a></span> -world, and keep her safe at home, only serving you?”</p> - -<p>“My sister!” said the Minor Canon. He was half-affronted, half-touched, -and wholly unreasonable. “That she should never do! not so long as her -brother lived to work for her—nor would I think it fit either that she -should serve me.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, but there you are wrong,” said Lottie, whose face was lighted up -with a smile of triumph. “I thought you would be on my side! But there -you are wrong. She would be happy, proud to serve you. Do you think I -mean we are to be idle, not to take our share? Oh, no, no! In nature a -man works and rests; but a woman never rests. Look at the poor people. -The man has his time to himself in the evenings, and his wife serves -him. It is quite right—it is her share. I should never, never grumble -at that. Only,” cried Lottie, involuntarily clasping her hands, “not to -be sent outside to work there! I keep Mary for the name of the thing; -because it seems right to have a servant; but if we could not afford to -keep Mary do you think I would make a fuss? Oh, no, Mr. Ashford, no! I -could do three times what she does. I should not mind what I did. But if -it came to going out, to having it known, to letting people say, ‘His -sister is a governess,’ or (far worse) ‘His sister is a singer’—it is -that I cannot bear.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Ashford was carried away by this torrent of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5131" id="page_5131">{vol.-II-131}</a></span> words, and by the -natural eloquence of her eyes and impassioned voice, and varying -countenance. He did not know what to say. He shook his head, but when he -came to himself, and found his footing again, made what stand he could. -“You forget,” he said, “that all this would be of no use for yourself or -your future——”</p> - -<p>“For me!” Lottie took the words out of his mouth with a flush and glow -of beautiful indignation. “Was it <i>me</i> I was thinking of? Oh, I thought -you understood!” she cried.</p> - -<p>“Let me speak, Miss Despard. Yes, I understand. You would be their -servant; you would work all the brightness of your life away. You would -never think of yourself; and when it suited them to make a change—say -when it suited Law to marry—you would be thrown aside, and you would -find yourself without a home, wearied, worn out with your work, -disappointed, feeling the thanklessness, the bitterness of the world.”</p> - -<p>Lottie’s face clouded over. She looked at him, half-defiant, -half-appealing. “That is not how—one’s brother would behave. You would -not do it——”</p> - -<p>“No; perhaps I would not do it—but, on the other hand,” said Mr. -Ashford, “I might do—what was as bad. I might make a sacrifice. I -might—give up marrying the woman whom I loved for my sister’s sake. -Would that be a better thing to do?”</p> - -<p>Their eyes met when he spoke of the woman he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5132" id="page_5132">{vol.-II-132}</a></span> loved—that is, he looked -at Lottie, who was gazing intently at him; and strangely enough, they -could not tell why, both blushed, as if the sudden contact of their -looks had set their faces aglow. Lottie instinctively drew back without -knowing it; and he, leaning towards her, repeated, almost with -vehemence:</p> - -<p>“Would that be a better thing to do?”</p> - -<p>Lottie hid her face in her hands. “Oh, no, no!” she said, her sensitive -frame trembling. Mr. Ashford was old, and Law was but a boy—how could -there be any question of the woman either loved?</p> - -<p>“Forgive me, Miss Despard, if I seem to go against you—my heart is all -with you; but you ought to be independent,” he said. “Either the woman -would be sacrificed or the man would be sacrificed. And that kind of -sacrifice is bad for everybody. Don’t be angry with me. Sacrifices -generally are bad; the more you do for others, the more selfish they -become. Have you not seen that even in your little experience? There are -many people who never have it in their power to be independent; but -those who have should not neglect it—even if it is not in a pleasant -way.”</p> - -<p>“Even if it is by—being a singer?” She lifted her head again, and once -more fixed upon him eyes which were full of unshed tears. Taking counsel -had never been in Lottie’s way; but neither had doubt ever been in her -way till now. Everything before had been very plain. Right and -wrong—two broad lines straight be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5133" id="page_5133">{vol.-II-133}</a></span>fore her; now there was right and -wrong on both sides, and her landmarks were removed. She looked at her -adviser as women look, to see not only what he said, but whatsoever -shade of unexpressed opinion might cross his face.</p> - -<p>“It is not so dreadful after all,” he said. “It is better than many -other ways. I am afraid life is hard, as you say, upon a girl, Miss -Despard. She must be content with little things. This is one of the few -ways in which she can really get independence—and—stop, hear me -out—the power to help others too.”</p> - -<p>Lottie had almost begun a passionate remonstrance; but these last words -stopped her. Though she might not like the way, still was it possible -that this might be a way of setting everything right? She stopped gazing -at her counsellor, her eyelids puckered with anxiety, her face quite -colourless, and expressing nothing but this question. Not a pleasant -way—a way of martyrdom to her pride—involving humiliation, every pang -she could think of; but still, perhaps, a way of setting everything -right.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5134" id="page_5134">{vol.-II-134}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">A CRISIS.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">When</span> Lottie got up next morning the world seemed to have changed to her. -It had changed a little in reality, as sometimes one day differs from -another in autumn, the world having visibly made a more marked -revolution than usual in a single night. It had got on to the end of -August, and there were traces of many fiery fingers upon the leaves on -the Slopes. It had been a very fine summer, but it was coming -prematurely to an end, everybody said, and about the horizon there began -to be veils of luminous mist in the morning, and soft haze that veiled -the evening light. This autumnal aspect of the world seemed to have come -on in that one night. The Virginian creeper round the window had -“turned” in several patches of scarlet and yellow all at once. It was -beautiful, but it was the first step towards winter and the chills—the -first evidence of a year decaying which makes the spectator pause and -think. When Lottie woke she felt in her heart that consciousness of -something, she knew not what, something that had happened to her, that -over-shadowed her, and forced itself upon her before she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5135" id="page_5135">{vol.-II-135}</a></span> could tell -what it was, which is the way care manifests itself at our bedsides: -something that made her heart heavy the first thing on awaking. Then she -remembered what it was. Lottie, we have said, was not a girl who was in -the habit of taking advice; but for that once she had taken it, seizing -upon the first trustworthy witness she could find who would bring an -impartial eye to the problem of her life. She had been very strong in -her own opinion before, but when reason was put before her Lottie could -not shut her eyes to it. Neither could she dawdle and delay when there -was anything to do. She awoke with the consciousness that some ghost was -lurking behind her white curtains. Then with a start and shiver -remembered and realised it, and, drawing herself together, made up her -mind to act at once. What was the use of putting off? Putting off was -the reason why Law was so backward, and Lottie was not one of those who -let the grass grow under their feet. The more disagreeable the first -step was, the more reason was there that it should be taken to-day. She -went downstairs with a gleam of resolution in her eyes. After the shock -of finding out that there is a painful thing to do, the determination to -do it at once is a relief. It brings an almost pleasure into the pain to -set your face to it bravely and get done with it; there is thus an -exhilaration even in what is most disagreeable. So Lottie felt. Her -despondency and depression were gone. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5136" id="page_5136">{vol.-II-136}</a></span> had something definite to do, -and she would do it, let what obstacle soever stand in the way. She made -the family tea and cut the bread with more energy than usual. She was -the first visible, as she always was, but her mind was fully occupied -with her own affairs, and she was glad enough to be alone for half an -hour. After that she had to go up again and knock at her father’s door, -to remind him that there was but little time for breakfast before the -bell began to ring for matins; but she had taken her own breakfast and -begun her work before the Captain and Law came downstairs. When she had -poured out their tea for them she sat down in the window-seat with her -sewing. She did not take any share in their talk, neither did she watch, -as she often did, the stir of morning life in the Dean’s Walk—the -tradesmen’s carts going about, the perambulators from the town pushing -upward, with fresh nursemaids behind, to the shady walk on the Slopes; -now and then a tall red soldier showing against the grey wall of the -Abbey opposite; the old Chevaliers beginning to turn out, taking their -little morning promenade before the bells began. The stir was usually -pleasant to Lottie, but she took no notice of it to-day. She was going -to matins herself this morning—not perhaps altogether for devotion, but -with the idea, after the service, of lying in wait at the north gate for -the exit of the Signor.</p> - -<p>How it was that the subject came under discussion<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5137" id="page_5137">{vol.-II-137}</a></span> Lottie did not know. -She woke to it only when it came across herself and touched upon her own -thoughts. It was Law who was saying something (it was fit for him to say -so!), grumbling about the inequality of education, and that girls had -just as good a right to work as boys.</p> - -<p>“I should like to know,” he said, “why I should have to get hold of a -lot of books, and trot over to old Ashford, and work like a slave till -one o’clock, while she sits as cool and as fresh as can be, and never -stirs?” He was not addressing anybody in particular, but grumbling to -the whole world at large, which was Law’s way. Generally his father took -no notice of him, but some prick of sensation in the air no doubt moved -him to-day.</p> - -<p>“Speak of things you know something about,” said the Captain; “that’s -the best advice I can give you, Law. And let Lottie alone. Who wants her -to work? The fresher she looks and the better she looks, the more likely -she is to get a husband; and that’s a girl’s first duty. Is that the -bell?” said Captain Despard, rising, drawing himself up, and pulling his -collar and wristbands into due display. “Let me hear nothing about work. -No daughter of mine shall ever disgrace herself and me in that way. Get -yourself a husband, my child; that’s the only work I’ll ever -permit—that’s all a lady can do. A good husband, Lottie. If I heard of -some one coming forward I’d be happier, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5138" id="page_5138">{vol.-II-138}</a></span> don’t deny. Bring him to the -scratch, my dear; or if you’re in difficulty refer him to me.”</p> - -<p>He was gone before Lottie could utter a word of the many that rushed to -her lips. She turned upon Law instead, who sat and chuckled behind his -roll. “If it had not been for you he would not have insulted me so!” she -cried.</p> - -<p>“Oh, insulted you! You need not be so grand. They say you may have -Purcell if you like,” said Law, “or even the Signor; but it’s the other -fellow, Ridsdale, you know, your old flame, the governor is thinking of. -If you could catch <i>him</i> now! though I don’t believe a fellow like that -could mean anything. But even Purcell is better than nothing. If you -would take my advice——”</p> - -<p>Lottie did not stay to hear any more. He laughed as she rushed out of -the room, putting up her hands to her ears. But Law was surprised that -she did not strike a blow for herself before she left him. Her -self-restraint had a curious effect upon the lad. “Is anything up?” he -said to himself. Generally it was no difficult matter to goad Lottie to -fury with allusions like this. He sat quite still and listened while she -ran upstairs into her own room, which was overhead. Then Law -philosophically addressed himself to what was left of the breakfast. He -had an excellent appetite; and the bell ringing outside which called so -many people, but not him, and the sight of the old<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5139" id="page_5139">{vol.-II-139}</a></span> Chevaliers streaming -across the road, and the morning congregation hurrying along to the door -in the cloisters, pleased him as he finished his meal, without even his -sister’s eye upon him to remark the ravages he made in the butter. But -when he heard Lottie’s step coming down stairs again Law stopped, not -without a sense of guilt, and listened intently. She did not come in, -which was a relief, but his surprise was great when he heard her walk -past the open door of the little dining-room, and next moment saw her -flit past the window on the way to the Abbey. He got up, though he had -not finished, and stared after her till she, too, disappeared in the -cloister. “Something must be up,” he repeated to himself.</p> - -<p>Lottie’s silence, however, was not patience, neither was it any want of -susceptibility to what had been said. Even this, probably, she would -have felt more had her mind not been preoccupied by her great -resolution. But when she found herself in the Abbey, abstracted from all -external circumstances, the great voice of the organ filling the -beautiful place, the people silently filling up the seats, the choir in -their white robes filing in, it seemed very strange to Lottie that the -service could go on as it did, undisturbed by the beats of her heart and -the commotion of her thoughts. Enough trouble and tumult to drown even -the music were in that one corner where she leant her shoulder against -the old dark oak, finding some comfort in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5140" id="page_5140">{vol.-II-140}</a></span> physical support. And she -did not, it must be allowed, pay very much attention to the service; her -voice joined in the responses fitfully, but her heart wandered far away. -No, not far away. Mr. Ashford’s counsel, and her father’s, kept coming -and going through her mind. Truth to tell, Captain Despard’s decision -against the possibility of work gave work an instant value in his -daughter’s eyes. We do not defend Lottie for her undutifulness; but as -most of the things she had cared for in her life had been opposed by her -father, and all the things against which she set her face in fierceness -of youthful virtue were supported by him, it could scarcely be expected -that his verdict would be very effectual with her. It gave her a little -spirit and encouragement in her newly-formed resolution, and it helped -her a little to overcome the prejudice in her mind when she felt that -her father was in favour of that prejudice. He did not want her to work, -to bring the discredit of a daughter who earned her own living upon him; -he wanted to sell her to any one who would offer for her, to make her -“catch” some man, to put forth wiles to attract him and bring him into -her net. Lottie, who believed in love, and who believed in womanhood, -with such a faith as perhaps girls only possess: what silent rage and -horror filled her at this thought! She believed in womanhood, not so -much in herself. For the sake of that abstraction, not for her own, she -wanted to be wooed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5141" id="page_5141">{vol.-II-141}</a></span> reverently, respected above all. A man, to be a -perfect man, ought to look upon every woman as a princess of romance: -not for her individual sake so much as for his sake, that he might fall -short of no nobleness and perfection. This was Lottie’s theory -throughout. She would have Law reverence his sister, and tenderly care -for her, because that would prove Law to be of the noblest kind of men. -She wanted to be worshipped in order to prove triumphantly to herself -that the man who did so was an heroic lover. This was how Rollo had -caught her imagination, her deceived imagination, which put into Rollo’s -looks and words so much that was not really there. This simple yet -superlative thread of romance ran through all her thoughts. She leaned -back upon the carved oak of the stall, preoccupied, while the choristers -chanted, thinking more of all this than of the service. And then, with a -sudden pang, there came across her mind the thought of the descent that -would be necessary from that white pedestal of her maidenhood, the -sheltered and protected position of the girl at home, which alone seemed -to be fit and right. She would have to descend from that, and gather up -her spotless robes about her, and come out to encounter the storms of -the world. All that had elevated her in her own conceit was going from -her—and what, oh! what could he, or anyone, find afterwards in her? He -would turn away most likely with a sigh or groan from a girl who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5142" id="page_5142">{vol.-II-142}</a></span> could -thus throw away her veil and her crown and stand up and confront the -world. Lottie seemed to see her downfall with the eyes of her visionary -lover, and the anguish that brought with it crushed her very heart.</p> - -<p>Did it ever occur to her that an alternative had been offered for her -acceptance? Once, for a moment, she saw Purcell’s melancholy face look -down upon her from the organ-loft, and gave him a kind, half-sad, -half-amused momentary thought. Poor fellow! she could have cried for the -pain she must have given him, and yet she could have laughed, though she -was ashamed of the impulse. Poor boy! it must have been only a delusion; -he would forget it; he would find somebody of his own class, she said to -herself, uneasy to think she had troubled him, yet with the only -half-smile that circumstances had afforded her for days past. Captain -Despard, had he known, would have thought Purcell’s suit well worthy of -consideration in the absence of a better; and the Signor, whom Lottie -had made up her mind to address, darted fiery glances at her from the -organ-loft, taking up his pupil’s cause with heat and resentment; but -she herself sailed serenely over the Purcell incident altogether, -looking down upon it from supreme heights of superiority. It did not -occur to her as a thing to be seriously thought of, much less in her -confusion and anguish, as a reasonable way of escape. And thus the -morning went<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5143" id="page_5143">{vol.-II-143}</a></span> on, the chanting and the reading, and all those outcries -to God and appeals to His mercy which His creatures utter daily with so -much calm. Did anybody mean it when they all burst forth, “Lord have -mercy upon us, Christ have mercy upon us?” This cry woke Lottie, and her -dreaming soul came back, and she held up her clasped hands in a -momentary passion of entreaty. The sudden wildness of the cry in the -midst of all that stately solemnity of praying caught her visionary -soul. It was as if all the rest had missed His ear, all the music and -the poetry, King David harping on his harp, and Handel with his blind -face raised to heaven; and nothing was left but to snatch at the -garments of the Master as He went away, not hearing, not looking, or -appearing not to look and hear. This poor young soul in the midst of her -self-questionings and struggles woke up to the passionate reality of -that cry. “Lord have mercy upon us, Christ have mercy upon us!” and then -it went away from her again in thunders of glorious music, in solemnity -of well-known words, and she lost herself once more in her own thoughts.</p> - -<p>Lottie withdrew timidly into the aisle when the service was over. She -knew the Signor would pass that way, and it seemed to her that it would -be easier to speak to him there than to go to his house, which was the -only other alternative. But the Signor, when he came out, was encircled -by a group of his pupils,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5144" id="page_5144">{vol.-II-144}</a></span> and darted a vengeful, discouraging glance at -her as he passed. He would not pause nor take any notice of the step she -made towards him, the wistful look in her face. If he had seen it, it -would have given him a certain pleasure to disappoint Lottie, for the -Signor had a womanish element in him, and was hot and merciless in his -partisanship. He cast a glance at her that might have slain her, that -was as far from encouraging her as anything could be, and passed quickly -by, taking no other notice. Thus her mission was fruitless; and it was -the same in the afternoon, when she went out by the north door and made -believe to be passing when the musician came out. To do him justice, he -had no notion that she wanted him, but wondered a little to find her a -second time in his way. He was obliged, as it was outside the Abbey, to -take off his hat to her; but he did so in the most grudging, hasty way, -and went on talking with his pupils, pretending to be doubly engaged and -deeply interested in what the lads were saying. There was no chance -then, short of going to his house, of carrying out her resolution for -this day.</p> - -<p>But in the evening, when all was still, Lottie, who had been sitting at -home working and thinking till her heart was sick and her brain -throbbing, put on her hat and went out in the dusk to get the air at the -door. It was a lovely, quiet night, the moon rising over the grey -pinnacles of the Abbey, marking out its<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5145" id="page_5145">{vol.-II-145}</a></span> great shadow upon the Dean’s -Walk, and the mignonette smelling sweet in all the little gardens. A few -of the old Chevaliers were still about, breathing the sweetness of the -evening like Lottie herself. Captain Temple, who was among them, came up -to her with his old-fashioned fatherly gallantry as soon as he saw her. -“Will you take a turn, my dear?” he said. He had no child, and she had -never had, so to speak, any father, at least in this way. They went up -and down the terrace pavement, and then they crossed the road to the -Abbey, from which, though it was so late, the tones of the great organ -were beginning to steal out upon the night. “Is this a ghost that is -playing, or what can the Signor be thinking of?” Captain Temple said. -Old Wykeham, that gruff old guardian of the sacred place, was standing -with his keys in his hands at the south door. He had not his usual rusty -gown nor his velvet cap, being then in an unofficial capacity; but -Wykeham would not have been Wykeham without his keys. And though he was -gruff he knew to whom respect was due. “Yessir, there’s something going -on inside. One o’ the Signor’s fancies. He have got some friends inside, -a playing his voluntaries to them. And if you like, Captain, I will let -you in in a moment, sir.” “Shall we go, my dear?” the old Captain said. -And next moment they were in the great gloom of the Abbey, which was so -different in its solemnity from the soft summer dark outside. There was -a gleam<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5146" id="page_5146">{vol.-II-146}</a></span> of brilliant light in the organ-loft where the Signor was -playing, which threw transverse rays out on either side into the -darkness, showing vaguely the carved work of the canopies over the -stalls, and the faded banners that hung over them. Down in the deep -gloom of the choir below a few figures were dimly perceptible. Lottie -and her kind old companion did not join these privileged listeners. They -kept outside in the nave, where the moon, which had just climbed the -height of the great windows, had suddenly burst in, throwing huge -dimly-coloured pictures of the painted glass upon the floor. Lottie, who -was not so sensible as she might have been, preferred this partial -light, notwithstanding the mystic charm of the darkness, which was -somewhat awful to look in upon through the open door of the choir. She -put her hand, a little tremulous, on the old Captain’s arm, and stood -and listened, feeling all her troubles calmed. What was it that thus -calmed her perturbed soul? She thought it was the awe of the place, the -spell of the darkness and the moonlight, the music that made it all -wonderful. The Signor was playing a strange piece of old music when the -two came in. It was an old litany, and Lottie thought as she listened -that she could hear an unseen choir in the far distance, high among the -grey pinnacles, on the edge of the clouds, intoning in intricate -delicate circles of harmony the responses. Was it the old monks? Was it -the angels? Who could tell? “Lottie,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5147" id="page_5147">{vol.-II-147}</a></span> my love, that is the <i>vox humana</i> -stop,” said the kind old Captain, who knew something about it; and as -he, too, was no wiser than other people, he began to whisper an -explanation to her of how it was. But Lottie cared nothing about stops. -She could hear the solemn singers of the past quiring far off at some -unseen altar, the softened distant sweetness of the reply. Her heart -rose up into the great floating circling atmosphere of song. She seemed -to get breath again, to get rest to her soul: a strange impulse came -over her. She, who was so shy, so uncertain of her power, so bitterly -unwilling to adopt the trade that was being forced upon her: it was all -that she could do to keep herself from singing, joining to those -mystical spiritual voices her own that was full of life and youth. Her -breast swelled, her lips came apart, her voice all but escaped from her, -soaring into that celestial distance. All at once the strain stopped, -and she with it, coming down to the Abbey nave again, where she stood in -the midst of the dim reflected rubies and amethysts and silvery whites -of a great painted window, giddy and leaning upon the old Chevalier.</p> - -<p>“It was the <i>vox humana</i>. It is too theatrical for my taste, my dear. It -was invented by——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, hush, hush!” cried Lottie, under her breath; “he is beginning -again.”</p> - -<p>This time it was the “Pastoral Symphony” the Signor played—music that -was never intended for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5148" id="page_5148">{vol.-II-148}</a></span> chill of winter, but for the gleaming stars, -the soft falling dews, the ineffable paleness and tenderness of spring. -It came upon Lottie like those same dews from heaven. She grasped the -old man’s arm, but she could not keep herself from the response which no -longer seemed to come back from any unseen and mystic shrine. Why should -the old monks come back to sing, or the angels have the trouble, who -have so much else to do, when Lottie was there? When the “Pastoral -Symphony” was over the Signor went on, and she with him. Surely there -must have been some secret understanding that no one knew of—not -themselves. He played on unconscious, and she lifted up her head to the -moonlight and her voice to heaven and sang—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There were shepherds watching their flocks by night.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">Lottie let go her hold of the Captain’s arm. She wanted no support now. -She wanted nothing but to go on, to tell all that divine story from end -to end. It got possession of her. She did not remember even the changes -of the voices; the end of one strain and another was nothing to her. She -sang through the whole of the songs that follow each other without a -pause or a falter. And like her, without questioning, without -hesitation, the Signor played on. It was not till she had proclaimed -into the gloom that “His yoke is easy and His burden light” that she -came to her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5149" id="page_5149">{vol.-II-149}</a></span>self. The last chords thrilled and vibrated through the -great arches and died away in lingering echoes in the vast gloom of the -roof. And then there was a pause.</p> - -<p>Lottie came to herself. She was not overwhelmed and exhausted by the -effort, as she had been at the Deanery. She felt herself come down, as -out of heaven, and slowly became aware of Captain Temple looking at her -with a disturbed countenance, and old Wykeham in all the agitation of -alarm. “If I’d have known I’d never have let you in. It’s as much as my -place is worth,” the old man was saying; and Captain Temple, very kindly -and fatherly, but troubled too, and by no means happy, gave her his arm -hurriedly. “I think we had better go, my dear,” he said; “I think we had -better go.”</p> - -<p>Some one stopped them at the door—some one who took her hand in his -with a warmth which enthusiasm permitted.</p> - -<p>“I knew it must be you, if it were not one of the angels,” he said; “one -or the other. I have just come; and what a welcome I have had—too good -for a king!”</p> - -<p>“I did not know you were here, Mr. Ridsdale,” said Lottie, faintly, -holding fast by Captain Temple’s arm.</p> - -<p>“But I knew you were here; it was in the air,” he said, half-whispering. -“Good-night; but good-night lasts only till to-morrow, thank heaven.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5150" id="page_5150">{vol.-II-150}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV" id="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">WHAT FOLLOWED.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Captain Temple</span> was not happy about the events of that evening. He had -begun to grow very fond of Lottie, and he was not pleased that she -should have “made an exhibition of herself.” He went over it so often to -his wife that Mrs. Temple learned the incident by heart. There was in -her mind, mingled with an intense silent interest in the girl who was -like her own, a feeling of repulsion too, equally intense and silent, -which joined with the opposite sentiment, and kept Lottie as constantly -present to her mind as she was in the Captain’s talk. And, though it -sometimes appeared to her that she would die of this girl, who reminded -her at every step that she had lost her child, yet she could not check -her husband’s ever-flowing, continually repeated talk on the subject. -Mrs. Temple thought this was all for his sake. Sometimes, in the -bitterness of her loss, she would cry out that she loathed the very name -of this other, who was so well and bright and full of life, while her -child was dead and gone; but, notwithstanding, Lottie had gradually come -to hold a large place in her life. How could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5151" id="page_5151">{vol.-II-151}</a></span> she help thinking of her? -Grudging her very life and brightness, repenting her grudge, praying -God’s blessing on the girl whom she thus injured, avoiding her, fearing -the sight of her, watching for her whom she feared; how could it be but -that Mrs. Temple, in her lonely hours, should think of Lottie? She was -the confidant now of the old Captain’s regret.</p> - -<p>“I thought she was a sweet, modest girl,” he said, shaking his head; -“shy, even—as I like a girl to be—very like—— My dear, I cannot bear -a girl to make an exhibition of herself——”</p> - -<p>“But if there was no one to see her, and if you were in the dark?”</p> - -<p>“That is true, my dear; but if they did not see her they heard her. Such -a voice! I wish you had been there—but that sort of public use of -it—and to have the confidence to sing when she was not asked!” Captain -Temple shook his head. He seemed to have done nothing but shake his head -since last night.</p> - -<p>“Do you think that the more she has a beautiful voice the less she -should let it be heard?” said his wife. “I am not so taken up with this -Miss Despard as you are; but still I think you are unjust to her.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps I am unjust to her. How can I help being taken up with her? If -you knew her as well you would be taken up with her too. And I wish you -did; it would be a comfort to you. In everything she does, her walk, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5152" id="page_5152">{vol.-II-152}</a></span>every little gesture, I see something that reminds me—— I know you -don’t like to speak of it, my dear.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Temple set her face like a rock while the old Captain talked on. He -did nothing but speak of it, and she would not stop him. Had she not -noticed the girl’s walk? When Lottie passed Mrs. Temple turned from the -window, feeling as if some one had given her a blow. Yet what had she -gone to the window for but to watch for Lottie? And she was more just to -her than was the old Captain, who could not bear any falling off in his -ideal, who thought that a girl should never make an exhibition of -herself, and did nothing for a week after but shake his head.</p> - -<p>The singing, however, made a great excitement in the Cloisters. It was -only a select few who had been there to hear; and they thought it was -all the Signor’s arrangement, who had provided for them so much greater -a pleasure than they expected—or, rather, an additional pleasure. “Who -was it?” everybody asked. Was it possible it could be little Rowley? But -it was inconceivable that a mere child like that could have taken the -contralto solo as well as the soprano. But was it certain that there was -only one voice? The darkness was deceptive, and all the circumstances -were so unusual, so out of the ordinary. When you came to think of it, -it could not be one voice. It must have been little Rowley and Mellor, -the big boy, whose<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5153" id="page_5153">{vol.-II-153}</a></span> contralto was famous. At that distance, and in the -dark, it was easy to deceive yourself and think there was only one -person singing. There was nothing talked about next morning but this -wonderful incident, and both the people who had been there and the -people who had not been there (who were piqued, and felt themselves -neglected, as a matter of course) discussed it with the utmost -excitement. Even before the hour of matins, old Pick, who was out upon -his master’s business and Mrs. Purcell’s errands, was twice interviewed -on the subject. The first time it was Rowley, the tenor, who assailed -him, whose boy was the first soprano, and whose rights were attacked. “I -should just like to know what the Signor is up to,” Rowley said. “He’s -always got some new fad or other in his head. He’ll have us all up next -into that organ-loft, like a set of Christy Minstrels. Hanged if I’ll -go!”</p> - -<p>“Anyhow, you’ll wait till you’re asked,” said old Pick.</p> - -<p>“I don’t advise him to ask <i>me</i>. And, look here! I want to know who it -was. If he’s bringing in somebody in the dark, on the sly, to put them -boys’ noses out!—you never can tell what a foreign fellow’s up to. I -don’t know a voice like that, not in the Abbey. If he’s smuggling in a -new boy, without no warning, to take the bread out of folks’ mouths, by -George, I won’t stand it! I’ll go to the Dean about it! Tomm<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5154" id="page_5154">{vol.-II-154}</a></span>y’s cried -hisself hoarse. He couldn’t eat his breakfast, poor little beggar! and -he’s got ‘Hear my prayer’ this morning. Hanged if I don’t think it’s all -a scheme against me and my boy! That ain’t a child’s voice. There’s a -touch of falsetto in it, if I know anything about music. It won’t last, -not a month. I’ve heard them come out like that, that you could hear -them a mile off, just before they break.”</p> - -<p>“Then you were there, Mr. Rowley?” said old Pick; “I thought there was -only the folks from the Deanery there.”</p> - -<p>“I wasn’t there. Catch me in the Abbey when I’m not wanted! I have -enough of it, practising and bothering from morning till night. The -Signor’s very good for the organ. I don’t say nothing against that; but -he don’t know much about Englishmen. You do no justice to your voice -when you never give yourself no rest; but he can’t understand that. I -heard it outside. Pick, there’s a good old fellow, you know what it is -yourself, and I’m sure we’re always glad to see you when you look in at -our little place. Tell us what’s up—who is it? Tommy will have to go in -time. I don’t say nothing against that. But he’s not twelve, poor little -beggar, and his voice is as clear as a bell. He’s fit to fret himself -into a fever if they take the first solos from him. Tell us what the -Signor’s up to, and who he’s got coming in? I say it’s a shame,” said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5155" id="page_5155">{vol.-II-155}</a></span> -the tenor, rising again into vehemence. “Them that is on the spot, and -belonging to the place, and bred up in the Abbey all their lives, hanged -if they should be turned out for strangers! I don’t see the fun of -that.”</p> - -<p>“If you’ve done, Mr. Rowley, I think I’ll go,” said Pick; upon which -Rowley swore under his breath that it wasn’t like an old friend to give -a fellow no answer, and that he didn’t know what he and Tommy had done -to offend the Signor. To this old Pick made no reply, being himself -extremely indignant not to know anything about the mystery in question. -He had heard of no new boy—“nor anything as is new,” Pick said to -himself with warmth as he hurried through the enclosure which belonged -to the lay clerks, where a great many people were at the doors and -windows, and the excitement was general. It was natural that Pick should -be indignant. So little as there ever was to hear or report within the -Precincts, to think something should have happened under his very nose, -in the Abbey, and he not know! The Signor was a good master, and the -place was comfortable; but there are things which no man can be expected -to stand. Even Mr. John had not said a word about any novelty. If he had -told his mother, then the housekeeper had been as treacherous as the -rest, and had not breathed a word to Pick. It was a thing that no man -could be expected to put up with. Here were two ladies now<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5156" id="page_5156">{vol.-II-156}</a></span> bearing down -upon him, full of curiosity—and that Pick should have to confess that -he didn’t know!</p> - -<p>“Oh, Pickering! you must know—who was it that was singing in the Abbey -last night? A very extraordinary thing for the Signor to countenance. He -did not ask <i>us</i>; he knew it would be of no use, for neither my husband -nor I approve of such proceedings; making the Abbey, our beautiful -Abbey, into a kind of music-hall! I hear it was a lady: the very worst -taste, and anything <i>so</i> unecclesiastical! Women don’t <i>exist</i> in the -Church—not as taking any part—but these are points which foreigners -never will understand,” said the lady, with a sigh.</p> - -<p>“It was odd having such a performance at all, for a few privileged -persons. I thought the Abbey, at least,” said the second lady, “was for -all.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t go, Pickering; you haven’t answered my question. If I were you, -being a man of experience, and having known the Abbey so long as you -have done, I would give a hint to your master. You should tell him -people here don’t like that sort of thing. It may do very well abroad, -or even in town, where there are all sorts; but it does not do in St. -Michael’s. You should tell him, especially as he is only half English, -to be more careful. Stop a little, Pickering! You have not answered my -question yet.”</p> - -<p>“Beg your pardon, ma’am, but you didn’t give me no time,” said Pick.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5157" id="page_5157">{vol.-II-157}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Do not be impertinent, Pickering. I asked you a plain question, and I -told you what I should do in your place. A man like you, that has been -so long about the Abbey, might be of great use to your master. You -should tell him that in England a lady is never suffered to open her -mouth in church. I never heard of anything so unecclesiastical. I wonder -the Dean does not interfere—a man of good Church principles as he is, -and with so much at stake. I really wonder the Dean does not interfere.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, the Dean!” said the other lady; “and as for Church principles——”</p> - -<p>But just then there was a tremble in the air with the first movement of -the matin bells, and, without compromising his dignity or showing his -ignorance, old Pick made good his escape. He went home in anything but -an amiable state of mind, and went straight to the kitchen, where Mrs. -Purcell was busy, as was natural at this time of the day, putting all in -order and arranging for the Signor’s dinner. The luncheon Mary Anne was -quite equal to, but some one was coming to dinner, for whom Mrs. Purcell -intended to exercise all her powers. Pick went in with a fierce glow of -indignant animation, with his roll of commissions fulfilled and -unfulfilled.</p> - -<p>“There’s no sweetbreads to be had,” he said, “till Saturday; they’ll -save you a pair on Saturday, if you send the order with the man when he -comes; but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5158" id="page_5158">{vol.-II-158}</a></span> they’ll be six-and-six, if you think that too dear. (Dear! I -should think it was dear. How much o’ that goes to the veal, I wonder, -and the man as fed it?) And as for game! you might as well go a-shooting -on the Slopes; and what there is bringing its weight in gold. I wouldn’t -give in, if I was you, to that fashion about grouse. It’s all a fashion. -Nobody ever thought of grouse in my young days, and coming after they’ve -eat everything as they can set their face to. What should they want with -it? I’ve brought you the lemons. Many a man wouldn’t be seen carrying a -bag o’ lemons all the way up the hill; and everything’s kep’ from me, -just because I’m too humble-minded, and don’t make no stand, nor mind -what I do.”</p> - -<p>“What’s been kep’ from you, Pick?” said Mrs. Purcell, pausing in her -work to look at him. Then she added, “There’s been a deal of talking in -the study. I’ve picked up a word or two about some woman, for they were -going on about She; and She—but whether it’s that Miss Despard, or who -it is, John’s never said a word to me.”</p> - -<p>“It don’t need a witch to tell that it’s a woman,” said Pick; but he was -relieved. “That fellow Rowley’s been at me, and one of the ladies round -the corner; but they both had so much to say that I got off, and neither -the one nor the other found out as I hadn’t a notion what they were -talking about,” the old man added, with a chuckle. “It’s some new voice, -as far<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5159" id="page_5159">{vol.-II-159}</a></span> as I can make out, as master has got hold of for the Abbey: and -quite right too. Tommy Rowley’s got a pretty little bit of a voice, and -he’s only twelve; but some voices goes sooner than others. The ladies -thought as it was a woman; but that’s impossible. They were quite in a -way. They said it was uneck—some thin’ or other—Dissenting-like, as I -took it up—and that the Signor ought to be ashamed of hisself——”</p> - -<p>“Master?” said Mrs. Purcell, opening her eyes wide; “but I hope you -didn’t stand there and hear them say any harm of the Signor?”</p> - -<p>“They told me as I was to give him good advice,” said Pick, still -chuckling; “but all the same, ma’am, I don’t think as Mr. John should -keep a thing from his mother. Where’s the young man as owes as much to -his mother as that young man owes to you?”</p> - -<p>“Not to me, to his own deservings; he’s been a lad that has done credit -to everyone as has been kind to him, Pick, and never forgets nobody as -has been kind to him; but he’s not the young man he was. He’s lost all -his smiles and his fun since he had that disappointment. I don’t wish -Miss Despard no harm, but I wish she had been a hundred miles from here, -and my John had never seen her. Young women have a great deal to answer -for,” said Mrs. Purcell, with a sigh.</p> - -<p>“Young women haven’t much to answer for, so far as I’m concerned; nor -master neither, so far as I can<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5160" id="page_5160">{vol.-II-160}</a></span> see,” said Pick, going off to his work -with a comfortable consciousness that, this being the case, it did not -matter so much about Mr. John.</p> - -<p>But, if the community was thus stirred in general, words cannot tell the -excitement that this strange incident created in the organ-loft. The -Signor told Purcell after, that he could not tell what it was that made -him go on when he had come to an end of the “Pastoral Symphony,” and -play “There were Shepherds.” He had not meant to do it. He had intended -to make the other the finale of his performance. There was such a -feeling of night in it, the Signor said, the grass growing in the dark, -and the stars shining, and the dew coming down. He meant to end there; -he knew Mr. Ridsdale was a modern man and an opera man, and did not care -so very much for Handel. Still he had meant to end with that; but when -it came to the last chords he was not his own master, and he went on. As -for Purcell, there was no need for anyone to tell him whose that voice -was. Though he was at the moment helping to “blow,” he nearly -compromised the whole performance by darting to the other side of the -organ-loft and gazing down into the darkness to see her. Happily the -other man who was there, the professional blower, was taken by no such -vagaries and kept on steadily. “And I saw her,” Purcell said, “standing -in the moonlight with all the colours of the rainbow about her, like the -nimbus round the heads in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5161" id="page_5161">{vol.-II-161}</a></span> Mr. Clayton’s new window.” The young fellow -was quite struck by this sight. He thought it must mean something: he -thought even she must be relenting towards himself, and had taken this -strange way of showing it. The Signor was greatly moved too, but he did -not take that view of the subject. He was a true artist himself, and he -knew that there are impulses which get the better of people who are of -this race. He patted his assistant on the arm, and told him not to build -on it. But what then could it mean? young Purcell said; and it was -difficult to answer. They both of them came down from their lofty -gallery afterwards in great excitement, and the Signor, confused, -received the enthusiastic thanks of his audience. “What a pleasure you -have given us!” they said; “you have been better than your word. What -exquisite playing, and what an exquisite voice! You don’t mean to say -that was a boy, Signor?”—They asked the question, but they all -believed, of course, that it was a boy. To think that little Rowley, -because it was dark and nobody saw him, should have been able to sing -like that! No one suspected the truth except Rollo Ridsdale, who came up -to the musician in the dark nave and gripped him by the arm, so that he -hurt the sensitive Italian-Englishman, whose nerves were all on the -surface. “Did you do it on purpose?” Rollo cried, excited too—“I shall -give up the opera and take to oratorios—did you do it on purpose?” “Did -<i>you</i> do it on<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5162" id="page_5162">{vol.-II-162}</a></span> purpose?” said the Signor, who up to this moment had -supposed in his excitement that Ridsdale’s coming must have had -something to do with it. But after that question, which Rollo did not -distinctly hear, the Signor changed his tone and hid his own -astonishment, and accepted the applauses addressed to him on the -admirable device by which he had given his hearers a double pleasure. -And Purcell and he went home with their heads full of a hundred -conjectures. Who had brought her in? how did she know of it even? Old -Wykeham had kept his own counsel—he did not know whether he might not -be supposed to have taken too much upon him had it been known; and, -though he heard the two musicians talking of this miracle, he threw no -light upon it, which he might have done so easily. Who could have told -her? who could have brought her in? Purcell could not but think that her -coming was a sign of relenting, that she was thus making a kind of -celestial intimation that all was not over. This raised him into a very -ecstasy of hope.</p> - -<p>The Signor had other thoughts. He thought of nothing else all night; the -sympathy and comprehension of an artist filling his mind and driving -away the almost dislike with which, after her rejection of his -<i>protégé</i>, he had been disposed to regard Lottie. Whatever might happen -to Purcell, here was something which had never happened to himself in -his life before. No doubt it had been a sudden impulse, like<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5163" id="page_5163">{vol.-II-163}</a></span> that which -had made her fly trembling and pale with excitement, from himself and -them all, in the drawing-room of the Deanery. This time the impulse had -been the other way, and she had obeyed it. He had subjugated her by -waiting her time, and, by what was much more pleasant to think of, the -spell of his music, which had gone to her heart. Let it not be supposed -that any sentiment about Lottie had begun to creep into the Signor’s -heart. Young women, as Pick said, had little to answer for as far as he -was concerned. He was all artist and not much else; but, with a glow -through his being which answered, let us suppose, to the high throb of -satisfaction which goes through persons who talk about their hearts, he -said to himself, “She shall not escape me this time!” He knew more of -Lottie than Rollo Ridsdale did. And he knew that he could make more of -her than Rollo could make of her. He could make of her much more than -was dreamed of in Rollo’s philosophy. He knew what she needed, and he -could give it to her. In his hands, the Signor thought, this simple -English girl might rise to the level of the Malibrans, of the Pastas. -There should be no one able to stand before her.</p> - -<p>It is to be feared he was thinking of this more than of the music as he -played through King in F, which was the service for that morning. And he -left Purcell to play the voluntary and stole out unobserved, though it -was indecorous, before the congregation had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5164" id="page_5164">{vol.-II-164}</a></span> dispersed. He threaded -through the dim aisles and the cloisters, before Wykeham had time to -call attention to him by hobbling after him with his jangling keys. He, -like Lottie, had resolved to give himself no time to think of it, to do -it at once. Ridsdale!—What a vain fool he was, talking about giving up -opera and taking to oratorios! What could he do with her, if he had got -her? His manager had rejected Lottie, and gone off after that voice at -Milan. What fools they all were! and what would be the advantage to -Ridsdale of having this voice untrained on his hands? What could he do -with her? but there was nothing she might not do under the guidance of -the Signor.</p> - -<p>It was still early when he reached the little house: Lottie had not -attempted to go out this morning to see the Signor, she was too much -shaken by her escapade of last night. How could she have done it? She, -who had loathed the idea of becoming a singer! She had made a singer of -herself by her own act and deed, and she felt the full meaning of what -she had done. She had got up early, unable in her excitement to sleep, -and tingling still with the consequences of this strange, -unpremeditated, unintended self-betrayal. What was it that had made her -do it? She had got her work, and she had placed herself near the -window—not so near as to be seen, yet near enough to be able to glance -out and see anyone who might be coming that way. There were things to be -done in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5165" id="page_5165">{vol.-II-165}</a></span> the house, domestic operations of more importance than the -needlework. But Lottie said to herself that they could wait—oh, they -could wait! In the meantime what was best was, that she should be ready -in case anyone called, ready to see anybody that might come over the -road across the sunshine, in the morning quiet. “Good night; but only -till to-morrow”—what was it that had conveyed to her the consciousness -that he was there? The Abbey had been dark—she had not been thinking of -him—certainly she had not known that he was looked for; and yet, what -but the sense that he was there would have made her do what she had -done? She had sung unwillingly, unwittingly, in spite of herself, -because he was there. It all seemed quite plain to Lottie. He it was -(she thought) who had first made her aware that this gift of hers was -anything worth thinking of; he it was who had first given her the -supreme pleasure of consciousness, who had shown to her the happiness -she could bestow. Her voice (as she thought), if after all it was really -worth anything, if it was the thing he thought it, the thing it sounded -like last night—belonged to him. It was his spiritually; he had -discovered it, and revealed it to herself. She had not been aware what -she was doing; but unconsciously it was to him she was singing, when her -voice escaped from her: it was a welcome to him—and he had accepted it -as his welcome. Lottie gave a glance from her window, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5166" id="page_5166">{vol.-II-166}</a></span> thought she -saw some one coming across the broad sunshine in the Dean’s Walk. Her -heart gave a louder beat—<i>he</i> was coming. She made no mystery now about -it; the preliminaries were all over. He came for her—who else? he had -never concealed it; he had come for her long ago. She could not tell how -long ago it was since he had first caught a glimpse of her at the -window. Always since then it had been for her that he came: content at -first to watch outside her window; then, with a lover’s ingenuity, -finding out ways of meeting her; then venturing, bold yet timid, always -reverential, to her home—and now at length what was coming? He was -coming. And she had withdrawn the veil from her heart, and seen and -acknowledged what was there. It was for him she sang: without knowing -it, her heart had been aware of his presence; and now he was coming. -Lottie drew back in the shade of the great leaves which garlanded her -window. The next moment he would be here——</p> - -<p>But it was only the Signor.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5167" id="page_5167">{vol.-II-167}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">THE FOOL’S PARADISE.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> Signor came in with some suppressed excitement about him, which he -concealed under an air of perfect calm, but which betrayed itself in the -gleam of his eyes and the rapidity of his movements. He saw in a moment -that he had bitterly disappointed Lottie, whose countenance changed as -she saw him—changed from glowing expectation to that sudden pallor and -sickness of departing hope which seems to carry all the life out of a -face. He saw it, and he understood; he had the quickness of perception -which belonged to his Italian origin, and he had, as we have said, a -great deal that was feminine in him—this among the rest, that he could -divine and read the meanings of a face. He saw at once what it was. She -had expected, not him, but another. The Signor was very sorry for -Lottie. He had been angry, almost spitefully angry, about her rejection -of his favourite pupil; but she had made her peace with him last night, -and all her offences had been condoned. He was very sorry for her. She -had been looking for Ridsdale, and Ridsdale had not come. The Signor -felt that he himself was a much safer and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5168" id="page_5168">{vol.-II-168}</a></span> better visitor for her; but, -all the same, he was sorry for Lottie. He bowed with a depth of respect, -which, indeed, he showed to all ladies. He was more of an Italian than -an Englishman in this point; he was always ceremonious and stately to -women, bowing to the ground, taking the hand offered to him -reverentially, as if he meant to kiss it. This ceremony gave Lottie a -little time to recover herself, and after all it was very early. The -voluntary was still sounding from the Abbey (how had the Signor got away -so soon?), and though <i>he</i> had not appeared yet, that was not to say -that he was not coming. She took her seat again, with the colour coming -back.</p> - -<p>“I do not know how to speak to you,” he said; “how to thank you for last -night——”</p> - -<p>“Oh! so long as you do not think me very presumptuous—very bold. -I—could not help it. It was the music that went to my head,” said -Lottie, very tremulous, giving a hasty glance at him and then turning -her head away.</p> - -<p>“It is just because the music goes to your head that I have such high -hopes—Miss Despard,” said the Signor; “let bygones be bygones, won’t -you? and let us be friends.”</p> - -<p>“We never quarrelled that I know of,” said Lottie, slightly alarmed; -and, for his part, the Signor was confused, thinking of Purcell, of -whose misadventure he had, of course, no right to know.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5169" id="page_5169">{vol.-II-169}</a></span></p> - -<p>“You were not pleased with me,” he said. “I did not worship your voice -as some people do. I told you plainly that you wanted instruction. So -you do still. Your voice is lovely, Miss Despard, and you have the soul -of an artist. You can forget yourself. Little singers never forget -themselves; they are always in the foreground, seeing their own -personality everywhere; but it is very different with you.”</p> - -<p>Lottie did not say anything in reply. She felt vaguely that he was -giving her praise, but she did not mind. Was that someone coming in -below? but it was only Captain Despard returning in after matins. The -Signor, always so quick, felt again the flutter in her, and knew what -her expectation was.</p> - -<p>“You were once very angry with me for making a—an application to you. -You thought I meant to be disrespectful? Ah, no. I could not fail of -respect to a lady, Miss Despard; but I saw in you what I see still more -clearly now.”</p> - -<p>“Signor!” said Lottie, rousing herself up to seize the opportunity, with -a bewildered feeling that it was right to do it, that if she did not do -it now, she never might; and, finally, that to do it might propitiate -fate and make it unnecessary to be done—“Signor—let me tell you first. -I went to the Abbey yesterday on purpose to see you, to say to you—— -ah, here is some one coming to interrupt us.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, there is some one coming to interrupt us,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5170" id="page_5170">{vol.-II-170}</a></span>” cried the Signor -almost bitterly; this time there could be no doubt who it was; “but -first, one word before he comes. You were coming to tell me that you -consented—that you would be my pupil?”</p> - -<p>She could scarcely pay any attention to him, he saw. What a thing to -think of, that a girl like this, a woman with genius, should let an -empty-headed coxcomb come between her and all that was worth caring for, -between her and Art! She gave him a confused, half-guilty look, which -seemed like a confession of weakness, and nodded only in reply. Nodded! -when a proposal was made to her such as the Muse might have made to her -chief favourite, when the gates of the Palace of Art were being rolled -open wide to admit her. In that moment, Lottie, all pre-occupied by the -advent of a mere man of fashion, in music not more than a charlatan, in -honour not much to brag of, gave her consent to the arrangement which -was to fashion her life by—a nod. Heaven and earth! what a -demonstration of female folly! Could the Signor be anything but vexed? -He could hardly restrain his impatience, as Rollo came in, all eager and -smiling, easy and cordial even to himself. The Signor, though he was as -innocent of sentiment as old Pick, looked like nothing in the world so -much as a scared, jealous, and despairing lover, watching, in spite of -himself, the entrance of the conquering hero, for whom all the songs -were sung and all the welcomes said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5171" id="page_5171">{vol.-II-171}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I might have known I should find Rossinetti here,” said Rollo, “as he -is an earlier bird than I am. Where could we all flock this morning but -here? You have been thanking Miss Despard for her divine singing last -night. My life, what singing it was! I have never heard anything like -it. Miss Despard, I have come to announce to you my conversion. I abjure -opera as I abjure the pope. Henceforward Handel is my creed—so long as -you are his interpreter,” he added, sinking his voice.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said the Signor. “Miss Despard will sing very well if she works; -but we are far yet from the highest excellence of which such a voice as -hers is capable. I will take my leave now. Perhaps you have a friend who -would bring you to my house? that would be the best. No doubt I could -come here; but if you will come to my house, my piano is a very good -one, and that would be the best. Don’t think it is anything to be -remarked; my pupils constantly do it. They bring a maid with them, or, -if it is needful, I send for Mrs.——, for my housekeeper. My young -ladies are most unflatteringly at their ease with me.”</p> - -<p>“You are going to take lessons?” Rollo asked quickly. “I congratulate -you, Rossinetti. My good fellow, you are a great genius, and I know very -little, but I never was so envious of you before. All the same you know -lessons are—teaching is—well, we must admit, not much more than a -pretence in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5172" id="page_5172">{vol.-II-172}</a></span> present case. The habit of singing, that is all Miss -Despard wants.”</p> - -<p>“You must pardon me that I don’t agree with you,” the Signor said, -somewhat stiffly. “Miss Despard does not want flattery from me. She will -get plenty of that by and by; but she does want teaching, <i>senza -complimenti</i>, and that she shall have if she will take it. It rests with -her whether or not she will take it. If she does take it as I would have -her do—then,” said the Signor, with a gleam in his eyes of suppressed -enthusiasm, “then I flatter myself——”</p> - -<p>Rollo was provoked. Though he was very sweet-tempered, he did not like -to be crowed over in this way, and his pleasant hyperbole flattened out; -besides, there is something in the presence of a young woman which makes -men, ever so slightly pitted against each other, pugnacious. He laughed. -“I see,” he said, “you won’t flatter Miss Despard, Rossinetti, but you -flatter yourself.”</p> - -<p>“I will send you word about hours,” said the Signor hastily. “I beg your -pardon, I did not quite catch your last observation. Good morning, Miss -Despard. To-morrow or after to-morrow I shall hope to begin.”</p> - -<p>“Good-bye, for the moment; we shall meet later,” said Rollo, with a -smile and a nod, turning to open the door for his—not rival certainly, -but competitor. He opened the door and closed it behind the Signor with -quite unnecessary attention, his face full of sup<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5173" id="page_5173">{vol.-II-173}</a></span>pressed laughter and -malicious satisfaction. Rollo felt that he remained master of the field. -He came back to where Lottie, agitated and happy, was sitting, rubbing -his hands with triumph. “The Signor is an excellent musician, but he is -a prig, Miss Despard, if you will permit the word; and now that we have -got rid of him,” said Rollo, dropping into that other seat beside her, -“let me say——”</p> - -<p>What did he say? Lottie remembered most of the words for years and -years. When she heard the sound of them again in other conversations, in -sentences that had no relation to her, from other people, and even -addressed to other people, she would hold her breath. Foolish girl! they -were well-worn words, such as perhaps every woman possessing such a -gift, or even a much smaller gift than Lottie’s, has heard to weariness; -but the most common approbation, which afterwards becomes the mere -accompaniment and petty murmur of existence, one time in one’s life is -divine—as he told her her voice was, as he let her infer she too was, -and everything about her. Lottie was not used to anything like flattery. -Even in the best of circumstances, fathers and brothers are seldom -enthusiastic; and kind Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, though she had given her -countenance to Rowley’s lessons, did not in the least conceal that she -was bored by them; and the tenor was a great deal too much occupied with -his own voice, and the compliments that had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5174" id="page_5174">{vol.-II-174}</a></span> been paid to him, to leave -him much time for complimenting his pupil. It was true that the Signor’s -wish to teach her was of itself the essence of flattery; but he never -had given her any credit for her singing, and always had seen the faults -of it. So that it was Rollo who had first revealed to her that heaven of -praise which is so doubly sweet to the neophyte when it is supposed to -be not her excellence, but his love, which inspires it. Lottie had no -defence against the enthusiasm, the admiration, the rhapsodies of her -companion. If they were excessive, that was not because he was failing -in truth, but only abounding in love. So she thought. The very -atmosphere around her turned into happiness. Her eyes were dazzled with -it. She could not look at him nor lift her face except in momentary -sudden glances, so much was the air full of this suffused, subdued, but -penetrating glory. And, strangely enough, though he did not feel half so -much as she supposed him to feel, Rollo himself was moved by this -something in the air which rayed out from her exquisite dawn of bliss -and of love. He said naturally a great deal more than he intended—and, -what was more wonderful, he felt a great deal more than he could have -supposed possible—and without the least purpose or thought, dropped -moment by moment deeper and deeper into that curious kind of rapture -which is tolerably expressed by the phrase, falling in love. Reason had -nothing to do with it,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5175" id="page_5175">{vol.-II-175}</a></span> nor intention; and he had not come here driven -by a passion which was more strong than he was, as Lottie thought. But, -nevertheless, whether it was the magnetic influence of that sentiment in -her which he had called forth without knowing it, and which now touched -him with sympathetic life: or the more commonplace result of her beauty, -and of their close propinquity, and her loneliness, and the generous -impulse of protection and kindness that was in him: certain it is that -all Lottie’s ideas of him realised themselves in the young man’s mind in -the most miraculous way. He had always been, all his friends knew, -ridiculously sympathetic all his life. Never before had it taken this -precise form; but then, never before had Rollo met with the same -combination of circumstances. He had flirted with a great many people, -and foolish girls, who were not prudent enough to remember his younger -brotherhood and impecunious position, had liked his company and been -very willing to roam along the first beginnings of the primrose path by -his side; but nothing more than the lightest exchanges of sentiment had -ever come to pass. And then he had believed of several women that they -were “making a set” at him, and desiring to “catch” him. No degree of -younger brotherhood, no amount of impecuniosity, will prevent a man from -thinking that some woman or other is trying to “catch” him; but never in -all his life had Rollo come across a creature like Lottie, simply, -solemnly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5176" id="page_5176">{vol.-II-176}</a></span> gratefully convinced that he was in love with her. Lottie had -not been in love with him when she thought she found this out. But her -certainty as to <i>his</i> sentiments had been absolute. And now this -certainty was realising itself. It was a very different thing from the -love which points directly and, as a matter of course, to the natural -conclusion. He thought of nothing of the kind. He did not choose her out -of all the world, as Lottie thought. But it came to very much the same -thing as they sat together, talking about everything, dropping into -mutual confidences, wasting the sweet autumnal morning. Lottie knew that -all her domestic businesses were waiting for her, but did not care. And -Rollo knew that, if he were questioned as to where he had been, he would -have to invent an explanation other than the true one. But what did this -matter? They sat and talked, forgetting even music, which was the one -thing hitherto which had occupied them when together. He did not ask her -to sing to him, which was a thing which made Lottie very happy, -notwithstanding that it was his admiration of her voice only which had -made her recognise and be glad of that possession. She had sung for him -gladly, but now she was more pleased not to be asked to sing. What did -they want with music? It would be hard to describe how well they came to -know each other during that long morning’s talk. He told her about -himself, and she told him about herself, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5177" id="page_5177">{vol.-II-177}</a></span> thus they skimmed over -very dangerous ground as to the beginning of their own acquaintance. -Lottie, with a girl’s shrinking from premature avowal, hurried over that -point lest he might perhaps tell her how he had seen her, and dreamed of -her, long before he dared claim acquaintance. Poor Lottie! but for that -fond delusion she might have heard the real cause of his first eagerness -to make her acquaintance, and been disenchanted. But what would it have -mattered? By this time, things had gone too far to make it an advantage -to her now to be undeceived.</p> - -<p>This was the beginning of the time which was the crown and flower of -life to Lottie Despard. Deceived, and yet not deceived; creating really -the sentiment which she believed in, yet not as she believed it: she -herself all simple and trustful, impassioned in everything she -undertook, then and there, to the last fibre of her being, gave her -heart to Rollo Ridsdale—loved him, believing herself as fully justified -as ever woman was, by the possession of his love, to bestow her own; and -bestowing it purely, freely, without doubt or <i>arrière pensée</i>. His rank -and the pleasure of thinking that some one out of the world above her, -the world which she aspired to, and felt herself to belong to, was -seeking her, had dazzled Lottie at the first;—but by this time it did -not matter to her who or what Rollo was. Sometimes even, she thought -that she would prefer him to be more on her own level: then<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5178" id="page_5178">{vol.-II-178}</a></span> stopped and -reproved herself proudly for wanting to take anything from him who -deserved everything. His position as a patrician, his supposed wealth -(how was Lottie to know that such a man, possessing everything, could be -just as poor, and perhaps not much more honourable in respect to debt -and such matters, than her father?), the grace and nobleness of all his -surroundings, were part of his nature, she thought in her simplicity. To -shut him up in small rooms, confine him to the limited horizon of common -life, and its poor little routine of duties, would be to take something -from Rollo; and she did not want to take anything from him, rather to -add any honour and glory that might be wanting. She did not know how -long or how short a time they had been together on that wonderful -morning before they first began to talk (as Lottie said) like friends. -It lasted no more than a moment, and yet it was a new life all luminous -and great, throwing the twenty years of the other life which had -preceded it, entirely into shade. She had to stand still to steady -herself and accustom her eyes to the ordinary atmosphere when he went -away. Everything was changed. Her head went round. She did not know how -to go downstairs (too late, much too late!) and look after the household -matters which she had postponed; and when she did go to them, went -hazily like one in a dream. What a change had come upon life! Yesterday, -even Rollo was no more<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5179" id="page_5179">{vol.-II-179}</a></span> than a distant vision of possibilities to her; -now she seemed to know him thoroughly, to know all about him; to feel -that she could tell him whatever might happen, that it would be natural -to confide everything to him—everything! her heart threw wide open its -doors. She did not think even that he might wonder to find himself so -entirely received into her life. Lottie had none of the experience which -the most ordinary encounter with the world, which even ballroom tattle -and the foolish commerce of flirtations give. She came to this first -chapter, all innocent and original in heart and thought, with the -frankness as well as the timidity of a nature unalarmed and (in this -kind) knowing no evil. Love was to her an angel, the first of the -angels—inspiring awe, but no terror. She went to her work feeling as if -she walked to some noble strain of music. Nothing could irritate her, -nothing put her out.</p> - -<p>That evening Lottie went out upon the Slopes in the dusk to breathe the -evening air and give herself that fresher, sweeter medium for her -dreams. Law was out, the Captain was out as usual; and the little house -was very still with only Mary in the kitchen (for most of her time -hanging about the back entrance looking for the baker), and Lottie -upstairs. Somehow to-night Lottie did not wait for Captain Temple, who -had constituted himself her escort, but as soon as it began to be really -evening stole out by herself and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5180" id="page_5180">{vol.-II-180}</a></span> made her way quickly up the Dean’s -Walk, not anxious to join anyone. She wanted to be alone for her -thoughts. It was not that the slightest idea of meeting Rollo entered -into her mind—how should it? The dinners at the Deanery were not like -the afternoon meal in the Chevaliers’ lodges, out of which all the -inhabitants streamed as soon as that was over, to get the good of the -summer night. Summer—for, though it was beginning to be autumn, it was -still summer—warm, soft, delicious evenings with so much dusk in them, -and misty sweetness. Lottie wanted nothing at that moment of dreamy -happiness but silence and her own thoughts; more, however, was in store -for her. The Deanery dinner was a family dinner that evening, and while -the Dean read the evening paper, and Lady Caroline put up her feet on -the sofa, what was a young man to do? He said he would go over to the -Signor’s and talk music and smoke a cigar; and the elder people, though -they were fond of Rollo, were not sorry to be rid of him. He wanted, -perhaps, to enjoy his triumph over the Signor, or to find out what his -plans were and expectations of Lottie’s voice; or, perhaps, only he -wanted a little variety, feeling the company of his venerated relations -too much pleasure. But, though he was not so full of dreams as Lottie, -something of the same charmed mood was in his mind. And when caprice -made him take the turn up to the Slopes also, instead of going the other -way through the Cloisters<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5181" id="page_5181">{vol.-II-181}</a></span> to the musician’s house—and when the two -caught sight of each other, they both started with genuine surprise, and -there was on Lottie’s side even a little alarm. She was too shy to beg -him in so many words to go away, but it was only the want of courage -which kept her from saying so. It was too much; it did not seem right to -meet him again; but then Lottie reflected that to the merest -acquaintance she was bound to be polite. Mr. Ridsdale had the same -thought. He was unfeignedly delighted to see her, finding this way of -escape from all possibility of dulness much more complete than he -thought; but yet he felt that perhaps a second encounter so soon, and in -a place open to all eyes, might be dangerous; notwithstanding, what -could a man do? He was bound to be civil. He could not run away from a -lady when he met her, simply because he admired her—a reason, on the -contrary, to keep him by her side. So they took a stroll together, this -way and that way, from one end to the other: it was not a very long way. -He told her that he was going to the Signor’s, and she accepted the -explanation very demurely, notwithstanding the fact that the Signor -lived on the lower side of the Deanery and this was on the upper side; -and she told him that she had only just come out, having missed Captain -Temple, who would appear presently:—“He is my usual companion—he is -very old, the oldest of all the Chevaliers—and he is very, very kind to -me.” Each accepted what the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5182" id="page_5182">{vol.-II-182}</a></span> other thus said with a kind of solemnity; -and they made two turns up and down, stopping now and then to look out -upon the plain so broad and blue, with the soft autumn mists hanging on -the horizon. “Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,” Rollo said; and -they stood still and gazed, following the river in its silvery windings, -and silent as if their minds were absorbed in these atmospheric -influences and that dusky bridal of the earth and sky. When Captain -Temple came up Rollo asked to be introduced to him, and was very civil. -“Miss Despard has been waiting for you, and I have kept her company,” he -said, so that the old Captain thanked him civilly, if a little stiffly; -and then the two turned their backs upon each other, Rollo hastening -down to the Cloisters to keep, as he said, his appointment, and Lottie -turning away without so much as a parting glance, without shaking hands. -Captain Temple, alarmed at first, took heart, and thought it was nothing -but politeness when he saw how they parted. “You were quite right, my -dear, quite right to wait, and I am much obliged to Mr. Ridsdale; I -cannot think how I missed you.” Lottie did not make a direct reply, but -compelled herself to talk, and very demurely, with much praise of the -lovely night, went with him home.</p> - -<p>If Captain Temple had but known! And after this how many meetings there -were, so happily accidental, so easily explainable, and yet requiring no -such ex<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5183" id="page_5183">{vol.-II-183}</a></span>planation! How well they began to know each other’s habits and -each other’s likings; and how sweet were all the dewy misty paths in -that fool’s paradise! or on the Slopes, if you prefer it; it does not -matter much about a name.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5184" id="page_5184">{vol.-II-184}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXVII.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">A TERRIBLE INTERRUPTION.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">While</span> the time went on in this dream for Lottie it did not stand still -with the rest of the world. Her absorption in her own affairs, which for -the moment had become complete, and withdrew her thoughts from much that -had previously occupied them, was very agreeable to her father and -brother. Lottie had exercised no control that she was aware of upon her -father; but now that her keen eyes were veiled with dreams, and her mind -abstracted from what was going on round her, it is inconceivable how -much more free and at his ease the Captain felt. He had a jauntier air -than ever, when he walked down into the town after he was released from -matins; and he came in later at night. Captain Despard’s doings at this -time were much talked of in the lodges. He had never been approved by -his brother Chevaliers. The old gentlemen felt that this younger man, -with his jauntiness and his love of pleasure, was no credit to them; and -if the gossip was true about his intentions, some of them thought that -something ought to be done. The ladies were still more indignant. They -were threatened in their dignity<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5185" id="page_5185">{vol.-II-185}</a></span> more than their husbands were. An -officer was an officer, whatever happened; but if this man, who was in -himself so objectionable, should bring in a dressmaker girl among them, -it was the Chevaliers’ wives who would be the sufferers. The gentlemen -thought vaguely that something should be done; but the ladies were for -carrying it to Parliament, or to the Queen herself. Was there not some -old statute forbidding a Chevalier to marry? If there was not, there -ought to be, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy said, with a twinkle in her eye. There -was nobody, indeed, so much aggrieved as Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, who lived -next door, and was already intimate with the family; and though there -were times when she made a joke of it, there were also times when she -was ready to go to the Queen on the subject.</p> - -<p>“If there isn’t a law there ought to be one!” Mrs. O’Shaughnessy -declared. “What do they want with wives at their age, if they haven’t -got ’em already? D’ye think I’d like to hear of me Major with a second, -and me not cold in my grave?”</p> - -<p>It was suggested that the Chevaliers should “speak to” this dangerous -member of their corporation; but the old gentlemen, it was found, did -not care to undertake this. Who would do it? There was not one of them -who could use the privilege of friendship with this flighty, dissipated -fellow, who was young at fifty to the other veterans; and they had not -the same con<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5186" id="page_5186">{vol.-II-186}</a></span>fidence in the efficacy of “speaking to” a culprit which -the ladies had.</p> - -<p>So the little world within the Precincts looked on in great -perturbation, sorry for Lottie, but still more sorry for themselves, -whose credit was threatened by this danger. And jauntier and jauntier -grew the Captain. He wore his hat more and more over his left ear—he -got a new tie, louder and brighter than any that had ever been seen in -the Precincts. His new suit was of a larger stripe. Altogether, things -were ripening for some new event. Something was going to happen; -everybody felt it, in the air, in the heaviness of the autumn weather. -Lottie’s proceedings, which might otherwise have given much anxiety to -the community, were veiled by the interest attaching to her father’s; -which, indeed, was well for Lottie, who was not at all times quite aware -what she was doing, or where her steps were tending, as she walked and -wandered—not in her sleep, but in her dreams.</p> - -<p>There was another who took advantage of Lottie’s abstraction, and that -was Law. He had begun by going quite regularly to Mr. Ashford, -“reading,” as it was called, with the Minor Canon, whom he liked, and -who was kind to him, and sharing the instructions which were being given -to young Uxbridge, the son of the Canon. For a little while there had -been gloom and consternation in this young man’s home because of Law. He -was not a companion for her boy, Mrs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5187" id="page_5187">{vol.-II-187}</a></span> Uxbridge thought; but when this -was suggested to the Minor Canon he smiled so grimly, and answered with -such uncompromising brutality, that, of course, he could have no -possible objections to young Mr. Uxbridge’s removal, that the mother -nearly fainted, and Mr. Uxbridge himself, a large and stately person, -had to stammer forth an apology. There was a dangerous gleam in -Ashford’s eye, enough to appal the Chapter, notwithstanding his -inferiority to them, and there was nothing for it but to let him have -his way. And for a week or two Law was exemplary—he allowed that for -the first time in his life he could feel he was getting on; he became -what he called “thick” with Uxbridge, who took him out boating and -cricketing; and so far all went well. But when Lottie’s vigilance all at -once relaxed—when she began to steal out herself, and come in with her -eyes all dazzled and dreamy, often not knowing when she was spoken to, -taking so much less heed than usual of other people’s proceedings, Law’s -industry began to flag. Sometimes he “shirked” altogether; very often he -never looked at his books, except under Mr. Ashford’s eye. He made -Uxbridge idle too, who was but too much disposed to take a bad example. -Uxbridge had a boat of his own, and they went on the river for days -together. Sometimes a cricket match ended in a dinner, to which Law -would be invited with his friend. He got into better company, but it is -doubtful whether this was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5188" id="page_5188">{vol.-II-188}</a></span> much to the advantage of his morals, and it -certainly was not at all to the advantage of his studies. The Minor -Canon remonstrated, and Lottie would now and then wake up and make an -appeal to him.</p> - -<p>“Are you working, Law? I hope you are working. Does Mr. Ashford think -you are getting on?” she would say. But these were not like the -energetic protests of old. And when Law answered that he was getting on -pretty well, but that old Ashford didn’t say much—it wasn’t his -way—Lottie accepted the reply, and asked no more questions. And Law -accordingly took “his fling,” being left free on all sides. Why -shouldn’t he take his fling? The others were doing it—even Lottie; did -she think he was blind not to see how often that fellow Ridsdale was -spooning about, and how many more walks she took than she used to? -Captain Temple got tired of coming for her. Very often she had gone -before he came—and would run back breathless, and so sorry to have -missed him. What did all that mean if not that Lottie was taking her -fling too? And his father—Captain Despard—was speeding very quickly -towards such a thing as would startle the whole town, not to speak of -the Abbey. It would be hard if Law were the only one to have his nose -kept to the grindstone; and this, we may be sure, was the last thing he -meant to allow.</p> - -<p>As for Lottie, she carried on the business of her life in a way. The -house did not suffer—the dinner<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5189" id="page_5189">{vol.-II-189}</a></span> was always punctual, and the stockings -mended, notwithstanding dreams. She found time, indeed, for more actual -occupation than before. She went to the Signor’s—Mrs. O’Shaughnessy -generally, but sometimes Captain Temple, going with her when she went -for her lessons—and she went to the Abbey more frequently than she had -been used to do. These lessons were moments of excitement for the -Signor’s household. When it was the old Captain who had accompanied Miss -Despard, Mrs. Purcell was had in from her room, where she sat expectant -among her jam cupboards; and profound was her interest. She sat near the -door hemming some dusters, while the lesson went on; but sometimes would -drop her work and cross her hands, and raise her eyes to the dusky -heaven of the ceiling.</p> - -<p>“Dear, bless me!” said the housekeeper, “that was a note!” for she had -learned a little about music after all her experiences. Her son rarely -made his appearance at all; he would loiter about the passage and catch -a glimpse of Lottie as she went in or out, and sometimes he would come -in suddenly very red and agitated, to turn over the music or look for -some song that was wanted. Lottie was very anxious always to be friendly -to him; but though these lessons seemed to poor young Purcell the things -which chiefly made life desirable, yet he was not sufficiently at his -ease to make any reply to her greeting, except by a deeper blush and an -embarrassed bow. And very often—so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5190" id="page_5190">{vol.-II-190}</a></span> often that the Signor had almost -wound himself up to the point of remonstrating, and old Pick had been -charged to say that his master was engaged, and that no one could -enter—Rollo Ridsdale would stray in by accident and form one of the -party. It was very strange that, though old Pick had orders so precise, -yet Rollo somehow always got in. How was it?</p> - -<p>“I don’t know myself,” old Pick would say, with a grin; “he’s the -perseveringest gentleman I ever see—and awful fond of music. It must -cost him a deal,” Pickering said.</p> - -<p>Rollo strolled in sometimes at the beginning, before due precautions had -been taken, sometimes near the end, when they were relaxed. He made -himself very agreeable. As for Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, she was his slave, -and she was quite persuaded by this time that she herself was nearly -connected with the Courtland family, and that Rollo’s uncle—or was it a -cousin?—had been not only the Major’s but her own dearest friend. -Captain Temple, when he was the chaperon, was more suspicious; but, -notwithstanding his objection to young men, and especially to -Honourables, in connection with young women, Rollo ended by making the -old Chevalier his friend. He had the gift of disarming prejudice—being -kind himself by nature, and of a friendly disposition, such as makes -friends. And Rollo was very careful under the eyes of all these keen -observers. He confined himself to music. He looked<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5191" id="page_5191">{vol.-II-191}</a></span> unutterable things; -but he did not speak the applause, that was implied in his looks. He -said only, “I must not say anything, Miss Despard—I dare not, for -Rossinetti; but I think the more.”</p> - -<p>Lottie did not want him to applaud her. It was enough for her that he -heard her; but it was only when he was there that she did herself full -justice. And it is not to be supposed that the Signor was ignorant of -the changed tone in her voice which showed when he appeared. It was too -great a vexation to him to be ignored. Art, pure art, was not as yet, if -it ever would be, the spring of Lottie’s life. It was “that fellow.” Her -voice grew softer and more exquisite, full of pathos and meaning—her -notes more liquid and sweet. If the Signor had been Rollo’s rival in -reality he could scarcely have been more annoyed—he whose aspiration -was to make a true artist of this creature, to whom heaven had given so -glorious a medium of expression, but who as yet knew nothing about art.</p> - -<p>Thus September stole away. Never before had Ridsdale been so long at the -Deanery. He gave sometimes one reason and sometimes another for his -delay. It was very convenient for him, as the place was central, and he -was often obliged to run up to town to see after business connected with -the Opera. His company meant to open their house in spring; and the -manager being in Italy, there was a great deal to do<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5192" id="page_5192">{vol.-II-192}</a></span> which fell upon -Rollo. He had invitations without number, but he neglected them all. So -long as his aunt would have him there was no place so convenient for him -as the Deanery. And Lady Caroline was very willing to have him. She had -always been kind to him. If her feelings had been strong enough to -justify anyone in considering himself her favourite, then Rollo might -have done so. She had always been kind; and a habit of kindness is as -good as any other habit, and is the best pledge of continuance. And she -liked in a way to have him there. He never gave her any trouble—now and -then he succeeded in something that was very like amusing her. And he no -longer demanded of her that she should invite Miss Despard daily, or -trouble herself with the other people who sang. Two or three times only -during the month did he ask for an invitation for the girl in whose -voice he was so much interested. And he was very domestic—triumphantly -disproving all the stories that had been told of him. He never cared to -dine anywhere but at home while he was at the Deanery—he did not care -for company. He was a very nice companion for the Dean at dinner, and -after dinner he would stroll out and smoke a cigar. If he gave trouble -at Courtland it was only, Lady Caroline thought with gentle complacency, -because they did not know how to manage him; for anyone more happy to be -quiet she never saw. And thus September passed; the partridges did<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5193" id="page_5193">{vol.-II-193}</a></span> not -tempt him away, any more than the grouse had done. He did not care, he -declared, about sport of any kind. Music and books, and his stroll of an -evening on the Slopes to smoke his cigar—these were all the virtuous -amusements Rollo desired—with these he was as happy as the day was -long. And in October, Augusta, coming home from her bridal tour, was to -visit her mother, and there would be a little society once more at the -Deanery. It came to be understood that Rollo would stay for this. It -would be something to make amends to him for the quiet of the past.</p> - -<p>October began: it was a beautiful autumn; the trees on the Slopes were -all red and yellow, like painted trees, and the face of the country -brilliant with sunshine. Everything was smooth and fair without and -within, so far as appearances went; and, had there been no results to -follow, little exception could have been taken to the proceedings of the -persons concerned in this history, who were each and all following their -own pleasure and doing what seemed good in their own eyes. The Captain -was perhaps the most safe and most virtuous of the whole, seeing that -there was no reason why he should not marry Polly if he desired very -much to do so, except that it would make his children uncomfortable and -disturb the equanimity of his brother Chevaliers and their belongings. -But he was in no way bound to consider the dignity of his brethren in -the order, neither was he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5194" id="page_5194">{vol.-II-194}</a></span> required by any law to sacrifice his own -comfort for that of his son and daughter—both of them quite capable of -taking thought for themselves. He may, therefore, be left out of the -question; for, whether for good or evil, he was doing nothing more than -he had a right to do. But in the case of the others: how pleasant would -this episode of life have been had there been no consequences to follow! -It was a most charming episode in the experience of Rollo Ridsdale. He -was not a vicious man, but yet he had never been so virtuous, so free of -evil, in all his consciousness before—his chief companion a perfectly -pure-minded girl, his chief occupation to explore and study her fresh -young heart and imagination, and vigorous intelligent nature. If only it -could all go on to some as perfect conclusion, there could be no doubt -that it was good for the speculative man of fashion. It restored him, -body and soul,—regular hours, quiet, all the most luxurious comforts of -life, and the delight and exhilaration of a romance to amuse the mental -and sentimental side of him. The cleverest doctor that ever existed -could not have recommended a more admirably curative process—if only -there had been no responsibilities involved and nothing painful to -follow. And Law—if Law had only had the prospect of a small estate, a -small inheritance at the end, enough to live on, what a perfectly -pleasant “time” he was having! He was doing no harm, only boating, -cricketing, be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5195" id="page_5195">{vol.-II-195}</a></span>ginning now as the season went on to think of -football—none of them wicked pursuits: if only there had been no -examinations to think of, no work of life to prepare for. Lottie was the -least to blame of the three; the consequences did not trouble her. She -might perhaps be allowing herself to be absorbed too much by the new and -wonderful influence which had taken possession of her: the <i>vita nuova</i> -might have become too entirely the law of her being; but well or ill she -still did her duty, and her realisation of the result was perfectly -simple. What but one thing could all this lead to? No doubt invaded -Lottie’s inexperienced mind; how could she doubt that Rollo loved her? -What proof was wanting that man could give? They had not yet spoken of -that love, though they had several times approached to the very verge of -an explanation, from which generally it was she who shrank with a shy -prolonging of that delicious uncertainty which was no uncertainty at -all. How could Lottie have any doubt? It was not necessary even for her -to say to herself that he was good and true. True!—she no more thought -of falsehood than Eve had thought of the serpent before he hissed his -first question into her ear. She did not understand what lying meant, -practical lying of this kind. She let the sweet current sweep her on -with many a heart-beat; but why should she be distrustful of it? What -could love lead to but happiness? Lottie could not think of anything -more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5196" id="page_5196">{vol.-II-196}</a></span></p> - -<p>And thus the time went on. Augusta Huntington (Mrs. Daventry) was coming -home with her husband in a day or two; and though Lottie thought she -would be glad to see her old friend, she had a little secret fear of -anything now happening. All was very well as it was. To meet Rollo -accidentally as he smoked his cigar on the Slopes would not be so easy -if his cousin were at the Deanery. He would not be able to get out so -easily, and probably she would find a great many new ways of employing -him which would take him out of Lottie’s way. She did not like to look -forward to it; and after Augusta’s visit Rollo too would go away. It -would be almost winter, and he could not stop any longer. All the -shooting and the deerstalking and the round of visits to great people, -on which he ought to be going, he had given up for her. What could the -reason be but for her? The thought that this moment of happiness was -approaching an end, was sad to Lottie, even though it should, as was -natural, be followed by greater happiness still. How her dull life had -flowered and blossomed out, made beautiful by the thought that he was -near her, this man who loved her—who had loved her long before she had -loved him, but whom now she too—! He was near, she remembered every -morning when she woke; some time in the day she would be sure to see -him—nay, half a dozen times in the day, if only strolling down the -Dean’s Walk looking at her window,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5197" id="page_5197">{vol.-II-197}</a></span> and in the Abbey, and perhaps, while -she took her lesson, listening to her with soft eyes; perhaps walking -home with her; perhaps just turning round that old elm-tree on the -Slopes as she came out for her evening walk; always looking for her so -eagerly, seeking her, with a hundred little tender cares, and something -in his eyes which was more than all. Could it be possible to be happier -than now? She was keeping off the <i>éclaircissement</i> with delicious shy -malice, running away from it, prolonging a little longer, and a little -longer, this happy uncertainty. Some time, however, it must come, and -then no doubt she would be more happy—though not with such happiness as -this.</p> - -<p>On one of those lovely russet-coloured afternoons, full of haze made -golden by the sunshine, already turning to the west, Lottie, walking up -St. Michael’s Hill, towards the Abbey, had seen a fly driving along the -street which had caught her eye as she passed. She knew it very well; it -was Jobling’s fly—a nice respectable clean cab, looking for all the -world like a shabby well-dressed man in a frock coat and high hat. There -are many shabby respectable well-preserved things which resemble each -other. The reason why this neat and clean vehicle caught her eye was -that the man who was driving it wore a white wedding-favour, which is a -thing which no person of twenty can see without remark. Lottie, like -others of her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5198" id="page_5198">{vol.-II-198}</a></span> age, was half amused, half interested, and could not help -wondering who it was. It was going to the railway, and some one looked -out hastily as Lottie passed, looking at her, the girl thought, -withdrawing as hastily again when she was seen to turn her eyes that -way. Who could it be? Lottie thought she would ask Law, who knew all the -news, who had been married; but she had forgotten all about it long -before she saw Law. She had too many things to think of and to do, to -remember so small a matter as that; and Law did not come in till late. -When he did come they took their simple supper together amicably, not -saying much; but she forgot the question. Now that Lottie did not bully -him they were very good friends. They said a few friendly words to each -other, and that was all, and then they bade each other good night. They -were all alone, the Captain having left home for a few days, and had a -very good opportunity for talk. But Lottie did not seize the opportunity -to put disagreeable questions. She was altogether so much more amicable -than she had been used to be.</p> - -<p>Three days after, Captain Despard was to come home. It did not disturb -Lottie that Captain Temple questioned her very closely as to where her -father had gone. “Was he alone, do you know?” the old man said. “Alone? -Oh, yes, I suppose so,” said Lottie. What did it matter? She could see -Rollo behind the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5199" id="page_5199">{vol.-II-199}</a></span> old beech-tree. Of course it was a drawback that the -Captain should be with her so often, but it pleased the kind old man; -they met and they had their little talk, which perhaps was all the more -unlike the common intercourse of earth that worlds of meaning had to be -trusted to a tone, to a sudden meeting in the dusk (when you could see -nobody, Captain Temple said) of two pairs of eyes: and when all is -unutterable is not this as good a way of utterance as any? And then -Lottie said she must go home. Papa was coming home. He had been gone -three days. As they went back the old Captain was more and more kind to -Lottie. He kept her at the door for a moment with her hand between his -two old kind hands. “My dear, don’t be afraid to send for me or to come -to me when you want anything—my wife and I will always be ready to be -of use to you. You will not forget, Lottie?” “Oh, no, Captain Temple,” -she said; “you are always so kind to me; how could I forget?” And she -went in smiling to herself, wondering what he could think she would -want. But he was always kind, as kind as a father; far, far kinder than -her own father, she could not but remember, with a little shrug of her -shoulders. Had papa come in? Mary said “No,” and Lottie went into the -little dining-room to see that the supper was prettily arranged. There -was nothing more than cold meat, and cheese, and bread and butter; but -the bouquet in the middle, which was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5200" id="page_5200">{vol.-II-200}</a></span> made up of brilliantly-coloured -leaves, was pretty; and the white tablecloth and the plates and glasses -looked bright. In her happiness she began to sing softly as she pulled -the leaves into a prettier form in the long clear glass they were -grouped in. The lamp was lighted, the table was bright, the door stood -open. Lottie, through her singing, heard steps coming up the pavement -outside, and voices. All of a sudden she paused, thinking she heard her -father’s voice. Who could he be bringing with him, without any -preparation? She cast a hasty glance at the beef, and saw with -satisfaction that there would be enough for a stranger; enough, but not -perhaps too much—he might have let her know. Then she heard his voice -quite close to the window, which was open, for the night was warm for -October—“Look in, and you will see her,” he said. “Oh, I know her very -well,” said another voice, with a laugh. Lottie turned round, with her -heart beating, towards the window, where something white was visible. -What could it mean?—was it a woman?—<i>a woman</i> with her father at this -hour of the evening? She grew pale, she could not tell why, and gazed -first at the window, then at the door, with a flutter of tears which she -could not understand. How foolish it was! “Come in—this way—don’t be -afraid! The passage is narrow and the house is small, but there is -plenty of room for happiness when once you are in it,” said her -fathe<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5201" id="page_5201">{vol.-II-201}</a></span>r’s voice in the doorway, coming through the little crooked hall. -Then the door was pushed wide open, and he came in leading some one by -the hand. It was a woman very gaily dressed, with a mountain of brown -hair and a white bonnet perched upon it, who laughed, but was nervous -too; upon whom Lottie gazed with wondering eyes and blanched cheeks. Who -was this whom he was bringing in without warning, without notice? The -Captain was very jaunty; his hat was still on his head over his left -ear. He had a bunch of violets somewhat crushed in his coat. He smiled a -smile which was rather ghastly as Lottie gazed, struck dumb with the -horror of what was coming. “Mrs. Despard,” he said with a flourish, “let -me present you with a ready-made daughter. Lottie, my child, come here -and welcome your new mamma.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5202" id="page_5202">{vol.-II-202}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">THE CAPTAIN’S WIFE</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Lottie</span> could do nothing but stand bewildered and gaze at this new -claimant of her regard. Surprise took all the meaning, all the -intelligence out of her face. She stood with her eyes wide open, her -lips dropping apart. Her new mamma! She had the indescribable misfortune -of not being able to think upon her own mother with any reverence or -profound affection. Mrs. Despard was but “poor mamma” to her—no more. -Lottie could not shut her eyes to the deficiencies of that poor woman, -of whom the best that could be said was that she was dead, and beyond -the reach of blame. There was no cherished and vaunted idea, therefore, -to be outraged; but perhaps all the more Lottie’s soul rose up in -rebellion against the title as applied to anyone else. She had known -what was coming, and yet she was as entirely taken by surprise as if -this idea had never been suggested to her. With eyes suddenly cleared -out of all the dazzling that had clouded them, she looked at the woman -thus brought in upon her—this intruder, who, however, had more right to -be there than even Lottie had—the Captai<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5203" id="page_5203">{vol.-II-203}</a></span>n’s wife. If this event had -happened a month or two ago, while she retained all her natural vigour, -no doubt, foolish as it was, Lottie would have made some show of -resistance. She would have protested against the sudden arrival. She -would have withdrawn from company so undesirable. She would have tried, -however absurd it might have been, to vindicate herself, to hold the -new-comer at arm’s length. But this had all become impossible now. At no -other moment could she have been so entirely taken by surprise. All the -apprehensions about her father which had been communicated to her on -former occasions had died out of her mind. She had never said very much -about this danger, or been alarmed by it, as Law was. It had not -occurred to her to inquire how it would affect herself. And now she was -taken altogether by surprise. She stood struck dumb with amazement, and -gazed at the woman, instinctively taking in every particular of her -appearance, as only a woman could do. Unconsciously to herself, Lottie -appraised the other, saw through her, calculating the meaning of her and -all her finery. No man could have done it, and she was not herself aware -of having done it; but Polly knew very well what that look meant. -Notwithstanding her own confidence in her bridal array, even Polly felt -it coming to pieces, felt it being set down for what it was worth; and, -naturally, the feeling that this was so made her angry and defiant.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5204" id="page_5204">{vol.-II-204}</a></span></p> - -<p>“How do you do, miss?” she said, feeling that even her voice sounded -more vulgar than it need have done. “I hope as we shall be good friends. -Your pa has played you a nice trick, hasn’t he? But men is men, and when -they’re like he is there’s allowances to be made for them.” Polly was -aware that this speech was in her very worst style. She had not intended -to call Lottie Miss; but with that girl standing staring, in a plain -cotton frock, looking a lady, every inch of her, from the crown of her -head to the sole of her foot—a bride, in a fine bonnet covered with -orange-blossoms, and a bright silk dress that matched, was not in -possession of her faculties. Bold as she was, she could not but be -conscious of a tremor which mingled with her very defiance. “Well, I’m -sure, what a pretty table!” she resumed. “They might have known we were -coming home, Captain. There ain’t much on it, perhaps—not like the nice -chicken and sausages you’d have got at mother’s. But mother would never -have set it out so pretty, that I’ll allow.” Then Polly looked round -upon the dim old walls, faintly lighted by the lamp. “So this is the -dining-room,” she said; “this is my new ’ome. To think I never should -have been inside the door till now! Let me alone, Harry. I don’t want -none of your huggings. I want to make acquaintance with my new ’ome. You -know well enough I married just as much for the sake of living in the -Lodges as for you—don’t you, now?” she said,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5205" id="page_5205">{vol.-II-205}</a></span> with a laugh. Perhaps -only fathers and mothers, and not even these long-suffering persons -always, can look on at the endearments of newly-married couples with -tolerance. Lottie was offended, as if their endearments had been -insulting to herself. She looked at them with an annoyed contempt. No -sympathetic touch of fellow-feeling moved her. To compare this, as she -thought, hideous travesty of love with her own, would have but hardened -her the more against them. She turned away, and shut the window, and -drew down the blind with an energy uncalled for by such simple duties. -When the Captain led his wife upstairs, that she might take off her -bonnet, Lottie sat down and tried to think. But she could not think. It -had all happened in a moment, and her mind was in an angry confusion, -not capable of reason. She could not realise what had happened, or what -was going to happen—an indignant sense of being intruded upon, of -having to receive and be civil to an unwelcome visitor, and an -impatience almost beyond bearing of this strait into which her father -had plunged her, filled her mind. Something more, she dimly felt, lay -behind—something more important, more serious; but in the meantime she -did not feel that her occupation was gone, or her kingdom taken from -her. A disagreeable person to entertain—a most unwelcome, uncongenial -guest. For the moment she could not realise anything more. But her mind -was in the most painful ferment, her heart beating.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5206" id="page_5206">{vol.-II-206}</a></span> How was she to -behave to this new, strange visitor? What was she to say to her? She -must sit down at table with her, she supposed. She was Captain -Despard’s—guest. What more? But Lottie knew very well she was something -more.</p> - -<p>Mary came in, bringing tea, which she placed at the head of the table, -where Lottie usually sat. Mary’s eyes were dancing in her head with -curiosity and excitement. “What is it, miss? oh, what is it, miss? -What’s happened?” said Mary. But Lottie made her no reply. She did not -herself know what had happened. She waited for the return of “the woman” -with a troubled mind. Everything was ready, and Lottie stood by ready to -take her seat the moment they should come back. She heard them come -downstairs, laughing and talking. The woman’s voice filled all the -house. It flowed on in a constant stream, loud enough to be heard in the -kitchen, where Mary was listening with all her ears. “Very nice on the -whole,” the new-comer was saying; “but of course I shall make a few -changes. I’ve always heard that a room should be like its mistress. -There’s not half enough pretty things to please me. I do love a pretty -room, and plenty of antimacassars and pink ribbons. Oh, I shan’t tell -you what I am going to do to it!—not a word. Gentlemen must be taught -their place. I am going to make it look very nice, and that should be -enough for you. Oh yes, I am quite ready for supper. I have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5207" id="page_5207">{vol.-II-207}</a></span>n’t touched -a bit of anything since five o’clock, when we had tea. Poor Harry! I can -see how you have been put upon.” This was said at the foot of the -stairs, where not only Lottie but Mary could hear every word. Mary -understood it all, but Lottie did not understand it. She could not -receive Polly’s programme into her mind, nor think what was meant by it. -While she still stood waiting, the two came in—the bride, with her -tower of hair upon her head, and all her cheap ribbons and bangles. She -came in, drawing herself away from the Captain’s encircling arm. -“Behave!” said Polly, shaking a finger at him; and she swept in and -round the table, almost pushing against the surprised spectator who -stood looking on, and deposited herself in Lottie’s chair. “It’s best to -begin as you mean to end,” said Polly; “I’m not tired to speak of, and -I’ll take my own place at once. You can sit here, Miss Lottie, between -him and me.”</p> - -<p>Still, Lottie did not know what to think or to say. She stood still, -bewildered, and then took the place pointed out to her. What did it -mean? It was easy enough to see what it meant, if her head had not been -so confused. “Yes, dear,” said Polly, “a little bit of cold beef—just a -very little bit. I am not fond of cold victuals. That’s not how we’ve -been living, is it? and that’s not how I mean you to live. Oh, no, I -don’t blame Lottie. Unmarried girls don’t know any better. They don’t -study a man like his wife knows<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5208" id="page_5208">{vol.-II-208}</a></span> how to do. I can see how it’s been; oh, -I can see! Too many mouths to feed, and the meat has to be bought -according. Who is your butcher, miss? Oh, <i>him</i>! I don’t hold with him. -I shall send for Jones to-morrow; he’s the man for my money. Wasn’t that -a lovely sweetbread that we had at our wedding breakfast? You didn’t -remark? Oh, nonsense, I’m sure you remarked! It <i>was</i> a beauty! Well, -that was from Jones’s. I’ll send for him to-morrow. Do you take sugar in -your tea, Miss Lottie? Dear! I shouldn’t have thought it; so careful a -young lady. ’Enery, darling, what are you drinking? Do you take tea?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t mind what I take, my love, so long as you give it me,” said the -gallant Captain; “tea or poison, I’d take it from that hand; and I don’t -want anything but to look at you at the head of my table. This is how it -should be. To think how long I have been denying myself, forgetting what -happiness was!”</p> - -<p>“You poor dear Harry! all for the sake of your children! Well, I hope -you’ll find it repaid. They ought to be grateful. The times and times -that you and me has talked it over, and given it up for their sakes! -You’re very quiet, miss; you don’t say much,” added Polly; “but I dare -say it was a surprise to you, seeing me come home?”</p> - -<p>“Why don’t you speak up and make yourself pleasant?” said the Captain, -with a kind of growl, under his breath.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5209" id="page_5209">{vol.-II-209}</a></span></p> - -<p>Lottie came to herself a little by dint of this pressure. She did not -seem to know how it had come about, or what the emergency meant. “I beg -your pardon,” she said, her head swimming and everything going round -with her, “I am—taken very much by surprise. If I had known what was -going to happen I—might have been more prepared.”</p> - -<p>“I can understand that,” said Polly. “Hold your tongue, Captain. She is -quite right. You ought to have written and told her, as I asked you. But -now that you do know I hope you mean to be friendly, miss. Them that -treats me well, I treats them well. I don’t wonder that you don’t like -it at first,” she added graciously; “a girl no older than yourself! But -he would have it, you know, and what could I do? When a man’s in that -way, it’s no use talking to him. I resisted as long as I could, but I -had to give in at the last.”</p> - -<p>“By George!” said the Captain, helping the beef. He had some one to -stand by him now, who he felt might be a match for Lottie; but he was -still a little afraid of Lottie, and consequently eager to crow over her -in the strength of his backer. “The trouble I’ve had to bring matters to -this point!” he said. “But never mind, my love, it is all right now you -are here. At one time I thought it never was going to be accomplished. -But perseverance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5210" id="page_5210">{vol.-II-210}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>“Perseverance does a deal; but, bless you, I never had no doubt on the -subject,” said the new Mrs. Despard, taking up her teacup in a way that -was very offensive to Lottie. The Captain looked at her from the other -end of the table with a kind of adoration; but nevertheless the Captain -himself, with all his faults, was painfully aware of her double -negatives, and thought to himself, even when he looked at her so -admiringly, that he must give her a few lessons. He had never paid much -attention to Lottie, and yet he could not help getting a glimpse of his -new wife through Lottie’s eyes.</p> - -<p>“Where is my son?” said Polly. “Harry, darling, where is that dear Law? -He won’t be so much surprised, will he? He had a notion how things were -going. But I’ve got a great deal to say to him, I can tell you. I don’t -approve of his goings on. There’s a many things as I mean to put a stop -to. Nobody shall say as I don’t do my duty by your children. I shall -tell him——”</p> - -<p>“Do you know Law?” said Lottie. This gave her a little chill of horror; -though indeed she remembered that Law had spoken of some one—some one -about whom Lottie had not cared to inquire.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, miss, I know Law.” (Polly did not know how it was that she -said Miss to Lottie. She did not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5211" id="page_5211">{vol.-II-211}</a></span> mean to do it. She did it, not in -respect, but in derision; but the word came to her lips, whether she -would or not.) “Law and I are old friends. Time was when I didn’t feel -sure—not quite sure, you know,” she said, with a laugh of mingled -vanity and malice, “if it was to be the father or the son; but, Lord, -there’s no comparison,” she added hastily, seeing that even on the -Captain’s fine countenance this boast produced a momentary cloud. “Law -will never be as fine a man as his father. He hasn’t got the Captain’s -carriage, nor he ain’t so handsome. Bless us, are you listening, Harry? -I didn’t mean you to hear. I don’t think you handsome a bit, now, do I? -I’m sure I’ve told you times and times——”</p> - -<p>The two thus exchanging glances and pretty speeches across the table -were too much occupied with themselves to think of anything else. And no -one heard Law’s approach till he pushed open the door, and with a -“Hillo!” of absolute amazement, stood thunderstruck, gazing upon this -astonishing spectacle. The sight that Law beheld was not a disagreeable -sight in itself: the table, all bright with its bouquet of crimson -leaves, which the Captain had pushed to one side in order that he might -see his wife—and the three faces round it, two of them beaming with -triumph and satisfaction. The young man stood at the door and took it -all in, with a stare at first, of dismay.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5212" id="page_5212">{vol.-II-212}</a></span> Opposite to him sat Lottie, -put out of her place, looking stunned, as if she had fallen from a -height and did not know where she was. As he stood there she lifted her -eyes to him with a look of wondering and bewildered misery which went to -Law’s heart; but the next moment he burst into a loud laugh, in spite of -himself. To see the governor casting languishing looks at Polly was more -than his gravity could bear. He could think of nothing, after the first -shock, but “what a joke” it was. A man in love, especially a man in the -first imbecility of matrimonial bliss, is a joke at any time; but when -it’s your governor, Law said to himself! He gave a great roar of -laughter. “Polly, by Jove!” he said; “so you’ve been and done it!” It -had alarmed him much beforehand, and no doubt it might be tragical -enough after; but for the moment it was the best joke that Law had -encountered for years.</p> - -<p>“Yes, we’ve been and done it,” said Polly, rising and holding out her -hand to him. “Come here and kiss me, my son. I am delighted to see you. -It’s so nice to hear a good laugh, and see a bright face. Lottie, Law, -hasn’t found her tongue yet. She hasn’t a word to throw at a dog, much -less her new mamma. But you, it’s a pleasure to see you. Ah!” said -Polly, with effusion, “the gentlemen for me! Ladies, they’re spiteful, -and they’re jealous, and they’re stuck up; but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5213" id="page_5213">{vol.-II-213}</a></span> gentlemen does you -justice. You mustn’t call me Polly, however, though I forgive you the -first time. You must know that <b>I</b> am your mamma.”</p> - -<p>Law laughed again, but it was not a pleasant laugh; and he grasped the -hand which his father held out to him with a desire to crush it, if he -could, which was natural enough. Law thought it a joke, it is true; but -he was angry at bottom, though amused on the surface. And he did hurt -his father’s somewhat flabby, unworking hand. The Captain, however, -would not complain. He was glad even to be met with a semblance of -cordiality at such a moment. He helped Law largely to the beef, in the -satisfaction of this family union, and this was a sign of anxiety which -Law did not despise.</p> - -<p>“Oh, and I assure you I mean to be a mother to you,” said Polly. “It -shan’t be said now that you haven’t anyone to look after you. <i>I</i> mean -to look after you. I am not at all satisfied with some of your goings -on. A gentleman shouldn’t make too free with them that are beneath him. -Yes, yes, Harry, darling; it’s too early to begin on that point; but he -shall know my mind, and <i>I</i> mean to look after him. Now this is what I -call comfortable,” said Mrs. Despard, looking round with a beaming -smile; “quite a family party, and quite a nice tea; though the beef’s -dry to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5214" id="page_5214">{vol.-II-214}</a></span> my taste (but <b>I</b> never was one for cold victuals), and everybody -satisfied——”</p> - -<p>“Lottie,” said the Captain, looking up from his beef with some -sternness, “you seem the only exception. Don’t you think, my child, when -you see everybody so happy, that you might find a word to say?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t hurry her,” said Polly; “we’ve took her by surprise. I told -you not to, but you would. We’ll have a nice long talk to-morrow, when -she gives me over the housekeeping; and when she sees as I mean to act -like a mother, why things will come right between her and me.”</p> - -<p>The Despards were not highly educated people, but yet a shiver ran -through them when Polly, unconscious, said, “We’ve took her by -surprise.” The Captain even shrank a little, and took a great deal too -much mustard, and made himself cough; while Law, in spite of himself, -laughed, looking across the table to the place where Lottie sat. Lottie -noticed it the least of all. She heard every word they all said, and -remembered every word, the most trifling; but at the moment she scarcely -distinguished the meaning of them. She said, “I think, papa, if you -don’t mind, I will go to my room. I am rather tired; and perhaps I had -better give some orders to Mary.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, never mind; never mind about Mary, if i<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5215" id="page_5215">{vol.-II-215}</a></span>t’s on my account. I shall -look after her myself,” said Polly. “What’s good enough for the Captain -is good enough for me; at least, till I settle it my own way, you know. -I don’t want to give any trouble at all, till I can settle things my own -way.”</p> - -<p>“It is not I that have to be consulted,” said Captain Despard; “but if -you are going to sit sulky and not say a word, I don’t see—what do you -think, my pet?—that it matters whether you go or stay——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t mind me, Miss,” said Polly. She could not look Miss Despard -in the face and call her Lottie, knowing, however she might consent to -waive her own rights, that Miss Despard was still Miss Despard, whatever -Polly might do. Not a thing on her that was worth five shillings, not a -brooch even; nothing like a bracelet; a bit of a cotton frock, no more; -but she was still Miss Despard, and unapproachable. Polly, with her -bracelets on each wrist, rings twinkling on her hands as she took her -supper, in a blue silk, and knowing herself to be an officer’s -lady—Mrs. Captain Despard—with all this, could not speak to her -husband’s daughter except as Miss. She could not understand it, but -still it was so.</p> - -<p>The little crooked hall was full of boxes when Lottie came out; and Mary -stood among them, wondering how she was to get them upstairs. Perhaps -she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5216" id="page_5216">{vol.-II-216}</a></span> had been listening a little at the door, for Mary’s consternation -was as great as Lottie’s. “Do you think, Miss, it’s real and true? Do -you think as she’s married, sure? Mother wouldn’t let me stay a day if -there was anything wrong, and I don’t know as I’ll stay anyhow,” Mary -said.</p> - -<p>“Wrong? what could be wrong?” said Lottie. She was less educated in -knowledge of this kind than the little maid-of-all-work. It troubled her -to see the boxes littering the hall, but <i>she</i> could not carry them -upstairs. For a moment the impulse to do it, or, at least, to help Mary -in doing it, came into her mind; but, on second thoughts, she refrained. -What had she to do with this new-comer into the house, who was not even -a visitor, who had come to remain? Lottie went upstairs without saying -any more. She went first into the little faded drawing-room, where there -was no light except that which came from the window and the lamp in the -Dean’s Walk. It was not beautiful. She had never had any money to -decorate it, to make it what it might have been, nor pretty furniture to -put into it. But she sat down on her favourite little chair, in the -dark, and felt as if she had gone to sit by somebody that was dead, who -had been a dear friend. How friendly and quiet the little room had been! -giving her a centre for her life, a refuge for her thoughts. But all -that was over. She had never<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5217" id="page_5217">{vol.-II-217}</a></span> known before that she had liked it or -thought of it much; but now, all at once, what a gentle and pleasant -shelter it had been! As Lottie thought of everything, the tears came -silently and bitterly into her eyes. She herself had been ungrateful, -unkind to the little old house, the venerable old place, the kind -people. They had all been kind to her. She had visited her own -disappointment upon them, scorning the neighbours because they were less -stately than she expected them to be; visiting upon them her own -discontent with her position, her own disappointment in being less -important than she expected. Lottie was hard upon herself, for she had -not been unkind to anyone, but was, on the contrary, a favourite with -her neighbours—the only girl in the place, and allowed by the old -people to have a right to whims and fancies. Now, in the face of this -strange, incomprehensible misfortune, she felt the difference. Her quiet -old room! where kind voices had spoken to her, where <i>he</i> had come, -saying such words as made her heart beat; where she had sung to him, and -received those tender applauses which had been like treasure to Lottie. -She seemed to see a series of past scenes like pictures rising before -her. Not often had Rollo been there—yet two or three times; and Mrs. -O’Shaughnessy, with her mellow brogue, and Mr. Ashford, and even the -stately person of the Dean himself. She had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5218" id="page_5218">{vol.-II-218}</a></span> been at home here, to -receive them, whoever came. The room had never been invaded by anything -that was unfriendly or unpleasing. Now—what was it that woman said of -changes—making it look nice? Lottie had not understood the words when -they were said, but they came back upon her now.</p> - -<p>By-and-by she heard some one coming upstairs, and, starting, rose to -steal away to her own room, afraid to meet the stranger again; but no -light made its appearance, and Law put in his head at the door, then -seeing something moving against the window, came to her, and threw -himself down on the window-seat. “They’re going on so downstairs, that I -couldn’t stand it,” said Law; “it’s enough to make a fellow sick”—and -then, after a pause, “Well! I told you what was coming, but you wouldn’t -believe me; what do you think of it now?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Law, what does it mean?—Are we not dreaming? Can it be true?”</p> - -<p>“True! of course it is true. I told you what was going to happen.” Then -his tone softened. “Poor Lottie, it’s you I’m sorry for. If you could -only see yourself beside her! And where were his eyes, that he couldn’t -see?” Here Law paused abruptly, wondering all at once whether the -difference would be as marked between his sister and the girls whom he -too<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5219" id="page_5219">{vol.-II-219}</a></span> liked to spend his evenings with. He was sure that Emma was not -like that woman; but still the thought subdued his indignation. “I say,” -he added hastily, “I want to give you a bit of advice. Just you give in -to her, Lottie. Fighting is no good: she has got a tongue that you -couldn’t stand, and the things she would say you wouldn’t understand. I -understand her well enough; but you wouldn’t know what she meant, and it -would make you angry and hurt you. Give in, Lottie. Since the governor’s -been so silly, she has a right. And don’t you make any stand as if you -could do it—for you can’t. It is a great deal better not to resist——”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean by resist? How can I resist? The house is papa’s, I -suppose?” said Lottie. “The thing is, I don’t understand it. I can’t -understand it: that somebody should be coming to stay here, to be one of -us, to be mixed up in everything—whom we don’t know——”</p> - -<p>“To be mistress,” said Law, “that’s the worst—not to be mixed up with -us, but to be over us. To take everything out of your hands——”</p> - -<p>“Do you think I care for that? I do not mind who is mistress,” said -Lottie, all unaware of her own characteristics. Law was wiser than she -was in this respect. He shook his head.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5220" id="page_5220">{vol.-II-220}</a></span></p> - -<p>“That’s the worst,” he said; “she’ll be mistress—she’ll change -everything. Oh, I know Polly well; though I suppose, for decency, I -mustn’t say Polly now.”</p> - -<p>“How is it you know her so well? And how did papa know her?” said -Lottie. “I should have thought you never could have met such women. Ah! -you told me once about—others. Law! you can’t like company like that; -surely, you can’t like company like that! how did you get to know her?” -Law was very much discomfited by this sudden question. In the midst of -his sympathy and compassion for his sister, it was hard all at once to -be brought to book, when he had forgotten the possibility of such a -danger.</p> - -<p>“Well, you know,” he said, “fellows do; I don’t know how it is—you come -across some one, and then she speaks to you, and then you’re forced to -speak back; or perhaps it’s you that speaks first—it isn’t easy to -tell. This was as simple as anything,” Law went on, relieved by the -naturalness of his own explanation. “They all work in the same house -where Langton lives, my old coach, you know, before I went to old -Ashford. I don’t know how the governor got there. Perhaps it was the -same way. Going in and out, you know, day after day, why, how could you -help it? And when a woman speaks to you, what can you do, but say -something? That’s exactly how it was.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5221" id="page_5221">{vol.-II-221}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“But, Law,” she said, grasping his arm—all this conversation was so -much easier in the dark—“Law, you will take care? she said she was not -quite sure whether it was to be the father or the son. Ah! a woman who -could say that, Law——”</p> - -<p>“It’s a lie,” said Law, fiercely, “and she knows it. I never thought -anything of her—never. It’s a lie, if she were to swear it! Polly! why, -she’s thirty, she’s—— I give my word of honour, it’s a lie.”</p> - -<p>“But, Law! oh, Law dear——”</p> - -<p>“I know what you’re going to say. I’ll take care of myself; no fear of -me getting entangled,” said Law briskly. Then he stopped, and, still -favoured by the dark, took her hands in his. “Lottie, it’s my turn now. -I know you won’t stand questioning, nor being talked to. But, look -here—don’t shilly-shally if you can care for anybody, and he’ll marry -you and give you a place of your own—You needn’t jump up as if I had -shot you. If you talk about such things to me, I may surely talk to you. -And mind what I say. I don’t expect you’ll be able to put up with your -life here——”</p> - -<p>“I hear them stirring downstairs,” said Lottie, drawing her hands out of -his hold. “Don’t keep me, don’t hold me, Law. I cannot see her again -to-night.”</p> - -<p>“You won’t give me any answer,” said the lad regretfully. There was real -feeling in his voice—“But,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5222" id="page_5222">{vol.-II-222}</a></span> Lottie, mind what I say. I don’t believe -you’ll be able to put up with it, and if there’s anyone you care for and -he’ll marry you——”</p> - -<p>Lottie freed herself from him violently, and fled. Even in the dark -there were things that Law could not be permitted to say, or she to -hear.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5223" id="page_5223">{vol.-II-223}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXIX.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">THE HEAVINGS OF THE EARTHQUAKE.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> next morning dawned very strangely on all the members of the little -household. Lottie was down early, as she generally was; but the -advantages of early rising were neutralised by the condition of the -little maid, Mary, who was too much excited to do her work, and kept -continually coming back to pour her doubts and her difficulties into -Lottie’s ear. “I can’t get no rest till I’ve told mother,” Mary said. -“If there’s anything wrong, mother won’t let me stay, not a day. And -even if there’s nothing wrong, I don’t know as I’ll stay. I haven’t got -no fault to find with you, Miss; nor the Captain, nor even Mr. Law: -though he’s a dreadful bother with his boots cleaning; but to say as -you’re beginning as you mean to end, and then to give all that trouble! -every blessed thing, I had to drag it upstairs. Mr. Law was very kind; -he took up the big box—I couldn’t ha’ done it; but up and down, up and -down, all the little boxes and the bags, and the brown paper -parcels—‘It saves trouble if you begins as you means to end,’ she -says<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5224" id="page_5224">{vol.-II-224}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>“I don’t want to hear what Mrs. Despard says,” said Lottie. Mrs. -Despard: it was her mother’s name. And though that mother had not been -an ideal mother, or one of those who are worshipped in their children’s -memories, it is wonderful, what a gush of tender recollections came into -Lottie’s mind with the name. Poor mamma! she had been very kind in her -way, always ready to indulge and to pardon, if indifferent to what -happened in more important matters. She had never exacted anything, -never worried her children about idleness or untidiness, or any of those -minor sins which generally make a small girl’s life a burden to her. -Lottie’s mind went back to her, lying on her sofa, languid, perhaps -lazy—badly dressed; yet never anything but a lady, with a kind of -graciousness in her faded smile, and grace in her faded gown. Not a -woman to be held in adoration, and yet—the girl sighed, but set to work -to make the little brown dining-room neat, to get the table set, making -up for Mary’s distracted service by her own extra activity. For amid all -the horrors of last night there was one which had cut Lottie very -deeply, and that was the many references to the cold beef, and the -bride’s dislike of “cold victuals.” It is inconceivable, among all the -more important matters involved, how deeply wounded Lottie’s pride had -been by this reproach. She resolved that no one should be able to speak -so to-day; and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5225" id="page_5225">{vol.-II-225}</a></span> she herself put on her hat and went out to the shop on -the Abbey Hill almost as soon as it had opened, that this intolerable -reproach should not be in the interloper’s power. She met more than one -of the old Chevaliers as she came up, for most of them kept early hours -and paced the terrace pavement in the morning as if it had been morning -parade. They all looked at her curiously, and one or two stopped her to -say “good morning.” “And a fine morning it is, and you look as fresh as -a flower,” one of the old gentlemen said; and another laid his hand on -her shoulder, patting her with a tender fatherly touch. “God bless you, -my dear, the sight of you is a pleasure,” said this old man. How little -she had thought or cared for them, and how kind they were in her -trouble! She could see that everybody knew. Lottie did not know whether -she did not half resent the universal knowledge. Most likely they had -known it before she did. The whole town knew it, and everybody within -the Precincts. Captain Despard had got married! Such a thing had not -occurred before in the memory of man. Many people believed, indeed, that -there was a law against it, and that Captain Despard was liable to be -turned out of his appointment. Certainly it was unprecedented; for the -old Chevaliers before they came to St. Michael’s had generally passed -the age at which men marry. The whole scene seemed to have taken a -dif<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5226" id="page_5226">{vol.-II-226}</a></span>ferent aspect to Lottie. Since her home had become impossible to -her, it had become dear. For the first time she felt how good it was to -look across upon the noble old buttresses of the Abbey, to inhabit that -“retired leisure,” that venerable quietness. If only that woman were not -there! But that woman was there, and everything was changed. Lottie had -been rudely awakened, dragged, as it were, out of her dreams. She could -not think as she usually did of the meetings that were sure to come -somehow in the Abbey, or on the Slopes—or count how long it would be -till the afternoon or evening, when she should see him. This, though it -was her life, had been pushed out of the way. She thought of all last -night’s remarks about the cold beef and the poor fare, and the changes -that were going to be made. Would she think bacon good enough for -breakfast?—would she be satisfied with the rolls, which Lottie herself -felt to be a holiday indulgence? Pride, and nothing but pride, had -thrown the girl into such excesses. She could not endure those -criticisms again. Her brain was hot and hazy, without having any power -of thought. The confusion of last night was still in her. Would it all -turn out a dream? or would the door open by-and-by and show this -unaccustomed figure? Lottie did not feel that she could be sure of -anything. The first to come down was Law, who had been forced from his -bed for once by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5227" id="page_5227">{vol.-II-227}</a></span> sympathy. Law was very kind to Lottie. “I thought I -wouldn’t leave you to face her by yourself,” he said; “they’re coming -down directly.” Then Lottie knew that it was no dream.</p> - -<p>The bride came down in a blue merino dress, as blue as the silk of last -night. Polly was of opinion that she looked well in blue; and it was not -one of the ethereal tints that are now used, but a good solid, full -blue, quite uncompromising in point of colour. And the hair on her head -was piled up as if it would reach the skies, or the ceiling at least. -She came down arm-in-arm with her husband, the two smiling upon each -other, while Law and Lottie stood one on each side of the table with no -smiles, looking very serious. It was Mrs. Despard who did the most of -the conversation; for the Captain was passive, feeling, it must be -allowed, somewhat embarrassed by the presence of his children, who did -not embarrass her at all. But she did not think the bacon very good. She -thought it badly cooked. She thought the girl could not have been well -trained to send it up like that. And she was not pleased either with the -rolls; but announced her intention of changing the baker as well as the -butcher. “We’ve always gone to Willoughby’s, as long as I can recollect, -and I don’t fancy any bread but his.” Lottie did not say anything, she -was nearly as silent as on the previous night; and Law, who was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5228" id="page_5228">{vol.-II-228}</a></span> -opposite, though he made faces at her now and then, and did his best to -beguile his sister into a laugh, did not contribute much to the -conversation. He got up as soon as he had swallowed his breakfast and -got his books. “I’m off to old Ashford,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Where are you going, Law?—you must never get up from table without -asking my leave—it is dreadful unmannerly. You have got into such -strange ways; you want me to bring you back to your manners, all of you. -Who are you going to?—not to Mr. Langton as you used to do—I’m glad of -that.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t see why you should be glad of that. I’m going to old Ashford,” -said Law, gloomily. “He is a much better coach than Langton. I have not -anything to do to-day, Lottie; I shall be back at twelve o’clock.”</p> - -<p>“Dear me,” said Mrs. Despard, “how long is Law going on going to school -like a little boy? I never heard of such a thing, at his age. He should -be put into something where he could earn a little money for himself, -instead of costing money; a great, strong young fellow like that. I -think you’re all going to sleep here. You want me, as anybody can see, -to wake you up, and save you from being put upon, my poor man. But I -hope I know how to take care of my own husband, and see that he gets the -good of what he has, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5229" id="page_5229">{vol.-II-229}</a></span> don’t just throw it away upon other folks. And -I begin as I means to end,” said Polly, with a little toss of her head. -Law, stopped by the sound of her voice, had turned round at the door, -and contemplated her with gloomy looks; but seeing it was not to come to -anything bad, went away. And the bell began, and the Captain rose. His -bride came to him fondly, and brushed a crumb or two off his coat and -arranged the flower in his button-hole. “Now you look quite sweet,” she -said with genuine enthusiasm. “I ain’t going in the morning, when none -but the regular folks is there, but I mean to go, my dear, in the -afternoon. It’s only proper respect, living in the Precincts; but you -won’t be long, dear? You’ll come home to your poor little wife, that -don’t know what to do without her handsome husband? Now, won’t you, -dear?”</p> - -<p>“I’ll be back as fast as my legs can carry me,” said the Captain. “Come -and meet me, my pet. Lottie will tell you when the voluntary begins——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I can tell very well without Lottie,” said the bride, hanging upon -him till he reached the door. All these endearments had an indescribable -effect upon the girl, who was compelled to stand by. Lottie turned her -back to them and re-arranged the ornaments on the mantelpiece, with -trembling hands, exasperated almost beyond the power of self-restraint. -But when the Captain was gone, looking back in his imbecility to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5230" id="page_5230">{vol.-II-230}</a></span> kiss -his hand to his bride, the situation changed at once. Polly turned -round, sharp and business-like, in a moment. “Ring the bell, Miss,” she -said, “and tell the girl to clear them things away. And then, if you -will just hand me over the keys, and let me see your housekeeping things -and your stores and all that, we may settle matters without any trouble. -I likes to begin as I mean to end,” said Polly peremptorily. Lottie -stood and looked at her for a moment, her spirit rekindling, her mind -rising up in arms against the idea of obedience to this stranger. But -what would be the use of trying to resist? Resist! what power had she? -The very pride which rebelled against submission made the submission -inevitable. She could not humiliate herself by a vain struggle. Polly, -who was very doubtful of the yielding of this natural adversary, and -rather expected to have a struggle for her “rights,” was quite -bewildered by the meekness with which the proud girl, who scarcely took -any notice of her, she thought, acquiesced in the orders she gave. -Lottie rang the bell. She said, “You will prefer, I am sure, to give -Mary her orders without me. There are not many keys, but I will go and -get what I have.”</p> - -<p>“Not many keys! and you call yourself a housekeeper?” said Polly. Lottie -turned away as the little maid came in, looking impertinent enough to be -a match for the new mistress; but Lottie was no match<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5231" id="page_5231">{vol.-II-231}</a></span> for her. She went -and got out her little housekeeping-book, which she had kept so neatly. -She gathered the keys of the cupboards, which generally stood unlocked, -for there was not so much in them that she should lock them up. Lottie -had all the instincts of a housekeeper. It gave her positive pain to -hand over the symbols of office—to give up her occupation. Her heart -sank as she prepared to do it. All her struggles about the bills, her -anxious thought how this and that was to be paid, seemed elements of -happiness now. She could not bear to give them up. The pain of this -compulsory abdication drove everything else out of her head. Love, they -say, is all a woman’s life, but only part of a man’s; yet Lottie forgot -even Rollo—forgot his love and all the consolation it might bring, in -this other emergency, which was petty enough, yet all-important to her. -She trembled as she got together these little symbols of her domestic -sovereignty. She heard the new mistress of the house coming up the -stairs as she did so, talking all the way. “I never heard such -impudence,” Polly was saying. “Speak back to her mistress! a bit of a -chit of a maid-of-all-work like that. I suppose she’s been let do -whatever she pleased; but she’ll find out the difference.” Behind -Polly’s voice came a gust of weeping from below, and a cry of, “I’m -going to tell mother:” thus hostilities had commenced all along the -line.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5232" id="page_5232">{vol.-II-232}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I can’t think how ever you got on with a creature like that,” said -Polly, throwing herself down in the easy-chair. “She don’t know how to -do a single thing, as far as I can see; but some folks never seem to -mind. She shan’t stay here not a day longer than I can help. I’ve given -her warning on the spot. To take impudence from a servant the very first -day! But that’s always the way when things are let go; the moment they -find a firm hand over them there’s a to-do. To be sure it wasn’t to be -looked for that you could know much, Miss, about managing a house.”</p> - -<p>“Mary is a very good girl,” said Lottie hastily. “She has always done -what I told her. Here are the keys of the cupboards, since you wish for -them; but there are not any stores to lock away. I get the things every -week, just enough to use——”</p> - -<p>“And don’t lock them up!” Polly threw up her hands. “That’s one way of -housekeeping; but how should you know any better, poor thing, brought up -like that! I’m sure I don’t mean to be hard upon you; but you should -have thought a bit of your papa, and not have wasted his money. However, -that’s all over now. A man wants a nice ’ome to come back to, he wants a -nice dinner on the table, he wants somebody that can talk to him, to -keep him out of mischief. Oh, I know very well the Captain’s been fond -of having his fling. I ain’t one of the ignorant<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5233" id="page_5233">{vol.-II-233}</a></span> ones, as don’t know a -man’s ways. And I like that sort much the best myself. I like a man to -be a man, and know what’s what. But you’ll soon see the difference, now -that he’s got some one to amuse him, and some one to make him -comfortable at home. So these are all, Miss Lottie? And what’s this? oh, -a book! I don’t think much of keeping books. You know how much you has -to spend, and you spend it; that’s my way.”</p> - -<p>Lottie made no reply. She felt it to be wiser for herself, but no doubt -it was less respectful to Polly, who paused now and then for a reply, -then went on again, loving to hear herself talk, yet feeling the -contempt involved in this absence of all response. At last she cried -angrily, “Have you lost your tongue, Miss, or do you think as I’m not -good enough to have an answer, though I’m your papa’s wife?”</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon,” said Lottie; “I—don’t know what to say to you. We -don’t know each other. I don’t understand—— Don’t you see,” she cried -suddenly, unable to restrain herself, “that since you came into the -house you have done nothing but—find fault with all my—arrangements—” -(these mild words came with the utmost difficulty; but Lottie was too -proud to quarrel). “You can’t think that I could like that. I have done -my best, and if you try as I have done, you will find it is not so easy. -But I don’t want to defend<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5234" id="page_5234">{vol.-II-234}</a></span> myself; that is why I don’t say anything. -There can be no good in quarrelling, whether you think me a bad -housekeeper or not.”</p> - -<p>“I ain’t so sure of that,” said Polly. “Have a good flare-up, and be -done with it, that’s my way. I don’t hold with your politeness, and -keeping yourself to yourself. I’d rather quarrel than be always bursting -with spite and envy, like some folks. It stands to reason as you must -hate me, taking things out of your hands; and it stands to reason as I -should think more of my own husband than of keeping up your brother and -you in idleness. But for all that, and though we might fight now and -then—everybody does, I don’t care nothing for a girl as is always the -same—I don’t see why we shouldn’t get on neither. The Captain says as -you’ve a very good chance of a husband yourself. And though I’m just -about your own age, I’ve had a deal of experience. I know how to bring a -man to the point, if he’s shilly-shallying, or won’t speak up like a -man, as a girl has a right to expect.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! stop, stop, stop!” cried Lottie, wild with horror. She cast a -hurried glance round, to see what excuse she could make for getting -away. Then she seized eagerly upon her music which lay on the old square -piano. “I must go to my lesson,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Your lesson! Are you having lessons too? Upon my word! Oh, my poor -husband! my poor Captain!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5235" id="page_5235">{vol.-II-235}</a></span> No wonder as he has nothing but cold beef to -eat,” said Polly, with all the fervour of a deliverer, finding out one -misery after another. “And if one might make so bold as to ask, Miss, -who is it as has the honour to give lessons to you?”</p> - -<p>“The Signor—Mr. Rossinetti,” Lottie added, after a moment. It seemed -desecration to talk of any of the familiar figures within the Abbey -precincts by their familiar title to this intruder.</p> - -<p>“Oh! I’m not so ignorant as not to know who the Signor is. That will be -half-a-guinea, or at the least seven-and-six a lesson!” she said, -raising her hands in horror. “Oh, my poor ’usband! This is how his money -goes! Miss,” said Polly, severely, “you can’t expect as I should put up -with such goings on. I have your papa to think of, and I won’t see him -robbed—no, not whatever you may do. For I call that robbery, just -nothing else. Half-a-guinea a lesson, and encouraging Law to waste his -time! I can’t think how you can do it: with that good, dear, sweet, -confiding man letting you have your own way, and suspecting nothing,” -cried Polly, clasping her hands. Then she got up suddenly. “I declare,” -she cried, “church is near over, and me not ready to go out and meet -him! I can’t go out a figure, in a common rag like this, and me a bride. -I must put on my silk. Of course, he wants to show me off a bit before -his friends. I’ll<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5236" id="page_5236">{vol.-II-236}</a></span> run and get ready, and we can talk of this another -time.”</p> - -<p>Thus Lottie escaped for the moment. She was asked a little later to see -if Mrs. Despard’s collar was straight, and to pin on her veil. “Do I -look nice?” said Polly triumphant, and at the same time mollified by the -services which Lottie rendered without objection. She had put on her -“blue silk” and the bonnet with the orange-blossoms, and neckties enough -to stock a shop. “Perhaps, as there’s nothing ordered, and I mean to -make a change with the tradespeople, the Captain and me won’t come back -to dinner,” said Polly. “There’s your favourite cold beef, Miss, for Law -and you.” Lottie felt that she began to breathe when, rustling and -mincing, her strange companion swept out, in the face of all the people -who were dispersing from matins, to meet her husband. Polly liked the -wondering encounter of all their eyes. With her blue silk sweeping the -pavement after her, and her pink parasol, and the orange-blossoms on her -bonnet, her figure descending the Dean’s Walk alone, while all the -others issued out of the Abbey doors, was conspicuous enough. She was -delighted to find that everybody looked at her, and even that some stood -still to watch her, looking darkly at her finery. These were the people -who were jealous, envious of her fine clothes and her happiness, or -jealous of her handsome hus<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5237" id="page_5237">{vol.-II-237}</a></span>band, who met her presently, but who perhaps -was not so much delighted to see her amidst all his fellow-Chevaliers as -she thought. Captain Despard was not a man of very fine perceptions; but -though his blooming young wife was a splendid object indeed beside the -dark, little old figure of Mrs. Temple, he had seen enough to feel that -the presence of the old lady brought out into larger prominence -something which the younger lacked. But he met her with effusive -delight, and drew her hand within his arm, and thus they disappeared -together. Outside the Precincts there was no need to make any -comparison, and Polly’s brilliancy filled all hearts with awe.</p> - -<p>When Law returned, he found Lottie seated in her little chair, with her -face hidden in her hands. It was not that she was crying, as he feared -at first. The face she raised to him was crimson with excitement. “Oh, -Law!” she said, “Law, Law!” Lottie had got beyond the range of words. -After a while she told him all the events of the morning, which did not -look half so important when they were told, and they tried to lay their -heads together and think what was best to be done. But what could anyone -do? Mary could scarcely put the remnants of the cold beef on the table, -for her eagerness to tell that she had been to mother, and mother would -not hear of her staying. “Places isn’t so hard to get as all that, for a -girl with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5238" id="page_5238">{vol.-II-238}</a></span> a good character,” she said. When she was gone, Lottie looked -piteously at her brother.</p> - -<p>“What kind of a place could I get?” she said. “What am I fit for? Oh, -Law! I think it is a mistake to be brought up a lady. I never thought it -before, but I do now. How can we go on living here? and where are we to -go?”</p> - -<p>“That’s what I always said,” said Law. He was horribly grave, but he had -not a word to say except that he had got a match at football, and -perhaps might stay and sup with the fellows afterwards. “I’m just as -well out of the way, for what can I do for you? only make things worse,” -he said. And though he had been so kind and sympathetic at first, Law -stole away, glad to escape, and left Lottie alone, to bear it as she -might. She had no lesson that day, though she had pretended to have one. -She would not go to the Abbey, where the new member of the family meant -to appear, she knew. Lottie stayed in the familiar room which was hers -no longer, until the silence became too much for her, and she felt that -any human voice would be a relief. She went out in the afternoon, when -all seemed quiet, when everybody had gone to the Abbey for the evening -service. There would be nobody about, and it seemed to Lottie that the -shame was upon her, that it was she who must shrink from all eyes. Mrs. -O’Shaughnessy, however, knocking on the window<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5239" id="page_5239">{vol.-II-239}</a></span> violently, instantly -gave her to understand that this was impracticable. The girl tried to -resist, being afraid of what she might say, and of what might be said to -her. But as she hurried on, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy’s maid rushed after her. -Lottie had to go to her old friend, though very reluctantly. Mrs. -O’Shaughnessy had a bad cold. She was sitting wrapped up in a shawl, and -a visitor with something to tell was beyond price to her. “Come and tell -me all about it, then!” she cried, “me poor darlin’!” enveloping Lottie -in her large embrace. “And tell the Major, Sally, and let nobody come -in.” The Major came instantly to the call, and Lottie tried to tell her -story to the kind couple who sat on either side of her, with many an -exclamation.</p> - -<p>“I knew that was what it would come to,” Mrs. O’Shaughnessy said.</p> - -<p>“And I never thought Despard (saving your presence, my dear) could have -been such a fool!” cried the Major.</p> - -<p>“Oh, sure, Major, you’re old enough to know that every man is a fool -where a woman’s concerned.”</p> - -<p>But what was Lottie to do? They petted her and condoled with her, -soothing her with their sympathy, and all the tender words they could -think of; but they could throw no light upon one point: what could the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5240" id="page_5240">{vol.-II-240}</a></span> -girl do? Nothing, but put up with it. They shook their heads, but could -give her no comfort. If Law had but been doing something instead of -idling all his time away! But then Law was not doing anything. What was -he good for, any more than Lottie?</p> - -<p>“Mary can get another place. Her mother will not let her stay, and she -can get another place, she says; but here are two of us, Law and I, and -we are good for nothing!” cried Lottie. How her thoughts were altered -from the time when she thought it necessary to stay at home, to do no -visible work, for the credit of the family! Lottie was not young enough -to feel that it was necessary to be consistent. “We are young and strong -and able to work, but we are good for nothing!” she said. And they both -looked at her blankly, not knowing what to say.</p> - -<p>By-and-by Lottie escaped again into the open air, notwithstanding their -anxious invitation that she should stay with them. She was too wretched -to stay, and there had come upon her a longing to see another face in -which there might be comfort. As she went out she almost walked into -Captain Temple’s arms, who was walking slowly along looking up at her -window. The old man took both her hands into his. “My poor child!” he -said. He was not so frankly inquisitive as the good people she had just -left, but he drew her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5241" id="page_5241">{vol.-II-241}</a></span> hand through his arm and walked with her, bending -over her.</p> - -<p>“I do not want to tempt you from your duty, my dear; you’ll do what is -right, I am sure you will do what is right. But I can’t bear to think -you are in trouble, and we so near. And my wife,” said the old man -slightly faltering, “my wife thinks so, too.” He was not quite so sure -of his wife. She had the restraining effect upon her husband which a -more reserved and uncommunicative mind has over an impulsive one. He -knew what he would like to do, but he was not sure of her, and this put -hesitation into his speech.</p> - -<p>“Oh! Captain Temple,” cried Lottie, moved at last to tears, “what am I -to do? If I cannot bear it, what am I to do?”</p> - -<p>“Come and speak to my wife,” he said; “come, dear, and see my wife. She -can’t talk about everything as I do, but she has more sense than anyone, -and knows the world. Come with me, Lottie, and see what Mrs. Temple -says.”</p> - -<p>He thought the sight of the girl in her trouble would be enough, and -that his wife would certainly say what it was on his own lips to say. -Just then, however, there was a sound of doors opening, and old Wykeham -came out and looked upon the world with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5242" id="page_5242">{vol.-II-242}</a></span> defiant countenance from the -south door of the Abbey, which was a sign that service was over; and the -notes of the voluntary began to peal out into the air. Lottie drew her -arm from that of her old friend—she could not bear the eyes of the -crowd. “Another time, another time; but I must go now,” she cried, -escaping from him and turning towards the Slopes. The old Captain’s -first impulse was to follow. He stood for a moment gazing after her as -she sped along, slim and swift and young, up the deserted road. It was -beginning to grow dark, and the evening was colder than it had been yet. -Where was she going? To her favourite haunt on the Slopes to get the -wind in her face; to let her thoughts go, like birds, into the wide -space and distance? If that had been all! The old man thought of an -alternative which filled him with alarm. He took a step after her, and -then he paused again, and shaking his head, turned back, meeting all the -people as they streamed out of the Abbey. Poor child! if she did meet -<i>him</i> there, what then? It would comfort her to see her lover; and if he -was good, as the anxious old Chevalier hoped, had not the lover more -power to save her than all the world? There was no question of taking -Lottie from her father and mother, separating her from her home. If this -young man were to offer her a home of her own, where could there be so -good a solution to the problem? Captain<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5243" id="page_5243">{vol.-II-243}</a></span> Temple turned and walked home -with a sigh. It was not his way of delivering Lottie, but perhaps it was -the way that would be most for her happiness, and who was he that he -should interfere? He let her go to her fate with a sigh.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5244" id="page_5244">{vol.-II-244}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXX" id="CHAPTER_XXX"></a>CHAPTER XXX.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">LOTTIE’S FATE.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Lottie</span> went up the Dean’s Walk hastily, feeling as if she had taken -flight. And she was taking flight. She could not bear to meet the people -coming from the Abbey, among whom no doubt her father and his wife would -be. Lottie was scarcely aware that there was anything else in her mind. -She hurried to the Slopes as the natural refuge of her trouble. The wind -blowing fresh in her face, the great sweep of distance, the air and the -clouds, the familiar rustle of the trees, seemed to have become part of -her, a necessity of her living. And the Slopes were almost deserted now. -In October the night comes early, the afternoon is short, even before -the winds become chill; already it was darkening, though the afternoon -service was but newly over. The trees were beginning to lose their -gorgeous apparel: every breeze shook down hosts of leaves, shreds of -russet brown and pale gold; the wind was wistful and mournful, with a -sigh in it that promised rain. Lottie saw nobody about. She stole -through the trees to her favourite corner, and leaned<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5245" id="page_5245">{vol.-II-245}</a></span> upon the low -parapet, looking over the familiar scene. She was so familiar with it, -every line; and yet it seemed to her to-night like scenery in a theatre -which by-and-by would collapse and split asunder, and give place to -something different. It would vanish from her sight, and in place of it -there would appear the dim background of one of the little rooms at -home, with a figure in a blue gown relieved against it, tossing about a -mountain of braids and plaits. Lottie did not feel sure that this figure -would not appear at her very side, lay an imperative hand on her -shoulder, and order her to give up the secrets of her own being. Thus -she carried her care within her. She stood leaning over the parapet, -with the trees rustling around, scarcely aware what she was thinking of. -Did she expect anyone? She would have said, No. The night was overcast -and growing dismal, why should she expect anyone? What reason could he -have for coming out here? He could have no instinctive knowledge of her -misery, to bring him, and he had no longer that excuse of his cigar -after dinner as on the happy nights when the air was still like summer. -No! it was only for the stillness, only for the air, only to fling her -troublesome thoughts out to the horizon and empty her mind, and thus -feel it possible to begin again, that she had come. And never had that -stillness been so still before. By-and-by this scene would melt away,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5246" id="page_5246">{vol.-II-246}</a></span> -and it would be the little dining-room in the Lodge, with the white -tablecloth and the lamp lighted upon it. She had been weary of her home, -she had half despised it; but never had she been disgusted, afraid of -it, never loathed the thought of going back to it before. And she could -not talk to anybody about this; they were all very kind, ready to be -sorry for her, to do anything they could for her, but she could not bear -their sympathy to-night.</p> - -<p>All at once, in the silence which was so full of the whisper of the -leaves and the sighs of the wind, that she had not heard any footstep, -there came a voice close to her elbow which made Lottie start.</p> - -<p>“Is it really you, Miss Despard? I had almost given up hopes;—and -alone! I thought you were never to be alone again?” said Rollo, with -pleasure in his voice.</p> - -<p>How it startled her! She looked round upon him with so much fright in -her eyes that he was half vexed, half angered. Was it possible that -Lottie after all was just like the rest, pretending to be astonished by -his appearance when she knew as well——</p> - -<p>“You surely are not surprised to see me?” he said, with a short laugh.</p> - -<p>“I did not think of seeing you,” she said quietly, and looked away from -him again.</p> - -<p>Rollo was angry, yet he was touched by something<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5247" id="page_5247">{vol.-II-247}</a></span> in her tone; and there -must be something to cause this sudden change. She had always been so -frank and simple in her welcome of him, always with a light of pleasure -on her face when he came in sight; but she would not so much as let him -see her face now. She looked round with that first start, then turned -again and resumed her dreamy gaze into the night. And there was -dejection in every line of her figure as she stood dimly outlined -against the waning light. Suddenly there came into Rollo’s mind a -recollection that he had heard something to account for this, without -accusing her of petty pretence or affectation.</p> - -<p>“Something has happened,” he said, with a sense of relief which -surprised himself. “I remember now. I fear you are not happy about it.”</p> - -<p>“No,” she said, with a sigh. Then Lottie made a little effort to recover -herself; perhaps he would not care about her troubles. “It has been a -great shock,” she said, “but perhaps it may not be so bad after a -while.”</p> - -<p>“Tell me,” said Rollo; “you know how much interest I take in everything -that concerns you. Surely, Miss Despard, after this long time that we -have been seeing each other, you know that? Won’t you tell me? I cannot -bear to see you so sad, so unlike yourself.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps that is the best thing that could happen,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5248" id="page_5248">{vol.-II-248}</a></span>” said Lottie, “that -I should be unlike myself. I wish I could be like someone with more -sense; I have been so foolish! Everybody knows that we are poor; I never -concealed it, but I never thought—— Oh! how silly we have been, Law -and I! I used to scold him, but I never saw that I was just the same -myself. We ought to have learned to do something, if it were only a -trade. We are both young and strong, but we are good for nothing, not -able to do anything. I used to scold him: but I never thought that I was -just as bad myself.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t say so, don’t say so! You were quite right to scold him; men -ought to work. But you” cried Rollo with real agitation, “it is not to -be thought of. You! don’t speak of such a thing. What is the world -coming to, when you talk of working, while such a fellow as I——”</p> - -<p>“Ah! that is quite different,” said Lottie. “You are rich, or, at least, -you are the same as if you were rich; but we are really poor, we have no -money: and everything we have, it is papa’s. I suppose he has a right to -do whatever he likes with it; it seems strange, but I suppose he has a -right. And, then, what is to become of us? How could I be so silly as -not to think of that before? It is all my own fault; don’t think I am -finding fault with papa, Mr. Ridsdale. I suppose he has a right, and I -don’t want to grumble;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5249" id="page_5249">{vol.-II-249}</a></span> it only—seems natural—to tell you.” Lottie did -not know what an admission she was making. She sighed again into that -soft distant horizon, then turned to him with a smile trembling about -her lips. It was a relief to tell him—she could speak to him as she -could not speak to Captain Temple or Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, though she had -known them so much longer. “Perhaps I am only out of temper,” she said. -She could not but feel more light of heart standing beside him with -nobody near; they seemed to belong to each other so.</p> - -<p>“How good, how sweet of you to say so,” he cried. “Then treat me as if -it were natural; come and sit down—nobody will interrupt us—and tell -me everything I want to know.”</p> - -<p>They had met together in Lottie’s little drawing-room before, in the eye -of day, and three or four times under Lady Caroline’s eye; but never -before like this, in the twilight, all alone in the world, as it were, -two of them, and no more. Lottie hesitated for a moment; but what could -be wrong in it? There was nobody to disturb them, and her heart was so -full; and to talk to him was so pleasant. She seemed able to say more to -him than to any other. He understood her at half a word, whereas to the -others she had to say everything, to say even more than she meant before -they saw what she meant. She sat down, accordingly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5250" id="page_5250">{vol.-II-250}</a></span> in the corner of -the seat, and told him all that had happened; herself beginning to see -some humour in it as she told the story, half laughing one moment, half -crying the next. And Rollo went into it with all his heart. All their -meetings had produced their natural effect; for the last fortnight he -had felt that he ought to go away, but he had not gone away. He could -not deprive himself of her, of their intercourse, which was nothing yet -implied so much, those broken conversations, and the language of looks, -that said so much more than words. Never, perhaps, had his intercourse -with any girl been so simple, yet so unrestrained. If the old Captain -sometimes looked at him with suspicion, he was the only one who did so; -and Lottie had neither suspicion nor doubt of him, nor had any question -as to his “intentions” arisen in her mind. She told him her grief now, -not dully, with the heavy depression that cannot be moved, but with -gleams of courage, of resolution, even of fun, unable to resist the -temptation of Polly’s absurdity, seeing it now as she had not been able -to see it before. “I never knew before,” she said fervently, “what a -comfort it was to talk things over—but, then, whom could I talk them -over with? Law, who thinks it best not to think, never to mind—but -sometimes one is obliged to mind: or Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, whom I cannot -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5251" id="page_5251">{vol.-II-251}</a></span>say everything to—— or;—Mr. Ridsdale!” said Lottie, in alarm—“pray, -pray forgive me if I have bored you. I have been pouring out everything -to you. I never thought—I did not intend——”</p> - -<p>“Don’t tell me that,” he said. “I hoped you did intend to confide in me, -to trust to my sympathy. Who can be so much interested? to whom can it -be so important——?” He leaned forward closer to her, and Lottie -instinctively drew away from him a hairs-breadth; but she thought that -quite natural too, as natural as that she should be able to speak to him -better than to anyone else. They had both made the whole avowal of their -hearts in saying these words; but it had not been done in words which -frightened either or changed their position towards each other. -Meanwhile she was content enough, quieted by the sense of leaning her -trouble upon him, while he was gradually growing into agitation. Lottie -had got all her emergency required—his sympathy, his support, the -understanding that was so dear to her. After all her trouble she had a -moment of ease; her heart was no longer sore, but soothed with the balm -of his tender pity and indignation.</p> - -<p>But that which calmed Lottie threw Rollo into ever-increasing agitation. -A man who has said so much as that to a girl, especially to one who is -in difficulty and trouble, is bound even to himself to say more. The -crisis began for him where for her it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5252" id="page_5252">{vol.-II-252}</a></span> momentarily ended. To love her -and as good as tell her so, to receive, thus ingenuously given, that -confession of instinctive reliance upon him which was as good as a -betrayal of her love; and to let her go and say nothing more—could a -man do that and yet be a man? Rollo was not a man who had done right all -the days of his life. He had been in very strange company, and had gone -through many an adventure; but he was a man whom vice had never done -more than touch. Even among people of bad morals he had not known how to -abandon the instincts of honour; and in such an emergency what was he to -do? Words came thronging to his lips, but his mind was distracted with -his own helplessness. What had he to offer? how could he marry? he asked -himself with a kind of despair. Yet something must be thought of, -something suggested. “Lottie,” he said after that strange -pause—“Lottie—I cannot call you Miss Despard any more, as if I were a -stranger. Lottie, you know very well that I love you. I am as poor as -you are, but I cannot bear this. You must trust to me for -everything—you must—Lottie, you are not afraid to trust yourself to -me—you don’t doubt me?” he cried. His mind was driven wildly from one -side to another. Marry! how could he marry in his circumstances? Was it -possible that there was anything else that would answer the purpose, any -compromise? His heart beat wildly with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5253" id="page_5253">{vol.-II-253}</a></span> love and ardour and shame. What -would she say? Would she understand him, though he could not understand -himself?</p> - -<p>“Mr. Ridsdale!” cried Lottie, shrinking back from him a little. She -covered her face with her hands and began to cry, being overcome with so -many emotions, one heaped on another. At another moment she would not -have been surprised; she would have been able to lift her eyes to the -glow of the full happiness which, in half-light, had been for weeks past -the illumination of her life. But for the moment it dazzled her. She put -up her hands between her and that ecstasy of light.</p> - -<p>As for Rollo, very different were the thoughts in his mind. He thought -Lottie as wise as himself: he thought she had investigated his words; -had not found in them the one that is surety for all, and shrank from -him. Shame overwhelmed him: the agony of a mind which was really honest -and a heart which was full of tenderness, yet found themselves on the -verge of dishonour. “Lottie!” he cried with anguish in his voice, “you -do not understand me—you will not listen to me. Do not shrink as if I -meant any harm.”</p> - -<p>Then she uncovered her face, and he saw dimly through the twilight a -countenance all trembling with emotion and happiness and astonishment. -“Harm!” she said, with wonder in her voice—“harm!” His heart<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5254" id="page_5254">{vol.-II-254}</a></span> seemed to -stand still, and all his confused thinkings broken off in the -unspeakable contrast between the simplicity of her innocence thinking no -evil, and the mere knowledge in his mind which, if nothing more, made -guilt possible. Such a contrast shamed and horrified, and filled with an -adoration of penitence, the man who might have drawn her into evil, -ambiguously, had it been possible. He found himself with one knee on the -cold gravel, before he knew, pressing his suit upon her with passion. -“Lottie, you must marry me, you must be my wife, you must let me be the -one to work, to take care of you, to protect you from all trouble,” he -cried. But what did Lottie want with those more definite words which he -had thought she missed and waited for? Had she not known his secret long -ago before he ever spoke a word to her? Had she not been led delicately, -tenderly, step by step, through infinite dreams and visions, towards -this climax? She cried with happiness and trouble, and the sense of -deliverance.</p> - -<p>“Oh, why should you kneel to me?” she said. “Do you think it needs -<i>that</i>?” While he, more happy than ever he had been in his life, -alarmed, disturbed, shaken out of all his habits and traditions, held -her fast, like a new-found treasure, and lavished every tender word upon -her that language could supply. He owed her a million apologies, of not -one of which Lottie was con<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5255" id="page_5255">{vol.-II-255}</a></span>scious. How could it have been possible for -her to suppose that even for a second, in his inmost thoughts, he had -been less than reverent of her? And he—had he meant any harm! He did -not think he had meant any harm; yet how, in the name of heaven, was he -to marry—how was he to marry—in his present circumstances? While he -was pouring out upon Lottie his love and worship, telling her how she -had gathered to herself day by day all his thoughts and wishes, this -question rose up again in his heart.</p> - -<p>“I know,” said Lottie, very low—her voice still trembling with the -first ecstasy of feeling. It was like the dove’s voice, all tenderness -and pathos, coming out of her very heart. “I guessed it long—oh, long -ago——”</p> - -<p>“How did you do that? Whisper, darling—tell me—when did you first -think——?”</p> - -<p>Is not this the A B C of lovers? and yet her tone implied a little more -than the happy divining of the easy secret. She laughed softly—a -variety of music in his ear—the two faces were so close.</p> - -<p>“You did not think I knew anything about it. I saw you—looking up at my -window—the very night of the wedding. Do you remember?” Again Lottie’s -low happy laugh broke into the middle of her words. “I could not think -what it meant. And then another <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5256" id="page_5256">{vol.-II-256}</a></span>time before I knew you—and then—— -You did not suppose I saw you. I could not believe it,” she said, with a -soft sigh of content. Laugh or sigh, what did it matter, they meant the -same: the delight of a discovery which was no discovery—the happy right -of confessing a consciousness which she dared not have betrayed an hour -ago—of being able to speak of it all: the two together, alone in all -the world, wanting nothing and no one. This was what Lottie meant. But -her disclosures struck her lover dumb. What would she say if she knew -his real object then? A prima donna who was to make his fortune—a new -voice to be produced in an opera! He shuddered as he drew her closer to -him, with terror—with compunction, though he had meant no harm. And he -loved her now if he did not love her then; with all his heart now—all -the more tenderly, he thought, that she had mistaken him, that she had -been so innocently deceived.</p> - -<p>By this time it had got dark, though they did not observe it; yet not -quite dark, for it is rarely dark out of doors under the free skies, as -it is within four walls. It was Lottie who suddenly awoke to this fact -with a start.</p> - -<p>“It must be late—I must go home,” she said. And when she looked about -among the ghostly trees which waved and bent overhead, sombre and -colourless in the dark—she thought, with a thrill of horror, that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5257" id="page_5257">{vol.-II-257}</a></span> -hours must have passed since she came here. Rollo too was slightly -alarmed. They were neither of them in a condition to measure time; and -though so much had happened, it had flown like a moment. They came out -from among the trees in the happy gloom, arm-in-arm. Nobody could -recognise them, so dark as it was—and indeed nobody was in the way to -recognise them—and the Abbey clock struck as they emerged upon the -Dean’s Walk, reassuring them. Rollo was still in time for dinner, though -Lottie might be too late for tea; and the relief of discovering that it -was not so late as they thought gave them an excuse for lingering. He -walked to the Lodges with her, and then she turned back with him; and -finally they strayed round the Abbey in the darkness, hidden by it, yet -not so entirely hidden as they thought. Only one little jar came to the -perfect blessedness of this progress homeward.</p> - -<p>“Shall you tell them?” Lottie whispered, just before she took leave of -her lover, with a movement of her hand towards the Deanery.</p> - -<p>This gave Rollo a <i>serrement de cœur</i>. He replied hastily, “Not -to-night,” with something like a shiver, and then he added, “Where shall -I see you to-morrow?”</p> - -<p>This question struck Lottie with the same shock and jar of feeling. -Would not he come and claim her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5258" id="page_5258">{vol.-II-258}</a></span> to-morrow? This was what she had -thought. She did not know what to reply, and a sudden sensation of -undefined trouble—of evil not yet so entirely over as she hoped—came -into her mind; but he added, before she could speak—</p> - -<p>“In the old place—that blessed corner which I love better than any -other in the world. Will you come while everybody is at the Abbey, -Lottie? for we must talk over everything.”</p> - -<p>This melted the little momentary vexation away, and she promised. And -thus they parted perforce—opposite Captain Despard’s door. How glad -Lottie was that the door was open! It stood open all through the summer, -and the habits of the summer were scarcely over. By the light in the -dining-room downstairs and the sound of the voices she divined that tea -was not yet over. But she was not able to encounter Mrs. Despard -to-night. She did not want to see anyone. Her heart was still so full of -delicious tumult, her eyes of sweet tears. She had gone out so -sorrowful, so indignant, not knowing what was to become of her. And now -she knew what was to become of her—the most beautiful, happy fate. He -had said he was poor. What did it matter if he was poor? Was she not -used to that? Lottie knew, and said to herself with secret joy, that she -was the right wife for a poor man. He might have got the noblest of -brides, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5259" id="page_5259">{vol.-II-259}</a></span> she would not have been so fit for him; but <i>she</i> was fit -for that post if ever a young woman was. She would take care of the -little he had, which one might be sure he would never do himself—he was -too generous, too kind for that; Lottie loved him for his prodigality, -even while she determined to control it. She would take care of him and -do everything for him, as no woman used to wealth could do. And she -would spur him on so that he should do great things—things which he had -not done heretofore, only because he had not stimulus enough. He should -have stimulus enough now, with a wife who would exult in all he did, and -support him with sympathy and help. It was not any passive position that -she mapped out for herself. She knew what it meant to be poor, far -better than Rollo did. And she did not mind it. Why should she mind it? -She had been used to it all her life. She would not care what she did. -But he should never have to blush for his wife as a drudge. She would -never forget her position, and his position, which was so much greater -than hers. This was the first time that Lottie thought of his position. -She did so now with a heightening of colour, and louder throb of her -heart. By this time she was sitting in her own room without even a -candle, glad of the seclusion and of the darkness in which she could -think, unbetrayed even to herself. Her heart gave a bound, and a flush -came to her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5260" id="page_5260">{vol.-II-260}</a></span> cheek. There could be no doubt now about her position. No -one could dream, no one could think that Rollo’s wife was ever to be -looked down upon. This gave her a distinct thrill of pleasure; and then -she passed it by, to return to a dearer subject—Himself! how anxious he -had been! as if it were possible she could have resisted his love. He -had wooed her, she thought, as if she had been a princess—doubling -Lottie’s happiness by doing in this respect the thing she felt to be -most right and fit, though, oh! so unnecessary in respect to herself! -Could he really have any doubt how it would turn out? The thought of -this humility in her hero brought tears of love and happiness to -Lottie’s eyes. Was she the same girl who had sat here in gloom and -darkness only last night, wondering what was to become of her? But how -was she to know how soon fate would unfold like a flower, and show her -what was in store for her? How happy she was—how good, how thankful to -God—how charitable to others! She could have gone downstairs and said -something kind even to Polly, had it not been for fear of betraying -herself. Everything that was tender and sweet blossomed out in her -heart. She was so happy. Is not that the moment in which the heart is -most pure, most kind, most humble and tender? God’s hand seemed to be -touching her, blessing her—and she in her turn was ready to bless all -the world.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5261" id="page_5261">{vol.-II-261}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXI" id="CHAPTER_XXXI"></a>CHAPTER XXXI.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">WHAT OTHER PEOPLE THOUGHT.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> appearance of the new Mrs. Despard in the Abbey made a very great -impression. The brilliancy of her blue silk and the bushiness of her -orange-blossoms were calculated to strike awe into all beholders. There -was scarcely a lady within the Precincts who did not feel herself -personally insulted by the appearance of the milliner girl flaunting in -her bridal finery and taking her place by right among them. As for the -wives of the Chevaliers, their indignation was too great for words. -Mingled curiosity and enmity had brought them out in larger numbers than -usual, to see the creature, if she was so lost to every feeling of shame -as to show herself; and it is scarcely necessary to say that Polly was -in that particular entirely lost to every feeling of shame. She came in -with her Captain, clinging to his arm, and whispering to him, even in -the sacred quiet of the Abbey, and as the pair were late, and almost the -entire congregation had assembled, nothing was wanting to the full -enjoyment of her triumph. Polly felt, when she raised her head, after<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5262" id="page_5262">{vol.-II-262}</a></span> -that momentary homage to the sacred place which even in her state of -excitement she felt bound to make, that one object of her life was -attained, that everybody was staring at her, and that in her blue silk -she was more the centre of regard than the Dean himself under his -canopy, or the Minor Canon just about to begin the service, who -perceptibly paused, in acknowledgment of the little rustle and commotion -which accompanied her entrance. The feelings of the ladies among whom -this intruder pushed her way may be imagined. It was all that Mrs. -O’Shaughnessy could do, she said afterwards, to refrain from throwing -her hymn-book at the head of the jaunty Captain, as he handed his bride -into her place, before taking his own among his brother Chevaliers. The -ladies in the Abbey were divided from their partners, being placed in a -lower row, and to see the Captain pass on to his stall with a swing of -elation in his step after handing his bride to her seat, was enough to -make any veteran blaspheme. Why should a man be so proud of himself -because he has got a new wife? The imbecile glow of vanity and -self-congratulation which in such circumstances comes over the -countenance, nay, the entire person, even of the wisest, conveys -exasperation to every looker-on. The sentiment of indignation, however, -against Captain Despard was mingled with pity; but scarcely even -contempt sufficed to soften the feel<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5263" id="page_5263">{vol.-II-263}</a></span>ing with which Polly in her blue -silk was universally regarded. Polly was an intruder, an aggressor. The -very way in which she tossed her head upwards with its bristling crown -of artificial flowers was an offence. The ladies might have their little -differences now and then, and it was an undoubted fact that Mrs. -Dalrymple, for instance, who was very well connected, had never been -able to endure Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, who had no connections at all; but -now they all clung together as with one impulse. They crowded upon each -other in the seat, so as to leave a clear space between them and Polly, -who, unabashed, took full advantage of it, and spread out her flounces, -her blue silken skirts around her, with a rustle of defiance. Mrs. -Temple was the one who was left next to Mrs. Despard. This lady, who -took no notice at first, soon roused up, and putting on her spectacles, -looked very seriously at the intruder. Polly faced round upon her, with -dauntless readiness, but Mrs. Temple’s look was so serious, that even -Polly felt somewhat discomfited. She felt this new observer’s eyes upon -her all the time. “Who was that old woman who stared at me so?” she -asked, scarcely taking the trouble to whisper, as her husband led her -round the nave while the voluntary was being played. “That! that’s the -wife of an old idiot who gives himself no end of airs,” said the -Captain. “I thought as much,” said Polly, tossing her head, “but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5264" id="page_5264">{vol.-II-264}</a></span> she’ll -find I can stare just as well as she can. Two can play at that game.” -She spoke so loudly that some of the people near said, “Hush-sh!” The -Signor was just then playing a very delicate cadenza in the minor key.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Temple took her old husband’s arm without a word, and went straight -home. He had not himself been at the service, but met her at the door; -where he too saw the bride in her blue silk. The old Captain did nothing -but shake his head. He could not trust himself to speak. “What are -things coming to?” he said at last, as they got within their own door. -“When that young fellow was made a Chevalier, I said nothing could come -of it but mischief to the community.” Captain Despard, being only fifty, -was a young fellow to this veteran. “Never mind the community,” said -Mrs. Temple, which was a bold thing to say. It was getting late in the -October afternoon, and within the little sitting-rooms of the Lodges it -seemed dark, coming in even from the grey afternoon skies outside. Mrs. -Temple rang for the lamp before she went upstairs to take off her -bonnet. She was very full of thought, and sighed as she went. Her own -girl, for whom she would so gladly have died, was gone, leaving father -and mother desolate—and here was another poor girl who lived, but had -no one to care for her. Strange are the decrees of Providence. Mrs. -Temple sighed as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5265" id="page_5265">{vol.-II-265}</a></span> she came downstairs again to where her old Captain sat -gazing at the lamp with a sorrowful face. “Yes, my dear,” he said as she -came in, “you were right to say never mind the community. After all, I -suppose there is no community in the world that has not its black sheep. -Nobody will be so foolish as to confound <i>us</i> with such a fellow; but -when I think of that poor girl——”</p> - -<p>“That is what I have been thinking of,” said Mrs. Temple; “but perhaps,” -she added, still unwilling to betray her interest in Lottie, that -interest which was half opposition, “perhaps she may not feel it so much -as we suppose.”</p> - -<p>“Feel it! I have not liked to say very much about her, my dear. She -reminds me so of our own——and I know you could not bear to talk of -that,” said the good Captain, innocent of the fact that he had talked of -little else for months past. “But if you only knew her better! There is -something in her walk—in the turn of her head—that so reminds me—but -I never liked to say much about it. You must not think she does not feel -it. I met her and was talking with her just before I came for you. But -for leaving you alone I should have taken her for a walk; it would have -done her good. I believe she rushed off to the Slopes after all.”</p> - -<p>“I do not think she would get much good on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5266" id="page_5266">{vol.-II-266}</a></span> Slopes,” said Mrs. -Temple, thinking of the little wind of gossip about Mr. Rollo Ridsdale -which had begun to breathe about the Lodges.</p> - -<p>“She would get fresh air—and quiet; she likes that; she is a very -thoughtful girl, my dear—very serious, just like our own poor——. You -must forgive me if I am always seeing resemblances. Lottie is very fond -of the twilight. I have gone with her so often I know her tastes. Many a -time I have done the same with——. When I feel her little arm in mine, -I could almost think sometimes that other days have come back.”</p> - -<p>The shadow of Mrs. Temple’s cap quivered on the wall. The thought of the -little arm in his, the other days, which this simple touch brought back, -was not sweet but terrible to her. A film floated before her eyes, and -something choking and intolerable rose in her throat. “I do not -suppose,” she said hastily, “that a girl brought up like that can mind -as one thinks.”</p> - -<p>The Captain shook his head. “I wish you knew her better,” he said, with -that soft answer which turns away irritation. The servant-maid came in -with the tray at this moment, and Mrs. Temple began to pour out the tea. -She was a little tired, having had many things to do that day, and it -occurred to her suddenly that to lean back in her easy-chair as the -Captain was doing, and to have her cup of tea brought<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5267" id="page_5267">{vol.-II-267}</a></span> to her, would be -sweet. To have some one to wait upon her tenderly and read her wishes in -her eyes, and divine her thoughts before they came to her lips, that -would be sweet. But could anyone do that except a child, could anything -but love do it, and that sacred influence which is in the blood, the -same blood running in the different veins of parent and child? These -thoughts went through her mind without anybody being the wiser. She gave -her husband his tea, and sat down in her turn to rest a little. There -was nothing said in the still little room. The two together, did not -they know all each other’s thoughts and wishes and recollections? They -were old, and what could happen to them except the going out to the -Abbey, the coming in to tea? But if there had been three instead of -two—and one young, with all a dawning world before her feet—everything -would have borne a very different aspect. Ah! Mrs. Temple moved quickly, -as she had the habit of doing when that recollection, always present to -her mind, struck suddenly like a new blow. And here was a creature, -helpless, forlorn, without a mother to fly to. The mother who had no -child stood doubtful between earth and heaven, asking, speechless, what -she was to do: pass by on the other side as if there was no mother in -her? or pardon God for taking her child, and hold out her hand to His? -She did not know what to do. Things were not easy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5268" id="page_5268">{vol.-II-268}</a></span> for her as for her -husband. It was cruel of this girl even to live, to pass by a poor -woman’s windows who had lost her child; yet what was the woman to do -when this creature who was living, who was an offence to her, was in -trouble? Let her sink and never hold out a hand? But what then would the -other girl in heaven think of her mother? Mrs. Temple was torn by this -conflict of which she gave no sign, while perhaps the old Captain in his -kind and simple heart, yearning over the young creature who was so -helpless and desolate, was unjust to his wife and thought her less than -kind.</p> - -<p>And it was not only in Captain Temple’s house that Polly’s appearance -was the cause of excitement. The Signor put his hand upon the arm of his -young assistant as they went out together by the north door. “Did you -see them?” he said, with meaning. Young Purcell was pale with -excitement. He had done nothing but watch Polly promenading through the -nave on her husband’s arm, and the very fact of Lottie’s superiority to -himself made him feel with more horror the impossibility of any harmony -between her and Polly, whom he considered so much inferior to himself. -He had watched her from the organ-loft, while the Signor played the -voluntary, with feelings indescribable; and so did his mother, who was -also in the Abbey, and who gaped at the fine young woman with a mix<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5269" id="page_5269">{vol.-II-269}</a></span>ture -of consternation and admiration, by no means sure of her inferiority, -yet feeling that a crisis had arrived, and that whatever Miss Despard -might have said before, she could not but be glad now of any offer of an -’ome. Mrs. Purcell did not stay for the voluntary, but went home quickly -to see after “her dinner,” very full of thought, and tremulous with -expectation. The young lady was proud, she would not have anything to -say to John before—but now, no doubt she would send for him and all -would be settled. The housekeeper knew that a young stepmother was a -strong argument against the peace of a girl who had been used to have -everything her own way, and she felt with a tremor of her heart, half -pride, half pain, that now at last she would have to resign her boy, and -see him pass from beyond her ken into those regions of gentility with -which the Signor’s housekeeper had nothing to do. Very likely John, or -John’s wife who was “such a lady,” would want her to leave her -comfortable situation. Mrs. Purcell did not like the idea of it, but -still, if it would help to make her boy happy—perhaps even it might -remove a stumbling-block out of John’s way if she were to take it into -her own hands, and give up her situation. The thought made her heart -heavy, for she liked her place, and the Signor, and her comfortable -rooms, and the power of laying by a little money. But John was the first -person to be considered. What<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5270" id="page_5270">{vol.-II-270}</a></span> could a young lady object to in his -position? <i>he</i> was all that a gentleman could wish to be; but a mother -who was in service might no doubt be an objection. Mrs. Purcell made up -her mind hurriedly, that if it proved needful she would not wait to be -asked, but would herself take the initiative and make the sacrifice; but -she did so with a heavy heart. To give up not only her boy, who, when he -was married, would not, she knew, be much more to his mother, but her -occupation likewise, and her chief comforts, and her master who was, in -a way, like another son to her, a foster-son, much greater and richer -than she, but still dependent on her for his comfort—it was hard—but -still she could do it for her John’s sake. Meanwhile her John, feeling -the Signor’s hand heavy with meaning on his arm, answered with tremulous -excitement, “Yes—— I saw it. It is terrible, terrible! a desecration. -To think she should have to put up with <i>that</i> even for a day!”</p> - -<p>“I wonder what will be the issue,” said the Signor, meditatively. “Her -heart is not in her work now. If she becomes an artist, it will be -against her will—Art is not what she is thinking of. I wonder what will -come of it. Will she feel the hollowness of this world and throw herself -into her profession, or will she——”</p> - -<p>“Master,” said the young musician, fervently, “sooner or later she will -turn to me. It is not possible that a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5271" id="page_5271">{vol.-II-271}</a></span> man could love a young lady as I -do, and have an ’ome to offer her, as I have——”</p> - -<p>Purcell was educated—he did not forget his h’s in general; but how many -people are there who, beguiled by that familiar phrase, forget all -precautions, and plunge recklessly into the pitfall of an ’ome!</p> - -<p>“You think so?” said the Signor. He did not himself put any confidence -in this result, and was even surprised, after his recent experience, -that the young man should be sanguine; but still, after all, who ought -to have such true intuitions as the hero himself? and there is no -telling what perseverance mingled with enthusiasm may do. The Signor was -not satisfied with his pupil. She would not devote herself to her work -as he wished. She had no abstract devotion to art, as art. The Signor -felt, musing over it, that it was possible she might take to it more -warmly if by any chance she became Purcell’s wife. John was a very good -fellow, and when he was disappointed, the Signor was very angry with -Lottie; but, still, he thought it probable that Lottie, if she married -him, would not find much to satisfy her in Purcell, and, therefore, -would be driven to art. And of all results that could be attained, was -not this the best? In the meantime, however, he was very doubtful -whether by this means it ever would be attained.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5272" id="page_5272">{vol.-II-272}</a></span></p> -<p>“Yes, master,” said the young man; “how can I help thinking so? I can -give her, if not very much, at least independence and the comforts of an -’ome. She would not be dragged down by anything about me. My mother’s -position may be doubtful,” he said, with passing embarrassment; “but you -have been so good, you have never made her like a common servant, and at -Sturminster nobody need ever know.”</p> - -<p>“Your mother has been very good, and done a great deal for you; you must -never let anyone ignore your mother.”</p> - -<p>“Certainly not,” said the young man. “She <i>is</i> my mother; that ought to -be enough for anybody. And I shall have her come to see me the same as -if she were a duchess; but, still, there is no need of publishing to -everybody what she is when she is at home.”</p> - -<p>“That is true, that is true,” said the Signor. “Then you really think -there is a chance that this is how it will end?”</p> - -<p>“Master,” said Purcell, pausing at the door before they entered. It was -one of the Italian traditions which had lingered in the Signor’s -habitual bearing, to stand still now and then as he was walking, by way -of giving emphasis to a sentence. They paused now, looking at each other -before they went in, and the colour came to the young fellow’s face. -“Master,” he said, “it may look self-sufficient—but how can it end -otherwise? There is no one else who will offer her what I can<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5273" id="page_5273">{vol.-II-273}</a></span> offer -her; and it would be like saying she had no sense, which is very far -from the case, to think she would stand out for ever. She is a lady, she -is above me in birth; but, thanks to you, I know how to behave like a -gentleman; and surely, sooner or later, this is how it must end.”</p> - -<p>“Amen, with all my heart,” said the Signor, turning in at the door, -which old Pick held open behind, waiting, as one who knew his master’s -way.</p> - -<p>It was Mr. Ashford who had intoned the service that afternoon, and his -attention had been so caught by Polly’s entrance that he had made a kind -of stumble in the beginning—a pause which was perceptible. After that, -during the singing of the anthem and at other moments when his attention -was free, he had looked down upon that gorgeous apparition from his high -desk with a look of compassion on his face. The compassion, it is -needless to say, was not for Polly, who wanted none of it. He watched -her behind his book, or behind the hand which supported his head, with -the most curious alarmed attention. And when he passed her with her -husband going out, Mr. Ashford looked at her in a way which Polly -thought to be flattering. “That’s one as takes an interest in us,” she -said. “It’s Ashford, the Minor Canon. It must be you he takes an -interest in,” whispered the Captain, and Polly laughed and tossed her -head. Mr. Ashford<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5274" id="page_5274">{vol.-II-274}</a></span> went home with the same strange look on his face, -softened, and touched, and pitiful. “Poor thing,” he said to himself, -“poor girl!” and when he got in he sat for a long time in the centre -window, in the dark, looking out, and trying to think out some way of -help. What could he do for her? Poor thing! with all her better -instincts and higher feelings, with her impulse of taking care of -everybody and keeping her father and brother right, what would become of -her now? Mr. Ashford asked himself, with many an anxious thought, what -could be done? A man could do nothing—where it was a girl that was in -the case a man was more helpless than a baby. He could do nothing to -help her; he could not even show his sympathy without probably doing -more harm than good to the sufferer. He sat in the window-seat, gazing -out on the dusk and the dim horizon, as if they could help him in his -musings. If he had only had a mother or sister—any woman to whom he -could have appealed, he thought he must have done so on behalf of this -girl. But he had neither sister nor mother. He was a man very much alone -in the world. He had a brother, a poor clergyman, with a large family, -and a wife, who would not understand in the least why Ernest should -interest himself in a stranger—<i>a girl</i>. If he wanted some one to spend -his money upon, why not take one of the children? he thought he heard -her say; and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5275" id="page_5275">{vol.-II-275}</a></span> certainly she would not understand, much less respond to, -any appeal he could make to <i>her</i>. What could he do? If any other -suggestion swept across Mr. Ashford’s face in the dark or through his -heart, nobody was there to see or divine it. He sat thus without ringing -for his lamp till it was quite late, and was much discomposed to be -found sitting in the dark when a messenger arrived with a note from the -Deanery about the extra service for the next saint’s-day. He was annoyed -to be found so, being conscious, perhaps, of reasons for the vigil which -he would not have cared to enter upon; for he was shy and sensitive, and -it had often happened to him to be laughed at, because of his undue -anxiety about others. “What is it to you?” had been often said to him, -and never with more occasion than now. For, after all, what did it -matter to the Minor Canon what became of Lottie Despard? Whether she and -her stepmother should “get on” together, or if they should never “get -on,” but yet might manage to live under the same roof a cat-and-doggish -life—what was it to him? One way or other, it would not take sixpence -out of his pocket, or affect his comfort in any way. But yet he could -not get it out of his head. No one in the house had thought of coming to -his room to light his lamp, to see that all was in order for him. He was -not served with precision, as was the Signor, for he was fond of saving -his servants<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5276" id="page_5276">{vol.-II-276}</a></span> trouble and making excuses for them. And when the man came -from the Deanery and followed the maid into the study, where she went -groping, declaring that her master was not at home, the Minor Canon was -uncomfortable, finding himself thus taken by surprise. “You need not -wait for an answer. I will send one in the morning,” he said, when the -candles on the writing-table had been lit with a match, and he had read -the note. He felt that his confused and troubled thoughts might be read -in his eyes. But nobody had any clue to the subject of these thinkings; -and how could anyone suspect that it was a matter of such absolute -indifference to himself that was occupying his thoughts—a thing with -which he had nothing in the world to do?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5277" id="page_5277">{vol.-II-277}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXII" id="CHAPTER_XXXII"></a>CHAPTER XXXII.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">WHAT ROLLO HAD TO MARRY ON.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> moment after a man has made a proposal of marriage, and has been -accepted, is not always a moment of unmitigated blessedness. There are -ups and downs in the whole business from beginning to end. Sometimes the -man has the best of it, and sometimes the woman. When either side has -betrayed itself without a response on the other, when the man seems to -waver in his privilege of choice, when the woman hesitates in her -crowning prerogative of acceptance or rejection, then there are -intervals on either side which are not enviable; but when all these -preliminaries are over, and the explanation has been made, and the two -understand each other—then the lady’s position is, for the first few -days at least, the most agreeable. She has no parents to interview, no -pecuniary investigations to submit to, nor has she to enter upon the -question of ways and means, settlements and income for the future. But -when a man who knows he has nothing to marry upon is beguiled by -circumstances, by a sudden emergency, or by strain<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5278" id="page_5278">{vol.-II-278}</a></span> of feeling into the -momentous offer, and, after the first enthusiasm of acceptance, looks -himself in the face, as it were, and asks himself how it is to be done, -there is something terrible in the hours that follow. How was it to be -done? Rollo Ridsdale left Lottie at her door, and went across the road -towards the Deanery in a state of mind which was indescribable. He was -not an immaculate man, nor had he now spoken of love, for the first -time; but yet he was real in his love, and the response had been sweet -to him—sweet and terrible, as conveying every risk and danger that life -could bring, as well as every delight. He had lingered with his love -until the last available moment, and yet it was a relief to turn his -back upon her, to go away into the chaos of his own life and try to find -a way out of this maze in which he had involved himself. How was he to -marry? what was he to do? He felt giddy as he walked along, steadily -enough to outward seeming, but in his soul groping like a blind man. He -had asked Lottie Despard to marry him, and she had consented. He wanted -nothing better than her companionship, her love, the delight and comfort -of her to be his own; but, good heavens!—but, by Jove!—but, in the -name of everything worth swearing by—how was it to be done?—how was he -to marry? what was he to do? The happiness was delicious—it was <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5279" id="page_5279">{vol.-II-279}</a></span>a -taste of Paradise, a whiff of Elysium—but——. Rollo did not know where -he was going as he crossed the Dean’s Walk. He went—steadily enough, -his legs carrying him, his knowledge of the place guiding him -mechanically, but his whole soul in a maze of thought. How was he to do -it? How could he, a man with nothing, not much better than an -adventurer, living upon chances and windfalls—how could he weight -himself with the support of another—marry a wife? It was preposterous, -it was terrible—yet it was sweet. Poor child, she was in want of his -arm to shelter her, in want of some one to take care of her, and he -could not tolerate the idea that anyone but himself should give her the -succour she needed; but how was he to do it? The question seemed to get -into the air and whisper round him—how was he to do it? He had nothing, -or what to such a man was nothing, and worse than nothing. He managed to -live no one could tell how. True, in living he did not know how Rollo -managed to spend a good deal of money—more than many a family is reared -upon; but there is proportion in everything, and he never could tell -from one year’s end to another how he had got through. And he had asked -a girl to marry him! He groaned within himself when he came back to this -centre thought, this pivot of all his reflections, though it was sweet. -He had asked her to marry him; he had pledged himself to take her away -out of her troubles,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5280" id="page_5280">{vol.-II-280}</a></span> to throw open a refuge to her, to make her escape -practicable: speedily, certainly, easily, so far as she knew—and how -was he to do it? If the question went through his mind once, it flew and -circled in wavering rounds about him, like a moth or a bat in summer, a -hundred times at least as he went from the Chevalier’s lodge to the -Deanery door. He had no time for thinking, since the hour of dinner -approached, and the Dean waited for no one; but he thought and thought -all the same. What was he to do? He marry! how was he to do it? Yet it -must be done. He did nothing but ask himself this while he brushed his -hair and tied his evening tie. He had nothing, not a penny—he had a -valet and a dressing-case, with gold tops to all the bottles, and the -most expensive clothes from the dearest tailor—but he had nothing, and -everybody knew that he had nothing. The situation was appalling. A cold -dew came out on his forehead; he to do such a thing! but yet he had done -it—he had committed himself—and now the question that remained -was—not how to get out of it, which under any other circumstances would -have been his clear duty, but how to do it? This was the problem he -tried to solve while he was dressing, which flitted about his head while -he sat at dinner, between every mouthful of his soup, and fluttered all -through the dessert. How was he to do it? And when the even<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5281" id="page_5281">{vol.-II-281}</a></span>ing was -over—when Lady Caroline had gone to bed, and the Dean to his study, -Rollo at length ventured out into the Deanery garden with his cigar, in -spite of the black looks of Mr. Jeremie, who wanted to shut up the house -and get to bed himself at a reasonable hour, as a dean’s butler has a -right to do.</p> - -<p>It was cold—but he did not feel the cold—and the wind was still -strong, blowing the black branches wildly about the leaden sky. The -Dean’s garden was bounded by the Slopes, only a low and massive grey -wall, as old as the buttresses amid which the lawn was set, separating -it from the larger grounds, which were open to the community—and Rollo -leaning on that wall could almost see the spot where he had sat with -Lottie, when she had clasped her hands on his arm, leaning upon him with -delicious trust, and giving up all her future into his hands. Even then -what a difference there had been between them!—she throwing herself -upon him in utter faith and confidence, feeling herself delivered -completely and at once from all the troubles that overwhelmed her; while -he, even in the thrill of pleasure which that soft weight and pressure -gave him, felt his heart jump with such sudden alarm as words could not -describe. Now, when he thought it over, the alarm was more than the -pleasure. Lottie, retired into her little chamber, was at that hour -going over the whole scene with the tenderest happiness and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5282" id="page_5282">{vol.-II-282}</a></span> -reliance—feeling safe with him, feeling free of all responsibility, not -even forecasting the future, safe and relieved from all the anxieties of -the past, caring for nothing but this moment, this exquisite climax of -life, this perfect union that had begun and was never to end. Very, very -different were Rollo’s thoughts. How was he to do it? Marry! the very -idea seemed impossible. It involved disclosure, and disclosure would be -madness. What would his relations say to him?—what would his friends -say to him? His tradesmen would send in their bills, his associates -would contemplate him with the very horror of astonishment. Ridsdale -married! as well cut his throat at once. Had he ever thought of the -little <i>ménage</i> on which Lottie’s thoughts (had they been free to plan -anything) would have dwelt with simple pride and happiness, he would -have been disposed really to cut his throat. In such a case Lottie would -have been sure of her own powers—sure that if they were poor she could -make their money go twice as far as Rollo by himself could make it -go—and could much more than balance her share of the expenses by the -housewifely powers which it would have been her delight and her ambition -to exercise. But to Rollo love in a cottage was a simple folly, meaning -nothing. The very idea was so foreign to him that it never entered into -his mind at all. What did enter into his mind, as the only hope in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5283" id="page_5283">{vol.-II-283}</a></span> -blank of the future, was of a very different description. It was the -original idea which had first of all moved him towards this girl, who -gradually had awakened within him so many other sentiments: her voice. -Should he be able to produce this as he hoped, then there would be a way -of escape from the difficulty. The Manager had behaved like a fool, but -Rollo had not changed his opinion. Though he had fallen in love with the -singer, and his sentiments in regard to her had thus been modified, he -had never changed his opinion. She possessed a magnificent organ; and -though (which seemed to him very strange) Handel at present was her only -inspiration, yet he felt that with proper care that voice could do -anything, and that in it might yet lie all the elements of fortune. -Casting about around all his horizon for something like salvation, this -was the only light that Rollo perceived. It, perhaps, was not the most -desirable of lights. To marry a singer in full heyday of her powers, -admired by all the world, and making a great deal of money, was not a -thing that any younger son would hesitate to do; but an unknown singer, -with all her way to make, and her very education still so imperfect, -that was a very different matter; but still it was the only chance. In -former times, perhaps, a man would have thought it necessary to pretend -at least a desire to snatch his bride from the exposure of publicity, -from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5284" id="page_5284">{vol.-II-284}</a></span> the stage, or even from the concert-room—a determination to work -for her rather than to let her work for him; but along with -circumstances sentiments change, and the desire of women for work is apt -to be supported from an undesirable side by those who once would have -thought their honour concerned in making women’s work unnecessary. In -civilisation there can be no advance without its attendant drawback. Mr. -Ridsdale had fallen in love, a thing no young man can entirely guard -against, and he had engaged to marry Lottie Despard, partly because he -was in love with her, partly because she was in want of protection and -succour. But he did not know in what way he could keep a wife; and short -of breaking his word and abandoning her altogether (things which at this -moment it seemed utterly impossible to do), what other way was open to -him than to consider how his wife could keep him? This was a great deal -more easy. He had nothing—no money, no profession—but she had a -profession, a something which was worth a great deal of money, which -only required cultivation to be as good as a fortune. Rollo’s heart -perceptibly lightened as he thought of this. It did not make the social -difficulties much easier, or soften the troubles which he must -inevitably have with his family; but still, whereas the other matter had -been impossible, this brought it within the range of things that could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5285" id="page_5285">{vol.-II-285}</a></span> -be contemplated. He could not refrain from one sigh (in the undercurrent -of his mind—not dwelt upon or even acknowledged, a thing which he would -have been ashamed of had he admitted it to himself)—one sigh that the -idea of marriage had come in at all. She might have found in him all the -succour, all the companionship, all the support she wanted without -<i>that</i>; and it would have done her no harm in her after career. But that -was a secret thought—an inadvertence, a thing which he dared not permit -himself to think, as it were, in the daylight, in his own full -knowledge. He knew very well what a fool he would appear to -everybody—how the idea that he, Rollo, with all his experience, should -be thus taken in at last, would cause infinite surprise and laughter -among his friends—but still there came a gleam of possibility into the -matter when he thought of Lottie’s gift. By that means they might do it. -It was not quite out of the question, quite impossible. Rollo had been -so lost in thought that he had not seen Mr. Jeremie looking out from the -window through which he had gone into the garden; but as he arrived at -this, which was a kind of conclusion, if not a very satisfactory one, he -became at last aware of the respectable butler’s anxiety.</p> - -<p>“Her ladyship, sir, don’t hold with leaving the windows open,” said Mr. -Jeremie, who did not hold with staying out of bed to attend upon a young -ma<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5286" id="page_5286">{vol.-II-286}</a></span>n’s vagaries. There had been nothing of this kind in Miss Augusta’s -time—not even when Mr. Daventry came courting. Rollo tossed the end of -his cigar over the wall and came in, somewhat relieved in his mind, -though the relief was not very great. It left all the immediate question -unsolved—what his family would say, and what was to be done in the -meantime—but it gave a feeble light of possibility in the future. He -had calculated on Lottie’s voice to make his fortune when he thought of -it only as a speculator. He had much more right to look upon her as -likely to make his fortune now.</p> - -<p>In the morning the same thought was the first in Rollo’s mind; but the -faint light of hope it gave was surrounded by clouds that were full of -trouble. Supposing that in the course of time, when she was thoroughly -established in her profession, trained and started, she could manage to -attain that most necessary thing called an income, with which to meet -the world—this was a contingency which still lay in the future; whereas -it might be necessary to act at once. The very urgency and anxiety of -Rollo’s thoughts will show that he neither wanted to abandon Lottie nor -to allow her to guess that he was alarmed by his engagement to her. The -whole scope and object of his deliberations was to make the thing -possible. But for this why should he have troubled himself about it at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5287" id="page_5287">{vol.-II-287}</a></span> -all? He might have “let things take their course”—he might have gone on -enjoying the delights of love-making, and all a lover’s privileges, -without going any further. Lottie was not the kind of girl who ever -would have hurried matters, or insisted upon the engagement being kept. -He knew well enough that she would never “pull him up.” But he was in -love with Lottie—he wanted to deliver her from her troubles—he wanted -to have her for his own—if he could only see how it was to be done. -Evidently there were various conditions which must be insisted on—which -Lottie must yield to. Public notice must not be called to the tie -between them more than was absolutely necessary. Everything must be -conducted carefully and privately—not to make any scandal—and not to -compel the attention of his noble family. Rollo did not want to be sent -for by his father, to be remonstrated with by his elder brother, to have -all his relatives preaching sermons to him. Even his aunt Caroline, -passive, easy-going soul—even she would be roused, he felt, to -violence, could she divine what was in the air. Marry Miss Despard! the -idea would drive her out of all the senses she possessed. Kind as she -was, and calm as she was, Rollo felt that in such circumstances she -would no longer be either kind or calm; and if even Lady Caroline were -driven to bay, what would be the effect of such a step on<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5288" id="page_5288">{vol.-II-288}</a></span> Lord -Courtland, who had no calm of nature with which to meet the revelation? -Therefore his heart was heavy as he went out, as soon as the bells had -ceased ringing for matins, to meet his love on the Slopes. His heart was -heavy, yet he was not a cool or indifferent lover. The thought of seeing -her again was sweet to him; but the cares were many, and he did not know -how to put into language which would not vex or hurt her the things that -must be said. He tried to wrap them up in honeyed words, but he was not -very successful; and at last he decided to leave it all to -Providence—to take no thought for what he was to say. “The words will -be put into my mouth at the right time,” he said to himself piously. He -could not exactly forecast what shape the conversation might take, or -how this special subject should be introduced. He would not settle what -he had to say, but would leave it to fate.</p> - -<p>The morning sunshine lay as usual unbroken upon the Dean’s Walk. It had -been feeble and fitful in the morning, as sunshine has often begun to be -in October, but now had warmed into riper glory. The paths on the Slopes -were strewed with fallen leaves, which the winds of last night had blown -about in clouds. Rollo was first at the trysting-place; and when he saw -Lottie appear suddenly round the bole of the big elm-tree, she seemed to -be walking to him,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5289" id="page_5289">{vol.-II-289}</a></span> her foot all light and noiseless, upon a path of -gold. Her steps seemed to have a fairy tinkle upon that yellow pavement. -The movement of her figure was like music, with a flowing liquid measure -in it. The little veil that dropped over her hat, the ribbons at her -neck, the soft sweep of her dark merino gown, commonest yet prettiest of -fabrics, all united in one soft line. There was nobody by, and it was -the first heavenly morning upon which they had belonged to each other. -She came to him as if out of paradise, out of heaven, all radiant with -happiness and celestial trust and love. A glow of tenderness and -gladness came over the young man. He forgot all about the difficulties, -about money, about his family, about how they were to live and what was -to be done. He went to meet her, ardent and eager, forgetting everything -but herself. It was the <i>vita nuova</i> all over again—a new earth and new -skies. It seemed to both of them that they had never lived before, that -this was the birthday of a glorified existence. Even last night, in the -agitation of their happiness, had not been like this first new day. When -they stepped into each other’s sight, realising the mutual property, the -mutual right, the incomprehensible sweetness of belonging to each other, -everything else seemed to be swept out of the world. There was nothing -visible but themselves, the sweet sky, and genial air: the leaves -dropping<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5290" id="page_5290">{vol.-II-290}</a></span> softly, all crimson and golden, the sun shining on them with a -sympathetic surprise of pleasure. For the moment, even to the young man -of the world, everything was simple, primitive, and true, all -complication and conventionalities swept away; and if so to Rollo, how -much more to Lottie, thus advancing sweetly, with a soft measure in her -step, not hurried or eager, but in modest faith and innocence, into her -lover’s arms!</p> - -<p>And, lo! in a moment all his calculations proved needless. Instead of -talking seriously to each other, making their mutual arrangements, -deciding what was to be done, as would have been far the wisest way of -employing the solitude of this sweet morning, which seemed to brighten -expressly for them—what did the two do but fall into an aimless -delicious whispering about their two happy selves, and nothing more! -They had things to say to each other which came by stress of nature, and -had to be said, yet were nothing—while the things of real importance -were thrust aside. They fell a-gossiping about themselves, about each -other, going over all the old ground, repeating the last evening’s -tender follies, about—when you first began to think—and when I first -knew—and what had been in the one heart and in the other, when both had -to talk of other things, and make no sign. What need to follow all the -course of that foolishness?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5291" id="page_5291">{vol.-II-291}</a></span> There was nothing in earth or heaven so -deeply interesting to Lottie as to hear how Rollo was thinking of her -while he stood and talked to somebody else, watching her from far; and -how his heart would beat when he saw her coming, and how he blasphemed -old Captain Temple, yet blessed him next moment for bringing her here; -and what he had really meant when he said this and that, which had -perplexed her at the time; nor to Rollo than to know how she had watched -for him, and looked for his sympathy, and felt herself backed up and -supported the moment he appeared. There was not a day of the past month -but had its secret history, which each longed to disclose to the -other—and scarcely an hour, scarcely a scrap of conversation which did -not contain a world of unrevealed meaning to be unfolded and -interpreted. Talk of an hour! they had ample enough material for a -century without being exhausted; and as for arrangements, as for the (so -to speak) business of the matter, who thought of it? For Lottie was not -an intelligent young woman, intending to be married, but a happy girl in -love; and Rollo, though he knew better, was in love too, and wished for -nothing better than these delightful confidences. The hours went by like -a moment. They had already been aroused two or three times by the roll -of baby carriages propelled by nursemaids before the greater volume of -music from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5292" id="page_5292">{vol.-II-292}</a></span> the Abbey proclaimed that service was over. “Already!” they -both cried, with wonder and dismay; and then, for the first time, there -was a pause.</p> - -<p>“I had so much to talk to you about,” he said, “and we have not had time -to say a word, have we? Ah! when can we have a good long time to -ourselves? Can you escape your Captain to-night, my darling? I should -like to shake him by the hand, to thank him for taking care of you; but -couldn’t you escape from him, my Lottie, to-night?”</p> - -<p>Lottie grew a little pale; her heart sank, not with distrust, but with -perhaps a little, a very little disappointment. Was this still how it -was to be? Just the same anxious diplomacies to secure a meeting, the -same risks and chances? This gave her a momentary chill. “It is very -difficult,” she said. “He is the only one I have to take care of me. He -would think it unkind.”</p> - -<p>“You must not say now the only one, my Lottie—not the only one—my -substitute for a little while, who will soon have to give me up his -place.”</p> - -<p>“But he will not like to give it up now; not till he knows; perhaps not -even then—for his daughter, you know——”</p> - -<p>“Ah! it was she who married Dropmore. Lottie, my love, my darling, I -cannot live through the evening without you. Could you not come again, -at the same<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5293" id="page_5293">{vol.-II-293}</a></span> time as last night? It is early dark, heaven be praised. -Take your walk with him, and then give him the slip, and come here, -sweet, here to me. I shall be watching, counting the moments. It is bad -enough to be obliged to get through the day without you. Ah! it is the -Signor’s day. The Signor is all rapt up in his music. He will never -suspect anything. I shall be able to see you at least, to hear you, to -look at you, my lovely darling——”</p> - -<p>After a moment said Lottie, “That was one thing I wanted to ask you -about. You know why the Signor gives me lessons. Will it be right <i>now</i> -to go on with him? <i>now</i> that everything is changed? Should not I give -them up?”</p> - -<p>“Give them up!” cried Rollo, with a look of dismay. “My darling, what -are you thinking of? They are more necessary, more important than ever. -Of course, we will pay for them after. Oh! no fear but he will be -repaid; but no, no, my love, my sweet, you must not give them up!”</p> - -<p>She looked at him with something like anxiety in her eyes, not knowing -what he could mean. What was it? Lottie could not but feel a little -disappointed. It seemed that everything was to go on just the same as -before.</p> - -<p>“I shall see you there,” he said. “So long as we are in the same place -everything is sweet; and I have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5294" id="page_5294">{vol.-II-294}</a></span> always taken so much interest in your -dear voice that no one can suspect. And to-night you will come—promise -me, my darling—just after the service, when it is getting dark?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she whispered, with a sigh—then started from his side. “I saw -some one among the trees. The old Chevaliers are coming up for their -morning walk. Let me go now—you must let me go—Mr. Ridsdale——”</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Mr. Ridsdale!’ How can I let my Lottie go before she has called me by -my right name?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I must not stay. I see people coming,” said Lottie, disappointed, -troubled, afraid of being seen, yet angry with herself for being afraid. -“Mr. Ridsdale—Rollo, dear Rollo—let me go now——”</p> - -<p>“Till it is time for the Signor——” And he did let her go, with a hasty -withdrawal on his own part, for unmistakably there were people to be -seen moving about among the trees; not, indeed, coming near their -corner, yet within sight of them. Lottie left him hurriedly, not looking -back. She was ashamed, though she had no cause for shame. She ran down -the bank to the little path which led to the foot of the hill and to the -town. She could not go up and run the risk of being seen going home by -the Dean’s Walk. She drew her veil over her face, and her cheeks burned -with blushes; she was ashamed, though she had done<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5295" id="page_5295">{vol.-II-295}</a></span> no wrong. And Rollo -stood looking down after her, watching her with a still more acute pang. -There were things which were very painful to him which did not affect -her. That a girl like Lottie should go away alone, unattended, and walk -through the street, with no one with her, a long round, annoyed him -beyond measure. He ought to have gone with her, or some one ought to be -with her. But then, what could he do? He might as well give up the whole -matter at once as betray all he was meditating to his people in this -way. But he watched her, leaning over the low parapet, with trouble and -shame. The girl whom he loved ought not to go about unattended, and this -relic of chivalry, fallen into conventionality, moved him more than -greater things. He did not object, like Ferdinand, to let his Miranda -carry his load for him; but it did trouble him that she should walk -through St. Michael’s by herself, though in the sweet security of the -honest morning. Thus minds differ all over the world.</p> - -<p class="fint">END OF VOL. II.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5296" id="page_5296">{vol.-II-296}</a></span></p> - -<p class="fint">PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6001" id="page_6001">{vol.-III-1}</a></span></p> - -<p class="c">COLLECTION<br /> -<small>OF</small><br /> -<big>B R I T I S H A U T H O R S</big><br /><br /> -TAUCHNITZ EDITION.<br /><br /> - -VOL. 1825.<br /><br /> - -WITHIN THE PRECINCTS BY MRS. OLIPHANT.<br /><br /> - -IN THREE VOLUMES.<br /><br /> -VOL. III.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6002" id="page_6002">{vol.-III-2}</a></span> </p> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6003" id="page_6003">{vol.-III-3}</a></span> </p> - -<h1> -WITHIN<br /> -THE PRECINCTS</h1> - -<p class="c">BY<br /> -<br /> -MRS. OLIPHANT,<br /> -<br /><small> -AUTHOR OF “THE CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,” ETC.</small><br /> -<br /> -<i>COPYRIGHT EDITION.</i><br /> -<br /> -IN THREE VOLUMES.<br /> -<br /> -VOL. III.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -LEIPZIG<br /> -BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ<br /> -1879.<br /> -<br /><small> -<i>The Right of Translation is reserved.</i></small><br /></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6004" id="page_6004">{vol.-III-4}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6005" id="page_6005">{vol.-III-5}</a></span> </p> - -<h2><a name="CONTENTS3" id="CONTENTS3"></a>CONTENTS<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">OF VOLUME III.</span></h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="3" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td colspan="3"> </td><td class="rt">Page</td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">CHAPTER</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII">XXXIII.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII">Lottie’s Side of the Question</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII">7</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIV">XXXIV.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIV"> A Crisis</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIV">31</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXV">XXXV.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXV"> Family Duty: according to Mrs. Despard</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXV">50</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVI">XXXVI.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVI"> Family Duty: by a Finer Artist</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVI">73</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVII">XXXVII.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVII"> Another Chance</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVII">91</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVIII">XXXVIII.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVIII"> Lottie Resentful</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVIII">111</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIX">XXXIX.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIX"> Lottie Subdued</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIX">131</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XL">XL.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XL"> The Effect of Good Fortune: Law</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XL">153</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XLI">XLI.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XLI"> The Effect of Good Fortune: Rollo</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XLI">167</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XLII">XLII.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XLII"> “——till Friday”</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XLII">190</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XLIII">XLIII.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XLIII"> The End of the Dream</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XLIII">212</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XLIV">XLIV.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XLIV"> Après?</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XLIV">235</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td><td class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XLV">XLV.</a></td><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XLV"> Conclusion</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#CHAPTER_XLV">252</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6006" id="page_6006">{vol.-III-6}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6007" id="page_6007">{vol.-III-7}</a></span> </p> - -<h2><a name="WITHIN_THE_PRECINCTS" id="WITHIN_THE_PRECINCTS"></a>WITHIN THE PRECINCTS.</h2> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">LOTTIE’S SIDE OF THE QUESTION.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Lottie</span> made her way down the Slopes alone, with feelings which had -greatly changed from those of a few minutes ago. How happy she had been! -The hour that had passed under the falling leaves had been like -paradise; but the portals of exit from paradise are perhaps never so -sweet as those of entrance. Her coming away was with a sense of -humiliation and shame. As she wound her way down her favourite by-road -winding among the shrubs and trees, she could not help feeling that she -was making her escape, as if from some guilty meeting, some clandestine -rendezvous. In all her life Lottie had never known this sensation -before. She had been shy, and had shrunk from the gaze of people who had -stared at her, in admiration of her beauty or of her singing, but in her -shyness there had always been the pride of innocence; and never before -had she been afraid to meet any eye, or<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6008" id="page_6008">{vol.-III-8}</a></span> felt it necessary to steal -away, to keep out of sight as if she were guilty. She had not done -anything wrong, but yet she had all the feeling of having done something -wrong—the desire to escape, the horror of detection. To some the secret -meeting, the romance and mystery, would have been only an additional -happiness, but Lottie, proud and frank and open-hearted, could not bear -the very thought of doing anything of which she was ashamed. The -sensation hurt and humiliated her. All had been very different <i>before</i>: -to meet her lover unawares, yet not without intention, with a delightful -element of chance in each encounter—to look out secretly for him, yet -wonder innocently to find him—to let her steps be drawn here or there -by a sense of his presence, with a fond pretence of avoiding him, a -sweet certainty of meeting him—all these risks and hazards of emotion -had been natural. But Lottie felt with a sudden jar of her nerves and -mind that this ought not to continue so. She had felt a little wondering -disappointment on the previous night when he had asked her to meet him -again, without any suggestion that he should go to her, or make the new -bond between them known. Even then there had been a faint jar, a sigh of -unfulfilled expectation. But now their hurried parting, her own flight, -the little panic lest they should be seen, and discovery follow, made -Lottie’s heart sick. How well she could imagine<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6009" id="page_6009">{vol.-III-9}</a></span> how this ought to have -been! They ought not to have fled from each other, or been afraid of any -man’s eye. It ought not to have mattered whether the Signor or anyone -suspected. Blushing and shy, yet with full faith in the sympathy of all -who saw her, Lottie should have walked down the Dean’s Walk with her -betrothed: she should have avoided no one. She should have been -shamefaced but not ashamed. What a difference between the two! all the -difference that there is between the soft blush of happiness and the -miserable burning of guilt. And this was what ought to have been. Half -the misery of Lottie—as half the misery of all imaginative -inexperienced women—arose from the pain and disappointment of feeling -that those she loved did not come up to the ideal standard she had set -up in her soul. She was disappointed, not so much because of the false -position in which she herself was placed (for this, except -instinctively, she had but little realised), but because Rollo was not -doing, not yet, all that it seemed right for him to do. She would have -forced and beaten (had she been able) Law into the fulfilment of his -duty, she would even have made him generous to herself, not for the sake -of herself, but that he should be a model of brotherhood, an example of -all a true man ought to be; and if this was so in the case of her -brother, how much more with her lover? If to be harsh as a tyrant or -indifferent as a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6010" id="page_6010">{vol.-III-10}</a></span> sultan, was the highest ideal of a man’s conduct, how -much happier many a poor creature would be! It seems a paradox to say -so, but it is true enough; for the worst of all, in a woman’s mind, is -to feel that the wrong done to <i>her</i> is worse wrong to <i>him</i>, an -infringement of the glory of the being whom she would fain see perfect. -This, however, is a mystery beyond the comprehension of the crowd. -Lottie was used to being disappointed with Law—was she fated to another -disappointment more cruel and bitter? She did not ask herself the -question, she would not have thought it even, much less said it for all -the world; but secretly there was a wonder, a pang, a faintness of -failure in her heart.</p> - -<p>It is not without an effort, however, that the heart will permanently -admit any such disappointment. As Lottie went her ways thus drooping, -ashamed and discouraged, thinking of everything that had been done and -that ought to have been done, there drifted vaguely across her mind a -kind of picture of Rollo’s meeting with her father, and what it would -be. She had no sooner thought of this than a glow of alarm came over her -face, bringing insensibly consolation to her mind. Rollo and her father! -What would the Captain say to him? He would put on his grand air, in -which even Lottie had no faith; he would exhibit himself in all his vain -greatness, in all his self-importance, jaunty<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6011" id="page_6011">{vol.-III-11}</a></span> and fine, to his future -son-in-law. He would give Lottie herself a word of commendation in -passing, and he would spread himself forth before the stranger as if it -was he whom Rollo wanted and cared for. Lottie’s steps quickened out of -the languid pace into which they had fallen, and her very forehead grew -crimson as she realised that meeting. Thank heaven, it had not taken -place yet! Rollo had been too wise, too kind, too delicate to humble his -love by hurrying into the presence of the Captain, into the house where -the Captain’s new wife now reigned supreme. The new wife—she too would -have a share in it, she would be called into counsel, she would give her -advice in everything, and claim a right to interfere. Oh, Lottie -thought, how foolish she had been! how much wiser was Rollo, no doubt -casting about in his mind how it was best to be done, and pondering over -it carefully to spare her pain. She felt herself enveloped in one blush -from the crown of her head to the sole of her feet; but how sweet was -that shame! It was she who was foolish, not he who had failed. Her -cheeks burned with a penitential flush, but he was faultless. There was -nothing in him to disappoint, but only the most delicate kindness, the -tenderest care of her. How could she have thought otherwise? It was not -possible that Rollo should like secret meetings, should fear discovery. -In the first days of their acquaintance he had shown no<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6012" id="page_6012">{vol.-III-12}</a></span> reluctance to -come to the humble little lodge. But now—his finer feeling shrank from -it now—he wanted to take his love away from that desecrated place, not -to shame her by prying into its ignoble mysteries. He was wiser, better, -kinder than anyone. And she was ashamed of <i>herself</i>, not any longer of -anything else, ashamed of her poor, mean, unworthy interpretation of -him; and as happy in her new, changed consciousness of guilt, and -penitence and self-disgust—as happy as if, after her downfall into -earth, she had now safely got back into heaven.</p> - -<p>By this time she had got out of the wooded Slopes, and over the stile, -and into the steep thoroughfare at the foot of the Abbey walls, the -pavement of St. Michael’s Hill. Lottie did not feel that there was any -harm in walking through the street alone, as Rollo thought there was. -She wanted no attendant. A little bodyguard, invisible, but with a -radiance going out from them which shone about her, attended upon her -way—love and innocence and happiness, no longer with drooping heads but -brave and sweet, a band invisible, guaranteeing their charge against all -ills. As she went along the street with this shining retinue, there was -nothing in all the world that could have harmed her; and nobody wanted -to harm the girl—of whom, but that she was proud, no soul in St. -Michael’s had an unkind word to say. Everybody knew the domestic<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6013" id="page_6013">{vol.-III-13}</a></span> -trouble that had come upon her, and all the town was sorry for -Lottie—all the more that there was perhaps a human satisfaction in -being sorry for one whose fault was that she was proud. She met Captain -Temple as she entered the Abbey Gate. Many thoughts about her had been -in the kind old man’s heart all the morning, and it was partly to look -for her, after vain walks about the Abbey Precincts, that he was turning -his steps towards the town. He came up to her eagerly, taking her hand -between his. He thought she must have been wandering out disconsolate, -no matter where, to get away from the house which was no longer a fit -home for one like her. He was so disturbed and anxious about her, that -the shadow which was in his mind seemed to darken over Lottie, and cast -a reflection of gloom upon her face. “You have been out early, my dear? -Why did you not send for me to go with you? After matins I am always at -your service,” he said.</p> - -<p>But there was none of the gloom which Captain Temple imagined in -Lottie’s face. She looked up at him out of the soft mist of her own -musings with a smile. “I went out before matins,” she said; “I have been -out a long time. I had—something to do.”</p> - -<p>“My poor child! I fear you have been wandering, keeping out of the way,” -said the old Captain. Then another thought seized him. Had she begun -already<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6014" id="page_6014">{vol.-III-14}</a></span> to serve the new wife and do her errands? “My dear,” he said, -“what have you been doing? you must not be too good—you must not forget -yourself too much. Your duty to your father is one thing, but you must -not let yourself be made use of now—you must recollect your own -position, my dear.”</p> - -<p>“My position?” she looked up at him bewildered; for she was thinking -only of Rollo, while he thought only of her father’s wife.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Lottie, my dear child, you have thought only of your duty -hitherto, but you must not yield to every encroachment. You must not -allow it to be supposed that you give up everything.”</p> - -<p>“Ah,” said Lottie, lifting to him eyes which seemed to swim in a haze of -light; “to give up everything would be so—— I don’t know what you -mean,” she added hastily, in a half-terrified tone. As for Captain -Temple, he was quite bewildered, and did not know what to think.</p> - -<p>“Need I explain, my dear, what I mean? There can be but one thing that -all your friends are thinking of. This new relation, this new -connection. I could not sleep all night for thinking of you, in the -house with that woman. My poor child! and my wife too. You were the last -thing we talked of at night, the first thing in the morning——”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6015" id="page_6015">{vol.-III-15}</a></span></p> -<p>“Ah,” said Lottie again, coming back to reality with a long-drawn -breath. “I was not thinking of her; but I understand you now.”</p> - -<p>Lottie had, however, some difficulty in thinking of <i>her</i>, even now; for -one moment, being thus recalled to the idea, her countenance changed; -but soon came back to its original expression. Her eyes were dewy and -sweet—a suspicion of tears in them like the morning dew on flowers with -the sunshine reflected in it, the long eyelashes moist, but the blue -beneath as clear as a summer sky; and the corners of her mouth would run -into curves of smiling unawares; her face was not the face of one upon -whom the cares of the world were lying heavy, but of one to whom some -new happiness had come. She was not thinking of what he was saying, but -of something in her own mind. The kind old Captain could not tell what -to think; he was alarmed, though he did not know why.</p> - -<p>“Then it is not so bad,” he said, “as you feared?”</p> - -<p>“What is not so bad? Things at home? Oh, Captain Temple! But I try not -to think about it,” Lottie said hastily, with a quiver in her lip. She -looked at him wistfully, with a sudden longing. “I wish—I wish—but it -is better not to say anything.”</p> - -<p>“You may trust to me, my dear; whatever is in your heart I will never -betray you; you may trust to me.”</p> - -<p>Lottie’s eyes filled with tears as she looked at him,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6016" id="page_6016">{vol.-III-16}</a></span> but she shook her -head. They were not bitter tears, only a little bitter-sweet of -happiness that wanted expression, but which she dared not reveal. If she -could but have told him! If Rollo, failing her father, would but come -and speak to this kind and true friend! But she shook her head. She was -no longer free to say and do whatever pleased her out of her own heart. -She must think of <i>him</i>; and while he did not speak, what could she say? -She put out her hand to her old friend again with a little sudden -artifice unlike Lottie. “I have been out all the morning,” she said; “I -must make haste and get back now.”</p> - -<p>“I am very glad you are not unhappy,” said the old Captain, looking at -her regretfully. He was not quite sincere. To tell the truth it gave him -a shock to find that Lottie was not unhappy; how could she put up with -such a companion, with such a fate? He went in to his wife, who had been -watching furtively at the window while this conversation was going on, -to talk it all over. Mrs. Temple was almost glad to find something below -perfection in the girl about whom secretly she thought as much as her -husband talked. “We have been thinking too much about it,” she said; “if -she can find the stepmother congenial, it will be better for her.”</p> - -<p>“Congenial! you are talking folly. How could she be congenial?” cried -Captain Temple, with great heat,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6017" id="page_6017">{vol.-III-17}</a></span> but he did not know what to make of -it. He was disappointed in Lottie. When he had met her the day before -she had been quivering with pain and shame, revolted and outraged, as it -was right and natural she should be: but now it seemed to have passed -altogether from her mind. He could not make it out. He was disappointed; -he went on talking of this wonder all day long and shaking his white -head.</p> - -<p>As for Lottie, when she went home, she passed through the house, light -and silent as a ghost, to her own little room, where, abstracted from -everything else, she could live in the new little world of her own which -had come out of the mists into such sudden and beautiful life. It was -very unlike Lottie, but what more does the young soul want when the -<i>vita nuova</i> has just begun, but such a possibility of self-abstraction -and freedom to pursue its dreams? Rapt in these, she gave up her -occupation, her charge, without a sigh. When she was called to table she -came quite gently, and took no notice of anything that passed there, -having enough in her own mind to keep her busy. Law was as much -astonished as Captain Temple. He had thought that Lottie would not -endure it for a day; but, thanks to that happy preoccupation, Lottie -sailed serenely through these troubled waters for more than a week, -during which she spent a considerable portion of her time on the Slopes, -though the weather<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6018" id="page_6018">{vol.-III-18}</a></span> grew colder and colder every day, and the rest in -her own room, in which she sat fireless, doing her accustomed -needlework, her darnings and mendings, mechanically, while Polly -remodelled the drawing-room, covering it up with crocheted -antimacassars, and all the cheap and coarse devices of vulgar -upholstery. While this was going on, she too was content to have Lottie -out of the way. Polly pervaded the house with high-pitched voice and -noisy step; and she filled it with savoury odours, giving the two men -hot suppers, instead of poor Lottie’s cold beef, which they had often -found monotonous. The Captain now came in for this meal, which in former -times he had rarely favoured; he spent the evenings chiefly at home, -having not yet dropped out of the fervour of the honeymoon; and on the -whole even Law was not sure that there was not something to be said for -the new administration of the house. There was no cold beef—that was an -improvement patent to the meanest capacity. As for Polly, nothing had -yet occurred to mar her glory and happiness. She wore her blue silk -every day, she walked gloriously about the streets in her -orange-blossoms, pointed out by everybody as one of the ladies of the -Abbey. She went to the afternoon service and sat in her privileged seat, -and looked down with dignified sweetness upon “the girls” who were as -she once was. She felt herself as a goddess,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6019" id="page_6019">{vol.-III-19}</a></span> sitting there in the -elevated place to which she had a right, and it seemed to her that to be -a Chevalier’s wife was as grand as to be a princess. But Polly did not -soil her lips with so vulgar a word as wife. She called herself a -Chevalier’s lady, and her opinion of her class was great. “Chevalier -means the same thing as knight, and, instead of being simple missis, I -am sure we should all be My lady,” Polly said, “if we had our rights.” -Even her husband laughed, but this did not change her opinion. It was -ungrateful of the other Chevaliers’ ladies that they took no notice of -this new champion of their order. But for the moment Polly, in the -elation of her success, did not mind this, and was content to wait for -the recognition which sooner or later she felt would be sure to come.</p> - -<p>This elation kept her from interfering with Lottie, whose self-absorbed -life in her own room, and her exits and entrances, Mrs. Despard -tolerated and seemed to accept as natural; she had so many things to -occupy and to please her, that she could afford to let her step-daughter -alone. And thus Lottie pursued for a little time that life out of nature -to which she had been driven. She lived in those moments on the Slopes, -and in the hours she spent at the Signor’s piano, singing; and then -brooded over these intervals of life in the silence. Her lessons had -increased to three in the week, and these hours of so-called study<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6020" id="page_6020">{vol.-III-20}</a></span> were -each like a drama of intense and curious interest. Rollo was always -there—a fact which he explained to the Signor by his professional -interest in the new singer, and which to Lottie required no explanation; -and there too was her humble lover, young Purcell, who as she grew -familiar with the sight of him, and showed no displeasure at his -appearance, grew daily a little more courageous, sometimes daring to -turn the leaves of the music, and even to speak to her. Mrs. -O’Shaughnessy, who sat by, watching them all with lively but not -extravagant interest, was the only one in the little party who was not -more or less excited. As for Lottie, this lesson was the centre of all -her life. If music be the food of love, love was the very inspiration of -music to her; the two re-acted upon each other, raising her to such a -height of primitive heroic passion as nobody near her divined—as -nobody, indeed, except perhaps the Signor, with his Italian -susceptibility, was capable of divining. He saw indeed with -dissatisfaction, with an interest which was almost angry, that it was -not art that moved her, and that the secret of the astonishing progress -she made, was not in his instructions. What was it? The Signor was -angry, for he felt no certainty that this wonderful progress was real. -Something made her sing like an angel. What was it? not art. The natural -qualities of her voice were not to be gainsayed; but the musician<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6021" id="page_6021">{vol.-III-21}</a></span> felt -that the training under which she seemed to be advancing visibly, was -all fictitious, and that it was something else that inspired her. But -Rollo had no such enlightenment. He remarked with all the technicality -of an amateur how her high notes gained in clearness, and her low notes -in melody, at every new effort. It was wonderful; but then the Signor -was a wonderful teacher, a wonderful accompanyist, and what so natural -as that a creature of genius like this, should grow under his teaching -like a flower? Though it was to him she sang, and though her love for -him was her inspiration, Rollo was as unaware of this as old Pickering -in the hall, who listened and shook his head, and decided in his heart -that a woman with a voice like that was a deal too grand for Mr. John. -“She’s more like Jenny Lind than anything,” old Pick said; and in this -Mr. Ridsdale agreed, as he sat and listened, and thought over the means -which should be employed to secure her success. As for young Purcell, he -stood entranced and turned over the leaves of the music. Should he ever -dare to speak to her again, to offer her his love, as he had once -ventured to do,—she who seemed born to enthral the whole world? But -then, the young fellow thought, who was there but he who had an ’ome to -offer Lottie? He was the nobler of the two between whom she stood, the -two men who loved her: all his thought was, that she being un<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6022" id="page_6022">{vol.-III-22}</a></span>happy, -poor, her father’s house made wretched to her, he had an ’ome to offer -her; whereas Rollo thought of nothing but of the success she must -achieve in which he would have his share. In order to achieve that -success Rollo had no mind to lend her even his name; but the idea that -it was a thing certain, comforted him much in the consciousness of his -own imprudent engagement, and gave a kind of sanction to his love. To -marry a woman with such a faculty for earning money could not be called -entirely imprudent. These were the calculations, generous and the -reverse, which were made about her. Only Lottie herself made no -calculations, but sang out of the fulness of her heart, and the delicate -passion that possessed her; and the Signor stood and watched, -dissatisfied, sympathetic, the only one that understood at all, though -he but poorly, the high emotion and spring-tide of life which produced -that flood of song.</p> - -<p>In this highly-strained unnatural way, life went on amid this little -group of people, few of whom were conscious of any volcano under their -feet. It went on day by day, and they neither perceived the gathering -rapidity of movement in the events, nor any other sign that to-day -should not be as yesterday. Shortly after the explanation had taken -place between Rollo and Lottie, Augusta Huntington, now Mrs. Daventry, -arrived upon her first visit home. She was the Dea<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6023" id="page_6023">{vol.-III-23}</a></span>n’s only child, and -naturally every honour was done to her. All the country round, everyone -that was of sufficient importance to meet the Dean’s daughter, was -invited to hail her return. The Dean himself took the matter in hand to -see that no one was overlooked. They would all like, he thought, to see -Augusta, the princess royal of the reigning house; and Augusta was -graciously pleased to like it too. One of these entertainments ended in -a great musical party, to which all who had known Miss Huntington, all -the singers in the madrigals and choruses of which she had been so fond, -were asked. When Lottie’s invitation came, there was a great thrill and -commotion in Captain Despard’s house. Lottie did not even suspect the -feeling which had been roused on the subject when she took out her white -muslin dress, now, alas, no longer so fresh as at first, and inspected -it anxiously. It would do still with judicious ironing, but what must -she do for ornaments, now that roses were no longer to be had? This -troubled Lottie’s mind greatly, though it may be thought a frivolous -question, until a few hours before the time, when two different presents -came for her, of flowers: one being a large and elaborate bouquet, the -other a bunch of late roses, delicate, lovely, half-opened buds, which -could only have come out of some conservatory. One of these was from -Rollo, and who could doubt which it was? Who but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6024" id="page_6024">{vol.-III-24}</a></span> he would have -remembered her sole decoration, and found for her in winter those -ornaments of June? What did she care who sent the other? She decked -herself with her roses, in a glow of grateful tenderness, as proud as -she was happy, to find herself thus provided by his delicate care and -forethought. It did not even occur to Lottie to notice the dark looks -that were thrown at her as she came downstairs all white and shining, -and was wrapped by Law (always ostentatiously attentive to his sister in -Polly’s presence) in the borrowed glory of Mrs. O’Shaughnessy’s great -Indian shawl.</p> - -<p>The party was large and crowded, and Lottie, all alone in it, was -frightened and confused at first; but they were all very kind to her, -she thought. Lady Caroline said, “How do you do, Miss Despard?” with -something like a smile, and looked as if she might have given Lottie her -hand, had not the girl been afraid; and Augusta, when she found her out, -came forward with a welcome which was almost effusive. “I hear you have -improved so much,” she said, taking in at one glance all the particulars -of Lottie’s appearance, with a wondering question within herself where -the roses came from, though she perceived at once that it was the same -white muslin frock. And when Lottie sang, which the Signor managed she -should do with great effect towards the close of the evening,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6025" id="page_6025">{vol.-III-25}</a></span> Augusta -rushed to her with great eyes of astonishment. “Where did you get all -that voice?” she cried; “you did not have that voice when I went away.” -“I flatter myself it was I that found Miss Despard out,” said Rollo, -suffering himself to look at her, which hitherto he had only done when -there was a shield of crowding groups between him and his cousin. Before -this he had managed to make the evening sweet to Lottie by many a -whispered word: but when he looked at her now, unawares, under Augusta’s -very eyes, with that fond look of proprietorship which is so -unmistakable by the experienced, and to which Lottie responded shyly by -a smile and blush, and conscious tremor of happiness, neither of them -knew what a fatal moment it was. Augusta, looking on, suddenly woke up -to the meaning of it, the meaning of Rollo’s long stay at the Deanery, -and various other wonders. She gave the pair but one look, and then she -turned away. But Lottie did not see that anything strange had happened. -She was so happy that even when Rollo too left her, her heart was -touched and consoled by the kindly looks of the people whom she knew in -the crowd, the ladies who had heard her sing before at the Deanery, and -who were gracious to her, and Mr. Ashford who kept by her side and -watched over her—“like a father,” Lottie said to herself, with -affectionate gratitude, such as might have become that im<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6026" id="page_6026">{vol.-III-26}</a></span>possible -relationship. The Minor Canon did not leave her for the rest of the -evening, and he it was who saw her home, waiting till the door was -opened, and pressing kindly her trembling cold hand: for, she could not -tell how, the end of the evening was depressing and discouraging, and -the pleasure went all out of it when Rollo whispered to her in passing, -“Take care, for heaven’s sake, or Augusta will find us out!” Why should -it matter so much to him that Augusta should find it out? Was not she -more to him than Augusta? Lottie shrank within herself and trembled with -a nervous chill. She was half grateful to, half angry with even Mr. -Ashford. Why should he be so much more kind to her, so much more careful -of her than the man who had promised her his love and perpetual care?</p> - -<p>But even now when she stole in, shivering with the cold of -disappointment and discouragement, through the dark house to her room -Lottie did not know all that this evening had wrought. And she scarcely -noticed the gloom on Polly’s face, nor the strain of angry monologue -which her father’s wife gave vent to, next morning. Polly wondered what -was the good of being a married lady, when a young unmarried girl that -was nobody, was took such notice of, and her betters left at ’ome? Did -people know no manners? gentlefolks! they called themselves -gentle<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6027" id="page_6027">{vol.-III-27}</a></span>folks, and behaved like that? If that was politeness, Polly -thanked heaven it was not the kind as she had been taught. But the -outburst came when Lottie, taking no notice, scarcely even hearing what -was said, showed herself with her music in her hands going out to her -lesson. Polly came out of her husband’s room and planted herself -defiantly in Lottie’s way. “Where are you going again,” she said, “Miss? -where are you going again? is this to be always the way of it? Do you -mean never to stay at home nor do anything to help nor make yourself -agreeable? I declare it is enough to put a saint in a passion. But I -won’t put up with it, I can tell you. I did not come here to be treated -like this, like the dirt under your feet.”</p> - -<p>Lottie was almost too much taken by surprise to speak. It was the first -absolute shock of collision. “I am going for my lesson,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Your lesson!” cried Polly. “Oh my patience, oh my poor ’usband! that is -the way his money goes—lessons for you and lessons for Law, and I don’t -know what! You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, you two. You ought to -be making your living both of you, if you were honest, instead of living -on your father as wants all he’s got for himself. But you shan’t go to -any lesson if I can help it,” she cried. “You’ll stay at home and try -and be of a little use, or you’ll march off this very day, and find some -one else to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6028" id="page_6028">{vol.-III-28}</a></span> put up with you and your lessons. It shan’t be me. I won’t -stand by and see my ’usband wronged. You’ll ruin him between you, that’s -what you’ll do; go back, Miss, and put down them books this moment. I -won’t have it, I tell you. I’ll not see my ’usband eaten up by the likes -of you.”</p> - -<p>Polly’s diction suffered from her passion, and so did her appearance. -Her face grew scarlet, her eyes flashed with fury. She put out her hand -to push Lottie back, who shrank from her with a cry of dismay—</p> - -<p>“Let me pass, please,” said Lottie piteously. She could not quarrel with -this woman, she could not even enter so much into conflict with her as -to brush past her, and thus escape. She shrank with pain and horror from -the excited creature in her way.</p> - -<p>“It’s you that will have to go back,” said Polly, “not me. I’m the -mistress of this house, you’ll please to recollect, Miss Lottie. Your -father’s been a deal too good, he’s let you do just what you pleased, -but that’s not my style. I begins as I mean to end. You shan’t stay -here, I tell you, whatever you may think, if you want to trample upon -me, and eat up every penny he has. Go and take off your things this -moment, and see if you can’t be a little use in the house.”</p> - -<p>Lottie was struck dumb and could not tell what to say. She had not been -cared for much in her life,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6029" id="page_6029">{vol.-III-29}</a></span> but she had never been restrained, and the -sensation was new to her. She did not know how to reply. “I do not wish -to be in your way,” she cried. “I shall not stay long nor trouble you -long, but please do not interfere with me while I am here. I must go.”</p> - -<p>“And I say you shan’t go!” said Polly, raising her voice after the -manner of her kind, and stamping her foot upon the floor. “If you -disobey me, I won’t have you here not another day. I’ll turn you out if -it was twelve o’clock at night. I’ll show you that I am mistress in my -own house. Do you think I’m going to be outfaced by you, and treated -like the dirt below your feet? Go and take off your things this moment, -and try if you can’t settle to a bit of work. Out of this house you -shan’t go, not a single step.”</p> - -<p>“I say, stand out of the way,” said Law; he had come out of the -dining-room with his hands in his pockets, having just finished his -dinner. Law was not easily moved, but he had now made up his mind that -he was on Lottie’s side. “Don’t give yourself airs to her. She is not of -your sort,” he said. “The governor may let you do many things, but not -bully her. Look here, Polly, you’d better stand out of her way.”</p> - -<p>“And who are you, you lazy, useless lout, that dares to call me Polly?” -she cried. “Polly, indeed! your father’s wife, and far better than you. -I’ll make him put you to the door, too, you idle low fellow,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6030" id="page_6030">{vol.-III-30}</a></span> spending -your time with a pack of silly, dressing, useless girls——”</p> - -<p>“I say, stop that,” cried Law, growing red and seizing her suddenly by -the arm; he stood upon no ceremony with Polly, though she was his -father’s wife; but he gave an uneasy alarmed glance at Lottie. “There’s -some one waiting for you outside,” he cried. “Lottie, go.”</p> - -<p>She did not wait for any more. Trembling and horrified, she ran past and -got out breathless, hastily closing the door behind her. The door had -been open, and Mrs. O’Shaughnessy outside—drawing her skirts round her, -physically and metaphorically, so as to avoid all pollution, yet -listening to everything she could hear, was walking up and down the -pavement. “Me poor child!” the good Irishwoman said, half sorry, half -delighted to hear the first of the scandal. “Already! has it come to -this? Me heart is sore for ye, Lottie me dear!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6031" id="page_6031">{vol.-III-31}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">A CRISIS.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Lottie</span> scarcely knew how she got through that afternoon. Rollo presented -himself for but a moment at the Signor’s, in great concern that he could -not stay, and begging a hundred pardons with his eyes, which he could -not put into words. Lady Caroline and Augusta had made an engagement for -him from which he could not get free. “At the elm-tree!” he whispered in -the only moment when he could approach Lottie. Her heart, which was -beating still with the mingled anger, and wonder, and fright of her late -encounter, sank within her. She could only look at him with a glance -which was half appeal and half despair. And when he went away the day -seemed to close in, the clouds to gather over the very window by which -she was standing, and heaven and earth to fail her. Rollo’s place was -taken by a spectator whose sympathy was more disinterested than that of -Rollo, and his pity more tender; but what was that to Lottie, who wanted -only the one man whom she loved, not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6032" id="page_6032">{vol.-III-32}</a></span> any other? What a saving of -trouble and pain there would be in this world if the sympathy of one did -as well as that of another! There was poor Purcell turning over the -music, gazing at her with timid eyes full of devotion, and longing to -have the courage and the opportunity to offer her again that ’ome which -poor Lottie so much wanted, which seemed opened to her nowhere else in -the whole world. And on the other side stood Mr. Ashford without any -such definite intention as Purcell, without any perception as yet of -anything in himself but extreme “interest in,” and compassion for, this -solitary creature, but roused to the depths of his heart by the sight of -her, anxious to do anything that could give her consolation, and ready -to stand by her against all the world. The Minor Canon had been passing -when that scene took place in the hall of Captain Despard’s house with -its open door. He had heard Polly’s loud voice, and he had seen Law rush -out, putting on his hat, and flushed with unusual feeling. “I don’t mind -what she says to me as long as she keeps off Lottie!” the young man had -said; and careless as Law was, the tears had come to his eyes, and he -had burst forth, “My poor Lottie! what is she to do?” Mr. Ashford’s -heart had been wrung by this outcry. What could he do?—he was -helpless—an unmarried man; of what use could he ever be to a beautiful, -friendless girl? He felt how<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6033" id="page_6033">{vol.-III-33}</a></span> impotent he was with an impatience and -distress which did not lessen that certainty. He could do nothing for -her, and yet he could not be content to do nothing. This was why he came -to the Signor’s, sitting down behind backs beside Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, -who distracted him by much pantomimic distress, shaking her head and -lifting up her hands and eyes, and would fain have whispered to him all -the time of Lottie’s singing had not the Signor sternly interfered. -(“Sure these musical folks they’re as big tyrants as the Rooshians -themselves,” Mrs. O’Shaughnessy said indignantly.) This was all the -Minor Canon could do—to come and stand by the lonely girl, though no -one but himself knew what his meaning was. It could not be any help to -Lottie, who was not even conscious of it. Perhaps, after all, the sole -good in it was to himself.</p> - -<p>Lottie had never sung so little well. She did not sing badly. She took -trouble; the Signor felt she tried to do her best, to work at it, to -occupy herself with the music by way of getting rid of things more -urgent which would press themselves upon her. In short, for the time -Lottie applied herself to it with some faint conception of the purposes -of art. To have recourse to art as an opiate against the pangs of the -inner being, as an escape from the harms of life, is perhaps not the -best way of coming at it, but the Signor knew that this was one of the -most beaten<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6034" id="page_6034">{vol.-III-34}</a></span> ways towards that temple which to him enshrined everything -that was best in the world. It was, perhaps, the only way in which -Lottie was likely to get at it, and he saw and understood the effort. -But it could not be said that the effort was very successful. The -others, who were thinking only of her, felt that Lottie did not do so -well as usual. She was not in voice, Purcell said to himself; and to the -Minor Canon it seemed very natural that after the scene which she had -just gone through poor Lottie should have but little heart for her work. -It was easily explained. The Signor, however, who knew nothing of the -circumstances, came to the most true conclusion. The agitation of that -episode with Polly would not have harmed her singing, however it might -have troubled herself, had Lottie’s citadel of personal happiness been -untouched. But the flag was lowered from that donjon, the sovereign was -absent. There was no inspiration left in the dull and narrowed world -where Lottie found herself left. Her first opening of vigorous -independent life had been taken from her, and for the first time the -life of visionary passion and enthusiasm was laid low. She did not give -in. She made a brave effort, stilling her excited nerves, commanding her -depressed heart. The Signor himself was more excited than he had been by -all the previous easy triumphs of her inspiration. Now was the test of -what she had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6035" id="page_6035">{vol.-III-35}</a></span> in her. Happiness dies, love fails, but art is for ever. -Could she rise to the height of this principle, or would she drop upon -the threshold of the sacred place incapable of answering to the guidance -of art alone? Never before had he felt the same anxious interest in -Lottie. He thought she was groping for that guidance, though without -knowing it, in mere instinct of pain to find something that would not -fail her. She did not rise so high as she had done under the other -leading; but to the Signor this seemed to be in reality Lottie’s first -step, though she did not know it, on the rugged ascent which is the -artist’s way of life. Strait is the path and narrow is the way in that, -as in all excellence. The Signor praised her more than he had ever -praised her before, to the surprise of the lookers-on; the generous -enthusiasm of the artist glowed in him. If he could, he would have -helped her over the roughness of the way, just as the Minor Canon, -longing and pitiful, would have helped her if he could, over the -roughness of life. But the one man was still more powerless than the -other to smooth her path. Here it was not sex, nor circumstances, which -were in fault, but the rigid principles of art, which are less yielding -than rocks; every step, however painful, in that thorny way the neophyte -must tread for herself. The Signor knew it; but the more his beginner -stumbled, the more eager was he to cheer her on.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6036" id="page_6036">{vol.-III-36}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I am afraid I sang very badly,” Lottie said, coming out with Mrs. -O’Shaughnessy and the Minor Canon, who went along with them he scarcely -knew why. He could do nothing for the girl, but he did not like to leave -her—to seem (to himself) to desert her. Only himself was in the least -degree aware that he was standing by Lottie in her trouble.</p> - -<p>“Me child, you all think a deal too much about it. It was neither better -nor worse; that’s what I don’t like in all your singing. It may be fine -music, but it’s always the same thing over and over. If it was a tune -that a body could catch—but it’s little good the best tune would have -been to me this day. I didn’t hear you, Lottie, for thinking what was to -become of you. What will ye do? Will you never mind, but go back? Sure -you’ve a right to your father’s house whatever happens, and I wouldn’t -be driven away at the first word. There is nothing would please her so -well. I’d go back!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t say any more!” cried Lottie with a movement of sudden pride. -But when she caught the pitying look of the Minor Canon her heart -melted. “Mr. Ashford will not be angry because I don’t like to speak of -it,” she said, raising her eyes to him. “He knows that things are -not—not very happy—at home.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6037" id="page_6037">{vol.-III-37}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Then Mr. Ashford awoke to the thought that he might be intruding upon -her. He took leave of the ladies hurriedly. But when she had given him -her hand, he stood holding it for a minute. “I begin to like Law very -much,” he said. To feel that this was the way in which he could give her -most pleasure was a delicate instinct, but it was not such a pleasure as -it would have been a month ago. Lottie did not speak, but a gleam of -satisfaction rose in her eyes. “If there is anything I can do,” he said -faltering, “to be of use——”</p> - -<p>What could he do? Nothing? He knew that, and so did she. It was only to -himself that this was a consolation, he said to himself when they were -gone. He went away to his comfortable house; and she, slim and light, -turned to the other side of the Abbey, with Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, with -nowhere in the world to go to. Was that so? was it really so? But still -he, with that house of his, a better home than the one which young -Purcell was so eager to offer her, what could he do? Nothing; unless it -were one thing which had not before entered his thoughts, and now, when -it had got in, startled him so, that, middle-aged as he was, he felt his -countenance turn fiery red, and went off at a tremendous pace, as if he -had miles to go. He had only a very little way to go before he reached -his own door, and yet he had travelled<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6038" id="page_6038">{vol.-III-38}</a></span> more than miles between that and -the dwelling of the Signor.</p> - -<p>As for Lottie, she went home with Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, not knowing what -she was to do after. The elm-tree—that was the only place in the world -that seemed quite clear to her. For a moment, in the sickness of her -disappointment to see Rollo abandon her, she had said to herself that -she would not go; but soon a longing to tell him her trouble came upon -her. After the Abbey bells had roused all the echoes, and the usual -congregation had come from all quarters for the evening service, she -left Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, and went slowly towards the Slopes. It was -still early, and the wintry afternoon was cold. There was an east wind -blowing, parching the landscape, and turning all its living tints into -lines of grey. Lottie was not very warmly clothed. She had her merino -gown and little cloth jacket, very plain garments, not like the furs in -which Augusta had come home; but, then, Lottie was not used to living -like Augusta, and perhaps her thinner wrap kept her as warm. She went up -the Dean’s Walk languidly, knowing that it was too early, but unable to -rest. She would have to go home after all, to steal in and hide herself -in her room, for this night at least; but, after that, what was she to -do? The O’Shaughnessys had not a room to give her. She had no relations -whom she might go to; what was to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6039" id="page_6039">{vol.-III-39}</a></span> become of her? When she got to the -elm-tree there was nobody there. She had known it was too early. She sat -down and thought, but what could thinking do? What could she make of it? -She looked over the wide landscape which had so often stilled and -consoled her, but it was all dead and unresponsive, dried up by that -east wind; the earth and the sky, and even the horizon on which they -met, all drawn in pale outlines of grey. Her face was blank and pale, -like the landscape, when the lover for whom she was waiting appeared. -The wind, which was so cold, had driven everybody else away. They had it -all to themselves, this chilly wintry landscape, the shadowy trees, with -a few ragged garments of yellow or faded brown still clinging to them. -Rollo came up breathless, his feet ringing upon the winding path. He -came and placed himself beside her, with a thousand apologies that she -should have had to wait. “It was a trick of Augusta’s,” he said; “I am -sure she suspects something.” Lottie felt that this repeated suggestion -that someone suspected ought not to be made to her. But her paleness and -sadness roused Rollo to the most hearty concern. “Something has -happened,” he said; “I can see it, darling, in your eyes. Tell me what -it is. Have not I a right to know everything?” Indeed he was so anxious -and so tender that Lottie forgot all about offence and her -disappointment, and everything<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6040" id="page_6040">{vol.-III-40}</a></span> that was painful. Who had she beside to -relieve her burdened heart to, to lean upon in her trouble? She told him -what had happened, feeling that with every word she uttered her load was -being lightened. Oh! how good it is to be able to say forth everything, -to tell someone to whom all that happens to you is interesting! As she -told Polly’s insults, even Polly herself seemed to grow more -supportable. Rollo listened to every word with anxious interest, with -excitement, and indignation and grief. He held her closer to him, -saying, “My poor darling, my poor Lottie!” with outbursts of rage and -tender pity. Lottie’s heart grew lighter and lighter as she went on. He -seemed to her to be taking it all on his shoulders, the whole of the -burden. His eyes shone with love and indignation. It was not a thing -which could be borne; she must not bear it, he would not allow her to -bear it, he cried. Finally, a great excitement seemed to get possession -of him all at once. A sudden impulse seized upon him. He held her closer -than ever, with a sudden tightening of his clasp, and hasty resolution. -“Lottie!” he cried; and she could feel his heart suddenly leap into wild -beating, and looked up trembling and expectant, sure that he had found -some way of deliverance. “Lottie, my love! you must not put up with this -another day. You must come away at once. Why not this very night? I -could not rest and think<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6041" id="page_6041">{vol.-III-41}</a></span> you were bearing such indignity. You must be -brave, and trust yourself to me. You will not be afraid, my darling, to -trust yourself to me?”</p> - -<p>“To-night!” she said, with a cry of answering excitement, alarm, and -wonder.</p> - -<p>“Why not to-night?” he cried, with more and more energy. “I know a place -where I could take you. A quiet, safe place, with people to take care of -you, who would not suffer you to be annoyed even when I was not there -myself to watch over you. Lottie, dearest, you would not be afraid to -trust yourself to me?”</p> - -<p>“No, Rollo, why should I be afraid?—but——” The suddenness of this -prospect of deliverance, which she did not understand, took away -Lottie’s breath.</p> - -<p>“But—there are no buts. You would be taken care of as if you were in a -palace. You would have everything to make your life pleasant. You could -work at your music——”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” she said, interrupting him; his excitement roused no alarm in her -mind. She was incapable of understanding any meaning in him that was -inconsistent with honour. “Would it be so necessary to think of the -music?” she said. It seemed to her that for Rollo Ridsdale’s wife it -need not be any longer a point essential. A host of other duties, more -sweet, more homely, came before her dazzled eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6042" id="page_6042">{vol.-III-42}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Above all things!” he said, with a sudden panic, “without that what -would you—how could I?——“—the suggestion was insupportable—“but we -can discuss this after,” he said. “Lottie, my Lottie, listen! Trust -yourself to me—let me take you away out of all this misery into -happiness. Such happiness! I scarcely can put it into words. Why should -you have another day of persecution, when you can be free, if you will, -this very night?”</p> - -<p>His countenance seemed aflame as he bent towards her in the wintry -twilight; she could feel the tumultuous beating of his heart. It was no -premeditated villany, but a real impulse, acted upon, without any pause -for thought, with that sudden and impassioned energy which is often more -subtle than the craftiest calculation. Even while his heart beat thus -wildly with awakened passion, Rollo answered the feeble resistance of -his conscience by asking himself what harm could it do her? it would not -interfere with her career. As for Lottie, she raised herself up within -his arm and threw back her head and looked at him, not shrinking from -him nor showing any horror of the suggestion. There was a pause—only -for a moment, but it felt like half-an-hour, while wild excitement, -love, and terror coursed through his veins. Surely she understood him, -and was not alarmed? If she had understood him and flung away from him -in outraged<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6043" id="page_6043">{vol.-III-43}</a></span> virtue, Rollo would have been abject in guilt and -penitence. For the moment, however, though his heart beat with alarm, -there was a sense of coming triumph in all his being.</p> - -<p>Lottie raised her drooping shoulders, she threw back her head and looked -at him, into the glowing face that was so close to her. Her heart had -given one answering leap of excitement, but was not beating like his. At -that moment, so tremendous to him, it was not passion, but reflection, -that was in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“Let me think—let us think,” she said. “Oh, Rollo! it is a great -temptation. To go away, to be safe with you——”</p> - -<p>“My darling, my own darling! you shall never have cause to fear, never -to doubt me; my love will be as steady, as true——” So high had the -excitement of suspense grown, that he had scarcely breath to get out the -words.</p> - -<p>“Do you think I doubt that?” she said, her voice sounding so calm, so -soft to his excited ear. “That is not the question; there are so many -other things to think of. If you will not think for yourself, I must -think for you. Oh, Rollo, no! I don’t see how it could be. Listen to me; -you are too eager, oh! thank you, dear Rollo, too fond of me, to take -everything<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6044" id="page_6044">{vol.-III-44}</a></span> into consideration—but <i>I</i> must. Rollo! no, no; it would -never do; how could it ever do, if you will only think? Supposing even -that it did not matter for me, how could you marry your wife from any -place but her home? It would not be creditable,” said Lottie, shaking -her head with all the gentle superiority of reason, “it would not be -right or becoming for you.”</p> - -<p>His arm relaxed round her; he tried to say something, but it died away -in his throat. For the moment the man was conscious of nothing but a -positive pang of gratitude for a danger escaped; he was safe, but he -scarcely dared breathe. Had she understood him as he meant her to -understand him, what vengeance would have flashed upon him, what -thunderbolt scathed him! But for very terror he would have shrunk and -hid his face now in the trembling of the catastrophe escaped.</p> - -<p>“More than that, even,” said Lottie, going on all unaware; “I have -nothing, you know; and how could I take money—<i>money to live -upon</i>—from <i>you</i>!—till I was married to you? No! it is impossible, -impossible, Rollo. Oh! thank you, thank you a thousand times for having -thought more of me than of anything else; but you see, don’t you see, -how impossible it is? I will never forget,” said the girl softly, -drawing a little closer to him who had fallen away from her in the -strange<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6045" id="page_6045">{vol.-III-45}</a></span> tumult of failure—yet deliverance—which took all strength -from him, “I will never forget that you were ready to forget everything -that was reasonable, everything that was sensible, and even your own -credit, for me!”</p> - -<p>Another pause, but this time indescribable. In her bosom gratitude, -tender love, and that sweet sense of calmer judgment, of reason less -influenced by passion than it would be fitting or right for his to be, -which a woman loves to feel within herself—her modest prerogative in -the supreme moment; in his a tumult of love, disappointment, relief, -horror of himself, anger and shame, and the thrill of a hairbreadth -escape. He could not say a word; what he had done seemed incredible to -him. The most tremendous denunciation would not have humbled him as did -her unconsciousness. He had made her the most villainous proposal, and -she had not even known what it meant; to her it had seemed all -generosity, love, and honour. His arm dropped from around her, he had no -force to hold her, and some inarticulate exclamation—he could not tell -what—sounded hoarsely in utter confusion and shame in his throat.</p> - -<p>“You are not angry?” she said, almost wooing him in her turn. “Rollo, it -is not that I do not trust you, you know; who should I trust but you? If -that were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6046" id="page_6046">{vol.-III-46}</a></span> all, I would put my hand in yours; you should take me -wherever you pleased. But then there are the other things to be -considered. And, Rollo, don’t be angry,” she said, drawing his arm -within hers, “I can bear anything now. After talking to you, after -feeling your sympathy, I can bear anything. What do I care for a woman -like that? Of course I knew,” said Lottie, with tears in her eyes, “that -you did feel for me, that you thought of me, that you were always on my -side. But one wants to have it said over again to make assurance sure. -Now I can bear anything, now I can go home—though it is not much -home—and wait, till you come and fetch me, Rollo, openly, in the light, -in the day.”</p> - -<p>Here, because she was so happy, Lottie put her hands up to her face and -laid those hands upon his shoulder and cried there in such a heavenly -folly of pain and blessedness as words could not describe. That he -should not claim her at once, that was a pain to her; and to think of -that strange, horrible house to which she must creep back, that was pain -which no happiness could altogether drive out of her thoughts. But yet, -how happy she was! What did it matter if for the moment her heart was -often sore? A little while and all would be well; a little while and she -would be delivered out of all these troubles. It was only a question of -courage, of endurance, of fortitude, and patience; and Lottie had got -back her inspiration,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6047" id="page_6047">{vol.-III-47}</a></span> and felt herself capable of bearing anything, -everything, with a stout heart. But Rollo had neither recovered his -speech nor his self-possession; shame and anger were in his heart. He -had not been found out, but the very awe of escape was mingled with -intolerable anger; anger no doubt chiefly against himself, but also a -little against her, though why he could not have said. The -unconsciousness of her innocence, which had impressed him so deeply at -first and confounded all his calculations, began to irritate him. How -was it possible she did not understand? was there stupidity as well as -innocence in it? Most people would have had no difficulty in -understanding, it would have been as clear as noonday—or, rather, as -clear as gaslight; as evident as any “intention” could be. He could not -bear this superiority, this obtuseness of believing; it offended him, -notwithstanding that he had made by it what he felt to be the greatest -escape of his life.</p> - -<p>They parted after this not with the same enthusiasm on Rollo’s part as -that which existed on Lottie’s. She was chilled, too, thinking he was -angry with her for not yielding to his desire; and this overcast her -happiness, but not seriously. They stole down by the side of the Abbey, -in the shadow—Lottie talking, Rollo silent. When they came within sight -of the cloister gate and the line of the lodges opposite, Lottie -with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6048" id="page_6048">{vol.-III-48}</a></span>drew her hand from his arm. The road looked empty and dark; but who -could tell what spectator might suddenly appear? She took his <i>rôle</i> in -the eagerness of her heart to make up to him for any vexation her -refusal might have given. “Don’t come any further,” she whispered; “let -us part here; someone might see us.” In her eagerness to make up to him -for her own unkindness, she allowed the necessity for keeping that -secret—though to think of it as a secret had wounded her before. -Nevertheless, when he took her at her word and left her, Lottie, like -the fanciful girl she was, felt a pang of disappointment and painfully -realised her own desolateness, the dismal return all alone to the house -out of which every quality of kindness had gone. Her heart sank, and -with reluctant, lingering steps she came out of the Abbey shadow and -began to cross the Dean’s Walk, her forlorn figure moving slowly against -the white line of the road and the grey of the wintry sky.</p> - -<p>Someone was standing at the door as she came in sight of her father’s -house. It was Captain Despard himself, looking out. “Is that you, -Lottie?” he called out, peering into the gloom. “Come in, come in; where -have you been? You must not stay out again, making everybody anxious.” -Then he came out a step or two from his door and spoke in a whisper: -“You know what a woman’s tongue is,” he said; “they have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6049" id="page_6049">{vol.-III-49}</a></span> a great deal -to answer for; but when they get excited, what can stop them? You must -try not to pay any attention; be sensible, and don’t mind—no more than -I do,” Captain Despard said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6050" id="page_6050">{vol.-III-50}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXV" id="CHAPTER_XXXV"></a>CHAPTER XXXV.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">FAMILY DUTY: ACCORDING TO MRS. DESPARD.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">There</span> are some victories which feel very much like defeats. When Polly -had scattered her adversaries on every side, driven forth Lottie and got -rid of Law, and silenced Captain Despard—who sat in his room and heard -everything but thought it wisest not to interfere—she retired upstairs -to her drawing-room and celebrated her triumph by shedding torrents of -tears. She had intended to make everybody very wretched, and she had -done so; supposing, perhaps (though she did not really know what her -motive was), that some pleasure would come to herself out of the -discomfiture of the others. But pleasure rarely comes by that means, and -when she had thus chased everybody out of her way, Polly threw herself -down and burst forth into angry sobs and tears. It is not to be supposed -that Captain Despard entertained any romantic illusions about his bride; -he knew very well what Polly was. He had, as facts proved, been -sufficiently fond of her to marry her, but he did not expect of her more -than<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6051" id="page_6051">{vol.-III-51}</a></span> Polly could give, nor was he shocked to find that she had a temper -and could give violent utterance to its vagaries; all this he had known -very well before. Knowing it, however, he thought it wise to keep out of -the way and not mix himself up in a fray with which evidently he had -nothing to do. Had she gone a step further with Lottie it is possible -that he might have interfered, for, after all, Lottie was his child; and -though he might himself be hard upon her at times, there is generally a -mingled sentiment of family pride and feeling which makes us unwilling -to allow one who belongs to us to be roughly treated by a stranger. But -when Law put himself in the breach, his father sat close and took no -notice; he did not feel impelled to turn his wife’s batteries upon -himself out of consideration for Law. Nor did it make any impression -upon the Captain when he heard her angry sobs overhead. “She will come -to if she is left to herself,” he said, and he did not allow himself to -be disturbed. Polly, in her passion, threw herself on the carpet, -leaning her head upon a chair. She had changed the room after her own -fashion. She had lined the curtains with pink muslin, and fastened her -crochet-work upon the chairs with bows of pink ribbon; she had covered -the old piano with a painted cover, and adorned it with vases and paper -flowers. She had made the faded little room which had seemed a fit<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6052" id="page_6052">{vol.-III-52}</a></span> home -enough, in its grey and worn humility, for Lottie’s young beauty, into -something that looked very much like a dressmaker’s ante-room, or that -terrible chamber, “handsomely fitted up with toilet requisites,” where -the victims of the photographic camera prepare for the ordeal. But the -loveliness of her handiwork did not console Polly; she got no comfort -out of the pink bows, nor even from the antimacassars—a point in which -Lottie’s room was painfully deficient. She flung herself upon the carpet -and sobbed. What was the use of being a lady, a Chevalier’s wife, and -living here in the heart of the Abbey, if no one called upon her or took -any notice of her? Polly was not of a patient nature; it did not occur -to her even that there was still time for the courtesies she had set her -heart upon gaining. She had looked every day for some one to come, and -no one had ever come; no one had made any advances to her at the Abbey, -which was the only place in which she could assert her position as a -lady and a Chevalier’s wife. Even Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, who had risen from -the ranks, who lived next door, who was not a bit better, nay, who was -much less good than Polly to begin with (for what is a trooper’s wife? -and she had been nothing but a trooper’s wife)—even Mrs. O’Shaughnessy -had passed the door as if she did not see it, and had waited outside -till Miss Lottie came to her. Polly’s dreams had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6053" id="page_6053">{vol.-III-53}</a></span> very different. -She had seen herself in imagination the admired of all admirers; she was -by far the youngest of all the Chevaliers’ wives, and the gentlemen, at -least, she was sure would rally round her. Women might be spiteful, but -men always did justice to a woman when she was handsome and young. Was -not that written in all the records? She expected that the ladies would -be spiteful—<i>that</i> would be indeed a part of her triumph. They would be -jealous of her superior attractions, of her youth, of her husband’s -adoration of her; the old things would be in a flutter of alarm lest -their old men should come within her influence. But Polly had felt -pretty sure that the old gentlemen would admire her and rally round her. -To make the women envious and the men enthusiastic, was not that always -the way? certainly such was the course of events in the <i>Family Herald</i>. -The heroine might have one friend devoted to her fortunes, a confidant -more admiring, more faithful even than her lover; but all the rest of -womankind was leagued against her. And so it had been in most of the -novels Polly had read. But that neither men nor women should take any -notice, that was a thing for which she was not prepared, and which she -declared to herself she would not bear.</p> - -<p>She had seen enough already from her windows to make her furious. She -had seen Mrs. O’Shaughnessy ostentatiously waiting for Lottie, walking -up and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6054" id="page_6054">{vol.-III-54}</a></span> down outside, making signs to the girl upstairs. She had seen -Captain Temple pass and repass, looking up at the same window. She had -seen the greetings that met Lottie wherever she appeared. The Chevaliers -and their wives had not always looked upon Miss Despard with such -favourable eyes. They had thought her proud, and they had resented her -pride; but now that Lottie was in trouble it was round her they had all -rallied. It was the party at the Deanery, however, which had been the -last drop in Polly’s cup. How was she to know that on the highest -elevation she could reach as the lady of a Chevalier, she was still -beneath the notice of Lady Caroline, and as far as ever from the heaven -of the highest society? Polly did not know. The elevation to which she -herself had risen was so immense in her own consciousness that there -seemed no distinction of ranks above her. She thought, as Lottie had -once thought, though from a different point of view, that gentlefolks -were all one; that a gentleman’s wife, if not so rich or so grand, was -still on a level with Lady Caroline herself, and within the circle which -encompassed the Queen. “You can’t be no better than a gentleman,” Polly -said to herself. You might, it was true, be a lord, which some people -thought better, but even a lord was scarcely above an officer. All this -glorious ambition, however, what was it going to end in? She watched the -carriages going<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6055" id="page_6055">{vol.-III-55}</a></span> to the Deanery, and with still more furious feelings -she watched Lottie in her white dress crossing the Dean’s Walk. And she -left at home, at the window, neglected, left out, though she was Mrs. -Despard, and the other nobody! Was it possible that it might be better -even to be a dressmaker, forewoman in the workroom, acknowledged to have -the best eye for cutting out, and to be the quickest worker of the lot, -superior so far among her equals—than to be ignored and neglected and -treated as the dust under their feet by a set of poor gentlefolks? Polly -felt that she must wreak her vengeance on somebody.</p> - -<p>When she had got her fit of crying over accordingly, she jumped up to -her feet and hurried to her room to put on her “things.” It was her -“best things” that she put on. Indeed, Polly had been wearing her best -things every day with an extravagance which rather touched her -conscience, though it delighted her fancy. She made herself very fine -indeed that wintry afternoon, and pattered downstairs upon a pair of -high heels which were more splendid than comfortable, and burst into the -little room where Captain Despard sat attentive to all these sounds, and -wondering what was coming next. Few people realise the advantage of a -silly wife to a man who is not over wise. The Captain, though he had a -high opinion of himself, was aware at the bottom of his heart that other -people<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6056" id="page_6056">{vol.-III-56}</a></span> scarcely shared that sentiment. And to have a wife whom he was -fond of, and whose acquisition flattered his vanity, and who was -unmistakably, though clever enough, less clever, less instructed, than -he was, gave him a sense of superiority which was very pleasant to him. -He looked upon her follies with much more indulgence than he had ever -felt for Lottie, who did not give him the same consolation.</p> - -<p>“Well, what is it now?” he said, with a smile.</p> - -<p>“I want you to come out with me,” Polly said. “I want to buy some -things. My old muff is shabby, I couldn’t wear it in the Abbey. Though -they’re a set of old frights and frumps, I don’t wish your wife to be -looked down upon by them, Harry. I can see them looking at all my -things, counting up what everything costs, and whispering behind my -back. That old Mrs. Jones has trimmed her bonnet exactly like mine, -though she looks as if she was too grand to see me. They ain’t above -copying me, that’s one thing.”</p> - -<p>“No wonder,” said the admiring husband; “for it is long since anything -so young and so handsome has been among them before. Don’t they wish -they could copy your face as well as your bonnet! that’s all.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, get along!” said Polly, well pleased; “you’re always flattering. -Come and buy me a muff. I don’t know what kind to get. Grebe is sweetly -pretty and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6057" id="page_6057">{vol.-III-57}</a></span> ermine is delicious, but sealskin, perhaps, is the most -genteel; that always looks lady-like. Did you see Mrs. Daventry go by in -her carriage? Ah!” Polly sighed; how could she help it? She was very -fine in her blue silk, but Augusta was finer. “She has just come from -France, you know, and then, of course, they are rich. She had on a -velvet with sable <i>that</i> deep——! Ah! it’s hard to see folks that are -no better than you with things that are so much better,” cried Polly; -“but, after all, though velvet and sable are very nice, give me -sealskin—that’s always lady-like. A sealskin jacket!—if I had that, I -don’t think there is anything more I should wish for in the world.”</p> - -<p>“Are they very dear?” said the Captain, with a sudden fit of liberality. -He had a native love of buying, which is very general with impecunious -persons, and at present was in a prodigal mood.</p> - -<p>“Dear! Oh, not for the good they are,” said Polly. “You never want -another winter mantle all your life. You’re set up. That makes them -cheap in the end; but they cost a deal of money. I haven’t seen nobody -with one in all the Abbey, except the Canon’s ladies.”</p> - -<p>“Then you shall have one!” said Captain Despard. He looked like a -prince, Polly thought, as he stood there glowing with generous purpose. -The sound of the “O—Oh!” with which she received the offer rang<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6058" id="page_6058">{vol.-III-58}</a></span> -through the Lodges. Such a shriek of pleasure had not been heard there -since there had been Chevaliers in St. Michael’s. They went out -together, all beaming, arm in arm, the bride clinging fondly to her -husband, the Captain looking down with delighted protection upon his -bride. This sight, which is so pretty in some cases, and calls forth, if -much amusement, often a great deal of sympathy, roused anything but -friendly feelings in the Lodges, where the good people were getting -ready for the afternoon service. Old fool was the best name they had for -the bridegroom, though he was not very old; and Polly was a grievance -which the ladies could not tolerate. They looked after her from their -windows with feelings which were far from Christian. It was a thing they -ought not to have been exposed to. There should have been an appeal to -the Queen, if the gentlemen had the least energy. “But even the Queen, -bless her! could not keep a man from marrying,” the Warden said, -deprecatingly. He did not like it any more than they did; but it is only -when you are yourself of the executive that you know the difficulties of -action; that is why the ladies are such critics—they have not got it to -do.</p> - -<p>Captain and Mrs. Captain Despard (Polly had got beautiful glazed cards -printed stiff and strong with this title upon them) walked down to the -best shop in St. Michael’s, which is a very good shop indeed; and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6059" id="page_6059">{vol.-III-59}</a></span> there -they bought a <i>beautiful sealskin</i>. Impossible to tell the pride, the -happiness, the glory with which Polly acquired this new possession. She -had not expected it. These were the days when sealskins were still a -hope, a desire, an aspiration to the female mind, a property which -elevated its possessor, and identified her among her peers. “That lady -with the sealskin,” who would think of pointing out anybody by so -general a description now? are they not even going out of fashion? But -Polly, for one, could not realise the possibility that such a thing -could ever happen. And she had not anticipated such a bliss; the -happiness was doubled by being unforeseen. This, indeed, was a proof of -the blessedness of being a married lady, of having bettered herself, of -having married a gentleman. Her mind was in a confusion of delight. -Nevertheless she did not forget that she had come out with another and -quite distinct purpose. The fact that she had herself been so fortunate -did not turn her from her mission. Was it not more her duty than ever to -do everything that could be done for her husband’s family? When she had -decided upon her sealskin, Polly began to shiver. She said, “It is a -very cold day. I don’t know why it should be so cold so early in the -year. Don’t you think it is very cold, Harry? I have come out without -any wrap. Do you know I think I will put the sealskin <i>on</i>.” Why should -not she? The pro<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6060" id="page_6060">{vol.-III-60}</a></span>prietor of the shop accomplished the sale with a pang. -He knew Captain Despard well enough and he knew Polly, and he trembled -when he thought of his bill. But what could he be but civil? He put it -on for her—though how any ordinary sealskin could have covered a bosom -so swelling with pride and bliss it is hard to say. And the pair went -out together as they came in, except that one was almost speechless with -the proud consciousness of drawing all eyes. “It is not the appearance,” -said Polly, “but it <i>is</i> so deliciously warm; there never was anything -like it. And now I am set up. I shall not cost you any more for a winter -cloak, not for years and years.” “I thought you said it was to last for -ever,” said the Captain, equally delighted. They promenaded all the way -down St. Michael’s Hill, the admired of all beholders. If the remarks -that were made were not precisely such as Polly hoped, still there was -no doubt that remarks were made by everybody, and that the sealskin had -all the honour it deserved. Sometimes, indeed, there would be a bitter -in the sweet, as when the Captain took off his hat with jaunty grace to -some lady whom he knew. “Who is that?” Polly would ask sharply; but the -ladies all hurried by, and never stopped to be introduced; and no man -took off his hat to Polly. Even against this, however, the happiness -that wrapped her round defended Mrs. Despard. And how the people -stared!—people who had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6061" id="page_6061">{vol.-III-61}</a></span> seen her going up and down with a little bundle -of patterns on her way to her work, on her way to try on a dress—people -in the shops, who had been her equals if not her superiors—to see them -gazing out at her with big eyes, at her fine sealskin and her fine -husband, that comforted her soul. She walked slowly, getting the full -good of her triumph. But when she had got to the foot of the hill she -dismissed her escort. “Now you may go,” she said; “you always had plenty -to do in the old days. I don’t want you to say <i>I</i> tie you to my -apron-string. You may go now.”</p> - -<p>“This is a pretty way to dismiss your husband,” said Captain Despard; -“and where are you going, may I ask, that you send me away?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I will tell you fast enough. I am not going anywhere you can -disapprove of. I am going to see the girls,” said Polly, “that is all.”</p> - -<p>“The girls! My love, you must recollect,” said Captain Despard with -dignity, “that the girls, as you call them, are not fit companions for -you.”</p> - -<p>“You may trust me to know my place,” said Polly, “and to keep them in -theirs. I should think you may trust <i>me</i>.”</p> - -<p>Fortified by this assurance, the Captain left his lovely bride. He -turned back to kiss his hand to her when he was half way up the hill, -prolonging the sweet sorrow of the parting, and Polly blew him a kiss -with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6062" id="page_6062">{vol.-III-62}</a></span> infantine grace. It was “as good as a play.” “Lord, what fools -they are!” said the fishmonger on the hill, who was a cynic! and the -young ladies in the draper’s shop shook their heads at each other and -said, “Poor gentleman!” with the profoundest commiseration.</p> - -<p>When he had left her, Polly threw out her skirts and smoothed the fur of -her lovely new coat with a caressing hand. She felt that she loved it. -It was more entirely delightful than even her husband—a happiness -without alloy. She walked very slowly, enjoying every step of the way. -She gave a penny to the beggar at the corner in the fulness of her -satisfaction. So far her happiness had evidently a fine moral influence -on Polly; and she was going to pay a visit, which was also very kind, to -“the girls” in the River Lane. She was not one to forget old friends. -She sailed along in her pride and glory through the quarter where she -was so well known, and curved her nostrils at the smells, and allowed -disgust to steal over her face when her path was crossed by an unlovely -figure. Polly flattered herself that she was a fine lady complete; and -there was no doubt that the imitation was very good in the general, so -long as you did not enter into details.</p> - -<p>At the entrance of the River Lane, however, she ceased to stand upon -ceremony with herself. She picked up her skirts and went on at a more -business-<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6063" id="page_6063">{vol.-III-63}</a></span>like rate of speed. Some one was coming up against the light, -which by this time of the afternoon came chiefly from the west, someone -with his shoulders up to his ears, who took off his hat to Polly, and -pleased her until she perceived that it was only Law. “You here!” she -said: and as she looked at him the moral influence of the sealskin -almost vanished. Thus she went in state to visit the scenes in which so -much of her previous life had passed. But a new sentiment was in Polly’s -eyes. She felt that she had a duty to do—a duty which was superior to -benevolence. She pushed open the green swing door with a delicious sense -of the difference. The girls were talking fast and loud when she opened -the door, discussing some subject or other with all the natural chatter -of the workroom. There was a pause when the sound of her heels and the -rustle of her silk was heard—a hush ran round the table. How well Polly -knew what it meant! “They will think it is a customer,” she said to -herself; and never customer swept in more majestically. They were all at -work when she entered, as if they did not know what it was to chatter, -and Ellen rose respectfully at the first appearance of the lady.</p> - -<p>“Mother is upstairs, ma’am, but I can take any orders,” she said; and -then with a shriek cried out “Polly!”</p> - -<p>“Polly!” echoed all the girls.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6064" id="page_6064">{vol.-III-64}</a></span></p> - -<p>Here was a visitor indeed. They got up and made a circle round her, -examining her and all she “had on.” “In a sealskin!” ’Liza and Kate -cried in a breath, with an admiration which amounted to awe. One of them -even put forth her hand to stroke it in her enthusiasm. For an instant -Polly allowed this fervour of admiration to have its way. Then she said, -languidly—</p> - -<p>“Give me a chair, please, and send Mrs. Welting to me. I wish to speak -to Mrs. Welting. I am sorry to interrupt your work, young ladies—it is -Mrs. Welting I want to see.”</p> - -<p>“But, Polly!” the girls cried all together. They were too much startled -to know what to say. They stood gaping in a circle round her.</p> - -<p>“I thought you had come to see us like a friend—like what you used to -be.”</p> - -<p>“And weren’t we all just glad to see you again, Polly—and quite the -lady!” cried another. They would not take their dismissal at the first -word.</p> - -<p>“Young ladies,” said Polly, “I’ve not come in any bad spirit. I don’t -deny as I’ve passed many a day here. My family (though always far above -the dressmaking) was not well off, and I shall always be thankful to -think as I did my best for them. But now that I’m married, in a -different position,” said Polly, “though always ready to stand your -friend, when you want a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6065" id="page_6065">{vol.-III-65}</a></span> friend, or to recommend you among the Abbey -ladies, you can’t think as I can go on with you like you were in my own -sphere. Where there’s no equality there can’t be no friendship. Perhaps -you wouldn’t mind opening a window? It’s rather early to put on my -sealskin, but one never knows at this time of the year—and I’m ’eated -with my walk. Send Mrs. Welting to me, please.”</p> - -<p>There was a great commotion among the girls. The two passive ones stood -with open mouth, struck dumb by this magnificence.</p> - -<p>“Lor!” cried Kate, finding no other word that could express her emotion.</p> - -<p>Emma, though she was the youngest, was the most vehement of all. “I know -what she’s come for. She’s come to make mischief,” cried Emma. “I -wouldn’t fetch mother. I wouldn’t go a step. Let her speak straight out -what she’s got to say.”</p> - -<p>“There’s reason in everything,” said Ellen. “You mayn’t mean to keep us -up like friends. Just as you like, I’m sure; none of us is wanting to -keep it up; but mother takes no hand in the business, and that you know -as well as me.”</p> - -<p>“Send Mrs. Welting to me,” cried Polly, waving her hand majestically. -She did not condescend to any further reply. She leant back on her chair -and unfastened <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6066" id="page_6066">{vol.-III-66}</a></span>her beloved mantle at the throat. Then she 5 got out a -laced handkerchief and fanned herself. “Me that thought it was so cold,” -Polly remarked to herself, “and it’s like summer!” She did not pay any -further attention to the young women, who consulted together with great -indignation and excitement at a little distance.</p> - -<p>“What can she have to say to mother? I wouldn’t call mother, not if she -was to sit there for a week,” said Emma, who had a presentiment as to -the subject of the visit.</p> - -<p>“Lord! just look at her in her sealskin,” interrupted Kate, who could -think of nothing else.</p> - -<p>But Ellen, who was the serious one, paused and hesitated. “We can’t tell -what it may be—and if it turned out to be a job, or something she had -got us from some of the Abbey ladies! She’s not bad natured,” said -Ellen, full of doubts.</p> - -<p>All this time Polly waved her handkerchief about, with its edge of lace, -fanning herself. She looked at no one—she was too much elevated above -all the associations of the place to deign to take any notice. Had not -she always been above it? With her disengaged hand she smoothed the fur -of her sealskin, rubbing it knowingly upward. She was altogether -unconscious of their talk and discussion. What could <i>they</i> have in -common with Mrs. Despard? To see her,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6067" id="page_6067">{vol.-III-67}</a></span> if any of her former associates -had been cool enough to notice it, was still “as good as a play.”</p> - -<p>The upshot was, that while the others, with much ostentation of dragging -their seats to the other end of the table, sat down and resumed their -work with as much appearance of calm as possible, Ellen ran upstairs in -obedience to her own more prudent suggestions, and reappeared shortly -with her mother, a large, comely woman, who, not knowing who the visitor -was, was a little expectant, hoping for a very good order—a trousseau, -or perhaps mourning. “Or it might be the apartments,” Mrs. Welting said. -And when she entered the workroom she made the lady a curtsey, then -cried out, as her daughters had done, “Why, bless my heart, Polly! The -idea of taking me in like this, you saucy things,” she cried, turning, -laughing, upon the girls. But she did not get any response from these -indignant young women, nor from Polly, who made no reply to her -salutation, but sat still, delicately fanning herself.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Welting stood between the two opposed parties, wondering what was -the matter. Since Polly was here, she could have come only in -friendship. “I’m sure I’m very glad to see you,” she said, “and looking -so well and so ’andsome. And what a lovely sealskin you’ve got on!”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Welting,” said Polly, with great dignity, tak<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6068" id="page_6068">{vol.-III-68}</a></span>ing no notice of -these friendly remarks, “I asked for you because I’ve something to say -that is very particular. You don’t take much charge of the business, but -it is you as one must turn to about the girls. Mrs. Welting, you mayn’t -know, but there’s goings on here as always gave me a deal of annoyance. -And now I’ve come to tell you they must be put a stop to. I never could -endure such goings on, and I mean to put a stop to them now.”</p> - -<p>“Lord bless us!” said Mrs. Welting. She was really alarmed. She gave a -glance round upon her girls, all bursting with self-defence, and made -them a sign to be silent. Then she turned to her visitor with a mixture -of anxiety and defiance. “Speak up, Polly,” she said; “nobody shall say -as I won’t listen, if there’s anything against my girls; but speak up, -for you’ve gone too far to stop now.”</p> - -<p>“How hot it is, to be sure!” said Mrs. Despard, “in this close bit of a -place. I wish someone would open a window. I can’t think how I could -have put up with it so long. And I wonder what my ’usband would say if -he heard me spoke to like that? I thought you would have the sense to -understand that I’ve come here for your good. It wasn’t to put myself on -an equality with folks like you, working for your living. I don’t want -to be stuck up, but a lady must draw the line somewhere. Mrs. Welting, I -don’t suppose you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6069" id="page_6069">{vol.-III-69}</a></span> know it—you ain’t often in the workroom—it would be -a deal better if you was. There’s gentlemen comes here, till the place -is known all over the town; and there is one young gentleman as I take a -deal of interest in as makes me and his papa very uneasy all along of -coming here——”</p> - -<p>“Gentlemen! coming here!” cried Mrs. Welting, looking round upon her -daughters with mingled anger and dismay.</p> - -<p>“I know what I’m talking about,” said Polly; “let them contradict me if -they dare. He comes here mostly every day. One of the girls is that -silly as to think he’s after her. After her! I hope as he has more -sense; he knows what’s what a deal too well for that. He takes his fun -out of them—that is what he does. But you may think yourself what kind -of feelings his family has—the Captain and me. That’s the one that -encourages him most,” Mrs. Despard added, pointing out Emma with her -finger. “She is always enticing the poor boy to come here.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you dreadful, false, wicked story!” cried Emma, flushed and crying. -“Oh, mother, it ain’t nothing of the kind! It was she as brought him -first. She didn’t mind who came when she was here. She said it was no -harm, it was only a bit of fun. We was always against it—at least Ellen -was,” added the culprit, bursting forth into sobs and tears.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6070" id="page_6070">{vol.-III-70}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Yes, I always was,” said Ellen, demurely—it was not in human nature -not to claim the palm of superior virtue—“but it was not Emma, it was -Polly that began. I’ve heard her argue as it was no harm. She was the -first with the Captain, and then when young Mr. Despard——”</p> - -<p>“I am not going to sit here, and listen to abuse of my family,” said -Polly, rising. “I wouldn’t have mentioned no names, for I can’t abide to -have one as belongs to me made a talk about in a place like this. I came -to give you a warning, ma’am, not these hardened things. It isn’t for -nothing a lady in my position comes down to the River Lane. I’ve got my -beautiful silk all in a muddle, and blacks upon a white bonnet is -ruination. I did it for your sake, Mrs. Welting, for I’ve always had a -respect for you. And now I’ve done my Christian duty,” said Polly, with -vehemence, shaking the dust from her blue silk. “There’s them that talk -about it, like that little Methody Ellen, but there ain’t many that do -it. But don’t let anybody suppose,” she cried, growing hotter and -hotter, “that I mean to do it any more! If you let him come here after -this, I won’t show you any mercy—we’ll have the law of you, my ’usband -and I. There’s laws against artful girls as entice poor innocent young -men. Don’t you go for to think,” cried Mrs. Despard, sweeping out while -they all gazed after her,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6071" id="page_6071">{vol.-III-71}</a></span> speechless, “because I’ve once done my -Christian duty that I’m going to do it any more!”</p> - -<p>We will not attempt to describe the commotion that followed—the -reproaches, the tears, the fury of the girls betrayed, of which none was -more hot than that of Ellen, who had to stand and hear herself called a -Methody—she who was conscious of being an Anglican and a Catholic -without blemish, and capable of anything in the world before Dissent.</p> - -<p>Polly sailed up the hill, triumphant in that consciousness of having -done her duty as a Christian, but equally determined not to do it any -more; and what with the consciousness of this noble performance, and -what with the sealskin, found it in her power to be almost agreeable to -her step-daughter, when the Captain, who, after all, was Lottie’s -father, and did not like the idea that his girl should be banished from -his house, had met her and brought her in.</p> - -<p>“She has not had the careful bringing-up that you have had, my child,” -the Captain said. “She hasn’t had your advantages. You must have a -little patience with her, for my sake.” Captain Despard had always been -irresistible when he asked tenderly, with his head on one side, and an -insinuating roll in his voice, that anything should be done for his -sake.</p> - -<p>Lottie, who was happy in the sense of her lover’s readiness to sacrifice -everything for her sake (as she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6072" id="page_6072">{vol.-III-72}</a></span> thought), and to whom the whole world -seemed fairer in consequence, yielded without any struggle; while Polly, -on her part, put on her most gracious looks.</p> - -<p>“If you take every word I say for serious,” said Polly, “I don’t know -whatever I shall do. I never was used to have my words took up hasty -like that. I say a deal of naughtiness that I don’t mean—don’t I, -Harry? You and me would never have come together, should we, if you’d -always gone and taken me at my word?” And so the reconciliation was -effected, and things went on as before. There was no similar occurrence -in respect to Law, whose looks at Polly were murderous; but, then, Law -had no delicacy of sentiment, and, whatever had happened, would have -come into his meals all the same.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6073" id="page_6073">{vol.-III-73}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">FAMILY DUTY: BY A FINER ARTIST.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Rollo</span> did not come away from the strange excitement of that interview on -the Slopes with the same feelings which filled the mind of Lottie. The -first intense sensation of shame with which he had realised the villany -of the proposal which Lottie did not understand soon changed into a -different sentiment. He had felt its guilt, its treacherous cruelty, -under the guise of devotion, far more bitterly and intensely than as if -she had understood and denounced him; and the relief of his escape from -an indignation and horror which must have been as overwhelming as the -confidence, had made him feel how great a danger he had run, and how -terrible to him, as well as to her, would have been the discovery of his -base intention. How could he ever think that Lottie, proud, and pure, -and fearless of evil as she was, could have fallen into such a snare! He -felt himself a fool as well as a villain; perceiving, too, by the light -of fact, what he would not have understood in theory, that the very -uncomprehension of innocence makes guilt contemptible as well as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6074" id="page_6074">{vol.-III-74}</a></span> -terrible. If she could have understood him, he would scarcely have felt -so mean, so miserable, so poor a creature as he did now; not even a gay -and fine betrayer, but a pitiful cheat and would-be criminal, false to -everything that nature trusts in. Rollo had not been irreproachable -hitherto; but such sins as he had indulged in had been done among those -who were sinners like himself, among people who had a cynical -comprehension of the worth of promises and the value of vows. He had -never tried that <i>rôle</i> of the seducer before; and the fact that his own -shame and horror were real made them all the more hard to bear. Shame, -however, of this bitter kind is not an improving influence. Soon it -began to turn to anger equally bitter. He tried to think that Lottie was -partly to blame, that she had “led him on,” that he never would have -gone so far but for “encouragement” from her. Even it flashed across his -mind that she was not so unconscious as she appeared, but had pretended -ignorance in order to rivet her chains upon him, and force him to the -more honourable way which was so much more for her interest. He tried to -force this idea into his own mind, which was not sufficiently depraved -to receive it; but yet it was not long before he was angry, irritated -against the girl who would not understand him, and sore with the -humiliation she had inflicted unawares.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6075" id="page_6075">{vol.-III-75}</a></span></p> - -<p>Other influences, too, came in to break the purer spell of honourable -love under which Rollo, to his own surprise, had so entirely fallen. -With the return of Augusta and her husband, the world seemed to have -come back and seized him. Even the society of Augusta, of itself, had an -immediate influence, breaking up the magic of the seclusion in which he -had been content to live. Lady Caroline was not a woman who could be -called unworldly, but she was passive, and did not take any initiative -even in the way of gossip. She liked to hear it; there came a little -gleam of interest to her eyes when the stories of the great world were -brought to her, when she was told who was going to marry who, and by -what schemes and artifices the marriage had been brought about; and who -had most frequently and boldly broken the marriage vow, and by whom it -had been most politely eluded; and how everybody lived and cheated, and -nothing was as it seemed; and all that is done for money, and that is -done for pleasure, in that busy, small, narrow-minded village -society—which is the world. But though she loved to hear, she could not -begin; for, unless people told her what was going on, how, she sometimes -asked piteously, was she to know? As for the Dean, he was not in the -habit of it any more than his wife, though when he went to town he would -bring down invariably a piece of news from his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6076" id="page_6076">{vol.-III-76}</a></span> club—of somebody’s -appointment, or somebody’s good luck, or somebody’s wedding. “Now, why -can’t you go and do likewise?” he would say to Rollo. But all this was -mild and secondary in comparison with Augusta, who brought the very air -of what Mr. Jenkins calls the Upper Ten into the Deanery, perfuming all -the rooms and all the meals with stories of fortunes won and lost, of -squabbles, ministerial and domestic, of marriages and dinners alike -“arranged,” and all the wonderful <i>dessous des cartes</i> and <i>behind the -scenes</i> with which so many people are acquainted in fashionable life. -Who so well as Augusta knew that when the Duke of Mannering gave up his -governorship, it was not from any political reason, but because the life -he led was such that the place was far too hot to hold him, and -Government was only too glad to send out Algy Fairfax, though he was -only a younger son, and had no particular interest, simply to smooth -things down? And what a lucky thing it was for Algy to be there just at -the right moment, when there was nobody else handy, and just when Lord -Arthur was there, who had got him to explain matters to his elder -brother, and knew what he could do! It was what old Lady Fairfax had -been scheming for all her life, just as she had been scheming to catch -young Snellgrove for Mina. Of course she had succeeded. Mina was almost -distracted, everybody knew. It was she who had that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6077" id="page_6077">{vol.-III-77}</a></span> affair with Lord -Colbrookdale, and now everybody said she was wildly in love with -Reginald Fane, her cousin; but she might just as well be in love with -St. Paul’s, for he had not a penny, and she was to be married directly. -Did you hear about her settlements? They were simply ridiculous. But -that old woman was wonderful. There was nothing she did not think of, -and everything she wanted she got. And then there was that story about -poor young Jonquil, of the War Department, who married somebody quite -out of the question, a poor clergyman’s daughter, or something of that -sort, without a penny (though he might have had the rich Miss Windsor -Brown for the asking, people said), and of the dreadful end he had come -to, living down in some horrid weedy little cottage about Kew, and -wheeling out two babies in a perambulator. All these tales, and a -thousand more, Augusta told, filling the Deanery with a shameful train -of people, all doing something they did not want to do, or forcing -others to do it, or following their pleasure through every law, human -and divine. Lady Caroline sat in her easy-chair (she was not allowed to -put up her feet except in the evening, after dinner, when Augusta was at -home), and listened with half-closed eyes, but unfailing attention. “I -knew his father very well,” she would say now and then, or “his mother -was a great friend of mine.” As for Rollo, he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6078" id="page_6078">{vol.-III-78}</a></span> knew all the people of -whom these stories were told. He had seen the things beginning of which -his cousin knew all the conclusions, and what went on behind the scenes, -and thus he was carried back after the idyll of the last six weeks to -his own proper world. He began to feel that there was no world but that, -that nothing else could make up for the want of it; and a shudder ran -over him when he thought of Jonquil’s fate. Augusta, for her part, did -not conceal her surprise to find him at the Deanery. “What is Rollo -doing here?” she said to her mother.</p> - -<p>“I am sure, my dear, I do not know. He seems to like it, and we are very -glad to have him,” Lady Caroline replied. But that did not satisfy Mrs. -Daventry’s curiosity. What could a young man of fashion, a man of the -world, do here?</p> - -<p>“I wonder what he is after,” she said; “I wonder what his object can be. -It can’t be only your society and papa’s. I should just like to know -what he is up to. He is not a fool, to have gone and got entangled -somehow. I wonder what he can mean by it!” Augusta cried; but her mother -could give her no idea. Lady Caroline thought it was natural enough.</p> - -<p>“I don’t see that it is so strange,” she said. “Autumn is a terrible -time. To sleep in a strange bed night after night, and never settle down -anywhere!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6079" id="page_6079">{vol.-III-79}</a></span> Rollo likes to be comfortable; and then there is this Miss -Despard. You have heard about Miss Despard?”</p> - -<p>“What about Miss Despard?” Augusta said, pricking up her ears.</p> - -<p>“She is to be the prima donna,” said Lady Caroline. “He thinks she will -make his fortune. He has always got some wild scheme in his head. He -used to annoy me very much to have her here——”</p> - -<p>“And did you have her here?” cried Augusta, roused into sudden -excitement. “Oh, why didn’t I know of it! I thought there must be some -reason! Lottie Despard! And were you obliged to have her here, mamma? -What a bore it must have been for you!”</p> - -<p>“I did not like it, my dear,” her ladyship said. But after a while she -added, conscience compelling her, “She sang very nicely, Augusta; she -has a pretty voice.”</p> - -<p>“She has plenty of voice, but she cannot sing a note,” said Augusta, -with vehemence, who was herself, without any voice to speak of, a very -well-trained musician. She would not say any more to frighten Lady -Caroline, but she took her measures without delay. And the result of -Augusta’s enquires was that Rollo found his feet entangled in a web of -engagements which separated him from Lottie. But though he was sore and -angry, he had not given up Lottie,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6080" id="page_6080">{vol.-III-80}</a></span> nor had he any intention so to do. -When, however, the day came for Lottie’s next lesson, Mrs. Daventry -herself did the Signor the honour of calling upon him just before his -pupil appeared. “You know the interest I always took in Lottie. Please -let me stay. We have so many musical friends in town that I am sure I -can be of use to her,” Mrs. Daventry said; and the consequence was that -when Lottie and her companion entered the Signor’s sitting-room, the -great chair between the fire and the window in which Mrs. O’Shaughnessy -usually placed herself was found to be already occupied by the much -greater lady, whose sudden appearance in this cordial little company put -everybody out. Augusta sat leaning back in the big chair, holding a -screen between her cheek and the fire, her fine Paris bonnet, her furs, -and her velvet making a great appearance against the dark wall, and her -smiles and courtesy confounding every individual of the familiar party. -She was more refined, far less objectionable than Polly, and did her -spiriting in a very different way; but there could be little doubt that -the fine artist was also the most effectual. She put the entire party -out, from the least to the greatest, though the sweetest of smiles was -on her face. Even the Signor was not himself with this gracious -personage superintending his exertions. He was a good English Tory, of -the most orthodox sentiments; but he was at the same time an<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6081" id="page_6081">{vol.-III-81}</a></span> impatient -Italian, of despotic tastes, and did not easily tolerate the position of -second in his own house. Rollo, who had determined to be present, -whatever happened, but who, by a refinement of cruelty, did not know his -cousin was coming, came in with all the ease of habit, and had already -betrayed the fact of his constant attendance at these strange lessons, -when Augusta called to him, covering him with confusion. “We shall be -quite a family party,” she said. “I’m so glad you take an interest in -poor Lottie <i>too</i>.” Rollo could not but ask himself what was the meaning -of this sudden friendliness and interest; but he was obliged to place -himself by her side when she called him. And when Lottie came in, at -whom he did not dare to look, his position became very uncomfortable. -Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, finding her seat occupied, and herself compelled to -take a lower place, sat down on a chair near the door, with wrath which -made her countenance flame. She had stood up in the room a minute before -she seated herself, looking round for a more comfortable place, and had -greeted Mr. Ridsdale joyously as an old friend. But even Rollo, usually -so polite, who never saw her without doing his very best to make himself -agreeable, even he never attempted to introduce her to his cousin, and -the good woman sat down accordingly, against the wall, silent and -fuming, while Augusta took the chief place. The stranger in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6082" id="page_6082">{vol.-III-82}</a></span> midst -of them turned the whole party upside down. Even Purcell was so occupied -by the conversation that was kept up in whispers by Augusta, in her -corner, even during the singing, that he missed to turn the leaves at -the proper moment. Augusta knew very well what she was doing. She had a -respect for the Signor, but she had higher purposes in hand. She kept -Rollo by her side, and kept up a conversation with him through all, -which was, like her usual conversation, deeply pervaded by the essence -of society and “the Upper Ten.” She kept it up in a whisper when Lottie -began to sing. “Don’t you think she is handsome? She is a little like -Lady Augustus Donjon about the eyes—don’t you think so? Oh, I never -told you that good story about the Augustus Donjons,” said Mrs. -Daventry; and she told her story, all through the song, half audible.</p> - -<p>“Wasn’t it good?” Augusta said; and then, “That is such a pretty song; -and, Lottie, you are so improved, I should never have known it to be the -same voice. Yes, wasn’t it good, Rollo? Augustus Donjon is always the -first to laugh himself, and even the children have got it in the -nursery. She is such a jolly woman, she never minds. What are we going -to have next? Oh, that will be very nice!” said Augusta.</p> - -<p>Was it wonderful that Purcell should lose the place? The young fellow -did all he could to stop the fine<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6083" id="page_6083">{vol.-III-83}</a></span> lady with furious glances; and the -Signor, though his back was turned to her, felt the whisper and the -indignity run through every nerve of him. Even in his back you could -see, Purcell thought, how horribly annoyed he was. His sensitive -shoulders winced and shuddered, his elbows jerked. He could not attend -to his accompaniment, he could not attend to his pupil. In the very -midst of a song he said aloud, distracted by the s’s of a whisper which -was louder than usual, “This must never happen again.” As for Lottie, -she did not know what she was doing. She sang—because it was the hour -for her lesson, because she found herself standing there by the side of -the Signor’s piano—but not for any other reason. She had neither -inspiration, nor had she that nascent sense that Art might perhaps -console for other losses which she had once felt when Rollo was away. -She was distracted by the whispering behind her, from which she could -not withdraw her attention. Why did he listen? Why did he allow Augusta -to draw him into unfaithfulness to her? And yet, how could he help it? -Was it not all Augusta’s fault? But with whomsoever the fault lay, -Lottie was the victim. Her voice could not be got out. And the reader -knows that Augusta was right—that this poor girl, though she had the -voice of an angel, did not as yet know how to sing, and had no science -to neutralise the impressions made upon<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6084" id="page_6084">{vol.-III-84}</a></span> her which took away all her -heart and her voice. She went on making a brave fight; but when once the -Signor faltered in his accompaniment, and said loud out, “This must -never happen again,” and when Purcell forgot to turn the page, what is -it to be supposed Lottie could do, who was not the tenth part of a -musician such as they were? She faltered, she went wrong. Tune she could -not help keeping, it was in her nature: even her wrong notes were never -out of harmony; but in time she went wildly floundering, not even kept -right by the Signor. Even that did not matter very much, seeing that -none of these people, who generally were so critical, so censorious, so -ready to be hard upon her out of pure anxiety for her, were in a state -of mind to perceive the mistakes she was making. And it was only vaguely -that Lottie herself was aware of them. Her whole attention was attracted -in spite of herself by the whispering in the corner.</p> - -<p>“Oh, thank you so much!” Augusta broke forth, when she came to the end. -“What a charming bit that is! It is Schubert, of course, but I don’t -know it. The time was a little odd, but the melody was beautiful.”</p> - -<p>“You know my weakness,” said the Signor stiffly, turning round. “I -cannot answer for myself when people are talking. I am capable of doing -anything that is wrong.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6085" id="page_6085">{vol.-III-85}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Oh! I remember,” cried Mrs. Daventry; “you used to be very stern with -all our little societies. Not a word were we allowed to say. We all -thought it hard, but of course it was better for us in the long run. And -are you as tyrannical as ever, Signor?”</p> - -<p>“Not so tyrannical since ladies come here, and carry on their charming -conversation all the same. I only wish I could have profited by it. It -seemed amusing and instructive. If I were not unhappily one of those -poor creatures who can only do one thing at a time——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Signor, how very severe you are!” said Augusta. “I was only telling -my cousin some old stories which I am sure you must have heard weeks -ago. You know the Donjons? No! Oh, I thought everybody knew the Augustus -Donjons! They go everywhere; they have friends in music and friends in -art, and you meet all sorts of people at their house. Lottie, when you -are a great singer, I hope you will remember me, and send me cards now -and then for one of your concerts. There are so many things going on -now, and all so expensive, that people in our circumstances really can’t -do everything. Spencer has stalls where we go when there is anything -particular; but I assure you, now-a-days, one can no more afford a box -at the opera——! You know, Signor; but I daresay your friends always -find you places somewhere.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6086" id="page_6086">{vol.-III-86}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“That is true. If everything else fails, a friend of mine who plays -second violin will lend me his instrument,” said the Signor, “or a -box-keeper now and then will be glad of an evening’s holiday. They are -<i>blasés</i>, these people. They do not care if Patti sings. They will -rather have a holiday and go to a music-hall.”</p> - -<p>Augusta looked at her cousin, puzzled. She did not see the irony. After -all, she thought, there was not, perhaps, so very much difference -between a musician and those perfectly gentlemanlike people who showed -you to your box or your stall. She had often thought how nice they -looked. The Signor saw her bewilderment, and added, with a smile—“You -have never recognised me in my borrowed part?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Signor!—certainly not. I never meant to say anything that would -suggest—to imply anything that might——indeed, I hope you will not -think I have been indiscreet,” cried Augusta. “But, Rollo, we must go, -we must certainly go. I told mamma you would come with me to see the old -Skeffingtons. Spencer is away, and I must return their call. Signor, I -do hope you will forgive me. I meant nothing that was disagreeable. I am -sure we are all put to worse straits than that, in order to get a little -amusement without ruining ourselves. Oh, Rollo, <i>please</i> come away!”</p> - -<p>Rollo had snatched an instant as Lottie gathered<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6087" id="page_6087">{vol.-III-87}</a></span> her music together. -“It is not my fault,” he said. “She never lets me alone. I did not know -she was coming here to-day. Do not put on that strange look.”</p> - -<p>“Have I a strange look?” Lottie said. What ups and downs were hers!—the -other day so triumphant, and now again so cast down and discouraged. The -tears were standing in her eyes, but she looked at him bravely. “It does -not matter,” she said; “perhaps she does not mean it. It takes away my -heart, and then I have not any voice.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my love!” he whispered under his breath. “And I must put up with it -all. At the elm-tree, dear, to-night.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, no!” she said.</p> - -<p>“Why no no? it is not my fault. Dear, for pity——”</p> - -<p>“What are you saying to Miss Despard, Rollo? I am jealous of you, -Lottie; my cousin never comes to my lessons. And, indeed, I wonder the -Signor allows it. It is very delightful for us, but how you can work, -really <i>work</i> with such a train!” Augusta turned round and looked -severely at Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. “If I were the Signor I should not admit -one creature except your maid.”</p> - -<p>But this was an indignity which mortal could not endure. The kind -Irishwoman rose to her feet as quickly as the low chair would permit. -“And sure, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6088" id="page_6088">{vol.-III-88}</a></span> agree with the lady,” she said. “Lottie, me love, I can -bear a deal for you, and I’ve stood your friend through thick and thin, -as all here knows. But come again to the Signor’s I won’t, not if you -were to go down on your knees—unless he gives his word of honour that -them that hasn’t a scrap of manners, them that don’t know how to behave -themselves, that whispers when you’re singing, and interrupts when -you’re speaking, will never be here again to insult you—at least not -when Mistress O’Shaughnessy’s here.”</p> - -<p>Leaving this fine outburst of indignation to vibrate through the room, -Mrs. O’Shaughnessy turned upon her heel, and, grasping Lottie by the -arm, took the <i>pas</i> from Augusta, and marched out with blazing eyes and -countenance flushed with war. “Ye can bring the music,” she said to old -Pick, who had been listening, and whose disappointment at Lottie’s -break-down was great, “and there’ll be a shilling for you. I’d scorn to -be beholden to one of them.” Rollo made an anxious attempt, but in vain, -to catch Lottie’s eyes as she was swept past him. But Lottie would not -return his glance. Augusta had done a great deal more execution with her -subtle tactics than Polly with hers—which, perhaps, were not more -brutal because they were so much less refined.</p> - -<p>“What an odious woman!” Augusta cried; “walking out of the room before -<i>me</i>. But, Rollo, she was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6089" id="page_6089">{vol.-III-89}</a></span> quite right, though she was so impudent. You -ought not to go there. Mamma says you want Lottie Despard for your new -opera. She would never do. She has a voice, but she doesn’t know how to -sing. A good audience would never put up with her.”</p> - -<p>“That is all a mistake,” said Rollo; “it may be very well to know how to -sing, but it is much better to have a voice.”</p> - -<p>“I could not have supposed you were so old-fashioned; never say that in -public if you want anyone to have any opinion of you. But even if you -are so sure of her you should keep away; you should not interfere with -her training. The fact is,” said Augusta, very seriously, “I am -dreadfully afraid you have got into some entanglement even now.”</p> - -<p>“You are very kind,” said Rollo, smiling, “to take such care of me.”</p> - -<p>“I wish I could take a great deal more care. I am almost sure you have -got into some entanglement, though, of course, you will say no. But, -Rollo, you know, you might as well hang yourself at once. You could -never hold up your head again. I don’t know what on earth would become -of you. Uncle Courtland would wash his hands of you, and what could any -of your friends do? It would be moral suicide,” said Augusta, with -solemnity. “I told you about young Jonquil, and the state he was in. -Rollo! tha<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6090" id="page_6090">{vol.-III-90}</a></span>t’s the most miserable thing that can happen to a man; other -things may go wrong, and mend again; your people may interpose, or a -hundred things may happen; but this sort of thing is without hope. Oh, -Rollo, take it to heart! There are many things a man may do that don’t -tell half so much against him. You would be poor, and everybody would -give you up. For goodness’ sake, Rollo, think of what I say.”</p> - -<p>He gave her an answer which was not civil; and, as he went along by her -side to old Canon Skeffington’s, there suddenly gleamed across his mind -a recollection of the elm-tree on the Slopes, and all the sweetness of -the stolen hours which had passed there. And Lottie had said “No.” Why -should she have said “No?” It seemed to him that he cared for nothing -else so much as to know why for this first time she had refused to meet -him. Had she began to understand his proposition? had she found out what -it was he meant? Was she afraid of him, or indignant, or——? But she -had not looked indignant. Of all things in the world, there was nothing -he wanted so much as to know what Lottie meant by that refusal. Yet, -notwithstanding, he did take to heart what Augusta said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6091" id="page_6091">{vol.-III-91}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVII.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">ANOTHER CHANCE.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Ashford</span>, the Minor Canon, had, anyone would have supposed, as -tranquil yet as pleasantly occupied a life as a man could have. He had -not very much of a clergyman’s work to do. There was no need for him to -harass himself about the poor, who are generally a burden upon the -shoulders or hung about the neck of the parish priest; he was free from -that weight which he had found himself unable to bear. He had only the -morning and evening prayers to think of, very rarely even a sermon. Most -clergymen like that part of their duties; they like to have it in their -power to instruct, to edify, or even to torture the community in -general, with perfect safety from any reprisals; but Ernest Ashford in -that, as in many other things, was an exception to the general rule in -his profession. He was not fond of sermons, and consequently it was a -very happy thing for him that so few were required of him. He was now -and then tormented by his pupils, which brought his life within the -ordinary conditions of humanity; otherwise, with his daily duty in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6092" id="page_6092">{vol.-III-92}</a></span> -beautiful Abbey, which was a delight to him, and the leisure of his -afternoons and evenings, and the landscape that lay under his window, -and the antique grace of his little house, and all his books, no -existence could have been more unruffled and happy. He was as far lifted -above those painful problems of common life which he could not solve, -and which had weighed upon him like personal burdens in the beginning of -his career, as his window was above the lovely sweep of country at the -foot of the hill. What had he to do but sing Handel, to read and to -muse, and to be content? These were the natural conditions of his life.</p> - -<p>But it would appear that these conditions are not fit for perverse -humanity; for few indeed are the persons so happily exempt from ordinary -troubles who do not take advantage of every opportunity to drag -themselves into the arena and struggle like their neighbours. Mrs. -Ashford did this in what may be called the most wanton and unprovoked -way. What business had he to take any interest in Lottie Despard? She -was out of his sphere; the Abbey stood between them, a substantial -obstacle; and many things a great deal more important—social -differences, circumstances that tended to separate rather than to bring -together. And it was not even in the orthodox and regular way that he -had permitted this girl to trouble his life. He might have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6093" id="page_6093">{vol.-III-93}</a></span> fallen in -love with her, seeing her so often in the Abbey (for Lottie’s looks were -remarkable enough to attract any man), and nobody could have found -fault. It is true, a great many people would have found fault, in all -likelihood people who had nothing to do with it and no right to -interfere, but who would, as a matter of course, have pitied the poor -man who had been beguiled, and indignantly denounced the designing girl; -but no one would have had any right to interfere. As a clergyman of the -Church of England Mr. Ashford had absolute freedom to fall in love if he -pleased, and to marry if he pleased, and nobody would have dared to say -a word. But he had not done this: he had not fallen in love, and he did -not think of marriage; but being himself too tranquil in his well-being, -without family cares or anxieties, perhaps out of the very forlornness -of his happiness, his attention had been fixed—was it upon the first -person he had encountered in the midst of a moral struggle harder, and -therefore nobler, than his own quiescent state? Perhaps this was all. He -could never be sure whether it was the girl fighting to keep her father -and brother out of the mire, fighting with them to make them as honest -and brave herself, or whether it was simply Lottie that interested him. -Possibly it was better not to enter into this question. She was the most -interesting person within his range. His brethren the Canons, Minor and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6094" id="page_6094">{vol.-III-94}</a></span> -Major, were respectable or dignified clergymen, very much like the rest -of the profession. Within the Abbey precincts there was nobody with any -particular claim upon the sympathy of his fellows, or whose moral -position demanded special interest. The Uxbridges were anxious about -their son, who was a careless boy, not any better than Law; but then the -father and mother were quite enough to support that anxiety, and kept it -to themselves as much as possible. It was not a matter of life and -death, as in Law’s case, who had neither father nor mother to care what -became of him, but only Lottie—a creature who herself ought to have -been cared for and removed far from all such anxieties. Even the -deficiency in Lottie’s character—the pain with which she was brought to -see that she must herself adopt the profession which was within her -reach, and come out from the shelter of home and the menial work with -which she was contented, to earn money and make an independence for -herself—had given her a warmer hold upon the spectator, who, finding -himself unable to struggle against the world and himself, had withdrawn -from that combat, yet never could quite pardon himself for having -withdrawn. She, poor child, could not withdraw; she was compelled to -confront the thing she hated by sheer force of necessity, and had done -so—compelled, indeed, but only as those who can are compelled. Would -she have fled from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6095" id="page_6095">{vol.-III-95}</a></span> contemplation of want and pain as he had done? -Would she have allowed herself incapable to bear the consequences of the -duty set before her, whatever it might be? Sometimes Mr. Ashford would -ask himself this question: though what could be more ridiculous than the -idea that a girl of twenty could judge better than a man of -five-and-thirty? But he was interested in her by very reason of her -possession of qualities which he did not possess. He had given her good -advice, and she had taken it; but even while he gave it and pressed it -upon her he had been thinking what would she have said to his problems, -how would she have decided for him? All this increased his interest in -Lottie. He realised, almost more strongly than she did herself, all the -new difficulties that surrounded her; he divined her love, which pained -him not less than the other troublous circumstances in her lot, since he -could not imagine it possible that any good could come out of such a -connection. That Rollo Ridsdale would marry anyone but an heiress his -superior knowledge of the world forced him to doubt; he could not -believe in a real honest love, ending in a marriage, between the -Chevalier’s daughter and Lady Caroline’s nephew. And accordingly this, -which seemed to Lottie to turn her doubtful future into a certainty of -happiness, seemed to Mr. Ashford the worst of all the dangers in her -lot. It would be no amusement for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6096" id="page_6096">{vol.-III-96}</a></span> her, as it would be for the other; -and what was to become of the girl with her father’s wife in possession -of her home and such a lover in possession of her heart? His -spectatorship got almost more than he could bear at times; nobody seemed -to see as he did, and he was the last person in the world who could -interfere to save her. Could anyone save her? He could not tell; he knew -no one who would take the office upon himself; but least of all could he -do it. He watched with interest which had grown into the profoundest -anxiety—an anxiety which in its turn was increased tenfold by the sense -that there was nothing which he could do.</p> - -<p>Such were the feelings in his mind when the Signor joined him on his -homeward way after service on the afternoon when Mrs. Daventry had so -interrupted Lottie’s lesson. Augusta had sailed up the aisle and out by -the door in the cloisters which adjoined the Deanery, as they came out -of the room where all the surplices were hanging in their old presses, -and where the clergy robed themselves. The two men came out when the -rustle and flutter of the party of ladies were still in the air, and old -Wykeham looking after them with cynical criticism. The hassocks in the -aisles, which had been placed there for the convenience of the -overflowing congregations, too great for the Abbey choir, which crowded -every corner now and then, were all driven about like boats at sea by -the passage of these<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6097" id="page_6097">{vol.-III-97}</a></span> billows of trailing silk, and Wykeham had stooped -to put them back into their places. Stooping did not suit the old man, -and he could not do without his natural growl. “I wish they’d stick to -’em,” he said; “plenty of dirt sticks to ’em. They sweeps up the aisles -and saves us trouble; but I’d just like one o’ them heavy hassocks to -stick.”</p> - -<p>“And so should I,” said the Signor under his breath. “They are -insufferable,” he said with vehemence as he emerged into the cloister. -“I have made up my mind I shall not allow any intrusion again.”</p> - -<p>“Who are insufferable, and what is the intrusion you are going to -prevent?” said the Minor Canon with a smile.</p> - -<p>“Ashford,” said the Signor with much heat, “I am not going to have you -come any more to Miss Despard’s lessons. Don’t say anything to me on the -subject; I know all about interest and so forth, but I can’t permit it. -It’s ruin to her, and it irritates me beyond bearing. Interest? if you -take any real interest in her you would see that nothing could be less -for her welfare, nothing more destructive of any chances she may -have——”</p> - -<p>“My dear Rossinetti, I never was present at Miss Despard’s lesson but -once.”</p> - -<p>“It was once too much, then,” the Signor cried. “The girl is getting -ruined. That woman, that Mrs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6098" id="page_6098">{vol.-III-98}</a></span> Daventry—you should have heard her -whispering behind our backs with her fan in front of her face, then -stopping a moment to say, ‘What a pretty song: how much you have -improved.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>The Signor made an attempt to mimic Augusta, but he had no talent that -way, and the mincing tone to which he gave utterance was like nothing -that had ever been heard before. But if his imitation was bad his -disgust was quite genuine. He could not think of anything else; he -returned again and again to the subject as they went on.</p> - -<p>“The upper classes,” he said, “are famous for good manners. This is -their good manners: Two of them thrust themselves in for their amusement -to a place where a poor girl is working hard at art, and a man who has -spent most of his life in learning is trying to transmit his knowledge -to her. And the moment that girl begins singing <i>they</i> begin their -loathsome chatter about Mr. this and My Lady that. Do not say anything -to me, Ashford; I tell you, you shall not come, you nor anyone else, -again.”</p> - -<p>“Is she making progress?” said the Minor Canon.</p> - -<p>“Progress? how could she, with that going on? No; sometimes she will -sing like an angel, sometimes like—anyone. It drives me wild! And then -our gracious patrons appear—Mr. Ridsdale (who ought to know better) and -Mrs. Daventry. I ought to know<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6099" id="page_6099">{vol.-III-99}</a></span> better too; I will defend my doors from -henceforth. To be sure, I did not mean that; <i>you</i> may come if you -like.”</p> - -<p>“And Mr. Ridsdale talked? How did she bear it?” said Mr. Ashford -nervously.</p> - -<p>“It is I who will not bear it,” said the musician. “And these are people -who pretend to love music—pretend to know: it is insufferable. If she -ever becomes a great singer——”</p> - -<p>“If? I thought you had no doubt.”</p> - -<p>“How was I to know I should be intruded upon like this? Poor girl. I -think, after all, the best thing for her will be to marry my boy, John -Purcell, and live a quiet life.”</p> - -<p>“Marry—Purcell?”</p> - -<p>“Why not? He is a very good musician; he will live to make a great deal -of money: he has genius—positively genius. The best thing she could do -would be to marry him. She is too sensitive. Susceptibility belongs to -the artist temperament, but then it must be susceptibility within -control. Her voice flutters like a flame when the wind is blowing. -Sometimes it blows out altogether. And he loves her. She will do best to -marry my John.”</p> - -<p>“You cannot have so little perception, Rossinetti. How can you entertain -such an idea for a moment? Purcell?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6100" id="page_6100">{vol.-III-100}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“In what is he so inferior?” said the Signor with quiet gravity. “He is -young, not like you and me. That is a great deal. He is an excellent -musician, and he has a home to offer to her. I should advise it if she -would take my advice. It would not harm her in her career to marry a -musician, if finally she accepts her career. She has not accepted it -yet,” said the Signor with a sigh.</p> - -<p>“Then all your certainty is coming to nothing,” said Mr. Ashford, “and -Ridsdale’s——”</p> - -<p>“Ah, Ridsdale—that is what harms her. Something might be done if he -were out of the way. He is an influence that is too much for me. Either -she has heard of his new opera, and expects to have her place secured in -it, under his patronage, or else she hopes—something else.” The Signor -kept his eyes fixed upon his companion. He wanted to surprise Mr. -Ashford’s opinion without giving his own.</p> - -<p>“Do you think,” said the Minor Canon indignantly, “even with the little -you know of her, that she is a girl to calculate upon having a place -secured to her, or upon anyone’s patronage?”</p> - -<p>“Then she hopes for—something else; which is a great deal worse for her -happiness,” said the Signor. Then there was a pause. They had reached -Mr. Ashford’s door, but he did not ask his companion to go in. The -Signor paused, but he had not ended<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6101" id="page_6101">{vol.-III-101}</a></span> what he had to say: “With the -little I know of her”—he said—“do you know more?”</p> - -<p>This was not an easy question to answer. He could not say, I have been -watching her for weeks; I know almost all that can be found out; but, -serious man as he was, Mr. Ashford was embarrassed. He cleared his -throat, and indeed even went through a fit of coughing to gain time. -“Her brother is my pupil,” he said at last, “and, unfortunately, he -likes better to talk than to work. I have heard a great deal about her. -I think I know enough to say that she would not hope—anything that she -had not been wooed and persuaded to believe in——”</p> - -<p>“Then you think—you really suppose—you are so credulous, so optimist, -so romantic,” cried the Signor with a <i>crescendo</i> of tone and -gesticulation—“you think that a man of the world, a man of society, -with no money, would marry—for love?”</p> - -<p>The musician broke into a short laugh. “You should have heard them,” he -added after a dramatic pause, “this very day whispering, chuchotéing, in -my room while she was singing—talking—oh, don’t you know what about? -About girls who marry rich men while (they say) their hearts are -breaking for poor ones—about women using the most shameless arts to -entrap a rich man, and even playing devotion to a woman with money; and -the only one to be really<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6102" id="page_6102">{vol.-III-102}</a></span> pitied of all is the poor fellow, who has -followed his heart, who is poor, who lives at Kew, and has two babies in -a perambulator. I laugh at him myself,” said the Signor—“the fool, to -give up his club and society because he took it into his silly head to -love!”</p> - -<p>“Rossinetti,” said the Minor Canon, “I know there are quantities of -these wretched stories about; but human nature is human nature, after -all, not the pitiful thing they make it out. I don’t believe they are -true.”</p> - -<p>“What! after all the newspapers—the new branch of literature that has -sprung from them?” cried the Signor. Then he paused again and subsided. -“I am of your opinion,” he said. “The fire would come down from heaven -if it was true; but <i>they</i> believe it: that is the curious thing. You -and I, we are not in society; we are charitable; we say human nature -never was so bad as that; but they believe it. Rollo Ridsdale would be -ashamed to behave like a man, as you and I would feel ourselves forced -to behave, as my boy John is burning to do.”</p> - -<p>“You and I.” The Minor Canon scarcely knew how it was that he repeated -these words; they caught his ear and dropped from his lips before he was -aware.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6103" id="page_6103">{vol.-III-103}</a></span></p><p>The Signor looked at him with a smile which was half satire and a -little bit sympathy. He said, “That is what you are coming to, Ashford. -I see it in your eye.”</p> - -<p>“You are speaking—folly,” said Mr. Ashford; then he added hastily, “I -have got one of my boys coming. I must go in.”</p> - -<p>“Good-day,” said the other with his dark smile. He had penetrated the -secret thoughts that had not as yet taken any definite form in his -friend’s breast. Sometimes another eye sees more clearly than our own -what is coming uppermost in our minds—or at least its owner believes -so. The Signor was all the more likely to be right in this, that he had -no belief in the calm sentiment of “interest” as actuating a man not yet -too old for warmer feelings, in respect to a woman. He smiled -sardonically at Platonic affection—as most people indeed do, unless the -case is their own. He knew but one natural conclusion in such -circumstances, and settled that it would be so without more ado. And -such reasoning is sure in the majority of cases to be right, or to help -to make itself right by the mere suggestion. To be sure he took an -“interest”—a great interest—in Lottie himself; but that was in the way -of art.</p> - -<p>Mr. Ashford had no boy coming that he knew of when he said this to -escape from the Signor; but, as sometimes happens, the expedient -justified itself, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6104" id="page_6104">{vol.-III-104}</a></span> he had scarcely seated himself in his study when -some one came up the oak staircase two or three steps at a time, and -knocked at his door. In answer to the “Come in,” which was said with -some impatience—for the Minor Canon had a great deal to think about, -and had just decided to subject himself to a cross-examination—who -should open the door but Law—Law, without any book under his arm, and -with a countenance much more awake and alive than on the occasions when -he carried that sign of study. “Can I speak to you?” Law said, casting a -glance round the room to see that no one else was there. He came in half -suspicious, but with serious meaning on his face. Then he came and -placed himself in the chair which stood between Mr. Ashford’s -writing-table and his bookcases. “I want to ask your advice,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Well; I have done nothing else but give you my advice for some time -past, Law.”</p> - -<p>“Yes—to work—I know. You have given me a great deal of that sort of -advice. What good is it, Mr. Ashford? I’ve gone on week after week, and -what will it ever come to? Well, I know what you are going to say. I -work, but I don’t work. I don’t care a bit about it. I haven’t got my -heart in it. It is quite true. But you can’t change your disposition; -you can’t change your nature.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6105" id="page_6105">{vol.-III-105}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Stop a little, Law. So far as work is concerned you often can, if you -will——”</p> - -<p>“Ah, but there’s the rub,” said Law, looking his Mentor in the face. “I -don’t want to—that is the simple fact. I don’t feel that I’ve the least -desire to. I feel as if I won’t even when I know I ought. I think it’s -more honest now at last to tell you the real truth.”</p> - -<p>“I think I knew it pretty well some time ago,” said the Minor Canon with -a smile. “It is a very common complaint. Even that can be got over with -an effort. Indeed, I am glad you have found it out. Perhaps even, you -know, it is not your brain at all but your will that is at fault.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Ashford,” said Law solemnly, “what is the good of talking? You know -and I know that I never could make anything of it if I were to work, as -we call it, till I was fifty. I never could pass any examination. They -would be fools indeed if they let me in. I am no real good for anything -like that. You know it well enough; why shouldn’t you say it? Here are -you and me alone—nobody to overhear us, nobody to be vexed. What is the -use of going on in the old way? I shall never do any good. You know it -just as well as I.”</p> - -<p>“Law,” said Mr. Ashford, “I will not contradict you. I believe you are -right. If there was any other<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6106" id="page_6106">{vol.-III-106}</a></span> way of making your living I should say -you were right. Books are not your natural tools; but they open the door -to everything. The forest service, the telegraph service—all that sort -of thing would suit you.”</p> - -<p>At this point Law got up with excitement, and began walking up and down -the room. “That is all very well,” he said. “Mr. Ashford, what is the -use of deceiving ourselves? I shall never get into any of these. I’ve -come to ask your advice once for all. I give up the books; I could only -waste more time, and I’ve wasted too much already. It has come to this: -I’ll emigrate or I’ll ’list. I don’t see how I’m to do that even, for -I’ve no money—not enough to take me to London, let alone Australia. Why -shouldn’t I do the other? It’s good enough; if there was a war it would -be good enough. Even garrison duty I shouldn’t mind. It wouldn’t hurt -<i>my</i> pride,” the lad said with a sudden flush of colour that belied his -words; “and I might go away from here, so that it would not hurt <i>her</i>. -That’s all, Mr. Ashford,” he said with suppressed feeling. “Only -her—she’s the only one that cares; and if I went away from here she -would never know.”</p> - -<p>“Has anything happened to drive you to a decision at once? Is there -anything new—anything——?”</p> - -<p>“There is always something new,” said Law. “That woman has been to—to -the only place I ever cared<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6107" id="page_6107">{vol.-III-107}</a></span> to go—to shut the door against me. They -were her own friends too—at least people as good as—a great deal -better than she. She has been there to bully them on my account, to say -they are not to have me. Do you think I’ll stand that? What has she to -do with me?”</p> - -<p>“It must be a great deal worse for your sister, Law.”</p> - -<p>“Well, isn’t that what I say? Do you think I can stand by and see Lottie -bullied? Once she drove her out of the house. By Jove, if Lottie hadn’t -come home I’d have killed her. I shouldn’t have stopped to think; I -should have killed her,” said Law, whose own wrong had made him -desperate. “Do you think I can stand by and see Lottie bullied by that -woman? She’s brought it partly upon herself. She was too hard in the -house with her management both upon the governor and me. She meant it -well, but she was too hard. But still she’s Lottie, and I can’t see her -put upon. Do you think I am made of stone,” cried Law indignantly, “or -something worse than stone?”</p> - -<p>“But if you were in Australia what better would she be? There you would -certainly be of no use to her.”</p> - -<p>Law was momentarily staggered, but he recovered himself. “She would know -I was doing for myself,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6108" id="page_6108">{vol.-III-108}</a></span>” he said, “which might mean something for her, -too, in time. I might send for her. At least,” said the lad, “she would -not have me on her hands; she would only have herself to think of; and -if she got on in her singing—the fact is, I can’t stand it, and one way -or other I must get away.”</p> - -<p>“What would you do if you were in Australia, Law?”</p> - -<p>“Hang it all!” said the young man, tears of vexation and despite -starting to his eyes, “a fellow must be good for something somewhere. -You can’t be useless all round; I’m strong enough. And here’s one thing -I’ve found out,” Law added with a laugh: “it doesn’t go against your -pride to do things in the Colonies which you durstn’t do here. You can -do—whatever you <i>can</i> do out there. It doesn’t matter being a -gentleman. A gentleman can drive a cart or carry a load in Australia. -That is the kind of place for me. I’d do whatever turned up.”</p> - -<p>Said Mr. Ashford suddenly, “I know a man out there——” and then he -paused. “Law, what would your sister do? There would be no one to stand -by her. Even you, you have not much in your power, but you are always -some one. You can give her a little sympathy. Even to feel that there -are two of you must be something.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6109" id="page_6109">{vol.-III-109}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Ashford,” said Law, “you will do her more good than I should. What -have I been to poor Lottie? Only a trouble. Two of us—no; I can’t take -even that to myself. I’ve worried her more than anything else. She would -be the first to thank you. You know a man——?”</p> - -<p>“I know a man,” said the Minor Canon—“I had forgotten him till now—a -man who owes me a good turn; and I think he would pay it. If I were sure -you would really do your best, and not forget the claims she has upon -your kindness——”</p> - -<p>“Would you like me to send for her as soon as I had a home for her?” Law -asked with fervour. There was a subdued twinkle in his eye, but yet he -was too much in earnest not to be ready to make any promise.</p> - -<p>“That would be the right thing to do,” said the Minor Canon with -excessive gravity, “though perhaps the bush is not exactly the kind of -place to suit her. If you will promise to do your very best——”</p> - -<p>“I will,” said the lad, “I will. I am desperate otherwise; you can see -for yourself, Mr. Ashford. Give me only an opening; give me anything -that I can work at. If I were to ’list I never should make much money by -that. There’s only just this one thing,” said Law: “If I had a friend to -go to, and a chance of employment, and would promise to pay it back, I -suppose I might get a loan somewhere—a loan on<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6110" id="page_6110">{vol.-III-110}</a></span> good interest,” he -continued, growing anxious and a little breathless—“perhaps from one of -those societies, or some old money-lender, or something—to take me -out?”</p> - -<p>The Minor Canon laughed. “If this is what you are really set upon, and -you will do your best,” he said, “I will see your father, and you need -not trouble your mind about the interest. Perhaps we shall be able to -manage that.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Ashford, what a good fellow you are! what a good friend you -are!” cried Law, beaming with happiness. The tears once more came into -his eyes, and then there came a glow of suppressed malice and fun behind -that moisture. “Lottie will be more obliged even than I,” he said; “and -I could send for her as soon as I got settled out there.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6111" id="page_6111">{vol.-III-111}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVIII.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">LOTTIE RESENTFUL.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Lottie</span> was sadly disheartened by the events of that day. She came home -alike depressed and indignant, her heart and her pride equally wounded. -She had scarcely seen Rollo for the two intervening days, and the -meeting at the Signor’s had appeared to her before it came a piece of -happiness which was certain, and with which no one could interfere. He -would resist all attempts to wile him away for that afternoon, she was -sure; he would not disappoint her and take all her inspiration from her -again. Since that last meeting under the elm-tree she had been more full -of happy confidence in him than ever. His readiness and eagerness to -take her away at once, overcoming, as she thought, all the scruples and -prejudices of his class, in order to secure deliverance for her, had -filled her mind with that soft glow of gratitude which it is so sweet to -feel to those we love. The elation and buoyant sense of happiness in her -mind had floated her over all the lesser evils in her path. What did -they matter, what did anything mat<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6112" id="page_6112">{vol.-III-112}</a></span>ter, in comparison? She was -magnanimous, tolerant, ready to believe the best, unready to be -offended, because of this private solace of happiness in her bosom, but -all the more for those undoubting certainties she had felt the contrast -of the actual scene. She did not even think that Rollo might be innocent -of his cousin’s visit, or that he knew nothing of her coming till he had -walked unawares into the snare. Lottie did not know this. She saw him by -Augusta’s side, talking to her and listening to her. She was conscious -through all her being of the rustle of whispering behind her, which went -on in spite of her singing. She would not look at him to see what -piteous apologies he was making with his eyes, and when Mrs. -O’Shaughnessy in sudden wrath dragged her away Lottie was glad of the -sudden exit, the little demonstration of offence and independence of -which she herself might have failed to take the initiative. She went -home tingling with the wound, her nerves excited, her mind irritated. -She would not go to meet him, as he had asked her. She went home -instead, avoiding everybody, and shut herself up in her own room. She -was discouraged too and deeply annoyed with herself, because in the -presence of the unkindly critic who had been listening to her, Lottie -felt she had not done well. Generally her only care, her only thought, -was to please Rollo; but that day she would have wished<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6113" id="page_6113">{vol.-III-113}</a></span> for the -inspiring power that now and then came upon her, as when she had sung in -the Abbey not knowing of his presence. She would have liked to sing like -that, overawing Augusta and her whispering; but she had not done so. She -had failed while that semi-friend who was her enemy looked on. She felt, -with a subtle certainty beyond all need of proof, that Augusta was her -enemy. Augusta had at once suspected, though Rollo had said that she -would never suspect; and she wanted to make her cousin see how little -Lottie was his equal, how even in her best gifts she was nothing. It was -bitter to Lottie to think that she had done all she could to prove -Augusta right. Why was it that she could not sing then, as, two or three -times in her life, she had felt able to sing, confounding all who had -been unfavourable to her? Lottie chafed at the failure she had made. She -was angry with herself, and this made her more angry both with Augusta -and with him. In the heat of her self-resentment she began to sing over -her music softly to herself, noting where she had failed. Had the Signor -been within hearing how he would have rejoiced over that -self-instruction. Her friends had been so much mortified that it opened -her eyes to her own faults. She saw where she had been wrong. There is -no such stimulant of excellence as the sense of having done badly. -Lottie’s art education advanced under<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6114" id="page_6114">{vol.-III-114}</a></span> the sting of this failure as it -had never done before. She threw herself into it with fervour. As she -ran over the notes she seemed to hear the “sibilant s’s” behind her, -pursuing her, and the chance words she had caught. “Like him—she did -not care a straw for him.” “The old lady made it all up,” “and the -settlements were astonishing.” That and a great deal more Lottie’s -jealous ears had picked up, almost against her will, and the words -goaded her on like so many pricks. She thought she never could suffer it -to be possible that Augusta or any other fine lady should do less than -listen when she sang again.</p> - -<p>While Lottie sat there cold in the wintry twilight (yet warm with -injured pride and mortification) till there was scarcely light enough to -see, humming over her music, Rollo, getting himself with difficulty free -of his cousin and all the visitors and commotion of the Deanery, rushed -up to the elm-tree, and spent a very uncomfortable moment there, waiting -in the cold, and wondering if it was possible that she would not come. -It did not occur to him that Lottie, always so acquiescent and -persuadable, could stand out now, especially as he was not really to -blame. He stood about under the elm, now and then taking a little walk -up and down to keep himself warm, watching the light steal out of the -wide landscape and everything darken round him, for half and hour and -more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6115" id="page_6115">{vol.-III-115}</a></span> No one was there; not an old Chevalier ventured upon a turn in -the dark, not a pair of lovers confronted the north wind. Rollo -shivered, though he was more warmly clad than Lottie would have been. He -walked up and down with an impatience that helped to keep him warm, -though with dismay that neutralised that livelier feeling. He had no -desire to lose his love in this way. It might be foolish to imperil his -comfort, his position, his very living, for her, but yet now at least -Rollo had no intention of throwing her away. He knew why she sang badly -that afternoon, and instead of alarming him this knowledge brought a -smile upon his face. Augusta had behaved like a woman without a heart, -and Lottie was no tame girl to bear whatever anyone pleased, but a -creature full of fire and spirit, not to be crushed by a fashionable -persecutor. Rollo felt it hard that he should wait in the cold, and be -disappointed after all; but he was not angry with Lottie. She had a -right to be displeased. He was all the more anxious not to lose her, not -to let her get free from him, that she had thus asserted herself. His -love, which had been a little blown about by those fashionable gales -that had been blowing round him, blazed up all the hotter for this -temporary restraint put upon it. She who had trusted him with such an -exquisite trust only the other evening, who had not in her innocence -seen anything but devotion in the sudden<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6116" id="page_6116">{vol.-III-116}</a></span> proposal into which (he -persuaded himself) only passion could have hurried him—her first -rebellion against him tightened the ties that bound him to her. Give her -up! it would be giving up heaven, throwing away the sweetest thing in -his life. He was cold, but his heart burned as he paced his little -round, facing the north wind and listening for every rustling sound -among the withered leaves that lay around him, thinking it might be her -step. The darkness, and the chill, and the solitude all seemed to show -him more clearly how sweet the intercourse had been which had made him -unconscious of either darkness or cold before. Augusta repeating her -endless monotonous stories of universal guile and selfishness had made -him half ashamed of his best feelings. He was ashamed now of her and her -influence, ashamed of having been made her tool for the humiliation of -his love. What a difference there was between them! Was there anyone -else in the world so tender, so pure, so exquisite in her love and -trust, as Lottie, the creature whose sensitive heart he had been made to -wound? When at last, discouraged and penitent, he turned homeward, Rollo -had the intention trembling in his mind of making Lottie the most -complete amends for everything that had ever been done to harm her. He -paused at the gates of the cloister, and looked across at the light in -her window with a yearning which sur<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6117" id="page_6117">{vol.-III-117}</a></span>prised him. He seemed to have a -thousand things to say to her, and to be but half a being when he had -not her to confide in, to tell all his affairs to—although he had never -told her one of his affairs. This fact did not seem to affect his -longing. He went so far as to walk across the Dean’s Walk, to see what -he thought was her shadow on the blind. It was not Lottie’s shadow, but -Polly’s, who had taken her place; but this the lover did not know.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile Lottie had been disturbed in her seclusion by a sharp knock at -her door. “Do you mean to stay there all night, Miss?” cried Polly’s -sharp voice. “You might pay me the compliment to keep me company now and -again as long as you stay in my house. If you think it is civil to stay -there, shut up in your room, and me all alone in the drawing-room, I -don’t. I can’t think where your hearts is, you two,” Polly went on, a -whimper breaking into the tone of offence with which she spoke. “To see -one as is not much older than yourself, and never did you no harm, and -not a soul to keep her company. Was it for that I give up all my own -folks, to come and sit dressed up in a corner because I’m Mrs. Despard, -and never see a soul?”</p> - -<p>Lottie had opened her door before this speech was half done. She said -with a little alarm, “Please don’t speak so loud. We need not let the -maid in the kitchen know.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6118" id="page_6118">{vol.-III-118}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Do you think I care for the maid in the kitchen? She’s my servant. I’ll -make her know her place. Never one of them sort of folks takes any -freedom with me. I have always been known for one as allowed no -freedoms—no, nor no followers, nor perquisites, nor nothing of the -kind. They soon find out as I ain’t one to be turned round their finger. -Now you,” said Polly, leading the way into the little drawing-room, -“you’re one of the soft sort. I dare say they did what they liked with -you!”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think so,” said Lottie, following. She put her music softly -down upon the old piano, which Polly had swathed in a cover, and the -changed aspect of the room moved her half to laughter, half to anger and -dismay.</p> - -<p>“There are few as knows themselves,” said Polly. “That girl, that Mary -as you had, I couldn’t have put up with her for a day. Some folks never -sees when things is huggermugger, but I’m very particular. Your -Pa—dear, good, easy man—I dare say he’s put up with a deal; but to be -sure no better was to be expected, for you never had no training, I -suppose?”</p> - -<p>Lottie was almost too much taken by surprise to reply—she, who had felt -that if there was one thing in the world she could do it was -house-keeping! The confusion that is produced in the mind by the sudden -perception of another’s opinion of us which is diame<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6119" id="page_6119">{vol.-III-119}</a></span>trically opposed to -our own seized her; otherwise she would have been roused to instant -wrath. This, which was something so entirely opposite to what she could -have expected, raised only a kind of ludicrous bewilderment in her mind. -“I—don’t know what you mean,” said Lottie. “Papa has not very much -money to give for house-keeping. Perhaps you are making a mistake.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it is likely that I should make a mistake! Do you think I don’t -know my own husband’s income? Do you think,” said Polly with scorn, -“that he has any secrets from <i>me</i>?”</p> - -<p>Lottie was cold with her imprisonment in her fireless room. She drew her -little chair to the blazing fire and sat down by the side. Polly had -placed herself in the largest chair in the room, directly in front of -it. The fire was heaped up in the little grate, and blazed, being -largely supplied. It was very comfortable, but it went against the rules -of the economy which Lottie had strenuously prescribed to herself. “Papa -spends a great deal of money himself,” she said; “you will find that you -must be very sparing at home.”</p> - -<p>“My dear,” said Polly in a tone of condescending patronage which brought -the colour to Lottie’s face, “I am not one as can be sparing at home. -Pinching ain’t my way. I couldn’t do it, not if I was to be made a -countess for it. Some folks can scrape and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6120" id="page_6120">{vol.-III-120}</a></span> cut down and look after -everything, but it ain’t my nature. What I like is a free hand. Plenty -to eat and plenty to drink, and no stinting nowhere—that’s what will -always be the law in my house.”</p> - -<p>Lottie made no reply. She felt that it was almost a failure from her -duty to put out her hands to the warmth of the too beautiful fire. Some -one would have to suffer for it. Her mind began to run over her own -budget of ways and means, to try, as had been her old habit, where she -could find something to cut off to make up for the extravagance. “These -coals burn very fast,” she said at last. “They are not a thrifty kind. I -used to have the——”</p> - -<p>“I know,” said Polly, “you used to have slates and think it was -economy—poor child!—but the best for me: the best is always the -cheapest in the end. If anyone thinks as I will put up with seconds, -either coals or bread!—but since we’re on the subject of money,” -continued Polly, “I’ll tell you my mind, Miss, and I don’t mean it -unfriendly. The thing as eats up my husband’s money, it ain’t a bright -fire or a good dinner, as is his right to have; it’s your brother Law, -Miss, and you.”</p> - -<p>“You have told me that before,” Lottie said, with a strenuous effort at -self-control.</p> - -<p>“And I’ll tell it you again—and again—till it has its effect,” cried -Polly: “it’s true. I don’t mean to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6121" id="page_6121">{vol.-III-121}</a></span> unfriendly. I wonder how you can -live upon your Pa at your age. Why, long before I was your age I was -doing for myself. My Pa was very respectable, and everybody belonging to -us; but do you think I’d have stayed at home and eat up what the old -folks had for themselves? They’d have kept me and welcome, but I -wouldn’t hear of it. And do you mean to say,” said Polly, folding her -arms and fixing her eyes upon her step-daughter, “as you think yourself -better than me?”</p> - -<p>Lottie returned the stare with glowing eyes, her lips falling apart from -very wonder. She gave a kind of gasp of bewilderment, but made no reply.</p> - -<p>“I don’t suppose as you’ll say so,” said Polly; “and why shouldn’t you -think of your family as I did of mine? You mightn’t be able to work as I -did, but there’s always things you could do to save your Pa a little -money. There’s lessons. There’s nothing ungenteel in lessons. I am not -one as would be hard upon a girl just starting in the world. You’ve got -your room here, that don’t cost you nothing; and what’s a daily -governess’s work? Nothing to speak of—two or three hours’ teaching (or -you might as well call it playing), and your dinner with the children, -and mostly with the lady of the house—and all the comforts of ’ome -after, just as if you wasn’t out in the world at all; a deal different -from sitting at your<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6122" id="page_6122">{vol.-III-122}</a></span> needle, working, working, as I’ve done, from -morning to night.”</p> - -<p>“But I don’t know anything,” said Lottie. “I almost think you are quite -right. Perhaps it is all true; it doesn’t matter nowadays, and ladies -ought to work as well as men. But—I don’t know anything.” A half-smile -came over her face. Notwithstanding that she was angry with Rollo, -still—he who would have carried her away on the spot rather than that -she should bear the shadow of a humiliation at home—was it likely——? -Lottie’s mind suddenly leaped out of its anger and resentment with a -sudden rebound. He did not deserve that she should be so angry with him. -Was it his fault? and in forgiving him her temper and her heart got -suddenly right again, and all was well. She even woke to a little -amusement in the consciousness that Polly was advising her for her good. -The extravagant coals, the extravagant meals, would soon bring their own -punishment; and though Lottie could not quite free herself from -irritation on these points, yet she was amused by the thought of all -this good advice.</p> - -<p>“That’s nonsense,” said Polly promptly. “Now here’s a way you could -begin at once, and it would be practice for you, and it would show at -least that you was willing. I’ve been very careless,” she said, getting -up from her chair and opening the old piano.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6123" id="page_6123">{vol.-III-123}</a></span> She had to push off the -cover first, and the noise and commotion of this complicated movement -filled Lottie with alarm. “I’ve done as a many young ladies do before -they see how silly it is. I’ve left off my music. You mayn’t believe it, -but it’s true. I can’t tell even if I know my notes,” said Polly, -jauntily but clumsily placing her hands upon the keyboard and letting -one finger fall heavily here and there like a hammer. “I don’t remember -a bit. It’s just like a great silly, isn’t it? But you never think when -you are young, when your head’s full of your young man and all that sort -of thing. It’s when you’ve settled down, and got married, and have time -to think, that you find it out.”</p> - -<p>Polly was a great deal less careful of her language as she became -accustomed to her new surroundings. She was fully herself by this time, -and at her ease. She sat down before the piano and ran her finger along -the notes. “It’s scandalous,” she said. “We’re taught when we’re young, -and then we thinks no more of it. Now, Miss, if you was willing to do -something for your living, if you was really well disposed and wanted to -make a return, you might just look up some of your old lesson-books and -begin with me. I’d soon pick up,” said Polly, making a run of sound up -and down the keys with the back of her fingers, and thinking it -beautiful; “it would come back to me in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6124" id="page_6124">{vol.-III-124}</a></span> two or three lessons. You -needn’t explain nothing about it; we might just say as we were learning -some duets together. It would all come back to me if you would take a -little trouble; and I shouldn’t forget it. I never forget it when -anyone’s of use to me.”</p> - -<p>“But,” cried Lottie, who had been vainly endeavouring to break in, “I -cannot play.”</p> - -<p>“Cannot play!” Polly turned round upon the piano-stool with a -countenance of horror. Even to turn round upon that stool was something -delightful to her, like a lady in a book, like one of the heroines in -the <i>Family Herald</i>; but this intimation chilled the current of her -blood.</p> - -<p>“No—only two or three little things, and that chiefly by ear. I never -learned as I ought. I hated it; and I was scarcely ever taught, only -by—someone who did not know much,” said Lottie with a compunction in -her mind. Only by someone who did not know much—This was her mother, -poor soul, whom Polly had replaced. Lottie’s heart swelled as she spoke. -Poor, kind, silly mamma! she had not known very much; but it seemed -cruel to allow it in the presence of her supplanter.</p> - -<p>“Goodness—gracious—me!” said Polly. She said each word separately, as -if she were telling beads. She cast at Lottie a glance of sovereign -contempt. “You to set up for being a lady,” she cried, “and ca<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6125" id="page_6125">{vol.-III-125}</a></span>n’t <i>play -the piano</i>! I never heard of such a thing in all my born days.”</p> - -<p>If she had claimed not to be able to work, Polly could have understood -it; but if there is a badge of ladyhood, or even a pretence at ladyhood, -in the world, is it not this? She was horrified; it felt like a coming -down in the world even to Polly herself.</p> - -<p>Again Lottie did not make any reply. She was simple enough to be half -ashamed of herself and half angry at the criticism which for the first -time touched her; for it was a fact that she was ignorant, and a -shameful fact. She could not defend, but she would not excuse herself. -As for Polly, there was in her a mingling of triumph and regret.</p> - -<p>“I <i>am</i> surprised,” she said. “I thought one who pretended to be a lady -ought at least to know that much. And you ought to be a lady, I am sure, -if ever anyone was, for your Pa is a perfect gentleman. Dear, dear—if -you can’t play the piano, goodness gracious, what have you been doing -all your life? That was the one thing I thought was sure—and you are -musical, for I’ve heard as you could sing. If it’s only that you won’t -take any trouble to oblige,” said Polly angrily, “say it out. Oh, it -won’t be no surprise to me. I’ve seen it in your face already—say it -out!”</p> - -<p>“I have told you nothing but the truth,” said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6126" id="page_6126">{vol.-III-126}</a></span> Lottie. “I am sorry for -it. I can sing—a little—but I can’t play.”</p> - -<p>“It’s just the same as if you said you could write but couldn’t read,” -said Polly; “but I’ve always been told as I’ve a nice voice. It ain’t -your loud kind, that you could hear from this to the Abbey, but -sweet—at least so folks say. You can teach me to sing if you like,” she -said, after a pause. “I never learned singing. One will do as well as -the other, and easier too.”</p> - -<p>This was a still more desperate suggestion. Lottie quailed before the -task that was offered to her. “I can show you the scales,” she said -doubtfully; “that is the beginning of everything; but singing is harder -to teach than playing. The Signor thinks I don’t know anything. They say -I have a voice, but that I don’t know how to sing.”</p> - -<p>“The fact is,” cried Polly, shutting down the piano with a loud bang and -jar which made the whole instrument thrill, and snapped an old -attenuated chord which went out of existence with a creak and a groan, -“the fact is, you don’t want to do nothing for me. You don’t think me -good enough for you. I am only your father’s wife, and one as has a -claim upon your respect, and deserves to have the best you can do. If it -was one of your fine ladies as don’t care a brass farthing for you—oh, -you’d sing and you’d play the piano safe<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6127" id="page_6127">{vol.-III-127}</a></span> enough: but you’ve set your -mind against me. I seen it the first day I came here—and since then the -life you’ve led me! Never a civil word—never a pleasant look; yes and -no, with never a turn of your head; you think a deal of yourself. And -you needn’t suppose I care—not I—not one bit; but you shan’t stand up -to my face and refuse whatever I ask you. You’ll have to do what I tell -you or you’ll have to go.”</p> - -<p>“I will go,” said Lottie in a low voice. She thought of Rollo’s sudden -proposal, of the good people whom he said he would take her to, of the -sudden relief and hope, the peace and ease that were involved. Ought she -not to take him at his word? For the moment she thought she would do so. -She would let him know that she was ready, ready to go anywhere, only to -escape from this. How foolish she had been to be angry with Rollo—he -who wanted nothing better than to deliver her at a stroke, to carry her -away into happiness. Her heart softened with a great gush of tenderness. -She would yield to him; why should she not yield to him? She might think -that he ought to marry his wife from her father’s house, but he had not -seemed to think so. He thought of nothing but to deliver her from this -humiliation—and what would it matter to him? a poor Chevalier’s house -or a poor quiet lodging, what would it matter? She would go. She would -do as Rollo said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6128" id="page_6128">{vol.-III-128}</a></span></p> - -<p>“You will go?” cried Polly; “and where will you go? Who have you got to -take you in? People ain’t so fond of you. A woman as can do nothing for -herself, who wants her? and isn’t even obliging. Oh, you are going to -your room again, to be sulky there? But I tell you I won’t have it. You -shall sit where the family sits or you shall go out of the place -altogether. And you’ll come to your meals like other people, and you’ll -mix with them as is there, and not set up your white face, as if you -were better than all the world. You’re not so grand as you think you -are, Miss Lottie Despard. If it comes to that I’m a Despard as well as -you; and I’m a married woman, with an ’usband to work for me—an -’usband,” cried Polly, “as doesn’t require to work for me, as has enough -to keep me like a lady—if it wasn’t that he has a set of lazy grown-up -children as won’t do nothing for themselves, but eat us out of ’ouse and -’ome!”</p> - -<p>Was it possible that this humiliation had come to Lottie—to Lottie of -all people—she who had felt that the well-being of the house hung upon -her, and that she alone stood between her family and utter downfall? She -sat still, not even attempting now to escape, her ears tingling, her -heart beating. It was incredible that it was she, her very self, Lottie, -who was bearing this. It must be a dream; it was impossible that it -could be true.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6129" id="page_6129">{vol.-III-129}</a></span></p> - -<p>And thus Lottie sat the whole of the evening, too proud to withdraw, and -bore the brunt of a long series of attacks, which were interrupted, -indeed, by the supper, to which Polly had to give some personal care, -and by Captain Despard’s entrance and Law’s. Polly told her story to her -husband with indignant vehemence. “I asked her,” she said, “to help me a -bit with my music—I know you’re fond of music, Harry—and I thought -we’d learn up some duets or something, her and me, to please you; and -she says she can’t play the piano! and, then, not to show no offence, I -said as singing would do just as well, and then she says she can’t -sing!” The Captain received this statement with much caressing of his -wife and smoothing of her ruffled plumes. He said, “Lottie, another time -you’ll pay more attention,” with a severe aspect; and not even Law had a -word to say in her defence. As to Law, indeed, he was very much -preoccupied with his own affairs; his eyes were shining, his face full -of secret importance and meaning. Lottie saw that he was eager to catch -her eye, but she did not understand the telegraphic communications he -addressed to her. Nor did she understand him much better when he pulled -her sleeve and whispered, “I am going to Australia,” when the tedious -evening was over. Law’s career had fallen out of her thoughts in the -troubles of those few weeks past. She had even ceased to ask<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6130" id="page_6130">{vol.-III-130}</a></span> how he was -getting on, or take any interest in his books; she remembered this with -a pang when she found herself at last safe in the shelter of her room. -She had given up one part of her natural duty when the other was taken -from her. Australia? What could he mean? She thought she would question -him to-morrow; but to-morrow brought her another series of petty -struggles, and once more concentrated her mind upon her own affairs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6131" id="page_6131">{vol.-III-131}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXXIX.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">LOTTIE SUBDUED.</span></h2> - -<p>“I <span class="smcap">waited</span> half an hour. I was not very happy,” said Rollo. “It is never -cold when you are here, but last night the wind went through and through -me. That is the consequence of being alone. And you, my Lottie, had you -no compunctions? Could you make yourself happy without any thought of -the poor fellow freezing under the elm-tree?”</p> - -<p>“Happy!” Lottie cried. She was happy now. Last night she had been alone, -no one in the world caring what became of her; now she felt safe, as if -the world held nothing but friends; but she shivered, notwithstanding -her lover’s supporting arm.</p> - -<p>“Not happy then? Does it not answer, darling? Can you endure the woman? -Is she better than at first? I like her,” said Rollo, “for you know it -was her arrival which opened your heart to me—which broke the -ice—which brought us together. I shall always feel charitably towards -her for that.”</p> - -<p>Lottie shivered again. “No, it is not because of the cold,” she said. “I -do not suppose you could understand if I were to tell you. Home! I have -not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6132" id="page_6132">{vol.-III-132}</a></span> any home!” cried the girl. “I was thinking—if it was really true -what you said the other night—if it would make no difference to you, -Rollo, to take your wife out of some poor little lodging instead of out -of her father’s house—are you sure you would not mind?” she said, -looking wistfully, anxiously into his face. In the waning light all he -could see distinctly was this wistful dilation of her eyes, gazing -intently to read, before he could utter it, his answer in his face. “I -could manage to live somehow,” she went on, tremulously. “Though I -cannot give lessons, I can work, very well. I think I am almost sure I -could get work. No; I would not take money from you; I could not, -Rollo:—not until—no, no; that would be quite impossible; rather stay -here and bear it all than that. But if really, truly, to marry a poor -girl, living in a poor little room, working for her bread, would not -make any difference to you——. Oh, I know, I know it is not what ought -to be—even here, even at home, I am not equal to you. You ought to have -some one a great deal better off—a great deal higher in the world. But -if you would not think it—discreditable; if you would not be -ashamed—— oh, Rollo,” she cried, “I cannot bear it! it is impossible -to bear it!—I would ask you to do what you offered and take me away!”</p> - -<p>It is impossible to describe the feelings with which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6133" id="page_6133">{vol.-III-133}</a></span> Rollo listened to -these unexpected words. To see a bird walk into the snare must awake -compunctions in the most experienced trapper. The same sensation does -not attend a sudden fall; but the sight of an innocent creature going -calmly into the death set before it, as if into safety and shelter—a -man must be hard indeed to see that unmoved. And Rollo was no villain. -His heart gave one wild leap again, as it had done when, in the hurrying -of passion, not with deliberation (as he had always been comforted to -think), he had laid that snare. The thrill of his hairbreadth escape -from her horror and loathing, the leap of sudden, horrified delight to -find her in his power all at once, by her own act and deed, transported -him for the moment with almost uncontrollable power; and then this -sudden passion in his mind was met by the stream, the torrent, of a more -generous impulse, a nobler passion, which carried everything before it. -A man may trap his prey with guile, he may take advantage of the -half-willingness of a frail resistance; but to turn to shame the perfect -and tender confidence of innocence, who but a villain could do that? and -Rollo was no villain. He grasped her almost convulsively in his arms as -she spoke; he tried to interrupt her, the words surging, almost -incoherent, to his lips. “Lottie! my Lottie!” he cried, “this is not how -it must be. Do you think I will let you go to live alone, to work, as -you say?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6134" id="page_6134">{vol.-III-134}</a></span>” He took her hand hastily, and kissed the little cold fingers -with lips that trembled. “No, my love, my darling, not that—but I will -go to town to-morrow and settle how we can be married—at once, without -an hour’s delay. Oh, yes, it is possible, dear—quite possible. It is -the only thing to do. Why, why did I not think of it before? I will go -and settle everything, and get the licence. That is the way. My darling, -you must not say a word. You had made up your mind to marry me some -time, and why not to-morrow—next day—as soon as I can settle? What -should we wait for? who should we think of except ourselves? And I want -you, my love; and you, thank heaven, Lottie, have need of me.”</p> - -<p>He held her close to him, in a grasp which was almost fierce—fierce in -the strain of virtue and honour, in which his own nature, with all its -easy principles and vacillations, was caught too. He wanted to be off -and do it at once, without losing a moment, lest his heart should fail. -He would do it, whatever might oppose. She should never know that less -worthy thoughts had been in his mind. She should find that her trust was -not vain. His blood ran in his veins like a tumultuous river, and his -heart beat so that Lottie herself was overawed by the commotion as he -held her against it. She was half frightened by his vehemence and tried -to speak, but he would not let<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6135" id="page_6135">{vol.-III-135}</a></span> her at first. “No,” he said, “no, you -must not say anything. You must not oppose me. It must be done first, -and then we can think of it after. There is nothing against it, and -everything in its favour. You must not say a word but Yes,” he cried.</p> - -<p>“But, Rollo, Rollo, let me speak. It might be good for me, but would it -not be wrong for you? Oh, let me speak! Am I so selfish that I would -make you take a sudden resolution, perhaps very foolish, perhaps very -imprudent, for my sake? Rollo, Rollo, don’t! I will bear anything. It -would be wrong for you to do this.”</p> - -<p>“No; not wrong, but right—not wrong, but right,” he cried, bewildering -her with his vehemence. Lottie’s own heart was stirred, but not like -this. She wondered and was troubled, even in the delight of the thought -that everything in the world was as nothing to him in comparison with -his love for herself.</p> - -<p>“But, Rollo,” she cried again, trembling in his grasp, “if this is -really possible—if it is not wrong—why should you go to London to do -it? It would be quite as easy here——”</p> - -<p>“Lottie, you will sacrifice something for me, will you not?” he said. -“If it were done here, all would be public; it would be spoken of -everywhere; and I want it to be quiet. I have not much money. You will -make this sacrifice for me, dear<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6136" id="page_6136">{vol.-III-136}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” said Lottie, compunctious, “I wish I had said nothing about it; I -wish I had not disturbed you with my paltry little troubles. Do not -think of them any more. I can bear anything when I know you are thinking -of me. It was only yesterday when—when all seemed uncertain, that it -seemed more than I could bear.”</p> - -<p>“And it is more than you ought to bear,” he said. “No, I am glad that -you told me. We will go away, Lottie—to Italy, to the sunshine, to the -country of music, where you will learn best of all—we will go away from -the very church door.”</p> - -<p>And then he told her how it could be done. To-morrow he would go and -settle everything. His plans all took form with lightning speed, though -he had never thought of them till now. There would be many things to do; -but in three days from that time he would meet her in the same place, -and tell her all the arrangements he had made:—and the next morning -after that (“Saturday is a lucky day,” he said) they would go to town, -if not together, yet by the same train—and go to the church, where he -would have arranged everything. Rollo Ridsdale was an adventurer born. -He was used to changing the conditions of his life in a moment, in the -twinkling of an eye. But it all seemed a dream to Lottie—not one of her -usual waking dreams, but a dream of the night, with no<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6137" id="page_6137">{vol.-III-137}</a></span> possibility in -it, which would dissolve into the mists presently and leave nothing but -a happy recollection. She acquiesced in everything, being too much taken -by surprise to oppose a plan in which he was so vehement.</p> - -<p>“May I tell Law?” she asked, always in her dream, not feeling as if -there was any reality in the idea she suggested. And he said No at -first, but afterwards half relented, and it was agreed that on Friday -everything was to be decided, but nothing done till then. Thus, though -they had met without a thought that this stolen interview would be more -decisive than any other of the same kind, they parted with a decision -that concerned their entire lives.</p> - -<p>They walked closer together after this, in the safe gloom of the -darkness, till they had again reached the door of the cloisters which -led to the Deanery. No one was about, and Rollo was full of restless -excitement. He would not hear what she said about prudence, and walked -across with her to her own door. There was not a creature to be seen up -or down; the lamps flickered in the cold wind, and all the population -had gone in to the comfort of warm rooms and blazing fires. He kissed -her hand tenderly as he took leave of her.</p> - -<p>“Till Friday,” he said.</p> - -<p>Lottie went in, still in her dream, walking, she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6138" id="page_6138">{vol.-III-138}</a></span> thought, in her sleep. -She hoped this sleep would last for ever—that it might not be rashly -disturbed by waking, or even by that which would be almost as bad as -waking—<i>coming true</i>. She could scarcely feel that she wanted it to -come true; it was enough as it was, a bewildering happiness that tingled -to the very ends of her fingers, that made her feel as if she were -walking on air. She went softly upstairs, caring for nothing but to get -to her room, where, though it was dark and cold, she could still go on -with this wonderful vision. That seemed all she wanted. But, alas! -something very different was in store for Lottie. As she went with soft -steps up the stairs the door of the little drawing-room was suddenly -opened, letting out a warm stream of ruddy light. Then a sound of -laughter reached her ears, and Polly’s voice——</p> - -<p>“Come in, come in; we are waiting for you; we are both here,” with -another gay outburst.</p> - -<p>Lottie came to herself, and to all the disagreeable realities of her -life, with a start of pain. She had to obey, though nothing could be -more disagreeable to her. She went in with dazzled eyes into the room -full of firelight. She remembered now that she had remarked outside that -no lamp was lighted, and had supposed with relief that Mrs. Despard was -out. But Mrs. Despard had not been out. She had been lurking in the -ruddy gloom near the window, her husband by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6139" id="page_6139">{vol.-III-139}</a></span> her side. They greeted -Lottie with another laugh, as she came in with her pale, astonished face -within the circle of the fire.</p> - -<p>“So that’s how you spend your afternoons, miss, as I never could think -where you were,” cried Polly; “but why didn’t you bring in your beau -with you? I’d have given him his tea and a nice leg of a goose, as -comfortable as could be.”</p> - -<p>“My child,” said the Captain on his side, “I congratulate you. I’ve been -expecting something of this kind for a long time. I’ve had my eye upon -you. But why didn’t you bring Mr. Ridsdale in, as Mrs. Despard says?”</p> - -<p>Lottie felt as if she had been turned into stone. She stood all dark in -her winter dress, the firelight playing upon her, and seeking in vain to -catch at some possibility of reflection. She had not even a button that -would give back the light. And she had not a word to say.</p> - -<p>“Come, come, you need not be so put out,” said the Captain, not -unkindly. “We saw you coming; and very proper of Mr. Ridsdale not to -leave you at the Deanery, but to see you home to your own door. You -thought no one was paying any attention—but I hope,” Captain Despard -added, “that I think more than that of my child. I don’t doubt from what -I saw, Lottie, that you understand each other; and why<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6140" id="page_6140">{vol.-III-140}</a></span> hasn’t he come -before now to speak to me? You might have known that such a suitor would -not be received unfavourably. Happy myself,” said the Captain, throwing -out his chest, “would I have put any obstacle between you and your -happiness, my dear?”</p> - -<p>“I did not think—I did not know—I think—you are mistaken,” Lottie -faltered, not knowing what to say.</p> - -<p>“Mistaken, indeed! Oh, we’ve gone through all that too lately to be -mistaken, haven’t we, Harry?” cried Mrs. Despard. “We know all about it. -You couldn’t come to those as would understand you better. Don’t be -frightened; you haven’t been found out in anything wrong. If that was -wrong I’ve a deal to answer for,” Polly cried, laughing. “I should think -you must be frozen with cold after wandering about on them Slopes, or -wherever you have been. How foolish young people are, to be sure, -getting their deaths of cold. We never were as foolish as that, were we, -Harry? Come and warm yourself, you silly girl. You needn’t be afraid of -him or me.”</p> - -<p>Amid their laughter, however, Lottie managed to get away, to take off -her hat, and to try as best she could to realise this new phase of the -situation. What her father had said was very reasonable. Why had not -Rollo come, as the Captain said? How that would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6141" id="page_6141">{vol.-III-141}</a></span> have simplified -everything, made everything legitimate! She sighed, not able to -understand her lover, feeling that for once her father was right; but -Rollo had said that this could not be, that it would be necessary to -keep everything quiet. Her dream of happiness was disturbed. Dreams are -better, so much better, than reality. In them there is never any jar -with fact and necessity; they can adapt themselves to everything, fit -themselves into every new development. But now that she was fully awoke -it was less easy to steer her way through all the obstacles. Rollo’s -reluctance to declare himself, and her father’s right to know, and the -pain of leaving her home in a clandestine way, all rushed upon her, -dispersing her happiness to the winds. She had felt that to awake would -be to lose the sweetness which had wrapped her about; and now the rude -encounter with the world had come, and Lottie felt that even with that -prospect of happiness before her it was difficult to bear what she would -have to bear;—Polly’s innuendoes and, worse still, Polly’s sympathy, -and the questions of her father appalled her as she looked forward to -them. During this strange courtship of hers, so perplexed and mixed up -as it was with her music and the “career” which they all, even Rollo, -had tried to force upon her (though surely there need be no more of that -<i>now</i>), and the changes that had taken place at home, Lottie had almost -lost herself. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6142" id="page_6142">{vol.-III-142}</a></span> was no longer the high-spirited girl, full of energy -and strength, who had reigned over this little house and dragged Law’s -heavy bulk along through so many difficulties. She had dreamed so much, -and taken refuge so completely from the troubles of her position in -those dreams, that now she seemed to have lost her own characteristics, -and had no vigour to sustain her when she had actual difficulties to -face. She tried to recall herself to herself as she smoothed her hair, -which had been blown about by the breeze. From the beginning she had -been pained by Rollo’s reserve, though she had persuaded herself it was -natural enough; but now, in this new, strange revolution of affairs—a -revolution caused entirely, she said to herself, by her father’s own -proceedings—what could she do but stand firm on her own side? She would -not betray the great purpose in hand. She would still her own heart, and -keep her composure, and not allow any agitation or any irritation to -wrest from her the secret which Rollo desired to keep. To smooth her -ruffled hair was not generally a long process with Lottie; but it was -more difficult to arrange her agitated thoughts, and there had been -various calls for her from below, where the others had gone for their -evening meal, before she was ready to follow.</p> - -<p>Finally Law was sent upstairs with an urgent demand for her presence.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6143" id="page_6143">{vol.-III-143}</a></span></p> - -<p>“They’ve gone to tea,” said Law, knocking at her door; and then he -added, in a low tone, “Open, Lottie. I want to speak to you. I have got -lots to say to you.”</p> - -<p>She heard him, but she did not attach any meaning to his words. What he -said to her on the night before had left no definite impression on her -mind. Law had lost his sister, who thought of him above all. In the -midst of a pressing crisis in our own individual life, which of us has -time to think of others? She was afraid to talk to Law, afraid to betray -herself. Love made Lottie selfish and self-absorbed, a consequence just -as apt to follow as any other. She was afraid of betraying herself to -him; her mind was too full of this wonderful revolution in her own life -to be able to take in Law’s desire, on his side, not to know about her, -but to expound himself. She came out upon him hastily, and brushed past -him, saying, “I am ready.” She did not think of Law, not even when he -followed her, grumbling and murmuring—“I told you I wanted to speak to -you.” How difficult it is to realise the wants of another when one’s -heart is full of one’s own concerns! Neither brother nor sister had room -in their minds for anything but the momentous event in their respective -lives which was coming; but Law was aggrieved, for he had always -hitherto possessed Lottie’s sympathy as a chattel of his own.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6144" id="page_6144">{vol.-III-144}</a></span></p> - -<p>Polly and the Captain were seated at table when the two younger members -of the family went in, and never had Captain Despard been more dignified -or genial. “Lottie, my child, a bit of the breast,” he said—“a delicate -bit just fit for a lady. I’ve saved it up for you, though you are late. -You are very late; but for once in a way we will make allowances, -especially as Mrs. Despard is not offended, but takes your side.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, <i>I</i> know,” said Polly, “I am not one as is hard upon natural -feelings. Pride I can’t abide, nor stuck-up ways, but when it comes to -keeping company——”</p> - -<p>“Is anyone keeping company with Lottie?” said Law, looking up fiercely; -and then the elder pair laughed.</p> - -<p>“But, my love, it is not a phrase that is used in good society,” the -Captain said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, bother good society!” said Polly. She was in an exuberant mood, and -beyond the influence of that little topdressing of too transparent -pretence with which occasionally she attempted to impose upon her -step-children. Lottie, in whose mind indignation and disgust gradually -overcame the previous self-absorption, listened to every word, unable to -escape from the chatter she hated, with that keen interest of dislike -and impatience which is more enthralling than affec<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6145" id="page_6145">{vol.-III-145}</a></span>tion; but she -scarcely ventured to raise her eyes, and kept herself rigidly on her -guard lest any rash word should betray her. It was not till the meal was -over that she was brought to actual proof. Then her father detained her -as she was about to escape. Law, more impatient than ever with the -pressure of his own affairs, which it seemed impossible to find any -opportunity of confiding to his sister, had got up at once and gone out. -The Captain threw out his chest majestically and waved his hand as -Lottie was about to follow.</p> - -<p>“My child, I have got something to say to you,” he said.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Despard was standing by the fire, warming herself with frank ease, -with a good ankle well displayed. Lottie, on her way to the door, -unwillingly arrested, stood still because she could not help it. But the -Captain occupied with majesty his seat at the foot of the table between -his wife and his daughter. “My love,” he said, with his favourite -gesture, throwing back his well-developed shoulders, “I have every faith -in my daughter, and Mr. Ridsdale is in every way quite satisfactory. -Your family is as good as his, but my Lord Courtland’s son is not one to -be turned away from any door; and as you have no fortune, Lottie, I -should not be exacting as to settlements. I suppose he knows that you -have no fortune, my dear?”</p> - -<p>“La, Harry!” said Polly from the side of the fire,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6146" id="page_6146">{vol.-III-146}</a></span> “how should he think -she had a fortune? Fortunes don’t grow on every tree. And how do you -know as he has got <i>that</i> far? A young man may keep company with a girl -for long enough, and yet never go as far as <i>that</i>.”</p> - -<p>“You must allow me to know best, my love,” said the Captain. “I hope he -is not trifling with my girl’s affections. If he is he has Harry Despard -to deal with, I’d have him to know. By Jove, if I thought <i>that</i>!”</p> - -<p>“I dare say it’s nothing but keeping company,” said Polly, holding up -her foot to the fire. “Taking a walk together, or a talk; there’s -nothing wrong in that. She wants her bit of fun as well as other girls. -I’m not the one to stand up for Miss Lottie, for it’s not what she’d do -for me; but if it’s only her bit of fun you shouldn’t be hard upon her, -Harry; if my pa had hauled me up for that——”</p> - -<p>Lottie could not bear it any longer. “Do you wish me to stay,” she said, -“papa? can you wish me to stay?” The Captain looked from his wife in her -easy attitude to his daughter, pale with indignation and horror.</p> - -<p>“My love,” he said, with mild remonstrance, “there are different ways of -speaking in different spheres. Lottie is an only daughter, and has been -very carefully brought up. But, my child,” the Captain added, turning to -Lottie, “you must not be neglected now. I will make it my business -to-morrow to see Mr. Ridsdale, to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6147" id="page_6147">{vol.-III-147}</a></span> ascertain what his intentions are. -Your interests shall not suffer from any carelessness.”</p> - -<p>“Papa,” cried Lottie in despair, “you will not do anything so cruel; you -could not treat me so! Wait—only wait—a few days—three or four days!”</p> - -<p>Polly was so much interested that she let her dress drop over her ankles -and turned round. “Don’t you see,” she said, “that she feels he’s coming -to the point without any bother? That’s always a deal the best way. It -can’t do no harm, as I can see, to wait for three or four days.”</p> - -<p>“By Jove, but it will, though,” said Captain Despard with sudden -impatience, “all the harm in the world. You’ll allow me to understand my -own business. It is clearly time for a man to interfere. I shall see Mr. -Ridsdale to-morrow, if all the women in the world were to try their -skill and hold me back. Hold your tongue, Mrs. Despard; be quiet, -Lottie. When a man is a husband and a father he is the best judge of his -own duties. It is now my time to interfere.”</p> - -<p>Polly was really concerned; she had a fellow feeling for the girl whose -rights were thus interfered with. “Don’t you mind,” she said, turning to -Lottie with a half-audible whisper. “If he’s coming to the point himself -it won’t do no harm, and if he ain’t it will give him a push, and let -him see what’s expected of him. I ain’t one for interfering myself, but -if you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6148" id="page_6148">{vol.-III-148}</a></span> can’t help it you must just put up with it; and I don’t think, -after all, it will do so very much harm.”</p> - -<p>Now Lottie ought to have been grateful for this well-intentioned and -amiable remark, but she was not. On the contrary, her anger rose more -wildly against the stranger who thus attempted to console her, than it -did against her father, whose sudden resolution was so painful to her. -She gave Polly a look of wrath, and, forgetting even civility, darted -out of the room and upstairs in vehement resentment. Polly was not so -much angry as amazed to the point of consternation. She gasped for the -breath which was taken away by Lottie’s sudden flight. “Well!” she -exclaimed, “that’s manners, that is! that’s what you call being brought -up careful! A young unmarried girl, as is nothing and nobody, rushing -out of a room like that before a married lady and her Pa’s wife!”</p> - -<p>Lottie, however, was in a passion of alarm, which drove everything else -out of her head. Of all things that seemed to her most to be avoided, a -meeting between her father and Rollo at this crisis was the worst. She -left her room no more that evening, but sat and pondered what she could -do to avert the danger. True, without a meeting between them it would be -impossible that her love should have its legitimate sanction, and that -the beginning of her new life should be honest and straightforward, as -it ought. But partly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6149" id="page_6149">{vol.-III-149}</a></span> because she had schooled herself to think (by way -of excusing Rollo’s silence) that a meeting between him and her father -would only make him less respectful of the Captain’s pretensions and the -“family” which Lottie still with forlorn faith believed in, and partly -because the visit of a father to ask a lover’s “intentions” was perhaps -the very last way in which a beginning of intercourse could be agreeably -established, it seemed to Lottie that she would do anything in the world -to prevent this meeting. With this view she wrote one little note and -then another to warn Rollo—writing with cold fingers but a beating -heart, hot with anxiety and trouble, upon the corner of her little -dressing-table—for there was no room for any other convenience of a -table in the small, old-fashioned chamber. But when she had at last -achieved a composition of one which seemed to express feebly yet -sufficiently what she wanted to say, the question arose, How was it to -get to Rollo? She had no one to send. She dared not trust it to Law, for -that would involve an explanation, and there was no one else at Lottie’s -command. A thought of Captain Temple floated across her mind; but how -could she employ him upon such an errand, which would involve a still -more difficult explanation? At last she burnt regretfully by the flame -of her candle the very last of these effusions, and decided that she -must trust to the chances of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6150" id="page_6150">{vol.-III-150}</a></span> morrow. She had promised to be at the -elm-tree in the morning to bid Rollo good-by. She must manage, then, to -get him to go away before matins were over and her father free. But it -was with an anxious heart that Lottie, when her candle burned out, crept -cold and troubled to bed, chilled to the bone, yet with a brow which -burned and throbbed with excitement. Law did not come in till after she -had fallen asleep. Law, whom she had watched over so anxiously, was, at -this crisis of Lottie’s personal history and his own, left entirely to -himself.</p> - -<p>In the morning she managed to run out immediately after breakfast, just -as the air began to vibrate with the Abbey bells, and, after some -anxious waiting under the elm, at last, to her great relief, saw Rollo -coming. Lottie was not able to disguise her anxiety or her desire for -his departure. “Never mind speaking to me,” she said. “Do not waste -time. Oh, Rollo, forgive me—no, it is not to get rid of you,” she -cried, and then she told him the incident of last night.</p> - -<p>Rollo’s eyes gave forth a gleam of disgust when he heard of the chance -of being stopped by Captain Despard to enquire his “intentions.” He -laughed, and Lottie thought instinctively that this was a sound of -merriment which she would never wish to hear again. But his face -brightened as he turned to Lottie, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6151" id="page_6151">{vol.-III-151}</a></span> was so anxious to save him from -this ordeal. “My faithful Lottie!” he said, pressing her close to him. -There was nobody stirring in the winterly morning; but yet day requires -more reserve than the early darkness of night.</p> - -<p>“But go, go, Rollo. I want you to be gone before they are out of the -Abbey,” she cried, breathless.</p> - -<p>“My dear love—my only love,” he said, holding both her hands in his.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Rollo, is it not only for a day or two? You are so serious, you -frighten me—but go, go, that you may not meet anyone,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Yes, it is only for a day or two, my darling,” he replied. “On Friday, -my Lottie, at five under this tree. You won’t fail me?”</p> - -<p>“Never,” she said, with her blue eyes full of sweet tears. And then they -kissed in the eye of day, all the silent world looking on.</p> - -<p>“No,” he said, with fervour—“never; you will never fail me; you will -always be true.”</p> - -<p>And so they parted, she watching jealously while he took his way, not by -the common road, but down the windings of the Slopes, that he might be -safe, that no one might annoy him. “Till Friday!” he called to her in -the silence, waving his hand as he turned the corner out of her sight. -She drew a long breath of relief when she saw him emerge alone farther -down<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6152" id="page_6152">{vol.-III-152}</a></span> upon the road that led to the railway. The Signor was only then -beginning the voluntary, and Captain Despard evidently could not ask -Rollo Ridsdale his “intentions” that day. Lottie waved her hand to her -lover, though he was too far off to see her, and said to herself, “Till -Friday,” with a sudden realisation all of these words implied—another -life, a new heaven and a new earth; love, and tenderness, and worship -instead of the careless use and wont of the family; to be first instead -of last; to be happy and at rest instead of tormented at everybody’s -caprice; to be with Rollo, who loved her, always, for ever and ever, -with no more risk of losing him or being forgotten. Her heart overflowed -with sweetness, her eyes with soft tears of joy. Out of that enchanted -land she went back for a little while into common life, but not in any -common way. The sunshine, which had been slow to shine, broke out over -the Dean’s Walk as she emerged from under the shadow of the trees; the -path was cleared for her; the music pealed out from the Abbey. -Unconsciously her steps fell into a kind of stately movement, keeping -time. In her blessedness she moved softly on towards the shadow of the -house in which she had now but a few days to live—like a princess -walking to her coronation, like a martyr to her agony. Who could tell in -which of the two the best similitude lay?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6153" id="page_6153">{vol.-III-153}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XL" id="CHAPTER_XL"></a>CHAPTER XL.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">THE EFFECT OF GOOD FORTUNE: LAW.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Law</span> had left Mr. Ashford, not knowing, as the vulgar have it, if he -stood on his head or his heels. He had somewhat despised the Minor -Canon, not only as a clergyman and an instructor, intending to put -something into Law’s luckless brains, yet without force enough to do it -effectually, but as a man, much too mild and gentle to make any head -against the deceitfulness of mankind, and all those guiles and pretences -in which an unwilling student like Law knows himself so much more -profoundly informed than any of his pastors and teachers can be. The -sense of superiority with which such a youth, learned in all manner of -“dodges” and devices for eluding work, contemplates the innocent senior -who has faith in his excuses, was strong in Law’s mind towards his last -tutor, who was so much less knowing than any of the others, that he had -taken him “for nothing,” without even the pay which his earlier -instructor, Mr. Langton, had been supposed to receive: supposed—for -Captain Despard was paymaster, and he was not any more to be trusted<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6154" id="page_6154">{vol.-III-154}</a></span> to -for recollecting quarter-day than Law was to be trusted to for doing his -work. But Mr. Ashford had never said anything about pay. He had taken -Law for his sister’s sake, “for love,” as the young man said lightly; -taken him as an experiment, to see what could be made of him, and kept -him on without a word on either side of remuneration. This curious -conduct, which might have made the pupil grateful, had no such result, -but filled him instead with a more entire contempt for the intellects of -his benefactor. It is easy, in the estimation of young men like Law, to -be learned and wise in book-learning, yet a “stupid” in life; and if -anything could have made this fact more clear, it would have been the -irregularity of the business transaction as between a non-paying pupil -and a “coach” who gave just as much attention to him as if he had been -an important source of revenue. “What a soft he must be! What a stupid -he is,” had been Law’s standing reflection. But he had liked all the -same the object of his scorn, and had felt “old Ashford” to be “very -jolly,” notwithstanding his foolish believingness, and still more -foolish indifference to his own profit. It was this which had made him -go to the Minor Canon with such a frankness of appeal—but he had not -been in the least prepared for the reply he received. It took away his -breath. Though it was a superlative proof of the same “softness” which -had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6155" id="page_6155">{vol.-III-155}</a></span> made Mr. Ashford receive a pupil who paid him nothing, the dazzled -youth could no longer regard it with contempt. Though he was tolerably -fortified against invasions of emotion, there was something in this -which penetrated to his heart. Suddenly, in a moment, to be lifted out -of his dull struggle with books which he could not understand, and -hopeless anticipation of an ordeal he could never pass, and to have the -desire of his heart given to him, without any trouble of his, without -price or reward, was all very wonderful to Law. At first he could not -believe it. To think “old Ashford” was joking—to think that a man so -impractical did not put the ordinary meaning into his words—this was -the first natural explanation; but when the Minor Canon’s first -recollection that “he knew a man” brightened into the prospect of money -to pay the young emigrant’s passage, and an actual beginning of his -career, Law did not know, as we have said, whether he was standing upon -solid ground or floating in the air. The happiness was almost too much -for him. He went up to London next day by Mr. Ashford’s suggestion, and, -at his cost, to learn all particulars about the voyage, but kept his own -secret until it had gained so much of solid foundation as the actual -sight of a ship which was bound for Australia, a printed account of the -times of sailing, and fares, and an outfitter’s list of indispensables, -could give; then, still dazzled by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6156" id="page_6156">{vol.-III-156}</a></span> the sudden fulfilment of his wishes, -but feeling his own importance, and the seriousness of his position as a -future emigrant, Law had endeavoured to find an opportunity of -communicating the great news to Lottie, but had failed, as has been -seen. And having thus failed, and seeing in her none of the eager desire -to know what he was about, which he thought would have been natural in -circumstances so profoundly interesting, Law got up from the table and -went out with a certain sense of injury in his mind. He saw there was -“something up” in respect to his sister herself, but he did not take -very much interest in that. Yet he thought it curiously selfish of her, -almost incomprehensibly selfish, to ask no question, show no concern in -what was happening to him. He had said, “I am going to Australia!” but -had he said, “I am going to play football,” she could not have taken it -more calmly; and she had never asked a question since. What funny -creatures women are, one time so anxious about you, another time caring -nothing, Law said to himself; but he was not at all conscious that it -might have been natural for him too to take some interest in Lottie’s -affairs. He did not. It was some rubbish, he supposed, about that fellow -Ridsdale. He thought of the whole business with contempt. Far more -important, beyond all comparison, were those affairs which were his -own.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6157" id="page_6157">{vol.-III-157}</a></span></p> - -<p>And when he went out, a little angry, irritated, but full of excitement -and elation, and eager to find somebody who would take due interest in -the story of his good fortune, where could Law’s footsteps stray but to -the place where they had turned so often in his idleness and -hopelessness? He had gone once before since the visit of Polly, and had -been confronted by Mrs. Welting, now established in the workroom, to the -confusion of all the little schemes of amusement by which the girls had -solaced the tedium of their lives. “Mother” had been glad enough to be -allowed to look after her house in quiet, and the rest of the family, -without troubling herself about her girls. But the sharp prick of -Polly’s denunciation had given Mrs. Welting new ideas of her duty. Would -she let it be said by an artful creature like that, who had done the -same thing herself, as <i>her</i> daughters were laying themselves out to -catch a gentleman? Not for all the world! She would not have a girl of -hers marry a gentleman, not for anything, Mrs. Welting said. She forbade -the little expeditions they were in the habit of making in turns for -thread and buttons. She would not allow even the <i>Family Herald</i>. She -scolded “for nothing at all,” resenting her compulsory attendance there, -and banishment from her domestic concerns. The workroom was quite -changed. There was no jollity in it, no visitors, not half so much -chatter as had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6158" id="page_6158">{vol.-III-158}</a></span> been carried on gaily while Polly was paramount. “She -took all the good herself, but she never could bear seeing anyone else -happy,” Emma said, who was doubly aggrieved. And it could not be said -that the work improved under this discipline. The moment altogether was -not happy; and when Law, by dint of wandering about the windows, and -whistling various airs known to the workroom, made his presence known, -Emma, when her mother withdrew, as she did perforce as the evening got -on, and it became necessary to look after the family supper, the younger -children, and her lodgers—came cautiously out to meet him, with a cloak -about her shoulders. “I haven’t got a moment to stay,” Emma said. -“Mother would take off my head if she found me out!” Yet she suffered -herself to be drawn a few steps from the door, and round the corner to -the riverside, where, on this wintry evening, there was nobody about, -and the river itself in the darkness was only discernible by the white -swell and foam round the piers of the bridge, by which it rushed on its -headlong passage to the weir. Here, now going, now coming, a few wary -steps at a time, awaiting a possible warning from the window of the -lighted workroom, the two wandered in the damp darkness, and Emma, -opening large eyes of astonishment, heard of all that was about to -happen. “Old Ashford has behaved like a brick,” Law said. “He is going -to give<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6159" id="page_6159">{vol.-III-159}</a></span> me introductions to people he knows, and he means to give me my -passage-money too, and something to begin upon!”</p> - -<p>“Lor!” cried Emma, “what is it for? Is he going to marry your sister?” -Her attention was awakened, but she did not think she had anything to do -with it; she was so much afraid of not hearing any possible tap on the -window, or not having time to run home before her absence was -discovered.</p> - -<p>“Now look here, Emma,” said Law. He did not speak with any enthusiasm of -tenderness, but calmly, as having something serious to propose. “If I go -away, you know, it’s for life; it’s not gone to-day and back to-morrow, -like a soldier ordered off to the Colonies. I’m going to make my living, -and my fortune, if I can, and settle there for life. No, nobody’s -knocking at the window. Can’t you give me your attention for a moment? I -tell you, if I go, it’s for life.”</p> - -<p>“Lor!” said Emma, startled. “You don’t mean to say as you’ve come to say -good-bye, Mr. Law? and you as always said you were so true. But I do -believe none of you young men ever remembers nor thinks what he’s been -saying,” she added with a half whimper. A lover’s desertion is never a -pleasant thing in any condition of life.</p> - -<p>“It’s just because of that I’m here,” said Law, sturdily. “I remember -all I’ve ever said. I’ve come<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6160" id="page_6160">{vol.-III-160}</a></span> to put it to you, Emma, straightforward. -I am going away, as I tell you, for life. Will you come with me? that’s -the question. There is not very much to spare, and there’s the outfit to -get, but it will go hard if I can’t draw old Ashford for your -passage-money,” said the grateful recipient of the Minor Canon’s bounty; -“and it would be a new start and a new life, and I’d do the best I could -for you. Emma, you must make up your mind quick, for there isn’t much -time. The boat sails—well, I can’t exactly tell you when she sails; but -in a fortnight or so——”</p> - -<p>“A fortnight!” Emma cried, with a sense of dismay.</p> - -<p>“Yes. We needn’t have a very grand wedding, need we? Emigrants must be -careful both of their money and their time.”</p> - -<p>“Emigrants? I don’t know what you mean by emigrants—it don’t sound -much,” said the girl, with a cloud upon her face.</p> - -<p>“No, it is not very fine. It means people that are going to settle far -away, on the other side of the world. Australia is—I don’t know how -many thousand miles away.”</p> - -<p>“Can you go there by land?” said Emma. “You needn’t laugh—how was I to -know? Oh, I can’t abide going in a ship.”</p> - -<p>“That’s a pity, for you can’t go in anything else.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6161" id="page_6161">{vol.-III-161}</a></span> But it’s a fine big -ship, and every care taken. Look here, Emma, you must make up your mind. -Will you go?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t know,” cried Emma; “I can’t tell; how long would you be in -the ship? It isn’t what I ever expected,” she said in a plaintive voice. -“A hurry, and a fuss, and then a long sea-voyage. Oh, I don’t think I -should like it, Mr. Law.”</p> - -<p>“The question is, do you like me?” said Law, with a little thrill in his -deep yet boyish bass. “You couldn’t like the parting and all that—it -wouldn’t be natural; but do you like <i>me</i> well enough to put up with it? -I don’t want you to do anything you don’t like, but when I go it will be -for good, and you must just make up your mind which you like best—to go -with me, though there’s a good deal of trouble, or to stay at home, and -good-bye to me for ever.”</p> - -<p>At this, Emma began to cry. “Oh, I shouldn’t like to say good-bye for -ever,” she said; “I always hated saying good-bye. I don’t know what to -do; it would be good-bye to mother, and Ellen, and them all. And never -to come back again would be awful! I shouldn’t mind if it was for a year -or two years, but never to come back—I don’t know what to do.”</p> - -<p>“We might come home on a visit, if we got very rich,” said Law, “or we -might have some of the others out to see us.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6162" id="page_6162">{vol.-III-162}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Oh, for a visit!” said Emma. “But they’d miss me dreadful in the -workroom. Oh, I wish I knew what to say.”</p> - -<p>“You must choose for yourself—you must please yourself,” said Law, a -little piqued by the girl’s many doubts; then he softened again. “You -know, Emma,” he said, “when a girl gets married it’s very seldom she has -her own people near her, and I don’t know that it’s a good thing when -she has. People say, at least, husband and wife ought to be enough for -each other. And, supposing it was only to London, it would still be away -from them.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but it would be different,” cried Emma; “if one could come back now -and again, and see them all; but to live always hundreds of thousands of -miles away.”</p> - -<p>“Not hundreds of thousands; but a long voyage that takes months——”</p> - -<p>“Months!” Emma uttered a cry. “Too far to have mother if you were ill,” -she said, casting her mind over the eventualities of the future; “too -far, a deal too far for a trip to see one. I don’t think it would be -nice at all. Mr. Law, couldn’t you, oh, couldn’t you stop at home?”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps you’d tell me what I should do if I stayed at home,” said Law, -not without a touch of contempt. “It’s more than I can tell. No, I can’t -stay at home.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6163" id="page_6163">{vol.-III-163}</a></span> There is nothing I could do here. It is Australia or -nothing, Emma; you must make up your mind to that.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but I don’t see why you shouldn’t stay in London; there are always -places to be got there; you might look in the papers and see. Mother -used to get the <i>Times</i> from the public-house, a penny an hour, when -Willie was out of a place. Did you ever answer any advertisement, or -try—really try?”</p> - -<p>“All that is nothing to the purpose,” said Law, with some impatience. -“The advertisements may be all very well, but I know nothing about them. -I am going to Australia whether or not. I’ve quite made up my mind. Now -the thing is, will you come too?”</p> - -<p>Emma did not know what answer to make. The going away was appalling, but -to lose her gentleman-lover, though he was banished from the workroom, -was a great humiliation. Then she could not but feel that there was a -certain excitement and importance in the idea of preparing for a sudden -voyage, and being married at seventeen, the first of the family. But -when she thought of the sea and the ship, and the separation from -everything, Emma’s strength of mind gave way. She could not do that. The -end was that, driven back and forward between the two, she at last -faltered forth a desire to consult “Mother” before deciding. Law, though -he was contemptuous of this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6164" id="page_6164">{vol.-III-164}</a></span> weakness, yet could not say anything -against it. Perhaps it was necessary that a girl should own such a -subjection. “If you do, I can tell you beforehand what she will say,” he -cried. “Then Ellen; I’ll ask Ellen,” said Emma. “Oh, I can’t settle it -out of my own head.” And then the girl started, hearing the signal on -the window, and fled from him, breathless. “Mother’s come to shut up,” -she said. Law walked away, not without satisfaction, when this end had -been attained. He was more anxious to have the question settled than he -was anxious to have Emma. Indeed, he was not at all blind to the fact -that he was too young to marry, and that there were disadvantages in -hampering himself even in Australia with such a permanent companion. -Then, too, all that he could hope for from Mr. Ashford was enough for -his own outfit and passage, and he did not see how hers was to be -managed. But, still, Law had been “keeping company” with Emma for some -time, and he acknowledged the duties of that condition according to the -interpretation put upon it in the order to which Emma belonged. Clearly, -when good fortune came to a young man who was keeping company with a -young woman, it was right that he should offer her a share of it. If she -did not accept it, so much the better; he would have done what honour -required without any further trouble. As Law walked up the hill again, -he reflected<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6165" id="page_6165">{vol.-III-165}</a></span> that on the whole it would be much better if he were -allowed to go to Australia alone. No one could know how things would -turn out. Perhaps the man Mr. Ashford knew might be of little use, -perhaps he might have to go from one place to another; or he might not -succeed at first; or many things might happen which would make a wife an -undesirable burden. He could not but hope that things might so arrange -themselves as that Emma should drop back into her natural sphere in the -workroom, and he be left free. Poor little Emma! if this were the case, -he would buy her a locket as a keepsake off Mr. Ashford’s money, and -take leave of her with comfort. But in the other case, if she should -make up her mind to go with him, Law was ready to accept the -alternative. His good fortune put him doubly on his honour. He would -prefer to be free, yet, if he were held to it, he was prepared to do his -duty. He would not let her perceive that he did not want her. But, on -the whole, he would be much better satisfied if “Mother” interfered. -Having disposed of this matter, Law began to think of his outfit, which -was very important, wondering, by the way, if Emma went, whether her -family would provide hers? but yet keeping this question, as uncertain, -quite in the background. He recalled to himself the list he had got in -his pocket, with its dozens of shirts and socks, with no small -satisfaction. Was it possible that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6166" id="page_6166">{vol.-III-166}</a></span> he could become the owner of all -that? The thought of becoming the owner of a wife he took calmly, hoping -he might still avoid the necessity; but to have such a wardrobe was -exciting and delightful. He determined to get Lottie to show him how to -mend a hole and sew on a button. To think that Lottie knew nothing about -his plans, and had never asked him what he meant, bewildered him when he -thought of it. What could be “up” in respect to her? Something like -anxiety crossed Law’s mind; at least, it was something as much like -anxiety as he was capable of—a mingling of surprise and indignation; -for were not his affairs a great deal more important than anything -affecting herself could be? This was the idea of both. Law was going to -Australia, but Lottie was going to be married, a still more important -event! and each felt that in heaven and earth no other such absorbing -interest existed. It must be said, however, for Lottie, that Law’s -whispered communication counted for nothing with her, since she knew no -way in which it could be possible. Wild hopes that came to nothing had -gleamed across his firmament before. How could he go to Australia? As -easy to say that he was going to the moon; and in this way it took no -hold upon her mind; while he, for his part, had no clue whatever to the -disturbing influence in Lottie’s thoughts.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6167" id="page_6167">{vol.-III-167}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLI" id="CHAPTER_XLI"></a>CHAPTER XLI.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">THE EFFECT OF GOOD FORTUNE: ROLLO.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> night after that decisive talk upon the Slopes was a trying one for -Rollo Ridsdale. He went home with the fumes of his resolution in his -mind. Now the die was cast. Whatever prudence might say against it, the -decision was made, and his life settled for him, partly by -circumstances, but much more by his personal will and deed. And he did -not regret what he had done. It was a tremendous risk to run; but he had -confidence that Lottie’s voice was as good as a fortune, and that in the -long run there would be nothing really imprudent in it. Of course it -must be kept entirely “quiet.” No indiscreet announcements in the -newspapers, no unnecessary publicity must be given to the marriage. -Whosoever was absolutely concerned should know; but for the general -public, what did it matter to them whether the bond which bound a man of -fashion to a celebrated singer was legitimate or not? Lottie would not -wish for society, she would not feel the want of society, and -particularly in the interval, while she was still not a celebrated -singer, it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6168" id="page_6168">{vol.-III-168}</a></span> was specially necessary that all should be kept “quiet.” He -would take her to Italy, and it would be not at all needful to introduce -any stray acquaintance who might happen to turn up, to his wife. In -short, there was no occasion for introducing anyone to her. Lottie would -not want anything. She would be content with himself. Poor darling! what -wonderful trust there was in her! By this time he was able to half-laugh -at his own guilty intention, which she had so completely extinguished by -her inability to understand it, her perfect acceptance of it as all that -was honourable and tender. He was going to do the right thing -now—certainly the right thing, without any mistake about it; but still -that it should be made to look like the wrong thing, was the idea in -Rollo’s mind. He would take her to Italy and train her for her future -career; but neither at the present time nor in the future would it be -necessary to put the dots upon the i’s in respect to her position. As -for Lottie, he knew very well that she, having no doubt about her -position, would not insist upon any publication of it. It would never -once occur to her that there was any possibility of being misconstrued.</p> - -<p>With these thoughts in his mind, Rollo dressed very hastily for dinner, -as he had lingered with Lottie to the last moment. And as it happened, -this was the very evening which Augusta chose for discussing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6169" id="page_6169">{vol.-III-169}</a></span> openly the -subject to which she had, without speaking of it, already devoted all -her powers of research since she had arrived at home. In the evening -after dinner Rollo was the only one of the gentlemen who came into the -drawing-room. Augusta’s husband was an inoffensive and silent man, with -what are called “refined tastes.” For one thing he was in a mild way an -antiquary. He did not enter very much into his wife’s life, nor she into -his. She was fashionable, he had refined tastes; they were perfectly -good friends; and though not yet married six months, followed each their -own way. Spencer Daventry had gone to his father-in-law’s study -accordingly, to investigate some rare books, and his wife was in the -drawing-room alone—that is, not exactly alone, for Lady Caroline was -“on the sofa.” When Lady Caroline was on the sofa she did not trouble -anybody much, and even the coming in of the lamps had not disturbed her. -She had “just closed her eyes.” Her dress was carefully drawn over her -feet by Mrs. Daventry’s care, and a wadded <i>couvre-pied</i> in crimson -satin laid over them. Augusta liked to see to every little decorum, and -would have thought the toe of her mother’s innocent shoe an improper -revelation. Perhaps it was by her orders that Mr. Daventry had not come -in. There was no company that evening, and when Rollo entered the -drawing-room, he saw at once that he had fallen<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6170" id="page_6170">{vol.-III-170}</a></span> into a trap. Augusta -sat on a comfortable chair by the fire, with a small table near her and -a lamp upon it. The other lights were far away, candles twinkling in the -distance on the piano, and here and there against the walls: but only -this one spot by the fire in warm and full light; and a vacant chair -stood invitingly on the other side of Augusta’s table. No more snug -arrangement for a <i>tête-à-tête</i> could have been, for Lady Caroline was -nothing but a bit of still life—more still almost than the rest of the -furniture. Augusta looked up as her cousin came in, with a smile.</p> - -<p>“Alone?” she said; “then come here, Rollo, and let us have a talk.”</p> - -<p>Rollo would not have been Rollo if he had felt any repugnance to this -amusement. Needless to say that in their boy and girl days there had -been passages of something they were pleased to call love between the -cousins; and equally needless to add that all this had long been over, -both being far too sensible (though one had been led astray by Lottie, -to his own consternation and confusion) to think of any serious -conclusion to such a youthful folly. Rollo sat down with mingled -pleasure and alarm. He liked a confidential talk with any woman; but in -this case he was not without fear.</p> - -<p>And his fears were thoroughly well founded as it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6171" id="page_6171">{vol.-III-171}</a></span> turned out. After a -few preliminaries about nothing at all, Augusta suddenly plunged into -her subject.</p> - -<p>“I am very glad,” she said, “to have a chance of speaking to you, by -ourselves. Mamma does not pay any attention; it is quite the same as if -she were not there. You know I’ve always taken a great interest in you, -Rollo. We are cousins, and we are very old friends—more like brother -and sister.”</p> - -<p>“I demur to the brother and sister; but as old friends as memory can -go,” said he; “and very happy to be permitted all the privileges of a -cousin—with such a good fellow as Daventry added on.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes. Spencer’s very nice,” said she. “He takes very kindly to my -people; but it is not about Spencer I want to talk to you, Rollo, but -about yourself.”</p> - -<p>“That’s so much the better,” said Rollo; “for I might not have liked -bridal raptures, not being able, you know, Augusta, quite to forget——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, that’s all nonsense,” said Augusta, with the faintest of blushes; -“bridal fiddlesticks! People in the world keep clear of all that -nonsense, heaven be praised. No, Rollo, it’s about yourself. I am very -anxious about you.”</p> - -<p>“Angelic cousin!—but there is no cause for anxiety that I know of in -me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, Rollo, there is great cause of anxiety.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6172" id="page_6172">{vol.-III-172}</a></span> I must speak to you -quite frankly. When I was married you had never seen Lottie Despard——”</p> - -<p>“Miss Despard!” He repeated the name in a surprised tone and with eyes -full of astonishment. He was glad of the opportunity of looking to the -buckles of his armour and preparing for the onset; and therefore he made -the surprise of the exclamation as telling as he could. “What can she -have to do with your anxiety?” he said.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Lottie Despard. Oh, she has a great deal to do with it. Rollo, how -can you think that any good can come of such a flirtation either to you -or the girl?”</p> - -<p>“Flirtation, Augusta?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, flirtation, or something worse. Why do you always go to her -lessons? Oh, I know you always go. She can’t sing a bit, poor thing; and -it only fills her poor heart with vanity and nonsense; and you meet her -when you walk out. Don’t contradict me, please. Should I say so, if I -had not made quite sure? I know the view you men take of honour. You -think when a girl is concerned you are bound to deny everything. So you -may be sure I did not say it till I had made quite sure. Now, Rollo, I -ask you what can possibly come of anything of this kind? Of course you -only mean to amuse yourself; and of course it is the girl’s fault if she -gets herself talked about; for she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6173" id="page_6173">{vol.-III-173}</a></span> must know as well as I do that there -can be nothing in it; but for all that——”</p> - -<p>“You take away my breath,” said Rollo; “you seem to know so much better -than I do the things that have happened or are happening to myself.”</p> - -<p>“I do,” said Augusta, “for I have been thinking about it, and you have -not. You have just done what was pleasant at the moment, and never taken -any thought. You are doing a great deal of harm to Lottie, poor thing, -filling her head with silly fancies, and turning her against people of -her own class. And suppose some really <i>nice</i> girl were to turn up, some -one with money, what would she think of you, dangling for ever after a -young woman who is not even in society? I am taking it for granted that -it is only a silly flirtation: for as for anything worse,” said Augusta, -with severity, “it cannot be supposed for a moment that <i>I</i> could speak -to you of that; but you know very well, Rollo, a man of the world, like -you, how very dreadful, how fatal all those sort of entanglements are, -even when you don’t look at them from a high moral point of view.”</p> - -<p>“You make me out a pretty character,” said Rollo, with an angry smile. -“I never knew I was a Lovelace till now.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, all you men are the same,” said Augusta, “if women will let you. -Women have themselves to thank<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6174" id="page_6174">{vol.-III-174}</a></span> when anything happens, for it is of ten -times more importance to them than it is to you. A man is none the worse -for things that would ruin a girl for ever. But, still, you are not in a -position to be careless of what people say. You have not a penny, Rollo; -and I don’t believe in your opera. The only way in which you will ever -have anything is by a suitable marriage. Suppose that any of your -relations were to find a really nice person for you, and you were to -spoil it all by a folly like this! That is how I look at it. To ruin -yourself for a girl’s pretty face! and her voice—when she can’t sing a -note!”</p> - -<p>“Am I to infer that you have got a nice person for me?” said Rollo, -furious inwardly, yet keeping his temper, and turning the conversation -in this direction by way of diverting it from more dangerous subjects. -And then Augusta (drawing somewhat upon her imagination, it must be -allowed) told him of a very nice person indeed. Rollo listened, by way -of securing his escape; but by and by he got slightly interested, in -spite of himself. This really nice girl was coming to the Deanery for -two or three days. She had a hundred thousand pounds. She had heard of -Rollo Ridsdale, and already “took an interest” in him. It was perhaps -partly fiction, for the visit of this golden girl to the Deanery was not -by any means settled—but yet there was in it a germ of fact. “It<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6175" id="page_6175">{vol.-III-175}</a></span> is an -opportunity that never may occur again,” Augusta said, like a shop that -is selling off. And indeed it was a sale which she would have greatly -liked to negotiate, though Rollo was less the buyer than the piece of -goods of which sale was to be made.</p> - -<p>A hundred thousand pounds! He could not help thinking of it later in the -evening, when he smoked his cigar, and as he went to bed. His affairs -seemed to him to be managed by some malign and tricky spirit. Just at -this moment, when he was pledged to the most imprudent marriage that -could be conceived, was it not just his luck that fate should take the -opportunity of dangling such a prize before him? A hundred thousand -pounds! Why was it not Lottie that had this money? or why, as she had no -money, had she been thrown in his way? To be sure she had a voice, which -was as good as a fortune, but not equal to a hundred thousand pounds. -However, he said to himself, there was no help for it now. All this -happened before the brief interview on the hill, which sent him off to -town before the hour he intended, and which proved to him, over and over -again, her trust in him, which was beyond anything he had ever dreamed -of. That she should guard him even from her father, that she should -believe in him, to the disdain of every safeguard which the vulgar mind -relied on, astonished, confounded, and impressed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6176" id="page_6176">{vol.-III-176}</a></span> his mind beyond -description. To deceive her would be the easiest thing in the world, -but, at the same time, would it not be the most impossible thing, the -last that any man not a villain could do? And there was besides a -glimmering perception in Rollo’s mind that deception would only be -practicable up to a certain point, and that the scorn and horror and -indignation with which Lottie would turn upon the criminal who had -intended shame to her, would be something as much unlike the ordinary -rage of a wronged woman as her trust was beyond the ordinary suspicious -smoothness of ordinary belief. Shame and she had nothing to do with each -other. She might die in the agony of the discovery, but first her eyes, -her lips, the passion of her indignant purity would slay. With a deep -regret he thought of the easier tie. Augusta’s words had been those of a -silly woman when she spoke of fatal entanglements. On the contrary, -marriage was the fatal thing. The other—what harm would it have done? -None to Lottie in her career; no one would have thought any the worse of -her. People would be sure to suppose that something of the kind had -occurred in a singer’s life, whether it was true or not. It would have -done her no harm; and it would not have done Rollo any harm. To think of -it as fatal was the greatest folly. On the contrary, they would have -been of use to each other<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6177" id="page_6177">{vol.-III-177}</a></span> now, and after they would each have been free -to consult their own interests. He could not help thinking very -regretfully of this so easy, agreeable expedient, which would have been -anything but fatal. To be sure, this was not, as Augusta said, a high -moral point of view; but Rollo did not pretend to be a moralist. All -these thoughts poured through his mind again as he went to London, with -the full intention of getting a license for his marriage, and making all -the arrangements which would bind Lottie to him as his wife. He was -obliged to do this; he could not help himself. Much rather would he have -done anything else—taken the other alternative—but it was not -possible. There was but this one thing to do—a thing which put it -entirely out of his power for ever and ever to consider the claims of -any really nice person with a hundred thousand pounds at her disposal. -Rollo did not pretend to himself that he took the decisive step with any -satisfaction. He was no triumphant bridegroom; but he was a true lover, -and not a villain, and regretfully but steadfastly he gave himself up to -what he had to do.</p> - -<p>It was too late to do anything in respect to the license when he arrived -in town, but there were many other things to be settled, in order to -make a considerably long absence practicable, and these he arranged in -his own mind as he approached his journe<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6178" id="page_6178">{vol.-III-178}</a></span>y’s end. For one thing, he had -the funds to provide; and that, as will be readily perceived, was no -small matter. He walked out of the railway station, pondering this in -his mind. It was a grave question, not one to be lightly solved. He did -not want to return to town till the season should have begun. No doubt -five months’ honeymooning would bore any man, but he felt it to be too -important to think of mere personal amusement; and he could always make -expeditions himself to more lively places, and get a share of any -amusement that might be going, when he had settled down Lottie to her -studies, under the best masters that were to be had. All this was quite -easily settled; but for an absence of five months, if you have not any -income to speak of, it is necessary to have an understanding with your -bankers, or somebody else. He meant to try his bankers, for his -confidence in Lottie’s future success was extreme, and he felt justified -in speaking of it as money which his future wife would be entitled to. -All these plans he was laying very deliberately in his head, calculating -how much he would need, and various other particulars, when the face of -a man approaching in a hansom suddenly struck him. It was Rixon, his -father’s confidential servant, a man who had been in Lord Courtland’s -service as long as anybody could recollect. What was he doing there? The -hansom was directing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6179" id="page_6179">{vol.-III-179}</a></span> its course towards the railway from which Rollo -had just come, and Rixon’s countenance was of an extreme gravity. What -could it mean? Could anything have happened? Rollo saw the hansom pass, -but its occupant did not see him. He could not banish from his thoughts -the idea that something must have happened—that it was to tell him -something, some news more or less terrible that Rixon was on his way to -the railway which went to St. Michael’s. After a moment’s hesitation he -turned and went back to the station, not being able to divest himself of -this idea. To be sure Rixon might be going somewhere on business of his -own; he might be looking grave about his own affairs. Still Rollo turned -and went back; in any case it was best to know. The man was standing -among several others, waiting to take his ticket for the train, when -Rollo re-entered the station; he was getting his money out of his pocket -to pay his fare; but looking up as he did this, Rixon started, put his -money back, and immediately disengaged himself from the <i>queue</i>. It was -then a message from home of sufficient importance to be sent by special -envoy. Rollo had time to examine this bearer of ill-news as he -approached. What but ill-news was ever so urgent? special messengers do -not travel about to stray sons of a family with news of birth or bridal. -There is but one thing which calls for such state, and that is death. -Rollo ran over<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6180" id="page_6180">{vol.-III-180}</a></span> all the chances in a moment, in his mind. His father—if -it were his father there would be a little delay, a little ready money, -more need than ever, and a very good excuse, for keeping everything -quiet. It was not absolute want of feeling that suggested this thought. -If it was his father there would be many reasons for being sorry. Home, -with your brother at the head of affairs, is not home like your father’s -house. And Lord Courtland, though his second son had worn out his -kindness, was still kind more or less. Rollo was not insensible; he felt -the dull consciousness of a blow before he received it, as he fixed his -eyes upon Rixon’s mournful countenance, and the band on his hat.</p> - -<p>“What is the matter?” he said, as the man approached. “What has -happened? You were going to me? Tell me at once what it is.”</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon, Sir,” said Rixon, with the perpetual apology of a -well-bred servant. “Yes, Sir, I was going to St. Michael’s. My lord sent -me to tell you——”</p> - -<p>“Thank heaven, that it is not my father! You mean that my father sent -you? That is a relief,” said Rollo, drawing a long breath.</p> - -<p>“Yes, my—Sir!” said Rixon, with confusion, “My lord is in the enjoyment -of perfect health—at least as good as is compatible with the great -misfortune, the catastrophe that has—snatched<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6181" id="page_6181">{vol.-III-181}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean?” said Rollo. Rixon was fond of long words. He -laughed, “You are always mysterious. But if my father is all right——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t! my—don’t, Sir!” said the man, “laughing is not what ought -to be on your lips at such a moment. Your brother has had an -accident——”</p> - -<p>“My brother—Ridsdale? Good heavens! Can’t you speak out? What has -happened?” said Rollo, with blanched cheeks. Horror, fear, hope, all -sprung up within him, indistinguishable the one from the other. The -moment seemed a year during which he stood waiting for Rixon’s next -words.</p> - -<p>“It is too true, my lord,” said the man, and the address threw around -Rollo a sudden gleam of growing light. “Your brother had a terrible -accident on the hunting-field. His horse stumbled on King’s Mead, at -that bad fence by Willowbrook. He was taken up insensible, and died -before he could be got home. Things are in a terrible state at -Courtlands. I was sent to let your lordship know. My lord would be glad -if you would come home at once.”</p> - -<p>Rollo staggered back, and put himself against the wall. A cold moisture -burst out over him. He grew so pale that Rixon thought he was going to -faint. The man said afterwards that he could not have believed that Mr. -Ridsdale had so much feeling. And partly it was feeling as Rixon -thought. For the first moment<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6182" id="page_6182">{vol.-III-182}</a></span> the thought that his brother, upon whom -fate had always smiled—Ridsdale! <i>Ridsdale!</i>—the very impersonation of -prosperity and good fortune, should be lying dead, actually dead, at his -age, with all his prospects, appalled him. It seemed too much, -unnatural, beyond all possibility of belief. Then the blood rushed back -through all his veins with a flush and suffusion of sudden heat. The -change alarmed the messenger of so much evil and so much good. He put -out his hand to support his young master. “My lord, my lord!” he said -(they were words which Rixon loved to repeat, and which added to his own -dignity as a gentleman’s gentleman), “remember your father; now that -your lamented brother is gone, all his lordship’s trust is in you.”</p> - -<p>Rollo waved his hand, not caring for the moment to speak. “Let me -alone!” he said. “Let me alone! leave me to myself.” And it did not take -him long to recover and shake off the horrible impression, and realise -the astounding change that had occurred. Perhaps it is not possible that -the death of a brother, which produces so extraordinary and beneficial a -change in the situation and prospects of the next in succession, can be -regarded with the natural feeling which such an event uncomplicated by -loss or gain of a pecuniary kind calls forth. There was a sudden shock, -then a consciousness that something was expected<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6183" id="page_6183">{vol.-III-183}</a></span> from him, some show of -grief and profound distress; and then a bewildering, overwhelming, -stupefying, yet exciting realisation of the change thus suddenly -accomplished in himself. He was no longer merely Rollo, a fashionable -adventurer, dealing in every kind of doubtful speculation, and -legitimatised gambling, a man of no importance to anyone, and free to -carry out whatever schemes might come into his head; but now—an -altogether different person—Lord Ridsdale, his father’s heir; the -future head of a great family; a future peer; and already endowed with -all the importance of an heir-apparent. The world seemed to go round and -round with Rollo, and when it settled again out of the whirling and pale -confusion as of an earthquake, it was not any longer the same world. The -proportion of things had changed in the twinkling of an eye. The distant -and the near had changed places. What was close to him before receded; -what was far away became near. In the hurry of his thoughts he could not -even think. Pain mingled with everything, with the giddiness of a -strange elation, with the bewilderment of a surprise more startling than -any that had ever come to him before in all his life. Ridsdale!—he who -had always been so smiling and prosperous; he to whom everything was -forgiven; whose sins were only peccadilloes; whose lightest schoolboy -successes were trumpeted abroad, whose movements were recorded -where<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6184" id="page_6184">{vol.-III-184}</a></span>-ever he went; it was inconceivable that he should be lying—dead; -inconceivable that Rollo, the detrimental, the one in the family whom -all disapproved of, should be put in his place, and succeed to all his -privileges and exemptions. It did not seem possible. It needed Rixon -saying my lord to him at every moment, to make the curious fiction seem -true. Rixon got a cab to drive his young master to the other station, by -which he must go to Courtlands; and Rollo—leaving all his former life -behind him, leaving his license, his marriage, his bride, in the -opposite direction, fading into misty spectres—turned his back upon all -that had been most important to him half an hour ago, and drove away.</p> - -<p>He went through that day like a dream—the whole course of his existence -turned into another channel. He got home, rolling up to the familiar -door with sensations so different from any that had ever moved him when -entering that door before. He looked at it this time with a feeling of -proprietorship. It had been his home for all his early life; but now it -was going to be <i>his own</i>, which is very different. He looked at the -very trees with a different feeling, wondering why so many should be -marked for cutting down. What had they been doing to want to get rid of -so many trees? When he went into the room where his brother lay dead, it -was to him as if a waxen image lay there, as if it were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6185" id="page_6185">{vol.-III-185}</a></span> all a skilful -scene, arranged to make believe that such a change, one man substituted -for another, could be <i>real</i>. To Rollo it did not seem to be real. It -was the younger son who had died, with all his busy schemes—his plans -for the future, his contrivances to get money, and the strange -connections which he had formed. Rollo, who was the founder of the new -opera, the partner of the bustling manager; it was he who was lying on -that bed. All his plans would be buried with him—his Bohemianism, his -enterprises, his——. What was it that the poor fool had gone in for, -the last of all his undertakings, the thing in which he had been happily -arrested ere he could harm himself or embarrass the family?—his -love——. It was when standing by the bed on which his brother lay dead -that this thought suddenly darted into the new Lord Ridsdale’s mind. He -turned away with a half groan. Providence had interposed to prevent that -foolish fellow from consummating his fate. He had not yet reached the -highest pitch of folly when the blow fell. Something there was which the -family had escaped. When the key was turned again in the door, and he -went back to another darkened room and heard all about the accident, it -was almost on his lips to contradict the speakers, and tell them it was -not Ridsdale that was dead. But he did not do so. He preserved his -decorum and seriousness. He was “very feeling.” Lord<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6186" id="page_6186">{vol.-III-186}</a></span> Courtland, who had -been afraid of his son’s levity, and had trembled lest Rollo, who had -never been on very intimate terms with his brother, should show less -sorrow than was becoming, was deeply satisfied. “How little we know what -is in a man till he’s tried,” he said to his sister, Lady Beatrice. Lady -Courtland, the mother of the young man, was happily long ago dead.</p> - -<p>Thus, after setting out in the morning—full of tender ardour, -notwithstanding his many doubts—to make the arrangements for his -marriage, Rollo found himself at night one of the chief mourners in a -house full of weeping. It was late at night when he got to his own room, -and was able really to set himself to consider his own affairs. Which -were his own affairs? The cares of the head of the family, the earl’s -heir and right hand—or those strangely different anxieties which had -been in the mind of the second son? When he sat down to think it over, -once more there came a giddiness and bewilderment over Rollo’s being. He -seemed scarcely able to force back upon himself the events which had -happened at St. Michael’s only this morning. The figure of Lottie -appeared to him through the mist, far, far away, dimly apparent at the -end of a long vista. Lottie. What had he intended to do? He had meant to -get a license for his marriage to her, to arrange how he could get -money—if money was to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6187" id="page_6187">{vol.-III-187}</a></span> had by hook or by crook—to see about the -tickets for their journey, to decide where to go to—even to provide -travelling-wraps for his bride. All this he had come to London to do -only this morning, and now it almost cost him an effort to recollect -what it was. He would have been glad to evade the subject, to feel that -he had a right to rest after such a fatiguing day; but the revolution in -and about him was such that he could not rest. St. Michael’s and all its -scenes passed before him like dissolving views, fading off into the -mist, then rising again in spectral indistinctness. He could not think -they belonged to him, or that the central figure in all these pictures -was his own. Was it not rather his brother—he who had died? It seemed -to Lord Ridsdale that he was settling Rollo’s affairs for him, thinking -what was best to be done. He had been horribly imprudent, and had -planned a still greater imprudence to come, when death arrested him in -mid-career; but, Heaven be praised, the heedless fellow had been stopped -before he committed himself! Rollo shuddered to think what would have -happened had the family been hampered by a wife. A wife! What a fool he -had been; what a dream he had been absorbed in; folly, unmitigated, -inexcusable; but, thank Heaven, he had been stopped in time. -Lottie—that was her name, and she had been very fond of him; poor girl, -it would be a great disappointment for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6188" id="page_6188">{vol.-III-188}</a></span> her. Thus Rollo thought, not -feeling that he had anything to do with it. It was all over, so -completely over, that there was scarcely a struggle in his mind, -scarcely any controversy with himself, on the subject. No advocate, -heavenly or diabolical, spoke on Lottie’s behalf. The whole affair was -done with—it was impossible—there was no room even for consideration. -For Lord Ridsdale to marry a nameless girl, the highest possibility in -whose lot was to become a singer, and who had to be educated before even -that was practicable, was not to be thought of. It was a bad thing for -the poor girl; poor thing! no doubt it was hard upon her.</p> - -<p>Thus—was it any doing of Rollo’s? Providence itself opened a door of -escape for him from his unwary folly. Law did not act in the same way; -when good fortune came to him, by a mere savage and uncultivated -sentiment of honour, he had gone to the girl who had been his sweetheart -to propose that she should share it. Lord Ridsdale, however, was not of -this vulgar strain. The savage virtues were not in his way—they were -not possible in his circumstances. <i>Noblesse oblige</i>; he could not raise -Lottie to the sublime elevation of the rank he had so unexpectedly -fallen into. That was not possible. The matter was so clear that it -barred all question. There was not a word to be said on her side.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6189" id="page_6189">{vol.-III-189}</a></span></p> - -<p>Nevertheless, had it not been for all the trouble about poor Ridsdale’s -funeral, and the attentions required by the father, whose manner had so -entirely changed to his surviving son, and who was now altogether -dependent upon him—the new heir to the honours of the Courtland family -might have broken off with his old love in a more considerate way. But -he had no time to think. The very day had come before he could -communicate with her; and then it had to be done abruptly. And, after -all, a little more or less, what did it matter? The important point, for -her sake especially, was that the change should be perfectly definite -and clear. Poor Lottie! he was so sorry for her. It would be better, -much better for her to hate him now, if she could; and, above all, it -was the kindest thing to her to make the disruption distinct, beyond all -possibility either of doubt or of hope.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6190" id="page_6190">{vol.-III-190}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLII" id="CHAPTER_XLII"></a>CHAPTER XLII.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">—“TILL FRIDAY.”</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Captain Despard</span> put on his best coat after his return from the Abbey on -the morning of Rollo’s departure. He brushed his hat with more than his -usual care; he found, after much investigation, among what he called his -papers, an ancient and shabby card-case: and thus equipped set forth on -his solemn mission. He had a bit of red geranium in his button-hole -which looked cheerful against the damp and gloom of the morning. Polly, -looking out after him, thought her Captain a finished gentleman, and -felt a swell of pride expand her bosom—of pride and of anxiety as -well—for if, by good fortune, the Captain should succeed in his -mission, then Polly felt that there would be a reasonable chance of -getting “her house to herself.” Lottie’s proud withdrawal from all the -concerns of the house had indeed given her step-mother a great deal less -trouble than she had expected; but she could not escape from the idea of -Lottie’s criticism; and the sight of the girl, sitting there, looking as -if she knew better, though she never said anything, was to Polly as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6191" id="page_6191">{vol.-III-191}</a></span> -gall and wormwood. If she would have spoken, there would have been less -harm. Mrs. Despard was always ready for a conflict of tongues, and knew -that she was not likely to come off second best; but Lottie’s silence -exasperated her; and it was the highest object of her desires to get her -house to herself. Lottie was coming down the Dean’s Walk, calm, and -relieved, and happy, after seeing her lover make his way down the -Slopes, when the Captain turned towards the cloisters. Her heart gave a -jump of irritation and excitement, followed by a gleam of angry -pleasure. This mission, which was an insult to her and to Rollo alike, -would be a failure, thank Heaven; but still it was a shame that it -should ever have been undertaken. Oh, how unlike, she thought, the -perfect trust and faith that was between them, to intrude this vulgar -inquiry, this coarse interference, into the perfection of their love! It -brought the tears to Lottie’s eyes to think how ready he was to throw -prudence to the winds for her sake, to accept all the risks of life -rather than leave her to suffer; the only question between them being -whether it was right for her to accept such a sacrifice. Lottie did not -think of the approval of his family as she ought to have done, and as -for the approval of her own, though the secret vexed her a little, yet -she was glad to escape from the noisy congratulations to which she would -have been subjected, and her fathe<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6192" id="page_6192">{vol.-III-192}</a></span>r’s unctuous satisfaction had her -prospects been known. A few days longer, and the new wife whose presence -was an offence to Lottie would have her house to herself. The two, upon -such opposite sides, used the very same words; Lottie, too, was thankful -above measure that Mrs. Despard would have her house to herself. She -calculated the days—Wednesday, Thursday, Friday; Friday was the day on -which she was to meet him, in the afternoon, while all the world at St. -Michael’s was at the afternoon service, and when the Signor, on the -organ, which had been the accompaniment to all the story of their love, -would be filling the wintry air with majestic and tender and solemn -sound. She seemed to hear the pealing of that wonderful symphony, and -Rollo’s voice against it, like a figure standing out against a noble -background, telling her all he had done, and when and how the crowning -event of their story was to be. Her heart was beating loudly, yet -softly, in Lottie’s breast. Supreme expectation, yet satisfaction, an -agitated calm, a pathetic happiness, feelings too exquisite in their -kind to be without a touch of pain, filled all her being. The happiness -she had most prized all her life was to have her ideal fulfilled in -those she loved; and was it possible that any man could have more nobly -done what a true lover should do, than Rollo was doing it? She was -happy, in that he loved her above prudence and care and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6193" id="page_6193">{vol.-III-193}</a></span> worldly -advantage; but she was almost happier in that this generosity, this -tender ardour, this quick and sudden action of the deliverer, was all -that poet could have asked or imagination thought of. These were her -fancies, poor girl; the fancies of a foolish, inexperienced creature, -knowing nothing—and far enough from the truth that the charitable may -forgive her, Heaven knows!</p> - -<p>When she went in, Polly called her, with a certain imperiousness. She -was on her way to her room, that sole bower of safety; but this Mrs. -Despard had made up her mind not to allow. “You may show me those scales -you were speaking of,” said Polly. “I daresay I’ll remember as soon as I -see them. It will take up your attention, and it will take up my -attention till your pa comes back. I’m that full of sympathy (though it -can’t be said as you deserve it), that though I have nothing to do with -it, I am just as anxious as you are.”</p> - -<p>“I am not anxious,” Lottie said proudly; but she would not condescend to -say more. She brought out an old music-book with easy lessons for a -beginner, at which she had herself laboured in her childhood, and placed -it before her scholar. The notes were like Hebrew and Greek to Polly, -and she could not twist her fingers into the proper places; these -fingers were not like a child’s pliable joints, and how to move each<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6194" id="page_6194">{vol.-III-194}</a></span> -one separately was a problem which she could not master. She sat at the -piano with the greatest seriousness, striking a note a minute, with much -strain of the unaccustomed hand—and now and then looking up jealously -to see if her instructress was laughing at her; but Lottie was too -preoccupied to smile. She heard her father coming back in what she felt -to be angry haste; and then, with her heart beating, listened to his -step upon the stairs. At this Polly too was startled, and jumping up -from her laborious exercise, snatched the old music-book from its place -and opened it at random at another page.</p> - -<p>“Me and Miss Lottie, we’ve been practising our duet,” she said. “La, -Harry! is that you back so soon?”</p> - -<p>“The fellow’s gone,” said Captain Despard, throwing down his hat and -cane; that hat which had been brushed for nothing, which had not even -overawed Mr. Jeremie, who gazed at him superciliously, holding the -Deanery door half open, and not impressed at all by the fine manners of -the Chevalier. “The fellow’s gone! He did not mean to go yesterday, that -odious menial as good as confessed. He has heard I was coming, and he -has fled. There could not be a worse sign. My poor child! Lottie!” said -the Captain, suddenly catching a gleam of something like enjoyment in -her eyes, “you do not mean to tell me that you were the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6195" id="page_6195">{vol.-III-195}</a></span> traitor. You! -Was it you told him? You may be a fool, but so great a fool as <i>that</i> -couldn’t be!”</p> - -<p>Lottie scorned to deny what she had done. She was too proud and too rash -to think that she was betraying herself by the acknowledgment. She met -her father’s eye with involuntary defiance. “You would not listen to -me,” she said, “and I could not bear it. It was a disgrace; it was -humbling me to the dust. I warned him you were coming——” As she spoke -she suddenly perceived all that was involved in the confession, and grew -crimson-red, and then pale.</p> - -<p>“So, miss,” said Polly, “you’re nicely caught. Keeping company all this -time, and never to say a word to nobody; but if I were your pa, you -shouldn’t be let off like that. Was it for nothing but a bit of fun -you’ve been going on with the gentleman? That’s carrying it a deal too -far, that is. And when your pa takes it in hand to bring him to the -point, you ups and tells him, and frightens him away! I’d just like to -know—and, Harry, I’d have you to ask her—what she means by it? What do -you mean by it, miss? Do you mean to live on here for ever, and eat us -out of house and home? If you won’t work for your living, nor do -anything to get an ’usband, I’d just like to know what you mean to do?”</p> - -<p>“Hold your tongue,” said her husband. “Let her alone. It is I that must -speak. Lottie, is it really<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6196" id="page_6196">{vol.-III-196}</a></span> true that you have betrayed your father? -You have separated yourself from me and put yourself on the side of a -villain!”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Ridsdale is not a villain,” said Lottie, passionately. “What has he -done? He has done nothing that can give you any right to interfere with -him. I told him, because I would not have him interfered with. He has -done nothing wrong.”</p> - -<p>“He has trifled with my child’s affections,” said the Captain. “He has -filled our minds with false expectations. By Jove, he had better not -come in the way of Harry Despard, if that’s how he means to behave. I’ll -horsewhip the fellow—I’ll kill him; I’ll show him up, if he were twenty -times the Dean’s nephew. And you, girl, what can anyone say to -you—never thinking of your own interest, or of what’s to become of you, -as Mrs. Despard says?”</p> - -<p>“Her own interest!” cried Polly. “Oh, she’ll take care of herself, never -fear. She knows you won’t turn her to the door, Harry. You’re too soft, -and they knows it. They’ll hang upon you and eat up everything you have, -till you have the courage to tell them as you won’t put up with it. Oh, -you needn’t turn upon me, Miss Lottie. As long as there was a chance of -a good ’usband I never said a word; but when you goes and throws your -chance away out of wilful pride, then I’m bound to speak. Your poor pa -has not a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6197" id="page_6197">{vol.-III-197}</a></span> penny, and all that he has he wants for himself; and I want -my house to myself, Harry; you always promised I was to have my house to -myself. I don’t want none of your grown-up daughters, as think -themselves a deal better than me. I think I will go out of my mind with -Miss Lottie’s lessons, and Mr. Law’s lessons, and all the rest. I never -would have married you—you know I shouldn’t—if I hadn’t thought as I -was to have my house to myself.”</p> - -<p>“My love,” said the Captain, deprecatingly, “you know it is not my -fault. You know that if I could I would give you everything. I had very -good reason to think——”</p> - -<p>“Papa,” said Lottie, who had been standing by trembling, but less with -fear than passionate disgust and anger, “do you agree in what she says?”</p> - -<p>“Of course he agrees,” says Polly. “He hasn’t got any choice; he’s -obliged to say the same as me. He promised me when I married him as you -shouldn’t be long in my way. He told me as you was going to be married. -One girl don’t like another girl for everlasting in her road; and you -never took no trouble to make yourself agreeable, not even about the -music. Harry, do you hear me? Speak up, and say the truth for once. Tell -her if she goes on going against me and you, and all we do for her, like -this, that you won’t have her here.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6198" id="page_6198">{vol.-III-198}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“My child,” said the Captain, who, to do him justice, was by no means -happy in his task, “you see me in a difficult position, a most difficult -position. What can I say? Mrs. Despard is right. When I married it was -my opinion that you, too, would soon make a happy and brilliant -marriage. How far that influenced me I need not say. I thought you would -be established yourself, and able to help your brother and—and even -myself. I’m disappointed, I cannot deny it; and if you have now, instead -of fulfilling my expectations, done your best, your very best, to -balk——”</p> - -<p>The Captain hesitated and faltered, and tried to swagger, but in vain. -He had the traditions of a gentleman lingering about him, and Lottie was -his child, when all was said. He could not look at her, or meet her -eyes; and Lottie, for her part, who could see nothing but from her own -side of the question, who did not at all realise his, nor recognise any -extenuating circumstances in the plea that he had thought her about to -marry, so blazed upon him with lofty indignation as to have altogether -consumed her father had he been weak enough to look at her. She did not -even glance at Polly, who stood by, eager to rush into the fray.</p> - -<p>“In that case,” she said, with a passionate solemnity, “you shall be -satisfied, papa. A few days and you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6199" id="page_6199">{vol.-III-199}</a></span> shall be satisfied. I will not ask -any shelter from you after—a few days.”</p> - -<p>Though it was happiness Lottie looked forward to, and there could no -longer in this house be anything but pain and trouble for her, these -words seemed to choke her. To leave her father’s house thus; to make the -greatest of changes in her life, thus; all Lottie’s sense of what was -fit and seemly was wounded beyond description. She turned away, -listening to none of the questions which were showered upon her. “What -did she mean? Where was she going? When did she intend to go? What was -she thinking of?” To all these Lottie made no reply; she did not even -wait to hear them, but swept away with something of the conscious -stateliness of the injured, which it is so hard for youth to deny -itself. Heaven knows her heart was full enough; yet there was in -Lottie’s deportment, as she swept out of the room, perhaps a touch of -the injured heroine, a suggestion of a tragedy queen.</p> - -<p>She went into her own room, where she found consolation very speedily in -such preparations for her departure as she could make. She took out her -white muslin dress, the simple garment which was so associated with -thoughts of Rollo, and spent an hour of painful yet pleasant -consideration over it, wondering how it could be made to serve for -Saturday. Such a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6200" id="page_6200">{vol.-III-200}</a></span> marriage made the toilette of a bride impossible; but -Lottie could not bear the thought of standing by her lover’s side, and -pledging him her faith, in her poor little brown frock which she had -worn all the winter past. She thought that, carefully pinned up under -her cloak, she might wear this, her only white gown, to be a little like -a bride. It had been washed, but it had not suffered much. The folds -might be a little stiffer and less flowing than before they had -undergone the indignity of starch; but still they were fresh and white, -and Lottie did not think it would be noticed that the dress was not new. -Perhaps it was more appropriate that in her poverty and desolation she -should go to him in the gown she had worn, not in one made new and -lovely, as if there were people who cared. “Nobody cares,” she said to -herself, but without the usual depression which these words convey. She -filled up the bodice of her little dress, which had been made open at -the throat for evening use, and made it fit close. She put her pearl -locket upon a bit of white ribbon. Doing this consoled her for the pangs -she had borne. All the money she had of her own was one sovereign, which -she had kept from the time of her mother’s death as a last supreme -resource in case of emergency; surely she might use it now. Taking this -precious coin from the little old purse in which it was put away, in the -deepest corner of an old Indian<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6201" id="page_6201">{vol.-III-201}</a></span> box, purse and box and coin all coming -from her mother, Lottie went out to make a few purchases. She was -forlorn, but her heart was light. She went down to the great shop not -far from the Abbey gates, of which St. Michael’s was proud, and bought -some tulle and white ribbons. Poor child! her heart yearned for a little -sprig of orange-blossom, but she did not venture to ask for anything -that would betray her. It seemed to Lottie that she met everybody in the -place as she went home with her little parcel in her hand. She met Mr. -Ashford, for one, who was greatly surprised that she did not stop to -speak to him about Law, and who was, indeed, to tell the truth, somewhat -disappointed and chagrined that his liberality to his pupil had as yet -met with no response except from that pupil himself. The Minor Canon -looked at her wistfully; but Lottie, being full of her own thoughts, did -nothing but smile in reply to his bow. Then she met Captain Temple, who, -less shy, came to her side eagerly, complaining and upbraiding her that -she had deserted him.</p> - -<p>“I never see you,” said the old man, “and my wife says the same, who -takes so much interest in you. We hope, my dear,” he said, kind yet half -vexed with her, “that all is going better—going well now?”</p> - -<p>“Indeed it is not, Captain Temple,” Lottie said, tears coming suddenly -to her eyes. She could not but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6202" id="page_6202">{vol.-III-202}</a></span> wonder what he would think of her if he -knew—if he would disapprove of her; and this sudden thought brought a -look of anxiety and sudden emotion into her face.</p> - -<p>“My poor child!” cried the old Chevalier. The ready moisture sprang to -his eyes also. “Lottie,” he said, “my wife takes a great interest in -you; she would be very fond of you if she knew you better. Come to us, -my dear, and we will take care of you.” He said it with the fervour of -uncertainty, for he was not sure, after all, how far he could calculate -on his wife, and this gave a tremulous heat to his proposition.</p> - -<p>But Lottie shook her head and smiled, though the tears were in her eyes. -Oh, if she only dared to tell him what was the deliverance which was so -near! He went with her to her door, repeating to her this offer of -service.</p> - -<p>“You might be like our own child,” he said. “My wife cannot talk of -it—but she would be very fond of you, my dear, when she knew you. If -things go on badly, you will come to us?—say you will come to us, -Lottie.”</p> - -<p>And while these words were in her ears, old Mrs. Dalrymple came out to -her door, to ask if Lottie would not come in, if she would come to -tea—if she would stay with them for a day or two.</p> - -<p>“It is only next door, to be sure; but it would be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6203" id="page_6203">{vol.-III-203}</a></span> a change,” the old -lady said. The ladies in the Lodges had forgiven her for her foolish -pride, and for the notice the great people had taken of her, and for all -the signs of discontent that Lottie had shown on her first coming to the -Abbey. Now that the girl was in trouble they were all good to her, -compassionate of her forlorn condition, and making common cause with her -against the infliction of the stepmother, who was an insult to every one -of them. There was not one Chevalier’s wife who was not personally -insulted, outraged in her most tender feelings, by the intrusion of -Polly, and this quickened their sympathies to the poor girl, who was the -most cruelly injured of all.</p> - -<p>When Mrs. O’Shaughnessy saw the little group at her neighbour’s door, -she too came out. “It’s her own fault, my dear lady, if she ever eats a -meal there,” said Mrs. O’Shaughnessy; “me and the Major, we are both as -fond of her as if she was our own.”</p> - -<p>Lottie stood amongst them and cried softly, taking care that her tears -did not drop upon the little parcel with the tulle, which was connected -with still dearer hopes.</p> - -<p>“I don’t deserve that you should all be so good to me,” she said. And -indeed it was true; for Lottie had been very haughty in her time to the -kind people who forgave her in her trouble.</p> - -<p>Thus it was that she shared the dinner of the good<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6204" id="page_6204">{vol.-III-204}</a></span> O’Shaughnessys, and -only went home in the afternoon, after Polly and the Captain had been -seen to go out; when Lottie shut herself up in her room, and with much -excitement began the “confection” for which she had bought the -materials. It is needless to say that with so little money as she had -ever had, Lottie had learnt, <i>tant bien que mal</i>, to make most of her -own articles of apparel. How she had sighed to have her dresses come -home all complete from the dressmaker’s, like Augusta Huntington’s! but -as sighing did no good, Lottie had fitted herself with her gowns, and -trimmed her little straw hats, and the occasional bonnet which she -permitted herself for going to church in, since ever she was able to use -her needle and her scissors. She had never, however, made anything so -ambitious as the little tulle bonnet which she meant to be married in. -She would have preferred a veil, could anyone doubt? but with no better -tiring-room than the waiting-room at the railway, how was she to put -herself into a veil? She had to give up that idea with a sigh. But, her -pale cheeks glowing with two roses, and her blue eyes lighted up with -the fires of invention, she sat all the afternoon, with her door locked, -making that bonnet. If she but had a little sprig of orange-blossom to -mark what it meant! but here Lottie’s courage failed her. <i>That</i> she -could not venture to buy.</p> - -<p>In this way the days glided on till Friday came.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6205" id="page_6205">{vol.-III-205}</a></span> Lottie packed up the -things she cared for—the few books, the little trifling possessions of -no value, which yet were dear to her to be removed afterwards, and put -up her little bonnet (bonnets were worn very small, the fashion books -said) in a tiny parcel which she could carry in her hand. Thus all her -preparations were made. When she was not in her room making these last -arrangements, she was out of doors—in the Abbey or on the Slopes—or -with the friends who sought her so kindly, and gave her such meals as -she would accept, and would have given her a great many more, -overwhelmed her, indeed, with eating and drinking if she would have -consented. To some of these Lottie allowed herself the privilege of -saying that it was only for a few days she should remain in her father’s -house. She would not tell where she was going; to friends—yes, -certainly to friends; but she would not say any more. This gave great -relief to the minds of the Chevaliers generally, except to Captain -Temple, who did not like it. The announcement even drew from him -something like a reproach to his wife.</p> - -<p>“If you had come forward—if you had gone to her when she was in -trouble,” he said, “we might have had a child again to comfort us.” The -old Captain was sadly put out, and did nothing but roam about all the -day restless and lamenting. He went to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6206" id="page_6206">{vol.-III-206}</a></span> Signor’s to hear what Lottie -thought would be her last lesson, and thus bemoaned himself.</p> - -<p>“Going away!” the Signor said in great surprise; and Lottie sang so well -that day that the musician felt the desertion doubly. She sang fitfully -but finely, saying to herself all the time, “To-morrow—to-morrow!” and -taking her leave, as she supposed, joyfully, regretfully of Art. That -day Lottie thought nothing whatever about Art. Her spirit was moved to -its very depths. To-morrow the man whom she loved was coming to take her -away from all that was petty, all that was unlovely in her life. From -the hardness of fate, from the unkindness of her family, from the house -that was desecrated, from the existence which was not made sweet by any -love—he was coming to deliver her. The air was all excitement, all -agitation, to Lottie. It was not so much that she was glad—happiness -was in it, and trouble, and regret, and agitation, made up by all these -together. It was life in its strongest strain, tingling, throbbing, at -the highest pressure. The earth was elastic under her feet, the whole -world was full of this which was about to happen; and how she sang! -Those lessons of hers were as a drama to the Signor, but he did not -understand this art. He had understood the struggle she made to get hold -of her powers on the day when Rollo was not there, and Lottie had made a -proud, forlorn attempt to devote herself to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6207" id="page_6207">{vol.-III-207}</a></span> Song, as Song; he had -understood the confusion and bewildered discouragement of the day when -Mrs. Daventry assisted at the lesson; but this time the Signor was -puzzled. There was nothing to excite her, only Mrs. O’Shaughnessy and -Captain Temple, listeners who cared nothing for art, but only for -Lottie; yet how she sang! He made her a little solemn compliment, almost -for the first time.</p> - -<p>“Miss Despard,” he said, “you change from lesson to lesson—it is always -another voice I hear; but this is the one I should like to retain; this -is the one that shows what wonderful progress we have made.”</p> - -<p>Lottie smiled in a way which nearly won the Signor’s steady heart. A -golden dazzlement of light got into her eyes, as if the slanting -afternoon sun was in them. She did not speak, but she gave him her -hand—a thing which was very rare with Lottie. The Signor was flattered -and touched; but he would not have been so flattered had he known that -she was saying to herself, “It is the last time—it is the last!”</p> - -<p>Mr. Ashford met the party coming out, and walked with them along the -north side of the Abbey and through the cloisters. He could not make out -why Lottie said nothing to him about her brother. To tell the truth, he -wanted to have something for his money, and it did not seem that he was -likely to get anything.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6208" id="page_6208">{vol.-III-208}</a></span> He said to her at last, abruptly, “I hope you -think Law is likely to do well, Miss Despard?”</p> - -<p>“Law?” she said, looking up with wondering eyes.</p> - -<p>He was so confounded by her look of bewilderment that he did not say -anything more.</p> - -<p>Next day dawned bright and fair, as it ought. A fair, clear, sunny -winter’s day—not a leaf, even of those few that hung upon the ends of -the boughs, stirring—not a cloud. Earth in such a day seems hanging -suspended in the bright sphere, not certain yet whether she will turn -back again to the careless summer, or go through her winter spell of -storm duty. Lottie had all her preparations made; her dress ready to put -on in the morning; her little bonnet done up in a parcel incredibly -small, a veil looped about it; and the great cloak, a homely waterproof, -which was to cover her from head to foot, and conceal her finery, hung -out all ready. Everything ready—nothing now to be done but to meet him -on the Slopes, and to hear how all had been settled, and arrange for the -final meeting on the wedding morning. Even her railway fare, so many -shillings, was put ready. She would not let him pay even that for her -until she belonged to him. She went out with the dreamy sweetness of the -approaching climax in her eyes when the last rays of the sunset were -catching all the Abbey pinnacles. She scarcely saw the path over which -her light feet skimmed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6209" id="page_6209">{vol.-III-209}</a></span> The people who passed her glided like the -people in a dream; the absorbing sweet agitation of happiness and fear, -and hope and content, was in all her veins; her eyes were suffused with -light as eyes get suffused with tears—an indescribable elation and -alarm, sweet panic, yet calm, was in her breast. Mr. Ashford met her -going along, swift and light, and with that air of abstraction from -everything around her. She did not see him, nor anyone; but she -remembered after, that she <i>had</i> seen him, and the very turn of the road -where he made a half pause to speak to her, which she had not taken any -notice of. In this soft rapture Lottie went to the corner of the bench -under the elm-tree. It was too early, but she placed herself there to -wait till he should come to her. This was the place where he was certain -to come. By-and-by she would hear his step, skimming too, almost as -light and quick as her own—or hear him vaulting over the low wall from -the Deanery—or perhaps, to attract less notice, coming up the winding -way from the Slopes. Where she sat was within reach of all the three. It -was a little chilly now that the sun had gone down, but Lottie did not -feel it. She sat down with a smile of happy anticipation on her face, -hearing the Abbey bells in the clear frosty air, and then the bursting -forth of the organ and all the strains of the music. These filled up her -thoughts for the time, and it was not till the larger<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6210" id="page_6210">{vol.-III-210}</a></span> volume of sound -of the voluntary put Lottie in mind of the length of time she had -waited, that she woke up to think of the possibility that something -might have detained her lover. It was strange that he should be so late. -The light was waning, and the sounds about were eerie; the wind that had -lain so still all day woke up, and wandered chilly among the bare -shrubberies, tossing off the late leaves. She shivered a little with the -cold and the waiting. Why did not he come? the hour of stillness was -passing fast, the organ pealing, the light fading moment by moment. Why -was not Rollo here?</p> - -<p>At last there was a step. It was not light and quick like his step; but -something might have happened to make it sound differently—something in -the air, or something in him, some gravity of movement befitting the -importance of the occasion. So anxiety beguiles itself, trying to -believe what it wishes. The step came nearer, and Lottie roused herself, -a little alarmed, wondering if anything (she could not tell what) could -have happened to him—and looked round. A figure—a man coming her -way—her heart jumped into her throat, then sank down, down, with a -flutter of fright and pain. It was not Rollo—but what then? it might be -only some chance passer-by, not having anything to do with her and him. -Another moment, and she waited with an agonised hope that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6211" id="page_6211">{vol.-III-211}</a></span> he was -passing along without taking any notice, and that he had indeed nothing -at all to do with her. But the steady step came on—nearer, nearer. She -raised her head, she opened her eyes that had been veiled in such sweet -dreams, with a wideness of fear and horror. What could he have to do -with her? What had he come to tell her? The man came up to her straight, -without any hesitation. He said, “Are you Miss Despard, ma’am? I was -sent to give you this from my lord.”</p> - -<p>My lord—who was my lord? She took it with a gasp of terror. It was not -Rollo that was my lord. The man, a middle-aged, respectable servant, -gave her a look of grave pity and went away. Lottie sat still for a -moment with the letter in her hand, thinking with wild impatience that -the sound of those heavy departing steps would prevent her from hearing -Rollo’s light ones when he came. My lord—who was my lord? Suddenly an -idea seized upon her. The light was almost gone. She tore the letter -open, and read it by the faint chill shining of the skies, though it was -almost too dark to see.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6212" id="page_6212">{vol.-III-212}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLIII" id="CHAPTER_XLIII"></a>CHAPTER XLIII.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">THE END OF THE DREAM.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Captain Temple</span> was an old soldier, whose habit it was to get up very -early in the morning. He said afterwards that he had never got up so -early as on that morning, feeling a certain pride in it, as showing the -magical power of sympathy and tenderness. He woke before it was light. -It had been raining in the night, and the morning was veiled with -showers; when the light came at last, it was white and misty. He was -ready to go out before anyone was stirring. Not a soul, not even the -milkman, was astir in the Dean’s Walk. The blinds were still down over -his neighbours’ windows. The only one drawn up, he noticed in passing, -was Lottie’s. Was she too early, like himself? the question went through -his mind as he passed. Poor child! her life was not a happy one. How -different, he could not help feeling, how different his own girl would -have been had she but been spared to them! He shook his white head, -though he was all alone, wailing, almost remonstrating, with Providence. -How strange that the blessing should be with those who did not know how -to prize it, while those who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6213" id="page_6213">{vol.-III-213}</a></span> did were left desolate! The Captain’s step -rang through the silent place. There was no one about; the Abbey stood -up grey and still with the morning mists softly breaking from about it, -and here and there, behind and around, smoke rose from some homely roof, -betraying the first signs of waking life, Captain Temple walked briskly -to the Slopes; it was his favourite walk. He made one or two turns up -and down all the length of the level promenade, thinking about her—how -often she had come with him here: but lately she had avoided him. He -paused when he had made two or three turns, and leaned over the low -parapet wall, looking down upon the misty landscape. The river ran -swiftly at the foot of the hill, shewing in a pale gleam here and there. -The bare branches of the trees were all jewelled coldly with drops of -rain. It began to drizzle again as he stood gazing over the misty wet -champaign in the stillness of the early morning. He was the only -conscious tenant of this wide world of earth and sky. Smoke rising from -the houses in the town, and a faint stir was beginning; but here on the -hill there was no stir or waking movement, save only his own.</p> - -<p>What was that? a sound—he turned round quickly—he could not tell what -it was; was there someone about after all, someone else as early as -himself? But he could see nobody. There was not a step nor a visible -movement, but there was a sense of a human<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6214" id="page_6214">{vol.-III-214}</a></span> presence, a feeling of -somebody near him. He turned round with an anxiety which he could not -explain to himself. Why should he be anxious? but it pleased him -afterwards to remember that all his sensations this morning were -strange, uncalled for, beyond his own control. He peered anxiously about -among the bushes and bare stems of the trees. At last it seemed to him -that he saw something in the corner of the bench under the elm-tree. He -turned that way, now with his old heart beating, but altogether -unprepared for the piteous sight that met his eyes. She was so slim, so -slight, her dress so heavy and clinging with the rain, that a careless -passer-by might never have seen her. He hurried to the place with a -little cry. Her head drooped upon the rough wooden back of the seat, her -hands were wrapped in her cloak, nothing visible of her but a face as -white as death, and wet—was it with rain or with tears? Her eyes were -closed, her long dark eyelashes drooping over her cheek. But for her -frightful paleness she would have looked like a child who had lost its -way, and cried itself to sleep. “Lottie!” cried the old man; “Lottie!” -But she made no response. She did not even open her eyes. Was she -sleeping, or, good God——! He put his hand on her shoulder. “Lottie, -Lottie, my dear child!” he cried into her ear. When after a while a deep -sigh came from her breast, the old man could have wept for joy. She was -living then. He thought for a mo<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6215" id="page_6215">{vol.-III-215}</a></span>ment what was to be done; some help -seemed indispensable to him; then rushed away down through the cloisters -to the house of Mr. Ashford, which was one of the nearest. The Minor -Canon was coming downstairs; he had something to do which called him out -early. He paused in some surprise at the sight of his visitor, but -Captain Temple stopped the question on his lips. “Will you come with -me?” he cried; “come with me—I want you,” and caught him by the sleeve -in his eagerness. Mr. Ashford felt that there was that in the old man’s -haggard face which would not bear questioning. He followed him, scarcely -able in the fulness of his strength to keep up with the nervous steps of -his guide. “God knows if she has been there all night,” the Captain -said. “I cannot get her to move. And now the whole place will be astir. -If I could get her home before anybody knows! They have driven her out -of her sweet senses,” he said, gasping for breath as he hurried along. -“I came for you because you are her friend, and I could trust you. Oh, -why is a jewel like that given to those who do not prize it, Mr. -Ashford, and taken from those that do? Why is it? why is it? they have -broken her heart.” The Minor Canon asked no questions; he felt that he -too knew by instinct what it was. The rain had come on more heavily, -small and soft, without any appearance of storm, but penetrating and -continuous. The Captain hurried on to the corner where he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6216" id="page_6216">{vol.-III-216}</a></span> left her. -Lottie had moved her head; she had been roused by his first appeal from -the stupor into which she had fallen; her eyes were open, her mind -slowly coming, if not to itself, at least to some consciousness of the -external world and her place in it. The instinct that so seldom abandons -a woman, that of concealing her misery, had begun to dawn in her—the -first sign of returning life.</p> - -<p>“Lottie, Lottie, my dear child, you must not sit here in the rain. Come, -my pet, come. We have come to fetch you. Come to your mother, or at -least to one who will be like a mother. Come, my poor dear, come home -with me.” The old man was almost sobbing as he took into his her cold -hands.</p> - -<p>Lottie did her best to respond. She attempted to smile, she attempted to -speak mechanically. “Yes,” she said, under her breath; “I will -come—directly. It is—raining.” Her voice was almost gone; it was all -they could do to make out what she said.</p> - -<p>“And here is a kind friend who will give you his arm, who will help you -along,” said Captain Temple. He stopped short—frightened by the change -that came over her face; an awful look of hope, of wonder, woke in her -eyes, which looked preternaturally large, luminous, and drowsy. She -stirred in her seat, moving with a little moan of pain, and attempted to -turn round to look behind her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6217" id="page_6217">{vol.-III-217}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Who is it?” she whispered. “Who is it? is it—you?”</p> - -<p>Who did she expect it to be? Mr. Ashford, greatly moved, stepped forward -quickly and raised her from her seat. It was no time for politeness. He -drew her arm within his, not looking at her. “Support her,” he said -quickly to Captain Temple, “on the other side.” The Minor Canon never -looked at Lottie as he half carried her along that familiar way. He did -not dare to spy into her secret, but he guessed at it. The hand which he -drew through his arm held a letter. He knew none of the steps which had -led to this, but he thought he knew what had happened. As for Captain -Temple, he did not do much of his share of the work; he held her elbow -with his trembling hand, and looked pitifully into her face, knowing -nothing at all. “My poor dear,” he said, “you shall not go back—you -shall not be made miserable; you are mine now. I have found you, and I -shall keep you, Lottie. It is not like a stepmother that my Mary will -be. My love, we will say nothing about it, we will not blame anyone; but -now you belong to me.” What he said was as the babbling of a child to -Lottie, and to the other who divined her; but they let him talk, and the -old man seemed to himself to understand the position entirely. “They -have driven her out of her senses,” he said to his wife; “so far as I -can see she has been out on the Slopes all night, sitting on that bench. -She will be ill,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6218" id="page_6218">{vol.-III-218}</a></span> she is sure to be ill—she is drenched to the skin. -Think if it had been our own girl! But I will never let her go into the -hands of those wretches again.”</p> - -<p>No one of the principal actors in this strange incident ever told the -story, yet it was known all through the Abbey precincts in a few -hours—with additions—that Captain Despard’s new wife had driven her -step-daughter out of the house by her ill-usage; turned her to the door, -some said; and that the poor girl, distracted and solitary, had spent -the night on the Slopes, in the cold, in the rain, and had been found -there by Captain Temple. “When we were all in our comfortable beds,” the -good people cried with angry tears, and an indignation beyond words. -Captain Despard came in from matins in a state of alarm indescribable, -and besought his wife to keep indoors, not to allow herself to be seen. -No one in the house had known of Lottie’s absence during the night. She -was supposed to be “sulky,” as Polly called it, and shut up in her own -room. When she did not appear at breakfast, indeed, there had been some -surprise, and a slight consternation, but even then no very lively -alarm. “She’s gone off, as she said she would,” Polly said, tossing her -head; and the Captain had, though with some remorse and compunction, -satisfied himself that it was only an escapade on Lottie’s part, which -would be explained by the post, or which Law would know about, or Mrs. -O’Shaughnessy. Law had gone out<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6219" id="page_6219">{vol.-III-219}</a></span> early, before breakfast. It was natural -to suppose he would know—or still more likely that his sister had gone -with him, on some foolish walk, or other expedition. “I don’t mean to -hurt your feelings,” Polly cried, “but I shouldn’t break my heart, -Harry, if they’d gone for good, and left us the house to ourselves.” -When Captain Despard came in from matins, however, the case was very -different; he came in pale with shame and consternation, and ready to -blame his wife for everything. “This is what has come of your nagging -and your impudence,” he said; and Polly flew to arms, as was natural, -and there was a hot and dangerous encounter. The Captain went out, -swearing and fuming, recommending her if she prized her own safety not -to show herself out of doors. “You will be mobbed,” he said; “and you -will well deserve it.”</p> - -<p>“I’m going to put my hat on,” said Polly, “and let them all see what a -coward you are, as won’t stand up for your wife.” But when he had -slammed the door emphatically after him, Polly sat down and had a good -cry, and did not put on her hat. Oh, what a foolish thing it is, she -repeated, to marry a man with grown-up children! It was nature, and not -anything she had done, that was in fault.</p> - -<p>Lottie made no resistance when she found herself in Mrs. Temple’s care. -To have her wet things taken off, to have a hundred cares lavished upon -her, as she lay aching and miserable in the bed that had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6220" id="page_6220">{vol.-III-220}</a></span> been prepared -for her, soothed her at least, if they did nothing more. Chilled in -every bit of her body, chilled to her heart, the sensation of warmth, -when at last it stole over her, broke a little the stony front of her -wretchedness. She never knew how she had passed that miserable night. -The fabric of her happiness had fallen down on every side, and crushed -her. Her heart had been so confident, her hopes so certain. She had not -doubted, as women so often do, or even thought it within the compass of -possibility that Rollo could fail her. How could she suppose it? and, -when it came, she was crushed to the ground. The earth seemed to have -opened under her feet; everything failed her when that one thing in -which all her faith was placed failed. She had sat through the darkness, -not able to think, conscious of nothing but misery, not aware how the -time was passing, taking no note of the coming of the night, or of the -bewildering chimes from the Abbey of hour after hour and quarter after -quarter. Quarter or hour, what did it matter to her? what did she know -of the hurrying, flying time, or its stupefying measures? It began to -rain, and she did not care. She cared for nothing—not the cold, nor the -dark, nor the whispering of the night wind among the bare branches, the -mysterious noises of the night. The pillars of the earth, the arch of -the sweet sky, had fallen. There was nothing in all the world but dismal -failure and heart-break to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6221" id="page_6221">{vol.-III-221}</a></span> Lottie. In the long vigil, even the cause of -this horrible downfall seemed to fade out of her mind. The pain in her -heart, the oppression of her brain, the failing of all things—hope, -courage, faith—was all she was conscious of. Rollo—her thoughts -avoided his name, as a man who is wounded shrinks from any touch; and at -last everything had fallen into one stupor of misery. That it was the -night which she was spending there, under the dark sky, just light -enough to show the darker branches waving over it, the rain falling from -it, Lottie was unconscious. She had nowhere to go, she had no wish to go -anywhere; shelter was indifferent to her, and one place no more -miserable than another. When Captain Temple roused her, there came -vaguely to her mind a sense that her feelings must be hid, that she must -try to be as other people, not betraying her own desolation; and this -was the feeling that again woke feebly in her when Mrs. Temple took her -place by the bedside where Lottie was lying. She tried to make some -feeble excuse, an excuse which in the desperation of her mind did not -sound so artificial as it was. “I give you a great deal of trouble,” she -faltered.</p> - -<p>“Oh, my dear,” said Mrs. Temple, with tears, “do not say so; let me do -what I can for you—only trust in me, trust in me.”</p> - -<p>Lottie could not trust in anyone. She tried to smile. She was past all -confidences, past all revela<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6222" id="page_6222">{vol.-III-222}</a></span>tion of herself or her trouble. And thus -she lay for days, every limb aching with the exposure, her breathing -difficult, her breast throbbing, her heart beating, her voice gone.</p> - -<p>Downstairs there was many an anxious talk over her between the three -most intimately concerned. The old Captain held by his simple idea that -she had been driven from home by her stepmother, that idea which all the -Abbey had adopted. The Minor Canon was not of that opinion. He came -every day to ask for the patient, and would sit and listen to all they -could tell him, and to the Captain’s tirades against Polly. “I think -there was something more than that,” he would say. And Mrs. Temple -looked at him with a look of understanding. “I think so too,” she said. -Mrs. Temple had disengaged out of Lottie’s cold hand the letter which -she had been grasping unawares. She had not been able to resist looking -at it, telling herself that she ought to know what was the cause. These -two alone had any idea of it, and no one spoke to Lottie, nor did she -speak to anyone of the cause of her vigil. She lay in a silent paradise -of warmth and rest, cared for and watched at every turn she made, as she -had never been in her life before. And by degrees the pain stole out of -her limbs, her cough was got under, and the fever in her veins subdued. -Of two things only Lottie did not mend. Her heart seemed dead in her -bosom, and her voice was gone.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6223" id="page_6223">{vol.-III-223}</a></span> She could neither sing any more, nor be -happy any more; these are things which neither doctor nor nurse can -touch, but for all the rest her natural health and strength soon -triumphed. Her brain, which had tottered for a moment, righted itself -and regained its force. She had no fever, though everybody expected it. -She did not fall into “a decline,” as was universally thought. She got -better, but she did not get happy, nor did she recover her voice. When -she was able to be brought downstairs, the good people who had taken her -up made a little <i>fête</i> of her recovery. Mr. Ashford was asked to -dinner, and the room was filled with flowers, rare hothouse flowers, on -which the old Captain spent a great deal more than he could afford to -spend. “To please the poor child, my dear,” he said, apologetically; and -Mrs. Temple had not a word to say. She winced still when in his simple -way he would speak of “our own girl,” but in her heart she made a kind -of religion of Lottie, feeling sometimes, poor soul, as if she were thus -heaping coals of fire, whatever they may be, upon the head—though it -might be blasphemy to put it into words—of Him who had bereaved her. He -had taken her child from her, and she had been angry, and perhaps had -sinned in the bitterness of her grief; but now here was a child who was -His—for are not all the helpless His?—whom she would not cast from -her, whom she would take to her bosom and cherish, to show Him (was -it?)<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6224" id="page_6224">{vol.-III-224}</a></span> that she was more tender than even the Father of all. “Thou hast -taken mine from me, but I have not closed my heart to thine,” was what, -all unawares, the woman’s heart said; for she was angry still, being a -mother, and unable to see why she should have been bereaved.</p> - -<p>A few days after Lottie had begun to be brought downstairs (for this was -done without any will of hers), a visit was paid to her which had no -small effect upon her life. She was seated in the invalid’s place near -the fire, a little table by her side with flowers on it, and a new book, -and <i>Punch</i>, and the illustrated papers, all the little innocent -<i>gâteries</i> of which the old Captain could think, the trifles which make -the days of a happy convalescent sweet, and which Lottie tried hard to -look as if she cared for; and with Mrs. Temple near her, watching her to -see lest she should be too warm or too cold, lest she should want -anything, with the anxious care of a mother. There was a prancing of -horses outside the door, a tremendous knock, a rustle of silk, and -wafting of perfume, and the door was opened and Mrs. Daventry announced. -Augusta came in with a sweep which filled Mrs. Temple’s little -drawing-room. There did not seem room for its legitimate inmates in that -redundant presence. Mrs. Temple ran to her patient, thinking Lottie was -about to faint, but she recovered herself enough to smile faintly at -Augusta when she spoke,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6225" id="page_6225">{vol.-III-225}</a></span> which was as much as she did to anyone. Augusta -seated herself opposite the convalescent, her train falling round her in -heavy masses—the one all wealth and commotion and importance, the other -so pale, so slight in her weakness, her brown merino dress hanging -loosely upon her. Mrs. Temple was not made much account of by the fine -lady, who made her a slight salutation, half bow, half curtsey, and took -no further notice of “the people of the house.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” she said, “how are you, and what has been the matter? There are -the most extraordinary stories told about you. I have come to find out -what is really the matter, Lottie. Mamma wishes to know too. You know -you were always a kind of favourite with mamma.”</p> - -<p>“I will tell you about her illness,” said Mrs. Temple. “She is scarcely -well enough yet to enter into details.”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” said Augusta, gazing blankly upon the “person of the house,”—then -she returned to Lottie again. “I don’t want you to enter into details; -but they say the most extraordinary things; they say you were turned out -of doors, and stayed all night on the Slopes—that, of course, can’t be -true—but I wish you would tell me what is true, that I may give the -right version of the story. Mamma is quite anxious to know.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6226" id="page_6226">{vol.-III-226}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Lottie, my dear, I will tell Mrs. Daventry,” said Mrs. Temple, “it is -too much for you;” and she held her point and recounted her little story -with a primness which suited her voice and manner. Many were the -demonstrations of impatience which the fine lady made, but it was not in -her power to struggle against Mrs. Temple’s determination. She turned to -Lottie again as soon as the tale was told.</p> - -<p>“Is that true? Only a very bad cold, and influenza from getting wet? Oh, -we heard a great deal more than that; and your voice—we heard you had -quite lost your voice. I promised the Signor to inquire. He is quite -anxious, he always thought so much of your voice. He is an odd man,” -said Augusta, giving a blow in passing, “he thinks so differently from -other people about many things. I promised to find out for him all about -it. Have you really, really lost your voice, as everybody says?”</p> - -<p>It was curious that Lottie, who had never been concerned about her -voice, who had never cared anything about it, who had not wanted to be a -singer at all, should feel, even in the midst of the greater and deeper -unhappiness that possessed her, a distinct sting of pain as she heard -this question. Her paleness was flushed with a sudden painful colour. -She looked at Mrs. Temple wistfully again.</p> - -<p>“You can hear that she is hoarse,” said Mrs. Temple; “a very common -consequence of a cold. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6227" id="page_6227">{vol.-III-227}</a></span> has lost her voice for the moment, but we -hope to find it again.”</p> - -<p>“I think she must be dumb altogether, as she never answers me,” said -Augusta, fretfully. Then she tried another subject, with a triumphant -certainty of success. “I don’t know if you have heard of our trouble,” -she said, looking at her black dress. “You remember, Lottie, my cousin, -Mr. Ridsdale? Oh, yes; you knew him a little, I think.”</p> - -<p>Once more Lottie’s pale face flushed with painful overwhelming colour. -She looked up with alarmed and troubled eyes.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I see you remember him; he was such a flirt, he was always making -himself agreeable to women. It did not matter who they were,” said -Augusta, fixing her eyes on her victim’s face, “or what class of people, -so long as they were at all nice-looking, or could sing, or draw, or -anything. I remember I sent him out to try whether he could not hear you -sing the very day I was married. He was another of the people who -believed in you, Lottie. He did not hear you then, so he made mamma ask -you, you remember. He had something to do with a new opera company, and -he was always on the look-out for a new voice.”</p> - -<p>Once more Lottie turned her eyes upon Mrs. Temple, eyes full of anguish -and wonder. Who else could she turn to?—not to the cruel executioner -who sat opposite to her, with a lurking smile about her heartless -mouth.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6228" id="page_6228">{vol.-III-228}</a></span> How cruel a woman can be with a fair face, and no signs of the -savage in her! Augusta saw that her arrow had struck home, and was -encouraged to do more.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes; he was in a great state about your voice. He said it would -make his fortune and yours too. He was always ridiculously sanguine. You -know how he used to flatter you, Lottie, and go to all your lessons. Oh, -you must not tell me that you don’t remember, for I could see you liked -it. Well,” said Augusta, who did not lose a single change of colour, no -quiver of her victim’s lips, or flutter of her bosom, “that sort of -thing is all over now. Oh, I daresay he will continue to take a great -interest as an amateur; but his position is now entirely changed. My -poor cousin Ridsdale, Rollo’s eldest brother, was killed in the -hunting-field about a fortnight ago. Such a shock for us all! but it has -made a great change for Rollo. He is Lord Ridsdale now, and my uncle -Courtland’s heir. His servant came last Friday week to fetch some things -he had left at the Deanery—for he had gone away for the day only, not -knowing what had happened. Poor fellow; and yet, of course, though he -was truly grieved and all that, it is great good fortune for him. We are -not likely <i>now</i>” Augusta added, with a faint smile, “to see much of him -here.”</p> - -<p>Lottie did not say a word. She sat, no longer changing colour, perfectly -pale, with the great blue<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6229" id="page_6229">{vol.-III-229}</a></span> eyes that had so expanded and dilated during -her illness, fixed upon the vacant air. To hear him named was still -something, and filled her with a sick excitement, an anguish of interest -and agitation. After the long silence, after the cutting of all ties, -after his cruel desertion of her, after the blow which had all but -killed her, to hear of him had been something. Pain—yet a pain she was -more eager to undergo than to meet any pleasure. But Lottie had not -calculated upon the cruel, treacherous, yet careless, blow which fell -upon her now, upon her quivering wounds. To hear her voice, was that -what it was? not to see her because he loved her, but to hear her -singing. Till now she had at least had her past. He was false, and had -forsaken her, she knew, but once he had loved her; the Rollo who gazed -up in the moonlight at her window had still been hers, though another -Rollo had betrayed her trust and broken her heart. But now! the blood -ebbed away from her face, and seemed to fail from her heart; the beating -of it grew confused and muffled in her ears. She gazed with her great -eyes, all strained and pained with gazing, at nothing. To hear her sing, -not seeking her, but only running after a new voice! She sat with her -hands clasped upon her lap in a kind of piteous appeal, and sometimes -would look at the one and then the other, asking them—was it true, -could it be true?</p> - -<p>“I must go,” said Augusta, having fired her shot,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6230" id="page_6230">{vol.-III-230}</a></span> “and I am glad to -have such a good account of you. Only a bad cold and a hoarseness, such -as are quite common. Mamma will be pleased to hear, and so will the -Signor. I can’t tell him anything about your voice, because you have not -let me hear it, Lottie. Oh, quite prudent—much the best thing not to -use it at all; though with an old friend, to be sure—you look rather -ill, I am bound to say.”</p> - -<p>Lottie sat still in the same attitude after this cruel visitor was gone, -all her thoughts going back upon that time, which after all was only a -few months, yet which seemed her life. She had given him up, or rather -she had accepted his abandonment of her, without a struggle, without a -hope; it had been to her as a doom out of Heaven. She had not even -blamed him. It had killed her, she thought. She had not resisted, but it -had killed her. Now, however, she could not submit. In her heart she -fought wildly against this last, most cruel blow. He was not hers, he -was cut off from her, by his own murderous hand; but to give up the -lover who had loved her before he knew her, who had watched under her -window and wiled her heart away, that she could not do. She fought -against it passionately in her soul. The afternoon went on without a -sound, nothing but the ashes softly falling from the fire, the soft -movement of Mrs. Temple’s arm as she worked; but the silence tingled all -the time with the echo of Augusta’s words, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6231" id="page_6231">{vol.-III-231}</a></span> with the hot conflict of -recollections in her own heart, opposing and denying them. Mrs. Temple -worked quietly by and watched, divining something of the struggle, -though she did not know what it was. At last, all at once in the -stillness, the girl broke forth passionately: “Oh, no, no,” she cried, -“not that! I will not believe it. Not that; it is not true.”</p> - -<p>“What is not true, dear? tell me,” her companion said, laying down her -work, and coming forward with tender hands outstretched, and pity in her -eyes.</p> - -<p>“You heard her,” Lottie said, “you heard her. That it was to hear me -singing—that it was all for my voice. No, no, not that! It could not -be—<i>that</i> was not true. You could not believe <i>that</i> was true.”</p> - -<p>And Lottie looked at her piteously, clasping her hands, entreating her -with those pathetic eyes for a little comfort. “Not that, not that,” she -said. “My singing, was it likely? Oh you cannot think <i>that</i>!” she -cried.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Temple did all she could to soothe her. “My poor child, it is all -over—over and ended—what does it matter now?”</p> - -<p>“It matters all the world to me,” Lottie cried. Kind as her new guardian -was, she could not understand that even when her happiness and her hopes -were all crushed, it was a bitterness more exquisite, a sting the girl -could not bear to believe that her foundations had been sand, that she -had been deluded from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6232" id="page_6232">{vol.-III-232}</a></span> the beginning, that the love she trusted in had -never been. This sting was so keen and sharp that it woke her from the -apathy of despair that was creeping over her. She was roused to -struggle, to a passion of resistance and denial. “How can anyone but I -know how it was? It all came from that; without that I should never have -thought—we should never have met. It was the beginning. How can anyone -know but me?” she cried, contending as against some adversary. When the -first strain of this conflict was over, she turned, faltering, to her -kind guardian. “I had a letter,” she said; “it was <i>the</i> letter. I -cannot find it.” She gave her a look of entreaty which went to Mrs. -Temple’s heart.</p> - -<p>“I have got your letter, Lottie. I have it in my desk, put away. No one -has seen it. Let me put it into the fire.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, no! perhaps there may be something in it different from what I -thought.”</p> - -<p>She held out her hands supplicating, and Mrs. Temple went to her desk -and took out an envelope. Within was something all stained and blurred. -The rain had half washed the cruel words away. Once for all, as Rollo’s -last act and deed, and suicidal exit from this history, the letter shall -be copied here. Imagine how Lottie had been sitting, all happiness and -soft agitation and excitement, waiting for him when this curt epistle -came:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6233" id="page_6233">{vol.-III-233}</a></span>—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p class="indd"> -“<span class="smcap">Dear Lottie</span>,—<br /> -</p> - -<p>“An extraordinary change has happened in my life—not my doing, but -that of Providence. It gives me new duties, and a new existence -altogether. What we have been thinking of cannot be. It is -impossible in every way. For me to do what I promised to you was, -when we parted, a sacrifice which I was willing to make, but now is -an impossibility. I am afraid you will feel this very much—and -don’t think I don’t feel it; but it is an impossibility. I have -things to do and a life to lead that makes it impossible. I hope -soon someone will be raised up for you when you want it most, to -give you the help and assistance I would so gladly have given. -Could I but know that you assented to this, that you saw the reason -for my conduct, I should be as happy as I now can ever be; and I -hope that you will do so when you can look at it calmly. Farewell, -dear Lottie, think of me with as little anger as you can, for it is -not I, but Providence. Your voice will soon make you independent; -it is only a momentary disappointment, I know, and I cannot help -it. To do what we settled to do is now an impossibility—an -impossibility. Dear Lottie, farewell!</p> - -<p class="r"> -“R. R.”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>Underneath, <i>Forgive me</i> was scrawled hastily, as if by an afterthought.</p> - -<p>In the calm warm room, in the dull afternoon,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6234" id="page_6234">{vol.-III-234}</a></span> under the eyes of her -tender nurse, Lottie read over again this letter, which she had read -with incredulous wonder, with stupefying misery, by the dim light of the -evening under the black waving branches of the leafless trees. She gave -a cry of anguish, of horror, of indignation and shame, and with -trembling hands folded it up, and put it within its cover, and thrust it -back into Mrs. Temple’s keeping. “Oh, take it, take it,” she cried -wildly; “keep it, it has killed me. Perhaps—perhaps! the other is true -too.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6235" id="page_6235">{vol.-III-235}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLIV" id="CHAPTER_XLIV"></a>CHAPTER XLIV.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">APRÈS?</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Law</span> had been living a busy life at the time of this crisis and climax of -his sister’s existence. He had spent day after day in London, lost in -that dangerous and unaccustomed delight of spending money, which is only -tasted in its full flavour by those who are little accustomed to have -any money to spend. Law was tempted by a hundred things which would have -been no temptation at all to more experienced travellers—miracles of -convenience and cheapness, calculated to smooth the path of the -emigrant, but which were apt, on being bought, to turn out both -worthless and expensive—and many a day the young fellow came home -penitent and troubled, though he started every morning with an -ever-renewed confidence in his own wisdom. Lottie’s sudden illness had -checked these preparations in mid-career. He had lost the ship in which -he meant to have made his voyage, and though he bore the delay with -Christian resignation, it was hard to keep from thinking sometimes that -Lottie could not have chosen a worse moment for being ill—a little -later, or a little earlier, neither would have mattered<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6236" id="page_6236">{vol.-III-236}</a></span> half so -much—but at the very moment when he was about to sail! However, he -allowed impartially that it was not his sister’s fault, and did not deny -her his sympathy. Law, however, had never been satisfied about the cause -of her illness. He did not know why she should have sat out on the -Slopes all night. Polly—he refused the idea that it was Polly. Mrs. -Despard was bad enough, but not so bad as that; nor did Lottie care -enough for the intruder to allow herself to be driven out in this way. -But Law kept this conviction to himself, and outwardly accepted the -story, not even asking any explanation from his sister. Whatever was the -real reason, it was no doubt the same cause which kept her from -listening to him when he had tried to tell her of the new step in his -own career, and the unexpected liberality of the Minor Canon. “If it had -but been he!” Law said to himself—for indeed he, who knew the value of -money, never entertained any doubt as to Mr. Ashford’s meaning in -befriending him; he was a great deal more clear about this than Mr. -Ashford himself.</p> - -<p>He lost his passage by the ship with which he had originally intended to -go. It was a great disappointment, but what could he do? He could not -start off for the Antipodes when his sister might be dying. And as for -his own affairs, they had not come to any satisfactory settlement. -Instead of saying yes or no to his question to her, Emma, when he had -seen her, had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6237" id="page_6237">{vol.-III-237}</a></span> done everything a girl could do to make him change his -intention. To make <i>him</i> change his intention!—the very idea of this -filled him with fierce scorn. It was quite simple that she should make -up her mind to leave everything she cared for, for love of him; but that -he should change his purpose for love of her, was an idea so absurd that -Law laughed at the simplicity of it. As well expect the Abbey tower to -turn round with the wind as the weathercock did; but yet Law did not -object to stroll down to the River Lane in the evenings, when he had -nothing else to do, sometimes finding admission to the workroom when the -mother was out of the way, demanding to know what was Emma’s decision, -and smiling at her entreaties. She cried, clasping her hands with much -natural eloquence, while she tried to persuade him; but Law laughed.</p> - -<p>“Are you coming with me?” he said—he gave no answer to the other -suggestion—and by this time he had fully made up his mind that she did -not mean to come, and was not very sorry. He had done his duty by -her—he had not been false, nor separated himself from old friends when -prosperity came; no one could say that of him. But still he was not -sorry to make his start alone—to go out to the new world unencumbered. -Nevertheless, though they both knew this was how it would end, it still -amused Law in his unoccupied evenings to do his little love-making at -the corner of the River Lane, by the light of the dull<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6238" id="page_6238">{vol.-III-238}</a></span> lamp, and it -pleased Emma to be made love to. They availed themselves of this -diversion of the moment, though it often led to trouble, and sometimes -to tears; and Emma for her part suffered many scoldings in consequence. -The game, it is to be supposed, was worth the candle, though it was -nothing but a game after all.</p> - -<p>On the day after Mrs. Daventry’s visit, Lottie sent for her brother. He -found her no longer a languid invalid, but with a fire of fervid energy -in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“Law,” she said, “I want you to tell me what you are going to do. You -told me once, and I did not pay any attention—I had other—other things -in my mind. Tell me now, Law.”</p> - -<p>Then he told her all that had happened, and all he had been doing. “It -was your sense, Lottie, after all,” he said. “You were always the one -that had the sense. Who would have thought when I went to old Ashford to -be coached, that he would come forward like this, and set me up for -life? Nor he wouldn’t have done that much either,” Law added, with a -laugh, “but for you!”</p> - -<p>“Law,” cried Lottie, with that fire in her eyes, “this was what we -wanted all the time, though we did not know it. It was always an office -I was thinking of—and that I would be your housekeeper—your servant if -we were too poor to keep a servant; but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6239" id="page_6239">{vol.-III-239}</a></span> this is far better. Now we are -free—we have only each other in the world. When must we go?”</p> - -<p>“We!” cried Law, completely taken aback. He looked at her with dismay. -“You don’t mean you are coming? You don’t suppose I—can take you.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she cried, “yes,” with strange vehemence. “Were we not always to -be together? I never thought otherwise—that was always what I -meant—until——”</p> - -<p>“Ah,” said Law, “that is just it—until! When you’re very young,” he -continued, with great seriousness, “you think like that—yes, you think -like that. A sister comes natural—you’ve always been used to her; but -then, Lottie, you know as well as I do that don’t last.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes—it lasts,” cried Lottie: “other things come and go. You -suppose you want something more—and then trouble comes, and you -remember that there is nobody so near. Who could be so near? I know all -you like and what is best for you, and we have always been together. -Law, I have had things to make me unhappy—and I have no home, no place -to live in.”</p> - -<p>“I thought,” said Law, severely, “that they were very kind to you here.”</p> - -<p>“Kind! it is more than that,” cried Lottie, her hot eyes moistening. -“They are like—I do not know what they are like—like nothing but -themselves; but I do not belong to them. What right have I to be here?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6240" id="page_6240">{vol.-III-240}</a></span> -and oh, Law, you don’t know——. To walk about here again—to live, -where one has almost died—to see the same things—the place—where it -all happened——”</p> - -<p>Lottie was stopped by the gasp of weeping that came into her throat. She -ended with a low cry of passionate pain. “I must go somewhere. I cannot -stay here. We will go together, and work together; and some time, -perhaps—some time—we shall not be unhappy, Law.”</p> - -<p>“I am not unhappy now,” said the young man. “I don’t know why you should -be so dismal. Many a fellow would give his ears to be in my place. But -you—that’s quite a different thing. A man can go to many a place where -he can’t drag his sister after him. Besides, you’ve got no outfit,” -cried Law, delighted to find so simple a reason, “and no money to get -one. Old Ashford has been awfully kind; but I don’t think it would be -nice to draw him for an outfit for you. It wouldn’t be kind,” said Law, -with a grin, “it would be like the engineer fellow in Shakespeare—burst -with his own boiler. You know that would never do.”</p> - -<p>“A woman does not need an outfit, as a man does,” said Lottie; “a woman -can put up with anything. If you go away, what is to become of me? When -you are young, whatever you may have had to make you unhappy, you cannot -die when you please. That would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6241" id="page_6241">{vol.-III-241}</a></span> be the easiest way of all—but it is -not possible; you cannot die when you please.”</p> - -<p>“Die—who wants to die?” said Law. “Don’t you know it’s wicked to talk -so. Why, there’s your singing. You’ll be able to make a great deal more -money than I ever shall; and of course you may come over starring to -Australia when you’re a great singer; but it would be ruin to you now to -go there. Don’t be carried away by it because I’m lucky just now, -because it’s my turn,” he said; “everybody wants to hold on by a fellow -when he’s in luck—but it is really you who are the lucky one of the -family.”</p> - -<p>“My voice is gone,” said Lottie, “my home is gone. I have nothing in the -world but you. All I used to have a little hope in is over. There are -only two of us in the world, brother and sister. What can I do but go -with you? I have nobody but you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, that’s bosh,” said Law, getting up from his seat in impatience. “I -don’t believe a word they say about your voice. You’ll see it’ll soon -come back if you give it a chance; and as for having nobody but me, I -never knew a girl that had so many friends—there’s these old Temples, -and heaps of people; and it seems to me you may marry whoever you like -all round. A girl has no right to turn up her nose at that. Besides, -what made old Ashford so kind to me? You don’t find men doing that sort -of thing for nothing in this world. I always think it’s kindest to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6242" id="page_6242">{vol.-III-242}</a></span> -speak out plain,” said Law, reddening, however, with a sense of cruelty, -“not to take you in with pretending. Look here, Lottie. I can’t take you -with me. I have got no more than I shall want for myself, and I may have -to knock about a great deal there before I get anything. And to tell the -truth,” said Law, reddening still more, “if I was to take a woman with -me, it would be more natural to take—someone else. A fellow expects to -marry, to make himself comfortable when he gets out there. Now you can’t -do that if you have a sister always dragging after you. I’ve told you -this before, Lottie—you know I have. I don’t want to hurt your feelings -when you’ve been ill—but what can a fellow do? To say what you mean -once for all, that is the best for both you and me.”</p> - -<p>Law made his exit abruptly when he had given forth this confession. He -could say what was necessary boldly enough, but he did not like to face -his sister’s disappointment. It was a comfort to him to meet Mr. Ashford -at the door.</p> - -<p>“Lottie is upstairs,” he said. “She wants me to take her with me, but I -have told her I can’t take her with me. I wish you would say a word to -her.”</p> - -<p>Law rushed away with a secret chuckle when he had sent to his sister a -new suitor to console her. If one lover proves unsatisfactory, what can -be better than to replace him by another? Law felt himself bound in -gratitude and honour to do all that he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6243" id="page_6243">{vol.-III-243}</a></span> could for Mr. Ashford, who had -been so kind to him; and was it not evidently the best thing—far the -best thing for Lottie too?</p> - -<p>The Minor Canon went upstairs with a little quickening of his pulse. He -had been a great deal about Captain Temple’s little house since the -morning when he had brought Lottie there, and her name and the thought -of her had been in his mind constantly. He had not defended himself -against this preoccupation, for would it not have been churlish to put -the poor girl out of his mind when she was so desolate, and had no other -place belonging to her? Rather he had thrown open all his doors and -taken in her poor pale image, and made a throne for her, deserted, -helpless, abandoned as she was. A generous soul cannot take care of -itself when a friend is in trouble. Mr. Ashford, who had been on the -edge of the precipice, half consciously, for some time, holding himself -back as he could, thinking as little about her as he could, now let -himself go. He felt as the Quixotes of humanity are apt to feel, that -nothing he could give her should be withheld now. If it did not do her -any good, still it would be something—it was all he could do. He let -himself go. He thought of her morning and night, cherishing her name in -his heart. Poor Lottie—life and love had alike been traitors to her. -“Though all men forsake thee, yet will not I,” he said, as once was said -rashly to a greater than man. What could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6244" id="page_6244">{vol.-III-244}</a></span> he ever be to her, wrung as -her heart was by another? but that did not matter. If it was any -compensation to her, she should have his heart to do what she liked -with. This was the sentiment in the mind of the Minor Canon, who ought, -you will say, to have known better, but who never had been practical, as -the reader knows. He went upstairs with his heart beating. How gladly he -would have said a hundred words to her, and offered her all he had, to -make up for the loss of that which she could not have. But what his -generosity would have thrown at her feet, his delicacy forbade him to -offer. Lottie, in her disappointment and desertion (which he only -divined, yet was certain of) was sacred to him. Mrs. Temple was absent -about her household concerns, and there was nobody in the drawing-room -upstairs except Lottie, who in her excitement and despair did not hear -his step, nor think that anyone might be coming. She was walking about -the room, with her hands clasped and strained against her breast, her -weak steps full of feverish energy, her eyes glowing with a fire of -despair. “What shall I do? what shall I do?” she was moaning in the -anguish of her heart.</p> - -<p>When Ernest Ashford opened the door, her back was turned to him, so that -he heard this moan, and saw the passionate misery of her struggle, -before she knew that he was there. When she saw him a momentary gleam of -anger came over her face; then she put<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6245" id="page_6245">{vol.-III-245}</a></span> force upon herself, and dropped -her hands by her side like a culprit, and tried to receive him as she -ought. As she ought—for was not he her brother’s benefactor, whom all -this time she had been neglecting, not thanking him as he had a right to -be thanked? The change from that anguish and despair which she had been -indulging when alone, to the sudden softening of courtesy and -compunction and gratitude which, after a pathetic momentary interval of -struggling with herself, came over her face, was one of those sudden -variations which had transported Rollo in the beginning of their -acquaintance by its power of expression. But this change, which would -have pleased the other, went to the heart of the Minor Canon, to whom -Lottie had never appeared in the light of an actress or singer, but only -as herself.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Ashford,” she said faintly. “I wanted to see you—to thank you——”</p> - -<p>She was trembling, and he came up to her tenderly—but with a tenderness -that never betrayed its own character—grave and calm, for all that his -heart was beating—and took her hand and arm into his, and led her to -her chair. “You must not thank me for anything,” he said.</p> - -<p>“For Law——”</p> - -<p>“No; not for Law. If it would give you any ease or any comfort, you -should have everything I have. That is not saying much. You should have -all I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6246" id="page_6246">{vol.-III-246}</a></span> can do or think,” he said, with a thrill in his voice, which was -all that betrayed his emotion. “The misery of human things is that all I -can do is not what you want, Lottie—and that what you want is out of my -power.”</p> - -<p>He asked no permission to call her by her name; he was not aware he did -it—nor was she.</p> - -<p>“I want nothing,” she said, with a passionate cry. “Oh, do not think I -am so miserable and weak. I want nothing. Only, if Law could take me -with him—take me away—to a new place—to a new life.”</p> - -<p>He sat down beside her, and softly pressed the hand which he held in his -own. Yes, this was the misery of human things, as he said—he did not -repeat the words, but they were in his face. That which she wanted was -not for her, nor was his desire for him; other gifts might be thrown at -their feet, and lie there unheeded, but not that for which they pined -and were ready to die.</p> - -<p>“Do you think it must not be?” she said. Lottie was willing to make him -the judge of her fate—to allow him to decide for her how it was to be. -Yes, but only in that way in which he was powerless. He smiled, with a -sense of this irony, which is more tragic than any solemn verdict of -fate.</p> - -<p>“I do not think it could be,” he said, “except with perfect consent and -harmony; and Law—does not wish it. He is like the rest of us. He does -not care for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6247" id="page_6247">{vol.-III-247}</a></span> what he can have, though another man might give his life -for it. It is the way of the world.”</p> - -<p>“I am used to it,” said Lottie, bowing her head; “you need not say it is -the way of the world to break it to me, Mr. Ashford. Oh, how well I -ought to know! I am used to being rejected. Papa, and Law, and——”</p> - -<p>She put her hand over her hot eyes, but she did not mean to drop into -self-pity. “Nobody cares to have me,” she said after a moment, with the -quiver of a smile on her lips. “I must make up my mind to it—and when -you are young you cannot die whenever you please. I must do something -for myself.”</p> - -<p>“That is it,” said the Minor Canon, bitterly—“always the same; between -those you love and those that love you there is a great gulf; therefore -you must do something for yourself.”</p> - -<p>She looked at him wondering, with sad eyes. He was angry, but not with -her—with life and fate; and Lottie did not blush as she divined his -secret. It was too serious for that. It was not her fault or his fault; -neither of them had done it or could mend it. Had she but known! had he -but known! Now there was nothing to be done but to unite what little -wisdom they had over the emergency, and decide what she was to do—for -herself. Her father had no place for her in his house. Law would not -have her with him; her lover had forsaken her; and to those who would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6248" id="page_6248">{vol.-III-248}</a></span> -have had her, who would have cherished her, there was no response in -Lottie’s heart. Yet here she stood with her problem of existence in her -hands, to be solved somehow. She looked piteously at the man who loved -her, but was her friend above all, silently asking that counsel of which -she stood so much in need. What was she to do?</p> - -<p>Just then the door opened, and Mrs. Temple came in with Dr. Enderby, who -had been kind to Lottie, as they all were, and who regulated everybody’s -health within the Precincts, from Lady Caroline downward. The good -doctor, who had daughters of his own, looked with kind eyes upon the -girl, who was so much less happy than they. He took her slender wrist -into his hand, and looked into her luminous, over-clear eyes, wet with -involuntary tears.</p> - -<p>“She is looking a great deal better. She will soon be quite herself,” he -said cheerfully; but winked his own eyelids to throw off something, -which was involuntary too.</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes,” said Captain Temple, who had come in after him. “She will -soon be quite herself; but you must give her her orders to stay with us, -doctor. We want to be paid for nursing her—and now she will be able to -run about on all our errands, and save us a great deal of trouble, and -keep us happy with her pretty voice and her singing. Did you ever hear -her sing, doctor? The Signor is very anxious about her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6249" id="page_6249">{vol.-III-249}</a></span> We must begin -our lessons again, my pretty Lottie, as soon as ever the doctor gives -leave.”</p> - -<p>Dr. Enderby looked very grave. “There is no hurry about that,” he said, -“let her have a little more time. The Signor must be content to wait.”</p> - -<p>Now Lottie had said, and they all had said, that her voice was gone; but -when the doctor’s face grew so grave, a cold chill struck to their -hearts. She gave him a startled look of alarmed inquiry, she who had -suddenly realised, now that all dreams were over, that question of -existence which is the primitive question in this world. Before -happiness, before love, before everything that makes life lovely, this -mere ignoble foundation of a living, must come. When one is young, as -Lottie said, one cannot die at one’s own pleasure—and suddenly, just as -she had got to realise that necessity, was it possible that this other -loss was really coming too? She looked at him with anxious eyes, but he -would not look at her, to give her any satisfaction; then she laid her -hand softly on his arm.</p> - -<p>“Doctor,” she said, “tell me true—tell me the worst there is to tell. -Shall I never have my voice again? is it gone, gone?”</p> - -<p>“We must not ask such searching questions,” said the doctor, with a -smile. “We don’t know anything about <i>never</i> in our profession. We know -to-day, and perhaps to-morrow—something about them—but no more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6250" id="page_6250">{vol.-III-250}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>He tried to smile, feeling her gaze upon him, and made light of her -question. But Lottie was not to be evaded. All the little colour there -was ebbed out of her face.</p> - -<p>“Shall I never sing again?” she said. “No—that is not what I mean; -shall I never be able to sing as I did once? Is it over? Oh, Doctor, -tell me the truth, is that over too?”</p> - -<p>They were all surrounding him with anxious faces. The doctor got up -hurriedly and told them he had an appointment. “Do not try to sing,” he -said, “my dear,” patting her on the shoulder. “It will be better for -you, for a long time, if you do not even try;” and before anyone could -speak again he had escaped, and was hurrying away.</p> - -<p>When he was gone, Lottie sat still, half stupefied, yet quivering with -pain and the horror of a new discovery. She could not speak at first. -She looked round upon them with trembling lips, and great tears in her -eyes. Then all at once she slid down upon her knees at Mrs. Temple’s -feet.</p> - -<p>“Now all is gone,” she said, “all is gone—not even <i>that</i> is left. Take -me for your servant instead of the one that is going away. I can work—I -am not afraid to work. I know all the work of a house. Let me be your -servant instead of the one who is going away.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Lottie, hush, hush! are you not my child?” said Mrs. Temple, with a -great outcry of weeping,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6251" id="page_6251">{vol.-III-251}</a></span> clasping her shoulders and drawing the -upturned face to her breast. But Lottie insisted gently and kept her -position. In this thing at least she was not to be balked.</p> - -<p>“Your servant,” she said, “instead of the one that is going away. I am -an honest girl, though they all cast me off. I cannot sing but I can -work—your servant, or else I cannot be your child.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6252" id="page_6252">{vol.-III-252}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLV" id="CHAPTER_XLV"></a>CHAPTER XLV.<br /><br /> -<span class="headsub">CONCLUSION.</span></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">If</span> this history had proposed to settle and bring to a dramatic -conclusion even one single human life, the writer would falter here, -feeling her task all unfulfilled; for what have we been able to do more -than to bring our poor Lottie at the end of all things to a kind of -dead-lock of all the possibilities of life? Such stoppages in the course -of human affairs are, however, at least as common as a distinct climax -or catastrophe. For one girl or boy whose life lies all fair before them -after the first effort, how many are there who have to leave the chapter -incomplete, and, turning their backs upon it, to try a second beginning, -perhaps with less satisfaction, and certainly with a somewhat disturbed -and broken hope! Lottie Despard had arrived at this point. Her love had -not ended as happy loves end. It had been cut short by a cruel hand; her -fabric of happiness had fallen to the ground; her visionary shelter, the -house of her dreams, had crumbled about her, leaving nothing but bare -walls and broken rafters. Her misery and dismay, the consternation of -her young soul when, instead of that fair and pleasant future<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6253" id="page_6253">{vol.-III-253}</a></span> which was -to be her resting-place, she found around her a miserable ruin, we have -scarcely attempted to say. What words can tell such a convulsion and -rending of earth and sky? She had believed in her lover, and in her love -as something above the weakness of ordinary humanity. She had believed -herself at last to have found in him the ideal after which she had -sighed all her life. His generous ardour to help her whenever he found -her in want of help, the enthusiasm of a love which she believed had -been given at first sight, like the love the poets tell of, had filled -Lottie’s heart with all the sweetness of a perfect faith. Impossible to -say how she had trusted in him, with what pure and perfect delight and -approbation her soul had given itself up to him, glad beyond all -expression not only to find him hers, but to have found him at all, the -one man known to her for whom no excuse had to be made. The discovery -that he was a traitor killed her morally—at least it seemed so to the -poor girl when, all crushed and bleeding from a hundred wounds, she was -taken to the house of her friends. But even that was scarcely a more -horrible blow than the stroke administered delicately by Augusta while -still the injured soul had not staunched its own bleeding or recovered -from the first mortal overthrow. The earth that had been so solid opened -round her in yawning mouths of hell, leaving no ground to stand upon. -There was nothing that was not changed. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6254" id="page_6254">{vol.-III-254}</a></span> had not only lost her -future, which was all happiness, and in which she had believed like a -child; but she had lost her past. She had been deceived; or, worse -still, she had deceived herself, seeking her own overthrow. The -knowledge that it had not been love that brought Rollo under her window -first, that it was altogether another sentiment, <i>business</i>, regard for -his own interests—seemed to throw upon herself the blame of all that -came after. Soul and heart, the girl writhed under the consciousness of -having thus anticipated and brought on her fate. So vain, so foolish, so -easily deceived, who was in fault but herself? Those thoughts gave her a -false strength, or feverish impassioned power for a time. It was her own -doing. She had been the deceiver of herself.</p> - -<p>But who could deliver her from the dying pangs of love in her heart, -those longings which are unquenchable, those protestations of nature -against loss, those visions of excuses that might still be made, and -suggestions of impossible explanation which in her mind she knew to be -impossible even while her fancy framed them? Sometimes Lottie would find -herself dreaming unawares that someone else, not Rollo, had written that -cruel letter; that it was not by his will he had left her to bear the -brunt of her disappointment under the elm-tree; that <i>it</i> was a forgery, -and he detained by some act of cruel treachery and deceit. Sometimes a -flood of passionate longing and yearning would sweep<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6255" id="page_6255">{vol.-III-255}</a></span> over her—a -longing only to see him, to hear his voice, to ask why, why he could -have been so cruel. Love does not die in a moment, nor does it come to a -violent end when the object is proved unworthy, as some people think. -With Lottie it was a lingering and painful conclusion, full of memories, -full of relentings; the ground that had been gained by days of painful -self-suppression being lost by one sudden burst of remembrance, the -sight of something that brought up before her one of the scenes that -were past.</p> - -<p>While this process was going on wistful looks were directed to Lottie’s -lonely path by more than one spectator. The household of the Signor was -deeply moved by the hapless fate of the young lady for whom young -Purcell sighed with unavailing faithfulness. He could not be made to see -that it was unavailing, and the Signor, blinded by his partiality for -his pupil, did not or would not see it; and, as was natural, Mrs. -Purcell could not understand the possibility of any girl being -indifferent to John’s devotion. She thought Lottie’s troubles would -indeed be at an end, and her future happiness secured, if her eyes were -but opened to his excellence. So strong was this feeling in the mind of -the family that the Signor himself took the matter in hand, and sallied -forth with the anxious sympathy of all the household to put the case -before Captain Temple, who was now recognised as Lottie’s guardian. “In -every country but England,” the Signor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6256" id="page_6256">{vol.-III-256}</a></span> said, “the friends arrange such -matters. Surely it is much more judicious than the other way. There is -some guarantee at least that it is not mere youthful folly. Now here is -a young lady who is in very unfortunate circumstances, who has been -obliged to leave her father’s house——”</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon, Signor,” said the Captain, trying hard to keep his -temper, “but I do not think my house is a very bad exchange for Captain -Despard’s.”</p> - -<p>“Nobody who knows Captain Temple can have any doubt of that,” the Signor -said with a wave of his hand, “but what can her situation be in your -house? You are not her relation. She has no claim, she has no right, -nothing to depend upon; and if anything were to happen to you——”</p> - -<p>“To be sure,” said Captain Temple, with profound gravity, not -untinctured with offence, “there is much to be said on that point. We -are mortal like everybody else.”</p> - -<p>Explanations were not the Signor’s strong point; he was wanting in tact -everybody knew. “I am making a mess of it,” he said, “as I always do. -Captain Temple, you are a man of sense, you know that marriage is -something more than a matter of sentiment. John Purcell is a very rising -musician, there is nothing in our profession he may not hope for; he -loves Miss<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6257" id="page_6257">{vol.-III-257}</a></span> Despard, and he could give her a home. Will you not -recommend her to consider his suit, and be favourable to him? His origin -perhaps is an objection—but he is a very good fellow, and he could -provide for her.”</p> - -<p>Captain Temple kept his temper; he was always very proud of this -afterwards. He bowed the Signor out, then came fuming upstairs to his -wife. “Young Purcell!” he cried, “the housekeeper’s son! as if all that -was wanted was somebody to provide for her; but when a man has that -taint of foreign notions,” said the old Captain gravely, “nothing will -wear it out.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Temple did not respond as her husband would have wished. Indeed -this was very often the case; she had not his quick impulses nor his -ready speech. She said with a sigh, “I almost think the Signor is right. -I wish we could do what he says. I know a man who is very fond of her, -who would be very suitable, who would be sure to make her happy. I think -if I could marry her to him I would take the responsibility; but she -will not see it in the same light.”</p> - -<p>“Who is it? who is it?” Captain Temple said with lively curiosity. And -when Mr. Ashford’s name was mentioned to him, after some protestations -of incredulity, he could find nothing to say but a fretful “Do you want -to be rid of Lottie?” He for his part did not want to be rid of her. She -was delightful to the old man. She walked with him and sat with him,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6258" id="page_6258">{vol.-III-258}</a></span> -and though she had not sufficiently recovered to talk much to him, yet -she listened to him while he talked, which did almost as well. The old -Chevalier was more happy than he had been since his own child married -and went away from him. Why should Lottie be married and carried away -from him too, for no better reason than that a man could provide for -her? This indeed was the weak point in Captain Temples armour. He could -not provide for his adopted daughter; but he was angry when this was -suggested to him. He had got a new interest, a new pleasure in life, and -he did not like the idea of dying and losing it. Why should not he live -for years and keep the shelter of a father’s roof over this girl, who -was like his own?</p> - -<p>As for the Minor Canon, it had only been when he took the girl home from -her vigil on the Slopes that he allowed himself fully to confess the -state of his feelings towards her. When he had drawn her hand within his -arm and felt her light weight upon him, holding up by close clasping of -his own, the soft arm which he held, the floodgates had opened. He knew -very well by instinct and by observation that Lottie loved, not him, but -another man. He felt very sure that what had happened had little to do -with her stepmother but a great deal to do with her lover; and yet at -that very moment, the most discouraging and hopeless, those gates opened -and the stream flowed forth, and he no longer attempted any disguise -either with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6259" id="page_6259">{vol.-III-259}</a></span> himself or with Mrs. Temple, who saw through and through -him. Law, whom nobody supposed to have any discrimination, had seen -through and through him long ago. Law felt that it was not at all likely -that any man would sacrifice so much money and trouble on <i>his</i> account; -and indeed from the beginning of their acquaintance he had read in “old -Ashford’s” eye an expression of weakness of which the astute youth was -very willing to take advantage. When, however, Mr. Ashford himself -gained this point of making no further resistance, and attempting no -further concealment, the acknowledgment to himself of the new sentiment, -little hopeful as it was, had brought him a sense of happiness and -freedom. Love in his heart was sweet, even though it had no return. It -made life other than it had ever been. It opened possibilities which to -the middle-aged Minor Canon had all been closed before. Handel may be a -consolation or even a delight; and pupils, though neither consolatory -nor delightful, at least keep a man from the sense that his life is -useless; but neither of these things make up the sum of human -requirements, nor do they help to reveal the <i>fin mot</i> of that mortal -enigma which is more hard to solve than all the knots of philosophy. It -seemed to Mr. Ashford when he gave up all resistance, and let this flood -of tenderness for one creature take possession of his heart, that a -sudden illumination had been given to him, a light that cleared up many -difficult matters, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6260" id="page_6260">{vol.-III-260}</a></span> made the whole world more clear. With this -lantern in his hand he thought he might even go back to tread the darker -ways of the world with more fortitude and calm. The miseries of the poor -seemed to him more bearable, the burdens of humanity less overwhelming. -Why? but he could not have told why. Perhaps because life itself was -more worth having, more beautiful, more divine with love in it; a poor -man, though he was starving, could not be so poor with that to keep him -alive. He remembered in his early experiences, when he had fled from the -horrible mystery of want and pain, to have seen that other presence -which then he took no note of, in the poorest places—gleaming in the -eyes of a woman, in a man’s rough face, which knew no other -enlightenment. This, then, was what it was. In the sweetness of the -heavenly discovery perhaps he went too far, and felt in it the -interpretation and compensation of all. Naturally, a man who has found a -new happiness does exalt it above the dimensions of any human -possession. It made the Minor Canon feel his own life too sheltered and -peaceful, it made of him a man among other men. It seemed to him now -that he wanted to go and help his brothers who were suffering, whose -suffering had appalled him, from whom he had fled in excess of pity.</p> - -<p>But he did not say one word of his love to Lottie, except those vague -words which have been recorded. What was the use? She knew it as he knew -it; and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6261" id="page_6261">{vol.-III-261}</a></span> what could it matter? After the first impulse of speech, which -was for her sake rather than his—to comfort her wounded pride, her -sense of humiliation, if nothing else, by the knowledge that she was -priceless to another if rejected by one—no desire to speak was in his -mind. He surrounded her with every care he was permitted to give, with a -thousand unexpressed tendernesses, with a kind of ideal worship, such as -was most likely to soothe her wounds and to please her, at least, with a -sense that she was beloved. In this way the winter went slowly on. Law -did not sail till the early spring, being detained by the Minor Canon as -he would, if he could, have detained a ray of sunshine that warmed her. -And thus Lottie was surrounded by all the fairest semblances of life.</p> - -<p>The fairest semblances! How often they collect about those who can -derive no advantage from them! A good man loved her, but Lottie could -not accept his love; the kindest domestic shelter was given to her, but -she had no right to it—she was not the daughter of these kind people, -and they would not make her their servant as she had asked them to do. -Musing in her own mind over all that lay about her, this seemed the only -true standing ground that she could hope for. Now that she wanted a way -of living, a real occupation, her voice had failed her and she could not -sing; now that she had the doors of marriage opened before her, her -heart was too sick even to contemplate that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6262" id="page_6262">{vol.-III-262}</a></span> possibility; now that she -had a home where she was beloved, it was not her home but the house of a -stranger. To all this she had no right. If they would let her be their -servant, that would be true; if Mr. Ashford would see that she was not -worth loving, that would be true; if she could take up the trade she had -despised, in that there would be an honest refuge. All these things were -out of her reach. She said nothing about the thoughts in her heart, but -they burned within her; and nobody understood them, except perhaps Mr. -Ashford, to whom she never confided them. Law thought her very well off -indeed, and declared frankly that he would leave England with an easy -mind: “You are one that will always fall on your feet,” he said, with -perfect satisfaction. Captain Despard even, who had at first resented -the new arrangement of affairs, came at last in his finest manner and -made very pretty speeches to Captain Temple and his wife. “If, as I -understand, my daughter’s society is a real pleasure to you,” he said, -“I am always glad when I or mine can be of use to my neighbours, and -certainly, my dear Madam, she shall stay. Indeed, in the present state -of my domestic circumstances,” he added, with a wave of his hand, not -perceiving Captain Temple’s angry eagerness to speak, which his wife -subdued with a supplicating gesture, “I will not conceal from you that -it is an ease to my mind to know that Lottie is among the friends of her -own choice. My<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6263" id="page_6263">{vol.-III-263}</a></span> wife and she,” Captain Despard said, with a little shrug -of his shoulders—“we all know what ladies are, and that occasionally -unpleasantnesses will occur—my wife and she have not got on together.” -Thus Lottie was left by those who belonged to her. And when she retired -to the room that was her own in the new home—which was so like the -little room in the old, but so much more dainty, with everything in it -that the old people could think of to make her comfortable, and all the -little decorations which a mother invents for her child, Lottie would -stand in the midst of these evidences of love and kindness, and ask -herself what she could do—she had never been so well off in her life, -what could she do? She had “no claim” upon the Temples, as the Signor -said, “no right” to their kindness. The Captain’s niece, who lived in -St. Michael’s, looked at the interloper, as the nearest relative of a -foolish old couple who were wasting their means upon a stranger might be -excused for looking. What was she doing but living on their charity? -What could she do? Oh, that she had now the voice which she had cared so -little for when she had it! How strange, how strange it all seemed to -her now! She had, she said to herself, a trade, an honest trade in her -hands, and she had not cared for it, had struggled against its exercise, -had not wished to qualify herself for its use; and now it was lost to -her. This was the only thing that was Lottie’s fault; the other strange<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6264" id="page_6264">{vol.-III-264}</a></span> -paradoxes about her had come without any doing of hers. But the result -of all was that, with love and kindness on every side, she had no place -that belonged to her, no right to anything. After the kind people who -were so good to her had gone to their rest, the girl would sit and think -over this problem. What was she to do? To be obliged to think of this -did her good; it took her mind away from the wounds of her heart, it -brought in new objects—new thoughts. She could not dwell for ever, as a -disengaged mind might have done, amid the ruined temples and palaces of -her love; she could not sink to the ground, and conclude, as in happier -circumstances a broken-hearted girl might have been tempted to do, that -all was over. On the contrary, life not being over, nor any end -procurable by means of hers, an entire world of new difficulties and -troubles was brought in which Lottie had to meet, and, as she might, -find a solution for.</p> - -<p>On the day before Law’s departure, which had been so often delayed, she -went back to her father’s house, under her brother’s guardianship, to -take away the few little possessions which remained there. Law had been -a very faithful guardian of Lottie’s little belongings. There was -nothing that Polly would have liked better than to enter and rummage -through her step-daughter’s things, searching for secrets through all -the little drawers and boxes which Lottie had taken a girlish pleasure -in keeping in good order. But Law<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6265" id="page_6265">{vol.-III-265}</a></span> had stood up like a dragon for his -sister’s property; and Captain Despard, who sometimes put himself on -Lottie’s side, by a certain <i>esprit de famille</i> against the wife, who, -after all, was an alien and not one of them, supported Law. Thus the men -of her family, though they had not hesitated to treat her carelessly and -even harshly themselves, yet made a certain stand against the -interference of any other. It was a day in early April when Lottie -reluctantly went into her father’s house on this errand. Polly was out; -the house was vacant and quiet as when it had been her own, and it is -not to be described with what a yearning the girl looked at the shabby -furniture, the old piano, the faded rooms in which she had spent many a -troubled and many a dull day, and beat her wings against the bars of her -cage, and wished for a hundred things which were never to be hers. The -reader knows how far Lottie had been from being happy: but yet she -thought she had been happy, and that nothing better could have been -desired than to be the household Providence, and “take care,” as she -called it, of her father and brother. All that was over. She could not -bear to go into the little drawing-room, where he had visited her, where -she had lived in such a world of dreams. Her heart beat as she went up -the old stairs. She was far better off with the Temples, who could not -pet or serve her enough; yet with what a yearning she came into the -house which had once been hers,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6266" id="page_6266">{vol.-III-266}</a></span> but in which now there was no place for -her! In her own room, thanks to Law’s care, she found everything as she -had left it; and it is not to be told what anguish filled Lottie’s -breast as she looked at her little white dress, all carefully prepared -for the event which was never to happen, and the little box with the -bonnet which she had made in such sweet agitation and tumult of heart. -And there was the pearl locket upon its white ribbon, her sole ornament. -She gathered these things together and carried them, not letting even -Law touch them, to her new home. She could not speak as she went up and -shut herself in her room. A little fire was burning there, a luxury -unknown to Lottie in the days when she was her own mistress, and no one -cared how chilly she might be. Then with old Lear’s “climbing sorrow” in -her throat, she undid the little bit of maidenly finery for which she -had so much wanted a sprig of orange blossom. It was a nothing, a little -knot of tulle and ribbon—a piece of vanity not worthy a thought; so any -moralist would have said who had seen Lottie stand speechless, tearless, -a great sob in her throat, with the poor little bonnet in her hand. A -bonnet, there is nothing tragic in that. She put it upon her fire and -watched the light stuff flame and fall into sudden ashes. It was the -affair of a moment; but those hopes, those prospects of which it had -been the token, her life itself, with all that was beautiful in it, -seemed ended too.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6267" id="page_6267">{vol.-III-267}</a></span></p> - -<p>Then she sat down for the hundredth time and confronted the waste of -darkness that was her life. What was she to do? Perhaps it was the final -ending of her dream, symbolised by the destruction of that bit of tulle -and ribbon, which moved her. For the first time her dreamy -self-questions took a different tone. She asked herself, not what am I -to do? but something more definite. Law was going away the next day, the -only being except her father to whom she had any right, on whom she had -any claim—going away in comfort, in high hope, as much as she could -have desired for him. By whose doing? She had given up the care of Law, -selfishly absorbed in her own hopes; and who was it who had taken her -place and done the thing which Lottie had only wished and longed to do? -She seemed to see him standing before her, with tenderness beyond words -in his eyes. Always her good angel: how often he had interposed to help -her!—from that early time at the Deanery when she had sung false in her -agitation, and he had covered the error and beguiled her into the divine -song which at that very moment she could hear thrilling all the air, -pealing from the Abbey. Was it because this happened to be the afternoon -anthem that she thought of that simple beginning of the Minor Canon’s -benefits? Never since had he failed her; though of all the people upon -whom Lottie had no claim, he it was on whom she had the least claim.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6268" id="page_6268">{vol.-III-268}</a></span> He -had saved Law from his aimless idleness, and it was he who had awakened -herself out of the miserable dream that had almost cost her her life. -How could she repay him for all he had done for her? In one way, one -only way. She shuddered, then stilled herself, and faced the thought -with all the courage she had left. Marry him! If he would have her, if -he wanted her, why should not she marry him? She trembled as the words -came into her mind. It was not she that said them; something seemed to -say them in her mind, without any will of hers. So good a man, so kind. -Did it matter so much whether she liked it, whether she did not like it, -so long as it pleased him? Perhaps this was not the right way in which -such a calculation ought to be made, but Lottie did not think of that. -At all times it had been easier for her to think of others than of -herself. Only once had she pleased herself, and no good had come of it. -Her heart began to beat with a heroic impulse. She was not worth his -having, she whom everyone had cast off; but if he thought so? She -shuddered, yet her heart rose high in her bosom. She would do her best, -she would be a good wife, that would be within her power. She would -serve him humbly, that he might forgive her for not loving him. She rose -up to her feet unconsciously as this great resolution came upon her -mind.</p> - -<p>“Lottie,” said Law at her door, “the service is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6269" id="page_6269">{vol.-III-269}</a></span> over, and the Signor is -practising. Come over to the Abbey with me. I’d like to wander about the -old place a little the last night I am here. Come, it’ll be something to -think of,” said Law, more moved than he liked to show, “when we’re -thousands of miles separate over the sea.”</p> - -<p>Lottie did not wait to be asked again. She hurried to him, glad to be -thus delivered from the thoughts that were getting too much for her. -Long, long months had passed since the brother and sister had gone to -church together, their close vicinity to the Abbey and its frequent -services had broken up the old childish Sunday habits. And it was not -going to church in the ordinary way, but only roaming through to the -silent beautiful place all deserted, with the organ pealing through its -silence. Law’s heart was touched, though he was too successful and -prosperous now to be easily moved. He strayed about the majestic -stillness of the nave with tears in his eyes, thinking—this time -to-morrow! This time to-morrow he would probably be prosaically ill or -prosaically comfortable, and thinking little of what he left. But for -the moment it seemed to Law that when he once was gone, his heart would -turn like that of any poet, to the sweet friends to whom that day he had -said farewell.</p> - -<p>The Abbey was altogether still except for the music. No one was about; -the last ray of the westerly sun had got in among the canopy work over -the stalls,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6270" id="page_6270">{vol.-III-270}</a></span> and tangled itself there. Underneath the shadows of the -evening were creeping dimly, and through the great vault the organ -pealed. What bursts of wonderful sound, what glories in the highest, -what quiverings of praise unspeakable! Lottie raised her face unawares -to the gallery from which that music came. How her life had gone along -with it, shaping itself to that high accompaniment! It had run through -everything, delight and misery alike, good and evil. Her heart was moved -already, and trembling under the touch of new impulses, resolutions, -emotions. She stood still unawares, with her face turned that way, a new -light coming upon it; once more the music got into her soul. With her -head raised, her arms falling by her side, her heart going upwards in an -ecstasy of sudden feeling, she stood spell-bound. She did not hear—how -should she?—a whisper in the organ-loft, a noiseless change of music, -nor see the anxious faces looking out upon her from among the fretwork -of the carved screen. The torrent of sound changed; it breathed into a -celestial softness of sorrow and hope; tears dropped liquid like a -falling of rain; a counter stream of melody burst forth. Lottie did not -know what she was doing, the spell upon her was broken. “I know that my -Redeemer liveth:” she lifted up her voice and sang.</p> - -<p>In the organ loft there was a group which clustered together, scarcely -venturing to breathe. The Signor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6271" id="page_6271">{vol.-III-271}</a></span> was the one who had most command of -himself. “I always knew it would come back,” he said in sharp staccato -syllables, as he played on. Young Purcell, who loved her, sat down in -the shadow and laughed and cried, blubbering not with dignity. The Minor -Canon, who did not once take his eyes from her, waiting the moment that -she might falter or want succour, watched, looking over the carved rail -with face lighted up like her own.</p> - -<p>Thus was Lottie restored to Art; was it to Love too?</p> - -<p class="fint">THE END.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6272" id="page_6272">{vol.-III-272}</a></span></p> - -<p class="fint">PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER.</p> - -<hr class="full" /> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WITHIN THE PRECINCTS ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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