“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 agonyof 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 werepaying 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 whoseanxiety 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 washerthey 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 ifshecould 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 alittle 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.
Lottieran 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 eyeThat youthful maidens wont to fly.
Not his the form nor his the eyeThat youthful maidens wont to fly.
Not his the form nor his the eyeThat 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 hestood 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 unconsciouslyand 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 singthatone 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 momentarytête-à-têtewhich 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, herheart 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 insignificantin 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 theywanted nothing but that you should sing for them and amuse them. They don’t care a rap foryou!”
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 whotheymay 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 peopleIgo 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 meether!” 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 intosometimes 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 akind 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, agentleman!”
“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 whathepleases 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 withLaw’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 criedwith 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 fellowRidsdale 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 whatthatmeans?”
“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 amone 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 towatch 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.
Morningservice 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 hadjust 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 orcame 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 hisprotégésfelt 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 encouragingherto 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 stillmore 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, hehad 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 ownor 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, “tosay 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 forsome little time, “till it had gone off”—for the Captain in some things was a wise man, and prudent as he was wise.
Therewere 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 thisrôle, 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, thoughwithout 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 theMonthly Packet, or something in which instruction was joined with amusement, than from theFamily 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 herpretty 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 whichmade 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 havinghim; 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 goingto 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 theFamily ’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 sayif 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 ofhair, “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 whatshethought. 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 whatshethought; 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, andsuch 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—whatwouldeverybody 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 willsoon 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,thatat 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 noteven 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.