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, whatarethey 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.Ourposition! 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 doto 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 noneof 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 shepaused 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 themusic. 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.
Lottiewas 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 rudeto 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. Itwasa 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 tome.”
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,oughtto 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 wasthat.” 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 beme!’”
“I think I understand—a little,” said Rollo doubtfully; “though it is simplyyouthat makes a something quite familiar, a piece of music we have all heard a hundred times, become a new revelation to us all in amoment. 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 himquite 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 theywere 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 earlythat 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 letsuch 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, andthen 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 youthink? 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, butlow, 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!
TheDespard 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 therapprochementwhich 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 lessold 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 separatedfrom 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 seeher 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 thinkheshould 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. Hiseyes 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 Pickeringhad 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, withpious 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 tillI’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 itwill 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 witha ladyflattered 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 theworld 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 nobodywould 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 callherPolly. 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 goodwomen 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 sacrificefor 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 spiritwas 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 pridewhich 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 seehernow 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 underwhich 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.
COLLECTIONOFB R I T I S H A U T H O R STAUCHNITZ EDITION.VOL. 1824.WITHIN THE PRECINCTS BY MRS. OLIPHANT.IN THREE VOLUMES.VOL. II.