“Well, because of her in one way,” said Law; “because she is always so strong against it, and because I have no money for a start. You don’t suppose that I would mind otherwise? No; Lottie is all very well, but I don’t see why a man should give into her in everything. She will have to think for herself in future, and so shall I. So, if you will tell me what you think I could do, Mr. Ashford; I should say you don’t think I can do anything after that try,” said Law, with an upward glance of investigation, half-wistful, half-ashamed.
“Have you read English literature much? That tells nowadays,” said the Minor Canon. “If you were to give any weight to my opinion, I would tell you to get the papers for the army examination, and try for that.”
“Ah! that’s what I should like,” cried Law; “but it’s impossible. Fellows can’t live on their pay. Even Lottie would like me to go into the army. But it’s not to be done. You can’t live on your pay. English! Oh, I’ve read a deal of stories—Harry LorrequerandSoapy Sponge, and that sort of—rot.”
“I am afraid that will not do much good,” said the Minor Canon, shaking his head. “And, indeed, I fear, if you are going to be successful, you must set to work in a more serious way. Perhaps you are goodat figures—mathematics?—no!—science, perhaps—natural history——”
“If you mean the Zoological Gardens, I like that,” said Law, beginning to see the fun of this examination; “and I should be very fond of horses, if I had the chance. But that has nothing to say to an office. Figures, ha? yes, I know. But I always hated counting. I see you think there is nothing to be made of me. That is what I think myself. I have often told her so. I shall have to ’list, as I have told her.” Law looked at his companion with a little curiosity as he said this, hoping to call forth an alarmed protestation.
But Mr. Ashford was not horrified. He was about to say, “It is the very best thing you could do,” but stopped, on consideration, for Lottie’s sake.
“You are a man to look at,” he said, “though you are young. Has it never occurred to you till now to think what you would like to be? You did not think you could go on for ever stumbling over ten lines of Virgil? I beg your pardon, I don’t mean to be rude; but the most of us have to live by something, and a young man like you ought to have a notion what he is going to be about. You thought of the Civil Service?”
“I suppose Lottie did,” said Law, getting up and seizing his book. “It is all her doing, from first to last; it is she that has always been pushing and pushing. Yes; what’s the use of trying Virgil? I always felt it was all bosh. I don’t know it, and what’s more,I don’t want to know it. I am not one for reading; it’s not what I would ever have chosen; it is all Lottie, with her nagging and her pushing. And so I may go home and tell her you don’t think me fit for anything?” he added suddenly, with a slight break of unexpected feeling in his voice.
“Don’t do anything of the kind. If you would only be open with me, tell me what are your own ideas and intentions——”
“That’s what everybody says,” said Law, with a smile of half-amused superiority; “open your mind. But what if you’ve got no mind to open?Idon’t care what I do; I don’t intend anything; get me in somewhere, and I’ll do the best I can. A fellow can’t speak any fairer than that.”
The Minor Canon looked at him with that gaze of baffled inquiry which is never so effectually foiled as by the candid youth who has no intentions of his own and no mind to open. Law stood before him, stretching out his useless strength, with his useless book again under his arm—a human being thoroughly wasted; no place for him in the Civil Service, no good use in any of the offices. Why shouldn’t he ’list if he wished it? It was the very best thing for him to do. But when Mr. Ashford thought of Lottie this straightforward conclusion died on his lips.
“Why couldn’t you live on your pay?” he said hurriedly. “It is only to exercise a little self-denial.You would have a life you liked and were fit for, and a young subaltern has just as much pay as any clerkship you could get. Why not make an effort, and determine to live on your pay? If you have the resolution you could do it. It would be better certainly than sitting behind a desk all day long.”
“Wouldn’t it!” said Law, with a deep breath. “Ah! but you wouldn’t require to keep a horse, sitting behind your desk; you wouldn’t have your mess to pay. A fellow must think of all that. I suppose you’ve had enough of me?” he added, looking up with a doubtful smile. “I may go away?”
“Don’t go yet.” There sprang up in the Minor Canon’s mind a kindness for this impracticable yet thoroughly practical-minded boy, who was not wise enough to be good for anything, yet who was too wise to plunge into rash expenses and the arduous exertion of living on an officer’s pay—curious instance of folly and wisdom, for even an officer’s pay was surely better than no pay at all. Mr. Ashford did not want to throw Law off, and yet he could not tell what to do with him. “Will you stay and try how much you can follow of young Uxbridge’s work?” he said. “I daresay you have not for the moment anything much better to do.”
Law gave a glance of semi-despair from the window upon the landscape, and the distance, and the morning sunshine. No! he had nothing better to do.It was not that he had any pleasures in hand, for pleasures cost money, and he had no money to spend; and he knew by long experience that lounging about in the morning without even a companion is not very lively. Still he yielded and sat down, with a sigh. Mere freedom was something, and the sensation of being obliged to keep in one place for an hour or two, and give himself up to occupation, was disagreeable; a fellow might as well be in an office at once. But he submitted. “Young Uxbridge?” he said. “What is he going in for? The Guards, I suppose.” Law sighed; ah! that was the life. But he was aware that for himself he might just as easily aspire to be a prince as a Guardsman. He took his seat at the table resignedly, and pulled the books towards him, and looked at them with a dislike that was almost pathetic. Hateful tools! but nothing was to be done without them. If he could only manage to get in somewhere by means of the little he knew of them, Law vowed in his soul he would never look at the rubbish again.
Young Uxbridge, when he came in spick and span, in the freshest of morning coats and fashionable ties—for which things Law had a keen eye, though he could not indulge in them—looked somewhat askance at the slouching figure of the new pupil. But, though he was the son of a canon and in the best society, young Uxbridge was not more studious, and he was by nature even less gifted, than Law. Of two stupid young men,one may have all the advantage over another which talent can give, without having any talent to brag of. Law was very dense with respect to books, but he understood a great deal more quickly what was said to him, and had a play of humour and meaning in his face, and sense of the amusing and absurd, if nothing more, which distinguished him from his companion, who was steadily level and obtuse all round, and never saw what anything meant. Thus, though one knew more than the other, the greater ignoramus was the more agreeable pupil of the two; and the Minor Canon began to take an amused interest in Law as Law. He kept him to luncheon after the other was gone, and encouraged the boy to talk, giving him such a meal as Law had only dreamt of. He encouraged him to talk, which perhaps was not quite right of Mr. Ashford, and heard a great deal about his family, and found out that, though Lottie was right, Law was not perhaps so utterly wrong as he thought. Law was very wrong; yet when he thus heard both sides of the question, the Minor Canon perceived that it was possible to sympathise with Lottie in her forlorn and sometimes impatient struggle against thevis inertiæof this big brother, and yet on the other hand to have an amused pity for the big brother, too, who was not brutal but only dense, gaping with wonder at the finer spirit that longed and struggled to stimulate him intosomething above himself. So stimulated Law never would be. He did not understand even what she wanted, what she would have; but he was not without some good in him. No doubt he would make an excellent settler in the back-woods, working hard there though he would not work here, and ready to defend himself against any tribe of savages; and he would not make a bad soldier. But to be stimulated into a first-class man in an examination, or an any-class man, to be made into a male Lottie of fine perceptions and high ambition, that was what Law would never be.
“But she is quite right,” said Law; “something must be done. I suppose you have heard, Mr. Ashford, as everybody seems to have heard, that the governor is going to marry again?”
“I did hear it. Will that make a great difference to your sister and you?”
“Difference? I should think it would make a difference. As it happens, I know P——, the woman he is going to marry. She makes no secret of it that grown-up sons and daughters shouldn’t live at home. I shall have to leave, whatever happens; and Lottie—well, in one way Lottie has more need to leave than I have: I shouldn’t mind her manners and that sort of thing—but Lottie does mind.”
“Very naturally,” said the Minor Canon.
“Perhaps,” said Law; “but I don’t know where she gets her ideas from, for we never were so very fine. However, I might stand it, but Lottie never will beable to stand it; and the question follows, what is she to do? For myself, as I say, I could ’list, and there would be an end of the matter.”
“But in that case you would not be of much use to your sister.”
Law shrugged his shoulders. “I should be of use to myself, which is the first thing. And then, you know—but perhaps you don’t know—all this is obstinacy on Lottie’s part, for she might be as well off as anyone. She might, if she liked, instead of wanting help, be able to help us all. She might start me for somewhere or other, or even make me an allowance, so that I could get into the army in the right way. When I think of what she is throwing away it makes me furious; she might make my fortune if she liked—and be very comfortable herself, too.”
“And how is all this to be done?” said the Minor Canon somewhat tremulously, with a half-fantastic horror in his mind of some brutal alternative that might be in Lottie’s power, some hideous marriage or sacrifice of the conventional kind. He waited for Law’s answer in more anxiety than he had any right to feel, and Law on his side had a gleam of righteous indignation in his eyes, and for the moment felt himself the victim of a sister’s cruelty, defrauded by her folly and unkindness of a promotion which was his due.
“Look here,” he said solemnly; “all this she could do without troubling herself one bit, if she chose; sheconfessed it to me herself. The Signor has made her an offer to bring her out as a singer, and to teach her himself first for nothing. That is to say, of course, she would pay him, I suppose, when he had finished her, and she had got a good engagement. You know they make loads of money, these singers—and she has got as fine a voice as any of them. Well, now, fancy, Mr. Ashford, knowing that she could set us all up in this way, and give me a thorough good start—she’s refused; and after that she goes and talks about me!”
For a moment Mr. Ashford was quite silenced by this sudden assault. A bold thrust is not to be met by fine definitions, and for the first moment the Minor Canon was staggered. Was there not some natural justice in what the lout said? Then he recovered himself.
“But,” he said, “there are a great many objections to being a singer.” He was a little inarticulate, the sudden attack having taken away his breath. “A lady might well have objections; and the family might have objections.”
“Oh! I don’t mind,” said Law; “if I did I should soon have told her; and you may be sure the governor doesn’t mind. Not likely! The thing we want is money, and she could make as much money as ever she pleases. And yet she talks about me! I wish I had her chance; the Signor would not have to speaktwice; I would sing from morning to night if they liked.”
“Would you work so hard as that? Then why don’t you work a little at your books; the one is not harder than the other?”
“Work! Do you call singing a lot of songswork?” said the contemptuous Law.
“Oh, he did not say much,” Law replied to Lottie’s questioning when he went home in the afternoon. “He was very jolly—asked me to stay, and gave me lunch. How they live, those fellows! Cutlets, and cold grouse, andpâté de foie gras—something like. You girls think you know about housekeeping; you only know how to pinch and scrape, that’s all.”
Lottie did not reply, as she well might, thatpâtés de foie graswere not bought off such allowances as hers; she answered rather with feminine heat, as little to the purpose as her brother’s taunt, “As if it mattered what we ate! If you had grouse or if you had bread-and-cheese, what difference does it make? You care for such mean things, and nothing at all about your character or your living.Whatdid Mr. Ashford say?”
“My character?” said Law. “I’ve done nothing wrong. As for my living, I’m sure I don’t know howthat’sto be got, neither does he. He thinks I should emigrate or go into the army—just what I think myself. He’sveryjolly; a kind of man that knows whatyou mean, and don’t just go off on his own notions. I think,” said Law, “that he thinks it very queer of you, when you could set me up quite comfortably, either in the army or abroad, not to do it. He did not say much, but I could see that he thought it very queer.”
“I—could set you up—what is it you mean, Law?” Lottie was too much surprised at first to understand. “How could I set you up?” she went on, faltering. “You don’t mean that you told Mr. Ashford about—— Oh, Law, you are cruel. Do you want to bring us down to the dust, and leave us no honour, no reputation at all? First thinking to enlist as a common soldier, and then—me!”
“Well, then you. Why not you as well as me, Lottie? You’ve just as good a right to work as I have; you’re the eldest. If I am to be bullied for not reading, which I hate, why should you refuse to sing, which you like? Why, you’re always squalling all over the place, even when there’s nobody to hear you—you could make a very good living by it; and what’s more,” said Law, with great gravity, “be of all the use in the world to me.”
“How could I be of use to you?” said Lottie, dropping her work upon her knee and looking up at him with wondering eyes. This was a point of view which had not struck her before, but she had begun to perceive that her indignation was wasted, and that it was she only in her family who had any idea thata girl should be spared anything. “Law,” she said piteously, “do you think it is because I don’t want to work? Am I ever done working? You do a little in the morning, but I am at it all the day. Do you think Mary could keep the house as it is and do everything?”
“Pshaw!” answered Law, “anybody could do that.”
Lottie was not meek by nature, and it was all she could do to restrain her rising temper. “Mary has wages, and I have none,” she said. “I don’t mind the work; but if there is one difference between the common people and gentlefolk, it is that girls who are ladies are not sent out to work. It is for men to work out in the world, and for women to work at home. Would you like everybody to be able to pay a shilling and go and see your sister? Oh, Law, it is for you as much as for me that I am speaking. Everybody free to stare and to talk, and I standing there before them all, to sing whatever they told me, and to be cheered, perhaps, and people clapping their hands at me—at me, your sister, a girl—— Law! you would not have it; I know you could not bear it. You would rush and pull me away, and cover me with a cloak, and hide me from those horrible people’s eyes.”
“Indeed I should do nothing of the sort,” said Law; “I’d clap you too—I should like it. If they were hissing it would be a different matter. Besides, you know, you could change your name. They allchange their names. You might be Miss Smith, which would hurt nobody. Come, now, if you are going to be reasonable, Lottie, and discuss the matter—why, your great friend Miss Huntington sang at a concert once—not for any good, not to be paid for it—only to make an exhibition of herself (and she was not much to look at either). Don’t you remember? It would be nothing worse than that, and heaps of ladies do that. Then it is quite clear you must do something, and what else would you like to do?”
Lottie frowned a little, not having taken this question into consideration, as it would have been right for her to do; but the things that concerned other people had always seemed to her so much more important. She never had any doubt of her own capabilities and energies. When the question was thus put to her she paused.
“Just now I am at home; I have plenty to do,” she said. Then, after another pause, “If things change here—if I cannot stay here, Law, why shouldn’t we go together? You must get an appointment, and I would take care of you. I could make the money go twice as far as you would. I could help you if you had work to do at home—copying or anything—I would do it. It would not cost more for two of us than for one. I could do everything for you, even your washing; and little things besides. Oh, I don’t doubt I could get quantities of little things to do,” said Lottie,with a smile of confidence in her own powers; “and no one need be the wiser. You would be thought to have enough for us both.”
“Listen to me, now,” said Law, who had shown many signs of impatience, not to say consternation. “What you mean is (ifyou know what you mean), that you intend to live upon me. You needn’t stare; you don’t think what you’re saying, but that is what you really mean when all is done. Look here, Lottie; if I were to get a place I should live in lodgings. I should bring in other fellows to see me. I shouldn’t want to have my sister always about. As for not spending a penny more, that means that you would give me dinners like what we have now; but when I have anything to live on, of my own, I shall not stand that. I shall not be content, I can tell you, to live as we live now. I want to be free if I get an appointment; I don’t want to have you tied round my neck like a millstone; I want to have my liberty and enjoy myself. If it comes to that, I’d rather marry than have a sister always with me; but at first I shall want to have my fling and enjoy myself. And what is the use of having money,” said Law, with the genuine force of conviction, “unless you can spend it upon yourself?”
Lottie was altogether taken by surprise. It was the first time they had thus discussed the question. She made no reply to this utterance of sound reason.She sat with her work on her knee, and her hands resting upon it, staring at her brother. This revelation of his mind was to her altogether new.
“But, on the other side,” said Law, feeling more and more confidence in himself as he became used to the sound of his own voice, and felt himself to be unanswerable, “on the other side, a singer gets jolly pay—far better than any young fellow in an office; and you could quite well afford to give me an allowance, so that I might get into the army as a fellow ought. You might give me a hundred or two a year and never feel it; and with that I could live upon my pay. And you needn’t be afraid that I should be ashamed of you,” said generous Law; “not one bit. I should stand by you and give you my countenance as long as you conducted yourself to my satisfaction. I should never forsake you. When you sang anywhere I’d be sure to go and clap you like a madman, especially if you went under another name (they all do); that would leave me more free. Now you must see, Lottie, a young fellow in an office could not be much good to you, but you could be of great use to me.”
Still Lottie did not make any reply. No more terrible enlightenment ever came to an unsuspecting listener. She saw gradually rising before her as he spoke, not only a new Law, but a new version of herself till this moment unknown to her. This, as wasnatural, caught her attention most; it made her gasp with horror and affright. Was this herself—Lottie? It was the Lottie her brother knew. That glimpse of herself through Law’s eyes confounded her. She seemed to see the coarse and matter-of-fact young woman who wanted to live upon her brother’s work; to make his dinners scanty in order that she might have a share, to interfere with his companions and his pleasures—so distinctly, that her mouth was closed and her very heart seemed to stop beating. Was this herself? Was this how she appeared to other people’s eyes? She was too much thunderstruck, overawed by it, to say anything. The strange difference between this image and her own self-consciousness, her conviction that it was for Law’s advantage she had been struggling; her devotion to the interests of the family before everything, filled her with confusion and bewilderment. Could it be she that was wrong, or was it he that was unjust and cruel? The wonder and suddenness of it gave more poignant and terrible force to the image of her which was evidently in Law’s mind. All the selfish obtuseness of understanding, the inability to perceive what she meant, or to understand the object of her anxiety, which had so wounded and troubled her in Law, her brother had found in her. To him it was apparent that what Lottie wanted was not his good, but that she might have some one to work for her, some one to save her from working. Shegazed not at Law, but at the visionary representation of herself which Law was seeing, with a pang beyond any words. She could not for the moment realise the brighter image which he made haste to present before her of the generous sister who made him an allowance, and enabled him to enter the army “as a fellow ought,” and of whom he promised never to be ashamed. It is much to be doubted whether Lottie had any warm sense of humour at the best of times; certainly she showed herself quite devoid of it now. She was so hurt and sore that she could not speak. It was not true. How could he be so cruel and unjust to her? But yet could it be at all true? Was it possible that this coarse picture was like Lottie, would be taken for Lottie by anyone else? She kept looking at him after he had stopped speaking, unable to take her eyes from him, looking like a dumb creature who has no other power of remonstrance. Perhaps in other circumstances Lottie would have been so foolish and childish as to cry; now she battled vaguely, dismally, with a sense of heartbreaking injustice, yet asking herself could any part of it be true?
“Don’t stare at me so,” said Law; “you look as if you had never seen a fellow before. Though he was civil and did not say anything, it was easy to see that was what old Ashford thought. And I’ve got to go back to him to-morrow, if that will please you; and, by the way, he said he’d perhaps come and see youand tell you what he thought. By Jove, it’s getting late. If I don’t get out at once he’ll come and palaver, and I shall have to stay in and lose my afternoon, as I lost the morning. I’m off, Lottie. You need not wait for me for tea.”
It did not make much difference to her when he went away, plunging down the little staircase in two or three long steps. Lottie sat like an image in stone, all the strength taken from her. She seemed to have nothing left to say to herself—no ground to stand on, no self-explanation to offer. She had exhausted all her power of self-assertion for the moment; now she paused and looked at herself as her father and brother saw her—a hard, scanty, parsimonious housekeeper, keeping them on the simplest fare, denying them indulgences, standing in their way. What if she kept the house, as she fondly hoped, like a gentleman’s house, sweet and fresh, and as fair as its faded furniture permitted? What did they care for tidiness and order? What if she managed, by infinite vigilance and precaution, to pay her bills and keep the credit of the household, so far as her power went, unimpaired? They did not mind debts and duns, except at the mere moment of encountering the latter, and were entirely indifferent to the credit of the name. She was in her father’s way, who before this time would have married the woman who brushed past Lottie on the Slopes but for having this useless grown-up daughter, whom he did not know how to dispose of; and if Law got an appointment (that almost impossible, yet fondly cherished, expectation which had kept a sort of forlorn brightness in the future), it now turned out that she would be in Law’s way as much or more than in her father’s. Lottie’s heart contracted with pain; her spirit failed her. She, who had felt so strong, so capable, so anxious to inspire others with her own energy and force; she, who had felt herself the support of her family, their standard-bearer, the only one who was doing anything to uphold the falling house—in a moment she had herself fallen too, undermined even in her own opinion. Many a blow and thrust had she received in the course of her combative life, and given back with vigour and a stout heart. Never before had she lost her confidence in herself; the certainty that she was doing her best, that with her was the redeeming force, the honourable principle which might yet convert the others, and save the family, and elevate the life of the house. What she felt now was that she herself, the last prop of the Despards, was overthrown and lying in ruin. Was it possible that she was selfish too, seeking her own ease like the rest, avoiding what she disliked just the same as they did? A sudden moisture of intense pain suffused Lottie’s eyes. She was too heartstruck, too fallen to weep. She covered her face with her hands, though there was no one to cover it from, with thenatural gesture of anguish, seeking to be hidden even from itself.
Lottie did not pay much attention, although she heard steps coming up the stair. What did it matter? Either it was Law, who had stricken her so wantonly to the ground; or her father, who did not care what happened to her; or Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, who did not count. Few other people mounted the stairs to the little drawing-room in Captain Despard’s house. But when she raised her head, all pale and smileless, and saw that the visitor was Mr. Ashford, Lottie scarcely felt that this was a stranger, or that there was any occasion to exert herself and change her looks and tones. Did not he think so too? She rose up, putting down her work, and made him a solemn salutation. She did not feel capable of anything more. The Minor Canon drew back his hand, which she did not see, with the perturbation of a shy man repulsed. Lottie was not to him so unimportant a person as she was to her brother. She was surrounded by all the unconscious state of womanhood and mystery and youth—a creature with qualities beyond his ken, wonderful to him, as unknown though visible, and attracting his imagination more than any other of these wonderful mystic creatures, of whom he had naturally encountered many in his life, had ever done. His heart, which had so swelled with pity and admiration on Sunday evening, was not less sympathetic and admiring now, notwithstanding that it was through Law’s eyes that he had been seeing her to-day; and this repulse, which was so unlike her candour and frankness yesterday, gave him a little pain. He wanted to be of use to her, and he wanted to tell her so—and to repel him while he had these generous purposes in his mind seemed hard. He sat down, however, embarrassed, on the chair she pointed him to; and looking at her, when thus brought nearer, he discovered, even with his short-sighted eyes, how pale she was and how woebegone. Some one had been vexing her, no doubt, poor child! This took the shyness out of Mr. Ashford’s voice.
“I have come to make my report,” he said, in as even a tone as he could command, “about Lawrence. He has told you—that he has been with me most of the day?”
“Yes.” When Lottie saw that more than this monosyllable was expected from her, she made an effort to rouse herself. “I fear it is not anything very encouraging that you have to say?”
“I have two things to say, Miss Despard—if you will permit me. Did you ever read Lord Chesterfield’s Letters? But no, perhaps they are not reading for such as you. There are many wickednesses in them which would disgust you, but there is one most tragic, touching thing in them——”
He made a pause; and Lottie, who was young andvariable, and ready to be interested in spite of herself, looked up and asked “What is that?”
“I wonder if I may say it?—it is the effort of the father to put himself—not a good man, but a fine, subtle, ambitious, aspiring spirit—into his son; and the complete and terrible failure of the attempt.”
“I do not know—what that can have to do with Law and me.”
“Yes. Pardon me for comparing you in your generous anxiety to a man who was not a hero. But, Miss Despard, you see what I mean. You will never put yourself into Law. He does not understand you; he is not capable of it. You must give up the attempt. I am only a new acquaintance, but I think I must be an old friend, somehow. I want you to give up the attempt.”
He looked at her with such a kind comprehension and pity in his eyes, that Lottie’s heart sprang up a little from its profound depression, like a trodden-down flower, to meet this first gleam of sunshine. She did not quite see what he meant even now, but it was something that meant kindness and approval of her. “He cannot thinkthatof me!” she said to herself.
“I am glad you will hear me out,” he said, with a look of relief, “for the rest is better. Law is not stupid. He would not be your brother if he were stupid. He is a little too prudent, I think. He willnot hear of emigrating, because he has no money, nor of trying for the army, because he could not live on his pay. Right enough, perhaps, in both cases; but a hot-headed boy would not mind these considerations, and a fellow of resolution might succeed in either way.”
“He has always been like that,” said Lottie. “You see Law does not want anything very much except to be as well off as possible. He would never make up his mind what to try for. He says, anything; and anything means—— Oh! Mr. Ashford, I want to ask you something about myself. Do you think it is just as bad and selfish of me to refuse to be—oh! a public singer? I thought I was right,” said Lottie, putting out her hands with unconscious dramatic action, as if groping her way; “but now I am all in doubt. I don’t know what to think. Is it just the same? Is it as bad of me?”
She looked at him anxiously, as if he could settle the question, and the Minor Canon did not know what reply to make. He was on both sides—feeling with her to the bottom of his heart; yet seeing, too, where the reason lay.
“I am very sure you are doing nothing either bad or selfish,” he said; but hesitated and added no more.
“You won’t tell me,” she cried; “that must mean that you are against me. Mr. Ashford, I have always heard that there was a great difference between girlsand boys; like this: that for a boy to work was always honourable, but for a girl to work was letting down the family. Mamma—I don’t know if she was a good judge—always said so. She said it was better to do anything than work, so as that people should know. There was a lady, who was an officer’s wife, just as good as we were, but they all said she was a governess once, and were disagreeable to her. It seemed a kind of disgrace to all the children. Their mother was a governess——”
“But that is very bad; very cruel,” said the Minor Canon. “I am sure, in your heart, that is not a thing of which you can approve.”
“No,” said Lottie, doubtfully; “except just this—that it would be far more credit, far moreright, if the men were to try hard and keep the girls at home. That is what I thought. Oh, it is not the work I think of! Work! I like it. I don’t mind what I do. But there must always be somebody for the work at home. Do you suppose Mary could manage for them if I were not here? There would be twice as much spent, and everything would be different. And do you not think, Mr. Ashford, that it would be more credit to them—better for everyone, more honourable for Law, if he were at work and I at home, rather than that people should say, ‘His sister is a singer?’ Ah! would you let your own sister be a singer if you were as poor as we are? Or would you rather fight it out with theworld, and keep her safe at home, only serving you?”
“My sister!” said the Minor Canon. He was half-affronted, half-touched, and wholly unreasonable. “That she should never do! not so long as her brother lived to work for her—nor would I think it fit either that she should serve me.”
“Ah, but there you are wrong,” said Lottie, whose face was lighted up with a smile of triumph. “I thought you would be on my side! But there you are wrong. She would be happy, proud to serve you. Do you think I mean we are to be idle, not to take our share? Oh, no, no! In nature a man works and rests; but a woman never rests. Look at the poor people. The man has his time to himself in the evenings, and his wife serves him. It is quite right—it is her share. I should never, never grumble at that. Only,” cried Lottie, involuntarily clasping her hands, “not to be sent outside to work there! I keep Mary for the name of the thing; because it seems right to have a servant; but if we could not afford to keep Mary do you think I would make a fuss? Oh, no, Mr. Ashford, no! I could do three times what she does. I should not mind what I did. But if it came to going out, to having it known, to letting people say, ‘His sister is a governess,’ or (far worse) ‘His sister is a singer’—it is that I cannot bear.”
Mr. Ashford was carried away by this torrent ofwords, and by the natural eloquence of her eyes and impassioned voice, and varying countenance. He did not know what to say. He shook his head, but when he came to himself, and found his footing again, made what stand he could. “You forget,” he said, “that all this would be of no use for yourself or your future——”
“For me!” Lottie took the words out of his mouth with a flush and glow of beautiful indignation. “Was itmeI was thinking of? Oh, I thought you understood!” she cried.
“Let me speak, Miss Despard. Yes, I understand. You would be their servant; you would work all the brightness of your life away. You would never think of yourself; and when it suited them to make a change—say when it suited Law to marry—you would be thrown aside, and you would find yourself without a home, wearied, worn out with your work, disappointed, feeling the thanklessness, the bitterness of the world.”
Lottie’s face clouded over. She looked at him, half-defiant, half-appealing. “That is not how—one’s brother would behave. You would not do it——”
“No; perhaps I would not do it—but, on the other hand,” said Mr. Ashford, “I might do—what was as bad. I might make a sacrifice. I might—give up marrying the woman whom I loved for my sister’s sake. Would that be a better thing to do?”
Their eyes met when he spoke of the woman heloved—that is, he looked at Lottie, who was gazing intently at him; and strangely enough, they could not tell why, both blushed, as if the sudden contact of their looks had set their faces aglow. Lottie instinctively drew back without knowing it; and he, leaning towards her, repeated, almost with vehemence:
“Would that be a better thing to do?”
Lottie hid her face in her hands. “Oh, no, no!” she said, her sensitive frame trembling. Mr. Ashford was old, and Law was but a boy—how could there be any question of the woman either loved?
“Forgive me, Miss Despard, if I seem to go against you—my heart is all with you; but you ought to be independent,” he said. “Either the woman would be sacrificed or the man would be sacrificed. And that kind of sacrifice is bad for everybody. Don’t be angry with me. Sacrifices generally are bad; the more you do for others, the more selfish they become. Have you not seen that even in your little experience? There are many people who never have it in their power to be independent; but those who have should not neglect it—even if it is not in a pleasant way.”
“Even if it is by—being a singer?” She lifted her head again, and once more fixed upon him eyes which were full of unshed tears. Taking counsel had never been in Lottie’s way; but neither had doubt ever been in her way till now. Everything before had been very plain. Right and wrong—two broad lines straight before her; now there was right and wrong on both sides, and her landmarks were removed. She looked at her adviser as women look, to see not only what he said, but whatsoever shade of unexpressed opinion might cross his face.
“It is not so dreadful after all,” he said. “It is better than many other ways. I am afraid life is hard, as you say, upon a girl, Miss Despard. She must be content with little things. This is one of the few ways in which she can really get independence—and—stop, hear me out—the power to help others too.”
Lottie had almost begun a passionate remonstrance; but these last words stopped her. Though she might not like the way, still was it possible that this might be a way of setting everything right? She stopped gazing at her counsellor, her eyelids puckered with anxiety, her face quite colourless, and expressing nothing but this question. Not a pleasant way—a way of martyrdom to her pride—involving humiliation, every pang she could think of; but still, perhaps, a way of setting everything right.
WhenLottie got up next morning the world seemed to have changed to her. It had changed a little in reality, as sometimes one day differs from another in autumn, the world having visibly made a more marked revolution than usual in a single night. It had got on to the end of August, and there were traces of many fiery fingers upon the leaves on the Slopes. It had been a very fine summer, but it was coming prematurely to an end, everybody said, and about the horizon there began to be veils of luminous mist in the morning, and soft haze that veiled the evening light. This autumnal aspect of the world seemed to have come on in that one night. The Virginian creeper round the window had “turned” in several patches of scarlet and yellow all at once. It was beautiful, but it was the first step towards winter and the chills—the first evidence of a year decaying which makes the spectator pause and think. When Lottie woke she felt in her heart that consciousness of something, she knew not what, something that had happened to her, that over-shadowed her, and forced itself upon her before shecould tell what it was, which is the way care manifests itself at our bedsides: something that made her heart heavy the first thing on awaking. Then she remembered what it was. Lottie, we have said, was not a girl who was in the habit of taking advice; but for that once she had taken it, seizing upon the first trustworthy witness she could find who would bring an impartial eye to the problem of her life. She had been very strong in her own opinion before, but when reason was put before her Lottie could not shut her eyes to it. Neither could she dawdle and delay when there was anything to do. She awoke with the consciousness that some ghost was lurking behind her white curtains. Then with a start and shiver remembered and realised it, and, drawing herself together, made up her mind to act at once. What was the use of putting off? Putting off was the reason why Law was so backward, and Lottie was not one of those who let the grass grow under their feet. The more disagreeable the first step was, the more reason was there that it should be taken to-day. She went downstairs with a gleam of resolution in her eyes. After the shock of finding out that there is a painful thing to do, the determination to do it at once is a relief. It brings an almost pleasure into the pain to set your face to it bravely and get done with it; there is thus an exhilaration even in what is most disagreeable. So Lottie felt. Her despondency and depression were gone. Shehad something definite to do, and she would do it, let what obstacle soever stand in the way. She made the family tea and cut the bread with more energy than usual. She was the first visible, as she always was, but her mind was fully occupied with her own affairs, and she was glad enough to be alone for half an hour. After that she had to go up again and knock at her father’s door, to remind him that there was but little time for breakfast before the bell began to ring for matins; but she had taken her own breakfast and begun her work before the Captain and Law came downstairs. When she had poured out their tea for them she sat down in the window-seat with her sewing. She did not take any share in their talk, neither did she watch, as she often did, the stir of morning life in the Dean’s Walk—the tradesmen’s carts going about, the perambulators from the town pushing upward, with fresh nursemaids behind, to the shady walk on the Slopes; now and then a tall red soldier showing against the grey wall of the Abbey opposite; the old Chevaliers beginning to turn out, taking their little morning promenade before the bells began. The stir was usually pleasant to Lottie, but she took no notice of it to-day. She was going to matins herself this morning—not perhaps altogether for devotion, but with the idea, after the service, of lying in wait at the north gate for the exit of the Signor.
How it was that the subject came under discussionLottie did not know. She woke to it only when it came across herself and touched upon her own thoughts. It was Law who was saying something (it was fit for him to say so!), grumbling about the inequality of education, and that girls had just as good a right to work as boys.
“I should like to know,” he said, “why I should have to get hold of a lot of books, and trot over to old Ashford, and work like a slave till one o’clock, while she sits as cool and as fresh as can be, and never stirs?” He was not addressing anybody in particular, but grumbling to the whole world at large, which was Law’s way. Generally his father took no notice of him, but some prick of sensation in the air no doubt moved him to-day.
“Speak of things you know something about,” said the Captain; “that’s the best advice I can give you, Law. And let Lottie alone. Who wants her to work? The fresher she looks and the better she looks, the more likely she is to get a husband; and that’s a girl’s first duty. Is that the bell?” said Captain Despard, rising, drawing himself up, and pulling his collar and wristbands into due display. “Let me hear nothing about work. No daughter of mine shall ever disgrace herself and me in that way. Get yourself a husband, my child; that’s the only work I’ll ever permit—that’s all a lady can do. A good husband, Lottie. If I heard of some one coming forward I’d be happier, Idon’t deny. Bring him to the scratch, my dear; or if you’re in difficulty refer him to me.”
He was gone before Lottie could utter a word of the many that rushed to her lips. She turned upon Law instead, who sat and chuckled behind his roll. “If it had not been for you he would not have insulted me so!” she cried.
“Oh, insulted you! You need not be so grand. They say you may have Purcell if you like,” said Law, “or even the Signor; but it’s the other fellow, Ridsdale, you know, your old flame, the governor is thinking of. If you could catchhimnow! though I don’t believe a fellow like that could mean anything. But even Purcell is better than nothing. If you would take my advice——”
Lottie did not stay to hear any more. He laughed as she rushed out of the room, putting up her hands to her ears. But Law was surprised that she did not strike a blow for herself before she left him. Her self-restraint had a curious effect upon the lad. “Is anything up?” he said to himself. Generally it was no difficult matter to goad Lottie to fury with allusions like this. He sat quite still and listened while she ran upstairs into her own room, which was overhead. Then Law philosophically addressed himself to what was left of the breakfast. He had an excellent appetite; and the bell ringing outside which called so many people, but not him, and the sight of the oldChevaliers streaming across the road, and the morning congregation hurrying along to the door in the cloisters, pleased him as he finished his meal, without even his sister’s eye upon him to remark the ravages he made in the butter. But when he heard Lottie’s step coming down stairs again Law stopped, not without a sense of guilt, and listened intently. She did not come in, which was a relief, but his surprise was great when he heard her walk past the open door of the little dining-room, and next moment saw her flit past the window on the way to the Abbey. He got up, though he had not finished, and stared after her till she, too, disappeared in the cloister. “Something must be up,” he repeated to himself.
Lottie’s silence, however, was not patience, neither was it any want of susceptibility to what had been said. Even this, probably, she would have felt more had her mind not been preoccupied by her great resolution. But when she found herself in the Abbey, abstracted from all external circumstances, the great voice of the organ filling the beautiful place, the people silently filling up the seats, the choir in their white robes filing in, it seemed very strange to Lottie that the service could go on as it did, undisturbed by the beats of her heart and the commotion of her thoughts. Enough trouble and tumult to drown even the music were in that one corner where she leant her shoulder against the old dark oak, finding some comfort in thephysical support. And she did not, it must be allowed, pay very much attention to the service; her voice joined in the responses fitfully, but her heart wandered far away. No, not far away. Mr. Ashford’s counsel, and her father’s, kept coming and going through her mind. Truth to tell, Captain Despard’s decision against the possibility of work gave work an instant value in his daughter’s eyes. We do not defend Lottie for her undutifulness; but as most of the things she had cared for in her life had been opposed by her father, and all the things against which she set her face in fierceness of youthful virtue were supported by him, it could scarcely be expected that his verdict would be very effectual with her. It gave her a little spirit and encouragement in her newly-formed resolution, and it helped her a little to overcome the prejudice in her mind when she felt that her father was in favour of that prejudice. He did not want her to work, to bring the discredit of a daughter who earned her own living upon him; he wanted to sell her to any one who would offer for her, to make her “catch” some man, to put forth wiles to attract him and bring him into her net. Lottie, who believed in love, and who believed in womanhood, with such a faith as perhaps girls only possess: what silent rage and horror filled her at this thought! She believed in womanhood, not so much in herself. For the sake of that abstraction, not for her own, she wanted to be wooedreverently, respected above all. A man, to be a perfect man, ought to look upon every woman as a princess of romance: not for her individual sake so much as for his sake, that he might fall short of no nobleness and perfection. This was Lottie’s theory throughout. She would have Law reverence his sister, and tenderly care for her, because that would prove Law to be of the noblest kind of men. She wanted to be worshipped in order to prove triumphantly to herself that the man who did so was an heroic lover. This was how Rollo had caught her imagination, her deceived imagination, which put into Rollo’s looks and words so much that was not really there. This simple yet superlative thread of romance ran through all her thoughts. She leaned back upon the carved oak of the stall, preoccupied, while the choristers chanted, thinking more of all this than of the service. And then, with a sudden pang, there came across her mind the thought of the descent that would be necessary from that white pedestal of her maidenhood, the sheltered and protected position of the girl at home, which alone seemed to be fit and right. She would have to descend from that, and gather up her spotless robes about her, and come out to encounter the storms of the world. All that had elevated her in her own conceit was going from her—and what, oh! what could he, or anyone, find afterwards in her? He would turn away most likely with a sigh or groan from a girl whocould thus throw away her veil and her crown and stand up and confront the world. Lottie seemed to see her downfall with the eyes of her visionary lover, and the anguish that brought with it crushed her very heart.
Did it ever occur to her that an alternative had been offered for her acceptance? Once, for a moment, she saw Purcell’s melancholy face look down upon her from the organ-loft, and gave him a kind, half-sad, half-amused momentary thought. Poor fellow! she could have cried for the pain she must have given him, and yet she could have laughed, though she was ashamed of the impulse. Poor boy! it must have been only a delusion; he would forget it; he would find somebody of his own class, she said to herself, uneasy to think she had troubled him, yet with the only half-smile that circumstances had afforded her for days past. Captain Despard, had he known, would have thought Purcell’s suit well worthy of consideration in the absence of a better; and the Signor, whom Lottie had made up her mind to address, darted fiery glances at her from the organ-loft, taking up his pupil’s cause with heat and resentment; but she herself sailed serenely over the Purcell incident altogether, looking down upon it from supreme heights of superiority. It did not occur to her as a thing to be seriously thought of, much less in her confusion and anguish, as a reasonable way of escape. And thus the morning wenton, the chanting and the reading, and all those outcries to God and appeals to His mercy which His creatures utter daily with so much calm. Did anybody mean it when they all burst forth, “Lord have mercy upon us, Christ have mercy upon us?” This cry woke Lottie, and her dreaming soul came back, and she held up her clasped hands in a momentary passion of entreaty. The sudden wildness of the cry in the midst of all that stately solemnity of praying caught her visionary soul. It was as if all the rest had missed His ear, all the music and the poetry, King David harping on his harp, and Handel with his blind face raised to heaven; and nothing was left but to snatch at the garments of the Master as He went away, not hearing, not looking, or appearing not to look and hear. This poor young soul in the midst of her self-questionings and struggles woke up to the passionate reality of that cry. “Lord have mercy upon us, Christ have mercy upon us!” and then it went away from her again in thunders of glorious music, in solemnity of well-known words, and she lost herself once more in her own thoughts.
Lottie withdrew timidly into the aisle when the service was over. She knew the Signor would pass that way, and it seemed to her that it would be easier to speak to him there than to go to his house, which was the only other alternative. But the Signor, when he came out, was encircled by a group of his pupils,and darted a vengeful, discouraging glance at her as he passed. He would not pause nor take any notice of the step she made towards him, the wistful look in her face. If he had seen it, it would have given him a certain pleasure to disappoint Lottie, for the Signor had a womanish element in him, and was hot and merciless in his partisanship. He cast a glance at her that might have slain her, that was as far from encouraging her as anything could be, and passed quickly by, taking no other notice. Thus her mission was fruitless; and it was the same in the afternoon, when she went out by the north door and made believe to be passing when the musician came out. To do him justice, he had no notion that she wanted him, but wondered a little to find her a second time in his way. He was obliged, as it was outside the Abbey, to take off his hat to her; but he did so in the most grudging, hasty way, and went on talking with his pupils, pretending to be doubly engaged and deeply interested in what the lads were saying. There was no chance then, short of going to his house, of carrying out her resolution for this day.
But in the evening, when all was still, Lottie, who had been sitting at home working and thinking till her heart was sick and her brain throbbing, put on her hat and went out in the dusk to get the air at the door. It was a lovely, quiet night, the moon rising over the grey pinnacles of the Abbey, marking out itsgreat shadow upon the Dean’s Walk, and the mignonette smelling sweet in all the little gardens. A few of the old Chevaliers were still about, breathing the sweetness of the evening like Lottie herself. Captain Temple, who was among them, came up to her with his old-fashioned fatherly gallantry as soon as he saw her. “Will you take a turn, my dear?” he said. He had no child, and she had never had, so to speak, any father, at least in this way. They went up and down the terrace pavement, and then they crossed the road to the Abbey, from which, though it was so late, the tones of the great organ were beginning to steal out upon the night. “Is this a ghost that is playing, or what can the Signor be thinking of?” Captain Temple said. Old Wykeham, that gruff old guardian of the sacred place, was standing with his keys in his hands at the south door. He had not his usual rusty gown nor his velvet cap, being then in an unofficial capacity; but Wykeham would not have been Wykeham without his keys. And though he was gruff he knew to whom respect was due. “Yessir, there’s something going on inside. One o’ the Signor’s fancies. He have got some friends inside, a playing his voluntaries to them. And if you like, Captain, I will let you in in a moment, sir.” “Shall we go, my dear?” the old Captain said. And next moment they were in the great gloom of the Abbey, which was so different in its solemnity from the soft summer dark outside. There was a gleamof brilliant light in the organ-loft where the Signor was playing, which threw transverse rays out on either side into the darkness, showing vaguely the carved work of the canopies over the stalls, and the faded banners that hung over them. Down in the deep gloom of the choir below a few figures were dimly perceptible. Lottie and her kind old companion did not join these privileged listeners. They kept outside in the nave, where the moon, which had just climbed the height of the great windows, had suddenly burst in, throwing huge dimly-coloured pictures of the painted glass upon the floor. Lottie, who was not so sensible as she might have been, preferred this partial light, notwithstanding the mystic charm of the darkness, which was somewhat awful to look in upon through the open door of the choir. She put her hand, a little tremulous, on the old Captain’s arm, and stood and listened, feeling all her troubles calmed. What was it that thus calmed her perturbed soul? She thought it was the awe of the place, the spell of the darkness and the moonlight, the music that made it all wonderful. The Signor was playing a strange piece of old music when the two came in. It was an old litany, and Lottie thought as she listened that she could hear an unseen choir in the far distance, high among the grey pinnacles, on the edge of the clouds, intoning in intricate delicate circles of harmony the responses. Was it the old monks? Was it the angels? Who could tell? “Lottie,my love, that is thevox humanastop,” said the kind old Captain, who knew something about it; and as he, too, was no wiser than other people, he began to whisper an explanation to her of how it was. But Lottie cared nothing about stops. She could hear the solemn singers of the past quiring far off at some unseen altar, the softened distant sweetness of the reply. Her heart rose up into the great floating circling atmosphere of song. She seemed to get breath again, to get rest to her soul: a strange impulse came over her. She, who was so shy, so uncertain of her power, so bitterly unwilling to adopt the trade that was being forced upon her: it was all that she could do to keep herself from singing, joining to those mystical spiritual voices her own that was full of life and youth. Her breast swelled, her lips came apart, her voice all but escaped from her, soaring into that celestial distance. All at once the strain stopped, and she with it, coming down to the Abbey nave again, where she stood in the midst of the dim reflected rubies and amethysts and silvery whites of a great painted window, giddy and leaning upon the old Chevalier.
“It was thevox humana. It is too theatrical for my taste, my dear. It was invented by——”
“Oh, hush, hush!” cried Lottie, under her breath; “he is beginning again.”
This time it was the “Pastoral Symphony” the Signor played—music that was never intended for thechill of winter, but for the gleaming stars, the soft falling dews, the ineffable paleness and tenderness of spring. It came upon Lottie like those same dews from heaven. She grasped the old man’s arm, but she could not keep herself from the response which no longer seemed to come back from any unseen and mystic shrine. Why should the old monks come back to sing, or the angels have the trouble, who have so much else to do, when Lottie was there? When the “Pastoral Symphony” was over the Signor went on, and she with him. Surely there must have been some secret understanding that no one knew of—not themselves. He played on unconscious, and she lifted up her head to the moonlight and her voice to heaven and sang—