There were shepherds watching their flocks by night.
There were shepherds watching their flocks by night.
There were shepherds watching their flocks by night.
Lottie let go her hold of the Captain’s arm. She wanted no support now. She wanted nothing but to go on, to tell all that divine story from end to end. It got possession of her. She did not remember even the changes of the voices; the end of one strain and another was nothing to her. She sang through the whole of the songs that follow each other without a pause or a falter. And like her, without questioning, without hesitation, the Signor played on. It was not till she had proclaimed into the gloom that “His yoke is easy and His burden light” that she came to herself. The last chords thrilled and vibrated through the great arches and died away in lingering echoes in the vast gloom of the roof. And then there was a pause.
Lottie came to herself. She was not overwhelmed and exhausted by the effort, as she had been at the Deanery. She felt herself come down, as out of heaven, and slowly became aware of Captain Temple looking at her with a disturbed countenance, and old Wykeham in all the agitation of alarm. “If I’d have known I’d never have let you in. It’s as much as my place is worth,” the old man was saying; and Captain Temple, very kindly and fatherly, but troubled too, and by no means happy, gave her his arm hurriedly. “I think we had better go, my dear,” he said; “I think we had better go.”
Some one stopped them at the door—some one who took her hand in his with a warmth which enthusiasm permitted.
“I knew it must be you, if it were not one of the angels,” he said; “one or the other. I have just come; and what a welcome I have had—too good for a king!”
“I did not know you were here, Mr. Ridsdale,” said Lottie, faintly, holding fast by Captain Temple’s arm.
“But I knew you were here; it was in the air,” he said, half-whispering. “Good-night; but good-night lasts only till to-morrow, thank heaven.”
Captain Templewas not happy about the events of that evening. He had begun to grow very fond of Lottie, and he was not pleased that she should have “made an exhibition of herself.” He went over it so often to his wife that Mrs. Temple learned the incident by heart. There was in her mind, mingled with an intense silent interest in the girl who was like her own, a feeling of repulsion too, equally intense and silent, which joined with the opposite sentiment, and kept Lottie as constantly present to her mind as she was in the Captain’s talk. And, though it sometimes appeared to her that she would die of this girl, who reminded her at every step that she had lost her child, yet she could not check her husband’s ever-flowing, continually repeated talk on the subject. Mrs. Temple thought this was all for his sake. Sometimes, in the bitterness of her loss, she would cry out that she loathed the very name of this other, who was so well and bright and full of life, while her child was dead and gone; but, notwithstanding, Lottie had gradually come to hold a large place in her life. How couldshe help thinking of her? Grudging her very life and brightness, repenting her grudge, praying God’s blessing on the girl whom she thus injured, avoiding her, fearing the sight of her, watching for her whom she feared; how could it be but that Mrs. Temple, in her lonely hours, should think of Lottie? She was the confidant now of the old Captain’s regret.
“I thought she was a sweet, modest girl,” he said, shaking his head; “shy, even—as I like a girl to be—very like—— My dear, I cannot bear a girl to make an exhibition of herself——”
“But if there was no one to see her, and if you were in the dark?”
“That is true, my dear; but if they did not see her they heard her. Such a voice! I wish you had been there—but that sort of public use of it—and to have the confidence to sing when she was not asked!” Captain Temple shook his head. He seemed to have done nothing but shake his head since last night.
“Do you think that the more she has a beautiful voice the less she should let it be heard?” said his wife. “I am not so taken up with this Miss Despard as you are; but still I think you are unjust to her.”
“Perhaps I am unjust to her. How can I help being taken up with her? If you knew her as well you would be taken up with her too. And I wish you did; it would be a comfort to you. In everything she does, her walk,every little gesture, I see something that reminds me—— I know you don’t like to speak of it, my dear.”
Mrs. Temple set her face like a rock while the old Captain talked on. He did nothing but speak of it, and she would not stop him. Had she not noticed the girl’s walk? When Lottie passed Mrs. Temple turned from the window, feeling as if some one had given her a blow. Yet what had she gone to the window for but to watch for Lottie? And she was more just to her than was the old Captain, who could not bear any falling off in his ideal, who thought that a girl should never make an exhibition of herself, and did nothing for a week after but shake his head.
The singing, however, made a great excitement in the Cloisters. It was only a select few who had been there to hear; and they thought it was all the Signor’s arrangement, who had provided for them so much greater a pleasure than they expected—or, rather, an additional pleasure. “Who was it?” everybody asked. Was it possible it could be little Rowley? But it was inconceivable that a mere child like that could have taken the contralto solo as well as the soprano. But was it certain that there was only one voice? The darkness was deceptive, and all the circumstances were so unusual, so out of the ordinary. When you came to think of it, it could not be one voice. It must have been little Rowley and Mellor, the big boy, whosecontralto was famous. At that distance, and in the dark, it was easy to deceive yourself and think there was only one person singing. There was nothing talked about next morning but this wonderful incident, and both the people who had been there and the people who had not been there (who were piqued, and felt themselves neglected, as a matter of course) discussed it with the utmost excitement. Even before the hour of matins, old Pick, who was out upon his master’s business and Mrs. Purcell’s errands, was twice interviewed on the subject. The first time it was Rowley, the tenor, who assailed him, whose boy was the first soprano, and whose rights were attacked. “I should just like to know what the Signor is up to,” Rowley said. “He’s always got some new fad or other in his head. He’ll have us all up next into that organ-loft, like a set of Christy Minstrels. Hanged if I’ll go!”
“Anyhow, you’ll wait till you’re asked,” said old Pick.
“I don’t advise him to askme. And, look here! I want to know who it was. If he’s bringing in somebody in the dark, on the sly, to put them boys’ noses out!—you never can tell what a foreign fellow’s up to. I don’t know a voice like that, not in the Abbey. If he’s smuggling in a new boy, without no warning, to take the bread out of folks’ mouths, by George, I won’t stand it! I’ll go to the Dean about it! Tommy’s cried hisself hoarse. He couldn’t eat his breakfast, poor little beggar! and he’s got ‘Hear my prayer’ this morning. Hanged if I don’t think it’s all a scheme against me and my boy! That ain’t a child’s voice. There’s a touch of falsetto in it, if I know anything about music. It won’t last, not a month. I’ve heard them come out like that, that you could hear them a mile off, just before they break.”
“Then you were there, Mr. Rowley?” said old Pick; “I thought there was only the folks from the Deanery there.”
“I wasn’t there. Catch me in the Abbey when I’m not wanted! I have enough of it, practising and bothering from morning till night. The Signor’s very good for the organ. I don’t say nothing against that; but he don’t know much about Englishmen. You do no justice to your voice when you never give yourself no rest; but he can’t understand that. I heard it outside. Pick, there’s a good old fellow, you know what it is yourself, and I’m sure we’re always glad to see you when you look in at our little place. Tell us what’s up—who is it? Tommy will have to go in time. I don’t say nothing against that. But he’s not twelve, poor little beggar, and his voice is as clear as a bell. He’s fit to fret himself into a fever if they take the first solos from him. Tell us what the Signor’s up to, and who he’s got coming in? I say it’s a shame,” saidthe tenor, rising again into vehemence. “Them that is on the spot, and belonging to the place, and bred up in the Abbey all their lives, hanged if they should be turned out for strangers! I don’t see the fun of that.”
“If you’ve done, Mr. Rowley, I think I’ll go,” said Pick; upon which Rowley swore under his breath that it wasn’t like an old friend to give a fellow no answer, and that he didn’t know what he and Tommy had done to offend the Signor. To this old Pick made no reply, being himself extremely indignant not to know anything about the mystery in question. He had heard of no new boy—“nor anything as is new,” Pick said to himself with warmth as he hurried through the enclosure which belonged to the lay clerks, where a great many people were at the doors and windows, and the excitement was general. It was natural that Pick should be indignant. So little as there ever was to hear or report within the Precincts, to think something should have happened under his very nose, in the Abbey, and he not know! The Signor was a good master, and the place was comfortable; but there are things which no man can be expected to stand. Even Mr. John had not said a word about any novelty. If he had told his mother, then the housekeeper had been as treacherous as the rest, and had not breathed a word to Pick. It was a thing that no man could be expected to put up with. Here were two ladies nowbearing down upon him, full of curiosity—and that Pick should have to confess that he didn’t know!
“Oh, Pickering! you must know—who was it that was singing in the Abbey last night? A very extraordinary thing for the Signor to countenance. He did not askus; he knew it would be of no use, for neither my husband nor I approve of such proceedings; making the Abbey, our beautiful Abbey, into a kind of music-hall! I hear it was a lady: the very worst taste, and anythingsounecclesiastical! Women don’texistin the Church—not as taking any part—but these are points which foreigners never will understand,” said the lady, with a sigh.
“It was odd having such a performance at all, for a few privileged persons. I thought the Abbey, at least,” said the second lady, “was for all.”
“Don’t go, Pickering; you haven’t answered my question. If I were you, being a man of experience, and having known the Abbey so long as you have done, I would give a hint to your master. You should tell him people here don’t like that sort of thing. It may do very well abroad, or even in town, where there are all sorts; but it does not do in St. Michael’s. You should tell him, especially as he is only half English, to be more careful. Stop a little, Pickering! You have not answered my question yet.”
“Beg your pardon, ma’am, but you didn’t give me no time,” said Pick.
“Do not be impertinent, Pickering. I asked you a plain question, and I told you what I should do in your place. A man like you, that has been so long about the Abbey, might be of great use to your master. You should tell him that in England a lady is never suffered to open her mouth in church. I never heard of anything so unecclesiastical. I wonder the Dean does not interfere—a man of good Church principles as he is, and with so much at stake. I really wonder the Dean does not interfere.”
“Oh, the Dean!” said the other lady; “and as for Church principles——”
But just then there was a tremble in the air with the first movement of the matin bells, and, without compromising his dignity or showing his ignorance, old Pick made good his escape. He went home in anything but an amiable state of mind, and went straight to the kitchen, where Mrs. Purcell was busy, as was natural at this time of the day, putting all in order and arranging for the Signor’s dinner. The luncheon Mary Anne was quite equal to, but some one was coming to dinner, for whom Mrs. Purcell intended to exercise all her powers. Pick went in with a fierce glow of indignant animation, with his roll of commissions fulfilled and unfulfilled.
“There’s no sweetbreads to be had,” he said, “till Saturday; they’ll save you a pair on Saturday, if you send the order with the man when he comes; butthey’ll be six-and-six, if you think that too dear. (Dear! I should think it was dear. How much o’ that goes to the veal, I wonder, and the man as fed it?) And as for game! you might as well go a-shooting on the Slopes; and what there is bringing its weight in gold. I wouldn’t give in, if I was you, to that fashion about grouse. It’s all a fashion. Nobody ever thought of grouse in my young days, and coming after they’ve eat everything as they can set their face to. What should they want with it? I’ve brought you the lemons. Many a man wouldn’t be seen carrying a bag o’ lemons all the way up the hill; and everything’s kep’ from me, just because I’m too humble-minded, and don’t make no stand, nor mind what I do.”
“What’s been kep’ from you, Pick?” said Mrs. Purcell, pausing in her work to look at him. Then she added, “There’s been a deal of talking in the study. I’ve picked up a word or two about some woman, for they were going on about She; and She—but whether it’s that Miss Despard, or who it is, John’s never said a word to me.”
“It don’t need a witch to tell that it’s a woman,” said Pick; but he was relieved. “That fellow Rowley’s been at me, and one of the ladies round the corner; but they both had so much to say that I got off, and neither the one nor the other found out as I hadn’t a notion what they were talking about,” the old man added, with a chuckle. “It’s some new voice, as faras I can make out, as master has got hold of for the Abbey: and quite right too. Tommy Rowley’s got a pretty little bit of a voice, and he’s only twelve; but some voices goes sooner than others. The ladies thought as it was a woman; but that’s impossible. They were quite in a way. They said it was uneck—some thin’ or other—Dissenting-like, as I took it up—and that the Signor ought to be ashamed of hisself——”
“Master?” said Mrs. Purcell, opening her eyes wide; “but I hope you didn’t stand there and hear them say any harm of the Signor?”
“They told me as I was to give him good advice,” said Pick, still chuckling; “but all the same, ma’am, I don’t think as Mr. John should keep a thing from his mother. Where’s the young man as owes as much to his mother as that young man owes to you?”
“Not to me, to his own deservings; he’s been a lad that has done credit to everyone as has been kind to him, Pick, and never forgets nobody as has been kind to him; but he’s not the young man he was. He’s lost all his smiles and his fun since he had that disappointment. I don’t wish Miss Despard no harm, but I wish she had been a hundred miles from here, and my John had never seen her. Young women have a great deal to answer for,” said Mrs. Purcell, with a sigh.
“Young women haven’t much to answer for, so far as I’m concerned; nor master neither, so far as I cansee,” said Pick, going off to his work with a comfortable consciousness that, this being the case, it did not matter so much about Mr. John.
But, if the community was thus stirred in general, words cannot tell the excitement that this strange incident created in the organ-loft. The Signor told Purcell after, that he could not tell what it was that made him go on when he had come to an end of the “Pastoral Symphony,” and play “There were Shepherds.” He had not meant to do it. He had intended to make the other the finale of his performance. There was such a feeling of night in it, the Signor said, the grass growing in the dark, and the stars shining, and the dew coming down. He meant to end there; he knew Mr. Ridsdale was a modern man and an opera man, and did not care so very much for Handel. Still he had meant to end with that; but when it came to the last chords he was not his own master, and he went on. As for Purcell, there was no need for anyone to tell him whose that voice was. Though he was at the moment helping to “blow,” he nearly compromised the whole performance by darting to the other side of the organ-loft and gazing down into the darkness to see her. Happily the other man who was there, the professional blower, was taken by no such vagaries and kept on steadily. “And I saw her,” Purcell said, “standing in the moonlight with all the colours of the rainbow about her, like the nimbus round the heads inMr. Clayton’s new window.” The young fellow was quite struck by this sight. He thought it must mean something: he thought even she must be relenting towards himself, and had taken this strange way of showing it. The Signor was greatly moved too, but he did not take that view of the subject. He was a true artist himself, and he knew that there are impulses which get the better of people who are of this race. He patted his assistant on the arm, and told him not to build on it. But what then could it mean? young Purcell said; and it was difficult to answer. They both of them came down from their lofty gallery afterwards in great excitement, and the Signor, confused, received the enthusiastic thanks of his audience. “What a pleasure you have given us!” they said; “you have been better than your word. What exquisite playing, and what an exquisite voice! You don’t mean to say that was a boy, Signor?”—They asked the question, but they all believed, of course, that it was a boy. To think that little Rowley, because it was dark and nobody saw him, should have been able to sing like that! No one suspected the truth except Rollo Ridsdale, who came up to the musician in the dark nave and gripped him by the arm, so that he hurt the sensitive Italian-Englishman, whose nerves were all on the surface. “Did you do it on purpose?” Rollo cried, excited too—“I shall give up the opera and take to oratorios—did you do it on purpose?” “Didyoudo it onpurpose?” said the Signor, who up to this moment had supposed in his excitement that Ridsdale’s coming must have had something to do with it. But after that question, which Rollo did not distinctly hear, the Signor changed his tone and hid his own astonishment, and accepted the applauses addressed to him on the admirable device by which he had given his hearers a double pleasure. And Purcell and he went home with their heads full of a hundred conjectures. Who had brought her in? how did she know of it even? Old Wykeham had kept his own counsel—he did not know whether he might not be supposed to have taken too much upon him had it been known; and, though he heard the two musicians talking of this miracle, he threw no light upon it, which he might have done so easily. Who could have told her? who could have brought her in? Purcell could not but think that her coming was a sign of relenting, that she was thus making a kind of celestial intimation that all was not over. This raised him into a very ecstasy of hope.
The Signor had other thoughts. He thought of nothing else all night; the sympathy and comprehension of an artist filling his mind and driving away the almost dislike with which, after her rejection of hisprotégé, he had been disposed to regard Lottie. Whatever might happen to Purcell, here was something which had never happened to himself in his life before. No doubt it had been a sudden impulse, likethat which had made her fly trembling and pale with excitement, from himself and them all, in the drawing-room of the Deanery. This time the impulse had been the other way, and she had obeyed it. He had subjugated her by waiting her time, and, by what was much more pleasant to think of, the spell of his music, which had gone to her heart. Let it not be supposed that any sentiment about Lottie had begun to creep into the Signor’s heart. Young women, as Pick said, had little to answer for as far as he was concerned. He was all artist and not much else; but, with a glow through his being which answered, let us suppose, to the high throb of satisfaction which goes through persons who talk about their hearts, he said to himself, “She shall not escape me this time!” He knew more of Lottie than Rollo Ridsdale did. And he knew that he could make more of her than Rollo could make of her. He could make of her much more than was dreamed of in Rollo’s philosophy. He knew what she needed, and he could give it to her. In his hands, the Signor thought, this simple English girl might rise to the level of the Malibrans, of the Pastas. There should be no one able to stand before her.
It is to be feared he was thinking of this more than of the music as he played through King in F, which was the service for that morning. And he left Purcell to play the voluntary and stole out unobserved, though it was indecorous, before the congregation haddispersed. He threaded through the dim aisles and the cloisters, before Wykeham had time to call attention to him by hobbling after him with his jangling keys. He, like Lottie, had resolved to give himself no time to think of it, to do it at once. Ridsdale!—What a vain fool he was, talking about giving up opera and taking to oratorios! What could he do with her, if he had got her? His manager had rejected Lottie, and gone off after that voice at Milan. What fools they all were! and what would be the advantage to Ridsdale of having this voice untrained on his hands? What could he do with her? but there was nothing she might not do under the guidance of the Signor.
It was still early when he reached the little house: Lottie had not attempted to go out this morning to see the Signor, she was too much shaken by her escapade of last night. How could she have done it? She, who had loathed the idea of becoming a singer! She had made a singer of herself by her own act and deed, and she felt the full meaning of what she had done. She had got up early, unable in her excitement to sleep, and tingling still with the consequences of this strange, unpremeditated, unintended self-betrayal. What was it that had made her do it? She had got her work, and she had placed herself near the window—not so near as to be seen, yet near enough to be able to glance out and see anyone who might be coming that way. There were things to be done inthe house, domestic operations of more importance than the needlework. But Lottie said to herself that they could wait—oh, they could wait! In the meantime what was best was, that she should be ready in case anyone called, ready to see anybody that might come over the road across the sunshine, in the morning quiet. “Good night; but only till to-morrow”—what was it that had conveyed to her the consciousness that he was there? The Abbey had been dark—she had not been thinking of him—certainly she had not known that he was looked for; and yet, what but the sense that he was there would have made her do what she had done? She had sung unwillingly, unwittingly, in spite of herself, because he was there. It all seemed quite plain to Lottie. He it was (she thought) who had first made her aware that this gift of hers was anything worth thinking of; he it was who had first given her the supreme pleasure of consciousness, who had shown to her the happiness she could bestow. Her voice (as she thought), if after all it was really worth anything, if it was the thing he thought it, the thing it sounded like last night—belonged to him. It was his spiritually; he had discovered it, and revealed it to herself. She had not been aware what she was doing; but unconsciously it was to him she was singing, when her voice escaped from her: it was a welcome to him—and he had accepted it as his welcome. Lottie gave a glance from her window, andthought she saw some one coming across the broad sunshine in the Dean’s Walk. Her heart gave a louder beat—hewas coming. She made no mystery now about it; the preliminaries were all over. He came for her—who else? he had never concealed it; he had come for her long ago. She could not tell how long ago it was since he had first caught a glimpse of her at the window. Always since then it had been for her that he came: content at first to watch outside her window; then, with a lover’s ingenuity, finding out ways of meeting her; then venturing, bold yet timid, always reverential, to her home—and now at length what was coming? He was coming. And she had withdrawn the veil from her heart, and seen and acknowledged what was there. It was for him she sang: without knowing it, her heart had been aware of his presence; and now he was coming. Lottie drew back in the shade of the great leaves which garlanded her window. The next moment he would be here——
But it was only the Signor.
TheSignor came in with some suppressed excitement about him, which he concealed under an air of perfect calm, but which betrayed itself in the gleam of his eyes and the rapidity of his movements. He saw in a moment that he had bitterly disappointed Lottie, whose countenance changed as she saw him—changed from glowing expectation to that sudden pallor and sickness of departing hope which seems to carry all the life out of a face. He saw it, and he understood; he had the quickness of perception which belonged to his Italian origin, and he had, as we have said, a great deal that was feminine in him—this among the rest, that he could divine and read the meanings of a face. He saw at once what it was. She had expected, not him, but another. The Signor was very sorry for Lottie. He had been angry, almost spitefully angry, about her rejection of his favourite pupil; but she had made her peace with him last night, and all her offences had been condoned. He was very sorry for her. She had been looking for Ridsdale, and Ridsdale had not come. The Signor felt that he himself was a much safer andbetter visitor for her; but, all the same, he was sorry for Lottie. He bowed with a depth of respect, which, indeed, he showed to all ladies. He was more of an Italian than an Englishman in this point; he was always ceremonious and stately to women, bowing to the ground, taking the hand offered to him reverentially, as if he meant to kiss it. This ceremony gave Lottie a little time to recover herself, and after all it was very early. The voluntary was still sounding from the Abbey (how had the Signor got away so soon?), and thoughhehad not appeared yet, that was not to say that he was not coming. She took her seat again, with the colour coming back.
“I do not know how to speak to you,” he said; “how to thank you for last night——”
“Oh! so long as you do not think me very presumptuous—very bold. I—could not help it. It was the music that went to my head,” said Lottie, very tremulous, giving a hasty glance at him and then turning her head away.
“It is just because the music goes to your head that I have such high hopes—Miss Despard,” said the Signor; “let bygones be bygones, won’t you? and let us be friends.”
“We never quarrelled that I know of,” said Lottie, slightly alarmed; and, for his part, the Signor was confused, thinking of Purcell, of whose misadventure he had, of course, no right to know.
“You were not pleased with me,” he said. “I did not worship your voice as some people do. I told you plainly that you wanted instruction. So you do still. Your voice is lovely, Miss Despard, and you have the soul of an artist. You can forget yourself. Little singers never forget themselves; they are always in the foreground, seeing their own personality everywhere; but it is very different with you.”
Lottie did not say anything in reply. She felt vaguely that he was giving her praise, but she did not mind. Was that someone coming in below? but it was only Captain Despard returning in after matins. The Signor, always so quick, felt again the flutter in her, and knew what her expectation was.
“You were once very angry with me for making a—an application to you. You thought I meant to be disrespectful? Ah, no. I could not fail of respect to a lady, Miss Despard; but I saw in you what I see still more clearly now.”
“Signor!” said Lottie, rousing herself up to seize the opportunity, with a bewildered feeling that it was right to do it, that if she did not do it now, she never might; and, finally, that to do it might propitiate fate and make it unnecessary to be done—“Signor—let me tell you first. I went to the Abbey yesterday on purpose to see you, to say to you—— ah, here is some one coming to interrupt us.”
“Yes, there is some one coming to interrupt us,” cried the Signor almost bitterly; this time there could be no doubt who it was; “but first, one word before he comes. You were coming to tell me that you consented—that you would be my pupil?”
She could scarcely pay any attention to him, he saw. What a thing to think of, that a girl like this, a woman with genius, should let an empty-headed coxcomb come between her and all that was worth caring for, between her and Art! She gave him a confused, half-guilty look, which seemed like a confession of weakness, and nodded only in reply. Nodded! when a proposal was made to her such as the Muse might have made to her chief favourite, when the gates of the Palace of Art were being rolled open wide to admit her. In that moment, Lottie, all pre-occupied by the advent of a mere man of fashion, in music not more than a charlatan, in honour not much to brag of, gave her consent to the arrangement which was to fashion her life by—a nod. Heaven and earth! what a demonstration of female folly! Could the Signor be anything but vexed? He could hardly restrain his impatience, as Rollo came in, all eager and smiling, easy and cordial even to himself. The Signor, though he was as innocent of sentiment as old Pick, looked like nothing in the world so much as a scared, jealous, and despairing lover, watching, in spite of himself, the entrance of the conquering hero, for whom all the songs were sung and all the welcomes said.
“I might have known I should find Rossinetti here,” said Rollo, “as he is an earlier bird than I am. Where could we all flock this morning but here? You have been thanking Miss Despard for her divine singing last night. My life, what singing it was! I have never heard anything like it. Miss Despard, I have come to announce to you my conversion. I abjure opera as I abjure the pope. Henceforward Handel is my creed—so long as you are his interpreter,” he added, sinking his voice.
“Yes,” said the Signor. “Miss Despard will sing very well if she works; but we are far yet from the highest excellence of which such a voice as hers is capable. I will take my leave now. Perhaps you have a friend who would bring you to my house? that would be the best. No doubt I could come here; but if you will come to my house, my piano is a very good one, and that would be the best. Don’t think it is anything to be remarked; my pupils constantly do it. They bring a maid with them, or, if it is needful, I send for Mrs.——, for my housekeeper. My young ladies are most unflatteringly at their ease with me.”
“You are going to take lessons?” Rollo asked quickly. “I congratulate you, Rossinetti. My good fellow, you are a great genius, and I know very little, but I never was so envious of you before. All the same you know lessons are—teaching is—well, we must admit, not much more than a pretence in thepresent case. The habit of singing, that is all Miss Despard wants.”
“You must pardon me that I don’t agree with you,” the Signor said, somewhat stiffly. “Miss Despard does not want flattery from me. She will get plenty of that by and by; but she does want teaching,senza complimenti, and that she shall have if she will take it. It rests with her whether or not she will take it. If she does take it as I would have her do—then,” said the Signor, with a gleam in his eyes of suppressed enthusiasm, “then I flatter myself——”
Rollo was provoked. Though he was very sweet-tempered, he did not like to be crowed over in this way, and his pleasant hyperbole flattened out; besides, there is something in the presence of a young woman which makes men, ever so slightly pitted against each other, pugnacious. He laughed. “I see,” he said, “you won’t flatter Miss Despard, Rossinetti, but you flatter yourself.”
“I will send you word about hours,” said the Signor hastily. “I beg your pardon, I did not quite catch your last observation. Good morning, Miss Despard. To-morrow or after to-morrow I shall hope to begin.”
“Good-bye, for the moment; we shall meet later,” said Rollo, with a smile and a nod, turning to open the door for his—not rival certainly, but competitor. He opened the door and closed it behind the Signor with quite unnecessary attention, his face full of suppressed laughter and malicious satisfaction. Rollo felt that he remained master of the field. He came back to where Lottie, agitated and happy, was sitting, rubbing his hands with triumph. “The Signor is an excellent musician, but he is a prig, Miss Despard, if you will permit the word; and now that we have got rid of him,” said Rollo, dropping into that other seat beside her, “let me say——”
What did he say? Lottie remembered most of the words for years and years. When she heard the sound of them again in other conversations, in sentences that had no relation to her, from other people, and even addressed to other people, she would hold her breath. Foolish girl! they were well-worn words, such as perhaps every woman possessing such a gift, or even a much smaller gift than Lottie’s, has heard to weariness; but the most common approbation, which afterwards becomes the mere accompaniment and petty murmur of existence, one time in one’s life is divine—as he told her her voice was, as he let her infer she too was, and everything about her. Lottie was not used to anything like flattery. Even in the best of circumstances, fathers and brothers are seldom enthusiastic; and kind Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, though she had given her countenance to Rowley’s lessons, did not in the least conceal that she was bored by them; and the tenor was a great deal too much occupied with his own voice, and the compliments that hadbeen paid to him, to leave him much time for complimenting his pupil. It was true that the Signor’s wish to teach her was of itself the essence of flattery; but he never had given her any credit for her singing, and always had seen the faults of it. So that it was Rollo who had first revealed to her that heaven of praise which is so doubly sweet to the neophyte when it is supposed to be not her excellence, but his love, which inspires it. Lottie had no defence against the enthusiasm, the admiration, the rhapsodies of her companion. If they were excessive, that was not because he was failing in truth, but only abounding in love. So she thought. The very atmosphere around her turned into happiness. Her eyes were dazzled with it. She could not look at him nor lift her face except in momentary sudden glances, so much was the air full of this suffused, subdued, but penetrating glory. And, strangely enough, though he did not feel half so much as she supposed him to feel, Rollo himself was moved by this something in the air which rayed out from her exquisite dawn of bliss and of love. He said naturally a great deal more than he intended—and, what was more wonderful, he felt a great deal more than he could have supposed possible—and without the least purpose or thought, dropped moment by moment deeper and deeper into that curious kind of rapture which is tolerably expressed by the phrase, falling in love. Reason had nothing to do with it,nor intention; and he had not come here driven by a passion which was more strong than he was, as Lottie thought. But, nevertheless, whether it was the magnetic influence of that sentiment in her which he had called forth without knowing it, and which now touched him with sympathetic life: or the more commonplace result of her beauty, and of their close propinquity, and her loneliness, and the generous impulse of protection and kindness that was in him: certain it is that all Lottie’s ideas of him realised themselves in the young man’s mind in the most miraculous way. He had always been, all his friends knew, ridiculously sympathetic all his life. Never before had it taken this precise form; but then, never before had Rollo met with the same combination of circumstances. He had flirted with a great many people, and foolish girls, who were not prudent enough to remember his younger brotherhood and impecunious position, had liked his company and been very willing to roam along the first beginnings of the primrose path by his side; but nothing more than the lightest exchanges of sentiment had ever come to pass. And then he had believed of several women that they were “making a set” at him, and desiring to “catch” him. No degree of younger brotherhood, no amount of impecuniosity, will prevent a man from thinking that some woman or other is trying to “catch” him; but never in all his life had Rollo come across a creature like Lottie, simply, solemnly,gratefully convinced that he was in love with her. Lottie had not been in love with him when she thought she found this out. But her certainty as tohissentiments had been absolute. And now this certainty was realising itself. It was a very different thing from the love which points directly and, as a matter of course, to the natural conclusion. He thought of nothing of the kind. He did not choose her out of all the world, as Lottie thought. But it came to very much the same thing as they sat together, talking about everything, dropping into mutual confidences, wasting the sweet autumnal morning. Lottie knew that all her domestic businesses were waiting for her, but did not care. And Rollo knew that, if he were questioned as to where he had been, he would have to invent an explanation other than the true one. But what did this matter? They sat and talked, forgetting even music, which was the one thing hitherto which had occupied them when together. He did not ask her to sing to him, which was a thing which made Lottie very happy, notwithstanding that it was his admiration of her voice only which had made her recognise and be glad of that possession. She had sung for him gladly, but now she was more pleased not to be asked to sing. What did they want with music? It would be hard to describe how well they came to know each other during that long morning’s talk. He told her about himself, and she told him about herself, andthus they skimmed over very dangerous ground as to the beginning of their own acquaintance. Lottie, with a girl’s shrinking from premature avowal, hurried over that point lest he might perhaps tell her how he had seen her, and dreamed of her, long before he dared claim acquaintance. Poor Lottie! but for that fond delusion she might have heard the real cause of his first eagerness to make her acquaintance, and been disenchanted. But what would it have mattered? By this time, things had gone too far to make it an advantage to her now to be undeceived.
This was the beginning of the time which was the crown and flower of life to Lottie Despard. Deceived, and yet not deceived; creating really the sentiment which she believed in, yet not as she believed it: she herself all simple and trustful, impassioned in everything she undertook, then and there, to the last fibre of her being, gave her heart to Rollo Ridsdale—loved him, believing herself as fully justified as ever woman was, by the possession of his love, to bestow her own; and bestowing it purely, freely, without doubt orarrière pensée. His rank and the pleasure of thinking that some one out of the world above her, the world which she aspired to, and felt herself to belong to, was seeking her, had dazzled Lottie at the first;—but by this time it did not matter to her who or what Rollo was. Sometimes even, she thought that she would prefer him to be more on her own level: thenstopped and reproved herself proudly for wanting to take anything from him who deserved everything. His position as a patrician, his supposed wealth (how was Lottie to know that such a man, possessing everything, could be just as poor, and perhaps not much more honourable in respect to debt and such matters, than her father?), the grace and nobleness of all his surroundings, were part of his nature, she thought in her simplicity. To shut him up in small rooms, confine him to the limited horizon of common life, and its poor little routine of duties, would be to take something from Rollo; and she did not want to take anything from him, rather to add any honour and glory that might be wanting. She did not know how long or how short a time they had been together on that wonderful morning before they first began to talk (as Lottie said) like friends. It lasted no more than a moment, and yet it was a new life all luminous and great, throwing the twenty years of the other life which had preceded it, entirely into shade. She had to stand still to steady herself and accustom her eyes to the ordinary atmosphere when he went away. Everything was changed. Her head went round. She did not know how to go downstairs (too late, much too late!) and look after the household matters which she had postponed; and when she did go to them, went hazily like one in a dream. What a change had come upon life! Yesterday, even Rollo was no morethan a distant vision of possibilities to her; now she seemed to know him thoroughly, to know all about him; to feel that she could tell him whatever might happen, that it would be natural to confide everything to him—everything! her heart threw wide open its doors. She did not think even that he might wonder to find himself so entirely received into her life. Lottie had none of the experience which the most ordinary encounter with the world, which even ballroom tattle and the foolish commerce of flirtations give. She came to this first chapter, all innocent and original in heart and thought, with the frankness as well as the timidity of a nature unalarmed and (in this kind) knowing no evil. Love was to her an angel, the first of the angels—inspiring awe, but no terror. She went to her work feeling as if she walked to some noble strain of music. Nothing could irritate her, nothing put her out.
That evening Lottie went out upon the Slopes in the dusk to breathe the evening air and give herself that fresher, sweeter medium for her dreams. Law was out, the Captain was out as usual; and the little house was very still with only Mary in the kitchen (for most of her time hanging about the back entrance looking for the baker), and Lottie upstairs. Somehow to-night Lottie did not wait for Captain Temple, who had constituted himself her escort, but as soon as it began to be really evening stole out by herself andmade her way quickly up the Dean’s Walk, not anxious to join anyone. She wanted to be alone for her thoughts. It was not that the slightest idea of meeting Rollo entered into her mind—how should it? The dinners at the Deanery were not like the afternoon meal in the Chevaliers’ lodges, out of which all the inhabitants streamed as soon as that was over, to get the good of the summer night. Summer—for, though it was beginning to be autumn, it was still summer—warm, soft, delicious evenings with so much dusk in them, and misty sweetness. Lottie wanted nothing at that moment of dreamy happiness but silence and her own thoughts; more, however, was in store for her. The Deanery dinner was a family dinner that evening, and while the Dean read the evening paper, and Lady Caroline put up her feet on the sofa, what was a young man to do? He said he would go over to the Signor’s and talk music and smoke a cigar; and the elder people, though they were fond of Rollo, were not sorry to be rid of him. He wanted, perhaps, to enjoy his triumph over the Signor, or to find out what his plans were and expectations of Lottie’s voice; or, perhaps, only he wanted a little variety, feeling the company of his venerated relations too much pleasure. But, though he was not so full of dreams as Lottie, something of the same charmed mood was in his mind. And when caprice made him take the turn up to the Slopes also, instead of going the other way through the Cloistersto the musician’s house—and when the two caught sight of each other, they both started with genuine surprise, and there was on Lottie’s side even a little alarm. She was too shy to beg him in so many words to go away, but it was only the want of courage which kept her from saying so. It was too much; it did not seem right to meet him again; but then Lottie reflected that to the merest acquaintance she was bound to be polite. Mr. Ridsdale had the same thought. He was unfeignedly delighted to see her, finding this way of escape from all possibility of dulness much more complete than he thought; but yet he felt that perhaps a second encounter so soon, and in a place open to all eyes, might be dangerous; notwithstanding, what could a man do? He was bound to be civil. He could not run away from a lady when he met her, simply because he admired her—a reason, on the contrary, to keep him by her side. So they took a stroll together, this way and that way, from one end to the other: it was not a very long way. He told her that he was going to the Signor’s, and she accepted the explanation very demurely, notwithstanding the fact that the Signor lived on the lower side of the Deanery and this was on the upper side; and she told him that she had only just come out, having missed Captain Temple, who would appear presently:—“He is my usual companion—he is very old, the oldest of all the Chevaliers—and he is very, very kind to me.” Each accepted what theother thus said with a kind of solemnity; and they made two turns up and down, stopping now and then to look out upon the plain so broad and blue, with the soft autumn mists hanging on the horizon. “Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,” Rollo said; and they stood still and gazed, following the river in its silvery windings, and silent as if their minds were absorbed in these atmospheric influences and that dusky bridal of the earth and sky. When Captain Temple came up Rollo asked to be introduced to him, and was very civil. “Miss Despard has been waiting for you, and I have kept her company,” he said, so that the old Captain thanked him civilly, if a little stiffly; and then the two turned their backs upon each other, Rollo hastening down to the Cloisters to keep, as he said, his appointment, and Lottie turning away without so much as a parting glance, without shaking hands. Captain Temple, alarmed at first, took heart, and thought it was nothing but politeness when he saw how they parted. “You were quite right, my dear, quite right to wait, and I am much obliged to Mr. Ridsdale; I cannot think how I missed you.” Lottie did not make a direct reply, but compelled herself to talk, and very demurely, with much praise of the lovely night, went with him home.
If Captain Temple had but known! And after this how many meetings there were, so happily accidental, so easily explainable, and yet requiring no such explanation! How well they began to know each other’s habits and each other’s likings; and how sweet were all the dewy misty paths in that fool’s paradise! or on the Slopes, if you prefer it; it does not matter much about a name.
Whilethe time went on in this dream for Lottie it did not stand still with the rest of the world. Her absorption in her own affairs, which for the moment had become complete, and withdrew her thoughts from much that had previously occupied them, was very agreeable to her father and brother. Lottie had exercised no control that she was aware of upon her father; but now that her keen eyes were veiled with dreams, and her mind abstracted from what was going on round her, it is inconceivable how much more free and at his ease the Captain felt. He had a jauntier air than ever, when he walked down into the town after he was released from matins; and he came in later at night. Captain Despard’s doings at this time were much talked of in the lodges. He had never been approved by his brother Chevaliers. The old gentlemen felt that this younger man, with his jauntiness and his love of pleasure, was no credit to them; and if the gossip was true about his intentions, some of them thought that something ought to be done. The ladies were still more indignant. They were threatened in their dignitymore than their husbands were. An officer was an officer, whatever happened; but if this man, who was in himself so objectionable, should bring in a dressmaker girl among them, it was the Chevaliers’ wives who would be the sufferers. The gentlemen thought vaguely that something should be done; but the ladies were for carrying it to Parliament, or to the Queen herself. Was there not some old statute forbidding a Chevalier to marry? If there was not, there ought to be, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy said, with a twinkle in her eye. There was nobody, indeed, so much aggrieved as Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, who lived next door, and was already intimate with the family; and though there were times when she made a joke of it, there were also times when she was ready to go to the Queen on the subject.
“If there isn’t a law there ought to be one!” Mrs. O’Shaughnessy declared. “What do they want with wives at their age, if they haven’t got ’em already? D’ye think I’d like to hear of me Major with a second, and me not cold in my grave?”
It was suggested that the Chevaliers should “speak to” this dangerous member of their corporation; but the old gentlemen, it was found, did not care to undertake this. Who would do it? There was not one of them who could use the privilege of friendship with this flighty, dissipated fellow, who was young at fifty to the other veterans; and they had not the same confidence in the efficacy of “speaking to” a culprit which the ladies had.
So the little world within the Precincts looked on in great perturbation, sorry for Lottie, but still more sorry for themselves, whose credit was threatened by this danger. And jauntier and jauntier grew the Captain. He wore his hat more and more over his left ear—he got a new tie, louder and brighter than any that had ever been seen in the Precincts. His new suit was of a larger stripe. Altogether, things were ripening for some new event. Something was going to happen; everybody felt it, in the air, in the heaviness of the autumn weather. Lottie’s proceedings, which might otherwise have given much anxiety to the community, were veiled by the interest attaching to her father’s; which, indeed, was well for Lottie, who was not at all times quite aware what she was doing, or where her steps were tending, as she walked and wandered—not in her sleep, but in her dreams.
There was another who took advantage of Lottie’s abstraction, and that was Law. He had begun by going quite regularly to Mr. Ashford, “reading,” as it was called, with the Minor Canon, whom he liked, and who was kind to him, and sharing the instructions which were being given to young Uxbridge, the son of the Canon. For a little while there had been gloom and consternation in this young man’s home because of Law. He was not a companion for her boy, Mrs.Uxbridge thought; but when this was suggested to the Minor Canon he smiled so grimly, and answered with such uncompromising brutality, that, of course, he could have no possible objections to young Mr. Uxbridge’s removal, that the mother nearly fainted, and Mr. Uxbridge himself, a large and stately person, had to stammer forth an apology. There was a dangerous gleam in Ashford’s eye, enough to appal the Chapter, notwithstanding his inferiority to them, and there was nothing for it but to let him have his way. And for a week or two Law was exemplary—he allowed that for the first time in his life he could feel he was getting on; he became what he called “thick” with Uxbridge, who took him out boating and cricketing; and so far all went well. But when Lottie’s vigilance all at once relaxed—when she began to steal out herself, and come in with her eyes all dazzled and dreamy, often not knowing when she was spoken to, taking so much less heed than usual of other people’s proceedings, Law’s industry began to flag. Sometimes he “shirked” altogether; very often he never looked at his books, except under Mr. Ashford’s eye. He made Uxbridge idle too, who was but too much disposed to take a bad example. Uxbridge had a boat of his own, and they went on the river for days together. Sometimes a cricket match ended in a dinner, to which Law would be invited with his friend. He got into better company, but it is doubtful whether this wasmuch to the advantage of his morals, and it certainly was not at all to the advantage of his studies. The Minor Canon remonstrated, and Lottie would now and then wake up and make an appeal to him.
“Are you working, Law? I hope you are working. Does Mr. Ashford think you are getting on?” she would say. But these were not like the energetic protests of old. And when Law answered that he was getting on pretty well, but that old Ashford didn’t say much—it wasn’t his way—Lottie accepted the reply, and asked no more questions. And Law accordingly took “his fling,” being left free on all sides. Why shouldn’t he take his fling? The others were doing it—even Lottie; did she think he was blind not to see how often that fellow Ridsdale was spooning about, and how many more walks she took than she used to? Captain Temple got tired of coming for her. Very often she had gone before he came—and would run back breathless, and so sorry to have missed him. What did all that mean if not that Lottie was taking her fling too? And his father—Captain Despard—was speeding very quickly towards such a thing as would startle the whole town, not to speak of the Abbey. It would be hard if Law were the only one to have his nose kept to the grindstone; and this, we may be sure, was the last thing he meant to allow.
As for Lottie, she carried on the business of her life in a way. The house did not suffer—the dinnerwas always punctual, and the stockings mended, notwithstanding dreams. She found time, indeed, for more actual occupation than before. She went to the Signor’s—Mrs. O’Shaughnessy generally, but sometimes Captain Temple, going with her when she went for her lessons—and she went to the Abbey more frequently than she had been used to do. These lessons were moments of excitement for the Signor’s household. When it was the old Captain who had accompanied Miss Despard, Mrs. Purcell was had in from her room, where she sat expectant among her jam cupboards; and profound was her interest. She sat near the door hemming some dusters, while the lesson went on; but sometimes would drop her work and cross her hands, and raise her eyes to the dusky heaven of the ceiling.
“Dear, bless me!” said the housekeeper, “that was a note!” for she had learned a little about music after all her experiences. Her son rarely made his appearance at all; he would loiter about the passage and catch a glimpse of Lottie as she went in or out, and sometimes he would come in suddenly very red and agitated, to turn over the music or look for some song that was wanted. Lottie was very anxious always to be friendly to him; but though these lessons seemed to poor young Purcell the things which chiefly made life desirable, yet he was not sufficiently at his ease to make any reply to her greeting, except by a deeper blush and an embarrassed bow. And very often—sooften that the Signor had almost wound himself up to the point of remonstrating, and old Pick had been charged to say that his master was engaged, and that no one could enter—Rollo Ridsdale would stray in by accident and form one of the party. It was very strange that, though old Pick had orders so precise, yet Rollo somehow always got in. How was it?
“I don’t know myself,” old Pick would say, with a grin; “he’s the perseveringest gentleman I ever see—and awful fond of music. It must cost him a deal,” Pickering said.
Rollo strolled in sometimes at the beginning, before due precautions had been taken, sometimes near the end, when they were relaxed. He made himself very agreeable. As for Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, she was his slave, and she was quite persuaded by this time that she herself was nearly connected with the Courtland family, and that Rollo’s uncle—or was it a cousin?—had been not only the Major’s but her own dearest friend. Captain Temple, when he was the chaperon, was more suspicious; but, notwithstanding his objection to young men, and especially to Honourables, in connection with young women, Rollo ended by making the old Chevalier his friend. He had the gift of disarming prejudice—being kind himself by nature, and of a friendly disposition, such as makes friends. And Rollo was very careful under the eyes of all these keen observers. He confined himself to music. He lookedunutterable things; but he did not speak the applause, that was implied in his looks. He said only, “I must not say anything, Miss Despard—I dare not, for Rossinetti; but I think the more.”
Lottie did not want him to applaud her. It was enough for her that he heard her; but it was only when he was there that she did herself full justice. And it is not to be supposed that the Signor was ignorant of the changed tone in her voice which showed when he appeared. It was too great a vexation to him to be ignored. Art, pure art, was not as yet, if it ever would be, the spring of Lottie’s life. It was “that fellow.” Her voice grew softer and more exquisite, full of pathos and meaning—her notes more liquid and sweet. If the Signor had been Rollo’s rival in reality he could scarcely have been more annoyed—he whose aspiration was to make a true artist of this creature, to whom heaven had given so glorious a medium of expression, but who as yet knew nothing about art.
Thus September stole away. Never before had Ridsdale been so long at the Deanery. He gave sometimes one reason and sometimes another for his delay. It was very convenient for him, as the place was central, and he was often obliged to run up to town to see after business connected with the Opera. His company meant to open their house in spring; and the manager being in Italy, there was a great deal to dowhich fell upon Rollo. He had invitations without number, but he neglected them all. So long as his aunt would have him there was no place so convenient for him as the Deanery. And Lady Caroline was very willing to have him. She had always been kind to him. If her feelings had been strong enough to justify anyone in considering himself her favourite, then Rollo might have done so. She had always been kind; and a habit of kindness is as good as any other habit, and is the best pledge of continuance. And she liked in a way to have him there. He never gave her any trouble—now and then he succeeded in something that was very like amusing her. And he no longer demanded of her that she should invite Miss Despard daily, or trouble herself with the other people who sang. Two or three times only during the month did he ask for an invitation for the girl in whose voice he was so much interested. And he was very domestic—triumphantly disproving all the stories that had been told of him. He never cared to dine anywhere but at home while he was at the Deanery—he did not care for company. He was a very nice companion for the Dean at dinner, and after dinner he would stroll out and smoke a cigar. If he gave trouble at Courtland it was only, Lady Caroline thought with gentle complacency, because they did not know how to manage him; for anyone more happy to be quiet she never saw. And thus September passed; the partridges didnot tempt him away, any more than the grouse had done. He did not care, he declared, about sport of any kind. Music and books, and his stroll of an evening on the Slopes to smoke his cigar—these were all the virtuous amusements Rollo desired—with these he was as happy as the day was long. And in October, Augusta, coming home from her bridal tour, was to visit her mother, and there would be a little society once more at the Deanery. It came to be understood that Rollo would stay for this. It would be something to make amends to him for the quiet of the past.
October began: it was a beautiful autumn; the trees on the Slopes were all red and yellow, like painted trees, and the face of the country brilliant with sunshine. Everything was smooth and fair without and within, so far as appearances went; and, had there been no results to follow, little exception could have been taken to the proceedings of the persons concerned in this history, who were each and all following their own pleasure and doing what seemed good in their own eyes. The Captain was perhaps the most safe and most virtuous of the whole, seeing that there was no reason why he should not marry Polly if he desired very much to do so, except that it would make his children uncomfortable and disturb the equanimity of his brother Chevaliers and their belongings. But he was in no way bound to consider the dignity of his brethren in the order, neither was herequired by any law to sacrifice his own comfort for that of his son and daughter—both of them quite capable of taking thought for themselves. He may, therefore, be left out of the question; for, whether for good or evil, he was doing nothing more than he had a right to do. But in the case of the others: how pleasant would this episode of life have been had there been no consequences to follow! It was a most charming episode in the experience of Rollo Ridsdale. He was not a vicious man, but yet he had never been so virtuous, so free of evil, in all his consciousness before—his chief companion a perfectly pure-minded girl, his chief occupation to explore and study her fresh young heart and imagination, and vigorous intelligent nature. If only it could all go on to some as perfect conclusion, there could be no doubt that it was good for the speculative man of fashion. It restored him, body and soul,—regular hours, quiet, all the most luxurious comforts of life, and the delight and exhilaration of a romance to amuse the mental and sentimental side of him. The cleverest doctor that ever existed could not have recommended a more admirably curative process—if only there had been no responsibilities involved and nothing painful to follow. And Law—if Law had only had the prospect of a small estate, a small inheritance at the end, enough to live on, what a perfectly pleasant “time” he was having! He was doing no harm, only boating, cricketing, beginning now as the season went on to think of football—none of them wicked pursuits: if only there had been no examinations to think of, no work of life to prepare for. Lottie was the least to blame of the three; the consequences did not trouble her. She might perhaps be allowing herself to be absorbed too much by the new and wonderful influence which had taken possession of her: thevita nuovamight have become too entirely the law of her being; but well or ill she still did her duty, and her realisation of the result was perfectly simple. What but one thing could all this lead to? No doubt invaded Lottie’s inexperienced mind; how could she doubt that Rollo loved her? What proof was wanting that man could give? They had not yet spoken of that love, though they had several times approached to the very verge of an explanation, from which generally it was she who shrank with a shy prolonging of that delicious uncertainty which was no uncertainty at all. How could Lottie have any doubt? It was not necessary even for her to say to herself that he was good and true. True!—she no more thought of falsehood than Eve had thought of the serpent before he hissed his first question into her ear. She did not understand what lying meant, practical lying of this kind. She let the sweet current sweep her on with many a heart-beat; but why should she be distrustful of it? What could love lead to but happiness? Lottie could not think of anything more.
And thus the time went on. Augusta Huntington (Mrs. Daventry) was coming home with her husband in a day or two; and though Lottie thought she would be glad to see her old friend, she had a little secret fear of anything now happening. All was very well as it was. To meet Rollo accidentally as he smoked his cigar on the Slopes would not be so easy if his cousin were at the Deanery. He would not be able to get out so easily, and probably she would find a great many new ways of employing him which would take him out of Lottie’s way. She did not like to look forward to it; and after Augusta’s visit Rollo too would go away. It would be almost winter, and he could not stop any longer. All the shooting and the deerstalking and the round of visits to great people, on which he ought to be going, he had given up for her. What could the reason be but for her? The thought that this moment of happiness was approaching an end, was sad to Lottie, even though it should, as was natural, be followed by greater happiness still. How her dull life had flowered and blossomed out, made beautiful by the thought that he was near her, this man who loved her—who had loved her long before she had loved him, but whom now she too—! He was near, she remembered every morning when she woke; some time in the day she would be sure to see him—nay, half a dozen times in the day, if only strolling down the Dean’s Walk looking at her window,and in the Abbey, and perhaps, while she took her lesson, listening to her with soft eyes; perhaps walking home with her; perhaps just turning round that old elm-tree on the Slopes as she came out for her evening walk; always looking for her so eagerly, seeking her, with a hundred little tender cares, and something in his eyes which was more than all. Could it be possible to be happier than now? She was keeping off theéclaircissementwith delicious shy malice, running away from it, prolonging a little longer, and a little longer, this happy uncertainty. Some time, however, it must come, and then no doubt she would be more happy—though not with such happiness as this.
On one of those lovely russet-coloured afternoons, full of haze made golden by the sunshine, already turning to the west, Lottie, walking up St. Michael’s Hill, towards the Abbey, had seen a fly driving along the street which had caught her eye as she passed. She knew it very well; it was Jobling’s fly—a nice respectable clean cab, looking for all the world like a shabby well-dressed man in a frock coat and high hat. There are many shabby respectable well-preserved things which resemble each other. The reason why this neat and clean vehicle caught her eye was that the man who was driving it wore a white wedding-favour, which is a thing which no person of twenty can see without remark. Lottie, like others of herage, was half amused, half interested, and could not help wondering who it was. It was going to the railway, and some one looked out hastily as Lottie passed, looking at her, the girl thought, withdrawing as hastily again when she was seen to turn her eyes that way. Who could it be? Lottie thought she would ask Law, who knew all the news, who had been married; but she had forgotten all about it long before she saw Law. She had too many things to think of and to do, to remember so small a matter as that; and Law did not come in till late. When he did come they took their simple supper together amicably, not saying much; but she forgot the question. Now that Lottie did not bully him they were very good friends. They said a few friendly words to each other, and that was all, and then they bade each other good night. They were all alone, the Captain having left home for a few days, and had a very good opportunity for talk. But Lottie did not seize the opportunity to put disagreeable questions. She was altogether so much more amicable than she had been used to be.
Three days after, Captain Despard was to come home. It did not disturb Lottie that Captain Temple questioned her very closely as to where her father had gone. “Was he alone, do you know?” the old man said. “Alone? Oh, yes, I suppose so,” said Lottie. What did it matter? She could see Rollo behind theold beech-tree. Of course it was a drawback that the Captain should be with her so often, but it pleased the kind old man; they met and they had their little talk, which perhaps was all the more unlike the common intercourse of earth that worlds of meaning had to be trusted to a tone, to a sudden meeting in the dusk (when you could see nobody, Captain Temple said) of two pairs of eyes: and when all is unutterable is not this as good a way of utterance as any? And then Lottie said she must go home. Papa was coming home. He had been gone three days. As they went back the old Captain was more and more kind to Lottie. He kept her at the door for a moment with her hand between his two old kind hands. “My dear, don’t be afraid to send for me or to come to me when you want anything—my wife and I will always be ready to be of use to you. You will not forget, Lottie?” “Oh, no, Captain Temple,” she said; “you are always so kind to me; how could I forget?” And she went in smiling to herself, wondering what he could think she would want. But he was always kind, as kind as a father; far, far kinder than her own father, she could not but remember, with a little shrug of her shoulders. Had papa come in? Mary said “No,” and Lottie went into the little dining-room to see that the supper was prettily arranged. There was nothing more than cold meat, and cheese, and bread and butter; but the bouquet in the middle, which wasmade up of brilliantly-coloured leaves, was pretty; and the white tablecloth and the plates and glasses looked bright. In her happiness she began to sing softly as she pulled the leaves into a prettier form in the long clear glass they were grouped in. The lamp was lighted, the table was bright, the door stood open. Lottie, through her singing, heard steps coming up the pavement outside, and voices. All of a sudden she paused, thinking she heard her father’s voice. Who could he be bringing with him, without any preparation? She cast a hasty glance at the beef, and saw with satisfaction that there would be enough for a stranger; enough, but not perhaps too much—he might have let her know. Then she heard his voice quite close to the window, which was open, for the night was warm for October—“Look in, and you will see her,” he said. “Oh, I know her very well,” said another voice, with a laugh. Lottie turned round, with her heart beating, towards the window, where something white was visible. What could it mean?—was it a woman?—a womanwith her father at this hour of the evening? She grew pale, she could not tell why, and gazed first at the window, then at the door, with a flutter of tears which she could not understand. How foolish it was! “Come in—this way—don’t be afraid! The passage is narrow and the house is small, but there is plenty of room for happiness when once you are in it,” said her father’s voice in the doorway, coming through the little crooked hall. Then the door was pushed wide open, and he came in leading some one by the hand. It was a woman very gaily dressed, with a mountain of brown hair and a white bonnet perched upon it, who laughed, but was nervous too; upon whom Lottie gazed with wondering eyes and blanched cheeks. Who was this whom he was bringing in without warning, without notice? The Captain was very jaunty; his hat was still on his head over his left ear. He had a bunch of violets somewhat crushed in his coat. He smiled a smile which was rather ghastly as Lottie gazed, struck dumb with the horror of what was coming. “Mrs. Despard,” he said with a flourish, “let me present you with a ready-made daughter. Lottie, my child, come here and welcome your new mamma.”