“What! after all the newspapers—the new branch of literature that has sprung from them?” cried the Signor. Then he paused again and subsided. “I am of your opinion,” he said. “The fire would come down from heaven if it was true; buttheybelieve it: that is the curious thing. You and I, we are not in society; we are charitable; we say human nature never was so bad as that; but they believe it. Rollo Ridsdale would be ashamed to behave like a man, as you and I would feel ourselves forced to behave, as my boy John is burning to do.”
“You and I.” The Minor Canon scarcely knew how it was that he repeated these words; they caught his ear and dropped from his lips before he was aware.
The Signor looked at him with a smile which was half satire and a little bit sympathy. He said, “That is what you are coming to, Ashford. I see it in your eye.”
“You are speaking—folly,” said Mr. Ashford; then he added hastily, “I have got one of my boys coming. I must go in.”
“Good-day,” said the other with his dark smile. He had penetrated the secret thoughts that had not as yet taken any definite form in his friend’s breast. Sometimes another eye sees more clearly than our own what is coming uppermost in our minds—or at least its owner believes so. The Signor was all the more likely to be right in this, that he had no belief in the calm sentiment of “interest” as actuating a man not yet too old for warmer feelings, in respect to a woman. He smiled sardonically at Platonic affection—as most people indeed do, unless the case is their own. He knew but one natural conclusion in such circumstances, and settled that it would be so without more ado. And such reasoning is sure in the majority of cases to be right, or to help to make itself right by the mere suggestion. To be sure he took an “interest”—a great interest—in Lottie himself; but that was in the way of art.
Mr. Ashford had no boy coming that he knew of when he said this to escape from the Signor; but, as sometimes happens, the expedient justified itself, andhe had scarcely seated himself in his study when some one came up the oak staircase two or three steps at a time, and knocked at his door. In answer to the “Come in,” which was said with some impatience—for the Minor Canon had a great deal to think about, and had just decided to subject himself to a cross-examination—who should open the door but Law—Law, without any book under his arm, and with a countenance much more awake and alive than on the occasions when he carried that sign of study. “Can I speak to you?” Law said, casting a glance round the room to see that no one else was there. He came in half suspicious, but with serious meaning on his face. Then he came and placed himself in the chair which stood between Mr. Ashford’s writing-table and his bookcases. “I want to ask your advice,” he said.
“Well; I have done nothing else but give you my advice for some time past, Law.”
“Yes—to work—I know. You have given me a great deal of that sort of advice. What good is it, Mr. Ashford? I’ve gone on week after week, and what will it ever come to? Well, I know what you are going to say. I work, but I don’t work. I don’t care a bit about it. I haven’t got my heart in it. It is quite true. But you can’t change your disposition; you can’t change your nature.”
“Stop a little, Law. So far as work is concerned you often can, if you will——”
“Ah, but there’s the rub,” said Law, looking his Mentor in the face. “I don’t want to—that is the simple fact. I don’t feel that I’ve the least desire to. I feel as if I won’t even when I know I ought. I think it’s more honest now at last to tell you the real truth.”
“I think I knew it pretty well some time ago,” said the Minor Canon with a smile. “It is a very common complaint. Even that can be got over with an effort. Indeed, I am glad you have found it out. Perhaps even, you know, it is not your brain at all but your will that is at fault.”
“Mr. Ashford,” said Law solemnly, “what is the good of talking? You know and I know that I never could make anything of it if I were to work, as we call it, till I was fifty. I never could pass any examination. They would be fools indeed if they let me in. I am no real good for anything like that. You know it well enough; why shouldn’t you say it? Here are you and me alone—nobody to overhear us, nobody to be vexed. What is the use of going on in the old way? I shall never do any good. You know it just as well as I.”
“Law,” said Mr. Ashford, “I will not contradict you. I believe you are right. If there was any otherway of making your living I should say you were right. Books are not your natural tools; but they open the door to everything. The forest service, the telegraph service—all that sort of thing would suit you.”
At this point Law got up with excitement, and began walking up and down the room. “That is all very well,” he said. “Mr. Ashford, what is the use of deceiving ourselves? I shall never get into any of these. I’ve come to ask your advice once for all. I give up the books; I could only waste more time, and I’ve wasted too much already. It has come to this: I’ll emigrate or I’ll ’list. I don’t see how I’m to do that even, for I’ve no money—not enough to take me to London, let alone Australia. Why shouldn’t I do the other? It’s good enough; if there was a war it would be good enough. Even garrison duty I shouldn’t mind. It wouldn’t hurtmypride,” the lad said with a sudden flush of colour that belied his words; “and I might go away from here, so that it would not hurther. That’s all, Mr. Ashford,” he said with suppressed feeling. “Only her—she’s the only one that cares; and if I went away from here she would never know.”
“Has anything happened to drive you to a decision at once? Is there anything new—anything——?”
“There is always something new,” said Law. “That woman has been to—to the only place I ever caredto go—to shut the door against me. They were her own friends too—at least people as good as—a great deal better than she. She has been there to bully them on my account, to say they are not to have me. Do you think I’ll stand that? What has she to do with me?”
“It must be a great deal worse for your sister, Law.”
“Well, isn’t that what I say? Do you think I can stand by and see Lottie bullied? Once she drove her out of the house. By Jove, if Lottie hadn’t come home I’d have killed her. I shouldn’t have stopped to think; I should have killed her,” said Law, whose own wrong had made him desperate. “Do you think I can stand by and see Lottie bullied by that woman? She’s brought it partly upon herself. She was too hard in the house with her management both upon the governor and me. She meant it well, but she was too hard. But still she’s Lottie, and I can’t see her put upon. Do you think I am made of stone,” cried Law indignantly, “or something worse than stone?”
“But if you were in Australia what better would she be? There you would certainly be of no use to her.”
Law was momentarily staggered, but he recovered himself. “She would know I was doing for myself,” he said, “which might mean something for her, too, in time. I might send for her. At least,” said the lad, “she would not have me on her hands; she would only have herself to think of; and if she got on in her singing—the fact is, I can’t stand it, and one way or other I must get away.”
“What would you do if you were in Australia, Law?”
“Hang it all!” said the young man, tears of vexation and despite starting to his eyes, “a fellow must be good for something somewhere. You can’t be useless all round; I’m strong enough. And here’s one thing I’ve found out,” Law added with a laugh: “it doesn’t go against your pride to do things in the Colonies which you durstn’t do here. You can do—whatever youcando out there. It doesn’t matter being a gentleman. A gentleman can drive a cart or carry a load in Australia. That is the kind of place for me. I’d do whatever turned up.”
Said Mr. Ashford suddenly, “I know a man out there——” and then he paused. “Law, what would your sister do? There would be no one to stand by her. Even you, you have not much in your power, but you are always some one. You can give her a little sympathy. Even to feel that there are two of you must be something.”
“Mr. Ashford,” said Law, “you will do her more good than I should. What have I been to poor Lottie? Only a trouble. Two of us—no; I can’t take even that to myself. I’ve worried her more than anything else. She would be the first to thank you. You know a man——?”
“I know a man,” said the Minor Canon—“I had forgotten him till now—a man who owes me a good turn; and I think he would pay it. If I were sure you would really do your best, and not forget the claims she has upon your kindness——”
“Would you like me to send for her as soon as I had a home for her?” Law asked with fervour. There was a subdued twinkle in his eye, but yet he was too much in earnest not to be ready to make any promise.
“That would be the right thing to do,” said the Minor Canon with excessive gravity, “though perhaps the bush is not exactly the kind of place to suit her. If you will promise to do your very best——”
“I will,” said the lad, “I will. I am desperate otherwise; you can see for yourself, Mr. Ashford. Give me only an opening; give me anything that I can work at. If I were to ’list I never should make much money by that. There’s only just this one thing,” said Law: “If I had a friend to go to, and a chance of employment, and would promise to pay it back, I suppose I might get a loan somewhere—a loan ongood interest,” he continued, growing anxious and a little breathless—“perhaps from one of those societies, or some old money-lender, or something—to take me out?”
The Minor Canon laughed. “If this is what you are really set upon, and you will do your best,” he said, “I will see your father, and you need not trouble your mind about the interest. Perhaps we shall be able to manage that.”
“Oh, Mr. Ashford, what a good fellow you are! what a good friend you are!” cried Law, beaming with happiness. The tears once more came into his eyes, and then there came a glow of suppressed malice and fun behind that moisture. “Lottie will be more obliged even than I,” he said; “and I could send for her as soon as I got settled out there.”
Lottiewas sadly disheartened by the events of that day. She came home alike depressed and indignant, her heart and her pride equally wounded. She had scarcely seen Rollo for the two intervening days, and the meeting at the Signor’s had appeared to her before it came a piece of happiness which was certain, and with which no one could interfere. He would resist all attempts to wile him away for that afternoon, she was sure; he would not disappoint her and take all her inspiration from her again. Since that last meeting under the elm-tree she had been more full of happy confidence in him than ever. His readiness and eagerness to take her away at once, overcoming, as she thought, all the scruples and prejudices of his class, in order to secure deliverance for her, had filled her mind with that soft glow of gratitude which it is so sweet to feel to those we love. The elation and buoyant sense of happiness in her mind had floated her over all the lesser evils in her path. What did they matter, what did anything matter, in comparison? She was magnanimous, tolerant, ready to believe the best, unready to be offended, because of this private solace of happiness in her bosom, but all the more for those undoubting certainties she had felt the contrast of the actual scene. She did not even think that Rollo might be innocent of his cousin’s visit, or that he knew nothing of her coming till he had walked unawares into the snare. Lottie did not know this. She saw him by Augusta’s side, talking to her and listening to her. She was conscious through all her being of the rustle of whispering behind her, which went on in spite of her singing. She would not look at him to see what piteous apologies he was making with his eyes, and when Mrs. O’Shaughnessy in sudden wrath dragged her away Lottie was glad of the sudden exit, the little demonstration of offence and independence of which she herself might have failed to take the initiative. She went home tingling with the wound, her nerves excited, her mind irritated. She would not go to meet him, as he had asked her. She went home instead, avoiding everybody, and shut herself up in her own room. She was discouraged too and deeply annoyed with herself, because in the presence of the unkindly critic who had been listening to her, Lottie felt she had not done well. Generally her only care, her only thought, was to please Rollo; but that day she would have wishedfor the inspiring power that now and then came upon her, as when she had sung in the Abbey not knowing of his presence. She would have liked to sing like that, overawing Augusta and her whispering; but she had not done so. She had failed while that semi-friend who was her enemy looked on. She felt, with a subtle certainty beyond all need of proof, that Augusta was her enemy. Augusta had at once suspected, though Rollo had said that she would never suspect; and she wanted to make her cousin see how little Lottie was his equal, how even in her best gifts she was nothing. It was bitter to Lottie to think that she had done all she could to prove Augusta right. Why was it that she could not sing then, as, two or three times in her life, she had felt able to sing, confounding all who had been unfavourable to her? Lottie chafed at the failure she had made. She was angry with herself, and this made her more angry both with Augusta and with him. In the heat of her self-resentment she began to sing over her music softly to herself, noting where she had failed. Had the Signor been within hearing how he would have rejoiced over that self-instruction. Her friends had been so much mortified that it opened her eyes to her own faults. She saw where she had been wrong. There is no such stimulant of excellence as the sense of having done badly. Lottie’s art education advanced underthe sting of this failure as it had never done before. She threw herself into it with fervour. As she ran over the notes she seemed to hear the “sibilant s’s” behind her, pursuing her, and the chance words she had caught. “Like him—she did not care a straw for him.” “The old lady made it all up,” “and the settlements were astonishing.” That and a great deal more Lottie’s jealous ears had picked up, almost against her will, and the words goaded her on like so many pricks. She thought she never could suffer it to be possible that Augusta or any other fine lady should do less than listen when she sang again.
While Lottie sat there cold in the wintry twilight (yet warm with injured pride and mortification) till there was scarcely light enough to see, humming over her music, Rollo, getting himself with difficulty free of his cousin and all the visitors and commotion of the Deanery, rushed up to the elm-tree, and spent a very uncomfortable moment there, waiting in the cold, and wondering if it was possible that she would not come. It did not occur to him that Lottie, always so acquiescent and persuadable, could stand out now, especially as he was not really to blame. He stood about under the elm, now and then taking a little walk up and down to keep himself warm, watching the light steal out of the wide landscape and everything darken round him, for half and hour and more.No one was there; not an old Chevalier ventured upon a turn in the dark, not a pair of lovers confronted the north wind. Rollo shivered, though he was more warmly clad than Lottie would have been. He walked up and down with an impatience that helped to keep him warm, though with dismay that neutralised that livelier feeling. He had no desire to lose his love in this way. It might be foolish to imperil his comfort, his position, his very living, for her, but yet now at least Rollo had no intention of throwing her away. He knew why she sang badly that afternoon, and instead of alarming him this knowledge brought a smile upon his face. Augusta had behaved like a woman without a heart, and Lottie was no tame girl to bear whatever anyone pleased, but a creature full of fire and spirit, not to be crushed by a fashionable persecutor. Rollo felt it hard that he should wait in the cold, and be disappointed after all; but he was not angry with Lottie. She had a right to be displeased. He was all the more anxious not to lose her, not to let her get free from him, that she had thus asserted herself. His love, which had been a little blown about by those fashionable gales that had been blowing round him, blazed up all the hotter for this temporary restraint put upon it. She who had trusted him with such an exquisite trust only the other evening, who had not in her innocence seen anything but devotion in the suddenproposal into which (he persuaded himself) only passion could have hurried him—her first rebellion against him tightened the ties that bound him to her. Give her up! it would be giving up heaven, throwing away the sweetest thing in his life. He was cold, but his heart burned as he paced his little round, facing the north wind and listening for every rustling sound among the withered leaves that lay around him, thinking it might be her step. The darkness, and the chill, and the solitude all seemed to show him more clearly how sweet the intercourse had been which had made him unconscious of either darkness or cold before. Augusta repeating her endless monotonous stories of universal guile and selfishness had made him half ashamed of his best feelings. He was ashamed now of her and her influence, ashamed of having been made her tool for the humiliation of his love. What a difference there was between them! Was there anyone else in the world so tender, so pure, so exquisite in her love and trust, as Lottie, the creature whose sensitive heart he had been made to wound? When at last, discouraged and penitent, he turned homeward, Rollo had the intention trembling in his mind of making Lottie the most complete amends for everything that had ever been done to harm her. He paused at the gates of the cloister, and looked across at the light in her window with a yearning which surprised him. He seemed to have a thousand things to say to her, and to be but half a being when he had not her to confide in, to tell all his affairs to—although he had never told her one of his affairs. This fact did not seem to affect his longing. He went so far as to walk across the Dean’s Walk, to see what he thought was her shadow on the blind. It was not Lottie’s shadow, but Polly’s, who had taken her place; but this the lover did not know.
Meanwhile Lottie had been disturbed in her seclusion by a sharp knock at her door. “Do you mean to stay there all night, Miss?” cried Polly’s sharp voice. “You might pay me the compliment to keep me company now and again as long as you stay in my house. If you think it is civil to stay there, shut up in your room, and me all alone in the drawing-room, I don’t. I can’t think where your hearts is, you two,” Polly went on, a whimper breaking into the tone of offence with which she spoke. “To see one as is not much older than yourself, and never did you no harm, and not a soul to keep her company. Was it for that I give up all my own folks, to come and sit dressed up in a corner because I’m Mrs. Despard, and never see a soul?”
Lottie had opened her door before this speech was half done. She said with a little alarm, “Please don’t speak so loud. We need not let the maid in the kitchen know.”
“Do you think I care for the maid in the kitchen? She’s my servant. I’ll make her know her place. Never one of them sort of folks takes any freedom with me. I have always been known for one as allowed no freedoms—no, nor no followers, nor perquisites, nor nothing of the kind. They soon find out as I ain’t one to be turned round their finger. Now you,” said Polly, leading the way into the little drawing-room, “you’re one of the soft sort. I dare say they did what they liked with you!”
“I don’t think so,” said Lottie, following. She put her music softly down upon the old piano, which Polly had swathed in a cover, and the changed aspect of the room moved her half to laughter, half to anger and dismay.
“There are few as knows themselves,” said Polly. “That girl, that Mary as you had, I couldn’t have put up with her for a day. Some folks never sees when things is huggermugger, but I’m very particular. Your Pa—dear, good, easy man—I dare say he’s put up with a deal; but to be sure no better was to be expected, for you never had no training, I suppose?”
Lottie was almost too much taken by surprise to reply—she, who had felt that if there was one thing in the world she could do it was house-keeping! The confusion that is produced in the mind by the sudden perception of another’s opinion of us which is diametrically opposed to our own seized her; otherwise she would have been roused to instant wrath. This, which was something so entirely opposite to what she could have expected, raised only a kind of ludicrous bewilderment in her mind. “I—don’t know what you mean,” said Lottie. “Papa has not very much money to give for house-keeping. Perhaps you are making a mistake.”
“Oh, it is likely that I should make a mistake! Do you think I don’t know my own husband’s income? Do you think,” said Polly with scorn, “that he has any secrets fromme?”
Lottie was cold with her imprisonment in her fireless room. She drew her little chair to the blazing fire and sat down by the side. Polly had placed herself in the largest chair in the room, directly in front of it. The fire was heaped up in the little grate, and blazed, being largely supplied. It was very comfortable, but it went against the rules of the economy which Lottie had strenuously prescribed to herself. “Papa spends a great deal of money himself,” she said; “you will find that you must be very sparing at home.”
“My dear,” said Polly in a tone of condescending patronage which brought the colour to Lottie’s face, “I am not one as can be sparing at home. Pinching ain’t my way. I couldn’t do it, not if I was to be made a countess for it. Some folks can scrape andcut down and look after everything, but it ain’t my nature. What I like is a free hand. Plenty to eat and plenty to drink, and no stinting nowhere—that’s what will always be the law in my house.”
Lottie made no reply. She felt that it was almost a failure from her duty to put out her hands to the warmth of the too beautiful fire. Some one would have to suffer for it. Her mind began to run over her own budget of ways and means, to try, as had been her old habit, where she could find something to cut off to make up for the extravagance. “These coals burn very fast,” she said at last. “They are not a thrifty kind. I used to have the——”
“I know,” said Polly, “you used to have slates and think it was economy—poor child!—but the best for me: the best is always the cheapest in the end. If anyone thinks as I will put up with seconds, either coals or bread!—but since we’re on the subject of money,” continued Polly, “I’ll tell you my mind, Miss, and I don’t mean it unfriendly. The thing as eats up my husband’s money, it ain’t a bright fire or a good dinner, as is his right to have; it’s your brother Law, Miss, and you.”
“You have told me that before,” Lottie said, with a strenuous effort at self-control.
“And I’ll tell it you again—and again—till it has its effect,” cried Polly: “it’s true. I don’t mean to beunfriendly. I wonder how you can live upon your Pa at your age. Why, long before I was your age I was doing for myself. My Pa was very respectable, and everybody belonging to us; but do you think I’d have stayed at home and eat up what the old folks had for themselves? They’d have kept me and welcome, but I wouldn’t hear of it. And do you mean to say,” said Polly, folding her arms and fixing her eyes upon her step-daughter, “as you think yourself better than me?”
Lottie returned the stare with glowing eyes, her lips falling apart from very wonder. She gave a kind of gasp of bewilderment, but made no reply.
“I don’t suppose as you’ll say so,” said Polly; “and why shouldn’t you think of your family as I did of mine? You mightn’t be able to work as I did, but there’s always things you could do to save your Pa a little money. There’s lessons. There’s nothing ungenteel in lessons. I am not one as would be hard upon a girl just starting in the world. You’ve got your room here, that don’t cost you nothing; and what’s a daily governess’s work? Nothing to speak of—two or three hours’ teaching (or you might as well call it playing), and your dinner with the children, and mostly with the lady of the house—and all the comforts of ’ome after, just as if you wasn’t out in the world at all; a deal different from sitting at yourneedle, working, working, as I’ve done, from morning to night.”
“But I don’t know anything,” said Lottie. “I almost think you are quite right. Perhaps it is all true; it doesn’t matter nowadays, and ladies ought to work as well as men. But—I don’t know anything.” A half-smile came over her face. Notwithstanding that she was angry with Rollo, still—he who would have carried her away on the spot rather than that she should bear the shadow of a humiliation at home—was it likely——? Lottie’s mind suddenly leaped out of its anger and resentment with a sudden rebound. He did not deserve that she should be so angry with him. Was it his fault? and in forgiving him her temper and her heart got suddenly right again, and all was well. She even woke to a little amusement in the consciousness that Polly was advising her for her good. The extravagant coals, the extravagant meals, would soon bring their own punishment; and though Lottie could not quite free herself from irritation on these points, yet she was amused by the thought of all this good advice.
“That’s nonsense,” said Polly promptly. “Now here’s a way you could begin at once, and it would be practice for you, and it would show at least that you was willing. I’ve been very careless,” she said, getting up from her chair and opening the old piano.She had to push off the cover first, and the noise and commotion of this complicated movement filled Lottie with alarm. “I’ve done as a many young ladies do before they see how silly it is. I’ve left off my music. You mayn’t believe it, but it’s true. I can’t tell even if I know my notes,” said Polly, jauntily but clumsily placing her hands upon the keyboard and letting one finger fall heavily here and there like a hammer. “I don’t remember a bit. It’s just like a great silly, isn’t it? But you never think when you are young, when your head’s full of your young man and all that sort of thing. It’s when you’ve settled down, and got married, and have time to think, that you find it out.”
Polly was a great deal less careful of her language as she became accustomed to her new surroundings. She was fully herself by this time, and at her ease. She sat down before the piano and ran her finger along the notes. “It’s scandalous,” she said. “We’re taught when we’re young, and then we thinks no more of it. Now, Miss, if you was willing to do something for your living, if you was really well disposed and wanted to make a return, you might just look up some of your old lesson-books and begin with me. I’d soon pick up,” said Polly, making a run of sound up and down the keys with the back of her fingers, and thinking it beautiful; “it would come back to me intwo or three lessons. You needn’t explain nothing about it; we might just say as we were learning some duets together. It would all come back to me if you would take a little trouble; and I shouldn’t forget it. I never forget it when anyone’s of use to me.”
“But,” cried Lottie, who had been vainly endeavouring to break in, “I cannot play.”
“Cannot play!” Polly turned round upon the piano-stool with a countenance of horror. Even to turn round upon that stool was something delightful to her, like a lady in a book, like one of the heroines in theFamily Herald; but this intimation chilled the current of her blood.
“No—only two or three little things, and that chiefly by ear. I never learned as I ought. I hated it; and I was scarcely ever taught, only by—someone who did not know much,” said Lottie with a compunction in her mind. Only by someone who did not know much—This was her mother, poor soul, whom Polly had replaced. Lottie’s heart swelled as she spoke. Poor, kind, silly mamma! she had not known very much; but it seemed cruel to allow it in the presence of her supplanter.
“Goodness—gracious—me!” said Polly. She said each word separately, as if she were telling beads. She cast at Lottie a glance of sovereign contempt. “You to set up for being a lady,” she cried, “and can’tplay the piano! I never heard of such a thing in all my born days.”
If she had claimed not to be able to work, Polly could have understood it; but if there is a badge of ladyhood, or even a pretence at ladyhood, in the world, is it not this? She was horrified; it felt like a coming down in the world even to Polly herself.
Again Lottie did not make any reply. She was simple enough to be half ashamed of herself and half angry at the criticism which for the first time touched her; for it was a fact that she was ignorant, and a shameful fact. She could not defend, but she would not excuse herself. As for Polly, there was in her a mingling of triumph and regret.
“Iamsurprised,” she said. “I thought one who pretended to be a lady ought at least to know that much. And you ought to be a lady, I am sure, if ever anyone was, for your Pa is a perfect gentleman. Dear, dear—if you can’t play the piano, goodness gracious, what have you been doing all your life? That was the one thing I thought was sure—and you are musical, for I’ve heard as you could sing. If it’s only that you won’t take any trouble to oblige,” said Polly angrily, “say it out. Oh, it won’t be no surprise to me. I’ve seen it in your face already—say it out!”
“I have told you nothing but the truth,” saidLottie. “I am sorry for it. I can sing—a little—but I can’t play.”
“It’s just the same as if you said you could write but couldn’t read,” said Polly; “but I’ve always been told as I’ve a nice voice. It ain’t your loud kind, that you could hear from this to the Abbey, but sweet—at least so folks say. You can teach me to sing if you like,” she said, after a pause. “I never learned singing. One will do as well as the other, and easier too.”
This was a still more desperate suggestion. Lottie quailed before the task that was offered to her. “I can show you the scales,” she said doubtfully; “that is the beginning of everything; but singing is harder to teach than playing. The Signor thinks I don’t know anything. They say I have a voice, but that I don’t know how to sing.”
“The fact is,” cried Polly, shutting down the piano with a loud bang and jar which made the whole instrument thrill, and snapped an old attenuated chord which went out of existence with a creak and a groan, “the fact is, you don’t want to do nothing for me. You don’t think me good enough for you. I am only your father’s wife, and one as has a claim upon your respect, and deserves to have the best you can do. If it was one of your fine ladies as don’t care a brass farthing for you—oh, you’d sing and you’d play the piano safeenough: but you’ve set your mind against me. I seen it the first day I came here—and since then the life you’ve led me! Never a civil word—never a pleasant look; yes and no, with never a turn of your head; you think a deal of yourself. And you needn’t suppose I care—not I—not one bit; but you shan’t stand up to my face and refuse whatever I ask you. You’ll have to do what I tell you or you’ll have to go.”
“I will go,” said Lottie in a low voice. She thought of Rollo’s sudden proposal, of the good people whom he said he would take her to, of the sudden relief and hope, the peace and ease that were involved. Ought she not to take him at his word? For the moment she thought she would do so. She would let him know that she was ready, ready to go anywhere, only to escape from this. How foolish she had been to be angry with Rollo—he who wanted nothing better than to deliver her at a stroke, to carry her away into happiness. Her heart softened with a great gush of tenderness. She would yield to him; why should she not yield to him? She might think that he ought to marry his wife from her father’s house, but he had not seemed to think so. He thought of nothing but to deliver her from this humiliation—and what would it matter to him? a poor Chevalier’s house or a poor quiet lodging, what would it matter? She would go. She would do as Rollo said.
“You will go?” cried Polly; “and where will you go? Who have you got to take you in? People ain’t so fond of you. A woman as can do nothing for herself, who wants her? and isn’t even obliging. Oh, you are going to your room again, to be sulky there? But I tell you I won’t have it. You shall sit where the family sits or you shall go out of the place altogether. And you’ll come to your meals like other people, and you’ll mix with them as is there, and not set up your white face, as if you were better than all the world. You’re not so grand as you think you are, Miss Lottie Despard. If it comes to that I’m a Despard as well as you; and I’m a married woman, with an ’usband to work for me—an ’usband,” cried Polly, “as doesn’t require to work for me, as has enough to keep me like a lady—if it wasn’t that he has a set of lazy grown-up children as won’t do nothing for themselves, but eat us out of ’ouse and ’ome!”
Was it possible that this humiliation had come to Lottie—to Lottie of all people—she who had felt that the well-being of the house hung upon her, and that she alone stood between her family and utter downfall? She sat still, not even attempting now to escape, her ears tingling, her heart beating. It was incredible that it was she, her very self, Lottie, who was bearing this. It must be a dream; it was impossible that it could be true.
And thus Lottie sat the whole of the evening, too proud to withdraw, and bore the brunt of a long series of attacks, which were interrupted, indeed, by the supper, to which Polly had to give some personal care, and by Captain Despard’s entrance and Law’s. Polly told her story to her husband with indignant vehemence. “I asked her,” she said, “to help me a bit with my music—I know you’re fond of music, Harry—and I thought we’d learn up some duets or something, her and me, to please you; and she says she can’t play the piano! and, then, not to show no offence, I said as singing would do just as well, and then she says she can’t sing!” The Captain received this statement with much caressing of his wife and smoothing of her ruffled plumes. He said, “Lottie, another time you’ll pay more attention,” with a severe aspect; and not even Law had a word to say in her defence. As to Law, indeed, he was very much preoccupied with his own affairs; his eyes were shining, his face full of secret importance and meaning. Lottie saw that he was eager to catch her eye, but she did not understand the telegraphic communications he addressed to her. Nor did she understand him much better when he pulled her sleeve and whispered, “I am going to Australia,” when the tedious evening was over. Law’s career had fallen out of her thoughts in the troubles of those few weeks past. She had even ceased to askhow he was getting on, or take any interest in his books; she remembered this with a pang when she found herself at last safe in the shelter of her room. She had given up one part of her natural duty when the other was taken from her. Australia? What could he mean? She thought she would question him to-morrow; but to-morrow brought her another series of petty struggles, and once more concentrated her mind upon her own affairs.
“Iwaitedhalf an hour. I was not very happy,” said Rollo. “It is never cold when you are here, but last night the wind went through and through me. That is the consequence of being alone. And you, my Lottie, had you no compunctions? Could you make yourself happy without any thought of the poor fellow freezing under the elm-tree?”
“Happy!” Lottie cried. She was happy now. Last night she had been alone, no one in the world caring what became of her; now she felt safe, as if the world held nothing but friends; but she shivered, notwithstanding her lover’s supporting arm.
“Not happy then? Does it not answer, darling? Can you endure the woman? Is she better than at first? I like her,” said Rollo, “for you know it was her arrival which opened your heart to me—which broke the ice—which brought us together. I shall always feel charitably towards her for that.”
Lottie shivered again. “No, it is not because of the cold,” she said. “I do not suppose you could understand if I were to tell you. Home! I have notany home!” cried the girl. “I was thinking—if it was really true what you said the other night—if it would make no difference to you, Rollo, to take your wife out of some poor little lodging instead of out of her father’s house—are you sure you would not mind?” she said, looking wistfully, anxiously into his face. In the waning light all he could see distinctly was this wistful dilation of her eyes, gazing intently to read, before he could utter it, his answer in his face. “I could manage to live somehow,” she went on, tremulously. “Though I cannot give lessons, I can work, very well. I think I am almost sure I could get work. No; I would not take money from you; I could not, Rollo:—not until—no, no; that would be quite impossible; rather stay here and bear it all than that. But if really, truly, to marry a poor girl, living in a poor little room, working for her bread, would not make any difference to you——. Oh, I know, I know it is not what ought to be—even here, even at home, I am not equal to you. You ought to have some one a great deal better off—a great deal higher in the world. But if you would not think it—discreditable; if you would not be ashamed—— oh, Rollo,” she cried, “I cannot bear it! it is impossible to bear it!—I would ask you to do what you offered and take me away!”
It is impossible to describe the feelings with whichRollo listened to these unexpected words. To see a bird walk into the snare must awake compunctions in the most experienced trapper. The same sensation does not attend a sudden fall; but the sight of an innocent creature going calmly into the death set before it, as if into safety and shelter—a man must be hard indeed to see that unmoved. And Rollo was no villain. His heart gave one wild leap again, as it had done when, in the hurrying of passion, not with deliberation (as he had always been comforted to think), he had laid that snare. The thrill of his hairbreadth escape from her horror and loathing, the leap of sudden, horrified delight to find her in his power all at once, by her own act and deed, transported him for the moment with almost uncontrollable power; and then this sudden passion in his mind was met by the stream, the torrent, of a more generous impulse, a nobler passion, which carried everything before it. A man may trap his prey with guile, he may take advantage of the half-willingness of a frail resistance; but to turn to shame the perfect and tender confidence of innocence, who but a villain could do that? and Rollo was no villain. He grasped her almost convulsively in his arms as she spoke; he tried to interrupt her, the words surging, almost incoherent, to his lips. “Lottie! my Lottie!” he cried, “this is not how it must be. Do you think I will let you go to live alone, to work, as you say?” He took her hand hastily, and kissed the little cold fingers with lips that trembled. “No, my love, my darling, not that—but I will go to town to-morrow and settle how we can be married—at once, without an hour’s delay. Oh, yes, it is possible, dear—quite possible. It is the only thing to do. Why, why did I not think of it before? I will go and settle everything, and get the licence. That is the way. My darling, you must not say a word. You had made up your mind to marry me some time, and why not to-morrow—next day—as soon as I can settle? What should we wait for? who should we think of except ourselves? And I want you, my love; and you, thank heaven, Lottie, have need of me.”
He held her close to him, in a grasp which was almost fierce—fierce in the strain of virtue and honour, in which his own nature, with all its easy principles and vacillations, was caught too. He wanted to be off and do it at once, without losing a moment, lest his heart should fail. He would do it, whatever might oppose. She should never know that less worthy thoughts had been in his mind. She should find that her trust was not vain. His blood ran in his veins like a tumultuous river, and his heart beat so that Lottie herself was overawed by the commotion as he held her against it. She was half frightened by his vehemence and tried to speak, but he would not lether at first. “No,” he said, “no, you must not say anything. You must not oppose me. It must be done first, and then we can think of it after. There is nothing against it, and everything in its favour. You must not say a word but Yes,” he cried.
“But, Rollo, Rollo, let me speak. It might be good for me, but would it not be wrong for you? Oh, let me speak! Am I so selfish that I would make you take a sudden resolution, perhaps very foolish, perhaps very imprudent, for my sake? Rollo, Rollo, don’t! I will bear anything. It would be wrong for you to do this.”
“No; not wrong, but right—not wrong, but right,” he cried, bewildering her with his vehemence. Lottie’s own heart was stirred, but not like this. She wondered and was troubled, even in the delight of the thought that everything in the world was as nothing to him in comparison with his love for herself.
“But, Rollo,” she cried again, trembling in his grasp, “if this is really possible—if it is not wrong—why should you go to London to do it? It would be quite as easy here——”
“Lottie, you will sacrifice something for me, will you not?” he said. “If it were done here, all would be public; it would be spoken of everywhere; and I want it to be quiet. I have not much money. You will make this sacrifice for me, dear——”
“Oh,” said Lottie, compunctious, “I wish I had said nothing about it; I wish I had not disturbed you with my paltry little troubles. Do not think of them any more. I can bear anything when I know you are thinking of me. It was only yesterday when—when all seemed uncertain, that it seemed more than I could bear.”
“And it is more than you ought to bear,” he said. “No, I am glad that you told me. We will go away, Lottie—to Italy, to the sunshine, to the country of music, where you will learn best of all—we will go away from the very church door.”
And then he told her how it could be done. To-morrow he would go and settle everything. His plans all took form with lightning speed, though he had never thought of them till now. There would be many things to do; but in three days from that time he would meet her in the same place, and tell her all the arrangements he had made:—and the next morning after that (“Saturday is a lucky day,” he said) they would go to town, if not together, yet by the same train—and go to the church, where he would have arranged everything. Rollo Ridsdale was an adventurer born. He was used to changing the conditions of his life in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye. But it all seemed a dream to Lottie—not one of her usual waking dreams, but a dream of the night, with nopossibility in it, which would dissolve into the mists presently and leave nothing but a happy recollection. She acquiesced in everything, being too much taken by surprise to oppose a plan in which he was so vehement.
“May I tell Law?” she asked, always in her dream, not feeling as if there was any reality in the idea she suggested. And he said No at first, but afterwards half relented, and it was agreed that on Friday everything was to be decided, but nothing done till then. Thus, though they had met without a thought that this stolen interview would be more decisive than any other of the same kind, they parted with a decision that concerned their entire lives.
They walked closer together after this, in the safe gloom of the darkness, till they had again reached the door of the cloisters which led to the Deanery. No one was about, and Rollo was full of restless excitement. He would not hear what she said about prudence, and walked across with her to her own door. There was not a creature to be seen up or down; the lamps flickered in the cold wind, and all the population had gone in to the comfort of warm rooms and blazing fires. He kissed her hand tenderly as he took leave of her.
“Till Friday,” he said.
Lottie went in, still in her dream, walking, shethought, in her sleep. She hoped this sleep would last for ever—that it might not be rashly disturbed by waking, or even by that which would be almost as bad as waking—coming true. She could scarcely feel that she wanted it to come true; it was enough as it was, a bewildering happiness that tingled to the very ends of her fingers, that made her feel as if she were walking on air. She went softly upstairs, caring for nothing but to get to her room, where, though it was dark and cold, she could still go on with this wonderful vision. That seemed all she wanted. But, alas! something very different was in store for Lottie. As she went with soft steps up the stairs the door of the little drawing-room was suddenly opened, letting out a warm stream of ruddy light. Then a sound of laughter reached her ears, and Polly’s voice——
“Come in, come in; we are waiting for you; we are both here,” with another gay outburst.
Lottie came to herself, and to all the disagreeable realities of her life, with a start of pain. She had to obey, though nothing could be more disagreeable to her. She went in with dazzled eyes into the room full of firelight. She remembered now that she had remarked outside that no lamp was lighted, and had supposed with relief that Mrs. Despard was out. But Mrs. Despard had not been out. She had been lurking in the ruddy gloom near the window, her husband byher side. They greeted Lottie with another laugh, as she came in with her pale, astonished face within the circle of the fire.
“So that’s how you spend your afternoons, miss, as I never could think where you were,” cried Polly; “but why didn’t you bring in your beau with you? I’d have given him his tea and a nice leg of a goose, as comfortable as could be.”
“My child,” said the Captain on his side, “I congratulate you. I’ve been expecting something of this kind for a long time. I’ve had my eye upon you. But why didn’t you bring Mr. Ridsdale in, as Mrs. Despard says?”
Lottie felt as if she had been turned into stone. She stood all dark in her winter dress, the firelight playing upon her, and seeking in vain to catch at some possibility of reflection. She had not even a button that would give back the light. And she had not a word to say.
“Come, come, you need not be so put out,” said the Captain, not unkindly. “We saw you coming; and very proper of Mr. Ridsdale not to leave you at the Deanery, but to see you home to your own door. You thought no one was paying any attention—but I hope,” Captain Despard added, “that I think more than that of my child. I don’t doubt from what I saw, Lottie, that you understand each other; and whyhasn’t he come before now to speak to me? You might have known that such a suitor would not be received unfavourably. Happy myself,” said the Captain, throwing out his chest, “would I have put any obstacle between you and your happiness, my dear?”
“I did not think—I did not know—I think—you are mistaken,” Lottie faltered, not knowing what to say.
“Mistaken, indeed! Oh, we’ve gone through all that too lately to be mistaken, haven’t we, Harry?” cried Mrs. Despard. “We know all about it. You couldn’t come to those as would understand you better. Don’t be frightened; you haven’t been found out in anything wrong. If that was wrong I’ve a deal to answer for,” Polly cried, laughing. “I should think you must be frozen with cold after wandering about on them Slopes, or wherever you have been. How foolish young people are, to be sure, getting their deaths of cold. We never were as foolish as that, were we, Harry? Come and warm yourself, you silly girl. You needn’t be afraid of him or me.”
Amid their laughter, however, Lottie managed to get away, to take off her hat, and to try as best she could to realise this new phase of the situation. What her father had said was very reasonable. Why had not Rollo come, as the Captain said? How that wouldhave simplified everything, made everything legitimate! She sighed, not able to understand her lover, feeling that for once her father was right; but Rollo had said that this could not be, that it would be necessary to keep everything quiet. Her dream of happiness was disturbed. Dreams are better, so much better, than reality. In them there is never any jar with fact and necessity; they can adapt themselves to everything, fit themselves into every new development. But now that she was fully awoke it was less easy to steer her way through all the obstacles. Rollo’s reluctance to declare himself, and her father’s right to know, and the pain of leaving her home in a clandestine way, all rushed upon her, dispersing her happiness to the winds. She had felt that to awake would be to lose the sweetness which had wrapped her about; and now the rude encounter with the world had come, and Lottie felt that even with that prospect of happiness before her it was difficult to bear what she would have to bear;—Polly’s innuendoes and, worse still, Polly’s sympathy, and the questions of her father appalled her as she looked forward to them. During this strange courtship of hers, so perplexed and mixed up as it was with her music and the “career” which they all, even Rollo, had tried to force upon her (though surely there need be no more of thatnow), and the changes that had taken place at home, Lottie had almost lost herself. Shewas no longer the high-spirited girl, full of energy and strength, who had reigned over this little house and dragged Law’s heavy bulk along through so many difficulties. She had dreamed so much, and taken refuge so completely from the troubles of her position in those dreams, that now she seemed to have lost her own characteristics, and had no vigour to sustain her when she had actual difficulties to face. She tried to recall herself to herself as she smoothed her hair, which had been blown about by the breeze. From the beginning she had been pained by Rollo’s reserve, though she had persuaded herself it was natural enough; but now, in this new, strange revolution of affairs—a revolution caused entirely, she said to herself, by her father’s own proceedings—what could she do but stand firm on her own side? She would not betray the great purpose in hand. She would still her own heart, and keep her composure, and not allow any agitation or any irritation to wrest from her the secret which Rollo desired to keep. To smooth her ruffled hair was not generally a long process with Lottie; but it was more difficult to arrange her agitated thoughts, and there had been various calls for her from below, where the others had gone for their evening meal, before she was ready to follow.
Finally Law was sent upstairs with an urgent demand for her presence.
“They’ve gone to tea,” said Law, knocking at her door; and then he added, in a low tone, “Open, Lottie. I want to speak to you. I have got lots to say to you.”
She heard him, but she did not attach any meaning to his words. What he said to her on the night before had left no definite impression on her mind. Law had lost his sister, who thought of him above all. In the midst of a pressing crisis in our own individual life, which of us has time to think of others? She was afraid to talk to Law, afraid to betray herself. Love made Lottie selfish and self-absorbed, a consequence just as apt to follow as any other. She was afraid of betraying herself to him; her mind was too full of this wonderful revolution in her own life to be able to take in Law’s desire, on his side, not to know about her, but to expound himself. She came out upon him hastily, and brushed past him, saying, “I am ready.” She did not think of Law, not even when he followed her, grumbling and murmuring—“I told you I wanted to speak to you.” How difficult it is to realise the wants of another when one’s heart is full of one’s own concerns! Neither brother nor sister had room in their minds for anything but the momentous event in their respective lives which was coming; but Law was aggrieved, for he had always hitherto possessed Lottie’s sympathy as a chattel of his own.
Polly and the Captain were seated at table when the two younger members of the family went in, and never had Captain Despard been more dignified or genial. “Lottie, my child, a bit of the breast,” he said—“a delicate bit just fit for a lady. I’ve saved it up for you, though you are late. You are very late; but for once in a way we will make allowances, especially as Mrs. Despard is not offended, but takes your side.”
“Oh,Iknow,” said Polly, “I am not one as is hard upon natural feelings. Pride I can’t abide, nor stuck-up ways, but when it comes to keeping company——”
“Is anyone keeping company with Lottie?” said Law, looking up fiercely; and then the elder pair laughed.
“But, my love, it is not a phrase that is used in good society,” the Captain said.
“Oh, bother good society!” said Polly. She was in an exuberant mood, and beyond the influence of that little topdressing of too transparent pretence with which occasionally she attempted to impose upon her step-children. Lottie, in whose mind indignation and disgust gradually overcame the previous self-absorption, listened to every word, unable to escape from the chatter she hated, with that keen interest of dislike and impatience which is more enthralling than affection; but she scarcely ventured to raise her eyes, and kept herself rigidly on her guard lest any rash word should betray her. It was not till the meal was over that she was brought to actual proof. Then her father detained her as she was about to escape. Law, more impatient than ever with the pressure of his own affairs, which it seemed impossible to find any opportunity of confiding to his sister, had got up at once and gone out. The Captain threw out his chest majestically and waved his hand as Lottie was about to follow.
“My child, I have got something to say to you,” he said.
Mrs. Despard was standing by the fire, warming herself with frank ease, with a good ankle well displayed. Lottie, on her way to the door, unwillingly arrested, stood still because she could not help it. But the Captain occupied with majesty his seat at the foot of the table between his wife and his daughter. “My love,” he said, with his favourite gesture, throwing back his well-developed shoulders, “I have every faith in my daughter, and Mr. Ridsdale is in every way quite satisfactory. Your family is as good as his, but my Lord Courtland’s son is not one to be turned away from any door; and as you have no fortune, Lottie, I should not be exacting as to settlements. I suppose he knows that you have no fortune, my dear?”
“La, Harry!” said Polly from the side of the fire,“how should he think she had a fortune? Fortunes don’t grow on every tree. And how do you know as he has gotthatfar? A young man may keep company with a girl for long enough, and yet never go as far asthat.”
“You must allow me to know best, my love,” said the Captain. “I hope he is not trifling with my girl’s affections. If he is he has Harry Despard to deal with, I’d have him to know. By Jove, if I thoughtthat!”
“I dare say it’s nothing but keeping company,” said Polly, holding up her foot to the fire. “Taking a walk together, or a talk; there’s nothing wrong in that. She wants her bit of fun as well as other girls. I’m not the one to stand up for Miss Lottie, for it’s not what she’d do for me; but if it’s only her bit of fun you shouldn’t be hard upon her, Harry; if my pa had hauled me up for that——”
Lottie could not bear it any longer. “Do you wish me to stay,” she said, “papa? can you wish me to stay?” The Captain looked from his wife in her easy attitude to his daughter, pale with indignation and horror.
“My love,” he said, with mild remonstrance, “there are different ways of speaking in different spheres. Lottie is an only daughter, and has been very carefully brought up. But, my child,” the Captain added, turning to Lottie, “you must not be neglected now. I will make it my business to-morrow to see Mr. Ridsdale, toascertain what his intentions are. Your interests shall not suffer from any carelessness.”
“Papa,” cried Lottie in despair, “you will not do anything so cruel; you could not treat me so! Wait—only wait—a few days—three or four days!”
Polly was so much interested that she let her dress drop over her ankles and turned round. “Don’t you see,” she said, “that she feels he’s coming to the point without any bother? That’s always a deal the best way. It can’t do no harm, as I can see, to wait for three or four days.”
“By Jove, but it will, though,” said Captain Despard with sudden impatience, “all the harm in the world. You’ll allow me to understand my own business. It is clearly time for a man to interfere. I shall see Mr. Ridsdale to-morrow, if all the women in the world were to try their skill and hold me back. Hold your tongue, Mrs. Despard; be quiet, Lottie. When a man is a husband and a father he is the best judge of his own duties. It is now my time to interfere.”
Polly was really concerned; she had a fellow feeling for the girl whose rights were thus interfered with. “Don’t you mind,” she said, turning to Lottie with a half-audible whisper. “If he’s coming to the point himself it won’t do no harm, and if he ain’t it will give him a push, and let him see what’s expected of him. I ain’t one for interfering myself, but if youcan’t help it you must just put up with it; and I don’t think, after all, it will do so very much harm.”
Now Lottie ought to have been grateful for this well-intentioned and amiable remark, but she was not. On the contrary, her anger rose more wildly against the stranger who thus attempted to console her, than it did against her father, whose sudden resolution was so painful to her. She gave Polly a look of wrath, and, forgetting even civility, darted out of the room and upstairs in vehement resentment. Polly was not so much angry as amazed to the point of consternation. She gasped for the breath which was taken away by Lottie’s sudden flight. “Well!” she exclaimed, “that’s manners, that is! that’s what you call being brought up careful! A young unmarried girl, as is nothing and nobody, rushing out of a room like that before a married lady and her Pa’s wife!”
Lottie, however, was in a passion of alarm, which drove everything else out of her head. Of all things that seemed to her most to be avoided, a meeting between her father and Rollo at this crisis was the worst. She left her room no more that evening, but sat and pondered what she could do to avert the danger. True, without a meeting between them it would be impossible that her love should have its legitimate sanction, and that the beginning of her new life should be honest and straightforward, as it ought. But partlybecause she had schooled herself to think (by way of excusing Rollo’s silence) that a meeting between him and her father would only make him less respectful of the Captain’s pretensions and the “family” which Lottie still with forlorn faith believed in, and partly because the visit of a father to ask a lover’s “intentions” was perhaps the very last way in which a beginning of intercourse could be agreeably established, it seemed to Lottie that she would do anything in the world to prevent this meeting. With this view she wrote one little note and then another to warn Rollo—writing with cold fingers but a beating heart, hot with anxiety and trouble, upon the corner of her little dressing-table—for there was no room for any other convenience of a table in the small, old-fashioned chamber. But when she had at last achieved a composition of one which seemed to express feebly yet sufficiently what she wanted to say, the question arose, How was it to get to Rollo? She had no one to send. She dared not trust it to Law, for that would involve an explanation, and there was no one else at Lottie’s command. A thought of Captain Temple floated across her mind; but how could she employ him upon such an errand, which would involve a still more difficult explanation? At last she burnt regretfully by the flame of her candle the very last of these effusions, and decided that she must trust to the chances of themorrow. She had promised to be at the elm-tree in the morning to bid Rollo good-by. She must manage, then, to get him to go away before matins were over and her father free. But it was with an anxious heart that Lottie, when her candle burned out, crept cold and troubled to bed, chilled to the bone, yet with a brow which burned and throbbed with excitement. Law did not come in till after she had fallen asleep. Law, whom she had watched over so anxiously, was, at this crisis of Lottie’s personal history and his own, left entirely to himself.
In the morning she managed to run out immediately after breakfast, just as the air began to vibrate with the Abbey bells, and, after some anxious waiting under the elm, at last, to her great relief, saw Rollo coming. Lottie was not able to disguise her anxiety or her desire for his departure. “Never mind speaking to me,” she said. “Do not waste time. Oh, Rollo, forgive me—no, it is not to get rid of you,” she cried, and then she told him the incident of last night.
Rollo’s eyes gave forth a gleam of disgust when he heard of the chance of being stopped by Captain Despard to enquire his “intentions.” He laughed, and Lottie thought instinctively that this was a sound of merriment which she would never wish to hear again. But his face brightened as he turned to Lottie, whowas so anxious to save him from this ordeal. “My faithful Lottie!” he said, pressing her close to him. There was nobody stirring in the winterly morning; but yet day requires more reserve than the early darkness of night.
“But go, go, Rollo. I want you to be gone before they are out of the Abbey,” she cried, breathless.
“My dear love—my only love,” he said, holding both her hands in his.
“Oh, Rollo, is it not only for a day or two? You are so serious, you frighten me—but go, go, that you may not meet anyone,” she said.
“Yes, it is only for a day or two, my darling,” he replied. “On Friday, my Lottie, at five under this tree. You won’t fail me?”
“Never,” she said, with her blue eyes full of sweet tears. And then they kissed in the eye of day, all the silent world looking on.
“No,” he said, with fervour—“never; you will never fail me; you will always be true.”
And so they parted, she watching jealously while he took his way, not by the common road, but down the windings of the Slopes, that he might be safe, that no one might annoy him. “Till Friday!” he called to her in the silence, waving his hand as he turned the corner out of her sight. She drew a long breath of relief when she saw him emerge alone farther downupon the road that led to the railway. The Signor was only then beginning the voluntary, and Captain Despard evidently could not ask Rollo Ridsdale his “intentions” that day. Lottie waved her hand to her lover, though he was too far off to see her, and said to herself, “Till Friday,” with a sudden realisation all of these words implied—another life, a new heaven and a new earth; love, and tenderness, and worship instead of the careless use and wont of the family; to be first instead of last; to be happy and at rest instead of tormented at everybody’s caprice; to be with Rollo, who loved her, always, for ever and ever, with no more risk of losing him or being forgotten. Her heart overflowed with sweetness, her eyes with soft tears of joy. Out of that enchanted land she went back for a little while into common life, but not in any common way. The sunshine, which had been slow to shine, broke out over the Dean’s Walk as she emerged from under the shadow of the trees; the path was cleared for her; the music pealed out from the Abbey. Unconsciously her steps fell into a kind of stately movement, keeping time. In her blessedness she moved softly on towards the shadow of the house in which she had now but a few days to live—like a princess walking to her coronation, like a martyr to her agony. Who could tell in which of the two the best similitude lay?