LOTTIE WINS.
Percival had not been wrong about Lottie: she had at any rate only
partially understood what she was doing. The poor child had been
bitterly humiliated by the discovery that he did not love her, and felt
that she was disgraced for life by her ill-judged advance. The feeling
was high-flown and exaggerated no doubt, but one hardly expects to find
all the cool wisdom of Ecclesiastes in a brain of seventeen. Lottie,
flying from Percival's scorn as she supposed, was ready for any
desperate leap. What wonder that she took one into Horace's open arms!
How could she find a better salve for wounded pride than by captivating
the man who had passed her by as nothing but a child, and who had been,
as she would have said, "much too great a swell to take any notice of
_her_"? He had dangled in a half-hearted fashion after Addie, and had
given himself airs. Wounded vanity had attracted him to Lottie, but,
smitten by sudden passion, he wooed her hotly, with an eagerness which
startled even himself. How could she be unconscious of the difference
and of her triumph? Percival Thorne, who had slighted her, should see
her reigning at Brackenhill!
Proud, pleased, grateful, excited, dizzy with success, Lottie was swept
away by the torrent of mingled feelings. Her sorrow for her father's
death was violent, but not lasting. She could not feel his loss for any
length of time, she had always been so much more her mother's child.
Even during her mourning there was something of romance in Horace's
letters of comfort, for Horace, who had always been the laziest
correspondent in the world, wrote ardent letters to Lottie, and used all
the hackneyed yet ever fresh expedients for transmitting them which have
been bequeathed to us by generations of bygone lovers. There were
meetings too, more romantic still. No one is so sentimental as the man
who is startled out of a languid scorn of sentiment. He does not know
where to stop. Horace would have been capable of serenading Lottie if
Mrs. Blake would only have slept on the other side of the house.
Addie was unconscious of the fiery romance which went on close at hand.
She felt that the languid attentions which she had prized were fading
away and would never ripen to anything more. Her sorrow for her father's
death was deeper than Lottie's, and while it was fresh she hardly
thought of Horace Thorne's coldness, except as a part of the general
dreariness of life, and did not attempt to seek out its cause. Even Mrs.
Blake never for a moment expected the revelation which was made to her
near the beginning of October.
It was Lottie who told her, coming to her one night with a white face of
agony and resolution.
Horace was dangerously ill. He had been ill before, but this was
something altogether different. The cold which led to such alarming
results had been caught in one of his secret expeditions to see Lottie.
She had been forced to keep him waiting, and a chilly September rain had
drenched him to the skin. He had gone away in his wet clothes, had tried
to pretend that there was nothing amiss with him, and had gone out the
next day in order to be able to attribute his cold to a ride in the
north-east wind. Since that time Lottie had had three letters--the first
a gallant little attempt at gayety and hopefulness; the second, after a
considerable interval, depressed and anxious. They had ordered him
abroad. "I am sure they think badly of me," he wrote, "though I'll cheat
the grave yet--if I can. But how am I to live through the winter in some
horrible hole of a place without my darling? Suppose I get worse instead
of better, and die out there, and never see you again--never once?" And
so on for a page of forebodings. Lottie's fondness for him, fanned by
pity and remorse--was it not for her that he had risked his
life?--flamed up to passion. They say that a woman always puts the real
meaning of her letter into the postscript. I don't know how that may be,
but I do not think she would ever fail to give full weight to any
postscript she might receive. Horace's postscript was, "After all, I've
a great mind to stay in England and chance it."
Lottie was terrified. She replied, wildly entreating him to go, and
vowing that they should meet again and not be parted. She did not yet
know what she would do, but--Then followed a few notes of music roughly
dashed in.
He was puzzled. He tried the notes furtively on the piano, but they told
him nothing. That day, however, there came to his mother's house a girl
with whom he had had one of his numerous flirtations in bygone days. He
asked her to play to him, and then to sing, hanging over the piano
meanwhile, and thrilling her with his apparent devotion and with the
melancholy which reminded her of the fate which threatened him. When she
had finished her song he said, "But you'll sing me one more, won't you?
I sha'n't have the chance again, you know." He looked down as he spoke
and struck the notes which haunted him. "Do you know what that is?" he
asked. "It has been going in my head all day, and I can't put a name to
it."
She tried it after him. "What _is_ it?" she said: "I ought to remember,"
and paused, finger on lip. Horace's eager eyes flashed upon hers, when
she suddenly exclaimed, "I know. It's one of Chappell's old songs;" and,
dashing her hands victoriously upon the keys, she sang "Love will find
out the way."
"Ah!" said Horace, and stood erect in a glow of passion and triumph. He
remembered himself enough to ask again for one more song, but when, with
a wistful tremor in her voice, she said, "This? you used to like this,"
he assented, without an idea what it was, and dropped into the nearest
arm-chair to ponder Lottie's message. He was quite unconscious that the
girl at his side was singing "O Fair Dove! O Fond Dove!" with an
earnestness of meaning, a pathos and a power, which she never attained
before or since. But he was sorry when she stopped, for he had to come
out of a most wonderful castle in the air and say "Thank you." When she
went away he looked vaguely at her and let her hand fall, as was only
natural. How we listen for the postman when we are longing for a letter
and sick with hope deferred! But who thinks of him when he has dropped
it into the box and is going down the street? Horace felt almost sure as
he said good-bye that Love _had_ found out the way.
And his next note sent Lottie to her mother.
Mrs. Blake was utterly confounded when her younger daughter announced
that she was engaged to Horace Thorne. "It was no good saying anything,"
said Lottie frankly, "for his old wretch of a grandfather wouldn't think
we were good enough to marry into _his_ family, and I dare say he would
go and leave all his money to Percival if Horace thwarted him. So we
thought we would wait. People can't live _very_ much longer when they
are seventy-seven, can they? At least they do sometimes, I know," Lottie
added, pulling herself up. "You see them in the newspapers sometimes in
their ninety-eighth or ninety-seventh year, I've noticed lately. But I'm
sure it will be very wicked if he lives twenty years more. And now
Horace is ill, and we can't wait. For he must not and shall not go away,
and perhaps die, without me." And Lottie broke down and wept.
"But what do you want to do?" said Mrs. Blake. It was a shock to her,
and she was sorry for Addie, but she could not repress a thrill of
exultation at the thought that Horace Thorne, whom she had so coveted
for a son-in-law, was caught. The state of his health was serious of
course, but they must hope for the best, and the idea of an alliance
with one of the leading county families dazzled her.
"We want to be married before he goes out, and nobody to know anything
about it," said Lottie; "and then you must take me abroad this winter."
Mrs. Blake declared that it was utterly impossible.
"Oh, very well," said Lottie, drying her tears. "Then I give you fair
warning. I shall run away, and get to Horace somehow. I don't know
whether we can get married abroad--"
"I should think not--a child like you, without my consent," said Mrs.
Blake.
"No, I suppose we couldn't. Well, then, it will be your doing, you know,
if we are not. _I_ shouldn't like to have such a thing on my
conscience," said Lottie virtuously. "But perhaps you don't mind."
Mrs. Blake said that it was impossible that Lottie could be so lost to
all sense of propriety, so wicked, so unwomanly--
The girl stood opposite, slim, white and resolute. Her slender hands
hung loosely clasped before her and a fierce spark burned in her eyes.
"Oh, that's impossible too, is it?" she said quietly. "We'll see."
Mrs. Blake quailed, but murmured something about her "authority."
"Oh yes," was the calm reply. "You might lock me up. Try it: I think I
should get out. Make a fuss and ruin Horace and me. That you _can_ do,
but keep us apart you can't."
"You don't know, you can't know, what it is you talk of doing, or you
couldn't stand there without blushing."
"Very likely not," said Lottie. "But since I know enough to do it--"
"You are a wicked, wilful child."
"Wicked? Perhaps. Yes, I think I am wicked. I'm a child, I know. Help
me, mother, for I love him!"
The argument was prolonged, but the end could not be doubtful. Mrs.
Blake could scold and bluster, but Lottie was determined. The mother was
in bondage to Mrs. Grundy: the daughter played the trump card of her
utter recklessness and won the game.
Having yielded, Mrs. Blake threw herself heart and soul into the scheme.
She announced that painful recollections made Fordborough impossible as
a place of residence, that Lottie was looking ill, and that they both
required a thorough change. She dropped judiciously disagreeable remarks
about her stepson till Addie was up in arms, and said that her mother
and Lottie might go where they liked, but she should go to her aunt,
Miss Blake, till Oliver, who was on his way, came home. Then Mrs. Blake
shut up her house and went quietly off to Folkestone: Horace was to
start from Dover in rather more than a fortnight's time.
[Illustration: "DO YOU WANT TO SEE WHAT I HAVE SAID?"--Page 66.]
After that the course was clear. Horace found out that he was worse, and
must put off his departure for a week or ten days. Then, when the time
originally fixed arrived, he said that he was better and would start at
once. Naturally, Mrs. James was not ready, and he discovered that the
house was intolerable with her dressmakers and packing, that he must
break the journey somewhere, and that he might as well wait for her at
Dover. The morning after his arrival there he took the train to
Folkestone, met Lottie and her mother, went straight to the church, and
came back to Dover a lonely but triumphant bridegroom, while Mrs. Blake
and Mrs. Horace Thorne crossed at once to Boulogne.
It was necessary that Mrs. James should be enlightened, but Horace was
not alarmed: he knew that she had no choice but to make common cause
with him. Mrs. Blake, however, could hardly make up her mind what should
be done about Addie. She more than suspected that the tidings would be a
painful humiliation to her daughter. "We mustn't tell her," she said at
last to Lottie. "She might be spiteful: it wouldn't be safe."
"It will be quite safe," said Lottie. "Because of what we used to say
about Horace, you mean? But that is just what makes it safe. I know
Addie: she won't let any one say that she betrayed me because she wanted
Horace herself once. She _said_ she didn't, but I think there was
something in it; and if there was, she'd be torn in pieces sooner than
let any one say so."
There was a curious straightforwardness about Lottie, even while she
schemed and plotted. She calculated the effect of her sister's
tenderness for Horace as frankly and openly as one might reckon on a
tide or a train, and behaved as if the old saying, "All is fair in love
and war," were one of the Thirty-nine Articles.
She wrote her letter without difficulty or hesitation. It was after
Horace had joined them, and he laid his hand lightly on her shoulder as
she was contemplating her new signature.
"Nearly done?" he said. "And who is to have the benefit of all this?"
"Addie: she ought to know."
"Ah!" There was something of uneasiness in his tone, as if an unpleasant
idea had been presented to him. Horace had felt, when he arranged his
secret marriage, that he and Lottie were doing a daring and romantic
deed, and risking all for love in a truly heroic fashion. But when she
told him that she had written to Addie the matter wore a less heroic
aspect. Lottie might be unconscious of this in her sweet sincerity,
thought the ardent lover, but he remembered old days and felt like
anything but a hero.
"Do you want to see what I have said?" She tilted her chair backward and
looked up at him with her great clear eyes.
"No," Horace answered with a smile: "I'm not going to pry into your
letters." In his heart he knew that it was impossible to put the
revelation of their secret to Addie into any words that would not be
painful to him to read.
"Shall I give any message for you?"
"N-no," said Horace, doubtfully: "I think not."
"It might be considered more civil if you sent one."
"Then say anything you please," was the half-reluctant rejoinder.
"Oh, I'm not going to invent your messages, you lazy boy! A likely
story!" Lottie sprang up and put the pen into his hand: "There! write
for yourself, sir."
Horace thought that a refusal would betray his feelings about Addie, and
he sat down, wondering what he was going to say. But his eye was caught
by the last two words of the letter, "LOTTIE THORNE;" and as he looked
at them the young husband forgot Addie and his lips curved in a tender
smile.
"Make haste," said Lottie from the window--"make haste and come to me."
Horace started from his happy reverie, set his teeth and wrote:
"DEAR ADDIE: I suppose Lottie has told you everything. It was a reckless
thing to do, no doubt: perhaps you will say it was wrong and underhand.
Some people will, I dare say, but I hope you won't, for I should like to
start with your good wishes. May I call myself
"Your brother, H.T.?"
In due time came the answer:
"DEAR HORACE: I will not pass judgment on you and your doings: I am not
clever in arguing such matters. I will only say (which is more to the
point, isn't it?) that you and Lottie have my best wishes for the
safe-keeping of your secret, and anything I can do to help you I will.
We are having very cold damp weather, so I am glad you are safe in a
warmer climate, and hope you are the better for it.
"Your affectionate sister,
"ADELAIDE BLAKE."
Horace showed this to Lottie, and then thrust it away and forgot it all
as quickly as he could. Addie had read this little scrap in her own
room, had stood for a moment staring at it, had kissed it suddenly, then
torn it into a dozen pieces and stamped upon it. Then she gathered up
the fragments, sighed over them, burnt them, and vowed she would think
no more of it or him. But as she went about the house there floated
continually before her eyes, "Your brother, H.T.;" and the word which
had been so sweet to her, which had always meant her dear old Noll, and
which she had uttered so triumphantly to Percival in Langley Wood when
she said "I have a brother," became her torment.
Horace felt like a hero again when he forgot Addie, and only remembered
how he was risking his grandfather's displeasure for his love's sake. He
fully thought, as he had said, that he was Esau, and that smooth Jacob
would win a large share of the inheritance; but when he stood with his
back to the fireplace at Brackenhill, and knew that he was master of
all, Percival's parting sneer awoke his old doubts as to his heroism
once more. He had succeeded too well, and the risk which had ennobled
his conduct in his own eyes would never be realized by others.
Percival's attempt to supplant him had been foiled, and Horace was
triumphant, yet he regretted the glaring contrast in their positions
which rendered comparisons of their respective merits inevitable. But he
could do nothing. Percival had said, "Don't let him offer me money."
Horace, keener-sighted than Aunt Harriet, had not the slightest
intention of doing so. He knew how such overtures would be received;
and, after all, Brackenhill was his by right! And had not Percival
plenty to live on?
And as for himself, let who would turn their backs on him--even Aunt
Harriet, if it must be so--he had Lottie, and could defy the world.