LADY CAROLINE.
Lady Caroline was in the drawing-room at the Deanery alone. Now that her
daughter was married this was no unusual circumstance. It was late in
the summer evening, after dinner, and she lay on a great square sofa so
placed that the view from the large window was dimly visible from it,
had she cared for the view. As a matter of fact, at no hour of the
twenty-four, however bright or tempting it might be, did Lady Caroline
care much for the view; but still, when a room is artistically arranged,
such a possibility cannot be altogether kept out of consideration. This
evening, however, there was no light to see anything by. The room was
dark, nothing distinctly visible in it but the great broad Elizabethan
window which filled one end. The upper part of this window was filled
with old painted glass in silvery tinted quarries, soft greys and
yellows, surrounding the golden and ruby glories of several blazons of
arms, and drawing the eye irresistibly with the delight of radiant
colour; underneath opened the great plain all dim and wide, a suggestion
of boundless air and distance rather than a landscape, while in the
room itself nothing was distinct but here and there a glimmer of
reflection from a mirror breaking the long line of the walls. Nor was
its only occupant very distinguishable as she reclined upon her sofa in
absolute stillness and tranquillity. The lace on her head and about her
throat showed faintly white in the corner, that was all. Perhaps if the
mind could have been seen as well as the body, Lady Caroline’s
individual soul, such as it was, would have told for little more amid
the still life around: a something vaguely different from the chairs and
softly cushioned sofas, a little more than one of the dim mirrors, a
little less than a picture, was this human creature to whom all the rest
belonged. She had lived irreproachably on the earth for a number of
years (though not for nearly so many years as the most of her
furniture), and fulfilled all her functions very much as they did,
honestly holding together, affording a temporary place of repose
occasionally, convenient for household meals, and ordinary domestic
necessities. Perhaps now and then Lady Caroline conferred something of
the same kind of solace and support which is given to the weary by a
nice warm soft easy-chair, comfortably cushioned and covered; but that
was about the highest use of which she was capable. She was waiting now
quite tranquilly till it pleased the servants to bring her lights. They
were in no hurry, and she was in no hurry. She never did anything, so
that it was immaterial whether her room was lighted early or late, and
on the whole she liked this dim interval between the active daylight,
when people were always in motion, and the lamps, which suggested work,
or a book, or something of the sort. Lady Caroline, though she had not
very much mind, had a conscience, and knew that it was not quite right
for a responsible creature to be without employment; therefore she made
certain efforts to fulfil the object of her existence by keeping a
serious volume on the table beside her, and putting in a few stitches
now and then in a piece of wool-work. But at this hour there was no
possibility for the most anxious conscience to speak, and Lady
Caroline’s was not anxious, only correct, not troubling itself with any
burden beyond what was necessary. It may be supposed, perhaps, that she
was sad, passing this twilight quite alone, so soon after the marriage
and departure of her only daughter; but this would have been a mistake,
for Lady Caroline was not sad. Of course she missed Augusta. There was
no one now to wake her up when she dozed, as now and then happened, in a
warm afternoon after luncheon; and, as a matter of fact, one or two
visitors had actually been ushered into the drawing-room while her head
was drooping upon her right shoulder, and her cap a little awry. But at
this tranquil hour in the dark, when nobody expected anything of her,
neither without nor within--neither conscience, nor the Dean, nor
society--it cannot be said that any distressful recollection of Augusta
mingled with her thoughts. Nor, indeed, had she any thoughts to mingle
it with, which was perhaps the reason. She was very comfortable in the
corner of her sofa, with nothing to disturb her. Had Jarvis her maid
been at hand to tell her what was going on in the precincts, or any bit
of gossip that might have floated upward from the town, it would
probably have added a little more flavour to her content; but even that
flavour was not necessary to her, and she was quite happy as she was.
Some one came into the room as she lay in this pleasant quiet. She
thought it was Jeremie coming to light the candles, and said nothing;
but it was not so dignified a person as Mr. Jeremie, the Dean’s butler,
who was generally taken for one of the Canons by visitors unacquainted
with the place. This was indeed a shirt-front as dazzling as Jeremie’s
which came into the soft gloom, but the owner of it was younger and
taller, with a lighter step and less solemn demeanour. He gave a glance
round the room to see if anyone was visible, then advanced steadily with
the ease of an _habitue_ among the sofas and tables. “Are you here, Aunt
Caroline?” he said. “Oh, you are there! Shall I ring for lights? it must
be dull sitting all by yourself in the dark.”
“If you please, my dear,” said Lady Caroline, who, having no will of her
own to speak of, never set it in opposition to anybody else’s;
answering a question as she did thus promptly, there was no occasion at
the same time to answer a mere remark.
“I am afraid you are moping,” he said, “missing Augusta. To be sure, it
does make a great difference in the house.”
“No, my dear,” said Lady Caroline, “I can’t say I was thinking of
Augusta. She is quite happy, you know.”
“I hope so,” he said, laughing. “If they are not happy now, when should
they be happy? the honeymoon scarcely over, and all sorts of delights
before them.”
“Yes; that is just what I was going to say,” said Lady Caroline; “so why
should I mope?”
“Why, indeed?” He took his aunt’s soft hand into his, and caressed it.
Rollo was fond of his aunt, strange though it may appear. She had never
scolded him, though this was the favourite exercise of all the rest of
his family. When he came home in disgrace she had always received him
just the same as if he had come in triumph. Whoever might find fault
with him for wasting his talents, or disappointing the hopes of his
friends, his Aunt Caroline had never done so. He could not help laughing
a little as he spoke, but he caressed her soft white hand as he did so,
compunctious, to make amends to her for the ridicule. Lady Caroline, it
need not be said, attached no idea of ridicule to his laugh. “But I
have come to tell you,” said Rollo, “that I have been out again walking
up and down the Dean’s Walk, as I did the night of the wedding, and I
have not been able to hear a note of your singer--the girl with the
wonderful voice.”
“Did I say there was a girl with a wonderful voice, my dear? I forget.”
“Not you, but Augusta; don’t you remember, Aunt Caroline, a girl in the
Cloisters, in--in the Lodges, a Miss--I don’t remember the name. Lottie
something, Augusta called her.”
“Ah! Augusta was too ready to make friends. It is Miss Despard, I
suppose.”
“Well; might we not have Miss Despard here some evening? If her voice is
as fine as Augusta said, it might be the making of me, Aunt Caroline. An
English _prima donna_ would make all our fortunes. And unless I hear
her, it is not possible, is it, I appeal to your candour, that I can
judge?”
“But, my dear!” “But” was a word which scarcely existed in Lady
Caroline’s vocabulary. It meant an objection, and she rarely objected to
anything. Still there was a limit to which instinct and experience alike
bound her. She was not unkind by nature, but rather the reverse, and if
there was anything that approached a passion--nay, not a passion, an
emotion--in her nature, it was for the poor. She who was little moved
by any relationship, even the closest, almost loved the poor, and would
take trouble for them, petting them when they were sick, and pleased to
hear of all their affairs when they were well--conscience and
inclination supplementing each other in this point. But the poor, the
real “poor,” they who are so kind as to be destitute now and then, with
nothing to eat and all their clothes at the pawnbroker’s, and their
existence dependent upon the clergyman’s nod, or the visit of the
district lady--these were very different from the Chevaliers in their
Lodges. There even Lady Caroline drew the line. She did what was
suggested to her in a great many cases, but here she felt that she could
make a stand when necessity required. Not the people in the Lodges!
people who though they lived in small houses on small incomes considered
themselves to be ladies and gentlemen as good as the Royal Family
themselves. The very mildest, the very gentlest, must pause somewhere,
and this is where Lady Caroline made her stand. “My dear,” she said,
something like a flush coming to her sallow cheek, for Jeremie by this
time had brought the lamps and lighted the candles and made her visible;
“I have never visited the people in the Lodges. I have always made a
stand there. There was one of them appointed through my brother
Courtland, you know--your papa, my dear--but when Beatrice asked me to
notice them I was obliged to decline. I really could not do it. I hope I
never shrink from doing my duty to the poor; but these sort of
people--you must really excuse me, Rollo; I could not, I do not think I
could do it.”
Mr. Ridsdale had never seen anything so near excitement in his aunt’s
manner before. She spoke with little movements of her hands and of her
head, and a pink flush was on her usually colourless face. The sight of
this little flutter and commotion which he had caused amused the young
man. Jeremie was still moving noiselessly about, letting down a loop of
curtain, kindling a distant corner into visibility by lighting one of
the groups of candles upon the wall. The room was still very dim, just
made visible, not much more, and Jeremie’s noiseless presence did not
check the expression of Lady Caroline’s sentiments. She made her little
explanation with a fervour such as, we have said, her nephew had never
before seen in her. He was greatly astonished, but he was also, it must
be allowed, somewhat disposed to laugh.
“You must pardon me,” he said, “for suggesting anything you don’t like,
Aunt Caroline. But did not Augusta have Miss Despard here?”
“Oh, yes--with the rest of her people who sang. Augusta was always
having her singing people--who were not in our set at all.”
“I suppose that is all over now,” said Rollo in a tone of regret.
“Oh, not quite over. Mrs. Long brought some of them the other day. She
thought it would amuse me. But it never amused me much,” said Lady
Caroline. “Augusta was pleased, and that was all. I don’t want them,
Rollo; they disturb me. They require to have tea made for them, and
compliments. I am not so very fond of music, you are aware.”
“I know; not fond enough to give up anything for it; but confess it is
often a resource after dinner, when the people are dull?”
“The people are always just the same, Rollo. If they have a good dinner,
that is all I have to do with them. They ought to amuse themselves.”
“Yes, yes,” he resumed, laughing. “I know you are never dull, Aunt
Caroline. Your thoughts flow always in the same gentle current. You are
never excited, and you are never bored.”
A gentle smile came over Lady Caroline’s face; no one understood her so
well. She was astonished that so many people found fault with Rollo. He
was, she thought, her favourite nephew, if it was right to have a
favourite. “It is no credit to me,” she said. “I was always brought up
in that way. But girls do not have such a good training now.”
“No, indeed--the very reverse, I think--they are either in a whirl of
amusement or else they are bored. But, Aunt Caroline, people in general
are not like you. And for us who have not had the advantage of your
education, it is often very dull, especially after dinner. Now you are
going to have a gathering to-morrow. Don’t you think it would be a good
thing to have a little music in the evening, and ask Miss Despard to
come and sing? Have her to amuse the people, just as you might have
Punch and Judy, you know, or some of the sleight-of-hand men?”
“I should never think of having either the one or the other, Rollo.”
“But a great many people do. It was quite the right thing for a time.
Come, Aunt Caroline! My uncle is often bored to death with these duty
dinners. He will bless you if you have a little music afterwards and set
him free.”
“Do you really think so? I can’t understand why you should all talk of
being bored. I am never bored,” said Lady Caroline.
“That is your superiority,” said the courtier. “But we poor wretches
often are. And I really must hear this voice. You would not like to
stand in the way of my interests now when I seem really about to have a
chance?”
“It is a very curious thing to me,” said Lady Caroline, stimulated by so
much argument to deliver herself of an original remark, “that such a
clever young man as you are, Rollo, should require to connect yourself
with singers and theatres. Such a thing was never heard of in my time.”
“That is just it,” he said, putting on a mournful look. “If I had not
been a clever young man, things would have gone a great deal better with
me. There was nothing of that foolish description I am sure, Aunt
Caroline, in your time.”
“No,” she said; then added, almost peevishly, “I do not know how to
communicate with the girl, Rollo. She is so out of society.”
“But only on the other side of the way,” he said. “Come, write her a
note, and I will take it myself, if Jeremie or Joseph are too grand to
go.”
“Must I write her a note? I never in my life sent a note to the Lodges,”
said Lady Caroline, looking at her hands as if the performance would
soil them. Then she added, with a look of relief, “I very often see her
when I am out for my drive. You can tell the coachman to stop if he sees
her, and I will tell her to come--that will be much the better way.”
“But if she should be engaged?”
Lady Caroline gave him a very faint smile of amiable scorn and superior
knowledge. “You forget these people are not in society,” she said.
To make head against this sublime of contempt was more than Rollo could
do. Lady Caroline vanquished him as she had vanquished many people in
her day, by that invincible might of simple dulness against which
nothing can stand.
Mr. Rollo Ridsdale was one of the many very clever young men in society
who are always on the eve of every kind of fame and fortune, but never
manage to cross the border between hope and reality. He had been quite
sure of success in a great many different ways: at the university, where
he was certain of a first class, but only managed to “scrape through”
the ordeal of honours in the lowest room;--in diplomacy, where he was
expected to rise to the highest rank, but spoiled all his chances by a
whisper of a state secret, of no importance to anybody, when only an
unpaid attaché;--in the House of Commons, where he broke down in his
maiden speech, after costing what his family described as a “fortune” to
secure his election;--and finally, in commerce, where his honourable
name was just secured from the _éclat_ of a disgraceful bankruptcy by
the sacrifice of a second “fortune” on the part of the family. It is but
fair to add, however, that Rollo had nothing to do with the
disgracefulness of the commercial downfall in which he was all but
involved. And here he was at eight-and-twenty once more afloat, as the
fashionable jackal and assistant of an enterprising _impresario_,
indefatigable in his pursuit of the prima donna of the future, and
talking of nothing but operas. This was why he had made that moonlight
promenade under Lottie Despard’s windows on the evening of his cousin’s
wedding-day. He did not know her, but Lottie knew him as the populace
know all, even the most insignificant, members of the reigning family.
Lady Caroline’s nephew, Augusta’s cousin, was of much more importance
to the community than any of the community had been to him up to this
moment, though the thoughts which passed through Lottie’s mind, as, with
extreme surprise, she recognised him gazing up at her window, suggested
a very different hypothesis. What could Lottie imagine, as, with the
most bewildering astonishment, she identified Mr. Ridsdale, but that he
had seen her as she had seen him, and that it was admiration at least,
if not a more definite sentiment, which brought him to wander in front
of the window, as poor young Purcell did, whose delusion she regarded
without either surprise or compassion? Rollo Ridsdale was a very
different person; and Lottie had been too much bewildered by his
appearance to found any theory upon it, except the vaguest natural
thrill of flattered pleasure and wonder. Was it possible?--When a young
man comes and stares at a lady’s window, going and returning, waiting
apparently for a glimpse of her--what is anyone to suppose?--There is
but one natural and ordinary explanation of such an attitude and
proceeding. And if Lottie’s fancy jumped at this idea, how could she
help it? It gave her a little shock of pleasure and exhilaration in her
depressed state. Why should she have been exhilarated? It is difficult
to say. She did not know anything of Mr. Ridsdale--whether his
admiration was worth having or the reverse. But he was Lady Caroline’s
nephew, who had always been inaccessible to Lottie; he was Augusta’s
cousin, who had neglected her. And if it really could be possible that,
notwithstanding this, he had conceived a romantic passion for Lottie,
what could be more consolatory to the girl who had felt herself
humiliated by the indifference and contempt with which these ladies had
treated her? The idea brought the light back to her eyes, and her
natural gay courage revived again. She would make reprisals, she would
“be even with them,” and pay them back in their coin; and where is the
girl or boy to whom reprisals are not sweet?
This, however, is a digression from Lady Caroline, who went to her
tranquil couch that night with a heavier heart than she had known for
years. It was a revolution which had occurred in her life. During
Augusta’s reign she had been passively resistant always, protesting
under her breath against the invasion of the singing people of all kinds
into her sacred and exclusive world. She had supported it with heroic
calm, entrenching herself behind the ladies who were really in society,
and whom she could receive without derogation; but to Lottie and the
other people who were outside of her world she had never shown any
civility, as she was glad to think, on surveying the situation that
night. She had not brought it on herself. She had never shown them any
civility. A salutation with her eyelids, a cup of tea from her table,
the privilege of breathing the same air with her--this had been all she
had ever done for her daughter’s _protégées_, and hitherto nobody, she
was obliged to allow, had presumed upon it. But _that_ Miss Despard was
not like the timid and respectful singing ladies from the town. She was
a bold young woman, who thought herself as good as anyone, and looked as
if she ought to be talked to, and taken notice of, as much as anyone.
And it was not possible to get rid of her as the ladies in the town
could be got rid of. Lady Caroline could not go out of her own door,
could not go to Church, without meeting Miss Despard, and feeling what
she called within herself, “the broad stare” of that dangerous girl. And
now was it possible, was it conceivable, that she was herself to take
the initiative and re-invite Miss Despard? Not for years, if indeed ever
in her life, had Lady Caroline gone to bed with such a weight on her
mind. She sighed as she laid down on that bed of down--nay, not of down,
which is old-fashioned and not very wholesome either, now-a-days, people
say--but on her mattress of delicately arranged springs, which moved
with every movement. She sighed as she lay down upon it, and the springs
swayed under her; and she sighed again in the morning as she woke, and
all that had happened came back into her mind. Poor dear Rollo! She did
not like to cross him, or to go against him, since he had made so great
an object of it. Oh! that Augusta had but held her peace, and had not
inflamed his mind about this girl’s voice! After all, her voice was
nothing wonderful; it was just a soprano, as most girl’s voices were;
and that she, Lady Caroline, should be compelled to exert
herself--compelled to go against her principles, to come into personal
contact with a person of a different class! She who had always been
careful to keep herself aloof!--It was very hard upon Lady Caroline. She
sighed at breakfast so that the Dean took notice of it.
“Is there anything the matter?” he said. “Rollo, do you know what is the
matter? This is the third time I have heard your aunt sigh.”
“I am sure she does not look as if anything was the matter,” said Rollo,
with that filial flattery which women like, at Lady Caroline’s age.
She gave him a faint little smile, but shook her head and sighed again.
“Bless my soul!” said the Dean, “I must look in upon Enderby, and tell
him to come and see you.”
“Oh, there is nothing the matter with me,” Lady Caroline said; but she
had no objection to see Enderby, who was the doctor and always very
kind. It even pleased her to think of confiding her troubles to him, for
indeed she had the humbling consciousness upon her mind that she had
never been a very interesting patient. She had never had anything but
headaches and mere external ills to tell him about. She had never till
now been able to reveal to him even a headache which had been caused by
trouble of mind. Lady Caroline, though she was dull, had a faint wish
to be interesting as well as other people, and it would be a relief to
pour out this trouble to his sympathising ear.
The idea of meeting Lottie when she went out was a very happy one, Lady
Caroline thought. She could not but feel that necessity was producing
invention within her. Perhaps she might not meet Lottie, perhaps Lottie
might be frightened and would decline to come. She drove out that
afternoon with a little excitement, full of hope, if she felt also the
palpitation of a little fear. These emotions made quite a pleasant and
unusual stir in the dull fluid that filled her veins. She was half
disturbed and half pleased when she found that Rollo proposed going with
her, a very unusual compliment from a young man. He said it was because
he had hurt his foot and could not walk. “Dear me!” Lady Caroline said,
“I will send Jarvis to see if it is a sprain.” “Oh no, it is not a
sprain,” he said; “a little rest is all it requires.” “You will find
carriage exercise very nice,” Lady Caroline said; “a perfect rest--and
much more amusement than walking, which tires one out directly.” And
thus they set out perfectly pleased with each other. But the coachman
had got his instructions carefully from Rollo’s own lips, and there was
now no possibility of escape for the poor lady, over whom Rollo himself
had mounted guard. They had not gone above a few yards from the Deanery
door, when the carriage suddenly drew up with a jar, to the side of the
high terrace pavement which lay in front of the Lodges. Rollo, who was
on the alert, looked eagerly out, and saw a light erect figure, full of
energy and life, coming up, in the plainest of morning frocks, one of
those simple toilettes which fashion has lately approved. She looked
perfectly fresh, and like the summer morning, as she came along, with a
little basket in her hand; and suddenly it burst upon Rollo, as Lottie
raised her eyes with a glance of astonished interest in them, wondering
why it was that Lady Caroline’s carriage should stop there, that this
unknown girl was extremely handsome--a thing for which the young man had
not been prepared. “Is this Miss Despard? but she will be gone unless
you send to her. Shall I go and call her to you?” he said.
“Oh, she will come when she sees I want her,” said Lady Caroline. But
the only answer he made was to jump up and let himself out of the
carriage before Joseph could get off from the box. He went up to Lottie
with his hat in his hand, very much surprised in his turn by the vivid
blush which covered her cheeks at sight of him. He was flattered, and he
was surprised; was it a mere trick of unformed manners, the _gaucherie_
of a girl who had never been in society, and did not know how to behave
herself? or was it that she saw something unusually fascinating in
himself, Rollo? To see so handsome a girl blush at his approach was a
tribute to his attractions, which Rollo was not the man to be
indifferent to. He almost forgot the business side of the transaction,
and his hunt after a prima donna, in the pleasure of such an encounter.
Could she have seen him somewhere before and been “struck” with him?
Rollo wondered. It was an agreeable beginning. He went up to her with
his hat in his hand as if she had been a princess. “I beg your pardon,”
he said, “my aunt, Lady Caroline Huntington, has sent me to beg that you
would let her speak to you for a moment.” Lottie looked at him
bewildered, with eyes that could scarcely meet his. She could hardly
make out what he said, in the sudden confusion and excitement of meeting
thus, face to face, the man whom she had seen under her window. What was
it? Lady Caroline asking to speak with her, awaiting her, in her
carriage, in the sight of all St. Michael’s! Lottie stood still for a
moment, and gazed at this strange sight, unable to move or speak for
wonder. What could Lady Caroline have to say? She could not be going, on
the spot, out of that beautiful chariot with its prancing horses, to
plead her nephew’s suit with the girl who knew nothing of him except his
lover-like watch under her window. Lottie could not trust herself to
make him any reply--or rather she said idiotically, “Oh, thank you,” and
turned half reluctant, confused, and anxious, to obey the call. She went
to the carriage door, and stood without a word, with her eyes full of
wonder, to hear what the great lady had to say.
But it was not much at any time that Lady Caroline had to say. She
greeted Lottie with the little movement of her eyelids. “How do you do,
Miss Despard?” she said. “I wanted to ask if you would come to the
Deanery this evening for a little music?” There was no excitement in
that calmest of voices. Lottie felt so much ashamed of her wonderful
vague absurd anticipations, that she blushed more hotly than ever.
“At half-past nine,” said Lady Caroline.
“You have not presented me to Miss Despard, Aunt Caroline--so I have no
right to say anything; but if I had any right to speak, I should say I
hope--I hope--that Miss Despard is not engaged, and that she will come.”
How earnest his voice was! and what a strange beginning of acquaintance!
Lottie felt half disposed to laugh, and half to cry, and could not lift
her eyes in her confusion to this man who--was it possible?--was in love
with her, yet whom she did not know.
“Oh, I am not engaged--I--shall be very happy.” What else could she say?
She stood still, quite unaware what she was doing, and heard him thank
her with enthusiasm, while Lady Caroline sat quite passive. And then the
splendid vision rolled away, and Lottie stood alone wondering, like a
creature in a dream, on the margin of the way.