“Are you working, Law? I hope you are working. Does Mr. Ashford think

you are getting on?” she would say. But these were not like the

energetic protests of old. And when Law answered that he was getting on

pretty well, but that old Ashford didn’t say much--it wasn’t his

way--Lottie accepted the reply, and asked no more questions. And Law

accordingly took “his fling,” being left free on all sides. Why

shouldn’t he take his fling? The others were doing it--even Lottie; did

she think he was blind not to see how often that fellow Ridsdale was

spooning about, and how many more walks she took than she used to?

Captain Temple got tired of coming for her. Very often she had gone

before he came--and would run back breathless, and so sorry to have

missed him. What did all that mean if not that Lottie was taking her

fling too? And his father--Captain Despard--was speeding very quickly

towards such a thing as would startle the whole town, not to speak of

the Abbey. It would be hard if Law were the only one to have his nose

kept to the grindstone; and this, we may be sure, was the last thing he

meant to allow.

As for Lottie, she carried on the business of her life in a way. The

house did not suffer--the dinner was always punctual, and the stockings

mended, notwithstanding dreams. She found time, indeed, for more actual

occupation than before. She went to the Signor’s--Mrs. O’Shaughnessy

generally, but sometimes Captain Temple, going with her when she went

for her lessons--and she went to the Abbey more frequently than she had

been used to do. These lessons were moments of excitement for the

Signor’s household. When it was the old Captain who had accompanied Miss

Despard, Mrs. Purcell was had in from her room, where she sat expectant

among her jam cupboards; and profound was her interest. She sat near the

door hemming some dusters, while the lesson went on; but sometimes would

drop her work and cross her hands, and raise her eyes to the dusky

heaven of the ceiling.

“Dear, bless me!” said the housekeeper, “that was a note!” for she had

learned a little about music after all her experiences. Her son rarely

made his appearance at all; he would loiter about the passage and catch

a glimpse of Lottie as she went in or out, and sometimes he would come

in suddenly very red and agitated, to turn over the music or look for

some song that was wanted. Lottie was very anxious always to be friendly

to him; but though these lessons seemed to poor young Purcell the things

which chiefly made life desirable, yet he was not sufficiently at his

ease to make any reply to her greeting, except by a deeper blush and an

embarrassed bow. And very often--so often that the Signor had almost

wound himself up to the point of remonstrating, and old Pick had been

charged to say that his master was engaged, and that no one could

enter--Rollo Ridsdale would stray in by accident and form one of the

party. It was very strange that, though old Pick had orders so precise,

yet Rollo somehow always got in. How was it?

“I don’t know myself,” old Pick would say, with a grin; “he’s the

perseveringest gentleman I ever see--and awful fond of music. It must

cost him a deal,” Pickering said.

Rollo strolled in sometimes at the beginning, before due precautions had

been taken, sometimes near the end, when they were relaxed. He made

himself very agreeable. As for Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, she was his slave,

and she was quite persuaded by this time that she herself was nearly

connected with the Courtland family, and that Rollo’s uncle--or was it a

cousin?--had been not only the Major’s but her own dearest friend.

Captain Temple, when he was the chaperon, was more suspicious; but,

notwithstanding his objection to young men, and especially to

Honourables, in connection with young women, Rollo ended by making the

old Chevalier his friend. He had the gift of disarming prejudice--being

kind himself by nature, and of a friendly disposition, such as makes

friends. And Rollo was very careful under the eyes of all these keen

observers. He confined himself to music. He looked unutterable things;

but he did not speak the applause, that was implied in his looks. He

said only, “I must not say anything, Miss Despard--I dare not, for

Rossinetti; but I think the more.”

Lottie did not want him to applaud her. It was enough for her that he

heard her; but it was only when he was there that she did herself full

justice. And it is not to be supposed that the Signor was ignorant of

the changed tone in her voice which showed when he appeared. It was too

great a vexation to him to be ignored. Art, pure art, was not as yet, if

it ever would be, the spring of Lottie’s life. It was “that fellow.” Her

voice grew softer and more exquisite, full of pathos and meaning--her

notes more liquid and sweet. If the Signor had been Rollo’s rival in

reality he could scarcely have been more annoyed--he whose aspiration

was to make a true artist of this creature, to whom heaven had given so

glorious a medium of expression, but who as yet knew nothing about art.

Thus September stole away. Never before had Ridsdale been so long at the

Deanery. He gave sometimes one reason and sometimes another for his

delay. It was very convenient for him, as the place was central, and he

was often obliged to run up to town to see after business connected with

the Opera. His company meant to open their house in spring; and the

manager being in Italy, there was a great deal to do which fell upon

Rollo. He had invitations without number, but he neglected them all. So

long as his aunt would have him there was no place so convenient for him

as the Deanery. And Lady Caroline was very willing to have him. She had

always been kind to him. If her feelings had been strong enough to

justify anyone in considering himself her favourite, then Rollo might

have done so. She had always been kind; and a habit of kindness is as

good as any other habit, and is the best pledge of continuance. And she

liked in a way to have him there. He never gave her any trouble--now and

then he succeeded in something that was very like amusing her. And he no

longer demanded of her that she should invite Miss Despard daily, or

trouble herself with the other people who sang. Two or three times only

during the month did he ask for an invitation for the girl in whose

voice he was so much interested. And he was very domestic--triumphantly

disproving all the stories that had been told of him. He never cared to

dine anywhere but at home while he was at the Deanery--he did not care

for company. He was a very nice companion for the Dean at dinner, and

after dinner he would stroll out and smoke a cigar. If he gave trouble

at Courtland it was only, Lady Caroline thought with gentle complacency,

because they did not know how to manage him; for anyone more happy to be

quiet she never saw. And thus September passed; the partridges did not

tempt him away, any more than the grouse had done. He did not care, he

declared, about sport of any kind. Music and books, and his stroll of an

evening on the Slopes to smoke his cigar--these were all the virtuous

amusements Rollo desired--with these he was as happy as the day was

long. And in October, Augusta, coming home from her bridal tour, was to

visit her mother, and there would be a little society once more at the

Deanery. It came to be understood that Rollo would stay for this. It

would be something to make amends to him for the quiet of the past.

October began: it was a beautiful autumn; the trees on the Slopes were

all red and yellow, like painted trees, and the face of the country

brilliant with sunshine. Everything was smooth and fair without and

within, so far as appearances went; and, had there been no results to

follow, little exception could have been taken to the proceedings of the

persons concerned in this history, who were each and all following their

own pleasure and doing what seemed good in their own eyes. The Captain

was perhaps the most safe and most virtuous of the whole, seeing that

there was no reason why he should not marry Polly if he desired very

much to do so, except that it would make his children uncomfortable and

disturb the equanimity of his brother Chevaliers and their belongings.

But he was in no way bound to consider the dignity of his brethren in

the order, neither was he required by any law to sacrifice his own

comfort for that of his son and daughter--both of them quite capable of

taking thought for themselves. He may, therefore, be left out of the

question; for, whether for good or evil, he was doing nothing more than

he had a right to do. But in the case of the others: how pleasant would

this episode of life have been had there been no consequences to follow!

It was a most charming episode in the experience of Rollo Ridsdale. He

was not a vicious man, but yet he had never been so virtuous, so free of

evil, in all his consciousness before--his chief companion a perfectly

pure-minded girl, his chief occupation to explore and study her fresh

young heart and imagination, and vigorous intelligent nature. If only it

could all go on to some as perfect conclusion, there could be no doubt

that it was good for the speculative man of fashion. It restored him,

body and soul,--regular hours, quiet, all the most luxurious comforts of

life, and the delight and exhilaration of a romance to amuse the mental

and sentimental side of him. The cleverest doctor that ever existed

could not have recommended a more admirably curative process--if only

there had been no responsibilities involved and nothing painful to

follow. And Law--if Law had only had the prospect of a small estate, a

small inheritance at the end, enough to live on, what a perfectly

pleasant “time” he was having! He was doing no harm, only boating,

cricketing, beginning now as the season went on to think of

football--none of them wicked pursuits: if only there had been no

examinations to think of, no work of life to prepare for. Lottie was the

least to blame of the three; the consequences did not trouble her. She

might perhaps be allowing herself to be absorbed too much by the new and

wonderful influence which had taken possession of her: the _vita nuova_

might have become too entirely the law of her being; but well or ill she

still did her duty, and her realisation of the result was perfectly

simple. What but one thing could all this lead to? No doubt invaded

Lottie’s inexperienced mind; how could she doubt that Rollo loved her?

What proof was wanting that man could give? They had not yet spoken of

that love, though they had several times approached to the very verge of

an explanation, from which generally it was she who shrank with a shy

prolonging of that delicious uncertainty which was no uncertainty at

all. How could Lottie have any doubt? It was not necessary even for her

to say to herself that he was good and true. True!--she no more thought

of falsehood than Eve had thought of the serpent before he hissed his

first question into her ear. She did not understand what lying meant,

practical lying of this kind. She let the sweet current sweep her on

with many a heart-beat; but why should she be distrustful of it? What

could love lead to but happiness? Lottie could not think of anything

more.

And thus the time went on. Augusta Huntington (Mrs. Daventry) was coming

home with her husband in a day or two; and though Lottie thought she

would be glad to see her old friend, she had a little secret fear of

anything now happening. All was very well as it was. To meet Rollo

accidentally as he smoked his cigar on the Slopes would not be so easy

if his cousin were at the Deanery. He would not be able to get out so

easily, and probably she would find a great many new ways of employing

him which would take him out of Lottie’s way. She did not like to look

forward to it; and after Augusta’s visit Rollo too would go away. It

would be almost winter, and he could not stop any longer. All the

shooting and the deerstalking and the round of visits to great people,

on which he ought to be going, he had given up for her. What could the

reason be but for her? The thought that this moment of happiness was

approaching an end, was sad to Lottie, even though it should, as was

natural, be followed by greater happiness still. How her dull life had

flowered and blossomed out, made beautiful by the thought that he was

near her, this man who loved her--who had loved her long before she had

loved him, but whom now she too--! He was near, she remembered every

morning when she woke; some time in the day she would be sure to see

him--nay, half a dozen times in the day, if only strolling down the

Dean’s Walk looking at her window, and in the Abbey, and perhaps, while

she took her lesson, listening to her with soft eyes; perhaps walking

home with her; perhaps just turning round that old elm-tree on the

Slopes as she came out for her evening walk; always looking for her so

eagerly, seeking her, with a hundred little tender cares, and something

in his eyes which was more than all. Could it be possible to be happier

than now? She was keeping off the _éclaircissement_ with delicious shy

malice, running away from it, prolonging a little longer, and a little

longer, this happy uncertainty. Some time, however, it must come, and

then no doubt she would be more happy--though not with such happiness as

this.

On one of those lovely russet-coloured afternoons, full of haze made

golden by the sunshine, already turning to the west, Lottie, walking up

St. Michael’s Hill, towards the Abbey, had seen a fly driving along the

street which had caught her eye as she passed. She knew it very well; it

was Jobling’s fly--a nice respectable clean cab, looking for all the

world like a shabby well-dressed man in a frock coat and high hat. There

are many shabby respectable well-preserved things which resemble each

other. The reason why this neat and clean vehicle caught her eye was

that the man who was driving it wore a white wedding-favour, which is a

thing which no person of twenty can see without remark. Lottie, like

others of her age, was half amused, half interested, and could not help

wondering who it was. It was going to the railway, and some one looked

out hastily as Lottie passed, looking at her, the girl thought,

withdrawing as hastily again when she was seen to turn her eyes that

way. Who could it be? Lottie thought she would ask Law, who knew all the

news, who had been married; but she had forgotten all about it long

before she saw Law. She had too many things to think of and to do, to

remember so small a matter as that; and Law did not come in till late.

When he did come they took their simple supper together amicably, not

saying much; but she forgot the question. Now that Lottie did not bully

him they were very good friends. They said a few friendly words to each

other, and that was all, and then they bade each other good night. They

were all alone, the Captain having left home for a few days, and had a

very good opportunity for talk. But Lottie did not seize the opportunity

to put disagreeable questions. She was altogether so much more amicable

than she had been used to be.

Three days after, Captain Despard was to come home. It did not disturb

Lottie that Captain Temple questioned her very closely as to where her

father had gone. “Was he alone, do you know?” the old man said. “Alone?

Oh, yes, I suppose so,” said Lottie. What did it matter? She could see

Rollo behind the old beech-tree. Of course it was a drawback that the

Captain should be with her so often, but it pleased the kind old man;

they met and they had their little talk, which perhaps was all the more

unlike the common intercourse of earth that worlds of meaning had to be

trusted to a tone, to a sudden meeting in the dusk (when you could see

nobody, Captain Temple said) of two pairs of eyes: and when all is

unutterable is not this as good a way of utterance as any? And then

Lottie said she must go home. Papa was coming home. He had been gone

three days. As they went back the old Captain was more and more kind to

Lottie. He kept her at the door for a moment with her hand between his

two old kind hands. “My dear, don’t be afraid to send for me or to come

to me when you want anything--my wife and I will always be ready to be

of use to you. You will not forget, Lottie?” “Oh, no, Captain Temple,”

she said; “you are always so kind to me; how could I forget?” And she

went in smiling to herself, wondering what he could think she would

want. But he was always kind, as kind as a father; far, far kinder than

her own father, she could not but remember, with a little shrug of her

shoulders. Had papa come in? Mary said “No,” and Lottie went into the

little dining-room to see that the supper was prettily arranged. There

was nothing more than cold meat, and cheese, and bread and butter; but

the bouquet in the middle, which was made up of brilliantly-coloured

leaves, was pretty; and the white tablecloth and the plates and glasses

looked bright. In her happiness she began to sing softly as she pulled

the leaves into a prettier form in the long clear glass they were

grouped in. The lamp was lighted, the table was bright, the door stood

open. Lottie, through her singing, heard steps coming up the pavement

outside, and voices. All of a sudden she paused, thinking she heard her

father’s voice. Who could he be bringing with him, without any

preparation? She cast a hasty glance at the beef, and saw with

satisfaction that there would be enough for a stranger; enough, but not

perhaps too much--he might have let her know. Then she heard his voice

quite close to the window, which was open, for the night was warm for

October--“Look in, and you will see her,” he said. “Oh, I know her very

well,” said another voice, with a laugh. Lottie turned round, with her

heart beating, towards the window, where something white was visible.

What could it mean?--was it a woman?--_a woman_ with her father at this

hour of the evening? She grew pale, she could not tell why, and gazed

first at the window, then at the door, with a flutter of tears which she

could not understand. How foolish it was! “Come in--this way--don’t be

afraid! The passage is narrow and the house is small, but there is

plenty of room for happiness when once you are in it,” said her

father’s voice in the doorway, coming through the little crooked hall.

Then the door was pushed wide open, and he came in leading some one by

the hand. It was a woman very gaily dressed, with a mountain of brown

hair and a white bonnet perched upon it, who laughed, but was nervous

too; upon whom Lottie gazed with wondering eyes and blanched cheeks. Who

was this whom he was bringing in without warning, without notice? The

Captain was very jaunty; his hat was still on his head over his left

ear. He had a bunch of violets somewhat crushed in his coat. He smiled a

smile which was rather ghastly as Lottie gazed, struck dumb with the

horror of what was coming. “Mrs. Despard,” he said with a flourish, “let

me present you with a ready-made daughter. Lottie, my child, come here

and welcome your new mamma.”

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE CAPTAIN’S WIFE

Lottie could do nothing but stand bewildered and gaze at this new

claimant of her regard. Surprise took all the meaning, all the

intelligence out of her face. She stood with her eyes wide open, her

lips dropping apart. Her new mamma! She had the indescribable misfortune

of not being able to think upon her own mother with any reverence or

profound affection. Mrs. Despard was but “poor mamma” to her--no more.

Lottie could not shut her eyes to the deficiencies of that poor woman,

of whom the best that could be said was that she was dead, and beyond

the reach of blame. There was no cherished and vaunted idea, therefore,

to be outraged; but perhaps all the more Lottie’s soul rose up in

rebellion against the title as applied to anyone else. She had known

what was coming, and yet she was as entirely taken by surprise as if

this idea had never been suggested to her. With eyes suddenly cleared

out of all the dazzling that had clouded them, she looked at the woman

thus brought in upon her--this intruder, who, however, had more right to

be there than even Lottie had--the Captain’s wife. If this event had

happened a month or two ago, while she retained all her natural vigour,

no doubt, foolish as it was, Lottie would have made some show of

resistance. She would have protested against the sudden arrival. She

would have withdrawn from company so undesirable. She would have tried,

however absurd it might have been, to vindicate herself, to hold the

new-comer at arm’s length. But this had all become impossible now. At no

other moment could she have been so entirely taken by surprise. All the

apprehensions about her father which had been communicated to her on

former occasions had died out of her mind. She had never said very much

about this danger, or been alarmed by it, as Law was. It had not

occurred to her to inquire how it would affect herself. And now she was

taken altogether by surprise. She stood struck dumb with amazement, and

gazed at the woman, instinctively taking in every particular of her

appearance, as only a woman could do. Unconsciously to herself, Lottie

appraised the other, saw through her, calculating the meaning of her and

all her finery. No man could have done it, and she was not herself aware

of having done it; but Polly knew very well what that look meant.

Notwithstanding her own confidence in her bridal array, even Polly felt

it coming to pieces, felt it being set down for what it was worth; and,

naturally, the feeling that this was so made her angry and defiant.

“How do you do, miss?” she said, feeling that even her voice sounded

more vulgar than it need have done. “I hope as we shall be good friends.

Your pa has played you a nice trick, hasn’t he? But men is men, and when

they’re like he is there’s allowances to be made for them.” Polly was

aware that this speech was in her very worst style. She had not intended

to call Lottie Miss; but with that girl standing staring, in a plain

cotton frock, looking a lady, every inch of her, from the crown of her

head to the sole of her foot--a bride, in a fine bonnet covered with

orange-blossoms, and a bright silk dress that matched, was not in

possession of her faculties. Bold as she was, she could not but be

conscious of a tremor which mingled with her very defiance. “Well, I’m

sure, what a pretty table!” she resumed. “They might have known we were

coming home, Captain. There ain’t much on it, perhaps--not like the nice

chicken and sausages you’d have got at mother’s. But mother would never

have set it out so pretty, that I’ll allow.” Then Polly looked round

upon the dim old walls, faintly lighted by the lamp. “So this is the

dining-room,” she said; “this is my new ’ome. To think I never should

have been inside the door till now! Let me alone, Harry. I don’t want

none of your huggings. I want to make acquaintance with my new ’ome. You

know well enough I married just as much for the sake of living in the

Lodges as for you--don’t you, now?” she said, with a laugh. Perhaps

only fathers and mothers, and not even these long-suffering persons

always, can look on at the endearments of newly-married couples with

tolerance. Lottie was offended, as if their endearments had been

insulting to herself. She looked at them with an annoyed contempt. No

sympathetic touch of fellow-feeling moved her. To compare this, as she

thought, hideous travesty of love with her own, would have but hardened

her the more against them. She turned away, and shut the window, and

drew down the blind with an energy uncalled for by such simple duties.

When the Captain led his wife upstairs, that she might take off her

bonnet, Lottie sat down and tried to think. But she could not think. It

had all happened in a moment, and her mind was in an angry confusion,

not capable of reason. She could not realise what had happened, or what

was going to happen--an indignant sense of being intruded upon, of

having to receive and be civil to an unwelcome visitor, and an

impatience almost beyond bearing of this strait into which her father

had plunged her, filled her mind. Something more, she dimly felt, lay

behind--something more important, more serious; but in the meantime she

did not feel that her occupation was gone, or her kingdom taken from

her. A disagreeable person to entertain--a most unwelcome, uncongenial

guest. For the moment she could not realise anything more. But her mind

was in the most painful ferment, her heart beating. How was she to

behave to this new, strange visitor? What was she to say to her? She

must sit down at table with her, she supposed. She was Captain

Despard’s--guest. What more? But Lottie knew very well she was something

more.

Mary came in, bringing tea, which she placed at the head of the table,

where Lottie usually sat. Mary’s eyes were dancing in her head with

curiosity and excitement. “What is it, miss? oh, what is it, miss?

What’s happened?” said Mary. But Lottie made her no reply. She did not

herself know what had happened. She waited for the return of “the woman”

with a troubled mind. Everything was ready, and Lottie stood by ready to

take her seat the moment they should come back. She heard them come

downstairs, laughing and talking. The woman’s voice filled all the

house. It flowed on in a constant stream, loud enough to be heard in the

kitchen, where Mary was listening with all her ears. “Very nice on the

whole,” the new-comer was saying; “but of course I shall make a few

changes. I’ve always heard that a room should be like its mistress.

There’s not half enough pretty things to please me. I do love a pretty

room, and plenty of antimacassars and pink ribbons. Oh, I shan’t tell

you what I am going to do to it!--not a word. Gentlemen must be taught

their place. I am going to make it look very nice, and that should be

enough for you. Oh yes, I am quite ready for supper. I haven’t touched

a bit of anything since five o’clock, when we had tea. Poor Harry! I can

see how you have been put upon.” This was said at the foot of the

stairs, where not only Lottie but Mary could hear every word. Mary

understood it all, but Lottie did not understand it. She could not

receive Polly’s programme into her mind, nor think what was meant by it.

While she still stood waiting, the two came in--the bride, with her

tower of hair upon her head, and all her cheap ribbons and bangles. She

came in, drawing herself away from the Captain’s encircling arm.

“Behave!” said Polly, shaking a finger at him; and she swept in and

round the table, almost pushing against the surprised spectator who

stood looking on, and deposited herself in Lottie’s chair. “It’s best to

begin as you mean to end,” said Polly; “I’m not tired to speak of, and

I’ll take my own place at once. You can sit here, Miss Lottie, between

him and me.”

Still, Lottie did not know what to think or to say. She stood still,

bewildered, and then took the place pointed out to her. What did it

mean? It was easy enough to see what it meant, if her head had not been

so confused. “Yes, dear,” said Polly, “a little bit of cold beef--just a

very little bit. I am not fond of cold victuals. That’s not how we’ve

been living, is it? and that’s not how I mean you to live. Oh, no, I

don’t blame Lottie. Unmarried girls don’t know any better. They don’t

study a man like his wife knows how to do. I can see how it’s been; oh,

I can see! Too many mouths to feed, and the meat has to be bought

according. Who is your butcher, miss? Oh, _him_! I don’t hold with him.

I shall send for Jones to-morrow; he’s the man for my money. Wasn’t that

a lovely sweetbread that we had at our wedding breakfast? You didn’t

remark? Oh, nonsense, I’m sure you remarked! It _was_ a beauty! Well,

that was from Jones’s. I’ll send for him to-morrow. Do you take sugar in

your tea, Miss Lottie? Dear! I shouldn’t have thought it; so careful a

young lady. ’Enery, darling, what are you drinking? Do you take tea?”

“I don’t mind what I take, my love, so long as you give it me,” said the

gallant Captain; “tea or poison, I’d take it from that hand; and I don’t

want anything but to look at you at the head of my table. This is how it

should be. To think how long I have been denying myself, forgetting what

happiness was!”

“You poor dear Harry! all for the sake of your children! Well, I hope

you’ll find it repaid. They ought to be grateful. The times and times

that you and me has talked it over, and given it up for their sakes!

You’re very quiet, miss; you don’t say much,” added Polly; “but I dare

say it was a surprise to you, seeing me come home?”

“Why don’t you speak up and make yourself pleasant?” said the Captain,

with a kind of growl, under his breath.

Lottie came to herself a little by dint of this pressure. She did not

seem to know how it had come about, or what the emergency meant. “I beg

your pardon,” she said, her head swimming and everything going round

with her, “I am--taken very much by surprise. If I had known what was

going to happen I--might have been more prepared.”

“I can understand that,” said Polly. “Hold your tongue, Captain. She is

quite right. You ought to have written and told her, as I asked you. But

now that you do know I hope you mean to be friendly, miss. Them that

treats me well, I treats them well. I don’t wonder that you don’t like

it at first,” she added graciously; “a girl no older than yourself! But

he would have it, you know, and what could I do? When a man’s in that

way, it’s no use talking to him. I resisted as long as I could, but I

had to give in at the last.”

“By George!” said the Captain, helping the beef. He had some one to

stand by him now, who he felt might be a match for Lottie; but he was

still a little afraid of Lottie, and consequently eager to crow over her

in the strength of his backer. “The trouble I’ve had to bring matters to

this point!” he said. “But never mind, my love, it is all right now you

are here. At one time I thought it never was going to be accomplished.

But perseverance----”

“Perseverance does a deal; but, bless you, I never had no doubt on the

subject,” said the new Mrs. Despard, taking up her teacup in a way that

was very offensive to Lottie. The Captain looked at her from the other

end of the table with a kind of adoration; but nevertheless the Captain

himself, with all his faults, was painfully aware of her double

negatives, and thought to himself, even when he looked at her so

admiringly, that he must give her a few lessons. He had never paid much

attention to Lottie, and yet he could not help getting a glimpse of his

new wife through Lottie’s eyes.

“Where is my son?” said Polly. “Harry, darling, where is that dear Law?

He won’t be so much surprised, will he? He had a notion how things were

going. But I’ve got a great deal to say to him, I can tell you. I don’t

approve of his goings on. There’s a many things as I mean to put a stop

to. Nobody shall say as I don’t do my duty by your children. I shall

tell him----”

“Do you know Law?” said Lottie. This gave her a little chill of horror;

though indeed she remembered that Law had spoken of some one--some one

about whom Lottie had not cared to inquire.

“Oh, yes, miss, I know Law.” (Polly did not know how it was that she

said Miss to Lottie. She did not mean to do it. She did it, not in

respect, but in derision; but the word came to her lips, whether she

would or not.) “Law and I are old friends. Time was when I didn’t feel

sure--not quite sure, you know,” she said, with a laugh of mingled

vanity and malice, “if it was to be the father or the son; but, Lord,

there’s no comparison,” she added hastily, seeing that even on the

Captain’s fine countenance this boast produced a momentary cloud. “Law

will never be as fine a man as his father. He hasn’t got the Captain’s

carriage, nor he ain’t so handsome. Bless us, are you listening, Harry?

I didn’t mean you to hear. I don’t think you handsome a bit, now, do I?

I’m sure I’ve told you times and times----”

The two thus exchanging glances and pretty speeches across the table

were too much occupied with themselves to think of anything else. And no

one heard Law’s approach till he pushed open the door, and with a

“Hillo!” of absolute amazement, stood thunderstruck, gazing upon this

astonishing spectacle. The sight that Law beheld was not a disagreeable

sight in itself: the table, all bright with its bouquet of crimson

leaves, which the Captain had pushed to one side in order that he might

see his wife--and the three faces round it, two of them beaming with

triumph and satisfaction. The young man stood at the door and took it

all in, with a stare at first, of dismay. Opposite to him sat Lottie,

put out of her place, looking stunned, as if she had fallen from a

height and did not know where she was. As he stood there she lifted her

eyes to him with a look of wondering and bewildered misery which went to

Law’s heart; but the next moment he burst into a loud laugh, in spite of

himself. To see the governor casting languishing looks at Polly was more

than his gravity could bear. He could think of nothing, after the first

shock, but “what a joke” it was. A man in love, especially a man in the

first imbecility of matrimonial bliss, is a joke at any time; but when

it’s your governor, Law said to himself! He gave a great roar of

laughter. “Polly, by Jove!” he said; “so you’ve been and done it!” It

had alarmed him much beforehand, and no doubt it might be tragical

enough after; but for the moment it was the best joke that Law had

encountered for years.

“Yes, we’ve been and done it,” said Polly, rising and holding out her

hand to him. “Come here and kiss me, my son. I am delighted to see you.

It’s so nice to hear a good laugh, and see a bright face. Lottie, Law,

hasn’t found her tongue yet. She hasn’t a word to throw at a dog, much

less her new mamma. But you, it’s a pleasure to see you. Ah!” said

Polly, with effusion, “the gentlemen for me! Ladies, they’re spiteful,

and they’re jealous, and they’re stuck up; but gentlemen does you

justice. You mustn’t call me Polly, however, though I forgive you the

first time. You must know that =I= am your mamma.”

Law laughed again, but it was not a pleasant laugh; and he grasped the

hand which his father held out to him with a desire to crush it, if he

could, which was natural enough. Law thought it a joke, it is true; but

he was angry at bottom, though amused on the surface. And he did hurt

his father’s somewhat flabby, unworking hand. The Captain, however,

would not complain. He was glad even to be met with a semblance of

cordiality at such a moment. He helped Law largely to the beef, in the

satisfaction of this family union, and this was a sign of anxiety which

Law did not despise.

“Oh, and I assure you I mean to be a mother to you,” said Polly. “It

shan’t be said now that you haven’t anyone to look after you. _I_ mean

to look after you. I am not at all satisfied with some of your goings

on. A gentleman shouldn’t make too free with them that are beneath him.

Yes, yes, Harry, darling; it’s too early to begin on that point; but he

shall know my mind, and _I_ mean to look after him. Now this is what I

call comfortable,” said Mrs. Despard, looking round with a beaming

smile; “quite a family party, and quite a nice tea; though the beef’s

dry to my taste (but =I= never was one for cold victuals), and everybody

satisfied----”

“Lottie,” said the Captain, looking up from his beef with some

sternness, “you seem the only exception. Don’t you think, my child, when

you see everybody so happy, that you might find a word to say?”

“Oh, don’t hurry her,” said Polly; “we’ve took her by surprise. I told

you not to, but you would. We’ll have a nice long talk to-morrow, when

she gives me over the housekeeping; and when she sees as I mean to act

like a mother, why things will come right between her and me.”

The Despards were not highly educated people, but yet a shiver ran

through them when Polly, unconscious, said, “We’ve took her by

surprise.” The Captain even shrank a little, and took a great deal too

much mustard, and made himself cough; while Law, in spite of himself,

laughed, looking across the table to the place where Lottie sat. Lottie

noticed it the least of all. She heard every word they all said, and

remembered every word, the most trifling; but at the moment she scarcely

distinguished the meaning of them. She said, “I think, papa, if you

don’t mind, I will go to my room. I am rather tired; and perhaps I had

better give some orders to Mary.”

“Oh, never mind; never mind about Mary, if it’s on my account. I shall

look after her myself,” said Polly. “What’s good enough for the Captain

is good enough for me; at least, till I settle it my own way, you know.

I don’t want to give any trouble at all, till I can settle things my own

way.”

“It is not I that have to be consulted,” said Captain Despard; “but if

you are going to sit sulky and not say a word, I don’t see--what do you

think, my pet?--that it matters whether you go or stay----”

“Oh, don’t mind me, Miss,” said Polly. She could not look Miss Despard

in the face and call her Lottie, knowing, however she might consent to

waive her own rights, that Miss Despard was still Miss Despard, whatever

Polly might do. Not a thing on her that was worth five shillings, not a

brooch even; nothing like a bracelet; a bit of a cotton frock, no more;

but she was still Miss Despard, and unapproachable. Polly, with her

bracelets on each wrist, rings twinkling on her hands as she took her

supper, in a blue silk, and knowing herself to be an officer’s

lady--Mrs. Captain Despard--with all this, could not speak to her

husband’s daughter except as Miss. She could not understand it, but

still it was so.

The little crooked hall was full of boxes when Lottie came out; and Mary

stood among them, wondering how she was to get them upstairs. Perhaps

she had been listening a little at the door, for Mary’s consternation

was as great as Lottie’s. “Do you think, Miss, it’s real and true? Do

you think as she’s married, sure? Mother wouldn’t let me stay a day if

there was anything wrong, and I don’t know as I’ll stay anyhow,” Mary

said.

“Wrong? what could be wrong?” said Lottie. She was less educated in

knowledge of this kind than the little maid-of-all-work. It troubled her

to see the boxes littering the hall, but _she_ could not carry them

upstairs. For a moment the impulse to do it, or, at least, to help Mary

in doing it, came into her mind; but, on second thoughts, she refrained.

What had she to do with this new-comer into the house, who was not even

a visitor, who had come to remain? Lottie went upstairs without saying

any more. She went first into the little faded drawing-room, where there

was no light except that which came from the window and the lamp in the

Dean’s Walk. It was not beautiful. She had never had any money to

decorate it, to make it what it might have been, nor pretty furniture to

put into it. But she sat down on her favourite little chair, in the

dark, and felt as if she had gone to sit by somebody that was dead, who

had been a dear friend. How friendly and quiet the little room had been!

giving her a centre for her life, a refuge for her thoughts. But all

that was over. She had never known before that she had liked it or

thought of it much; but now, all at once, what a gentle and pleasant

shelter it had been! As Lottie thought of everything, the tears came

silently and bitterly into her eyes. She herself had been ungrateful,

unkind to the little old house, the venerable old place, the kind

people. They had all been kind to her. She had visited her own

disappointment upon them, scorning the neighbours because they were less

stately than she expected them to be; visiting upon them her own

discontent with her position, her own disappointment in being less

important than she expected. Lottie was hard upon herself, for she had

not been unkind to anyone, but was, on the contrary, a favourite with

her neighbours--the only girl in the place, and allowed by the old

people to have a right to whims and fancies. Now, in the face of this

strange, incomprehensible misfortune, she felt the difference. Her quiet

old room! where kind voices had spoken to her, where _he_ had come,

saying such words as made her heart beat; where she had sung to him, and

received those tender applauses which had been like treasure to Lottie.

She seemed to see a series of past scenes like pictures rising before

her. Not often had Rollo been there--yet two or three times; and Mrs.

O’Shaughnessy, with her mellow brogue, and Mr. Ashford, and even the

stately person of the Dean himself. She had been at home here, to

receive them, whoever came. The room had never been invaded by anything

that was unfriendly or unpleasing. Now--what was it that woman said of

changes--making it look nice? Lottie had not understood the words when

they were said, but they came back upon her now.

By-and-by she heard some one coming upstairs, and, starting, rose to

steal away to her own room, afraid to meet the stranger again; but no

light made its appearance, and Law put in his head at the door, then

seeing something moving against the window, came to her, and threw

himself down on the window-seat. “They’re going on so downstairs, that I

couldn’t stand it,” said Law; “it’s enough to make a fellow sick”--and

then, after a pause, “Well! I told you what was coming, but you wouldn’t

believe me; what do you think of it now?”

“Oh, Law, what does it mean?--Are we not dreaming? Can it be true?”

“True! of course it is true. I told you what was going to happen.” Then

his tone softened. “Poor Lottie, it’s you I’m sorry for. If you could

only see yourself beside her! And where were his eyes, that he couldn’t

see?” Here Law paused abruptly, wondering all at once whether the

difference would be as marked between his sister and the girls whom he

too liked to spend his evenings with. He was sure that Emma was not

like that woman; but still the thought subdued his indignation. “I say,”

he added hastily, “I want to give you a bit of advice. Just you give in

to her, Lottie. Fighting is no good: she has got a tongue that you

couldn’t stand, and the things she would say you wouldn’t understand. I

understand her well enough; but you wouldn’t know what she meant, and it

would make you angry and hurt you. Give in, Lottie. Since the governor’s

been so silly, she has a right. And don’t you make any stand as if you

could do it--for you can’t. It is a great deal better not to resist----”

“What do you mean by resist? How can I resist? The house is papa’s, I

suppose?” said Lottie. “The thing is, I don’t understand it. I can’t

understand it: that somebody should be coming to stay here, to be one of

us, to be mixed up in everything--whom we don’t know----”

“To be mistress,” said Law, “that’s the worst--not to be mixed up with

us, but to be over us. To take everything out of your hands----”

“Do you think I care for that? I do not mind who is mistress,” said

Lottie, all unaware of her own characteristics. Law was wiser than she

was in this respect. He shook his head.

“That’s the worst,” he said; “she’ll be mistress--she’ll change

everything. Oh, I know Polly well; though I suppose, for decency, I

mustn’t say Polly now.”

“How is it you know her so well? And how did papa know her?” said

Lottie. “I should have thought you never could have met such women. Ah!

you told me once about--others. Law! you can’t like company like that;

surely, you can’t like company like that! how did you get to know her?”

Law was very much discomfited by this sudden question. In the midst of

his sympathy and compassion for his sister, it was hard all at once to

be brought to book, when he had forgotten the possibility of such a

danger.

“Well, you know,” he said, “fellows do; I don’t know how it is--you come

across some one, and then she speaks to you, and then you’re forced to

speak back; or perhaps it’s you that speaks first--it isn’t easy to

tell. This was as simple as anything,” Law went on, relieved by the

naturalness of his own explanation. “They all work in the same house

where Langton lives, my old coach, you know, before I went to old

Ashford. I don’t know how the governor got there. Perhaps it was the

same way. Going in and out, you know, day after day, why, how could you

help it? And when a woman speaks to you, what can you do, but say

something? That’s exactly how it was.”

“But, Law,” she said, grasping his arm--all this conversation was so

much easier in the dark--“Law, you will take care? she said she was not

quite sure whether it was to be the father or the son. Ah! a woman who

could say that, Law----”

“It’s a lie,” said Law, fiercely, “and she knows it. I never thought

anything of her--never. It’s a lie, if she were to swear it! Polly! why,

she’s thirty, she’s---- I give my word of honour, it’s a lie.”

“But, Law! oh, Law dear----”

“I know what you’re going to say. I’ll take care of myself; no fear of

me getting entangled,” said Law briskly. Then he stopped, and, still

favoured by the dark, took her hands in his. “Lottie, it’s my turn now.

I know you won’t stand questioning, nor being talked to. But, look

here--don’t shilly-shally if you can care for anybody, and he’ll marry

you and give you a place of your own--You needn’t jump up as if I had

shot you. If you talk about such things to me, I may surely talk to you.

And mind what I say. I don’t expect you’ll be able to put up with your

life here----”

“I hear them stirring downstairs,” said Lottie, drawing her hands out of

his hold. “Don’t keep me, don’t hold me, Law. I cannot see her again

to-night.”

“You won’t give me any answer,” said the lad regretfully. There was real

feeling in his voice--“But, Lottie, mind what I say. I don’t believe

you’ll be able to put up with it, and if there’s anyone you care for and

he’ll marry you----”

Lottie freed herself from him violently, and fled. Even in the dark

there were things that Law could not be permitted to say, or she to

hear.

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE HEAVINGS OF THE EARTHQUAKE.

The next morning dawned very strangely on all the members of the little

household. Lottie was down early, as she generally was; but the

advantages of early rising were neutralised by the condition of the

little maid, Mary, who was too much excited to do her work, and kept

continually coming back to pour her doubts and her difficulties into

Lottie’s ear. “I can’t get no rest till I’ve told mother,” Mary said.

“If there’s anything wrong, mother won’t let me stay, not a day. And

even if there’s nothing wrong, I don’t know as I’ll stay. I haven’t got

no fault to find with you, Miss; nor the Captain, nor even Mr. Law:

though he’s a dreadful bother with his boots cleaning; but to say as

you’re beginning as you mean to end, and then to give all that trouble!

every blessed thing, I had to drag it upstairs. Mr. Law was very kind;

he took up the big box--I couldn’t ha’ done it; but up and down, up and

down, all the little boxes and the bags, and the brown paper

parcels--‘It saves trouble if you begins as you means to end,’ she

says----”

“I don’t want to hear what Mrs. Despard says,” said Lottie. Mrs.

Despard: it was her mother’s name. And though that mother had not been

an ideal mother, or one of those who are worshipped in their children’s

memories, it is wonderful, what a gush of tender recollections came into

Lottie’s mind with the name. Poor mamma! she had been very kind in her

way, always ready to indulge and to pardon, if indifferent to what

happened in more important matters. She had never exacted anything,

never worried her children about idleness or untidiness, or any of those

minor sins which generally make a small girl’s life a burden to her.

Lottie’s mind went back to her, lying on her sofa, languid, perhaps

lazy--badly dressed; yet never anything but a lady, with a kind of

graciousness in her faded smile, and grace in her faded gown. Not a

woman to be held in adoration, and yet--the girl sighed, but set to work

to make the little brown dining-room neat, to get the table set, making

up for Mary’s distracted service by her own extra activity. For amid all

the horrors of last night there was one which had cut Lottie very

deeply, and that was the many references to the cold beef, and the

bride’s dislike of “cold victuals.” It is inconceivable, among all the

more important matters involved, how deeply wounded Lottie’s pride had

been by this reproach. She resolved that no one should be able to speak

so to-day; and she herself put on her hat and went out to the shop on

the Abbey Hill almost as soon as it had opened, that this intolerable

reproach should not be in the interloper’s power. She met more than one

of the old Chevaliers as she came up, for most of them kept early hours

and paced the terrace pavement in the morning as if it had been morning

parade. They all looked at her curiously, and one or two stopped her to

say “good morning.” “And a fine morning it is, and you look as fresh as

a flower,” one of the old gentlemen said; and another laid his hand on

her shoulder, patting her with a tender fatherly touch. “God bless you,

my dear, the sight of you is a pleasure,” said this old man. How little

she had thought or cared for them, and how kind they were in her

trouble! She could see that everybody knew. Lottie did not know whether

she did not half resent the universal knowledge. Most likely they had

known it before she did. The whole town knew it, and everybody within

the Precincts. Captain Despard had got married! Such a thing had not

occurred before in the memory of man. Many people believed, indeed, that

there was a law against it, and that Captain Despard was liable to be

turned out of his appointment. Certainly it was unprecedented; for the

old Chevaliers before they came to St. Michael’s had generally passed

the age at which men marry. The whole scene seemed to have taken a

different aspect to Lottie. Since her home had become impossible to

her, it had become dear. For the first time she felt how good it was to

look across upon the noble old buttresses of the Abbey, to inhabit that

“retired leisure,” that venerable quietness. If only that woman were not

there! But that woman was there, and everything was changed. Lottie had

been rudely awakened, dragged, as it were, out of her dreams. She could

not think as she usually did of the meetings that were sure to come

somehow in the Abbey, or on the Slopes--or count how long it would be

till the afternoon or evening, when she should see him. This, though it

was her life, had been pushed out of the way. She thought of all last

night’s remarks about the cold beef and the poor fare, and the changes

that were going to be made. Would she think bacon good enough for

breakfast?--would she be satisfied with the rolls, which Lottie herself

felt to be a holiday indulgence? Pride, and nothing but pride, had

thrown the girl into such excesses. She could not endure those

criticisms again. Her brain was hot and hazy, without having any power

of thought. The confusion of last night was still in her. Would it all

turn out a dream? or would the door open by-and-by and show this

unaccustomed figure? Lottie did not feel that she could be sure of

anything. The first to come down was Law, who had been forced from his

bed for once by sympathy. Law was very kind to Lottie. “I thought I

wouldn’t leave you to face her by yourself,” he said; “they’re coming

down directly.” Then Lottie knew that it was no dream.

The bride came down in a blue merino dress, as blue as the silk of last

night. Polly was of opinion that she looked well in blue; and it was not

one of the ethereal tints that are now used, but a good solid, full

blue, quite uncompromising in point of colour. And the hair on her head

was piled up as if it would reach the skies, or the ceiling at least.

She came down arm-in-arm with her husband, the two smiling upon each

other, while Law and Lottie stood one on each side of the table with no

smiles, looking very serious. It was Mrs. Despard who did the most of

the conversation; for the Captain was passive, feeling, it must be

allowed, somewhat embarrassed by the presence of his children, who did

not embarrass her at all. But she did not think the bacon very good. She

thought it badly cooked. She thought the girl could not have been well

trained to send it up like that. And she was not pleased either with the

rolls; but announced her intention of changing the baker as well as the

butcher. “We’ve always gone to Willoughby’s, as long as I can recollect,

and I don’t fancy any bread but his.” Lottie did not say anything, she

was nearly as silent as on the previous night; and Law, who was

opposite, though he made faces at her now and then, and did his best to

beguile his sister into a laugh, did not contribute much to the

conversation. He got up as soon as he had swallowed his breakfast and

got his books. “I’m off to old Ashford,” he said.

“Where are you going, Law?--you must never get up from table without

asking my leave--it is dreadful unmannerly. You have got into such

strange ways; you want me to bring you back to your manners, all of you.

Who are you going to?--not to Mr. Langton as you used to do--I’m glad of

that.”

“I don’t see why you should be glad of that. I’m going to old Ashford,”

said Law, gloomily. “He is a much better coach than Langton. I have not

anything to do to-day, Lottie; I shall be back at twelve o’clock.”

“Dear me,” said Mrs. Despard, “how long is Law going on going to school

like a little boy? I never heard of such a thing, at his age. He should

be put into something where he could earn a little money for himself,

instead of costing money; a great, strong young fellow like that. I

think you’re all going to sleep here. You want me, as anybody can see,

to wake you up, and save you from being put upon, my poor man. But I

hope I know how to take care of my own husband, and see that he gets the

good of what he has, and don’t just throw it away upon other folks. And

I begin as I means to end,” said Polly, with a little toss of her head.

Law, stopped by the sound of her voice, had turned round at the door,

and contemplated her with gloomy looks; but seeing it was not to come to

anything bad, went away. And the bell began, and the Captain rose. His

bride came to him fondly, and brushed a crumb or two off his coat and

arranged the flower in his button-hole. “Now you look quite sweet,” she

said with genuine enthusiasm. “I ain’t going in the morning, when none

but the regular folks is there, but I mean to go, my dear, in the

afternoon. It’s only proper respect, living in the Precincts; but you

won’t be long, dear? You’ll come home to your poor little wife, that

don’t know what to do without her handsome husband? Now, won’t you,

dear?”

“I’ll be back as fast as my legs can carry me,” said the Captain. “Come

and meet me, my pet. Lottie will tell you when the voluntary begins----”

“Oh, I can tell very well without Lottie,” said the bride, hanging upon

him till he reached the door. All these endearments had an indescribable

effect upon the girl, who was compelled to stand by. Lottie turned her

back to them and re-arranged the ornaments on the mantelpiece, with

trembling hands, exasperated almost beyond the power of self-restraint.

But when the Captain was gone, looking back in his imbecility to kiss

his hand to his bride, the situation changed at once. Polly turned

round, sharp and business-like, in a moment. “Ring the bell, Miss,” she

said, “and tell the girl to clear them things away. And then, if you

will just hand me over the keys, and let me see your housekeeping things

and your stores and all that, we may settle matters without any trouble.

I likes to begin as I mean to end,” said Polly peremptorily. Lottie

stood and looked at her for a moment, her spirit rekindling, her mind

rising up in arms against the idea of obedience to this stranger. But

what would be the use of trying to resist? Resist! what power had she?

The very pride which rebelled against submission made the submission

inevitable. She could not humiliate herself by a vain struggle. Polly,

who was very doubtful of the yielding of this natural adversary, and

rather expected to have a struggle for her “rights,” was quite

bewildered by the meekness with which the proud girl, who scarcely took

any notice of her, she thought, acquiesced in the orders she gave.

Lottie rang the bell. She said, “You will prefer, I am sure, to give

Mary her orders without me. There are not many keys, but I will go and

get what I have.”

“Not many keys! and you call yourself a housekeeper?” said Polly. Lottie

turned away as the little maid came in, looking impertinent enough to be

a match for the new mistress; but Lottie was no match for her. She went

and got out her little housekeeping-book, which she had kept so neatly.

She gathered the keys of the cupboards, which generally stood unlocked,

for there was not so much in them that she should lock them up. Lottie

had all the instincts of a housekeeper. It gave her positive pain to

hand over the symbols of office--to give up her occupation. Her heart

sank as she prepared to do it. All her struggles about the bills, her

anxious thought how this and that was to be paid, seemed elements of

happiness now. She could not bear to give them up. The pain of this

compulsory abdication drove everything else out of her head. Love, they

say, is all a woman’s life, but only part of a man’s; yet Lottie forgot

even Rollo--forgot his love and all the consolation it might bring, in

this other emergency, which was petty enough, yet all-important to her.

She trembled as she got together these little symbols of her domestic

sovereignty. She heard the new mistress of the house coming up the

stairs as she did so, talking all the way. “I never heard such

impudence,” Polly was saying. “Speak back to her mistress! a bit of a

chit of a maid-of-all-work like that. I suppose she’s been let do

whatever she pleased; but she’ll find out the difference.” Behind

Polly’s voice came a gust of weeping from below, and a cry of, “I’m

going to tell mother:” thus hostilities had commenced all along the

line.

“I can’t think how ever you got on with a creature like that,” said

Polly, throwing herself down in the easy-chair. “She don’t know how to

do a single thing, as far as I can see; but some folks never seem to

mind. She shan’t stay here not a day longer than I can help. I’ve given

her warning on the spot. To take impudence from a servant the very first

day! But that’s always the way when things are let go; the moment they

find a firm hand over them there’s a to-do. To be sure it wasn’t to be

looked for that you could know much, Miss, about managing a house.”

“Mary is a very good girl,” said Lottie hastily. “She has always done

what I told her. Here are the keys of the cupboards, since you wish for

them; but there are not any stores to lock away. I get the things every

week, just enough to use----”

“And don’t lock them up!” Polly threw up her hands. “That’s one way of

housekeeping; but how should you know any better, poor thing, brought up

like that! I’m sure I don’t mean to be hard upon you; but you should

have thought a bit of your papa, and not have wasted his money. However,

that’s all over now. A man wants a nice ’ome to come back to, he wants a

nice dinner on the table, he wants somebody that can talk to him, to

keep him out of mischief. Oh, I know very well the Captain’s been fond

of having his fling. I ain’t one of the ignorant ones, as don’t know a

man’s ways. And I like that sort much the best myself. I like a man to

be a man, and know what’s what. But you’ll soon see the difference, now

that he’s got some one to amuse him, and some one to make him

comfortable at home. So these are all, Miss Lottie? And what’s this? oh,

a book! I don’t think much of keeping books. You know how much you has

to spend, and you spend it; that’s my way.”

Lottie made no reply. She felt it to be wiser for herself, but no doubt

it was less respectful to Polly, who paused now and then for a reply,

then went on again, loving to hear herself talk, yet feeling the

contempt involved in this absence of all response. At last she cried

angrily, “Have you lost your tongue, Miss, or do you think as I’m not

good enough to have an answer, though I’m your papa’s wife?”

“I beg your pardon,” said Lottie; “I--don’t know what to say to you. We

don’t know each other. I don’t understand---- Don’t you see,” she cried

suddenly, unable to restrain herself, “that since you came into the

house you have done nothing but--find fault with all my--arrangements--”

(these mild words came with the utmost difficulty; but Lottie was too

proud to quarrel). “You can’t think that I could like that. I have done

my best, and if you try as I have done, you will find it is not so easy.

But I don’t want to defend myself; that is why I don’t say anything.

There can be no good in quarrelling, whether you think me a bad

housekeeper or not.”

“I ain’t so sure of that,” said Polly. “Have a good flare-up, and be

done with it, that’s my way. I don’t hold with your politeness, and

keeping yourself to yourself. I’d rather quarrel than be always bursting

with spite and envy, like some folks. It stands to reason as you must

hate me, taking things out of your hands; and it stands to reason as I

should think more of my own husband than of keeping up your brother and

you in idleness. But for all that, and though we might fight now and

then--everybody does, I don’t care nothing for a girl as is always the

same--I don’t see why we shouldn’t get on neither. The Captain says as

you’ve a very good chance of a husband yourself. And though I’m just

about your own age, I’ve had a deal of experience. I know how to bring a

man to the point, if he’s shilly-shallying, or won’t speak up like a

man, as a girl has a right to expect.”

“Oh! stop, stop, stop!” cried Lottie, wild with horror. She cast a

hurried glance round, to see what excuse she could make for getting

away. Then she seized eagerly upon her music which lay on the old square

piano. “I must go to my lesson,” she said.

“Your lesson! Are you having lessons too? Upon my word! Oh, my poor

husband! my poor Captain! No wonder as he has nothing but cold beef to

eat,” said Polly, with all the fervour of a deliverer, finding out one

misery after another. “And if one might make so bold as to ask, Miss,

who is it as has the honour to give lessons to you?”

“The Signor--Mr. Rossinetti,” Lottie added, after a moment. It seemed

desecration to talk of any of the familiar figures within the Abbey

precincts by their familiar title to this intruder.

“Oh! I’m not so ignorant as not to know who the Signor is. That will be

half-a-guinea, or at the least seven-and-six a lesson!” she said,

raising her hands in horror. “Oh, my poor ’usband! This is how his money

goes! Miss,” said Polly, severely, “you can’t expect as I should put up

with such goings on. I have your papa to think of, and I won’t see him

robbed--no, not whatever you may do. For I call that robbery, just

nothing else. Half-a-guinea a lesson, and encouraging Law to waste his

time! I can’t think how you can do it: with that good, dear, sweet,

confiding man letting you have your own way, and suspecting nothing,”

cried Polly, clasping her hands. Then she got up suddenly. “I declare,”

she cried, “church is near over, and me not ready to go out and meet

him! I can’t go out a figure, in a common rag like this, and me a bride.

I must put on my silk. Of course, he wants to show me off a bit before

his friends. I’ll run and get ready, and we can talk of this another

time.”

Thus Lottie escaped for the moment. She was asked a little later to see

if Mrs. Despard’s collar was straight, and to pin on her veil. “Do I

look nice?” said Polly triumphant, and at the same time mollified by the

services which Lottie rendered without objection. She had put on her

“blue silk” and the bonnet with the orange-blossoms, and neckties enough

to stock a shop. “Perhaps, as there’s nothing ordered, and I mean to

make a change with the tradespeople, the Captain and me won’t come back

to dinner,” said Polly. “There’s your favourite cold beef, Miss, for Law

and you.” Lottie felt that she began to breathe when, rustling and

mincing, her strange companion swept out, in the face of all the people

who were dispersing from matins, to meet her husband. Polly liked the

wondering encounter of all their eyes. With her blue silk sweeping the

pavement after her, and her pink parasol, and the orange-blossoms on her

bonnet, her figure descending the Dean’s Walk alone, while all the

others issued out of the Abbey doors, was conspicuous enough. She was

delighted to find that everybody looked at her, and even that some stood

still to watch her, looking darkly at her finery. These were the people

who were jealous, envious of her fine clothes and her happiness, or

jealous of her handsome husband, who met her presently, but who perhaps

was not so much delighted to see her amidst all his fellow-Chevaliers as

she thought. Captain Despard was not a man of very fine perceptions; but

though his blooming young wife was a splendid object indeed beside the

dark, little old figure of Mrs. Temple, he had seen enough to feel that

the presence of the old lady brought out into larger prominence

something which the younger lacked. But he met her with effusive

delight, and drew her hand within his arm, and thus they disappeared

together. Outside the Precincts there was no need to make any

comparison, and Polly’s brilliancy filled all hearts with awe.

When Law returned, he found Lottie seated in her little chair, with her

face hidden in her hands. It was not that she was crying, as he feared

at first. The face she raised to him was crimson with excitement. “Oh,

Law!” she said, “Law, Law!” Lottie had got beyond the range of words.

After a while she told him all the events of the morning, which did not

look half so important when they were told, and they tried to lay their

heads together and think what was best to be done. But what could anyone

do? Mary could scarcely put the remnants of the cold beef on the table,

for her eagerness to tell that she had been to mother, and mother would

not hear of her staying. “Places isn’t so hard to get as all that, for a

girl with a good character,” she said. When she was gone, Lottie looked

piteously at her brother.

“What kind of a place could I get?” she said. “What am I fit for? Oh,

Law! I think it is a mistake to be brought up a lady. I never thought it

before, but I do now. How can we go on living here? and where are we to

go?”

“That’s what I always said,” said Law. He was horribly grave, but he had

not a word to say except that he had got a match at football, and

perhaps might stay and sup with the fellows afterwards. “I’m just as

well out of the way, for what can I do for you? only make things worse,”

he said. And though he had been so kind and sympathetic at first, Law

stole away, glad to escape, and left Lottie alone, to bear it as she

might. She had no lesson that day, though she had pretended to have one.

She would not go to the Abbey, where the new member of the family meant

to appear, she knew. Lottie stayed in the familiar room which was hers

no longer, until the silence became too much for her, and she felt that

any human voice would be a relief. She went out in the afternoon, when

all seemed quiet, when everybody had gone to the Abbey for the evening

service. There would be nobody about, and it seemed to Lottie that the

shame was upon her, that it was she who must shrink from all eyes. Mrs.

O’Shaughnessy, however, knocking on the window violently, instantly

gave her to understand that this was impracticable. The girl tried to

resist, being afraid of what she might say, and of what might be said to

her. But as she hurried on, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy’s maid rushed after her.

Lottie had to go to her old friend, though very reluctantly. Mrs.

O’Shaughnessy had a bad cold. She was sitting wrapped up in a shawl, and

a visitor with something to tell was beyond price to her. “Come and tell

me all about it, then!” she cried, “me poor darlin’!” enveloping Lottie

in her large embrace. “And tell the Major, Sally, and let nobody come

in.” The Major came instantly to the call, and Lottie tried to tell her

story to the kind couple who sat on either side of her, with many an

exclamation.

“I knew that was what it would come to,” Mrs. O’Shaughnessy said.

“And I never thought Despard (saving your presence, my dear) could have

been such a fool!” cried the Major.

“Oh, sure, Major, you’re old enough to know that every man is a fool

where a woman’s concerned.”

But what was Lottie to do? They petted her and condoled with her,

soothing her with their sympathy, and all the tender words they could

think of; but they could throw no light upon one point: what could the

girl do? Nothing, but put up with it. They shook their heads, but could

give her no comfort. If Law had but been doing something instead of

idling all his time away! But then Law was not doing anything. What was

he good for, any more than Lottie?

“Mary can get another place. Her mother will not let her stay, and she

can get another place, she says; but here are two of us, Law and I, and

we are good for nothing!” cried Lottie. How her thoughts were altered

from the time when she thought it necessary to stay at home, to do no

visible work, for the credit of the family! Lottie was not young enough

to feel that it was necessary to be consistent. “We are young and strong

and able to work, but we are good for nothing!” she said. And they both

looked at her blankly, not knowing what to say.

By-and-by Lottie escaped again into the open air, notwithstanding their

anxious invitation that she should stay with them. She was too wretched

to stay, and there had come upon her a longing to see another face in

which there might be comfort. As she went out she almost walked into

Captain Temple’s arms, who was walking slowly along looking up at her

window. The old man took both her hands into his. “My poor child!” he

said. He was not so frankly inquisitive as the good people she had just

left, but he drew her hand through his arm and walked with her, bending

over her.

“I do not want to tempt you from your duty, my dear; you’ll do what is

right, I am sure you will do what is right. But I can’t bear to think

you are in trouble, and we so near. And my wife,” said the old man

slightly faltering, “my wife thinks so, too.” He was not quite so sure

of his wife. She had the restraining effect upon her husband which a

more reserved and uncommunicative mind has over an impulsive one. He

knew what he would like to do, but he was not sure of her, and this put

hesitation into his speech.

“Oh! Captain Temple,” cried Lottie, moved at last to tears, “what am I

to do? If I cannot bear it, what am I to do?”

“Come and speak to my wife,” he said; “come, dear, and see my wife. She

can’t talk about everything as I do, but she has more sense than anyone,

and knows the world. Come with me, Lottie, and see what Mrs. Temple

says.”

He thought the sight of the girl in her trouble would be enough, and

that his wife would certainly say what it was on his own lips to say.

Just then, however, there was a sound of doors opening, and old Wykeham

came out and looked upon the world with a defiant countenance from the

south door of the Abbey, which was a sign that service was over; and the

notes of the voluntary began to peal out into the air. Lottie drew her

arm from that of her old friend--she could not bear the eyes of the

crowd. “Another time, another time; but I must go now,” she cried,

escaping from him and turning towards the Slopes. The old Captain’s

first impulse was to follow. He stood for a moment gazing after her as

she sped along, slim and swift and young, up the deserted road. It was

beginning to grow dark, and the evening was colder than it had been yet.

Where was she going? To her favourite haunt on the Slopes to get the

wind in her face; to let her thoughts go, like birds, into the wide

space and distance? If that had been all! The old man thought of an

alternative which filled him with alarm. He took a step after her, and

then he paused again, and shaking his head, turned back, meeting all the

people as they streamed out of the Abbey. Poor child! if she did meet

_him_ there, what then? It would comfort her to see her lover; and if he

was good, as the anxious old Chevalier hoped, had not the lover more

power to save her than all the world? There was no question of taking

Lottie from her father and mother, separating her from her home. If this

young man were to offer her a home of her own, where could there be so

good a solution to the problem? Captain Temple turned and walked home

with a sigh. It was not his way of delivering Lottie, but perhaps it was

the way that would be most for her happiness, and who was he that he

should interfere? He let her go to her fate with a sigh.

CHAPTER XXX.

LOTTIE’S FATE.

Lottie went up the Dean’s Walk hastily, feeling as if she had taken

flight. And she was taking flight. She could not bear to meet the people

coming from the Abbey, among whom no doubt her father and his wife would

be. Lottie was scarcely aware that there was anything else in her mind.

She hurried to the Slopes as the natural refuge of her trouble. The wind

blowing fresh in her face, the great sweep of distance, the air and the

clouds, the familiar rustle of the trees, seemed to have become part of

her, a necessity of her living. And the Slopes were almost deserted now.

In October the night comes early, the afternoon is short, even before

the winds become chill; already it was darkening, though the afternoon

service was but newly over. The trees were beginning to lose their

gorgeous apparel: every breeze shook down hosts of leaves, shreds of

russet brown and pale gold; the wind was wistful and mournful, with a

sigh in it that promised rain. Lottie saw nobody about. She stole

through the trees to her favourite corner, and leaned upon the low

parapet, looking over the familiar scene. She was so familiar with it,

every line; and yet it seemed to her to-night like scenery in a theatre

which by-and-by would collapse and split asunder, and give place to

something different. It would vanish from her sight, and in place of it

there would appear the dim background of one of the little rooms at

home, with a figure in a blue gown relieved against it, tossing about a

mountain of braids and plaits. Lottie did not feel sure that this figure

would not appear at her very side, lay an imperative hand on her

shoulder, and order her to give up the secrets of her own being. Thus

she carried her care within her. She stood leaning over the parapet,

with the trees rustling around, scarcely aware what she was thinking of.

Did she expect anyone? She would have said, No. The night was overcast

and growing dismal, why should she expect anyone? What reason could he

have for coming out here? He could have no instinctive knowledge of her

misery, to bring him, and he had no longer that excuse of his cigar

after dinner as on the happy nights when the air was still like summer.

No! it was only for the stillness, only for the air, only to fling her

troublesome thoughts out to the horizon and empty her mind, and thus

feel it possible to begin again, that she had come. And never had that

stillness been so still before. By-and-by this scene would melt away,

and it would be the little dining-room in the Lodge, with the white

tablecloth and the lamp lighted upon it. She had been weary of her home,

she had half despised it; but never had she been disgusted, afraid of

it, never loathed the thought of going back to it before. And she could

not talk to anybody about this; they were all very kind, ready to be

sorry for her, to do anything they could for her, but she could not bear

their sympathy to-night.

All at once, in the silence which was so full of the whisper of the

leaves and the sighs of the wind, that she had not heard any footstep,

there came a voice close to her elbow which made Lottie start.

“Is it really you, Miss Despard? I had almost given up hopes;--and

alone! I thought you were never to be alone again?” said Rollo, with

pleasure in his voice.

How it startled her! She looked round upon him with so much fright in

her eyes that he was half vexed, half angered. Was it possible that

Lottie after all was just like the rest, pretending to be astonished by

his appearance when she knew as well----

“You surely are not surprised to see me?” he said, with a short laugh.

“I did not think of seeing you,” she said quietly, and looked away from

him again.

Rollo was angry, yet he was touched by something in her tone; and there

must be something to cause this sudden change. She had always been so

frank and simple in her welcome of him, always with a light of pleasure

on her face when he came in sight; but she would not so much as let him

see her face now. She looked round with that first start, then turned

again and resumed her dreamy gaze into the night. And there was

dejection in every line of her figure as she stood dimly outlined

against the waning light. Suddenly there came into Rollo’s mind a

recollection that he had heard something to account for this, without

accusing her of petty pretence or affectation.

“Something has happened,” he said, with a sense of relief which

surprised himself. “I remember now. I fear you are not happy about it.”

“No,” she said, with a sigh. Then Lottie made a little effort to recover

herself; perhaps he would not care about her troubles. “It has been a

great shock,” she said, “but perhaps it may not be so bad after a

while.”

“Tell me,” said Rollo; “you know how much interest I take in everything

that concerns you. Surely, Miss Despard, after this long time that we

have been seeing each other, you know that? Won’t you tell me? I cannot

bear to see you so sad, so unlike yourself.”

“Perhaps that is the best thing that could happen,” said Lottie, “that

I should be unlike myself. I wish I could be like someone with more

sense; I have been so foolish! Everybody knows that we are poor; I never

concealed it, but I never thought---- Oh! how silly we have been, Law

and I! I used to scold him, but I never saw that I was just the same

myself. We ought to have learned to do something, if it were only a

trade. We are both young and strong, but we are good for nothing, not

able to do anything. I used to scold him: but I never thought that I was

just as bad myself.”

“Don’t say so, don’t say so! You were quite right to scold him; men

ought to work. But you” cried Rollo with real agitation, “it is not to

be thought of. You! don’t speak of such a thing. What is the world

coming to, when you talk of working, while such a fellow as I----”

“Ah! that is quite different,” said Lottie. “You are rich, or, at least,

you are the same as if you were rich; but we are really poor, we have no

money: and everything we have, it is papa’s. I suppose he has a right to

do whatever he likes with it; it seems strange, but I suppose he has a

right. And, then, what is to become of us? How could I be so silly as

not to think of that before? It is all my own fault; don’t think I am

finding fault with papa, Mr. Ridsdale. I suppose he has a right, and I

don’t want to grumble; it only--seems natural--to tell you.” Lottie did

not know what an admission she was making. She sighed again into that

soft distant horizon, then turned to him with a smile trembling about

her lips. It was a relief to tell him--she could speak to him as she

could not speak to Captain Temple or Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, though she had

known them so much longer. “Perhaps I am only out of temper,” she said.

She could not but feel more light of heart standing beside him with

nobody near; they seemed to belong to each other so.

“How good, how sweet of you to say so,” he cried. “Then treat me as if

it were natural; come and sit down--nobody will interrupt us--and tell

me everything I want to know.”

They had met together in Lottie’s little drawing-room before, in the eye

of day, and three or four times under Lady Caroline’s eye; but never

before like this, in the twilight, all alone in the world, as it were,

two of them, and no more. Lottie hesitated for a moment; but what could

be wrong in it? There was nobody to disturb them, and her heart was so

full; and to talk to him was so pleasant. She seemed able to say more to

him than to any other. He understood her at half a word, whereas to the

others she had to say everything, to say even more than she meant before

they saw what she meant. She sat down, accordingly, in the corner of

the seat, and told him all that had happened; herself beginning to see

some humour in it as she told the story, half laughing one moment, half

crying the next. And Rollo went into it with all his heart. All their

meetings had produced their natural effect; for the last fortnight he

had felt that he ought to go away, but he had not gone away. He could

not deprive himself of her, of their intercourse, which was nothing yet

implied so much, those broken conversations, and the language of looks,

that said so much more than words. Never, perhaps, had his intercourse

with any girl been so simple, yet so unrestrained. If the old Captain

sometimes looked at him with suspicion, he was the only one who did so;

and Lottie had neither suspicion nor doubt of him, nor had any question

as to his “intentions” arisen in her mind. She told him her grief now,

not dully, with the heavy depression that cannot be moved, but with

gleams of courage, of resolution, even of fun, unable to resist the

temptation of Polly’s absurdity, seeing it now as she had not been able

to see it before. “I never knew before,” she said fervently, “what a

comfort it was to talk things over--but, then, whom could I talk them

over with? Law, who thinks it best not to think, never to mind--but

sometimes one is obliged to mind: or Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, whom I cannot

say everything to---- or;--Mr. Ridsdale!” said Lottie, in alarm--“pray,

pray forgive me if I have bored you. I have been pouring out everything

to you. I never thought--I did not intend----”

“Don’t tell me that,” he said. “I hoped you did intend to confide in me,

to trust to my sympathy. Who can be so much interested? to whom can it

be so important----?” He leaned forward closer to her, and Lottie

instinctively drew away from him a hairs-breadth; but she thought that

quite natural too, as natural as that she should be able to speak to him

better than to anyone else. They had both made the whole avowal of their

hearts in saying these words; but it had not been done in words which

frightened either or changed their position towards each other.

Meanwhile she was content enough, quieted by the sense of leaning her

trouble upon him, while he was gradually growing into agitation. Lottie

had got all her emergency required--his sympathy, his support, the

understanding that was so dear to her. After all her trouble she had a

moment of ease; her heart was no longer sore, but soothed with the balm

of his tender pity and indignation.

But that which calmed Lottie threw Rollo into ever-increasing agitation.

A man who has said so much as that to a girl, especially to one who is

in difficulty and trouble, is bound even to himself to say more. The

crisis began for him where for her it momentarily ended. To love her

and as good as tell her so, to receive, thus ingenuously given, that

confession of instinctive reliance upon him which was as good as a

betrayal of her love; and to let her go and say nothing more--could a

man do that and yet be a man? Rollo was not a man who had done right all

the days of his life. He had been in very strange company, and had gone

through many an adventure; but he was a man whom vice had never done

more than touch. Even among people of bad morals he had not known how to

abandon the instincts of honour; and in such an emergency what was he to

do? Words came thronging to his lips, but his mind was distracted with

his own helplessness. What had he to offer? how could he marry? he asked

himself with a kind of despair. Yet something must be thought of,

something suggested. “Lottie,” he said after that strange

pause--“Lottie--I cannot call you Miss Despard any more, as if I were a

stranger. Lottie, you know very well that I love you. I am as poor as

you are, but I cannot bear this. You must trust to me for

everything--you must--Lottie, you are not afraid to trust yourself to

me--you don’t doubt me?” he cried. His mind was driven wildly from one

side to another. Marry! how could he marry in his circumstances? Was it

possible that there was anything else that would answer the purpose, any

compromise? His heart beat wildly with love and ardour and shame. What

would she say? Would she understand him, though he could not understand

himself?

“Mr. Ridsdale!” cried Lottie, shrinking back from him a little. She

covered her face with her hands and began to cry, being overcome with so

many emotions, one heaped on another. At another moment she would not

have been surprised; she would have been able to lift her eyes to the

glow of the full happiness which, in half-light, had been for weeks past

the illumination of her life. But for the moment it dazzled her. She put

up her hands between her and that ecstasy of light.

As for Rollo, very different were the thoughts in his mind. He thought

Lottie as wise as himself: he thought she had investigated his words;

had not found in them the one that is surety for all, and shrank from

him. Shame overwhelmed him: the agony of a mind which was really honest

and a heart which was full of tenderness, yet found themselves on the

verge of dishonour. “Lottie!” he cried with anguish in his voice, “you

do not understand me--you will not listen to me. Do not shrink as if I

meant any harm.”

Then she uncovered her face, and he saw dimly through the twilight a

countenance all trembling with emotion and happiness and astonishment.

“Harm!” she said, with wonder in her voice--“harm!” His heart seemed to

stand still, and all his confused thinkings broken off in the

unspeakable contrast between the simplicity of her innocence thinking no

evil, and the mere knowledge in his mind which, if nothing more, made

guilt possible. Such a contrast shamed and horrified, and filled with an

adoration of penitence, the man who might have drawn her into evil,

ambiguously, had it been possible. He found himself with one knee on the

cold gravel, before he knew, pressing his suit upon her with passion.

“Lottie, you must marry me, you must be my wife, you must let me be the

one to work, to take care of you, to protect you from all trouble,” he

cried. But what did Lottie want with those more definite words which he

had thought she missed and waited for? Had she not known his secret long

ago before he ever spoke a word to her? Had she not been led delicately,

tenderly, step by step, through infinite dreams and visions, towards

this climax? She cried with happiness and trouble, and the sense of

deliverance.

“Oh, why should you kneel to me?” she said. “Do you think it needs

_that_?” While he, more happy than ever he had been in his life,

alarmed, disturbed, shaken out of all his habits and traditions, held

her fast, like a new-found treasure, and lavished every tender word upon

her that language could supply. He owed her a million apologies, of not

one of which Lottie was conscious. How could it have been possible for

her to suppose that even for a second, in his inmost thoughts, he had

been less than reverent of her? And he--had he meant any harm! He did

not think he had meant any harm; yet how, in the name of heaven, was he

to marry--how was he to marry--in his present circumstances? While he

was pouring out upon Lottie his love and worship, telling her how she

had gathered to herself day by day all his thoughts and wishes, this

question rose up again in his heart.

“I know,” said Lottie, very low--her voice still trembling with the

first ecstasy of feeling. It was like the dove’s voice, all tenderness

and pathos, coming out of her very heart. “I guessed it long--oh, long

ago----”

“How did you do that? Whisper, darling--tell me--when did you first

think----?”

Is not this the A B C of lovers? and yet her tone implied a little more

than the happy divining of the easy secret. She laughed softly--a

variety of music in his ear--the two faces were so close.

“You did not think I knew anything about it. I saw you--looking up at my

window--the very night of the wedding. Do you remember?” Again Lottie’s

low happy laugh broke into the middle of her words. “I could not think

what it meant. And then another time before I knew you--and then----

You did not suppose I saw you. I could not believe it,” she said, with a

soft sigh of content. Laugh or sigh, what did it matter, they meant the

same: the delight of a discovery which was no discovery--the happy right

of confessing a consciousness which she dared not have betrayed an hour

ago--of being able to speak of it all: the two together, alone in all

the world, wanting nothing and no one. This was what Lottie meant. But

her disclosures struck her lover dumb. What would she say if she knew

his real object then? A prima donna who was to make his fortune--a new

voice to be produced in an opera! He shuddered as he drew her closer to

him, with terror--with compunction, though he had meant no harm. And he

loved her now if he did not love her then; with all his heart now--all

the more tenderly, he thought, that she had mistaken him, that she had

been so innocently deceived.

By this time it had got dark, though they did not observe it; yet not

quite dark, for it is rarely dark out of doors under the free skies, as

it is within four walls. It was Lottie who suddenly awoke to this fact

with a start.

“It must be late--I must go home,” she said. And when she looked about

among the ghostly trees which waved and bent overhead, sombre and

colourless in the dark--she thought, with a thrill of horror, that

hours must have passed since she came here. Rollo too was slightly

alarmed. They were neither of them in a condition to measure time; and

though so much had happened, it had flown like a moment. They came out

from among the trees in the happy gloom, arm-in-arm. Nobody could

recognise them, so dark as it was--and indeed nobody was in the way to

recognise them--and the Abbey clock struck as they emerged upon the

Dean’s Walk, reassuring them. Rollo was still in time for dinner, though

Lottie might be too late for tea; and the relief of discovering that it

was not so late as they thought gave them an excuse for lingering. He

walked to the Lodges with her, and then she turned back with him; and

finally they strayed round the Abbey in the darkness, hidden by it, yet

not so entirely hidden as they thought. Only one little jar came to the

perfect blessedness of this progress homeward.

“Shall you tell them?” Lottie whispered, just before she took leave of

her lover, with a movement of her hand towards the Deanery.

This gave Rollo a _serrement de cœur_. He replied hastily, “Not

to-night,” with something like a shiver, and then he added, “Where shall

I see you to-morrow?”

This question struck Lottie with the same shock and jar of feeling.

Would not he come and claim her to-morrow? This was what she had

thought. She did not know what to reply, and a sudden sensation of

undefined trouble--of evil not yet so entirely over as she hoped--came

into her mind; but he added, before she could speak--

“In the old place--that blessed corner which I love better than any

other in the world. Will you come while everybody is at the Abbey,

Lottie? for we must talk over everything.”

This melted the little momentary vexation away, and she promised. And

thus they parted perforce--opposite Captain Despard’s door. How glad

Lottie was that the door was open! It stood open all through the summer,

and the habits of the summer were scarcely over. By the light in the

dining-room downstairs and the sound of the voices she divined that tea

was not yet over. But she was not able to encounter Mrs. Despard

to-night. She did not want to see anyone. Her heart was still so full of

delicious tumult, her eyes of sweet tears. She had gone out so

sorrowful, so indignant, not knowing what was to become of her. And now

she knew what was to become of her--the most beautiful, happy fate. He

had said he was poor. What did it matter if he was poor? Was she not

used to that? Lottie knew, and said to herself with secret joy, that she

was the right wife for a poor man. He might have got the noblest of

brides, and she would not have been so fit for him; but _she_ was fit

for that post if ever a young woman was. She would take care of the

little he had, which one might be sure he would never do himself--he was

too generous, too kind for that; Lottie loved him for his prodigality,

even while she determined to control it. She would take care of him and

do everything for him, as no woman used to wealth could do. And she

would spur him on so that he should do great things--things which he had

not done heretofore, only because he had not stimulus enough. He should

have stimulus enough now, with a wife who would exult in all he did, and

support him with sympathy and help. It was not any passive position that

she mapped out for herself. She knew what it meant to be poor, far

better than Rollo did. And she did not mind it. Why should she mind it?

She had been used to it all her life. She would not care what she did.

But he should never have to blush for his wife as a drudge. She would

never forget her position, and his position, which was so much greater

than hers. This was the first time that Lottie thought of his position.

She did so now with a heightening of colour, and louder throb of her

heart. By this time she was sitting in her own room without even a

candle, glad of the seclusion and of the darkness in which she could

think, unbetrayed even to herself. Her heart gave a bound, and a flush

came to her cheek. There could be no doubt now about her position. No

one could dream, no one could think that Rollo’s wife was ever to be

looked down upon. This gave her a distinct thrill of pleasure; and then

she passed it by, to return to a dearer subject--Himself! how anxious he

had been! as if it were possible she could have resisted his love. He

had wooed her, she thought, as if she had been a princess--doubling

Lottie’s happiness by doing in this respect the thing she felt to be

most right and fit, though, oh! so unnecessary in respect to herself!

Could he really have any doubt how it would turn out? The thought of

this humility in her hero brought tears of love and happiness to

Lottie’s eyes. Was she the same girl who had sat here in gloom and

darkness only last night, wondering what was to become of her? But how

was she to know how soon fate would unfold like a flower, and show her

what was in store for her? How happy she was--how good, how thankful to

God--how charitable to others! She could have gone downstairs and said

something kind even to Polly, had it not been for fear of betraying

herself. Everything that was tender and sweet blossomed out in her

heart. She was so happy. Is not that the moment in which the heart is

most pure, most kind, most humble and tender? God’s hand seemed to be

touching her, blessing her--and she in her turn was ready to bless all

the world.

CHAPTER XXXI.

WHAT OTHER PEOPLE THOUGHT.

The appearance of the new Mrs. Despard in the Abbey made a very great

impression. The brilliancy of her blue silk and the bushiness of her

orange-blossoms were calculated to strike awe into all beholders. There

was scarcely a lady within the Precincts who did not feel herself

personally insulted by the appearance of the milliner girl flaunting in

her bridal finery and taking her place by right among them. As for the

wives of the Chevaliers, their indignation was too great for words.

Mingled curiosity and enmity had brought them out in larger numbers than

usual, to see the creature, if she was so lost to every feeling of shame

as to show herself; and it is scarcely necessary to say that Polly was

in that particular entirely lost to every feeling of shame. She came in

with her Captain, clinging to his arm, and whispering to him, even in

the sacred quiet of the Abbey, and as the pair were late, and almost the

entire congregation had assembled, nothing was wanting to the full

enjoyment of her triumph. Polly felt, when she raised her head, after

that momentary homage to the sacred place which even in her state of

excitement she felt bound to make, that one object of her life was

attained, that everybody was staring at her, and that in her blue silk

she was more the centre of regard than the Dean himself under his

canopy, or the Minor Canon just about to begin the service, who

perceptibly paused, in acknowledgment of the little rustle and commotion

which accompanied her entrance. The feelings of the ladies among whom

this intruder pushed her way may be imagined. It was all that Mrs.

O’Shaughnessy could do, she said afterwards, to refrain from throwing

her hymn-book at the head of the jaunty Captain, as he handed his bride

into her place, before taking his own among his brother Chevaliers. The

ladies in the Abbey were divided from their partners, being placed in a

lower row, and to see the Captain pass on to his stall with a swing of

elation in his step after handing his bride to her seat, was enough to

make any veteran blaspheme. Why should a man be so proud of himself

because he has got a new wife? The imbecile glow of vanity and

self-congratulation which in such circumstances comes over the

countenance, nay, the entire person, even of the wisest, conveys

exasperation to every looker-on. The sentiment of indignation, however,

against Captain Despard was mingled with pity; but scarcely even

contempt sufficed to soften the feeling with which Polly in her blue

silk was universally regarded. Polly was an intruder, an aggressor. The

very way in which she tossed her head upwards with its bristling crown

of artificial flowers was an offence. The ladies might have their little

differences now and then, and it was an undoubted fact that Mrs.

Dalrymple, for instance, who was very well connected, had never been

able to endure Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, who had no connections at all; but

now they all clung together as with one impulse. They crowded upon each

other in the seat, so as to leave a clear space between them and Polly,

who, unabashed, took full advantage of it, and spread out her flounces,

her blue silken skirts around her, with a rustle of defiance. Mrs.

Temple was the one who was left next to Mrs. Despard. This lady, who

took no notice at first, soon roused up, and putting on her spectacles,

looked very seriously at the intruder. Polly faced round upon her, with

dauntless readiness, but Mrs. Temple’s look was so serious, that even

Polly felt somewhat discomfited. She felt this new observer’s eyes upon

her all the time. “Who was that old woman who stared at me so?” she

asked, scarcely taking the trouble to whisper, as her husband led her

round the nave while the voluntary was being played. “That! that’s the

wife of an old idiot who gives himself no end of airs,” said the

Captain. “I thought as much,” said Polly, tossing her head, “but she’ll

find I can stare just as well as she can. Two can play at that game.”

She spoke so loudly that some of the people near said, “Hush-sh!” The

Signor was just then playing a very delicate cadenza in the minor key.

Mrs. Temple took her old husband’s arm without a word, and went straight

home. He had not himself been at the service, but met her at the door;

where he too saw the bride in her blue silk. The old Captain did nothing

but shake his head. He could not trust himself to speak. “What are

things coming to?” he said at last, as they got within their own door.

“When that young fellow was made a Chevalier, I said nothing could come

of it but mischief to the community.” Captain Despard, being only fifty,

was a young fellow to this veteran. “Never mind the community,” said

Mrs. Temple, which was a bold thing to say. It was getting late in the

October afternoon, and within the little sitting-rooms of the Lodges it

seemed dark, coming in even from the grey afternoon skies outside. Mrs.

Temple rang for the lamp before she went upstairs to take off her

bonnet. She was very full of thought, and sighed as she went. Her own

girl, for whom she would so gladly have died, was gone, leaving father

and mother desolate--and here was another poor girl who lived, but had

no one to care for her. Strange are the decrees of Providence. Mrs.

Temple sighed as she came downstairs again to where her old Captain sat

gazing at the lamp with a sorrowful face. “Yes, my dear,” he said as she

came in, “you were right to say never mind the community. After all, I

suppose there is no community in the world that has not its black sheep.

Nobody will be so foolish as to confound _us_ with such a fellow; but

when I think of that poor girl----”

“That is what I have been thinking of,” said Mrs. Temple; “but perhaps,”

she added, still unwilling to betray her interest in Lottie, that

interest which was half opposition, “perhaps she may not feel it so much

as we suppose.”

“Feel it! I have not liked to say very much about her, my dear. She

reminds me so of our own----and I know you could not bear to talk of

that,” said the good Captain, innocent of the fact that he had talked of

little else for months past. “But if you only knew her better! There is

something in her walk--in the turn of her head--that so reminds me--but

I never liked to say much about it. You must not think she does not feel

it. I met her and was talking with her just before I came for you. But

for leaving you alone I should have taken her for a walk; it would have

done her good. I believe she rushed off to the Slopes after all.”

“I do not think she would get much good on the Slopes,” said Mrs.

Temple, thinking of the little wind of gossip about Mr. Rollo Ridsdale

which had begun to breathe about the Lodges.

“She would get fresh air--and quiet; she likes that; she is a very

thoughtful girl, my dear--very serious, just like our own poor----. You

must forgive me if I am always seeing resemblances. Lottie is very fond

of the twilight. I have gone with her so often I know her tastes. Many a

time I have done the same with----. When I feel her little arm in mine,

I could almost think sometimes that other days have come back.”

The shadow of Mrs. Temple’s cap quivered on the wall. The thought of the

little arm in his, the other days, which this simple touch brought back,

was not sweet but terrible to her. A film floated before her eyes, and

something choking and intolerable rose in her throat. “I do not

suppose,” she said hastily, “that a girl brought up like that can mind

as one thinks.”

The Captain shook his head. “I wish you knew her better,” he said, with

that soft answer which turns away irritation. The servant-maid came in

with the tray at this moment, and Mrs. Temple began to pour out the tea.

She was a little tired, having had many things to do that day, and it

occurred to her suddenly that to lean back in her easy-chair as the

Captain was doing, and to have her cup of tea brought to her, would be

sweet. To have some one to wait upon her tenderly and read her wishes in

her eyes, and divine her thoughts before they came to her lips, that

would be sweet. But could anyone do that except a child, could anything

but love do it, and that sacred influence which is in the blood, the

same blood running in the different veins of parent and child? These

thoughts went through her mind without anybody being the wiser. She gave

her husband his tea, and sat down in her turn to rest a little. There

was nothing said in the still little room. The two together, did not

they know all each other’s thoughts and wishes and recollections? They

were old, and what could happen to them except the going out to the

Abbey, the coming in to tea? But if there had been three instead of

two--and one young, with all a dawning world before her feet--everything

would have borne a very different aspect. Ah! Mrs. Temple moved quickly,

as she had the habit of doing when that recollection, always present to

her mind, struck suddenly like a new blow. And here was a creature,

helpless, forlorn, without a mother to fly to. The mother who had no

child stood doubtful between earth and heaven, asking, speechless, what

she was to do: pass by on the other side as if there was no mother in

her? or pardon God for taking her child, and hold out her hand to His?

She did not know what to do. Things were not easy for her as for her

husband. It was cruel of this girl even to live, to pass by a poor

woman’s windows who had lost her child; yet what was the woman to do

when this creature who was living, who was an offence to her, was in

trouble? Let her sink and never hold out a hand? But what then would the

other girl in heaven think of her mother? Mrs. Temple was torn by this

conflict of which she gave no sign, while perhaps the old Captain in his

kind and simple heart, yearning over the young creature who was so

helpless and desolate, was unjust to his wife and thought her less than

kind.

And it was not only in Captain Temple’s house that Polly’s appearance

was the cause of excitement. The Signor put his hand upon the arm of his

young assistant as they went out together by the north door. “Did you

see them?” he said, with meaning. Young Purcell was pale with

excitement. He had done nothing but watch Polly promenading through the

nave on her husband’s arm, and the very fact of Lottie’s superiority to

himself made him feel with more horror the impossibility of any harmony

between her and Polly, whom he considered so much inferior to himself.

He had watched her from the organ-loft, while the Signor played the

voluntary, with feelings indescribable; and so did his mother, who was

also in the Abbey, and who gaped at the fine young woman with a mixture

of consternation and admiration, by no means sure of her inferiority,

yet feeling that a crisis had arrived, and that whatever Miss Despard

might have said before, she could not but be glad now of any offer of an

’ome. Mrs. Purcell did not stay for the voluntary, but went home quickly

to see after “her dinner,” very full of thought, and tremulous with

expectation. The young lady was proud, she would not have anything to

say to John before--but now, no doubt she would send for him and all

would be settled. The housekeeper knew that a young stepmother was a

strong argument against the peace of a girl who had been used to have

everything her own way, and she felt with a tremor of her heart, half

pride, half pain, that now at last she would have to resign her boy, and

see him pass from beyond her ken into those regions of gentility with

which the Signor’s housekeeper had nothing to do. Very likely John, or

John’s wife who was “such a lady,” would want her to leave her

comfortable situation. Mrs. Purcell did not like the idea of it, but

still, if it would help to make her boy happy--perhaps even it might

remove a stumbling-block out of John’s way if she were to take it into

her own hands, and give up her situation. The thought made her heart

heavy, for she liked her place, and the Signor, and her comfortable

rooms, and the power of laying by a little money. But John was the first

person to be considered. What could a young lady object to in his

position? _he_ was all that a gentleman could wish to be; but a mother

who was in service might no doubt be an objection. Mrs. Purcell made up

her mind hurriedly, that if it proved needful she would not wait to be

asked, but would herself take the initiative and make the sacrifice; but

she did so with a heavy heart. To give up not only her boy, who, when he

was married, would not, she knew, be much more to his mother, but her

occupation likewise, and her chief comforts, and her master who was, in

a way, like another son to her, a foster-son, much greater and richer

than she, but still dependent on her for his comfort--it was hard--but

still she could do it for her John’s sake. Meanwhile her John, feeling

the Signor’s hand heavy with meaning on his arm, answered with tremulous

excitement, “Yes---- I saw it. It is terrible, terrible! a desecration.

To think she should have to put up with _that_ even for a day!”

“I wonder what will be the issue,” said the Signor, meditatively. “Her

heart is not in her work now. If she becomes an artist, it will be

against her will--Art is not what she is thinking of. I wonder what will

come of it. Will she feel the hollowness of this world and throw herself

into her profession, or will she----”

“Master,” said the young musician, fervently, “sooner or later she will

turn to me. It is not possible that a man could love a young lady as I

do, and have an ’ome to offer her, as I have----”

Purcell was educated--he did not forget his h’s in general; but how many

people are there who, beguiled by that familiar phrase, forget all

precautions, and plunge recklessly into the pitfall of an ’ome!

“You think so?” said the Signor. He did not himself put any confidence

in this result, and was even surprised, after his recent experience,

that the young man should be sanguine; but still, after all, who ought

to have such true intuitions as the hero himself? and there is no

telling what perseverance mingled with enthusiasm may do. The Signor was

not satisfied with his pupil. She would not devote herself to her work

as he wished. She had no abstract devotion to art, as art. The Signor

felt, musing over it, that it was possible she might take to it more

warmly if by any chance she became Purcell’s wife. John was a very good

fellow, and when he was disappointed, the Signor was very angry with

Lottie; but, still, he thought it probable that Lottie, if she married

him, would not find much to satisfy her in Purcell, and, therefore,

would be driven to art. And of all results that could be attained, was

not this the best? In the meantime, however, he was very doubtful

whether by this means it ever would be attained.

“Yes, master,” said the young man; “how can I help thinking so? I can

give her, if not very much, at least independence and the comforts of an

’ome. She would not be dragged down by anything about me. My mother’s

position may be doubtful,” he said, with passing embarrassment; “but you

have been so good, you have never made her like a common servant, and at

Sturminster nobody need ever know.”

“Your mother has been very good, and done a great deal for you; you must

never let anyone ignore your mother.”

“Certainly not,” said the young man. “She _is_ my mother; that ought to

be enough for anybody. And I shall have her come to see me the same as

if she were a duchess; but, still, there is no need of publishing to

everybody what she is when she is at home.”

“That is true, that is true,” said the Signor. “Then you really think

there is a chance that this is how it will end?”

“Master,” said Purcell, pausing at the door before they entered. It was

one of the Italian traditions which had lingered in the Signor’s

habitual bearing, to stand still now and then as he was walking, by way

of giving emphasis to a sentence. They paused now, looking at each other

before they went in, and the colour came to the young fellow’s face.

“Master,” he said, “it may look self-sufficient--but how can it end

otherwise? There is no one else who will offer her what I can offer

her; and it would be like saying she had no sense, which is very far

from the case, to think she would stand out for ever. She is a lady, she

is above me in birth; but, thanks to you, I know how to behave like a

gentleman; and surely, sooner or later, this is how it must end.”

“Amen, with all my heart,” said the Signor, turning in at the door,

which old Pick held open behind, waiting, as one who knew his master’s

way.

It was Mr. Ashford who had intoned the service that afternoon, and his

attention had been so caught by Polly’s entrance that he had made a kind

of stumble in the beginning--a pause which was perceptible. After that,

during the singing of the anthem and at other moments when his attention

was free, he had looked down upon that gorgeous apparition from his high

desk with a look of compassion on his face. The compassion, it is

needless to say, was not for Polly, who wanted none of it. He watched

her behind his book, or behind the hand which supported his head, with

the most curious alarmed attention. And when he passed her with her

husband going out, Mr. Ashford looked at her in a way which Polly

thought to be flattering. “That’s one as takes an interest in us,” she

said. “It’s Ashford, the Minor Canon. It must be you he takes an

interest in,” whispered the Captain, and Polly laughed and tossed her

head. Mr. Ashford went home with the same strange look on his face,

softened, and touched, and pitiful. “Poor thing,” he said to himself,

“poor girl!” and when he got in he sat for a long time in the centre

window, in the dark, looking out, and trying to think out some way of

help. What could he do for her? Poor thing! with all her better

instincts and higher feelings, with her impulse of taking care of

everybody and keeping her father and brother right, what would become of

her now? Mr. Ashford asked himself, with many an anxious thought, what

could be done? A man could do nothing--where it was a girl that was in

the case a man was more helpless than a baby. He could do nothing to

help her; he could not even show his sympathy without probably doing

more harm than good to the sufferer. He sat in the window-seat, gazing

out on the dusk and the dim horizon, as if they could help him in his

musings. If he had only had a mother or sister--any woman to whom he

could have appealed, he thought he must have done so on behalf of this

girl. But he had neither sister nor mother. He was a man very much alone

in the world. He had a brother, a poor clergyman, with a large family,

and a wife, who would not understand in the least why Ernest should

interest himself in a stranger--_a girl_. If he wanted some one to spend

his money upon, why not take one of the children? he thought he heard

her say; and certainly she would not understand, much less respond to,

any appeal he could make to _her_. What could he do? If any other

suggestion swept across Mr. Ashford’s face in the dark or through his

heart, nobody was there to see or divine it. He sat thus without ringing

for his lamp till it was quite late, and was much discomposed to be

found sitting in the dark when a messenger arrived with a note from the

Deanery about the extra service for the next saint’s-day. He was annoyed

to be found so, being conscious, perhaps, of reasons for the vigil which

he would not have cared to enter upon; for he was shy and sensitive, and

it had often happened to him to be laughed at, because of his undue

anxiety about others. “What is it to you?” had been often said to him,

and never with more occasion than now. For, after all, what did it

matter to the Minor Canon what became of Lottie Despard? Whether she and

her stepmother should “get on” together, or if they should never “get

on,” but yet might manage to live under the same roof a cat-and-doggish

life--what was it to him? One way or other, it would not take sixpence

out of his pocket, or affect his comfort in any way. But yet he could

not get it out of his head. No one in the house had thought of coming to

his room to light his lamp, to see that all was in order for him. He was

not served with precision, as was the Signor, for he was fond of saving

his servants trouble and making excuses for them. And when the man came

from the Deanery and followed the maid into the study, where she went

groping, declaring that her master was not at home, the Minor Canon was

uncomfortable, finding himself thus taken by surprise. “You need not

wait for an answer. I will send one in the morning,” he said, when the

candles on the writing-table had been lit with a match, and he had read

the note. He felt that his confused and troubled thoughts might be read

in his eyes. But nobody had any clue to the subject of these thinkings;

and how could anyone suspect that it was a matter of such absolute

indifference to himself that was occupying his thoughts--a thing with

which he had nothing in the world to do?

CHAPTER XXXII.

WHAT ROLLO HAD TO MARRY ON.

The moment after a man has made a proposal of marriage, and has been

accepted, is not always a moment of unmitigated blessedness. There are

ups and downs in the whole business from beginning to end. Sometimes the

man has the best of it, and sometimes the woman. When either side has

betrayed itself without a response on the other, when the man seems to

waver in his privilege of choice, when the woman hesitates in her

crowning prerogative of acceptance or rejection, then there are

intervals on either side which are not enviable; but when all these

preliminaries are over, and the explanation has been made, and the two

understand each other--then the lady’s position is, for the first few

days at least, the most agreeable. She has no parents to interview, no

pecuniary investigations to submit to, nor has she to enter upon the

question of ways and means, settlements and income for the future. But

when a man who knows he has nothing to marry upon is beguiled by

circumstances, by a sudden emergency, or by strain of feeling into the

momentous offer, and, after the first enthusiasm of acceptance, looks

himself in the face, as it were, and asks himself how it is to be done,

there is something terrible in the hours that follow. How was it to be

done? Rollo Ridsdale left Lottie at her door, and went across the road

towards the Deanery in a state of mind which was indescribable. He was

not an immaculate man, nor had he now spoken of love, for the first

time; but yet he was real in his love, and the response had been sweet

to him--sweet and terrible, as conveying every risk and danger that life

could bring, as well as every delight. He had lingered with his love

until the last available moment, and yet it was a relief to turn his

back upon her, to go away into the chaos of his own life and try to find

a way out of this maze in which he had involved himself. How was he to

marry? what was he to do? He felt giddy as he walked along, steadily

enough to outward seeming, but in his soul groping like a blind man. He

had asked Lottie Despard to marry him, and she had consented. He wanted

nothing better than her companionship, her love, the delight and comfort

of her to be his own; but, good heavens!--but, by Jove!--but, in the

name of everything worth swearing by--how was it to be done?--how was he

to marry? what was he to do? The happiness was delicious--it was a

taste of Paradise, a whiff of Elysium--but----. Rollo did not know where

he was going as he crossed the Dean’s Walk. He went--steadily enough,

his legs carrying him, his knowledge of the place guiding him

mechanically, but his whole soul in a maze of thought. How was he to do

it? How could he, a man with nothing, not much better than an

adventurer, living upon chances and windfalls--how could he weight

himself with the support of another--marry a wife? It was preposterous,

it was terrible--yet it was sweet. Poor child, she was in want of his

arm to shelter her, in want of some one to take care of her, and he

could not tolerate the idea that anyone but himself should give her the

succour she needed; but how was he to do it? The question seemed to get

into the air and whisper round him--how was he to do it? He had nothing,

or what to such a man was nothing, and worse than nothing. He managed to

live no one could tell how. True, in living he did not know how Rollo

managed to spend a good deal of money--more than many a family is reared

upon; but there is proportion in everything, and he never could tell

from one year’s end to another how he had got through. And he had asked

a girl to marry him! He groaned within himself when he came back to this

centre thought, this pivot of all his reflections, though it was sweet.

He had asked her to marry him; he had pledged himself to take her away

out of her troubles, to throw open a refuge to her, to make her escape

practicable: speedily, certainly, easily, so far as she knew--and how

was he to do it? If the question went through his mind once, it flew and

circled in wavering rounds about him, like a moth or a bat in summer, a

hundred times at least as he went from the Chevalier’s lodge to the

Deanery door. He had no time for thinking, since the hour of dinner

approached, and the Dean waited for no one; but he thought and thought

all the same. What was he to do? He marry! how was he to do it? Yet it

must be done. He did nothing but ask himself this while he brushed his

hair and tied his evening tie. He had nothing, not a penny--he had a

valet and a dressing-case, with gold tops to all the bottles, and the

most expensive clothes from the dearest tailor--but he had nothing, and

everybody knew that he had nothing. The situation was appalling. A cold

dew came out on his forehead; he to do such a thing! but yet he had done

it--he had committed himself--and now the question that remained

was--not how to get out of it, which under any other circumstances would

have been his clear duty, but how to do it? This was the problem he

tried to solve while he was dressing, which flitted about his head while

he sat at dinner, between every mouthful of his soup, and fluttered all

through the dessert. How was he to do it? And when the evening was

over--when Lady Caroline had gone to bed, and the Dean to his study,

Rollo at length ventured out into the Deanery garden with his cigar, in

spite of the black looks of Mr. Jeremie, who wanted to shut up the house

and get to bed himself at a reasonable hour, as a dean’s butler has a

right to do.