They were both silenced by this speech, and by her imposing aspect generally; for Lottie was very handsome, and this defiant grandeur suited her. Purcell felt disposed to sink into the earth, and showed it; but as for the Signor, he was less alarmed, and, indeed, a little amused—he had seen a great number of heroines, both in public and private life.
“It is always wrong to beat about the bush,” he said. “Perhaps I have made a mistake; I thought you probably intended to sing, Miss Despard, as a profession.”
“I!” Lottie’s voice broke into a half shriek. “I!” The suggestion gave her a shock which it was hard to get over. She felt a trembling of giddiness and insecurity, as if the ground had suddenly been cut from under her; she could have cried for mortification, injured pride, horrible humbling and downfall. She who had been mourning this change as taking from her all chance of ascent into the society she had a right to, the society she really belonged to, and they thought it was professional work, a profession that she was thinking of! She drew back unconsciously to the support of the wall, and propped herself by it. She could have cried, but pride would not let her. “You are mistaken, altogether mistaken,” she said. “I don’t suppose that you mean to insult me; but you forget that I am a gentleman’s daughter.”
Here the ghost of a smile flitted across the Signor’s olive-coloured face. It was as momentary as the passing of a shadow, but yet Lottie saw it, and it stung her as nothing else could have done; she was angry before, but this excited her to passion. She could have flown at him and strangled him for this smile; she understood it well enough. “You smile!” she said. “You think, perhaps, that a poor Chevalier, a soldier who is not rich, is not a gentleman. You think it is only money that makes a gentleman. There are many people who are of that opinion; but,” said Lottie with a smile, “you will perhaps not be surprised if I think differently. I will bid you good evening, please, now.”
“One moment,” said the Signor; “you must not go away with a wrong impression. Forgive me the mistake, if it is a mistake. You are mistaken, too, Miss Despard, if you think a gentleman’s daughter may not sing—to the great generous public as well as to poor little coteries that never say thank you. You mistake, too; but never mind. I meant to have offered, if you would let me, to help you——”
“Thank you, very much!” said Lottie with great state, “it is not necessary. When I want lessons, I can—ask for them, M. Rossinetti.” She had been about to say pay, but Lottie was honest, and though she longed to inflict the insult, would not say what was not true. She did not even see young Purcell’s pathetic looks as he gazed at her, with the air of a suppliant on his knees, over his master’s shoulder; but she saw the half shrug of the Signor’s shoulders as he stood aside to let her pass. And perhaps had she but known it there was something comic, too, in the dignity with which she swept past with a little wave of her hand. It was like Lady Caroline, though Lottie did not intend it to be so. The two musicians stood looking after her as she walked majestically homewards, with so many commotions in her bosom. She had to pass through the little square in which the lay clerks lived, on her way, and as if to accomplish Lottie’s humiliation, Rowley the tenor—who was her teacher—was standing at his door as she passed. The Chevaliers of St. Michael’s took little notice of the lay clerks as, may be supposed (except the O’Shaughnessys, who were not particular); and though Lottie was his pupil, Rowley had never transgressed the due limits of respectfulness or pretended to any friendship with the young lady. But the wedding had affected the morals of St. Michael’s generally, and made a revolution for the day; and as Lottie passed, the tenor took advantage of the opportunity. “How are you, Miss?” he said, with a sniff and a lurch which showed the source of his boldness; “won’t you come in and have a chat? won’t you come in and have some tea with my little girl, Miss Lottie?” Good heavens! what had Lottie done to be addressed in this way? and she knew that the two others would hear this demonstration of intimacy. She rushed past, stumbling over her dress, wild with resentment and mortification. This was what it was to be poor, to be in a false position, to be a poor gentlewoman among the rich! One mortification had followed another, so that she did not know how to bear it. Augusta’s neglect, the Signor’s insulting suggestion, and Rowley’s familiarity! Lottie did not know which was the most hard to bear. She never drew breath until she had reached her own door.
“Is that you, Lottie? and where have you been?” said Law. “Let’s have tea now; I’ve been waiting and waiting, wanting to go out, and wondering what had become of you.” He had begun his bread and butter on the spot.
“Where is papa, Law?”
“Papa? How should I know? You didn’t expect him, did you? I say, I’m going out—do make haste. And look here! I wish you’d speak to him, Lottie. I wish you’d tell him he oughtn’t to; I’d give twenty pounds (if I had it) not to have such an uncommon name!”
“It is a very good name—better than anyone else’s I know. The Despards never were anything but gentlemen.”