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.”