“And did you have her here?” cried Augusta, roused into sudden excitement. “Oh, why didn’t I know of it! I thought there must be some reason! Lottie Despard! And were you obliged to have her here, mamma? What a bore it must have been for you!”
“I did not like it, my dear,” her ladyship said. But after a while she added, conscience compelling her, “She sang very nicely, Augusta; she has a pretty voice.”
“She has plenty of voice, but she cannot sing a note,” said Augusta, with vehemence, who was herself, without any voice to speak of, a very well-trained musician. She would not say any more to frighten Lady Caroline, but she took her measures without delay. And the result of Augusta’s enquires was that Rollo found his feet entangled in a web of engagements which separated him from Lottie. But though he was sore and angry, he had not given up Lottie, nor had he any intention so to do. When, however, the day came for Lottie’s next lesson, Mrs. Daventry herself did the Signor the honour of calling upon him just before his pupil appeared. “You know the interest I always took in Lottie. Please let me stay. We have so many musical friends in town that I am sure I can be of use to her,” Mrs. Daventry said; and the consequence was that when Lottie and her companion entered the Signor’s sitting-room, the great chair between the fire and the window in which Mrs. O’Shaughnessy usually placed herself was found to be already occupied by the much greater lady, whose sudden appearance in this cordial little company put everybody out. Augusta sat leaning back in the big chair, holding a screen between her cheek and the fire, her fine Paris bonnet, her furs, and her velvet making a great appearance against the dark wall, and her smiles and courtesy confounding every individual of the familiar party. She was more refined, far less objectionable than Polly, and did her spiriting in a very different way; but there could be little doubt that the fine artist was also the most effectual. She put the entire party out, from the least to the greatest, though the sweetest of smiles was on her face. Even the Signor was not himself with this gracious personage superintending his exertions. He was a good English Tory, of the most orthodox sentiments; but he was at the same time an impatient Italian, of despotic tastes, and did not easily tolerate the position of second in his own house. Rollo, who had determined to be present, whatever happened, but who, by a refinement of cruelty, did not know his cousin was coming, came in with all the ease of habit, and had already betrayed the fact of his constant attendance at these strange lessons, when Augusta called to him, covering him with confusion. “We shall be quite a family party,” she said. “I’m so glad you take an interest in poor Lottie too.” Rollo could not but ask himself what was the meaning of this sudden friendliness and interest; but he was obliged to place himself by her side when she called him. And when Lottie came in, at whom he did not dare to look, his position became very uncomfortable. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, finding her seat occupied, and herself compelled to take a lower place, sat down on a chair near the door, with wrath which made her countenance flame. She had stood up in the room a minute before she seated herself, looking round for a more comfortable place, and had greeted Mr. Ridsdale joyously as an old friend. But even Rollo, usually so polite, who never saw her without doing his very best to make himself agreeable, even he never attempted to introduce her to his cousin, and the good woman sat down accordingly, against the wall, silent and fuming, while Augusta took the chief place. The stranger in the midst of them turned the whole party upside down. Even Purcell was so occupied by the conversation that was kept up in whispers by Augusta, in her corner, even during the singing, that he missed to turn the leaves at the proper moment. Augusta knew very well what she was doing. She had a respect for the Signor, but she had higher purposes in hand. She kept Rollo by her side, and kept up a conversation with him through all, which was, like her usual conversation, deeply pervaded by the essence of society and “the Upper Ten.” She kept it up in a whisper when Lottie began to sing. “Don’t you think she is handsome? She is a little like Lady Augustus Donjon about the eyes—don’t you think so? Oh, I never told you that good story about the Augustus Donjons,” said Mrs. Daventry; and she told her story, all through the song, half audible.
“Wasn’t it good?” Augusta said; and then, “That is such a pretty song; and, Lottie, you are so improved, I should never have known it to be the same voice. Yes, wasn’t it good, Rollo? Augustus Donjon is always the first to laugh himself, and even the children have got it in the nursery. She is such a jolly woman, she never minds. What are we going to have next? Oh, that will be very nice!” said Augusta.
Was it wonderful that Purcell should lose the place? The young fellow did all he could to stop the fine lady with furious glances; and the Signor, though his back was turned to her, felt the whisper and the indignity run through every nerve of him. Even in his back you could see, Purcell thought, how horribly annoyed he was. His sensitive shoulders winced and shuddered, his elbows jerked. He could not attend to his accompaniment, he could not attend to his pupil. In the very midst of a song he said aloud, distracted by the s’s of a whisper which was louder than usual, “This must never happen again.” As for Lottie, she did not know what she was doing. She sang—because it was the hour for her lesson, because she found herself standing there by the side of the Signor’s piano—but not for any other reason. She had neither inspiration, nor had she that nascent sense that Art might perhaps console for other losses which she had once felt when Rollo was away. She was distracted by the whispering behind her, from which she could not withdraw her attention. Why did he listen? Why did he allow Augusta to draw him into unfaithfulness to her? And yet, how could he help it? Was it not all Augusta’s fault? But with whomsoever the fault lay, Lottie was the victim. Her voice could not be got out. And the reader knows that Augusta was right—that this poor girl, though she had the voice of an angel, did not as yet know how to sing, and had no science to neutralise the impressions made upon her which took away all her heart and her voice. She went on making a brave fight; but when once the Signor faltered in his accompaniment, and said loud out, “This must never happen again,” and when Purcell forgot to turn the page, what is it to be supposed Lottie could do, who was not the tenth part of a musician such as they were? She faltered, she went wrong. Tune she could not help keeping, it was in her nature: even her wrong notes were never out of harmony; but in time she went wildly floundering, not even kept right by the Signor. Even that did not matter very much, seeing that none of these people, who generally were so critical, so censorious, so ready to be hard upon her out of pure anxiety for her, were in a state of mind to perceive the mistakes she was making. And it was only vaguely that Lottie herself was aware of them. Her whole attention was attracted in spite of herself by the whispering in the corner.
“Oh, thank you so much!” Augusta broke forth, when she came to the end. “What a charming bit that is! It is Schubert, of course, but I don’t know it. The time was a little odd, but the melody was beautiful.”
“You know my weakness,” said the Signor stiffly, turning round. “I cannot answer for myself when people are talking. I am capable of doing anything that is wrong.”
“Oh! I remember,” cried Mrs. Daventry; “you used to be very stern with all our little societies. Not a word were we allowed to say. We all thought it hard, but of course it was better for us in the long run. And are you as tyrannical as ever, Signor?”
“Not so tyrannical since ladies come here, and carry on their charming conversation all the same. I only wish I could have profited by it. It seemed amusing and instructive. If I were not unhappily one of those poor creatures who can only do one thing at a time——”
“Oh, Signor, how very severe you are!” said Augusta. “I was only telling my cousin some old stories which I am sure you must have heard weeks ago. You know the Donjons? No! Oh, I thought everybody knew the Augustus Donjons! They go everywhere; they have friends in music and friends in art, and you meet all sorts of people at their house. Lottie, when you are a great singer, I hope you will remember me, and send me cards now and then for one of your concerts. There are so many things going on now, and all so expensive, that people in our circumstances really can’t do everything. Spencer has stalls where we go when there is anything particular; but I assure you, now-a-days, one can no more afford a box at the opera——! You know, Signor; but I daresay your friends always find you places somewhere.”