Such were the feelings in his mind when the Signor joined him on his homeward way after service on the afternoon when Mrs. Daventry had so interrupted Lottie’s lesson. Augusta had sailed up the aisle and out by the door in the cloisters which adjoined the Deanery, as they came out of the room where all the surplices were hanging in their old presses, and where the clergy robed themselves. The two men came out when the rustle and flutter of the party of ladies were still in the air, and old Wykeham looking after them with cynical criticism. The hassocks in the aisles, which had been placed there for the convenience of the overflowing congregations, too great for the Abbey choir, which crowded every corner now and then, were all driven about like boats at sea by the passage of these billows of trailing silk, and Wykeham had stooped to put them back into their places. Stooping did not suit the old man, and he could not do without his natural growl. “I wish they’d stick to ’em,” he said; “plenty of dirt sticks to ’em. They sweeps up the aisles and saves us trouble; but I’d just like one o’ them heavy hassocks to stick.”
“And so should I,” said the Signor under his breath. “They are insufferable,” he said with vehemence as he emerged into the cloister. “I have made up my mind I shall not allow any intrusion again.”
“Who are insufferable, and what is the intrusion you are going to prevent?” said the Minor Canon with a smile.
“Ashford,” said the Signor with much heat, “I am not going to have you come any more to Miss Despard’s lessons. Don’t say anything to me on the subject; I know all about interest and so forth, but I can’t permit it. It’s ruin to her, and it irritates me beyond bearing. Interest? if you take any real interest in her you would see that nothing could be less for her welfare, nothing more destructive of any chances she may have——”
“My dear Rossinetti, I never was present at Miss Despard’s lesson but once.”
“It was once too much, then,” the Signor cried. “The girl is getting ruined. That woman, that Mrs. Daventry—you should have heard her whispering behind our backs with her fan in front of her face, then stopping a moment to say, ‘What a pretty song: how much you have improved.’”
The Signor made an attempt to mimic Augusta, but he had no talent that way, and the mincing tone to which he gave utterance was like nothing that had ever been heard before. But if his imitation was bad his disgust was quite genuine. He could not think of anything else; he returned again and again to the subject as they went on.
“The upper classes,” he said, “are famous for good manners. This is their good manners: Two of them thrust themselves in for their amusement to a place where a poor girl is working hard at art, and a man who has spent most of his life in learning is trying to transmit his knowledge to her. And the moment that girl begins singing they begin their loathsome chatter about Mr. this and My Lady that. Do not say anything to me, Ashford; I tell you, you shall not come, you nor anyone else, again.”
“Is she making progress?” said the Minor Canon.
“Progress? how could she, with that going on? No; sometimes she will sing like an angel, sometimes like—anyone. It drives me wild! And then our gracious patrons appear—Mr. Ridsdale (who ought to know better) and Mrs. Daventry. I ought to know better too; I will defend my doors from henceforth. To be sure, I did not mean that; you may come if you like.”