“No—only two or three little things, and that chiefly by ear. I never learned as I ought. I hated it; and I was scarcely ever taught, only by—someone who did not know much,” said Lottie with a compunction in her mind. Only by someone who did not know much—This was her mother, poor soul, whom Polly had replaced. Lottie’s heart swelled as she spoke. Poor, kind, silly mamma! she had not known very much; but it seemed cruel to allow it in the presence of her supplanter.
“Goodness—gracious—me!” said Polly. She said each word separately, as if she were telling beads. She cast at Lottie a glance of sovereign contempt. “You to set up for being a lady,” she cried, “and can’t play the piano! I never heard of such a thing in all my born days.”
If she had claimed not to be able to work, Polly could have understood it; but if there is a badge of ladyhood, or even a pretence at ladyhood, in the world, is it not this? She was horrified; it felt like a coming down in the world even to Polly herself.
Again Lottie did not make any reply. She was simple enough to be half ashamed of herself and half angry at the criticism which for the first time touched her; for it was a fact that she was ignorant, and a shameful fact. She could not defend, but she would not excuse herself. As for Polly, there was in her a mingling of triumph and regret.
“I am surprised,” she said. “I thought one who pretended to be a lady ought at least to know that much. And you ought to be a lady, I am sure, if ever anyone was, for your Pa is a perfect gentleman. Dear, dear—if you can’t play the piano, goodness gracious, what have you been doing all your life? That was the one thing I thought was sure—and you are musical, for I’ve heard as you could sing. If it’s only that you won’t take any trouble to oblige,” said Polly angrily, “say it out. Oh, it won’t be no surprise to me. I’ve seen it in your face already—say it out!”
“I have told you nothing but the truth,” said Lottie. “I am sorry for it. I can sing—a little—but I can’t play.”
“It’s just the same as if you said you could write but couldn’t read,” said Polly; “but I’ve always been told as I’ve a nice voice. It ain’t your loud kind, that you could hear from this to the Abbey, but sweet—at least so folks say. You can teach me to sing if you like,” she said, after a pause. “I never learned singing. One will do as well as the other, and easier too.”
This was a still more desperate suggestion. Lottie quailed before the task that was offered to her. “I can show you the scales,” she said doubtfully; “that is the beginning of everything; but singing is harder to teach than playing. The Signor thinks I don’t know anything. They say I have a voice, but that I don’t know how to sing.”
“The fact is,” cried Polly, shutting down the piano with a loud bang and jar which made the whole instrument thrill, and snapped an old attenuated chord which went out of existence with a creak and a groan, “the fact is, you don’t want to do nothing for me. You don’t think me good enough for you. I am only your father’s wife, and one as has a claim upon your respect, and deserves to have the best you can do. If it was one of your fine ladies as don’t care a brass farthing for you—oh, you’d sing and you’d play the piano safe enough: but you’ve set your mind against me. I seen it the first day I came here—and since then the life you’ve led me! Never a civil word—never a pleasant look; yes and no, with never a turn of your head; you think a deal of yourself. And you needn’t suppose I care—not I—not one bit; but you shan’t stand up to my face and refuse whatever I ask you. You’ll have to do what I tell you or you’ll have to go.”
“I will go,” said Lottie in a low voice. She thought of Rollo’s sudden proposal, of the good people whom he said he would take her to, of the sudden relief and hope, the peace and ease that were involved. Ought she not to take him at his word? For the moment she thought she would do so. She would let him know that she was ready, ready to go anywhere, only to escape from this. How foolish she had been to be angry with Rollo—he who wanted nothing better than to deliver her at a stroke, to carry her away into happiness. Her heart softened with a great gush of tenderness. She would yield to him; why should she not yield to him? She might think that he ought to marry his wife from her father’s house, but he had not seemed to think so. He thought of nothing but to deliver her from this humiliation—and what would it matter to him? a poor Chevalier’s house or a poor quiet lodging, what would it matter? She would go. She would do as Rollo said.