A few days after Lottie had begun to be brought downstairs (for this was done without any will of hers), a visit was paid to her which had no small effect upon her life. She was seated in the invalid’s place near the fire, a little table by her side with flowers on it, and a new book, and Punch, and the illustrated papers, all the little innocent gâteries of which the old Captain could think, the trifles which make the days of a happy convalescent sweet, and which Lottie tried hard to look as if she cared for; and with Mrs. Temple near her, watching her to see lest she should be too warm or too cold, lest she should want anything, with the anxious care of a mother. There was a prancing of horses outside the door, a tremendous knock, a rustle of silk, and wafting of perfume, and the door was opened and Mrs. Daventry announced. Augusta came in with a sweep which filled Mrs. Temple’s little drawing-room. There did not seem room for its legitimate inmates in that redundant presence. Mrs. Temple ran to her patient, thinking Lottie was about to faint, but she recovered herself enough to smile faintly at Augusta when she spoke, which was as much as she did to anyone. Augusta seated herself opposite the convalescent, her train falling round her in heavy masses—the one all wealth and commotion and importance, the other so pale, so slight in her weakness, her brown merino dress hanging loosely upon her. Mrs. Temple was not made much account of by the fine lady, who made her a slight salutation, half bow, half curtsey, and took no further notice of “the people of the house.”
“Well,” she said, “how are you, and what has been the matter? There are the most extraordinary stories told about you. I have come to find out what is really the matter, Lottie. Mamma wishes to know too. You know you were always a kind of favourite with mamma.”
“I will tell you about her illness,” said Mrs. Temple. “She is scarcely well enough yet to enter into details.”
“Oh,” said Augusta, gazing blankly upon the “person of the house,”—then she returned to Lottie again. “I don’t want you to enter into details; but they say the most extraordinary things; they say you were turned out of doors, and stayed all night on the Slopes—that, of course, can’t be true—but I wish you would tell me what is true, that I may give the right version of the story. Mamma is quite anxious to know.”
“Lottie, my dear, I will tell Mrs. Daventry,” said Mrs. Temple, “it is too much for you;” and she held her point and recounted her little story with a primness which suited her voice and manner. Many were the demonstrations of impatience which the fine lady made, but it was not in her power to struggle against Mrs. Temple’s determination. She turned to Lottie again as soon as the tale was told.
“Is that true? Only a very bad cold, and influenza from getting wet? Oh, we heard a great deal more than that; and your voice—we heard you had quite lost your voice. I promised the Signor to inquire. He is quite anxious, he always thought so much of your voice. He is an odd man,” said Augusta, giving a blow in passing, “he thinks so differently from other people about many things. I promised to find out for him all about it. Have you really, really lost your voice, as everybody says?”
It was curious that Lottie, who had never been concerned about her voice, who had never cared anything about it, who had not wanted to be a singer at all, should feel, even in the midst of the greater and deeper unhappiness that possessed her, a distinct sting of pain as she heard this question. Her paleness was flushed with a sudden painful colour. She looked at Mrs. Temple wistfully again.
“You can hear that she is hoarse,” said Mrs. Temple; “a very common consequence of a cold. She has lost her voice for the moment, but we hope to find it again.”
“I think she must be dumb altogether, as she never answers me,” said Augusta, fretfully. Then she tried another subject, with a triumphant certainty of success. “I don’t know if you have heard of our trouble,” she said, looking at her black dress. “You remember, Lottie, my cousin, Mr. Ridsdale? Oh, yes; you knew him a little, I think.”
Once more Lottie’s pale face flushed with painful overwhelming colour. She looked up with alarmed and troubled eyes.