He sat down beside her, and softly pressed the hand which he held in his own. Yes, this was the misery of human things, as he said—he did not repeat the words, but they were in his face. That which she wanted was not for her, nor was his desire for him; other gifts might be thrown at their feet, and lie there unheeded, but not that for which they pined and were ready to die.
“Do you think it must not be?” she said. Lottie was willing to make him the judge of her fate—to allow him to decide for her how it was to be. Yes, but only in that way in which he was powerless. He smiled, with a sense of this irony, which is more tragic than any solemn verdict of fate.
“I do not think it could be,” he said, “except with perfect consent and harmony; and Law—does not wish it. He is like the rest of us. He does not care for what he can have, though another man might give his life for it. It is the way of the world.”
“I am used to it,” said Lottie, bowing her head; “you need not say it is the way of the world to break it to me, Mr. Ashford. Oh, how well I ought to know! I am used to being rejected. Papa, and Law, and——”
She put her hand over her hot eyes, but she did not mean to drop into self-pity. “Nobody cares to have me,” she said after a moment, with the quiver of a smile on her lips. “I must make up my mind to it—and when you are young you cannot die whenever you please. I must do something for myself.”
“That is it,” said the Minor Canon, bitterly—“always the same; between those you love and those that love you there is a great gulf; therefore you must do something for yourself.”
She looked at him wondering, with sad eyes. He was angry, but not with her—with life and fate; and Lottie did not blush as she divined his secret. It was too serious for that. It was not her fault or his fault; neither of them had done it or could mend it. Had she but known! had he but known! Now there was nothing to be done but to unite what little wisdom they had over the emergency, and decide what she was to do—for herself. Her father had no place for her in his house. Law would not have her with him; her lover had forsaken her; and to those who would have had her, who would have cherished her, there was no response in Lottie’s heart. Yet here she stood with her problem of existence in her hands, to be solved somehow. She looked piteously at the man who loved her, but was her friend above all, silently asking that counsel of which she stood so much in need. What was she to do?
Just then the door opened, and Mrs. Temple came in with Dr. Enderby, who had been kind to Lottie, as they all were, and who regulated everybody’s health within the Precincts, from Lady Caroline downward. The good doctor, who had daughters of his own, looked with kind eyes upon the girl, who was so much less happy than they. He took her slender wrist into his hand, and looked into her luminous, over-clear eyes, wet with involuntary tears.
“She is looking a great deal better. She will soon be quite herself,” he said cheerfully; but winked his own eyelids to throw off something, which was involuntary too.
“Yes, yes,” said Captain Temple, who had come in after him. “She will soon be quite herself; but you must give her her orders to stay with us, doctor. We want to be paid for nursing her—and now she will be able to run about on all our errands, and save us a great deal of trouble, and keep us happy with her pretty voice and her singing. Did you ever hear her sing, doctor? The Signor is very anxious about her. We must begin our lessons again, my pretty Lottie, as soon as ever the doctor gives leave.”