CHAPTER XI.
ANOTHER EVENING AT THE DEANERY.
Mr. Ridsdale had perhaps never touched, and rarely heard, anything so bad as the old cracked piano which Lottie had inherited from her mother, and which was of the square form now obsolete, of a kind which brokers (the only dealers in the article) consider very convenient, as combining the character of a piano and a sideboard. Very often had Lottie’s piano served the purpose of a sideboard, but it was too far gone to be injured—nothing could make it worse. Nevertheless Mr. Ridsdale played the accompaniments upon it, without a word, to Lottie’s admiration and wonder, for he seemed to be able to draw forth at his fingers’ ends a volume of sound which she did not suppose to be within the power of the old instrument. He had brought several songs with him, being fully minded to hear her that morning, whatever obstacles might be in the way. But it so happened that there were no obstacles whatever in the way; and Mrs. O’Shaughnessy was of the greatest service as audience. With the true talent of a manager, Mr. Ridsdale addressed himself to the subjugation of his public. He placed before Lottie the song from “Marta,” to which, hearing it thus named, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy prepared herself to listen with a certain amiable scorn. “Ah, we shall have you crying in five minutes,” he said. “Is it me you’re meaning?” she cried in high scorn. But the fact was that when the melting notes of “The Last Rose of Summer” came forth from Lottie’s lips, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy was altogether taken by surprise, and carried out Rollo’s prophecy to the letter by weeping abundantly. There was much of Mr. Ridsdale’s music which Lottie could not sing—indeed, it would have been wonderful if she had been able to do so, as he had brought with him the finest morceaux of a dozen operas, and Lottie’s musical education had been of the slightest. But he so praised, and flattered, and encouraged her, that she went on from song to song at his bidding, making the best attempt at them that was possible, while Mrs. O’Shaughnessy sat by and listened. Her presence there was of the utmost consequence to them. It at once converted Rollo’s visit into something allowable and natural, and it gave him a pretence for beginning what was really an examination into Lottie’s powers and compass, at once of voice and of intelligence. Lottie, innocent of any scheme, or of any motive he could have, save simple pleasure in her singing, exerted herself to please him with the same mixture of gratitude and happy prepossession with which she had thought of him for so long. If she could give a little pleasure to him who had given her his love and his heart (for what less could it be that he had given her?), it was her part, she thought, to do so. She felt that she owed him everything she could do for him, to recompense him for that gift which he had given her unawares. So she stood by him in a soft humility, not careful that she was showing her own ignorance, thinking only of pleasing him. What did it matter, if he were pleased, whether she attained the highest excellence? She said sweetly, “I know I cannot do it, but if you wish it I will try,” and attempted feats which in other circumstances would have appalled her. And the fact was, that thus forgetting herself, and thinking only of pleasing him, Lottie sang better than she had ever done in her life, better even than she had done in the Deanery on the previous night. She committed a thousand faults, but these faults were as nothing in comparison with the melody of her voice and the purity of her taste. Rollo became like one inspired. All the enthusiasm of an amateur, and all the zeal of an enterprising manager, were in him. The old piano rolled out notes of which in its own self it was quite incapable under his rapid fingers. He seemed to see her with all London before her, at her feet, and he (so to speak) at once the discoverer and the possessor of this new star. No wonder the old piano grew ecstatic under his touch; he who had gone through so many vicissitudes, who had made so many failures; at last it seemed evident to him that his fortune was made. Unfortunately (though that he forgot for the moment) he had felt his fortune to be made on several occasions before.
Mrs. O’Shaughnessy gave a great many nods and smiles when at last he went away. “I say nothing, me dear, but I have my eyesight,” she said, “and a blind man could see what’s in the wind. So that is how it is, Lottie, me darling? Well, well! I always said you were the prettiest girl that had been in the Lodges this many a year. I don’t envy ye, me love, your rise in the world. And I hope, Lottie, when ye’re me lady, ye’ll not forget your old friends.”
“How should I ever be my lady?” said Lottie; “indeed, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, I don’t know what you mean.”
“No, me honey, the likes of you never do, till the right moment comes,” said the old lady, going down the narrow stairs. She kissed her hand to Lottie, who looked after her from the window as she appeared on the pavement outside, and, with her bonnet-strings flying loose, turned in at her own door. Her face was covered with smiles and her mind full of a new interest. She could not refrain from going into the Major’s little den, and telling him. “Nonsense!” the Major said, incredulously; “one of your mare’s-nests.” “Sure it was a great deal better than a mare, it was turtle-doves made the nest I’m thinking of,” said Mrs. O’Shaughnessy; and she took off her bonnet and seated herself at her window, from which she inspected the world with a new warmth of interest, determined not to lose a single incident in this new fairy tale.
Law came out of his room, where he had been “reading,” when Mrs. O’Shaughnessy went away. “What has all this shrieking been about,” said Law, “and thumping on that old beast of a piano? You are always at a fellow about reading, and when he does read you disturb him with your noise. How do you think I could get on with all that miauling going on? Who has been here?”
“Mr. Ridsdale has been here,” said Lottie demurely. “He brought me a note from Lady Caroline, and I am going again to the Deanery to-night.”
Law whistled a long whew—ew! “Again, to-night! she’d better ask you to go and live there,” said the astounded boy; and he said no more about his interrupted reading, but put his big book philosophically away; for who could begin to read again after all the disturbances of the morning, and after such a piece of news as this?
Lottie dressed herself with more care than ever that evening. She began to wish for ornaments, and to realise how few her decorations were; the little pearl locket was so small, and her arms seemed so bare without any bracelets. However, she made herself little bands of black velvet, and got the maid to fasten them on. She had never cared much for ornaments before. And she spent a much longer time than usual over the arrangement of her hair. Above all she wanted to look like a lady, to show that, though their choice of her was above what could have been expected, it was not above the level of what she was used to. Their choice of her—that was how it seemed to Lottie. The young lover had chosen, as it is fit the lover should do; but Lady Caroline had ratified his selection, and Lottie, proud yet entirely humble in the tender humility born of gratitude, wanted to show that she could do credit to their choice. She read the note which purported to be Lady Caroline’s over and over again; how kind it was! Lady Caroline’s manner perhaps was not quite so kind. People could not control their manner. The kindest heart was often belied, Lottie was aware, by a stiffness, an awkwardness, perhaps only a shyness, which disguised their best intentions. But the very idea of asking her was kind, and the letter was so kind that she made up her mind never again to mistake Lady Caroline. She had a difficulty in expressing herself, no doubt. She was indolent perhaps. At her age and in her position it was not wonderful if one got indolent; but in her heart she was kind. This Lottie repeated to herself as she put the roses in her hair. In her heart Lady Caroline was kind; the girl felt sure that she could never mistake her, never be disappointed in her again. And in this spirit she tripped across the Dean’s Walk, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy watching from her window. It was almost dark, but it was not one of the Signer’s nights for practice, and only a few of the inhabitants of the Abbey Precincts were enjoying the air on the Terrace pavement. They all saw her as she came out in the twilight with her uncovered head. Law had gone out, and there was nobody to go with her this time to the Deanery door. But Lottie had no difficulty in finding an escort: as she came out, looking round her shyly to watch for a quiet moment when no one was about, Captain Temple came forward, who lived two doors off, and was passing as she came to the little garden gate. He was the preux chevalier of all the Chevaliers. He came forward with a fatherly smile upon his kind face. “You are looking for some one to go with you,” he said; “your father has gone out. I saw him. Let me take his place.”
“Oh, thanks! I am going to the Deanery. I thought Law would have waited for me.”