“Joke? it is my wife told me, that is as fond of the girl as if she were her own. ‘Mark my words,’ says Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, ‘she’ll be the Honourable Mrs. Ridsdale before we know where we are.’ And Temple’s been at ye, Despard; I know it. The man is off his head with his own bad luck, and can’t abide the name of an Honourable. But, from all I hear, there’s little to be said against this one except that he’s poor.”
“The Honourable——” said Captain Despard, with a bewildered look. Then, as the good Major talked, he recovered himself. “Well!” he said, when that speech came to an end, “you may think that it’s very fine, O’Shaughnessy, and I’m sure I am much obliged to you for telling me, but you don’t suppose an Honourable is anything out of the way to me? With her family and her beauty, I would grudge the child to a man without a title anyhow, even if he weren’t poor.”
The Major had his mouth open to speak, but he was so bewildered by this grandeur that he stopped and closed it again, and uttered only a murmur in his throat. “Well!” he said, when he came to himself, “you know your own affairs best; but now that your girl is taken out, and into society, and with her prospects, you’ll be standing by her and giving her more of your company, Despard? Lottie’s the best of girls: but it might make all the difference to her, having her father at home, and always ready to stand up for her—not meaning any offence.”
“Nor is any taken, O’Shaughnessy; make your mind quite easy,” said the Captain, looking extremely stately though his coat was shabby. Then he added, “I’ve got some business down town, and an appointment at twelve o’clock. I’m sorry to hurry off, but business goes before all. Good-morning to you, Major!” he said, kissing the ends of his fingers; then turning back after he had gone a few steps. “My respects to your wife, and thanks for finding it all out; but I’ve known it these three weeks at least, though I’m obliged to her all the same.” And so saying, Captain Despard resumed the humming of his favourite tune, and went swinging his arm down the Dean’s Walk, the rosebud in his coat showing like a decoration, and the whole man jaunty and gay as nobody else was at St. Michael’s. It was a sight to see him as he marched along, keeping time to the air he was humming; a fine figure of a man! The good Major stood and looked after him dum-foundered; he was almost too much taken by surprise to be offended. “Manage your own affairs as you please, my fine fellow!” he said to himself, and went home in a state of suppressed fury. But he relented when he saw Lottie, in her print frock, at the window; and he did not give his wife that insolent message. “What is the use of making mischief?” the Major said.
Captain Despard was not, however, so entirely unmoved as he looked. The news bewildered him first, and then elated him. Where had the girl picked up the Honourable Mr.——, what was his name? He knew so little of Lottie and was so little aware of her proceedings, that he had only heard accidentally of her visits at the Deanery at all, and knew nothing whatever of Rollo. He must inquire, he said to himself; but in the meantime did not this free him from all the hesitations with which, to do him justice, he had been struggling? For if, instead of “presiding over his establishment”—which was how Captain Despard put it—Lottie was to be the mistress of a house of her own and ascend into heaven, as it were, as the Honourable Mrs. Something-or-other, there would be no doubt that Captain Despard would be left free as the day to do what pleased himself. This wonderful piece of news seemed to get into his veins and send the blood coursing more quickly there, and into his head, and made that whirl with an elation which was perfectly vague and indefinite. With Lottie as the Honourable Mrs. So-and-so, all obstacles were removed out of his own way. Law did not count; the Captain was afraid more or less of his daughter, but he was not at all afraid of his son. The Honourable Something-or-other! Captain Despard did not even know his name or anything about him, but already various privileges seemed to gleam upon him through this noble relation. No doubt such a son-in-law would be likely to lend a gentleman, who was not over-rich and connected with him by close family ties, a small sum now and then; or probably he might think it necessary for his own dignity to make an allowance to his wife’s father to enable him to appear as a gentleman ought; and in the shooting season he would naturally, certainly, give so near a relation a standing invitation to the shooting-box which, by right of his rank, he must inevitably possess somewhere or other, either his own or belonging to his noble father. Probably he would have it in his power to point out to Her Majesty or Commander-in-Chief that to keep a man who was an honour to his profession, like Captain Henry Despard, in the position of a Chevalier of St. Michael’s, was equally a disgrace and a danger to the country. Captain Despard seemed to hear the very tone in which this best of friends would certify to his merits. “Speak of failures in arms! What can you expect when General So-and-so is gazetted to the command of an expedition, and Henry Despard is left in a Chevalier’s lodge?” he seemed to hear the unknown say indignantly. Nothing could be more generous than his behaviour; he did nothing but go about the world sounding the Captain’s praises: “I have the honour to be his son-in-law,” this right-thinking young man would say. Captain Despard went down the hill with his head buzzing full of this new personage who had suddenly stepped into his life. His engagement was no more important than to play a game at billiards with one of his town acquaintances, but even there he could not keep from throwing out mysterious hints about some great good fortune which was about to come to him. “What! are you going away, Captain? Are you to have promotion? or is it you they have chosen for the new warden of the Chevaliers?” his associates asked him, half in curiosity, half in sarcasm. “I am not in circumstances,” said the Captain solemnly, “to say what are the improved prospects that are dawning upon my house; but of this you may rest assured—that my friends in adversity will remain my friends in prosperity.” “Bravo, Captain!” cried all his friends. Some of them laughed, but some of them put their faith in Captain Despard. They said to themselves, “He’s fond of talking a bit big, but he’s got a good heart, has the Captain!” and they, too, dreamed of little loans and treats. And, indeed, the Captain got an immediate advantage out of it; for one of the billiard-players, who was a well-to-do tradesman with habits not altogether satisfactory to his friends, gave him a luncheon at the “Black Boar,” not because he expected to profit by the supposed promotion, but to see how many lies the old humbug would tell in half-an-hour, as he himself said; for there are practical democrats to whom it is very sweet to see the pretended aristocrat cover himself with films of lying. The shopkeeper roared with laughter as the Captain gave forth his oracular sayings. “Go it, old boy!” he said. They all believed, however, more or less, in some good luck that was coming, whatever it might be; and the sensation of faith around him strengthened Captain Despard in his conviction. He resolved to go home and question Lottie after this luncheon; but that was of itself a prolonged feast, and the immediate consequence of it was a disinclination to move, and a sense that it would be just as well for him not to show himself for some little time, “till it had gone off”—for the Captain in some things was a wise man, and prudent as he was wise.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE WORKROOM.
There were two factions in the workroom by the side of the river where Mrs. Wilting’s daughters worked, with Polly Featherston for their forewoman. One of these, though very small and consisting, indeed, only of Ellen Wilting, the eldest girl—who was “serious”—and a little apprentice who was in her class at the Sunday School—was greatly against the intrusion of “the gentlemen” into the workroom, and thought it highly improper and a thing likely to bring all the young ladies who worked there into trouble. Ellen was, contrary to the usual opinion which would have selected the plainest sister for this rôle, the prettiest of the girls. She was fair-haired, but not frizzy like the rest; and her face was pale, with a serious expression which made her very lady-like, many persons thought, and gave her, the others felt not without envy, a distinction which did not belong to their own pinkness and whiteness. There were four sisters, of whom Emma—who was the object of Law’s admiration—was the youngest. Kate and ’Liza came between these two, and they were both of Polly’s faction, though without any reason for being so. They thought Ellen was a great deal too particular. What was the harm if a gentleman came and sat a bit when they were not too busy, and talked and made them laugh? The object of life to these young women was to get as much laughing and talking as possible made consistent with the greatest amount of work done, of gowns and bonnets made; and anyone who made the long evening appear a little shorter, and “passed the time” with a little merriment, was a real benefactor to them. Ellen, for her part, took more serious views of life. She would have liked to go to morning service every day had that been practicable, and called it matins as the ladies themselves did, which was very uncommon in the River Lane; and she was a member of the Choral Society, and had a pretty voice, and had sung in a chorus along with Miss Despard, and even with Miss Huntington before she married. All this made her feel that it was not “nice” to encourage the gentlemen who were of a different condition in life, and whose visits could not be for any good. And she would much rather have heard stories read out of the Monthly Packet, or something in which instruction was joined with amusement, than from the Family Herald; except, indeed, when she got interested in the trials, continued from number to number, of some virtuous young heroine like the Lady Araminta. Ellen wore a black gown like the young ladies in the shops, with her pretty fair hair quite simply dressed, without any of the padding and frizzing which were popular at the time; and fondly hoped some time or other to wear a little black bonnet like those of the sisters who had an establishment near. Her mother sternly forbade this indulgence now, but it was one of the things to which the young woman looked forward. And it must be allowed that Ellen rather prided herself on her total unlikeness in every way to Polly Featherston, who considered herself the head of the workroom, and who was certainly the ringleader in all its follies. Kate and ’Liza and Emma and the other apprentice, though they by no means gave their entire adhesion to Polly, and had many remarks to make upon her in private, yet were generally led by her as a person who knew the world and was “much admired,” and always had somebody after her. That this somebody should be for the moment “a gentleman,” gave Polly an additional advantage. It must not be supposed that her reputation was anyhow in danger, though she was known to “keep company” with the Captain; for Polly, though not “particular,” and ready to talk and laugh with anyone, was known to be very well able to take care of herself, and much too experienced to be taken in by any of the admirers whom she was supposed to be able to wind round her little finger. For this, and for her powers of attracting admiration, and for her fluent and ready speech, and the dauntless disposition which made her afraid of nobody and ready to “speak up,” if need were, even to the very Dean himself, the girls admired her; and they would not be persuaded by Ellen that Polly ought to be subdued out of her loud and cheerful talk, and the doors of the workroom closed on the gentlemen. Little Emma, indeed, the youngest of the girls, was vehement against this idea, as was easily understood by all the rest.
“What is the harm?” she cried, with tears in her eyes, tears of vexation and irritation and alarmed perception of the change it would make if Law should be shut out; a terrible change, reducing herself, who now enjoyed some visionary superiority as “keeping company” in her own small person with a gentleman, into something even lower than ’Liza and Kate, who had their butchers and bakers, at least, to walk out with on Sunday—a privilege which Emma seldom dared enjoy with Law. “What is the use,” Emma said, “of making a fuss? What harm do they do? They make the time pass. It’s long enough anyhow from eight o’clock in the morning till nine at night, or sometimes later, and so little time as mother allows for meals. I am sure I am that tired,” Emma declared, and with reason, “I often can’t see how to thread my needle; and to have somebody to talk to passes the time.”
“We have always plenty of talk even when we are by ourselves,” said Ellen; “and I am sure we might make better use of our time and have much more improving conversation if these men would not be always coming here.”
“Oh! if you are so fond of improvement,” cried Polly, “I daresay you would like to have Mr. Sterndale the Scripture Reader come and read to us; or we might ask Mr. Langton upstairs, who is a clergyman. I shouldn’t mind having him; he is so shy and frightened, and he wouldn’t know what to say.”