CHAPTER XV.
ROMANCE AND REALITY.
Lottie was entirely unconscious of the intimation that had been made to her father, and of the excitement which had risen among her neighbours about Mr. Ridsdale. It did not occur to her that anyone but herself knew anything about him. The delighted curiosity of the O’Shaughnessys and the anxious concern of Captain Temple were equally unknown to her. Her mind was still moved by an echo of the sentiment of their last meeting—a thrill of emotion half from the music, half from the awakening feelings, the curiosity, the commotion of her developing nature. Of all Law’s communications which had excited himself so powerfully, and which had also to some extent excited her, she remembered little in comparison. The large dim room at the Deanery, the faint night air breathing about, blowing the flames of the candles, the moths that circled about the lights and did themselves to death against every flame, seemed to glimmer before her eyes continually—everything else, even the danger of her father’s marriage, the danger of Law’s imprudence, fell into the background and became distant; everything receded before the perpetual attraction of this shadowy scene.
Mr. Ridsdale made a second call upon her in the morning after service, just at the moment when Captain Temple and Major O’Shaughnessy were talking to her father. This time he brought no note, and had no excuse ready to explain his visit. “I came to say good-by,” he said, holding out his hand and looking rather wistfully into her face. Lottie offered him her hand demurely. She scarcely met his eyes. Her heart began to beat as soon as she heard his voice asking for her at the door. It brought back all the terrors of the previous night. She did not however ask him to sit down, but stood faltering opposite to him, embarrassed, not knowing what to do.
“You would not accept my escort last night,” he said; “I was dreadfully disappointed when I came out and found you gone. I had been waiting, not wishing to hurry you. I hope you did not think I was a laggard?”
“Oh no, it was my fault,” said Lottie, not raising her eyes. “There was no need for anyone to come with me. It is but two steps, and at that hour there is no one about. There was no need—for any escort.”
“May I sit down for a few minutes, Miss Despard? My train is not till one o’clock.”
Lottie blushed crimson at this implied reproach. It might be right to be shy of him, but not to be rude to him. “Oh, I beg your pardon,” she said, pointing to a chair.
“You took us all by surprise last night,” he said, carefully placing hers for her. “I think it was a revelation to everybody. We hear that music in the Abbey, and we suppose we understand it; till someone like you suddenly interprets it to us, and we wake up and feel that we never heard it before.”
“I never knew what it was—to sing anything like that before,” said Lottie. It disturbed her even to think about it; “and it had all been so different—so——”
“Commonplace? from the ridiculous to the sublime; from poor dear Aunt Caroline on her sofa to Handel fluting among the angels. It was a step indeed.”