Lottie protested that she could not consent to appear in such company—that papa would not allow it—that it was impossible. But she ended by promising to “run in” before old Major O’Shaughnessy began his rubber, and see this singing man. And the result was that, half out of friendship for his Irish hosts who did not pretend to be above him, and half out of pride to be interrogated so graciously about his invalid daughter by a young lady who gave herself such airs, Rowley, the first tenor, agreed for so low a rate as had never been heard of before to train Miss Despard’s beautiful voice. “If the young lady had been a little boy, and if the Signor could but ha’ gotten hold on it!” Rowley said, in enthusiasm. It was the voice, which is impersonal, of which he spoke, and the Signor was the organist. But good fortune had not as yet thrown him in Lottie’s way. Soon, however, Rowley began to whisper it about that he had got a pupil who was quite good enough for Exeter Hall, if not for the Italian Opera, and the whole community was interested. Lottie herself, and her pretty looks, had not attracted any notice—but a voice was a very different matter. And then it was that steps were taken to make, for Lottie’s behalf, a practicable gap in the hedge of prickles which surrounded the Cloisters and kept intruders out. Miss Despard was invited to join the St. Michael’s Choral Society, in which the Divinities on the hill did not disdain to mingle their voices even with the lower-born outside the Abbey walls. And when it became known what a voice Lottie’s was, a remarkable thing happened. The Dean called! It was not Lady Caroline, but the Dean; and a gentleman’s visit, as is well known, is not the same thing as a lady’s. But Lottie, who knew nothing of the laws of society, was flattered and happy, and saw a hundred lovely visions unfolding before her when the Dean invited her to go to a private practice, which was then going on in the Deanery drawing-room. “My daughter bade me fetch you, Miss Despard, if you would be good enough to come,” he said, gravely; but waited very impatiently till she was ready, in great terror lest “the father” should make his appearance, and his visit be construed into a call upon Captain Despard. Lottie put on her hat with her heart leaping and bounding. At last she had done it! At last Paradise was opening before the Peri! At last the wrongs of fate were to be set right, and herself conveyed back into her natural sphere. She went by the Dean’s side demurely, with downcast eyes, across the slope to the Deanery garden. The very stones felt elastic under her feet, there was a ringing of excitement and delight in the air and in her ears. She arrived breathless at the door, though they had not walked fast. So absorbed was she by all that was about to happen that Lottie never thought of the sensation that ran through the Abbey when the Dean was seen walking to his own dignified door in company with Captain Despard’s daughter. Miss Despard? Lottie? The Chevaliers, and their wives and daughters, could not believe their eyes.
Lottie held her head as high as usual when she came back. It no longer drooped with diffidence and delight. Once more she had come down with a jar into the realms of reality from those of hope. She was not received with open arms in that higher celestial world. Miss Augusta Huntington said, “How do you do, Miss Despard?” very sweetly, but Lady Caroline only bowed with her eyelids—a new mode of salutation which Lottie did not understand—and kept aloof; and no one else said anything to Lottie, except about the music. They gave her a cup of tea when all was over, but Lottie had to drink it in silence, while the others laughed and chatted. She was not of them, though they had brought her among them for the sake of her voice. “Are you going, Miss Despard?” said the Dean’s daughter, putting on the same sweet smile. “We are so much obliged to you for coming. The next practice is next Tuesday. Will you come as early as possible, please?” It was on Lottie’s lips to say “No”—to tell them that she was a lady too, a better gentlewoman than they were, since she would not have treated any stranger so. But she was fortunately too shy to say anything, and made her exit hastily, and not so gracefully as the others, who were at home. But she would not allow, even to herself, that she had come down again in that painful tussle with reality, which is so much different from dreams. She kept very quiet and said nothing, which seemed the wisest way. And as she walked home with a much more stately gravity than was her wont—a state put on to console herself for humiliation and disappointment, and to vindicate, so to speak, her own dignity to herself, but which the lookers-on gave a very different interpretation of—Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, nodding and smiling, and in a state of great excitement, threw up the window and called to her, as she was going past. “Come up, come up, and tell me all about it,” the old lady said, so audibly that some of the ladies and gentlemen who had been in the Deanery turned round to look, and smiled at each other, making Lottie furious. As she could not stand there and explain before all the world, Lottie obeyed the call, and rushing upstairs to the kind old Irishwoman’s little bit of a drawing-room, appeared, crimson with shame and wrath at the door.
“How could you call out so loud and make them laugh?” she said, with a strong inclination to burst into hot tears.
“Laugh, was it? and sure I’m ready to laugh too. To see you and his Reverence the Dean, Miss Lottie—no less would serve you!—arm in arm like a pair of young——”
“We were not arm in arm,” said Lottie, stamping her foot. Then she had the sense to perceive that the wicked old Irishwoman would but laugh the more at her petulance. She put her music on the table with a recovery of her dignified manners, and sat down.
“What did he say to ye? and what did me Lady Caroline say to ye? and were they all wild over yer beautiful voice, me honey?” said the old lady. “Come, take off your hat, me pet, and ye shall have the best cup o’ tea in the Abbey. And tell me all about it,” she said.
“I have had a cup of tea, thank you,” said Lottie. “Oh, yes, they are all nice enough. Nobody talked to me—but then, I didn’t expect them to talk to me. They wanted me to sing—and I sang; and that was all.”
“And what more would you have, me jewel?” said Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. “Now, you take my advice, Lottie. I’m old, and I know the world. Take what you can get, me dear, and wait till your time comes. Don’t go and take offence and throw up the cards, and lose all you’ve got for a tantrum. Tantrums pass off, but life goes on. If they don’t speak to you, it’s their loss, for you have a clever little tongue o’ your own. And you’ll not be long there till they find out that. Don’t say a word, me honey. I’ll not bother you; but never take offence with the gentry——”
“The gentry!” cried the girl furious, starting to her feet. “I am as much a lady as any of them—and more, for I would not be such—— I would not be unkind——”
“Well—well—well! There, I have put my foot in it!” said the old lady. “I was thinking of meself, me dear, as if ye were a girl of my own. But you are a lady, honey; one has but to look at you,” said the astute old woman; “and just you wait a bit, and all will come as it ought—sure, I know it will.”