Within the Precincts

by Mrs. Oliphant

Lottie frowned a little, not having taken this question into consideration, as it would have been right for her to do; but the things that concerned other people had always seemed to her so much more important. She never had any doubt of her own capabilities and energies. When the question was thus put to her she paused.

“Just now I am at home; I have plenty to do,” she said. Then, after another pause, “If things change here—if I cannot stay here, Law, why shouldn’t we go together? You must get an appointment, and I would take care of you. I could make the money go twice as far as you would. I could help you if you had work to do at home—copying or anything—I would do it. It would not cost more for two of us than for one. I could do everything for you, even your washing; and little things besides. Oh, I don’t doubt I could get quantities of little things to do,” said Lottie, with a smile of confidence in her own powers; “and no one need be the wiser. You would be thought to have enough for us both.”

“Listen to me, now,” said Law, who had shown many signs of impatience, not to say consternation. “What you mean is (if you know what you mean), that you intend to live upon me. You needn’t stare; you don’t think what you’re saying, but that is what you really mean when all is done. Look here, Lottie; if I were to get a place I should live in lodgings. I should bring in other fellows to see me. I shouldn’t want to have my sister always about. As for not spending a penny more, that means that you would give me dinners like what we have now; but when I have anything to live on, of my own, I shall not stand that. I shall not be content, I can tell you, to live as we live now. I want to be free if I get an appointment; I don’t want to have you tied round my neck like a millstone; I want to have my liberty and enjoy myself. If it comes to that, I’d rather marry than have a sister always with me; but at first I shall want to have my fling and enjoy myself. And what is the use of having money,” said Law, with the genuine force of conviction, “unless you can spend it upon yourself?”

Lottie was altogether taken by surprise. It was the first time they had thus discussed the question. She made no reply to this utterance of sound reason. She sat with her work on her knee, and her hands resting upon it, staring at her brother. This revelation of his mind was to her altogether new.

“But, on the other side,” said Law, feeling more and more confidence in himself as he became used to the sound of his own voice, and felt himself to be unanswerable, “on the other side, a singer gets jolly pay—far better than any young fellow in an office; and you could quite well afford to give me an allowance, so that I might get into the army as a fellow ought. You might give me a hundred or two a year and never feel it; and with that I could live upon my pay. And you needn’t be afraid that I should be ashamed of you,” said generous Law; “not one bit. I should stand by you and give you my countenance as long as you conducted yourself to my satisfaction. I should never forsake you. When you sang anywhere I’d be sure to go and clap you like a madman, especially if you went under another name (they all do); that would leave me more free. Now you must see, Lottie, a young fellow in an office could not be much good to you, but you could be of great use to me.”

Still Lottie did not make any reply. No more terrible enlightenment ever came to an unsuspecting listener. She saw gradually rising before her as he spoke, not only a new Law, but a new version of herself till this moment unknown to her. This, as was natural, caught her attention most; it made her gasp with horror and affright. Was this herself—Lottie? It was the Lottie her brother knew. That glimpse of herself through Law’s eyes confounded her. She seemed to see the coarse and matter-of-fact young woman who wanted to live upon her brother’s work; to make his dinners scanty in order that she might have a share, to interfere with his companions and his pleasures—so distinctly, that her mouth was closed and her very heart seemed to stop beating. Was this herself? Was this how she appeared to other people’s eyes? She was too much thunderstruck, overawed by it, to say anything. The strange difference between this image and her own self-consciousness, her conviction that it was for Law’s advantage she had been struggling; her devotion to the interests of the family before everything, filled her with confusion and bewilderment. Could it be she that was wrong, or was it he that was unjust and cruel? The wonder and suddenness of it gave more poignant and terrible force to the image of her which was evidently in Law’s mind. All the selfish obtuseness of understanding, the inability to perceive what she meant, or to understand the object of her anxiety, which had so wounded and troubled her in Law, her brother had found in her. To him it was apparent that what Lottie wanted was not his good, but that she might have some one to work for her, some one to save her from working. She gazed not at Law, but at the visionary representation of herself which Law was seeing, with a pang beyond any words. She could not for the moment realise the brighter image which he made haste to present before her of the generous sister who made him an allowance, and enabled him to enter the army “as a fellow ought,” and of whom he promised never to be ashamed. It is much to be doubted whether Lottie had any warm sense of humour at the best of times; certainly she showed herself quite devoid of it now. She was so hurt and sore that she could not speak. It was not true. How could he be so cruel and unjust to her? But yet could it be at all true? Was it possible that this coarse picture was like Lottie, would be taken for Lottie by anyone else? She kept looking at him after he had stopped speaking, unable to take her eyes from him, looking like a dumb creature who has no other power of remonstrance. Perhaps in other circumstances Lottie would have been so foolish and childish as to cry; now she battled vaguely, dismally, with a sense of heartbreaking injustice, yet asking herself could any part of it be true?

“Don’t stare at me so,” said Law; “you look as if you had never seen a fellow before. Though he was civil and did not say anything, it was easy to see that was what old Ashford thought. And I’ve got to go back to him to-morrow, if that will please you; and, by the way, he said he’d perhaps come and see you and tell you what he thought. By Jove, it’s getting late. If I don’t get out at once he’ll come and palaver, and I shall have to stay in and lose my afternoon, as I lost the morning. I’m off, Lottie. You need not wait for me for tea.”

It did not make much difference to her when he went away, plunging down the little staircase in two or three long steps. Lottie sat like an image in stone, all the strength taken from her. She seemed to have nothing left to say to herself—no ground to stand on, no self-explanation to offer. She had exhausted all her power of self-assertion for the moment; now she paused and looked at herself as her father and brother saw her—a hard, scanty, parsimonious housekeeper, keeping them on the simplest fare, denying them indulgences, standing in their way. What if she kept the house, as she fondly hoped, like a gentleman’s house, sweet and fresh, and as fair as its faded furniture permitted? What did they care for tidiness and order? What if she managed, by infinite vigilance and precaution, to pay her bills and keep the credit of the household, so far as her power went, unimpaired? They did not mind debts and duns, except at the mere moment of encountering the latter, and were entirely indifferent to the credit of the name. She was in her father’s way, who before this time would have married the woman who brushed past Lottie on the Slopes but for having this useless grown-up daughter, whom he did not know how to dispose of; and if Law got an appointment (that almost impossible, yet fondly cherished, expectation which had kept a sort of forlorn brightness in the future), it now turned out that she would be in Law’s way as much or more than in her father’s. Lottie’s heart contracted with pain; her spirit failed her. She, who had felt so strong, so capable, so anxious to inspire others with her own energy and force; she, who had felt herself the support of her family, their standard-bearer, the only one who was doing anything to uphold the falling house—in a moment she had herself fallen too, undermined even in her own opinion. Many a blow and thrust had she received in the course of her combative life, and given back with vigour and a stout heart. Never before had she lost her confidence in herself; the certainty that she was doing her best, that with her was the redeeming force, the honourable principle which might yet convert the others, and save the family, and elevate the life of the house. What she felt now was that she herself, the last prop of the Despards, was overthrown and lying in ruin. Was it possible that she was selfish too, seeking her own ease like the rest, avoiding what she disliked just the same as they did? A sudden moisture of intense pain suffused Lottie’s eyes. She was too heartstruck, too fallen to weep. She covered her face with her hands, though there was no one to cover it from, with the natural gesture of anguish, seeking to be hidden even from itself.

Lottie did not pay much attention, although she heard steps coming up the stair. What did it matter? Either it was Law, who had stricken her so wantonly to the ground; or her father, who did not care what happened to her; or Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, who did not count. Few other people mounted the stairs to the little drawing-room in Captain Despard’s house. But when she raised her head, all pale and smileless, and saw that the visitor was Mr. Ashford, Lottie scarcely felt that this was a stranger, or that there was any occasion to exert herself and change her looks and tones. Did not he think so too? She rose up, putting down her work, and made him a solemn salutation. She did not feel capable of anything more. The Minor Canon drew back his hand, which she did not see, with the perturbation of a shy man repulsed. Lottie was not to him so unimportant a person as she was to her brother. She was surrounded by all the unconscious state of womanhood and mystery and youth—a creature with qualities beyond his ken, wonderful to him, as unknown though visible, and attracting his imagination more than any other of these wonderful mystic creatures, of whom he had naturally encountered many in his life, had ever done. His heart, which had so swelled with pity and admiration on Sunday evening, was not less sympathetic and admiring now, notwithstanding that it was through Law’s eyes that he had been seeing her to-day; and this repulse, which was so unlike her candour and frankness yesterday, gave him a little pain. He wanted to be of use to her, and he wanted to tell her so—and to repel him while he had these generous purposes in his mind seemed hard. He sat down, however, embarrassed, on the chair she pointed him to; and looking at her, when thus brought nearer, he discovered, even with his short-sighted eyes, how pale she was and how woebegone. Some one had been vexing her, no doubt, poor child! This took the shyness out of Mr. Ashford’s voice.

“I have come to make my report,” he said, in as even a tone as he could command, “about Lawrence. He has told you—that he has been with me most of the day?”