Within the Precincts

by Mrs. Oliphant

“No; perhaps I would not do it—but, on the other hand,” said Mr. Ashford, “I might do—what was as bad. I might make a sacrifice. I might—give up marrying the woman whom I loved for my sister’s sake. Would that be a better thing to do?”

Their eyes met when he spoke of the woman he loved—that is, he looked at Lottie, who was gazing intently at him; and strangely enough, they could not tell why, both blushed, as if the sudden contact of their looks had set their faces aglow. Lottie instinctively drew back without knowing it; and he, leaning towards her, repeated, almost with vehemence:

“Would that be a better thing to do?”

Lottie hid her face in her hands. “Oh, no, no!” she said, her sensitive frame trembling. Mr. Ashford was old, and Law was but a boy—how could there be any question of the woman either loved?

“Forgive me, Miss Despard, if I seem to go against you—my heart is all with you; but you ought to be independent,” he said. “Either the woman would be sacrificed or the man would be sacrificed. And that kind of sacrifice is bad for everybody. Don’t be angry with me. Sacrifices generally are bad; the more you do for others, the more selfish they become. Have you not seen that even in your little experience? There are many people who never have it in their power to be independent; but those who have should not neglect it—even if it is not in a pleasant way.”

“Even if it is by—being a singer?” She lifted her head again, and once more fixed upon him eyes which were full of unshed tears. Taking counsel had never been in Lottie’s way; but neither had doubt ever been in her way till now. Everything before had been very plain. Right and wrong—two broad lines straight before her; now there was right and wrong on both sides, and her landmarks were removed. She looked at her adviser as women look, to see not only what he said, but whatsoever shade of unexpressed opinion might cross his face.

“It is not so dreadful after all,” he said. “It is better than many other ways. I am afraid life is hard, as you say, upon a girl, Miss Despard. She must be content with little things. This is one of the few ways in which she can really get independence—and—stop, hear me out—the power to help others too.”

Lottie had almost begun a passionate remonstrance; but these last words stopped her. Though she might not like the way, still was it possible that this might be a way of setting everything right? She stopped gazing at her counsellor, her eyelids puckered with anxiety, her face quite colourless, and expressing nothing but this question. Not a pleasant way—a way of martyrdom to her pride—involving humiliation, every pang she could think of; but still, perhaps, a way of setting everything right.

CHAPTER XXIV.
A CRISIS.

When Lottie got up next morning the world seemed to have changed to her. It had changed a little in reality, as sometimes one day differs from another in autumn, the world having visibly made a more marked revolution than usual in a single night. It had got on to the end of August, and there were traces of many fiery fingers upon the leaves on the Slopes. It had been a very fine summer, but it was coming prematurely to an end, everybody said, and about the horizon there began to be veils of luminous mist in the morning, and soft haze that veiled the evening light. This autumnal aspect of the world seemed to have come on in that one night. The Virginian creeper round the window had “turned” in several patches of scarlet and yellow all at once. It was beautiful, but it was the first step towards winter and the chills—the first evidence of a year decaying which makes the spectator pause and think. When Lottie woke she felt in her heart that consciousness of something, she knew not what, something that had happened to her, that over-shadowed her, and forced itself upon her before she could tell what it was, which is the way care manifests itself at our bedsides: something that made her heart heavy the first thing on awaking. Then she remembered what it was. Lottie, we have said, was not a girl who was in the habit of taking advice; but for that once she had taken it, seizing upon the first trustworthy witness she could find who would bring an impartial eye to the problem of her life. She had been very strong in her own opinion before, but when reason was put before her Lottie could not shut her eyes to it. Neither could she dawdle and delay when there was anything to do. She awoke with the consciousness that some ghost was lurking behind her white curtains. Then with a start and shiver remembered and realised it, and, drawing herself together, made up her mind to act at once. What was the use of putting off? Putting off was the reason why Law was so backward, and Lottie was not one of those who let the grass grow under their feet. The more disagreeable the first step was, the more reason was there that it should be taken to-day. She went downstairs with a gleam of resolution in her eyes. After the shock of finding out that there is a painful thing to do, the determination to do it at once is a relief. It brings an almost pleasure into the pain to set your face to it bravely and get done with it; there is thus an exhilaration even in what is most disagreeable. So Lottie felt. Her despondency and depression were gone. She had something definite to do, and she would do it, let what obstacle soever stand in the way. She made the family tea and cut the bread with more energy than usual. She was the first visible, as she always was, but her mind was fully occupied with her own affairs, and she was glad enough to be alone for half an hour. After that she had to go up again and knock at her father’s door, to remind him that there was but little time for breakfast before the bell began to ring for matins; but she had taken her own breakfast and begun her work before the Captain and Law came downstairs. When she had poured out their tea for them she sat down in the window-seat with her sewing. She did not take any share in their talk, neither did she watch, as she often did, the stir of morning life in the Dean’s Walk—the tradesmen’s carts going about, the perambulators from the town pushing upward, with fresh nursemaids behind, to the shady walk on the Slopes; now and then a tall red soldier showing against the grey wall of the Abbey opposite; the old Chevaliers beginning to turn out, taking their little morning promenade before the bells began. The stir was usually pleasant to Lottie, but she took no notice of it to-day. She was going to matins herself this morning—not perhaps altogether for devotion, but with the idea, after the service, of lying in wait at the north gate for the exit of the Signor.