CHAPTER XXV.
WHAT FOLLOWED.
Captain Temple was not happy about the events of that evening. He had begun to grow very fond of Lottie, and he was not pleased that she should have “made an exhibition of herself.” He went over it so often to his wife that Mrs. Temple learned the incident by heart. There was in her mind, mingled with an intense silent interest in the girl who was like her own, a feeling of repulsion too, equally intense and silent, which joined with the opposite sentiment, and kept Lottie as constantly present to her mind as she was in the Captain’s talk. And, though it sometimes appeared to her that she would die of this girl, who reminded her at every step that she had lost her child, yet she could not check her husband’s ever-flowing, continually repeated talk on the subject. Mrs. Temple thought this was all for his sake. Sometimes, in the bitterness of her loss, she would cry out that she loathed the very name of this other, who was so well and bright and full of life, while her child was dead and gone; but, notwithstanding, Lottie had gradually come to hold a large place in her life. How could she help thinking of her? Grudging her very life and brightness, repenting her grudge, praying God’s blessing on the girl whom she thus injured, avoiding her, fearing the sight of her, watching for her whom she feared; how could it be but that Mrs. Temple, in her lonely hours, should think of Lottie? She was the confidant now of the old Captain’s regret.
“I thought she was a sweet, modest girl,” he said, shaking his head; “shy, even—as I like a girl to be—very like—— My dear, I cannot bear a girl to make an exhibition of herself——”
“But if there was no one to see her, and if you were in the dark?”
“That is true, my dear; but if they did not see her they heard her. Such a voice! I wish you had been there—but that sort of public use of it—and to have the confidence to sing when she was not asked!” Captain Temple shook his head. He seemed to have done nothing but shake his head since last night.
“Do you think that the more she has a beautiful voice the less she should let it be heard?” said his wife. “I am not so taken up with this Miss Despard as you are; but still I think you are unjust to her.”
“Perhaps I am unjust to her. How can I help being taken up with her? If you knew her as well you would be taken up with her too. And I wish you did; it would be a comfort to you. In everything she does, her walk, every little gesture, I see something that reminds me—— I know you don’t like to speak of it, my dear.”
Mrs. Temple set her face like a rock while the old Captain talked on. He did nothing but speak of it, and she would not stop him. Had she not noticed the girl’s walk? When Lottie passed Mrs. Temple turned from the window, feeling as if some one had given her a blow. Yet what had she gone to the window for but to watch for Lottie? And she was more just to her than was the old Captain, who could not bear any falling off in his ideal, who thought that a girl should never make an exhibition of herself, and did nothing for a week after but shake his head.
The singing, however, made a great excitement in the Cloisters. It was only a select few who had been there to hear; and they thought it was all the Signor’s arrangement, who had provided for them so much greater a pleasure than they expected—or, rather, an additional pleasure. “Who was it?” everybody asked. Was it possible it could be little Rowley? But it was inconceivable that a mere child like that could have taken the contralto solo as well as the soprano. But was it certain that there was only one voice? The darkness was deceptive, and all the circumstances were so unusual, so out of the ordinary. When you came to think of it, it could not be one voice. It must have been little Rowley and Mellor, the big boy, whose contralto was famous. At that distance, and in the dark, it was easy to deceive yourself and think there was only one person singing. There was nothing talked about next morning but this wonderful incident, and both the people who had been there and the people who had not been there (who were piqued, and felt themselves neglected, as a matter of course) discussed it with the utmost excitement. Even before the hour of matins, old Pick, who was out upon his master’s business and Mrs. Purcell’s errands, was twice interviewed on the subject. The first time it was Rowley, the tenor, who assailed him, whose boy was the first soprano, and whose rights were attacked. “I should just like to know what the Signor is up to,” Rowley said. “He’s always got some new fad or other in his head. He’ll have us all up next into that organ-loft, like a set of Christy Minstrels. Hanged if I’ll go!”
“Anyhow, you’ll wait till you’re asked,” said old Pick.