“I will send you word about hours,” said the Signor hastily. “I beg your pardon, I did not quite catch your last observation. Good morning, Miss Despard. To-morrow or after to-morrow I shall hope to begin.”
“Good-bye, for the moment; we shall meet later,” said Rollo, with a smile and a nod, turning to open the door for his—not rival certainly, but competitor. He opened the door and closed it behind the Signor with quite unnecessary attention, his face full of suppressed laughter and malicious satisfaction. Rollo felt that he remained master of the field. He came back to where Lottie, agitated and happy, was sitting, rubbing his hands with triumph. “The Signor is an excellent musician, but he is a prig, Miss Despard, if you will permit the word; and now that we have got rid of him,” said Rollo, dropping into that other seat beside her, “let me say——”
What did he say? Lottie remembered most of the words for years and years. When she heard the sound of them again in other conversations, in sentences that had no relation to her, from other people, and even addressed to other people, she would hold her breath. Foolish girl! they were well-worn words, such as perhaps every woman possessing such a gift, or even a much smaller gift than Lottie’s, has heard to weariness; but the most common approbation, which afterwards becomes the mere accompaniment and petty murmur of existence, one time in one’s life is divine—as he told her her voice was, as he let her infer she too was, and everything about her. Lottie was not used to anything like flattery. Even in the best of circumstances, fathers and brothers are seldom enthusiastic; and kind Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, though she had given her countenance to Rowley’s lessons, did not in the least conceal that she was bored by them; and the tenor was a great deal too much occupied with his own voice, and the compliments that had been paid to him, to leave him much time for complimenting his pupil. It was true that the Signor’s wish to teach her was of itself the essence of flattery; but he never had given her any credit for her singing, and always had seen the faults of it. So that it was Rollo who had first revealed to her that heaven of praise which is so doubly sweet to the neophyte when it is supposed to be not her excellence, but his love, which inspires it. Lottie had no defence against the enthusiasm, the admiration, the rhapsodies of her companion. If they were excessive, that was not because he was failing in truth, but only abounding in love. So she thought. The very atmosphere around her turned into happiness. Her eyes were dazzled with it. She could not look at him nor lift her face except in momentary sudden glances, so much was the air full of this suffused, subdued, but penetrating glory. And, strangely enough, though he did not feel half so much as she supposed him to feel, Rollo himself was moved by this something in the air which rayed out from her exquisite dawn of bliss and of love. He said naturally a great deal more than he intended—and, what was more wonderful, he felt a great deal more than he could have supposed possible—and without the least purpose or thought, dropped moment by moment deeper and deeper into that curious kind of rapture which is tolerably expressed by the phrase, falling in love. Reason had nothing to do with it, nor intention; and he had not come here driven by a passion which was more strong than he was, as Lottie thought. But, nevertheless, whether it was the magnetic influence of that sentiment in her which he had called forth without knowing it, and which now touched him with sympathetic life: or the more commonplace result of her beauty, and of their close propinquity, and her loneliness, and the generous impulse of protection and kindness that was in him: certain it is that all Lottie’s ideas of him realised themselves in the young man’s mind in the most miraculous way. He had always been, all his friends knew, ridiculously sympathetic all his life. Never before had it taken this precise form; but then, never before had Rollo met with the same combination of circumstances. He had flirted with a great many people, and foolish girls, who were not prudent enough to remember his younger brotherhood and impecunious position, had liked his company and been very willing to roam along the first beginnings of the primrose path by his side; but nothing more than the lightest exchanges of sentiment had ever come to pass. And then he had believed of several women that they were “making a set” at him, and desiring to “catch” him. No degree of younger brotherhood, no amount of impecuniosity, will prevent a man from thinking that some woman or other is trying to “catch” him; but never in all his life had Rollo come across a creature like Lottie, simply, solemnly, gratefully convinced that he was in love with her. Lottie had not been in love with him when she thought she found this out. But her certainty as to his sentiments had been absolute. And now this certainty was realising itself. It was a very different thing from the love which points directly and, as a matter of course, to the natural conclusion. He thought of nothing of the kind. He did not choose her out of all the world, as Lottie thought. But it came to very much the same thing as they sat together, talking about everything, dropping into mutual confidences, wasting the sweet autumnal morning. Lottie knew that all her domestic businesses were waiting for her, but did not care. And Rollo knew that, if he were questioned as to where he had been, he would have to invent an explanation other than the true one. But what did this matter? They sat and talked, forgetting even music, which was the one thing hitherto which had occupied them when together. He did not ask her to sing to him, which was a thing which made Lottie very happy, notwithstanding that it was his admiration of her voice only which had made her recognise and be glad of that possession. She had sung for him gladly, but now she was more pleased not to be asked to sing. What did they want with music? It would be hard to describe how well they came to know each other during that long morning’s talk. He told her about himself, and she told him about herself, and thus they skimmed over very dangerous ground as to the beginning of their own acquaintance. Lottie, with a girl’s shrinking from premature avowal, hurried over that point lest he might perhaps tell her how he had seen her, and dreamed of her, long before he dared claim acquaintance. Poor Lottie! but for that fond delusion she might have heard the real cause of his first eagerness to make her acquaintance, and been disenchanted. But what would it have mattered? By this time, things had gone too far to make it an advantage to her now to be undeceived.
This was the beginning of the time which was the crown and flower of life to Lottie Despard. Deceived, and yet not deceived; creating really the sentiment which she believed in, yet not as she believed it: she herself all simple and trustful, impassioned in everything she undertook, then and there, to the last fibre of her being, gave her heart to Rollo Ridsdale—loved him, believing herself as fully justified as ever woman was, by the possession of his love, to bestow her own; and bestowing it purely, freely, without doubt or arrière pensée. His rank and the pleasure of thinking that some one out of the world above her, the world which she aspired to, and felt herself to belong to, was seeking her, had dazzled Lottie at the first;—but by this time it did not matter to her who or what Rollo was. Sometimes even, she thought that she would prefer him to be more on her own level: then stopped and reproved herself proudly for wanting to take anything from him who deserved everything. His position as a patrician, his supposed wealth (how was Lottie to know that such a man, possessing everything, could be just as poor, and perhaps not much more honourable in respect to debt and such matters, than her father?), the grace and nobleness of all his surroundings, were part of his nature, she thought in her simplicity. To shut him up in small rooms, confine him to the limited horizon of common life, and its poor little routine of duties, would be to take something from Rollo; and she did not want to take anything from him, rather to add any honour and glory that might be wanting. She did not know how long or how short a time they had been together on that wonderful morning before they first began to talk (as Lottie said) like friends. It lasted no more than a moment, and yet it was a new life all luminous and great, throwing the twenty years of the other life which had preceded it, entirely into shade. She had to stand still to steady herself and accustom her eyes to the ordinary atmosphere when he went away. Everything was changed. Her head went round. She did not know how to go downstairs (too late, much too late!) and look after the household matters which she had postponed; and when she did go to them, went hazily like one in a dream. What a change had come upon life! Yesterday, even Rollo was no more than a distant vision of possibilities to her; now she seemed to know him thoroughly, to know all about him; to feel that she could tell him whatever might happen, that it would be natural to confide everything to him—everything! her heart threw wide open its doors. She did not think even that he might wonder to find himself so entirely received into her life. Lottie had none of the experience which the most ordinary encounter with the world, which even ballroom tattle and the foolish commerce of flirtations give. She came to this first chapter, all innocent and original in heart and thought, with the frankness as well as the timidity of a nature unalarmed and (in this kind) knowing no evil. Love was to her an angel, the first of the angels—inspiring awe, but no terror. She went to her work feeling as if she walked to some noble strain of music. Nothing could irritate her, nothing put her out.
That evening Lottie went out upon the Slopes in the dusk to breathe the evening air and give herself that fresher, sweeter medium for her dreams. Law was out, the Captain was out as usual; and the little house was very still with only Mary in the kitchen (for most of her time hanging about the back entrance looking for the baker), and Lottie upstairs. Somehow to-night Lottie did not wait for Captain Temple, who had constituted himself her escort, but as soon as it began to be really evening stole out by herself and made her way quickly up the Dean’s Walk, not anxious to join anyone. She wanted to be alone for her thoughts. It was not that the slightest idea of meeting Rollo entered into her mind—how should it? The dinners at the Deanery were not like the afternoon meal in the Chevaliers’ lodges, out of which all the inhabitants streamed as soon as that was over, to get the good of the summer night. Summer—for, though it was beginning to be autumn, it was still summer—warm, soft, delicious evenings with so much dusk in them, and misty sweetness. Lottie wanted nothing at that moment of dreamy happiness but silence and her own thoughts; more, however, was in store for her. The Deanery dinner was a family dinner that evening, and while the Dean read the evening paper, and Lady Caroline put up her feet on the sofa, what was a young man to do? He said he would go over to the Signor’s and talk music and smoke a cigar; and the elder people, though they were fond of Rollo, were not sorry to be rid of him. He wanted, perhaps, to enjoy his triumph over the Signor, or to find out what his plans were and expectations of Lottie’s voice; or, perhaps, only he wanted a little variety, feeling the company of his venerated relations too much pleasure. But, though he was not so full of dreams as Lottie, something of the same charmed mood was in his mind. And when caprice made him take the turn up to the Slopes also, instead of going the other way through the Cloisters to the musician’s house—and when the two caught sight of each other, they both started with genuine surprise, and there was on Lottie’s side even a little alarm. She was too shy to beg him in so many words to go away, but it was only the want of courage which kept her from saying so. It was too much; it did not seem right to meet him again; but then Lottie reflected that to the merest acquaintance she was bound to be polite. Mr. Ridsdale had the same thought. He was unfeignedly delighted to see her, finding this way of escape from all possibility of dulness much more complete than he thought; but yet he felt that perhaps a second encounter so soon, and in a place open to all eyes, might be dangerous; notwithstanding, what could a man do? He was bound to be civil. He could not run away from a lady when he met her, simply because he admired her—a reason, on the contrary, to keep him by her side. So they took a stroll together, this way and that way, from one end to the other: it was not a very long way. He told her that he was going to the Signor’s, and she accepted the explanation very demurely, notwithstanding the fact that the Signor lived on the lower side of the Deanery and this was on the upper side; and she told him that she had only just come out, having missed Captain Temple, who would appear presently:—“He is my usual companion—he is very old, the oldest of all the Chevaliers—and he is very, very kind to me.” Each accepted what the other thus said with a kind of solemnity; and they made two turns up and down, stopping now and then to look out upon the plain so broad and blue, with the soft autumn mists hanging on the horizon. “Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,” Rollo said; and they stood still and gazed, following the river in its silvery windings, and silent as if their minds were absorbed in these atmospheric influences and that dusky bridal of the earth and sky. When Captain Temple came up Rollo asked to be introduced to him, and was very civil. “Miss Despard has been waiting for you, and I have kept her company,” he said, so that the old Captain thanked him civilly, if a little stiffly; and then the two turned their backs upon each other, Rollo hastening down to the Cloisters to keep, as he said, his appointment, and Lottie turning away without so much as a parting glance, without shaking hands. Captain Temple, alarmed at first, took heart, and thought it was nothing but politeness when he saw how they parted. “You were quite right, my dear, quite right to wait, and I am much obliged to Mr. Ridsdale; I cannot think how I missed you.” Lottie did not make a direct reply, but compelled herself to talk, and very demurely, with much praise of the lovely night, went with him home.
If Captain Temple had but known! And after this how many meetings there were, so happily accidental, so easily explainable, and yet requiring no such explanation! How well they began to know each other’s habits and each other’s likings; and how sweet were all the dewy misty paths in that fool’s paradise! or on the Slopes, if you prefer it; it does not matter much about a name.
CHAPTER XXVII.
A TERRIBLE INTERRUPTION.
While the time went on in this dream for Lottie it did not stand still with the rest of the world. Her absorption in her own affairs, which for the moment had become complete, and withdrew her thoughts from much that had previously occupied them, was very agreeable to her father and brother. Lottie had exercised no control that she was aware of upon her father; but now that her keen eyes were veiled with dreams, and her mind abstracted from what was going on round her, it is inconceivable how much more free and at his ease the Captain felt. He had a jauntier air than ever, when he walked down into the town after he was released from matins; and he came in later at night. Captain Despard’s doings at this time were much talked of in the lodges. He had never been approved by his brother Chevaliers. The old gentlemen felt that this younger man, with his jauntiness and his love of pleasure, was no credit to them; and if the gossip was true about his intentions, some of them thought that something ought to be done. The ladies were still more indignant. They were threatened in their dignity more than their husbands were. An officer was an officer, whatever happened; but if this man, who was in himself so objectionable, should bring in a dressmaker girl among them, it was the Chevaliers’ wives who would be the sufferers. The gentlemen thought vaguely that something should be done; but the ladies were for carrying it to Parliament, or to the Queen herself. Was there not some old statute forbidding a Chevalier to marry? If there was not, there ought to be, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy said, with a twinkle in her eye. There was nobody, indeed, so much aggrieved as Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, who lived next door, and was already intimate with the family; and though there were times when she made a joke of it, there were also times when she was ready to go to the Queen on the subject.
“If there isn’t a law there ought to be one!” Mrs. O’Shaughnessy declared. “What do they want with wives at their age, if they haven’t got ’em already? D’ye think I’d like to hear of me Major with a second, and me not cold in my grave?”
It was suggested that the Chevaliers should “speak to” this dangerous member of their corporation; but the old gentlemen, it was found, did not care to undertake this. Who would do it? There was not one of them who could use the privilege of friendship with this flighty, dissipated fellow, who was young at fifty to the other veterans; and they had not the same confidence in the efficacy of “speaking to” a culprit which the ladies had.