So the little world within the Precincts looked on in great perturbation, sorry for Lottie, but still more sorry for themselves, whose credit was threatened by this danger. And jauntier and jauntier grew the Captain. He wore his hat more and more over his left ear—he got a new tie, louder and brighter than any that had ever been seen in the Precincts. His new suit was of a larger stripe. Altogether, things were ripening for some new event. Something was going to happen; everybody felt it, in the air, in the heaviness of the autumn weather. Lottie’s proceedings, which might otherwise have given much anxiety to the community, were veiled by the interest attaching to her father’s; which, indeed, was well for Lottie, who was not at all times quite aware what she was doing, or where her steps were tending, as she walked and wandered—not in her sleep, but in her dreams.
There was another who took advantage of Lottie’s abstraction, and that was Law. He had begun by going quite regularly to Mr. Ashford, “reading,” as it was called, with the Minor Canon, whom he liked, and who was kind to him, and sharing the instructions which were being given to young Uxbridge, the son of the Canon. For a little while there had been gloom and consternation in this young man’s home because of Law. He was not a companion for her boy, Mrs. Uxbridge thought; but when this was suggested to the Minor Canon he smiled so grimly, and answered with such uncompromising brutality, that, of course, he could have no possible objections to young Mr. Uxbridge’s removal, that the mother nearly fainted, and Mr. Uxbridge himself, a large and stately person, had to stammer forth an apology. There was a dangerous gleam in Ashford’s eye, enough to appal the Chapter, notwithstanding his inferiority to them, and there was nothing for it but to let him have his way. And for a week or two Law was exemplary—he allowed that for the first time in his life he could feel he was getting on; he became what he called “thick” with Uxbridge, who took him out boating and cricketing; and so far all went well. But when Lottie’s vigilance all at once relaxed—when she began to steal out herself, and come in with her eyes all dazzled and dreamy, often not knowing when she was spoken to, taking so much less heed than usual of other people’s proceedings, Law’s industry began to flag. Sometimes he “shirked” altogether; very often he never looked at his books, except under Mr. Ashford’s eye. He made Uxbridge idle too, who was but too much disposed to take a bad example. Uxbridge had a boat of his own, and they went on the river for days together. Sometimes a cricket match ended in a dinner, to which Law would be invited with his friend. He got into better company, but it is doubtful whether this was much to the advantage of his morals, and it certainly was not at all to the advantage of his studies. The Minor Canon remonstrated, and Lottie would now and then wake up and make an appeal to him.
“Are you working, Law? I hope you are working. Does Mr. Ashford think you are getting on?” she would say. But these were not like the energetic protests of old. And when Law answered that he was getting on pretty well, but that old Ashford didn’t say much—it wasn’t his way—Lottie accepted the reply, and asked no more questions. And Law accordingly took “his fling,” being left free on all sides. Why shouldn’t he take his fling? The others were doing it—even Lottie; did she think he was blind not to see how often that fellow Ridsdale was spooning about, and how many more walks she took than she used to? Captain Temple got tired of coming for her. Very often she had gone before he came—and would run back breathless, and so sorry to have missed him. What did all that mean if not that Lottie was taking her fling too? And his father—Captain Despard—was speeding very quickly towards such a thing as would startle the whole town, not to speak of the Abbey. It would be hard if Law were the only one to have his nose kept to the grindstone; and this, we may be sure, was the last thing he meant to allow.
As for Lottie, she carried on the business of her life in a way. The house did not suffer—the dinner was always punctual, and the stockings mended, notwithstanding dreams. She found time, indeed, for more actual occupation than before. She went to the Signor’s—Mrs. O’Shaughnessy generally, but sometimes Captain Temple, going with her when she went for her lessons—and she went to the Abbey more frequently than she had been used to do. These lessons were moments of excitement for the Signor’s household. When it was the old Captain who had accompanied Miss Despard, Mrs. Purcell was had in from her room, where she sat expectant among her jam cupboards; and profound was her interest. She sat near the door hemming some dusters, while the lesson went on; but sometimes would drop her work and cross her hands, and raise her eyes to the dusky heaven of the ceiling.
“Dear, bless me!” said the housekeeper, “that was a note!” for she had learned a little about music after all her experiences. Her son rarely made his appearance at all; he would loiter about the passage and catch a glimpse of Lottie as she went in or out, and sometimes he would come in suddenly very red and agitated, to turn over the music or look for some song that was wanted. Lottie was very anxious always to be friendly to him; but though these lessons seemed to poor young Purcell the things which chiefly made life desirable, yet he was not sufficiently at his ease to make any reply to her greeting, except by a deeper blush and an embarrassed bow. And very often—so often that the Signor had almost wound himself up to the point of remonstrating, and old Pick had been charged to say that his master was engaged, and that no one could enter—Rollo Ridsdale would stray in by accident and form one of the party. It was very strange that, though old Pick had orders so precise, yet Rollo somehow always got in. How was it?
“I don’t know myself,” old Pick would say, with a grin; “he’s the perseveringest gentleman I ever see—and awful fond of music. It must cost him a deal,” Pickering said.
Rollo strolled in sometimes at the beginning, before due precautions had been taken, sometimes near the end, when they were relaxed. He made himself very agreeable. As for Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, she was his slave, and she was quite persuaded by this time that she herself was nearly connected with the Courtland family, and that Rollo’s uncle—or was it a cousin?—had been not only the Major’s but her own dearest friend. Captain Temple, when he was the chaperon, was more suspicious; but, notwithstanding his objection to young men, and especially to Honourables, in connection with young women, Rollo ended by making the old Chevalier his friend. He had the gift of disarming prejudice—being kind himself by nature, and of a friendly disposition, such as makes friends. And Rollo was very careful under the eyes of all these keen observers. He confined himself to music. He looked unutterable things; but he did not speak the applause, that was implied in his looks. He said only, “I must not say anything, Miss Despard—I dare not, for Rossinetti; but I think the more.”
Lottie did not want him to applaud her. It was enough for her that he heard her; but it was only when he was there that she did herself full justice. And it is not to be supposed that the Signor was ignorant of the changed tone in her voice which showed when he appeared. It was too great a vexation to him to be ignored. Art, pure art, was not as yet, if it ever would be, the spring of Lottie’s life. It was “that fellow.” Her voice grew softer and more exquisite, full of pathos and meaning—her notes more liquid and sweet. If the Signor had been Rollo’s rival in reality he could scarcely have been more annoyed—he whose aspiration was to make a true artist of this creature, to whom heaven had given so glorious a medium of expression, but who as yet knew nothing about art.
Thus September stole away. Never before had Ridsdale been so long at the Deanery. He gave sometimes one reason and sometimes another for his delay. It was very convenient for him, as the place was central, and he was often obliged to run up to town to see after business connected with the Opera. His company meant to open their house in spring; and the manager being in Italy, there was a great deal to do which fell upon Rollo. He had invitations without number, but he neglected them all. So long as his aunt would have him there was no place so convenient for him as the Deanery. And Lady Caroline was very willing to have him. She had always been kind to him. If her feelings had been strong enough to justify anyone in considering himself her favourite, then Rollo might have done so. She had always been kind; and a habit of kindness is as good as any other habit, and is the best pledge of continuance. And she liked in a way to have him there. He never gave her any trouble—now and then he succeeded in something that was very like amusing her. And he no longer demanded of her that she should invite Miss Despard daily, or trouble herself with the other people who sang. Two or three times only during the month did he ask for an invitation for the girl in whose voice he was so much interested. And he was very domestic—triumphantly disproving all the stories that had been told of him. He never cared to dine anywhere but at home while he was at the Deanery—he did not care for company. He was a very nice companion for the Dean at dinner, and after dinner he would stroll out and smoke a cigar. If he gave trouble at Courtland it was only, Lady Caroline thought with gentle complacency, because they did not know how to manage him; for anyone more happy to be quiet she never saw. And thus September passed; the partridges did not tempt him away, any more than the grouse had done. He did not care, he declared, about sport of any kind. Music and books, and his stroll of an evening on the Slopes to smoke his cigar—these were all the virtuous amusements Rollo desired—with these he was as happy as the day was long. And in October, Augusta, coming home from her bridal tour, was to visit her mother, and there would be a little society once more at the Deanery. It came to be understood that Rollo would stay for this. It would be something to make amends to him for the quiet of the past.
October began: it was a beautiful autumn; the trees on the Slopes were all red and yellow, like painted trees, and the face of the country brilliant with sunshine. Everything was smooth and fair without and within, so far as appearances went; and, had there been no results to follow, little exception could have been taken to the proceedings of the persons concerned in this history, who were each and all following their own pleasure and doing what seemed good in their own eyes. The Captain was perhaps the most safe and most virtuous of the whole, seeing that there was no reason why he should not marry Polly if he desired very much to do so, except that it would make his children uncomfortable and disturb the equanimity of his brother Chevaliers and their belongings. But he was in no way bound to consider the dignity of his brethren in the order, neither was he required by any law to sacrifice his own comfort for that of his son and daughter—both of them quite capable of taking thought for themselves. He may, therefore, be left out of the question; for, whether for good or evil, he was doing nothing more than he had a right to do. But in the case of the others: how pleasant would this episode of life have been had there been no consequences to follow! It was a most charming episode in the experience of Rollo Ridsdale. He was not a vicious man, but yet he had never been so virtuous, so free of evil, in all his consciousness before—his chief companion a perfectly pure-minded girl, his chief occupation to explore and study her fresh young heart and imagination, and vigorous intelligent nature. If only it could all go on to some as perfect conclusion, there could be no doubt that it was good for the speculative man of fashion. It restored him, body and soul,—regular hours, quiet, all the most luxurious comforts of life, and the delight and exhilaration of a romance to amuse the mental and sentimental side of him. The cleverest doctor that ever existed could not have recommended a more admirably curative process—if only there had been no responsibilities involved and nothing painful to follow. And Law—if Law had only had the prospect of a small estate, a small inheritance at the end, enough to live on, what a perfectly pleasant “time” he was having! He was doing no harm, only boating, cricketing, beginning now as the season went on to think of football—none of them wicked pursuits: if only there had been no examinations to think of, no work of life to prepare for. Lottie was the least to blame of the three; the consequences did not trouble her. She might perhaps be allowing herself to be absorbed too much by the new and wonderful influence which had taken possession of her: the vita nuova might have become too entirely the law of her being; but well or ill she still did her duty, and her realisation of the result was perfectly simple. What but one thing could all this lead to? No doubt invaded Lottie’s inexperienced mind; how could she doubt that Rollo loved her? What proof was wanting that man could give? They had not yet spoken of that love, though they had several times approached to the very verge of an explanation, from which generally it was she who shrank with a shy prolonging of that delicious uncertainty which was no uncertainty at all. How could Lottie have any doubt? It was not necessary even for her to say to herself that he was good and true. True!—she no more thought of falsehood than Eve had thought of the serpent before he hissed his first question into her ear. She did not understand what lying meant, practical lying of this kind. She let the sweet current sweep her on with many a heart-beat; but why should she be distrustful of it? What could love lead to but happiness? Lottie could not think of anything more.