And thus the time went on. Augusta Huntington (Mrs. Daventry) was coming home with her husband in a day or two; and though Lottie thought she would be glad to see her old friend, she had a little secret fear of anything now happening. All was very well as it was. To meet Rollo accidentally as he smoked his cigar on the Slopes would not be so easy if his cousin were at the Deanery. He would not be able to get out so easily, and probably she would find a great many new ways of employing him which would take him out of Lottie’s way. She did not like to look forward to it; and after Augusta’s visit Rollo too would go away. It would be almost winter, and he could not stop any longer. All the shooting and the deerstalking and the round of visits to great people, on which he ought to be going, he had given up for her. What could the reason be but for her? The thought that this moment of happiness was approaching an end, was sad to Lottie, even though it should, as was natural, be followed by greater happiness still. How her dull life had flowered and blossomed out, made beautiful by the thought that he was near her, this man who loved her—who had loved her long before she had loved him, but whom now she too—! He was near, she remembered every morning when she woke; some time in the day she would be sure to see him—nay, half a dozen times in the day, if only strolling down the Dean’s Walk looking at her window, and in the Abbey, and perhaps, while she took her lesson, listening to her with soft eyes; perhaps walking home with her; perhaps just turning round that old elm-tree on the Slopes as she came out for her evening walk; always looking for her so eagerly, seeking her, with a hundred little tender cares, and something in his eyes which was more than all. Could it be possible to be happier than now? She was keeping off the éclaircissement with delicious shy malice, running away from it, prolonging a little longer, and a little longer, this happy uncertainty. Some time, however, it must come, and then no doubt she would be more happy—though not with such happiness as this.
On one of those lovely russet-coloured afternoons, full of haze made golden by the sunshine, already turning to the west, Lottie, walking up St. Michael’s Hill, towards the Abbey, had seen a fly driving along the street which had caught her eye as she passed. She knew it very well; it was Jobling’s fly—a nice respectable clean cab, looking for all the world like a shabby well-dressed man in a frock coat and high hat. There are many shabby respectable well-preserved things which resemble each other. The reason why this neat and clean vehicle caught her eye was that the man who was driving it wore a white wedding-favour, which is a thing which no person of twenty can see without remark. Lottie, like others of her age, was half amused, half interested, and could not help wondering who it was. It was going to the railway, and some one looked out hastily as Lottie passed, looking at her, the girl thought, withdrawing as hastily again when she was seen to turn her eyes that way. Who could it be? Lottie thought she would ask Law, who knew all the news, who had been married; but she had forgotten all about it long before she saw Law. She had too many things to think of and to do, to remember so small a matter as that; and Law did not come in till late. When he did come they took their simple supper together amicably, not saying much; but she forgot the question. Now that Lottie did not bully him they were very good friends. They said a few friendly words to each other, and that was all, and then they bade each other good night. They were all alone, the Captain having left home for a few days, and had a very good opportunity for talk. But Lottie did not seize the opportunity to put disagreeable questions. She was altogether so much more amicable than she had been used to be.
Three days after, Captain Despard was to come home. It did not disturb Lottie that Captain Temple questioned her very closely as to where her father had gone. “Was he alone, do you know?” the old man said. “Alone? Oh, yes, I suppose so,” said Lottie. What did it matter? She could see Rollo behind the old beech-tree. Of course it was a drawback that the Captain should be with her so often, but it pleased the kind old man; they met and they had their little talk, which perhaps was all the more unlike the common intercourse of earth that worlds of meaning had to be trusted to a tone, to a sudden meeting in the dusk (when you could see nobody, Captain Temple said) of two pairs of eyes: and when all is unutterable is not this as good a way of utterance as any? And then Lottie said she must go home. Papa was coming home. He had been gone three days. As they went back the old Captain was more and more kind to Lottie. He kept her at the door for a moment with her hand between his two old kind hands. “My dear, don’t be afraid to send for me or to come to me when you want anything—my wife and I will always be ready to be of use to you. You will not forget, Lottie?” “Oh, no, Captain Temple,” she said; “you are always so kind to me; how could I forget?” And she went in smiling to herself, wondering what he could think she would want. But he was always kind, as kind as a father; far, far kinder than her own father, she could not but remember, with a little shrug of her shoulders. Had papa come in? Mary said “No,” and Lottie went into the little dining-room to see that the supper was prettily arranged. There was nothing more than cold meat, and cheese, and bread and butter; but the bouquet in the middle, which was made up of brilliantly-coloured leaves, was pretty; and the white tablecloth and the plates and glasses looked bright. In her happiness she began to sing softly as she pulled the leaves into a prettier form in the long clear glass they were grouped in. The lamp was lighted, the table was bright, the door stood open. Lottie, through her singing, heard steps coming up the pavement outside, and voices. All of a sudden she paused, thinking she heard her father’s voice. Who could he be bringing with him, without any preparation? She cast a hasty glance at the beef, and saw with satisfaction that there would be enough for a stranger; enough, but not perhaps too much—he might have let her know. Then she heard his voice quite close to the window, which was open, for the night was warm for October—“Look in, and you will see her,” he said. “Oh, I know her very well,” said another voice, with a laugh. Lottie turned round, with her heart beating, towards the window, where something white was visible. What could it mean?—was it a woman?—a woman with her father at this hour of the evening? She grew pale, she could not tell why, and gazed first at the window, then at the door, with a flutter of tears which she could not understand. How foolish it was! “Come in—this way—don’t be afraid! The passage is narrow and the house is small, but there is plenty of room for happiness when once you are in it,” said her father’s voice in the doorway, coming through the little crooked hall. Then the door was pushed wide open, and he came in leading some one by the hand. It was a woman very gaily dressed, with a mountain of brown hair and a white bonnet perched upon it, who laughed, but was nervous too; upon whom Lottie gazed with wondering eyes and blanched cheeks. Who was this whom he was bringing in without warning, without notice? The Captain was very jaunty; his hat was still on his head over his left ear. He had a bunch of violets somewhat crushed in his coat. He smiled a smile which was rather ghastly as Lottie gazed, struck dumb with the horror of what was coming. “Mrs. Despard,” he said with a flourish, “let me present you with a ready-made daughter. Lottie, my child, come here and welcome your new mamma.”
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE CAPTAIN’S WIFE
Lottie could do nothing but stand bewildered and gaze at this new claimant of her regard. Surprise took all the meaning, all the intelligence out of her face. She stood with her eyes wide open, her lips dropping apart. Her new mamma! She had the indescribable misfortune of not being able to think upon her own mother with any reverence or profound affection. Mrs. Despard was but “poor mamma” to her—no more. Lottie could not shut her eyes to the deficiencies of that poor woman, of whom the best that could be said was that she was dead, and beyond the reach of blame. There was no cherished and vaunted idea, therefore, to be outraged; but perhaps all the more Lottie’s soul rose up in rebellion against the title as applied to anyone else. She had known what was coming, and yet she was as entirely taken by surprise as if this idea had never been suggested to her. With eyes suddenly cleared out of all the dazzling that had clouded them, she looked at the woman thus brought in upon her—this intruder, who, however, had more right to be there than even Lottie had—the Captain’s wife. If this event had happened a month or two ago, while she retained all her natural vigour, no doubt, foolish as it was, Lottie would have made some show of resistance. She would have protested against the sudden arrival. She would have withdrawn from company so undesirable. She would have tried, however absurd it might have been, to vindicate herself, to hold the new-comer at arm’s length. But this had all become impossible now. At no other moment could she have been so entirely taken by surprise. All the apprehensions about her father which had been communicated to her on former occasions had died out of her mind. She had never said very much about this danger, or been alarmed by it, as Law was. It had not occurred to her to inquire how it would affect herself. And now she was taken altogether by surprise. She stood struck dumb with amazement, and gazed at the woman, instinctively taking in every particular of her appearance, as only a woman could do. Unconsciously to herself, Lottie appraised the other, saw through her, calculating the meaning of her and all her finery. No man could have done it, and she was not herself aware of having done it; but Polly knew very well what that look meant. Notwithstanding her own confidence in her bridal array, even Polly felt it coming to pieces, felt it being set down for what it was worth; and, naturally, the feeling that this was so made her angry and defiant.
“How do you do, miss?” she said, feeling that even her voice sounded more vulgar than it need have done. “I hope as we shall be good friends. Your pa has played you a nice trick, hasn’t he? But men is men, and when they’re like he is there’s allowances to be made for them.” Polly was aware that this speech was in her very worst style. She had not intended to call Lottie Miss; but with that girl standing staring, in a plain cotton frock, looking a lady, every inch of her, from the crown of her head to the sole of her foot—a bride, in a fine bonnet covered with orange-blossoms, and a bright silk dress that matched, was not in possession of her faculties. Bold as she was, she could not but be conscious of a tremor which mingled with her very defiance. “Well, I’m sure, what a pretty table!” she resumed. “They might have known we were coming home, Captain. There ain’t much on it, perhaps—not like the nice chicken and sausages you’d have got at mother’s. But mother would never have set it out so pretty, that I’ll allow.” Then Polly looked round upon the dim old walls, faintly lighted by the lamp. “So this is the dining-room,” she said; “this is my new ’ome. To think I never should have been inside the door till now! Let me alone, Harry. I don’t want none of your huggings. I want to make acquaintance with my new ’ome. You know well enough I married just as much for the sake of living in the Lodges as for you—don’t you, now?” she said, with a laugh. Perhaps only fathers and mothers, and not even these long-suffering persons always, can look on at the endearments of newly-married couples with tolerance. Lottie was offended, as if their endearments had been insulting to herself. She looked at them with an annoyed contempt. No sympathetic touch of fellow-feeling moved her. To compare this, as she thought, hideous travesty of love with her own, would have but hardened her the more against them. She turned away, and shut the window, and drew down the blind with an energy uncalled for by such simple duties. When the Captain led his wife upstairs, that she might take off her bonnet, Lottie sat down and tried to think. But she could not think. It had all happened in a moment, and her mind was in an angry confusion, not capable of reason. She could not realise what had happened, or what was going to happen—an indignant sense of being intruded upon, of having to receive and be civil to an unwelcome visitor, and an impatience almost beyond bearing of this strait into which her father had plunged her, filled her mind. Something more, she dimly felt, lay behind—something more important, more serious; but in the meantime she did not feel that her occupation was gone, or her kingdom taken from her. A disagreeable person to entertain—a most unwelcome, uncongenial guest. For the moment she could not realise anything more. But her mind was in the most painful ferment, her heart beating. How was she to behave to this new, strange visitor? What was she to say to her? She must sit down at table with her, she supposed. She was Captain Despard’s—guest. What more? But Lottie knew very well she was something more.
Mary came in, bringing tea, which she placed at the head of the table, where Lottie usually sat. Mary’s eyes were dancing in her head with curiosity and excitement. “What is it, miss? oh, what is it, miss? What’s happened?” said Mary. But Lottie made her no reply. She did not herself know what had happened. She waited for the return of “the woman” with a troubled mind. Everything was ready, and Lottie stood by ready to take her seat the moment they should come back. She heard them come downstairs, laughing and talking. The woman’s voice filled all the house. It flowed on in a constant stream, loud enough to be heard in the kitchen, where Mary was listening with all her ears. “Very nice on the whole,” the new-comer was saying; “but of course I shall make a few changes. I’ve always heard that a room should be like its mistress. There’s not half enough pretty things to please me. I do love a pretty room, and plenty of antimacassars and pink ribbons. Oh, I shan’t tell you what I am going to do to it!—not a word. Gentlemen must be taught their place. I am going to make it look very nice, and that should be enough for you. Oh yes, I am quite ready for supper. I haven’t touched a bit of anything since five o’clock, when we had tea. Poor Harry! I can see how you have been put upon.” This was said at the foot of the stairs, where not only Lottie but Mary could hear every word. Mary understood it all, but Lottie did not understand it. She could not receive Polly’s programme into her mind, nor think what was meant by it. While she still stood waiting, the two came in—the bride, with her tower of hair upon her head, and all her cheap ribbons and bangles. She came in, drawing herself away from the Captain’s encircling arm. “Behave!” said Polly, shaking a finger at him; and she swept in and round the table, almost pushing against the surprised spectator who stood looking on, and deposited herself in Lottie’s chair. “It’s best to begin as you mean to end,” said Polly; “I’m not tired to speak of, and I’ll take my own place at once. You can sit here, Miss Lottie, between him and me.”
Still, Lottie did not know what to think or to say. She stood still, bewildered, and then took the place pointed out to her. What did it mean? It was easy enough to see what it meant, if her head had not been so confused. “Yes, dear,” said Polly, “a little bit of cold beef—just a very little bit. I am not fond of cold victuals. That’s not how we’ve been living, is it? and that’s not how I mean you to live. Oh, no, I don’t blame Lottie. Unmarried girls don’t know any better. They don’t study a man like his wife knows how to do. I can see how it’s been; oh, I can see! Too many mouths to feed, and the meat has to be bought according. Who is your butcher, miss? Oh, him! I don’t hold with him. I shall send for Jones to-morrow; he’s the man for my money. Wasn’t that a lovely sweetbread that we had at our wedding breakfast? You didn’t remark? Oh, nonsense, I’m sure you remarked! It was a beauty! Well, that was from Jones’s. I’ll send for him to-morrow. Do you take sugar in your tea, Miss Lottie? Dear! I shouldn’t have thought it; so careful a young lady. ’Enery, darling, what are you drinking? Do you take tea?”
“I don’t mind what I take, my love, so long as you give it me,” said the gallant Captain; “tea or poison, I’d take it from that hand; and I don’t want anything but to look at you at the head of my table. This is how it should be. To think how long I have been denying myself, forgetting what happiness was!”
“You poor dear Harry! all for the sake of your children! Well, I hope you’ll find it repaid. They ought to be grateful. The times and times that you and me has talked it over, and given it up for their sakes! You’re very quiet, miss; you don’t say much,” added Polly; “but I dare say it was a surprise to you, seeing me come home?”