CHAPTER XIII.
CAPTAIN DESPARD.
MORNING service at the Abbey was more business-like than the severe ritual in the afternoon. The evening prayers were more pleasurable. Strangers came to them, new faces, all the visitors about, and there could be no doubt that the Signor chose his anthems with a view to the new people who were always coming and going. Sometimes representatives from every quarter of England, from the Continent—members of “the other church” even, which Anglicanism venerates and yearns after: and people from America, pilgrims to the shrine of the past, would gather within the Abbey, and carry away the fame of the music and the beautiful church to all the winds. The staff of the Abbey was pleasantly excited, the service was short, the whole ritual was pleasurable. It was the dull hour in the afternoon when it is good for people to be occupied in such an elevating way, and when, coming in with the fresh air hanging about you in the summer, out of the sunshine, to feel the house so shady and cool—or in winter from the chill and cold out of doors to a blazing fire, and lamps, and candles, and tea—you had just time for a little lounge before dressing for dinner, and so cheated away the heaviest hour of the day. But in the morning it was business. The Minor Canons felt it, getting up from their breakfast to sing their way steadily through litany and versicles. And nobody felt it more than the old Chevaliers as they gathered in their stalls, many of them white-headed, tottering, one foot in the grave. It was the chief occupation of their lives—all that they were now obliged to do. Their whole days were shaped for this. When the bells began the doors would open, the veterans come out, one by one, some of them battered enough, with medals on their coats. Captain Despard was the most jaunty of the brotherhood. Indeed he was about the youngest of all, and it had been thought a bad thing for the institution when a man not much over fifty was elected. He was generally the last to take his place, hurrying in fresh and debonair, with his flower in his coat, singing with the choir whenever the music pleased him, and even now and then softly accompanying the Minor Canon, with a cheerful sense that his adhesion to what was being said must always be appreciated. His responses were given with a grand air, as if he felt himself to be paying a compliment to the Divine Hearer. And indeed, though it was the great drawback of his existence to be compelled to be present there every morning of his life, still when he was there he enjoyed it. He was part of the show. The beautiful church, the fine music, and Captain Despard, had all, he thought, a share in the silent enthusiasm of the general congregation. And Captain Despard was so far right that many of the congregation, especially those who came on Sundays and holidays, the townsfolk, the tobacconists, and tradespeople, and the girls from the workroom, looked upon him with the greatest admiration, and pointed out to each other, sometimes awed and respectful, sometimes tittering behind their prayer-books, where “the Captain” sat in state. The Captain was a “fine man” everybody allowed—well proportioned, well preserved—a young man of his age; and his age was mere boyhood in comparison with many of his peers and brethren. It was ridiculous to see him there among all those old fellows, the girls said; and as for Polly, as she slipped humbly into a free seat, the sight of him sitting there in his stall quite overpowered her. If all went well, she herself would have a place there by-and-by—not in the stalls indeed, but in the humble yet dignified places provided for the families of the Chevaliers. It must not be supposed that even the Chevaliers’ stalls were equal to those provided for the hierarchy of the Abbey. They were a lower range, and on a different level altogether, but still they were places of dignity. Captain Despard put his arms upon the carved supports of his official seat, and looked around him like a benevolent monarch. When anyone asked him a question as he went or came he was quite affable, and called to the verger with a condescending readiness to oblige.
“You must find a place for this gentleman, Wykeham,” he would say; “this gentleman is a friend of mine.” Wykeham only growled at these recommendations, but Captain Despard passed on to his stall with the air of having secured half a dozen places at least; and his protégés felt a vague belief in him, even when they did not find themselves much advanced by it. And there he sat, feeling that every change in his position was noted, and that he himself was an essential part of the show—that show which was so good for keeping up all the traditions of English society, making the Church respected, and enforcing attention to religion—indeed, a very handsome compliment to the Almighty himself.
Captain Despard, however, though he admired himself so much, was not, as has been already hinted, proportionately admired by his brother Chevaliers, and it was something like a surprise to him when he found himself sought by two of them at once, as they came out of the Abbey. One of these was Captain Temple, who had encountered Lottie on the evening before, going alone to the Deanery. None of all the Chevaliers of St. Michael’s was so much respected as this old gentleman. He was a little man, with white hair, not remarkable in personal appearance, poor, and old; but he was all that a Chevalier ought to be, sans reproche. The story of his early days was the ordinary one of a poor officer without friends or interest; but in his later life there had happened to him something which everybody knew. His only daughter had married a man greatly above her in station, a member of a noble family, to the great admiration and envy of all beholders. She was a beautiful girl, very delicate and sensitive; but no one thought of her qualities in comparison with the wonderful good fortune that had befallen her. A girl that had been changed at a stroke from poor little Mary Temple, the poor Chevalier’s daughter, into the Honourable Mrs. Dropmore, with a chance of a Viscountess’s coronet! was ever such good luck heard of? Her father and mother were congratulated on all sides with malign exuberance. Mrs. Temple got credit for being the cleverest of mothers, that applause, which in England means insult, being largely showered upon her. Whether she deserved it, poor soul! is nothing to this history; but if so, she soon had her reward. The girl who had been so lucky was carried off summarily from the father and mother who had nothing else to care for in the world. They were not allowed to see her, or even to communicate with her but in the most limited way. They bore everything, these poor people, for their child’s sake, encouraging each other not to complain, to wait until her sweetness had gained the victory, as sweetness and submission are always said to do—and encouraging her to think only of her husband, to wait and be patient until the prejudices of his family were dispelled. But this happy moment never came for poor Mary. She died after a year’s marriage—wailing for her mother, who was not allowed to come near her, and did not even know of her illness. This had almost killed the old people too—and it had pointed many a moral all the country round; and now this incident, which had nothing to do with her, came in to influence the career of Lottie Despard. It was Captain Temple who first came up to his brother Chevalier as he strolled through the nave of St. Michael’s, on his way out from the service. A great many people always lingered in the nave to get every note of the Signor’s voluntary, and it was Captain Despard’s practice to take a turn up and down to exhibit himself in this last act of the show before it was over. The sun shone in from the high line of south windows, throwing a thousand varieties of colour on the lofty clustered pillars, and the pavement all storied with engraved stones and brasses. The Captain sauntered up and down, throwing out his chest, and conscious of admiration round him, while the music rolled forth through the splendid space, with a voice proportioned to it, and groups of the early worshippers stood about listening, specks in the vastness of the Abbey. Just as it ended, with an echoing thunder of sweet sound, the old Captain, putting on his hat at the door, encountered the younger warrior for whom he had been lying in wait.
“May I speak a word to you, Captain Despard?” he said.
“Certainly, my dear sir; if I can be of use to you in any way, command me,” said Captain Despard, with the most amiable flourish of his hat. But he was surprised; for Captain Temple was a man who “kept his distance,” and had never shown any symptom of admiration for the other Chevalier.
“You will forgive me speaking,” said the old man. “But I know that your evenings are often engaged. You have many occupations; you are seldom at home in the evening?”
“My friends are very kind,” said Captain Despard, with another flourish. “As a matter of fact, I—dine out a great deal. I am very often engaged.”
“I thought so. And your son—very often dines out too. May I ask as a favour that you will allow me to constitute myself the escort of Miss Despard when she is going anywhere in the evening? I had that pleasure last night,” said the old man. “I am a very safe person, I need not say: and fond of—young people. It would be a great pleasure to me.”
Captain Despard listened with some surprise. Perhaps he saw the reproach intended, but was too gaily superior to take any notice of it. When the other had ended, he took off his hat again, and made him a still more beautiful bow. “How glad I am,” he said, “to be able to give you a great pleasure so easily! Certainly, Captain Temple, if my little girl’s society is agreeable to you.”
“She is at an age when she wants—someone to watch over her,” said the old Captain. “She is very sweet—and very handsome, Captain Despard.”
“Is she?” said the other, indifferently. “A child, my dear sir, nothing more than a child; but good looks belong to her mother’s family—without thinking of my own side of the house.”
“She is very handsome. A mother is a great loss to a girl at that age.”
“You think it is a want that ought to be supplied,” said Captain Despard, with a laugh, stroking his moustache. “Perhaps you are right—perhaps you are right. Such an idea, I allow, has several times crossed my own mind.”
“Despard,” said another voice, behind him, “I’ve got something to say to ye. When ye’re at leisure, me dear fellow, step into my place.”
“Don’t let me detain you,” said the other old man, hurrying away. His kind stratagem had not succeeded. He was half sorry—and yet, as he had already prophesied its failure to his wife, he was not so much displeased after all. Major O’Shaughnessy, who was a heavy personage, hobbled round to the other side.
“Despard,” he said, “me dear friend! I’ve got something to say to you. It’s about Lottie, me boy.”
“About Lottie?—more communications about Lottie. I’ve had about enough of her, O’Shaughnessy. There is that solemn old idiot asking if he may escort her when she goes anywhere. Is he going to give his wife poison, and offer himself to me as a son-in-law?” said the Captain, with a laugh.
“I’ll go bail he didn’t tell you what I’m going to tell you. Listen, Despard. My pretty Lottie—she’s but a child, and she’s as pretty a one as you’d wish to see: well, it’s a lover she’s gone and got for herself. What d’ye think of that? Bless my soul, a lover! What do you make of that, me fine fellow?” cried the Major, rubbing his fat hands. He was large of bulk, like his wife, and round and shining, with a bald head, and large hands that looked bald too.
“Is this a joke?” said the Captain, drawing himself up; “by George I’ll have no jokes about my child.”
“Joke? it is my wife told me, that is as fond of the girl as if she were her own. ‘Mark my words,’ says Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, ‘she’ll be the Honourable Mrs. Ridsdale before we know where we are.’ And Temple’s been at ye, Despard; I know it. The man is off his head with his own bad luck, and can’t abide the name of an Honourable. But, from all I hear, there’s little to be said against this one except that he’s poor.”
“The Honourable——” said Captain Despard, with a bewildered look. Then, as the good Major talked, he recovered himself. “Well!” he said, when that speech came to an end, “you may think that it’s very fine, O’Shaughnessy, and I’m sure I am much obliged to you for telling me, but you don’t suppose an Honourable is anything out of the way to me? With her family and her beauty, I would grudge the child to a man without a title anyhow, even if he weren’t poor.”
The Major had his mouth open to speak, but he was so bewildered by this grandeur that he stopped and closed it again, and uttered only a murmur in his throat. “Well!” he said, when he came to himself, “you know your own affairs best; but now that your girl is taken out, and into society, and with her prospects, you’ll be standing by her and giving her more of your company, Despard? Lottie’s the best of girls: but it might make all the difference to her, having her father at home, and always ready to stand up for her—not meaning any offence.”
“Nor is any taken, O’Shaughnessy; make your mind quite easy,” said the Captain, looking extremely stately though his coat was shabby. Then he added, “I’ve got some business down town, and an appointment at twelve o’clock. I’m sorry to hurry off, but business goes before all. Good-morning to you, Major!” he said, kissing the ends of his fingers; then turning back after he had gone a few steps. “My respects to your wife, and thanks for finding it all out; but I’ve known it these three weeks at least, though I’m obliged to her all the same.” And so saying, Captain Despard resumed the humming of his favourite tune, and went swinging his arm down the Dean’s Walk, the rosebud in his coat showing like a decoration, and the whole man jaunty and gay as nobody else was at St. Michael’s. It was a sight to see him as he marched along, keeping time to the air he was humming; a fine figure of a man! The good Major stood and looked after him dum-foundered; he was almost too much taken by surprise to be offended. “Manage your own affairs as you please, my fine fellow!” he said to himself, and went home in a state of suppressed fury. But he relented when he saw Lottie, in her print frock, at the window; and he did not give his wife that insolent message. “What is the use of making mischief?” the Major said.
Captain Despard was not, however, so entirely unmoved as he looked. The news bewildered him first, and then elated him. Where had the girl picked up the Honourable Mr.——, what was his name? He knew so little of Lottie and was so little aware of her proceedings, that he had only heard accidentally of her visits at the Deanery at all, and knew nothing whatever of Rollo. He must inquire, he said to himself; but in the meantime did not this free him from all the hesitations with which, to do him justice, he had been struggling? For if, instead of “presiding over his establishment”—which was how Captain Despard put it—Lottie was to be the mistress of a house of her own and ascend into heaven, as it were, as the Honourable Mrs. Something-or-other, there would be no doubt that Captain Despard would be left free as the day to do what pleased himself. This wonderful piece of news seemed to get into his veins and send the blood coursing more quickly there, and into his head, and made that whirl with an elation which was perfectly vague and indefinite. With Lottie as the Honourable Mrs. So-and-so, all obstacles were removed out of his own way. Law did not count; the Captain was afraid more or less of his daughter, but he was not at all afraid of his son. The Honourable Something-or-other! Captain Despard did not even know his name or anything about him, but already various privileges seemed to gleam upon him through this noble relation. No doubt such a son-in-law would be likely to lend a gentleman, who was not over-rich and connected with him by close family ties, a small sum now and then; or probably he might think it necessary for his own dignity to make an allowance to his wife’s father to enable him to appear as a gentleman ought; and in the shooting season he would naturally, certainly, give so near a relation a standing invitation to the shooting-box which, by right of his rank, he must inevitably possess somewhere or other, either his own or belonging to his noble father. Probably he would have it in his power to point out to Her Majesty or Commander-in-Chief that to keep a man who was an honour to his profession, like Captain Henry Despard, in the position of a Chevalier of St. Michael’s, was equally a disgrace and a danger to the country. Captain Despard seemed to hear the very tone in which this best of friends would certify to his merits. “Speak of failures in arms! What can you expect when General So-and-so is gazetted to the command of an expedition, and Henry Despard is left in a Chevalier’s lodge?” he seemed to hear the unknown say indignantly. Nothing could be more generous than his behaviour; he did nothing but go about the world sounding the Captain’s praises: “I have the honour to be his son-in-law,” this right-thinking young man would say. Captain Despard went down the hill with his head buzzing full of this new personage who had suddenly stepped into his life. His engagement was no more important than to play a game at billiards with one of his town acquaintances, but even there he could not keep from throwing out mysterious hints about some great good fortune which was about to come to him. “What! are you going away, Captain? Are you to have promotion? or is it you they have chosen for the new warden of the Chevaliers?” his associates asked him, half in curiosity, half in sarcasm. “I am not in circumstances,” said the Captain solemnly, “to say what are the improved prospects that are dawning upon my house; but of this you may rest assured—that my friends in adversity will remain my friends in prosperity.” “Bravo, Captain!” cried all his friends. Some of them laughed, but some of them put their faith in Captain Despard. They said to themselves, “He’s fond of talking a bit big, but he’s got a good heart, has the Captain!” and they, too, dreamed of little loans and treats. And, indeed, the Captain got an immediate advantage out of it; for one of the billiard-players, who was a well-to-do tradesman with habits not altogether satisfactory to his friends, gave him a luncheon at the “Black Boar,” not because he expected to profit by the supposed promotion, but to see how many lies the old humbug would tell in half-an-hour, as he himself said; for there are practical democrats to whom it is very sweet to see the pretended aristocrat cover himself with films of lying. The shopkeeper roared with laughter as the Captain gave forth his oracular sayings. “Go it, old boy!” he said. They all believed, however, more or less, in some good luck that was coming, whatever it might be; and the sensation of faith around him strengthened Captain Despard in his conviction. He resolved to go home and question Lottie after this luncheon; but that was of itself a prolonged feast, and the immediate consequence of it was a disinclination to move, and a sense that it would be just as well for him not to show himself for some little time, “till it had gone off”—for the Captain in some things was a wise man, and prudent as he was wise.