“OH, he did not say much,” Law replied to Lottie’s questioning when he went home in the afternoon. “He was very jolly—asked me to stay, and gave me lunch. How they live, those fellows! Cutlets, and cold grouse, and pâté de foie gras—something like. You girls think you know about housekeeping; you only know how to pinch and scrape, that’s all.”
Lottie did not reply, as she well might, that pâtés de foie gras were not bought off such allowances as hers; she answered rather with feminine heat, as little to the purpose as her brother’s taunt, “As if it mattered what we ate! If you had grouse or if you had bread-and-cheese, what difference does it make? You care for such mean things, and nothing at all about your character or your living. What did Mr. Ashford say?”
“My character?” said Law. “I’ve done nothing wrong. As for my living, I’m sure I don’t know how that’s to be got, neither does he. He thinks I should emigrate or go into the army—just what I think myself. He’s very jolly; a kind of man that knows what you mean, and don’t just go off on his own notions. I think,” said Law, “that he thinks it very queer of you, when you could set me up quite comfortably, either in the army or abroad, not to do it. He did not say much, but I could see that he thought it very queer.”
“I—could set you up—what is it you mean, Law?” Lottie was too much surprised at first to understand. “How could I set you up?” she went on, faltering. “You don’t mean that you told Mr. Ashford about—— Oh, Law, you are cruel. Do you want to bring us down to the dust, and leave us no honour, no reputation at all? First thinking to enlist as a common soldier, and then—me!”
“Well, then you. Why not you as well as me, Lottie? You’ve just as good a right to work as I have; you’re the eldest. If I am to be bullied for not reading, which I hate, why should you refuse to sing, which you like? Why, you’re always squalling all over the place, even when there’s nobody to hear you—you could make a very good living by it; and what’s more,” said Law, with great gravity, “be of all the use in the world to me.”
“How could I be of use to you?” said Lottie, dropping her work upon her knee and looking up at him with wondering eyes. This was a point of view which had not struck her before, but she had begun to perceive that her indignation was wasted, and that it was she only in her family who had any idea that a girl should be spared anything. “Law,” she said piteously, “do you think it is because I don’t want to work? Am I ever done working? You do a little in the morning, but I am at it all the day. Do you think Mary could keep the house as it is and do everything?”
“Pshaw!” answered Law, “anybody could do that.”
Lottie was not meek by nature, and it was all she could do to restrain her rising temper. “Mary has wages, and I have none,” she said. “I don’t mind the work; but if there is one difference between the common people and gentlefolk, it is that girls who are ladies are not sent out to work. It is for men to work out in the world, and for women to work at home. Would you like everybody to be able to pay a shilling and go and see your sister? Oh, Law, it is for you as much as for me that I am speaking. Everybody free to stare and to talk, and I standing there before them all, to sing whatever they told me, and to be cheered, perhaps, and people clapping their hands at me—at me, your sister, a girl—— Law! you would not have it; I know you could not bear it. You would rush and pull me away, and cover me with a cloak, and hide me from those horrible people’s eyes.”
“Indeed I should do nothing of the sort,” said Law; “I’d clap you too—I should like it. If they were hissing it would be a different matter. Besides, you know, you could change your name. They all change their names. You might be Miss Smith, which would hurt nobody. Come, now, if you are going to be reasonable, Lottie, and discuss the matter—why, your great friend Miss Huntington sang at a concert once—not for any good, not to be paid for it—only to make an exhibition of herself (and she was not much to look at either). Don’t you remember? It would be nothing worse than that, and heaps of ladies do that. Then it is quite clear you must do something, and what else would you like to do?”
Lottie frowned a little, not having taken this question into consideration, as it would have been right for her to do; but the things that concerned other people had always seemed to her so much more important. She never had any doubt of her own capabilities and energies. When the question was thus put to her she paused.
“Just now I am at home; I have plenty to do,” she said. Then, after another pause, “If things change here—if I cannot stay here, Law, why shouldn’t we go together? You must get an appointment, and I would take care of you. I could make the money go twice as far as you would. I could help you if you had work to do at home—copying or anything—I would do it. It would not cost more for two of us than for one. I could do everything for you, even your washing; and little things besides. Oh, I don’t doubt I could get quantities of little things to do,” said Lottie, with a smile of confidence in her own powers; “and no one need be the wiser. You would be thought to have enough for us both.”
“Listen to me, now,” said Law, who had shown many signs of impatience, not to say consternation. “What you mean is (if you know what you mean), that you intend to live upon me. You needn’t stare; you don’t think what you’re saying, but that is what you really mean when all is done. Look here, Lottie; if I were to get a place I should live in lodgings. I should bring in other fellows to see me. I shouldn’t want to have my sister always about. As for not spending a penny more, that means that you would give me dinners like what we have now; but when I have anything to live on, of my own, I shall not stand that. I shall not be content, I can tell you, to live as we live now. I want to be free if I get an appointment; I don’t want to have you tied round my neck like a millstone; I want to have my liberty and enjoy myself. If it comes to that, I’d rather marry than have a sister always with me; but at first I shall want to have my fling and enjoy myself. And what is the use of having money,” said Law, with the genuine force of conviction, “unless you can spend it upon yourself?”
Lottie was altogether taken by surprise. It was the first time they had thus discussed the question. She made no reply to this utterance of sound reason. She sat with her work on her knee, and her hands resting upon it, staring at her brother. This revelation of his mind was to her altogether new.
“But, on the other side,” said Law, feeling more and more confidence in himself as he became used to the sound of his own voice, and felt himself to be unanswerable, “on the other side, a singer gets jolly pay—far better than any young fellow in an office; and you could quite well afford to give me an allowance, so that I might get into the army as a fellow ought. You might give me a hundred or two a year and never feel it; and with that I could live upon my pay. And you needn’t be afraid that I should be ashamed of you,” said generous Law; “not one bit. I should stand by you and give you my countenance as long as you conducted yourself to my satisfaction. I should never forsake you. When you sang anywhere I’d be sure to go and clap you like a madman, especially if you went under another name (they all do); that would leave me more free. Now you must see, Lottie, a young fellow in an office could not be much good to you, but you could be of great use to me.”
Still Lottie did not make any reply. No more terrible enlightenment ever came to an unsuspecting listener. She saw gradually rising before her as he spoke, not only a new Law, but a new version of herself till this moment unknown to her. This, as was natural, caught her attention most; it made her gasp with horror and affright. Was this herself—Lottie? It was the Lottie her brother knew. That glimpse of herself through Law’s eyes confounded her. She seemed to see the coarse and matter-of-fact young woman who wanted to live upon her brother’s work; to make his dinners scanty in order that she might have a share, to interfere with his companions and his pleasures—so distinctly, that her mouth was closed and her very heart seemed to stop beating. Was this herself? Was this how she appeared to other people’s eyes? She was too much thunderstruck, overawed by it, to say anything. The strange difference between this image and her own self-consciousness, her conviction that it was for Law’s advantage she had been struggling; her devotion to the interests of the family before everything, filled her with confusion and bewilderment. Could it be she that was wrong, or was it he that was unjust and cruel? The wonder and suddenness of it gave more poignant and terrible force to the image of her which was evidently in Law’s mind. All the selfish obtuseness of understanding, the inability to perceive what she meant, or to understand the object of her anxiety, which had so wounded and troubled her in Law, her brother had found in her. To him it was apparent that what Lottie wanted was not his good, but that she might have some one to work for her, some one to save her from working. She gazed not at Law, but at the visionary representation of herself which Law was seeing, with a pang beyond any words. She could not for the moment realise the brighter image which he made haste to present before her of the generous sister who made him an allowance, and enabled him to enter the army “as a fellow ought,” and of whom he promised never to be ashamed. It is much to be doubted whether Lottie had any warm sense of humour at the best of times; certainly she showed herself quite devoid of it now. She was so hurt and sore that she could not speak. It was not true. How could he be so cruel and unjust to her? But yet could it be at all true? Was it possible that this coarse picture was like Lottie, would be taken for Lottie by anyone else? She kept looking at him after he had stopped speaking, unable to take her eyes from him, looking like a dumb creature who has no other power of remonstrance. Perhaps in other circumstances Lottie would have been so foolish and childish as to cry; now she battled vaguely, dismally, with a sense of heartbreaking injustice, yet asking herself could any part of it be true?
“Don’t stare at me so,” said Law; “you look as if you had never seen a fellow before. Though he was civil and did not say anything, it was easy to see that was what old Ashford thought. And I’ve got to go back to him to-morrow, if that will please you; and, by the way, he said he’d perhaps come and see you and tell you what he thought. By Jove, it’s getting late. If I don’t get out at once he’ll come and palaver, and I shall have to stay in and lose my afternoon, as I lost the morning. I’m off, Lottie. You need not wait for me for tea.”
It did not make much difference to her when he went away, plunging down the little staircase in two or three long steps. Lottie sat like an image in stone, all the strength taken from her. She seemed to have nothing left to say to herself—no ground to stand on, no self-explanation to offer. She had exhausted all her power of self-assertion for the moment; now she paused and looked at herself as her father and brother saw her—a hard, scanty, parsimonious housekeeper, keeping them on the simplest fare, denying them indulgences, standing in their way. What if she kept the house, as she fondly hoped, like a gentleman’s house, sweet and fresh, and as fair as its faded furniture permitted? What did they care for tidiness and order? What if she managed, by infinite vigilance and precaution, to pay her bills and keep the credit of the household, so far as her power went, unimpaired? They did not mind debts and duns, except at the mere moment of encountering the latter, and were entirely indifferent to the credit of the name. She was in her father’s way, who before this time would have married the woman who brushed past Lottie on the Slopes but for having this useless grown- up daughter, whom he did not know how to dispose of; and if Law got an appointment (that almost impossible, yet fondly cherished, expectation which had kept a sort of forlorn brightness in the future), it now turned out that she would be in Law’s way as much or more than in her father’s. Lottie’s heart contracted with pain; her spirit failed her. She, who had felt so strong, so capable, so anxious to inspire others with her own energy and force; she, who had felt herself the support of her family, their standard-bearer, the only one who was doing anything to uphold the falling house—in a moment she had herself fallen too, undermined even in her own opinion. Many a blow and thrust had she received in the course of her combative life, and given back with vigour and a stout heart. Never before had she lost her confidence in herself; the certainty that she was doing her best, that with her was the redeeming force, the honourable principle which might yet convert the others, and save the family, and elevate the life of the house. What she felt now was that she herself, the last prop of the Despards, was overthrown and lying in ruin. Was it possible that she was selfish too, seeking her own ease like the rest, avoiding what she disliked just the same as they did? A sudden moisture of intense pain suffused Lottie’s eyes. She was too heartstruck, too fallen to weep. She covered her face with her hands, though there was no one to cover it from, with the natural gesture of anguish, seeking to be hidden even from itself.
Lottie did not pay much attention, although she heard steps coming up the stair. What did it matter? Either it was Law, who had stricken her so wantonly to the ground; or her father, who did not care what happened to her; or Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, who did not count. Few other people mounted the stairs to the little drawing-room in Captain Despard’s house. But when she raised her head, all pale and smileless, and saw that the visitor was Mr. Ashford, Lottie scarcely felt that this was a stranger, or that there was any occasion to exert herself and change her looks and tones. Did not he think so too? She rose up, putting down her work, and made him a solemn salutation. She did not feel capable of anything more. The Minor Canon drew back his hand, which she did not see, with the perturbation of a shy man repulsed. Lottie was not to him so unimportant a person as she was to her brother. She was surrounded by all the unconscious state of womanhood and mystery and youth—a creature with qualities beyond his ken, wonderful to him, as unknown though visible, and attracting his imagination more than any other of these wonderful mystic creatures, of whom he had naturally encountered many in his life, had ever done. His heart, which had so swelled with pity and admiration on Sunday evening, was not less sympathetic and ad miring now, notwithstanding that it was through Law’s eyes that he had been seeing her to-day; and this repulse, which was so unlike her candour and frankness yesterday, gave him a little pain. He wanted to be of use to her, and he wanted to tell her so—and to repel him while he had these generous purposes in his mind seemed hard. He sat down, however, embarrassed, on the chair she pointed him to; and looking at her, when thus brought nearer, he discovered, even with his short-sighted eyes, how pale she was and how woebegone. Some one had been vexing her, no doubt, poor child! This took the shyness out of Mr. Ashford’s voice.
“I have come to make my report,” he said, in as even a tone as he could command, “about Lawrence. He has told you—that he has been with me most of the day?”
“Yes.” When Lottie saw that more than this monosyllable was expected from her, she made an effort to rouse herself. “I fear it is not anything very encouraging that you have to say?”
“I have two things to say, Miss Despard—if you will permit me. Did you ever read Lord Chesterfield’s Letters? But no, perhaps they are not reading for such as you. There are many wickednesses in them which would disgust you, but there is one most tragic, touching thing in them——”
He made a pause; and Lottie, who was young and variable, and ready to be interested in spite of herself, looked up and asked “What is that?”
“I wonder if I may say it?—it is the effort of the father to put himself—not a good man, but a fine, subtle, ambitious, aspiring spirit—into his son; and the complete and terrible failure of the attempt.”
“I do not know—what that can have to do with Law and me.”
“Yes. Pardon me for comparing you in your generous anxiety to a man who was not a hero. But, Miss Despard, you see what I mean. You will never put yourself into Law. He does not understand you; he is not capable of it. You must give up the attempt. I am only a new acquaintance, but I think I must be an old friend, somehow. I want you to give up the attempt.”
He looked at her with such a kind comprehension and pity in his eyes, that Lottie’s heart sprang up a little from its profound depression, like a trodden-down flower, to meet this first gleam of sunshine. She did not quite see what he meant even now, but it was something that meant kindness and approval of her. “He cannot think that of me!” she said to herself.
“I am glad you will hear me out,” he said, with a look of relief, “for the rest is better. Law is not stupid. He would not be your brother if he were stupid. He is a little too prudent, I think. He will not hear of emigrating, because he has no money, nor of trying for the army, because he could not live on his pay. Right enough, perhaps, in both cases; but a hot-headed boy would not mind these considerations, and a fellow of resolution might succeed in either way.”
“He has always been like that,” said Lottie. “You see Law does not want anything very much except to be as well off as possible. He would never make up his mind what to try for. He says, anything; and anything means—— Oh! Mr. Ashford, I want to ask you something about myself. Do you think it is just as bad and selfish of me to refuse to be—oh! a public singer? I thought I was right,” said Lottie, putting out her hands with unconscious dramatic action, as if groping her way; “but now I am all in doubt. I don’t know what to think. Is it just the same? Is it as bad of me?”
She looked at him anxiously, as if he could settle the question, and the Minor Canon did not know what reply to make. He was on both sides—feeling with her to the bottom of his heart; yet seeing, too, where the reason lay.
“I am very sure you are doing nothing either bad or selfish,” he said; but hesitated and added no more.
“You won’t tell me,” she cried; “that must mean that you are against me. Mr. Ashford, I have always heard that there was a great difference between girls and boys; like this: that for a boy to work was always honourable, but for a girl to work was letting down the family. Mamma—I don’t know if she was a good judge—always said so. She said it was better to do anything than work, so as that people should know. There was a lady, who was an officer’s wife, just as good as we were, but they all said she was a governess once, and were disagreeable to her. It seemed a kind of disgrace to all the children. Their mother was a governess——”
“But that is very bad; very cruel,” said the Minor Canon. “I am sure, in your heart, that is not a thing of which you can approve.”
“No,” said Lottie, doubtfully; “except just this—that it would be far more credit, far more right, if the men were to try hard and keep the girls at home. That is what I thought. Oh, it is not the work I think of! Work! I like it. I don’t mind what I do. But there must always be somebody for the work at home. Do you suppose Mary could manage for them if I were not here? There would be twice as much spent, and everything would be different. And do you not think, Mr. Ashford, that it would be more credit to them—better for everyone, more honourable for Law, if he were at work and I at home, rather than that people should say, ‘His sister is a singer?’ Ah! would you let your own sister be a singer if you were as poor as we are? Or would you rather fight it out with the world, and keep her safe at home, only serving you?”
“My sister!” said the Minor Canon. He was half-affronted, half-touched, and wholly unreasonable. “That she should never do! not so long as her brother lived to work for her—nor would I think it fit either that she should serve me.”
“Ah, but there you are wrong,” said Lottie, whose face was lighted up with a smile of triumph. “I thought you would be on my side! But there you are wrong. She would be happy, proud to serve you. Do you think I mean we are to be idle, not to take our share? Oh, no, no! In nature a man works and rests; but a woman never rests. Look at the poor people. The man has his time to himself in the evenings, and his wife serves him. It is quite right—it is her share. I should never, never grumble at that. Only,” cried Lottie, involuntarily clasping her hands, “not to be sent outside to work there! I keep Mary for the name of the thing; because it seems right to have a servant; but if we could not afford to keep Mary do you think I would make a fuss? Oh, no, Mr. Ashford, no! I could do three times what she does. I should not mind what I did. But if it came to going out, to having it known, to letting people say, ‘His sister is a governess,’ or (far worse) ‘His sister is a singer’—it is that I cannot bear.”
Mr. Ashford was carried away by this torrent of words, and by the natural eloquence of her eyes and impassioned voice, and varying countenance. He did not know what to say. He shook his head, but when he came to himself, and found his footing again, made what stand he could. “You forget,” he said, “that all this would be of no use for yourself or your future——”
“For me!” Lottie took the words out of his mouth with a flush and glow of beautiful indignation. “Was it me I was thinking of? Oh, I thought you understood!” she cried.
“Let me speak, Miss Despard. Yes, I understand. You would be their servant; you would work all the brightness of your life away. You would never think of yourself; and when it suited them to make a change—say when it suited Law to marry—you would be thrown aside, and you would find yourself without a home, wearied, worn out with your work, disappointed, feeling the thanklessness, the bitterness of the world.”
Lottie’s face clouded over. She looked at him, half-defiant, half-appealing. “That is not how—one’s brother would behave. You would not do it——”
“No; perhaps I would not do it—but, on the other hand,” said Mr. Ashford, “I might do—what was as bad. I might make a sacrifice. I might—give up marrying the woman whom I loved for my sister’s sake. Would that be a better thing to do?”
Their eyes met when he spoke of the woman he loved—that is, he looked at Lottie, who was gazing intently at him; and strangely enough, they could not tell why, both blushed, as if the sudden contact of their looks had set their faces aglow. Lottie instinctively drew back without knowing it; and he, leaning towards her, repeated, almost with vehemence:
“Would that be a better thing to do?”
Lottie hid her face in her hands. “Oh, no, no!” she said, her sensitive frame trembling. Mr. Ashford was old, and Law was but a boy—how could there be any question of the woman either loved?
“Forgive me, Miss Despard, if I seem to go against you—my heart is all with you; but you ought to be independent,” he said. “Either the woman would be sacrificed or the man would be sacrificed. And that kind of sacrifice is bad for everybody. Don’t be angry with me. Sacrifices generally are bad; the more you do for others, the more selfish they become. Have you not seen that even in your little experience? There are many people who never have it in their power to be independent; but those who have should not neglect it—even if it is not in a pleasant way.”
“Even if it is by—being a singer?” She lifted her head again, and once more fixed upon him eyes which were full of unshed tears. Taking counsel had never been in Lottie’s way; but neither had doubt ever been in her way till now. Everything before had been very plain. Right and wrong—two broad lines straight be fore her; now there was right and wrong on both sides, and her landmarks were removed. She looked at her adviser as women look, to see not only what he said, but whatsoever shade of unexpressed opinion might cross his face.
“It is not so dreadful after all,” he said. “It is better than many other ways. I am afraid life is hard, as you say, upon a girl, Miss Despard. She must be content with little things. This is one of the few ways in which she can really get independence—and—stop, hear me out—the power to help others too.”
Lottie had almost begun a passionate remonstrance; but these last words stopped her. Though she might not like the way, still was it possible that this might be a way of setting everything right? She stopped gazing at her counsellor, her eyelids puckered with anxiety, her face quite colourless, and expressing nothing but this question. Not a pleasant way—a way of martyrdom to her pride—involving humiliation, every pang she could think of; but still, perhaps, a way of setting everything right.