CHAPTER XXIX.
THE HEAVINGS OF THE EARTHQUAKE.
THE next morning dawned very strangely on all the members of the little household. Lottie was down early, as she generally was; but the advantages of early rising were neutralised by the condition of the little maid, Mary, who was too much excited to do her work, and kept continually coming back to pour her doubts and her difficulties into Lottie’s ear. “I can’t get no rest till I’ve told mother,” Mary said. “If there’s anything wrong, mother won’t let me stay, not a day. And even if there’s nothing wrong, I don’t know as I’ll stay. I haven’t got no fault to find with you, Miss; nor the Captain, nor even Mr. Law: though he’s a dreadful bother with his boots cleaning; but to say as you’re beginning as you mean to end, and then to give all that trouble! every blessed thing, I had to drag it upstairs. Mr. Law was very kind; he took up the big box—I couldn’t ha’ done it; but up and down, up and down, all the little boxes and the bags, and the brown paper parcels—‘It saves trouble if you begins as you means to end,’ she says ——”
“I don’t want to hear what Mrs. Despard says,” said Lottie. Mrs. Despard: it was her mother’s name. And though that mother had not been an ideal mother, or one of those who are worshipped in their children’s memories, it is wonderful, what a gush of tender recollections came into Lottie’s mind with the name. Poor mamma! she had been very kind in her way, always ready to indulge and to pardon, if indifferent to what happened in more important matters. She had never exacted anything, never worried her children about idleness or untidiness, or any of those minor sins which generally make a small girl’s life a burden to her. Lottie’s mind went back to her, lying on her sofa, languid, perhaps lazy—badly dressed; yet never anything but a lady, with a kind of graciousness in her faded smile, and grace in her faded gown. Not a woman to be held in adoration, and yet—the girl sighed, but set to work to make the little brown dining-room neat, to get the table set, making up for Mary’s distracted service by her own extra activity. For amid all the horrors of last night there was one which had cut Lottie very deeply, and that was the many references to the cold beef, and the bride’s dislike of “cold victuals.” It is inconceivable, among all the more important matters involved, how deeply wounded Lottie’s pride had been by this reproach. She resolved that no one should be able to speak so to-day; and she herself put on her hat and went out to the shop on the Abbey Hill almost as soon as it had opened, that this intolerable reproach should not be in the interloper’s power. She met more than one of the old Chevaliers as she came up, for most of them kept early hours and paced the terrace pavement in the morning as if it had been morning parade. They all looked at her curiously, and one or two stopped her to say “good morning.” “And a fine morning it is, and you look as fresh as a flower,” one of the old gentlemen said; and another laid his hand on her shoulder, patting her with a tender fatherly touch. “God bless you, my dear, the sight of you is a pleasure,” said this old man. How little she had thought or cared for them, and how kind they were in her trouble! She could see that everybody knew. Lottie did not know whether she did not half resent the universal knowledge. Most likely they had known it before she did. The whole town knew it, and everybody within the Precincts. Captain Despard had got married! Such a thing had not occurred before in the memory of man. Many people believed, indeed, that there was a law against it, and that Captain Despard was liable to be turned out of his appointment. Certainly it was unprecedented; for the old Chevaliers before they came to St. Michael’s had generally passed the age at which men marry. The whole scene seemed to have taken a dif ferent aspect to Lottie. Since her home had become impossible to her, it had become dear. For the first time she felt how good it was to look across upon the noble old buttresses of the Abbey, to inhabit that “retired leisure,” that venerable quietness. If only that woman were not there! But that woman was there, and everything was changed. Lottie had been rudely awakened, dragged, as it were, out of her dreams. She could not think as she usually did of the meetings that were sure to come somehow in the Abbey, or on the Slopes—or count how long it would be till the afternoon or evening, when she should see him. This, though it was her life, had been pushed out of the way. She thought of all last night’s remarks about the cold beef and the poor fare, and the changes that were going to be made. Would she think bacon good enough for breakfast?—would she be satisfied with the rolls, which Lottie herself felt to be a holiday indulgence? Pride, and nothing but pride, had thrown the girl into such excesses. She could not endure those criticisms again. Her brain was hot and hazy, without having any power of thought. The confusion of last night was still in her. Would it all turn out a dream? or would the door open by-and-by and show this unaccustomed figure? Lottie did not feel that she could be sure of anything. The first to come down was Law, who had been forced from his bed for once by sympathy. Law was very kind to Lottie. “I thought I wouldn’t leave you to face her by yourself,” he said; “they’re coming down directly.” Then Lottie knew that it was no dream.
The bride came down in a blue merino dress, as blue as the silk of last night. Polly was of opinion that she looked well in blue; and it was not one of the ethereal tints that are now used, but a good solid, full blue, quite uncompromising in point of colour. And the hair on her head was piled up as if it would reach the skies, or the ceiling at least. She came down arm-in-arm with her husband, the two smiling upon each other, while Law and Lottie stood one on each side of the table with no smiles, looking very serious. It was Mrs. Despard who did the most of the conversation; for the Captain was passive, feeling, it must be allowed, somewhat embarrassed by the presence of his children, who did not embarrass her at all. But she did not think the bacon very good. She thought it badly cooked. She thought the girl could not have been well trained to send it up like that. And she was not pleased either with the rolls; but announced her intention of changing the baker as well as the butcher. “We’ve always gone to Willoughby’s, as long as I can recollect, and I don’t fancy any bread but his.” Lottie did not say anything, she was nearly as silent as on the previous night; and Law, who was opposite, though he made faces at her now and then, and did his best to beguile his sister into a laugh, did not contribute much to the conversation. He got up as soon as he had swallowed his breakfast and got his books. “I’m off to old Ashford,” he said.
“Where are you going, Law?—you must never get up from table without asking my leave—it is dreadful unmannerly. You have got into such strange ways; you want me to bring you back to your manners, all of you. Who are you going to?—not to Mr. Langton as you used to do—I’m glad of that.”
“I don’t see why you should be glad of that. I’m going to old Ashford,” said Law, gloomily. “He is a much better coach than Langton. I have not anything to do to-day, Lottie; I shall be back at twelve o’clock.”
“Dear me,” said Mrs. Despard, “how long is Law going on going to school like a little boy? I never heard of such a thing, at his age. He should be put into something where he could earn a little money for himself, instead of costing money; a great, strong young fellow like that. I think you’re all going to sleep here. You want me, as anybody can see, to wake you up, and save you from being put upon, my poor man. But I hope I know how to take care of my own husband, and see that he gets the good of what he has, and don’t just throw it away upon other folks. And I begin as I means to end,” said Polly, with a little toss of her head. Law, stopped by the sound of her voice, had turned round at the door, and contemplated her with gloomy looks; but seeing it was not to come to anything bad, went away. And the bell began, and the Captain rose. His bride came to him fondly, and brushed a crumb or two off his coat and arranged the flower in his button-hole. “Now you look quite sweet,” she said with genuine enthusiasm. “I ain’t going in the morning, when none but the regular folks is there, but I mean to go, my dear, in the afternoon. It’s only proper respect, living in the Precincts; but you won’t be long, dear? You’ll come home to your poor little wife, that don’t know what to do without her handsome husband? Now, won’t you, dear?”
“I’ll be back as fast as my legs can carry me,” said the Captain. “Come and meet me, my pet. Lottie will tell you when the voluntary begins——”
“Oh, I can tell very well without Lottie,” said the bride, hanging upon him till he reached the door. All these endearments had an indescribable effect upon the girl, who was compelled to stand by. Lottie turned her back to them and re-arranged the ornaments on the mantelpiece, with trembling hands, exasperated almost beyond the power of self-restraint. But when the Captain was gone, looking back in his imbecility to kiss his hand to his bride, the situation changed at once. Polly turned round, sharp and business-like, in a moment. “Ring the bell, Miss,” she said, “and tell the girl to clear them things away. And then, if you will just hand me over the keys, and let me see your housekeeping things and your stores and all that, we may settle matters without any trouble. I likes to begin as I mean to end,” said Polly peremptorily. Lottie stood and looked at her for a moment, her spirit rekindling, her mind rising up in arms against the idea of obedience to this stranger. But what would be the use of trying to resist? Resist! what power had she? The very pride which rebelled against submission made the submission inevitable. She could not humiliate herself by a vain struggle. Polly, who was very doubtful of the yielding of this natural adversary, and rather expected to have a struggle for her “rights,” was quite bewildered by the meekness with which the proud girl, who scarcely took any notice of her, she thought, acquiesced in the orders she gave. Lottie rang the bell. She said, “You will prefer, I am sure, to give Mary her orders without me. There are not many keys, but I will go and get what I have.”
“Not many keys! and you call yourself a housekeeper?” said Polly. Lottie turned away as the little maid came in, looking impertinent enough to be a match for the new mistress; but Lottie was no match for her. She went and got out her little housekeeping-book, which she had kept so neatly. She gathered the keys of the cupboards, which generally stood unlocked, for there was not so much in them that she should lock them up. Lottie had all the instincts of a housekeeper. It gave her positive pain to hand over the symbols of office—to give up her occupation. Her heart sank as she prepared to do it. All her struggles about the bills, her anxious thought how this and that was to be paid, seemed elements of happiness now. She could not bear to give them up. The pain of this compulsory abdication drove everything else out of her head. Love, they say, is all a woman’s life, but only part of a man’s; yet Lottie forgot even Rollo—forgot his love and all the consolation it might bring, in this other emergency, which was petty enough, yet all-important to her. She trembled as she got together these little symbols of her domestic sovereignty. She heard the new mistress of the house coming up the stairs as she did so, talking all the way. “I never heard such impudence,” Polly was saying. “Speak back to her mistress! a bit of a chit of a maid-of-all-work like that. I suppose she’s been let do whatever she pleased; but she’ll find out the difference.” Behind Polly’s voice came a gust of weeping from below, and a cry of, “I’m going to tell mother:” thus hostilities had commenced all along the line.
“I can’t think how ever you got on with a creature like that,” said Polly, throwing herself down in the easy-chair. “She don’t know how to do a single thing, as far as I can see; but some folks never seem to mind. She shan’t stay here not a day longer than I can help. I’ve given her warning on the spot. To take impudence from a servant the very first day! But that’s always the way when things are let go; the moment they find a firm hand over them there’s a to-do. To be sure it wasn’t to be looked for that you could know much, Miss, about managing a house.”
“Mary is a very good girl,” said Lottie hastily. “She has always done what I told her. Here are the keys of the cupboards, since you wish for them; but there are not any stores to lock away. I get the things every week, just enough to use——”
“And don’t lock them up!” Polly threw up her hands. “That’s one way of housekeeping; but how should you know any better, poor thing, brought up like that! I’m sure I don’t mean to be hard upon you; but you should have thought a bit of your papa, and not have wasted his money. However, that’s all over now. A man wants a nice ’ome to come back to, he wants a nice dinner on the table, he wants somebody that can talk to him, to keep him out of mischief. Oh, I know very well the Captain’s been fond of having his fling. I ain’t one of the ignorant ones, as don’t know a man’s ways. And I like that sort much the best myself. I like a man to be a man, and know what’s what. But you’ll soon see the difference, now that he’s got some one to amuse him, and some one to make him comfortable at home. So these are all, Miss Lottie? And what’s this? oh, a book! I don’t think much of keeping books. You know how much you has to spend, and you spend it; that’s my way.”
Lottie made no reply. She felt it to be wiser for herself, but no doubt it was less respectful to Polly, who paused now and then for a reply, then went on again, loving to hear herself talk, yet feeling the contempt involved in this absence of all response. At last she cried angrily, “Have you lost your tongue, Miss, or do you think as I’m not good enough to have an answer, though I’m your papa’s wife?”
“I beg your pardon,” said Lottie; “I—don’t know what to say to you. We don’t know each other. I don’t understand—— Don’t you see,” she cried suddenly, unable to restrain herself, “that since you came into the house you have done nothing but—find fault with all my—arrangements—” (these mild words came with the utmost difficulty; but Lottie was too proud to quarrel). “You can’t think that I could like that. I have done my best, and if you try as I have done, you will find it is not so easy. But I don’t want to defend myself; that is why I don’t say anything. There can be no good in quarrelling, whether you think me a bad housekeeper or not.”
“I ain’t so sure of that,” said Polly. “Have a good flare-up, and be done with it, that’s my way. I don’t hold with your politeness, and keeping yourself to yourself. I’d rather quarrel than be always bursting with spite and envy, like some folks. It stands to reason as you must hate me, taking things out of your hands; and it stands to reason as I should think more of my own husband than of keeping up your brother and you in idleness. But for all that, and though we might fight now and then—everybody does, I don’t care nothing for a girl as is always the same—I don’t see why we shouldn’t get on neither. The Captain says as you’ve a very good chance of a husband yourself. And though I’m just about your own age, I’ve had a deal of experience. I know how to bring a man to the point, if he’s shilly-shallying, or won’t speak up like a man, as a girl has a right to expect.”
“Oh! stop, stop, stop!” cried Lottie, wild with horror. She cast a hurried glance round, to see what excuse she could make for getting away. Then she seized eagerly upon her music which lay on the old square piano. “I must go to my lesson,” she said.
“Your lesson! Are you having lessons too? Upon my word! Oh, my poor husband! my poor Captain! No wonder as he has nothing but cold beef to eat,” said Polly, with all the fervour of a deliverer, finding out one misery after another. “And if one might make so bold as to ask, Miss, who is it as has the honour to give lessons to you?”
“The Signor—Mr. Rossinetti,” Lottie added, after a moment. It seemed desecration to talk of any of the familiar figures within the Abbey precincts by their familiar title to this intruder.
“Oh! I’m not so ignorant as not to know who the Signor is. That will be half-a-guinea, or at the least seven-and-six a lesson!” she said, raising her hands in horror. “Oh, my poor ’usband! This is how his money goes! Miss,” said Polly, severely, “you can’t expect as I should put up with such goings on. I have your papa to think of, and I won’t see him robbed—no, not whatever you may do. For I call that robbery, just nothing else. Half-a-guinea a lesson, and encouraging Law to waste his time! I can’t think how you can do it: with that good, dear, sweet, confiding man letting you have your own way, and suspecting nothing,” cried Polly, clasping her hands. Then she got up suddenly. “I declare,” she cried, “church is near over, and me not ready to go out and meet him! I can’t go out a figure, in a common rag like this, and me a bride. I must put on my silk. Of course, he wants to show me off a bit before his friends. I’ll run and get ready, and we can talk of this another time.”
Thus Lottie escaped for the moment. She was asked a little later to see if Mrs. Despard’s collar was straight, and to pin on her veil. “Do I look nice?” said Polly triumphant, and at the same time mollified by the services which Lottie rendered without objection. She had put on her “blue silk” and the bonnet with the orange-blossoms, and neckties enough to stock a shop. “Perhaps, as there’s nothing ordered, and I mean to make a change with the tradespeople, the Captain and me won’t come back to dinner,” said Polly. “There’s your favourite cold beef, Miss, for Law and you.” Lottie felt that she began to breathe when, rustling and mincing, her strange companion swept out, in the face of all the people who were dispersing from matins, to meet her husband. Polly liked the wondering encounter of all their eyes. With her blue silk sweeping the pavement after her, and her pink parasol, and the orange-blossoms on her bonnet, her figure descending the Dean’s Walk alone, while all the others issued out of the Abbey doors, was conspicuous enough. She was delighted to find that everybody looked at her, and even that some stood still to watch her, looking darkly at her finery. These were the people who were jealous, envious of her fine clothes and her happiness, or jealous of her handsome hus band, who met her presently, but who perhaps was not so much delighted to see her amidst all his fellow-Chevaliers as she thought. Captain Despard was not a man of very fine perceptions; but though his blooming young wife was a splendid object indeed beside the dark, little old figure of Mrs. Temple, he had seen enough to feel that the presence of the old lady brought out into larger prominence something which the younger lacked. But he met her with effusive delight, and drew her hand within his arm, and thus they disappeared together. Outside the Precincts there was no need to make any comparison, and Polly’s brilliancy filled all hearts with awe.
When Law returned, he found Lottie seated in her little chair, with her face hidden in her hands. It was not that she was crying, as he feared at first. The face she raised to him was crimson with excitement. “Oh, Law!” she said, “Law, Law!” Lottie had got beyond the range of words. After a while she told him all the events of the morning, which did not look half so important when they were told, and they tried to lay their heads together and think what was best to be done. But what could anyone do? Mary could scarcely put the remnants of the cold beef on the table, for her eagerness to tell that she had been to mother, and mother would not hear of her staying. “Places isn’t so hard to get as all that, for a girl with a good character,” she said. When she was gone, Lottie looked piteously at her brother.
“What kind of a place could I get?” she said. “What am I fit for? Oh, Law! I think it is a mistake to be brought up a lady. I never thought it before, but I do now. How can we go on living here? and where are we to go?”
“That’s what I always said,” said Law. He was horribly grave, but he had not a word to say except that he had got a match at football, and perhaps might stay and sup with the fellows afterwards. “I’m just as well out of the way, for what can I do for you? only make things worse,” he said. And though he had been so kind and sympathetic at first, Law stole away, glad to escape, and left Lottie alone, to bear it as she might. She had no lesson that day, though she had pretended to have one. She would not go to the Abbey, where the new member of the family meant to appear, she knew. Lottie stayed in the familiar room which was hers no longer, until the silence became too much for her, and she felt that any human voice would be a relief. She went out in the afternoon, when all seemed quiet, when everybody had gone to the Abbey for the evening service. There would be nobody about, and it seemed to Lottie that the shame was upon her, that it was she who must shrink from all eyes. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, however, knocking on the window violently, instantly gave her to understand that this was impracticable. The girl tried to resist, being afraid of what she might say, and of what might be said to her. But as she hurried on, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy’s maid rushed after her. Lottie had to go to her old friend, though very reluctantly. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy had a bad cold. She was sitting wrapped up in a shawl, and a visitor with something to tell was beyond price to her. “Come and tell me all about it, then!” she cried, “me poor darlin’!” enveloping Lottie in her large embrace. “And tell the Major, Sally, and let nobody come in.” The Major came instantly to the call, and Lottie tried to tell her story to the kind couple who sat on either side of her, with many an exclamation.
“I knew that was what it would come to,” Mrs. O’Shaughnessy said.
“And I never thought Despard (saving your presence, my dear) could have been such a fool!” cried the Major.
“Oh, sure, Major, you’re old enough to know that every man is a fool where a woman’s concerned.”
But what was Lottie to do? They petted her and condoled with her, soothing her with their sympathy, and all the tender words they could think of; but they could throw no light upon one point: what could the girl do? Nothing, but put up with it. They shook their heads, but could give her no comfort. If Law had but been doing something instead of idling all his time away! But then Law was not doing anything. What was he good for, any more than Lottie?
“Mary can get another place. Her mother will not let her stay, and she can get another place, she says; but here are two of us, Law and I, and we are good for nothing!” cried Lottie. How her thoughts were altered from the time when she thought it necessary to stay at home, to do no visible work, for the credit of the family! Lottie was not young enough to feel that it was necessary to be consistent. “We are young and strong and able to work, but we are good for nothing!” she said. And they both looked at her blankly, not knowing what to say.
By-and-by Lottie escaped again into the open air, notwithstanding their anxious invitation that she should stay with them. She was too wretched to stay, and there had come upon her a longing to see another face in which there might be comfort. As she went out she almost walked into Captain Temple’s arms, who was walking slowly along looking up at her window. The old man took both her hands into his. “My poor child!” he said. He was not so frankly inquisitive as the good people she had just left, but he drew her hand through his arm and walked with her, bending over her.
“I do not want to tempt you from your duty, my dear; you’ll do what is right, I am sure you will do what is right. But I can’t bear to think you are in trouble, and we so near. And my wife,” said the old man slightly faltering, “my wife thinks so, too.” He was not quite so sure of his wife. She had the restraining effect upon her husband which a more reserved and uncommunicative mind has over an impulsive one. He knew what he would like to do, but he was not sure of her, and this put hesitation into his speech.
“Oh! Captain Temple,” cried Lottie, moved at last to tears, “what am I to do? If I cannot bear it, what am I to do?”
“Come and speak to my wife,” he said; “come, dear, and see my wife. She can’t talk about everything as I do, but she has more sense than anyone, and knows the world. Come with me, Lottie, and see what Mrs. Temple says.”
He thought the sight of the girl in her trouble would be enough, and that his wife would certainly say what it was on his own lips to say. Just then, however, there was a sound of doors opening, and old Wykeham came out and looked upon the world with a defiant countenance from the south door of the Abbey, which was a sign that service was over; and the notes of the voluntary began to peal out into the air. Lottie drew her arm from that of her old friend—she could not bear the eyes of the crowd. “Another time, another time; but I must go now,” she cried, escaping from him and turning towards the Slopes. The old Captain’s first impulse was to follow. He stood for a moment gazing after her as she sped along, slim and swift and young, up the deserted road. It was beginning to grow dark, and the evening was colder than it had been yet. Where was she going? To her favourite haunt on the Slopes to get the wind in her face; to let her thoughts go, like birds, into the wide space and distance? If that had been all! The old man thought of an alternative which filled him with alarm. He took a step after her, and then he paused again, and shaking his head, turned back, meeting all the people as they streamed out of the Abbey. Poor child! if she did meet him there, what then? It would comfort her to see her lover; and if he was good, as the anxious old Chevalier hoped, had not the lover more power to save her than all the world? There was no question of taking Lottie from her father and mother, separating her from her home. If this young man were to offer her a home of her own, where could there be so good a solution to the problem? Captain Temple turned and walked home with a sigh. It was not his way of delivering Lottie, but perhaps it was the way that would be most for her happiness, and who was he that he should interfere? He let her go to her fate with a sigh.