CHAPTER XXXI.
WHAT OTHER PEOPLE THOUGHT.
THE appearance of the new Mrs. Despard in the Abbey made a very great impression. The brilliancy of her blue silk and the bushiness of her orange-blossoms were calculated to strike awe into all beholders. There was scarcely a lady within the Precincts who did not feel herself personally insulted by the appearance of the milliner girl flaunting in her bridal finery and taking her place by right among them. As for the wives of the Chevaliers, their indignation was too great for words. Mingled curiosity and enmity had brought them out in larger numbers than usual, to see the creature, if she was so lost to every feeling of shame as to show herself; and it is scarcely necessary to say that Polly was in that particular entirely lost to every feeling of shame. She came in with her Captain, clinging to his arm, and whispering to him, even in the sacred quiet of the Abbey, and as the pair were late, and almost the entire congregation had assembled, nothing was wanting to the full enjoyment of her triumph. Polly felt, when she raised her head, after that momentary homage to the sacred place which even in her state of excitement she felt bound to make, that one object of her life was attained, that everybody was staring at her, and that in her blue silk she was more the centre of regard than the Dean himself under his canopy, or the Minor Canon just about to begin the service, who perceptibly paused, in acknowledgment of the little rustle and commotion which accompanied her entrance. The feelings of the ladies among whom this intruder pushed her way may be imagined. It was all that Mrs. O’Shaughnessy could do, she said afterwards, to refrain from throwing her hymn-book at the head of the jaunty Captain, as he handed his bride into her place, before taking his own among his brother Chevaliers. The ladies in the Abbey were divided from their partners, being placed in a lower row, and to see the Captain pass on to his stall with a swing of elation in his step after handing his bride to her seat, was enough to make any veteran blaspheme. Why should a man be so proud of himself because he has got a new wife? The imbecile glow of vanity and self-congratulation which in such circumstances comes over the countenance, nay, the entire person, even of the wisest, conveys exasperation to every looker-on. The sentiment of indignation, however, against Captain Despard was mingled with pity; but scarcely even contempt sufficed to soften the feel ing with which Polly in her blue silk was universally regarded. Polly was an intruder, an aggressor. The very way in which she tossed her head upwards with its bristling crown of artificial flowers was an offence. The ladies might have their little differences now and then, and it was an undoubted fact that Mrs. Dalrymple, for instance, who was very well connected, had never been able to endure Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, who had no connections at all; but now they all clung together as with one impulse. They crowded upon each other in the seat, so as to leave a clear space between them and Polly, who, unabashed, took full advantage of it, and spread out her flounces, her blue silken skirts around her, with a rustle of defiance. Mrs. Temple was the one who was left next to Mrs. Despard. This lady, who took no notice at first, soon roused up, and putting on her spectacles, looked very seriously at the intruder. Polly faced round upon her, with dauntless readiness, but Mrs. Temple’s look was so serious, that even Polly felt somewhat discomfited. She felt this new observer’s eyes upon her all the time. “Who was that old woman who stared at me so?” she asked, scarcely taking the trouble to whisper, as her husband led her round the nave while the voluntary was being played. “That! that’s the wife of an old idiot who gives himself no end of airs,” said the Captain. “I thought as much,” said Polly, tossing her head, “but she’ll find I can stare just as well as she can. Two can play at that game.” She spoke so loudly that some of the people near said, “Hush-sh!” The Signor was just then playing a very delicate cadenza in the minor key.
Mrs. Temple took her old husband’s arm without a word, and went straight home. He had not himself been at the service, but met her at the door; where he too saw the bride in her blue silk. The old Captain did nothing but shake his head. He could not trust himself to speak. “What are things coming to?” he said at last, as they got within their own door. “When that young fellow was made a Chevalier, I said nothing could come of it but mischief to the community.” Captain Despard, being only fifty, was a young fellow to this veteran. “Never mind the community,” said Mrs. Temple, which was a bold thing to say. It was getting late in the October afternoon, and within the little sitting-rooms of the Lodges it seemed dark, coming in even from the grey afternoon skies outside. Mrs. Temple rang for the lamp before she went upstairs to take off her bonnet. She was very full of thought, and sighed as she went. Her own girl, for whom she would so gladly have died, was gone, leaving father and mother desolate—and here was another poor girl who lived, but had no one to care for her. Strange are the decrees of Providence. Mrs. Temple sighed as she came downstairs again to where her old Captain sat gazing at the lamp with a sorrowful face. “Yes, my dear,” he said as she came in, “you were right to say never mind the community. After all, I suppose there is no community in the world that has not its black sheep. Nobody will be so foolish as to confound us with such a fellow; but when I think of that poor girl——”
“That is what I have been thinking of,” said Mrs. Temple; “but perhaps,” she added, still unwilling to betray her interest in Lottie, that interest which was half opposition, “perhaps she may not feel it so much as we suppose.”
“Feel it! I have not liked to say very much about her, my dear. She reminds me so of our own——and I know you could not bear to talk of that,” said the good Captain, innocent of the fact that he had talked of little else for months past. “But if you only knew her better! There is something in her walk—in the turn of her head—that so reminds me—but I never liked to say much about it. You must not think she does not feel it. I met her and was talking with her just before I came for you. But for leaving you alone I should have taken her for a walk; it would have done her good. I believe she rushed off to the Slopes after all.”
“I do not think she would get much good on the Slopes,” said Mrs. Temple, thinking of the little wind of gossip about Mr. Rollo Ridsdale which had begun to breathe about the Lodges.
“She would get fresh air—and quiet; she likes that; she is a very thoughtful girl, my dear—very serious, just like our own poor——. You must forgive me if I am always seeing resemblances. Lottie is very fond of the twilight. I have gone with her so often I know her tastes. Many a time I have done the same with——. When I feel her little arm in mine, I could almost think sometimes that other days have come back.”
The shadow of Mrs. Temple’s cap quivered on the wall. The thought of the little arm in his, the other days, which this simple touch brought back, was not sweet but terrible to her. A film floated before her eyes, and something choking and intolerable rose in her throat. “I do not suppose,” she said hastily, “that a girl brought up like that can mind as one thinks.”
The Captain shook his head. “I wish you knew her better,” he said, with that soft answer which turns away irritation. The servant-maid came in with the tray at this moment, and Mrs. Temple began to pour out the tea. She was a little tired, having had many things to do that day, and it occurred to her suddenly that to lean back in her easy-chair as the Captain was doing, and to have her cup of tea brought to her, would be sweet. To have some one to wait upon her tenderly and read her wishes in her eyes, and divine her thoughts before they came to her lips, that would be sweet. But could anyone do that except a child, could anything but love do it, and that sacred influence which is in the blood, the same blood running in the different veins of parent and child? These thoughts went through her mind without anybody being the wiser. She gave her husband his tea, and sat down in her turn to rest a little. There was nothing said in the still little room. The two together, did not they know all each other’s thoughts and wishes and recollections? They were old, and what could happen to them except the going out to the Abbey, the coming in to tea? But if there had been three instead of two—and one young, with all a dawning world before her feet—everything would have borne a very different aspect. Ah! Mrs. Temple moved quickly, as she had the habit of doing when that recollection, always present to her mind, struck suddenly like a new blow. And here was a creature, helpless, forlorn, without a mother to fly to. The mother who had no child stood doubtful between earth and heaven, asking, speechless, what she was to do: pass by on the other side as if there was no mother in her? or pardon God for taking her child, and hold out her hand to His? She did not know what to do. Things were not easy for her as for her husband. It was cruel of this girl even to live, to pass by a poor woman’s windows who had lost her child; yet what was the woman to do when this creature who was living, who was an offence to her, was in trouble? Let her sink and never hold out a hand? But what then would the other girl in heaven think of her mother? Mrs. Temple was torn by this conflict of which she gave no sign, while perhaps the old Captain in his kind and simple heart, yearning over the young creature who was so helpless and desolate, was unjust to his wife and thought her less than kind.
And it was not only in Captain Temple’s house that Polly’s appearance was the cause of excitement. The Signor put his hand upon the arm of his young assistant as they went out together by the north door. “Did you see them?” he said, with meaning. Young Purcell was pale with excitement. He had done nothing but watch Polly promenading through the nave on her husband’s arm, and the very fact of Lottie’s superiority to himself made him feel with more horror the impossibility of any harmony between her and Polly, whom he considered so much inferior to himself. He had watched her from the organ-loft, while the Signor played the voluntary, with feelings indescribable; and so did his mother, who was also in the Abbey, and who gaped at the fine young woman with a mix ture of consternation and admiration, by no means sure of her inferiority, yet feeling that a crisis had arrived, and that whatever Miss Despard might have said before, she could not but be glad now of any offer of an ’ome. Mrs. Purcell did not stay for the voluntary, but went home quickly to see after “her dinner,” very full of thought, and tremulous with expectation. The young lady was proud, she would not have anything to say to John before—but now, no doubt she would send for him and all would be settled. The housekeeper knew that a young stepmother was a strong argument against the peace of a girl who had been used to have everything her own way, and she felt with a tremor of her heart, half pride, half pain, that now at last she would have to resign her boy, and see him pass from beyond her ken into those regions of gentility with which the Signor’s housekeeper had nothing to do. Very likely John, or John’s wife who was “such a lady,” would want her to leave her comfortable situation. Mrs. Purcell did not like the idea of it, but still, if it would help to make her boy happy—perhaps even it might remove a stumbling-block out of John’s way if she were to take it into her own hands, and give up her situation. The thought made her heart heavy, for she liked her place, and the Signor, and her comfortable rooms, and the power of laying by a little money. But John was the first person to be considered. What could a young lady object to in his position? he was all that a gentleman could wish to be; but a mother who was in service might no doubt be an objection. Mrs. Purcell made up her mind hurriedly, that if it proved needful she would not wait to be asked, but would herself take the initiative and make the sacrifice; but she did so with a heavy heart. To give up not only her boy, who, when he was married, would not, she knew, be much more to his mother, but her occupation likewise, and her chief comforts, and her master who was, in a way, like another son to her, a foster-son, much greater and richer than she, but still dependent on her for his comfort—it was hard—but still she could do it for her John’s sake. Meanwhile her John, feeling the Signor’s hand heavy with meaning on his arm, answered with tremulous excitement, “Yes—— I saw it. It is terrible, terrible! a desecration. To think she should have to put up with that even for a day!”
“I wonder what will be the issue,” said the Signor, meditatively. “Her heart is not in her work now. If she becomes an artist, it will be against her will—Art is not what she is thinking of. I wonder what will come of it. Will she feel the hollowness of this world and throw herself into her profession, or will she——”
“Master,” said the young musician, fervently, “sooner or later she will turn to me. It is not possible that a man could love a young lady as I do, and have an ’ome to offer her, as I have——”
Purcell was educated—he did not forget his h’s in general; but how many people are there who, beguiled by that familiar phrase, forget all precautions, and plunge recklessly into the pitfall of an ’ome!
“You think so?” said the Signor. He did not himself put any confidence in this result, and was even surprised, after his recent experience, that the young man should be sanguine; but still, after all, who ought to have such true intuitions as the hero himself? and there is no telling what perseverance mingled with enthusiasm may do. The Signor was not satisfied with his pupil. She would not devote herself to her work as he wished. She had no abstract devotion to art, as art. The Signor felt, musing over it, that it was possible she might take to it more warmly if by any chance she became Purcell’s wife. John was a very good fellow, and when he was disappointed, the Signor was very angry with Lottie; but, still, he thought it probable that Lottie, if she married him, would not find much to satisfy her in Purcell, and, therefore, would be driven to art. And of all results that could be attained, was not this the best? In the meantime, however, he was very doubtful whether by this means it ever would be attained.
“Yes, master,” said the young man; “how can I help thinking so? I can give her, if not very much, at least independence and the comforts of an ’ome. She would not be dragged down by anything about me. My mother’s position may be doubtful,” he said, with passing embarrassment; “but you have been so good, you have never made her like a common servant, and at Sturminster nobody need ever know.”
“Your mother has been very good, and done a great deal for you; you must never let anyone ignore your mother.”
“Certainly not,” said the young man. “She is my mother; that ought to be enough for anybody. And I shall have her come to see me the same as if she were a duchess; but, still, there is no need of publishing to everybody what she is when she is at home.”
“That is true, that is true,” said the Signor. “Then you really think there is a chance that this is how it will end?”
“Master,” said Purcell, pausing at the door before they entered. It was one of the Italian traditions which had lingered in the Signor’s habitual bearing, to stand still now and then as he was walking, by way of giving emphasis to a sentence. They paused now, looking at each other before they went in, and the colour came to the young fellow’s face. “Master,” he said, “it may look self-sufficient—but how can it end otherwise? There is no one else who will offer her what I can offer her; and it would be like saying she had no sense, which is very far from the case, to think she would stand out for ever. She is a lady, she is above me in birth; but, thanks to you, I know how to behave like a gentleman; and surely, sooner or later, this is how it must end.”
“Amen, with all my heart,” said the Signor, turning in at the door, which old Pick held open behind, waiting, as one who knew his master’s way.
It was Mr. Ashford who had intoned the service that afternoon, and his attention had been so caught by Polly’s entrance that he had made a kind of stumble in the beginning—a pause which was perceptible. After that, during the singing of the anthem and at other moments when his attention was free, he had looked down upon that gorgeous apparition from his high desk with a look of compassion on his face. The compassion, it is needless to say, was not for Polly, who wanted none of it. He watched her behind his book, or behind the hand which supported his head, with the most curious alarmed attention. And when he passed her with her husband going out, Mr. Ashford looked at her in a way which Polly thought to be flattering. “That’s one as takes an interest in us,” she said. “It’s Ashford, the Minor Canon. It must be you he takes an interest in,” whispered the Captain, and Polly laughed and tossed her head. Mr. Ashford went home with the same strange look on his face, softened, and touched, and pitiful. “Poor thing,” he said to himself, “poor girl!” and when he got in he sat for a long time in the centre window, in the dark, looking out, and trying to think out some way of help. What could he do for her? Poor thing! with all her better instincts and higher feelings, with her impulse of taking care of everybody and keeping her father and brother right, what would become of her now? Mr. Ashford asked himself, with many an anxious thought, what could be done? A man could do nothing—where it was a girl that was in the case a man was more helpless than a baby. He could do nothing to help her; he could not even show his sympathy without probably doing more harm than good to the sufferer. He sat in the window-seat, gazing out on the dusk and the dim horizon, as if they could help him in his musings. If he had only had a mother or sister—any woman to whom he could have appealed, he thought he must have done so on behalf of this girl. But he had neither sister nor mother. He was a man very much alone in the world. He had a brother, a poor clergyman, with a large family, and a wife, who would not understand in the least why Ernest should interest himself in a stranger—a girl. If he wanted some one to spend his money upon, why not take one of the children? he thought he heard her say; and certainly she would not understand, much less respond to, any appeal he could make to her. What could he do? If any other suggestion swept across Mr. Ashford’s face in the dark or through his heart, nobody was there to see or divine it. He sat thus without ringing for his lamp till it was quite late, and was much discomposed to be found sitting in the dark when a messenger arrived with a note from the Deanery about the extra service for the next saint’s-day. He was annoyed to be found so, being conscious, perhaps, of reasons for the vigil which he would not have cared to enter upon; for he was shy and sensitive, and it had often happened to him to be laughed at, because of his undue anxiety about others. “What is it to you?” had been often said to him, and never with more occasion than now. For, after all, what did it matter to the Minor Canon what became of Lottie Despard? Whether she and her stepmother should “get on” together, or if they should never “get on,” but yet might manage to live under the same roof a cat-and-doggish life—what was it to him? One way or other, it would not take sixpence out of his pocket, or affect his comfort in any way. But yet he could not get it out of his head. No one in the house had thought of coming to his room to light his lamp, to see that all was in order for him. He was not served with precision, as was the Signor, for he was fond of saving his servants trouble and making excuses for them. And when the man came from the Deanery and followed the maid into the study, where she went groping, declaring that her master was not at home, the Minor Canon was uncomfortable, finding himself thus taken by surprise. “You need not wait for an answer. I will send one in the morning,” he said, when the candles on the writing-table had been lit with a match, and he had read the note. He felt that his confused and troubled thoughts might be read in his eyes. But nobody had any clue to the subject of these thinkings; and how could anyone suspect that it was a matter of such absolute indifference to himself that was occupying his thoughts—a thing with which he had nothing in the world to do?