NEXT morning found young Purcell in a state of excitement and nervous agitation still greater than that of the previous night. He had not slept during the natural time for sleep, and in consequence, according to the fashion of youth unaccustomed to watching, had fallen very fast and heavily asleep, out of sheer fatigue in the morning, waking only with an indescribable sense of guilt to hear the bells ringing for the morning service in the Abbey. Such a thing had never happened to him before, and his shame and sense of wrong-doing were more than reason. He jumped up in dismay, but even the most hurried toilet could not get him in time; and his mother appeared at his door as he prepared to rush out half-dressed, preventing his exit. “You wouldn’t go out without your breakfast?” she cried with horror. The virtuous and carefully regulated life of the chorister and musical student trained under the Signor’s eye and his mother’s constant care, had made a late morning and an omitted breakfast seem like something criminal. Besides, a sense of the crisis had got into the air. The Signor had left an anxious message, begging his protégé not to hurry himself, to take his time, and to keep up his courage. His mother kissed him wistfully, and served him with a noble breakfast, as if he wanted strengthening in the most material way, for the important piece of work before him. Even old Pick looked at him with respectful curiosity as at a man on the edge of a very serious step indeed, a curiosity mingled with awe and a little grim humour and admiration. The boy was going to do what Pick had never had the courage to do; and though the old man thought the young one a fool, and hugged himself on his superior wisdom, yet it cannot be denied that he looked with a certain respect on the bold youth who was about to make such a venture. He put his breakfast on the table, not grudging the trouble, though the Signor’s breakfast had long been over, and he shook his head behind Mr. John’s chair. “Take a good breakfast, it will do you a deal of good,” he said, as he left the hero of the occasion. Purcell, though his mother was only the housekeeper, was the son of the house; he took his meals with the master, though it was his mother who prepared their dishes in the kitchen. It was a false position, perhaps, but he had not yet found any trouble in it. He had been a little curly-headed boy in the choir when Mrs. Purcell came first to take charge of the Signor’s house; she had been the sole servant then, and had scrubbed and brushed and cooked, diligently keeping everything in order. Old Pickering had gone through the same sort of training which had made John Purcell a gentleman. He, too, had been a chorister, and had progressed into a lay-clerk, with possibilities of rising to something better. But Pick was one of the unsuccessful ones; his voice failed him, his science never had been great, and a little after Mrs. Purcell’s advent he had come to the Signor also to be provided for. The organist had a large heart and a somewhat indolent temper; the easiest way to provide for the old singing-man was to take him into his own household, and this was what had been done. As for Pick, he had settled very easily into his new place, having been the son of the master of a little tavern; and though it cost him an effort to acknowledge the little soprano, whose surplice he had put on so often, in the light of a young master, yet the effort was made. Pick was conscientious, he did not do anything by halves; and the first time that the Signor’s pupil was permitted to play the voluntary in the Abbey, the old man made his fellow-servants jump, and gave the youth a shock of mingled alarm and pleasure, by suddenly addressing him as Mr. John. Nobody had expected such an heroic act of submission, but Pick knew his place and all that was suitable in the circumstances. “Him as the Signor puts in his own place has a right to be respected,” he said; and he never wavered in that noble self-abnegation, nor let any one suppose that it was painful to him. All this had happened long before the period of which we are writing; but what sensation, what emotion, it had caused at the time! Pick stood now, pausing behind the young musician’s chair, and lifted up his hands and shook his head. To think this boy, whom he had, so to speak, brought up, should show so much courage! Pick himself had never made such a venture, nor even the Signor, who was the master of both; and yet this boy was going to do it. The old man shook his head, not knowing what might come of it; but in his heart he felt a respect reaching to admiration, for the courage which was so much beyond anything he had ever known.
Courage, however, was the last quality in which, on this particular morning, young Purcell could be said to excel. To devote your life in secret to a beloved object; to dream of her night and day; to make impassioned resolutions, and determine to win glory and wealth for her, is not so hard for a fanciful youth; but to go into her presence, look into the face that dazzles you—confront the goddess of your distant worship, and without any preliminaries to lead up to this great step, and prepare her for it, quite off-hand and impromptu ask her to marry you! This is a very different matter. The young man sat alone and tried to eat his breakfast, trembling to think of what was before him. The circumstances were such as to add tenfold to the natural tremors of such a crisis. She was a lady, and far above him—not rich indeed, nor occupying any very exalted position in reality—but her dignity was very imposing to the young man, who had always recognised this grace of what seemed to him rank, as one of her particular charms. Purcell was painfully aware that he himself had no right to the name of gentleman. Many a less worthy claimant has borne it, with no thought that it was inappropriate, and Purcell had anxiously and painfully endeavoured to acquire all its outside appearances. He knew, as well as any, how to behave himself in society, and passed muster very well among other young men. He was a little over-anxious, perhaps, a little too fine in his language, too deferential and polite, not sufficiently at his ease, to get much enjoyment out of his social experiences; but this was a fault on the right side. Notwithstanding his modest sense of his own “merits,” Purcell could not persuade himself that he was Lottie’s equal. He knew he was not her equal. She had been as a star to him, far away and out of reach—and though in the fervour of imaginative passion the hope of winning her had seemed like heaven, yet the actual enterprise of wooing her, when brought thus close, seemed very appalling indeed—a quest more dangerous and alarming than ever knight errant set forth upon. His knees knocked together, great beads of moisture came upon his forehead—how was he to do it? how was he to present himself, to explain the hopes which, looked at thus in cold blood, appeared even to himself impossible, not to say presumptuous in the highest degree? How was he ever, he asked himself, to make her aware what he meant? She would not understand him. She would think he meant something else, anything else—rather than that he, a poor musician, the son of the Signor’s house-keeper, wanted to MARRY her, the daughter of a gentleman. It would be impossible to make her understand him. This seemed the first difficulty of all, and it was an appalling one. She would not even know what he meant. In this respect indeed Purcell was mistaken, for Lottie already knew well enough what were the hopes in his heart—resenting them highly as one of the wrongs of fate against her; but this he had no way of knowing. If he could but have got anyone to smooth the way for him, to tell what it was he wanted to say, to set him a-going, he thought he could find eloquence enough to carry him on—but how could he make that premier pas? Thus, while the household was all expectant, excited by what was coming, Purcell sat over his breakfast and trembled, too frightened to move or think, though with a consciousness that this desperate step must be taken. The Signor in the Abbey, rolling forth melodious thunders out of the organ, kept thinking of him with a smile, and a half sigh. Like Pick, he had a certain admiration for the valour of the boy thus pushing forward before himself into the mysteries of life; but the Signor’s thoughts were more tender and less cynical than those of his servant. He could not help wondering how it was that in his own person he had let all such chances slip. How was it? As he followed his pupil in imagination to the feet of his love, that young creature seemed very fair, very much to be desired. No doubt, to have such a one by your side, sharing your life with you, would make existence bear a very different appearance. Why was it he had never done what Purcell was going to do? This question seemed to flow into the music he was playing, and to go circling round and round the Abbey in the morning sunshine. Why? Life was endurable enough, a calm sort of routine, with now and then a pleasurable sensation in it, but nothing more; and no doubt it might have been made more of. The Signor could not answer his own question. He did not want to make himself the rival of his pupil, or to do anything similar to what young Purcell was doing. He had no wish to make any violent change in life, which was well enough as it was. But only it was odd that a simple fellow like John Purcell should thus boldly have pushed before him into a completer existence—very odd; the boy was bold. Whether he succeeded or not, his very agitation and ardour had in them a higher touch of emotion than any that had been in the life of his master. He laughed within himself at the boy’s temerity—but the laugh was mingled with a sigh.
And Mrs. Purcell, for her part, was in high excitement, longing for her boy to be gone on his errand, longing for him to be back again. That her John should marry a lady was the climax of grandeur and happiness. To be sure, it ought to have been a rich lady or great lady. He deserved a princess, his mother felt. Still, as things were, it was a kind of intoxication to think even of the daughter of a Chevalier. Why did he linger, as if breakfast was worth thinking of? She listened for every sound, for the door shutting, for his step in the hall, and was very cross when Maryanne made a noise, so that she could not hear what was going on upstairs. As for old Pick, he brushed Mr. John’s hat with a grim smile on his face, and hung about the hall to watch him go out.
“The young un’s off at last,” he said with a chuckle, marching into the kitchen: when just before the end of the service in the Abbey, when all the air about was ringing with the echo of the Amens, Purcell at last screwed his courage to the sticking-point, and went out, to meet his fate.
Poor young fellow, he could not have been more alarmed had he gone to face a lion instead of a lady. The lion would have been nothing. He would have called out for succour, and used whatever weapons he could lay hold of; but nobody could help him with Lottie—no shield would cover him from the lightnings of her eyes. It was all embarrassing, all terrible; even if by any chance things should turn out in his favour, he did not know what he should do. What could he call her? Not Lottie, that was too familiar. Not Miss Despard. All these different and disjointed thoughts seemed to float about his head in the maze of excitement he was in—he was past thinking, but such questions kept floating in and out of his mind. It was the most extraordinary relief when, going to the door of Captain Despard’s house, he found that Lottie was out. If she had been there, it seemed to Purcell that he would have run away—but she was not there. He asked when she was expected back and went on, recovering his breath. He could not go home again, where presently the Signor would come from the Abbey and question him. The service, however, was not so nearly over as he thought. It was a saint’s day, and there was a sermon. The precincts were very still and deserted, for most people were at church. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, sitting at her window, saw the young musician walk across the broad silent sunshine, but he did not see her. He went up the Dean’s walk, hearing his own step echo through the silence, and past the Deanery, and out upon the slopes beyond. It was shady and sweet under the trees, which rose up close against the old wall—and all was very quiet during the time of matins, though the town went on with its usual hum down below at the foot of the hill. Purcell began to recover himself a little and take breath as he came to this shelter and refuge. Many a time had he strayed under these trees, thinking of her, wondering if he ever might be able to approach her. It was strange to be here, however, in the morning, the hour of work and engagements, which he never had to himself, and to hear the far-off sound of the organ pealing out after the sermon was over. All the common occupations of life seemed to be suspended for Purcell. He felt as ordinary men feel on an occasional stolen Sunday, when work is suspended, and the duty of church-going put aside. All was so sweet, and serene, and still—no one to disturb his thoughts: the sound of the organ in the distance keeping him aware of the fact that he was singularly, unprecedentedly liberated from his usual occupations: and the tremor of agitation dying away into an excitement which was more bearable, which left room for all the sweeter musings, of which she was the centre. He sat down on the root of a tree, and let himself breathe. Then came the first notes of the voluntary, and a distant hum as of the congregation dispersing. Few people were likely to come here at this hour in the morning, but still Purcell felt that he had but a moment in which to indulge himself, and that soon he must turn back.
As he sat thus trying to collect himself, a sudden sound close by, the rustle of a dress among the bushes, the soft sound of a footstep caught his ear. He looked up—and his heart jumped into his throat. There She stood before him, a little basket in her hand. There was a by-way into the town by the slopes, and Lottie had been about her marketing. She was in her usual simple morning frock, clean print and nothing more, and though her head was sufficiently full of dreams and her mind of anxieties, she was at present lingering upon neither, but going straight from one place to another, as became the active morning hour and the consciousness of various things to do. When she saw Purcell spring to his feet suddenly in the midst of the path, for the moment Lottie was startled. She made him a little gracious but indifferent sign of recognition, as courtesy required—for ridiculous as were the notions in his head, she could not be rude to him—and was passing on, not wanting any further parley, when she was struck by the agitation in his face. He was staring at her as if she had been a ghost—his mouth was open, his breath coming quick, his colour changing. Excitement did not improve his appearance. She had almost laughed, then checked herself remorsefully, and became so much the more sympathetic for her temporary movement of mirth.
“Is there anything the matter?” she said kindly. “I am afraid you are ill. Has anything—gone wrong? ” She did not know what to say, he looked at her with such solemn eyes.
“Oh, nothing—nothing has gone wrong. I am not ill. Miss Despard—I did not expect to see you here.”
“No—but I hope it is not I who have frightened you,” said Lottie. “I sometimes go to the Bridge road this way.”
“You have not frightened me,” said Purcell, who found it easier to repeat her words than to say anything original; “but I—did not know you went this way.”
It was all that Lottie could do, once more, to keep herself from laughing. She gave him a little nod, and was about to pass, saying, “What a lovely morning it is!” the stereotyped English remark; when he made a hurried step after her, and, holding up his hands, entreated her, in a piteous voice, to stay a moment. “Miss Despard—what startled me was that I was looking for you. Oh, stay a moment, and let me speak to you!” he said.
Lottie stood still, arrested in her progress, throwing a wondering look upon him. What could he want with her? Her first glance was simple surprise—her second—Was it possible he could mean that?—could he be bold enough, rash enough? Next moment she blushed for her own folly. To be afraid of young Purcell! That was foolishness indeed. She stood still there, one foot put out to go on, her basket in her hand.
“Please say what it is, Mr. Purcell. I have got something to do. I ought to be at home.”
The morning is not the moment for a love tale. How much more congenial would have been the evening, the twilight, the subdued poetic hour, after the sun had disappeared, that great busybody who shows every imperfection, and is himself so perpetually moving on! Something to do was in every line of Lottie’s energetic figure. She had no time for lingering, nor wish to linger. “Please say what it is.” Only business should be treated in this summary way, not love.
“Miss Despard,” said the young musician, whose limbs were trembling under him, “I wanted to say a great deal to you; it is very important—for me. Things are going well with me,” he added, with desperation, after a momentary pause. “I have been appointed to a church—a fine church—with a good instrument. They are to give me a good salary, and they say I can have as much teaching as I like. I shall be very well off.”
“I am glad to hear you are so fortunate,” said Lottie. Her eyes were full of surprise, and for a moment there was a gleam of amusement in them. That he should waylay her to tell her this, seemed a curious piece of ostentation or folly. “I am very glad,” she repeated; “but you must forgive me if I have to hasten home, for I have a great many things to do.”
“One moment,” he said, putting out his hand to stop her. “That was not all. The Signor thinks—you know the Signor, Miss Despard, there is not a better musician in the country—he thinks I will make progress. He thinks I may rise—as high as any one can rise in our profession. He tells me I may be a rich man yet before I die.”
“Indeed, I hope all he says will come true,” said Lottie; “but why you should take the trouble to tell me——”
Then suddenly she caught his eye, and stopped short, and blushed an angry red. She saw what was coming in a moment, which did not, however, prevent her from drawing herself up with a great deal of dignity, and adding, “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Miss Despard,” he said with a gasp, “there is no comparison between me and you. But you are not so well off—not happy. They say—you know how people will talk—that there is something going to happen that will make you very uncomfortable.”
“Stop!” she said, with an involuntary cry, half of anger, half of amazement. Then she laughed. “Do you want me to acknowledge that you are much better off than I am?” she said; “but there is no need to compare you with me.”
“It could not be done, Miss Lottie. I know it could not be done. You are a lady, and far above me. I know I am not your equal—in some things.”
Lottie began to be too angry to laugh, but yet she was provoked to ridicule, which is the keenest of weapons. She made him a little mocking curtsey. “It is very kind of you to say so, I am sure, for we are quite poor people, Mr. Purcell; not fortunate, and getting on in the world like you.”
“No, Miss Despard,” he said, simply, “that was just what I wanted to say. If you had been as well off as I could wish, I should not have ventured to say anything. I have always loved you, and thought of you above all the world. Since you first came to St. Michael’s, I have never thought of any one but you. It has been my hope that some time or other I might be able to—but it was only just yesterday that I heard something that made me settle—two things——”
She did not speak, being, indeed, too angry and annoyed for speech; but she felt a kind of contemptuous, wrathful interest in what he was saying, and curiosity to know what it was that had induced him to make this venture; and, accordingly, gave him a glance, in which there was an impatient question. Purcell was not too discriminating. He felt encouraged by being listened to, from whatsoever motive.
“Two things,” he said, with stolid steadiness. “One, to take Sturminster. I had settled before I would not take it, but St. Ermengilde’s. But when I heard that, I changed my mind, though it did not please the Signor. Sturminster will make me independent; it will give me a home. And then I settled to tell you, Miss Lottie: if you are uncomfortable at home, if you don’t like things that may be going to happen: to tell you that there’s another home ready for you, if you will have it; a home that may be made very comfortable; a place of your own, to do what you like with, that will be waiting for you, whenever you please, at a moment’s notice, the sooner the better. If you would say yes, I would go directly, I would go to-morrow, and prepare; and nobody would be able to give you trouble or make you uncomfortable any longer. Only say the word, and there is nothing, nothing I would not do——”
Lottie stood and gazed at him, wondering, bitterly ashamed and humiliated, and yet not without a sense that so much simple devotion was worth more than to be crushed, or scorned, or flung from her, as she wished to fling it. She restrained herself with an effort. “What do you mean?” she said. “Is it possible that you are asking me to marry you, Mr. Purcell? That cannot be what you mean.”
“What else could it be?” he said, turning on her a look of genuine surprise. “You don’t suppose, Miss Despard, that I could be thinking of anything else? ”
His cheeks grew crimson, and so did hers. A cry of anger and shame and confusion came from her breast. She stamped her foot impatiently on the ground. “You would never, never have ventured to ask me, never, if I had not been helpless and friendless and poor!”
“No,” he said again, with a simplicity in which she could not help feeling a certain nobleness. “I would not have ventured, for I am not what you call a gentleman; but when I heard you were in trouble, I could not keep silent. I thought to myself, Miss Lottie shall not be unhappy because of having no home to go to——”
“Oh!” said Lottie, putting out her hand to stop him. She could not bear any more. Her heart was sick with the mortification of such a suit. She could have crushed and trampled upon her humble lover, in rage and shame, and yet she could not but see the generosity and truth in his heart. If he had been less worthy, it would have been less hard upon her. “It is not a thing that can be,” she cried hastily. “Oh, don’t say another word. I know you are kind, but it is not a thing that can be.”
“Not now?” he said, looking at her wistfully; “well: but perhaps another time? perhaps when you need it more—I am not in any hurry. Perhaps I am young to marry; the Signor thinks so. But another time, Miss Lottie? Whenever you want me, you have but to say the word.”
“Oh, don’t think of it. I will never, never say the word. Forget it altogether, Mr. Purcell. I am very, very much obliged to you, but indeed it can never be.”
The young man’s countenance fell. Then he recovered himself. “I can’t think you are taking everything into consideration. We should have a nice home, plenty of everything, and I should never spare trouble to give you everything you were used to——”
“Oh, go away, go away!” she cried.
And as they stood there, some one else, his shadow slowly moving before him, came round the corner of the pathway, among the chestnut-trees; and Purcell felt that his opportunity was over. He was not sorry for it. He had done what was set before him, and if he had not succeeded, he was not discouraged. There was still hope for another time.