CHAPTER XXXIX.
LOTTIE SUBDUED.
“I WAITED half an hour. I was not very happy,” said Rollo. “It is never cold when you are here, but last night the wind went through and through me. That is the consequence of being alone. And you, my Lottie, had you no compunctions? Could you make yourself happy without any thought of the poor fellow freezing under the elm-tree?”
“Happy!” Lottie cried. She was happy now. Last night she had been alone, no one in the world caring what became of her; now she felt safe, as if the world held nothing but friends; but she shivered, notwithstanding her lover’s supporting arm.
“Not happy then? Does it not answer, darling? Can you endure the woman? Is she better than at first? I like her,” said Rollo, “for you know it was her arrival which opened your heart to me—which broke the ice—which brought us together. I shall always feel charitably towards her for that.”
Lottie shivered again. “No, it is not because of the cold,” she said. “I do not suppose you could understand if I were to tell you. Home! I have not any home!” cried the girl. “I was thinking—if it was really true what you said the other night—if it would make no difference to you, Rollo, to take your wife out of some poor little lodging instead of out of her father’s house—are you sure you would not mind?” she said, looking wistfully, anxiously into his face. In the waning light all he could see distinctly was this wistful dilation of her eyes, gazing intently to read, before he could utter it, his answer in his face. “I could manage to live somehow,” she went on, tremulously. “Though I cannot give lessons, I can work, very well. I think I am almost sure I could get work. No; I would not take money from you; I could not, Rollo:—not until—no, no; that would be quite impossible; rather stay here and bear it all than that. But if really, truly, to marry a poor girl, living in a poor little room, working for her bread, would not make any difference to you——. Oh, I know, I know it is not what ought to be—even here, even at home, I am not equal to you. You ought to have some one a great deal better off—a great deal higher in the world. But if you would not think it—discreditable; if you would not be ashamed—— oh, Rollo,” she cried, “I cannot bear it! it is impossible to bear it!—I would ask you to do what you offered and take me away!”
It is impossible to describe the feelings with which Rollo listened to these unexpected words. To see a bird walk into the snare must awake compunctions in the most experienced trapper. The same sensation does not attend a sudden fall; but the sight of an innocent creature going calmly into the death set before it, as if into safety and shelter—a man must be hard indeed to see that unmoved. And Rollo was no villain. His heart gave one wild leap again, as it had done when, in the hurrying of passion, not with deliberation (as he had always been comforted to think), he had laid that snare. The thrill of his hairbreadth escape from her horror and loathing, the leap of sudden, horrified delight to find her in his power all at once, by her own act and deed, transported him for the moment with almost uncontrollable power; and then this sudden passion in his mind was met by the stream, the torrent, of a more generous impulse, a nobler passion, which carried everything before it. A man may trap his prey with guile, he may take advantage of the half-willingness of a frail resistance; but to turn to shame the perfect and tender confidence of innocence, who but a villain could do that? and Rollo was no villain. He grasped her almost convulsively in his arms as she spoke; he tried to interrupt her, the words surging, almost incoherent, to his lips. “Lottie! my Lottie!” he cried, “this is not how it must be. Do you think I will let you go to live alone, to work, as you say? ” He took her hand hastily, and kissed the little cold fingers with lips that trembled. “No, my love, my darling, not that—but I will go to town to-morrow and settle how we can be married—at once, without an hour’s delay. Oh, yes, it is possible, dear—quite possible. It is the only thing to do. Why, why did I not think of it before? I will go and settle everything, and get the licence. That is the way. My darling, you must not say a word. You had made up your mind to marry me some time, and why not to-morrow—next day—as soon as I can settle? What should we wait for? who should we think of except ourselves? And I want you, my love; and you, thank heaven, Lottie, have need of me.”
He held her close to him, in a grasp which was almost fierce—fierce in the strain of virtue and honour, in which his own nature, with all its easy principles and vacillations, was caught too. He wanted to be off and do it at once, without losing a moment, lest his heart should fail. He would do it, whatever might oppose. She should never know that less worthy thoughts had been in his mind. She should find that her trust was not vain. His blood ran in his veins like a tumultuous river, and his heart beat so that Lottie herself was overawed by the commotion as he held her against it. She was half frightened by his vehemence and tried to speak, but he would not let her at first. “No,” he said, “no, you must not say anything. You must not oppose me. It must be done first, and then we can think of it after. There is nothing against it, and everything in its favour. You must not say a word but Yes,” he cried.
“But, Rollo, Rollo, let me speak. It might be good for me, but would it not be wrong for you? Oh, let me speak! Am I so selfish that I would make you take a sudden resolution, perhaps very foolish, perhaps very imprudent, for my sake? Rollo, Rollo, don’t! I will bear anything. It would be wrong for you to do this.”
“No; not wrong, but right—not wrong, but right,” he cried, bewildering her with his vehemence. Lottie’s own heart was stirred, but not like this. She wondered and was troubled, even in the delight of the thought that everything in the world was as nothing to him in comparison with his love for herself.
“But, Rollo,” she cried again, trembling in his grasp, “if this is really possible—if it is not wrong—why should you go to London to do it? It would be quite as easy here——”
“Lottie, you will sacrifice something for me, will you not?” he said. “If it were done here, all would be public; it would be spoken of everywhere; and I want it to be quiet. I have not much money. You will make this sacrifice for me, dear ——”
“Oh,” said Lottie, compunctious, “I wish I had said nothing about it; I wish I had not disturbed you with my paltry little troubles. Do not think of them any more. I can bear anything when I know you are thinking of me. It was only yesterday when—when all seemed uncertain, that it seemed more than I could bear.”
“And it is more than you ought to bear,” he said. “No, I am glad that you told me. We will go away, Lottie—to Italy, to the sunshine, to the country of music, where you will learn best of all—we will go away from the very church door.”
And then he told her how it could be done. To-morrow he would go and settle everything. His plans all took form with lightning speed, though he had never thought of them till now. There would be many things to do; but in three days from that time he would meet her in the same place, and tell her all the arrangements he had made:—and the next morning after that (“Saturday is a lucky day,” he said) they would go to town, if not together, yet by the same train—and go to the church, where he would have arranged everything. Rollo Ridsdale was an adventurer born. He was used to changing the conditions of his life in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye. But it all seemed a dream to Lottie—not one of her usual waking dreams, but a dream of the night, with no possibility in it, which would dissolve into the mists presently and leave nothing but a happy recollection. She acquiesced in everything, being too much taken by surprise to oppose a plan in which he was so vehement.
“May I tell Law?” she asked, always in her dream, not feeling as if there was any reality in the idea she suggested. And he said No at first, but afterwards half relented, and it was agreed that on Friday everything was to be decided, but nothing done till then. Thus, though they had met without a thought that this stolen interview would be more decisive than any other of the same kind, they parted with a decision that concerned their entire lives.
They walked closer together after this, in the safe gloom of the darkness, till they had again reached the door of the cloisters which led to the Deanery. No one was about, and Rollo was full of restless excitement. He would not hear what she said about prudence, and walked across with her to her own door. There was not a creature to be seen up or down; the lamps flickered in the cold wind, and all the population had gone in to the comfort of warm rooms and blazing fires. He kissed her hand tenderly as he took leave of her.
“Till Friday,” he said.
Lottie went in, still in her dream, walking, she thought, in her sleep. She hoped this sleep would last for ever—that it might not be rashly disturbed by waking, or even by that which would be almost as bad as waking—coming true. She could scarcely feel that she wanted it to come true; it was enough as it was, a bewildering happiness that tingled to the very ends of her fingers, that made her feel as if she were walking on air. She went softly upstairs, caring for nothing but to get to her room, where, though it was dark and cold, she could still go on with this wonderful vision. That seemed all she wanted. But, alas! something very different was in store for Lottie. As she went with soft steps up the stairs the door of the little drawing-room was suddenly opened, letting out a warm stream of ruddy light. Then a sound of laughter reached her ears, and Polly’s voice——
“Come in, come in; we are waiting for you; we are both here,” with another gay outburst.
Lottie came to herself, and to all the disagreeable realities of her life, with a start of pain. She had to obey, though nothing could be more disagreeable to her. She went in with dazzled eyes into the room full of firelight. She remembered now that she had remarked outside that no lamp was lighted, and had supposed with relief that Mrs. Despard was out. But Mrs. Despard had not been out. She had been lurking in the ruddy gloom near the window, her husband by her side. They greeted Lottie with another laugh, as she came in with her pale, astonished face within the circle of the fire.
“So that’s how you spend your afternoons, miss, as I never could think where you were,” cried Polly; “but why didn’t you bring in your beau with you? I’d have given him his tea and a nice leg of a goose, as comfortable as could be.”
“My child,” said the Captain on his side, “I congratulate you. I’ve been expecting something of this kind for a long time. I’ve had my eye upon you. But why didn’t you bring Mr. Ridsdale in, as Mrs. Despard says?”
Lottie felt as if she had been turned into stone. She stood all dark in her winter dress, the firelight playing upon her, and seeking in vain to catch at some possibility of reflection. She had not even a button that would give back the light. And she had not a word to say.
“Come, come, you need not be so put out,” said the Captain, not unkindly. “We saw you coming; and very proper of Mr. Ridsdale not to leave you at the Deanery, but to see you home to your own door. You thought no one was paying any attention—but I hope,” Captain Despard added, “that I think more than that of my child. I don’t doubt from what I saw, Lottie, that you understand each other; and why hasn’t he come before now to speak to me? You might have known that such a suitor would not be received unfavourably. Happy myself,” said the Captain, throwing out his chest, “would I have put any obstacle between you and your happiness, my dear?”
“I did not think—I did not know—I think—you are mistaken,” Lottie faltered, not knowing what to say.
“Mistaken, indeed! Oh, we’ve gone through all that too lately to be mistaken, haven’t we, Harry?” cried Mrs. Despard. “We know all about it. You couldn’t come to those as would understand you better. Don’t be frightened; you haven’t been found out in anything wrong. If that was wrong I’ve a deal to answer for,” Polly cried, laughing. “I should think you must be frozen with cold after wandering about on them Slopes, or wherever you have been. How foolish young people are, to be sure, getting their deaths of cold. We never were as foolish as that, were we, Harry? Come and warm yourself, you silly girl. You needn’t be afraid of him or me.”
Amid their laughter, however, Lottie managed to get away, to take off her hat, and to try as best she could to realise this new phase of the situation. What her father had said was very reasonable. Why had not Rollo come, as the Captain said? How that would have simplified everything, made everything legitimate! She sighed, not able to understand her lover, feeling that for once her father was right; but Rollo had said that this could not be, that it would be necessary to keep everything quiet. Her dream of happiness was disturbed. Dreams are better, so much better, than reality. In them there is never any jar with fact and necessity; they can adapt themselves to everything, fit themselves into every new development. But now that she was fully awoke it was less easy to steer her way through all the obstacles. Rollo’s reluctance to declare himself, and her father’s right to know, and the pain of leaving her home in a clandestine way, all rushed upon her, dispersing her happiness to the winds. She had felt that to awake would be to lose the sweetness which had wrapped her about; and now the rude encounter with the world had come, and Lottie felt that even with that prospect of happiness before her it was difficult to bear what she would have to bear;—Polly’s innuendoes and, worse still, Polly’s sympathy, and the questions of her father appalled her as she looked forward to them. During this strange courtship of hers, so perplexed and mixed up as it was with her music and the “career” which they all, even Rollo, had tried to force upon her (though surely there need be no more of that now), and the changes that had taken place at home, Lottie had almost lost herself. She was no longer the high-spirited girl, full of energy and strength, who had reigned over this little house and dragged Law’s heavy bulk along through so many difficulties. She had dreamed so much, and taken refuge so completely from the troubles of her position in those dreams, that now she seemed to have lost her own characteristics, and had no vigour to sustain her when she had actual difficulties to face. She tried to recall herself to herself as she smoothed her hair, which had been blown about by the breeze. From the beginning she had been pained by Rollo’s reserve, though she had persuaded herself it was natural enough; but now, in this new, strange revolution of affairs—a revolution caused entirely, she said to herself, by her father’s own proceedings—what could she do but stand firm on her own side? She would not betray the great purpose in hand. She would still her own heart, and keep her composure, and not allow any agitation or any irritation to wrest from her the secret which Rollo desired to keep. To smooth her ruffled hair was not generally a long process with Lottie; but it was more difficult to arrange her agitated thoughts, and there had been various calls for her from below, where the others had gone for their evening meal, before she was ready to follow.
Finally Law was sent upstairs with an urgent demand for her presence.
“They’ve gone to tea,” said Law, knocking at her door; and then he added, in a low tone, “Open, Lottie. I want to speak to you. I have got lots to say to you.”
She heard him, but she did not attach any meaning to his words. What he said to her on the night before had left no definite impression on her mind. Law had lost his sister, who thought of him above all. In the midst of a pressing crisis in our own individual life, which of us has time to think of others? She was afraid to talk to Law, afraid to betray herself. Love made Lottie selfish and self-absorbed, a consequence just as apt to follow as any other. She was afraid of betraying herself to him; her mind was too full of this wonderful revolution in her own life to be able to take in Law’s desire, on his side, not to know about her, but to expound himself. She came out upon him hastily, and brushed past him, saying, “I am ready.” She did not think of Law, not even when he followed her, grumbling and murmuring—“I told you I wanted to speak to you.” How difficult it is to realise the wants of another when one’s heart is full of one’s own concerns! Neither brother nor sister had room in their minds for anything but the momentous event in their respective lives which was coming; but Law was aggrieved, for he had always hitherto possessed Lottie’s sympathy as a chattel of his own.
Polly and the Captain were seated at table when the two younger members of the family went in, and never had Captain Despard been more dignified or genial. “Lottie, my child, a bit of the breast,” he said—“a delicate bit just fit for a lady. I’ve saved it up for you, though you are late. You are very late; but for once in a way we will make allowances, especially as Mrs. Despard is not offended, but takes your side.”
“Oh, I know,” said Polly, “I am not one as is hard upon natural feelings. Pride I can’t abide, nor stuck-up ways, but when it comes to keeping company——”
“Is anyone keeping company with Lottie?” said Law, looking up fiercely; and then the elder pair laughed.
“But, my love, it is not a phrase that is used in good society,” the Captain said.
“Oh, bother good society!” said Polly. She was in an exuberant mood, and beyond the influence of that little topdressing of too transparent pretence with which occasionally she attempted to impose upon her step-children. Lottie, in whose mind indignation and disgust gradually overcame the previous self-absorption, listened to every word, unable to escape from the chatter she hated, with that keen interest of dislike and impatience which is more enthralling than affec tion; but she scarcely ventured to raise her eyes, and kept herself rigidly on her guard lest any rash word should betray her. It was not till the meal was over that she was brought to actual proof. Then her father detained her as she was about to escape. Law, more impatient than ever with the pressure of his own affairs, which it seemed impossible to find any opportunity of confiding to his sister, had got up at once and gone out. The Captain threw out his chest majestically and waved his hand as Lottie was about to follow.
“My child, I have got something to say to you,” he said.
Mrs. Despard was standing by the fire, warming herself with frank ease, with a good ankle well displayed. Lottie, on her way to the door, unwillingly arrested, stood still because she could not help it. But the Captain occupied with majesty his seat at the foot of the table between his wife and his daughter. “My love,” he said, with his favourite gesture, throwing back his well-developed shoulders, “I have every faith in my daughter, and Mr. Ridsdale is in every way quite satisfactory. Your family is as good as his, but my Lord Courtland’s son is not one to be turned away from any door; and as you have no fortune, Lottie, I should not be exacting as to settlements. I suppose he knows that you have no fortune, my dear?”
“La, Harry!” said Polly from the side of the fire, “how should he think she had a fortune? Fortunes don’t grow on every tree. And how do you know as he has got that far? A young man may keep company with a girl for long enough, and yet never go as far as that.”
“You must allow me to know best, my love,” said the Captain. “I hope he is not trifling with my girl’s affections. If he is he has Harry Despard to deal with, I’d have him to know. By Jove, if I thought that!”
“I dare say it’s nothing but keeping company,” said Polly, holding up her foot to the fire. “Taking a walk together, or a talk; there’s nothing wrong in that. She wants her bit of fun as well as other girls. I’m not the one to stand up for Miss Lottie, for it’s not what she’d do for me; but if it’s only her bit of fun you shouldn’t be hard upon her, Harry; if my pa had hauled me up for that——”
Lottie could not bear it any longer. “Do you wish me to stay,” she said, “papa? can you wish me to stay?” The Captain looked from his wife in her easy attitude to his daughter, pale with indignation and horror.
“My love,” he said, with mild remonstrance, “there are different ways of speaking in different spheres. Lottie is an only daughter, and has been very carefully brought up. But, my child,” the Captain added, turning to Lottie, “you must not be neglected now. I will make it my business to-morrow to see Mr. Ridsdale, to ascertain what his intentions are. Your interests shall not suffer from any carelessness.”
“Papa,” cried Lottie in despair, “you will not do anything so cruel; you could not treat me so! Wait—only wait—a few days—three or four days!”
Polly was so much interested that she let her dress drop over her ankles and turned round. “Don’t you see,” she said, “that she feels he’s coming to the point without any bother? That’s always a deal the best way. It can’t do no harm, as I can see, to wait for three or four days.”
“By Jove, but it will, though,” said Captain Despard with sudden impatience, “all the harm in the world. You’ll allow me to understand my own business. It is clearly time for a man to interfere. I shall see Mr. Ridsdale to-morrow, if all the women in the world were to try their skill and hold me back. Hold your tongue, Mrs. Despard; be quiet, Lottie. When a man is a husband and a father he is the best judge of his own duties. It is now my time to interfere.”
Polly was really concerned; she had a fellow feeling for the girl whose rights were thus interfered with. “Don’t you mind,” she said, turning to Lottie with a half-audible whisper. “If he’s coming to the point himself it won’t do no harm, and if he ain’t it will give him a push, and let him see what’s expected of him. I ain’t one for interfering myself, but if you can’t help it you must just put up with it; and I don’t think, after all, it will do so very much harm.”
Now Lottie ought to have been grateful for this well-intentioned and amiable remark, but she was not. On the contrary, her anger rose more wildly against the stranger who thus attempted to console her, than it did against her father, whose sudden resolution was so painful to her. She gave Polly a look of wrath, and, forgetting even civility, darted out of the room and upstairs in vehement resentment. Polly was not so much angry as amazed to the point of consternation. She gasped for the breath which was taken away by Lottie’s sudden flight. “Well!” she exclaimed, “that’s manners, that is! that’s what you call being brought up careful! A young unmarried girl, as is nothing and nobody, rushing out of a room like that before a married lady and her Pa’s wife!”
Lottie, however, was in a passion of alarm, which drove everything else out of her head. Of all things that seemed to her most to be avoided, a meeting between her father and Rollo at this crisis was the worst. She left her room no more that evening, but sat and pondered what she could do to avert the danger. True, without a meeting between them it would be impossible that her love should have its legitimate sanction, and that the beginning of her new life should be honest and straightforward, as it ought. But partly because she had schooled herself to think (by way of excusing Rollo’s silence) that a meeting between him and her father would only make him less respectful of the Captain’s pretensions and the “family” which Lottie still with forlorn faith believed in, and partly because the visit of a father to ask a lover’s “intentions” was perhaps the very last way in which a beginning of intercourse could be agreeably established, it seemed to Lottie that she would do anything in the world to prevent this meeting. With this view she wrote one little note and then another to warn Rollo—writing with cold fingers but a beating heart, hot with anxiety and trouble, upon the corner of her little dressing-table—for there was no room for any other convenience of a table in the small, old-fashioned chamber. But when she had at last achieved a composition of one which seemed to express feebly yet sufficiently what she wanted to say, the question arose, How was it to get to Rollo? She had no one to send. She dared not trust it to Law, for that would involve an explanation, and there was no one else at Lottie’s command. A thought of Captain Temple floated across her mind; but how could she employ him upon such an errand, which would involve a still more difficult explanation? At last she burnt regretfully by the flame of her candle the very last of these effusions, and decided that she must trust to the chances of the morrow. She had promised to be at the elm-tree in the morning to bid Rollo good-by. She must manage, then, to get him to go away before matins were over and her father free. But it was with an anxious heart that Lottie, when her candle burned out, crept cold and troubled to bed, chilled to the bone, yet with a brow which burned and throbbed with excitement. Law did not come in till after she had fallen asleep. Law, whom she had watched over so anxiously, was, at this crisis of Lottie’s personal history and his own, left entirely to himself.
In the morning she managed to run out immediately after breakfast, just as the air began to vibrate with the Abbey bells, and, after some anxious waiting under the elm, at last, to her great relief, saw Rollo coming. Lottie was not able to disguise her anxiety or her desire for his departure. “Never mind speaking to me,” she said. “Do not waste time. Oh, Rollo, forgive me—no, it is not to get rid of you,” she cried, and then she told him the incident of last night.
Rollo’s eyes gave forth a gleam of disgust when he heard of the chance of being stopped by Captain Despard to enquire his “intentions.” He laughed, and Lottie thought instinctively that this was a sound of merriment which she would never wish to hear again. But his face brightened as he turned to Lottie, who was so anxious to save him from this ordeal. “My faithful Lottie!” he said, pressing her close to him. There was nobody stirring in the winterly morning; but yet day requires more reserve than the early darkness of night.
“But go, go, Rollo. I want you to be gone before they are out of the Abbey,” she cried, breathless.
“My dear love—my only love,” he said, holding both her hands in his.
“Oh, Rollo, is it not only for a day or two? You are so serious, you frighten me—but go, go, that you may not meet anyone,” she said.
“Yes, it is only for a day or two, my darling,” he replied. “On Friday, my Lottie, at five under this tree. You won’t fail me?”
“Never,” she said, with her blue eyes full of sweet tears. And then they kissed in the eye of day, all the silent world looking on.
“No,” he said, with fervour—“never; you will never fail me; you will always be true.”
And so they parted, she watching jealously while he took his way, not by the common road, but down the windings of the Slopes, that he might be safe, that no one might annoy him. “Till Friday!” he called to her in the silence, waving his hand as he turned the corner out of her sight. She drew a long breath of relief when she saw him emerge alone farther down upon the road that led to the railway. The Signor was only then beginning the voluntary, and Captain Despard evidently could not ask Rollo Ridsdale his “intentions” that day. Lottie waved her hand to her lover, though he was too far off to see her, and said to herself, “Till Friday,” with a sudden realisation all of these words implied—another life, a new heaven and a new earth; love, and tenderness, and worship instead of the careless use and wont of the family; to be first instead of last; to be happy and at rest instead of tormented at everybody’s caprice; to be with Rollo, who loved her, always, for ever and ever, with no more risk of losing him or being forgotten. Her heart overflowed with sweetness, her eyes with soft tears of joy. Out of that enchanted land she went back for a little while into common life, but not in any common way. The sunshine, which had been slow to shine, broke out over the Dean’s Walk as she emerged from under the shadow of the trees; the path was cleared for her; the music pealed out from the Abbey. Unconsciously her steps fell into a kind of stately movement, keeping time. In her blessedness she moved softly on towards the shadow of the house in which she had now but a few days to live—like a princess walking to her coronation, like a martyr to her agony. Who could tell in which of the two the best similitude lay?