CHAPTER XXXVI.
FAMILY DUTY: BY A FINER ARTIST.
ROLLO did not come away from the strange excitement of that interview on the Slopes with the same feelings which filled the mind of Lottie. The first intense sensation of shame with which he had realised the villany of the proposal which Lottie did not understand soon changed into a different sentiment. He had felt its guilt, its treacherous cruelty, under the guise of devotion, far more bitterly and intensely than as if she had understood and denounced him; and the relief of his escape from an indignation and horror which must have been as overwhelming as the confidence, had made him feel how great a danger he had run, and how terrible to him, as well as to her, would have been the discovery of his base intention. How could he ever think that Lottie, proud, and pure, and fearless of evil as she was, could have fallen into such a snare! He felt himself a fool as well as a villain; perceiving, too, by the light of fact, what he would not have understood in theory, that the very uncomprehension of innocence makes guilt contemptible as well as terrible. If she could have understood him, he would scarcely have felt so mean, so miserable, so poor a creature as he did now; not even a gay and fine betrayer, but a pitiful cheat and would-be criminal, false to everything that nature trusts in. Rollo had not been irreproachable hitherto; but such sins as he had indulged in had been done among those who were sinners like himself, among people who had a cynical comprehension of the worth of promises and the value of vows. He had never tried that rôle of the seducer before; and the fact that his own shame and horror were real made them all the more hard to bear. Shame, however, of this bitter kind is not an improving influence. Soon it began to turn to anger equally bitter. He tried to think that Lottie was partly to blame, that she had “led him on,” that he never would have gone so far but for “encouragement” from her. Even it flashed across his mind that she was not so unconscious as she appeared, but had pretended ignorance in order to rivet her chains upon him, and force him to the more honourable way which was so much more for her interest. He tried to force this idea into his own mind, which was not sufficiently depraved to receive it; but yet it was not long before he was angry, irritated against the girl who would not understand him, and sore with the humiliation she had inflicted unawares.
Other influences, too, came in to break the purer spell of honourable love under which Rollo, to his own surprise, had so entirely fallen. With the return of Augusta and her husband, the world seemed to have come back and seized him. Even the society of Augusta, of itself, had an immediate influence, breaking up the magic of the seclusion in which he had been content to live. Lady Caroline was not a woman who could be called unworldly, but she was passive, and did not take any initiative even in the way of gossip. She liked to hear it; there came a little gleam of interest to her eyes when the stories of the great world were brought to her, when she was told who was going to marry who, and by what schemes and artifices the marriage had been brought about; and who had most frequently and boldly broken the marriage vow, and by whom it had been most politely eluded; and how everybody lived and cheated, and nothing was as it seemed; and all that is done for money, and that is done for pleasure, in that busy, small, narrow-minded village society—which is the world. But though she loved to hear, she could not begin; for, unless people told her what was going on, how, she sometimes asked piteously, was she to know? As for the Dean, he was not in the habit of it any more than his wife, though when he went to town he would bring down invariably a piece of news from his club—of somebody’s appointment, or somebody’s good luck, or somebody’s wedding. “Now, why can’t you go and do likewise?” he would say to Rollo. But all this was mild and secondary in comparison with Augusta, who brought the very air of what Mr. Jenkins calls the Upper Ten into the Deanery, perfuming all the rooms and all the meals with stories of fortunes won and lost, of squabbles, ministerial and domestic, of marriages and dinners alike “arranged,” and all the wonderful dessous des cartes and behind the scenes with which so many people are acquainted in fashionable life. Who so well as Augusta knew that when the Duke of Mannering gave up his governorship, it was not from any political reason, but because the life he led was such that the place was far too hot to hold him, and Government was only too glad to send out Algy Fairfax, though he was only a younger son, and had no particular interest, simply to smooth things down? And what a lucky thing it was for Algy to be there just at the right moment, when there was nobody else handy, and just when Lord Arthur was there, who had got him to explain matters to his elder brother, and knew what he could do! It was what old Lady Fairfax had been scheming for all her life, just as she had been scheming to catch young Snellgrove for Mina. Of course she had succeeded. Mina was almost distracted, everybody knew. It was she who had that affair with Lord Colbrookdale, and now everybody said she was wildly in love with Reginald Fane, her cousin; but she might just as well be in love with St. Paul’s, for he had not a penny, and she was to be married directly. Did you hear about her settlements? They were simply ridiculous. But that old woman was wonderful. There was nothing she did not think of, and everything she wanted she got. And then there was that story about poor young Jonquil, of the War Department, who married somebody quite out of the question, a poor clergyman’s daughter, or something of that sort, without a penny (though he might have had the rich Miss Windsor Brown for the asking, people said), and of the dreadful end he had come to, living down in some horrid weedy little cottage about Kew, and wheeling out two babies in a perambulator. All these tales, and a thousand more, Augusta told, filling the Deanery with a shameful train of people, all doing something they did not want to do, or forcing others to do it, or following their pleasure through every law, human and divine. Lady Caroline sat in her easy-chair (she was not allowed to put up her feet except in the evening, after dinner, when Augusta was at home), and listened with half-closed eyes, but unfailing attention. “I knew his father very well,” she would say now and then, or “his mother was a great friend of mine.” As for Rollo, he knew all the people of whom these stories were told. He had seen the things beginning of which his cousin knew all the conclusions, and what went on behind the scenes, and thus he was carried back after the idyll of the last six weeks to his own proper world. He began to feel that there was no world but that, that nothing else could make up for the want of it; and a shudder ran over him when he thought of Jonquil’s fate. Augusta, for her part, did not conceal her surprise to find him at the Deanery. “What is Rollo doing here?” she said to her mother.
“I am sure, my dear, I do not know. He seems to like it, and we are very glad to have him,” Lady Caroline replied. But that did not satisfy Mrs. Daventry’s curiosity. What could a young man of fashion, a man of the world, do here?
“I wonder what he is after,” she said; “I wonder what his object can be. It can’t be only your society and papa’s. I should just like to know what he is up to. He is not a fool, to have gone and got entangled somehow. I wonder what he can mean by it!” Augusta cried; but her mother could give her no idea. Lady Caroline thought it was natural enough.
“I don’t see that it is so strange,” she said. “Autumn is a terrible time. To sleep in a strange bed night after night, and never settle down anywhere! Rollo likes to be comfortable; and then there is this Miss Despard. You have heard about Miss Despard?”
“What about Miss Despard?” Augusta said, pricking up her ears.
“She is to be the prima donna,” said Lady Caroline. “He thinks she will make his fortune. He has always got some wild scheme in his head. He used to annoy me very much to have her here——”
“And did you have her here?” cried Augusta, roused into sudden excitement. “Oh, why didn’t I know of it! I thought there must be some reason! Lottie Despard! And were you obliged to have her here, mamma? What a bore it must have been for you!”
“I did not like it, my dear,” her ladyship said. But after a while she added, conscience compelling her, “She sang very nicely, Augusta; she has a pretty voice.”
“She has plenty of voice, but she cannot sing a note,” said Augusta, with vehemence, who was herself, without any voice to speak of, a very well-trained musician. She would not say any more to frighten Lady Caroline, but she took her measures without delay. And the result of Augusta’s enquires was that Rollo found his feet entangled in a web of engagements which separated him from Lottie. But though he was sore and angry, he had not given up Lottie, nor had he any intention so to do. When, however, the day came for Lottie’s next lesson, Mrs. Daventry herself did the Signor the honour of calling upon him just before his pupil appeared. “You know the interest I always took in Lottie. Please let me stay. We have so many musical friends in town that I am sure I can be of use to her,” Mrs. Daventry said; and the consequence was that when Lottie and her companion entered the Signor’s sitting-room, the great chair between the fire and the window in which Mrs. O’Shaughnessy usually placed herself was found to be already occupied by the much greater lady, whose sudden appearance in this cordial little company put everybody out. Augusta sat leaning back in the big chair, holding a screen between her cheek and the fire, her fine Paris bonnet, her furs, and her velvet making a great appearance against the dark wall, and her smiles and courtesy confounding every individual of the familiar party. She was more refined, far less objectionable than Polly, and did her spiriting in a very different way; but there could be little doubt that the fine artist was also the most effectual. She put the entire party out, from the least to the greatest, though the sweetest of smiles was on her face. Even the Signor was not himself with this gracious personage superintending his exertions. He was a good English Tory, of the most orthodox sentiments; but he was at the same time an impatient Italian, of despotic tastes, and did not easily tolerate the position of second in his own house. Rollo, who had determined to be present, whatever happened, but who, by a refinement of cruelty, did not know his cousin was coming, came in with all the ease of habit, and had already betrayed the fact of his constant attendance at these strange lessons, when Augusta called to him, covering him with confusion. “We shall be quite a family party,” she said. “I’m so glad you take an interest in poor Lottie too.” Rollo could not but ask himself what was the meaning of this sudden friendliness and interest; but he was obliged to place himself by her side when she called him. And when Lottie came in, at whom he did not dare to look, his position became very uncomfortable. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, finding her seat occupied, and herself compelled to take a lower place, sat down on a chair near the door, with wrath which made her countenance flame. She had stood up in the room a minute before she seated herself, looking round for a more comfortable place, and had greeted Mr. Ridsdale joyously as an old friend. But even Rollo, usually so polite, who never saw her without doing his very best to make himself agreeable, even he never attempted to introduce her to his cousin, and the good woman sat down accordingly, against the wall, silent and fuming, while Augusta took the chief place. The stranger in the midst of them turned the whole party upside down. Even Purcell was so occupied by the conversation that was kept up in whispers by Augusta, in her corner, even during the singing, that he missed to turn the leaves at the proper moment. Augusta knew very well what she was doing. She had a respect for the Signor, but she had higher purposes in hand. She kept Rollo by her side, and kept up a conversation with him through all, which was, like her usual conversation, deeply pervaded by the essence of society and “the Upper Ten.” She kept it up in a whisper when Lottie began to sing. “Don’t you think she is handsome? She is a little like Lady Augustus Donjon about the eyes—don’t you think so? Oh, I never told you that good story about the Augustus Donjons,” said Mrs. Daventry; and she told her story, all through the song, half audible.
“Wasn’t it good?” Augusta said; and then, “That is such a pretty song; and, Lottie, you are so improved, I should never have known it to be the same voice. Yes, wasn’t it good, Rollo? Augustus Donjon is always the first to laugh himself, and even the children have got it in the nursery. She is such a jolly woman, she never minds. What are we going to have next? Oh, that will be very nice!” said Augusta.
Was it wonderful that Purcell should lose the place? The young fellow did all he could to stop the fine lady with furious glances; and the Signor, though his back was turned to her, felt the whisper and the indignity run through every nerve of him. Even in his back you could see, Purcell thought, how horribly annoyed he was. His sensitive shoulders winced and shuddered, his elbows jerked. He could not attend to his accompaniment, he could not attend to his pupil. In the very midst of a song he said aloud, distracted by the s’s of a whisper which was louder than usual, “This must never happen again.” As for Lottie, she did not know what she was doing. She sang—because it was the hour for her lesson, because she found herself standing there by the side of the Signor’s piano—but not for any other reason. She had neither inspiration, nor had she that nascent sense that Art might perhaps console for other losses which she had once felt when Rollo was away. She was distracted by the whispering behind her, from which she could not withdraw her attention. Why did he listen? Why did he allow Augusta to draw him into unfaithfulness to her? And yet, how could he help it? Was it not all Augusta’s fault? But with whomsoever the fault lay, Lottie was the victim. Her voice could not be got out. And the reader knows that Augusta was right—that this poor girl, though she had the voice of an angel, did not as yet know how to sing, and had no science to neutralise the impressions made upon her which took away all her heart and her voice. She went on making a brave fight; but when once the Signor faltered in his accompaniment, and said loud out, “This must never happen again,” and when Purcell forgot to turn the page, what is it to be supposed Lottie could do, who was not the tenth part of a musician such as they were? She faltered, she went wrong. Tune she could not help keeping, it was in her nature: even her wrong notes were never out of harmony; but in time she went wildly floundering, not even kept right by the Signor. Even that did not matter very much, seeing that none of these people, who generally were so critical, so censorious, so ready to be hard upon her out of pure anxiety for her, were in a state of mind to perceive the mistakes she was making. And it was only vaguely that Lottie herself was aware of them. Her whole attention was attracted in spite of herself by the whispering in the corner.
“Oh, thank you so much!” Augusta broke forth, when she came to the end. “What a charming bit that is! It is Schubert, of course, but I don’t know it. The time was a little odd, but the melody was beautiful.”
“You know my weakness,” said the Signor stiffly, turning round. “I cannot answer for myself when people are talking. I am capable of doing anything that is wrong. ”
“Oh! I remember,” cried Mrs. Daventry; “you used to be very stern with all our little societies. Not a word were we allowed to say. We all thought it hard, but of course it was better for us in the long run. And are you as tyrannical as ever, Signor?”
“Not so tyrannical since ladies come here, and carry on their charming conversation all the same. I only wish I could have profited by it. It seemed amusing and instructive. If I were not unhappily one of those poor creatures who can only do one thing at a time——”
“Oh, Signor, how very severe you are!” said Augusta. “I was only telling my cousin some old stories which I am sure you must have heard weeks ago. You know the Donjons? No! Oh, I thought everybody knew the Augustus Donjons! They go everywhere; they have friends in music and friends in art, and you meet all sorts of people at their house. Lottie, when you are a great singer, I hope you will remember me, and send me cards now and then for one of your concerts. There are so many things going on now, and all so expensive, that people in our circumstances really can’t do everything. Spencer has stalls where we go when there is anything particular; but I assure you, now-a-days, one can no more afford a box at the opera——! You know, Signor; but I daresay your friends always find you places somewhere. ”
“That is true. If everything else fails, a friend of mine who plays second violin will lend me his instrument,” said the Signor, “or a box-keeper now and then will be glad of an evening’s holiday. They are blasés, these people. They do not care if Patti sings. They will rather have a holiday and go to a music-hall.”
Augusta looked at her cousin, puzzled. She did not see the irony. After all, she thought, there was not, perhaps, so very much difference between a musician and those perfectly gentlemanlike people who showed you to your box or your stall. She had often thought how nice they looked. The Signor saw her bewilderment, and added, with a smile—“You have never recognised me in my borrowed part?”
“Oh, Signor!—certainly not. I never meant to say anything that would suggest—to imply anything that might——indeed, I hope you will not think I have been indiscreet,” cried Augusta. “But, Rollo, we must go, we must certainly go. I told mamma you would come with me to see the old Skeffingtons. Spencer is away, and I must return their call. Signor, I do hope you will forgive me. I meant nothing that was disagreeable. I am sure we are all put to worse straits than that, in order to get a little amusement without ruining ourselves. Oh, Rollo, please come away!”
Rollo had snatched an instant as Lottie gathered her music together. “It is not my fault,” he said. “She never lets me alone. I did not know she was coming here to-day. Do not put on that strange look.”
“Have I a strange look?” Lottie said. What ups and downs were hers!—the other day so triumphant, and now again so cast down and discouraged. The tears were standing in her eyes, but she looked at him bravely. “It does not matter,” she said; “perhaps she does not mean it. It takes away my heart, and then I have not any voice.”
“Oh, my love!” he whispered under his breath. “And I must put up with it all. At the elm-tree, dear, to-night.”
“Oh, no, no!” she said.
“Why no no? it is not my fault. Dear, for pity——”
“What are you saying to Miss Despard, Rollo? I am jealous of you, Lottie; my cousin never comes to my lessons. And, indeed, I wonder the Signor allows it. It is very delightful for us, but how you can work, really work with such a train!” Augusta turned round and looked severely at Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. “If I were the Signor I should not admit one creature except your maid.”
But this was an indignity which mortal could not endure. The kind Irishwoman rose to her feet as quickly as the low chair would permit. “And sure, I agree with the lady,” she said. “Lottie, me love, I can bear a deal for you, and I’ve stood your friend through thick and thin, as all here knows. But come again to the Signor’s I won’t, not if you were to go down on your knees—unless he gives his word of honour that them that hasn’t a scrap of manners, them that don’t know how to behave themselves, that whispers when you’re singing, and interrupts when you’re speaking, will never be here again to insult you—at least not when Mistress O’Shaughnessy’s here.”
Leaving this fine outburst of indignation to vibrate through the room, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy turned upon her heel, and, grasping Lottie by the arm, took the pas from Augusta, and marched out with blazing eyes and countenance flushed with war. “Ye can bring the music,” she said to old Pick, who had been listening, and whose disappointment at Lottie’s break-down was great, “and there’ll be a shilling for you. I’d scorn to be beholden to one of them.” Rollo made an anxious attempt, but in vain, to catch Lottie’s eyes as she was swept past him. But Lottie would not return his glance. Augusta had done a great deal more execution with her subtle tactics than Polly with hers—which, perhaps, were not more brutal because they were so much less refined.
“What an odious woman!” Augusta cried; “walking out of the room before me. But, Rollo, she was quite right, though she was so impudent. You ought not to go there. Mamma says you want Lottie Despard for your new opera. She would never do. She has a voice, but she doesn’t know how to sing. A good audience would never put up with her.”
“That is all a mistake,” said Rollo; “it may be very well to know how to sing, but it is much better to have a voice.”
“I could not have supposed you were so old-fashioned; never say that in public if you want anyone to have any opinion of you. But even if you are so sure of her you should keep away; you should not interfere with her training. The fact is,” said Augusta, very seriously, “I am dreadfully afraid you have got into some entanglement even now.”
“You are very kind,” said Rollo, smiling, “to take such care of me.”
“I wish I could take a great deal more care. I am almost sure you have got into some entanglement, though, of course, you will say no. But, Rollo, you know, you might as well hang yourself at once. You could never hold up your head again. I don’t know what on earth would become of you. Uncle Courtland would wash his hands of you, and what could any of your friends do? It would be moral suicide,” said Augusta, with solemnity. “I told you about young Jonquil, and the state he was in. Rollo! tha t’s the most miserable thing that can happen to a man; other things may go wrong, and mend again; your people may interpose, or a hundred things may happen; but this sort of thing is without hope. Oh, Rollo, take it to heart! There are many things a man may do that don’t tell half so much against him. You would be poor, and everybody would give you up. For goodness’ sake, Rollo, think of what I say.”
He gave her an answer which was not civil; and, as he went along by her side to old Canon Skeffington’s, there suddenly gleamed across his mind a recollection of the elm-tree on the Slopes, and all the sweetness of the stolen hours which had passed there. And Lottie had said “No.” Why should she have said “No?” It seemed to him that he cared for nothing else so much as to know why for this first time she had refused to meet him. Had she began to understand his proposition? had she found out what it was he meant? Was she afraid of him, or indignant, or——? But she had not looked indignant. Of all things in the world, there was nothing he wanted so much as to know what Lottie meant by that refusal. Yet, notwithstanding, he did take to heart what Augusta said.