102

Within the Precincts.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

A CRISIS.

OTTIE scarcely knew how she got through that afternoon. Rollo presented himself for but a moment at the Signor's, in great concern that he could not stay, and begging a hundred pardons with his eyes, which he could not put into words. Lady Caroline and Augusta had made an engagement for him from which he could not get free. 66 At the elm-tree!" he whispered in the only moment when he could approach Lottie. Her heart, which was beating still with the mingled anger,

and wonder, and fright of her late encounter, sank within her. She could only look at him with a glance which was half appeal and half despair. And when he went away the day seemed to close in, the clouds to gather over the very window by which she was standing, and heaven and earth to fail her. Rollo's place was taken by a spectator whose sympathy was more disinterested than that of Rollo, and his pity more tender; but what was that to Lottie, who wanted only the one man whom she loved, not any other? What a saving of trouble and pain there would be in this world if the sympathy of one did as well as that of another! There was poor Purcell turning over the music, gazing at her with timid eyes full of devotion, and longing to have the courage and the opportunity to offer her again that 'ome which poor Lottie so much wanted, which seemed open to her nowhere else in the whole world. And on the other side stood Mr. Ashford without any such definite intention as Purcell, without any perception as yet of anything in himself but extreme "interest in," and compassion for, this solitary creature, but roused to the depths of his heart

by the sight of her, anxious to do anything that could give her consolation, and ready to stand by her against all the world. The Minor Canon had been passing when that scene took place in the hall of Captain Despard's house with its open door. He had heard Polly's loud voice, and he had seen Law rush out, putting on his hat, and flushed with unusual feeling. "I don't mind what she says to me as long as she keeps off Lottie!" the young man had said; and careless as Law was, the tears had come to his eyes, and he had burst forth, "My poor Lottie! what is she to do?" Mr. Ashford's heart had been wrung by this outcry. What could he do?—he was helpless—an unmarried man ; of what use could he ever be to a beautiful, friendless girl? He felt how impotent he was with an impatience and distress which did not lessen that certainty. He could do nothing for her, and yet he could not be content to do nothing. This was why he came to the Signor's, sitting down behind backs beside Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, who distracted him by much pantomimic distress, shaking her head and lifting up her hands and eyes, and would fain have whispered to him all the time of Lottie's singing had not the Signor sternly interfered. ("Sure these musical folks they're as big tyrants as the Rooshians themselves," Mrs. O'Shaughnessy said indignantly.) This was all the Minor Canon could do-to come and stand by the lonely girl, though no one but himself knew what his meaning was. It could not be any help to Lottie, who was not even conscious of it. Perhaps, after all, the sole good in it was to himself.

Lottie had never sung so little well. She did not sing badly. She took trouble; the Signor felt she tried to do her best, to work at it, to occupy herself with the music by way of getting rid of things more urgent which would press themselves upon her. In short, for the first time Lottie applied herself to it with some faint conception of the purposes of art. To have recourse to art as an opiate against the pangs of the inner being, as an escape from the harms of life, is perhaps not the best way of coming at it, but the Signor knew that this was one of the most beaten ways towards that temple which to him enshrined everything that was best in the world. It was, perhaps, the only way in which Lottie was likely to get at it, and he saw and understood the effort. But it could not be said that the effort was very successful. The others, who were thinking only of her, felt that Lottie did not do so well as usual. She was not in voice, Purcell said to himself; and to the Minor Canon it seemed very natural that after the scene which she had just gone through poor Lottie should have but little heart for her work. It was easily explained. The Signor, however, who knew nothing of the circumstances, came to the most true conclusion. The agitation of that episode with Polly would not have harmed her singing, however it might have troubled herself, had Lottie's citadel of personal happiness been untouched. But the flag was lowered from that donjon, the sovereign was absent. There was no inspiration left in the dull and narrowed world where Lottie found herself left. Her first opening of vigorous independent life had

been taken from her, and for the first time the life of visionary passion and enthusiasm was laid low. She did not give in. She made a brave effort, stilling her excited nerves, commanding her depressed heart. The Signor himself was more excited than he had been by all the previous easy triumphs of her inspiration. Now was the test of what she had in her. Happiness dies, love fails, but art is for ever. Could she rise to the height of this principle, or would she drop upon the threshold of the sacred place incapable of answering to the guidance of art alone? Never before had he felt the same anxious interest in Lottie. He thought she was groping for that guidance, though without knowing it, in mere instinct of pain to find something that would not fail her. She did not rise so high as she had done under the other leading; but to the Signor this seemed to be in reality Lottie's first step, though she did not know it, on the rugged ascent which is the artist's way of life. Straight is the path and narrow is the way in that, as in all excellence. The Signor praised her

more than he had ever praised her before, to the surprise of the lookers-on ; the generous enthusiasm of the artist glowed in him. If he could, he would have helped her over the roughness of the way, just as the Minor Canon, longing and pitiful, would have helped her if he could, over the roughness of life. But the one man was still more powerless than the other to smooth her path. Here it was not sex, nor circumstances, which were in fault, but the rigid principles of art, which are less yielding than rocks; every step, however painful, in that thorny way the neophyte must tread for herself. The Signor knew it; but the more his beginner stumbled, the more eager was he to cheer her on.

"I am afraid I sang very badly," Lottie said, coming out with Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and the Minor Canon, who went along with them he scarcely knew why. He could do nothing for the girl, but he did not like to leave her to seem (to himself) to desert her. Only himself was in the least degree aware that he was standing by Lottie in her trouble. "Me child, you all think a deal too much about it. It was neither better nor worse; that's what I don't like in all your singing. It may be fine music, but it's always the same thing over and over. If it was a tune that a body could catch-but it's little good the best tune would have been to me this day. I didn't hear you, Lottie, for thinking what was to become of you. What will ye do? Will you never mind, but go back? Sure you've a right to your father's house whatever happens, and I wouldn't be driven away at the first word. There is nothing would please her so well. I'd go back!"

"Oh, don't say any more!" cried Lottie with a movement of sudden pride. But when she caught the pitying look of the Minor Canon her heart melted. "Mr. Ashford will not be angry because I don't like to speak of it," she said, raising her eyes to him. "He knows that things are not-not very happy-at home."

Then Mr. Ashford awoke to the thought that he might be intruding her. He took leave of the ladies hurriedly. But when she had

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