It was a raw, gusty afternoon towards the end of March when May and her grandmother arrived in London. There had been some difficulty about the journey, arising from Mrs. Dormer-Smith's objection to her niece's travelling alone, and insisting on her being properly attended. In reply to a suggestion that May would be quite safe in a ladies' carriage, and under the care of the guard, she wrote:—"It is not that I doubt her being safe; but Icannotlet my servants see her arrive alone when I meet her at the station. Why not send a maid with her?" To which Mrs. Dobbs made answer that she could not send a maid, having only one servant-of-all-work, but that she herself would bring her grand-daughter to London. "I shall go up by one train, and come down by the next," said she to Jo Weatherhead. And when he remonstrated against her incurring that expense and fatigue, she answered, "Oh, we won't spoil the ship for a ha'porth of tar. If I make up my mind to part with the child, I'll start her as well as I can."
The travellers found Mrs. Dormer-Smith awaiting them at the railway station. She greeted May affectionately, and Mrs. Dobbs amiably. "My servant has a cab here for the luggage," she said. "But"—hesitatingly—"how shall we manage about——? I'm afraid the brougham is too small for three." Mrs. Dobbs settled the question by declaring that she did not purpose going to Mrs. Dormer-Smith's house. She would get some dinner at the station, and return to Oldchester by an evening train. "Oh dear, I'm afraid that will be very uncomfortable for you!" said Pauline, politely trying to conceal her satisfaction at this arrangement. "Will you not come and—and lunch with us?" But Mrs. Dobbs stuck to her own plan.
While the footman was superintending the placing of May's luggage on the cab, her grandmother drew her into the waiting-room to say "good-bye." "God bless you, my dear, dear child! Write to me often, keep well, and be happy!" she said, folding the girl in her arms. Mrs. Dormer-Smith stood by, not unsympathetic, but at the same time relieved to know James was busy with the luggage, so that he could not witness the parting, nor hear May's exclamation, "Darling granny! darling granny!" Indeed, it might be hoped that he would never know the relationship between this stout, common-looking old woman and Miss Cheffington; nor be able to report it in the servants' hall. She felt that Mrs. Dobbs was behaving very properly, and said with gracious sweetness, "I'm sure we ought all to be very much obliged to you for the care you have taken of my niece. It was most good of you to undertake this tiresome journey."
Mrs. Dobbs looked up with a flash in her eyes. "I only hope," she returned hotly, "that you will take as good care of my grandchild as I have taken of your niece." The next moment she repented of her retort, and said quite humbly, "You will be kind to her, won't you? Poor motherless lamb! You will be kind to her, I'm sure!"
"Indeed I will," answered Mrs. Dormer-Smith, with unruffled gentleness. "I have always wished for a daughter, and she shall be like my own daughter to me." And, with a motherly caress, she drew May to her side.
"Don't be afraid for me, granny dear!" said May, smiling with tearful eyes. "I shall be very happy with Aunt Pauline. Besides, I shall see you again very soon."
Mrs. Dobbs laid her hand on the girl's shoulder and pushed her gently, but firmly, out of the waiting-room, standing herself in the doorway until May and her aunt had disappeared. Then she sat down by the fire, untied her bonnet-strings, pulled out her handkerchief, and sobbed unrestrainedly. The waiting-room attendant looked at her curiously; for she had noticed that Mrs. Dobbs did not belong to the same class as that elegantly dressed lady, attended by a servant in livery, with whom the young girl had gone away. Presently she drew near, on pretence of poking the fire, and said—
"You're very fond of the young lady, ain't you? But don't take on so. You'll see her again very soon, I dare say. Don't cry, poor dear!"
"Ihavecried," said Mrs. Dobbs, getting up and drying her eyes resolutely. "I have cried, and it's done me good. And now I'll go and get a bit of food."
But she only trifled with the modest dinner set before her; and, as she sat in a corner of the second-class carriage which conveyed her back to Oldchester, her handkerchief was soaked with silent tears.
To May the separation naturally seemed far less terrible than it did to Mrs. Dobbs. She had no idea that it was to be a long, much less a permanent, one. She found it agreeable to sit in the well-hung, neatly appointed brougham, with a cushion at her back and a hot-water tin under her feet, and to look through the clear glasses at the bustle and movement of London. Her aunt Pauline was very pleasant and sympathetic. May thought that she might come to love her father's sister very dearly. She admired her already. Mrs. Dormer-Smith's gentle manner, her soft, low voice, the quiet elegance of her dress, and even the delicate perfume of violets which hung about her, were all appreciated by May.
"My cousin is not at home, is he, Aunt Pauline?" she asked after a little silence.
"No; Cyril is at Harrow. There are only the children."
"Oh, children!" cried May, with brightening eyes. "I'm so glad! I love children. I didn't know you had any children besides Cyril."
Mrs. Dormer-Smith laughed her peculiar little guttural laugh, consisting of several ha, ha, ha's, slowly and softly uttered, and made no answer.
"Are they boys or girls? How many are there? How old are they?" questioned May eagerly.
"Two little boys. Harold is—let me see—Harold is six, and Wilfred five. It is very awkward having two little things in the nursery so many years younger than their elder brother. Cyril is turned fifteen. It is like beginning all one's troubles over again," said Pauline plaintively. The birth of these two children was, indeed, a standing grievance with her.
May thought this an odd way of talking, and said no more on the subject of her little cousins. But she looked forward to seeing them with pleasant expectation.
The sight of the house in Kensington brought back vividly to her mind the day after the dowager's funeral, when she had arrived there from school, feeling very strange and forlorn. She remembered, too, the abrupt departure next morning with her father, and her impression that the Dormer-Smiths had not behaved well, and that her father was very angry with them. May was shown into a bedroom at the back of the house, overlooking some gardens. The maid, having asked if she could do anything for Miss Cheffington, and having mentioned that the luncheon-gong would sound in ten minutes, withdrew, and left May alone. She examined the room with girlish interest. It was very pretty, she thought. Perhaps, in point of solid comfort, the old-fashioned furniture of her room in Friar's Row might be superior; but in Friar's Row there was no such ample provision of looking-glasses as there was here. She was still contemplating herself from head to foot in a long swing mirror, which stood in a good light near the window, when the gong sounded.
May ran downstairs, and in the dining-room she found her aunt and a heavy-looking man with grizzled, sandy hair, and dull blue eyes, who asked her how she did, and supposed she would hardly recognize him.
"Oh yes, I do, Uncle Frederick!" she answered.
And again an uncomfortable recollection of her father's angry departure from that house came over her. But whatever quarrels there might have been in those days, her aunt and uncle appeared to have forgotten all about them. Mr. Dormer-Smith told May more than once that he was pleased to see her.
"You're not a bit like your father, my dear," said he, with an approving air not altogether flattering to Augustus.
"Oh yes, Frederick!" interposed his wife. "There is a family expression."
"It's an expression I have never seen on your brother's face. No, nor any approach to it."
Mrs. Dormer-Smith laughed the soft little laugh which was habitual with her when embarrassed or disconcerted, and changed the conversation. "I hope you like your room, May?" she said.
"Oh yes, very much indeed, thank you, Aunt Pauline."
"I wish I could have come upstairs with you. But I am obliged toménagermy strength as much as possible."
"Are you not well, Aunt Pauline?" asked May with ready sympathy.
"I am notstrong, dear."
"You would be better if you exerted yourself more," said Mr. Dormer-Smith. "Your system gets into a sluggish state from sheer inactivity."
"Ah, you don't understand, Frederick," answered his wife, with a plaintive smile.
And May felt indignant at her uncle's want of feeling. But the next minute she relented towards him when he said, as he rose from table—
"I'll go round to the chemist's myself for Willy's medicine, and bring it back with me, as I suppose you will be wanting James to go out again with the carriage by-and-by."
"Is one of the little boys ill?" asked May.
This time it was her aunt who replied calmly, "Oh no. The child has a little nervous cough; it is really more a trick than anything else."
"Huggins doesn't think so lightly of it, I can assure you. He tells me great care is needed," said Mr. Dormer-Smith.
"Can I—would you mind—might I see my little cousins?" asked May, with some hesitation. She was puzzled by these discrepancies of opinion between husband and wife.
Mr. Dormer-Smith turned round with a look almost of animation. "Come now, if you like. Come with me," he said. And May followed him out of the room, disregarding her aunt's suggestion that it would be better for her to lie down and rest after her journey.
The nursery was a large room—in fact, an attic—at the top of the house. May noticed how rapidly the elegance and costliness of the furniture and appointments decreased as they mounted. If the dining-room and drawing-rooms represented tropical luxury, the bedrooms cooled down into a temperate zone; and the top region of all was arctic in its barrenness. The nursery looked very forlorn and comfortless, with its bare floor, cheap wall-paper dotted with coarse, coloured prints, and its small grate with a small fire in it, which had exhausted its energies in smoking furiously, as the smell in the room testified. At a table in the middle of the room sat a hard-featured young woman, with high cheek-bones, and a complexion like that of a varnished wooden doll, mending a heap of linen; and in one corner, where stood a battered old rocking-horse and a top-heavy Noah's Ark, two little boys were kneeling on the floor, building houses with wooden bricks. On their father's entrance, they looked up languidly; but when they saw who it was, they scrambled to their feet with some show of pleasure, and came to stand one on each side of him, holding his hands. They were both like him, blue-eyed and sandy-haired, and both looked pale and sickly. Harold, the elder, seemed the stronger of the two. Wilfred was a meagre, frail-looking little creature, with a half-timid, half-sullen expression of face. Their father kissed them both, and, sitting down, drew the younger child on his knee, whilst Harold stood pressing close against his shoulder.
"Well, do you know who this is?" asked Mr. Dormer-Smith, pointing to May.
Apparently they had no wish to know, for they nestled closer to their father, and sulkily rejected May's proffered caresses.
"Oh, come, you mustn't be shy," said their father. "This is your cousin May; kiss her, and say, 'How d'ye do?'"
But nothing would induce either of the boys to give May his hand, nor even to look at her; and at length she begged her uncle not to trouble himself, and hoped they would all be very good friends presently.
"And how do we get on with our lessons, ma'amselle?" asked Mr. Dormer-Smith of the hard-featured young woman, who, beyond rising from her chair when they came in, had hitherto taken no notice of them.
"We haven't had no lessons to-day," put in Harold, with a lowering look at "ma'amselle."
"No, monsieur, it has been impossible till now; I have had so much sewing to do for madame. See!" and she pointed to the heap of linen. "But we will have our lessons in the afternoon."
"I don't want lessons; I want to go out with papa. Take me with you, papa," cried Harold. Whereupon little Wilfred lisped out that he too would go out with papa, and set up a peevish whine.
"It is too cold for you, my man," said the father. "The sharp wind would make you cough. Harold will stay with you, and you can play together, and do your lessons afterwards, like good boys."
But the children only wailed and cried the louder, whilst mademoiselle, with her eyes on her needlework, monotonously repeated in her Swiss-French, "What is this? Be good, my children," and apparently thought she was doing all that she was called upon to do under the circumstances.
May thought her little cousins peculiarly disagreeable children; but she could not help feeling sorry for them and for their father, who looked quite helpless and distressed. "Would you like me to tell you a story?" she said. "I know some very pretty stories."
A wail from Wilfred and a scowl from Harold were all the answer she received from them. But her uncle caught at the suggestion eagerly.
"Oh, that would be very kind of Cousin May," he said. "A pretty story! You'll like that, won't you?"
"No, I shan't! I want to go with papa," grumbled Harold.
"I want to go wis papa," sobbed Wilfred.
"It is always so when monsieur comes to the nursery," said the Swiss, coolly going on with her sewing. "The children are so fond of monsieur."
"Poor little fellows!" cried May.
Then kneeling down beside her uncle, she began softly to stroke Wilfred's hair, and to speak to him coaxingly. After a while, the child glanced shyly into her face, and ceased to sob. Presently he allowed himself to be transferred from his father's knee to May's. The Noah's Ark was brought into requisition. May ranged its inmates—all more or less dilapidated—on the floor, and began to perform a drama with them, making each animal's utterances in an appropriate voice. A smile dawned on Wilfred's pale little face, and Harold drew near to look and listen with evident interest.
"Now, Uncle Frederick, if you have to go out, I will stay and play with the children, until lesson-time. They are going to be very good now; ain't you, boys?"
"Ve'y good now," assented Wilfred, his attention still absorbed by the Noah's Ark animals.
"Well, if you'll make the pig grunt again, I will be good," said Harold, with a Bismarckian mastery of thedo ut desprinciple.
Mr. Dormer-Smith's face beamed with satisfaction. "It's very good of you, my dear," said he. "If you don't mind, it would be very kind to stay with them a little while; that is, if you are not too tired by your journey?" And as he went away, he repeated, "It's very good of you, my dear; very good of you!"
But May found that her aunt took a different view.
"DearMay," said she, when she learned where her niece had been spending the two hours after luncheon, "this is very imprudent! You should have lain down and taken a thorough rest instead of exerting yourself in that way."
"Oh, I'm not in the least tired, Aunt Pauline."
"Dear child, you may not think so; but a railway journey of three or four hours jars the nerves terribly."
"Oh, I was very glad to amuse the children, Aunt Pauline. They were crying to go out with their father, so I tried to comfort them. They got quite merry before I left them."
Mrs. Dormer-Smith slowly shook her head and smiled. "You will find them extremely tiresome, poor things!" said she placidly. "They are by no means engaging children. Cyril was very different at their age."
"Oh, Aunt Pauline! I think they might be made—I mean I think we shall come to be great friends. I couldn't bear to see them cry, poor mites!"
"That is all very sweet in you, dear May, but I fancy it is best to leave their nursery governess to manage them. Her French is not all that I could wish. But a pure accent is not so vitally important for boys. It is much if an Englishman can speak French even decently. And Cecile makes herself very useful with her needle."
Pauline then announced that she would not go out again that afternoon, but would devote herself to the inspection of May's wardrobe. "Of course you have no evening dresses fit to wear," she said; "but we will see whether we cannot manage to make use of some of your clothes. Smithson, my maid, is very clever."
"Why, of course granny would not have sent me without proper clothes!" protested May, opening her eyes in astonishment. "And Ihavean evening frock—a very pretty white muslin, quite new."
To this speech Aunt Pauline vouchsafed no answer beyond a vague smile. She scarcely heard it, in fact. Her mind was preoccupied with weighty considerations. As she seated herself in the one easy-chair in May's room, and watched her niece kneeling down, keys in hand, before her travelling trunk, she observed with heartfelt thankfulness that the girl's figure was naturally graceful, and calculated to set off well-cut garments to advantage.
"Oh!" exclaimed May suddenly, turning round and letting the keys fall with a clash as she clasped her hands, "above everything I must not miss the post! I want to send off a letter, so that granny may have it at breakfast time to-morrow for a surprise. Have I plenty of time, Aunt Pauline?"
"No doubt," answered her aunt absently. She was debating whether the circumference of May's waist might not be reduced an inch or so by judicious lacing.
"Perhaps I had better get my letter written first, Aunt Pauline. I wouldn't miss writing to granny for the world, and any time will do for the clothes."
To which her aunt replied with solemnity, and with an appearance of energy which May had never witnessed in her before, "Your wardrobe, May, demands very serious consideration. April is just upon us. You are to be presented at the second Drawing-room. Dress is an important social duty, and we must not lose time in trifling."
It was a great comfort to Mrs. Dormer-Smith to find her niece so pretty ("not a beauty," as she said to herself, "but extremely pleasing, and with capital points"), and so entirely free from vulgarisms of speech or manner. In fact, May's outward demeanour needed but very few polishing touches to make it all her aunt could desire. But a more intimate acquaintance revealed traits of character which troubled Mrs. Dormer-Smith a good deal.
"I suppose," she observed to her husband, with a sigh, "one had no right to expect that poor Augustus's unfortunate marriage should have left no trace in his children. But it is dreadfully disheartening to come every now and then upon some absolutely middle-class prejudice or scruple in May. Now, Augustus, whatever his faults may be, always had such a thoroughbred way of looking at things."
"Certainly, no one can accuse your brother of having scruples," said Frederick.
"Besides, it is terribly bad form in a girl of her age to set up for a moralist."
"It doesn't seem much like May to set up for anything: she is always so childish and unpretending."
"Oh yes; and thatingénueair is delicious: it goes so perfectly with herphysique. But there are so many things which one cannot teach in words, but which girls brought up in a certainmondelearn by instinct."
"What sort of things do you mean?" asked her husband after a little pause.
"Well, on Thursday, for instance, I was awfully annoyed. Mrs. Griffin was here, and seemed pleased with May, and talked to her a good deal. You know that is very important, because the duchess invites people or leaves them out pretty much as her mother dictates. So I was naturally very much gratified to see May making a good impression. In fact, Mrs. Griffin whispered to me, 'Charming! So fresh.' Presently Lady Burlington came in, and they began talking of those new people, the Aaronssohns, who have a million and a half a year. Lady Burlington had been at a big dinner there the night before, and she told us the most astonishing things of their vulgarity and their pushing ways. When she was gone Mrs. Griffin said, 'I do like Lady Burlington,' and began praising her manners and her air ofgrande dame. And, very kindly turning to May, she said, 'Do you know, little one, that that is one of the proudest women in England?' 'Is she?' said May. 'I should never have guessed that she was proud.' Something in her way of saying it caught Mrs. Griffin's attention; and she pressed her and cross-questioned her, until May blurted out that she thought it despicable to accept vulgar people's hospitality only because they were rich, and then to ridicule them for being vulgar. I never was so shocked; for, you know, the duchess and Mrs. Griffin both went to the Aaronssohns' ball last season. Now you know," pursued Mrs. Dormer-Smith almost tearfully, "that kind of thing will never do. You must allow that it will never do, Frederick."
"It would be awkward," assented Frederick, looking grave. "Couldn't you tell her?"
"Of course, I spoke to her after Mrs. Griffin had gone away. But she only said, 'What could I do, Aunt Pauline? The old lady insisted on my answering her, and I couldn't tell her a story.' You see what a difficult kind of thing it will be to manage, Frederick."
Mr. Dormer-Smith had become a great partisan of May's. He was genuinely grateful for her kindness to his children, and would willingly have taken her part had it been possible. But he felt that his wife was right; it would really never do to carry into society anenfant terribleof such uncompromising truthfulness. And this feeling was much strengthened by the recollection of sundry remarks which May had innocently made to himself—remarks indicating an inconvenient assumption on her part that one's principles must naturally regulate one's practice. However, as he told his wife, they must trust to time and experience to correct this crudeness.
"She is but a schoolgirl, after all," he said.
Pauline did not pursue the subject, but she reflected within herself that there are schoolgirls and schoolgirls.
There had been some discussion as to who should present May. Mrs. Dormer-Smith was of opinion that had there been a Viscountess Castlecombe, the office would properly have devolved on her ladyship; but old Lord Castlecombe had been a widower for many years. At length it was decided that May should be presented by her aunt.
"I know it is a great risk for me to go outdécolletéeon an English spring day," said that devoted woman. "And Lady Burlington would do it if I asked her. But I wish to carry out the duty I have undertaken towards Augustus's daughter, as thoroughly as my strength will allow. Under all the circumstances of the case, it is important that she should be publicly acknowledged, and, as it were, identified with the family. Of course, I shall feel justified in buying my gown out of May's money."
"May's money" had come to be the phrase by which the Dormer-Smiths spoke of the payment made by Mrs. Dobbs for her grand-daughter.
But besides the comforting sense of duty fulfilled, there were other compensations in store for Mrs. Dormer-Smith. May's presentation dress was pronounced exquisite, and was ready in good time; and May herself profited satisfactorily by the instructions of a fashionable professor of deportment, in the difficult art of walking and curtsying in a train. To be sure, she had alarmed her aunt at first, by going into fits of laughter when describing Madame Melnotte's lessons, and imitating the impressive gravity with which the dancing-mistress went through the dumb show of a presentation at Court. But she did what she was told to do, not only with docility, but with an unaffected simplicity which Aunt Pauline's good taste perceived to be infinitely charming. And she said to her husband that she really began to hope May would be "a great success."
The great day of the Drawing-room came and went, as do all days, great or small. But whether she had been a success or a failure, in her aunt's sense of the words, May had not the remotest idea. Indeed, the various feelings on the subject of her presentation which had filled her breast beforehand (including a genuine delight in her own appearance as she stood before the big looking-glass, while Smithson put the finishing touches to her head-dress), were all swallowed up in the supreme feeling of thankfulness that it was over; and that she had not disgraced herself by tumbling over her train, or otherwise shocking the eyes of august personages. Also, in a minor degree, she was thankful that Aunt Pauline's antique lace-flounce—a portion of the dowager's legacy lent for the occasion—had escaped destruction. On their drive homeward, she sat silent, trying to extricate some definite image from her confused impressions of the ceremony, and finding that her most distinct recollection recorded the pressure of a persistent and ruthless elbow against her ribs. Mrs. Dormer-Smith, too, was too much exhausted to say much. She leaned back in the carriage with closed eyes, wrapping her furs round her, and sniffing at a bottle of salts.
But when refreshed by a glass of wine, and seated in a well-cushioned chair before a blazing fire, Mrs. Dormer-Smith felt very well satisfied with the result of the day. Mrs. Griffin had been there, and had nodded approvingly across a struggling crowd of bare shoulders; and Mrs. Griffin's approbation was worth having. Mr. Dormer-Smith came home from his club a full hour earlier than usual, in order to hear the report—a proof of interest which May, not being a whist-player, was unable fully to appreciate.
"Well," said Pauline, with a kind of pious serenity, "we have accomplished this somewhat trying social duty."
"Trying, indeed," exclaimed May. "I'm afraid you are dreadfully tired, Aunt Pauline. And the crowd and closeness made your head ache, I saw. How is your head now?"
"It is better, dear, much better."
"Well?" said Mr. Dormer-Smith, looking interrogatively with raised eyebrows at his wife.
"Oh yes, Frederick; very nice indeed, very satisfactory. I was very much pleased. Ihadbeen a little anxious about the effect of thecorsage, but Amélie has done herself great credit. And, mercifully, white suits our dear child to perfection. She really looked very well."
"Did I, Aunt Pauline? Well, I'm sure it didn't much matter how I looked."
"Didn't matter!" echoed Mrs. Dormer-Smith in a shocked tone.
"Oh, come, May!" cried her uncle. "I thought you were above that sort of nonsense. Do you mean to tell me that you don't care about looking pretty?"
"Oh no! I mean—well, I did think my dress was lovely when I looked at myself in the big glass upstairs; but in that crush who could see it? And I was awfully afraid that Aunt Pauline's lace flounce would be torn completely off the skirt."
Her uncle laughed. "You don't appear to have altogether enjoyed your first appearance as a courtier," said he.
"Enjoyed! Oh, whocouldenjoy it?" Then, fearful of seeming ungrateful, she added, "It was very, very kind of Aunt Pauline to take so much trouble, and to get me that beautiful dress."
May had not been accustomed to think about ways and means. It had seemed a matter of course that her daily wants should be supplied, and she had hitherto bestowed no more thought on the matter than a young bird in the nest. But it was impossible for her to live as a member of the Dormer-Smiths' family without having the question of money brought forcibly to her mind. There were small pinchings and savings of a kind utterly unknown in Friar's Row; elaborate calculations were made as to the possibility of this or that expenditure; Aunt Pauline frequently lamented her poverty; and yet, withal, there was kept up an appearance of wealth and elegance. May was not long in discovering the seamy side of all the luxury which surrounded her; and it amazed her. Why should her aunt so arrange her life as to derive very little comfort from very strenuous effort? And what puzzled her most of all at first was the air of conscious virtue with which this was done: the strange way in which Aunt Pauline would mention some piece of meanness or insincerity as though it were an act of loftiest duty. On one or two occasions May had innocently suggested a straightforward way out of some social difficulty; such as wearing an old gown when a new one could not be afforded, or refusing an invitation which could only be accepted at the cost of much bodily and mental harass. But these childish suggestions had been met by an indulgent smile; and she had been told that such and such things must be done or endured in order to keep up the family's position in society. Once May had asked, "Then whyshouldwe keep up our position in society?" But her aunt had shown such genuine consternation at this impious inquiry, that the girl did not venture to repeat it.
Another question, however, soon forced itself upon May—namely, how it came to pass that, under all the circumstances, so much money was spent on her dress. Besides the court train and petticoat, her aunt had provided for her a wardrobe which, to the young girl's inexperienced eyes, appeared absolutely splendid (for Pauline's conscience, although cramped and squeezed into artificial shape like a Chinese lady's foot, was alive and sentient; and she would on no account have failed to expend "May's money" for May's advantage): and yet all the while there were the two little boys in their comfortless nursery, wearing coarse clothing and shabby shoes; and there was Cecile toiling at needlework instead of attending to the children, in order that the cost of a seamstress might be saved! On this subject May felt that she had a right to interrogate her aunt; and accordingly she took courage to do so. Mrs. Dormer-Smith was considerably embarrassed, and made an attempt to fence off the subject. But May persisted.
"It's very, very good of you and Uncle Frederick to do so much for me," she said; "but I can't bear to take it all."
"Nonsense, May! Remember you are a Cheffington. Youmustappear in the world properly equipped."
"But, Aunt Pauline, it isn't fair to Harold and Wilfred!"
"Harold and Wilfred?" echoed her aunt, opening wide her soft dark eyes. "Whatdoyou mean, May?"
May coloured hotly, but stuck to her point. "Well," she said, "you know Uncle Frederick was saying the other day that Willy ought to have change of air; and you said you couldn't afford to send him to the seaside just now; and—and I think Cecile thinks they ought to have new walking suits; and all the while I have so many expensive new frocks. I can't bear it. It isn't really fair."
Then Mrs. Dormer-Smith found herself compelled to assure her niece that no penny of the cost of her toilet came out of Uncle Frederick's pocket, and reading a further question in the girl's face, she hastened to anticipate it by adding, "The arrangements made for you here, May, are in entire accordance with your father's wishes. There has been a correspondence with him on the subject, and he wrote quite distinctly; otherwise your uncle and I would not have undertaken to bring you out."
"I hope," said May, "that papa does not deprive himself of anything for me. He used not to be at all well off, I know. I can remember when I was a little thing in Bruges."
"Augustus deprives himself ofnothing," answered Mrs. Dormer-Smith softly, but emphatically. "Pray say no more on the subject, my dear. This sort of thing makes my head ache."
Her conscience being thus relieved, May accepted and enjoyed her new finery and her new life. She found that "taking up one's position in society" involved pleasanter things than being presented at a Drawing-room. It was delightful to be tastefully and becomingly dressed. It was agreeable to be sure of plenty of partners at every dance. It was satisfactory to have so admirable a chaperon as Aunt Pauline. One could no more form a fair judgment of that lady from knowing her only in domestic life, than one could fully appreciate a swan from seeing it on dry land. In the congenial element of "society," her merits were exhibited to the utmost advantage. They were, indeed, greater than May had any idea of; Mrs. Dormer-Smith's tact in warding off ineligible partners, and securing as far as possible eligible ones for her niece, was masterly. But May admired her aunt's unruffled temper and gentle grace. She had been quick to find out—with some astonishment, but beyond the possibility of doubt—that fine people can be exceedingly rude on occasion; and she observed with pride that Aunt Pauline was never rude. Moreover, Aunt Pauline's softness of manner was a far more effectual protection against impertinence, than thebrusquerieaffected by sundry ladies who forgot the wisdom embodied in the homely saying, that "those who play at bowls must look out for rubbers;" and who were always liable to be vanquished by greater insolence than their own.
May soon began to be reticent of her real sentiments and opinions in speaking to her aunt and uncle. She felt that nine times out of ten she was not understood; or, which was worse, was misunderstood. But in writing to her dear granny, she frankly and fully poured out all her heart. These letters were the joy and consolation of Mrs. Dobbs's life. Every minutest detail interested her. She laughed over May's description of the Drawing-room, and read it out aloud to Jo Weatherhead by way of a wholesome corrective to his Tory prejudices.
But at the same time she secretly treasured a copy of theMorning Postcontaining Miss Miranda Cheffington's name, and a description of Miss Miranda Cheffington's toilet on that occasion. And she listened, with a complacency of which she was more than half ashamed, to Mrs. Simpson's ecstasies on the subject; and to the scraps of information which the good-natured Amelia quoted—generally incorrectly—from social gossip setting forth how Mrs. Dormer-Smith and her niece, Miss Miranda Cheffington, had been present at this or that grand entertainment. These things might appear frivolous; but was it not for this end, to put May in her right place in the world, to give her her birthright, that Mrs. Dobbs had made a great sacrifice? Jo Weatherhead understood this so well, that the "fashionable intelligence" in the local newspapers assumed a quite pathetic interest in his eyes. When he went to drink tea with his old friend in the parlour of her new abode with its trashy, stuccoed ceiling, miserably thin walls, and squeezed little fireplace, he felt it to be a positive comfort to pull from his pocket a copy of theCourt Journalor other equally polite print, and read aloud to Sarah some paragraph in which May's name occurred. It was a consolation, too, to let himself be lectured and laughed at by Sarah for his absurd admiration of the aristocracy. And he took every opportunity of combating her Radicalism, in order that she might victoriously vindicate the steadfastness of her political principles.
Meanwhile, Captain Cheffington saw the accounts of his daughter's appearance in the fashionable world, and began to think that he had been too easy in giving his consent to it. He had got nothing by it; and perhaps something might have been got. He wrote twice to Pauline, urgently requiring her to tell him what was the exact sum which Mrs. Dobbs paid for her grand-daughter's maintenance. That it was handsome he did not doubt; knowing by experience that the Dormer-Smiths would not contribute a shilling. Pauline had replied evasively to the first letter, and not at all to the second, with the result that Augustus's imagination absurdly exaggerated Mrs. Dobbs's wealth. The old woman must be rolling in money after all! Had May's allowance been a small one, his sister would not have hesitated to tell him the exact sum. It was clear to his mind that the Dormer-Smiths were making an uncommonly good thing of it, and he was decidedly disinclined to leave all the profit to them. He wrote off to Oldchester a demand for money on his own account. It was refused; and his anger was very bitter. He even began to cherish a grudge against May. Why should she be surrounded by luxury, enjoying all the gaieties of London, and taking a social position to which her only claim was the fact of beinghisdaughter, whilst he lived the life of an outcast? He went so far as to threaten to come to England and bring away his daughter: having some idea that Mrs. Dobbs might ransom May, and pension him off. But the energy which might once upon a time have enabled Augustus Cheffington to take this strong step had waned long ago. He had grown inert. And, above all, the circumstances of his private life rendered such independent action difficult, if not impossible.
It presently began to be reported amongst Mrs. Dormer-Smith's acquaintance, with other items of tea-table gossip, that "little May Cheffington had a rich old grandmother somewhere down in the country." Theodore Bransby, who was admitted as a familiar visitor at the Dormer-Smiths', and who made a parade of his intimacy with the Cheffingtons, was interrogated on the subject. He maintained a cautious reserve in his replies:—"He really could say nothing; he had no idea what the old lady's means might be; he could scarcely, in fact, be said to know her at all." Wishing, as he did, completely to ignore that objectionable old ironmonger's widow, it was irritating to find her existence known, and her means discussed, in London. To be sure, no one troubled himself to inquire "Who is she?" general interest being exclusively concentrated on the question, "What has she?" Theodore's reticence was by no means attributed to its real cause. People said that young Bransby was looking after the girl himself, and wanted to choke off possible rivals. Theodore did, indeed, push himself as far as possible into every house which May frequented. There were some still inaccessible to him; but he had patience and perseverance. And he was constantly meeting May in the course of the season. She was far more pleased to see him in London than she had ever been in Oldchester. He was associated with persons whom she loved: and on many occasions when ball-room lookers-on pronounced Miss Cheffington and young Bransby to be "spooning awfully," May was talking with animation of his half-brothers, Bobby and Billy, of the dear old canon and her friend Constance, or even of Mr. and Mrs. Sebastian Bach Simpson. Theodore had no relish for these topics; but it was better to talk with May of them, than not to talk with her at all. And to the girl, he seemed the only link between her present life and the dear Oldchester days.
At the beginning of June, however, he ceased to have this exclusive claim on her attention. One fine day Aunt Pauline, returning from an afternoon drive with her niece, found a large visiting card with "The Misses Piper" engraved on it with many elaborate flourishes, whilst underneath was written in pencil "Miss Hadlow."
"Piper!" said Pauline, languidly dropping her eyeglass, and looking round at May. "What can this mean?"
"Oh, it means Miss Polly and Miss Patty and my schoolfellow Constance Hadlow!" cried May, clapping her hands. "Fancy Conny being in town! I dare say the Pipers invited her on a visit. I'm so glad!"
Mrs. Dormer-Smith's countenance expressed anything but gladness; and she privately informed May that it would be impossible to do more than send cards to these ladies by the servant. "Ican'thave them here on my Thursdays, you know, May," she said plaintively, and with an injured air.
Three months ago May would have indignantly protested against this tone, and would have pointed out that it would be unfeeling and ungrateful on her part to slight her old friends. But she had by this time learned to understand how unavailing were all such representations to convince Aunt Pauline, in whose code personal sentiments of goodwill towards one's neighbour had to yield to the higher law of duty towards "Society."
"Perhaps," said May, after a pause, "if you cannot go yourself, Uncle Frederick would take me to Miss Piper's some Sunday after church, when we go for a walk with the children. You see they have written 'Sundays' on the corner of their card."
"Oh, do you think they would be satisfied with that sort of thing?" asked her aunt.
"They are most kind, good-natured old ladies," pursued May. "They wouldn't mind the children at all. Indeed, they like children. And as to coming to your Thursdays, Aunt Pauline, I really don't think they would care to do it. Music is their great passion—at least, Miss Polly's great passion—and when they are in London I think they go to concerts morning, noon, and night. Miss Hadlow is different. Her grandpapa was a Rivers," added May, blushing at her own wiliness, "and she is very handsome, and sure to be asked out a great deal."
But May's profound strategy did not end here. She coaxed Uncle Frederick by representing what a treat it would be to Harold and Wilfred to go out visiting with papa. Those young gentlemen, privately incited by hints of possible plum-cake, were soon all eagerness to go; and when, on the very next Sunday, May set off with her uncle and cousins to walk to Miss Piper's lodgings, she felt that she had achieved a diplomatic triumph.
Those Oldchester persons who considered Miss Piper's artistic tendencies responsible for her occasional freedom of speech would have been confirmed in their opinion as to the demoralizing tendency of Art and Continental travel had they known how the daughters of the late Reverend Reuben Piper employed Sunday afternoon in London. Miss Patty herself had been startled at first by the idea of not only receiving callers, but listening to profane music on that day; and the sisters had had some discussion about it. When Patty demurred to the suggestion, Polly inquired whether she truly and conscientiously considered that there was anything more intrinsically wrong in seeing one's friends and opening one's piano on a Sunday than on a Monday.
"No; of course notthat," answered Patty. "If I thought it wrong, I shouldn't discuss it even with you. I should simply refuse to have anything to do with it."
"I know that, Patty," said her sister. "And I hope I am not altogether without a conscience either."
"No, Polly; but would you do this in Oldchester?"
"Certainly not."
"Then that's what I say. We ought not to have two weights and two measures. If a thing is objectionable in Oldchester, it is objectionable in London."
"Not at all. Circumstances alter cases. I may think it a good thing to take a sponge-bath every morning; but I should not take it in public."
"Polly! How can you?"
"What I mean is, that, so long as we are not a stumbling-block of offence to other people, we have a right to please ourselves in this matter."
So Miss Polly's will prevailed, as it prevailed with her sister upon most occasions; and the Sunday receptions became an established custom.
The house in which the Miss Pipers lodged when they came to London was in a street leading out of Hanover Square. The lower part of it was occupied by a fashionable tailor—a tailor so genteel and exclusive that he scorned any appeal to the general public, and merely had the word "Groll" (which was his name) woven into the wire blind that shaded his parlour window. The rooms above were sufficiently spacious, and were, moreover, lofty—a great point in Miss Polly's opinion, as being good for sound. They were furnished comfortably, albeit rather dingily. But a few flower-pots, photographic albums, and bits of crochet-work, scattered here and there, answered the purpose—if not of decoration, at least of showing decorative intention. A grand pianoforte, bestriding a large tract of carpet in the very middle of the front drawing-room, conspicuously asserted its importance over all the rest of the furniture.
May and her uncle, accompanied by the two little boys, were shown upstairs, and, the door of the drawing-room being thrown open, they found themselves confronted by a rather numerous assembly. The last bars of a pianoforte-piece were being performed amidst the profound silence of the auditors, and the newly arrived party stood still near the door, waiting until the music should come to an end.
At the piano sat a smooth-faced young gentleman playing a series of incoherent discords with an air of calm resolve. Immediately behind him stood an elderly man of gentleman-like appearance, whom May found herself watching, as one watches a person swallowing something nauseous, and involuntarily expecting him to "make a face" as each new dissonance was crashed out close to his ear. But his amiable countenance remained so serene and satisfied, that the doubt crossed her mind whether he might not possibly be deaf. In the embrasure of a window stood a very tall, thin man, whose bald head was encircled by a fringe of grizzled red hair, and whose eyes were fast shut. But as he stood up perfectly erect, with his hands folded in a prayerful attitude on his waistcoat, it was obvious that he was not asleep. Miss Piper was seated with her back towards the door and her face towards the pianist, so that May could not see it. But the composer of "Esther" nodded her head approvingly at every fresh harmonic catastrophe which convulsed the keyboard. Her satisfaction seemed to be shared by a stout lady of majestic mien, who sat near her and fired off exclamations of eulogium, such as "Charming!" "Wonderful modulation!" "Intensely wrought out," and so on—like minute guns; and with a certain air of suppressed exasperation, as though she suspected that theremightbe persons who didn't like it, and was ready to defy them to the death. A dark-eyed girl, very plainly dressed, and holding a little leather music-roll in her hand, occupied a modest place behind this lady. Sitting close to the dark-eyed girl was a man of about thirty-five years old, well-featured, short in stature, and with reddish blonde hair and moustaches. This personage's countenance expressed a singular mixture of audacity and servility. His smile was at once impudent and false, and he listened to the music with a pretentious air of knowledge and authority. The rest of the company, with Miss Patty, were relegated, during the performance, to the back drawing-room, where tea was served; and the folding-doors were closed, lest the clink of a teaspoon, or the sibillation of a whisper, should penetrate to the music-room. But, in truth, nothing less than a crash of all the crockery on the table, and a simultaneous bellow from all the guests, could have competed successfully with the pianoforte-piece then in progress.
At length, with one final bang, it came to an end, and there was a general stir and movement among the company. The amiable-looking elderly man advanced towards Miss Piper with a most beaming smile, and said, in a soft refined voice—
"That is the right way, isn't it? One knows the sort of thing said by people who don't understand this school of music, the only music, in fact; but I have long been sure that this is the right way."
"Of course, it is the right way," exclaimed the stout lady, breathing indignation, not loud but deep, against all heretics and schismatics.
"We are so very, very much obliged to you, Mr. Turner," said the hostess. "That new composition of yours is really wonderful!" (And so, indeed, it was.)
As Miss Piper went up to the young gentleman who had been playing the piano, and who remained quite cool and unmoved by the demonstrations of his audience, she caught sight of the group near the door, and hastened to welcome them. May was received with enthusiasm, and her uncle with one of Miss Piper's best old-fashioned curtsies. Mr. Dormer-Smith began to apologize for bringing his little boys, and to explain that he had not expected to find so numerous an assembly; but Miss Piper cut him short with hearty assurances that they were very welcome, and that her sister in particular was very fond of children. Then, the doors being by this time reopened, she ushered them all into the back room, crying—
"Patty! Patty! Who do you think is here? May Cheffington!" and then Miss Patty added her welcome to that of her sister.
Harold and Wilfred had been shyly dumb hitherto, although once or twice during the pianoforte-playing Wilfred had only saved himself from breaking into a shrill wail and begging to be taken home, by burying his face in the skirts of May's dress; but on beholding plum-cake and other good things set forth on the tea-table, they felt that life had compensations still. They took a fancy also to the Miss Pipers, finding their eccentric ornaments a mine of interest; and before three minutes had elapsed Harold was devouring a liberal slice of cake, and Wilfred, seated close to kind Miss Patty, was diversifying his enjoyment of the cake by a close and curious inspection of that lady's bracelet, taken off for his amusement, and endeavouring to count the various geological specimens of which it was composed.
As soon as May appeared in the back drawing-room, Constance Hadlow rose from her seat in a corner behind the tea-table, and greeted her.
"Dear Conny," cried May, "I am so glad to see you! Then you are staying with the Miss Pipers! I guessed you were."
Mr. Dormer-Smith was then duly presented to Miss Hadlow. Constance was in very good looks, and her beauty and the quiet ease of her manner made a very favourable impression on May's uncle.
Miss Hadlow found a seat for him near herself; and then turned again to May, saying, "There is another Oldchester friend whom you have not yet spoken to. You remember my cousin Owen?"
May's experience of society had not yet toned down her manner to "that repose which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere." She heartily shook hands with the young man, exclaiming, "This is a day of joyful surprises. I didn't expect to see you, Mr. Rivers. Now, if we only had the dear canon, and Mrs. Hadlow, and granny, I think I should bequitehappy."
"You are not a bit changed," said Owen Rivers, giving May his chair, and standing beside her in the lounging attitude so familiar to her in the garden at College Quad.
"Changed! What should change me?"
"The world."
"What nonsense!" cried May, with her old schoolgirl bluntness. "As if I had not been living in the world all my life!"
Mr. Rivers raised his eyebrows with an amused smile.
"Well,isn'tit nonsense," pursued May, "to talk as if a few hundred or thousand persons in one town—though that town is London—made up the world?"
"It is a phrase which every one uses, and every one understands."
"But every one does not understand it alike."
"Perhaps not."
"What did you mean by it, just now?"
"What could I mean but the world of fashion,theworld par excellence? Rightly so-called, no doubt, since it affords the best field for the exercise of the higher and nobler human faculties. Those who are not in it exist, indeed; but with a half-developed, inferior kind of life, like a jelly-fish."
May laughed her frank young laugh.
"You're not changed either!" she said emphatically.
"Did you enjoy the performance with which that young gentleman has been obliging us?" asked Rivers.
"I only heard the end of it."
"Very diplomatically answered."
"Are you fond of music, Mr. Rivers?"
"Yes, ofmusic—very fond."
"So am I; but I know very little about it. Granny is a good musician."
"How fond you are of Mrs. Dobbs!" said Rivers.
"I am very proud of her, too," answered May quickly.
Owen Rivers looked at her with a singular expression, half-admiring, half-tenderly, pitying—as one might look at a child whose innocent candour is as yet "unspotted from the world."
"I suppose you know all the people here," said May, looking round on the assembly.
"I know who they are, most of them."
"That gentleman who was standing by himself at the window—the tall gentleman—who is he?"
"Mr. Jawler, a great musical critic."
"And the pleasant-faced man who seemed so delighted with the playing?"
"Mr. Sweeting. He is an enthusiastic admirer and patron of young Cleveland Turner, the pianist: a very kindly, amiable, courteous gentleman, with much money and leisure, as I am told."
"That stout lady talking to Miss Piper seems to be musical also?"
"That is Lady Moppett: a very good sort of woman, I dare say, but fanatical. She would bowstring all us dogs of Christians who believe in melody."
"And who is that disagreeable little man in the corner?"
"Disagreeable——?"
"The little man with moustaches. There. Close to the nice-looking, dark-eyed girl."
"Oh, that man? But he is not considered disagreeable by the world in general, Miss Cheffington! He is by way of being a rather fascinating individual: Signor Vincenzo Valli, singing-master, and composer of songs. I wonder why he condescends to favour Miss Piper with his presence."
"Is it a condescension?"
"A great condescension. Signor Valli is nothing, if not aristocratic."
At this moment there was a general movement in the other room. The young pianist seated himself once more at the instrument. The various groups of talkers dispersed, and took their places to listen. May whispered nervously to Miss Patty, that perhaps she and her uncle had better go, and take away the children before the music commenced.
"I am so afraid," she said naïvely, "that Willy may cry if that gentleman plays again."
Miss Patty found a way out of the difficulty by taking the children away to her own room. It was no deprivation to her, she said, not to hear Mr. Turner play.
So the two little boys, laden with good things, and further enticed by the promise of picture-books, trotted off very contentedly under Miss Patty's wing. Mr. Dormer-Smith had passed into the front drawing-room, where he was chatting with Lady Moppett, who proved to be an old acquaintance of his. May was following her uncle to explain to him about the children, when Miss Piper hurried up to her with an anxious and important mien.
"Sit down, my dear," she said; "sit down. Cleveland Turner is going to play that fine Beethoven, the one in F minor, the opera 57, you know. Mr. Jawler particularly wishes to hear him perform it."
May glanced round, and seeing no place vacant near at hand, returned to the other room, and took a seat close to the folding-doors, which were now left open.
"What is our sentence?" asked Rivers.
"Do you mean what is he going to play? A piece of Beethoven's."
"Ah! Well, at least he will have something to say this time. Remains to be seen whether he can say it."
Mr. Cleveland Turner performed thesonata appassionatacorrectly, although coldly, and with a certain hardness of style and touch. But the beauty of the composition made itself irresistibly felt, and when the piece was finished there was a murmur of applause. Mr. Jawler opened his eyes, inclined his head, opened his eyes again, and said, apparently to himself, "Yes, yes—oh yes!" which seemed to be interpreted as an expression of approval; for Miss Piper looked radiant, and even the icy demeanour of Mr. Cleveland Turner thawed half a degree or so. Signor Valli had applauded in a peculiar fashion—opening his arms wide, and bringing his gloved hands together with apparent force, but so as to produce no sound whatever. And as he went through this dumb show of applause, he was talking all the time to the dark-eyed girl near him, with a sneering smile on his face.
Miss Piper bustled up to them. "Dear Miss Bertram," she said, "you must let us hear your charming voice. Mr. Jawler has heard of you. He would like you to sing something. Signor Valli," with clasped hands, "mightI entreat you to accompany Miss Bertram in one of your own exquisite compositions? It would be such a treat—such a musical feast, I may say!"
Miss Bertram unrolled her music-case in a business-like way, and spread its contents before the singing-master.
"What are you going to sing, Clara?" asked Lady Moppett, turning her head over her shoulder.
"Signor Valli will choose," answered the young lady quietly.
Valli selected a song and offered his arm to Miss Bertram to lead her to the piano. She did not accept it instantly, being occupied in replacing the rest of her music in its case; and with a sudden, impatient gesture, Valli wheeled round and walked to the piano alone. Miss Bertram followed him composedly, and took her place beside him. May looked at her with interest, as she stood there during the few bars of introduction to the song.
Clara Bertram was not beautiful, but she had a singularly attractive face. Her dark eyes were not nearly so large, nor so finely set, as Constance Hadlow's, but they were infinitely more expressive, and her rather wide mouth revealed a magnificent set of teeth when she smiled or sang. The song selected for her was one of those compositions which, if ill-sung, or even only tolerably sung, would pass unnoticed. But Miss Bertram sang it to perfection. Her voice was very beautiful, with something peculiarly pathetic in its vibrating tones, and she pronounced the Italian words with a pure, unaffected, and finished accent.
"Oh, how lovely!" exclaimed May, under her breath, when the song was over.
"Isn't it?" said Miss Piper, who happened to be near enough to catch the words. "I am so glad you are pleased with her! Do you think Mrs. Dormer-Smith would like her to sing now and then at asoirée? She wants to get known in really good houses."
Before May could answer the little woman had hurried off again, and in another minute was leading Miss Bertram up to Mr. Jawler, who spoke to the young singer with evident affability, keeping his eyes open for a full minute at a time.
Meanwhile Valli was left alone at the piano, and an ugly look came into his face as he glanced round and saw himself neglected. But his expression changed in an instant with curious suddenness when Miss Hadlow drew near, and, leaning on the instrument, addressed some words of compliment to him.
"Will you not let us hear you sing, Signor Valli?" she said presently.
Valli merely shook his head in answer, keeping his eyes fixed on Miss Hadlow's face with a look of bold admiration, and letting his fingers stray softly over the keys.
"Oh, that is a terrible disappointment!"
"I don't think so," replied the singing-master, speaking very good English.
"It is, indeed."
Again he shook his head.
"It is to me, at all events."
"Well, I shall sing for you; a little songsotto voce, all to ourselves."
"Oh, but that would be too selfish on my part, to enjoy your singing all to myself."
"It is a very good plan to be selfish," returned Valli; and forthwith he began a little Neapolitan love-song—murmuring, rather than singing it—and still keeping his eyes fixed on Miss Hadlow.
At the first sound of his voice, low and subdued though it was, Miss Piper held up her finger to bespeak silence. There was a general hush. Every one looked towards the piano, against which Constance was still leaning, with her back to the rest of the company. She made a little movement to withdraw to a seat, but Valli immediately ceased singing, and, under cover of a noisyritournellewhich he played on the piano, said to her, "I am singing for you. If you go away, my song will go away too."
"But I can't stand here by myself, Signor Valli," protested Constance, by no means displeased. At this moment Miss Piper approached to implore themaestroto continue, and Constance whispered to her in a few words the state of the case.
"Caprices of genius, my dear," said the little woman. "When you have seen as much of professional people as I have, you will not be astonished." Then to Valli, "Will you not continue that exquisite air? We are all dying to hear it."
"Yes; on condition that you both stay there and inspire me," answered he, with an unconcealed sneer.
Miss Piper, however, took him at his word, and, linking her arm in Constance's, remained standing close to the instrument. Valli, upon this, resumed his song. He gave it now at the full pitch of his voice, addressing it ostentatiously to Miss Hadlow, and throwing an exaggerated amount of expression into the love passages. Miss Piper was enchanted, and led off the applause enthusiastically. Valli was soon surrounded by a group of admirers, Mr. Dormer-Smith among them. May was conscious of a painful impression, which destroyed any pleasure she might have had in the song. And that Owen Rivers shared this impression was proved by his walking up to the piano, and unceremoniously putting his cousin's hand on his arm to lead her away.
"Oh, don't take Conny away, Mr. Rivers," cried Miss Piper. "Signor Valli is going to favour us with some more of his delicious national airs."
"Come and sit down, Constance," said Owen authoritatively. "Let me get you a seat also, Miss Piper," he added. "It can scarcely be necessary for the due exhibition of this gentleman's national airs to keep two ladies standing."
"Oh no, no; please don't mind me. I'm quite comfortable," said Miss Piper, with a shade of vexation on her good-humoured round face.
Constance remained perfectly calm and self-possessed; only a faint smile and a sparkle in her eyes revealed a gratified vanity as she took the chair near May, to which her cousin conducted her.
Miss Piper shrugged up her shoulders and pursed up her mouth. "He has no idea what artists are," she whispered in Lady Moppett's ear. "And, besides, poor dear young man, he's so desperately in love with his cousin that he can't bear her to be even looked at. I only hope Signor Valli won't take offence."
But Valli, finding himself now the object of general attention, was very gracious. He sang song after song without the inspiration of Miss Hadlow's handsome face opposite to him; and he sang far better than before;—with less exaggeration, and managing his naturally defective voice with singular skill andfinesse. But the praise and flattery which his hearers poured forth unstintingly did not seem quite to satisfy him. His glance wandered restlessly, as though in search of something; and finally, after a very clever rendering of an old air by Carissimi, he addressed himself suddenly to Miss Bertram, who was standing somewhat apart in the background, and asked, in Italian—
"Is the Signorina content?"
"I always like your singing of that aria," she answered, in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone.
"Like it, indeed!" exclaimed Lady Moppett, with her severest manner. "I should think you did like it, Clara! And you ought to profit by it. To hear singing so finished—of such a perfect school—is a lesson for you."
Valli, upon this, made a low bow to Lady Moppett—a bow so low as to seem almost burlesque. As he raised his face again he turned it towards Miss Bertram with a subtle smile, saying, "Miladi is such a judge! Her praise is very precious." Clara, however, kept an impassive countenance, and declined to meet the glance he shot at her. Then Valli made a second and equally low bow to the hostess, and, cutting short her ecstatic compliments and thanks, left the room without further ceremony.
The party now broke up. Lady Moppett departed with Miss Bertram and Mr. Jawler, to whom she offered a seat in her carriage. Mr. Cleveland Turner and his patron, Mr. Sweeting, went away together. In a few minutes there remained Mr. Dormer-Smith, with his niece, and Owen Rivers. Miss Patty bustled in with the two children.
"Dear me," said she. "Is the music all over? Well, now let us be comfortable."
But Mr. Dormer-Smith declared he must reluctantly bring his visit to an end. "I don't know how to thank you," said he to Miss Patty, "for your kindness to my children. I hope you will forgive me for bringing them."
Miss Patty heartily assured him that there was nothing to forgive, and that she hoped he would bring them again. She had gathered from the artless utterances of Harold and Wilfred an idea of their home life, which made her feel compassionately towards them.
As for Miss Polly, she was in the highest spirits. Mr. Jawler and Signor Valli, both stars of considerable magnitude in the musical world, had shone for her with unclouded lustre. It had been, she thought, a highly successful afternoon. So also thought Harold and Wilfred. And perhaps these were the only three persons who had enjoyed themselves thoroughly and unaffectedly.