The London season proceeded with its usual accumulation of engagements, its usual breathless chase after half-hours that have got too long a start ever to be recaptured, its usual fleeting satisfactions and abiding disappointments, its snubs, sneers, smiles, follies, falsehoods, and flirtations. The rushing current of fashionable life in London carried little May Cheffington on its surface, together with many brazen vessels of a very different kind. Constance Hadlow observed half-enviously to her friend that she was thoroughly "in the swim," a phrase which May found singularly inappropriate in her own case, feeling that there was no more question of a swim than in shooting Niagara! To her, especially, the whirl of society was confusing, phantasmagoric, and unreal. All the faces were new to her, most of the names awoke no associations in her mind. On the other hand, this peculiar inexperience gave freshness to her impressions and keenness to her insight. She had none of those social traditions which, nine times out of ten, supply the place of private judgment. She found her impression of many personages startlingly at variance with the label which the world had agreed to affix to them. It is possible to be at once simple and shrewd, just as it is possible to be bothruséand dull-witted.
May's simplicity was not of the blundering thick-skinned type; and her ingenuous freshness was admired by a great many persons, among whom was Mrs. Griffin. Far from being offended by May's moral indignation against those who accepted the hospitality of vulgar people, and then ridiculed them for being vulgar, Mrs. Griffin entirely approved her sentiments. Mrs. Griffin herself deplored, as she often said, "the servility towards mere money, which was degrading the tone of society." And whenever any new instance of it came to her knowledge, she would shake her head, and exclaim, softly, "Oh, Mammon, Mammon!" But this did not, of course, apply to her daughter the duchess, who sometimes went to the Aaronssohns'. Her daughter was so very great a lady as to be above ordinary restrictions. Other people worshipped Mammon; the duchess only patronized Mammon—which was, surely, a very different thing!
Aunt Pauline, however, derived no gratification from May's unconventional frankness. It was, on the contrary, a source of constant anxiety to her; and she felt daily more and more that it would be a relief to get May off her hands. Introducing her niece into society—even although the niece was a pretty girl, and a Cheffington to boot—had not proved so pleasing a task as she had anticipated. There was, to her thinking, a strange perversity in the girl's character, which made her callous where she should be sensitive, and sensitive where she might well be indifferent. For instance, she showed culpable coolness about her great-uncle Castlecombe and his family, and provoking warmth about her Oldchester friends. Not that May was apt to speak much of her life in Oldchester. In the natural course of things she would have talked freely and eagerly about her dear granny; but very soon after her arrival in London, her affectionate loquacity on this subject received a check. Aunt Pauline had hinted, with her usual mild politeness, that it would be desirable not to speak of Mrs. Dobbs before Smithson or any of the servants. Seeing the startled look in May's eyes, and the indignant flush on May's cheeks, her aunt added diplomatically, "Your father would not like it, May. I am trying to carry out his expressed wishes. That ought to be enough for you."
It was enough, at all events, to close May's lips. Her love and pride combined to make her silent. She tried to persuade herself that her father, at all events, had some good and reasonable motive for this prohibition, and that he, at least, was not ashamed of Mrs. Dobbs—ashamed of granny! The very thought made her hot with anger. But that Aunt Pauline was ashamed of her was too clear to May's honest mind. Painful as this conviction was, however, she came by degrees to hold it rather in sorrow than in anger, and to regard her aunt with something of the same indulgent toleration that Mrs. Dobbs had once expressed to Jo Weatherhead. For Mrs. Dormer-Smith's worldliness was not at all of a cynical sort. It was rather in the nature of a deep-rooted superstition conscientiously held.
To some points of her worldly creed Pauline clung with religious fervour. One of these was the duty incumbent on a dowerless young lady to marry well. To marryverywell was to marry a man with birth and money; but to secure a husband with money only—provided there were enough of it—she allowed to be marrying well. She did not look at the matter with vulgar flippancy. It was, no doubt, a sacrifice for a well-born woman to become the wife of an underbred man, however wealthy. But well-born women were no less called upon than their humbler sisters to make sacrifices in a good cause.
None of the Castlecombes much frequented fashionable society, and Mrs. Dormer-Smith had hitherto resigned herself, without much difficulty, to seeing very little of her noble kinsfolk. But when May was introduced, her aunt thought it desirable to cultivate them. Lord Castlecombe's big, gloomy, family mansion in town had been let ever since his wife's death many years ago; and whenever his lordship came to London to give his vote in the House of Peers—which was almost the sole object that had power to bring him up from the country—he occupied furnished lodgings. Of his two sons, both bachelors, the elder was governor of a colony on the other side of the globe, and the younger held a permanent post under Government. This Lucius Cheffington occasionally met Mr. Dormer-Smith at the club, and exchanged a few words with him. Captain Cheffington, on his penultimate visit to England, when his ungrateful country declined to provide for him, had quarrelled with all the Castlecombes, and had made himself particularly obnoxious to Lucius; for Lucius, whom his cousin considered a solemn ass, held a lucrative place, whilst Augustus, who knew himself to be a remarkably clever fellow, with immense knowledge of the world, was relegated to poverty and obscurity. But Pauline had not quarrelled with them. She would not willingly have quarrelled with any one, least of all with her Uncle Castlecombe and his family. And as to Mr. Dormer-Smith, it chanced that the one point of sympathy between himself and his cousin-in-law Lucius was the latter's cordial dislike to Gus. Nevertheless, the dislike did not descend to Gus's daughter. Lucius was pleased to approve of his young kinswoman, none the less, perhaps, that it was evident her father troubled himself little about her.
Mr. Dormer-Smith knew very well that the most effectual way of winning Lord Castlecombe's goodwill for his grand-niece was to assure his lordship that he would not be called upon to do anything for her. He, therefore, confidentially informed Lucius that the girl's grandmother in Oldchester was defraying her expenses, and would, no doubt, eventually provide for her altogether. The sagacity of this course was proved soon afterwards, when Lucius announced that his father would come and dine with Pauline the next time he should be in town, and make Miranda's acquaintance.
This was well. And even as to May's Oldchester friends matters turned out better than her aunt could have hoped. In the first place, the Misses Piper showed no disposition whatever to force themselves on Mrs. Dormer-Smith. That being the case, there was no objection to May's going to see them every Sunday with her uncle and the children. To Harold and Wilfred these Sunday visits were such a delightful break in the dull routine of their lives that their father would have endured considerable boredom and discomfort rather than deprive them of it. But, in fact, he was not bored. Whenever the music became too severe, he could withdraw into the tea-room, where he always found some one to chat with. Possibly he, too, felt these Sundays to be a break in the monotony of his daily life. There was a cordial, hearty tone about the hostesses which was decidedly pleasant, although he was aware that Pauline would pronounce it sadly underbred. But Pauline was not there to be shocked, and there were some red drops in Mr. Dormer-Smith's veins (he was not quite so blue-blooded as his wife) which warmed to this plebeian kindness. Sometimes even the moisture would come into his eyes when he watched his little boys clinging familiarly about Miss Patty as they never clung about their mother. The good-natured old maid had won the children's hearts completely. They were overheard one day in a lively discussion as to which was the prettier, Miss Patty or Cousin May: Wilfred inclining, on the whole, to award the palm of beauty to his cousin, but Harold powerfully arguing in favour of Miss Patty that she had such "beautiful curls" (an ingenuous, and probably unique, tribute to the ginger-bread coloured wig!) and a "shiny brooch like a butterfly."
Then Constance Hadlow, whom Mrs. Dormer-Smith had unwillingly invited to lunch one day with her former schoolfellow, proved to be in every respect "most presentable," as Aunt Pauline herself candidly admitted. So presentable was she in fact, so handsome, self-possessed, and even (on the mother's side) well connected, that there might have arisen objections of a different sort against receiving her, as being a dangerous competitor for that solemn duty of marrying well. But a chance word of May's to the effect that young Bransby had long been an admirer of Constance, and that they were supposed by many persons in Oldchester to be engaged to each other, relieved Aunt Pauline's mind on that score.
"It would be very suitable," she said approvingly. "I think Mr. Bransby a very nice person; so quiet."
The subject of this glowing eulogium had not appeared at Mrs. Dormer-Smith's receptions for some time. He had been ordered into the country, to cure a violent cold by change of air; and although he much disliked leaving town at that moment, he never thought of neglecting his physician's advice. Theodore's mother had been consumptive; and the fear that he inherited her constitution made him anxiously careful of his health. Immediately on his return to London he presented himself, about half-past five o'clock one Thursday afternoon, in Mrs. Dormer-Smith's drawing-room, and experienced a shock of disagreeable surprise on finding Constance Hadlow seated near May at the tea-table. May, innocently supposing that she was doing him a good turn, gave him her place, and went to another part of the room. But Constance coolly greeted him with a "How d'ye do, Theodore?" in a tone of the politest insipidity, which he sincerely approved of. Nevertheless, he would rather not have found her there. On glancing round he was struck by several innovations. In the first place, the pianoforte—usually a dumb piece of furniture in Mrs. Dormer-Smith's house—stood open, with some loose sheets of music lying on it; and Signor Vincenzo Valli sat, teacup in hand, smiling his false smile beside Mrs. Griffin. Theodore knew perfectly well who Signor Valli was; and it needed not Mrs. Griffin's gracious demeanour to instruct this rising young man that Valli was sufficiently the fashion to be worth being civil to. But he was surprised to find him there. His surprises, however, were not at an end; for whom should he behold in familiar conversation with a gentleman at the opposite side of the room but Owen Rivers? And near them was—he could hardly believe his eyes—Mr. Bragg! It seemed to Theodore as if there had been a conspiracy amongst his acquaintance to make all sorts of fresh combinations on the social chess-board during his brief absence. He felt that it was necessary for him to take an accurate survey of the new positions. But he saw no immediate opportunity of doing so; for there was no one at hand to interrogate, except Constance Hadlow, who, of course, knew nothing. She must be spoken to, however; but he would cut the conversation as short as possible.
Thoughts—even the weighty thoughts of a diplomatically-minded young gentleman—move quickly, and there was scarcely any perceptible pause between Constance's greeting and his gravely polite remark that it was quite an unexpected pleasure to see her there.
"Yes; I came up a few weeks ago with the Pipers."
"Oh! you are staying withthem?" (This with a strong flavour of his superior manner; for the Pipers were really nobodies.)
"And what have you been doing with yourself? I haven't seen you anywhere," said Constance coolly.
"I have been out of town. But in any case we might possibly not have met. Have you been going out much?"
"Oh, as much as most people, I suppose. I was at the Aaronssohns' dance last night."
"The Aaronssohns!" exclaimed Theodore. (This time he was so astonished that he spoke quite naturally.) "I didn't know that you knew them."
"Oh, I don't know them."
"Then how did you get—I mean——"
"How did I get there? Dear me, Theodore, your visit to the country has given you a refreshing buttercup-and-daisy kind of air! Do you suppose that the Aaronssohns' ball-room was filled with their personal friends and acquaintances? Mrs. Griffin got me an invitation."
Now to be presented to Mrs. Griffin and to be invited to the Aaronssohns' were pet objects of Theodore Bransby's social ambition, and he had not yet compassed either of them.
"Oh, indeed!" said he, struggling, under the disadvantage of conscious ill-humour, to maintain that air of indifference to all things in heaven and earth which he imagined to be the completest manifestation of high breeding. "I suppose that was achieved through Mrs. Dormer-Smith's influence."
"Not altogether. It was May Cheffington who first introduced me to Mrs. Griffin. She's just the same dear little thing as ever—I don't mean Mrs. Griffin! But Mrs. Griffin found out that she had known my grandfather Rivers. I believe they were sweethearts in their pinafores a hundred years ago; so she has been awfully nice to me."
While Constance was speaking, Theodore's eye lighted on Mr. Bragg, solid and solemn, wearing that look of melancholy respectability which is associated with the British workman in his Sunday clothes.
"Oh, and Mr. Bragg was at the Aaronssohns', too," said Constance, following the young man's glance. "Fancy Mr. Bragg at a ball!"
"Did Mrs. Griffin knowhisgrandfather?" asked Theodore, with a sneer.
It was clear to Constance that he had quite lost his temper. Otherwise he would not, she felt sure, have said anything in such bad taste. But she replied calmly—
"I don't think Mr. Bragg ever had a grandfather. But he is rich enough to do without one. It is poor persons like you and me who find grandfathers necessary—or, at all events, useful."
Theodore understood the sarcasm of this quiet speech, and it helped him to master his growing irritation. There are some natures on which a moral buffet acts as a sedative.
"Was it your friend Miss Piper who brought Mr. Bragg here?" he asked, showing no sign of having felt the blow, except a slight increase of pallor.
"Oh dear, no! The Pipers have never been here themselves, except to leave a card at the door. This is not the kind of society they care for, you know. I saw Mr. Bragg come in to-day with May's cousin, Mr. Lucius Cheffington, but I can't say whether he first introduced him or not."
"Is that Mr. Lucius Cheffington?"
"That man talking to Owen?—Yes."
"Mrs. Dormer-Smith has rather a mixed collection this afternoon. I see Valli over there. You know who I mean? That short, foreign man near——"
"Oh yes; Signor Valli is a great ally of mine. He's delightful, I think. His airs and graces are so amusing. I can tell you howhecomes to be here, if you like," returned Constance placidly. She was secretly enjoying Theodore's discomfiture. He had expected to play the part of town mouse, and to patronize and instruct her. "The fact is," she continued, "that Lady Moppett begged Mr. Dormer-Smith to induce his wife to have herprotégée, Miss Bertram, to sing here on Thursday afternoons, promising, as a kind of bait, to get Valli to come too. I don't think Mrs. Dormer-Smith particularly wished to have Miss Bertram; but she thought it would be nice to have Valli, who is run after by the best people, and is very difficult to get hold of. So the negotiation succeeded. It is too funny how one has toménagerand coax these professional people. If you don't want any more information just now, I think I will go and speak to Mrs. Griffin." Whereupon Constance glided away, self-possessed and graceful, and with a becoming touch of animation bestowed by the consciousness that she had been mistress of the situation.
Theodore looked decidedly blank for the moment. No one bestowed any attention on him. As he sat watching, he was struck by the evidently familiar way in which Owen Rivers and Mr. Cheffington were talking together. He himself particularly desired to be introduced to Lucius Cheffington, but a secret, grudging feeling made him unwilling to owe the introduction to Rivers. Presently Rivers moved away to join May and Miss Bertram, who were turning over some music together, and Mr. Bragg took his place near Mr. Cheffington. This was the opportunity which Theodore had wished for. He at once rose and walked up to them. Theodore's manner was never servile, but there was an added gravity in his demeanour towards certain persons, intended to show that he thought them worth taking seriously; and this tribute he rendered to Mr. Bragg. For, although the young man had by no means forgotten Mr. Bragg's deplorable insensibility to an enlightened view of the currency question, yet he prided himself on thoroughly understanding that the great tin-tack maker's claims to consideration rested on a solid basis quite apart from culture or intelligence.
"I wish," said Theodore, after the first salutations, "that you would do me the favour to make me known to Mr. Lucius Cheffington. I know so many members of his family, but I have not the pleasure of his personal acquaintance."
Mr. Bragg eyed him with his usual heavy deliberation. "Oh," said he slowly, "this is Mr.—I don't call to mind your Christian name—eh? Oh yes—Mr. Theodore Bransby."
Mr. Lucius Cheffington made an unusually low bow, his pride being of the sort which manifests itself in the most ceremonious politeness.
He was a small, lean man, with a pale face deeply lined by ill-health and a fretful temperament. He had closely shaven cheeks and chin; heavy, grizzled moustaches; and very thick, grizzled hair, which he wore rather long. His voice was harsh, though subdued, and he spoke very slowly, making such long pauses as occasionally tempted unwary strangers to finish his sentences for him. A double eyeglass with tortoise-shell rims was set astride his nose; and behind the glasses two dark, near-sighted eyes looked out, somewhat superciliously, upon a world which fell sadly short of what a Cheffington had a right to expect.
"I have the pleasure of knowing your cousin, Captain Augustus Cheffington, very well indeed," said Theodore.
Lucius bowed again and adjusted his eyeglass. A shade of surprise and annoyance passed over his face. His Cousin Augustus had been a sore subject with the family for years; and latterly such rumours as had reached England about him had not made the subject more agreeable.
"I have often thought," pursued Theodore, quite unaware that his listener was regarding him with a mixture of astonishment and disfavour, "that it is a great pity a man of Captain Cheffington's abilities and accomplishments should live out of England; unless, indeed, he held some diplomatic appointment abroad. In my opinion these are times in which the great old families should hold fast by the public service. As I ventured to say to one of our county members the other day——" And so on, and so on. Having thus happily launched himself, Theodore proceeded in his best Parliamentary style: holding forth with a power of self-complacent and steady boredom beyond his years. A sensitive person would have been petrified by the unsympathizing stare from behind those tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses; but Theodore was not sensitive to such influences: being fortified by theà prioriconviction that he must naturally make a favourable impression. And since Lucius Cheffington could not, compatibly with his own dignity, plainly tell him that he considered him a presumptuous young ass, there was nothing to check his flow of eloquence.
But at length the cold stare was softened, and the pale, peevish, furrowed face turned to Theodore with a faint show of interest. Some casual word of this intrusive young man's seemed to show that he came from Oldchester.
"Do you know—a—Mrs.—a—Dobbs?" asked Lucius, speaking for the first time, and edging in this point-blank question between two of Theodore's neatly-turned sentences setting forth a political parallel between the late Lord Tweedledum and the present Right Honourable Tweedledee.
It was a shock; but Theodore bore it stoically.
"Not exactly. I have spoken with her. Mrs. Dobbs is not precisely——in our set," he answered, with a slight smile at one corner of his mouth, intended to demolish Mrs. Dobbs.
"I thought that, being a native of Oldchester, you might—a—be——" begun Mr. Cheffington in his low, harsh tones.
"Be acquainted with her? Really——"
"I thought that, being a native of Oldchester, you might—a—be able to tell me something about her."
"Not much, I fear," replied Theodore. He felt tempted to add that in Oldchester there were natives and natives.
"She's—a—rich, isn't she?" pursued Mr. Cheffington.
"Not that I know of," answered Theodore, staring a little.
"Rich is, perhaps, too much to say. At any rate, she is—a—quite well——"
"Well off? Oh, as to that——"
"At any rate, she is quite well-to-do, I presume!"
Theodore had never considered the question, but he said, "Oh yes," at a venture; and then suddenly a light flashed upon his mind. Perhaps Mrs. Dobbswasrich, after all. Though she lived in so humble a style she might, perhaps, have laid by money.
"She appears to be a person of—a—great—good sense," said Mr. Lucius Cheffington, remembering how Mrs. Dormer-Smith had stated that she declined to give any money-assistance to Augustus. And after that he made a second very low bow, and brought the interview to an end.
Little had Theodore Bransby expected to hear Mrs. Dobbs discussed and approved by a member of the noble house of Castlecombe. He had noticed that Mrs. Dormer-Smith systematically avoided any mention of the vulgar old woman. But then Mrs. Dormer-Smith was a person of the very finest taste. And, to be sure, it could scarcely be expected that Mr. Lucius Cheffington should feel Augustus'smésallianceas acutely as it was felt by Augustus's own sister. Besides, if, as really seemed possible, the ironmonger's widow turned out to be a moneyed person——! But it must be recorded of Theodore, that not even the idea of her having money reconciled him to Mrs. Dobbs. He said to himself afterwards, when he was meditating on what he had heard, that nothing so convincingly proved how much he was in love with Miss Cheffington, as his being ready to forgive her even her grandmother!
George Frederick Cheffington, fifth Viscount Castlecombe, was, in many ways, a very clever old man. He was extremely ignorant of most things which can be taught by books. But he had a thorough acquaintance with practical agriculture, considerable keenness in finance, and a quick eye to detect the weaknesses of his fellow men. On the other hand, his overweening self-esteem led him to think that what he knew comprised what was chiefly, if not solely, worth knowing, and his avarice occasionally overrode his native talent for business. In his youth he had been idle and extravagant. The former vice gave him the reputation of a dunce at school and college, and, by a reaction which belonged to his character, made him defiantly contemptuous of bookish men, with one single exception, presently to be noted. As to his extravagance, that was effectually cured by the death of his father. From the moment that he came into possession of the family estates, which he did at about thirty years of age, his income was administered with sagacious economy, and by the time his two sons arrived at manhood Lord Castlecombe was a very rich man.
If he had a soft place in his heart, it was for his son Lucius, who resembled his dead mother in features, and also, unfortunately, in the delicacy of his constitution. George, his heir, was like himself—strong, tough, and hardy. Lord Castlecombe secretly admired Lucius's talents very much, and had been highly gratified when his second son took honours at his University. That this success had not been followed by any particularly brilliant results later, and that Lucius had, as it were, stuck fast in his career, had even decidedly failed in Parliament, and had finally been shelved in a Government post which, although lucrative, was inglorious, his lordship attributed to the increase of folly, incapacity, and roguery which he had observed in the world during the last twenty years or so. That a Cheffington of such abilities as Lucius should remain undistinguished was part of the general decadence. In politics Lord Castlecombe was a Whig of the old school; and though he continued to vote with his party, yet the only point on which he was thoroughly in sympathy with the Liberals—a word, by the way, which he had come greatly to dislike, as covering far too wide a field—was that they fought the Tories.
The person whom Lord Castlecombe most detested in all the world was his nephew Augustus. He disliked his extravagance, his poverty, and the biting insolence of his tongue. This antipathy had latterly added poignancy to the old man's desire that his son should marry, and transmit the Castlecombe title and estates in the direct line; for Augustus was the next heir after his two cousins. It was true that the contingency of Captain Cheffington succeeding seemed remote enough. George Cheffington was only his senior by a couple of years, and Lucius was his junior. But neither of them had married; and they were well on in middle life. Lucius, indeed, seemed to have settled down into incorrigible old bachelorhood. And although George, in answer to his father's exhortations on the subject, always replied that he really would think seriously of looking for a wife on his next visit to England (persons suitable for that dignity not being to be found, it appeared, in the particular portion of the globe where his official duties lay), yet the years went by, and still there came no daughter-in-law, no grandson to inherit the coronet and enjoy the broad acres of Castlecombe. The idea that Augustus Cheffington might ever come to enjoy them was gall and wormwood to their present owner. But he had never breathed a word on this subject to any human being.
Mrs. Dormer-Smith was gratified by her uncle's gracious acceptance of an invitation to dine with her, soon after his arrival in town, about the middle of June. Lord Castlecombe did not visit her often; but that was from no ill-will on his part. In fact, he was rather fond of Pauline. He considered her a bit of a goose. But he thought it by no means unbecoming in a woman to be a bit of a goose. And she had thoroughbred manners, a gentle voice, and was still agreeable to look upon. The old lord disliked ugly women, and maintained that the sight of them disagreed with him like bad wine.
This consideration influenced Pauline in the choice of her guests to meet her uncle. It was understood there was to be no large party. It had been agreed that they should invite Mr. Bragg, who had bought a good deal of land in Lord Castlecombe's county, was director of a company of which the noble viscount was chairman, and of whom his lordship was known to entertain a favourable opinion, as being a man who made no disguise about his humble origin, and was free from the offensive pretensions of manynouveaux riches. For, although Lord Castlecombe willingly admitted that money could buy everything on which most people valued themselves, he greatly disliked the notion that it could be supposed to buy the things on whichhemost valued himself.
"Well, then, Frederick," said Mrs. Dormer-Smith, "that makes four men: my uncle, Lucius, Mr. Bragg, and yourself. Then May and I; and I thought of having that handsome Miss Hadlow. Uncle George likes to see pretty faces. We want another woman, but really I don't know who there is available at this moment. There are so few odd women who ain't frights," pursued the anxious hostess plaintively. "If it were a man, now——There are plenty of odd men to be had." Then, struck by a sudden inspiration, she said, "Why shouldn't we have an odd man instead of another woman? Uncle George gives me his arm, of course. You take Miss Hadlow, Mr. Bragg takes May, and Lucius and the odd man go in together. Positively, I think it would be the best arrangement of all."
"I suppose Lucius wouldn't mind, eh?"
"It certainly would be the best arrangement forme, at all events; for if there are only those two girls, I can simply put my feet up on a sofa when we go into the drawing-room, shut my eyes, and be quiet for half an hour, which, of course, would be out of the question if there was any woman who required to have civilities paid her; and in all probability I shall be in a state of nervous prostration by Friday. This season with May has tried me severely."
Mr. Dormer-Smith offering no objection, there only remained to make choice of the "odd man," and, after a moment's reflection, Pauline decided on young Bransby.
"Bransby!" exclaimed Mr. Dormer-Smith. "He's a dreadful prig."
"I think he's very nice, Frederick. But really that is not the point. He's engaged, or wants to be engaged, or something of the sort, to Miss Hadlow, so of course——"
"What? You don't mean to say that handsome girl would have such an insignificant fellow as Bransby?"
"I mean to say nothing about it. The subject has only a faint interest for me, Frederick. But whatisimportant is that, in any case,he will help to take her off."
Mr. Dormer-Smith stared; he understood his wife's phrase, but not her allusion. "Why, you don't suppose there's any danger of her setting her cap at Lucius?" said he.
"I should have no objection to her doing so."
"Well, there's nobody else."
"We need not discuss it, Frederick. Please give your best attention to the wine; you know that Uncle George is terribly fastidious about his wine, and the worst is that if he is discontented, he will not hesitate to say so before everybody."
That really did seem to her the worst. Most of the evils of life, she thought, might be more endurable if people would but be discreet, and say nothing about them.
The evil of Uncle George's public reprobation of her wine did not, however, befall her. Lord Castlecombe was content with his dinner, and looked round him approvingly as he sat on his niece's right hand.
"A couple of uncommonly pretty girls those," said his lordship. "They've got on pretty frocks, too; I like a good bright colour."
Pauline had begged Miss Hadlow beforehand not to wear black, or any sombre hue, her uncle having a special dislike to such; and Constance, perfectly willing to please Lord Castlecombe by looking as brilliant as she could, had arrayed herself in her favourite maize-colour.
"You have a very nice gown on, too, Pauline," added his lordship graciously.
Mrs. Dormer-Smith privately thought her own toilette detestable. It was a gaily-flowered brocade (a gift from her husband soon after Wilfrid's birth), which had been hidden from the light for several years. But she had self-denyingly caused Smithson to furbish it up for the present occasion, and was gratified that her virtue did not go unrewarded.
"I knew you liked vivid colours, Uncle George," said she softly.
"Of course I do. Everybody does, that has the use of his eyes. Don't believe the humbugs who tell you otherwise. Your upholsterer now will show you some wretched washed-out rag of a thing, and try to persuade you to cover your chairs with it, because it'sæsthetic! Parcel of fools! Not that the fellows who sell the things are fools. They know very well which side their bread is buttered." Then glancing across the table with his keen, sunken, black eyes, he continued, "That little Miranda—what is it you call her? May? Well, May is a very good name for her—is remarkably fresh and pretty. Good frank forehead. Not a bit like her father. Different type. But the other girl is the beauty. Uncommonly handsome, really."
"I'm glad you think May nice," said Mrs. Dormer-Smith. "Of course I was anxious that you should like her. She is poor Augustus's only child—only surviving child. You know there were five or six of them, but the others all died in babyhood."
Lord Castlecombe did know it, and remembered it now with grim satisfaction. At least Augustus had no male heir to come after him.
"Ah! Gus made a pretty hash of it altogether," said the old man.
But he did not say it unkindly. He would not willingly have been harsh or brutal towards Pauline. She really was a very sweet creature, and had, he thought, almost every quality that he could desire in the women of his blood. For, it must be observed, Lord Castlecombe did not know that Pauline admired æsthetic furniture, nor that she considered Augustus to have been rather hardly treated by the Castlecombes.
"Of course," replied that gentle lady. "My poor brother's unfortunate marriage——"
"Oh! Ah! Yes. But that, at all events, seems to have turned out better than could have been expected. Lucius tells me there is a grandmother who has money, and is generous."
"Not to Augustus, Uncle George; Mrs. Dobbs positively refuses to assist Augustus."
"H'm!" grunted Uncle George, his opinion of Mrs. Dobbs's good sense taking a sudden leap upward. "Well, my dear, people have to think of their own interests, you know." Then, in a louder tone, "Frederick, send me that white Hermitage. It's a very fair wine, as times go—a very fair wine indeed."
When the ladies had left the table, young Bransby felt what he would have called, in speaking of any one else, "a little out of it." My lord talked with Mr. Bragg, Lucius and Frederick were discussing some item of club politics, in the midst of which the host would now and again interpolate some parenthetical observations addressed to young Bransby, obviously as a matter of duty. At length, in declining the claret which Mr. Dormer-Smith pushed towards him, Theodore took the opportunity to say—
"Do you think I might venture to go upstairs? I have a message for Mrs. Dormer-Smith about a little commission with which she entrusted me."
"No more wine, really? Oh, my wife will be charmed to see you," replied Frederick, with alacrity. And, thereupon, the young man quietly left the room.
It was true that he had undertaken a commission for Mrs. Dormer-Smith; but he would not have prematurely withdrawn himself from the company of a peer and a millionaire, on that account. He was moved by a far weightier purpose. He had made up his mind to propose to Miss Cheffington; and, if the Fates favoured him, he might do it that very evening. For some time past—before May left Oldchester—Theodore had been sure that he wished to marry her. There were drawbacks. She had no money (or at all events he had not reckoned on her having any money), and she had connections of a very objectionable kind. But he rather dwelt on these things, as proving the disinterested nature of his attachment. He was so much in love with May, that he liked to fancy himself making some sacrifices on her account. As to her feelings towards him, he was not without misgivings. But he watched her in society at every opportunity, and had convinced himself that she was, at all events, fancy-free. She did not even flirt; but enjoyed herself with child-like openness:—or was bored with equal simplicity and sincerity. As to her aunt, Theodore did not doubt that his suit would be favourably received by Mrs. Dormer-Smith. She must, long ago, have perceived his intentions; and he felt that his being invited to that intimate little dinner—almost a family dinner—was strong encouragement.
Theodore was fortifying himself with this reflection as he mounted the stairs to the drawing-room. His foot fell more and more lingeringly on the soft, soundless carpet as he neared the door. He was on an errand which can scarcely be undertaken with cool self-possession, even by a young gentleman holding the most favourable view of his own merits and prospects. One can never certainly reckon on one's soundest views being shared. A servant carrying coffee, preceded him, and opened the drawing-room door just as he arrived on the landing; and Theodore felt positively grateful to the man for, as it were, covering his entrance, and relieving him from the embarrassment of walking in alone. He entered close behind the footman, and was, for a few moments, unperceived by the ladies.
The room was a little dim; all the lamps being shaded with rose-colour. Mrs. Dormer-Smith was reclining on a sofa, with closed eyes. But she was not asleep; for beside her in a low lounging-chair, and talking to her in a subdued voice, sat Constance Hadlow. May was at the other side of the room, leaning with both elbows on a little table which stood in a recess between the fireplace and a window, and apparently absorbed in a book. Theodore thought she made a charming picture, with the soft light falling on her fair young face and white dress; and his pulse, which had been beating a little quicker than usual all the way upstairs, became suddenly still more accelerated.
May looked up.
"Is that you?" she said. "Where are the others?"
It was not a very warm or flattering welcome; but Theodore was scarcely conscious of her words. He was thinking what a fortunate chance it was which left May isolated, so far away from the other ladies as to be out of earshot, if one spoke in a suitably low tone. At the sound of her niece's voice Mrs. Dormer-Smith languidly turned her head.
"Oh, please don't move, Mrs. Dormer-Smith," said Theodore, speaking in a quick, confused way, very different from his accustomed manner. "If I am to disturb you, I must go away at once. But I—I don't take much wine, and he said—Mr. Dormer-Smith said he thought I might—if you don't mind my preceding the other men by a few minutes, I will be as quiet as a mouse."
He crossed the room and sat down by May in the shadow of a heavy window-curtain.
The hostess murmured a gracious word or two and then closed her eyes again. She had been a little vexed by the young man's premature arrival; but if he was content to be quiet, and whisper to May, she need not stand on ceremony with him. The fact was, she was listening with great interest to Constance's account of a feud which had arisen between Lady Burlington and Mrs. Griffin's daughter, the duchess. Constance had the details at first hand, from Mrs. Griffin herself, on the one side, and from Miss Polly Piper on the other: for the feud had arisen about Signor Vincenzo Valli. The fashionable singing-master had thrown over one of the great ladies for the other, on the occasion of somesoirée musicale; and the quarrel had been espoused by various personages of distinction, whose sayings and doings with regard to it Mrs. Dormer-Smith considered to be at once important and entertaining. She mentally contrasted with a sigh the intelligence, tact, and correctness of judgment which Constance brought to bear on this matter, with the nonchalance—not to say downright levity and indifference—displayed by May. It was impossible to get May to interest herself in the bearings of the case. In fact, she had abandoned the discussion, and gone away to her book; whereas this provincial girl, with not one quarter of May's advantages, understood it perfectly, remembered the names of all the people concerned, had a very sufficient knowledge of their relative importance, and was able to impart to her hostess a variety of minute circumstances, narrated in a low, quiet tone, free from emphasis or emotion, which was delightfully soothing.
May, for her part, was by no means pleased to have her reading interrupted; but politeness, and the sense that she was, in her degree, responsible for the hospitality of the house, impelled her to close her book at once, and to turn a good-humoured countenance towards her companion.
"Isn't Uncle Frederick coming?" she asked, finding nothing better to say at the moment.
"Presently. Are you in a great hurry to see him?" returned Theodore.
"Oh no; I was amusing myself very well."
"Are you angry with me, for interrupting you?"
"Oh no," answered May again. But this second "Oh no" was not quite so hearty as the first.
"May I see what you have been reading?"
She pushed the book towards him.
"'Mansfield Park.' Whose is it?"
"Good gracious! You don't mean to say that you don't know?"
"I don't read novels," said Theodore loftily, but not severely. It was all very well for women to have that weakness.
"But this is an English classic! Mr. Rivers says so. You really ought to know who wrote 'Mansfield Park,' even if you have never read it. It is one of Jane Austen's works."
"Ah! Do you—do you like it?" said Theodore, scarcely knowing what he said. He was playing nervously with a little ivory paper-knife which lay on the table, and his whole aspect and manner—had not both been to some extent concealed by the shadow of the velvet curtain—would have betrayed to the most indifferent observer that he was agitated and unlike himself. He felt that the precious minutes of this chancetête-à-têtewere passing swiftly; he longed to profit by them; and yet, now that the moment had come, he feared to stand the hazard of the die, and kept deferring it by idle words.
"Oh yes! I like it, of course," answered May. "Not so much, perhaps, as 'Emma,' or 'Pride and Prejudice.' Mr. Rivers advised me to read it."
It was the second time she had mentioned Rivers's name, and this fact stung Theodore unaccountably. It acted like a touch of the spur to a lagging horse. He burst out, still speaking almost in a whisper, but with some heat—
"Rivers is a happy fellow! What would I give if you cared enough about me to follow my advice!"
"You have only to advise me to do something which I like as much as reading Jane Austen," replied May archly. But his tone had struck her disagreeably. She peered at him furtively as he sat in the shadow, trying in vain to see his countenance clearly. The idea crossed her mind that he might have taken too much wine at dinner. But it was so repulsive an idea to her, that she felt she ought not to entertain it without better foundation.
"It is a most fortunate chance for me to have this—this blessed opportunity," pursued Theodore. (He had hesitated for the epithet, and was not by any means satisfied with it when he had got it). "I have long been wanting to speak to you."
"To me? Well, that need not have been very difficult," answered May, edging a little away, and trying to obtain a good view of his face.
"Pardon me. It is not easy to have the privilege of a private word with Miss Cheffington. When we meet in society, you are surrounded, as is but too natural. And latterly, in your own home, you have been a good deal engrossed. I could not say what I have to say before——"
He glanced over at Constance Hadlow as he spoke. This was an immense relief to May who had been growing more and more uncomfortable, and vaguely apprehensive. She thought she understood it all now. Conny had been treating him with coolness and neglect. She herself had noticed this, and now he wanted to enlist the sympathies of Conny's friend.
"Oh, I see!" she exclaimed. "It's something about Constance that you wish to say to me."
"About Constance? Ah, May, you are cruel! You know too well your power!" he said, endeavouring to give a pathetic intonation to his voice, but producing only an odd, croaking, throaty sound. Then May decided, in her own mind, that hehadbeen taking too much wine; and, angry and disgusted, she tried to rise from her chair and leave him. But she was hemmed in by the little table, and on her first movement, Theodore took hold of the skirt of her dress to detain her. May turned round upon him with a pale, indignant face, and flashing eyes.
"Don't touch my dress, if you please. I wish to go away."
"Miss Cheffington—May—you must hear what I have to say now. You must know it without my saying, for I have loved you so long and so devotedly. But I have a right to be heard."
May was thunderstruck. But she perceived in a moment that she had, in one sense, done him injustice—he had not drunk too much wine. But this——! This was worse! How far easier it would have been to forgive Theodore if he had even got tipsy—just a little tipsy—instead of making such a declaration! She supposed she had no right to be disgusted; she had heard that properly behaved young ladies always took an offer of marriage to be a great honour. But she was disgusted, nevertheless; and so far from feeling honoured, she was conscious of a distressing sense of humiliation. She tried, however, to keep up her dignity, and at the same time to say what was right to this—this dreadful young man, who had suddenly presented himself in the odious light of wanting to make love to her.
"Oh, please don't say any more. I'm very much obliged to you. I mean I'm extremely sorry. But I beg you won't say another word, and forget all about it as quickly as possible."
"Forget it! Nay, that is out of the question. I could not if I would."
Theodore began to recover his self-command as May lost hers. She was agitated and trembling. Well, he would not have had her listen to his words unmoved. She was very young and inexperienced. And he had, it seemed, taken her by surprise.
"Is it possible," he continued softly, "that you were quite unprepared to hear——"
"Quite unprepared. But that makes no difference. And you really must allow me to go away. I'm very sorry, indeed, but I can't stay here another moment."
"Am I so repulsive?" said he, with a sentimental beseeching glance. But he met an expression in her face which made him add quickly, in quite another tone, "Well, well, I will prefer your wishes to my own," at the same time drawing himself and his chair to one side.
She had looked almost capable of leaping over the table to escape. May brushed past him, and darted away out of the room without another word.
Theodore seized hold of the book she had left behind her, and bent his head over it. He saw not one word on the printed page beneath his eyes, but it saved him from appearing as confused as he felt. Had he been rejected? And, if so, was it a rejection which he was bound to consider final? Or had he received no real answer at all? Gradually, as his throat grew less dry, his head less hot, and his brain more clear, he arrived at the conclusion that he had virtually had no answer. May was little more than a child, and he had startled her. Then he remembered that word of May's, "It is about Constance you wish to speak to me." Could she be under any misapprehension as to his position with regard to Constance? The idea was fraught with comfort. That, at least, he could set right, and without delay. He rose and walked across the room at once to Mrs. Dormer-Smith's sofa.
At this moment the procession of men, headed by Lord Castlecombe, arrived from the dining-room. Constance glided away, leaving her vacant chair for Theodore, who immediately occupied it, thus cutting off Mrs. Dormer-Smith from the rest of the company. That lady looked anxiously across his shoulder.
"Wouldyou," she said to Theodore, "would you be so very good as to ask my husband to inquire where Miss Cheffington is? My uncle would like to talk to her, I know; and——Oh, there she is! Thanks. Don't trouble yourself."
May had returned to the drawing-room; but instead of going near her noble grand-uncle, she perversely seated herself in a remote nook beside Mr. Bragg, with whom she presently began a conversation, keeping her face persistently turned away from every one else. Her noble grand-uncle did not seem to care. His lordship marched straight up to Miss Hadlow, and stood before her, coffee-cup in hand, with his curious air of perfectly knowing how to behave like a fine gentleman whenever he should think it worth while. Lucius and Frederick were continuing their club discussion, which possessed the advantage—for persons of leisure—of having neither beginning nor end, and of being indefinitely elastic. Pauline took in the whole room with one comprehensive glance, and then leant back against her cushions with a sigh, which, if not contented, was resigned. She made no effort to recall May to her duty towards Lord Castlecombe.
"You must forgive me, Mr. Bransby," she said graciously, "if I have been selfish in engrossing Miss Hadlow. If you don't take care, my uncle will do the same! Lord Castlecombe admires her very much."
Theodore cleared his throat, settled his cravat with a rather unsteady hand, and looked at her as solemnly as if he were about to commence an oration. But all he managed to say was—
"There has been a mistake, Mrs. Dormer-Smith."
"A mistake?"
"Yes. I have some reason to believe that you are under a wrong impression about me."
His hostess faintly raised her eyebrows, and answered with a smile, "I hope not: for all my impressions of you are very pleasant."
Theodore bowed gravely. "You are very kind," said he. "It is important to me to set this matter right. You perhaps imagine—some one may have told you that I and Miss Hadlow—there has been, I believe, some idle gossip coupling our names together."
"Not very unnaturally," said Mrs. Dormer-Smith, still smiling. But she began to wonder what he could be driving at.
"Well, I do think it hard that one cannot be on friendly terms with a person one has known all one's life without being supposed to be engaged to her."
"Or him," put in Pauline quietly.
"Of course. I mean, of course, that it is particularly unfair to the lady. But it puts a man in a false position too. I have just been speaking to May——"
Then, in an instant, the true state of the case flashed on Mrs. Dormer-Smith, to her unspeakable consternation. This, then, was her model young man, whom she had pronounced to be so "nice" and so "quiet;" and who, moreover, had always expressed the most proper sentiments on the subject of unequal marriages! She felt herself to be of all ladies the most persecuted by fate.
"Oh," she said, coldly interrupting him; "it was scarcely necessary to say anything to Miss Cheffington on the subject."
But Theodore was beyond taking heed of any snub or check of that kind. "One moment," he said, breathing quickly. "If you will allow me to finish what I was saying, you will see——I am, as you must have perceived, deeply attached to your niece."
"No, no," protested Mrs. Dormer-Smith faintly. "I never perceived it."
"Then that must have been because you were looking in a wrong direction. You were misled about Constance Hadlow; otherwise, the nature of my attentions could scarcely have escaped you."
"And you say that you have been speaking to—to my niece?"
"I have this evening told her how devotedly I love her."
"Good heavens!" whispered Mrs. Dormer-Smith, letting her head sink back among the sofa-cushions. "And what was her reply?"
"Her reply was—well, practically, it was no reply at all. May was agitated and startled, and I think she had believed that foolish gossip about my engagement to Miss Hadlow. But I trust to you to explain——"
"Pray, Mr. Bransby, say no more. I regret extremely that this should have happened."
"Oh, but I don't know that I have any reason to despair," he answered naïvely.
This was almost more than Pauline could endure. She got up from the sofa, and plaintively murmuring, "Say no more; pray say no more. I really am not equal to it at present," fairly walked away from him.
That night when the guests were gone, Mrs. Dormer-Smith sent for her husband to her dressing-room, and revealed to him what young Bransby had said. His indignation at the young man's presumption was equal to her own: although not wholly on the same grounds.
"You will have to talk to him, Frederick," she said. "When he went away he said something about requesting an early interview.Icannot stand any more of it. It upsets me too frightfully. Of course, you won't quarrel with him. Just give him politely to understand that it is out of the question. Fortunately, May appears to have been as muchoutréeby this preposterous proposal as I could desire. May behaved very nicely to-night altogether. I was pleased with her."
"H'm! Oh yes; but I thought she might have paid a little more attention to your uncle. She never went near him after we came upstairs. I think she talked to old Bragg more than to any one else."
"Frederick," said his wife slowly, "do you know that Lady Hautenville is making a dead set at Mr. Bragg for Felicia?"
"Is she?"
"Yes. Mrs. Griffin told me all about it. They are moving heaven and earth to catch him."
"Really? Well,bonne chance!"
"It would bemauvaise chancefor him, poor man! Felicia has a frightful temper, and incredibly extravagant habits. She must be over her eyebrows in debt. But I fancy Mr. Bragg has better taste."
Her meaning tone made her husband look at her with sudden earnestness. "What do you mean?" he asked brusquely.
Mrs. Dormer-Smith put her hand to her forehead. "Let me entreat you not to raise your voice!" she said. "I have had quite enough to try my nerves this evening. I mean that I think Mr. Bragg is interested in May. It would be a splendid match for her."
"What?" cried Frederick, disregarding his wife's request, and raising his voice considerably. "Old Bragg!"
Pauline turned on him impressively. "Frederick," she said, speaking with patient mildness, as one imparting higher lore to some untutored savage, "Mr. Bragg is barely fifty-four; and his income—entirely within his own control—is over sixty thousand a year."
Theodore did not take his rejection meekly. In his interview with Mr. Dormer-Smith he pressed hard to see May again, and insinuated that she was under undue influence. Moreover, he conveyed, with stiff civility, that he considered himself to have been badly treated by the whole family, who had first encouraged his attentions and then rejected them.
"He really is a fearful young man!" said May to her aunt on hearing the report of the interview. "What does he mean by insisting on 'an answer from my own lips'? Could he not believe what Uncle Frederick said? Besides, he has had his answer from me. The truth is, he is so outrageously conceited that he can't believe any young woman would refuse him of her own free will."
"The idea of his dreaming for an instant thatIencouraged him is too preposterous," said Mrs. Dormer-Smith, shaking her head languidly. "I am sadly disappointed. I thought him quite a nice person. I fancied he had sufficientsavoir vivreto understand——However, it is one more proof that one can never reckon on half-bred people who don't know the world."
It was privately a great relief to May to know that her aunt took her part in this affair. Aunt Pauline's motives and views were still very mysterious to May on many points. She did not even now fully understand the grounds of her aunt's virtuous indignation against Theodore Bransby, although she was thankful for it. "Aunt Pauline thought him good enough for Conny," said May to herself innocently; "and Conny is so beautiful, and so much admired!"
It was true that—thanks, in the first place, to Mrs. Griffin—Constance had enjoyed a more brilliant season than she had ever ventured to dream of. Fashionable houses, of which she had read in the newspapers, but which had appeared to her as unattainable as though they were in another planet, had opened their doors to her; and old connections of her mother's family, finding her in the aforesaid houses, discovered that she was a charming girl, and were delighted to opentheirdoors to her. She had accepted several invitations to country houses, and would probably not be at home again until late in the autumn.
Mrs. Griffin watched this young lady's progress with considerable interest. She opined that Miss Hadlow was a shining instance of the advantages of "race."
"In spite of having been brought up in the pokiest way in some provincial town, as I understand, that girl has a thoroughbred self-possession quite remarkable," said Mrs. Griffin. "She never makes a blunder. You are never nervous about her. She has no trace of that loud, bouncing style, which I detest, and which so many underbred-people take up nowadays, mistakenly imagining it to be the proper thing. She doesn't 'go in' for anything. And," added Mrs. Griffin musingly, "there's a wonderful look of her grandfather, poor Charley Rivers, about the brow and eyes."
The season was rapidly drawing to a close when Mrs. Dobbs received two letters; one from her grand-daughter, and the other from Mrs. Dormer-Smith. Jo Weatherhead, arriving one evening at his usual hour in Jessamine Cottage, was told by his old friend that she had had a letter from May, and that she meant to read him a portion of it. No proposition could have been more welcome to Mr. Weatherhead. He drew his chair up to the grate—filled now with fresh boughs instead of hot coals; but Jo kept his place in the chimney-corner winter and summer—and prepared to listen.
Mrs. Dobbs read as follows:—"You must know, dear granny, that I told Aunt Pauline yesterday that I really must go home at the end of this season. She has been very kind and so has Uncle Frederick; but granny is granny, and home is home."
Here Mr. Weatherhead slapped his leg with his hand, and took his pipe out of his mouth as though about to speak; but on Mrs. Dobbs holding up her hand for silence, he put his pipe back again, and slowly drew his forefinger and thumb down the not inconsiderable length of his nose.
Mrs. Dobbs read on: "To my amazement, Aunt Pauline answered that it was my father's wish that I should remain with her altogether! That is not my wish. And it isn't yours—is it, granny dear? And if we two are agreed, I cannot think my father would object. I mean to write to him about it. I should have done so already, but I have not his address, and Aunt Pauline can't or won't give it to me. Please send it. I shall tell my father just what I feel. I don't care for what Aunt Pauline calls Society. I was happy enough as long as it was only like being at the play, with the prospect of going home when it was over, and living my real life. But to go on with this sort of thing and nothing else, year in, year out—it would be like being expected to live on wax fruit, or those glazed wooden turkeys I remember in a box of toys you gave me long ago. Please answer directly, directly. There's an invitation for me to go in August to a place in the Highlands, where Mrs. Griffin's daughter has a shooting-box. At least, I suppose it is Mrs. Griffin's daughter's husband who has the shooting-box. Only nobody talks much about the duke, and everybody talks a great deal about the duchess." ("Fancy our Miranda among the dukes and duchesses!" put in Jo Weatherhead, softly. And he smacked his lips as though the very sound of the words had a relish for him.) "Aunt Pauline wants to go to Carlsbad; Uncle Frederick is to join a fishing-party in Norway; the children are to be sent to a farmhouse; and Mrs. Griffin has offered to take care of me in the Highlands. But I would far,farrather come back to dear Oldchester, and be amongst people who know me, and care for me, and whom I love with all my heart. Do write and ask for me back, granny darling! And mind you give me papa's address. I am resolved to write to him, whatever Aunt Pauline may say. He ismyfather, and I have a right to tell him my feelings."
"That's all of any consequence," said Mrs. Dobbs, slowly refolding the letter. "Oh, of course she writes at the end 'Love to Uncle Jo.' She never forgets that."
There was a brief silence. Mr. Weatherhead, who was very tender-hearted, blew his nose and wiped his eyes unaffectedly. "Of course you'll have the child down, Sarah," said he; "anyway, for a time. She's pining, that's where it is; she's pining for a sight of you."
Mrs. Dobbs sat choking down her emotion. She had cried privately over that letter herself, but she was resolved to discuss it now with judicial calmness; and it was provoking that Jo endangered her judicial tone of mind by that foolish, soft-hearted way of his, which was terribly catching. But she loved Jo for it, nevertheless, and scolded him so as to let him know that she loved him.
"It's a good thing your feelings are righter and kinder than most folks', Jo Weatherhead, for you're sadly led by 'em, my friend. If you'd wait and hear the whole case, you might help me with your advice." Then Mrs. Dobbs pulled another letter from her pocket, and handed it to her brother-in-law. This second epistle was from Mrs. Dormer-Smith, and ran thus:—
"Dear Mrs. Dobbs,"I think it right to let you know how very important it is for May not to miss her visit to Glengowrie. There will be among the guests there a gentleman who has been paying her a good deal of attention—a man of princely fortune. I have some reason to think that May is disposed to look favourably on this gentleman; but he must be allowed time and opportunity to declare himself. No better opportunity could possibly be found than at Glengowrie; and I may tell you,in confidence, that the duchess has, at my friend Mrs. Griffin's request, invited them bothon purpose. I trust, therefore, that, in my niece's interests, you will induce her not to relinquish this chance. As to her writing to her father, it is absurd, and would only irritate my brother after his giving mecarte blancheto do the best I can for her. If the visit to Glengowrie turns out as we hope, I shall have procured for her a settlement which many a peer's daughter will envy. My husband and I have such confidence in your good sense, that we are sure you will second our efforts as far as you can. Of course you will consider this letterstrictly private, and will not, above all, mention it to May."I am, dear Mrs. Dobbs,"Yours very truly,"P. Dormer-Smith."
"Dear Mrs. Dobbs,
"I think it right to let you know how very important it is for May not to miss her visit to Glengowrie. There will be among the guests there a gentleman who has been paying her a good deal of attention—a man of princely fortune. I have some reason to think that May is disposed to look favourably on this gentleman; but he must be allowed time and opportunity to declare himself. No better opportunity could possibly be found than at Glengowrie; and I may tell you,in confidence, that the duchess has, at my friend Mrs. Griffin's request, invited them bothon purpose. I trust, therefore, that, in my niece's interests, you will induce her not to relinquish this chance. As to her writing to her father, it is absurd, and would only irritate my brother after his giving mecarte blancheto do the best I can for her. If the visit to Glengowrie turns out as we hope, I shall have procured for her a settlement which many a peer's daughter will envy. My husband and I have such confidence in your good sense, that we are sure you will second our efforts as far as you can. Of course you will consider this letterstrictly private, and will not, above all, mention it to May.
"I am, dear Mrs. Dobbs,
"Yours very truly,
"P. Dormer-Smith."
"You see that alters the case, Jo," said Mrs. Dobbs, when he had finished reading the letter.
Jo nodded thoughtfully, and rubbed his nose. "Of course, what you want, Sarah, is for the child to be happy. That's the main thing," said he.
"Of course I want her to be happy. And I want her to have her rights," answered Mrs. Dobbs, setting her lips firmly.
"Ah! Yes, to be sure! Her rights, eh?"
"My son-in-law brought no good to any of us in himself. If his name can do any good to his daughter, she ought to have the benefit of it—and she shall."
"Ay, ay. Her rights, eh? To be sure. Only—only it ain't always quite easy to know what a person's rights are, is it?"
"I know well enough what May's rights are," answered Mrs. Dobbs sharply.
"Nor yet it ain't quite easy to be sure whether they'd enjoy their rights when they got 'em," pursued Jo, with a thoughtful air. "Everybody likes to be happy. There can be no manner of doubt aboutthat. And somehow the dukes and duchesses don't seem to be enough to make Miranda quite—notquitehappy, humph?"
"I wonder you should confess so much of your dear aristocracy!" returned Mrs. Dobbs with some heat.
"Why, you see, Sarah, it may be—I only say itmaybe—that the way Miranda has been brought up, living here in the holidays in such a simple kind of style, and all that, makes her feel not altogether at home among these tip-top folks."
"If you mean she isn't good enough for them, that's nonsense; downright nonsense. And I wonder at a man with your brains talking such stuff! If you mean they're not good enough for her, that's another pair of shoes. As to manners—why, do you imagine that that aunt of hers, who—though sheisa fool, is a well-born fool, and a well-bred one—would be taking May about, presenting her at Court, and introducing her to the grandest society, if the child didn't do her credit? Not she! I'm astonished at you, Jo! I thought you knew the world a little bit better than that."
Mrs. Dobbs leant back in her chair, and fanned her flushed face with her handkerchief. Mr. Weatherhead, having smoked his pipe out, put it in its case, and then sat silent, slowly stroking his nose, and casting deprecating glances at his hostess. At length the latter resumed, in a calmer tone, "But May's future is what I've got to think of. I'm an old woman. I can leave her next to nothing when I die. I want her to marry. All women ought to marry. Nobody in my own walk of life would suit her. And what gentleman fit to match with her was ever likely to come and look for her in my parlour in Friar's Lane? You ought to know all about it, Jo Weatherhead. We've gone over the whole ground together often enough."
They had done so. But Jo Weatherhead understood very well that his old friend was talking now, not to convince him, but herself. "Well, Sarah," he said, "there seems a good chance for May to marry well, according to this good lady. 'Princely fortune,' she says. That sounds grand, don't it?"
"Ah! And it isn't a few thousands that Mrs. Dormer-Smith would call a princely fortune."
"Not a few thousands you think, eh, Sarah? Tens of thousands I shouldn't wonder, humph?" And Mr. Weatherhead pursed up his mouth, and poked forward his nose eagerly.
"Not a doubt of it."
"Bless my stars! To think of our little Miranda!—and her aunt says that May is disposed to look favourably on the gentleman."
"So she says. But I can tell you that May doesn't care a button for him at present."
"Lord! How do you know, Sarah?"
"How do I know? That's so like a man! No girl in love would give up the chance of meeting her lover, as May wants to give it up. If she'd rather come to Oldchester than go to Scotland, it is because—so far, at any rate—she doesn't care a button for him."
"I never thought of that. But perhaps, Sarah, she doesn't know that he is to be invited."
Mrs. Dobbs seemed struck by this remark. "Well now, that's an idea, Jo!" said she, nodding her head. "It may be so. They seem to have had the sense not to talk to her about the matter. May's just the kind of girl to fling up her heels and break away, if she suspected any scheming to make a fine match for her. But she might come to care for him in time. There's no reason in nature why a rich man shouldn't be nice enough to be fallen in love with. And by his taking to May—and she without a penny—I'm inclined to think well of the young man."
After some further consideration it was agreed that Mrs. Dobbs should write and propose a middle term: in the interval between her aunt's departure for Carlsbad, and the date of her invitation to Glengowrie, May should come down to Oldchester, on condition that she afterwards paid her visit to the Duchess. This arrangement would be a joy to Mrs. Dobbs, would satisfy May's affectionate longing, and could not prejudice the girl's future prospects. A letter to May was written, as well as one to Mrs. Dormer-Smith. This letter was very short, and may as well be given.
"Dear Mrs. Dormer-Smith,"I have to acknowledge yours of the 5th. I agree with you that it would be a pity for my grand-daughter not to accept the invitation you speak of. Some good may come of it, and I do not think that any harm can come. If May spends the three or four weeks with me after you start for the Continent, I will undertake for her to meet the lady who is to take charge of her to Scotland, at any place that may be agreed upon. I wrote to May by this post, and she will tell you what I propose. With regard to her father's address, I have had none for some time past, except, 'Post-Office, Brussels.' This much I shall tell her, as I think she has a right to know it. You need not disturb yourself about her writing to her father, as I think, from what I know of Captain Cheffington, that he is not likely to answer her letter."I am, dear Mrs. Dormer-Smith,"Yours truly,"Sarah Dobbs."
"Dear Mrs. Dormer-Smith,
"I have to acknowledge yours of the 5th. I agree with you that it would be a pity for my grand-daughter not to accept the invitation you speak of. Some good may come of it, and I do not think that any harm can come. If May spends the three or four weeks with me after you start for the Continent, I will undertake for her to meet the lady who is to take charge of her to Scotland, at any place that may be agreed upon. I wrote to May by this post, and she will tell you what I propose. With regard to her father's address, I have had none for some time past, except, 'Post-Office, Brussels.' This much I shall tell her, as I think she has a right to know it. You need not disturb yourself about her writing to her father, as I think, from what I know of Captain Cheffington, that he is not likely to answer her letter.
"I am, dear Mrs. Dormer-Smith,
"Yours truly,
"Sarah Dobbs."
The proposal was accepted, and within a fortnight after the despatch of this letter, May Cheffington was in Oldchester once more.