The only clear idea which May gathered from this letter was that her aunt virtually held her released from her promise to go to Glengowrie, and left her free to do as she pleased. She carried the letter to her grandmother, saying, "Granny, I shall not go to Scotland after all. I shall stay with you, whether you like it or not. Oh, don't ask me toexplain. I often feel with regard to Aunt Pauline like a deaf person watching dancers. There is something which regulates her movements, no doubt. But it is generally mysterious to me."
Mrs. Dobbs privately thought that in this case she held a clue to the mystery. "Ay," she said to herself, "Mrs. Dormer-Smith sees, just as I saw from the first hearing of it, that great changes may come to pass from this poor man's death. And she don't want May to commit herself too soon. Lord save us! 'tis a sad, low, worldly way of looking at such a matter." At this point some scarcely-articulate whisper of conscience made Mrs. Dobbs's brow redden; and she added mentally, "Well, but if May likes him? If the man's in earnest, and she likes him, it'll all come right in the end." Nevertheless, Mrs. Dobbs had begun to entertain shrewd doubts as to May's caring one straw for the unknown gentleman of princely fortune.
May, meanwhile, made haste to put her escape beyond the danger of Aunt Pauline's changing her mind. She wrote to Mrs. Griffin, saying that she should not be able to accept the Duchess's kind invitation to Glengowrie. She gave no reason. The excuse which Aunt Pauline had suggested she could not find it in her conscience to put forward. "If I had wished very much to go, that would not have stood in my way," she said to herself. "And it would be base and shocking to play the hypocrite about such a tragedy."
Neither did she think for a moment of refusing Miss Piper's invitation. There had not been wanting a hint that she ought to do so. Mrs. Bransby asked her if she meant to go to the musical party at Garnet Lodge; and, being answered in the affirmative, said, "Well, it seemed to me that it would be quite overstrained to refuse. But Theodore persisted that you would not go; said it would beinconvenable. He almost quarrelled with me about it. You know Theodore's infallible way of laying down the law."
It need scarcely be said that if anything could have strengthened the young lady's determination to attend Miss Piper's party, it would have been hearing that Theodore Bransby took upon himself to object to her doing so.
Like the fairy Pari-Banou's magic tent, which could shelter an army of ten thousand men, and yet was capable of being folded into the smallness of a handkerchief, what one calls "the world" shrinks and stretches to suit the individual case. Into the world of Polly and Patty Piper Lord Castlecombe and his family sorrows entered not at all. They might occasionally be viewed afar from the tent door; but even that distant recognition was not vouchsafed to them now, when the great event of the musical party absorbed the attention of the two sisters.
In addition to Miss Clara Bertram and Mr. Cleveland Turner, the occasion was to be graced by the presence of Signor Vincenzo Valli. He was on a visit to a noble family in Mr. Sweeting's neighbourhood, and had volunteered to accompany that gentleman and hisprotégéto Miss Piper's party. This honour, like other honours, was somewhat of a burthen as well as a distinction. The programme of the evening's performance, so carefully and anxiously arranged beforehand, must be modified to suit Signor Valli; who, if he condescended to sing at all, would do so only in accordance with his own caprice. And this would probably occasion difficulties; since, although Miss Bertram's amiability might be reckoned on, Mr. Cleveland Turner took a more stiff-necked view of his own importance, and would not be disposed to yield thepasto Valli. Still Miss Piper had no cowardly regrets on hearing of the distinction which was to befall her. She rose to the occasion, and was prepared to undergo almost any impertinence from the popular singing master with a Spartan smile.
"I ought to understand how to manage artists, if anybody does," said she, remembering the many cups of tea she had poured out for thatirritable genusin old times.
But the crowning interest and glory of the evening to her would be the performance of an air from "Esther," which Miss Bertram had promised to sing. The Misses Piper had invited her to visit them at first from disinterested kindness; the young singer being tired with the work of the season, and in need of rest and change of air. Under these circumstances, both the sisters were too thoroughly gentlewomen to hint at her singing for them. But Clara Bertram, casting about in her mind for some way to show her gratitude to the kindly old maids, had herself proposed to sing "something from 'Esther.'" And the offer was too tempting to be refused.
The composition selected was of the most infantile simplicity, and could have been learned by heart in ten minutes. But a copy of it had been sent to town a fortnight ago for Miss Bertram to "study." And Mr. Simpson had been supposed to be "studying" the accompaniment for an equal length of time. In fact, the performance of the air from "Esther" was the original germ out of which the musical party at Garnet Lodge had been developed.
Clara Bertram arrived in Oldchester the morning before the great day: partly in order that she might not be over-tired, and partly to give the opportunity for a rehearsal of the air with Mr. Simpson. "Oh, I'm sure we need not trouble Mr. Simpson," Clara began thoughtlessly. "It is certain to go all right." But Miss Polly would not allow such a lax view of responsibility.
"Excuse me, my dear," she said, "but the music of 'Esther' is not quite a drawing-room ballad. Not that you will not sing it charmingly—perfectly! There is no doubt about that. But there is a certain breadth—a certain style of phrasing, necessary for sacred music. It is most important that the accompanist should understand yourreadingof the air. Indeed, I am anxious to hear it myself. I have my own idea as to the proper rendering of the opening phrase, 'Hear, O King, and grant me my petition!' But I shan't say a word until I have heard you. Your idea may be better than mine; Ha, ha, ha! Who knows? 'Hear, O King, and grant——?' My own notion would be to begin softly—almostsotto voce—in a timid manner: 'Hear, O King;' and then to rise into acrescendoas the strain proceeds 'and grant me myPetition!' But I won't say a word. You must sing it as youfeelit."
May was, by special favour, admitted to the rehearsal. She had called to see Clara Bertram on the afternoon of her arrival, and was ushered into the long, low, old-fashioned drawing-room, where she found Miss Piper seated at one end of it, amid a wilderness of rout-seats, and Mr. Sebastian Bach Simpson at the piano, near to which Miss Bertram was standing.
"Oh, it's dear May Cheffington!" said Miss Piper, who had turned round sharply at the opening of the door. "Yes, yes; come in, my dear. Not at home to anybody else, Rachel! Not toanybody, do you hear? Now come and sit down by me, my dear. She is going to try 'Hear, O King.' Very glad to see you; you are so sympathetic, and such a favourite with Clara! There now, don't make her talk! Nothing worse for the voice than talking. Come and sit down."
May was, indeed, scarcely allowed to exchange greetings with her friend, who whispered smilingly, "We'll have our chat by-and-by."
Then Mr. Simpson struck up the first chords of the symphony, and there was breathless silence. He had not played three bars, however, before Miss Piper jumped up and ran to the piano.
"Oh, I beg pardon, Mr. Simpson, for offering a suggestion to so sound a musician as yourself, butdon'tyou think a little more stress might be laid on that chord of the diminished seventh? It prepares the way, you see, for the pleading tone of the composition.Le-da,de-da—like that! Oh, thank you!Quitemy meaning. Please go on."
But Mr. Simpson did not proceed far without receiving another "suggestion."
"A little more force and fulness, don't you think, in that resolution of the discord? I should like a richer effect."
"I don't know how to make it richer," rasped out Mr. Simpson. "It is the simple common chord, just four notes—C, E, G, C. I sounded 'em all. I can play the bass as an octave, if you thinkthat'll be any richer."
"Oh, thank you! Yes, I really think it will. You see 'Esther' was scored for full orchestra, and the composer's ear hankers after the instrumental effects. But that octave in the bass is agreatimprovement. Many thanks!"
And in this fashion the symphony was at length got through.
Then Clara uplifted her pure, clear voice, and sang. May listened in delight. Surely Miss Polly must be enchanted! Even Mr. Simpson's hard visage relaxed, as the thrilling notes rose in sweet pathetic pleading. When they ceased, he wheeled round on the music-stool, and exclaimed with the most unwonted fervour, "It's the loveliest soprano voice I've heard since your great namesake, Clara Novello. Some of your notes remind me of her altogether. Not that I expect to hear anythingquitelike her 'Let the Bright Seraphim,' on this side of paradise."
May turned to Miss Piper. But, to her astonishment, Miss Piper's face did not express unmingled delight. There was some slight and indefinable shade on it.
"Well, I do think that is most beautiful," said May.
"Do you, my dear? Do you really?"
"Why, how is it possible to think otherwise, Miss Piper? No one could, surely!"
"Well, it is very kind of you to say so, my dear; and, to be frank, it shows a power of appreciation not quite common at your age. Of course it would be affectation on my part, at this time of day, and with my reputation behind me, to say I am surprised. But I am gratified, very much gratified. And don't you think Miss Bertram didherpart delightfully?"
May looked at her blankly, unable to say a word in reply. Fortunately, no reply was needed, for Miss Piper bustled up to Clara and thanked her, and praised her. But still her manner fell decidedly short of its usual cordial heartiness. At length, with many apologies and flowery speeches, she begged that the air might be repeated, if Clara were sure it would not tire her; and, this being at once conceded, she asked, hesitatingly, "And would you mind if I offered a little suggestion? Just a hint!"
"Certainly not, dear Miss Piper! I will do my best to carry out your idea."
"Oh, that is so sweet of you! Thank you a thousand times! If Mr. Simpson will kindly oblige us once more——? Now, you see, it is just here, on that G in alt, where the voice rises on the words, 'Grant, oh, grant me my petition!' The sound 'grant,' according to my original conception, should be given with a sort of wail—not, of course, an unmusical sound, but just with a tinge of sadness expressive of the then miserable and depressed condition of the Jewish nation, and at the same time with a tone—anunderlyingtone, as it were—conveying the latent hope (which really was in Queen Esther's mind all along, you know) that by her efforts brighter days might yet be in store for them. You feel what I mean?"
"I will try my best," answered Clara gently. And then she sang the air again—precisely as she had sung it before.
"Now," cried Miss Piper, jumping up and clapping her hands in an ecstasy of triumph, "it isperfect—absolutely perfect!"
She poured out unstinted thanks and compliments to both singer and accompanist, observing to the latter that this recalled the great days of the public performance of "Esther," and that she considered Miss Bertram's rendering of "Hear, O King," far superior to that of the well-known vocalist who had sung it originally. "But then, you see,shecould not, or would not, take a hint. Consequently—although, of course, she sang the notes perfectly—she never fully mastered my conception. Now a word has been enough to show Miss Bertram the inner meaning of my music; and she interprets it in the mostexquisitemanner."
Before going away May contrived to have a few words with Clara Bertram in her room.
"It is such a pleasure to hear you sing again," said May. "How I wish Granny could hear you!"
"Will not your grandmother be here to-morrow evening?"
"Oh no," answered May, colouring. "She does not go out to parties. Granny does not belong to the class of the ladies and gentlemen who come here. Her husband was a tradesman in this town. But she is the finest creature in the world. And she has more real dignity than any one I know."
"Your grandmother lives here? But then—how is it—your mother is not a foreigner?"
"A foreigner? Good gracious! No. My mother was Miss Susan Dobbs. She died years ago, when I was a little child. Why do you ask?"
"Oh, nothing. I fancied—Valli said something about having known Madame Cheffington abroad."
"That was possible. My parents lived abroad for years. My father is on the Continent now. I and the two little brothers before me were born in Belgium."
"Oh! I suppose that must be it," said Clara slowly. "Valli talks at random sometimes."
"Signor Valli talks very much at random if he ever said my mother was a foreigner. By the way, do you know he is to be here to-morrow evening?"
"Yes; so I hear."
"You do not hear it with rapture, apparently."
"No; I do not like him very much."
"He likesyouvery much, if appearances may be trusted," said May laughingly.
"He is always making love to me after his fashion. That is why I do not like him."
Clara spoke gravely, but with her habitual serenity. There was something in her manner which seemed to be akin to her voice; something clear, but not cold: a crystal with the sun in it.
"Oh, that is hideous, isn't it?" cried May, with eager fellow-feeling. "When people want to marry you, and you shudder at the bare idea of marryingthem."
"I don't think Valli wants to marry me," answered Clara calmly. "Indeed, I believe he feels a great deal of hostility towards me at times. He is never satisfied unless his pupils will, more or less, flirt with him—a kind of philandering which I object to. Besides, it wastes one's time. But he has been spoiled more than you would believe by fashionable ladies. I suppose you never read much of George Sands' writings?"
"No," answered May, opening great eyes of wonder.
"Nor I, except 'Consuelo,' and the sequel to it. I read them for the musical part, which is wonderfully good. Well, in the 'Comtesse de Rudolstadt' there is a certain Monsieur de Poelnitz, of whom it is said thaten qualité d'ex-roué il n'aimait pas les filles vertueuses. It always seems to me that Valli, in his quality of philanderer, dislikes women who won't flirt, whether he wants to flirt with them himself or not."
"How odious! How despicable!"
"And yet he has his good qualities. He is very faithful and generous to his family, and sends a great part of his earnings to them in their little Sicilian village."
Then, seeing that May still looked very much shocked and astonished, Clara added, in a lighter tone, "But let us talk of something more pleasant. You were speaking of your grandmamma. If you think she would like it, I should be so glad to go and sing to her at her own home."
"Like it! Of course she would like it! And I scarcely know how to thank you as you ought to be thanked, for fear of sounding like Miss Piper!"
Clara smiled. "Miss Piper and her sister are both very kind to me," she said.
"Yes; but I wish Miss Polly wasn't so ridiculous. Of course, her music is poor and silly. It is only your beautiful singing that makes it sound well. But then you could make 'Baa, baa, blacksheep,' sound well! And then to hear the outrageous, conceited nonsense she talks——! I wonder that you can endure it so meekly.Icouldn't!" answered May, with the trenchant intolerance of her eighteen years.
"Oh yes, you could, under the circumstances. I am only too glad to give the kind old lady any pleasure. And she isnotso outrageously conceited—for an amateur. But now I fear I must turn you out, much as I should like you to stay; for Miss Piper sent me upstairs to lie down; and if she finds I am not doing so, I shall have to drink another cupful of Miss Patty's excellent beef-tea, which is so strong, it makes me feel quite tipsy!"
On the following evening Garnet Lodge wore a brilliantly festive appearance. Miss Polly was dressed betimes. An unprecedented variety of geological specimens adorned her wrists and fingers, and hung over the bosom of her lavender satin gown. She was walking up and down the drawing-room, surveying the rows of empty rout-seats, fully three-quarters of an hour before the earliest guest could be expected to arrive. She was strung up for the great occasion; but, although excited, she was not apprehensive. Miss Patty, on the other hand, was very nervous.
"Iama little anxious about the jellies, Polly; and about that new waiter from Winnick's. But I could face all that, if it wasn't for 'Hear, O King!' To think of hearing it again after all these years! I'm afraid it will upset me. I'll take a back place near the door for I'm sure to cry; and then I can slip out if necessary."
"You need not be ashamed of your tears, my dear Patty. Very probably you will not be the only person powerfully affected."
"Well, I don't know. I don't remember that anybody cried when 'Esther' was brought out at Mercers' Hall," returned Miss Patty thoughtfully.
The first persons to arrive were Mr. and Mrs. Simpson. Amelia was resplendent in a new pink silk gown, which seemed to magnify her florid proportions, and made her a conspicuous object from every part of the room. She was beaming with delight; and her gratification at finding herself in Garnet Lodge under the present circumstances was so frankly and exuberantly expressed, as to cause some mortification to her husband.
"This is, indeed, a memorable evening, dear Misses Piper," she began; for Patty had by this time joined her sister in the drawing-room. "I was telling Bassy that he ought to feel himself honoured by being selected to officiate—if I may so express it—at the pianoforte on this extremely interesting and auspicious occasion."
"The honour is to me, Mrs. Simpson," answered Polly Piper politely.
"There!" turning suddenly round with such vehemence as to sweep down a rout-seat with her pink silk skirts. "What did I tell you, Bassy? Whatever may be the opinion of certain persons enriched by manufactures—and yet, after all, what should we do without manufactures? How many of us would be capable of dealing with the raw material? Blankets, for instance: take a sheep! But still I always say to Bassy, 'Believe me, therealgentry acknowledge and revere the position of the Fine Arts!'"
"Now, Amelia; hadn't you better mind what you're doing?" said Mr. Simpson, setting the fallen rout-seat on its legs again. She irritated him occasionally, but he admired her smart gown very much nevertheless, and thought she looked remarkably well in it, and "quite the lady."
Other guests arriving now claimed the hostess's attention. And presently Clara Bertram, in her simple black evening dress, came into the room. Then appeared Mrs. Martin Bransby on the arm of her stepson, and bearing excuses from her husband, who was not feeling well enough to come out that evening. Her appearance called forth ejaculations of admiration from Mrs. Simpson, which, however exaggerated they might sound, were quite sincere. Mrs. Simpson gave utterance to a kind of prose rhapsody on the subject of Mrs. Bransby's dress; and then, bowing graciously to Theodore, said, "And Mr. Bransby Junior, too. When I had the pleasure of unexpectedly, and, indeed, fortuitously, meeting him the other evening at the house of a mutual friend, I remarked that he was paying Miss Piper a high compliment in abandoning Thetis" (the good lady probably meant Themis) "for the seductions of Apollo. But we are told, on the poet's authority, that 'music hath charms to soothe the savage——' Not, of course, that the epithet is applicable inthiscase. Quite the contrary." Then, turning her glistening spectacles on the young man, she playfully added, "But, in addition to the magic of the lyre, we have what Hamlet—if I mistake not—so eloquently characterizes as 'metal more attractive:' a collection of youth and beauty which might really, without hyperbole, be termed a bevy."
"That is an intolerable woman," muttered Theodore between his teeth, as he conducted his step-mother to a seat.
"Oh, poor Simmy!" remonstrated Mrs. Bransby. "She is a good creature. But to-night she is in what Bobby and Billy call one of her 'dictionary moods.'"
Rapidly the room filled up. Besides many other Oldchester notabilities with whom this chronicle is not concerned, there were present Major Mitton, Canon and Mrs. Hadlow (the latter bringing May under her wing), Owen Rivers, who came alone, Dr. Hatch, and Mr. Bragg.
Mr. Bragg, after paying his respects to the ladies of the house, and standing for a few minutes in his silent, forlorn-looking way, went up to May, and said, "Will you come and have a cup of tea, Miss Cheffington? They say hot tea cools you. That seems strange, don't it? But I believe it's true. Rule of contraries, I suppose."
May did not wish for any tea; but she saw Theodore Bransby hovering in the distance, and she accepted Mr. Bragg's proffered arm almost eagerly. She rather liked Mr. Bragg. His slow, quiet, common-sensible manner was soothing. And she knew enough of his unostentatious good works in Oldchester to have a considerable esteem for him.
He piloted May into the dining-room, where tea and coffee were being served, and where the new waiter from Winnick's was, so far, conducting himself in an exemplary manner.
"Have one of those little cakes, Miss Cheffington? They look very good."
"No, thank you."
Mr. Bragg provided May with a cup of tea, and then took one of the little cakes himself. "They eat uncommonly short," said he with strong, though quiet, approbation. "All the eatables seem good."
"Not a doubt of it. Miss Patty is a wonderful housekeeper."
"Now, do you suppose she made those little cakes herself?"
"I cannot tell; but I am sure she could if she chose. She makes excellent cakes."
"Ah! I remember her giving me some very good ideas about a beefsteak pudding. I tried to make my cook do one according to her receipt; but it didn't answer," said Mr. Bragg with a sigh. Presently he remarked, as he slowly stirred his tea round and round, "This is a bad job about Mr. George Cheffington."
"Yes; I am very sorry for Lord Castlecombe."
"Ah, your uncle—or great-uncle is he?—I'm not much of a hand at remembering the ins and outs of families—is hard hit. But he bears up wonderfully, to outward appearance."
"Have you seen him, Mr. Bragg?"
"Yes; saw him o' Monday about some business. He's a keen hand at a bargain, is Lord Castlecombe. I don't know that I ever met with a keener."
"Poor old man!"
"Ay, that's whatIsay, Miss Cheffington. Keenness and all that is very well, so long as you've got somebody to be keen for. But it's a dreary thing to be alone in advancing years. I feel it myself, though I'm—well, I dare say nigh upon twenty years younger than his Lordship."
There was a little pause, during which Mr. Bragg sipped his tea and ate another cake. Then he repeated, "It's a dreary thing to be alone."
"Are you alone, Mr. Bragg?" asked May, feeling that she was expected to say something. "I thought you had sons and daughters."
"Only one son, and he's away in South America—settled in Buenos Ayres years ago. He's a rich man already, is Joshua. I started him well, though I hadn't so much money in those days as I have now, not by a deal, and he's done well. And he married a lady with money—a Spanish merchant's daughter. No; there's no likelihood of Josh coming home to England to keep me company, even supposing I wanted him to."
Then ensued another pause. Then Mr. Bragg said, "I'm to have the pleasure of meeting you at Glengowrie this autumn, I understand."
"No; I have decided not to go. I have written to Mrs. Griffin to say so."
"Oh! What—on account of this death in your family?"
"No, I cannot say that. It would be mere pretence. I never saw George Cheffington in my life; and he was not a very close relation." Mr. Bragg nodded approvingly. "That's a straightforward way of looking at it," he said. "But I'm disappointed you ain't to be at Glengowrie."
"Thank you. But my absence will not make much difference, I should say."
"I don't know. It might make a deal of difference," returned Mr. Bragg, speaking even more slowly than was his wont. "But whereshallyou be then?"
"Where I like best to be; here, with Granny."
"Granny?"
"My grandmother, Mrs. Dobbs. You must know her by name, at all events, for you are her tenant."
"What! old Dobbs the ironmonger's widow?—begging your pardon."
May drew herself up with a proud movement of the head, which might have satisfied even the deceased dowager that there was a strong strain of the Cheffington nature in her. "There is nothing to beg pardon for, Mr. Bragg," she said haughtily. "You cannot suppose that I am ashamed of my grandparents."
"You've no call to be ashamed of them; but people don't always see things in the right light," answered Mr. Bragg composedly. "Yes; to be sure, now I come to think of it, Mrs. Dobbs's daughter did marry—Ah! Of course, Susan Dobbs was your mother! I never knew her to speak to; but I remember her. Uncommonly pretty she was, too. Why I might ha' known—But, you see, your aunt, Mrs. Dormer-Smith, never mentioned your mother's family."
At this moment Owen Rivers approached them. He said he had been sent by Mrs. Bransby to look for May; and, thereupon, carried her off to the drawing-room. Mr. Bragg remained behind, pondering for a minute or so. "To think of this girl being Lord Castlecombe's grand-nieceandold Dobbs's grand-daughter! Well, things do turn out queer in this world!" Then Mr. Bragg also repaired to the drawing-room.
The musical portion of the evening went off brilliantly. But the great success was undoubtedly Clara Bertram's performance of "Hear, O King!" She sang poor Polly Piper's bald andjejeunephrases in a way which made such of the elder auditors as remembered its first performance ask themselves, wonderingly, if this were indeed the music they had listened to long ago. And she concluded with acadenza, so expressive and beautiful that Mr. Simpson, raptly listening, very nearly omitted to play the final chords.
When the song was over, there was a burst of applause, and an unusually loud clapping together of kid-gloved palms. But, from the doorway, where he had stood to listen, Valli precipitated himself through the crowd like some swift missile; clearing his way, utterly regardless of intervening backs and shoulders, male or female, and rushing up to Miss Bertram, he exclaimed, "Divinamente!"
"I am glad you are content," she answered in English.
But Valli went on volubly in his own tongue, "Content? No; 'content' is not the word. I am enchanted. You sang divinely! Demon of a girl, never in all your life did you sing a song ofminelike that! What possessed you?"
"Gratitude," answered Clara quietly.
Miss Piper now came up and kissed her effusively. Composer and singer were soon surrounded by a little crowd, to whose polite exclamations of "Charming!" "Immense treat!" "Really delicious!" and so forth, Miss Polly kept replying, with lofty magnanimity, "Oh, but you must not attribute all the honour tome! I assure you that more depends upon the execution than you are, perhaps, aware of."
This first triumph had a subtle effect on Mr. Cleveland Turner. He was moved by it to play a dashingvalse de concertin place of a composition of his own, modelled on a great original, which he entitled "Twilight in the Gardens of Walhalla." It had been much praised in esoteric circles. But it was somewhat trying to the unregenerate ear; so much so, that a profane and flippant outsider had rechristened it "Feeding Time in the Gardens of the Royal Zoological Society." Mr. Sweeting afterwards mildly reproached his young friend for not having performed it, and thus doing something towards improving and elevating the taste of Oldchester.
"It's no answer, my dear boy, to say they wouldn't have liked it," said Mr. Sweeting. "No answer at all!"
But it is to be feared that Cleveland Turner had some depraved enjoyment of the applause which resulted from his lapse into heresy.
Signor Valli, determined not to be eclipsed in popularity, and utterly indifferent to the improvement of Oldchester's musical taste, made himself unprecedentedly amiable. He sang vivacious Neapolitan street songs, quaint Tuscanstornelli, pathetic Sicilian airs. And these tuneful productions were greatly relished by that vast majority of the listeners, who had not progressed so far as to connect ugliness with righteousness—in music.
When Valli at length rose from the piano, Mrs. Simpson made a sudden plunge across the room, and presented herself breathlessly before him. He was in a group of persons, among whom were Mr. Sweeting, Cleveland Turner, and Miss Piper. Amelia's round, plump face was flushed by heat and excitement to a rose-pink hue, several shades deeper than that of her gown; and her spectacles glittered with a blank and baffling brightness.
"I cannot," she said, "quit this elegant scene of the Muses without offering my poor tribute to you, Signor" (which she pronounced "senior"), "for the delightful addition your performances have contributed to refined enjoyment."
Valli looked up rather bewildered, and, not knowing what else to do, made her a profound bow.
"I trust," continued the lady, "that I may be allowed to congratulate you, signor, in the harmonious words of our great poet, upon your 'linked sweetness, long drawn out'—not, I'm sure, that any one present considered for a moment that you were drawing it out at alltoolong!" And with a sweeping curtsey, in the performance of which she overwhelmed Mr. Sweeting's legs in a flood of pink silk skirt, and backed heavily on to Mr. Cleveland Turner's toes, Amelia withdrew, beaming.
At supper Valli was in high good humour. He had been presented to Mrs. Bransby, and was gratified to find himself placed beside her at the supper-table, she being incontestably the most beautiful woman in the room. Major Mitton sat near them, and pleased Valli by praises of his singing—a pleasure not at all diminished by his quick perception that the good major had no knowledge whatever of the subject.
"It's a real treat, I assure you," said Major Mitton, "to hear a toon. I don't pretend to be a great connoisseur, but I can enjoy a toon. Ah, they may say what they please, but there's no music like Italian music, and nobody can sing it like Italians."
This led to some reminiscences of the major's garrison life in Malta; and to the mention of theprima donnaBianca Moretti. Mrs. Bransby recognized this name as that of the heroine of Miss Piper's story, told at her dinner-party several months ago.
"Oh, you have heard the Moretti?" said Valli. "Yes; shecouldsing. By the way, I hear she is a kind ofmarâtre—how do you call it?—to that pretty Miss Cheffington."
"Miss Cheffington? Oh, impossible!"
"Pardon! Not at all impossible! I mean the young lady opposite, at the other end of the table, sitting between those two young men. I know one of them—the one with the blonde smooth head. I meet him in society. He is tremendously annoying—nojoso—what you call a bore."
"That is Miss Cheffington, certainly. But you don't mean to say that Signora Moretti has married her father?"
"Oh, married!" answered Valli, with a shrug. "She has been living with him for years; that is what I mean. I hearla Biancahas grown steady now. But she had ajeunesse pas mal orageuse."
Major Mitton tried to change the subject, glancing uneasily at Mrs. Bransby. But Valli was impervious to the hint. Not that he had any intention of outraging the proprieties, or any suspicion that he was doing so. Mrs. Bransby was not ajeune meess. He had heard of English cant and hypocrisy long before he came to England. But he had been agreeably surprised to find them conspicuous by their absence in the section of London fashionable society which he chiefly frequented. So he went on narrating anecdotes ofla Biancaand her adventures, until Mrs. Bransby rose, and quietly left the table. Upon this, Major Mitton and several other men drew closer to Valli. And the consequence was that, not only the mess-table, but other circles in Oldchester, were regaled the next day with some choice morsels of scandal, in which the name of Gus Cheffington figured conspicuously.
But whatever might be the subsequent results of that talk, Miss Piper's musical party had undoubtedly turned out a great success.
That night, when the sisters were alone together, they sat up for an hour discussing the events of the evening in a glow of pleasurable excitement. Every point was remembered and dwelt upon, but of course their interest centred in the song from "Esther."
"It was a real triumph, Polly," said Miss Patty. "There can't be two opinions about that. But—there, I thought I wouldn't tell you; but I can't help it—I overheard Signor Valli and that Cleveland Turner, whom I never did like, and never shall, speaking of 'Hear, O King,' in a sneering, slighting manner."
Quoth Miss Polly with a lofty smile, and laying her hand on her sister's shoulder, "My dear Patty, I am not at all surprised to hear it. I have experience of artists, if anybody has, and in the best of them I have always observed one defect in judging my music—professional jealousy!"
The day after the party at Garnet Lodge Mrs. Dobbs was surprised by the announcement from her old servant, Martha, that Mr. Bragg was at the gate, and would be glad to speak with her if she was at liberty.
"Quite at liberty, Martha, and very happy to see Mr. Bragg. Now what canhewant?" said Mrs. Dobbs to the faithful Jo Weatherhead, who was in his usual place by the hearth.
"Something about the house in Friar's Row?" suggested Jo.
"Ah! I suppose so. Though I don't know what there can be to say. However, it's no use guessing. It's like staring at the outside of a letter instead of reading it. He'll speak for himself."
Meanwhile Mr. Bragg had alighted from the plain brougham which had brought him from his country house; and, walking up the garden path, and in at the open door, presented himself in the little parlour.
"I hope you'll excuse my calling, Mrs. Dobbs. You and me have met years ago."
"No excuse needed, Mr. Bragg. I remember you very well. This is my brother-in-law, Mr. Weatherhead. Please to sit down."
Mr. Bragg sat down; and he and his hostess looked at each other for a moment attentively.
Mr. Bragg was a large, solidly built man, with an impression on his face of perplexity and resolution subtly mingled together. It is a look which may be often seen on the countenance of an intelligent workman, whose employment brings him into conflict with physical phenomena—at once so docile and so intractable; so simply and so eternally mysterious. The expression had long survived the days of Mr. Bragg's personal struggle with facts of a metallic nature. In his present position, as a man of large wealth and influence, he had to deal chiefly with the more complex phenomena of humanity, and very seldom found it so trustworthy in the manipulation as the iron and lead and tin and steel of his younger days.
Mrs. Dobbs marked the changes wrought by time and circumstances in Joshua Bragg. She remembered him—he had even been temporarily in her husband's employment, at one time—in a well-worn suit of working clothes, and with chronically black finger-nails. She saw him now, dressed with quiet good taste (for he left that matter to his London tailor), with irreproachably clean hands—on which, however, toil had left ineffaceable traces—and a massive watch chain worth half a year's earnings of his former days.
"You're very little changed in the main, Mr. Bragg. And the years haven't been hard on you," said Mrs. Dobbs, summing up the result of her observations.
"No; I believe I don't feel the burthen of years much; not bodily, that is. In the mind, I think I do. You see, I've come to a time of life when a man can't keep putting off his own comfort and happiness to the day after to-morrow. Which," added Mr. Bragg thoughtfully, "is exactly where young folks have the pull, I think."
"That's queer, too, Mr. Bragg!" remarked Jo Weatherhead. "Putting off your own comfort and happiness seems a poor way to enjoy yourself, sir."
"Ah, but what you onlymeanto do, always comes up to your expectations; and what youdodo, doesn't!" rejoined Mr. Bragg, with a slow, emphatic nod of the head.
"Well, but as to 'feeling the burthen of years,' that's putting it too strong," said Mrs. Dobbs. "You have no right to feel that burthen yet awhile. Why, you must be—let me see!—under fifty-three."
"Fifty-three last birthday."
"Ay; I wasn't far out. Lord, that's no age! I might be your mother, Mr. Bragg."
"I'm glad to hear you say so!—I mean, I'm glad you don't think me too old—not quite an old fellow, in short."
"No; to be sure not!"
Mr. Bragg was silent for fully a minute. Then he said, "Well, whether I'm quite an old fellow or not, I'm too old to trust much to the day after to-morrow. So, if not inconvenient to you, Mrs. Dobbs, I should like to say a few words to you about a matter that has been on my mind for some little time."
"Certainly, Mr. Bragg. I'm quite at your service."
Mr. Bragg looked slowly round the little parlour; looked out of the window at the tiny garden; looked at Mr. Weatherhead; finally looked at Mrs. Dobbs again, and said, "It's a private matter."
"I had better go, Sarah," said Jo. "I shall look round again at tea-time;" and he made a show of rising from his chair, very slowly and reluctantly.
"Oh, perhaps you've no call to go away, Jo. I have no business secrets from my brother-in-law, Mr. Bragg. He is my oldest and best friend in the world."
Mr. Bragg rubbed his chin slowly with his hand, and answered with a certain embarrassment, but quite straightforwardly, "It's a matter private tome."
After this Jo Weatherhead had nothing for it but to take his departure, and to endeavour to calm the fever of his curiosity with tobacco.
Mrs. Dobbs remained alone with her visitor, wondering more and more what could be the subject of his proposed communication. Her thoughts, in connection with Mr. Bragg, persistently hovered about the house in Friar's Row. But his first words scattered them in widespread confusion.
"Your grand-daughter, Miss Cheffington, tells me that she is not going to Glengowrie Castle this autumn, Mrs. Dobbs."
"Why—no—I believe not," answered Mrs. Dobbs, looking at him curiously.
"In that case I don't think I shall go there myself. I'm no sportsman. I always feel lonely in a house full of strangers. And, besides—I was invited partic'larly to meet Miss Cheffington."
Mrs. Dobbs preserved her outward composure; but something seemed to whirl and spin in her brain; and, although she kept her eyes fixed on Mr. Bragg, she saw neither him nor anything else in the room for several seconds.
"I was asked through Mrs. Griffin. You may have heard speak of her?"
Mrs. Dobbs made an affirmative movement of the head. She could not have articulated a word at that moment to save her life.
"Mrs. Griffin is a well-meaning lady. But she's a lady who now and then gets out of her depth, along of not—what you might call minding her own business. But she always means to be kind. And the best of us make mistakes."
"Ah, that we do!" assented Mrs. Dobbs huskily.
"Well, Mrs. Griffin is always telling me that my money—'a princely fortune' she calls it: but it's a good deal more thanthat, by what I can hear about princes—lays me under an obligation to marry again."
At the words "princely fortune" Mrs. Dobbs winced, and a deep red flush came into her face; but she answered quietly, "Wealth has its responsibilities, of course, Mr. Bragg."
"Yes, it has; and its troubles. But when all's said and done, it's pleasanter to be rich than poor. I've tried both."
"No doubt. Only—one may pay too dear even for being rich."
"Well, I should be sorry for any lady I married to consider that she paid too dear for being rich."
"Oh, I meant no offence, Mr. Bragg."
"There's nothing you may not pay too dear for, I suppose; except a quiet conscience. You may pay too dear for a wife. And there's two sides to every"—he was about to say "bargain," but he substituted the word "arrangement."
Mrs. Dobbs had taken up her knitting, and was twisting and pulling it with her fingers in a restless, nervous way. When Mr. Bragg made a pause, and looked at her, she said, "Of course, that's quite true."
He went on, "I make bold to hope, Mrs. Dobbs, that you'll give me credit in what I'm going to say, for having some serious reason, and not talking idly, out of pride and vanity; in short, for not being what you might call a fool."
"Yes, I will, Mr. Bragg."
"Thank ye. On that understanding I may say, between ourselves, that Mrs. Griffin has mentioned to me several quarters where I shouldn't meet with a refusal in case I went to look for a wife. I couldn't have supposed it myself—at least, not to the extent it really does run to. But the fact has been brought to my knowledge, so that there's no possibility of making any mistake about it. More than one young lady—some of 'em titled, too," said Mr. Bragg, with an odd glimmer of complacency flitting for a moment like a will-o'-the-wisp above the solidterra firmaof his native good sense. "More than one, and more than two, have been what you might call trotted out for me."
Mrs. Dobbs's fingers twitched and pulled at the wool on her knitting-needles, and the muscles round her mouth seemed to tighten. But she said not a word.
Mr. Bragg continued, "Now, perhaps you think I have no business to take up your time with all this, when it's no concern of yours?"
Still Mrs. Dobbs did not speak; so he added—
"But it does concern you in a way."
She made a visible effort to say, quietly, "Ah, indeed! How's that?"
But this time she was perfectly sure beforehand of what he was going to say.
"I'm coming to that in one moment." Here Mr. Bragg paused, took out his handkerchief, and passed it over his face before proceeding. "I mentioned that Mrs. Griffin sometimes gets out of her depth (with the best of intentions) when minding other people's business. She got a little out of her depth when attending to mine. She somehow took it for granted that I should be quite content to marry any lady of high family, who would look handsome in my diamonds and spend my money in the fashionablest style. She was consequently a good deal taken aback when I offered some objections to one or two parties of her recommendation. But I managed to make her understand at last. Said I, 'Mrs. Griffin, I don't undervalue the honour; but I'm too old to wear a tight shoe for the sake of appearances.' The fact was, I did not feel myself what you might calldrawntowards any of these young ladies. I couldn't fancy them sitting opposite to me at my own fireside with a kind look on their faces. Now, the reason I say all this to you," continued Mr. Bragg, laying his massive hand on the elbow of Mrs. Dobbs's chair, "is because there is a young lady that Idofeel drawn towards—a young lady I've had opportunities of observing at home and abroad. And it was talking of this young lady that I said one day to Mrs. Griffin, 'Now, if you could find some one like Miss May Cheffington who'd condescend to have me, I should think myself a very fortunate man.' She quite jumped at the idea."
"Jumped, indeed!" burst out Mrs. Dobbs, indignantly. "Then she took a most unwarrantable liberty. She could know nothing about Miss May Cheffington's feeling in the matter. What business hadsheto jump?"
"Nay, nay, my good lady! My good lady! You don't understand. She jumped at the idea onmyaccount. Why, Lord bless me, you couldn't suppose——! She told me at once that May Cheffington was the purest-minded and most unworldly girl she ever knew. I remember her very words; for I couldn't help thinking at the time how queer it was that Mrs. Griffin should admire unworldliness so much."
There was a long pause. Mrs. Dobbs was greatly moved from her usual self-possession. She could not trust herself to speak, while Mr. Bragg was surprised, and somewhat offended, by her reception of what he had to say.
He had really, all things considered, very little purse pride. But he had been accustomed for many years to be dumbly conscious of the power of his wealth, as an elephant is dumbly conscious of the power of his weight; and for a few moments he felt as the elephant might feel if he were subjected to the mysterious process which we hear of as "levitation," and suddenly found himself brushed aside like a fly. Mr. Bragg did not wish to bear down his fellow-creatures unduly by force of wealth. But wealth had come to be a large factor in his social specific gravity.
After a while, Mrs. Dobbs said tremulously, and by no means graciously, "Well, I don't see what I can do for you in the matter."
"I am not asking you to do anything for me, Mrs. Dobbs. I was not aware till last night that you were any relation to Miss Cheffington, or, leastways, I had forgotten it, for I believe I did hear of your daughter's marriage years ago. When I became aware of it, I thought you would take it as a mark of respect and goodwill if I came and spoke to you confidentially. But you don't appear to see it in that light."
Mrs. Dobbs turned round and offered him her hand, saying, "I ask your pardon if I have said anything to offend you. You don't deserve it; you are very far from deserving it. But I'm shaken; my nerve isn't what it was. I haven't been so upset since my poor dear daughter Susy ran away and got married." She was trembling, and her restless fingers were making sad work with the knitting.
"Well, well, there's no occasion for you to put yourself about, you know. I should like you to tell me just this—under the circumstances I think there's no objection to my putting the question—is there anybody else in the field before me?"
"N-no; I think not. I can't say."
"If the young lady has no other attachment," said Mr. Bragg, in his slow, pondering way, "I don't see why I should not be able to make her happy. What doyouthink?"
"You're a deal older than the child: there's a great disparity, Joshua!" answered Mrs. Dobbs, reverting, in her agitation, to the familiar form in which she had addressed him thirty years back.
"So there is, but that can't be helped; we must just reckon with it as so much alloy. There wouldn't be much romance—couldn't be; but a vast number of people get on very well without romance, and are useful and happy. I have some reason to believe," added Mr. Bragg, looking at her a little askance—for there was no knowing whether this fiery old woman might not take offence again—"that certain members of Miss C.'s family would approve."
Mrs. Dobbs answered with unexpected meekness. "There's no need to tell methat. And you mustn't suppose, Mr. Bragg, that I don't appreciate—that I don't know how the world in general would look upon your offer."
"Why, you see, it doesn't amount exactly to an offer. I thought I would talk matters over with you, and, what you might call, put the case. You see," said Mr. Bragg, placing the forefinger of his right hand upon the thumb of his left, "for my part I could undertake that any lady who did me the honour to marry me should have steady kindness and respect. I wouldn't marry a woman I didn't respect, not if she was the handsomest one in the world and a duke's daughter. Then," placing his two forefingers together, "I ain't a bad temper, nor a jealous temper. Lastly," here he shifted the forefinger of his right hand to the middle finger of his left, "though I don't want to lay too much stress upon money, yet it's a fact that my wife, and, in the course of nature, my widow, would be a very rich woman."
"I suppose you know," said Mrs. Dobbs, leaning her forehead on her hand, and letting the knitting slide from her knees to the floor, "that May's father is alive?"
"Yes; I do know it. And I've got something to say to you on that score. And I'm sure you will agree with me that it is very desirable for Miss C. to have protection and guidance. I'm not speaking for myself now, you understand. Her aunt, Mrs. Dormer-Smith, is a very genteel lady, with very high connections. But—quite between ourselves, you know—I wouldn't give much for her headpiece."
Mrs. Dobbs was looking at him eagerly, and scarcely allowed him to finish his sentence before she said, "But you have something to say about Captain Cheffington?"
"Well, perhaps you know it. If you don't, you ought to. He has been travelling about for years with an Italian opera-singer. She is with him now in Brussels. And people say he has married her."
Mrs. Dobbs clasped her hands together, and ejaculated, almost in a whisper, "Oh, my poor child!"
Mr. Bragg could not tell whether she were thinking of her daughter, or her grand-daughter. Perhaps the images of both were in her mind.
"You had not heard of it, then? Ah! It's a bad prospect for Miss C."
"But is it true? So many stories get about. It seems incredible to me that Augustus, so selfish as he is, should have bound himself in that way."
"I hear it confirmed on all hands. It's an old story now, and pretty widely known. But, look at it which way you will, it's an ugly, disreputable kind of business, Mrs. Dobbs."
She was silent for a while, sitting with her head sunk on her breast, and her hands clasped before her. Then she said, almost as if speaking to herself, "God knows! The womanmaynot be bad or wicked. How are we to judge?"
Mr. Bragg drew his hand away from the elbow of Mrs. Dobbs's chair, where it had been resting, and said, in a tone of solemn disapprobation, "I don't think there can be much doubt as to the character of the—person, Mrs. Dobbs. I understand she became so notorious in Brussels through keeping a gaming-house, or something of that kind, as to call for the interference of the police."
"May I ask how this information reached you?" said Mrs. Dobbs, turning round and looking full at him.
Mr. Bragg hesitated for a few moments before answering. "It has come to me from various quarters; but the latest is an Italian singer, who has been chattering a good deal. He was at Miss Piper's. There's always a certain amount of risk in having public performers in your house. I don't encourage 'em myself—never did from a boy; and I think it a pity that Miss Piper does. Her sister and me are quite agreed on that point." Mr. Bragg here pushed back his chair and stood up. "I should wish you to understand," he said, "that I should have thought it my duty to tell you this, feeling the interest I do in Miss C., quite independent of our previous conversation."
"I understand. Thank you."
"With regard to that conversation, you can, if you think it advisable, what you might callsoundyour grand-daughter. I think that might avoid disagreeables for both parties. It can't be pleasant for a sensitive young lady to refuse an offer. And I don't mind saying that it would be extremely unpleasant to me toberefused. A man of my age and—well, I may say my position, don't like to look ridic'lous. Of course you don't care much formyfeelings: can't be expected to; but I think, on reflection, you'll see that by coming to you first in this way, I've also done the best I could to spare the feelings of Miss C."
With that Mr. Bragg shook hands with his hostess, and, quietly letting himself out of the house, walked to his brougham, and was driven away to the office in Friar's Row.
To one so habitually resolute, sagacious, and self-reliant as Mrs. Dobbs, the shock of discovering that she has been living under a delusion is severe. It is not merely mortifying—it is alarming. After her conversation with Mr. Bragg, Mrs. Dobbs felt like a person who, walking along what seems to be like a solid path, suddenly finds his foot sink into a quagmire. The firmer and bolder the tread, the greater the danger.
She had not been conscious, until the disenchantment came, how much hope and pride she had lavished on the image conjured up in her fancy by Pauline's "gentleman of princely fortune." The image had been vague, it is true, but brilliant. All that she knew of Mrs. Dormer-Smith's pride of birth, her contemptuous rejection of young Bransby's suit, the importance she attached to introducing her niece into the "best set," and so forth, served to strengthen Mrs. Dobbs in all kinds of delusions. She had taken it for granted that the sort of person whom Pauline could approve of as May's husband must possess certain qualifications. She no more thought, for instance, of doubting that he would be a gentleman, than that he would be a white man. The "princely fortune" added something chivalrous to the idea of him in her mind, since he was ready to share it with portionless May. And now these airy visions had been rolled aside like glittering clouds; and the solid, prosaic, ugly fact presented itself in the form of Joshua Bragg!
Mrs. Dobbs sat for more than an hour after he had left her, with bowed head and hands clasped, scarcely stirring. For a while she could not order her thoughts. Her mind was confused. Images came and went without her will. Under all was a bitter sense of disappointment, and a vague disquietude for the future. At first she had dismissed the notion of May's marrying Mr. Bragg, as one too preposterous to be entertained for a moment; but by degrees she began to ask herself whether she might not be as mistaken here as she had been in other undoubting judgments. Mr. Bragg was a man of probity, and—or so she had hitherto thought him—of excellent sense. Oldchester held many substantial proofs of his benevolence. Could it be possible that girlish May was willing to think of this man for a husband? Mrs. Dobbs tried to look at the matter judicially.
There were many instances of happy marriages where the disparity in years was as great as in this case. Who could be happier than Martin Bransby and his beautiful young wife? But this example had not the effect of reconciling Mrs. Dobbs to the possibility of May's accepting the great tin-tack maker. Martin Bransby was a man whom any woman might love—well educated, clever, genial, of a handsome presence, and with manners of fine old-fashioned courtesy. There could be no comparison between Martin Bransby and Joshua Bragg.
No, no, no! Such a match would be a mere coarse bargain. The very thought of it was an outrage to May. And yet—the pendulum of her thoughts swinging suddenly in the opposite direction—she remembered that neither Mrs. Dormer-Smith nor Mrs. Griffin had so considered it. And was it not true what Mr. Bragg had said—that many people did very well without romance, and were useful and happy? Self-distrust, once aroused, became wild and uncontrollable. She fought against her better instincts; telling herself that she was a fool, and that the world was no place for story-book sentimentality. If May married this man she would be safe from the gusts of fortune; she would be honoured and caressed (for it was clear that society accepted Mr. Bragg without qualm or question), and she would have boundless possibilities of doing good.This, surely, at all events, was a worthy aim!
At this point—just as after a conflict between winds and waves there sometimes comes a sudden calm and the serenity of sunshine—the turmoil of her mind was stilled all at once, and she saw clearly. She lifted up her head and said aloud—
"'What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?' Lord, forgive me! I was arguing on the devil's side every bit as much as that poor creature, Mrs. Dormer-Smith. And without her excuse of knowing no better! The whole thing is plain enough. If May could bring herself to care for the man—and such unlikely things happen inthatline that one daren't say it's downright impossible!—she'd do right to marry him; if not, she'd do wrong. And that's all about it."
Here, at least, was a firm foothold. And having struggled out of the quagmire, Mrs. Dobbs was able to consider the other subject of Mr. Bragg's talk with her—the rumour that Captain Cheffington had married again. If it were true, and, above all, if his new wife were such a one as Mr. Bragg had described, there was a new source of anxiety as to May's future.
As she was meditating on this point, Jo Weatherhead returned, eager to hear all about her interview with Bragg, and to impart to her something he had just heard himself. Mrs. Dobbs was glad to be able to feed Jo's hungry curiosity by telling him the reports about her son-in-law, since she could not betray Mr. Bragg's confidence respecting May. She found that he had been hearing a version of them from Mr. Simpson, whom he had met in the road. Valli's utterances at Miss Piper's supper-table had already revived all kinds of obsolete gossip about Captain Cheffington.
"It'll be terrible for my poor lamb if half the bad things they say are true," said Mrs. Dobbs, shaking her head.
Jo's private opinion was that Captain Cheffington's conduct under any given circumstances was pretty sure to be the worst possible; but he tried to comfort his old friend, as he had succeeded in comforting himself, by setting forth that her father's behaviour, be it what it might, could scarcely affect May's happiness very deeply, seeing that she had been entirely separated from him for so long.
"And as to her position in the world, that you think so much of"—Mrs. Dobbs winced at this, and turned her head away—"why, I shrewdly suspect, Sarah, that a deal worse things than ever reached you and me have been known about Captain Cheffington in aristocratic circles this long time back. And yet Miranda has been received among the tip-toppest people as if she belonged to 'em. And there's her own great-uncle, the Lord Viscount Castlecombe of Combe Park, a nobleman notorious for his heighth" (Jo did not mean his stature), "has quite taken to her, by all accounts."
After some consultation, they agreed together that it would be well for Mrs. Dobbs to tell her grand-daughter something of the reports which were flying about, lest they might reach her accidentally, or, in a still more painful way, through malice, and find her unprepared. Moreover, Jo urged his old friend to write boldly to Augustus demanding an answer as to the truth of the statement that he had married a second wife. Mrs. Dobbs at length consented to do so, although she had little hope of eliciting the truth by those means. But Jo was strongly of opinion that if Captain Cheffington were not married he would be desirous, for many reasons, of repudiating the statement; and if he were married he might not be displeased at this opportunity of saying so, although pride, or indolence, or a hundred other motives, might prevent him from making the opportunity for himself.
The communication was made to May when she came home from College Quad that afternoon. And, although greatly surprised at first, it did not produce so much effect as her grandmother had anticipated.
May had enough of the healthy, unquestioning veneration of a child for its parent to take her father on trust; and Mrs. Dobbs had always been careful not to lower Captain Cheffington in his daughter's esteem. But May did not—naturally could not—feel for him any of that strong personal attachment which is apt to look jealously on interlopers. She regarded him with a somewhat hazy affection, largely compounded of imagination and dim childish traditions. Some added tenderness sprang, perhaps, from the notion that "poor papa" had been unfortunate, and that the world had treated him below his deserts.
After the first surprise was over, she said, "But why should he keep it secret? Wouldn't he have told you, granny?"
"Perhaps not, May; I hear from him very seldom, as you know."
"Very seldom! Yes; but in such a case as this! Perhaps, though, papa thought it might hurt your feelings, on account of mamma."
"Perhaps," returned Mrs. Dobbs drily.
"People are unreasonably sensitive sometimes, are they not? As for me, it never entered into my head to think of my father's marrying again; but now I do think of it, it seems to me that it would be a very good thing."
"Its goodness or badness would depend, of course, on—circumstances."
"I do really think more and more that it would be a good thing, granny. Papa must have many lonely hours, you know. He likes Continental life best, to be sure; but still he is far away from his own country and his own people. It seems almost selfish in us not to have thought of itforhim. Oh, I hope she is a nice, kind woman, who will be good to him and take care of him. I think I ought to write at once and assure him that I have no grudge in my heart about it. And I'm sure you have none either; have you, granny dear?"
Mrs. Dobbs found it at once more painful and more difficult than she had foreseen to breathe degrading suspicions into this frank, pure mind. But it was necessary not to allow May to cherish what might prove to be disastrous illusions.
"It isn't all such plain sailing, May," she answered slowly. "I will write to your father, and you had better wait for his reply. We don't know that he is married at all. And if he is, we don't know that there's much to be glad about. They do say that the lady is not a fit match for your father."
"Heis the best judge of that, I should think," returned May. Then she added, her young face flushing with a generous impulse, "I dare say people may have said the same of my own dear mother."
"No, May. No one ever said of your own dear mother what is said of this woman."
There was a sternness in her grandmother's voice and face which startled the girl.
"What do they say, granny?" she asked quickly.
Mrs. Dobbs checked herself. "Oh, I cannot tell you exactly. There are lots of stories about. Some will have it that—her character is not quite blameless."
"Whodares to say so of my father's wife?"
"Hush! May. There's no need to call her your father's wife yet. Signor Valli says the person in question——"
"Signor Valli? Then I don't believe a word of it. Not one word. I know he talks wildly, and jumps at things. Why, he told Clara Bertram that my mother was a foreigner, and that he had met her. So you see how accurate and trustworthy Signor Valli is." Then, after a moment, as if struck by a sudden thought, she asked, "Is—shea foreigner?"
"I believe so."
"Then that is what he meant, I suppose."
"It's right to tell you, May, that Signor Valli is not the only one who has heard disagreeable things."
"Oh, of course, they all baa' one after the other! You have no idea, granny, what foolish back-biting talk goes on among the people whom Aunt Pauline calls 'society.' I've seen them roll a morsel of gossip over and over, while it kept growing all the time like a snow-ball—or a mud-ball. And no doubt many people whom Aunt Pauline doesn't call 'society' are as bad. A sheep is a sheep, whichever side of the hedge it is on," said this young censor with fine scorn.
Mrs. Dobbs in her heart did not put implicit faith in the stories which reached her. The young and the old—when they are sound-hearted—are both prone to disbelieve slander—the young from innocence, the old from experience; for there is no lesson more surely taught by life than the evil lightness with which evil is attributed.
But with regard to these particular stories, unwelcome corroboration was given to Mrs. Dobbs by Clara Bertram. Clara carried out her proposal of going to sing at Jessamine Cottage. She went there one afternoon when May was absent at the Hadlows', and introduced herself. There were only Mrs. Dobbs and Mr. Weatherhead to listen to her; but she sat down at the old square piano—feebly tinkling now, but tinkling always in tune, like the conscientious ghost of a defunct instrument—and sang her best. Her audience, though limited, was highly appreciative; and she soon found that their applause was not given ignorantly.
Apart from the charm of her singing, Clara won their sympathies by her kindly, unaffected simplicity. She inspired trustfulness. One must have been blindly false one's self to doubt her truth. Mrs. Dobbs was moved to question her a little about Valli.
"Of course, you have heard this gossip about May's father?" she said.
"Yes. To say the truth, I almost hoped you might speak on this subject; and so I purposely came when I thought May would not be here. I hinted to her something that Valli had said to me; but I saw she knew nothing."
"I have told her. At least I have told her enough to prevent her being taken by surprise."
"I am glad of that. I think you have done very wisely."
"This Signor Valli, now," said Mrs. Dobbs musingly. "I suppose he tells lies sometimes, eh?"
Clara reflected for a moment before she answered. "In one way—yes. That is to say, if he hated you, and saw you give a penny to a beggar, he would impute some nefarious motive for the action, and say so without scruple; but I don't believe he would be likely to invent circumstances."
Then she went on to tell how Miss Polly Piper remembered a dreadful story about some gambling transactions; and how Major Mitton had furbished up his Maltese reminiscences; and how everybody found something to say, and not one good thing among them all.
Jo Weatherhead listened with a kind of dread enjoyment. So much curious gossipcouldnot but be interesting; yet he wished with all his heart, for May's sake, that it were not true.
"I speak openly to you," said Clara; "but I am reticent about all this with other people. Pray believe that."
Mrs. Dobbs did believe it. Clara seemed to have become intimate with them all at once.
"May I come again?" asked the young singer as she took her leave.
"May you come!Willyou come? I didn't ask you, because, when a person generously gives me one pearl of price, it is not my way to snatch at the whole string. Your time is precious; your voice is precious."
"Dear Mrs. Dobbs, your kindness is precious. Not that I am ungrateful for the kindness bestowed on me by—other people; but there is such a delightful feeling of homeliness here. And then, although you have praised me too much, I must say that you and Mr. Weatherhead are good judges of music."
"Well, I won't go so far as to deny that youmightstrew your pearls before certain animals who would value them less," replied Mrs. Dobbs.
As for Jo Weatherhead, he became so enthusiastic in Miss Bertram's praises behind her back, that Mrs. Dobbs laughingly declared he was in love with her. And perhaps he was, a little. Many more such humble innocent "loves" spring up and die around us every day than we reck of. They do not ripen into fruit, but simply blossom like the wayside flowers; and the world is all the sweeter for them.
When May came home that evening, she was delighted to hear of the favourable impression her friend had made; although she declared it was shabby of Clara to have come in her absence. May brought the news from College Quad that Constance had written home for a prolonged leave of absence, having been invited by the duchess to accompany Mrs. Griffin to Glengowrie.
"Canon Hadlow grumbles a little," said May; "but he will let her go. And I am so glad; I hated the idea of going; but Conny will enjoy it, and everybody else will soon find out that she is the right girl in the right place—which, I am sure, I should not have been."
"Mr. Bragg is not going to Glengowrie either, I understand," said Mrs. Dobbs, growing very red, and coughing to hide her embarrassment.
"No; Mr. Bragg and I are quite agreed in not liking that sort of thing. He says he feels lonely in a strange house; and so do I. If the duke and duchess were myfriends, it would be different."
"Mr. Bragg has a good deal of sense, I think."
"Plenty of common sense."
"And—ahem!—and good feeling—don't you think?"
"What's the matter with your throat, granny? Shall I get you a glass of water?—Oh yes; he does a great deal of good with his wealth. Canon Hadlow was saying only this afternoon that Mr. Bragg gives away very large sums in private, besides the public subscriptions, where every one sees his name."