 Volume 2, Chapter 14, of That Unfortunate Marriage, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. That Unfortunate Marriage by Francis Eleanor Trollop, Volume 2, Chapter 14. The sale of Martin Bransby's handsome furniture, books, plate, carriage, and horses, realized a considerable sum, but only a small portion of that sum remained when all debts were paid. Theodore made all the arrangements, and Mrs. Bransby passively acquiesced in them. She was crushed by grief and timidly acknowledged herself to be sadly helpless and ignorant of business matters. It was Theodore who had decided that the family should leave Old Chester. It was Theodore who had taken a house for them in a northern suburb of London. It was Theodore who suggested that Mrs. Bransby might eke out her income by receiving one or two lodgers. For Martin's schooling, he promised to be responsible, and he would also guarantee the rent of the London house for one twelve month. But he could promise no further assistance, giving as a sufficient reason for not doing more, the heavy claims on his purse which would result from his forthcoming political candidature. A tidy annual sum was secured to the widow, a sum smaller than that which she had been in the habit of spending on her dress, and this was all she had to rely on to keep herself and her five children. It was clear that an effort must be made to earn some money. Some articles of furniture remaining from the Old Chester sale nearly suffice to furnish the small London dwelling. The house, fortunately, was clean, freshly painted, and in good repair, but the vulgar wallpapers were an affliction to Mrs. Bransby's eyes, and the dimensions of the room seemed to her painfully cramped. When she ventured to hint as much to her stepson, he gave her a severe lecture, and begged her to understand that the days when her whims could be lavishly indulged were over. But it can scarcely be called a whim to want half of my children to breathe returned Mrs. Bransby with a flash of indignation which she repented the next moment. And when Theodore pointed out that the house was a remarkably airy one for the rent, and that he, in his kind consideration, had taken a great deal of trouble to find a dwelling for them in a healthy locality, she meekly apologized for having been betrayed into any expression of impatience, and promised to make the best of her new circumstances. They were such as might have depressed a stronger and less sensitive person. When Theodore had gone away and the children were in bed and the widow sat alone in the mean little room, which small as it was, was but dimly illuminated by one candle, the sense of her forlorn position weighed her down and seemed to make the atmosphere thick with misery. It was not the loss of material luxuries which afflicted her. A month ago she would have felt that keenly, but now her great sorrow had absorbed all minor troubles. Poverty. What was poverty compared with desolation of spirit? How willingly would she have faced severer bodily hardships than any which threatened her if her lost husband could be restored to her? She dropped her head on her folded arms resting on the table. The widow's cap slipped aside and a veil of bright brown waving hair fell over her bowed face. She had been forced to restrain her tears all day. There were the children to be thought of. There were Theodore's cold, clear questions and suggestions to be answered. But now in solitude her tears gushed out. She wept with long, deep-drawn sobs. The words of the litany seemed to be repeated over and over again as by a voice whispering in her ear. The fatherless children and widows, and all who are desolate and oppressed. She rocked herself from side to side and moaned out, Oh, come back to us! Come back, Martin, Martin! A hand was gently laid on her shoulder. With a great start she raised her head and saw her eldest boy standing by her side. He was a handsome boy, very like his father. But now his naturally ruddy face was pale, and his eyes had a depth of yearning tenderness in them, which went to his mother's heart. Don't cry so, Mother Dia, he said. Father couldn't bear to see it if he knew. She clasped the boy in her arms, and although she still wept, her sobs were less convulsive, and she gradually grew calmer. Martin stood beside her very quietly, occasionally stroking back the pretty soft hair which strayed over her face, and was damp with tears. Suddenly Mrs. Bransby said, I thought you were in bed, Martin, how silently you came downstairs. I took off my shoes, Mother, he answered, showing his feet. I didn't want to disturb the others. The children are asleep, and Phoebe is snoring away. Phoebe was their one servant, a housemaid from their old Chester home, who had volunteered to remain with them and follow their fortunes. Poor Phoebe, I dare say she is tired, said Mrs. Bransby. I should think she was rather. She has been working like a brick all day, returned Martin. There was a little silence, during which Mrs. Bransby dried her eyes, put up her dishevelled hair, and replaced her cap. Art you not to go to bed, my boy, she said, looking wistfully at him. I want to stay and talk to you quietly, little Mother. Mrs. Bransby hesitated. I should dearly like you to stay awhile, Martin, she answered, but I'm afraid it would not be right. You look pale and worn out. You and I must help each other now to do what is right. And what? What he would have wished, she added, with quivering lips. Yes, Mother, answered the boy eagerly, that's just what I want, and I know he would have wished me to spare you all the bother I can. So now just listen, Mother, indeed, indeed I couldn't sleep if I went to bed now, and it's far weirier work to lie awake than to sit up and talk. Look here, Mother, Theodore has offered to send me to school, hasn't he? Yes, Martin, I'm very thankful for that. I don't see how I could have afforded it. Well, but now I've been thinking that it would be better if Theodore would give you that money instead of paying for my schooling, and for me to get a situation and earn something. And, my darling boy, how could you earn anything? Why, Mother, I could do all that the office boys did at Old Chester. Old Tucky told me once that he earned fifteen shillings a week. Just fancy, Mother, that's a good lot, isn't it? It looked a very childish face that he turned towards his mother, a face with frank sparkling eyes and rounded cheeks to which the excitement of making this proposition had brought back the roses. Oh, Martin, my dearest boy, it is sweet of you to think of this, but you are too young, darling. I'm going on for thirteen, Mother, interrupted Martin. Yes, dear, but even that is very, very young, answered his mother gravely, although the phantom of a smile flitted across her pale face. Martin looked disappointed and for a moment almost angry. He had a naturally hot temper, but he battled down the temptation and merely said, Well, Mother, you need not decide anything tonight. You can think it over. I believe I could earn something, and I'm sure that if I can, I ought. But your education, Martin. I might perhaps go on learning a little at home in the evenings, he rejoined, but more slowly and less confidently than he had spoken before. You know, Martin, he wished you to study. He was so proud of your abilities, so fond of you. Her voice broke and she turned away her head. Yes, Mother, but he was fond of you, answered Martin simply. I know quite well that if father could speak to me now, this minute, he would say, Martin, take care of your mother. That's what he did say one day when I was alone with him only a week before. The boy paused, made a violent struggle to master his emotion, and then went on bravely, though his young face grew white to the lips. And I'm going to do it, please God! The tears that poured down his mother's cheeks as she embraced him and kissed his forehead were not at all bitter. Not desolate, not wholly desolate, she murmured, while I have you, my precious, precious son. They sat a while, talking of their means and their plans and their prospects. Mrs. Bransby felt that, although many of Martin's notions were, of course, crude and childish, yet there was a strain of firm manliness in him, on which she could rely. And the boy had a quick intelligence. Before parting from his mother for the night, he proposed that she should write to Owen Rivers and ask his advice. You'll believe what Mr. Rivers says, mother, if you don't believe me, and I think you'll find that he will consider it my duty to earn something if I can. Anyway, he's such a good fellow, and he has such a thundering lot of sense, he's sure to give us good advice. The widow carded the suggestion. She had almost as implicit faith in Owen as her children had. She promised that Martin should enclose a letter of his own in hers to Mr. Rivers, and when she bade the boy good night at the door of his poor little chamber, she was surprised to find her heart somewhat lightened of its load. I say, look here, mother, whispered Martin, beckoning her in from the open door. Don't those young shavers sleep like one o'clock? He pointed to Bobby and Billy, who occupied one large bed, a relic from the Old Chester nursery, while Martin's little camp bedstead was squeezed into a corner of the same room. The two little fellows were sleeping the profound sleep of healthy childhood. Bobby had a smile on his parted lips, and Billy lay with one fat hand doubled up under his cheek, and the other buried in the thick masses of his brother's curly hair. It isn't half a bad room when the windows wide open went on Martin cheerfully. I can see a tree, quite a good size elm from my bed. Good night, mother dear. I hope you'll sleep. I think this'll turn out an awfully nice little house when we get used to it. The two letters to Owen Rivers, Martin's and his mother's, were written the next morning. Mrs. Bransby sent them undercover to Mr. Bragg, dressed to Old Chester, to be forwarded, and with a line from herself to Mr. Bragg, begging that he would let Mr. Rivers have them without delay. She had written very fully and frankly to Owen, telling him without reserve what her means were. Only on one point had she been reticent. Theodore's conduct. In her heart she thought Theodore cruelly cold and hard towards her and the children, but she would not complain of him. He was her dear husband's son, and she felt as if it would be disloyal to that honoured husband's memory to paint Theodore to others as she saw him. Theodore's recommendations to his stepmother to take good, steady, paying lodges was in the nature of those vague councils we are all apt to proffer freely to our neighbours, such as to cheer up, not to yield to weakness, to look on the bright side, to dismiss disagreeable thoughts, to set to work briskly and earn money and the like. That is to say it was easier said than done. When, after the family had been somewhat over a week in town, Theodore came again to see them and found that no steps had been taken to carry out this suggestion, he showed considerable displeasure and set a sharp word or two about the difficulty of helping unpractical people. The word unpractical was, in fact, a favourite reproach to apply to poor Mrs. Bransby on the part of a great many persons. Mrs. Dormer-Smith caught it up from Theodore. Constance Hadlow echoed the same phrase when at length in answer to some private inquiries of Mrs. Dormer-Smith. She wrote about the Bransby family. May's first eager proposal to go and see Mrs. Bransby was met by her aunt with an absolute refusal, but she was so urgent and appealed so strongly to her uncle, that Mrs. Dormer-Smith making a virtue of necessity, for she feared that if leave were refused, May might go without it, graciously consented that her niece should pay one visit to Mrs. Bransby. One visit will be enough, May, said Aunt Pauline, quite enough to show that you feel kindly towards her, and that sort of thing. It is really stretching a point, however, if it must be, it must be. I only implore you not to talk about these people in society. Pray, pray do not pose as a district visitor, or whatever it is called. May shrugged her shoulders and was silent. She knew how vain it was to reason with Aunt Pauline on a point of this kind, but she comforted herself by looking forward to the time, very near now, when Owen would return and went in some mysterious way, not explicable to her head, but quite sufficing to her heart. All her difficulties would vanish before his presence. And that same afternoon, she set off to Collingwood Place, Barnsbury Road, in a cab, attended by Smithson. Mrs. Bransby received her affectionately and thanked her for her visit, but she did not ask her to repeat it. She perceived, far more quickly than May had perceived it, that Mrs. Dormer-Smith would not like her niece to keep up any intimacy with a family who lived in Barnsbury, and were served by one maid of all work. When the children clung round May and clamored to know when she was coming to see them again, Mrs. Bransby interposed. She told them that May could not be running in and out of their house in London, as she had done in Old Chester, and they must understand she could not take up the time of her aunts made in making long journeys to Barnsbury. And she said privately to May, don't get into trouble with your aunt by coming here, my dear. I know you would help us if you could, but you cannot. But I ought not to say that. It is helpful to know you're unchanged and warm-hearted as ever. Someday, please, God, we may be able to see each other freely. Yes, someday, cried May joyfully, thinking of him who would help to make that and all the other good things possible. And then she colored vividly, as though she had betrayed a secret. Mrs. Bransby, however, did not notice this. She went on pensively, and yet I am almost afraid to look forward to any pleasant thing, lest it should be snatched away from me. Misfortune makes one a sad coward. I have had a disappointment just lately about Mr. Rivers. He's not coming back so soon as was expected. He's coming back at the end of this month, said May, in a quick, almost breathless way. No, he was to have returned to England at the end of December, but that is altered. His present engagement is prolonged for some weeks. I had a letter from him last evening from Barcelona, and he does not expect to be in England before the latter part of January at the soonest. May drove home, or much depressed and out of spirits. It was not only that Owen's return was postponed, but that she had not been the first to hear of it. To be sure, his weekly letter was not yet due, and he was rightly scrupulous in keeping his promise to Mrs. Dobbs about corresponding with May. But need he have volunteered to give this news to Mrs. Bransby before writing it to her? A dull feeling of discontent seemed to oppress her, but on reaching home, she tried to shake it off and to forget it in fighting her friend's battle against Aunt Pauline. Aunt Pauline had constructed for herself an image of Mrs. Bransby founded on Theodore's hints. She had decided in her own mind that Mrs. Bransby was a weak-minded, lounging, lazy woman, who no longer able to adorn herself with fine clothes, would sink into slatternhood and throw herself and her family as a dead weight onto any shoulders who would carry them. A woman belonging to the provincial middle class who thinks of nothing but dress, said Mrs. Dormersmith. Shaking her head mournfully, one knows what that must come to. But Mrs. Bransby thought of a great many things besides stress, cried May. She thought of her household and her children and above all of her husband. Mrs. Dormersmith merely shook her head again with an air of mild martyrdom, as though someone were unjustly accusing her. And I assure you, Aunt Pauline, May continued, that the little house she is living in, poor and humble, of course, in comparison with her old home, is a pattern of neatness. You say poor and humble, May, but do you not think that a house at 45 pounds a year is quite as good as she has any right to expect under the circumstances? I do, and that poor young Bransby has to be responsible for the rent. I am sure Mrs. Bransby won't let him be out of pocket if she can possibly help it. I dare say, but she is a sadly unpractical person. It was most touching to see her with all those children about her, trying to be cheerful and composed and looking so lovely in her melancholy morning dress. I presume she wears crepe. There's no more extravagant wear. She might have one dress trimmed with crepe for occasions, but her ordinary, everyday frocks ought to be of plain black stuff, hemstitch muslin collars and cuffs, perhaps. Added Mrs. Dormersmith, relenting at the image of uncompromising ugliness she had herself conjured up. But they can be made at home and need not cost much. Has she any lodgers? No, not yet, but there has been very little time, and it is difficult, she says, to find suitable persons. Yes, that is precisely the kind of thing one would expect her to say. That is the speech of a thoroughly unpractical person. The fact is, burst out may heartily, it is unpractical to be poor. It is unpractical to be left a widow with five children and only a miserable pittance to keep them on. It was intolerable to hear Aunt Pauline sitting in judgment on this poor lady of whom she really knew nothing, whatever, save her misfortunes, and may was greatly astonished at the glib way in which her aunt, usually so prosaically matter of fact, discourse about Mrs. Bransby, putting in visionary details with a lavish fancy. The girl had yet to learn that the most narrow and commonplace minds are capable of wild exaggeration within their own sphere, and that to be unimaginative is no guarantee for truthfulness of perception. Mrs. Dormersmith, whatever her defects might be, possessed almost perfect gentleness of temper. She merely said softly, May, May, when will you understand that nothing can be worse formed than that habit of raving about people? You are so dreadfully emphatic. I don't care a straw about what you call good form. I prefer good substance, answered May, still in a glow of indignation. My dear child, what does this woman matter to you? Matter? She is my friend. She's always been kind to me, and even if she were not my friend, I would defend her against unfair accusations. Mrs. Dormersmith was silent for a few minutes. Then she said in her slow, somewhat muffled tones, May, you compel me to say what I would rather leave unsaid. Mrs. Bransby is not the kind of person your uncle and I wish you to associate with. I do not assert that there has been anything positively wrong in her conduct. Now oblige me by listening quietly. If you start up in that melodramatic way, you will bring on one of my nervous headaches. I was merely going to remark that a woman so handsome as I am told she is, and so very much younger than her husband, ought, in the most ordinary view of what is corn veinab, to avoid anything like, like seeking to attract men's admiration and that sort of thing. But instead of that, Mrs. Bransby carried on in a very flagrant flirtation during her husband's lifetime with a young man considerably her junior. It was noticed, of course, and commented on. If she was so led away by foolish vanity when she had a sensible husband to guide her, what will it be now that she is left to her own devices? May stood staring at her aunt like one suddenly awakened out of sleep. This is all false, she said after a moment, false and very cruel. Who told you such things, Aunt Pauline? I declined to tell you, May, someone who has headed the means of knowing what went on in this Bransby household, and someone whose judgment I can trust. It must suffice to assure you that I am quite certain of my facts. And strange as it may seem, Mrs. Dormersmith really thought she was certain of them. May turned away contemptuously. Mrs. Bransby is really very much to blame, she said. It is bad enough to be poor and unprotected, but to be the most beautiful woman in all her circle of acquaintances, well, is not to be forgiven. Then May left her aunt's presence and we took herself to her own room where she locked the door and burst out crying. These colonies were bewildering. She sat on the side of her bed for more than an hour in a drooping posture, depressed and miserable. As she thought over her aunt's words, the belief flashed into her mind that Mrs. Dormersmith's informant must have been Constance Hadlow. She did not suspect Constance of having deliberately invented stories to the poor widow's discredit. But she did think that Constance had repeated them and that they had lost none of their venom in her repetition. It chanced that on that very morning her aunt had spoken of a letter just received from Miss Hadlow and May knew very well the sort of gossip which made up the staple of that correspondence. Not for one moment did her suspicions point to Theodore. The idea that he could have originated odious insinuations against his father's wife was inconceivable to her. But Connie, she had observed laterally a tendency in Connie to bitterness and detraction when speaking of Mrs. Bransby. Was she jealous and why? When they talked of Mrs. Bransby's flirtations with a man younger than herself, whom did they allude to? All at once, May drew herself sharply into an upright attitude while a burning flush covered her face and throat. She dashed away some stray tears with her handkerchief and exclaimed, speaking out loud in her excitement, I will not think of such mean, malicious, despicable folly, I will turn my mind away from it. It is shameful even to be conscious of anything so base-minded. End of chapter 14. Volume 2, chapter 15 of That Unfortunate Marriage. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. That Unfortunate Marriage by Frances Eleanor Trollop. Volume 2, chapter 15. Two days after May's interview with Mrs. Bransby, Owen's weekly letter arrived. In it, he informed her of the unexpected postponement of his return and he mentioned having written this news to Mrs. Bransby in answer to a letter from her, appealing to him for help and advice. But he did not expend many words on the Bransby family. He had to keep May minutely informed of his own doings and of his prospects so far as he could judge of them and whatsoever time and space remained at his disposal. When this was accomplished was devoted to a theme which touched him more nearly than the fortunes of gentle Louisa Bransby, although his regard for her was very real. Owen was deeply in love and wrote love letters and that species of composition does not deal with circumstantial and connected narrative. At any rate, about third persons. But although Owen did not return to England at the end of December, Mr. Bragg did. He appeared one day in Mrs. Dormersmith's drawing room when he was received by that lady with marked graciousness and by May with a changing color and shy eagerness which he might have been excused for misinterpreting. Mrs. Dormersmith was delighted. May's behavior appeared to her to be just what it ought to be. Uncle Frederick too, who happened to be at home for Mrs. Bragg called it so unfashionably an early hour that the master of the house had not yet gone out to his club, had reason to be gratified. He took the opportunity of consulting Mr. Bragg as to a little investment he proposed making and Mr. Bragg, while dissuading him from that particular investment, spontaneously offered to put his money into a good thing for him. I make it a rule not to advise people in general about such matters, said Mr. Bragg. The responsibility's too great not to mention that if it once what you might call got wind that I did give such advice, I should have my time took up all together with other people's business and I don't see the force of that. Of course not, most inconsiderate, noted Mr. Dormersmith. But I reserve the right to make exceptions now and then, continued Mr. Bragg, and I shall be happy to be of use to you. All this while no word had been said about Owen. May's secret consciousness made her too bashful to introduce his name. But at length Mr. Bragg mentioned it of his own accord. It was in speaking of Mr. Bransby's death. Mr. Bragg expressed kindly sympathy with the widow and added, "'She has one good friend, poor soul anyway. My secretary takes the greatest interest in her. You know him, Miss Chetington, Mr. Owen Rivers.' "'Yes,' answered May, in as constrained a tone as though the subject were just tasteful to her. Yet the poor child was longing with all her heart to speak of Owen and to hear him spoken of. "'To be sure you do. We used to meet him at the Miss Piper's pretty well every evening, didn't we? Besides, he's a cousin of your great friend, Miss Hadlow. "'Oh, of course,' exclaimed Mr. Dormersmith, with a sudden remembrance of that relationship and a consequent increase of interest in Owen, whom personally she knew but very slightly. "'A cousin of Constance had those. Yes, yes, I recall it now. Mrs. Griffin told me that his grandfather, who married a Lisbonie, she stopped remembering that family genealogy was a subject not likely to be specially agreeable to Mr. Bragg, and asked that gentleman sweetly, "'How do you like him? Does he do well?' "'First rate,' answered Mr. Bragg emphatically, May, coloured with pleasure, and turned aside her face to hide a broad child-like smile which stole over it. "'First rate,' repeated Mr. Bragg, "'he gives full satisfaction, not but what there are little what you may call twists in him here and there. "'He's peculiar in some ways, "'but I never did expect angels from heaven "'to come down and do office work for me. "'I consider myself lucky if I get honesty in fair industry. "'Now Mr. Rivers is more than honest. He's honourable.' "'Isn't that a distinction without a difference in this case?' asked Mr. Dormersmith lightly. "'Well, no, I don't think so,' answered Mr. Bragg in his slow, pondering way. "'You see, honesty makes a capital "'slow combustion kind of fire. "'But if you want a white heat, you must have honour. "'I can't express myself quite clear, but I have it in my mind.' "'And so Mr. Rivers takes a great interest "'in this Mrs. Bransby,' said Pauline. "'Her thoughts had been busy with this point "'ever since Mr. Bragg had uttered the words, "'and she was pleased that May should hear something "'like corroboration of the charge against Mrs. Bransby. "'Uncommon, he's quite what you might call devoted to her. "'She's a deucid pretty woman, isn't she?' put in Mr. Dormersmith with a little knowing laugh. "'Mr. Bragg replied with perfect seriousness. "'Mrs. Bransby is a lady of great personal attractions, "'and so far as I know of her, most amiable. "'I'm sorry to hear she's left in poor circumstances. "'Martin Bransby seems to have made "'most imprudent speculations. "'If he'd have come to me, poor man, "'I could have given him some useful warnings "'and would have done it too. "'I'd have made one of my exceptions in his favour.' "'Mrs. Dormersmith's interest "'in the deceased Martin Bransby was too slight "'to enchain her attention. "'When the widow was no longer being spoken of, "'Pauline's thoughts flew off rapidly "'to the fashion and texture of May's wedding dress, "'which had already haunted her solitary musings, "'and to the question whether Mr. Bragg "'would be likely to do anything for her boy Cyril, "'who was just about to be entered at the university. "'But her eyes remained fixed "'with a politely attentive look on Mr. Bragg, "'and when he ceased speaking, "'she murmured plaintively, as being a safe thing to say. "'That is so good of you. "'As soon as Mr. Bragg was gone, "'May sat down to write an account of his visit to Owen. "'Her heart swelled with pride "'as she repeated to him Mr. Bragg's words about himself. "'Indeed, she was so enthusiastic about Mr. Bragg "'that Owen justingly told her in his next letter "'that he was growing jealous of his master, "'so he always termed Mr. Bragg. "'It was out of the question that May should hint to Owen "'a word of the unkind things "'which were said of Mrs. Bransby. "'She could not bring her pen to write them. "'It seemed to her as if she could never even "'speak them to him. "'But she said all the most sympathetic "'and defectionate things she could think of "'about the poor widow and her children, "'being inspired by the malicious gossip "'only to a more chivalrous warmth on her friend's behalf. "'But yet that gossip was like a barbed seed "'that clings where it alights "'and could not wholly be shaken out of her memory. "'If she could but have spoken with Granny, "'she could not write all the confused feelings "'that were in her mind. "'To have tried to do so "'would have seemed almost like hinting something "'which might be construed into a doubt "'of Owen. "'But if she could speak with her living voice, "'Granny, who loved her so much, "'and would listen with such understanding ears, "'would surely find the right words to conjure away, "'the oppression which weighed on her spirits. "'She was ashamed of not feeling so happy "'as she had felt three weeks ago. "'And yet it was impossible to deny that a cloud, "'light and filmy but still a cloud, "'had come between her and the sun. "'She was very lonely. "'Sometimes she was startled "'by the sudden recognition "'of how completely aloof she was in spirit. "'From the beings around her.' "'Next to Owen's letters, "'her little cousins were her chief comfort. "'She had them with her as much as possible, "'helping them with their lessons, "'and joining in their play, "'their brother Cyril being now at home from Harrow. "'The younger children received even less "'than the scanty share of her attention, "'which their mother had ever vouchsafed to them. "'Mr. Dormersmith was a good deal engrossed "'by his eldest son, "'and Harold and Wilfred would have been "'forlorn indeed at this time, but for cousin May. "'Yes, the children were a great comfort to her, "'and after them she liked Mr. Bragg's society "'better than that of most people. "'He was so closely associated with Owen.' "'Mr. Bragg had become a frequent "'and familiar guest at the Dormersmith's house. "'Uncle Frederick highly valued his advice "'and assistance in financial matters, "'while Aunt Pauline was never tired "'of repeating his praises, "'only as she privately complained to her husband. "'He hung fire a little. "'Why in the world he shouldn't speak out? "'I cannot conjecture,' she said, "'with that soft-suffering expression of countenance, "'which Mr. Bragg's assiduous visits had recently banished "'for as much as two or three days altogether. "'It really is not May's fault this time. "'Nothing could be nicer than she is to him. "'I should be uneasy about their Houghton bills, "'but that they are spending the winter at Rome, "'and besides, Mrs. Griffin assured me "'that he wouldn't look at Felicia. "'In fact, he told her in plain terms "'that Miss Cheffington was the one young lady he admired. "'Dear Mrs. Griffin, I shall never forget "'what a friend she has been all through the affair, "'and the dear Duchess. "'But really, Mr. Bragg does hang fire most unaccountably. "'I think it is beginning to tell on May herself a little. "'She mopes. "'Now that is a very serious matter, "'for her complexion is of the delicate kind "'which will not stand worry.' "'The New Year opened dark and damp in London. "'But the external gloom did not quench social gaiety, "'of which there was a good deal going on at this time. "'Mrs. Dormersmith entered into it, "'and insisted on May's entering into it as much as possible. "'She reflected that this would be the last year "'during which she would have the assistance of May's allowance, "'and that it would be well to profit by it "'to the utmost while it lasted. "'The allowance was never expended in any way "'by which May could not benefit. "'For example, if Mrs. Dormersmith "'would go into a dinner party without her niece, "'she would not spend May's money on the hire of a carriage "'to save her own hard-worked broom-horse. "'But when May accompanied her, she would do so, "'and on such occasions, she would indulge "'in some little extra elegance of dress, "'on the plea, quite genuinely preferred, "'that she must be decently dressed in the girl's interests. "'In spite of Theodore Bransby's recent mourning, "'they frequently met in society. "'It is my duty to keep up my social connections,' "'he would say to Mrs. Dormersmith, "'with a grave resigned air, "'and no one could have more fully appreciated "'and approved the sentiment than she did. "'Theodore traveled rather frequently backwards "'and forwards between London and Old Chester in these days. "'He was busy in the neighborhood of his native city, "'preparing the ground for his political campaign, "'while he was constantly attracted to London "'by the hope of seeing May. "'He had discovered that Mrs. Bransby wrote sometimes "'to Owen Rivers, and he frequently volunteered "'to give her items of news about May, "'which he thought and hoped she might transmit to Spain. "'Miss Chuffington had sat near him "'at Lady A's dinner party. "'He had escorted Miss Chuffington and her aunt "'to Mrs. B's soiree musical. "'Mr. C had given him a seat in her box at the theater, "'where he met Miss Chuffington, and so forth. "'Miss Chuffington appears to be very gay,' "'said Mrs. Bransby once, with a sigh, "'not envious, but regretful, "'her own life was so dull and dark. "'Miss Chuffington is very much in the world, of course. "'Her birth and her beauty entitle her "'to a good deal of attention, and she gets it. "'I see no objection to that. "'On the contrary, it delights me "'that she should be admired. "'His stepmother stared at him in sudden surprise. "'Theodore,' she exclaimed impulsively, "'there is nothing between you and May, is there?' "'He drew himself up and answered in as coldly offended atone, "'as though he had not desired, "'and even angled for that very question. "'Excuse me, Mrs. Bransby, "'but I do not think it well "'to use a young lady's name in that way. "'It is too delicate a matter to be handled at all "'in its present stage. "'Don't you believe him, mother?' said Martin "'when Theodore had gone away. "'May Chuffington isn't likely to think of him. "'I don't know, Martin. "'It may not seem likely to us "'because we know what Theodore is,' interposed Martin boldly. "'His mother let that suggestion lie, but she said, "'You must remember, my boy, that Theodore has many qualities, "'which he is very well educated and clever "'and gentlemen-like. "'No, that he's not,' put in the irrepressible Martin, "'and he probably has a distinguished career before him. "'Besides he is rich now, you know. "'As if May would care for that,' exclaimed Martin "'with innocently lofty disdain. "'Her friends might care for it for her,' "'answered Mrs. Bransby thoughtfully. "'She had fallen into the habit of consulting with Martin "'on all kinds of subjects. "'Sometimes she reproached herself for harassing the boy "'with cares and questions beyond his years, "'but in truth it would have been impossible at that time "'to keep Martin from sharing her cares. "'And the pride of being allowed to share her counsels also, "'more than made him a mens.' "'Mrs. Bransby had a lodger now, "'a lodger who was the incubus of her life. "'He was an elderly German engaged in the city, "'and besides occupying the chamber which Theodore "'had ordained must be let, if possible, "'he breakfasted with the family every day "'and dined with them on Sundays. "'The man was vulgar, greedy, and sullen in his manners. "'His habits at table, without being absolutely gross, "'were revolting to Mrs. Bransby's refinement. "'And his exigencies on the score of the Sunday dinner "'were such as to keep her in constant anxiety "'and to excite boundless indignation in Phoebe. "'Phoebe, indeed, so detested, Mr. Bucher, "'that Mrs. Bransby was occasionally reduced "'to beg for a cessation of hostilities "'and very much against the grain "'to plead Mr. Bucher's case, "'even with tears in her eyes, such being the state of things. "'It can well be imagined with what an ebullition of joy "'Mrs. Bransby hailed a letter from Owen Rivers, "'announcing his approaching arrival in London "'and proposing himself to her as a lodger. "'He would like,' he said, "'to board entirely with the family "'and offered terms which Mrs. Bransby feared "'were almost too generous. "'Martin,' it is needless to say, "'enthusiastically welcomed the idea "'of having Owen Rivers to live with them. "'And Phoebe's delight in the prospect "'of Mr. Bucher's being speedily superseded "'made her volunteer to prepare his favorite pudding "'on the very next Sunday, "'although hitherto she had obstinately professed "'the blankest ignorance of its composition. "'Before, however, giving the unpopular Mr. Bucher "'notice to quit her house, "'Mrs. Bransby thought herself bound to consult Theodore. "'Her mind misgave her, lest Theodore, "'who she knew detested Owen Rivers, "'should strongly set his face against receiving him. "'And she wrote her letter to her stepson "'in considerable trepidation, "'but to her surprise she speedily received "'an answer entirely approving the plan. "'It was not gracious. "'Theodore was never gracious to her, "'but that was a small matter in comparison "'with obtaining his consent to the arrangement, "'and this consent was unmistakably given. "'I believe,' he wrote, "'that you will be justified in taking Rivers "'for a lodger if you wish it. "'I meet his employer, Mr. Bragg, "'very frequently at the house of Mrs. Dormus Smith, "'and he apparently intends to retain Rivers "'in his service at all events for the present. "'You will, therefore, I should say, "'be quite sure of regular payments.' "'So Owen's offer was joyfully and gratefully accepted. "'He had, of course, written to tell May "'as nearly as possible the time of his arrival in England, "'but he had not mentioned his scheme of living "'at the Bransby's, "'fearing lest it might not be practicable. "'He did not, in fact, receive Mrs. Bransby's reply "'to his proposal until he was on his way home. "'He found it addressed, as he had directed Mrs. Bransby, "'to the Post-Restaurant in Paris, "'where he spent one day on business for Mr. Bragg, "'and thus at chance that the first intimation "'which May received of the matter "'came from Theodore Bransby. "'He was dining at the Dormus Smith's. "'Mr. Bragg was there also. "'It was what Mrs. Dormus Smith called "'a very quiet little dinner, "'just one or two people, quite cosily, "'and had been given simply and solely for Mr. Bragg. "'There was but one other guest, Lady Moppet. "'Mrs. Dormus Smith did not consider Lady Moppet "'to be worth cultivating. "'She was rich but not in the best set. "'Moreover, she had a craze for music. "'Mrs. Dormus Smith's private sentiment "'about all the arts was akin to that "'of the Turkish potentate, who inquired at a ball "'why they did not make their slaves dance for them "'instead of taking all that trouble themselves. "'She considered, in fact, "'that the muses ought to be kept in their places. "'But she would never have uttered any word "'approaching to such a Beocian phrase. "'She had an almost perfect taste in phrases. "'There, however, sat Lady Moppet at her dinner table. "'Mr. Dormus Smith had stipulated, "'for some human being to speak to. "'Mr. Bragg must, of course, be left to may, "'and Mr. Dormus Smith could not endure young Bransby. "'Theodore was not generally popular with his own sex, "'but Pauline had reinstated him in her good graces. "'And indeed, how was it possible "'not to feel agreeably towards a young man "'whom Lord Castlecombe himself delighted to honor?' "'Lady Moppet was an old acquaintance of her hosts, "'as has been stated, "'and except on the subject of music, "'she was a good-humored woman enough, "'making amends for the inflexible rigidity of her dogma "'as to the divine art by a rather broad indulgence "'toward the merely moral shortcomings "'of her fellow creatures. "'Mr. Dormus Smith led her out to dinner. "'Mr. Bragg, of course, conducted his hostess, "'and Theodore, therefore, "'had to give May his arm to the dining-room. "'There was no help for that. "'But the party was small and the table was round, "'and Mr. Bragg would not be far-sundered from May. "'And once in the drawing-room, "'Aunt Pauline would take care that he should have "'abundant opportunities for private conversation "'with her niece. "'May endured Theodore's proximity "'far more graciously than would have been "'the case three months ago. "'He was not naturally quick at discerning the effect "'he produced on others, "'nor careful to spare their feelings, "'but love stimulates the perceptions "'in a wonderful way, "'prosaic though his subjects may be. "'The arch-magician has lost nothing of his cunning, "'and under his potent influence, "'Theodore Bransby developed some "'little sympathetic insight into May's feelings. "'He even divined that part of her new soft-kindliness "'of manner towards himself was due to pity "'for his bereavement, "'and he had learned in a more unmistakable way, "'for she had told him so, "'that she approved his care of his stepmother "'and young brothers and sisters. "'Theodore was pretty safe "'in vaunting his disinterested efforts "'on their behalf. "'Mrs. Bransby and May were effectually kept apart, "'and neither of them suspected "'that this was chiefly his doing. "'He now, as he sat by May's side, "'had something in his mind "'which he greatly desired she should hear, "'but some feeling unaccountable to herself, "'or at least which he did not choose to account for, "'made him hesitate to utter it to her directly. "'At length, in a little pause of the conversation, "'he bent slightly forward towards Mr. Bragg, "'who sat opposite to him, and said, "'I suppose you do not propose "'returning to Spain, Mr. Bragg?' "'Me? Oh, no, I don't think I have any call to do so, "'and there's plenty for me to look after elsewhere. "'Of course, transactions on such a colossal scale. "'When I heard that Rivers was coming back to London, "'I concluded that you had wound up the business "'which took you to Spain. "'Mr. Rivers has been very helpful to me, indeed. "'I feel myself under an obligation to him.' "'To say the truth, Mr. Bragg was impelled "'to offer this testimony even at the cost "'of dragging it in somewhat inopportunely "'by his lively remembrances of sundry spiteful speeches, "'made by young brains being in former times. "'But rather to his surprise, Theodore did not now seek "'to divert the conversation from Owen's praises. "'Yes, Rivers has come out wonderfully "'well, I understand,' said Theodore. "'I hear a good deal about him. "'He is in constant correspondence with Mrs. Bransby, "'as perhaps you know.' "'Oh,' said Mr. Bragg quietly. "'No, I cannot say I know it. "'By the way, I do call to mind. "'Mrs. Bransby's sending me a letter for him "'some time ago. "'Well, he may be in correspondence with her. "'Oh, he is. "'I have reason to know it, for I think he is "'the sole topic of conversation at my stepmother's house "'just now. "'The whole family are in a fever of excitement "'about his coming to live with them. "'Without turning his head or even glancing at May, "'he felt that she was listening with a new "'and suddenly concentrated attention, "'and he said to himself, with a glow of elation, "'she did not know it.' "'Ah, really?' said Mr. Bragg, "'addressing himself to his dinner. "'The matter did not seem to him "'one of any very special interests. "'If young Rivers went to lodge at Mrs. Bransby's, "'it would probably be a good arrangement for both.' "'Who's that? "'Anybody I know,' asked Lady Moppet "'from her place at the host's right hand. "'Theodore answered, "'I was merely speaking of a man named Rivers, who... "'Oh, and Rivers? "'Oh, of course I know him, a dreadful heretic. "'He enunciates the most intolerable old-fashioned stuff, "'and he's so frightfully obstinate. "'Battles and argues one down positively. "'I really have no patience. "'But what about him? "'Is he going to be married?' "'Not that I know of,' replied Theodore, "'with his correct air, "'and an odd effect, "'as though his white cravat and shirt front "'had been suddenly petrified. "'Oh, I beg your pardon. "'I thought you said something of the sort.' "'By Joe, more unlikely things have happened, "'as put in Mr. Dormer Smith, Joe Coesley. "'He's exposing himself to a tremendous fire. "'Dangerous work for a fellow to live under the roof "'of a lovely and captivating woman, "'who sets him up as a kind of guide, "'philosopher and friend, eh?' "'Dangerous? "'I should think the end of that arrangement "'is a foregone conclusion,' exclaimed Lady Moppet. "'Mr. Rivers is a very agreeable young fellow "'when he isn't talking about music. "'But who's your lovely and captivating woman? "'Does anybody know her?' "'There was an instant pause, "'during which Pauline cast an expressive glance "'of the most poignant reproach at her husband. "'Then Theodore answered very gravely. "'Mr. Dormer Smith was merely jesting. "'The Lady is Mrs. Martin Bransby, my father's widow. "'End of Chapter 15. "'End of Volume 2.' "'Volume 3, Chapter 1, of that unfortunate marriage. "'This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. "'That unfortunate marriage by Francis Eleanor Trollop. "'Volume 3, Chapter 1.' "'The following morning Mrs. Dormer Smith "'was in a flutter of excitement. "'She left her bedroom fully an hour earlier "'than was her want. "'But before she did so, she sent a message "'begging May not to absent herself from the house. "'For even in this wintery season, "'May was in the habit of walking out "'every morning with the children "'whenever there came a gleam of good weather. "'Mrs. Dormer Smith made, who was charged with the message, "'volunteered to ab, with a glance at May's plain morning frock. "'Mr. Bragg is expected, I believe, Miss. "'Very well, Smithson. "'Tell my aunt I will not go out without her permission.' "'Smithson still lingered. "'Shall I? "'Would you like me to lay out your gray merino, Miss?' she asked. "'Oh, no, thank you,' answered May, opening her eyes in surprise. "'If I do go out, it will only be to take a turn "'in the square with the children. "'This frock would do quite well.' "'Smithson retired, and then Harold, "'who was engaged in a somewhat languid struggle "'with a French verb, looked up savagely and said, "'I hate Mr. Bragg.' "'Wilfred seared at the table with a big book before him, "'which was supposed to convey useful knowledge "'by means of colored illustrations, immediately echoed, "'I hate Mr. Bragg.' "'Hush, hush, that will never do,' said May. "'Little boys mustn't hate anybody. "'Besides, Mr. Bragg is a very good kind man. "'Why should you dislike him? "'Because he's going to take you away,' answered Harold slowly. "'Nonsense. "'I dare say Mr. Bragg will not ask to see me at all, "'and if he does, I shall not be away above a few minutes.' "'Shan't you?' asked Harold doubtfully. "'Of course not. "'What have you got into your head?' "'Yesterday, when they didn't think I was listening, "'I heard Smithson say to Cécile. "'May stop the child decisively. "'Hush, Harold. "'You know I never allow you to repeat the tittle-tattle "'of the nursery, and I am shocked to hear "'that you listened to what was not intended for your ears. "'That is not like a gentleman. "'You know we agree that you are to be a real gentleman "'when you grow up, that is, a man of honor.' "'I didn't listen,' cried Wilfred eagerly. "'I'm glad you did not. "'No, I didn't listen, cousin May. "'I was in Cécile's room. "'Cécile gave me a long, long piece of string, "'ever so long.' May laugh. "'Your virtue is not of a difficult kind, Master Willie. "'You never do any mischief that is quite out of your reach. "'Then, seeing that Harold looks still crestfallen, "'she kissed his forehead and said kindly, "'and Harold will not listen again. "'He did not remember that it is dishonorable.' "'The child was silent, with his eyes cast down "'on his lesson-book for a while. "'Then he raised them and looked searchingly at May and said, "'I say, cousin May, I mean to marry you when I grow up. "'And so do I,' said Wilfred, determined not to be outdone. "'Very well, but I couldn't think of marrying anyone "'who did not know his French verbs. "'So you had better learn that one at once.' "'Herald's a naturally rather dull and heavy face "'grew suddenly bright, and he settled himself "'to his lesson with a little shrug "'and a shake like a puppy. "'No, you wouldn't marry anyone "'who didn't know French, would you?' he said emphatically. "'And I know French,' pleaded Wilfred. "'There, now be quiet, both of you, "'and let me finish my letter,' said May. "'And there was nearly unbroken silence among them. "'Mean time, Mr. Bragg was having an interview "'with Mrs. Dormer Smith. "'He had gradually made up his mind "'to put the same question to her "'that he had put to Mrs. Dobbs, "'namely, whether May were free to receive his proposals. "'He could not help being uneasy "'about young Bransby's relations with May.' "'Mrs. Dobbs, it was true, "'had denied that her granddaughter thought of him at all, "'and Mr. Bragg did not doubt Mrs. Dobbs' veracity, "'but he underrated her sagacity "'or rather her opportunities for knowing the truth. "'She lived very much outside of May's world. "'She might divine the state of May's feelings "'and yet be mistaken as to their object. "'The story he had heard of young Bransby's "'having been rejected by Ms. Checkington could not be true, "'for was not young Bransby a constant visitor "'at her aunt's house, "'frequenting it on a footing of familiarity, "'talking to May herself "'with a certain air of confidential understanding? "'He had observed this particularly during last night's dinner. "'But if, on the other hand, "'the possibility of Mrs. Dobbs being mistaken "'on this question were once admitted, "'all sorts of other possibilities poured in after it, "'as by a sluice gate, "'and lifted Mr. Bragg's hopes to a higher level, "'at any rate, he resolved to take some decisive step. "'Time had been lost already. "'He had told Mrs. Dobbs that he was too old "'to trust to the day after tomorrow, "'and that was now three months ago. "'Hence his visit to Mrs. Dormersmith "'by appointment, "'and appointment made verbally the preceding evening "'with a request that she would mention it to no one, "'least of all to Miss Chepington.' "'Aunt Pauline was, of course, quite sure beforehand "'what was to be the subject of their conversation, "'and was not in the least surprised, "'although inwardly much elated, "'when Mr. Bragg broached it. "'Understand me, ma'am,' said Mr. Bragg, "'I only wish you to tell me truly whether, "'cording to the best of your belief, "'Miss C's affections are engaged. "'I ask no questions beyond that. "'I don't want to pry. "'Engaged? "'Oh, dear, no, I assure you. "'Excuse me, ma'am, but I mean a little more than that,' "'said Mr. Bragg, "'slightly hastening the steady stride of his speech, "'lest she should interrupt him again. "'Of course I don't expect you to be "'inside of your niece's heart. "'A deal of uncertainty must prevail "'in what you may call assaying "'any human being's feelings. "'You may use the wrong test for one thing, "'but ladies are keen observers, "'specially where they like or, "'for the matter of that dislike, anyone very much. "'And what I want to know is this, "'have you any reason to think Miss C "'is in love with anyone?' "'Mrs. Dormersmith, who was listening "'with a bland smile, "'almost started at this crude inquiry. "'She felt the need of all her self-command "'to preserve that repose of manner, "'which she considered essential to good breeding, "'but she answered gently, though firmly, "'My dear Mr. Bragg, that is out of the question. "'My niece is entirely disengaged. "'A girl of her birth and breeding "'is not likely to entertain any vulgar kind "'of romance in secret. "'Thank you, ma'am,' said Mr. Bragg, "'then he added ponderingly, "'It might not be vulgar, though.' "'Mrs. Dormersmith privately thought "'Mr. Bragg, no competent judge of what might "'or might not be vulgar in a cheffington. "'She merely replied with a certain suave dignity, "'referring to our former speech of his. "'Do I understand rightly that you desire "'to speak with Miss Cheffington yourself? "'If you please, ma'am, yes, "'I think I should like to go through with it. "'I will send for her to come here, Mr. Bragg.' "'She reigned the bell and gave her orders, "'and during the pause which ensued, "'neither she nor Mr. Bragg spoke a word. "'He was absorbed in his own thoughts, "'and by no means as fully master of himself as usual. "'She was plaintively regretting "'that May had refused to change her morning frock "'for something more be coming. "'Not that it can be of vital importance now, "'thought Mrs. Dormersmith faintly smiling to herself "'with half-closed eyes. "'Presently the door opened, and May stood on the threshold. "'Come in, darling,' said her aunt. "'Mr. Bragg wishes to speak with you, "'and I will only assure you that he does so "'with my and your uncle's full knowledge and approbation. "'With that, Aunt Pauline glided into the back-drawing-room "'and withdrew by a door opening onto the staircase, "'which she shot behind her, immensely to May's surprise. "'All at once a nameless dread came over the girl, "'chilling her like a cold wind. "'They had some bad news to give her of Owen. "'She turned suddenly so deadly pale "'as to startle Mr. Bragg, "'and looking up at him with piteous frightened eyes, "'stammered faintly, what is the matter?' "'Nothing at all. "'Nothing is the matter that need frighten you, "'my dear young lady. "'Oh, bless me, you look quite scared.' "'His genuine tone reassured her, "'and the color began to return to lips and cheeks. "'But the willful blood now rushed too hotly into her face. "'Her second thought was, "'They have found out my engagement to Owen. "'And although this contingency could be confronted "'with a very different feeling and with sufficient courage, "'yet she could not control the tell-tale blush. "'Just you sit down there "'and don't worry yourself, Miss Chuffington,' "'said Mr. Bragg. "'In his earnestness he reverted "'to the phraseology of his early days. "'There's no hurry in the world. "'If you were stalled, "'you just take your own time to come round.' "'Thank you,' answered May, "'dropping into an armchair he pushed forward. "'I am very sorry to have alarmed you,' she said. "'I'm afraid I must be going nervous. "'I never thought I should be able to lay claim "'to that interesting malady.' "'Although she smiled and tried to speak playfully, "'she had really been shaken, "'and she profited by the advice which Mr. Bragg repeated, "'to sit still and take her own time about coming round. "'By and by,' she said, almost in her usual voice, "'will you not sit down, Mr. Bragg? "'I am quite ready to listen to you.' "'Mr. Bragg hesitated a moment. "'He would have preferred to stand. "'He would have felt more at his ease, so. "'But looking down on the slight young figure before him, "'it occurred to him that it would be, "'in some vaguely felt way, "'taking an unfair advantage of the girl "'to dominate her by his tall stature. "'So he brought himself nearer to her level "'by sitting down on an ottoman opposite "'and not very near to her.' "'I suppose,' said he, after a little silence, "'during which he looked down with an intent "'and anxious frown at the floor, "'I suppose you can't give a guess at what I'm going to say.' "'May believe she had guessed it already, but she answered, "'I would rather not guess. "'Please, I would rather you told me.' "'Well, perhaps it may simplify matters "'if I mention that I have had some conversation "'on this subject with Mrs. Dobbs. "'With Granny,' exclaimed May, "'looking full at him in profound astonishment. "'Yes, it's some little while ago now, Mrs. Dobbs "'spoke very straightforward and very kind, too, "'but I'm bound to say she did not give me any encouragement. "'May stared at him in a kind of fascination. "'She could not remove her eyes from his face, "'and she began to perceive a dreadful clear-sightedness "'dawning above the confusion of her thoughts. "'Mr. Bragg was not looking at her. "'He was leaning a little forward "'with his arms resting on his knees "'and his hands loosely clasped together. "'He went on speaking in a ruminating way, "'sometimes emphasizing his phrase "'by a slight movement from the wrist of his clasped hands "'as if he were with some difficulty reading off the words "'he was uttering from the oriental rug at his feet. "'You see, Miss Checkington, of course I'm aware "'there's a great difference in years, "'but that's not the biggest difference in reality. "'I don't believe myself that I'm so very much older "'in some ways, and I was at five and twenty. "'I was always a steady kind of a chap, "'and I never had much to say for myself. "'Never was what you might call lively, you know. "'May sat spellbound looking at him fixedly, "'and with that dawn of clear-sightedness rapidly "'illumining many things to her unspeakable consternation. "'Now it isn't the years that make the biggest difference. "'I'm below you in education, of course, Miss Checkington, "'and in a deal besides, no doubt. "'But I can be trusted to mean all I say, "'though I'm not able to say all I mean by a long chalk. "'As he said this, he raised his eyes "'for the first time and looked at her. "'She was still regarding him with the same fascinated, "'almost helpless gaze, "'but when she met his clear, honest, gray eyes "'with a wistful expression in them, "'which was pathetically contrasted "'with the massive strength of his head and face, "'she was suddenly inspired to say, "'Please, Mr. Bragg, will you hear me? "'I want to tell you something before you say any more. "'I think you are my friend, and if you don't mind, "'I should like to tell you a secret, may I?' "'He nodded, keeping his eyes on her now steadily. "'Well, I hope you will forgive me "'for troubling you with my confidence. "'I know you will respect it. "'If I had not such a high esteem and regard for you, "'I could not say it.' "'She stopped an instant. "'There was a choking feeling in her throat. "'She paused, mastered it, and went on. "'I have promised to marry someone whom I love very much, "'and no one knows about it but Granny. "'When she had spoken, she hid her hot face in her hands "'and cried silently. "'There was absolute stillness in the room for some minutes. "'At length she looked up and saw Mr. Bragg "'still sitting as before with loosely clasped hands "'and downcast eyes. "'May rose to her feet and said timidly, "'I hope you are not angry with me for telling you.' "'Mr. Bragg stood up also "'and placing one broad, powerful hand on her head "'as the father might have done, "'booked down gravely at her upturned face. "'Angry? Lord bless you, my child. "'What must I be made of to be angry with you? "'Oh, thank you, Mr. Bragg, and will you promise? "'But I know you will, not to betray me.' "'He did not notice this question. "'His mind was working uneasily. "'He thrust his hands into his pockets "'and walked to the other side of the room "'and back before saying, "'This person that you've promised to marry "'is he one that your people hear? "'He jerked his head over his shoulder "'in the direction in which Mrs. Dormersmith "'had disappeared, would approve of. "'Oh, yes,' answered May, "'then she added, not quite so confidently. "'I think so. "'At any rate, I am very proud to be loved by him.' "'And Mrs. Dobbs? "'Oh, of course, dear Granny thinks "'no one could be too good for me,' said May apologetically, "'but she knows his worth. "'Well, you please tell me how long Mrs. Dobbs "'has known of this,' asked Mr. Bragg "'with a touch of sternness. "'Known? She knew, of course, as soon as I knew myself. "'On the 27th of last September,' answered Poor May, "'with de-masque rose-cheeks. "'Mr. Bragg made a mental calculation of dates. "'His face relaxed, and he now replied "'to May's previous question. "'Yes, of course. "'I'll promise not to say a word till you give me leave, "'especially since Mrs. Dobbs knows all about it. "'Otherwise, you're young to guide yourself entirely "'in a matter so serious as this is.' "'She thanked him again and dried some stray teardrops "'that hung on her pretty eyelashes. "'He stood for a moment looking at her intently, "'but there was nothing in his gaze to startle "'her maiden innocence or make her shrink from him. "'It was an honest, earnest, kindly, though melancholy look. "'Well,' said he at last, "'you're not so curious as some young ladies. "'You haven't asked me what it was I was going to say to you. "'I dare say it was nothing serious,' she answered quickly. "'In any case, I am quite sure you will say "'and leave unsaid all that is right.' "'That's what you might call a pretty large order, Miss Chettington. "'I'm an awkward brute sometimes, I dare say, "'but I'll tell you this much. "'If I don't say what I was going to say, it isn't from pride. "'I have had that feeling, but I haven't it now "'in talking to you. "'No, it isn't from pride, "'but because I want you and me to be friends. "'Downright good friends, you know, "'and perhaps it would be more agreeable for you "'not to have anything concerning me in your memory "'that you'd wish to be what you might call "'sponged out of the record. "'I appreciate your behavior, Miss Chettington. "'You acted generous, "'and like the noble-hearted young lady I've always thought you, "'when you told me that secret of yours. "'Why now? "'Come, come, don't you fret yourself?' "'He exclaimed softly, "'for the tears were again trickling down her cheeks. "'You are so, so very kind and good to me,' "'she said brokenly. "'Lord bless me, what else could I be? "'They are there, don't you vex yourself "'by fancying me cast down or disappointed about "'anything in particular? "'A man doesn't come to my age "'without getting used to disappointments, big and little.' "'He took up his hat and stopped her by a gesture "'as she moved towards the bell. "'No, don't ring, please. "'I've got an appointment in the city, "'and not much time to spare if I walk it. "'So I'll just let myself out quietly "'without disturbing anybody. "'You can mention to your aunt "'that I shall have the honour of calling on her again very soon. "'Goodbye, Miss Chuffington.' "'May held out her hand. "'He touched it very lightly with his fingers, "'and then relinquished it silently. "'You are sure,' she said pleadingly, "'you are quite sure you're not angry with me? "'There ain't many things I'm so sure of, "'as I am of that,' answered Mr. Bragg "'in his ordinary quiet tones. "'And then he opened the door and was gone. "'He went down the stairs and threw the hall "'and into the street without being challenged. "'He shut the door softly behind him "'with a kind of instinct of escape, "'and marched away rather quickly, "'but square and steady as ever. "'After a while he looked at his watch, "'hesitated, and finally hailed a handsome cab. "'Poultry, you can take it easy. "'I'm not in a hurry,' he said to the driver "'as he got into the vehicle. "'Then Mr. Bragg leaned back and began to think. "'He had a habit of frequently closing his eyes "'when meditating, and this habit it was, "'which had impelled him to get into a cab "'since a pedestrian in the streets of London "'could only indulge in it at the risk of his life. "'And Mr. Bragg had no, not even the most passing, "'temptation to suicide. "'He shut his eyes tight now, "'tilted his head backward from his forehead "'and reviewed the situation. "'He had behaved very well to May "'and was conscious of having behaved well to her. "'She deserved the best and most considerate treatment. "'But Mr. Bragg was no angel "'and he was extremely angry with Mrs. Dormersmith. "'He felt some irritation, very unreasonably, "'as he would by and by acknowledge, against Mrs. Dobbs. "'She had been rather exasperatingly in the right. "'But Mrs. Dormersmith had been most exasperatingly "'in the wrong, and he was very angry with her. "'Why had she not confessed "'that she knew nothing at all about her niece's feelings? "'It was clear she was quite ignorant of them. "'She had only to say that she could not undertake "'to answer for May. "'That would at least have been honest. "'I dare say I might have spoken all the same, "'Mr. Bragg admitted to himself. "'I think perhaps I should. "'I'd got to that point where a man must know for himself "'what the answer is to that question "'and when likely or unlikely won't serve his turn. "'But I could have managed different. "'I needn't have looked like a Tom Naughty, trotted out there, "'making a regular show of a man. "'Not a doubt, but what that flunky knew all about it? "'Woman's a fool, Mr. Bragg's indignation "'rolled off like thunder in these broken growlings "'and beneath it all deeper than all. "'There lay an aching sorrow. "'It would not break his heart as he knew. "'It might not even spoil his dinner, "'but it was a real sorrow, nevertheless. "'In the moment of assuring him "'that he must not hope to win her, "'May had seemed to him better worth winning than ever. "'Her soft touch had opened a long-sealed "'upspring of tenderness. "'There was some rough poetry within him, "'none the less pathetic, "'because he knew thoroughly, sensitively, "'how unable he was to give it expression "'and how ridiculous the mere suggestion "'of his trying to do so would seem to most people. "'He resolutely refrained as much as possible "'from letting his mind busy itself "'with these hidden feelings. "'His very thoughts seemed to hurt them at that moment. "'He preferred to nurse his wrath "'against Mrs. Dormersmith "'and to resent her having betrayed him "'into an undignified position. "'Mr. Bragg had been prosperous and powerful "'for many years, and the sense of being balked "'was very irksome to him, "'more irksome than in the days of his poverty "'when youth and hope were elastic, "'and battles seemed a not unwelcome condition of existence. "'But before he reached the end of his eastward journey, "'Mr. Bragg began to speculate "'about the man whom May loved. "'In spite of Mrs. Dobbs' emphatic denial, "'he could not dismiss the idea "'that Theodore Bransby was the man. "'He had gathered the impression "'that Mrs. Dobbs did not like Theodore, "'and he remembered May's deprecating words. "'Granny would not think anyone too good for me, "'which seemed to indicate that Mrs. Dobbs "'had not hailed the engagement with Rapture. "'Thinking over the dates, he concluded quite correctly "'that May's lover, whoever he may be, "'had declared himself not long after his, Bragg's, "'interview with Mrs. Dobbs. "'Now Theodore Bransby had been an old chester "'at that time, as he well remembered. "'Why Theodore, if it were he, "'should keep his engagement secret "'from the Dormersmiths was not easily explicable? "'But Mr. Bragg knew the young man's political projects, "'and it might be that Theodore "'wished to approach May's family, "'armed with the importance "'which a successful electoral campaign would give him. "'One thing Mr. Bragg felt tolerably sure of, "'that Aunt Pauline would regret acutely "'the declension from a nephew-in-law "'with 50,000 a year to one whose income "'did not count as many hundreds. "'It was perhaps rather agreeable to Mr. Bragg "'to think of this. "'It was certainly a comfort to him "'to be able to dislike May's lover "'on independent grounds. "'He had always entertained an antipathy "'towards the young man, "'and however sincere and tender his interest "'in May Chevington might be, "'it did not modify by a hair's breadth, "'his opinion of young Bransby. "'And after all, it may not be him,' said Mr. Bragg, "'reflectively and ungrammatically, "'but if it isn't him, it can't be anybody I know.' "'The person he had appointed to meet in the city "'was an old Chester man, "'and when the business part of their interview "'was concluded, he said to Mr. Bragg, "'There's bad news from Cone Park, haven't you heard? "'Oh, why they say Mr. Lucius Chevington "'can't live many days. "'So that scamp, what's his name, his nephew, "'will come in for it all. "'The old Lord's awfully savage, I'm told, "'shouldn't wonder if it bulks "'young Bransby's hopes of getting his seat. "'Old Castlecone won't like paying "'election expenses for him now. "'Great pity! "'He's a very rising young man "'and a credit to old Chester.'" End of chapter one. Volume three, chapter two of that unfortunate marriage. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. That unfortunate marriage by Francis Eleanor Trollop. Volume three, chapter two. When Mr. Bragg was gone, May felt a cowardly temptation to run away to her own room and there recover her composure in solitude. But she reflected that that would be scarcely fair to her aunt, who no doubt was waiting with some impatience to hear the result of the interview. So she dried her eyes and resolutely ascended the stairs to her aunt's room. The gentle, refined voice, which had once so charmed her but which, as she had long since learned, could utter sentiments singularly at variance with its own sweetness, answered her tap at the door by saying, is that dear May, come in? May entered and saw her aunt reclining in a lounging chair by the fireside. A book lay open beside her, but she evidently had not been reading recently. She looked up at May's flushed face and tear-swollen eyes and these traces of emotion seemed to her satisfactory indications of what had passed. He has spoken, it's all right, she said to herself, then allowed with a tender smile holding out both her hands. Well, darling, the softness of her tone had a perversely hardening effect on May. If her aunt had expected her to accept Mr. Bragg and May was not dull enough to doubt this, now that her eyes were illumined by that dawn of clear-sightedness which had been so amazing to her, the least she could do was be quiet and common sensible about it. Any assumption of sentiment seemed to May to be sickening under the circumstances, so she answered dryly, Mr. Bragg desired me to tell you that he will have the honour of calling on you again before long. Is he gone? asked Mrs. Dormersmith with a momentary twinge of anxiety. Yes, he's gone. He had an appointment in the city and was rather pressed for time so he could not stay to take leave of you. Oh, exclaimed her aunt, sinking back among her cushions with a smile, I forgive him. Then seeing May turn away as if to leave the room, she suddenly sat up again and said with an air of gentle reproach, and have you nothing to say to me, dear May? Nothing particular, Aunt Pauline? Nothing particular? I do not think that is very kindly said, May. May's conscience told her the same thing. She had yielded to a movement of temper. The most sensitive cords in her own nature had been jarred and were still quivering, but that was no reason why she should be unkind or uncivil to her aunt. She repented and with her usual impulsive candor said, I beg your pardon, Aunt Pauline. I ought not to have answered you so. You have been agitated, dear child. Come here and sit down by me. Now tell me, May, you surely will tell me. Mr. Bragg has proposed to you, has he not? No, Aunt Pauline. What? Mrs. Stormersmith would have been shocked if she could have seen her own face in the glass at that moment. The vulgarest market woman's countenance could not have expressed surprise and consternation more unrestrainedly. I think perhaps he would have asked me to marry him, but I stopped him. You stopped him, echoed her aunt with clasp hands, but a little gleam of hope revived her. The matter had been mismanaged in some way. May was so deplorably devoid of tact. All might yet be well. And why, for pity's sake, May, did you stop him? Because as I could not accept him, Aunt Pauline, I wished to spare him as much as possible. Could not accept him? Good heavens, May, this is frightful. Have you lost your senses? Do you know who and what Mr. Bragg is? He's a good honest man, and I esteem him and like him. And is not that enough? Do you know that there are girls of, I won't say, better family, but higher rank than yours, who would give their ears to be? But it can't be. You are a foolish inexperienced child who don't understand your own good fortune. You cannot be allowed to throw away this splendid opportunity. I will write to Mr. Bragg myself and stay Aunt Pauline pleased to understand that I will never under any circumstances dream of marrying Mr. Bragg. He is quite persuaded of this. He and I understand each other very well, and we mean to continue good friends, but pray do not lower your own dignity by writing to him on this subject. Mrs. Dormersmith burst into tears. Go away, you ungrateful child, she said from behind her pocket handkerchief. I could not have believed you would have behaved in this manner after all I have done for you. May would have been more distressed than she was, had the spectacle of her aunt's tears been rarer. But she had seen Mrs. Dormersmith weep from what seemed to her very inadequate motives, even once at the misfit of a new gown. Nevertheless, she tried to soothe her aunt. Please don't cry, Aunt Pauline. I can't bear you to think me ungrateful. But after all, what have I done? I dare say, I am sure indeed, that you are only anxious for my welfare. And what sort of life could I expect if I married a man I could not love? I beg you will not talk such nursery maid's nonsense to me, May, returned her aunt, sprinkling some rose water on her pocket handkerchief and dabbing her wet cheeks with it. Could not love indeed? Why could you not love him? Do you expect to rant through a grand passion like a heroine on the stage? I am shocked at you, May, girls in your position owe a duty to society. May knew that her aunt was unanswerable when she broached these mysterious dogmas about society, unanswerable at all events by her. She could have soon have attempted a theological argument with a devotee of mumbo jumbo. So she held her peace and stood still, anxious to escape, and yet fearful of seeming to be unfeeling by going away at that moment. One idea at length suggested itself to her as a possible consolation for her aunt. And she proceeded to offer it with unreflecting rashness. But Aunt Pauline, she said, after all you know Mr. Bragg is a very low-born man. He was once a common artist in an old chester. And do you remember? You even thought Theodore Bransby presumptuous. The immediate reply to this well-meant suggestion was a fresh burst of tears. You are too insupportable, May. One might suppose you to be an idiot. What has been the use of all my care and my endeavours to make you look at things as a girl of your condition ought to look at them? Mr. Bragg could have placed you in a brilliant position. Now, I dare say, he will marry Felicia Houghtonville. I have no doubt he will, and it will serve you right if he does. You think of no one but yourself. What do you suppose that worthy woman, Mrs. Dobbs, will say when she hears of your behaviour? After all the money she has spent on sending you to London. May turned round suddenly. What do you say, Aunt Pauline? She asked almost breathlessly. Granny has spent money to send me to London. Mrs. Dormersmith caught out of forlorn hope. Might it not be possible, even now, to influence May through her affection for her grandmother? Of course, May, she replied with an injured air. Where do you suppose the money came from? Your uncle and I, as you must be well aware, find it difficult enough to keep up our position in society, with Cyril to place in the world and those two little boys to provide for. But Papa asked May. I thought my father was paying. You chose to assume it. I never told you so. Mrs. Dobbs particularly wished us to keep the arrangement secret and we did so. I appreciate her wisdom now in keeping it secret from you. May, for your conduct today, shows you to be destitute of the most ordinary tact and prudence. Aunt Granny, dear old Granny, has been depriving herself of money to keep me in town, exclaimed the girl, still entirely possessed with this new revelation. Mrs. Dormersmith gallantly tried to improve her opportunity. She raised herself into an upright posture in her chair and said solemnly, Yes, May, and a nice return you make for it, the good old creature, no doubt, has been pinching herself for years on your account. She has paid for your schooling, your dress, and everything. She even contrives, I dare say, by enduring some privations. Mrs. Dormersmith did not in the least suppose this to be the case, but she felt it was a rhetorical point and likely to affect her niece. She even contrives to give you a season in town with charming toilets from Amalie and a presentation dress that a Duke's daughter might have worn and everything which a right-minded girl ought to appreciate, and this is her reward. You refuse one of the finest matches in England. I cannot believe you will persist in such a wicked perversity, May, continued Pauline, rising to new heights of moral elevation. No, I cannot believe you will be so ungrateful to that good old soul, and indeed, I may say, to Providence. Really, there is something almost impious in it. Mrs. Dobbs does all she can to counteract the results. Of your father's unfortunate marriage, we all do all we can. Circumstances are so ordered by a superior power as to give you the chance of catching, of attracting the regard of a man of princely fortune, you, rather than a dozen other girls whose people have been looking after them for the last three seasons, and all this you reject. Toss it away like a baby with a toy. No, May, you are a Chetington. You are my poor unfortunate brother's own flesh and blood, and I will not believe it of you. Then, sinking back in her chair, she added in a faint voice, go away now, if you please, and send Smithson to me. I shall have to speak to your uncle when he comes in, and I really dread it. He will be so shocked, so astonished. As for me, I am utterly ordecombe-bar for the day, of course. May willingly escaped to her own room and locked herself in. Her thoughts were in a strange tumult, busied chiefly with the news about Mrs. Dobbs. Why had she not guessed it before? Was there anyone in the world like that staunch, generous, unselfish woman? This explained her giving up her old, comfortable home in Friar's Row. This explained a hundred other circumstances. May thought between laughing and crying of Joe Weatherhead's eccentric eulogy on her grandmother as compared with classical heroines, and she longed to tell him that he was right. The full tide of love and sympathy and gratitude towards Granny rose in her breast above all other emotions, and for the moment, even Mr. Bragg's wonderful proposals and her aunt's still more wonderful reception of them were forgotten. It even overflowed and temporarily obliterated impressions and feelings far keener than any which poor Mr. Bragg had power to awaken her heart. What a fool's paradise had she been living in, and what a mistaken image of her father she had been cherishing all this time. He had contributed nothing to her support. He had coolly left the whole care of her to others. He had been thoroughly selfish and indifferent. Everyone seemed selfish but Granny. One thing she hastily resolved on, not to remain another week in London at her grandmother's expense. When Mr. Dormersmith came home and was duly informed by his wife of May's incredible conduct, his dismay was nearly as great as Pauline's. Perhaps his surprise was even greater for he had accepted his wife's assurances that May was quite prepared to give Mr. Bragg a favorable answer. He could not bring himself to regard May's behavior with such lofty moral reprobation as his wife did, but he certainly thought the girl had acted foolishly and even blamably. Mr. Dormersmith was extremely anxious not to offend or discuss Mr. Bragg. To have a man of that wealth in the family might be the making of all their fortunes. Already Mr. Bragg's advice and assistance had profited him. He and his wife had even privately reckoned on Mr. Bragg's doing something handsome in a testamentary way for their young children. May was very fond of her cousins and what would a few thousands be to Mr. Bragg. Now the unexpected news which met him broke up all these glittering hopes as a thaw melts the frost diamonds. You must speak with her, Frederick. I have said all I can and I really am not equal to another scene, said Pauline. She had subsided into an attitude of calm despondency and seemed to be supported chiefly by the sense of her own unappreciated merits. She did not mention that she had already written a private confidential letter to Mr. Bragg and dispatched it by special messenger to the hotel where he usually stayed when in London. Mr. Bragg had no townhouse and the choosing and furnishing of a suitable mansion for him and his bride had been one of the rewards of virtue which Mrs. Dormersmith had for some time past been anticipating for herself. May was so young and inexperienced and Mr. Bragg, dear good rich man, had so little knowledge of the fashionable world that Pauline confidently expected to be for some years to come the presiding genius of the elegant entertainments to which they would invite only the very best society. For giving the rain to her fancy, Pauline had resolved that Mr. and Mrs. Bragg were to be extremely exclusive. A well-born girl who without fortune or title had succeeded in marrying a millionaire might surely, if there were any political justice at all in the world, indulge herself in the refined pleasures of social selection and quietly declined to receive those doubtful borderers who made society, as Mrs. Griffin often complained, so sadly mixed. All this was not to be relinquished without a struggle. Mrs. Dormersmith would do her duty to the last. Duty had commanded her to make an immediate appeal to Mr. Bragg not to take May's answer as final, but duty did not, she considered, require her to tell her husband anything about it until she saw how it had turned out. You must see her, Frederick, repeated Mrs. Dormersmith and Frederick accordingly sent for May to come and speak with him. He awaited her in the drawing room and when May entered the room, her eyes fell on the easy chair which Mr. Bragg had placed for her, standing out just where she had left it. The whole scene came back to her mind as vividly as if she saw it in a picture before her bodily eyes and the color rose to her forehead. Her uncle went to her and took her hand kindly. While May, said he, what is all this eye here? He was leading her towards the armchair but May avoided it and took another seat and Mr. Dormersmith dropped into the armchair opposite to her himself. In considering what could have been the motives which had induced her to reject Mr. Bragg, he had prepared himself to listen to some, perhaps foolishly, romantic talk on May's part. Mr. Bragg certainly could not by any stretch of friendship be considered romantic. But Uncle Frederick would try to show his niece how much sounder and solider a foundation for domestic happiness Mr. Bragg was able to offer her than any amount of the qualities which go to make up a young lady's hero of romance. What he was not at all prepared for was May's saying earnestly as she leaned forward with clasped hands. Oh, Uncle Frederick, what is all this eye here? My dear good grandmother has been impoverishing herself to pay for keeping me in London. Why did you not tell me the truth? Nothing should have induced me to accept such a sacrifice. Mr. Dormersmith was not a ready or a flexible man by nature and it took him a minute or so to alter the sight, so to speak, of the big gun he had been getting into position to mow down May's resistance against making a splendid marriage. Why? Oh, Mrs. Dobbs allowance? Oh yes, well my dear, you have pretty well answered your own question. If you had known, you would not have consented to come to town and take your proper place in society. Your aunt considered it most important that you should do so. And I'm sure, May, you must allow that she has done her very best for you in every way. Her very best, Fat May, yes, perhaps. Then she said aloud, Aunt Pauline has been very kind to me but how could there be any proper place for me in society unless I could honestly afford to take it? To get it by imposing privations on my grandmother who was not bound except by her own abundant goodness to do anything for me at all, this surely could not be right or just, could it? Mr. Dormersmith was not prepared with a cogent answer on the spur of the moment, so he fell back on murmuring some faint echoes of his wife's maxims about duty to society but he had not Pauline's sincere convictions on the subject and did it but feebly. And how Uncle Frederick proceeded, May, what a mean imposter I have been all this time. Imposter, my dear, no, no, that's nonsense, you know. He was rather relieved to find May talking nonsense. That seemed much more normal and natural in a girl of her age than being so deucid logical and high strung and that sort of thing. That, he repeated firmly, is really nonsense. But Uncle Frederick, I was appearing before everybody under false pretenses. People thought, I thought myself that my father supplied all my expenses. Mr. Dormersmith pursed up his mouth and puffed out his breath with a little contemptuous sound. Then he answered, your father, my dear May, your father hasn't paid a penny piece for you since you were seven years old. May was silent for a moment. She could not help some bitter thoughts of her father but it was not for her to utter them. At length, she said, I cannot go on accepting my grandmother's sacrifice, Uncle Frederick, I will not. It occurred to Mr. Dormersmith, as it had occurred to his wife that May's affection for Mrs. Dobbs might supply the fulcrum they wanted for their lover. He answered, well, my dear, I don't blame your feeling, though it is a little over strain, perhaps, but you have it in your own power to more than pay back all Mrs. Dobbs has done for you. How, asked May innocently, why I am sure Mr. Bragg would be only too delighted. Oh, Mr. Bragg, I was not thinking of Mr. Bragg. I would rather not talk of him just now. This was a little too much. Mr. Dormersmith's face assumed a very serious, not to say severe, expression, as he looked at his niece and said, Excuse me, May, but you must think of him and talk of him also. That was the subject I sent for you to speak about. I don't know how we have drifted away from it. Your aunt tells me that you have not actually refused Mr. Bragg but merely stopped him from proposing to you. Now, if that is the case, the matter is not past mending. No doubt Mr. Bragg may feel a little offended. He's not in the least offended, interposed May. Ah, well, so much the better, but you can hardly expect me to believe that he particularly enjoyed the interview. Mr. Bragg is a person of a great deal of importance in the world and not accustomed to be treated as if he were no consequence. However, proceeded Mr. Dormersmith, relaxing into a milder tone, I dare say he can make allowances for a young lady taken by surprise. It seems you did not expect his proposal. Expect it? How on earth could I have expected it? Some girls would. However, let us stick to the point. I don't think it is too late for you to make everything well again. Uncle Frederick, I am bound to assure you most positively that I can never marry Mr. Bragg. Now don't be obstinate, May. What is your objection to him? The girl hesitated. Then she replied, looking up with pleading eyes. How can I say, Uncle Frederick, one does not marry a man simply because one has no particular objection to him. Mr. Bragg is old enough to be my grandfather. No, scarcely that. Look here, May, I have a great affection for you. You have been very good and kind to my little boys, and they doubt on you. I am not ungrateful for all you have done for the children, although I may not have said much about it. May was melted in an instant by these words of kindness and said warmly, and I am not ungrateful, Uncle Frederick. I know you mean well by me and aren't pulling too. Certainly we do, naturally so. Well now, just listen to me, my dear. If you were my own daughter, I should give you just the same advice. I should be very glad and thankful for a daughter of mine to marry Mr. Bragg. I know a great deal more of the world than you do, or ever will, please, God, for it isn't a very pleasant kind of knowledge, and I tell you honestly, there are very few men young or old in the society we frequent, whom I'd choose for your husband rather than Mr. Bragg. He is a little uneducated and unpolished, of course. We needn't pretend not to know that, but he is a man of sound heart and sound principles, a man whose private life will bear looking into. I'm talking to you as if I really were your father, May, and I do assure you that I would not urge you to marry a man twice as rich as he is if I knew him to be, to be what some men are, and what you and your innocence have no idea of. I want you to believe that, May. I do believe that Uncle Frederick sobbed, May, taking his hand and kissing it. There, there, my dear, don't cry. I couldn't talk in this way to many girls of your age, but you have so much sense and right feeling. I wanted you to understand that I'm not an altogether hard, worldly kind of man ready to offer you up to Mammon, A. Look here, May, I would stand by you against everyone if I thought you were going to be sacrificed, but you must trust a little to the experience of those older than yourself, my dear. Come, come there now. Don't distress yourself. You are not to be pressed and hurried, you know. You will think it all over quietly. Go to your own room and lie down awhile. I will take care that you are not disturbed or worried or any way. He gently led her to the door. She was now sobbing uncontrollably. She longed to tell her uncle the truth about her engagement, but she thought that loyalty to Owen and to her grandmother forbade her to speak out fully without their leave. As she was quitting the room, she turned around and making a strong effort to speak firmly said, Uncle Frederick, I shall never, as long as I live, forget the kind words you have said to me and whatever happens, don't believe I'm ungrateful. Well, Frederick, said Mrs. Dormersmith when her husband reappeared in her room. Frederick walked to the window, took out his pocket handkerchief and answered from behind it rather huskily, Well, I don't know. I almost hope it may come right. Do you? Do you really? Well, that is a feeble ray of comfort, but it is rather too bad to have to undergo all this wear and tear of feeling in order to secure that perverse child's fortune in spite of herself. There was a long pause during which Mr. Dormersmith continued to look out of the window and to blow his nose in a further kind of way. I wonder, he began slowly and then stopped himself. You wonder, Frederick, pray speak out, I assure you, I am not able to stand much more suspense and anxiety. I was merely going to say, I wonder if there can be anyone else. Anyone else? Any man she cares for. Good heavens, Frederick, who should there be? Really, you are not very considerate to startle me with such extraordinary suppositions without the least preparation. There is no one, of course. You are sure? I am sure there is no one possible. I know, of course, every man she has danced with, or who has paid her the smallest attention, and there is not one who could be thought of for a moment, even if Mr. Bragg did not exist. I should not hesitate to speak very strongly if I suspected her of any culpable folly of that kind, a girl without a father in the world, and her father, my poor unfortunate brother Augustus, in heaven knows what dreadful position. That may, under all the circumstances, can behave in this way is too intolerable. The more one thinks of it, the more flagrant it seems. No sense of duty, no consideration for her family, I shall be compelled to say to her. Suddenly in the midst of these fluent, softly uttered sentences, Mr. Dormersmith turned around, wiped his eyes, blew his nose defiantly, and said with an explosion of feeling, the girl's a fine creature, and by God I won't have her baited. End of chapter two. Volume three, chapter three of that unfortunate marriage by Francis Eleanor Trollop, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter three, each mortal's private feelings are the measure of the importance of events to him, and it often happens that while our neighbors are pitying or envying us, on account of some circumstance which all the world agrees must have a weighty bearing on our fate, we are mainly indifferent to it and are occupied with some inner grief or joy which would seem to them very trivial. To have received and rejected an offer of marriage from a man worth 50,000 a year would have been deemed by most of May Cheffington's acquaintance about as important an event as could have happened to her short of death. But to her it was absolutely as nothing, compared with the facts that Owen was on the point of returning to England and that he was to live in Mrs. Bransby's house. Why did this second fact seem to embitter the sweetness of the first? No, it was not the fact, she told herself that was bitter, the bitterness lay in the manner of its coming to her knowledge. Why had not Owen written to her? There could be no reason to conceal it. Of course, none. Owen was doing all that was right, no doubt. But to allow her to hear of this step for the first time from Theodore Bransby at a dinner table conversation, this it was which irked her. So at least she had declared to herself last night. Then the tone in which her uncle and all of them had spoken of Mrs. Bransby and Owen had jarred upon her painfully. Theodore had not joined in the tasteless banter, but then Theodore's way of receiving it with a partly stiff, partly deprecatory air, as though there could possibly be anything serious in it was almost worse. The pathway of life which had stretched so clear and fair before her, but a short while ago seemed now to have contracted into a tangled maze in which she lost herself. The events of the morning had made May resolve that all secrecy as to her engagement must come to an end. She must see Owen immediately on his arrival in London. But how to do so? She did not know whether he was or was not in England at that very moment. Well, at all events she knew Mrs. Bransby's address and could write to him there. The thought gave her a pang and the pang was intensified by the sudden and vivid perception as one sees a whole landscape by a lightning flash out of a black sky that it was caused by jealousy. Jealousy, she, May, Chuffington, jealous, and of Owen? Yes, it might be painful, humiliating, incredible, but it was true. The flash had been inexorably sharp and clear. To young creatures, every revelation that they, even they, are subject to the common woes, pains, and passions of humanity about which they may have talked glibly enough is an amazement and a shock. Still earlier in our earthly course we doubt that death himself can touch us. What child ever realizes that it must die? It is only after many lessons that we begin to accept our share of moral frailties and afflictions as a matter of course. Poor May felt sick at heart. Oh, if she could but see, Granny, she longed for the motherly affection which had never failed her. Since the day her father left her, a rather forlorn little wave, whom no one seemed ready to love or welcome in the old house in Friar's Row, she thought that to sit quite still and silent by Granny's knee while Granny's kind old hand softly stroked her hair would charm away all her troubles or at least lull them to sleep. But for the present she could not rest. When she left her uncle and felt secure from interruption in her own room, she sat down and wrote two letters. The first was to Owen, begging him to come and see her without delay and at the same time telling him that circumstances had arisen which made it desirable to declare their engagement. The second letter was to Granny. To Granny she poured out her gratitude. She thanked her and scolded her in a breath, who had ever been so generous and so careful to conceal their generosity. And yet Granny had done very wrong to make such a sacrifice as was involved in giving up the old home in Friar's Row. Had I known this a week ago, wrote May, I do believe I should have tried to coax Mr. Bragg into breaking the lease and making you go back to the old house which you loved, but I cannot ask any favor of Mr. Bragg now. Then she told her grandmother all about her interview with Mr. Bragg and her aunt's bitter disappointment and her uncle's kind behavior, although she could see that he was disappointed too. I wonder, she added, if you would be as astonished as I was, perhaps not. I remember some things you said when I told you my grand scheme for marrying Miss Patty. Oh, dear me, I feel like someone who has been walking in his sleep, calmly and unconsciously tripping over the most insecure places. But now I have been suddenly awakened and I feel chilly and frightened and all astray. When she had written them, she resolved to post the letters herself. Since she had volunteered to take her little cousins out for a walk occasionally, the stringent rule which forbade her to leave the house unattended by a servant had been relaxed. It was so very convenient to get rid of the little boys for an hour or two at a time. It left Cecil free to do a great deal of needlework. A large proportion of it expended on the alteration and re-trimming and so forth of May's own toilettes. Mrs. Dormersmith was strictly conscientious as to that and since May never went beyond the limits of the neighboring square, there could be no objection to the arrangement. One point, however, Aunt Pauline had insisted on that these walks should always take place in the morning or at all events during that portion of the day which did duty for the morning in her vocabulary. The proprieties greatly depend, as we know, on chronology and many things which are permissible before luncheon become taboo immediately after it. By the time May had finished her letters, however, it was well on in the afternoon. Carriages were rolling through the fashionable quarters of the town and the footman's rat-tat-tat sounded monotonously like a gigantic tom-tom, sacred to the worship of society. May went downstairs and opening the hall door, found herself in the street alone for the first time since she had lived under her aunt's roof. There was a pillar letter box she knew not far distant. To this she proceeded and dropped her letters into it. It had been a fine day for a London winter but the last faint glimmer of daylight had almost disappeared as she turned to go back home. There was an assemblage of vehicles waiting before a house which she had passed on her way to the post box. Now as she returned there was a stir among them. Servants were calling up the coachmen and opening and shutting carriage doors. A number of fashionably dressed persons, mostly women, came down the steps of the house and drove away. May paused a moment to let a couple of ladies sweep past her on their way to the carriage. As she did so she heard her name called and looking round she saw Clara Bertram's face at the window of a cab drawn up near the curb stone. Is it really you exclaimed Clara as they shook hands? I could scarcely believe my eyes. What are you doing here alone? I've been posting some letters then reading an expression of surprise in the other girl's eyes. She added quickly, you wonder why I should have done so myself for a simple reason. I did not wish the address of one of them to be seen. But Granny knows all about it. I am quite sure dear you have some good reason for what you have done, answered Clara in her quiet sincere tones. And you asked me, what are you doing here? I have been singing a matinee at that house. I was just about to drive off when I caught a glimpse of you. I was not sure that it was not your ghost in the dusk. I suppose you're constantly engaged now. Yes, I have a great deal to do. Oh, I hear of you. Your praises are in everyone's mouth. Lady Moppet declares you are rapidly becoming the first concert singer of the day. She is as proud of you as if she had invented you. Indeed, she does say you are her discovery as if you were a Polynesian island. I could find it in my heart to envy you, Clara. It must be so glorious to be independent and earn one's own living. Clara smiled a faint little smile. I am thankful to be able to earn something, she said. But I don't think I should care so much about it if it were only for myself. Oh, of course dear I know, rejoin me quickly. She had been told that the young singer entirely supported an invalid father and sister. Then she added, your voice is a great gift. There are so few things a woman can do to earn money. Why, one would suppose that you wanted to earn money, said Clara, smiling, perhaps. Clara looked more closely at her friend. The street lamps were now lighted and she could see May's face distinctly. You are not looking well, dear, she exclaimed. You seem fagged. I'm sick of London. I want to go home to Granny and be at peace, answered May wearily. Then she went on quickly to stave off any possible questionings as to her state of mind. But I must return for the present to my aunt's house. Goodbye. Stay, Craig Clara, will you not get into the cab and let me drive you home? Drive? It is an affair of some two or three minutes at most. Well then, if you have half an hour to spare, let me drive you round the square and then drop you at home. I have been wanting for three or four days past to speak to you quietly. I can't bear to lose this rare opportunity. We do not meet very often. Then seeing that her friend hesitated, she asked, are you thinking about the cost of the cab for me? Yes, answered May frankly. I thought so. That is just like you. But indeed you need have no scruples. The cab is engaged for the afternoon. When I sing at people's houses, unless they send a carriage for me, the cab fare is considered in my wages. Do come in. May complied and the cab moved away slowly. When they had proceeded a few yards, Clara said, I wanted to tell you, I think it right to tell you, something I have learned on good authority. Your father, I hope it won't distress you, is really married. May's first thought was that here again her aunt Pauline had deceived her. Are you sure? She asked. Yes, I think I may say so. And how did you learn it? From Valie. Oh, from Signor Valie. But you told me he was not to be trusted. In some ways not, but I do not doubt what he says on this subject. He has no motive to invent the information. He cares nothing about the matter, except that I think he rather likes la Miss Sheffington than not. Is she a foreigner? asked May, with a little more interest than she had hitherto shown. Her listless way of receiving the news had surprised her friend. Yes, an Italian. At least she is Italian by language, if not by law, for she comes from Trees. But she is almost cosmopolitan, for she has traveled about the world a great deal. She is, or was, an opera singer. Her name in the theatre is Bianca Moretti. She was rather celebrated at one time. Clara paused a moment, and then added, I hope this news does not grieve you, dear. No, answered May dreamily, it does not grieve me. If my father is content, why should I grieve? He and I have been parted, in spirit as well as body, for so many years, that his marriage can make but little difference to me. I was afraid you might feel. Of course, Captain Sheffington's family will look on it as a dreadful mes alliance. May was silent for a few minutes, then she said a very unexpected thing. Poor woman, I hope he's good to her. I suppose, said Clara, rather hesitatingly, that the reason why Captain Sheffington has not announced his marriage to his relations is that he thinks they would object to receive an opera singer. Possibly, answered May, in her heart she thought, the reason is that he cares nothing for any of us. It must be that, proceeded Clara, for as far as I can make out, there seems to be no concealment about it in Brussels. Then they arrived at Mrs. Dormers' mishouse, and May alighted and bade her friend farewell. Thank you, Clara, she said, for telling me the truth. I loathe mysteries and concealments. When one thinks of it, they are despicable, unless when one conceals something to shield others, suggested Clara gently. She had told her friend what she believed to be the truth so far as the fact of her father's marriage was concerned, but she had not given her all the details and comments which Senior Vallee had imparted to her on the subject. His view of the matter was not flattering to Captain Sheffington. Vallee declared with cynical plainness of speech that Captain Sheffington had married LaBianca merely to have the right to confiscate her professional earnings. Laterally these had become very scanty. LaBianca did not grow younger and her voice was rapidly failing her. A good deal of gambling had gone on in her house at one time, but it had been put a stop to, or at least shorn of its former proportions, by the ugly incident of which Miss Polly Piper had brought back a version to Old Chester. Since that, things had not gone well with the Sheffington manage. Captain Sheffington had become insupportable, irritable, impossible. He was, moreover, a malod imaginaire, a quarrelous, selfish, tyrannous fellow, always bewailing his hard fate, and the sacrifice he had made in so far derogating from his rank as to marry an opera singer. LaBianca was a slave to his caprices. To be sure, she was not precisely a lamb. There were occasions when she flamed up and made quarrels and scenes. But, said Signore Vali, he is an enormous egoist, and with a woman, the bigger egoist you are, the sureer to subjugate her. LaBianca would have starved a man who'd loved her devotedly. For half the ill treatment she endures from that cold stiff ramrod of an Englishman. Such was Vigenzo Vali's version of the case, and Clara Bertram, in listening to him, believed that in the main it was a true one. Vali had recently been in Brussels where he had seen the Sheffingtons and one or two other foreign musicians whom she knew had come upon them from time to time and had given substantially the same account of them. As to persons in the rank of life to which Captain Sheffington still claimed to belong, they were no more likely to come across him now than if he were living on the top of the Andes. May went into the house wearily. In the hall she met her uncle Frederick, who had just come in and had seen the cab drive away. Who was that with you, May? He asked in some surprise. It was Miss Bertram, she answered. Then she asked her uncle to step for a moment into the dining-room. When he had done so and closed the door, she said quietly, my father is married to a foreign opera singer. They are living in Brussels. Did you and Aunt Pauline know this? Know it? Certainly not. May was relieved to hear this and drew a long breath. The sensation of living in an atmosphere of deception had oppressed her almost with a feeling of physical suffocation. She then told her uncle all that Clara Bertram had said. Mr. Dormersmith puckered his brows and looked more disturbed than she had expected. This will be another blow for your aunt, he said gloomily. I don't see why Aunt Pauline should distress herself, she answered coldly. My father is not likely to trouble her. Married or unmarried, my father seems determined to keep aloof from us all. Then she went to her own room. Mr. Dormersmith shrank from communicating this news to his wife, and as he went upstairs he anticipated a disagreeable scene. He did not very greatly care about the matter himself for he agreed with May that it was unlikely Augustus would trouble any of the family with his presence. And to keep away was all that he required of his brother-in-law. On entering his wife's room, he found her still in a morning wrapper reclining on her long chair, but her hair had been dressed and she announced her intention of coming down to dinner. Her countenance, too, wore an unexpected expression of placidity, almost cheerfulness. The country post had arrived and there were several letters scattered on a little table by Mrs. Dormersmith's elbow. Her husband went and placed himself with his back to the fire, which was burning with a pleasant glow in the grate. Well, he said in a sympathizing tone to his wife, how are you feeling now, Pauline? They had not met since his outburst about May and he had been rather nervously uncertain of his reception. Pauline never sulked, never stormed, and rarely scolded, but when she felt herself to be injured, she would be overpoweringly plaintive. Her plaintiveness seemed to wrap around you and damp you and chill you to the bone like a scotch mist. And when used retributively, was felt by her husband at all events to be very terrible, but on this occasion, as has been said, there was a certain mild serenity in her face which was reassuring. Thanks, Frederick, she answered. There seems to be a little less pressure on the brain. Smithson bathed my forehead for three quarters of an hour after you were gone. Mr. Dormersmith hastened to change the subject. Post in, I see. He said, any news? I have a very nice letter from Constance Hadlow. Answered Pauline with her eyes absently fixed on the fire. How thoughtful that girl is. What tact, what proper feeling. Ah, the contrast between her and May is painful at times. Mr. Dormersmith made a little inarticulate sound which might mean anything. Despite her beauty which he admired, Miss Hadlow was no great favourite of his, but he would not impair all the present calm in his domestic atmosphere by saying so. Miss Fortunes, pursued Pauline, still gazing at the fire, never come singly, they say, and really I believe it. Does Miss Hadlow announce any misfortune? Oh, no, at least we are bound not to look on it as a misfortune. Who could wish him to linger, poor fellow? She is staying near Cone Park, and she says Lucius has been quite given up by the doctors. It is a question of days, perhaps of hours. No, by George, poor old Lucius, returned Mr. Dormersmith with a touch of real feeling in his tone. Of course, this will make an immense difference in May's prospects. I don't mean to say that she will easily find another millionaire with such extraordinarily liberal ideas about settlements as Mr. Bragg hinted to me this morning. That is, humanly speaking, not possible, said Mrs. Dormersmith solemnly. Still, the affair may not be such an irretrievable disaster as we feared. How do you mean? As Frederick, whose mind, as we know, moved rather slowly. It must make a difference to her, repeated his wife in amusing tone. The only child in Eris of the future of I Count Castlecombe, of course. By George, I didn't think of that at the moment. Yes, Gus is the next, I suppose that's quite certain. Mrs. Dormersmith did not even condescend to answer this query, but merely raised her eyebrows with a superior and melancholy smile. Frederick pondered a minute or two, then he said, You say, Eris, but I don't think your uncle would leave Gus a pound more than he couldn't help leaving him. I fear that is likely. Still, there is much of the land that must come to Augustus, and Uncle George has enormously improved the estate. Do you know I begin to hope that I may see my poor unfortunate brother come back and take his proper place in the world? When I remember what he was five and 20 years ago, it does seem cruel that he should have been absolutely eclipsed during all this time. I recollect so well the day he first appeared in his uniform. He was brilliant, poor Augustus. Mr. Dormersmith felt that the difficulty of telling his wife what he had just heard assumed a new shape. He had feared to add to the load of what Pauline considered family misfortunes. Now it seemed as if his news would dash her rising spirits and dark and rosy at hopes. He passed his large hand over his mouth and chin and said, with his eyes fixed uneasily on his wife, who was still contemplating the fire with an air of abstraction. Ah, yes, but there may be a lady-castle comb to find a place in the world for. Not improbable, I hope there may be. Augustus is a little past the prime of life. It would compensate for much if... I'm sorry to say, Pauline, that there's no chance of that. I mean of such a marriage as you're thinking of. I came upstairs on purpose to tell you. In one way it won't make any difference to us, and I'm sure your brother has never deserved much affection or consideration from you, but still I know it will worry you. Mrs. Dormersmith sat upright, with her hands grasping the two arms of her chair, and said, with a sort of despairing calm, Be good enough to go on, Frederick. I entreat you to be explicit. I dare say you mean well, but I do not think I can endure much more suspense. Well, you know the rumours we've heard from time to time about that disreputable Italian woman in Brussels, opera singer of something of the kind. Well, I'm afraid there's no use deleting ourselves. I think it comes on good authority. Your brother has married her. End of chapter three.