 Volume 2, Chapter 9 of That Unfortunate Marriage. This Libra Vox recording is in the public domain. That Unfortunate Marriage by Francis Eleanor Trollop. Volume 2, Chapter 9. Theodore Bransby at first indignantly repudiated Vally's scandals about Captain Sheffington. He was quite unprepared for them having it may be remembered, heard nothing of Miss Piper's story, told of the dinner party in his father's house, and having more over loftily snubbed everyone in Old Chester who ventured to hint anything to the disparagement of his distinguished friend. What could Old Chester know about such persons as the Sheffingtons? But general testimony and public opinion were too strong for him, and he was forced to give up his distinguished friend. He fell back on mysterious hints of sympathy and intimacy with the family, and allusions to what poor dear Lucius had said to him on the last occasion of their dining together at Mrs. Dormersmith's. In his heart, Theodore was deeply annoyed. He considered that Captain Sheffington, supposing report to speak truly, had not only derogated from his proper place in the world, but had in some sense personally injured him, Theodore, by forming a connection so far beneath him. Nevertheless, it was very possible that Captain Sheffington might some day come to be Viscount Castlecomb, and much would be forgiven to a wealthy peer of the realm. Theodore was conscious that he himself could forgive much to such a one. He was not prone to indulge in idle fancies, yet he caught himself once or twice writing on a corner of his blotting pad the words, Honorable Mrs. Theodore Bransby, with pensive sentiment. But let her father's fate and fortunes be what they might. Theodore felt that he must still desire to marry May Sheffington. The recognition of this feeling in himself gave him an agreeable sense of his own elevation of soul. That fellow-rivers talked a vast deal of flashy nonsense which dazzled people, but it was possible to take a serious and sensible view of life without being commonplace. Theodore did not by any means wish to be, or to be thought commonplace. He had just been called to the bar, and ought by this time to have begun his professional career on the Midlands Circuit. But he lingered in Old Chester on the plea of delicate health. It was not so much the presence of May Sheffington. As that of Owen Rivers, which chained him there, if Rivers would but have left Old Chester, Theodore would have turned his back on it also with small reluctance. The dull vague jealousy of Rivers, which he began to feel long ago, had become acute. Rivers would have been a distasteful personage to him under any circumstances, but viewed as a rival, he inspired something like loathing, and yet the desire to watch him, not to lose sight of him so long as May should be in Old Chester, was irresistible. Theodore had never come so near quarreling with his stepmother as on the subject of Owen Rivers, but he had failed in causing the latter to be excluded, or even coldly received by Mrs. Bransby. There was a painful scene one day at luncheon, when Martin, Mrs. Bransby's eldest boy, vehemently took up the cudgels in defense of his absent friend Owen, of whom Theodore had been speaking with sneering contempt. Martin was ordered away from the table for being impertinent to his half-brother, but general sympathy was with the culprit, and Mr. Bransby said when the boy had left the room. Of course it would not do to allow Martin to be saucy, but you are too hard upon Rivers, Theodore. He may have his faults, but if he be idle, he is not self-indulgent. Rivers has a spartan disdain of personal luxuries, and although he doesn't work, no one suffers by that but himself. He is incapable of a mean thought, has a most noble trustfulness of nature, and is a gentleman to the core. Theodore turned deadly white and answered, I am sorry not to be able to agree with you, sir. To be a lounging hangar on, as Rivers is, at the Hadlows, is not compatible with my conception of a gentleman. He rose as he spoke and left the room so as to cut off any possibility of a reply. Mrs. Bransby had sat by with downcast eyes, parted lips, and beating heart. She was divided between delight at hearing her husband assert his own opinion against Theodore, and her constitutional timidity and dread of a quarrel. When Theodore was gone, she put her hand on her husband's shoulder and said, It is like, you, dear Martin, to stand up for the absent. We are all, the children and I, so fond of young Rivers. I hate prigishness and I hate spitefulness, rejoined Martin Bransby with a sparkle in his fine dark eye. The old man's face had flushed when he uttered his protest. It was an unusual outburst for, of late, whether from failing health or from whatever cause, Mr. Bransby had more and more shrunk from opposing or contradicting Theodore. He seemed almost timidly anxious to conciliate him, and was evidently distressed by any symptom of ill will between his eldest son and the rest of the family. After a while, the flush died from his cheek and the fire from his eye. He sat with bowed head, softly caressing the white-jeweled hand, which had slid down from his shoulder. Presently he said, Don't let us cherish feuds or blow up resentment, Louis. If there are subjects on which Theodore thinks differently from you and me and me too, my dear, let us avoid them. He has his good points, though he has weak ones, as we all have. Let us spare them. Theodore may be very helpful to the boys when I am gone, and I have it very much at heart, that there should be peace and goodwill between them. In Theodore's mind, however, the little incident rankled. He was silent about it, but that was no indication that he had either forgiven or forgotten it. He was also annoyed and disappointed at seeing Mae Chepington so seldom during this sojourn at home. He had formerly met her constantly at College Quad, but he could not now frequent Cannon Hadlow's house as he had done in old days, even had he wished it. And although it appeared that Mrs. Bransby had struck up a great friendship with Mae during his absence, Mae's visits to her were very brief and rare. Theodore half suspected that his stepmother perversely stinted her invitations to the girl for the express purpose of vexing him, and at lengthy plainly asked her how it was that Mrs. Chepington came to their house so seldom. Mrs. Bransby was tempted to give him her real opinion as to the reason, but she refrained. She would not vex Martin by saying sharp things to his son. So she answered vaguely that Mrs. Chepington now passed a good deal of her time at Garnet Lodge with her friend Clara Bertram. Excuse me, said Theodore, tilting his chair and looking down as from the summit of Mont Blanc upon his stepmother. The Dormasmiths were very kind to that little Bertram girl in town, and Mrs. Dormasmith launched her in some of the best houses, but pardon me for setting you right. She is not quite on such a footing as to be a friend of Mrs. Chepington's. However, he acted on the hint accidentally given, and began to honor the Miss Piper's with frequent visits. The good-natured old maids received him very kindly, but it may be doubted whether he were particularly welcome to any of the persons who had taken the habit of dropping in nearly every evening at Garnet Lodge. Major Mitten and Dr. Hatch were old habituaries, but the circle now included some new ones. Mr. Bragg was often there. Theodore considered it striking proof of the incurable commonness of Mr. Bragg's tastes, already illustrated to Theodore's apprehension by a memorable instance that he, to whom some of the best county society was accessible, and who had even been invited to Glengauri, should prefer the middle-class sitting room and the middle-class gossip of Polly and Patty Piper. There was, too, the inevitable Owen Rivers, and occasionally Mr. Sweeting and Cleveland Turner would drive over from the country house, which the former had hired in the neighborhood. Miss Bertrand's visit was prolonged, and Theodore's opinion very unduly. It might be all very well to invite her for professional purposes, but once the musical party was over it was absurd to keep the girl as a visitor in the house. Altogether there was much that Theodore disapproved of at Garnet Lodge, but as he told himself, he went there for a purpose totally disconnected with its owners, and if he did some violence to his social principles by condescending to frequent such an undistinguished and bourgeois set of people, he was resolved to make amends by totally dropping their acquaintance in the not-distant future. As to May, although he genuinely believed that the Dormersmiths had influenced her against him, he was not so foolish as to think that she had been coerced, or that she was at all in love with him. Nevertheless, a vast deal might depend on the influence of those around her, in the case of a girl so young, so fresh-hearted, and so inexperienced. He had faith in his own perseverance and constancy. The main point, the only vital point, was to prevent any rival from succeeding. So long as May were free he had good hope. It was quite certain that the Cheffington family would never sanction her marrying Owen Rivers. That must be taken as absolutely sure. And indeed, Miss Cheffington herself would probably scout the idea. But with regard to what Rivers hoped and intended, Theodore could not be mistaken. There at least he was clear-sighted. It was disgraceful on the part of a fellow like Rivers, subsisting on idleness on a beggarly pittance, and without prospects for the future, or advantages in the present, to aspire to such a girl as May Cheffington. Of course Rivers knew very well that it would prove a good speculation. May might prove to be the sole heiress of a rich nobleman. At any rate, she would certainly inherit her grandmother's money. Mrs. Dobb's savings, however paltry, would be sufficient bait for Rivers who had none of that ambition for fine tailoring, upholstery, and the paraphernalia of fashionable life which becomes a gentleman. Jealousy apart, perhaps that which made Owen peculiarly offensive to him, was to see a man at once so poor, so contented, and so free from any misgivings, as to his right to be generally respected. On his side it must be owned that Owen wasted no cordiality on Theodore, to see May speaking civilly to that correctly dressed and dignified young man caused Mr. Rivers a certain irritation, which occasionally manifested itself in the most unreasonable ill humor towards her. I really believe you like his empty arrogance, he said to her once. Why else you should sit and listen to him without complacent air I cannot conceive. I enjoy it of all things, answered May mischievously. Otherwise I should of course cut him short by remarking in a loud voice and with a ferocious glare. Mr. Brunsby, I look upon you as a tedious prig. How delightful social intercourse would become if we had all reached that fine point of sincerity. But there were other causes of dislike between the young man, unconnected with May Chetington. Owen felt not only admiration but regard for Mrs. Brunsby and resented her stepson's demeanor towards her, while Theodore was embittered by hearing Owen's praises in his own family. The perception of this lurking enmity between them made May anxious to smooth asperities and prevent a rupture. In her heart, although she admitted he had done nothing to startle or offend her of late, she intensely disliked Theodore Brunsby, yet she found herself in a position of taking his part against Owen. Owen was too absolute, too inflexible, too implacable, she said. After all, Theodore had always conducted himself irreproachably. He might not be agreeable to them. May had innocently come to join herself with Owen in this kind of partnership and sentiment. But probably they were not always agreeable to other people. They ought to be tolerant if they wished to be tolerated and the like sage reflections. All which pretty lectures, though they made Owen no wit less obstinate towards Theodore, melted his heart into ever-softer tenderness for May. She had not gone to Glen Gowry. The reprieve he had allowed himself, after which she was to depart, and he must steal himself to endure her absence for probably the remainder of his life, had expired. But May was still there, and there, too, was he. He was free to go away at any moment, but he lingered. He began to suffer sharp pangs of regret when he thought of the lost opportunities which lay behind him. For now, sometimes it seemed to him, as if this sweet, pure girl might come to love him. And what had he to offer her? How could he ask her to share such a life as his? Owen had held certain uncompromising theories, such as that a woman who hesitated to partake poverty with the man she professed to love was not worth winning, and that a man must be but a poor creature who should weigh a woman's fortune against himself and fear to woo a well-doward girl, lest he might be thought to love her money-baz and not her. And he had long ago decided that with his marriage, at least, supposing that unlikely event ever took place, considerations of money should have nothing to do on either side. But theories, even true theories, are apt to find themselves a little out of breath when suddenly confronted with the fact. The advice so vigorously given by Mrs. Dobbs to do some honest work, if it were but breaking stones upon the road, took a new significance when he thought of May, that on this point May agreed with her grandmother's view he had ascertained, although a shy consciousness restrained her from urging him to change his course of life. He began to cast about in his mind for some possible employment, but he found, as so many others had found before him, how difficult it is to turn general requirements into a definite channel. A chance word of Mr. Bragg's at length suddenly suggested a hope to him. Mr. Bragg mentioned one evening at Garnet Lodge that he proposed making a journey into Spain, partly on matters connected with his son's business, and said that he should like to find some trustworthy person to accompany him as secretary and interpreter. I don't speak any foreign language myself, said Mr. Bragg. Of course, there's always somebody that knows English, and pound sterling are a pretty universal language I find and make themselves understood everywhere, but still you're at a disadvantage with people who can talk your tongue while you can't talk theirs. But you could send somebody, couldn't you? suggested Ms. Paddy. Spain, I've heard, is such a horrid country. Horrid! cried Major Mitten indignantly. He was strong in recollections of sundry youthful escapades and excursions from Gibb. Most delightful country, most pick-a-risk, poetical, and... Oh yes, but I meant the cooking, explained Ms. Paddy. Mr. Bragg, however, valorously declared himself ready to face the perils of Spanish cookery. His son was not satisfied with his correspondent at Barcelona. Mr. Bragg wanted change of air, and since he had given up the idea of visiting the highlands this autumn, he would take this opportunity of seeing foreign parts, and at the same time looking into matters at Barcelona for his son. Owen's heart beat fast, as the thought occurred to him, of offering himself to Mr. Bragg as secretary for this journey. He hurried after Mr. Bragg when the latter's carriage was announced, and stopped him in the hall to ask him when and where he could have a private interview with him. Mr. Bragg answered in his slow, ruminating way as he took his coat from the servant. An interview with me. Oh well, why not come over to lunch? My house ain't beyond a pleasant walk for your young legs. I know, thank you, I won't come to luncheon, but I want an appointment. I shall not take up much of your time on business. Oh, on business, is it? said Mr. Bragg. It was curious to note how evidently the sound of the word made him bring his mind to bear on what was said to him, with a new and keener attention. On business? It's nothing you could write, I suppose. Yes, I could write it, shall I? I think it would be the best plan if you don't mind. You see, I find in a general way that talk, what you might call branches out so. Now a letter limits a man. I don't mean this for your particular case, you know, but speaking in a general way, perhaps if we find afterwards that there is anything to talk over, you might look me up at my office in Friar's Row. It'll be easier to settle all that when I know what the business is. Good night, my respects to your aunt. Owen hastened to his lodgings and set himself at once to compose a letter to Mr. Bragg, seeing that it was then past eleven o'clock at night and that Mr. Bragg had set out for his country house. It was gersely probable that he should have found a secretary between that hour and the following morning, but Owen felt as if every moment's delay might be fatal. Old Chester Persons, who had seen him lounging on Cannon Hadlow's lawn and merely knowing him as a young man fond of smoking and reading and such unprofitable employments, would have been amazed at the impetuous energy he threw into the writing of this letter. But the same weight of character which gives massiveness to repose adds a formidable momentum to action. The main difficulty he soon found was to make his letter short. Thus, after several failures and the tearing up of three copies, he accomplished to a fair extent, if not wholly to his satisfaction. When he had finished the letter, he put it into a cover, stamped and addressed it, and went out to post it with his own hand. By that time it was considerably past midnight. The letter could have been delivered by hand in Friar's Row next morning and would probably have reached Mr. Bragg equally soon. But it was a relief to Owen in his restless impetuous mood to have done something irrevocable. And there are a few actions in life so obviously irrevocable as posting a letter. This is what he had written. Dear sir, I venture to offer myself for the post of your secretary during the journey you propose making to Spain. My qualifications are honesty, a fair knowledge of the Spanish language, and considerable experience of travelling in Spain, where I have made too long tours on foot. Perhaps I ought to add to these good health and willingness to be useful. My disadvantages are ignorance of the forms of mercantile correspondence, and inexperience of the duties of a secretary. I believe I could learn both very quickly. I have hitherto been a man without occupation. I am now anxious to have one by which I can earn money. Should you, on inquiry and consideration, think I could honestly earn some as your secretary, I should be grateful if you would give me a trial. I am ready to wait on you at your office or elsewhere in case you wish for an interview. And remain, dear sir, yours truly, Owen Rivers. The following afternoon, Owen was summoned to see Mr. Bragg at his office. The old house in Fryer's Row had been painted and varnished inside and out, plate glass glittered in the window panes, and elaborate brass handles shown on the doors. Owen had never been in the house during the days of Mrs. Dobb's occupation, but he knew that May had spent much of her childhood there, and he looked around the private room into which he was shown, with a tender glance, such as probably never before rested on those mahogany office fittings, Morocco-covered chairs, and neatly ranged account books. Mr. Bragg was sitting at a writing table and held out his hand without rising when Owen entered. Sit down, Mr. Rivers, he said, pointing to a chair opposite to his own, on the other side of the table. Owen sat down and remained waiting in silence. Well, so you think you'd like to go to Spine with me, said Mr. Bragg, slowly rubbing his chin and looking thoughtfully at the young man? I should like to get work to do, Mr. Bragg. I don't care much where it is, but it struck me that I might be useful to you in Spain. Ah, well, I was surprised at your letter. Nothing in it that you object to, I hope. Oh, no, Odea, no. Only I didn't know you was in warrant of employment. And I should have thought, yes, I should have thought you'd have liked some more what you might call professional employment. A man can't step into a profession from one day to another, and besides, the professions are overstocked. There's no elbow room in any of them, especially for a poor man. Ah, yes, I hear that sort of thing this said a great deal, but it seems to me that it might be a reason for giving up living altogether. There's a good many of us in all classes, one way and another, but a man has got to make room for himself. You have a right to say so, Mr. Bragg, and I have no right to dispute it, for you have tried and succeeded, and I have not even tried. That seems a pity, with your education and all. However, I didn't intend to branch out, as I said to you last night. With regard to the point in hand, I would just say at once that this situation would be strictly temporary, you understand. It couldn't be looked on in the light of what you might call an opening. I understand. At the same time, it might, I don't say it would, lead to an opening, continued Mr. Bragg, indenting the paper before him by drawing his thumbnail along it with a strong steady movement, as though he mentally saw the opening in question and were mapping out the way to it. I quite understand that if you engaged me as secretary for this journey, you would not bind yourself to anything beyond. Whether anything further came out of it or not would depend first on my suitableness and next on circumstances. That's it, said Mr. Bragg, leaning back in his chair and nodding slowly. Well, Mr. Bragg, I can only say I would do my best. As to my knowledge of Spanish, I'm not afraid. I began to learn the language first for the sake of reading salantes, as so many people have done before me, but since then I have acquired a colloquial knowledge of it by talking with all sorts of Spaniards when I was tramping about their country. I have heard, said Mr. Bragg, not displeased to show himself acquainted with the literary aspect of the matter of a man that learned Spanish in order to read a book called Don Quixote, just as I did. Oh, did you? I thought you mentioned a different name. And can you write it? Fairly well, but I should have to learn the commercial style. There'd be more need perhaps for you to understand it than to write it yourself. All communications with my son in Buenos Aires could of course be written in English. Mr. Bragg here made a long thoughtful pause. It was so long a pause that Owen at length broke it by saying with a smile, though the color rose to his brow. As to my character, I can't give you one from my last place because I never had a place, but my uncle Ken and Hadlow will, I believe, guarantee my trustworthiness. He felt a queer little shock when Mr. Bragg, instead of protesting himself fully satisfied on that score, answered in a matter of fact tone. Oh, yes, I dare say he will. I make no doubt, but will that be all right? Then after a second shorter pause he continued, There's one point, Mr. Rivers, that I must put quite plain. I expect everybody in my employment to obey orders. Now you see, you, having been what you might call brought up a gentleman, might not. Oh, I hope you don't think that insubordination is part of the gentlemen's bringing up. It hadn't ought to be, but it's best to be clear. Clearly then, I can undertake to obey your orders, and I would only warn you to give them carefully, because I shall carry them out to the letter. If you ordered me to make a bonfire of your banknotes, I should burn them all without mercy. Mr. Bragg laughed his quiet inward laugh. There was something in the conception of himself ordering banknotes to be burned, which keenly touched his not very lively sense of the ludicrous. All right, said he, I'll take that risk. Then am I to conclude? May I hope that you will engage me, asked Owen with nervous eagerness. Why, I shall ask leave to turn it over in my mind a little longer. But I'll undertake not to keep you waiting beyond tomorrow morning. You see, if I do make an offer, it's best you should have it in writing. And similarly, if you accept it, I ought to have that in writing. Thank you, then I need not intrude longer on your time. No intrusion at all, Mr. Rivers. Good morning to you. Owen turned round at the door, and coming back to the writing table said, May I ask you to keep my application to yourself for the present? Certainly, answered Mr. Bragg. But he looked slightly surprised. Of course, I don't mean the thing to be secret so far as I am concerned. Why, no, we could oddly keep it secret, said Mr. Bragg gravely. Of course not. But if your answer should be favourable, I should like to be the first to tell a person, the one or two persons who take any interest in me. But I shall have to say a word to your uncle, and that's pretty well the same thing as saying it to your aunt, I take it. Oh yes, to be sure, I didn't mean you not to mention it to them. All right, I certainly shall not mention it to anybody else, returned Mr. Bragg. And when the young man was gone, he said to himself, I wonder who else there is I could mention it to that would care two straws one way or the other. I like his way. He don't jaw like that young Bransby, and he didn't try to soap me. The next day, Owen Rivers was formally engaged as traveling secretary to Mr. Bragg for three months, beginning from October, which was now near at hand. End of Chapter 9. Volume 2, Chapter 10 of That Unfortunate Marriage. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. That Unfortunate Marriage by Frances Eleanor Trollop. Volume 2, Chapter 10. Mrs. Dobbs had judged rightly as to the effect of May's letter on her aunt Pauline. That sorely-tried lady was overwhelmed at this time by various troubles. She did not write to May but addressed a very long and somewhat rambling letter to Mrs. Dobbs. After the strongest expressions of dismay and horror at the rumor of her brother's marriage, Pauline proceeded, I really cannot answer May's letter, at all events not at present. I am deeply distressed that she should have addressed me on the subject at all. It is such terribly bad form in a girl of her age to appear cognizant of anything not brought to her knowledge by the proper channels. I had heard a vague report of the connection, which was bad enough, but who could have supposed that Augustus would have degraded himself to the point of marrying such a person, but I ought not to trouble you with my feelings on this matter. For I am very sure you cannot imagine one tithe of the various distressing results to the family which will flow from it. It is much to be regretted that May so precipitately decided not to go to Glengauri, particularly under recent untoward circumstances. I learn from a friend in town that my cousin, Mr. Lucius Checkington, is much better. I do not mean, of course, that this is an untoward circumstance, but it alters the position of affairs. I scarcely know what I write. You may not be aware. Few persons are aware of the delicate state of my nervous system. I suffer keenly from any mental pressure, and of late I seem to have had nothing else. My cure at this place has been sadly interfered with by anxiety for others. But really, were the poor dear Lucius recovered or not, if this story from Belgium is true, my niece's position will be a most painful one. From the tone of her letter to me, I can see that she does not at all take in the situation. You can tell her one thing from me. If my brother were to succeed to the title tomorrow, he would have nothing but what the entail gives him. So if she imagines otherwise, it would be well to deceive her. You won't mind my saying that in this respect, the circumstances of my brother's first marriage were peculiarly unfortunate, since they prevented any settlement being made for the children. I, said Mrs. Darbes, interrupting her reading at this point, not to mention that by that time Augustus had nothing left to settle. Then she resumed the letter. You and I, my dear Mrs. Darbes, must join our forces in face of these new and trying circumstances. The more I think of it, the more I regret that my niece has missed the opportunity of going to Glen Gowrie, especially since I have learned that Mrs. Griffin is going to chaperone another young lady in her stead. In society, it is fatal to drop out of sight. You are forgotten immediately, and I cannot expect Mrs. Griffin to do more than she has done. Indeed, both she and the dear Duchess have been extraordinarily kind. I fear May scarcely appreciates how kind, but the truth is that she is singularly, I scarcely know the word to use, not dull, but indifferent on certain points. There is an apathy about her sometimes, which has caused her uncle and myself a great deal of distress, but really she must rouse herself from it now. It is a great comfort to us to know that you, my dear Mrs. Darbes, take a sound view of my niece's position and have her best interests at heart. Believe me, very truly yours, P. Dorma Smith. P. S. I have this moment received a letter from Ms. Hadlow, in which she mentions, amongst other items of news, that the gentleman whom I wrote her as being interested in May has declined his invitation to claim gallery and is now an old chester. There appears to be something absolutely providential in this. I know you have great influence over May. Pray exert it to make her see what is right. I have never been able to get her to look on her social position as involving certain duties. But indeed, in her case, the duty immediately before her of obtaining a splendid settlement in a fine position is an easy one. I have seen cases of real sacrifice to this social obligation endured without murmur. Since they are both an old chester, it must surely be easy to give the gentleman every opportunity of presenting his suit. Indeed, there may be better opportunities than at Glen Gallery. The longer we live, the more we realise how everything is overruled for good. P.D.S. I reopen this to write an essential word. The name of the gentleman I have alluded to. You may form some conception of the pressure on my brain from my having omitted to do so before. He is a Mr. Bragg, a man of very large wealth, and received everywhere. I know that my uncle has more than once received him at Cone Park. And he would, I daresay, have got some chaperone there and had May down for a time. But, of course, under the bereavement, we have all just suffered in the death of my cousin George. This cannot be yet present. But there surely must be among the better families in Old Chester, some whom Mr. Bragg visits, possibly the bishop if he is there, or perhaps the dean. I know Lady Mary slightly. Pray lose no time, my dear Mrs. Dobbs, in ascertaining this. Mrs. Dobbs pondered long after reading this epistle. In May's absence, she often turned over in her mind the advantages of an alliance with Mr. Bragg, remembered favourable precedents, and taught herself to think that it might be. The sight of the girl's face and the sound of her voice were apt to scatter these fancies as sunrise scatters the mists. But they returned when May disappeared again and haunted all the old woman's lonely hours. One morning, after an evening spent at Garnet Lodge, when Mrs. Dobbs was alone with her grandchild and was meditating how she should approach the subject chiefly in her thoughts, May unexpectedly began. Granny, do you know I have something to say that will surprise you? Have you, May? Nothing ought to surprise me. It's 70 odd. But somehow, things do surprise me still. Of course they do, Granny. I think it is only blockheads who are never astonished, because one thing is much the same to them as another. Well, I'm glad I can prove myself no blockhead. It's such an easy rate. What is your surprise about, May? It's about Mr. Bragg. The colour came into May's cheeks as she looked up with a bright shy glance from her favourite low seat beside Granny's knee. But it was nothing to the deep, sudden flush which died Mrs. Dobbs' face. She looked at her grandchild almost vacantly for a moment and then grew paler than before, but May did not observe all this. She sat smiling to herself, with the colour varying in her face, as it so easily did on the very slightest emotion. Her hands clasped round her knees and her bright head bent down as she continued, I have had my suspicions for some time past, but I said nothing until the last night. Then when I went into Clara's room to put my hat on, I just gave her a tiny hint, and she said very likely I was right and did not laugh at me a bit, but I daresay you will laugh at me, Granny. Let us hear my last, said Mrs. Dobbs, moistening her lips, which felt parched. Well, I think that Mr. Bragg has a motive in coming so often to Garnet Lodge. I suppose he has. Ah, but a very special motive, a matrimonial motive. There, Granny. Mrs. Dobbs looked down with a singular expression at the shining brown hair so near to her hand, which rested on the elbow of her easy chair, but she did not caress it as she habitually did when within reach. She sat quite still and merely said, So, you think it's surprising that Mr. Bragg should have matrimonial intentions, do you? Oh, no, it isn't that. Mr. Bragg is a very kind-hearted man and would be sure to make a good husband, and do you know he is very far from stupid, Granny? I daresay. Joshua Bragg always had his head screwed on the right way. His manner is against him. Of course, he is uneducated and rather slow, but after all, that doesn't matter so very much. And he's rich, added Mrs. Dobbs in a dry tone. Ever so rich, I'm sure he must have heaps and heaps of money, or else Aunt Pauline would not approve of him so highly. And not quite decrepit. Decrepit? What a word to use, Granny. No, I should think not indeed. Hmm. Neither a brute, nor in his dotage, and immensely rich. I don't know what a woman can wish for more, said Mrs. Dobbs with increasing bitterness. Like Granny, exclaimed May, looking up. I thought you rather liked Mr. Bragg. I've always heard you speak well of him. The hand on the chair arm clenched and unclenched itself nervously, as Mrs. Dobbs answered in short, jerky sentences, and as though she were forcing herself with an effort to utter them. Oh, so I do. Joshua Bragg is an honest kind of man. I'm nothing against him. Don't think that, my lass. Well, Granny, but now for the surprise, I wonder you have not guessed it by this time. Who do you think is the lady? I can't guess. Tell it out, May, and have done with it. To be sure, there is not much choice. If it were not one, it must be the other. But I have made it my mind that Mr. Bragg and Ms. Patty will make a match of it. What do you say to that, Granny? Mrs. Dobbs said nothing but gasped and laid her head back on the cushion of her chair. I thought you would be surprised, but when one comes to think of it, it seems very suitable, doesn't it? Mr. Bragg admires Ms. Patty's cookery above everything, and she is such a kind, charitable soul. She would do worlds of good with riches, and they agree on so many points, even their crotchets. And you know Ms. Patty would look 10 years younger if she would leave off that yellow wig. She has such nice, soft gray hair that she brushes back. I have settled that she is to leave off the wig when she marries Mr. Bragg and take to picturesque mobcaps. I have been arranging all sorts of things in my own mind. I'm quite coming out in the character of a matchmaker, Granny. In the midst of her chatter, the girl looked up and uttered an exclamation of dismay. Her grandmother's head still lay back against the cushion of the chair. Her eyes were closed, and she seemed to be laughing to herself, but the tears were pouring down her cheeks. At May's exclamation, she opened her arms wide and then pressed the girl's bright brown head against her breast, saying brokenly, I'll be feared, child. I'm all right. I couldn't help laughing a bit. It's so, so funny to think of old Joshua and Ms. Patty. But you are crying too, Granny. Is anything the matter? Do tell me. Nothing, child. I'm all right. Poor Joshua. He was a good lad when he worked for your grandfather. And I remember her, a little miss and a white frock and a blue sash. It brings up old times, that's all, May. Lord, what fools we are when we try to be cunning. And Mrs. Dobbs went off again into a fit of laughter, interspersed with Sobs. I didn't try to be cunning, said May indignantly. You, my lamb, whoever thought you did. Returned her grandmother wiping her eyes and kissing May's forehead. By and by, she resumed her usual solid self-possession. She told May that she did not agree in her view of the state of the case and advised her not to hint her matchmaking project to anyone. You have said a word to Ms. Bertram, and that can't be taken back. But she is wise beyond her years and will not chatter. But there's nothing wrong in the idea, Granny, protested May, who was considerably puzzled by her grandmother's unusual demeanour. No, no, nothing wrong. Only Mr. Bragg might not like it. He might be looking after a young wife, who knows. Anyway, we will keep our ideas to ourselves. As she spoke, the latch of the garden gate clicked and, following May's glance, Mrs. Dobbs saw from the open window Owen Rivers advancing up the path towards the house. The gentleman of princely fortune, whose image had interposed between her shrewd apprehension and the facts before her, having melted away like a phantom, she perceived that here was a new influence to be reckoned with. A new force, which, whether for good or ill, might help to shape her grandchild's future. May I come in? asked Owen. Come in, Mr. Rivers. Mrs. Dobbs felt as though she had invited embodied destiny to cross her threshold, destiny in the prosaic guise of a blue-eyed, square-built young man in a shooting jacket and a wide-awake hat. But that power does not often appear to mortals with much outward pomp and circumstance. We are like children who think a king must needs go about in royal robes, crowned and sceptred. But the decree which changes our lives is mostly signed by some plain figure in everyday clothes, whom we should not turn our heads to look upon. Owen entered the little parlor and came and stood opposite to Mrs. Dobbs' chair without any of the customary salutations. Well, said he eagerly, I have some news for you. Lord have mercy, this is a day of news, muttered Mrs. Dobbs under her breath. Then she said aloud, I hope it's good news. I have found some work to do, is that good? Mrs. Dobbs clapped her hands softly. Very good, she said. Half an hour ago, her approbation would have been more heartily expressed. But she was looking at him now with different eyes, and considering his prospects with a new and serious interest. You haven't asked me what the work is, said Owen, just a little disappointed by her quietude. I suppose it is not stone-breaking, but if it is, I stick to my colours, better that than nothing. You will say, Mrs. Dobbs, that I am luckier than I deserve to be. I am engaged as secretary to a man who is about to travel in Spain. I happen to know Spanish. Luck again, for I learned it merely to amuse myself. Yes, I do think that isn't bad for a beginning, and I hope it will lead to something more. Who is the gentleman, if I may ask? Before Owen could answer, May, who had perched herself on the elbow of Joe Weatherhead's vacant chair, said, I think I can guess it's Mr. Bragg. Mr. Bragg echoed her grandmother as if doubtful of having heard her right. I remember hearing him talk of a journey into Spain, and of wanting to find a gentleman to go with him. Am I not right? Quite right, answered Owen. Mr. Bragg, well, that is strange, whispered Mrs. Dobbs to herself. Owen had taken a chair and sat bending forward with his elbows on his knees, pleading and puckering in his fingers the brim of his soft-felt hat. He had not hitherto so much as looked towards May. Now he straightened himself in his chair and fixing his eyes on her earnestly ask. And what do you say to my news, Miss Chepington? I say as Granny does that I am very glad, she answered smiling but speaking in a subdued tone. It's more to the purpose to ask what canon and Mrs. Hadlow say to it, put in Mrs. Dobbs. I hope they are pleased. I dare say I have no doubt. I have not seen Aunt Jane yet. The fact is I am on my way to College Quad, but I thought I would look in here as I passed and tell you that I have followed your advice, Mrs. Dobbs. The direct road from Owen's lodgings to College Quad was a short and nearly straight line. To visit Jessamine Cottage on the way from one to the other was analogous to going round by Edinburgh on a journey from London to Leeds. I wanted a little patting on the back and cheering up, you see, continued Owen. Cheering up, cried May. Oh, but I remember that Mrs. Hadlow said you always like to be pitied for having your own way. You must require a great deal of consolation truly for the prospect of travelling in that delightful country. Owen nodded and carefully fitted one pleat of his hatbrim into another as he answered. I dare say my appetite for consolation is bigger than you imagine. I think it is Mr. Bragg who needs cheering up. Poor man, he little knows what a peremptory, Protestant and positive secretary he will have, retorted May, but a half shy, half sassy, holy mischievous glance. Not at all, now that is just the kind of mistake which Aunt Jane so often makes, but if I serve, I mean to serve honestly and to be thoroughly obedient. I have told Mr. Bragg so. And Owen proceeded to justify himself and to develop his views as to the duties of a secretary was superfluous energy and earnestness. The old woman sat watching him and as she looked she was amazed at her own previous blindness. How could she? How could anyone? Have seen them together without perceiving that they were falling over head and ears in love with each other. These two young creatures seemed, in her old eyes, like a couple of children playing in a pleasure boat, but she knew that the river was running towards the sea, widening and deepening with an irrevocable current. There was room for anxiety about the future, no doubt. Yet a sense of relief in her mind as if she had escaped out of some oppressive atmosphere revealed more and more distinctly how repugnant the idea of maze-marrying Mr. Bragg had really been to her. Sarah Dobbs said she to herself severely, you're a worldly false old woman. You're a nice one to find fault without poor creature Pauline. What were you doing, pray, but sacrificing your conscience to the mammon of unrighteousness? The Lord be praised, the dear child is better, purer, and honester than either of us old harridans. Then she broke into the conversation between May and Owen, which by this time had sunk into a low murmur and asked abruptly whether the engagement with Mr. Bragg was to lead to any further employment. Owen repeated what Mr. Bragg had said to him as nearly as he could remember it, and Mrs. Dobbs thought it hopeful. Joshua Bragg is an honest man, a man to be relied on, one of the few who generally means what he says, all that he says, and nothing but what he says, said she nodding thoughtfully. May was glad to find Granny doing justice to Mr. Bragg and remarked to herself that if it were possible to conceive Granny's ever-being capricious, she would have called her capricious today in her varying tone about that worthy man. I shouldn't wonder, pursued Mrs. Dobbs, if he put you in the way of getting permanent employment, supposing you please him, he might get you a place out in South America with his son. Young Joshua is in a great way of business there, I'm told, would you go if you had the chance? She asked suddenly, looking at Owen with a searching gaze. Undoubtedly, he replied at once. And you wouldn't mind being banished, like from England? Mind? Oh, well, of course I should prefer a thousand a year in a villa on the Thames, but a fellow who has been an idler up to four and twenty must take any chance of earning something and be thankful for it. That's right, Mrs. Dobbs drew a long breath of relief. It would only be for a year or two. I should come back, added Owen whistly. Then he shook hands and went away, and Mrs. Dobbs and her granddaughter were left to discuss the news he had told them. May chatted away cheerfully, even gaily. When Mr. Weatherhead arrived, the subject was talked over again. Joe's pleasure in the prospect opening before Mr. Rivers was somewhat tempered by his sense of the incongruity involved in a gentleman like that, bring full of learning and belonging to the old land of gentry, being under the orders of Joshua Bragg. There's no contradiction at all, Joe, if you look at it fairly, said Mrs. Dobbs. Mr. Bragg will command where he has a right to, that is, in matters that he knows better than Mr. Rivers for all his book learning. It isn't as if Joshua wanted to teach the young man how to be a gentleman. I don't say it's not a good thing to be a gentleman, but it ain't exactly a paying business nowadays. If ever it was, which I doubt. Ah, more was the pity, said Joe, shaking his head. Why, if I was a gentleman or a lady, I shouldn't agree with you there, Joe. If gentlhood don't mean something above and beyond what can be paid for, it is a poor business. It seems to me just as pitiful for gentry to expect money's worth for their old family, high breeding, and fine manners, as it is for the grand workers of the world to grumble because they can't have power over the past as well as the present and the future. Mr. Bragg ain't one of that sort. You'll never catch him inventing a family crest or painting wild beasts on his carriage. Joe took his pipe out of his mouth and looked with solemn approbation at his old friend. Sarah said he, you're right, and I believe you're a better conservative than me when all said and done. May had been silent during this discussion. She held some needlework in her hands, but they were lying idly in her lap, and she was gazing out of the window as intently as though the small suburban garden offered a prospect of inexhaustible interest. The cessation of voices roused her. She looked round and said softly, It's a good climate, isn't it, Grammy? When Mr. Bragg's son lives, I mean. End of Chapter 10. Volume 2, Chapter 11 of That Unfortunate Marriage. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. That Unfortunate Marriage by Francis Eleanor Trollop. Volume 2, Chapter 11. Before going to bed that night, Mrs. Dobbs sat down and wrote a letter marked private and confidential to Mr. Bragg. Dear Mr. Bragg, she wrote, I think it my duty to let you know at once that the idea mentioned in your conversation with me must be given up. I have made quite sure in my own mind that there is no chance of it coming to anything. I feel very much how right you were to speak to me first. You have spared other people's feelings as well as your own. When you asked me the question, I answered you truly to the best of my belief that there was nobody else in the field. But since our talk together, I have found out that I was wrong there. There is another attachment. It may come to something or it may not. And you will understand that I am putting a great confidence in you. But I know I can trust to your honour as you trusted to mine. Not a word has passed my lips of what you said to me and never will. Of course you may think me mistaken and choose to find out the state of the case for yourself at first hand. If you do so, I shall not have a word to say against it. Anyway, I know you will act upright according to your conscience as I have tried to act according to mine. I want to tell you that I appreciate how generous your intentions were, though I am afraid I did not show it at the time, being surprised and upset. Believe me, with sincere respect, yours truly Sarah Dolbs. Shortly after that, Mr. Bragg came and called upon her. He thanked her for her letter and spoke in a friendly tone, but he seemed indisposed to consider the matter as finished. Young people sometimes don't know their own minds, he said. He further declared that he had no present intention of speaking to me, but that as he was going abroad he might, if nothing were settled meanwhile, resume the subject on his return to England. I am quite sure in my own mind that it's no use, said Mrs. Dolbs firmly, and it's only fair to tell you so as strong as possible. However, of course, you must act according to your own judgment. There is one question I should like to ask if I might, said Mr. Bragg, lingering at the door on his way out. You and me can trust each other, and if you feel at liberty to tell me, I should like to know whether that the party you alluded to in your letter is Mr. Theodore Bransby. Certainly not. Well, I'm glad of it. There was a talk of his paying Miss C a great deal of attention in town. In fact, I did hear she had refused him. Understand, I'm not fishing as to that. It's no matter to me one way or the other, so long as he is not the party. I can't say that I know any harm of the young man, but he's what you might call a poor sort of metal. Not pleasant to handle, and I should fear brittle in the working. I really am relieved in my mind to know that he is not the party. Thank you. The news of Owen's engagement to Mr. Bragg was variously received by his various acquaintances in Old Chester. Some laughed good-naturedly, some ill-naturedly, some said it was a good thing the young man had at last seen the necessity for exerting himself, some wondered why on earth he had accepted such a position, and some, a good many those, wondered why Mr. Bragg had accepted him. Mrs. Hadlow did not feel unmixed satisfaction by any means. It's just like Owen, she said to her husband. There is such a singular perversity about him. He has thrown away one straight stick after the other, and now all of a sudden he clutches at this crooked one as eagerly as though his life depended on getting hold of it. Cannon Hadlow, for his part, was well pleased enough. The sentiment at the bottom of his wife's heart was that, to employ a rivers in any such base mechanic business as writing commercial letters, was like harnessing a thoroughbred Arab to the dust cart. But the Cannon could not, in the nature of things, fully share that feeling. Nevertheless, he had a strong regard for Owen, and spoke of him in high terms to Mr. Bragg. But the testimony in Owen's favor which chiefly impressed Mr. Bragg was the testimony which Owen gave himself, by deeds, not words. Being moved by a certain energetic simplicity which belonged to him, to perform the duties he had undertaken with the most complete thoroughness he could command, he got a clerk who conducted the foreign correspondence of a great Old Chester manufacturer to give him lessons after business hours. He worked away evening after evening at the composition of mercantile letters in Spanish. Until he succeeded in producing epistles so surprisingly technical that his instructor declared he went far beyond what was necessary in that line and would do well to mitigate his business style with a little good Spanish. He studied also to improve his handwriting. It was a legible hand already, since he wrote with the single-minded aim of being read. But he strove to make it distinctly commercial in character and succeeded. All this became known to Mr. Bragg who said nothing. But when it got wind among the little circle of persons who frequented Garnet Lodge, it was the subject of some railery from Owen's friends. So long as the railroad proceeded from such persons as Dr. Hatch or Major Mitten, there was no offense in it. But with Theodore Bransby the case was different. Theodore was, in truth, delighted. First of all, because Rivers had, as he phrased it, entered Mr. Bragg's service, a step which must forever disqualify him for aspiring to ally himself with the Cheffingtons, supposing he were not disqualified already. And secondly, because his engagement would take him out of England for three months. So delighted was Theodore that his spirits rose to the unwanted pitch of attempting some pleasantries. Now there was nothing which more surely reveals the quality, if not the quantity, of a man's mind than his notion of a joke. Laughter, like wine, is a great betrayer of secrets. And for incurable coarseness of feeling, a stout cloak of gravity is your only wear. Theodore would tilt his head and say with a sneering smile, Burton's clerk declares that Rivers is as thoroughgoing as the man who blacked himself all over to play off fellow. Do you write a page of roundhand copies every morning before breakfast, Rivers? Or, I hear that Rivers has taken to frequent the commercial gents ordinary at the bull in order to pick up the correct phraseology. Owen paid very little attention to these sparkling sallies, but Mr. Bragg, after listening for some time, broke silence one evening by saying in his quiet, ponderous way, You're rather hard on me, I think, Mr. Brunsby. Theodore looked at him with sudden gravity and unfeigned surprised, Hard on you, he exclaimed. Oh, when a young gentleman is what you might call satirical, he's out to be harder than he means. You needn't look so serious, I'm not offended. The moment Mr. Bragg declared he was not offended, Theodore began to fear that he was, and whatever might be his private opinion of the millionaire, he had no intention of affronting him. So he protested that Mr. Bragg must be under some misapprehension, and that he, Theodore, could not even guess what he meant. Oh, come, Mr. Brunsby, it's pretty clear. I'm but a plain businessman, but it isn't necessary to copy the company at the bull in order to come down to my level. Good heavens, my dear sir, you can't suppose I was, merely, Theodore paused an instant and then went on with a little disconcerted laugh. I was merely paying my humble tribute of admiration to River's energy. Oh, yes, I quite understand that. You appreciate seeing how an honorable gentleman sets to work to keep his part of a bargain, whereas a half-and-half chap like that little plaque of burdens don't see the high-mindedness of it. Theodore was so entirely taken by surprise and so uncertain how far Mr. Bragg was in earnest that he could but stammer out renewed assurances that he had been misunderstood, and after that he subsided into a glum and dignified silence for the rest of the evening. He would probably have cut short his visit and gone away early, but for his persistent resolution, never to leave Owen in possession of the field when May was present. There was no question of seeing her home now, for either old Martha was sent to fetch her, or one of Miss Piper's servants walked her to Jessamine Cottage. But nevertheless, Theodore made a point of outstaying Owen, or at the very least going away simultaneously with him. On this particular evening, however, Dr. Hatch interfered with his practice by requesting Theodore to accompany him when his carriage was announced. I want to have a word with you quietly, whispered the doctor, and it is almost impossible to do so in your father's house without alarming Mrs. Bransby. Come along with me and I'll give you a lift home. There was no refusing this invitation, but Theodore withdrew, comforted by the conviction that his rival would have no chance of profiting by his absence. Here, however, he reckoned without his hostess, for Martha failing to appear at her accustomed hour, and the maid who usually supplied her place being ill, Miss Piper bustled into the drawing room after a brief absence, demanding which of the gentlemen present would volunteer to escort Miss Chetington home. Mr. Bragg, who kept early hours, had already departed, and only Mr. Sweeting, Major Mitten, and Owen remained. Mr. Sweeting begged to be allowed the honour of leading Miss Chetington to his carriage, but May declined the offer, saying that Mr. Sweeting's horses had a long journey before them, and that, moreover, it being a lovely moonlight night, she would prefer to walk. Upon this, Owen offered his services, and Miss Piper at once accepted them. It is a good deal out of your way, she said, but I am sure you will not mind for once, Mr. Rivers. I am responsible to Mrs. Dolbs for sending her Grendel to safely home. Owen assured Miss Piper that he should not mind at all. While May was putting on her raps, Miss Polly and Miss Paddy jocosely reproached Major Mitten for not having displayed his usual gallantry in offering to escort the young lady. Major, Major, you're growing terribly lazy, said Miss Polly. You will use your reputation for being the most devoted squire of dames in Old Chester, added Miss Paddy. I'm getting to be an old fellow, we turn the Major quietly, then as they all three stood for a moment in the porch. Watching the two young figures pass down the garden in a glory of moonlight, the good Major whispered to Miss Paddy, do you think I was going to spoil that? Lord bless me, one has been young oneself. As soon as May and her companion had got clear of Garnet Lodge, the girl said, I find that I had never thoroughly done justice to Mr. Bragg. The more I know of him, the more highly I think of him. Lucky Mr. Bragg. But now did he not administer an admirable rebuke to Theodore Bransby? Never mind Theodore, let us talk about more interesting things. What can be more interesting? asked May, laughing, ourselves. As she remained silent, he went on, do you know that we have not had one opportunity for a quiet talk together since I got this engagement? Haven't we? Oh, you don't remember so accurately as all I do, but that was not to be expected. Take my arm. She obeyed us simply as a child. She had burned drying on her gloves when they left Garnet Lodge, but the operation had not been completed and a chance that the hand next to Owen was ungloved. She laid her fingers, which gleamed snow white in the moonlight on his sleeve. You think I have done right in taking this employment? He said, quite right. She turned her young face and looked at him with a sweet fervor of sympathy and approval. Owen raised the white slender fingers to his lips and then replacing them on his arm. Layed his own warm, strong hand over them with a gentle pressure. You know why I did so, don't you darling? He said. Yes, Owen, was the answer, given in a shy whisper, but with innocent frankness. My own dear love, he exclaimed, pressing her arm strongly and suddenly to his side. There is no one like you in the world. Look at me, May. Let me see your sweet, honest eyes. He caught her two hands in both his and they stood for a moment at arm's length facing each other and holding hands like two children. The moonlight shone full on the young girl's fair face and glittered on the bright teardrops in her eyes as she raised them to Owen's. What can I do to deserve you? He said. But why do I talk of dessert? You are God's gift, May, and no more to be earned than the blessed sunshine. He put her arm under his once more and they paced on again without speaking. But to them the silence was full of voices. It was the silence of a dream. They might have wandered, heaven knows wither, had not their feet instinctively carried them along the right path and they found themselves almost with a start arriving at the white palings in front of Jessamine Cottage. We must tell Granny mustn't we, said May, looking up at Owen with a delicious sense of implicit reliance on him. Yes, but I'm terribly afraid. I hope she will not be angry. Angry? How can you think so? Granny is fond of you. But she is fond of you and she knows your value. Although, thank God, you don't. If you did, what chance should I have had? You know how poor I am. Not quite penniless, but very poor. Not so poor as I, since I am really and truly quite penniless. But I don't mind that if you don't. Owen felt a desperate temptation to fold her in his arms and beseech her to marry him tomorrow, throwing prudence and pounds sterling to the winds. But the ardour of a genuine passion purifies the nobler soul, as fire purifies the nobler metal and burns away the dross of self. He answered gravely, Our positions are very different, darling. I hope I have not done wrong to tell you how dear you are to me. I think it would have been unkind and cruel to go away without telling me, she answered gravely, though the sound of the words as she said them brought the hot colour into her cheeks. Thank you, dearest. That is the best comfort I could have if I may dare to believe it. But it does seem so wonderful that you should care for me. The contemplation of this wonder might have occupied them both for an indefinite time, but that they saw a light begin to shine through the fan light of the little entrance hall of Jessamine Cottage. In the stillness of the night, the sound of their voices, subdued though they were, had reached the ears of Mrs. Dobbs. She presently opened the door and stood looking at them as they hurried up the garden path. Oh, Granny Deanna, afraid I'm late, said May. I did not guess that you were sitting up for me. Martha had a touch of her rheumatism, so I sent her to bed. I did not mind waiting. I suppose Miss Piper's maid couldn't come with you. Was that it? Asked Mrs. Dobbs. She lingered at the open door, expecting Owen to say good night, but May took her grandmother's hand and pulled her into the house while he followed them. When they reached the lamp-lighted parlor, May, still holding her grandmother's hand with her left hand, stretched out her right to Owen and gently drew him forward. Then she flung her left arm around the old woman's neck and kissed her. There was no need for words. Mrs. Dobbs sank down white and tremulous in her great chair while May nestled beside her on her knees and tried to place Owen's hand, which she still clasped, in that of her grandmother. But the old woman brusquely drew her hand away. You have done wrong, she said, turning to Owen and scarcely able to control the trembling of her lips. I didn't think it of you, but men are all alike, selfish, selfish, selfish. Why, Granny, exclaimed the girl, breathless with dismay. Then she started up with a flash of impetuous indignation and stood beside her lover. He is not selfish, she said vehemently. Hush, May, Granny is right, said Owen in a low voice. I told you that I feared I had done wrong. Mrs. Dobbs still trembled, but she was struggling to regain herself command. He might have waited yet a while, she said brokenly. The child is young. You ought not to have bound her until you see your way more clear. Oh, believe me, I will not hold her bound, answered Owen. I never meant that. I ought not to have spoken yet. I feared so before, and now you say so, I know it. But I'm not wholly selfish. May had stood listening silently. Looking with wide eyes and parted lips from one to the other. She now fell on her knees again beside her grandmother and clasping the old woman's hands in both her own, cried eagerly. But listen, if there was any fault, it was mine. I love him so much, and he's going away. Think of that, Granny. Come here and kneel down beside me, Owen, and let her look you in the face. Think if he had gone away and never told me. And I was so fond of him. You didn't guess how I cried that night when I heard he was to leave England. He has made me so happy, so happy, and we can wait. We don't mind being poor. You said you were fond of him, and he's so good, and I love him so. And you to speak to him so cruelly. Oh, Granny, Granny. The tears were pouring down her face and dropping warm upon the wrinkled hands she held. Suddenly Mrs. Dobbs opened her arms and folding May in one of them, laid the other round Owen's shoulders as he knelt before her and drew them both into her embrace. Come along, you two, she said sobbing and smiling. I've got a precious pair of babies to look after in my old age. No more common sense between you than would lie on the point of a needle. No prudence, no worldly wisdom, no regard for society, nothing but love and truth. And what do you suppose they'll fetch in the market? After a few minutes, she ordered Owen away. I'm tired, she said, and we have all had our feelings worked up enough for one while. Go home now, Mr. Rivers. Well, well, Owen, then, if it must be, go home, Owen, in sleep and dream. And tomorrow, when you're quite awake, broad-staring, work-a-day world awake, which you'll not now, either of you, come here and we will talk rationally. Owen obeyed heroically and marched off without a word of remonstrance, but May kept her grandmother listening and talking long after he had gone. She made Mrs. Dobbs go to bed and sat by her bedside, pouring out her young heart, joyfully secure of Granny's understanding and sympathy. Until at length, Mrs. Dobbs inexorably commanded her to go to rest. Good night, dear, dearest, good, goodest Granny, said May, leaning down to kiss her grandmother's broad furrowed brow. Only this one last, very last word. Do you know, I'm very hopeful about Owen's future because I am sure that Mr. Bragg has taken a great fancy to him and appreciates him, and Mr. Bragg can make Owen's fortune if he likes. Mr. Bragg, remembered Mrs. Dobbs, turning her head on her pillow. Ah, there's a nice kettle of fish. I'm as big a baby as the children of her up to this very instant. I've clean-forgotten all about, Mr. Bragg. End of chapter 11. Volume 2, chapter 12 of That Unfortunate Marriage. This Libre Box recording is in the public domain. That Unfortunate Marriage by Frances Eleanor Trollop. Volume 2, chapter 12. Before they parted, Mrs. Dobbs had arranged with Owen that he should come and have an interview with her at ten o'clock the following morning. But as she desired to speak with him privately, she resolved to go to his lodgings early enough to catch him before he should leave home. She found Owen already at his writing desk, and as he turned a startled face on her, briefly assured him that all was well with May. But I must have a private talk with you, she said, and I can't get that in my own house without fussing and making mysteries. Owen was already acquainted with the main incidents in May's young life, but Mrs. Dobbs proceeded to give him the history of her own daughter's marriage and a sketch of her son-in-law, Augustus. I am not speaking in malice, she said, but the real truth about Captain Cheffington must always sound severe. As a general rule, I never mention his name, but it is right and necessary that you should know what manner of man May's father really is, because only by knowing that can you understand how it is that the responsibility of guiding her rests holy and solely on my shoulders. It could not rest on worthy, one said Owen. Ah, there we differ. It's a shame that the darling girl, such a lady, as she is in all her ways and words and innermost thoughts, should have no better guidance than that of an ignorant old body like me. However, tis as vain to cry for the moon to play ball with as to get honour or duty or even honesty out of Augustus. There is the naked truth. Mrs. Dobbs, I can say from the bottom of my heart that if ever good came out of evil it has come to May, she has been thrown out of the hands of a worthless father into those of the best of grandmothers, but I suppose I ought to write to Captain Sheffington under the present circumstances. Mrs. Dobbs shook her head. I wouldn't if I was you, she said. I only thought that since with all his faults he is fond of his daughter. Is he? interrupted Mrs. Dobbs, opening her eyes very wide. Oh, or that's news to me. Of course his fondness is not judicious, but still, as he is not much money, he must make some sacrifices to pay a handsome sum to Mrs. Dormersmith for having May with her in London. He pay? Lord bless your innocent heart. Does he not? May told me he did. Ah, may think so. You see I have thought it right to keep some respect for her father in her mind, for her sake. Then if Captain Sheffington did not furnish the money, who did ask Owen? Had May been present, one glimpse of Granny's face blushing like a girl's to the roots of her hair would have betrayed the truth to her. But Owen did not guess it so quickly. After a minute or so, however, as Mrs. Dobbs remained silent, he added rather awkwardly. Did you pay the money? Okay, a young man, answered Mrs. Dobbs. You must give me your word of honour, that you never let out a syllable of this to May, without I give you leave, else you and me will fall. Owen took her broad wrinkled hand in his and kissed it as respectfully as if he had been saluting a queen. I promise to obey you, he said, but you make us all look very small and selfish beside you. We old folks, that have but a slack hold on life, must lay up all stores of selfishness in other people's happiness. It's a paying investment, my lad. I'm old chest of born and bred, and you don't catch me making many bad speculations. The old woman laughed as she spoke, but a tear was trembling in her eye. Come, said she, we needn't go into all that. There isn't much time to spare. I want to be back to breakfast before May misses me. Then she proceeded to impress on Owen that she could not at present sanction an engagement between him and her granddaughter. Each must be held to be free, at least until Owen should return from Spain and be able to see his future course a little more distinctly. This he promised without difficulty. Next, Mrs. Dobbs insisted that May should go back to her aunt's house when the Dormersmiths returned to London for the winter. May had shown great reluctance to do this, but Mrs. Dobbs believed she would yield if Owen backed up the proposal. With regard to Captain Sheffington, Mrs. Dobbs recommended that secrecy should for the present be preserved towards him, as well as towards the rest of the world. He cares not us to offer his daughter of that I can assure you. Indeed, lately, since the dear child has taken her proper place in the world, he has shown a strange kind of jealousy of her. He wrote me a regular, blowing up letter demanding money and saying that since I was so rich, Lord, help me. As to keep May in London in luxury, I ought at least to assist May's father in his unmerited distress, and he made a kind of half-threat that he would come to England and drag her away if he was not paid off. That's scoundrel, but you didn't. Didn't send him any money? No, my lad, I did not. First, because I wouldn't. Next, because I couldn't. But wouldn't came first. There's no use trying to put a wasp on a reasonable allowance of honey. You must either let him gorge himself or else keep him out of the hive altogether. So now you know my conditions. Firstly, no binding engagement for three months at least. Secondly, we three to keep our own counsel for that time and say no word of our secret to man, woman, or child. Thirdly, you to urge May to go back to London and see a little more of the world from under her aunt's wing. I make a great point of that, added Mrs. Darbs, looking at him searchingly. But I see your rather glum over it. Are you afraid of May's being tempted to change her mind? It isn't that, answered Owen with unmistakable sincerity. If she is capable of changing her mind, I should be the first to leave her free to do so. I don't say that it wouldn't go near to break my heart, but I need not be ashamed as well as Richard. Whereas, if I took advantage of her innocence and generosity and inexperience to bind her to me and found out afterwards that she repented when it was too late, but that won't bear thinking of. No, I see nothing to object to in your conditions. Only, I was thinking that it would be hard on you to part from her again this winter. Mrs. Darbs suddenly stretched out her hand towards him with the palm outward. Stop, she said. I can go on right enough if you don't pity me. She set her lips tight and stood for a few seconds, breathing hard through her nostrils like a tired swimmer. Then the tension of her face relaxed. She patted Owen's head, as if he had been six years old, saying, You're a good lad and a gentleman. I know one when I see him. Before Mrs. Darbs went away, Owen said a word to her on two points. The probability that Augustus Cheffington might eventually be his uncle's heir and the rumor of his second marriage. As to the first point, although she allowed it seemed likely that Augustus might inherit the title, yet Mrs. Darbs assured Owen, speaking on Mrs. Dormersmith's authority, that he would certainly get no penny which it was in Lord Castlecombe's power to bequeath. If you're afraid of May being too rich, said Mrs. Darbs with a shrewd smile, I think I can reassure you. Thank you, said Owen simply. He was struck by her delicacy of feeling and thought within himself, that well-bred woman Mrs. Dormersmith would have suspected me, not of fearing, but of hoping that May would be rich, and she would have hinted her suspicions in terms full of tact and a voice of exquisite refinement. With regard to the question of Captain Cheffington's second marriage, Mrs. Darbs declared herself utterly in the dark. But, she said, If I was obliged to make a bet, I should bet on no marriage. Augustus is too selfish. When later, Owen went to Jessamine Cottage, he found May very unwilling to return to London for the winter, but she yielded at length. The other conditions, she exceeded too willingly. But she made one stipulation, namely that Uncle Joe should be admitted to share their secret. You know you can trust him implicitly, Granny, said May. He likes news in Gossett, but he will be true as steel when once he is given his word to be silent. So it was agreed that Mr. Weatherhead should be taken into their confidence. When May and Owen were alone together afterwards, he asked why she had so specially insisted on this point. Don't you see, Owen, she answered, that it would be an immense comfort to Granny when she's left alone, to have someone whom she can talk with about us? Meanwhile, no answer arrived from Captain Cheffington to the letter which Mrs. Darbs had written about the report of his marriage. May might have been uneasy at his silence, but for the new and absorbing interest in her life, which confused chronology and made time fly so rapidly that she did not realize how long it was since her grandmother had written to Belgium. The gossip set afloat by Valley at Miss Piper's party gradually died away, being superseded in public attention by fresher topics. One of these was the disquieting condition of Mr. Martin Gransby's health. The old man had seemed to recover from the serious illness of last year, but it must have shaken him more profoundly than was generally supposed at the time. For after the first brief rally, he seemed to be failing more and more day by day. Dr. Hatch kept his own counsel. He was not a man to interpret the code of professional etiquette too loosely on such a point. But besides professional etiquette, old friendship moved him to be cautious and reticent in this case. He had some reasons for uneasiness about Martin Gransby's circumstances, as well as his bodily health. This uneasiness was vague truly, but it suffice to make the good physician keep a watch over his words. So all those who listened curiously to Dr. Hatch's valuable and apparently unguarded talk about the Gransbys went away no wiser than they came as to old Martin's real condition. To Martin Gransby's eldest son, however, Dr. Hatch did not think it right to practice any concealment. On the evening when he invited Theodore to drive home with him from Garnet Lodge, the doctor plainly told the young man that he had grave fears for his father's life. Theodore assumed more move than the doctor had expected. He was not demonstrative indeed, but his voice betrayed considerable emotion, as he said. But you do not give him up, Dr. Hatch. There surely is still hope. There is hope? Yes, I cannot say there is no hope, but my dear fellow, and the good doctor laid his hand kindly on Theodore's shoulder. We must be prepared for the worst. You have not, I gather, mentioned your fears to Mrs. Gransby, said Theodore after her pause, during which he had been leaning back in the corner of the carriage. No, no, poor dear. No need to alarm her yet. She must know, however, sooner or later, observed Theodore coldly. I am afraid she must, but why protract her misery? She is very sensitive, devotedly attached to your father, and not too strong. Mrs. Gransby always appears to me to enjoy good health enough to take any exertion she feels inclined for. I was not alluding to muscles but nerves, returned the doctor dryly. There is a little hysterical tendency, and her health is too valuable to her children to be trifled with. They drove on in silence to Mr. Gransby's garden gates. Theodore lighted and stood at the carriage door. Does my father know, he asked in a low voice. There I confess I am puzzled, said Dr. Hatch. I have never told him his danger in plain words, but he is too clever a man to be hoodwinked. My own impression is that your father suspects his state to be critical, but shrinks from admitting it even to himself. I think there must be some private reason for this. Added the doctor leaning forward and peering into Theodore's face as he stood in the moonlight. The moonlight which at the same moment was shining in May's eyes, looking at her young lover. It certainly does not arise from cowardice. Your father is one of the manliest men I have ever known. If Theodore knew or guessed that his father had any secret reason for anxiety, he did not betray it. I have observed increasing weakness of character in him lately, he said. The words might have been uttered so as to convey perfect filial tenderness. But there was a subtle something in the tone suggestive of contempt, or at least of remoteness from sympathy, which jarred painfully on Dr. Hatch. He said good night abruptly and gave his coachman the order to drive on. After this conversation, it somewhat surprised the doctor to learn that Theodore meant to leave home at the beginning of October, although he was not to enter on his practical career as a barrister until the winter. He had accepted one or two invitations to country houses during the pheasant shooting and gave as his reason for going at that time that his health required a change of air. His health? growled Dr. Hatch when Mrs. Bransby gave him this piece of news. I should have thought he might stay and be of some use to his father in business. Oh, we are rather glad he's going, exclaimed Mrs. Bransby impulsively. Then she said apologetically, Martin does not want him at home. Theodore has never taken any interest in office matters, and Tuckie manages capitally. Tuckie is Martin's right hand. Mr. Tuckie was the confidential head clerk in the office, which still retained the name of the firm, Caddell and Bransby. Although Caddell had departed this life 20 years ago, and the business had been ever since that time, holy in the hands of Martin Bransby. Mrs. Bransby did not hint at one motive for Theodore's departure, which her woman's wit had revealed to her, namely that Miss Cheffington would be leaving Old Chester at about the same time. It was true that Theodore had calculated on this and also on the fact that Owen Rivers would be safely out of the way across the Pyrenees, but there was another motive which lay deeper and indeed formed a part of the very texture of Theodore's temperament. He shrank from the idea of being present during his father's last illness. It has already been stated that he was subject to the dread of having inherited his mother's consumptive tendency, and he shunned all suggestions of sickness and death with the sort of instinct which makes an animal select its food. The very mention of death produced the effect of a physical chill on his nervous system. He was not without affection for his father, although it had been much weakened by Mr. Bransby's second marriage. Many persons who knew Theodore's tastes for gentility assumed that Miss Louisa Lettier's dissent from a good old family would be gratifying to him and helped to make him accept the marriage good-humoredly, but the fact was quite otherwise. Theodore constantly suspected his stepmother of vaunting the superiority of her birth over that of her predecessor. He had never seen either of his maternal grandparents and did not know all the details which Mrs. Dobbs could have given him about the history of old rabbit, but he knew enough to be aware that his mother had been a person of humble extraction, and he could more easily have forgiven his father had the latter chosen a person still humbler for his second wife. It was chiefly his ever-present consciousness that Louisa was a gentlewoman by birth and breeding which made him jealously resent the luxuries with which his father surrounded her, and even the fastidious elegance of her dress. And apart from all other considerations, it would have given him sincere satisfaction to marry a wife who should have the undoubted right to walk out of a drawing room before Mrs. Martin Bransby. One of the many points of antagonism between Owen and Theodore was the opposite feeling with which each regarded Mrs. Bransby. Owen had a chivalrous devotion for her. Theodore was nothing less than chivalrous. Owen's admiration was made tender and protecting by a large infusion of pity. Theodore held that in marrying his father, Miss Louisa Lutier had met with good fortune beyond her merits. As to his stepbrothers and sisters, Theodore's feelings towards them was one of cool repulsion with a single exception of little Enid, the youngest, whom he would have petted could he have separated her in all things from the rest. As soon as Owen's engagement with Mr. Bragg was assured, Owen called at the Bransby's to tell his news in person. On inquiring for Mrs. Bransby, he was told that she was with her husband in the garden and, being a familiar visitor, the servant left him to find his way to them unannounced. It was a warm September afternoon. Everything in the old garden, the light and tinted brick walls, the autumnal flowers, the deep velvet of the turf, the foliage lightly touched with red and gold, looked mellow and peaceful, under the shadow of a tall elm tree, whose topmost bowels were swaying with the movement and resounding with the cause of rooks. Martin Bransby reclined in a long chair and his wife sat on a garden bench a yard or two away. When she saw Owen approaching, Mrs. Bransby laid her finger on her lips and then Owen saw that Mr. Bransby was asleep. The old man lay with his head supported on a crimson cushion, against which his abundant silver hair was strongly relieved. The brows above the closed eyelids were still dark. The placidity of repose enhanced the beauty of his finely molded features, but he was very pale and his cheeks and temples looked worn and thin. Mrs. Bransby welcomed Owen with a smile and an outstretched hand. At the first glance, he had thought that she too looked pale and suffering, but the little glow of animation in her face when she spoke effaced this impression. Am I disturbing you? asked Owen in a whisper. No, no, sit down. You need not whisper. It is enough to speak low. He sleeps heavily. I'm so glad to see him sleep for his nights have been restless lately. As Mrs. Bransby spoke, she pushed aside a heap of gay-colored silks with which she was embroidering a rich velvet cushion and made room for Owen on the garden seat beside her. I know your news already, she continued, and I must congratulate you, though you will be sadly missed. My boys will be in despair. We shall all miss you. I am glad at all events that you seem to approve of the step I have taken. Of course, all your friends must approve it. Well, they are not so numerous as to make their unanimity absolutely impossible. Then after a short silence, during which Mrs. Bransby resumed her embroidery, and Owen thoughtfully raked together some fallen leaves with a stick, he said, But you don't know the extent of my good fortune. There is a chance, rather a remote one, but still a chance that this employment may lead to more, and that I may get some work to do in South America. She started, and the gay embroidery fell from her hands onto the grass, as she exclaimed with plaintive down-drawn lips like those of a child, Oh, not to South America. Don't go so far away. He merely shook his head. Oh, that is terrible, she said. I never thought of that. But perhaps you will not go. Very much perhaps. It would be better luck than I could expect. And you really could have the heart to leave us all and go off to the other side of the globe. Oh, I can't bear to think of it. Don't speak so kindly. You will take away all my courage, he said, looking for a moment at the beautiful eyes fixed on his face. Ah, I'm very selfish. Of course you ought to go, if going would lead to a career for you. Although one can't help feeling that you will be somehow wasted in mere commercial pursuits. Yes, yes, of course, I am wrong. She added hastily anticipating his rejoinder. It is all very proper in Spartan, no doubt. But I am not in the least Spartan, you know. People usually find it easy to be Spartan for their friends. Very few keep their stoicism for themselves and their soft-heartedness for others as you do. He glanced involuntarily at Martin Bransby as he spoke, and she followed his glance with instant quickness and understanding. How do you think he's looking? You do not think he seems worse, do you? She said, No, indeed no. I was afraid when you talked about stoicism. No, I only meant that you always show great courage when Mr. Bransby's ill. I don't think I'm naturally courageous, but love gives courage. Yes, the genuine sort of love. Although it makes one frighten too in a one way, I am sometimes very uneasy about him. She turned a gaze of profound tenderness on her husband's sleeping face. I trust your uneasiness is needless, said Owen. Mr. Bransby seems to be going on well, does he not? Oh, yes, I hope so, but he does not gain strength. His rest is very troubled, and he talks in his sleep, and I think his spirit's much less cheerful than they were. His great regard for you, he will approve of what you are doing, I know, but he will be as sorry as the rest of us to think of you all going so far away. She said all this in her usual sweet voice and with her usual soft grace of manner. Then all at once she broke down in a sudden passion of tears and burying her face in her handkerchief. She sobbed out, if you go to South America, he'll never see you again. Never, never, I know his days are numbered. They think they keep me in ignorance, but I know it, I know it. Owen was melted by her grief. In the eyes of sound-hearted manhood, beauty, while the detracts, adds a sort of sacredness to a pure woman. To see that lovely face convulsed with weeping made an impression on his senses, such as he might have felt at seeing an exquisite work of art defaced or mutilated. And beyond that, there was the warm human sympathy and the feeling of compassionate protection due to her sex. Dearest Mrs. Brandsby, he said, looking at her piteously, pray, pray, take comfort. Oh, how I wish that I could give you any help of comfort. She continued to weep softly and silently for a little while longer. Then she wept away her tears and spoke with calmness. Forgive me, it was selfish to distress you, she said, but it has relieved my heart to cry a little and you've always been so friendly. I have as great reliance on you as if I had known you all my life. As far as the will goes, you cannot overrate my friendship, but the power at last is small or rather none. No, don't say that. Whenever I have forced myself to look forward to the great sorrow which may soon come upon me, I have said to myself, I know Mr. Rivers would be good to me and the children and would help us with honest advice. I have no one belonging to me, of my own family, left to rely on. The boys and I would be very desolate and forlorn if we were left to guide ourselves by our own wisdom. There is Theodore, said Owen, but he said it with dry awkwardness as though there was something in the words to be ashamed of. Theodore does not love us. Return, Mrs. Bransby, quickly. You are praising me just now for caring about my friends, but you see how selfishly my thoughts were all the time. It does seem so dreary to imagine you far away out of our reach. She wore on her wrist a bracelet consisting of a broad gold band in which was set the portrait of her youngest child. Now little Enid had a special affection of her Owen. She caressed him and tyrannized over him and whenever Bobby and Billy desired to coax Mr. Rivers into playing with them, they conspired to make Enid prefer the request, secretly agreeing that Mr. Rivers spoiled Enid and would never resist her. In short, Mr. Rivers was Enid's swan knight and did her suit and service. The sweet baby face looked out of its gold frame with large grave eyes and faintly smiling mouth and soft yellow hair like the down on a nestling bird. Owen took Mrs. Bransby's hand and bent over it until his lips touched little Enid's portrait near or far, he said, you and your children may always count on my faithful affection. When he raised his head again, Theodore was standing in front of them. He had come noiselessly along the grass and halted a little behind his father's chair. Mrs. Bransby's head was turned in the opposite direction and she did not see him immediately. But Owen saw him and caught a singular expression on young Bransby's face which made his own blood run swiftly with a confused sense of furious anger. It was an expression of mingled surprise, suspicion, and an indescribable touch of exultation. But even as Owen fixed his eyes on him sternly, the look was gone, and Theodore's smooth face was as coolly supercilious as usual. Your father has been having a good sleep, Theodore, said his stepmother when she saw him. So I see, he answered, and again something singular in his tone made Owen long to seize him and hurl him away out of Mrs. Bransby's presence. Mr. Rivers has been telling me his news, said Mrs. Bransby. We ought to rejoice, I suppose, but I can't help feeling selfishly sorry. We must hope that our loss will be his gain, replied Theodore. He felt instinctively that Owen's eyes were still fastened on him, and Owen's eyes, like many light blue eyes, had the power of expressing an intensity of fierceness when he was thoroughly incensed, which few persons would have found it easy to support. But Theodore had averted his own gaze and was looking down on his father with ostentatious solicitude. The old man slightly moved his head and Mrs. Bransby was by his side instantly. Are you refreshed by your sleep, dear Martin? She asked as he opened his eyes. Yes, Louis, yes. Oh, there's Rivers. How are you, Rivers? He rose from his chair and shook hands with Owen, asking him to come to the house and have tea. Mrs. Bransby offered her husband her arm, but he took her hand and laid it tenderly upon his sleeve. Not yet, Louis, not yet, he said, smiling down upon her, I needn't lean upon you yet. Then the two walked slowly side by side towards the house, leaving the young men to follow. As they did so, crossing the wide lawn side by side, it suddenly occurred to Theodore, with a shock of surprise, that he and Owen had not exchanged any sort of greeting or salutation, whatever. End of Chapter 12. Volume 2, Chapter 13 of That Unfortunate Marriage. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. That Unfortunate Marriage by Francis Eleanor Trollop. Volume 2, Chapter 13. The Dormer Smiths arrived in London early in November, and may join them almost immediately. Her aunt was delighted to find May looking remarkably well. Some good has come of her vegetating and ill-chester, said Polly into her husband. Her complexion is radiant. Also, I think her figure has improved. If she would but consent to have her stays taken in, Smithson could manage it half an inch at a time and might easily get her waist down to 18 inches. But there is that lamentable touch of self-indulgent apathy about May. However, she has really a great deal of charm, and in spite of all the drawbacks connected with poor Augustus's Unfortunate Marriage, she looks thoroughbred. The two little boys, Harold and Wilfred, had returned from their sojourn in a farmhouse, so much strengthened that their father seriously talked of sending them into the country altogether for a couple of years. Even Mrs. Dormer Smith, although unwilling to relinquish her character of chronic invalid, confessed that Carlsbad had done her good. In fact, the whole family returned to London in improved health and spirits. A great many nice people were to be in town for the winter, and the excuse of May's presence and the assistance of May's allowance would enable Polly into enjoy society and at the same time to satisfy that singular worldly conscience of hers with a sense of duty fulfilled. There was a little disappointment at Mr. Bragg's absence from England, but even here Mrs. Dormer Smith had the not inconsiderable consolation of knowing that if he were far from May's attractions, he was also far from those of Constance Hadlow, and she more than ever rejoiced at that providential interposition in the interests of the Cheffington family, which had kept Mr. Bragg away from Glengoury. Another symptom which filled Aunt Polly with complacent hopes was May's newly developed interest in Mr. Bragg and her eager willingness to talk about his Spanish tour. Polly was inclined to attribute something of this improved state of mind to Mrs. Dobbs's influence and confessed to herself that the old woman was doing all she could to compensate the house of Cheffington for the injury done to it by the disastrous mesallions. Mrs. Dormer Smith's cheerfulness at this time would have been absolutely unclouded but for the dread hanging over her about her brother. She had given May to understand that the rumors spread by Polly and others were based on error and she even conveyed the idea to her niece although scrupulously abstaining from explicit falsehood that Captain Cheffington himself had denied those rumors in private communications to her and Frederick. But the fact was that Augustus had remained inflexibly silent. The Dormer Smiths knew nothing of him and so completely had he dropped out of a society of all with whom they were likely to consort that a doubt sometimes crossed Polly's mind as to whether her brother were still living or not. Meanwhile, every week May received a letter from Owen forwarded by Mrs. Dobbs. The latter had restricted the correspondence to one letter a week on each side. Owen wrote very joyously. His work was easy, too easy, he said, and he was constantly seeking opportunities to be useful to his employer. Mr. Bragg he pronounced to be an excellent master, clear-headed in his commands and reasonable in his exactions. He seemed to approve of his secretary so far and although he was rather taciturn and not prone to encourage sanguine expectations, yet Owen began to have good hope that Mr. Bragg would not turn him adrift when the three months engagement should be at an end. May now became decidedly more popular in society than she had been during the height of the season. Happiness, like sunshine, beautifies common things and the new brightness of her outlook on it was reflected by the world around her. That feeling which she had expressed in writing to her grandmother, the forlorn feeling of a child who, in the midst of some gay spectacle wearily cries to go home, had disappeared. She knew that when the curtain should fall on the puppet show in Vanity Fair, her own true love was waiting to welcome her. Sometimes she speculated on how Aunt Pauline would take the revelation of her attachment to Owen Rivers. That she should have had any doubt on the subject proved her ignorance of Aunt Pauline's views. Mrs. Dormer Smith would not for the world have expressed to May any gross or sordid sentiments about marriage. She had not the slightest idea that she entertained any such herself. But as she had long ago said, there are many things, never put into words, which girls brought up in a certain bond, learn by instinct. Now in that kind of instinct, May was greatly deficient. May reflected that her aunt had spurned Theodore Bransby's proposal on the avowed ground of his being nobody, and she understood or thought she understood that Aunt Pauline accorded a tangible existence only to such persons as could be proved by genealogical records to have had a certain number of great-grandfathers. Now thus considered, Owen was very undeniably and solidly somebody. He was poor certainly, but how often had Aunt Pauline mingled her plaintive regrets with Mrs. Griffin's about the increasing worship of Mammon, which vulgarized London's society. And although Aunt Pauline sometimes showed a deference for wealth which was rather puzzling in the face of these utterances, yet May observed that her personal liking and admiration were given on very different grounds, witnessed her regard for Constance Hadlow. Mrs. Dormer Smith even kept up an intermittent correspondence with that young lady. Constance's letters were precisely of the kind which Mrs. Dormer Smith delighted in. Budgets of social gossip selected with unerring tact. Constance had returned to Old Chester, but she did not spend many consecutive weeks in her parents' house, being invited to visit among the elite of the county aristocracy, as Mrs. Simpson phrased it. Mrs. Hadlow had, in fact, achieved what might be called, all things considered, a brilliant social position. Her visit to Glen Gowrie had been a great success. She had made a conquest of the Duchess, and also, though that was comparatively of small consequence, of the Duke. Mrs. Griffin was charmed that her protégé had done her so much honor and promised to take her into society the following season, if Cannon and Mrs. Hadlow would give her leave to come to town. Indeed, Mrs. Griffin began seriously to revolve in her mind whether she could not contrive to marry Charlie Rivers' granddaughter and secure her a fine establishment. Mrs. Griffin was proud of her achievements in that line, which, though few, were brilliant, like a certain famous Italian singing master who was wont in his old age to decline unpromising pupils on the ground that it was not worth his while to make a second done, Mrs. Griffin practiced only the higher branches of matchmaking and refused to fly her falcons at anything under twenty thousand a year or a peerage. What made Mrs. Hadlow's letters particularly interesting to Mrs. Dormersmith at this time was that the former was frequently staying in the neighborhood of Combe Park and occasionally met Lord Castle Combe and Lucius, whom she reported to be constantly ailing, as indeed he had been since before his brother's death. But his state did not seem to inspire any immediate apprehension, and Constance even said a word now and then about creaking wheels, and intimated her belief that Mr. Lucius Cheffington would probably outlive many more robust-looking persons. But it was not only these polite chronicles which kept the Dormersmith household informed as to the doings of old Chester people. Mrs. Dobbs, of course, wrote frequently to her grandchild, the saddest news which she had to give May was the continuous and rapid decline of Mr. Bransby's health. Theodore was still away from home, Mrs. Dobbs wrote, and she commented severely on his heartless neglect of his father. She had learned through Mrs. Simpson that old Martin Bransby showed great anxiety for his son's return, and it was reported that he had caused a letter to be written, telling Theodore that he desired to speak with him, and urging him to come home without delay. In the first days of December the end came. Martin Bransby died, rather suddenly at the last, and his eldest son was not with him, and being telegraphed to, he arrived in Old Chester with the utmost possible dispatch, but too late to see his father alive. People are very sorry for the widow and her children, wrote Mrs. Dobbs, for it's beginning to be said now that they're left rather badly off, and that the bulk of everything will go to Theodore. I don't know any facts one way or the other, but I do know that foolish folk cackle louder over a grave than almost anywhere else, so we may hope things are not so bad with that pretty gentle woman as Old Chester Gossip makes out. One of Mae's first thoughts on reading this letter was, how grieved Owen will be. She grieved herself for the kindly old man who had always been good to her, and for the grief of those who loved him, and she incurred a mild rebuke from her aunt by appearing at a dinner party that evening with pale cheeks and red eyelids. Contrary to Mrs. Dobbs' hope, it turned out that the Gossip had for once been correct. Martin Bransby's affairs were left in a strange entanglement. There were many debts, and as it seemed, very little money to meet them. People inquired how he had got rid of the handsome property left to him by his father. He had not got rid of it in the ordinary sense of the words, but the bulk of it was as far beyond his control as though he had thrown it into the sea. At the time of Martin Bransby's first marriage, Old Rabbit had made the most stringent arrangements in his daughter's interest. Not only her own dowry, which was a handsome one, but nearly the whole of Martin's property was strictly settled on her and her children. Mr. Rabbit was enabled to drive a hard bargain by his command of ready money. He advanced a large sum to his son-in-law for the purchase of Caddell's share in the firm. Mr. Caddell was old and wished to retire. The opportunity was favorable and promised brilliant results, nor were these promises belied by experience. The old established solicitor's business was a very flourishing and lucrative one. Martin Bransby was soon able to pay back the loan to his father-in-law with interest. Old Rabbit observed that this was only taking from one hand to give to the other, for it would all come back to him and his in the end. As a matter of fact, Old Rabbit left every penny he had in the world to his daughter and her children after her, but the money was strictly tied up out of her husband's reach. This seemed a trifling matter in those days to Martin Bransby, whom should he desire to enrich but his own children, and things were going so well in the office that it seemed probable he might amass another fortune. But when, after his second marriage, a young family began to gather round him, he could not help regretting the terms of his original marriage settlement. As soon as Theodore came of age, Mr. Bransby made an attempt to induce him to relinquish some part of the property in favor of his younger brothers and sisters, but the attempt failed and was never repeated. Mr. Bransby was deeply wounded by Theodore's attitude, and on his side, Theodore considered his father's request unreasonable and unfair. If I might venture on a suggestion, I would advise your retrenching a little, sir, he had said with icy politeness. In that way, you would soon save enough to provide for Mrs. Bransby and her children in a style fully equal to what they have any right to expect from you. The remembrance of that interview was a thorn in the flesh of Martin Bransby, and it left in Theodore's mind increased resentment against his father's second marriage. But Theodore's advice, however unfilially proffered, was sound enough, retrenchment in the daily expenses of that easy-going and lavish household would have been judicious. But then to retrench would have been to deprive Louisa of the luxuries and elegancies which so became her and which gave her so much pleasure. Instead of taking this disagreeable method, Mr. Bransby tried speculation. He made one or two lucky strokes, but at the first loss became panic-stricken and threw good money after bad in a kind of desperation. After his death, something of all this leaked out in a confused way to the public astonishment. To think of Martin Bransby's money matters being in a bad way, people said, there must be more in this than meets the eye for he was acknowledged to be a first-rate man of business. In brief, as much amazement was expressed as though men of business were commonly infallible, and the world had never heard of a man of business whose conduct was not ruled by self-restraining prudence. At the same time, many persons declared that they had long ago prophesied disaster and had even warned Martin to put some check on his wife's extravagance. But such little inconsistencies as these are but pebbles in the stream of general gossip, diversifying it with an agreeable ripple, but never checking its flow. May wrote an affectionate letter of condolence to Mrs. Bransby. She received no answer to it, and presently she learned that Mr. Bransby and her children had left Oldchester and gone to London. Constance Hadlow did not mention the family at all in writing to Mrs. Dormersmith. They had fallen out of the sphere of her observation, and no one can be expected to turn away his telescope from contemplating the fixed stars in order to stare at common terrestrial phenomena, especially phenomena of a non-metallic and unproductive nature. About Christmas time, Theodore Bransby called unexpectedly at Mrs. Dormersmith's house in London. He came early in the forenoon, so early indeed that Mrs. Dormersmith was not yet visible. On asking to see Miss Cheffington, he was shown into a room where May was sitting with the children. Harold and Wilford were now permitted to spend part of the morning with their cousin at her particular request, and it was found that this arrangement answered the double purpose of delighting the boys and leaving Cecil more leisure for needlework. May started and flushed on hearing Mr. Theodore Bransby's name announced, that the first glimpse of Theodore disarmed her wrath. He was paler than ever, or seemed to be so in his deep mourning, and there was unmistakable sorrow in his face. May rose quickly and gave him her hand in silence. There were tears in her eyes, and the unexpected sight of tears in his made her forgive him for pressing her hand harder, and holding it longer than mere politeness warranted. I have been so sorry, said May. Thank you, he answered. You are always kind and good. So sorry for you all, the widow, the poor children, added May, as a bright drop brimmed over and rolled down her cheek. Theodore relinquished her hand and, rapidly passing his handkerchief across his eyes, gave a dry husky little cough in his throat. It was a sound which curiously repelled sympathy. You were not in, old Chester, when your dear father died, said May. She did not intend any covert reproach. Her words were prompted by a pitying thought of the undying regret which must haunt Theodore on this score. No, I was not there. I know I have been blamed for that. Oh, indeed, I had no such meaning. I well believe it, but I have been blamed most unjustly. I went away with my father's full consent. Indeed, he thought I needed the change. He wrote to me when he found himself growing worse, to ask me to come back. Of course, I meant to comply with that request. You cannot doubt it. I have no right to doubt it, answered May gently. No, but pray listen. I wish to justify myself in your eyes. The truth is, I was in the act of packing my valise to return to old Chester when a telegram reached me, saying that my father's danger was imminent. I was in Yorkshire, in a country house, where there was but one postal delivery a day. Letters were often delayed, and in fact my father's letter had preceded the telegram only by a few hours. Oh, how sad I am so sorry for you, cried May, grasping her hands. She felt some generous compunction for having done him injustice. Yes, I have lost a good father, said Theodore. You have indeed, and what a loss is Mrs. Bransby's. A subtle change came over his face, though he did not seem to move a muscle, and he made no answer. How is she? asked May, leaning forward eagerly. Theodore's eyebrows took their old supercilious curve, as he replied. Mrs. Bransby? Oh, she's quite well, I believe. Believe? have you not seen her lately? Oh, yes, I have seen her. She appeared perfectly well. I did not at first quite take in the sense of your question, but now I see what you meant. Everyone has not such keen sensibilities as you, May. Even this familiar use of her name she let pass, although adjured upon her. I'm sure Mrs. Bransby is not insensible, she answered, and she loved your father dearly. I am not disputing it, but she was and is a doting mother, and her feelings are greatly engrossed by her children. In one way this is happy for her. She does not feel the void, the loneliness which oppresses me. It seemed to May that there might be some truth in this. Theodore was not generally beloved. Cold as he seemed, he doubtless missed his father's affection. He would feel isolated and forlorn. This might be in great part his own fault, but May pitied him. She softened towards him still more when he went on to speak of his plans for assisting his young stepbrothers. He had already offered to send Martin to school at his own expense. He was endeavouring to be of use to Mrs. Bransby. She was, unfortunately, very unpractical and rather impracticable, but he hoped that when her grief calmed down she would listen to reason and take advice. Is she not well off? asked May, moved by genuine interest in the widow and her family. Theodore shook his head. I may tell you, he said, that she is in very straightened circumstances. I do not proclaim this generally because people who know how indefatigably my poor father worked and what a large income he earned are apt to blame her and accuse her of extravagance. While he was still speaking, a message came from Mrs. Dormersmith asking Mr. Bransby to go to her in the drawing room. She too was touched by his morning garb and pale face and received him with sympathetic gentleness. May's report of his behaviour and old Chester had been favourable in so far that he had not attempted to renew his suit. But what most of all conciliated Mrs. Dormersmith was the thought of Mr. Bragg. Now that her niece was so near making a splendid marriage it was easier to forgive Theodore's presumption. Doubtless the young man had already seen his error and really, putting aside that one aberration, he was very nice. Her good opinion was increased in the course of their private conversation, which turned on matters very interesting to Pauline. Theodore had seen her uncle lately. He had, moreover, had a good deal of talk with him about matters political. A vacancy was likely to occur shortly in the representation of that division of the county where Lord Castlecombe's land and property was situated. The Castlecombes were anxious to oppose a threatened radical candidate and Theodore had offered to stand. On his elder brother's death, Lucius Checkington had resigned his post in the civil service and under normal circumstances his father would have desired that he should return to the House of Commons, but his health was at present too feeble to warrant his attempting any exertion. Then old Lord Castlecombe thought it would be well to put someone into the vacant seat who might be willing to resign it whenever Lucius should be able and willing to come forward again as a candidate. This was not expressed but understood and Lord Castlecombe had approved of Theodore's ready comprehension of the state of the case and his clear view of the advantages such an arrangement would offer to himself. Election expenses, even in these days of purity and the ballot, retain as mysterious a rapidity of growth as Jack's beanstalk and the assistance of Lord Castlecombe would be very solidly valuable. On the other hand Theodore considered that ambition apart, it would be useful to him in his career as a barrister to write MP after his name and was willing to assume some share of the cost of the canvas. The old Lord discovered in this sententious young gentleman two merits, the possession of money and the knowledge of how to spend it advantageously. Lucius acquiesced passively in all his father's arrangements but he could not be induced to thaw half a degree in his personal relations with Theodore. The fellow is an intolerable prig, he said to his father and his vulgarity is of a particularly objectionable kind, the fine pretentious kind. Of course he's a damned snob, answered my lord with cheerful candor but what the deuce does that matter? We are not going to take him into our arms only to throw him into the arms of the voters and I can tell you it will be a vast deal better to have him for our member than Mr. Butter the radical button maker. At any rate, this young Bransby won't go in for abolishing the peers or starting a separatist crusade in the Skilly Islands. In the course of his talk with Mrs. Dormersmith Theodore hinted to her as much of his political outlook as seemed good to him. The account of his relations with Lord Castlecombe greatly impressed her for she was very sure her uncle would not waste any of his time and attention on an entirely insignificant person and Theodore's tone in speaking of the political position of the Castlecombe family was such as to win her complete approval and sympathy. When Pauline talked over his visit with her husband after narrating that part of it which concerned Lord Castlecombe she added and the young man has a great deal of proper feeling. I really begin to think that mistake he made must have been in some way May's fault. Oh not intentionally Frederick but she is so so unformed in her ideas. However we need not discuss all that for I am convinced Mr. Bransby is quite safe now. I was going to say that he told me confidentially that he would not advise us to encourage any intimacy between May and his stepmother. She is in London I believe letting lodgings are some dreadful thing of that sort. It is just the kind of thing May would delight in if I would let her visiting and championing people who are in impossible positions and talking all kinds of quixotic nonsense about them. However this Mrs. Bransby is not the kind of person who can be encouraged. She is very handsome I understand and too simple a coquette. There was some not too creditable flirtation with young rivers before her husband's death and Mr. Bransby evidently thinks she is the kind of woman always to have someone dangling after her. He spoke really very nicely and said he hoped she might soon marry again as she is scarcely fit to be trusted with the responsibility of bringing up a young family. You are so apt to indulge May in her whims that I thought it necessary to repeat all this with distinctness. You must see as I do that it would be quite disastrous for May to keep up any intimacy with such a person as this Mrs. Bransby a handsome flirting needy widow if she were even in society. End of Chapter 13