 Volume 2, Chapter 3 of That Unfortunate Marriage. Meanwhile, May was playing with Mrs. Martin Bransby's children in the delightful old wild garden, and Mrs. Martin Bransby herself was looking on from the shade of a trellis-arbor. These two had become very good friends, whether Mrs. Bransby was or was not aware of her stepson's rejected suit. May had no means of knowing, but she felt instinctively that Mrs. Bransby was not likely to be super-sensitive on her stepson's behalf, nor to bear her a grudge for having refused him. Theodore's absence was not lamented in his own home. His young half-brothers and sisters openly rejoiced at it, and even his father felt that life went on more pleasantly without him. May's popularity with the children was a sure passport to their mother's heart, while on her side Mrs. Bransby had developed a most endearing trait of character. She liked Owen Rivers and was always happy to welcome him to her house. Although Owen admired her beauty and elegance extremely, there was no alloy of coquetry in the preference she showed for his company. Indeed, Owen told his aunt Jane that Mrs. Bransby's delight in adorning her graceful person came nearer to being a pure case of lot pour lot than any he had ever witnessed. Nevertheless, the most transcendental of artists enjoys appreciation. So a chance that on this special afternoon, Mr. Rivers being announced just when she was urging May to remain and drink tea with her, Mrs. Bransby at once suggested that perhaps Mr. Rivers would stay too and be kind enough to see Miss Chepington home. Mr. Rivers handsomely acceded to the proposal, and these three persons passed a very agreeable afternoon together. The romping happy children with that disregard for any plurality of world's theory, which belongs to their age, accepted the whole arrangement as being ordained for their soul and peculiar enjoyment. Under this impression, they declined to allow Owen to remain lounging beside their mother in the shade, but imperiously required him not to be lazy, but to come and play. He withstood the clamour of the boys for some time, but when three-year-old Enid toddled up to him and gravely seized one of his hands with both hers, evidently under the conviction that she was quite able to drag him off with her by main force, it was impossible to resist any longer. A very noisy game known to the younger Bransby's under the alliterative appellation of tiggy-tiggy touchwood, and which involved a great deal of confused rushing about and shriveled vociferation, was proceeding in the liveliest manner when forth from the long window of the drawing room stepped a figure at sight of whom Martin, the eldest boy, stopped short in a headlong course, and Bobby and Billy were so surprised that they checked a wild halloo in their very throats. It was Theodore. He was dressed in travelling garb. Theodore had appropriate costumes for every department of life and adhered to them as punctiliously as a Chinese, and was advancing with his usual erect gravity towards his stepmother. When catching sight of May and Owen, he stopped, surprised in his turn. Dear me, Theodore, is that to you? said Mrs. Bransby, rising and coming forward. When did you arrive? We did not expect you. You did not right, did you? No, I took a sudden resolution to run down for a week. I wished to consult my father about a little matter of business, and I wanted change of air besides. In answer to Mrs. Bransby's nervous enquiries, whether the servants had attended to him, and whether she should order his room to be prepared, he replied, Thanks, I have given the necessary orders. My valise has been carried upstairs. I will go and wash my hands, and then I shall ask you for a cup of tea, if you please, glancing at the table already spread beneath the trees. Then he marched up to May, who was standing on the lawn with a look of little less dismay than the children ingenuously exhibited. He raised his hat with one hand, and shook her reluctant hand with the other, saying in his deliberate accents, This is truly an unexpected favour of fortune. I knew you were in old Chester, but I scarcely hoped to find you here. How do you do, rivers? This in an indefinable tone of condescension. Then again addressing himself to May, he said, You have not had any communication from town this morning? No. Nor from Comepark? Oh, no. Ah, I imagined not. May I beg the favour of a word with you presently? I am only going to get rid of some of the dust of travel. You will still be here when I return. May was tempted to declare that she positively must go home immediately, but before she could speak Mrs. Bransby answered for her. Oh, of course, Miss Chettington will be here still. I do not mean to let her run away just yet. Then with another formal bow, Theodore returned to the house and disappeared through the drawing room window. There was an awkward silence broken by Martin's exclaiming in a solemn tone. He's just like the vampire. The laugh which followed came as a relief to the embarrassment of the elders. Martin exclaimed his mother reprovingly. Well, mother, he is, persisted Martin, who was unspeakably disgusted at the sudden quenching of the festivities. What does he come stalking and prouting like that for? He's exactly like the vampire. May and Owen avoided each other's eyes, feeling a guilty consciousness that Martin had in a great measure expressed their own sentiments. Certainly the whole party appeared to have been suddenly iced. The three younger children were dismissed to the nursery and Martin and his sister Ethel voluntarily withdrew, feeling that all the fun was over. A large slice of cake apiece was looked upon as a very inadequate amends and accepted under protest. I think he should have stayed in London when he was there, grumbled Martin as he walked away viciously digging his heels into the turf at every step by way of event to his injured feelings. Nobody wants stalking, prowling vampires here. Why couldn't he stop in London? As those stalking, prowling vampires were generally admitted to be popular members of society in the metropolis. Mr. Rivers and the two ladies beguiled the time until Theodore should return by drinking tea and discussing Miss Piper's forthcoming musical party. Curiously enough, no one said a word about young Bransby. They all seemed to avoid the topic by a tacit understanding. But though out of sight, he was not out of mind. At any rate, he was not out of May's mind. She was secretly wondering what he could have to say to her. Could he possibly intend to renew his offer of marriage? The idea seemed a wild one. Nevertheless, it darted through her mind. One could never tell she thought what his obstinate self-conceit might lead him to do. However, May resolved come what might, to cling tightly to Mrs. Bransby's sheltering presence. So long as she remained in that house, and in going home, she would have the protection of Mr. Rivers' escort. Even Theodore Bransby could scarcely propose to her before these witnesses. At length, Theodore reappeared, brushed in trim, in speckless raiment. He took his place at the tea table, and after the exchange of a few commonplace remarks, silence stole over the company. Theodore seemed to be waiting for something, and from time to time he looked at Owen as though expecting him to take his leave. Finally, he cleared his throat and said gravely, Mrs. Chappington, I see you are not taking any more tea. May I crave the favour of a few words with you? Oh, please, I think I will have some more tea, said May, hastily pushing her cup towards Mrs. Bransby. Theodore, who had half risen from his chair, bowed, resumed his seat, and folded his arms in a waiting attitude. Then May added, with desperate resolution, Will you not be kind enough to say what you have to say now? I must be going home immediately, and I'm sure there can be no secrets to tell. She buried her face in her teacup to hide the colour which flamed into her cheeks as she said the words. If you desire it, returned Theodore stiffly, of course I shall away. I merely thought you might prefer to receive painful tidings in painful, cried May, turning pale and suddenly interrupting him. Is anything the matter with Granny? A glance at his raised eyebrows reassured her for the next moment, she said. Oh, how stupid I am, of course you could know nothing, you've only just arrived. It isn't, it isn't my father, is it? Pray do not alarm yourself, Miss Chepington. Captain Chepington is, so far as I know, perfectly well. Wouldn't it be better to speak out, said Owen, as soon as he had spoken he felt that he had no right to put in his word, but he could not help it. Theodore's self-important slowness was too exasperating. Yes, do please, said May. There is no cause for alarm, as I said, returned Theodore, trying to look as if he had not heard Owen's suggestion, but a shock, a slight shock, is apt to be felt at the announcement of sudden death, even in the case of a total stranger. Sudden death? Yes, I regret to inform you that your cousin, George Chepington, has been killed by the accidental discharge of a gun when he was on a shooting expedition up the country. All three of his listeners drew a deep sigh of relief. Oh, sighed May, the colour returning to her cheeks and lips. I felt a horrible fear for the moment about Aunt Pauline. This is a very important event, said Theodore, looking over his cravat with his House of Commons air, and indicating by his tone that the fate of Aunt Pauline was a matter of comparative insignificance. I am sorry for poor old Lord Castlecombe, said May. It will, of course, be a severe blow to your great uncle, all the more so, that Mr. Lucius Chepington is in deplorably weak health. Lucius is never very strong, is he? He is never robust, but this season he has been extremely delicate. I have reason to believe that a very high medical authority has expressed considerable anxiety about him. Does Aunt Pauline know I mean about George Chepington's death? Theodore drew himself up even more stiffly than usual as he answered. I am not aware what means Mrs. Dormusmith may have had of hearing the news, but my impression is that it can scarcely yet have been communicated to her. The original telegram to Lord Castlecombe only reached him yesterday. Did they, Lucius or any of them, ask you to tell me, inquired May, it now for the first time struck her as being odd that Theodore Bransby should have been selected for such an office. No, I was not precisely commissioned to inform you, but I was anxious to spare you the shock of hearing of this disaster accidentally. The fact was that Theodore had seen the telegram in a London newspaper of that morning. They ensued a short silence. Then Theodore said to his stepmother, with an elaborate shivering movement of the shoulders, Don't you think it grows very damp and chilly? I cannot consider it prudent to remain here whilst the doos are falling. No one was sorry for this excuse to break up the sitting. Mrs. Bransby made a move towards the house, and May said it was time for her to be going home. With your permission, I will have the pleasure of escorting you, Miss Chepington, said Theodore. Oh, no, please, thank you. Mr. Rivers said, I am undertaken to see Miss Chepington safe home, said Rivers. And Mrs. Bransby suggested that Theodore must be tired with his journey, and moreover that dinner would be ready at eight. But he disregarded both suggestions. I shall enjoy a stroll at this cruel hour. And I don't mean to dine, I lunched rather late, and will have something light cooked for my supper about ten. Do you mean to go, Rivers? Oh, well I'll join you as far as Mrs. Dobbs' house. Of course, under the circumstances, it was impossible for May to say a word to prevent him. And accordingly he walked from his father's door on one side of her while Owen strode on the other. As for May, she had been ready to cry at first with vexation and resentment. But after a while the sense of something ludicrous in the behaviour of her bodyguard so overcame her that she was very near bursting out into a fit of almost hysterical laughter. The two young men were full of smoldering animosity towards each other, but they both manifested this feeling chiefly by a severe and almost sullen demeanor towards May. She felt that she was being marched along between them more like a detected malefactor than a young lady whom one of them at least had besieged with tender proposals. If she addressed a word to Owen, he answered her in dry monosyllables. If she spoke to Theodore, he replied as from a lofty pinnacle of freezing politeness. It only needs a pair of handcuffs to make the thing complete, said May to herself. Then she finally gave up all attempts to be conversational. And so they arrived at Jesamine Cottage in solemn silence. As they walked up the little garden path in the gathering dusk, they were overtaken by Mr. and Mrs. Simpson. The latter, as soon as she recognised them, began to pour forth a fluent stream of talk, which did not cease when Martha opened the door, and then in some confused way which neither May nor Owen could afterwards account for, they all found themselves crowding into the little parlor together. As for Theodore, he had from the first resolved to go in if Rivers went in and to remain as long as Rivers remained. Mrs. Dobbs looked up astonished at sight of Theodore. She glanced inquirily at May, who had a queer look on her face, half distressed, half amused. Joe Weatherhead rose, staring glumly at the new arrivals of whom Sebastian brought up the rear, with an expression of countenance which showed that his temper was rustling like his hair. But Mrs. Simpson's sprightly eloquence spread itself impartially over all these shades of feeling, as water makes a smooth and level surface above the roughest bottom. So astonished, dear Mrs. Dobbs, to find Mr. Brand's Bejunia, having not the slightest idea that he was an old Chester, you know, and what a singular coincidence, how coming upon them all three, just at your very door, was it not? Well, observed Sebastian in his rasping voice, considering that we were coming to sup with Mrs. Dobbs, and that Miss May was on her way home, it would have been stranger if we had met at anyone else's door. Now, Bassie, I will not be overwhelmed by your stern logic. Ladies are privileged to indulge in some little play of the imagination besides, with an arch-smile of triumph. It really was the fact in this case. Oh, thank you, Mr. Weatherhead, any chair will do for me. Don't let me disturb. I suppose I may venture to make a shrewd guess, Mr. Brandsby, that you have come down to attend Miss Piper's musical party. A great compliment, indeed, when one considers your professional occupations. But the bow cannot always be bent. Even Homer, I believe, is said sometimes. Oh, no, he nods, I fancy, which of course is different. I really believe that Miss Hadler will be the only star of our old Chester firmament absent from the festive scene. Now acknowledge, dear Mrs. Dobbs, that you are surprised as I was. You did not expect this addition of youth at the prow, if I may venture on the expression, to our little circle this evening. At the same time, I must confess that three such sober young persons I never be held. They were all as silent as it put me in the mind of those beautiful lines, not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, as his, not of course, that there was anything of a funerial nature, far from it. This last touch overcame May's self command. She burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, breaking out of fresh every time she glanced at Owen's face, provoked and frowning, though with a twitch at the corner of the mouth, which showed he had to make an effort not to laugh too. Or at theaters, solemnly bewildered. She laughed until the tears poured down her cheeks, and her grandmother exclaimed, May, don't be so silly, child, you'll get hysterical if you go on that way. But the outburst relieved the nervous tension from which the girl had been suffering. And as she wiped her eyes, she was conscious that the laughter had saved her from shedding tears of a different sort. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Simpson, she said, I don't know what possessed me. Don't think of apologizing, my dear Miranda, indeed, why should you? Nothing is more delightful than the unaffected hilarity of youth. I'm sure I always enjoy it. Return the good Amelia with a beaning glance around her. It's lucky Amelia doesn't mind being laughed at, said Sebastian bitterly. Oh, Fyp-Azzy, we must distinguish love. That all depends on who laughs and how they laugh, observed his wife with unexpected perspicuity. No doubt, said Theodore, Miss Chevington's nerves have been agitated by the sad news which I brought her this evening. He's spoken a low, mysterious tone, addressing himself, apparently, to Mrs. Dobbs, although he did not do so by name. At these words, Mr. Weather had pricked up his ears, and although he had previously made up his mind not to say a word to this young spark, until the young spark should speak to him, his curiosity so far overcame his dignity that he could not help ejaculating, Sad News, huh? What news? What sad news, eh? Theodore turned to Mrs. Dobbs and pointedly ignored poor Joe, as he said, Miss Chevington will doubtless take a fitting opportunity of speaking with you about this event in her family. It is nothing that deeply concerns us, Uncle Joe, broke in May, flushing indignantly and speaking with impetuosity. A certain Mr. George Chevington has been accidentally killed out in Africa, but since neither you nor I nor Granny ever saw him, nor even heard of him until quite lately, we cannot pretend to be overwhelmed with grief. Nay! George Chevington killed, exclaimed Mrs. Dobbs. Theodore had turned very pale, as he always did when angered. May had certainly meant to hit him, but she had no idea that the unkindest cut of all had been her publicly addressing Mr. Weatherhead as Uncle Joe. He answered slowly, I should not have chosen this moment when you are, ah, entertaining these, ahem, your friends to impart the intelligence, but Miss Chevington has taken the matter out of my hands. George Chevington repeated Mrs. Dobbs pondering, Well, let me see now, here be Lord Castlecombe's eldest son. Poor old man. Oh, I'm sorry to hear it. Very sorry. It's hard for the old to see their hopes die before them. I'm sorry for him too, Granny, whispered May, somewhat penitent and ashamed of her vehemence. She had certainly betrayed a touch of the Chevington imperiousness and had spoken in a manner quite inconsistent with meek amiability. She had also made Theodore Brandsby feel considerable resentment. Nevertheless, he had never been less inclined than at that moment to relinquish the hope of making her his wife. Our passions have various methods of special pleading, but if reason presses them too hard, they will boldly substitute and in spite of, for a because, and pursue their aim as though, like beauty, they were their own excuse for being. Don't let us intrude on a scene of family afflictions, said Mr. Simpson-Dreilly. Now, Amelia, we had better withdraw, I think. Don't you talk nonsense, Sebastian Simpson, returned Mrs. Dobbs without ceremony? Sit down, Amelia. I am sorry I can't ask you, young gentleman, to stay and share our plain supper. For the truth is, I don't know that there's enough of it. But my friends, Mr. and Mrs. Simpson, would break an old charter if they didn't remain. After that, the two young men had, of course, nothing to do but to take their leave. Owen's good humour had quite returned. Wisdom and virtue, should, no doubt, have made him disapprove of Miss May's little outbreak of hot temper. But the truth is that this fallible young man had enjoyed her attack on Bransby. When the latter approached May to say good night, he murmured reproachfully, You were rather severe on me, Miss Chethington. I had no idea of displeasing you by what I said. She was conscious-stricken in a moment and answered quite humbly. I beg your pardon if I offended you, but I thought you were not civil to Mr. Weatherhead, and that vexed me. Please forgive me. And she endured the tender pressure of her hand, which immediately followed, as some expiation of her offense. Mrs. Dobbs detained Joe Weatherhead that night for a moment after Mr. and Mrs. Simpson had gone away and May was in bed. I say, Joe, the death of young poor man in Africa may bring about strange changes, said Mrs. Dobbs, looking at him gravely. Changes? How? What changes? Well, not changes for me and you, except through other folks. But do you know that after Lucius Chethington, who they say is but sickly, Lord Casselcombe's next heir is my precious son-in-law? No, exclaimed Mr. Weatherhead, making his mouth into a perfect round-o of astonishment. I, but he is, though. Next heir? I count Casselcombe with Cone Park in all the property, gasped Joe. I don't know about the property, only what's entailed, I suppose. But if Lucius was to die, Augustus would be next heir to the title, as sure as you stand there, Joe Weatherhead. Probably of all the persons in Old Chester, who knew or cared anything about the death of George Chethington, May was the only one who did not immediately begin to make some calculations based on that event. The contingency of her father's succeeding to the family honors had not occurred to her, and her thoughts and feelings were now occupied with other things. But Old Chester Gossips discussed it with gusto, or at least, that small minority of them who interested themselves in the fortunes of the Casselcombe family. The Old Lord was a little personally known in Old Chester, and the city had long outgrown any sense of the overweening importance of a Viscount Casselcombe of Cone Park, which it might have had a century earlier. To most of the rich manufacturers of the place, whether they really thought themselves as good as a lord or not, a lord whom they never beheld, and into whose house neither they nor their children had the remotest chance of being admitted, was at any rate genuinely uninteresting. In the rural parts of the county, it was otherwise. People there could not be indifferent to the domestic history of a large landowner who resided during the greater part of the year on his estate. In many a country dwelling, from luxurious mansions down to mere laborer's cottages, George Chethington's untimely death was canvassed, from a matrimonial point of view he had been considered the best match in the county, and dowagers with daughters to marry had looked forward to the time, often spoken of but always postponed, when he should give up his colonial appointment, settle down on his inheritance, and choose a wife. And there was a large number of persons, tenants and dependents, to whom the heirs, character, and conduct were matters of deep importance. To these, Mr. Lucius Chethington suddenly became an interesting personage. Lucius had been very little at Cone Park since his boyhood, and the report which gradually spread in the neighborhood that he was a chronic invalid, was received with many headshakings and long faces. It seemed impossible that a Chethington should be delicate or weakly. Look at the old lord, people said, why, he was sound and tough as a U-tree. And the last time Mr. George was at home, he had proved himself a true chip off the old block by outriding, outwalking, and outcricketing all his contemporaries. But that was years ago. Now George was stricken down in his strength. Lucius lay ill of a low fever in London, and Lord Castlecombe sat lonely and sorrow-laden in the home of his fathers. The old man was not one to seek for sympathy, nor even to tolerate much manifestation of it. The only being to whom for many weeks he mentioned his dead son's name, was a superannuated stable-helper who had set Mr. George on his first pony, and in whose mind that somewhat selfish and hard-hearted individual had never outgrown the engaging period of boyhood. Mr. George was the old man's idol, and Master George had, to a great extent, reciprocated the man's liking, partly perhaps from the sort of gratified vanity, which makes us all prize the exclusive attachment of any generally unamiable creature, biped or quadruped. Old Dick was characterized by his fellow servants as a crusty old curmudgeon, and was notorious for a formidable power of swearing, which he wielded freely without much respect of persons. The first day after receiving the news of his son's death, Lord Castlecomb, towards evening, walked out in a very unfrequented part of the grounds, a path between two high holly hedges, leading by a back way to the stable yard, and there, with his hat-cold low on his brow, his head bent, and his hands clasped behind him, he paced slowly, plunged in bitter meditation. When he came to the corner whence the stables were visible, he caught sight of old Dick seated on an ancient horse block, and busily rubbing at something in his hand. Lord Castlecomb stopped short and looked at the man, who evidently saw him, but made no sign. Neither ceased a moment from his occupation. After a minute or so, Lord Castlecomb called to him to ask what he was doing, and received no answer. He repeated his question, still no reply. A third time he spoke in a harsh angry tone, and then Dick turned round upon him, and with a tremendous volley of oaths, answered furiously, What am I doing of? I'm a rubbing up Master George's little silver spurs, as you gave him first time he ever rode to Hounds. I've always kept him bright from that day to this, and I aren't going to leave off now because I'm damned blundering fool, as didn't ought never to have been trusted with a gun. I wish I had the rewarding of him, Cursem, has been and put an end to the boy. That's what I'm a doing of, if ye must know. A tear fell on the little burnished spur, and then another, and another. But old Dick rubbed on, and his Master, after a short silence, came and laid his hand upon his shoulder, and then walked away without a word. After that, Dick was privileged to do what the boldest person's wife in the county dared not attempt, talk to Lord Casselcombe about his son George. Most of the letters of condolence which he received, Lord Casselcombe tossed aside contemptuously after glancing at the first line, but one letter he read through with a heavy frown on his face, and an occasional drawing down of the corners of his mouth into a bitter smile, far more sinister than the frown. It was from his niece Pauline, and its composition had cost her much thought and anxiety. She flattered herself that she had avoided saying a word which could jar on her uncle's irascible temper, and the letter in itself was a good letter enough, but it was a letter which should not have been written at all if her object were to soothe and conciliate Lord Casselcombe. Pauline did not allude directly to her brother Augustus, but the very fact of her writings seemed to bring his existence offensively into notice. She refrained from expressing any special anxiety about the health of her cousin Lucius, yet the few words in which she hoped to hear of his speedy recovery made the old man writhe as he read them. Pauline had tried to combine duty with policy. It was, of course, her duty to console with her uncle in his bereavement, and it was clearly desirable not to irritate the dislike with which, as she more than surmised, he regarded Augustus, but the whole calculation was based on a misapprehension of Lord Casselcombe's feeling towards her brother. It was neither more nor less than hatred, and now jealousy was added to it, a strange, savage jealousy on behalf of his sons. George, his strong, healthy, hearty eldest born, was gone, and Lucius. Lucius was not dying. No, no, not so bad as that, but he was very weakly, and to think for one instant of the possibility that Augustus Cheffington might someday reign in their stead, might lord it over the heritage which he had so carefully garnered for his own sons, was maddening. Anyone but Augustus, he said to himself, any distant scion, the son of some impoverished, faraway cousin, parson, lawyer, apothecary, anyone, anyone but Augustus. But of the passionate intensity of this hatred, Pauline had no suspicion, a cleverer and more acute woman than she might not have guessed it, no one in fact ever guessed it unless it were Lucius, and he only in part. His own sensitive end-typathy to Augustus was an incomparably feebler sentiment. Lucius had no strain of his father's vigor, whether for good or ill. Mrs. Dormersmith had also written by the same post to May. This epistle was more hastily dashed off, and faithfully reflected the wavering mood of the writer. One of her first preoccupations was whether, under the circumstances, it would or would not be desirable for May to pay the promised visit to Glengauri at this juncture. She did not disguise from herself that George Cheffington's death opened up the possibility of a very different future for May from any which could hither to have been contemplated. It became a question whether it would be prudent to accept Mr. Bragg. At all events, it would be well to avoid precipitation. Mr. Bragg was a fine match for a dourless girl, even for a dourless Miss Cheffington. But what if May's father were destined to become a wealthy peer of the realm? That might still be but a distant possibility. Lucius was not thought to be in any present danger and certainly might recover. Of course he might recover. And he might marry and transmit the title and estates in the direct line. But Pauline felt that there was a but, a vast import. And then there were minor cares connected with that great duty towards society which she so diligently endeavored to perform. I am most anxious about your morning, she wrote to May. It is positively preying on my mind. Of course nothing could be in worse taste than any assumption of woe in this case. You never saw poor George and the kinship is not a very close one. In fact, had it been one of the Buckinghamshire Cheffingtons, to whom you are related in exactly the same degree, I do not know that any morning at all would have been necessary for you. But of course the air to the head of our family occupies a different position. At any rate, do not air on the side of exaggeration. White, with nyads of pale heliotrope and jet ornaments or some black fabric of a light texture with a little jet beading would probably meet the case. But it is impossible for me to give you precise directions. I am too far away to know what is bien porté at this moment. Would that I could be near you, but I cannot break my cure at this point. Carlsbad has done me good on the whole, though of course the anxiety on your account connected with this painful news has to some extent thrown me back. Mrs. Griffin's taste might be thoroughly trusted, and if she would undertake to order your morning from Amelie. But now I think of it, Mrs. Griffin will not return to England until she leaves the Angadin for Glengauri. And here again I am greatly perplexed what to advise in your best interests. All things considered, it might be well for you to put off going to the Duchess. There will be the excuse of this terrible news about poor George, you know. I fear that I have written in a sadly decoussue fashion. But I cannot help it, and my poor head warns me to leave off. As usual I have to pay for intense mental effort. Carlsbad has not altered that. And the letter concluded with a post-script. Poe Grey Gloves. The only clear idea which May gathered from this letter was that her aunt virtually held her released from her promise to go to Glengauri, and left her free to do as she pleased. She carried the letter to her grandmother, saying, Granny, I shall not go to Scotland after all. I shall stay with you whether you like it or not. Oh, don't ask me to explain. I often feel with regard to Aunt Polly, and I could deaf person watching dances. There is something which regulates her movements, no doubt, but it is generally mysterious to me. Mrs. Dobbs privately thought that in this case she held a clue to the mystery. I, she said to herself, Mrs. Dormus Smith sees, just as I saw from the first hearing of it, that great changes may come to pass from this poor man's death, and she don't want May to commit herself too soon. Lord, save us. It is a sad, low, worldly way of looking at such a matter. At this point, some scarcely articulate whisper of conscience made Mrs. Dobbs brow-redden, and she added mentally, well, but if May likes him, if the man's inannest, and she likes him, it'll all come right in the end. Nevertheless, Mrs. Dobbs had begun to entertain shrewd doubts as to May's caring one straw for the unknown gentleman of princely fortune. May, meanwhile, made haste to put her escape beyond the danger of Aunt Polly's changing her mind. She wrote to Mrs. Griffin, saying that she should not be able to accept the Duchess's kind invitation to Glen Gowrie. She gave no reason. The excuse which Aunt Polly had suggested, she could not find it in her conscience to put forward. If I had wished very much to go, that would not have stood in my way, she said to herself, and it would be base and shocking to play the hypocrite about such a tragedy. Neither did she think for a moment of refusing Miss Piper's invitation. There had not been wanting a hint that she ought to do so. Mrs. Brandsby asked her if she meant to go to the musical party at Garnet Lodge, and being answered in the affirmative said, well, it seemed to me that it would be quite over-strain to refuse. But Theodore persisted that you would not go. He said it would be inconvinable. He almost quarreled with me about it. You know Theodore's infallible way of laying down the law. It needs scarcely be said that if anything could have strengthened the young lady's determination to attend Miss Piper's party, it would have been hearing that Theodore Brandsby took upon himself to object to her doing so. End of Chapter 4 Volume 2, Chapter 5 of That Unfortunate Marriage This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. That Unfortunate Marriage by Francis Eleanor Trollop. Volume 2, Chapter 5. Like the fairy Paribhanu's magic tent, which could shelter an army of 10,000 men, and yet was capable of being folded into the smallness of a handkerchief, what one calls the world shrinks and stretches to suit the individual case. Into the world of Polly and Patti Piper, Lord Castlecombe and his family's sorrows entered not at all. They might occasionally be viewed afar from the tent door, but even that distant recognition was not vouchsafe to them now, when the great event of the musical party absorbed the attention of the two sisters. In addition to Miss Clara Bertram and Mr. Cleveland Turner, the occasion was to be graced by the presence of Senior Vicenzo Valli. He was on a visit to a noble family in Mr. Sweeting's neighborhood, and had volunteered to accompany that gentleman and his protégé to Miss Piper's party. This honour, like other honours, was somewhat of a burden as well as a distinction. The program of the evening's performance, so carefully and anxiously arranged beforehand, must be modified to suit Senior Valli, who, if he condescended to sing at all, would do so only in accordance with his own caprice. And this would probably occasion difficulties since, although Miss Bertram's amiability might be reckoned on, Mr. Cleveland Turner took a more stiff-necked view of his own importance, and would not be disposed to yield the paw to Valli. Still, Miss Piper had no cowardly regrets on hearing of the distinction which was to befall her. She rose to the occasion and was prepared to undergo almost any impertinence from the popular singing master with a Spartan smile. I ought to understand how to manage autists if anybody does, she says, remembering the many cups of tea she had poured out for that irritable genu in old times. But the crowning interest and glory of the evening to her would be the performance of an air from Esther, which Miss Bertram had promised to sing. The Mrs. Piper had invited her to visit them at first from disinterested kindness. The young singer being tired with the work of the season and in need of rest and change of air. Under these circumstances, both the sisters were too thoroughly gentle women to hint at her singing for them. But Clara Bertram, casting about in her mind for some way to show her gratitude to the kindly old maids, had herself proposed to sing something from Esther. And the offer was too tempting to be refused. The composition selected was of the most infantile simplicity and could have been learned by heart in ten minutes. But a copy of it had been sent to town of fortnight ago for Miss Bertram to study. And Mr. Simpson had been supposed to be studying the accompaniment for an equal length of time. In fact, the performance of the air from Esther was the original germ out of which the musical party at Garnet Lodge had been developed. Clara Bertram arrived in Old Chester the morning before the great day, partly in order that she might not be overtired and partly to give the opportunity for a rehearsal of the air with Mr. Simpson. Oh, I'm sure we need not trouble Mr. Simpson, Clara began thoughtlessly. It is certain to go all right. But Miss Polly would not allow such a lax view of responsibility. Excuse me, my dear, she said, but the music of Esther is not quite a drawing room ballad. Not that you will not sing it charmingly, perfectly. There is no doubt about that. But there is a certain breadth, a certain style of phrasing necessary for sacred music. It is most important that the accompanist should understand your reading of the air. Indeed, I am anxious to hear it myself. I have my own ideas to the proper rendering of the opening phrase, hear, O King, and grant me my petition. But I shan't say a word until I've heard you. Your idea may be better than mine. Ha, ha, who knows? Hear, O King, and grant. My own notion would be to begin softly, almost sort of voce, in a timid manner, hear, O King, and then to rise into a crescendo as the stream proceeds, and grant me my petition. But I won't say a word. You must sing it as you feel it. May was, by special favour, admitted to the rehearsal. She had called to see Clara Bertram on the afternoon of her arrival, and was ushered into the long, low, old-fashioned drawing-room, where she found Miss Piper seated at one end of it, amid a wilderness of ruseats, and Mr. Sebastian Bach Simpson at the piano, near which Miss Bertram was standing. Oh, it's dear May Cheffington, said Miss Piper, who had turned round sharply at the opening of the door. Yes, yes, come in, my dear, not at home to anybody else. Rachel, not to anybody do you hear. Now come and sit down by me, my dear. She is going to try here, O King. Very glad to see you. You are so sympathetic and such a favourite with Clara. There now don't make her talk. Nothing worse for the boys than talking. Come and sit down. May was indeed scarcely allowed to exchange greetings with her friend, who whispered smilingly, We'll have our chat by and by. Then Mr. Simpson struck up the first chords of the symphony, and there was a breathless silence. He had not played three bars, however, before Miss Piper jumped up and ran to the piano. Oh, I beg pardon, Mr. Simpson, for offering a suggestion to so sound a musician as yourself. But don't you think a little more stress might be laid on that chord of the diminished seventh? It prepares the way you see for the pleading tone of the composition. La-da-de-da, like that. Oh, thank you. Quite my meaning. Please go on. But Mr. Simpson did not proceed far without receiving another suggestion. A little more force and fullness, don't you think, in that resolution of the discord? I should like a richer effect. I don't know how to make it richer, rasped out Mr. Simpson. It is the simple, common chord, just four notes, C, E, G, C. I sounded them all. I can play the bass as an octave if you think there will be any richer. Oh, thank you. Yes, I really think it will. You see, Esther was scored for full orchestra, and the composer's ear hankers after the instrumental effects. But that octave in the bass is a great improvement. Many thanks. And in this fashion, the symphony was at length got through. Then Clara uplifted her pure clear voice and sang, May listened in delight. Surely Miss Polly must be enchanted. Even Mr. Simpson's hard visit relaxed as the thrilling notes rose in sweet pathetic pleading. When they ceased, he wheeled round on the music stool and exclaimed with the most unwanted fervor. It's the loveliest soprano voice I've heard since your great namesake Clara Novello. Some of your notes remind me of her all together. Not that I expect to hear anything quite like her let the bright seraphim on this side of paradise. May turn to Miss Piper, but to her astonishment Miss Piper's face did not express unmingled delight. There was some slight and indefinable shade on it. Well, I do think that is most beautiful, said May. Do you, my dear, do you really? Why, how is it possible to think otherwise, Miss Piper? No one could, surely. Well, it is very kind of you to say so, my dear, and to be frank it shows a power of appreciation not quite common at your age. Of course it would be affectation on my part at this time of day and with my reputation behind me to say I am surprised, but I am gratified, very much gratified. And don't you think Miss Bertram did her part delightfully? May looked at her blankly, unable to say a word in reply. Fortunately no reply was needed, for Miss Piper bustled up to Clara and thanked her and praised her. But still her manner fell decidedly short of its usual cordial heartiness. At length, with many apologies and flowery speeches, she begged that the air might be repeated if Clara were sure it would not tire her. And this being at once conceded, she asked hesitatingly, and would you mind if I offered a little suggestion, just a hint? Certainly not, dear Miss Piper, I will do my best to carry out your idea. Oh, that is so sweet of you, thank you a thousand times, if Mr. Simpson will kindly oblige us once more. Now you see, it is just here on that G in alt, where the voice rises on the words grant, o grant me my petition, the sound grant, according to my original conception, should be given with a sort of wail, not of course an unmusical sound, but just with a tinge of sadness expressive of the then miserable and depressed condition of the Jewish nation, and at the same time with a tone, an underlying tone as it were, conveying the latent hope, which really was in Queen Esther's mind all along, you know, that by her efforts brighter days might yet be in store for them, you feel what I mean? I will try my best, answered Clara gently, and then she sang the air again, precisely as she had sung it before. Now, cried Miss Piper, jumping up and clapping her hands in an ecstasy of triumph, it is perfect, absolutely perfect. She poured out unstinted thanks and compliments to both singer and accompanist, observing to the latter that this recalled the great days of the public performance of Esther, and that she considered Miss Bertram's rendering of Here O King far superior to that of the well-known vocalist who had sung it originally. But then you see she could not or would not take a hint. Consequently, although of course she sang the notes perfectly, she never fully mastered my conception. Now a word has been enough to show Miss Bertram the inner meaning of my music and she interprets it in the most exquisite manner. Before going away, May contrived to have a few words with Clara Bertram in her room. It is such a pleasure to hear you sing again, said May, how I wish Granny could hear you. Will not your grandmother be here tomorrow evening? Oh, no, answered May colouring. She does not go out to parties. Granny does not belong to the class of the ladies and gentlemen who come here. Her husband was a tradesman in this town. But she is the finest creature in the world and she has more real dignity than anyone I know. Your grandmother lives here. But then how is it? Your mother is not a foreigner? A foreigner? Good gracious! No, my mother was Miss Susan Dobbs. She died years ago when I was only a little child. Why do you ask? Oh, nothing, I fancied. Vali said something about having known Madame Cheffington abroad. That was possible. My parents lived abroad for years. My father is on the continent now. I and the two little brothers before me were born in Belgium. Oh, I suppose that must be it, said Clara slowly. Vali talks at random sometimes. Signor Vali talks very much at random if he ever said my mother was a foreigner. By the way, do you know he is to be here tomorrow evening? Yes, so I hear. You do not hear it with rapture apparently. No, I do not like him very much. He likes you very much if appearances may be trusted, said May laughingly. He is always making love to me after his fashion. That is why I do not like him. Clara spoke gravely but with her habitual serenity. There was something in her manner which seemed to be akin to her voice. Something clear but not cold. A crystal with a sun in it. Oh, that is hideous, isn't it? cried May with eager fellow feeling. When people want to marry you and you shudder at the bare idea of marrying them. I don't think Vali wants to marry me, answered Clara calmly. Indeed, I believe he feels a great deal of hostility towards me at times. He is never satisfied unless his pupils will more or less flirt with him. A kind of flandering which I object to. Besides, it wastes one's time. But he has been spoiled more than you would believe by fashionable ladies. I suppose you never read much of George Sand's writings. No, answered May, opening great eyes of wonder. Nor I except Consuelo and the sequel to it. I read them for the musical part, which is wonderfully good. Well, in the Contesta Rulesta, there is a certain Monsieur de Polnitz, of which it is said that en qualité des rues, il ne met pas les filles vertues. It always seems to me that Vali, in his quality of a philanderer, dislikes women who won't flirt, whether he wants to flirt with them himself or not. How odious, how despicable! And yet he has his good qualities. He's very faithful and generous to his family and sends a great part of his earnings to them, their little Sicilian village. Then seeing that May still looked very much shocked and astonished, Clara added in a lighter tone. But let us talk of something more pleasant. You were speaking of your grandmama. If you think she would like it, I should be so glad to go and sing to her at your own home. Like it? Of course she would like it, and I scarcely know how to thank you as you ought to be thanked, for fear of sounding like Miss Piper. Clara smiled. Miss Piper and her sister are both very kind to me, she said. Yes, but I wish Miss Polly wasn't so ridiculous. Of course her music is poor and silly. It is only your beautiful singing that makes it sound well. But then you could make a bar-bar black sheep sound well. And then to hear the outrageous conceited nonsense she talks. I wonder that you can endure it so meekly. I couldn't, answered May, with the trenchant intolerance of her eighteen years. Oh, yes you could, under the circumstances. I am only too glad to give the kind old lady any pleasure. And she is not so outrageously conceited for an amateur. But now I fear I must turn you out, much as I should like you to stay. For Miss Piper sent me upstairs to lie down, and if she finds I am not doing so, I shall have to drink another cup full of Miss Patty's excellent beef tea, which is so strong it makes me feel quite tipsy. End of chapter 5 On the following evening Garnet Lodge wore a brilliantly festive appearance. Miss Polly was dressed be-times, an unprecedented variety of geological specimens adorned her wrists and fingers, and hung over the bosom of her lavender satin gown. She was walking up and down the drawing-room, surveying the rows of empty roo-seats, fully three-quarters of an hour before the earliest guests could be expected to arrive. She was strung up for the great occasion, but, although excited, she was not apprehensive. Miss Patty, on the other hand, was very nervous. I am a little anxious about the jellies, Polly, and about that new waiter from Winix, but I could face all that if it wasn't for here, O King, to think of hearing it again after all these years. I am afraid it will upset me. I'll take a back-place near the door, for I am sure to cry, and then I can slip out if necessary. You need not be ashamed of your tears, my dear Patty. Very probably you will not be the only person powerfully affected. Well, I don't know. I don't remember that anybody cried when Esther was brought out at Mercer's Hall, replied Miss Patty thoughtfully. The first persons to arrive were Mr. and Mrs. Simpson. Amelia was resplendent in a new pink silk gown which seemed to magnify her fluid proportions and made her a conspicuous object from every part of the room. She was beaming with delight, and her gratification at finding herself in Garnet Lodge under the present circumstances was so frankly and exuberantly expressed, as to cause some mortification to her husband. This is indeed a memorable, even in Dear Mrs. Piper, she began, for Patty had by this time joined her sister in the drawing room. I was telling Patty that he ought to feel himself honored by being selected to officiate, if I may so express it, at the Piano Forte on this extremely interesting and auspicious occasion. The honorees to me, Mrs. Simpson, answered Polly Piper politely. There, turning suddenly round, was such vehemence as to sweep down a roux seat with her pink silk skirts. What did I tell you, Patty? Whatever may be the opinion of certain persons enriched by manufacturers, and yet, after all, what should we do without manufacturers? How many of us would be capable of dealing with raw material? Blankets, for instance, take a sheep. But still, I always say to Bassey, believe me, the real gentry acknowledge and revere the position of the fine arts. Now, Amelia, hadn't you better mind what you're doing? said Mr. Simpson, setting the fallen roux seat on its legs again. She irritated him occasionally, but he admired her smart gown very much, nevertheless, and thought she looked remarkably well in it, and quite the lady. Other guests arriving now claimed the hostess's attention, and presently Clara Bertram, in her simple black evening dress, came into the room. Then appeared Mrs. Martin Bransby on the arm of her stepson, and bearing excuses from her husband, who was not feeling well enough to come out that evening. Her appearance called forth ejaculations of admiration for Mrs. Simpson, which, however exaggerated they might sound, were quite sincere. Mrs. Simpson gave utterance to a kind of prose rhapsody on the subject of Mrs. Bransby's dress, and then, bowing graciously to Theodore, said, and Mr. Bransby, Junior II, when I had the presser of unexpectedly, and indeed fortuitously, meeting him the other evening at the house of a mutual friend, I remarked that he was paying Miss Piper a high compliment in abandoning Thetis, the good lady probably meant Themis, for the seductions of Apollo, but we are told on the poet's authority that music hath chance to soothe the savage, not, of course, that the epithet is applicable in this case, quite the contrary. Then, turning her glistening spectacles on the young man, she playfully added, but in addition to the magic of the liar, we have what Hamlet, if I mistake not, so eloquently characterizes as metal more attractive, a collection of youth and beauty which might really, without hyperbole, be termed a bevy. That is an intolerable woman, muttered Theodore between his teeth as he conducted his stepmother to his seat. Oh, poor Simmy, remonstrated Mrs. Bransby, she is a good creature, but tonight she is in what Bobby and Billy call one of her dictionary moods. Rapidly the room filled up, besides many other oldchester notabilities, with whom this chronicle is not concerned, there were present Major Mitten, Cannon and Mrs. Hadlow, the latter bringing May under her wing, Owen Rivers, who came alone, Dr. Hatch and Mr. Bragg. Mr. Bragg, after paying his respects to the ladies of the house and standing for a few minutes in his silent, forlorn looking way, went up to May and said, Will you come and have a cup of tea, Miss Chuffington? They say hot tea kills you. That seems strange, don't it? But I believe it's true, rule of contraris, I suppose. May did not wish for any tea, but she saw Theodore Bransby hovering in the distance, and she accepted Mr. Bragg's proffered arm, almost eagerly. She rather liked Mr. Bragg, his slow, quiet, common sensible manner was soothing, and she knew enough of his unaustentatious good works in Oldchester to have a considerable esteem for him. He piloted May into the dining room where tea and coffee were being served, and where the new waiter from Winnick's was so far, conducting himself in an exemplary manner. Have one of these little cakes, Miss Chuffington? They look very good. No, thank you. Mr. Bragg provided May with a cup of tea, and then took one of the little cakes himself. They eat, uncommonly short, he said, with strong, though quiet, approbation. All the eatables seem good. Not a doubt of it. Miss Patty's a wonderful housekeeper. Now, do you suppose she made these little cakes herself? I cannot tell, but I am sure she could if she chose. She makes excellent cakes. Ah, I remember her giving me some very good ideas about a beefsteak pudding. I tried to make my cook do, and according to her receipt, but it didn't answer, said Mr. Bragg with a sigh. Presently he remarked as he slowly stirred his tea round and round. This is a bad job about Mr. George Chuffington. Yes, I am very sorry for Lord Castlecomb. Ah, your uncle, or great uncle, is he? I'm not much of a hand at remembering the ins and outs of families. He is hard hit, but he bears up wonderfully to outward appearance. Have you seen him, Mr. Bragg? Yes, saw him on Monday about some business. He's a keen hand at a bargain, his Lord Castlecomb. I don't know that I ever met with a keener. Poor old man. Oh, that's what I say, Miss Chuffington. Keenness and all that is very well, so long as you've got somebody to be keen for. But it's a dreary thing to be alone in advancing years. I feel it myself, though I'm, well, I dare say nigh upon 20 years younger than his lordship. There was a little pause during which Mr. Bragg sipped his tea and ate another cake. Then he repeated, It's a dreary thing to be alone. Are you alone, Mr. Bragg? Asked me, feeling that she was expected to say something, I thought you had sons and daughters. Only one son, and he's away in South America, settled in Buenos Aires years ago. He's a rich man already, as Joshua. I started him well, though I hadn't so much money in those days as I have now, not by a deal, and he's done well. And he married a lady with money, a Spanish merchant's daughter. No, there's no likelihood of Josh coming home to England to keep me company, even supposing I wanted him to. Then ensued another pause. Then Mr. Bragg said, I'm to have the pleasure of meeting you at Glen Gallery this autumn, I understand. No, I have decided not to go. I have written to Mrs. Griffin to say so. Oh, what? On account of this death in your family? No, I cannot say that. It would be a mere pretence. I never saw George Cheffington in my life, and he was not a very close relation. Mr. Bragg nodded approvingly. That's a straightforward way of looking at it. But I'm disappointed you ain't to be at Glen Gallery. Thank you, but my absence will not make much difference, I should say. I don't know. It might make a deal of difference, returned Mr. Bragg, speaking even more slowly than was his want. But where shall you be, then? Where I like best to be, here with Granny. Granny? My grandmother, Mrs. Dobbs. You must know her by name at all events, for you are her tenant. What? Oh, Dobbs, the ironmonger's widow, begging your pardon. May drew herself up with a proud movement of the head, which might have satisfied even the deceased dowager, that there was a strong strain of the Cheffington nature in her. There is nothing to beg pardon for, Mr. Bragg, she said hodlily. You cannot suppose that I am ashamed of my grandparents. No call to be ashamed of them, but people don't always see things in the right light, answered Mr. Bragg, composedly. Yes, to be sure, now I've come to think of it. Mrs. Dobbs' daughter did marry. Oh, of course. Susan Dobbs was your mother. I never knew her to speak to, but I remember her. Uncommonly pretty she was, too. Why, I might her known. But you see, your aunt, Mrs. Dormersmith, never mentioned your mother's family. At this moment Owen Rivers approached them. He said he had been sent by Mrs. Bransby to look for a maid, and thereupon carried her off to the drawing-room. Mr. Bragg remained behind, pondering for a minute or so. To think of this girl being Lord Castle comes grand-niece and all Dobbs' granddaughter. Wow, things do turn out queer in this world. Then Mr. Bragg also repaired to the drawing-room. The musical portion of the evening went off brilliantly, but the great success was undoubtedly Clara Bertram's performance of Here O King. She sang poor polypipers bald in Jejeune phrases, in a way which made such of the elder auditors as remembered its first performance ask themselves wonderingly if this were indeed the music they had listened to long ago, and she concluded with a cadenza so expressive and beautiful that Mr. Simpson rapidly listening very nearly omitted to play the final chords. When the song was over there was a burst of applause and an unusually loud clapping together of kid-gloved palms. But from the doorway where he had stood to listen, Vallee precipitated himself through the crowd like some swift missile, clearing his way utterly regardless of intervening backs and shoulders, male or female, and rushing up to Ms. Bertram, he exclaimed divinamente. I'm glad you are content, she answered in English, but Vallee went unvaluably in his own tongue. Content? No, content is not the word. I am enchanted. You sang divinely. Demon of a girl, never in all your life did you sing a song of mine like that. What possessed you? Gratitude, answered Clara quietly. Ms. Piper now came up and kissed her effusively. Composer and singer were soon surrounded by a little crowd to whose polite exclamations of charming, immense treat, really delicious, and so forth. Ms. Polly kept replying with lofty magnanimity oh, but you must not attribute all the honour to me. I assure you that more depends upon the execution than you are perhaps aware of. This first triumph had a subtle effect on Mr. Cleveland Turner. He was moved by it to play a dancing volsticonserre in place of a composition of his own, modeled on a great original, which he entitled Twilight in the Gardens of Valhalla. It had been much praised in esoteric circles, but it was somewhat trying to the unregenerate ear so much so that a profane and flippant outsider had rechristened it, feeding time in the Gardens of the Royal Zoological Society. Mr. Sweeting, afterwards mildly reproached his young friend for not having performed it, and thus doing something towards improving and elevating the taste of Old Chester. It's no answer, my dear boy, to say they wouldn't have liked it, said Mr. Sweeting. No answer at all. But it is to be feared that Cleveland Turner had some depraved enjoyment of the applause which resulted from his lapse into heresy. Signor Valli determined not to be eclipsed in popularity and utterly indifferent to the improvement of Old Chester's musical taste, made himself unprecedentedly amiable. He sang vivacious Neapolitan street songs, quaint Tuscan stonelli, pathetic Sicilian heirs, and these tuneful productions were greatly relished by that vast majority of the listeners who had not progressed so far as to connect ugliness with righteousness in music. When Valli at length rose from the piano, Mrs. Simpson made a sudden plunge across the room and presented herself breathlessly before him. He was in a group of persons among whom were Mr. Sweeting, Cleveland Turner, and Ms. Piper. Amelia's round plump face was flushed by heat and excitement to a rose-pink hue, several shades deeper than that of her gown, and her spectacles glittered with a blank and baffling brightness. I cannot, she said, quit this elegant scene of the muses without offering my poor tribute to you, Signor, which she pronounced Signor, for the delightful addition your performances have contributed to refined enjoyment. Valli looked up, rather bewildered, and not knowing what else to do made her a profound bow. I trust, continued the lady, that I may be allowed to congratulate you, Signor, in the harmonious words of our great poet upon your linked sweetness, long drawn out, not I'm sure that anyone present considered for a moment that you were drawing it out at all too long and with a sweeping curtsy, in the performance of which she overwhelmed Mr. Sweeting's legs in a flood of pink silk skirt, and backed heavily onto Mr. Cleveland Turner's toes, Amelia withdrew beaming. At supper Valli was in high good humor. He had been presented to Mrs. Bransby, and was gratified to find himself placed beside her at the supper table, she being uncontestably the most beautiful woman in the room. Major Mitten sat near them and pleased Valli by praises of his singing, a pleasure not at all diminished by his quick perception that the good major had no knowledge whatever of the subject. It's a real treat, I assure you, said Major Mitten, to hear a tune. I don't pretend to be a great cornusua, but I can enjoy a tune. Oh, they may say what they'd please, but there's no music like Italian music and nobody can sing it like Italians. This led to some reminiscences of the major's garrison life in Malta, and to the mention of the prima donna Bianca Moretti. Mrs. Bransby recognized this name as that of the heroine of Miss Piper's story, told at a dinner party several months ago. Oh, you have heard of the Moretti, said Valli. Yes, she could sing. By the way, I hear she is a kind of maratra, how do you call it, to that pretty Miss Chuffington. Miss Chuffington? Oh, impossible. Pardon? Not at all, impossible. I mean the young lady opposite, at the other end of the table, sitting between those two young men. I know one of them, the one with the blonde smooth head. I meet him in society. He is tremendously annoying, nor whoso, what you call a bore. That is Miss Chuffington, certainly, but you don't mean to say that Signora Moretti has married her father. Oh, married, answered Valli with a shrug. She has been living with him for years. This is what I mean. I hear that Bianca has grown steady now, but she had a jeunesse par mal aux ragours. Major Mitton tried to change the subject, glancing uneasily at Mrs. Bransby, but Valli was impervious to the hint, not that he had any intention of outraging the proprieties or any suspicion that he was doing so. Mrs. Bransby was not a jeunesse. He had heard of English camp and hypocrisy long before he came to England, but he had been agreeably surprised to find them conspicuous by their absence in the section of London Fashionable Society, which he chiefly frequented. So he went on narrating anecdotes of La Bianca and her adventures until Mrs. Bransby rose and quietly left the table. Upon this, Major Mitton and several other men drew closer to Valli, and the consequence was that not only the mess table, but other circles in Old Chester were regaled the next day with some choice morsels of scandal, in which the name of Gus Chethington figured conspicuously. But whatever might be the subsequent results of that talk, Miss Piper's musical party had undoubtedly turned out a great success. That night, when the sisters were alone together, they sat up for an hour, discussing the events of the evening in a glow of pleasurable excitement. Every point was remembered and dwelt upon, but of course their interest centered in the song from Esther. It was a real triumph, Polly, said Miss Paddy. There can't be two opinions about that, but there. I thought I wouldn't tell you, but I can't help it. I overheard Signor Valli and that Cleveland Turner, whom I never did like and never shall, speaking of hero-king in a sneering, slighting manner. Quote Miss Polly with a lofty smile and laying her hand on her sister's shoulder. My dear Patty, I am not at all surprised to hear it. I had experience of artists, if anybody has, and in the best of them I have always observed one defect in judging my music. Professional jealousy. Chapter 7 The day after the party at Garnet Lodge, Mrs. Dobbs was surprised by the announcement from her old servant, Martha, that Mr. Bragg was at the gate and would be glad to speak with her if she was at liberty. Quite at liberty, Martha. I'm very happy to see Mr. Bragg. Now, what can he want? said Mrs. Dobbs to the faithful Joe Weatherhead, who was in his usual place by the hearth. Something about the house in Friar's Row, suggested Joe. Oh, I suppose so, though I don't know what that can be to say. However, it's no use guessing. It's like staring at the outside of a letter instead of reading it. He'll speak for himself. Meanwhile, Mr. Bragg had alighted from the plain broom, which had brought him from his country house, and walking up the garden path and in at the open door presented himself in the little parlor. I hope you'll excuse my calling, Mrs. Dobbs. You and me have met years ago. No excuse needed, Mr. Bragg. I remember you very well. This is my brother-in-law, Mr. Weatherhead. Please sit down. Mr. Bragg sat down, and he and his hostess looked at each other for a moment attentively. Mr. Bragg was a large, solidly built man with an impression on his face of perplexity and resolution subtly mingled together. It is a look which may be often seen on the countenance of an intelligent workman whose employment brings him into conflict with physical phenomena, at once so docile and so intractable, so simply and so eternally mysterious. The expression had long survived the days of Mr. Bragg's personal struggle with facts of a metallic nature. In his present position, as a man of large wealth and influence, he had to deal chiefly with the more complex phenomena of humanity, and very seldom found it so trustworthy in the manipulation as the iron and lead and tin and steel of his younger days. Mrs. Dobbs marked the changes wrought by time and circumstances in Joshua Bragg. She remembered him. He had even been temporarily in her husband's employment at one time in a well-worn suit of working clothes and with chronically black fingernails. She saw him now dressed with quiet good taste, for he left that matter to his London tailor, with irreproachably clean hands, on which, however, toil had left ineffasible traces and a massive watch chain worth half a year's earnings of his former days. You are very little changed in the main, Mr. Bragg, and the years haven't been hard on you, said Mrs. Dobbs, summing up the result of her observations. Now, I believe I don't feel the burden of years much. Not bodily, that is. In the mind, I think I do. You see, I've come to a time of life when a man can't keep putting off his own comfort and happiness to the day after tomorrow, which, added Mr. Bragg thoughtfully, is exactly where young folks have the pool, I think. That's queer too, Mr. Bragg, remarked to Joe Weatherhead, putting off your own comfort and happiness seems a poor way to enjoy yourself, sir. Ah, but what you only mean to do always comes up to your expectations and what you do do doesn't rejoin Mr. Bragg with a slow, emphatic nod of the head. Well, but as to feeling the burden of years, that's putting it too strong, said Mrs. Dobbs. You have no right to feel that burden yet a while. Why, you must be, let me see, under 53. 53 last birthday. Aye, I wasn't far out. Lord, that's no age. I might be your mother, Mr. Bragg. I'm glad to hear you say so. I mean, I'm glad you don't think me too old. Not quite an old fellow in short. No, to be sure not. Mr. Bragg was silent for fully a minute. Then he said, Well, whether I'm quite an old fellow or not, I'm too old to trust much to the day after tomorrow. So, if not inconvenient to you, Mrs. Dobbs, I should like to say a few words to you about a matter that has been on my mind for some little time. Certainly, Mr. Bragg, I'm quiet at your service. Mr. Bragg looked slowly around the little parlor, looked out of the window at the tiny garden, looked at Mr. Weatherhead, finally looked at Mrs. Dobbs again and said, It's a private matter. I'd better go, Sarah, said Joe. I shall look round again at tea-time, and he made a show of rising from his chair very slowly and reluctantly. Oh, perhaps you've no call to go away, Joe. I have no business secrets from my brother-in-law, Mr. Bragg. He is my oldest and best friend in the world. Mr. Bragg rubbed his chin slowly with his hand and answered with a certain embarrassment, but quite straightforwardly. It's a private matter to me. After this, Joe Weatherhead had nothing for her but to take his departure and to endeavor to calm the fever of his curiosity with tobacco. Mrs. Dobbs remained alone with her visitor, wondering more and more what could be the subject of his proposed communication. Her thoughts, in connection with Mr. Bragg, persistently hovered about the house in Friar's Row, but his first words scattered them in widespread confusion. Your granddaughter, Ms. Chepington, tells me that she's not going to Glengar recastle this auto, Mrs. Dobbs. Why, no, I believe not, answered Mrs. Dobbs, looking at him curiously. In that case, I don't think I shall go there myself. I'm no sportsman. I always feel lonely in a house full of strangers, and besides, I was invited, particularly, to meet Ms. Chepington. Mrs. Dobbs preserved her outward composure, but something seemed to whirl and spin in her brain, and although she kept her eyes fixed on Mr. Bragg, she saw neither him nor anything else in the room for several seconds. I was asked through Mrs. Griffin. You may have heard speak of her. Mrs. Dobbs made an affirmative movement of the head. She could not have articulated a word at that moment to save her life. Mrs. Griffin is a well-meaning lady, but she's a lady who now and then gets out of her depth, along if not what you might call winding her own business. But she always means to be kind, and the best of us make mistakes. Oh, that we do, assented Mrs. Dobbs, huskily. Well, Mrs. Griffin is always telling me that my money, a princely fortune, she calls it, but it's a good deal more than that, by what I can hear about princes, lays me under an obligation to marry again. At the word's princely fortune, Mrs. Dobbs winced, and a deep red flush came into her face, but she answered quietly, wealth has its responsibilities, of course, Mr. Bragg. Yes, it has, and its troubles, but when all said and done, it's presenter to be rich than poor. I've tried both. No doubt. Only, one may pay too dear even for being rich. Well, I should be sorry for any lady I married to consider that she paid too dear for being rich. Oh, I meant no offense, Mr. Bragg. There's nothing you may not pay too dear for, I suppose, except a quiet conscience. You may pay too dear for a wife, and there's two sides to every. He was about to say bargain, but he substituted the word arrangement. Mrs. Dobbs had taken up her knitting, and was twisting and pulling it with her fingers in a restless, nervous way. When Mr. Bragg made a pause and looked at her, she said, Of course, that's quite true. He went on, I make bold to hope, Mrs. Dobbs, that you'll give me credit in what I'm going to say, for having some serious reason, and not talking idly out of pride and vanity. In short, for not being what you might call a fool. Yes, I will, Mr. Bragg. Thank you. On that understanding, I may say between ourselves that Mrs. Griffin has mentioned to me several quarters where I shouldn't meet with a refusal in case I went to look for a wife. I couldn't have supposed it myself, at least not to the extent it really does run to, but the fact has been brought to my knowledge, so that there's no possibility of making any mistake about it. More than one young lady, some of them tight or two, said Mr. Bragg, with an odd glimmer of complacency flitting for a moment, like a will of the wisp above the solid terra firma of his native good sense. More than one, and more than two, have been what you might call trotted out for me. Mrs. Dobbs' fingers twitched and pulled at the wool on her knitting needles, and the muscles round her mouth seemed to tighten, but she said not a word. Mr. Bragg continued, Now, perhaps you think I have no business to take up your time with all this when it's no concern of yours. Still, Mrs. Dobbs did not speak, so he added, but it does concern you in a way. She made a visible effort to say quietly, ah, indeed, how's that? But this time she was perfectly sure beforehand of what he was going to say. I'm coming to that in one moment. Here Mr. Bragg Paws took out his handkerchief and passed it over his face before proceeding. I mentioned that Mrs. Griffin sometimes gets out of her depth with the best of intentions when minding other people's business. She got a little out of her depth when attending to mine. She somehow took it for granted that I should be quite content to marry any lady of high family who would look handsome in my diamonds and spend my money in the fashionablest style. She was consequently a good deal taken aback when I offered some objections to one or two parties of her recommendation, but I managed to make her understand at last. Said I, Mrs. Griffin, I don't undervalue the honour, but I'm too old to wear a tight shoe for the sake of appearances. The fact was, I did not feel myself what you might call drawn towards any of these young ladies. I couldn't fancy them sitting opposite to me at my own fireside with a kind look on their faces. Now the reason I say all this to you, continued Mr. Bragg laying his massive hand on the elbow of Mrs. Darb's chair, is because there is a young lady that I do feel drawn towards. A young lady I've had opportunities of observing at home and abroad. And it was talking of this young lady that I said one day to Mrs. Griffin, now if you could find me someone like Miss May Cheffington who'd condescend to have me, I should think myself a very fortunate man. She quite jumped at the idea. Jumped indeed, burst out Mrs. Darb's indignantly. Then she took a most unwarrantable liberty. She could know nothing about Miss May Cheffington's feelings in the matter. What business had she to jump? Nay, nay, my good lady, my good lady, you don't understand. She jumped at the idea on my account. Why, Lord bless me, you couldn't suppose. She told me at once that May Cheffington was the purest-minded and most unworldly girl she ever knew. I remember her very words, for I couldn't help thinking at the time how queer it was that Mrs. Griffin should admire unworldliness so much. There was a long pause. Mrs. Darb's was greatly moved from her usual self-possession. She could not trust herself to speak while Mr. Bragg was surprised and somewhat offended by her reception of what he had to say. He had, really, all things considered very little purse-pride, but he had been accustomed for many years to be dumbly conscious of the power of his wealth as an elephant is dumbly conscious of the power of his weight. And for a few moments he felt as the elephant might feel if he were subjected to the mysterious process, which we hear of as levitation, and suddenly found himself brushed aside like a fly. Mr. Bragg did not wish to bear down his fellow creatures unduly by force of wealth, but wealth had come to be a large factor in his social-specific gravity. After a while Mrs. Darb said tremulously and by no means graciously, Well, I don't see what I can do for you in the matter. I'm not asking you to do anything for me, Mrs. Dorbs. I was not aware till last night that you were any relation to Ms. Checkington, or least ways I had forgotten it, for I believe I did hear of your daughter's marriage years ago. When I became aware of it, I thought you would take it as a mark of respect and goodwill if I came and spoke to you confidentially, but you don't appear to see it in that light. Mrs. Darbs turned round and offered him her hand, saying, I ask your pardon, if I have said anything to offend you, you don't deserve it. You were very far from deserving it, but I'm shaken. My nerve isn't what it was. I haven't been so upset since my poor dear daughter Susie ran away and got married. She was trembling and her restless fingers were making sad work with her knitting. Well, well, there's no occasion for you to put yourself about, you know. I should like you to tell me just this. Under the circumstances, I think there is no objection to my putting the question. Is there anybody else in the field before me? No, I think not. I can't say. If the young lady has no other attachment, said Mr. Bragg in his slow pondering way, I don't see why I should not be able to make her happy. What do you think? You're a deal older than the child. There is a great disparity, Joshua, answered Mrs. Dobbs, reverting in her agitation to the familiar form in which she had addressed him 30 years back. So there is, but that can't be helped. We must just reckon with it as so much alloy. There wouldn't be much romance, couldn't be. But a vast number of people get on very well without romance and are useful and happy. I have some reason to believe, added Mr. Bragg, looking at her a little askance, for there was no knowing whether this fiery old woman might not take offence again, that certain members of Miss C's family would approve. Mrs. Dobbs answered with unexpected meekness. There's no need to tell me that. And you mustn't suppose, Mr. Bragg, that I don't appreciate, that I don't know how the world in general would look upon your offer. Why, you see, it doesn't amount exactly to an offer. I thought I would talk matters over with you, and what you might call put the case. You see, said Mr. Bragg, placing the forefinger of his right hand upon the thumb of his left. For my part, I could undertake that any lady who did me the honour to marry me should have steady kindness and respect. I wouldn't marry a woman I didn't respect, not if she was the handsomest one in the world and a duke's daughter. Then, placing his two forefingers together, I ate a bad temper, nor a jealous temper. Lastly, here he shifted the forefinger of his right hand to the middle finger of his left, though I don't want to lay too much stress upon money, yet it's a fact that my wife, and in the course of nature my widow, would be a very rich woman. I suppose you know, said Mrs. Dobbs, leaning her forehead on her hand and letting the knitting slide from her knees to the floor. That maize-father is alive. Yes, I do know it, and I've got something to say to you on that score, and I'm sure you will agree with me that it is very desirable for Miss C to have protection and guidance. I'm not speaking for myself now, you understand. Her aunt, Miss Dorma Smith, is a very gentile lady with very high connections, but quite between ourselves, you know. I wouldn't give much for her headpiece. Mrs. Dobbs was looking at him eagerly and scarcely allowed him to finish the sentence before she said, Well, you have something to say about Captain Sheffington. Well, perhaps you know it. If you don't, you ought to. He has been traveling about for years with an Italian opera singer. She is with him now in Brussels, and people say he has married her. Mrs. Dobbs clasped her hands together and ejaculated, almost in a whisper. Oh, my poor child! Mr. Bragg could not tell whether she was thinking of her daughter or her granddaughter. Perhaps the images of both were in her mind. You had not heard of it, then? Oh, it's a bad prospect for Miss C. But is it true so many stories get about? It seems incredible to me that Augustus, so selfish as he is, should have bound himself in that way. I hear it confirmed on all hands. It's an old story now and pretty widely known. But look at it which way you will. It's an ugly, disreputable kind of business, Mrs. Dobbs. She was silent for a while, sitting with her head sunk on her breast and her hands clasped before her. Then she said, almost as if speaking to herself, God knows! The woman may not be bad or wicked. How are we to judge? Mr. Bragg drew his hand away from the elbow of Mrs. Dobbs' chair where it had been resting and said in a tone of solemn disapprobation, I don't think there can be much doubt as to the character of the person, Mrs. Dobbs. I understand she became so notorious in Brussels through keeping a gaming house, or something of that kind, as to call for the interference of the police. I ask how this information reached you, said Mrs. Dobbs, turning round and looking full at him. Mr. Bragg hesitated for a few moments before answering. It has come to me from various quarters, but the latest is an Italian singer who has been chattering a good deal. He was at Miss Piper's. There's always a certain amount of risk in having public performers in your house. I don't encourage him myself, never did from a boy, and I think it's a pity that Miss Piper does. Her sister and me are quite agreed on that point. Mr. Bragg here pushed back his chair and stood up. I should wish you to understand, he said, that I should have thought it my duty to tell you this, feeling the interest I do in this sea, quite independent of our previous conversation. I understand. Thank you. With regard to that conversation, you can, if you think it advisable, what you might call sound your granddaughter. I think that might avoid disagreeables for both parties. It can't be pleasant for a sensitive young lady to refuse an offer, and I don't mind saying that it would be extremely unpleasant for me to be refused. A man of my age, and, well, I may say my position, don't like to look ridiculous. Of course, you don't care much for my feelings, can't be expected to, but I think on reflection, you'll see that by coming to you first in this way, I've also done the best I could to spare the feelings of Miss C. With that Mr. Bragg shook hands with his hostess, and, quietly letting himself out of the house, walked to his brolum, and was driven away to the office in Friar's Row. End of Chapter 7. Volume 2, Chapter 8 of That Unfortunate Marriage This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. That Unfortunate Marriage by Francis Eleanor Trollop. Volume 2, Chapter 8. To one so habitually resolute, sagacious, and self-reliant as Mrs. Dobbs, the shock of discovering that she has been living under a delusion is severe. It is not merely mortifying, it is alarming. After her conversation with Mr. Bragg, Mrs. Dobbs felt like a person who, walking along what seems to be like a solid path, suddenly finds his foot sink into a quagmire, the firmer and bolder the tread, the greater the danger. She had not been conscious until the disenchantment came. How much hope and pride she had lavished on the image conjured up in her fancy by Pauline's gentlemen of princely fortune. The image had been vague, it is true, but brilliant. All that she knew of Mrs. Dormersmith's pride of birth, her contemptuous rejection of young brands be suit, the importance she attached to introducing her niece into the best set, and so forth, served to strengthen Mrs. Dobbs in all kinds of delusions. She had taken it for granted that the sort of person whom Pauline could approve of as Mae's husband must possess certain qualifications. She no more thought, for instance, of doubting that he would be a gentleman than that he would be a white man. The princely fortune added something chivalrous to the idea of him in her mind, since he was ready to share it with portionless Mae. And now these airy visions had been rolled aside like glittering clouds, and the solid prosaic, ugly fact presented itself in the form of Joshua Bragg. Mrs. Dobbs sat for more than an hour after he had left her, with bowed head and hands clasped, scarcely stirring. For a while she could not order her thoughts. Her mind was confused. Images came and went without her will. Under all was a bitter sense of disappointment and a vague disquietude for the future. At first she had dismissed the notion of Mae's marrying, Mr. Bragg, as one too preposterous to be entertained for a moment. But by degrees she began to ask herself whether she might not be as mistaken here as she had been in other undoubting judgments. Mr. Bragg was a man of probity, and, or so she had hitherto thought him, of excellent sense. Old Chester held many substantial proofs of his benevolence. Could it be possible that girlish Mae was willing to think of this man for a husband? Mrs. Dobbs tried to look at the matter judicially. There were many instances of happy marriages where the disparity in years was as great as in this case. Who could be happier than Martin Bransby and his beautiful young wife? But this example had not the effect of reconciling Mrs. Dobbs to the possibility of Mae's accepting the great tin-tack maker. Martin Bransby was a man whom any woman might love, well-educated, clever, genial, of a handsome presence, and with manners of fine old-fashioned courtesy. There could be no comparison between Martin Bransby and Joshua Bragg. No, no, no, such a match would be a mere coarse bargain. The very thought of it was an outrage to Mae. And yet, the pendulum of her thoughts swinging suddenly in the opposite direction, she remembered that neither Mrs. Dormersmith nor Mrs. Griffin had so considered it. And was it not true what Mr. Bragg had said that many people did very well without romance and were useful and happy? Self distrust, once aroused, became wild and uncontrollable. She fought against her better instincts, telling herself that she was a fool and that the world was no place for storybook sentimentality. If Mae married this man, she would be safe from the gusts of fortune. She would be honored and caressed, for it was clear that society accepted Mr. Bragg without qualm or question. And she would have boundless possibilities of doing good. This, surely, at all events, was a worthy aim. At this point, just as after a conflict between winds and waves, there sometimes comes a sudden calm and the serenity of sunshine, the turmoil of her mind was stilled all at once, and she saw clearly. She lifted up her head and said aloud, What shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul? Lord, forgive me. I was arguing on the devil's side every bit as much as that poor creature Mrs. Dormismith and without her excuse of knowing no better. The whole thing is plain enough. If Mae could bring herself to care for the man, and such unlikely things happen in that line that one daren't say it's downright impossible, she'd do right to marry him. If not, she'd do wrong. And that's all about it. Here at last was a firm foothold and, having struggled out of the quagmire, Mrs. Dobbs was able to consider the other subject of Mr. Bragg's talk with her, the rumor that Captain Chuffington had married again. If it were true, and above all, if his new wife were such a one as Mr. Bragg had described, there was a new source of anxiety as to Mae's future. As she was meditating on this point, Joe Weatherhead returned, eager to hear all about her interview with Bragg, and to impart to her something he had just heard himself. Mrs. Dobbs was glad to be able to feed Joe's hungry curiosity by telling him the reports about her son-in-law, since she could not betray Mr. Bragg's confidence respecting Mae. She found that he had been hearing a version of them from Mr. Simpson, whom he had met in the road. Valise utterances at Ms. Piper's supper table had already revived all kinds of obsolete gossip about Captain Chuffington. It will be terrible for my poor lamb of half the bad things they say are true, said Mrs. Dobbs, shaking her head. Joe's private opinion was that Captain Chuffington's conduct under any given circumstances was pretty sure to be the worst possible, but he tried to comfort his old friend as he had succeeded in comforting himself by setting forth that her father's behaviour, be it what it might, could scarcely affect Mae's happiness very deeply, seeing that she had been entirely separated from him for so long. And as to her position in the world, what you think so much of? Mrs. Dobbs winced at this and turned her head away. While I shrewdly suspect, Sarah, that a deal-worse things than ever reached you and me must have been known about Captain Chuffington in aristocratic circles this long time back, and yet Miranda has been received among the tip-toppers people as if she belonged to him. And there's her own great uncle, the Lord Viscount Castlecomb of Comb Park, a nobleman notorious for his height. Joe did not mean his stature. It has quite taken to her by all accounts. After some consultation, they agreed together that it would be well for Mrs. Dobbs to tell her granddaughter something of the reports which we're flying about, lest they might reach her accidentally or in a still more painful way through malice and find her unprepared. Moreover, Joe urged his old friend to write boldly to Augustus demanding an answer as to the truth of the statement that he had married a second wife. Mrs. Dobbs at length consented to do so, although she had little hope of eliciting the truth by those means. But Joe was strongly of opinion that if Captain Chuffington were not married, he would be desirous for many reasons of repudiating the statement. And if he were married, he might not be displeased at this opportunity of saying so, although pride or indolence or a hundred other motives might prevent him from making the opportunity for himself. The communication was made to May when she came home from college quad that afternoon, and although greatly surprised at first, it did not produce so much effect as her grandmother had anticipated. May had enough of the healthy unquestioning veneration of a child for its parent to take her father on trust, and to Mrs. Dobbs had always been careful not to lower Captain Chuffington in his daughter's esteem. But May did not, naturally could not, feel for him any of that strong personal attachment, which is apt to look jealously on interlopers. She regarded him with a somewhat hazy affection, largely compounded in imagination and dim childish traditions. Some added tenderness sprang perhaps from the notion that poor papa had been unfortunate and that the world had treated him below his desserts. After the first surprise was over, she said, but why should he keep it secret? Wouldn't he have told you, Granny? Perhaps not, May. I hear from him very seldom, as you know. Very seldom, yes, but in such a case as this, perhaps though papa thought it might hurt your feelings on account of mama. Perhaps, returned Mrs. Dobbs, Riley, people are unreasonably sensitive sometimes, are they not? As for me, it never entered into my head to think of my father's marrying again, but now I do think of it. It seems to me that it would be a very good thing. Its goodness or badness would depend, of course, on circumstances. I really think more and more that it would be a good thing, Granny. Papa must have many lonely hours, you know. He likes continental life best, to be sure, but still he is far away from his own country and his own people. It seems almost selfish in us not to have thought of it for him. Oh, I hope she is a nice kind woman who will be good to him and take care of him. I think I ought to write it once and assure him that I have no grudge in my heart about it, and I'm sure you have none either, have you, Granny dear? Mrs. Dobbs found it at once more painful and more difficult than she had foreseen to breathe degrading suspicions into this frank, pure mind. But it was necessary not to allow May to cherish what might prove to be disastrous illusions. It isn't all such plain sailing, May, she answered slowly. I will write to your father, and you had better wait for his reply. We don't know that he is married at all, and if he is, we don't know that there's much to be glad about. They do say that the lady is not a fit match for your father. He is the best judge of that, I should think, returned May. Then she added her young face flushing with a generous impulse. I dare say people may have said the same of my own dear mother. No, May, no one ever said of your own dear mother what is said of this woman. There was a sternness in her grandmother's voice and face which startled the girl. What do they say, Granny? She asked quickly. Mrs. Darbs checked herself. Oh, I cannot tell you exactly. There are lots of stories about it. Some will have that. Her character is not quite blameless. Who dares say so of my father's wife? Hush, May. There's no need to call her your father's wife yet. Senior Valley says the person in question. Senior Valley? Then I don't believe a word of it. Not one word. I know he talks wildly and jumps at things. While he told Clara Bertram that my mother was a foreigner and that he'd met her. So you see how accurate and trustworthy Senior Valley is. Then after a moment, as if struck by a sudden thought, she asked, Is she a foreigner? I believe so. Then that is what he meant, I suppose. It's right to tell you, May, that Senior Valley is not the only one who has heard disagreeable things. Oh, of course, they'll bar after the other. You have no idea, Granny, what foolish backbiting talk goes on among the people who want Pauline call society. I've seen them roll a morsel of gossip over and over, while it kept growing all the time, like a snowball or a mudball. And no doubt many people who want Pauline doesn't call society or as bad. A sheep is a sheep. Whichever side of the hedge it is on, said this young censor with fine scorn. Mrs. Dobbs in her heart did not put implicit faith in the stories which reached her. The young and the old, when they are sound-hearted, are prone both to disbelief slander. The young from innocence, the old from experience, for there is no lesson more surely taught by life than the evil lightness with which evil is attributed. But with regard to these particular stories, unwelcome corroboration, was given to Mrs. Dobbs by Clara Bertram. Clara carried out her proposal of going to sing at Jessamine Cottage. She went there one afternoon when May was absent at the Hadvows and introduced herself. There were only Mrs. Dobbs and Mr. Weatherhead to listen to her, but she sat down at the old square piano, feebly tinkling now, but tinkling always in tune like the conscientious ghost of a defunct instrument, and sang her best. Her audience, though limited, was highly appreciative, and she soon found that their applause was not given ignorantly. Apart from the charm of her singing, Clara won their sympathies by her kindly unaffected simplicity. She inspired trustfulness. One must have been blindly false one's self to doubt her truth. Mrs. Dobbs was moved to question her a little about Vali. Of course you have heard this gossip about May's father, she said. Yes, to say the truth, I almost hoped you might speak on this subject, and so I purposely came when I thought May would not be here. I hinted to her something that Vali had said to me, but I saw she knew nothing. I have told her, at least I have told her enough to prevent her being taken by surprise. I'm glad of that. I think you have done very wisely. This senior Vali, now, said Mrs. Dobbs musingly, I suppose he tells lies sometimes, eh? Clara reflected for a moment before she answered, In one way, yes, that is to say, if he hated you and saw you give a penny to a beggar, he would impute some nefarious motive for the action, and say so without scruple, but I don't believe he would be likely to invent circumstances. Then she went on to tell how Miss Polly Piper remembered a dreadful story about some gambling transactions, and how Major Mitten had fervished up his Maltese remniscences, and how everybody found something to say and not one good thing among them all. Joe Weatherhead listened with a kind of dread enjoyment. So much curious gossip could not but be interesting, yet he wished with all his heart for May's sake that it were not true. I speak openly to you, said Clara, but I am reticent about all this with other people. Pray believe that. Mrs. Dobbs did believe it. Clara seemed to have become intimate with them all at once. May I come again? asked the young singer as she took her leave. May you come? Will you come? I didn't ask you, because when a person generously gives me one pearl of price, it is not my way to snatch up the whole string. Your time is precious. Your voice is precious. Dear Mrs. Dobbs, your kindness is precious. Not that I am ungrateful for the kindness bestowed on me by other people, but there is such a delightful feeling of homeliness here. And then, although you have praised me too much, I must say that you and Mr. Weatherhead are good judges of music. Well, I wouldn't go so far as to deny that you might strew your pearls before certain animals who would value them less, replied Mrs. Dobbs. As for Joe Weatherhead, he became so enthusiastic and Miss Bertram's praises behind her back that Mrs. Dobbs laughingly declared he was in love with her, and perhaps he was a little. Many more such humble innocent loves spring up and die around us every day than we wreck of. They do not ripen into fruit, but simply blossom like the wayside flowers, and the world is all the sweeter for them. When May came home that evening, she was delighted to hear of the favorable impression her friend had made, although she declared it was shabby of Clara to have come in her absence. May brought the news from College Quad that Constance had written home for a prolonged leave of absence, having been invited by the Duchess to accompany Mrs. Griffin to Glen Galerie. Cannon had though grumbles a little, said May, but he will let her go, and I'm so glad. I hated the idea of going, but Connie will enjoy it, and everybody else will soon find out that she is the right girl in the right place, which I am sure I should not have been. Mr. Bragg is not going to Glen Galerie either, I understand, said Mrs. Dobbs, growing very red and coughing to hide her embarrassment. No, Mr. Bragg and I are quite agreed in not liking that sort of thing. He says he feels lonely in a strange house, and so do I. If the Duke and Duchess were my friends, it would be different. Mr. Bragg has a good deal of sense, I think. Plenty of common sense, and good feeling, don't you think? What's the matter with your throat, Granny? Shall I get you a glass of water? Oh yes, he does a great deal of good with his wealth. Cannon had though, saying only this afternoon that Mr. Bragg gives away very large sums in private, besides the public subscriptions, where everyone sees his name. Mr. Bragg was here the other day to speak to me on business. No, no, I don't want any water. Sit still, child. And I think you are a great favourite of his. It's quite mutual, Granny. Often and often in London, I used to prefer a quiet talk with Mr. Bragg to the foolish chatter of smart people. Aye, aye, but smart people need not be foolish, May. No, they need not. Only so many of them, especially the young men, seemed to think it part of their smartness to put on a kind of foolishness. Mrs. Dobbs looked wistfully at her granddaughter. In that process of sounding May, which Mr. Bragg had recommended, and which Mrs. Dobbs was endeavouring to carry out, there arose this difficulty. The chords gave forth a full response to every touch. But who should interpret the meaning of the notes? Mrs. Dobbs had been accustomed to read May's feelings by swift intuition. She was now afraid to trust to that. Her interview with Mr. Bragg had so upset so many of her preconceived ideas, as to what could be considered probable, or even possible in the matter of her grandchild's marriage, that her judgment seemed paralysed, and then to risk a mistake which should involve May's lifelong unhappiness would be too tremendous a responsibility. Measured by Mrs. Dobbs' unquiet thoughts, it seemed a long time, but in reality less than a minute elapsed between May's last words and her saying, Talking of smart people, Granny, don't you think Aunt Pauline is sure to know the truth about Papal? Well, I cannot tell. There might be reasons why she should not have heard it, May. Well, at all events, I've been thinking that I will write to her and ask. If she does know, and is keeping her knowledge back for me for any reason, some of Aunt Pauline's mysterious dancing before deaf people you know, that I will make her speak out. I don't see why you should not write to her if you choose, May. Mrs. Dobbs had little doubt that Mrs. Dormersmith would be annoyed and perturbed by May's writing to her on the subject, whether the story of the marriage were true or false, and whether she herself had or had not heard of it. But Mrs. Dobbs was in no mood to shield Pauline from annoyance or perturbation. She and her gentlemen of princely fortune indeed, said Mrs. Dobbs to herself. Why couldn't she say, oh, Joshua Bragg, and then one would have known where one was? So it was settled that May should write to her aunt. End of Chapter 8