 Volume 3, Chapter 4 of That Unfortunate Marriage, by Francis Eleanor Trollop. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. CHAPTER 4 Although the little house in Collingwood Terrace had not perhaps fully justified Martin's cheery prophecy that it would turn out an awfully jolly little place when once they got used to it, yet there, as elsewhere, peace, goodwill, order, and cleanliness mitigated what was mean and unpleasant. Mrs. Bransby's love of personal adornment rested on a better basis than vanity, although she was doubtless no more free from vanity than many a plainer woman. She had an artistic pleasure in beauty and elegance, and an objection to sludishness in all its protean forms, which might almost be described as the moral sense applied to material things. Her delicate taste suffered, of course, from much that surrounded her in the squeezed little suburban house, but far from sinking into a helpless slattern, according to the picture of her painted by Mrs. Dormersmith's commonplace fancy, she exerted herself to the utmost to make a pleasant and cheerful home for her children. Her life was one of real toil, although many well-meaning ladies of the Dormersmith type would have looked with suspicion on the care Mrs. Bransby took of her hands and would have been able to sympathize more thoroughly with her troubles if her collars and cuffs had occasionally shown a crease or a strain. Mr. River's room had been prepared with the most solicitous care. It was a labor of love with all the family. Martin and his sister Ethel did good work, and even the younger children insisted on helping to the irreparable damage of their pinafores and temporary eclipse of their rosy faces by dust and black lead. The young ones were elated by the prospect of seeing their playfellow Owen once again. Martin relied on his assistants to persuade Mrs. Bransby that he, Martin, should and could earn something, and even Mrs. Bransby could not help building on Owen's arrival to bring some amelioration into her life beyond the substantial assistance of his weekly payments. He arrived in the evening and was received by the children with enthusiasm and by Mrs. Bransby with an effort to be calm and cheerful and to suppress her tears which touched him greatly, seeing her as he did for the first time in her widow's garb. He was touched too by her almost humble anxiety that he should be content with the accommodation provided for him and earnestly assured her that he considered himself luxuriously lodged, and indeed for himself he was more than satisfied, but he could not help contrasting this mean little house with Mrs. Bransby's beautiful home in Old Chester, and he found it singularly painful to see her in these altered circumstances. In this respect, as in so many others, his feeling differed as widely as possible from Theodores, for Theodore, although fastidious and exacting as to all that regarded his own comfort, sincerely considered his stepmother's home to be in all respects quite good enough for her, and had privately taxed her with insensibility and ingratitude for showing so little satisfaction in it. All the family, including Phoebe, who grinned a recognition from the top of the kitchen stairs, agreed in declaring Owen to be looking remarkably well. He was somewhat browned by the Spanish sunshine, and he had an indefinable air of bright hopefulness. In Old Chester he used to look more dreamy. It is business which is grinding my faculties to a fine edge, he answered laughingly. When Mrs. Bransby made some remark to the above effect, I shall become quite dangerously sharp if I go on at this rate. I don't think you look at all sharp, replied Mrs. Bransby gently, whereupon Martin told his mother that she was not polite, and Bobby and Billy giggled, and they all sat down to their evening meal very cheerfully. When this table was cleared, and the younger children had gone away to bed under Ethel's superintendents, Mrs. Bransby said, You smoke, do you not, Mr. Rivers? Not here in your sitting-room. Oh, pray do, it does not annoy me in the least. Owen hesitated, and Martin thereupon put in his word. Mother does not mind it, really. Not decent human kind of tobacco, such as gentlemen use. That beast-old butcher used to smoke a great pipe that smelled like a double distilled essence of public-house tap-rooms. While a cigarette, if I may, said Owen, pulling out his case, then drawing the only comfortable easy chair in the room towards the fireside, he asked, Is that where you like to have it? That is your chair, said Mrs. Bransby timidly. Good heavens exclaimed Owen, genuinely shocked. What have I done to make you suppose I could possibly be capable of taking your seat? He gently took her hand and led her to the chair. Then, looking round the little parlor, he spied a footstool which he placed beneath her feet. As he looked up from doing so, he saw her sweet pale face, with the delicate curves of the mouth twitching nervously, in an endeavor to smile, and the soft dark eyes full of tears. He must not spoil me in this fashion, she began, but the attempt to speak was too much for her. She broke down and covered her face with her trembling hands. Martin instantly crossed the room and stood close beside her, placing one arm round her shoulders, and turning away from Owen so as to fence his mother in. The boy's protecting attitude was pathetically eloquent, and so was the way in which his mother presently laid her head down upon his shoulder. They remained thus for a little while. Owen stood by the fire with his elbow on the mantelpiece, and his forehead resting on his hand. All three were silent. At length, when Martin felt that his mother was no longer trembling, and that her sobs were subsiding, he looked round and said, Mother's upset by being treated properly. No wonder! It's like meeting with a white man after living among cannibals. If you had ever seen that beast butcher, you'd understand it. Shall I go away? asked Owen. Mrs. Bransby quickly held out one hand in treatingly, while she dried her eyes with the other. Please stay, she said, and please light her cigarette, and please draw your chair near the fire, and make yourself as comfortable, or as little uncomfortable, as you can. Forgive me. I do not often break down in this way. Do I, Martin? No. answered Martin, moving the lamp so as to throw his mother's tear-stained face into shadow, and then squeezing his own chair into the corner beside hers. No. You were cheerful enough with Butcher. Well, of course, one had either to take Butcher from the ludicrous side, or else shoot him through the head, and have done with him. I see, said Owen, nodding, and not sorry to hide his own emotion under cover of a joke, and Mrs. Bransby was unable to make up her mind to justifiably homicide him. Yes, he was a beast, though, and no mistake. Phoebe was in such a rage with him once that she threatened him to throw a hot batter pudding at his head. I'm sorry now, she didn't. added Martin with pensive regret. Then they talked quietly. Mrs. Bransby, with womanly tact, led Owen to speak about himself and his prospects. There was little to tell in the way of incident. He had been working steadily, and did not dislike his work, and he had been well contented with his treatment by Mr. Bragg. Mr. Bragg had made him an offer to send him in the spring to boin his eye-race. It might be an opening to fortune. I suppose he will go. Of course he will go, said Mrs. Bransby. She could not help her voice and her face betraying some disappointment. They did not, however, betray all she felt, for the prospect of Owen's going away so soon sent a desolate chill to her heart. Owen looked at her quickly, and then as quickly looked away and tossed the end of his cigarette into the fire before lighting another. I don't know, he answered, bending down over the flame. It will require some consideration. I believe the alternative is open to me of remaining in Mr. Bragg's employment in England. Anyway, there is time enough before I need to decide. Several months, I hope. Mrs. Bransby breathes a low sigh of relief. Then she said, in a perceptibly more cheerful tone, it seems so odd to think of you writing business letters and making up accounts and being altogether turned into a... a... a clerk. No, not precisely that. You're Mr. Bragg's secretary, are you not? What I am aiming at, what I hope to be, is a clerk, you know. If I called myself a field marshal, or an archbishop, it would not alter the fact, but it does seem odd to me, too, when I think of it. Better luck than I deserve, as my shrewd old friend Mrs. Dobbs said to me. Talking of Mrs. Dobbs, May Cheffington came to see me here. Owen had heard regularly from May every week. He carried her last letter in his breast pocket at that moment, not the note which she had posted herself. That had not yet reached Collingwood Terrace, so that he was not starving for news of her. Nevertheless he felt a wild temptation to cry out, Tell me about her, talk of nothing else! But he answered composably, That was quite right. She ought, of course, to come see you. She only came once, observed Martin. That was not her fault, said his mother. She could not, as I told you, make frequent journeys here. She could not command her time, or her aunt's servants. She goes out a great deal. Her aunt lives for the world, you see, said Owen apologetically. Oh, there is no reason why May should not enjoy her youth and all her advantages. Answered Mrs. Bransby softly, She is a very sweet, lovable creature, much too good for. Mrs. Bransby here chapped herself and stopped abruptly. Oh, mother, that's all bosh, cried Martin, fleshing hotly. I mean that notion of yours. Now I ask you, Mr. Rivers, is it likely that May Cheffington would think of marrying Theodore? Oh, you may well look flabbergasted. Anybody would who knew them both. You see, mother, Mr. Rivers takes it just as I did. You don't think it likely, do you, Mr. Rivers? Owen had recovered from the first startling effect of hearing those two names coupled together. But he was inwardly raging and lavishing a variety of the most unparliamentary epithets on Theodore. If you ask my candid opinion, I don't think it likely, he answered curtly. Of course not, exclaimed the boy. It's only Theodore's bounce, I told mother so. Why, you don't mean that Bransby has the confounded impudence to say, No, no, interposed Mrs. Bransby, don't let us exaggerate. Theodore has never made any explicit statement on the subject. But he meets May very frequently in society. He's constantly invited by Mrs. Dormersmith. They are thrown a great deal together. May has evidently become much more kind and gracious to him of late, for I remember when she used positively to run away from him. And as for him, he is as much attached to her as he can be to any human being. I do believe that. Attached to your granny, cried Martin, apparently unable to find a polite phrase strong enough to convey his deep disdain, Theodore is much attached to number one, and that's about the beginning and the end of his attachments. Hush, Martin, said his mother severely. You are talking of what you don't understand, and you know how much I dislike to hear you use that tone about your brother. She brought out the word brother with an obvious effort. In truth she had a repugnance to speaking or even thinking of Theodore as her children's brother, but it was a repugnance for which she blamed herself. I think, she added, that you had better go to bed, Martin. The boy rose with an instant obedience which had not always characterized him in the happy old Chester days, and bent over his mother to kiss her. I'm very sorry. I did not mean to vex you, mother, he whispered. You're not angry with me, are you? I can't be angry with you, my darling boy. But I must do my duty. You know he would say, I was right to correct you. Martin lifted up his face cheerfully with the happy elasticity of boyish spirits. All right, mother, good night, good night, Mr. Rivers. Good night, old fellow, responded Owen grasping the boy's hand heartily. He felt very strongly in sympathy with Martin just then. Martin lingered. May I ask just one thing, mother, he said wistfully. You know we agreed not to tease Mr. Rivers with our affairs immediately. On his arrival, Martin, replied his mother, then unable to resist his pleading faith, she said. If it really is only one question, perhaps Mr. Rivers would not mind. What is it you want to know, Martin? Speak out, said Owen. It's about the question I asked in my letter, replied Martin, blushing in eager. Don't you think I ought to try and help, mother? And don't you think I might have a chance of earning something? That's two questions, said Owen with a smile. But I'll answer them both. To number one, yes, undoubtedly. To number two, perhaps. But we must have patience. There, mother, cried Martin triumphantly, turning his glowing face and sparkling eyes towards her. Then he shut the door and rushed upstairs. His round young cheeks dimpled with smiles, and his heart so full of joyous hopes, that he was impelled to find some vent for his overflowing spirits, by hurling his bolster at Bobby and Billy, who were sitting up in bed, broad awake. Thereupon there ensued smothered sounds of scuffling and laughter, mingled with the occasional thud of a bolster against the wall, until Phoebe, sharply wrapping at the door, announced that unless Mr. Martin was in bed in two minutes, she would take away the light and leave him to undress in the dark. When the widow was alone with Owen, she began to pour forth the praises of her eldest boy. She hoped Mr. Rivers did not think herselfish in letting the boy share so much of her cares and anxieties. But although only a child in years, he was so helpful, so loving, so sensible, had such a manly desire to shield her and spare her, and then, after asking Owen's advice about the boy, she added naively, ''Only please don't advise me to make a drudge of him. He's so clever. He ought to be educated. His dear father looked forward to his doing so well at school and college. ''If I am to advise really,'' said Owen, ''I ought first to understand the state of the case, with as much accuracy as possible.' Mrs. Brainsby at once told him the details of her circumstances, as succinctly as she could. There was a small sum secured to her, but so small as barely to suffice for finding them all in food. Theodore had made himself responsible for the rent during one-twelve-month. He had also, or so she had understood him, promised to send Martin to his old school for a couple of years. But it now appeared that his offer was limited to paying for Martin's being taught at a neighbouring day school of a very inferior kind. And even this seemed precarious. ''I thought at one time,'' said Mrs. Brainsby, ''I might perhaps earn a little money by teaching, but I must do what I can to educate Ethel and Enid and the younger boys until they get beyond me. I fear I could not find time to go out and give lessons, even if I succeeded in getting an engagement. So I'm trying to get some sewing to do. I can use my needle, you know, while I hear Ethel say her French lesson and make Bobby and Billy's spell words of two syllables. Poor Mrs. Brainsby spoke with much diffidence of her plans and projects. She had a very humble opinion of her own powers and was touchingly willing to be ruled and directed. Owen suggested that it might have been better for her to have remained in Old Chester, where she was among friends, but she answered that she had scarcely had any choice in the matter. It was Theodore who had decided that she was to remove to London. It was Theodore who had chosen that house for her. In the first days of her loss, she had blindly accepted all Theodore's directions. ''Perhaps I was to blame,'' she said, ''but I was so overwhelmed and I felt so helpless, and it seemed right to listen to Theodore. But, although I never say a harsh word about him to strangers nor to the children if I can help it, I cannot pretend to you, who know us all so well that he is kind to us. Martin resents his behaviour very much. I do my best, but it is impossible to make my boy feel cordially towards his half-brother. Of course it is,' said Owen. Then he closed his lips. He would not trust himself to talk of theatre at that moment. It was a comfort to Mrs. Brainsby to speak openly to a sympathising listener and one whom she could thoroughly trust. She talked on for a long time, and at length, looking at her watch, accused herself of selfishness in keeping Owen so long from the rest which he must need after his journey. As she returned the watch to her pocket, she said deprecatingly, ''Perhaps you think I ought not to possess so handsome a watch under the present circumstances?'' Theodore was quite displeased when he saw it and said it ought to be sold. But you see, I need some kind of watch and this is an excellent timekeeper and my dear husband gave it to me. On the last birthday we spent together. She turned away to hide the tears that brimmed up into her eyes and going to a little side table, lit her chamber candle. Owen rose from his chair. ''Look here, Mrs. Brainsby,'' he said. ''Of course we must have more talk together and more time to consider matters. But it seems to me that Martin is right in wishing to earn something. Young as he is, it might be possible to find some employment for him which should bring in a weekly sum worth having. And as to his education, it has occurred to me that I could, at least keep him from forgetting what he has learnt already and perhaps coach him on a little further. An hour or two every evening, steadily occupied, would do a good deal. It would be a great pleasure to me to be able to do this small service for you. That is to say, he went on quickly in order to check the outburst of thanks which trembled on her lips. If you are good enough to allow me the advantage of continuing to occupy a room here, I hope you will be able to put up with me. I don't think that Phoebe will want to throw a hot bath of pudding at my head, but that may be my vanity. Good night. Do not say any more now, please. We will think it over on both sides. I will smoke one more cigarette if I may before I turn in. He opened the door and held it open for her. As she passed him, she paused an instant and said in a low trembling voice, God bless you. End of chapter four. Volume three, chapter five, of that unfortunate marriage. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. That unfortunate marriage by Francis Eleanor Trollett. Volume three, chapter five. The next morning's post brought Owen May's note. She had written it hurriedly, not so much from stress of time, as under the influence of that kind of hurry which comes from thronging thoughts and eager emotions. The sight of her handwriting was a joyful surprise to Owen and he wondered, as he tore open the cover, how she could have learned his arrival so quickly. But he found that she had written simply in the hope that he might get her letter as soon as possible and without any knowledge of the fact that he was already in London. The contents of it did not much disquiet him. She had something to say to him. He must come and speak with her as soon as possible after his arrival. She was safe and well he knew and with that knowledge, he thought that he could defy fortune. As to urging him to go to her quickly, that was, he told himself with a smile, a superfluous injunction, what need of persuasion to do that which he ardently longed to do. He rapidly planned out the hours of his day. At ten o'clock he must be with Mr. Bragg in the city. He had received a telegram in Paris making that appointment. He would probably find duties to detain him there until the afternoon. Between two and three o'clock, however, he thought he could reach Mrs. Dormers' Miss House at Kensington. From what he knew of the habits of the household, he judged that May would be at home at that hour. He had much to think of regarding the future. A momentous decision lay with him. Had Mr. Bragg's offer of sending him to Buenos Aires come a couple of months earlier, he might have accepted it. It was not, of course, a certain road to success and it had many drawbacks, chief among them being banishment from England. But as he had told Mrs. Dobbs, he was ready to face that if it were required of him, understanding that he who starts late in a race must needs run hard. But laterally he had come to think that it might not be best for May that he should go and to do what was best for her was the supreme aim of his life. He discovered from her letters that she was not happy and contented in her aunt's house. The necessity of concealing her engagement was already painful and depressive. How could she endure it for two years? Truly she might announce it and go back to Old Chester to her grandmother's house. For Owen had more than a suspicion that the Dormers' Miss would be very unwilling to keep her with them as the betrothed bride of Mr. Bragg's clerk. But there were other objections. Theodore Bransby, Owen was inwardly convinced, was his rival. He might try to injure him in his absence. The absent are always in the wrong or Theodore might annoy May with persecutions. If he and May were to wait for each other, had they not better wait at all events in the same hemisphere? Owen knew very well that some money, a decent competency, was indispensable to his marriage. But that he might now reasonably hope to obtain in England. The balance of his judgment, the more he reflected on the situation, inclined the more decisively towards remaining. Other considerations than what was due to May could not have inclined the scale one hair's breadth in these deliberations. But when he thought over his last evening's interview with Mrs. Bransby, it pleased him to believe that his stay, if he stayed, would be very welcome to her and hers. He felt a profound and tender compassion for the widow. He admired her patience and the simple way in which she tried to do hard duties, accepting them as a matter of course. And he was filled with indignation against Theodore Bransby. To these sentiments, he may be added the sense that Mrs. Bransby relied on him and the recollection of that day in the Old Chester Garden when he had solemnly promised to be a friend to her and her children at their need. All these were powerful incentives to help her and stand by her. There was in Owen a somewhat unusual combination of heat and steadfastness. He seldom belied his first impulse, the mark of a rarely sincere character, swayed only by honest motives. The offer he had made last night to teach Martin, he was not inclined to repent of in the dry light of next morning. It was plain, too, that his contribution to the weekly income was a matter of serious importance to the family, far more so than he had any idea of when he first proposed to board with them, although the offer had been made in the hope of assisting them. He turned over in his mind various projects on their behalf as he walked down to the city. It occurred to him that he might do well to speak to Mr. Bragg on the subject. It was even possible that Mr. Bragg might find some place for young Martin. Owen had a high opinion of his employer's rectitude and good sense, and he thought him, moreover, a kindly-disposed man. But he had no glimpse of the tenderness which was hidden under Mr. Bragg's plain unattractive exterior, nor of the yearning for some affections in his daily life, which sometimes made the millionaire look back regretfully on the days when he and his comely young wife toiled together, and when he, Joshua Bragg, in his fushion working suit, had been the dearest being on earth to a loving woman. Mr. Bragg appeared that day at his place of business, looking as usual. He was clean-shaven and soberly and appropriately attired. He was attentive to the matter in hand, mindful of details, accurate, deliberate, all as usual, and yet so subtle is the quality of the spiritual atmosphere which we all carry about with us. There was not a junior clerk in the place who did not feel that there was a cloud on Mr. Bragg's mind and did not wonder what was up with the governor. One waggle-pind, that old grimoire had caught him at last, by which irreverent phrase the profane fellow meant that the most noble, the Dowager Marchioness of Houghtonville, had succeeded in arranging an alliance between Mr. Bragg and her daughter, the Lady Felicia. For it was an open secret in the office and the theme of infinite jest there that Lady Houghtonville pursued this aim with an indomitable and even ferocious perseverance worthy of the berserker race from which she professed to trace her descent. Her ladyships hired Baruch might often be seen during the season, floating like a high-beaked ship of the Vikings on the busy tide of commercial life and coasting down towards that plebeian shore of Tom Tiddler where Mr. Joshua Bragg picked up so much gold and silver. She would willingly have made as clean a sweep of all his treasure as any piratical Scandinavian who ever carried off the peaceful wealth of Kentish villages. Neither craft nor valor were wanting to her. She made ingenious excuses to see him. Sometimes she wanted to consult him as to the investment of non-existent sums of money. Sometimes to engage his presence at some fashionable gathering where he was, of course, peculiarly fitted to shine. She sent into his office little perfumed notes directed by the fair hand of Felicia in brabdignagian characters. Felicia herself, bright-eyed and crowned with gorgeous bonnets, spoiled gallantly rested from some lively livered West End milliner who had not the courage to refuse her credit, sat by her mother's side and smiled with haughty fascination on Mr. Bragg whenever he could be coaxed forth to speak with their ladyship at the carriage door. And every creature in Mr. Bragg's wholesale office, down to the sharp cockney urchin who sprinkled and swept the floors, perfectly understood why Lady Hodenville did all these things and watched her proceedings as a spectacle of very high sporting interest. Thus it was that when the wag before mentioned opined that Grimulcan had caught the governor by way of accounting for Mr. Bragg's low spirits, it was received with the benevolence due to a deserving old jest which has seen service. But when a younger man ventured to suggest, more than half seriously, that perhaps the governor was in love, the suggestion was received with genuine hilarity and the originator of it immediately took credit for having fully intended a capital joke. Owen Rivers, arriving punctually, was shown into Mr. Bragg's private room. There he was greeted with the invariable grave. How do you do, Mr. Rivers? And then after a moment Mr. Bragg added, so you've got over punctual. I thought you might manage without an extra day in Paris, but you must have put your shoulder to the wheel to do it. A speech expressive in Mr. Bragg's mouth, a very marked ab probation. Then Owen proceeded to report what he had done in Paris and to lay letters and papers before Mr. Bragg, and for some time they attended to various matters of business. When these were over Owen said, when could I speak to you about some affairs of my own? Well, now perhaps if you don't want to be long. Half an hour. Mr. Bragg looked at his watch, nodded, and leaning his head on his hand, prepared to listen with quiet attention. Owen began by saying that he was inclined towards remaining in England, rather than accepting the opportunity of going abroad. Where at, Mr. Bragg looked thoughtful, but waited to hear him without interruption. Then Owen went on to speak of Mrs. Bransby and her altered circumstances and of his wish and intention to assist and stand by her. When he ceased, Mr. Bragg, having heard him with careful attention, said, the first point to be considered is your own position. Concerning the situation we spoke of, I think I can promise to keep you on as my, what you might call business secretary. As to a private secretary, I don't have much private correspondence and what I have I can pretty well manage myself. I should expect you to take a journey now and then into foreign parts if necessary. Terms as before, I'll tell you frankly, I see no immediate prospect of a rise for you. If you went to Buenos Aires, you might have a chance, only a chance of course, of getting into something on your own account. One would be steady as far as it went. The other would be like what you might call a throw at the dice at backgammon, chance and play. It's for you to choose, with regards to Mrs. Bransby, all right, of course. Okay, Mr. Rivers, I'm a deal older than you, old enough to be your father and I should like to give you a little word of advice if I could do it without offence. I shall take it gratefully, Mr. Bragg, whether I act upon it or not. Now, as to acting upon it, said Mr. Bragg slowly, it's a great thing to be sure that your advice won't be picked up and pitched back at your head like a stone. Well, you must understand that I don't mean any disrespect to Mrs. Bransby, who was an excellent lady, I have no doubt. I haven't much acquaintance with her, though I have dined at her table. Her husband Martin Bransby I knew for years. I was his client and I had reason to be well satisfied with him in all respects. So you understand my feeling is quite friendly, but I would just drop a word of warning. You're a young man and Mrs. Bransby, though she's older than you are, is still a young woman. And what's more, she's a very handsome woman. And, ah, I see you're making ready to shy back that stone by and by, but just listen one moment, for you, at your age, to get entangled in that sort of engagement and to undertake the charge of a ready-made family of hungry boys and girls would be simply ruin. You'd repent it, and then she'd repent it, because you did, and then you'd all be miserable together. That's all. Owen's mouth was set and his eyes sparkling with a rather dangerous look, but he answered quietly, thank you, Mr. Prag, I am sure you mean well or why should you trouble yourself to speak at all on the matter? Just so, I'm glad you see that, but may I ask what put the idea of any entanglement, as you call it, between me and Mrs. Bransby into your head? Understand me, Mr. Rivers, I meant all in honour, you know. Owen winced, the very assurance was almost offensive, but he returned. I spoke very stupidly and awkwardly, I'll amend my phrase, I should have said, what put it into your head that I was likely to marry Mrs. Bransby? Put it into my head? Well, when a young man feels a soft sort of compassion for a beautiful woman who, who throws herself a good deal on his sympathy and looks to him for help and advice and all the rest of it, and when the young man and the beautiful woman have opportunities of seeing each other pretty constantly, why then I believe such a thing has been heard of in history as they're falling in love with each other? I don't need much putting into your head to see that when you've come to my ears. Are you quite sure, persisted Owen, that no suggestion of this kind was made to you by any third person? I have a particular reason for wishing to know. Mr. Bragg pondered. He had, in fact, heard Theodores' hints and innuendos at the Dormersmiths, and although he was not consciously moved by them in what he had now said, there could be no doubt that the idea had been originally suggested to him by young Bransby and Pauline. Owen's words today had merely revived those impressions. After a long pause, he answered, well, I think I have heard it spoken of, but if so, all the more reason for you to be cautious. I thought so, said Owen, spoken of by, why, by Mrs. B's stepson for one, so you may suppose there was nothing said against the lady. He'd think it an uncommon good thing, I dare say. It would relieve him of a burden. He might wash his hands of the family if she was to marry again. Relieve him of a burden, cried Owen, sterling up from his chair. Have you any idea what he does for his father's widow and children, Mr. Bragg? Theodore Bransby is a liar. I know him. There's nothing too base for him to insinuate against his stepmother. Who is, I declare to God, one of the best and most innocent women breathing. Theodore has a grudge against her and her children, a jealous, petty, despicable kind of grudge, and he's a mean-minded scoundrel. He checked himself in walking furiously about the room and turned to Mr. Bragg with an apology. I beg your pardon, but I cannot talk coolly of that fellow. I'm inclined to agree with you, and yet I wish I could think better of him, or rather, I wish he was somebody else altogether, said Mr. Bragg enigmatically, thinking of me. Mr. Bragg said, Owen, with a sudden inspiration, will you come to Collingwood Terrace and see Mrs. Bransby? You will learn more about them all with your own eyes and ears in 10 minutes than I could convey to you in an hour. You shall take them unprepared. If you would look in this evening about their tea time, you would find them all at home. It would be a kind and natural act on your part, and would need no explanation. Do come. Well, yes, I will, answered Mr. Bragg. Perhaps I ought to have done so before. Anyway, I'll come, just put down the address. Thank you. Shall I write those Spanish letters now? Ah, you'd better. Mr. Barker there would give you a seat for the present in his room. And so they parted. Mr. Bragg was by no means reassured as to his secretary being in considerable danger from the widow's fascinations. He remarked to himself that rivers had not said one word explicitly denying any attachment between them, but he felt a new bond of sympathy with rivers. It was agreeable to meet with such thorough fellow feeling about Theodore Bransby. Perhaps a mutual dislike is a stronger tie than a mutual friendship, because our hatreds need more justifying than our affections. By the time Owen's business was transacted, and he had eaten some food at a neighboring chop house, it was past two o'clock, and he then set out for Mrs. Dormersmith's house on foot. It was a long way off, but it seemed to him more tolerable to walk and to jog along on the top of an omnibus, or to burrow underground in the crowded railway. In his impatient and excited frame of mind, the rapid exercise was a relief. It was barely three o'clock when he reached the house in Kensington. The servant who opened the door murmured something in a low voice about the lady's not receiving visitors in consequence of a family affliction. Being further interrogated, he believed that Mrs. Dormersmith's cousin, Lord Castlecombe's son, was dead. Tell Miss Cheffington that I am here, said Owen, give her this card and say I'm waiting to see her. His manner was so peremptory that after a brief hesitation the man took the card and ushered Owen into the dining room to wait. The room was dimmer than the dim wintry day without, need have made it by reason of the red blinds being partly drawn down and filling it with a lurid gloom. The servant had not been gone many seconds before the door opened and a rather pale face, not raised very high above the level of the floor, peeped into the room. The eyes belonging to the face soon made out Owen's figure in the dimness and a childish voice said in a subdued and stealthy tone, hello, hello, returned Owen in a tone not quite so subdued but still low for there was a general hush in the house which would have made ordinary speech seem startling. Do you want may, asked the child, yes I do. I heard you tell James to give her your card, who are you? I'm Owen, who are you? replied Owen, listening all the while for the expected footfall. I'm Harold. Upon this, a second rather pale face, still nearer the ground, peeped in at the door and a second childish voice piped out faintly and I'm Wilfred. Then the two children marched solemnly into the room, shutting the door behind them and stared at Owen with judicial gravity. May's my cousin, said Harold after contemplating the stranger for a while in silence and may's my cousin too, observed Wilfred. I'm fond of her, pursued Harold. So am I, exclaimed Owen, walking across the room impatiently but why doesn't she come? Where is she, do you know? Yes, replied Harold with deliberation. I know. What can that man be about? He can't have given her the message, said Owen, speaking half to himself, his nervous impatience rising with every minute of delay. Harold looked profoundly astute as he answered with a series of emphatic nods. Now he didn't, he took the card to Smithson and I know what Smithson will do. She'll read it first herself and then she'll take it to Mama and then perhaps Mama will tell May if you're a, what is it, a proper person? Are you a proper person? I say, said Owen suddenly, will you go and fetch May? Tell her Owen is here waiting. Do go, there's a good boy. Is May fond of you, inquired Harold, hesitating. May will be pleased with you if you go and fetch her. Run, be off it once now, quick. After one searching look at Owen's face, the child disappeared swiftly and silently. In less than two minutes, a light footstep was heard descending the stairs at headlong speed. The door opened and May, almost breathless with haste and surprise, half stumbled into the dark room and he caught her in his arms. Is it really you, she exclaimed, looking up at him with one hand on his shoulder and the other pushing back the hair from her forehead. Owen took the hand which rested on his shoulder and pressed it to his lips. It is very really I, he said, with his eyes fixed on her face in a tender rapture. It seems like a dream, so unexpected. Unexpected? Why, you summoned me and of course I am here. Yes, it really does seem as if my note had been a spell to bring you across the seas. Overseas, over mountains, love will find out the way. It doesn't alter that truth that I happened to arrive in England only last night. Only last night, how strange it seems, and you never let me know. Darling, by the time it was quite certain what day I should be in England, a letter would not have outstripped me. I got my orders by telegram. Oh, my love, what a long, long time it seems since I looked on your dear face. Tell me about yourself, Owen, I want to hear everything. So you shall, but you must explain first the meaning of your note. Tell me now, sit down here, what has happened? I have so many things to say, I scarcely know where to begin. Begin with what was in your mind when you wrote that note. May sat down close to him and began in a low voice, little above a whisper, and with some confusion, to narrate the story of Mr. Bragg's wooing and its effect on her aunt and uncle. As he listened, Owen's face expressed the most unbounded amazement. Oh, it can't be, he explained. It's impossible, there must be some mistake. May laughed, though the tears were in her eyes. He were not very civil, she said. Nobody else seemed to think it impossible. But old Bragg repeated Owen incredulously. Perhaps he was temporarily insane, but I really think he meant it, answered May, blushing so bewitchingly that Owen could not resist the temptation to kiss the glowing cheek so close to his lips. At this point, Harold called out in a resolute tone, you mustn't kiss May. The lovers started, they had forgotten the children, had forgotten everything in the world except each other, but the two little boys had followed May into the room and had been witnessing the interview in dumb astonishment. It was characteristic that they now held each other by the hand, as those seeking support from union in the presence of this stranger who might, they instinctively felt, turn out to be a common enemy. Hello, said Owen, here's another rival. Their names seem to be Legion. It was Harold who told me you were here, said May. Yes, I sent him to fetch you, answered Owen. Then he added, ungratefully. They might as well be sent off now, might they? Oh, let them stay, there are no secrets now. At least I hope you will agree with me that we ought to say out the truth. Come here, Harold and Wilfred. You must love Owen for my sake. Harold advanced and stood in front of them. I say, he said with a curious look at Owen, I'm going to marry May when I grow up. Are you? That's a little awkward. Why is it a little awkward? demanded Harold gravely. Well, because to tell the truth, I was rather hoping to marry her myself. The child had evidently intended to draw forth this explicit statement, for he looked full at Owen and said doggedly, I just thought you were. Then he suddenly turned away and hid his face on May's lap, upon which Wilfred, conscious of a cloud in the air, began to cry softly. Don't be angry with them, poor little fellows, said May, checking some manifestation of impatience on Owen's part. Then she coaxed the children and soothed them. And the childish emotion, brief though poignant, soon passed. At length Harold lifted up his face and after a short struggle said, I will shake hands with him if you like, but I won't love him, not if he kisses you. All right, old fellow, said Owen, taking the child's hand. I sympathize with your feelings. Wilfred, of course, put out his small paw to be shaken like his brothers and peace once more reigned. May then hurriedly, for she knew not how long they might remain uninterrupted, repeated what Clara Bertram had told her of her father's marriage and lastly, she spoke in terms of deep affection and gratitude of Granny's generosity. But on this point, as we know, Owen was already informed. All that he had now heard strengthened and justified the strong inclination he had already felt to abandon the idea of Buenos Aires and to remain in England at all costs. With her father more completely cut off from his family than ever by this new marriage, her aunt Hostel, her uncle, to say the least, dissatisfied and sure to oppose her engagement when it should be announced and no one friend in the world should rely upon except her grandmother. May's position would be very desolate if he too were far away on the other side of the world. Mrs. Dobbs was the trustiest and most devoted of parents, but she was old and moreover she would have no power to insist on keeping May with her should her father take it into his head to decide otherwise. No, he must and would remain at hand to protect and watch over her. These were the sole considerations which decided him to come to this resolution then and there. But as soon as he had taken his resolution, the thought arose pleasantly in his mind that it would bring some cheerfulness into the household at Collingwood Terrace and he expressed it impulsively by saying all at once, I have made up my mind darling to stay in London. Poor Mrs. Bransby will be overjoyed. She is in such need of someone to stand by her. May felt a little chill like the breath of a cold wind in the first warm delight of seeing her lover again, all the lurking jealousy which she had hated herself for feeling but which was alive in spite of her hate had been forgotten, but his words revived it. Is she? she answered. Oh yes, I have not had time to tell you, haven't even begun to say the thousand things I want to say to you. You could not have written them, I suppose, said May, withdrawing her chair slightly from its close proximity to his and thereby allowing Harold, who had been watching for this opportunity, to wedge himself in between them. No, I could not have written about her because I have only just heard many of the details. All about her? You mean about Mrs. Bransby? Of course. Poor soul. She has been so harshly, so cruelly treated. Theodore's conduct is... You know I have no partiality for him, interrupted May, but I think you are a little unjust or at least mistaken in this instance. Theodore Bransby has done a great deal for his stepmother. Done a great deal for her. Good heavens, my dear child, you can't conceive with what meanness he treats her. It's dastardly. A woman who was so idolized, so tended, so petted. What a sweet creature she is and as lovely as ever. Hasaro seemed only to have spiritualized her beauty. Yes, said May, and the dry monosyllable cost her a painful effort to utter it. Perhaps the constraint of her tone, the deadness of her manner, naturally so warm and cordial, would have aroused Owen's surprise and led to an explanation. But they were interrupted here by the door being thrown open, not violently, but very wide open, and the appearance of Mrs. Dormersmith on the threshold. End of chapter five. Volume three, chapter six, of that unfortunate marriage. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. That unfortunate marriage by Francis Eleanor Trollop. Volume three, chapter six. Even in the moment of her first dismay, that admirable woman, Pauline Dormersmith, was true to the great social duty of keeping up appearances. She turned her head over her shoulder to James, who was hovering uneasily in the background and said softly, Oh yes, it is Mr. Owen Rivers. That is quite right. As if Mr. Owen Rivers' presence were the most natural and welcome thing in the world. Then shutting the door on James and on society, she advanced towards the two young people who had risen on her entrance and said with a kind of reproachful feebleness, conveying the impression that she was reduced to the last stage of debility and that it was entirely their fault. I had scarcely credited the footman's statement that you were here having a private interview with my niece, Mr. Rivers. He tells me that he informed you of the family affliction, which has befallen us. Under the circumstances, you must allow me to say that I think you have shown some want of delicacy in insisting on being admitted. Mae glanced at Owen, but as he did not speak on the instant she did, she took her aunt's passive fingers in her own and said, Aunt Pauline, he had a right to insist on seeing me because, excuse me, Mae, she interrupted Mrs. Dormersmith waving the girl off. I beg you, we'll go to your own room. I will speak with this gentleman. Her tone would have suited the announcement that she was prepared to undergo martyrdom and she sank into a chair in an attitude of graceful exhaustion. No, Aunt Pauline, I cannot go away until I have spoken, cried Mae pleadingly. Please to hear me. I wish to tell you the truth long ago, but I was bound by a promise. Now we have both agreed that it is right to speak out. Are we not? She said, looking across at Owen. It seemed to her that he was less eager to claim her, less proud of her affection, less ardently loving than her imagination had pictured him. There was something in the quietude of his attitude which depressed and mortified her. It was like, almost like indifference. An insidious jealousy was discoloring everything which she looked on with her mind's eye. It is not always a sufficient defense against a poison of that sort to have a noble candid nature. Any more than it is sufficient defense against foul air to have sound, healthy lungs. It will fasten sometimes on the worthiest qualities, a humble opinion of ourselves, a high admiration for others. The hinted slanders which Mae had heard had aroused no baser suspicion in her than that Owen perhaps did not love her so entirely as he had at first fancied. That his sympathy and compassion and admiration for Louisa Bransby were strong enough to compete with his attachment for her. And she knew by her own heart that if this were so, his love was not such a love as she had dreamed of. Not such a love as she had given to him. And yet all the while she was struggling against the influence of this subtly penetrating distrust and trying to shake it off like an ugly dream. I am engaged to marry Owen Rivers, she said abruptly after a pause which lasted but an instant but which had seemed long to her. No, no, I must beg you to retire. I cannot hear this sort of thing we turned her on, waving her hand again and turning away her head. You at least must understand, Mr. Rivers, that it is entirely out of the question. How you can have entertained so preposterous an idea, I cannot imagine. You must have seen something of the world, I presume. You ought to be able to perceive that. But in short, the thing is preposterous and cannot be seriously discussed for a moment. May Cheffington's blood was rising. I do not intend to discuss it, she said, huddley. Dearest, since your aunt addresses me, let me reply to her, said Owen. He spoke in a quiet tone, although inwardly he was excited and indignant enough. I must tell you, Mrs. Dormismith, that we are neither of us acting on a rash impulse. We have been parted for more than three months, during which time. May has been free to give me up without breaking any pledge or incurring, from me at least, any reproaches. If she had wavered, if she had found that she had mistaken her own feelings, she was as free as air. I should have made no claim and laid no blame on her. Made no claim on her, repeated Mrs. Dormismith. Then she laughed, the low laugh, which, with her, indicated the very extremity of provocation, oh, really, ha, ha, ha. This is too monstrous. The whole thing appears to me like insanity. To marry without loving, that appears to me like insanity, said May scornfully. May I beseech you, really, in the mouth of a young girl of your breeding, that sort of thing is inconceivable. I am tempted to use a harsher word. This, then, is the reason why you have rejected one of the most brilliant prospects. Are you aware, Mr. Rivers, that this schoolgirl nonsense has prevented? She caught herself up hastily and changed her phrase. Might have prevented Ms. Chuffington from obtaining one of the most splendid establishments in England. Aunt Pauline cried, May, with heart inclination. How can you say so? I would never have thought of marrying Mr. Bragg, even if Owen had not existed. But apart from that pursued Mrs. Dormersmith, ignoring the interruption, your pretensions would have been quite inadmissible. You have heard of the death of my poor cousin Lucius. You had probably calculated on it. I do not mean to bring any special accusation against you there. Of course, in the case of a person of poor dear Lucius's social importance, all sorts of calculations were made by all sorts of people. My brother Augustus is now the next heir to the family title and estates. Under these circumstances, I leave it to your own good sense to determine whether he is likely to consent to his daughter's marrying. Really, I am ashamed to speak of it seriously. A person who, in however praiseworthy a manner, is filling the position of a hired clerk. This shaft fell harmless, since both May and her lover were honestly free from any sense of humiliation in the fact of Owen's being a hired clerk, and sincerely willing to accept that position for him. Owen answered calmly, You can probably judge far better than I as to what your brother is likely to think on that subject. Then turning towards May, he said, I think, my dearest, that you had better leave your aunt and me to speak quietly together. You have been sufficiently pained and agitated already. You look quite pale. Go, darling, and leave me to speak with Mrs. Dormersmith. Agitated, echoed that lady, We have all been sufficiently agitated. What I have endured from pressure on the brain is unspeakable. Certainly you had better go away, May. I have said so several times already. May walk slowly to the door. I will do as you wish, he said to Owen. You see, I am right, dear. Do you not? Yes, I suppose so. The listlessness of her tone, he interpreted as a sign of her being weary and overwrought. And in truth, it was partly due to that cause. As she moved across the room, two little figures crept out from a dark corner behind an armchair and followed her. Good gracious, cried Mrs. Dormersmith faintly. What is that? Have those children been here all the time? She always spoke of Harold and Wilford as those children in a distant tone as though they were somebody else's intrusive little boys. On this occasion, however, she did not altogether disapprove of their presence. It was certainly less unconvinab that they should have been known by the servants to be present at the interview. Then if May had been without even that small amount of chaperonage, she had no idea that it was Harold who had brought about the interview or he might not have got off so easily. Go away, little boys, she said in her sweet, soft voice. Go away upstairs. Cannot say see or find some lessons for you to do. You really must not crowd about this part of the house in the afternoon. The children trotted after their cousin willingly enough. They never wished to stay with their mother. We shall meet again soon, my dear one, whispered Owen as he opened the door. And then, with Mrs. Dormersmith's eyes fixedly regarding him, he took May's cold little hand in his own and kissed it before she passed out. Pauline observed his demeanor with an unbiased judgment. She would, in the case of duty, willingly have had him kidnapped and sent off to New Caledonia at that moment. But she said to herself, he has the manners of a gentleman. It is most disastrous. For she felt that this circumstance increased her own difficulties. Now Mrs. Dormersmith said, Owen, when the door was shut, I can answer you with more perfect frankness than I should have liked to employ in May's presence. You were so kind as to say that you would leave it to my good sense to determine whether Captain Sheffington was likely to consent to my marriage with his daughter. My answer is quite simple. I do not intend to ask his consent. You do not intend to ask his consent, ejaculated Pauline, leaning back in her chair, and in the extremity of her astonishment at this young man's audacity, letting fall a handscreen which she had been using to shield her face from the fire. Owen picked it up and restored it to her before repeating, no, I do not intend to ask his consent. And do you hope to persuade my niece to disregard her father's authority, not to mention other members of the family who have a right to be heard? There is only one member of the family who has a right to be heard, Mrs. Dobbs, and her consent I hope I have obtained. Pauline was for the moment stricken speechless by hearing Mrs. Dobbs mentioned as a member of the family. The family? Good heavens, what was the world coming to? She pressed her hand to her forehead with a bewildered look. Owen went on resolutely, as to parental authority, Mrs. Dormismith, your brother has abdicated all parental authority over May. He abandoned her. Pardon me, I must use that word for it is the only one which expresses what I mean. When she was a young motherless child, he went away to his own occupations or pleasures. Anyway, he went to live his own life in his own way, utterly careless of May's welfare and happiness. You may tell me that he was sure of her finding the tenderest treatment under her grandmother's roof. He was not sure of it, for he never troubled himself to consider the question. But if he had been sure, he had no right to leave his child as he did. At any rate, having done so, it is too late to pretend that she is morally bound to consider his wishes. Pauline put her handkerchief to her eyes. My poor brother Augustus is much to be pitied, she murmured. Allowances must be made for a man in his position, that unfortunate marriage. I have never been told, said Owen, that Mrs. Susan Dobb seized upon Captain Chevington and compelled him by main force to marry her. And judging from what I know of her mother and daughter, I should think it unlikely. Oh, one understands that sort of thing, returned Pauline with languid disdain. A young woman in her class of life is not to be judged by our standards. No doubt, she thought herself justified in doing the best she could for herself. It strikes me that she did very badly for herself, lamentably bad. I do not wish to say anything needlessly offensive, but we are in the plain way of speaking, and I must point out to you that so far from any consideration being due to your brother, he is from the point of view of an honest man wishing to marry May, a person to be decidedly ashamed of. There are in the city of Old Chester, his late wife's native place, many tradesmen, and even mechanics who would strongly object to connect themselves by marriage with Captain Chevington. To say that Mrs. Dormersmith was astonished by this speech would be but faintly to express her sensations. She was bewildered. She had often heard Augustus severely blamed. She had been compelled to blame him herself. Of course he ought not to have thrown away his career as he had done. They had agreed as to that. But all this blame had assumed that Augustus had chiefly injured firstly himself and in the second place and more indirectly, the whole Chevington family. Persons who live exclusively in any one narrow sphere are apt to have a strange simplicity or ignorance as one may choose to call it as to large sections of their fellow creatures outside that sphere and in no classes that kind of naivete more commonly found than in the class to which Mrs. Dormersmith belonged where it is often intensified by the conviction that they possess what is called knowledge of the world in a supreme degree. It was far too late in the day to bring much enlightenment to Mrs. Dormersmith. Owen's words merely struck her mind with a shock of wonder and dismay and then glanced off again. The impression of having received a shock however did remain with her and made her as resentful as was possible to her placid nature. In speaking of Mr. Rivers afterwards to her husband, she said, I'd leave him, Frederick, to be a nihilist. But for the present, her mind was concentrated on the aim of breaking off what Owen chose to call his engagement to her niece and she was not to be turned aside from it. She addressed herself to argue the case with Owen. In argument, she possessed the immense advantage, if it be an advantage, to reduce one's adversary to silence of supposing that the statement of any one truth on her part was a sufficient answer to any other truth which might be advanced against her. As for instance, when Owen insisted on Captain Chuffington's having forfeited all moral claim to May's duty and affection, she replied that it was a dreadful thing to set a child against a parent and when Owen denied the right of May's relatives to prevent her from making a marriage of affection, she retorted that Mr. Rivers came of undeniably gentle blood himself and ought to understand her, Mrs. Dormersmith's, strong family feeling. But when even this powerful kind of logic failed to make any impression on Owen's obtracy, she changed her attack and inquired what he was prepared to offer to her niece in exchange for the magnificent prospect of being Mrs. Joshua Bragg with settlements and pin-money such as every Duke's daughter would desire and very few Duke's daughters achieved. But my dear madam said, Owen, why speak of that alternative when May has assured you in my presence that nothing would induce her to marry Mr. Bragg? Oh, Mr. Rivers, I am surprised you know so little of the world. May is a mere child, peculiarly childish for her age. Besides, even supposing she definitively rejected Mr. Bragg, there will be other good matches open to her now. The death of my poor cousin Lucius has made a vast difference in all that, as you must be well aware. To me, Mrs. Dormersmith, it has made no difference. May is herself, that is why I love her. She is not in the least transfigured in my imagination by being the daughter of a man who may or may not be Lord Cascom at some future day. Oh, said Mrs. Dormersmith, shaking her head with the old plaintive air, you need not entertain any doubts as to my brother's succession. He is the next heir, and the estates, at least the bulk of them, are entailed. Good heavens, cried Owen in despair. Can you not understand that I care not one straw whether they are entailed or not, that I would proudly and joyfully make May my wife if being what she is, if her father trundled a barrow through the streets? Whether Mrs. Dormersmith could or could not understand this, at any rate, she certainly did not believe it. She merely shook her head once more and said softly, I think you ought to consider her prospects a little, Mr. Rivers, it appears to me that your views are entirely selfish. This seemed very hopeless, with the last effort to come to an understanding, Owen took refuge in a plain and categorical statement of facts. He had loved May when she was penniless. So far as he knew, she was so still. He hoped to be able to offer her a modest home. She had not been accustomed to luxury or show, the season in London having been a mere episode, and not the main part of her life. Absolute destitution they were quite secure from. He possessed 150 pounds a year of his own. Pauline gave a little shudder at this. It positively seemed to her worse than nothing at all. With nothing certain in the way of income, a boundless field was left open for possibilities. But 150 pounds a year was a hard, hideous, circumscribing fact like the bars of the cage. He was receiving about as much again for his services as the secretary. Moreover, he had tried his hand at literature, not unsuccessfully. He had earned a few pounds by his pen already and hoped to earn more. That was the state of the case. If May, God bless her, were content with it, he submitted that no one else could fairly object. Mrs. Stormersmith rose from her chair to signify that the interview was at an end. Indeed, what use could there be in prolonging it? I confess, she said, you have astonished me, Mr. Rivers. If May, an inexperienced young girl, not yet 19, is content, you think no one else has a right to interfere. At that rate, if she chose to marry the footman, we must all stand by without raising a finger to prevent it. That is certainly very extraordinary doctrine. Owen drew himself up and looked full at her with those blue eyes, which could shine so fiercely upon occasion, as he answered. I have already admitted the right of one person to be consulted about May's future. The benevolent, unselfish, high-minded woman who befriended her and cherished her and was a mother to her when she was deserted by everyone else. As to her marrying the footman, it is clear, madam, that she might have married the hangman for all the effort you would have made to prevent it, until Mrs. Darbs bribed you to take some notice of your niece. But in marrying a rivers of riversmeade, I need not, I suppose, inform you that she will confer on you the honour of a connection with a race of gentlemen compared with whom, if we are to stand on genealogies, half the names and the periods are a mere fungus growth of yesterday. It was the first word he had said to her which was less than courteously forebearing, and it was the first word which gave her a momentary twinge of regret that his suit was altogether inadmissible. She contrasted his bearing with that of May's two other wooers, Bransby the smooth, and Bragg the unpolished. And she said to herself with a sigh that there was no doubt about this young man's pedigree, and that Bonsang ne pimentier. But not therefore did she flinch from her position. She answered him in the same words. She had used years ago to her brother in that very room. It will not do, Mr. Rivers, I assure you, it will not do. Then she bent her head with quiet grace and moved to go away. One instant, Mrs. Dormismith, Owen said, following her to the door of the dining room, I wish, if you please, to speak with May again before I go away. Impossible, I cannot, compatibly with my duty, consent to your seeing her now or at any future time. Am I to understand that you forbid me your house? If you please, unless indeed you consent to come in any other character than as my niece's suitor. In that case, it would give me great pleasure to receive you as I have done before. He stood looking at her rather blankly. The position was undeniably awkward. It was impossible for May's sake, if from no other consideration, to make a scene of violence and insist upon seeing her. And even if he did so, Mrs. Dormismith might still resist. She was mistress of the situation so far. Even in his vexation and perplexity, the ludicrous side of the affair struck him. Well, said he, after a moment, taking up his hat, I cannot intrude into your house against your will. Our only resource must be to meet elsewhere. I warn you, we shall do so. Of course, it is idle to suppose that you have the power to keep us apart. Mrs. Dormismith shook her head and repeated with gentle obstinacy. It will not do, Mr. Rivers. I really am very sorry, but it will not do. War, then, is declared between us. Oh, I hope not. I trust you will think better of it, she said in a mildly persuasive tone, as though she were suggesting that he should leave off tea or take to woolen clothing. I, at least, have no warlike intentions, Mr. Rivers, for I am going to ask you to do me a favour. Be so very kind to wait until I ring and let my servant show you out in a civilised manner. It is quite unnecessary to publish our differences of opinion in the servants' hall. Accordingly she rang the bell, and when James appeared said sweetly in an audible voice, goodbye, Mr. Rivers, whereupon Owen made her a profound bow and departed. As he passed through the hall, he looked about him wistfully, in the hope that may might be lingering near, might possibly be looking down from the upper part of the staircase, but she did not appear. The house was profoundly silent. James stood waiting with the door in his hand. There was no help for it. He strode away with various conflicting feelings, thoughts, projects, and hopes struggling in his mind, of which the uppermost at that special moment was a strong inclination to burst out laughing. End of Chapter 6. Volume 3, Chapter 7 of That Unfortunate Marriage. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. That Unfortunate Marriage by Francis Eleanor Trollop. Volume 3, Chapter 7. It was not until Owen had nearly reached Collinwood Terrace that the thought struck him. What if Mr. Bragg should withdraw his countenance from him and dismiss him from his employment when he learned that he was betrothed to May? The idea of Mr. Bragg in the light of a rival disconcerted and confused all his previous conceptions of his employer. At the first blush, it had appeared ludicrous. Incredible, but on reflection there was, he found, nothing so extravagant in it. Mr. Bragg had a right to seek a wife to please himself. He was but little past middle life after all, and as to the disparity in years between him and May, that was certainly not unprecedented. He had taken his rejection well and manfully, even with a touch of chivalry. But he might not any the more be disposed to continue his favor towards Owen when he should discover the state of the case. He might even suspect that there had been some kind of plot to deceive him. That was a very uncomfortable thought and sent the blood tingling through Owen's veins. There was clearly but one thing to be done, to tell Mr. Bragg the truth at all hazards. As he walked along the pavement within a few hundred yards of Mrs. Bransby's door, he reflected that the revelation would come better and more gracefully from May than from himself. He was not supposed to be aware of what had passed between May and Mr. Bragg. It was best that he should still seem to ignore it. He had a sympathetic sense that Mr. Bragg's wounded feelings might endure May's delicate handling, while they would shrink resentfully from any masculine touch. Owen regretted now more than ever that he had not seen May again before leaving her aunt's house. They had had no time to consult together or to form any plan of action for the future. Their interview seemed in Owen's recollection to have passed like a swift gleam of light in a sky over which the clouds are flying. It had, in sober fact, lasted above half an hour before Mrs. Dormers' disappearance on the scene. And now he was forbidden the house, forbidden to see her. And yet he told himself over and over again that he could not have acted otherwise than he had acted at the time. Well, it was too absurd to suppose that she could be treated as a prisoner. They must meet soon. And meanwhile, there was a penny post in the land and her letters, at least, would not be tampered with. He would write to her the moment he got home. She would receive his letter the next morning. And by that same afternoon, she could put Mr. Bragg in possession of the fact of her engagement. And after she had done so, the afterwards seemed hazy, certainly, but at least there was no doubt as to the plain duty of both of them not to keep their engagement any longer secret from Mr. Bragg. It was a comfort to see clearly the right course as regarded the steps immediately before them. For the rest, they had youth and hope and they loved each other. Owen let himself into the house with his latch key and went straight to his own room to write to May. When the note was finished, he took it out and posted it and then proceeded to the sitting room. The table was spread for tea and all the tea-equipped bright and glistening as cleanliness could make it. A cheerful fire burned in the grate. Bobby and Billy, seated side by side on a couple of low stools in one corner, were occupied with a big book full of colored pictures. Ethel was sewing. Martin stood leaning against the mantelpiece close to his mother's armchair and in a chair at the opposite corner of the hearth sat Mr. Bragg with Enid on his knee. When Owen entered, Mr. Bragg said, "'Well, Mr. Rivers, you see, I found my way to Mrs. Bransby's. I ought to have come and paid her my respects before now, but you know I've had my hands pretty full since I came back to England.'" Something in his tone and his look seemed to convey a hint to be silent as to their conversation of that morning and, accordingly, Owen made no allusion to it. "'It is so pleasant to see an old Chester face, is it not?' said Mrs. Bransby. "'Some old Chester faces,' returned Owen, laughing. Then he said, "'Well, Enid, have you not a word to say to me? Won't you come and give me a kiss?' Miss Enid, who was a born coquette and who was, moreover, greatly interested in Mr. Bragg's massive watch chain and seal, replied with imperious brevity, "'No, I don't want to.'" Mr. Bragg looked down gravely on the small creature and then up at Owen, as he said, half shyly and yet with a certain tinge of complacency, "'Why, she would come and sit on my knee almost the first minute she saw me.'" "'Perhaps you'd better get down, baby,' said Mrs. Bransby. "'I'm afraid she may be troublesome.'" "'Troublesome? Lord know. Why, I don't feel she's there no more than a fly. Let her bide,' said Mr. Bragg. "'Ah, I know what she is. She's fickle,' observed Owen, drying up his chair. "'Not pickle,' declared Miss Enid with great majesty. "'Yes, you are, false fleeting, perjured Enid,' said Owen. He was delighted to perceive that the little home and its inmates had evidently made a favorable impression on Mr. Bragg, observing that gentleman in the new light of May's revelation. He saw something in his face which he had not seen there before, a regretful, far away look, whenever he was not speaking or being spoken to. It was wonderfully strange, certainly, to think of him as May's wooer, and yet not absurd as it had appeared at first. In Mr. Bragg's presence, the absurdity somehow vanished. The simplicity and reality of the man gave him dignity. Owen even began to feel something like a vague and respectful compassion for Mr. Bragg, and every now and then the peculiarity of their mutual position would come over him with a fresh sense of surprise. "'We have been having a little conversation,' Mrs. Bransby and me. "'About her boy here,' said Mr. Bragg, glancing across at Martin, who colored and smiled with repressed eagerness. Mr. Bragg continued to observe him thoughtfully. "'He tells me he wants to help his mother, "'and he's not afraid or ashamed of work, it seems.' "'Ashamed,' broke out Martin. "'No, I hope I ain't such a cat as that.'" Martin cried his mother anxiously. She was nervous lest he should give offense. But Mr. Bragg answered with a little nod, which certainly did not express disapprobation. "'Well, the boy's about right. "'To be ashamed of the wrong things does belong to, "'what you might call a cat, I expect,' pursued Mr. Bragg musingly, "'that if we could always apply our shame "'in the right place, we should all of us do better than we do. "'I suppose I dare not offer you any tea at this hour,' said Mrs. Bransby gently. "'You have not dined, of course.' "'Well, no, not under the name of dinner, I haven't, "'but I ate a hearty luncheon, "'and I believe that's about as much dinner as I want "'to do me any good, you know. "'I'll have a cup of tea, please.'" Mrs. Bransby certainly felt no misapplied shame as to the humbleness and poverty of her surroundings and was far too truly a gentle woman to think of apologizing for them. Ethel, who was growing to be quite a notable little housewife, quietly fleshed another cup and saucer from the kitchen, and that was all the difference which Mr. Bragg's presence made in the ordinary arrangements. Enid insisted on having her high chair placed close to Mr. Bragg at table, and but for her sister's watchful interposition, she would have demonstrated her sudden affection for him by transferring sundry morsels of bread and butter, which she had been tightly squeezing in her small fingers, from her plate to his, with the patronizing remark, "'Oh, have that, I can't eat any more.'" While the meal was still in progress, there came a knock on the street door. It was a very peculiar knock, consisting of two or three sharp wraps followed by one solemn wrap, and then, after an appreciable interval by several more hurried little wraps, as if the hand at the knocker had forgotten all about its previous performances and were beginning afresh. "'Who can this be?' said Mrs. Bragg's, "'be looking up in surprise. Visitors at any time were rare with her now, and at that hour, unprecedented. "'Old Butcher, come back to say "'he can't live without us,' suggested Martin, whereupon Bobby and Billy, with consternation in their faces, exclaimed simultaneously, "'Oh, I say!' and Enid, perceiving the general attention to be diverted from her, took that opportunity to polish the bowl of her spoon by rubbing it softly against Mr. Bragg's coat sleeve. The family were not kept long in suspense. As soon as the door was opened, a well-known voice was heard saying volubly, "'Ah, a tea, are they? "'Well, never mind, take in my card if you please, "'and dear me, I haven't got one. "'But if you will kindly say, "'an old friend from the Old Chester "'begs leave to wait on Mrs. Bransby.' "'Why, it's simmy,' cried the children, "'starting up and rushing to the door. "'Here's a lock,' exclaimed Bobby, while Billy, tugging at the visitor's skirt, roared out hospitably, "'Come along, mother's in there, "'come in, mother has simmy.'" Mrs. Sebastian Bach Simpson, it was. She appeared on the threshold, Rubicon visage, glittering spectacles, filmy curls and girlish giggles all as usual, and began to apologize for what she called her unauthorized yet perhaps not wholly an excusable intrusion with her old amiability and incoherency. She had come prepared to keep up a cheerful mien, having decided, in her own mind, not to distress the feelings of the family by any lacrimose illusions. But when Mrs. Bransby rose up to welcome her, and not only took her by the hand, but kissed her on the cheek and led her towards the place of honor in the armchair, this proceeding so overcame the kindhearted creature that she abruptly turned her back on them all, pulled out her pocket handkerchief, and burst into tears. "'I really must apologize,' she sobbed, "'still presenting the broad back "'of a very smart shawl to the company, "'an attitude which made her elaborate politeness "'extremely comical, "'where she addressed her speech point-blank to the wallpaper, "'with abundance of bows and gestures. "'I am ashamed indeed, pray, excuse me, "'the suddenness of the emotion "'and the sight of the dear children "'coupled with, I believe, a slight touch "'of the prevalent influenza, "'but nothing in the least infectious, dear Mrs. Bransby, "'but pray do not allow me to disturb "'the harmony of this festive meeting "'with the most admired disorder, "'as our immortal bard puts it, "'although what there is to admire and disorder, "'and who admired it, "'must probably remain forever ambiguous.' "'By the end of this speech, "'the utterance of which had been interrupted "'by several interludes of pocket-hankerchief, "'Mrs. Simpson was sufficiently composed "'to turn round and take the chair offered to her. "'The children were grinning undisguisedly. "'Simmy was associated in their minds "'with many pleasant and many comical recollections. "'Mrs. Bransby was smiling, too. "'But perhaps it was only the warning spectacle "'of Mrs. Simpson's emotion, "'which enabled her to choke down "'her own inclination to cry. "'This is a most pleasant surprise,' she said. "'When did you arrive in London?' "'By the fact is,' began Amelia, "'but suddenly interrupting herself, "'she jumped from her seat "'and made Mr. Braga sweep in curtsy. "'Pardon me,' she exclaimed, "'if in the first moment "'I was oblivious to your presence. "'Although not personally acquainted, "'all Chester people claimed the privilege "'of recognizing Mr. Braga's one of our native products, "'an unforeseen honor indeed, "'and to do my eyes deceive me, "'or how by the pleasure of greeting Mr. Owen Rivers? "'What an extraordinary coincidence! "'I had heard you were residing here "'in the character of a border. "'She added, as emphatically, "'as though that were an obvious reason "'for being surprised to see him there. "'Really, I seem to be transported back "'into our ancient city, "'and should scarcely start "'to hear the cathedral chimes "'or the steam whistle from the brewery, "'or any of the dear familiar sounds, "'although the steam whistle I must admit is trying "'and in certain forms of nervous disorder, "'I believe, excruciating.' "'It was not easy at any time "'to obtain a clear and collected answer "'to a question from Mrs. Simpson. "'But in her present state of excitement, "'the difficulty was immensely increased. "'Her language, partly in honor of Mr. Bragg, "'was so flowery, and she kept darting up "'every discursive cross alley, "'which opened out of the main line of talk "'in so bewildering a fashion, "'as to become at moments unintelligible. "'And it was a long time "'before any of the party elicited from her "'how it was that she came to be in London. "'At length, however, it appeared that Bassey "'was entrusted with a commission to buy a Piano Forte, "'and having found a substitute to take his organ "'and attend his pupils for a week, "'he and his wife had suddenly resolved "'to take a holiday in London together. "'I had, of course, intended to seek you out, "'dear Mrs. Bransby,' she said, "'ever mindful as I must be "'of the many kind favors I have received from you, "'and here she gulped dangerously "'but recovered herself and went on, "'from all the family. "'But we came away in such a hurry at the last, "'a cheap excursion train being, in fact, "'our immediate motive.' "'Loga motive,' put in Martin Joe Coesley. "'Quite so,' said Amelia, "'with the utmost suavity, "'a very proper correction. "'Then seeing his mischievous face "'dimpling with laughter,' she exclaimed. "'Of course, locomotive! "'Very good, Martin. "'Ah, I am as absent as ever you see.' "'Here she playfully shook her head "'until sundry metallic bobs upon her bonnet fell off, "'and had to be hunted for and picked up.' "'Well, so it was. "'I was hurried away by basses in petuosity, "'although injustice to him I must state "'that the time bills were peremptory, "'and there was no margin for delay or deliberation, "'almost without a carpet bag. "'I had no opportunity, therefore, "'of inquiring of any mutual friend "'in Old Chester for your address. "'There are scarcely any who know it or care to know it,' "'said Mrs. Bransby in a low voice. "'Oh, pardon me, dear Mrs. Bransby. "'No, no, that must not be said for the honour of Old Chester. "'Your memory is affectionately cherished "'by all the more refined and sympathetic souls among us. "'Only last week, Mr. Crump, the butcher, "'was respectfully inquiring for news of you. "'You remember Crump, a worthy man whose spirit, "'notwithstanding the dictum of the swan of Avon, "'is by no means subdued to what it works in. "'Beyond a transient greasiness, "'which lies merely on the surface.' "'Yes, I remember him very well. "'But who, then, was it who directed you to this house?' "'As Mrs. Bransby, hoping that her guest was not aware, "'why Martin had suddenly retired "'behind the window curtains in a paroxysm of laughter. "'Ah, that again is one of the most extraordinary circumstances. "'Who do you think it was?' "'I cannot tell at all.' "'Guess!' "'Miss Piper, perhaps,' suggested Ethel. "'Not exactly, Mrs. Piper,' said Mrs. Simpson, "'with a strong emphasis on the qualifying adverb, "'as though her informant's identity "'were only barely distinguishable from that of Miss Piper. "'But you burn, Ethel, you're very near. "'However, I will not keep you longer in suspense. "'It was Miss Clara Bertram.' "'Oh, I might have thought of her, "'for she is a neighbor of ours,' said Mrs. Bransby. "'Is she?' asked Owen. "'Yes, she lives in a house with a rather good garden, "'not far from here. "'The situation is a little inconvenient "'for her profession, I fancy. "'But she has invalid relatives, "'to whom the garden is a great boon. "'We met accidentally in the street one day, "'and she recognized me at once. "'I was surprised that she did so.' "'Nay, I should rather have been surprised, "'had she forgotten you,' said Mrs. Simpson, "'for the heart, dear Mrs. Bransby, "'that one truly loves, never forgets, "'but as fondly loves on to the—' "'Not, of course, that there was anything beyond "'the very slightest acquaintance "'between you and Miss Bertram and Old Chester. "'Bazie is, in fact, at her house now "'with a few musical professors, "'from which she kindly invited us to meet. "'The artistic element, which is so akin to Bazie's soul, "'combined with the seductions of the Indian weed, "'of which Miss Bertram's papa is quite a devotee. "'So that, you see, finding you so near, "'I slipped away to see you, and I have promised to return "'before it is time to go back to the boarding house "'where we are staying.' "'At this point, Mr. Brab got up to take his leave. "'I shall look in again before long, Mrs. Bransby, "'if you'll allow me,' he said. "'And we'll have a little more talk "'about my young friend there. "'Good night to you, mom.' "'Turning to shake hands with Mrs. Simpson. "'This brought that lady to her legs "'in more senses than one. "'She favoured Mr. Brab with a long and enthusiastic address, "'embracing an extraordinary variety of topics "'from the proud pre-eminence of British commerce "'to the force of friendship as portrayed "'in the classical examples of Damon and Pithius. "'I will not ask in the beautiful words "'of the Caledonian ditty, "'should old acquaintance be forgot "'and days of old langzine, "'for I am certain that you are entirely incapable "'of doing anything of the sort, "'as is proved by your presence "'beneath this refined roof tree,' said Mrs. Simpson. "'But I must bear my humble testimony "'to the eminent virtues of our exquisite friend, "'if I may be allowed the privilege of calling her so. "'I have seen her basking in prosperity "'and unspoiled by the smiles of fortune, "'and now in the cold shade "'of comparatively untoward circumstances, "'she beams with the same congenial lustre, "'in short,' cried Amelia, "'suddenly abandoning what Bobby and Billy "'called her dictionary style "'for a homelier language, "'which came straight from her heart. "'A better wife and mother, "'a gentler mistress, a kinder friend "'than never was or could be in this world.' Owen offered to accompany Mr. Bragg in order to show him the way to the nearest cab stand, and they left the house together. "'She's a singular character,' observed Mr. Bragg "'after they had walked a few steps. "'You mean Mrs. Simpson?' "'Ah, yes, Mrs. Simpson. "'There's too much clack about her "'and her tops puzzling from being "'what you might call of a zigzag sort of nature, "'and she's cast in a queer kind of a mold altogether. "'But I think she rings true, "'and that's the main thing, in mortals or metals. "'I'm quite sure her praise of Mrs. Bransby is true "'at any rate,' said Owen warmly. "'Hm,' grunted Mr. Bragg, "'and walked on in silence. "'When they came within view of a cab stand, "'he turned round and said he would not trouble Owen "'to come any further with him. "'And just as the latter was about to say good night, "'Mr. Bragg observed meditatively, "'she has that little place beautifully neat "'and as clean as a new pin "'seems to be bringing up those children "'in the right way too. "'Poor soul, it's a heavy charge "'for a delicate lady like her.' "'I think I shall be able to do something "'for that eldest boy. "'But perhaps you'd better not say anything at present day. "'It's cruel to raise up false hopes, "'and some folks build such a wonderful high "'scaffolding of expectations on a word or two "'if there's not bricks enough "'to do anything adequate to the scaffolding. "'Why, then, that's awkward. "'Good night, Mr. Rivers.' Owen well knew that hopes had already been aroused by the mere presence of the rich man in that poor little home. "'But he knew also that there was no danger "'of Mrs. Bransby's hopes turning into claims "'and that she would be humbly grateful "'for very small help. "'He felt almost elated on her behalf "'as he returned to Collingwood Terrace. "'I only hope,' he said to himself, "'that Mr. Bragg won't miss any of my sins "'on Mrs. Bransby's head when he finds them out. "'But no, to do the old boy justice, "'I believe he is above that.'" Meanwhile, Amelia Simpson had been imparting the budget of Old Chester News. After many discursive sallies, she came to the topic of Lucius Cheffington's recent death. He had died since the Simpson's departure from Old Chester, but his case had been known to be hopeless for several days previous. The old lord was said to be dreadfully cut up, more so even than on the death of his eldest son, but Lucius had always been understood to be his father's favorite. "'And they do say,' continued Mrs. Simpson, "'that to a certain fair young friend of ours, "'the blow will be very severe.' "'A young friend of ours? "'Do you mean May Cheffington?' "'Oh, no, our dear Miranda knew scarcely anything "'of her noble relative at Cone Park, "'and even the most affectionate disposition, "'and I'm sure our dear Miranda is imbued "'with every proper feeling, "'can scarcely cling with personal devotion "'to an almost total stranger, "'although united by ties of kindred. "'No, I was speaking to Miss Hadlow, Constance.' "'Yes, although I have never been on terms "'to address her by her abaptismal appellation, "'that I confess is the young lady I do mean.'" Then Mrs. Simpson went on to tell her an astonished listener, how that Constance Hadlow had been visiting some county magnates in the near neighborhood of Cone Park during the latter part of Lucius' illness, how she had been admitted to see and talk with Envalid, when other persons had been excluded with scant courtesy, how she had rapidly come to be on a footing of intimacy at the great house, which astonished the neighborhood, and how at length that fact was explained by the current report that if Lucius had recovered, which at one time appeared not unlikely, he would have married her with his father's full appellation. I did not venture to allude to this subject before Mr. Rivers, how brown he has become, quite the southern hero of romance. Because, you know, he was said at one time to be desperately in love with his cousin, and I feared to hurt his feelings. Oh, I don't think it would hurt his feelings, said Mrs. Bransby. I really did not believe he cares at all for his cousin in that way. I'm sure he doesn't, cried Ethel, who took a thoroughly feminine interest in the subject. Ethel, I scarcely think you know anything at all about the matter, and I'm sure it is not for a little girl like you to give an opinion. No mother only. Martin and I know who we should like to see him married, don't we, Martin? Martin was rather shame-faced at being thus brought publicly into the discussion, and rebuffed his sister with a lofty air. Oh, don't talk bosh and silliness, he rejoined. Girls are always bothering about a fellow's getting married. Leave him alone, he's very well as he is. He's certainly most affable, and thoroughly, the gentleman observed Mrs. Simpson with her universal beaming benevolence. Oh, he is good, cried the widow, clasping her hands. So delicately considerate, such a true loyal friend. In her own mind, in her own mind, she was convinced that Mr. Bragg's visit was entirely due to Owen's influence, and her heart was overflowing with gratitude. A new idea darted into Mrs. Simpson's imagination, always ready to accept a romantic view of things. How charming it would be if young Mr. Rivers were to marry the beautiful widow. They would make a delightful couple. Considerations of ways and means entered no more into Mrs. Simpson's calculations than they would have entered into little eneds. The building of her castles in the air was entirely independent of money. But there was, at bottom, a more common sensible reason which made the idea that Owen might marry Mrs. Bransby agreeable to Amelia Simpson. In spite of the sympathy of Mr. Crump, the butcher, and other congenial spirits, it could not be denied that some rumors of a very unpleasant sort had recently been circulated in Old Chester to the discredit of Mrs. Bransby. When it became known that young Rivers on his return from Spain was to live in her house, the rumors began to take more definite shape. No one could trace them to their source. Perhaps no one tried very seriously to do so. People asked each other if they had not always thought there was something a little odd, not quite becoming a nice in the way that young Rivers used to be running in and out of Martin Bransby's house at all times and seasons. Even during poor Mr. Bransby's lifetime, strange things had been said. At least it now appeared so for very few of the gossips professor have heard any whispers of scandal themselves while Martin lived. There was a strange story of young Rivers being caught kissing Mrs. Bransby's hand in the garden. There might be no harm in kissing a lady's hand, but under the circumstances, there was something almost revolting, was there not? And then why was Mrs. Bransby in such a hurry to run away from Old Chester, away from all her friends and all her husband's friends? Surely she would have done better to remain there. At all events, Mr. Theodore Bransby had been much annoyed by her doing so and had replied to old friends who spoke to him on the subject that he could not control his stepmother's actions, could only advise her for the best and should endeavor to assist her and her children if she would allow him to do so. Of course, people understood when he said that that Mrs. Bransby was acting contrary to his judgment and now Mr. Rivers was actually going to reside in her house. It positively was not decent. No wonder Theodore looked distressed and avoided the subject. They must be altogether a very painful affair for him. This kind of scandal, with its inevitable crescendo, had been very differently received by Sebastian Simpson and his wife. He could not be said to encourage it, but neither did he repudiated indignantly. But Amelia was true and devoted to Mrs. Bransby and incurred some unpopularity by her enthusiastic praises of that absent lady. But there were also people who said what a good creature Mrs. Simpson was and that, although she was a goose and had probably been quite taken in, they liked to see her stand up for those who had been kind to her. Under these circumstances, it was a great triumph for Amelia to find Mr. Bragg, the respectable, the influential, the rich Mr. Bragg, visiting Mrs. Bransby on a friendly footing and treating her with market kindness and respect. Simple though she might be, Amelia was not at all too simple to understand that the millionaire's approbation would carry weight with it. But now the idea of a marriage between Owen and the widow seems still more delightful than the mere clearing of Mrs. Bransby's character from all his versions. People has said that as for him, the young man was probably suffering under a temporary infatuation and that even supposing the best and taking the most charitable view of this flirtation, it was out of the question that he should think of marrying a woman of Mrs. Bransby's age and with five children to support. Why should it be out of the question, Amelia said to herself? The few years difference in their ages was of no consequence at all and as to the family, Mr. Bragg would probably take Owen into partnership. He was evidently devotedly fond of them both. She had privately arranged the details of the wedding in her own mind before Owen returned from conducting Mr. Bragg to his cab. When he did so, Mrs. Simpson declared it was time for her to go and got up from her chair. But between that and her actual departure, a great many words had still to intervene. She reverted to the death in the Castlecombe family, made a brief excursion to the report of Captain Sheffington's second marriage, truly deplorable but still, our dear Miranda is happily launched among the elite of the Beaumont. So perhaps it is not so bad after all. And then suddenly added, by the way, dear Mrs. Bransby, it was reported that your stepson, Mr. Theodore, intended to withdraw his candidature at the next election. But I am told on the best authority, Mr. Lowe, the political agent, that that is a mistake. So I hope we may see him among the legislators. Quite the figure for it, I'm sure. However, of course you must know all that news far better than I. I hope to see our dear Miranda before leaving town. Owen observed with indignation that the mention of Theodore appeared to have suggested May to her mind. Nor did the circumstance escape Mrs. Bransby. Did you say you shall see May, Sheffington, she asked. Yes, I propose calling, although well aware of Mrs. Dormism's highest social position, still I think our dear Miranda's warm heart will welcome one who has so recently seen her beloved grandmother. Oh, we do not easily relinquish the fond memories of childhood. Thank you, my dear Ethel. Is that my pocket hunk of chif? Really, I wonder how it came there? Ethel had picked it up from under the tea table. I believe that even in the princely halls, I think I left my umbrella in the passage, eh? Oh, Bobby has found it. In the princely halls of Castlecombe, her memory will revert to Fryer's Row. In the words of the poet, those strangers may roam those hills and those valleys I once called my home. Although, of course, all chossers are not mountainous. And as to roaming, I presume that hills and valleys are always more or less liable to be roamed over by strangers whether one calls them ones home or not. By this time, Mrs. Simpson had got herself out of the womb into the narrow outer passage and seeing Owen put on his great coat again. In order to escort her, she stopped to protest against his taking that trouble. Oh, pray, too kind. It is but a stone's throw from here, and I'm not at all afraid. Sure of the way? Well, no, not quite sure. I took two wrong turnings in coming, but I can easily inquire from Marlboro House A. On Blenheim Lodge, is it? To be sure, Marlboro House is the august residence. However, historically speaking, I was not so far wrong, was I? Well, if you insist, Mr. Rivers, I will accept your polite attention with gratitude. Goodbye, once more, dear children. If I possibly can come again before leaving London, dear Mrs. Bransby, at this point, Owen perceived that decisive measures were necessary if the good ladies farewells were not to last until midnight. He took Mrs. Simpson's arm, signed to Phoebe to open the door, and led his fair charge outside it, almost before she knew what was happening. Excuse me for hurrying you, he said, but the night is cold. Mrs. Bransby is not very strong, and I thought it imprudent for both of you to stand talking in that drafty passage. Oh, quite right. Thank you a thousand times. She's deserving indeed of every delicate care and attention. A slighter circumstance would have sufficed to confirm Mrs. Simpson's romantic fancies. She said to herself that Mr. Rivers' devotion was chivalrous indeed, and she forthwith proceeded to sound Mrs. Bransby's praises in an unbroken stream of eloquence all the way to Blenheim Lodge. Owen had intended to ask her one or two questions about Mrs. Dobbs, and as to what she thought of calling at Mrs. Dormers' Miss House. He had even held a half-formed intention of entrusting her with a message for May, but it was hopeless to arrest her flow of speech unless by making his request in a more serious fashion than he thought it prudent to do. Amelia's goodwill might be relied on, but she was absolutely devoid of discretion, and at all events, if he said nothing, there would be no ground for her to build a blunder on. He little knew. End of chapter seven. Volume three, chapter eight of That Unfortunate Marriage. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. That Unfortunate Marriage by Francis Eleanor Trollop. Volume three, chapter eight. When Mrs. Dormersmith practiced any deception, a necessity which unfortunately arose rather frequently in the prosecution of her duty to society, she was wont to call it diplomacy. She called it so to herself in her most private cogitations. She was not a woman whose conscience could be satisfied by any but the best-chosen phraseology. In speaking to May of her conversation with Owen, she gave a diplomatic version of it. It was May herself who innocently suggested the line her aunt took. When she found that Owen had left the house, found any further farewell to her, she said not a word. She demanded no explanation, but the disappointed look in her eyes, the drooping curves of her young mouth were sufficiently eloquent. Had she fired up into indignation against her aunt, assuming as a matter of course that Owen had been refused permission to see her again, that would have seemed quite in accordance with her character. This was in fact what Pauline had prepared herself to meet, but this quietude was strange. It seemed as though May were ready to be wounded. Her aunt thought that it would not have occurred to the girl who was high-spirited enough in certain directions to suspect that her lover might be less eager to see her again than she was to see him unless some previous factor fancy had put the suspicion into her head. Factor fancy, Mrs. Dormersmith thought it mattered little witch so long as the suspicion were there. Of course it would not do to pretend that Owen had not asked to see her. That would be a clumsy falsehood, sure of speedy detection. And besides, Mrs. Dormersmith wished to avoid explicit falsehood. She was only diplomatic. I was obliged, I need scarcely tell you, May, she said, to refuse Mr. River's request for some more words with you. It would have been a gross dereliction of duty on my part to permit it. He did ask to see me then, said May with a bright eager look in her eyes. It was a look her aunt was well acquainted with and usually presaged some speech which had to be deplored as being odd or bad form. Oh yes, replied Mrs. Dormersmith wearily. Of course he asked, I had to go through all that. Under the circumstances he could scarcely do less. The shadow of the eyelashes suddenly drooped down over the bright eyes and Aunt Pauline saw that her shot had told. Has it ever occurred to you, May, Mrs. Dormersmith went on, that you are prejudicing the future of this gentleman? May looked up quickly but made no answer. Of course it cannot be allowed to go on. This engagement, as he absurdly terms it, it is an engagement, interrupted May in a low voice. Her aunt passed over the interruption and continued, but I think that in justice to him you ought to reflect that meanwhile you are injuring his prospects. I do not mean, she added with gentle sarcasm, that you will injure him by preventing him from marrying the widow Bransby because I cannot honestly say that I think that a good prospect for any young man. All those stories are malicious, falsewood said May resolutely, but her throat was painfully constricted and her heart felt like lead in her breast. My dear child, one scarcely sees why people should trouble themselves to invent stories about this lady and gentleman who after all are persons of very small importance, but at any rate the stories are circulated and believed. Under these circumstances it seems to me a, well to say the least an indiscreet proceeding that Mr. Rivers, the moment he returns to England should rush to Mrs. Bransby's house and take up his abode there. However, it may be quite a usual sort of thing among persons in their position. Very likely. I only know that in our world it would not do. We are less Arcadian. When I spoke of injuring Mr. Rivers prospects I meant as between him and his employer. Oh, cried May, turning round with a pale and dignity face, a confused crowd of words seemed to be struggling in her mind, but she was unable for the moment to utter one of them. Dear May, said her aunt, do not. I beg and implore you do not be tragic. I don't think I could stand that sort of thing. It would be the last straw. Do you think, do you mean that Mr. Bragg would turn Owen away out of spite, asked May in a quiet tone after a short silence? We need not employ such a word as that, but Mr. Bragg made you an offer of marriage and we can hardly expect him to find it pleasant when he is told the young lady refused you in order to marry your Clark. Not in order to. You know I have assured you that under no circumstances would I have married Mr. Bragg. Yes, May, you have assured me so, but you are not yet 19 and I, alas, was 19 more than 19 years ago. It struck me that Mr. Rivers was desirous that you should take your full share of responsibility in the matter and he seemed a little anxious about his place. At all events he brought forward the salary he is earning with Mr. Bragg as an important element in the financial budget with which he favoured me, how the man could think for a moment that your family would consent. I gathered that he was decidedly unwilling to lose it. He only took it for my sake. Ah, that was particularly kind of him. Well, it strikes me that he would now like to keep it for his own. Of course, I must write to your father. I presume you will admit that it is proper to inform him of the state of the case. You can write if you choose Aunt Pauline. It will make no difference now. I think you will find it will make a considerable difference. Circumstances have entirely altered your father's position in the world. You will be daughter and heiress to a peer of the realm. There was a long pause. May stood with one foot on the fender before a bright fire in her aunt's dressing room, her elbow on the mantel shelf and her cheek resting in her hand. Then Mrs. Dormersmith resumed softly, perhaps I deceive myself. The wish may be fathered to the thought, but I confess I got the impression that it might not be hopeless to induce Mr. Rivers to withdraw voluntarily from his false position. Of course he could do no less than stand to it, so long as you appeared resolved to stand to it, but I hope and trust may that if it should be as I think, you will not insist on being obstinate. You know as well as I know it myself, Aunt Pauline, that I would die sooner than hold him bound for one instant unless, but I won't answer you as if I took your word seriously. Upon that she managed to walk out of the room with dignity and dry eyes, but the poor child for all her brave words did take her aunt's hint so seriously as to throw herself on the bed in her own room and lie sobbing there for an hour. To her husband, Mrs. Dormersmith had reported the interview with Owen as accurately as she could. She did indeed declare her belief that the young man was a nihilist, but that was said genuinely enough. A man of gentle birth who deliberately stated, apparently with sympathetic approval, that there were mechanics who would be ashamed to own Captain Sheffington as a father-in-law was, in her opinion, evidently prepared to demolish the existing bases of human society. Mr. Dormersmith was very sorry for his niece, more sorry than he thought it necessary to express at that moment to Pauline, but still he agreed with his wife that every effort ought to be made to prevent her marrying so disastrously. It might have been supposed perhaps that Mr. Dormersmith, not having found his own mode of life productive of unalloyed felicity, in spite of fair income, aristocratic connections, and a wife devoted to keeping up their position in society, would have been not unwilling to let May try her fate in a different fashion. But it is a common experience that although the possession of certain things gives them not the smallest gleam of happiness, yet to a large class of minds, the thought of doing without those things suggests misery. The unusual is a terrible scarecrow and keeps many weak-minded birds from the cherries. Mr. Dormersmith was to go down to Comb Park to attend the funeral of his deceased cousin-in-law. He had some liking for Lucius and thought as he sat in the railway carriage, speeding down to the Little Wayside Station beyond Old Chester, where he was to alight, that it was a truly inscrutable dispensation which took away Lucius, a man at least harmless and of honorable principles, and left Augustus alive, and he could not help regretting the death of Lucius on May's account. Lucius had been, in his dry, peculiar manner, very kind towards his young cousin. He had resented her father's neglect of her and he treated her when they met with a certain air of protection and almost tenderness, such as one might assume towards a child or an animal that one knows to have been hardly used. Frederick thought it not impossible, that had Lucius lived, his influence might have been brought to bear on May for her good, but Lucius was gone and Augustus remained to disgrace the family and annoy his relations more than ever. This, however, was not Pauline's idea. Although her brother's second marriage had apparently receded into the background in consequence of these new troubles about May, yet it had really been occupying many of Mrs. Dormer's missed thoughts. She certainly considered it to be not quite so terrible a business now that Lucius, poor dear Lucius, was out of the way, as it would have been had he lived. A Viscountess castle-comb might be floated, Pauline said to herself, where Mrs. Augustus Sheffington would stick in the mud. They could live chiefly abroad, not of course in a shabby street in Brussels, but on the Riviera, for instance. A warm climate had always suited Augustus, and as for herself, she, Pauline, would never willingly pass an hour in England between the 1st of November and the last of April. It really would not be at all disagreeable to spend one or two of the winter months with one's brother and sister-in-law. Think heaven that at least, she was not English. So many deviations from good form might be got over on the plea of foreign manners at some charming sunny place, say St. Raphael. That was not so far from Nice as to preclude the enjoyment of some little gaiety in society. They would have a villa of their own, of course. Perhaps Augustus might build himself one. That sort of life would enable them to catch a good many travelers on the wing, and with sufficient tact and savoir-faire, which Pauline flattered herself she could supply, it might be possible to fill their house with a succession of nice people. The nicest people were sometimes rather less exigent on the other side of the channel. At any rate, there would be less difficulty in floating, Lady Castlecombe on the stream of society abroad than at home. Augustus would be rich, Uncle George could not prevent that, let him do what he would with his savings and his investments. For the estates were strictly entailed, and Uncle George had nursed them into something like treble their value when he succeeded to the property. Mrs. Griffin heard from Lady Mary, the dean of Old Chester's wife, who had it from the rector of Combe that Lord Castlecombe was crushed by the loss of Lucius. Augustus might not have to wait very long for his inheritance, how strangely things turn out. Well, she would write very kindly and gently to her brother. There was the excuse of addressing him about May, and she would take the opportunity of sending a civil word to his wife. It must be done delicately, of course, but Augustus should see that there was no disposition to be hostile on the part of his sister at any rate. It was in the forenoon of the day after Owen's visit that Mrs. Dormersmith was thus meditating. Her husband had started her comb park. The house was very quiet, the fire in her dressing room was very warm, several budgets of gossip had arrived by the post from various country houses and lay unopened within reach of her hand. Mrs. Dormersmith felt that there was a certain luxury of woe in a family affliction which justified one in saying, not at home and sitting in a wadded dressing gown without causing one either heartache or anxiety. And she had been softly rocking herself in the daydreams recorded above when they were interrupted as suddenly, if not as fatally, as those of Lafontaine's milkmaid. James stood before her with a visiting card on a solver and a cloud of depression, which was the utmost revelation of ill humor his well-trained visage ever allowed itself above stairs on his shaven countenance. What is this, James? What do you mean by bringing me cards here and now? I said not at home, arm, but the party didn't seem to understand and unfortunately Miss Cheffington happening to pass through the hall at that moment. Who is it? What is the person? Mrs. Dormersmith took the card and examined it through her eyeglasses with a sinking heart. Could that subversive young man have returned? Or was there perchance some other suitor in the field? An anarchical shoemaker possibly. Pauline's confidence in Mrs. Dobbs had been completely blown into the air by learning that she had approved and encouraged May's engagement to a young man who calmly avowed that he possessed 150 pounds a year of his own. And she felt that any dreadful revelation might be made at any moment. But the name on the card was not a masculine one at any rate. Mrs. Something or Other Simpson, she read on it. Is the lady with Miss Cheffington now, James? Yes, ma'am. Miss Cheffington took her into the dining room. I thought that as last time, I meant as Missin wasn't in the way, I'd better let you know, ma'am. Did the lady ask for me? No, I, well, I really hardly know, ma'am. You hardly know. Well, ma'am, she talked a great deal and so it was uncommonly difficult to follow what she said. At first I thought she announced her name as being Old Chester. I did say not at home twice, but it was no use. And then Miss Cheffington happening to pass through the hall. That will do. James retired with an injured air and Mrs. Dormersmith was left to consider within herself whether duty required her to be present at the interview between May and this unknown Mrs. Simpson, or whether she might indulge herself by sitting still and reading Mrs. Griffin's last letter in comfort and quietude. After a brief deliberation, she resolved to go downstairs. There was no knowing who or what the woman might be. James had said something about Old Chester. No doubt she came from that place. Perhaps she was an emissary of Mr. Rivers. Pauline, as she rose and drew a shawl around her shoulders before facing the chillier atmosphere of the staircase, breathe the depious hope that her brother, Augustus, might sooner or later compensate her for all the sacrifices she was making on behalf of May. Before she reached the dining room, she heard the sound of a fluent monologue. May was not speaking at all so far as Mrs. Dormersmith could make out. When she entered the room, she found the girl sitting beside a stout, florid woman dressed in transicolor, as Pauline phrased it to herself, who was holding forth with a profusion of nods and becks and wreathed smiles. Mrs. Dormersmith made this stranger a bow of such freezing politeness as ought to have petrified her on the spot. And, turning to May, inquired with raised eyebrows, who is your friend, May? But Amelia Simpson had not the least suspicion that she was being snubbed in the most superior style known to modern science. She rose with her usual impulsive vehemence from her chair and said smilingly, Mrs. Dormersmith, I thought so, permit me to apologize for a seeming breach of etiquette. I am well aware that my call ought properly to have been paid to you, the mistress of this elegant mansion, but being personally unknown, although we are not so remote unfriended melancholy or slow, not that I use the epithet in a slang sense, I assure you, in all chester, as to be unaware that Mrs. Dormersmith, the accomplished relative of our dear Miranda, is in all respects a glass in fashion and a mould of form. Only I wish our divine bard had chosen any other word than mould, which somehow is inextricably connected in my mind with short sixes. Oh, ejaculated Pauline in a faint voice, as she sank into a chair, and she remained gazing at the visitor with a helpless air. At another time, May would have had a keen and enjoying sense of the comic elements in this little scene, but although she saw them now as distinctly as she ever could have done, she was too unhappy to enjoy them. She said quietly, this is Mrs. Simpson, Aunt Pauline. Her husband is a professor of music at Old Chester, and they are both very old friends of dear Granny. Now, Pauline was not prepared to break altogether with Mrs. Dobbs. Mrs. Dobbs had behaved very badly in that matter of young rivers, but something must be excused to ignorance, and her allowance for May continued to be paid up every quarter with exemplary punctuality. Let matters turn out as well as possible. There must still be a mean time during which Mrs. Dobbs' money would be valuable, and indeed indispensable, if May were to remain under her aunt's roof. It occurred to Pauline to invite this incredibly attired person to share Cecile's early dinner in the housekeeper's room, and then to withdraw herself and May on the plea of some imaginary engagement. She was just about to carry out this idea. When the reiteration of a name in Mrs. Simpson's rapid talk struck her ear and excited her curiosity, Mrs. Bransby. Amelia was talking voluble to May about Mrs. Bransby. She had resumed what she was pleased to call her conversation with May, having made some sort of incoherent apology to Mrs. Dormersmith, to the effect that she had a very short time to remain and so many interesting topics of mutual interest to discuss. She rambled on about her last evening's visit to Collingwood Terrace. Mr. Rivers and dear Mrs. Bransby would make a charming couple and as to the difference in years, what did years signify? And the difference was not so great after all. Mr. Rivers was very steady and stayed for his age and Mrs. Bransby looked so wonderfully youthful, not a line in her forehead in spite of all her troubles. And then Mr. Bragg's friendship and countenance would be so very valuable. He evidently approved it all and if he gave Mr. Rivers a share in his business, even a comparatively small share, said Amelia, feeling that she was keeping well within the limits of probability and even displaying a certain business-like sobriety of conjecture, considering how colossal an affair that was, everything would be made smooth for them. Mrs. Bransby's children evidently adored Mr. Rivers, which was so delightful. And as for Mr. Rivers' devotion to Mrs. Bransby, no one could doubt that, who saw them together. This was said rather to a shadowy audience of all Chester persons who had declared that however ridiculous Mrs. Bransby might make herself, young Rivers was not likely to tie himself for life to a middle-aged woman with a family, then to Amelia's present-heirs. And after all the unkind things which had been reported in Old Chester, it would be a heartfelt joy to Mrs. Bransby's friends to see her widowhood so happily brought to a close. What unkind things have been reported in Old Chester? What do you mean? asked May. She spoke eagerly, but quite firmly. There was no tremor in her voice, no rising of unbidden tears to her eyes. Her whole heart and soul were concentrated on getting at the truth. Amelia pulled herself up a little. She had been running on rather too heedlessly. Some things had laterally been said of Mrs. Bransby, which could scarcely be repeated with propriety to a young lady, at least according to Amelia's code of what was proper. Oh, my dear Miranda, she stammered. The world is ever-sensorious, but as the lyric Bard so beautifully puts it, I'd weep when friends deceive me if thou would like them untrue. Although why it has taken for granted that friends in any true sense of the word should be expected to deceive, I must leave to metaphysics to determine. Mrs. Dormersmith here put in her word. Oh, we had already heard of those scandals, she said. My niece was inclined to doubt their existence, I believe. I hope you are convinced now, May. Really, exclaimed Mrs. Simpson, glancing with growing uneasiness from May to her aunt. Some things she perceived was wrong, but what? Dear Mrs. Simpson, said May, I'm very sure that whoever else was unkind and scandalous, you were not. Ever the same sweet nature, murmured Amelia, but perhaps it was not so much that people were unkind, not exactly unkind, but mistaken. You see, when a person tells you a thing positively, there is a sudden unkindness in not believing it. And yet on the other hand, one would not willingly accept evil reports of a fellow creature. There is a difficulty in harmoniously blending the two horns of this dilemma. If I may be allowed to say so, which to some extent excuses error. The good lady's habitual confusion of ideas was increased by the nervous fear that she had said something unfortunate. She brought her visit to an end earlier and she otherwise might have done. And in taking a fusive leave of May, she whispered, I trust I did not commit any solace in the code of manners, which belongs to the elite of the Houghton in alluding to our fair friend, Mrs. B. No, no, answered May gently. Don't affect yourself by thinking so. Mrs. Simpson brightened up a little and asked aloud, and what message shall I give to Grandma Ma? May scarcely recognized Granny under this appellation, adopted in honor of Mrs. Dormersmith's social distinction. But after an incident, she said, oh, give her my dear love, I shall write to her tomorrow, and please my love to Uncle Joe. Ah, I recognize our dear Miranda's affectionate constancy there, cried Amelia. Mr. Weatherhead would be much gratified. Gratified, I would think he would have a right to be disgusted if I forgot him. Dear good honest kind-hearted Uncle Joe. Who is this person? demanded Pauline, genuinely aghast at the idea that some hitherto unknown brother of Susan Dobbs was in existence. The one extenuating circumstance in that unfortunate marriage had always appeared to her to be the fact that Susan was an only child. He's a certain Mr. Joseph Weatherhead, answered May with great distinctness. He was originally a bookbinder's apprentice, and then a printer and bookseller in a small way of business at Birmingham. He is my grandmother's brother-in-law, and one of the best men in the world. He used to give me shillings when I went back to school, and once I remember, that was just before my father left me on Granny's hands. He noticed that my boots were disgracefully shabby and took me out and bought me a new pair. Then Mrs. Simpson went away in a nervous flutter, and with the positive, though puzzled conviction that there was something very wrong indeed between the aunt and niece. End of chapter eight.