 Of course Mrs. Dormersmith availed herself to the utmost of Mrs. Simpson's revelations. They were most valuable and they had the effect of confirming her own vague suspicions in an unexpected manner, that which had been merely diplomatic coloring in her presentment of the situation to May turned out to be real solid vulgar fact. The state of things was certainly very singular, but she did not doubt that she had discovered the true explanation of it. Mr. Rivers had probably been infatuated with Mrs. Bransby before her husband's death. Such infatuations were by no means rare at their respective ages. The lady had been willing to coquette after a sentimental fashion, which also was not unprecedented. There had probably been no serious intention of evil doing on either side. At all events we can give them the benefit of the doubt, reflected Pauline charitably. Meanwhile Mr. Rivers had met with May. He had been thrown a great deal into her society and had been encouraged by her stupid old grandmother, had thought her connections and prospects desirable, and had probably admired herself a good deal. Pauline did not see why not. It was very possible for a man to admire more than one woman at a time. Mr. Rivers makes love to May, persuades her to enter into a clandestine engagement and goes abroad, but then something unforeseen happens. The husband dies, and all the old feeling is revived. Mr. Rivers hastens back to England. The widow is pathetic, helpless, throws herself on his advice and support. He goes to live under her roof, and the mischief is done. A handsome scheming woman under these circumstances might well be irresistible. As to him, of course he had behaved badly in a way, but after all one must accept men as they are. And as Pauline said to herself, the folly of young men in such matters, and their invincible tendency to sacrifice themselves to the wrong women, are simply unfathomable. At any rate, whether her cousin's death had made Rivers more willing to fulfill his engagement to May, or whether he would be glad of a pretext to break with her in order to marry Mrs. Bransby and her five children, May must clearly perceive that she could have nothing more to say to him. All these considerations and the conclusion to which they led, Mrs. Dormersmith administered to her niece in larger or smaller doses during the remainder of the day. Sometimes it was by way of a few drops at a time, a hint, a word, perhaps merely a sigh, accompanied by an expressive shrug of the shoulders. Sometimes it was a copious pouring forth of the evidence. Sometimes it was an appeal to May's pride, sometimes to her principles. The girl was worn out with fighting against shadows, and though they might be shadows, they were gathering darkly. The worst was that she was, in one sense, as solitary as though she had been alone on a desert island. There was absolutely no communion of spirit between her and her aunt on this subject. Had her uncle been there, she thought that even he would have understood her better. She could write, of course, to Granny, and, of course, Granny would answer her. But another whole long day must elapse before she could have the comfort of Granny's letter, even supposing it were sent without a post's delay. She could not see Owen. She was not sure at moments whether she wished to see him. And then again, with a sudden revulsion of feeling, she would long for his presence. She had in her pocket the note he had written on the previous evening, begging her to inform Mr. Bragg of their engagement. It had reached her hands only an hour or two before Amelia Simpson's visit, and was as yet unanswered. The note had been dashed off quickly, as we know, and to May, disheartened and confused as she was already by her aunt's version of the interview with Owen, it seemed needlessly brief and dry. She begged May to tell Mr. Bragg of their engagement at once. Under the circumstances, he thought Mr. Bragg ought to know it, and the announcement would come best from her. He had not had a moment in which to speak of it during their hurried interview, but he did not doubt that May would feel as he felt on this point. She had better, if possible, send her communication so that Mr. Bragg should receive it that same afternoon, since he certainly ought to know the truth soon at any cost. These last words had reference to the possibility that the revelation might affect the fortunes of the Bransby family. But May knew nothing of that, and they jarred on her. Why should Owen speak to her of the cost? It was almost like a boast that he was ready to sacrifice himself. In talking to Aunt Pauline, he had shown that he was anxious not to lose his situation. For her sake? Oh yes, no doubt for her sake. But the words jarred on her. The lightest touch will jar upon a bruise. And then the loneliness of spirit was so trying. Solitude may sometimes be a good counselor for the brain, but it is rarely so for the heart. Nothing so strengthens our best impulses, faiths, and affections, as to see them reflected in the soul of a fellow creature. To the young, especially, want of sympathy with their emotions is like want of daylight to a flower. Those who have traveled halfway along life's journey are apt to forget how much difference is often mingled with a young girl's acceptance of love. The gifts seem so unspeakably great. A trembling sense of unreality sometimes comes with the recognition of its preciousness and beauty. Can it be, am I really loved so much? Dare I believe it? These questions are often asked by sensitive young hearts. Happiness begets humility in the finer sort of nature. Elder spectators looking on at the old, ever-new story find it clear and simple enough. But to the actors it may seem complex and even difficult. Lookers on in any case see but a small portion of the drama of our lives. The intense part of it, the most poignant tragedy, the sunniest comedy, is played within ourselves by invisible forces, truly and in dread earnest. We are such stuff as dreams are made of. All the day may kept Owen's note in her pocket, and when evening came she had neither answered it nor written to Mr. Bragg. Owen was right, no doubt, in saying that Mr. Bragg ought to know the truth. But what was the truth? In the whirlpool of her agitated thoughts, sometimes one answer would float uppermost and sometimes another. Could her aunt be right in saying that she would prejudice Owen's future by holding him to his word, holding him, but it was rather for Owen to hold her? He could not suspect that his claim would be disallowed. He, at least, had no reason to doubt the completeness of her love for him. And then a scarlet blush would burn her cheeks, and hot tears would be forced from her eyes, by a thought which touched her maiden pride to the quick. Was he not leaving it to her to claim him? If she wrote that letter to Mr. Bragg, she would, in fact, be claiming him. She had told Mr. Bragg she remembered, when he asked her if her family approved of the man she had promised to marry, that she, at any rate, was proud to be loved by him. Yes, but too proud to accept a love that was not eagerly given. Oh, it was all weariness and bitterness and perturbation of spirit. Sometimes, for a moment, the recollection of Owen's look and Owen's word would pierce the clouds like a ray of sunshine, and her heart would cry out, why am I troubled and tormented by lies and foolishness? Owen is loyal, tender, and true, the soul of truth and honor. I need only trust to him, and all will be well. But then Aunt Pauline would repeat some of poor Amelia Simpson's glowing words about the charming couple in Collinwood Terrace, made all the more impressive by the fact that Aunt Pauline really believed them, and the fog would gather again, and she would ask herself, how, if he should be loyal against his inclination? In the evening, she said to her aunt, Aunt Pauline, I will go away from London. I will go to Granny. I could not, in any case, continue to take her money for keeping me here. I will go down to Old Chester, and that will be best. And Owen and I can arrange afterwards what we will do. For not by a word would she betray a doubt of Owen. To her aunt, she upheld his faithfulness unwaveringly. She upheld it, indeed, in her own heart, chiding down her doubts as one chides down a snarling dog. But though she could chide, she could not remove them. They were there, crouching. She was conscious of their existence, as pain is felt in a dream. But it did not at all suit Mrs. Dormersmith's views that her niece should go away in that fashion. I cannot let you leave my house, May, she said. I am responsible for you, to your father. Then May rebelled. She declared that Granny had been father and mother and friend to her, and that she did not feel she owed any filial duty, except to Granny. Pauline privately thought that she recognized the influence of Mr. Rivers in this speech. She put her handkerchief to her eyes, and observed plaintively that she was sorry May had no touch of affection for her, or for her uncle, who had striven to treat her as their own child. She was genuinely hurt, and thought she had reason to complain of the girl's ingratitude. May recognized that her aunt was sincere in this. She, too, felt that Aunt Pauline had meant to do well for her, although it had all turned out amiss. She thought of the day of her first arrival in town, of her aunt's affectionate reception of her, and gentle sweetness ever since, until these last unhappy days. Her thoughts went back farther, to the time when the Dowager was alive, and her aunt used to see her in the dreary old house at Richmond, and mourn over her clothes, and kiss her kindly when she went away. With a sudden impulse, she knelt down beside Mrs. Dormersmith's chair, and put her arms round her. Aunt Pauline, she said, I know you have meant to be kind, you have been kind. No doubt I have given you trouble and anxiety, partly perhaps by my fault, but more by my misfortune. I am not insensible of all that, but dear Aunt Pauline, I want you to believe, do pray believe, that it would be cruel to separate me from Owen. Nothing shall part us except his own will, she added in a low voice. Then after an instant she went on, pressing her soft young face against her aunt's shoulder. Perhaps you think I don't care so very deeply for him? Of course you cannot know. You have never seen us together. It has all come upon you quite suddenly, but indeed, indeed, if I had to give him up, I think it would break my heart. Oh dear Aunt Pauline, do be kind to us and help us. I have no mother and I love him so. Pauline folded the sobbing girl in her arms. Perhaps she had never felt the great duty she owed to society so hard of fulfillment as at that moment was really frightful to think of the havoc wrought by the selfish recklessness of that nihilist with his 150 pounds a year. The recollection of the cold blooded effrontery with which he had mentioned the sum made her shudder. For a little time she held her knees silently in a motherly embrace. Then she said softly, this is very sad and distressing dear May and her own eyes were full of tears. However much I may disapprove, the clinging arms around her shoulders relaxed their hold a little here, but she gently pressed the girl close to her again. And, and deplore the state of the case, it is most painful to me to see you suffer, but we must not allow feeling to override all considerations of what is right and proper. We must not forget that we have duties, duties toward society. May quietly removed one arm for her aunt's neck and began to dry her eyes. I don't say that those duties are easy. Those who have no position in the world to keep up may be enviable in some respects. I'm sure I am often tempted to envy the people one sees riding in omnibuses, said Pauline, with what she felt to be a bald but forcible hyperbole, but no bless or bleach. You and I are both born cheffingtons. It may be all very well for the bourgeoisie to indulge in sentiment and sweethearts and that sort of thing, but from us society expects something different. There are certain opportunities which it appears to me it is absolutely flying in the face of providence to neglect. I know perfectly well that if the Houghtonville's had the slightest inkling of an idea that you had refused Mr. Bragg, Felicia would come flying back from Rome like a whirlwind. However, I will not dwell on that now. You are dreadfully worn out by poor child and your eyes will not be fit to be seen for a week. Rose water the last thing before going to bed. There was nothing so soothing. Poor child, I must steal myself to do my duty, May, but it really is excessively trying. Go to rest now, dear, and sleep off your agitation. Tomorrow we will talk more calmly. May had gently withdrawn herself from her arse embrace and had risen from her knees. Tomorrow I will go to Granny, she said quietly. Ah, no, dearest, that cannot be. It is out of the question, but you may write to Mrs. Dobbs and hear what she says. Pauline had resolved to write herself to Mrs. Dobbs, detailing all she knew and a great deal more which she thought she knew about Mr. River's conduct and setting forth the change in May's position as the daughter of the future Lord Castlecombe. Things were very different from what they had been three or four months ago. Even Mrs. Dobbs, although she had turned out so disappointingly foolish as to this preposterous love affair, must see that. Good night, dear child, you will get over this distress and you will acknowledge hereafter I am quite confident that you have had a good escape. As to that odious woman, she is sure to be miserable whether he marries her or not. That's one comfort, said Aunt Pauline. The sight of May's tearful white face exacerbated her virtuous indignation against Mrs. Bransby, nor was this feeling in the slightest degree mitigated by her strong desire that Mrs. Bransby should marry young rivers and take him out of their way forever. Good night, Aunt Pauline, answered May, bending down and slightly touching her aunt's forehead with her lips. Pauline embraced the girl tenderly. Poor darling, she murmured, don't forget the rose water. End of chapter nine. Volume three, chapter 10 of That Unfortunate Marriage. This Libra Vox recording is in the public domain. That Unfortunate Marriage by Francis Eleanor Trollop. Volume three, chapter 10. When May went up to her room, she neglected her aunt's advice as to the rose water. She sat down beside the fire and tried to think of what she had best do. Help from her aunt was clearly not to be hoped for. She did not feel anger against Aunt Pauline at that moment. She had felt it some time before, but not now. Would it not be like feeling angry with the Chinese for not comprehending English? They simply did not understand one another. There was a barrier between their minds, at least on the one subject which May had at heart, which, as it seemed, neither of them could pass or penetrate. She would go to Granny. There she would find love and sympathy and the sheltering mother wings she yearned for. And at the bottom of her heart, there was the half unconscious feeling that Granny would be a staunch partisan of Owens and would be able to justify her trust in him. But then Aunt Pauline had refused to let her go and had said she might write. Write and lose time and probably fail to convince Granny of the sick longing, the positive need she felt to get away from London. There would be correspondence and discussion and then her uncle would come back and there would be more discussion and she could not see Owen. If she wrote to him and he came, he would not be admitted to the house and she could not go to him. Well, then she would run away. There was nothing for it, but to run away to Granny and she made up her mind to do so. Nothing should prevent her, nothing. She started up and took her purse out of a drawer. She was but slenderly provided with pocket money, the bulk of her allowance for Mrs. Dobbs being administered by Aunt Pauline. She counted out the contents of the little smart Port Monet with deep anxiety. There was half a sovereign and some silver, only 15 shillings. That would not suffice to carry her to Old Chester and then she must have a cab. She could not find her way to the station on foot and besides it would take such a long time, how much time she did not know exactly. But she remembered that it had seemed rather long drive from the terminus to Kensington. And even if she could walk the distance, she would not know at what hour to set out in order to catch the express train which would bring her into Old Chester a little after five o'clock the same evening. A little thrill ran through her veins as she pictured herself arriving at Jezzamine Cottage in one of the station flies, looking from the vehicle at the cheerful firelight which would surely be shining from the parlor window at that hour. And then Martha would come to the door and not recognize her at first in the darkness. And Granny would cry out in surprise at the sound of her voice and then there would be the dear motherly arms around her, the dear motherly breast to lay her troubled head upon, the blessed sense of rest and trust and comfort. Feverishly May counted and recounted her money. The 15 shillings remained inexorably 15 and no more. All sorts of schemes passed through her mind. Cecile might perhaps lend her some money or Smithson, but to ask for a loan from either of them would excite too much wonder and suspicion. It would at once be reported to her aunt. Suddenly they're darted into her mind, the recollection that Harold had some money. Uncle Frederick had given the child half a sovereign on his birthday a day or two ago. That was an inspiration. She would ask Harold to lend her the money and to keep the secret until she should be gone. She knew that she could trust him. The child was staunch and would be proud of being confided in. Poor little Harold. She remembered that it was he who had told her of Owen's presence in the house on that day. When was it? Yesterday? Impossible. It was weeks, months ago surely. A large part of her life seemed to have passed since then. May lay down to rest, tired out with the various emotions of the day, but with her brain so beleaguered by shifting thoughts and images that she was certain she should not be able to sleep. But she might at least rest her body which felt bruised and weary as though she had been walking with a heavy burden all day long. She dropped off to sleep nevertheless, almost immediately. But soon awoke again with a start and a sensation of falling swiftly and a vague terror. But at length towards morning she did sleep continuously and heavily. And when she next awoke, her watch and a dull yellowish glimmer through the window blind told her it was day. It was a dismal London morning, wet and cold. The wind was howling among the chimney pots and sending down showers of soot and smoke mingled with sleet. It was the day appointed for the funeral of Lucius Chevington. Mr. Dormersmith was not expected home that night. The trains did not fit conveniently. It had therefore been arranged that he should stay at Combe Park until the following morning. Her uncle's absence made her opportunity may thought. The train she wished to travel by started from London she believed at about two o'clock. But she resolved to be at the terminus much earlier. The departure might be at some minutes before two. It would be dreadful to miss the train. She felt an irrational hurry and eagerness to be gone as if each minute's delay might be fatal. She knew the feeling was groundless, but it mastered her. Preparations she had none to make except clothing herself in a warm gown and putting a few toilet necessaries into a little handbag. Mrs. Dormersmith always breakfasted late and during the cold weather in her own room. And May shared the morning meal with her uncle. Today at her request, Harold and Wilford were allowed to come downstairs and breakfast with her. This arrangement suited Cecile, who much preferred breakfasting with Smithson in the housekeeper's room to cutting bread and butter and pouring out milk and water in the nursery. As soon as the meal was over May asked Harold for the loan of his gold and half sovereign. His first reply was a severe blow. He meant that yellow six pence Prepar gave me. I haven't got it, cousin May. May felt as though the child had struck her, but the next moment he added, "'Pepa put it into that little box with a slit in it. You can't get it out. Nobody can get it out. It belongs to me, you know. Only I can't buy anything with it.' Prepar says it's proper, property. May coaxed him to bring the box to her room and found that it was closed by a cheap little lock, which it would be perfectly easy to force open. When she proposed the strong measure to Harold, he demerred at first, but finally yielded, on his cousin saying that she wanted the money very much and would be unhappy if she could not get it. A glove box lined with quilted satin was offered him by way of immediate compensation. And he was promised that his yellow six pence should be repaid with ample interest in the shape of a coin, which would not share the inconvenient dignity of being property, but might be freely spent. May felt as if she were a criminal as she wrenched open the little money box and took out the half-sovereign, which laid glistening amid a small heap of pennies and six pences. Harold stood watching her intently. "'You do look funny, cousin May,' he said. "'Your cheeks are quite white and your eyes are queer and your hands burn. Mine is ever so cold. Feel!' he put his little red cold hand on May's forehead, and the touch seemed deliciously refreshing to her. "'My headache's a little, Harold. I shall soon be well, though. I'm going to see my dear Granny. I've often told you about her. She's so good and kind. She makes people well when they are sick or sorry. Harold's experience of being made well when he was sick was not of such a nature as to make this praise particularly attractive to him. "'I suppose she gives you powders,' he said in a disparaging tone and then added gloomily. "'I wouldn't go to her if I was you.'" May kissed him and assured him that Granny's methods were all pleasant ones. Wilfred, who had been kept outside the room during the financial transaction, as being too young to be trusted with a secret of such importance, was now admitted in compliance with his reiterated petition, and the two little fellows stood quietly watching their cousin. As in a hurried feverish way, she put a few articles into her little bag and took a fur-lined cloak out of the wardrobe and laid her hat and gloves ready on the bed. "'I say, cousin May,' said Harold all at once, "'you'll come back again, shan't you?' She looked down at the child's upturned face with a start. It had not occurred to her before, but the thought now struck her that it was very likely she should never return to that house. "'I will see you again, darlings, if I live,' she said, bending down to kiss and embrace the children. Wilfred, always inclined to be tearful, showed symptoms of setting up a sympathetic wail, but Harold said with a dogged little setting of the lips. "'Well, if you don't come back, I know what I shall do. I've got all those pennies left in the box, and I shall buy a stick and a bundle and run away and go along the high road ever so far till I find you. "'I shall come too,' cried Wilfred. "'Papa gave me six pence.' All three looked indeed almost equally childish and innocent. Harold and Wilfred, with their project of running away, derived from a nursery storybook, and May clutching the yellow six pence, as a talisman that was to carry her afar from all trouble and persecution. She did not, of course, mean to leave Aunt Pauline in any anxiety as to what had become of her, but she wanted to get a good start. After some deliberation, she wrote a short note to her aunt and entrusted it to Harold. His instructions were to keep it until lunch and time and then give it to his mother. But in case he heard them asking for May in the house and wondering where she was, he might deliver it sooner. In any case, he must not give it to Cecile or Smithson, but place it in his mother's own hand. This latter was a service which Harold felt to be a severe one, but he undertook it with a feeling akin to that of a knight doing battle with giants and dragons on behalf of his liege lady. Not that his mother would be harsh or cruel, that was quite out of the question. She would not even scold him much, probably, but she would look at him with that complaining air of disapproval as if he were an unmerited affliction and call him and his brother those dreadful little boys and send him away to the nursery, all which thinks the child felt keenly in his heart, although he was entirely unable to analyze them in his brain. May also wrote to Owen, telling him of her departure and confessing that she had not written to Mr. Bragg, what is the use of my remaining in London when we cannot meet, she wrote? We are as far apart, really, as when you were in Spain. I am worn out, dear Owen, and I feel that I need Granny's help. Do not be angry with me for taking this step without consulting you. You will know I am safe and well cared for with Granny, who was your friend, instead of having to fight against the arguments of those who are hostile to you. Then in a post-script, she added, Mrs. Simpson came here yesterday. She said she'd seen you. You did not send me any message by her. Perhaps you did not know she meant to see me. This note she put in her pocket to be posted at the station. It was now past 12 o'clock. For early hours were not kept in the Dormersmith household. May's nervous and patience to be gone was no longer to be resisted. She took the children into the little back room where she had been accustomed to give them their lessons, and on her own responsibility gave them a book full of colored pictures, which Cecile never entrusted to their mischievous little fingers without her personal supervision. And this unusual indulgence delighted them and absorbed their attention. Then she stole back to her own chamber and looked out of the window. The rain was still falling at intervals and driving showers. All the better, there was the less chance of anyone whom she knew in that neighborhood being abroad to recognize her. She had told Smithson immediately after breakfast that she was going to her own room and did not wish to be disturbed until lunch and time. She now put on her hat and gloves, wrapped herself in the warm cloak, and carrying a tiny umbrella, which looked very unequal to offering much resistance to the wind and rain that were now sweeping along the street. She crept downstairs and let herself out at the hall door. She had to walk some distance before reaching a cab stand. And by the time she did so, her feet were wet. She had no boots fitted to keep out mud and damp. Aunt Pauline considered thick boots superfluous in London. In the country, of course, it was quite the right thing to tramp about in all weathers and proper shows must be provided for the purpose. Although it had been a dogma laid down by the best people that one ought to march barefoot through the mire, Aunt Pauline would have desired May to conform to that as well as to all other sacred ordinances of the social creed. May was driven to the railway station in due course by a cabman who, on being asked what she had to pay, contented himself with only twice his fare. She found she was much too early for the express train, but there was a slow train going within half an hour. It would not reach Old Chester until after the express, although starting before it, but May decided to travel by it. She was frightened at the idea of remaining in the big terminus, where she might be seen and recognized by some passing acquaintance at any moment. And the idea of being actually on the road to Granny safely shut up in a railway carriage out of reach was tempting. She took her ticket, the purchase of which reduced her funds to the last shilling and was put into a carriage by herself, first class passengers by that train not being numerous. The girl's head was throbbing and the damp chill to her feet made her shiver. She leaned back in a corner of the carriage and closed her eyes. The train trundled along, its progress arrested by frequent stoppages. The dim daylight faded. At wayside stations, the reflections from the lamp shone with a melancholy gleam and inky pools of rainwater. May began to suffer from want of food. She was not hungry, but she felt the need, although not the desire for some sustenance. At one place where they stopped for quarter of an hour, she thought of getting some tea, but there was a crowd of men in front of a counter where beer and spirits were being sold, but where she saw no tea and the steam from damp great coats mingled with tobacco smoke and close air made her feel sick. She tottered back to the carriage carrying with her a huge fossilized bun which she tried, not very successfully, to nibble at intervals and at length she fell into an uneasy dose. She was awakened by the opening of the carriage door and a voice saying, you'll be all right, Eissa. A dark lantern flashed in her eyes. A hat box and dressing bag were put into the carriage by an obsequious porter. A gentleman entered and took his seat in the corner farthest away from her. The door was slammed too and they moved on again. May put up her hand to her forehead in a dazed manner. She felt confused and could not for the moment understand where she was. Her head ached and throbbed painfully. Then she recollected it all and wondered what o'clock it was and whether they were drying near old Chester. Can you tell me what station that was? She asked in a faint voice of her fellow traveler. The gentleman turned his head sharply and peered at her where she sat in the darkness of her corner seat. He could not distinguish her face for, before his entrance, she had drawn the movable shade half across the lamp in the roof of the carriage, thinking he had not heard or had not understood her. She repeated the question, what is the name of that lost station if you please? Upon which the gentleman, instead of making any such reply as might have been expected, exclaimed, Lord bless my soul. And leaving his place at the other extremity of the carriage, he came and seated himself opposite to her. It is Miss Chuffington, he said in the tone of the utmost wonder, and then may recognize Mr. Bragg. My dear young lady, how come you to be traveling alone? By this train, is anything the matter? His tone was so sincere and earnest, his face and manner so gentle and fatherly that may at once felt she could trust him fully and fearlessly. I'm so glad it's you, Mr. Bragg, and not a stranger. She said, putting her hand out to take his. Thank you, said Mr. Bragg simply. I'm glad it is me if I can be of any use to you. Then he asked again, is anything the matter? No, nothing very serious. I have run away from Aunt Pauline. Run away? And I'm going to Granny. You won't feel at your duty to give me up as a fugitive from justice, will you? She said, trying to smile with very tremulous lips. Mrs. Dormismith has never been treating you bad or cruel, said Mr. Bragg, wonderingly. No, no, she couldn't. No, truly, she could not be consciously cruel to me or to anyone. But she has ideas which she tried to persuade me. We don't understand one another, that's the truth. Mr. Bragg all at once remembered a certain private note dispatched to his hotel in town by Mrs. Dormismith, wherein she had assured him that May was an inexperienced child who didn't know her own mind and begged him not to take her too absolutely at her word. He had never replied to that note, having indeed nothing to say which it would be agreeable to his correspondent to hear. But he recalled other instances in which ladies of the highest gentility had hunted him, or rather not him, he had no illusions of vanity on that point, but his large fortune, with a ruthless unscrupulosity which had amazed him and a gallant perseverance in the teeth of discouragement, which almost extorted admiration. And the question stole into his mind, could Mrs. Dormismith have been persecuting May on his account? The idea was inexpressibly painful to him, but anyway, he was relieved and thankful to find that the girl did not shrink from him, but was sweet and gracious as ever. Well, to be sure, he said in his slow pondering way, tis a strange chance that we should meet just now, isn't it? For I've just come from your family place, you know. From where? From the home of your ancestors, as Mr. Theodore Bransby calls it. You asked me the name of that station I got in at. Well, it's Cone St. Mildred's, the station for Cone Park, you know. Is it? Then we cannot be far from Old Chester, not very far in miles, but this is an uncommon slow train, stops everywhere, stopped just now at Wenders Junction, the express runs through. I'm afraid you're very tired, Miss Checkington. He could not see her at all distinctly, but her voice betrayed great weariness, he thought. Not very, yes, rather, it does not matter now, we shall soon be there. Yes, went on Mr. Bragg, I've been attending the funeral. Oh yes, poor Lucius, I had forgotten that it was for today, said May with his self-reproachful feeling. He was very kind to me, although at first he seemed so dry and eccentric. I think he liked me, I know I liked him. Yes, no doubt, but what he liked you, that can't be disputed, and it does him honour in my opinion. I suppose I ought to congratulate you, Miss Checkington, although congratulating may seem out of place with the crate-band round your hat, and yet I don't know. Congratulate me, do you mean because my father is the heir, I think there is more sorrow when Lord Castle comes hard than there can be satisfaction in anyone else's, answered May. She was surprised at this manifestation of coarseness of feeling in Mr. Bragg. It was the first she had ever observed in him. Your father, Lord bless me now, nothing to do with your father. I was alluding to your cousin's last will and testament. I was present when it was read by Lord Castle comes desire, although having no particular claim that I know of. Still, when we came back from the old churchyard, his lordship invited me into the library, and the will was read out then by Waggett, the lawyer, poor Martin Brandsby's successor. But what has that all to do with me? asked May, sitting upright, and holding on by the elbows of the seat. As she did so, everything seemed to waver and swim before her eyes. The cushions on which she sat seemed to be sinking down through the earth. The long fast, her broken sleep on the previous night, the tears she had shed, and all the emotions of this journey, which to her was an adventure fraught with all kinds of anxieties, were telling upon her. But she made a desperate effort to listen, not to be ill, not to give trouble. The train was to stop shortly. She would hold up her courage until then. Had not the gloom caused by the lampshade baffled Mr. Bragg's observation, he would have been startled by her countenance. As it was, he merely answered, well, because your cousin has left you all the little property he inherited from his mother. It isn't a great fortune, a matter of 450 or 500 pound a year, as well as I can make out, but it's all in sound investments, mostly government securities. And it settled on you every penny of it. But May, struggling against a sick sensation of faintness, was scarcely able to grasp the meaning of what was said to her. Her eyes grew dim, she half rose up from her seat, made a vague movement with her hands, such as one makes in falling and clutching at whatever is nearest, and then sank down in a heap on the floor of the carriage, like a wounded bird. She was in a dead swoon and her young face looked piteously white and wan under the crude glare of the gas as the train moved slowly, with much resounding clanner, into the big station at Wenthurst Junction. End of Chapter 10. Volume 3, Chapter 11 of That Unfortunate Marriage. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. That Unfortunate Marriage by Francis Eleanor Trollett. Volume 3, Chapter 11. With that indescribably dreadful rushing whirling sensation in the brain, which can never be forgotten by whoever has once experienced it, made Sheffington recovered out of her swoon and her senses returned to her. She was lying on a cushioned seat in the lady's waiting room at Wenthurst Junction. Her dress had been loosened, her own warm cloak had been spread over her as a coverlant, a woolen shawl was thrown across her feet, and an elderly woman was sprinkling water on her forehead. She opened her eyes and then shut them again lazily. The glare of the gas made her blink and the sense of rest was, for the moment, all she wanted. She'll do now, said the elderly woman, wiping May's wet forehead with a handkerchief. Then she went to the door of the room and half-opening it, said to someone outside, coming round, beautiful sir, she'll be all right now. Who's there? asked May in a little feeble, drowsy voice. Your pa, dear, he has been in a taking about you, but I'm telling him your is right, his right can be. So you all, right you? They is a pretty. Every second that passed was bringing more clearness to May's mind, more animation to her frame. By the time the elderly woman had finished speaking, May said, Oh, ask him to come in. Ask him, pray to come here and speak to me. This message being transmitted, the door was opened and in walked Mr. Bragg with a most disturbed and anxious countenance. May was lying with her head supported on a pillow, formed of a great coat hastily rolled up, which the attendant had covered with her own white apron. The pretty soft brown hair, dabbled here and there with water, was hanging in disorder. Her eyes looked very large and bright in her pale face. Mr. Bragg came and stood beside her and looked at her with a sort of tender, pitying trepidation, as an amiable giant might contemplate Ariel with a broken wing, longing to help but fearing to hurt the delicate creature. May put out her hand and took hold of Mr. Bragg's as innocently as little Enid might have done. Oh, I'm so sorry, she said. Yes, return Mr. Bragg in a subdued voice, and I'm so sorry too, but you all feeling better now, ain't you? Oh, but I mean, I'm sorry for you. Sorry to frighten you and to give you so much trouble. Trouble? Well, I don't know about that. This good lady here has been taking what trouble there was to take. Not such a vast deal, was it, mom? The good lady who had begun to doubt the correctness of her assumption that these two were father and daughter smoothed the shawl over May's feet and murmured that they were not to mention it. Mr. Bragg pulled out his watch impatiently. What? Haven't they found anybody yet? He said. I sent off a man in a fly 10 minutes ago. The attendant observed apologetically that the first doctor they'd gone to might not have been at home, and then they'd have to go on a goodish bit further. May started up on her elbow. Doctor, she cried in dismay. You haven't sent for a doctor? Yes, I have, answered Mr. Bragg, dismayed in his turn by her evident distress. I couldn't do less. You might have been dying for anything I knew. You don't know how bad you looked. But I don't want a doctor, and quite well, I only want to go on. I want to go on to Granny. And May's head fell back on the pillow while a tear forced its way beneath the closed eyelids. You came by the slowdown, didn't you? Oh, well, there's no passenger train going on that way before 11.5 tonight, observed the elderly female. At this intelligence, the tears poured down May's cheeks, and she turned away her head on the cushion. Don't cry, don't fret, exclaimed Mr. Bragg. You shall be an old chester within an hour if the medical man says you're able to travel. I'll speak to the stationmaster at once. Only we must hear what the doctor says, mustn't we? I'd durst and run a risk. Now, durst I, you see that yourself. You're what you might call laid on my conscience to take care of. Good Lord, will this fool of a fellow never come back? I told him to drive as fast as he could pelt. May was crying now, less from vexation than from exhaustion. I'm not ill, indeed, she murmured, trying to check her tears. But my dear young lady, people don't faint dead away like that, and look so white and ghastly. Without there's something the matter. It wasn't the news I told you, upset you like that, surely. No, of course not. I think it was because I had had no dinner. Lord bless me, cried Mr. Bragg, while you're starving. That's what it is, then. In his anxious solicitude for her, Mr. Bragg would have ordered anything eatable to be brought, which the refreshment room afforded. But he yielded to May's entreaty that she might have a cup of tea and a piece of bread. The attendant suggested a teaspoon full of brandy in the tea, but at this May shook her head. Mr. Bragg, however, thought the suggestion a good one, and producing a small flask from his travelling bag, insisted on pouring a few drops of his contents into the cup of tea. That's fine, old cognac, he said, like a cordial. I wouldn't ask you to swallow the stuff they sell here, but this'll do you nothing but good. Dear me, if I'd only thought of giving you some of this before. He was quite self-reproachful, and May had some difficulty in persuading him that no blame could possibly attach to him for not having administered a dose of brandy to her as soon as they met in the railway carriage. By this time the doctor sent for from one terst had arrived. A brief interview with his patient convinced him that she was perfectly well able to travel on as far as Old Chester. Rather delicate, nervous organisation, you see, said the doctor to Mr. Bragg when he left May, and there has been some mental distress, family trouble, she tells me, and the long fast and the journey quite sufficient to account. Oh, thanks, thanks. She'll be all right after a good night's rest, I haven't the least doubt. And the doctor withdrew with a bow for Mr. Bragg, apologising for having disturbed him and brought him so far through the rain, had put a handsome fee into his hand. Mr. Bragg had also mentioned in the hearing of the waiting room attendant who was hovering inquisitively in the background that the young lady had been put under his charge and that he had just left the house of her great-uncle Lord Castlecombe. He was aware that he himself was far too well-known a man in these parts for the adventure not to be talked about, and his experience of life had taught him that, while it is as difficult to check gossip as to bring a runaway horse to a standstill, yet that both may generally be turned to the right or left by a cool hand. His sagacity was amply justified for the waiting room attendant for weeks afterwards would narrate to passing lady-travelers how that sweet young, how that sweet young lady, Lord Castlecombe's grand-niece, was so cut up by the death of her cousin that she fainted right away coming back from the funeral at Combe Park, not having been able to touch food for more than 12 hours in consequence of her grief, and how Mr. Bragg, the great Old Chester manufacturer who was taking charge of the young lady on her journey home, was so kind and anxious and quite like a father to her, and how they both repeatedly had said, this is tough if it hadn't been for your care and attention, we don't know whatever we should have done. Soon after the old doctor had departed, Mr. Bragg came back to May and informed her that arrangements had been made for their starting for Old Chester in three quarters of an hour, if that would be agreeable to her, and in reply to her wondering inquiry as to how that could have been managed, he said quietly, oh, I've got a special train, I'm a director of this line and they know me here pretty well. May had always understood that a special train was an immensely costly matter, but in her ignorance she was by no means sure that it might not be part of the privileges of a railway director to have special trains run for his service gratis, when so ever he should require them, which probably was precisely what Mr. Bragg desired her to suppose. He then called aside the attendant and held a short colloquy with her in the adjoining room, the result of which was to put the worthy Mrs. Tup into a great fuss and flutter. She dashed it a cupboard in the wall and plunged her hand into it, drawing it out again with a battered old black bonnet dangling by one string, as though she had been fishing at a venture and brought up that rather unexpectedly. Further, Mrs. Tup, with many apologies, took the checked shawl which had been laid over May's feet and put it on her own shoulders, and then assuring Mr. Bragg in a speech which it took some time to deliver that she wouldn't be gone not 10 minutes for her house was close by, better than half a mile before you really come into Wenthurst High Street, going the shortest way from the station, she finally disappeared. Now, Miss Chuffington, said Mr. Bragg, I want you to do something to oblige me, will you? Most gladly if I can, but I'm afraid it will turn out to be something to oblige me, answered May, looking up at him timidly. Don't you want some food? I dare say you do. Why, no, Miss Chuffington, I can't say I do. I eat a most uncommon hearty luncheon. I wonder why people always eat so much when there's a funeral going on. Besides, it isn't dinner time yet, you know. Isn't it? I have no idea what o'clock it is. If you told me it was the middle of next week, I don't think I should feel surprised. And she smiled with one of her old bright looks. That's right, said Mr. Bragg, you're picking up. Well, now I was going to say that I noticed in the refreshment room a cold roast fowl which didn't look at all nasty. No, not really at all nasty. You insisted, Mr. Bragg, with the error of one who was aware that his statement may not unreasonably be received with incredulity. And if you let them bring it in here on a tray and try to eat a bit of it and drink another cup of tea? No, I promise not to put any brandy in it. I shall esteem it a favour. Of course, there was no refusing this, but May said wistfully, I was going to ask you, would you mind? I have something to say to you, and if I don't say it soon, that woman will be here. She's coming back immediately. Why, as to that, Miss Chuffington, I don't think she is. From what I can make out, she's the kind of person that never can realise to themselves that 15 minutes, one after the other, end to end, make up a quarter of an hour. She lost a lot of time here talking, and I saw her stop to tell the young woman at the bar over yonder what a hurry she was in. No, I make no doubt about what she'll be back before we start, but not just yet a while. The roast chicken and some freshly made tea were brought in due course, and Mr. Bragg had the satisfaction of seeing May partake of both. Then he professed his readiness to hear what she wished to say. Are you comfortable? Like not too much for you? There, now provided you don't overtire yourself, nor yet what you might call overtry yourself, I'm listening. He sat down in a chair nearly opposite to the fire so that his profile was turned to May and looked thoughtfully into the hot coals, folding his arms in an attitude of massive quietude, which was characteristic of him. First of all, you must let me thank you for all your kindness, said May. No, don't do that, he answered without removing his gaze from the fire. Then he repeated musingly. No, no, don't do that, don't you do that. Then in pseudo-pause, it lasted so long that Mr. Bragg, glancing round at the girl, said, that wasn't all you had in your mind to say, was it? No, Mr. Bragg, perhaps you've changed your mind about speaking. Wow, don't you worry yourself. You just do what you feel most agreeable to yourself, you know. But I want to speak. I was so anxious to tell you. This chance, which I could never have expected or dreamt of, gives me the opportunity. And now, now I don't know how to begin. He was silent for a moment, pondering, could I help you? I wonder if it's about a certain conversation you and me had together a few days back. Yes, partly. Well, now you remember on that occasion, I said to you that I hoped we might be friends, you and me, real true friends. You remember, don't you? Gratefully. Well, I meant what I said. And if you have been, he was about to say persecuted, but changed the word. If you have been in any way bothered in consequence of that conversation, I am truly sorry for it. But don't let it make any difference as between you and me. Your aunt, Mrs. Dormersmith, she's a most well-meaning lady and has beautiful manners. But she's liable to make mistakes like the rest of us. And don't you fret, you know. You're going to your grandmother, Mrs. Dobbs, you tell me, and she's a woman of wonderful good sense. She'll understand some things better than what your aunt can. It'll be all right. Don't you worry yourself. He's spoken a gentle soothing tone, such as one might use to a child and kept nodding his head slowly as he spoke, still with his eyes fixed on the fire. It isn't that. I mean, I wanted to tell you something. He turned his head now quickly and looked at her. Her eyes were cast down and she was plucking nervously at the fur lining of the cloak, which lay on the seat beside her. Is it something about that confidence you made me and that I look upon as an honour and always shall? Well, now if you're going to speak about that, I shall take it as a sign that you really mean to be friends with me and trust me. And there's nothing in the world would make me so proud as that you should trust me full and free. Then she told him all the story of her engagement to Owen, how it had been kept secret for three months by her grandmother's express stipulation, how when Owen returned to England, they had revealed it to Mrs. Dormersmith, how that lady had disapproved and forbidden Owen the house and had written to Captain Sheffington, requesting him to interpose his parental authority, how finally May had felt so miserable and lonely that she had made up her mind to leave her aunt's house and take refuge with her grandmother. Mr. Bragg sat like a rock while she told her story, hesitatingly and shyly at first, but gathering courage as she went on. When she first mentioned Owen's name, his brows contracted for a moment, in a way which might mean anger or perplexity or simply surprise. But he remained otherwise quite unmoved to all appearance and perfectly silent. When May had finished her little story, she said timidly, as she had said to him on that memorable day in her aunt's house, he were not angry, Mr. Bragg. He answered nearly as he had answered then, but without looking at her and keeping his gaze on the fire, angry my child, no, how could I be angry with you? You have never deceived me. You have been true and honest from first to last. But I mean, you're not, you're not angry with Owen. The answer did not come quite so promptly this time, but after a few seconds he said, I don't know that I have the least right to be angry with Mr. Rivers, only I should have liked it better if he had told me how things were, plain and straightforward, when we were talking about something else. He brought his speech to an abrupt conclusion. Upon this May assured him that Owen had never desired secrecy. The engagement had been kept secret in deference to Granny. And as soon as her aunt knew it, Owen had urged her, May, to tell Mr. Bragg also feeling himself in a false position until the truth was revealed. I hope to have written to you yesterday, she said guiltily. It's my fault, indeed it is. Mr. Bragg got up from his chair and muttering something about getting a little air, walked out onto the long platform. There was certainly no lack of air outside there. A damp raw wind was driving through the station, making the lance blink. Mr. Bragg had no great coat, that garment having been rolled up to serve as May's pillow, but he marched up and down the long platform with his hands behind his back at a steady and by no means rapid pace, apparently insensible to the cold. Owen Rivers, so the man May was engaged to was his secretary, Mr. Rivers. That was very surprising. Mr. Rivers was not at all the sort of man he should have expected that exquisite young creature to care about. But Mr. Bragg would have been puzzled to describe the sort of man he would have expected her to care about. He had never seen any man he thought worthy of her. And it might safely be predicted that he never would, seeing that Mr. Bragg was in love with May, and would certainly never be in love with May's husband, let him be the finest fellow in the world. One suspicion he had once dismissed from his mind, that Owen had ever been in the least danger from Mrs. Bransby's fascinations. No, when a man was betrothed to a girl like May Checkington, he was safe enough from anything of that kind, argued Mr. Bragg. Indeed, his visit to the widow's house had given him a favorable impression of all its inmates. It was impossible, he thought, to be in Mrs. Bransby's presence without perceiving her to be worthy of respect. Searching his memory, he discovered that the first hint of her having any designs on young rivers had come from Theodore Bransby, and now the motive of the hint began to dawn upon him. Theodore, as he had long ago perceived, hated rivers. Mr. Bragg now understood why. He paced up and down the drafty platform, solitary and meditative, for full 10 minutes. It was a dead time, and the whole station seemed nearly deserted. Then he returned to the waiting room, of which May was still the sole occupant. He stirred the fire into a blaze, and then sat down opposite to it as before. May looked at him nervously and anxiously. She did not venture to speak first. I'll tell you one thing, Ms. Checkington, said Mr. Bragg all at once. What you told me has been a relief to my mind in one way. She looked up inquiringly. Yes, it has been a relief to my mind, and I'm bound to acknowledge it. I was afraid at one time. Indeed, I'd almost made up my mind, though terribly against the grain. Bet you was engaged to someone else. Someone else exclaimed May, opening great eyes of wonder, and speaking in a tone which conveyed her naive persuasion that, in that sense, there did not exist anyone else. Why, whom can you mean? Mr. Bragg reflected an instant. Then he said, I'll tell you, yes, I'll tell you, for he's tried to thrust it in people's faces as far as he dared. Mr. Theodore Bransby. May fell back on her seat with a gesture of mute astonishment. Oh, yes, you're wondering how I could be such a blockhead as to think that possible. But if it had been true, you'd have wondered how I could be such a blockhead as to think anything else possible, said Mr. Bragg. It was the soul's touch of bitterness which escaped him throughout the interview. After a brief pause, he went on. Not, you understand, that I mean to deny Mr. Rivers is far superior to young Bransby. Out of all comparisons superior to him, I may perhaps consider Mr. Rivers fortunate beyond his merits. That's a question we won't enter into, because you and me can't help but look at it from different points of view. But I must bear testimony that he's always behaved like a real gentleman in his duties with me, and so far as I know, he's thoroughly upright and honorable. May considered this to be but faint praise, but she graciously made allowances. Granny, however, knew better. When Mr. Bragg's words were repeated to Granny, she exclaimed, well done, Joshua Bragg. That was spoken like a generous-minded man. By this time, the engine, which was to draw them to Old Chester, was in readiness. Mr. Bragg inquired impatiently for the good lady of the waiting-room, and then may learn that that person was to accompany them on the journey, lest Miss Chettington should need any attendance on the way. And indeed, said Mrs. Tub afterwards, if the young lady had been a princess royal, there couldn't have been more fuss made over her. Sling, carriage, and everything. Of course, it was an effort for me to go along with him at such short notice, and so entirely unexpected. But as they said to me, Mrs. Tub, they said, had it not have been for your kindness and attention, we don't know what we should have done. And the gentleman certainly made it worth my while, as he certainly did. At the present moment, however, Mrs. Tub was by no means in a complacent frame of mind. She was seen hurriedly approaching from the extremity of the station, very breathless and exhausted, attired in her Sunday bonnet, and shod to match, confronting Mr. Bragg, who stood sternly, watch in hand at the door of the carriage. I told you so, Miss Checkington, said he to me, who was already made luxuriously comfortable within the carriage. Now, mom, don't know, don't trouble yourself to explain, please, because in exactly two seconds and a half, we're off. Would you be so kind? This to a guard who stood looking on beside the station master. In a moment, they had taken Mrs. Tub between them and assisted from behind by a youthful porter, managed to hoist her into the carriage by main force. Mr. Bragg took his place opposite to May. The whistle sounded and they glided from beneath the roof of the station and at an increasing speed across the dark country through the streaming rain. End of chapter 11. Volume three, chapter 12 of That Unfortunate Marriage. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. That Unfortunate Marriage by Francis Eleanor Trollop. Volume three, chapter 12. And you got jealous. You actually were jealous of Owen and that poor dear pretty Mrs. Bransby. Yes, Granny? And you were such a goose. I won't use a stronger word, though I could, as to pay any attention to what that idiot of an aunt of yours, Lord forgive me, chose to say in her anger and disappointment. Yes, Granny? And you let the jabber of poor Amelia Simpson as kind as soul has ever breathed but as profitable to listen to as the chirping of sparrows on the housetop. Pray upon your mind and bias your common sense. Yes, Granny? Why then I'm ashamed of you, May. Downright ashamed. There now. Oh, thank you, Granny. And May seized her grandmother's hands one after the other as the old woman drew them away impatiently and kissed them in a kind of rapture. This little scene with but slight variations had been enacted several times since May's arrival on the previous evening at Jesemine Cottage. May had ceased to make any excuses for herself or to endeavor to describe and account for her state of mind. She was only too thankful to have her doubts treated with supreme disdain. To be scolded and chidden and told that she did not deserve such a true lover as Owen was such happiness as she could not be grateful enough for. Jealous of Owen because a parcel of mischievous magpies had nothing better to do than dig their foolish bills into a poor widow's reputation. Why, I think you must have had a softening of the brain, Mrs. Dobbs would say, whereupon May would kneel down and bury her face in her grandmother's lap and laugh and cry in murmur in a smothered voice. Bless you, Granny Darling. Not but what, Mrs. Dobbs admitted afterwards in a private confabulation with Joan Weatherhead. Not but why I do think it's pretty well enough to soften anyone's brain to undergo a long course of Mrs. Dorma Smith. I thought I knew pretty well what she was and I told you so long ago, Joe Weatherhead, as you must well remember. But mercy, I hadn't an idea. Her goings-on from what the child tells me and that fool of a letter she's written to me display a wrong-headedness and an aggravating kind of imbecility that beats everything. Mr. Weatherhead, for his part, was inclined to be seriously wrathful with everybody who had contributed to make May unhappy. Not excluding Mr. Owen Rivers, who, said Joe, might have had more gumption than to rush to Mrs. Bransby's the moment he returned to England and make such a fuss about her, just as though she and not May were the object of his solicitude and affection. And I think, Sarah, said honest Joe, that you're too hard on Miranda. It's all very fine, but it seems to me that she had enough and more than enough to make her uneasy. What with disagreeable things being dimmed into her ears from morning to night and facts that couldn't be denied interpreted all wrong and no friend near to interpret him right in her own modesty and humble-windedness making her suspect that the young man had offered to her before he was sure of his own mind and had begun to repent. Take it all together. I consider it's unkind and unfair to bully her as you do, Sarah, and so I tell you. You do, do you? Answered Mrs. Dobbs, who had listened with much composure to this attack. Well, I'm not likely to quarrel with you for that, but you needn't worry yourself about May. I think I understand the case pretty well. If you doubt it, just try sympathizing with her and telling her you think Mr. Rivers behaved bad and thoughtless. You'll see how pleased she'll be with you and what a gratitude you'll get for taking her part. Try it, Joe. Mr. Weatherhead, on reflection, did not try it. The unexpected legacy from Lucius Sheffington to his cousin was hailed by Mrs. Dobbs with heartfelt thankfulness. May's account of it at first was a very vague one. She had only imperfectly heard Mr. Bragg's communication in the railway carriage and indeed at that moment it had seemed to her an affair of very secondary importance. But now when it occurred to her that the money would render them so independent as to put it out of the question for Owen to have to seek his fortune in South America or in any other distant part of the world, she was as elated by it as the best regulated mind could desire. And it isn't so very much money, after all, as it's granny, she said, with an air of satisfaction, which Mrs. Dobbs did not quite understand. Wow, she answered. It seems a pretty good deal of money to me between four and 500 pounds a year, as I understand. Yes, but it isn't her fortune. Mr. Bragg said it wasn't her fortune. I mean, it is very little more than Owen has with what he earns, granny. Oh, exclaimed Mrs. Dobbs, a light beginning to dawn upon her. I see. Well, you can't have the proud satisfaction of marrying him without a penny belonging to you, but perhaps he might take a situation for five years on the Guinea Coast so as to bring his income up above yours. Oh, granny, why not? It would be quite as natural and sensible as his wanting to marry poor Mrs. Bransby and her five children. Things are getting too comfortable to be let alone. The least he can do is to undergo a course of yellow fever. And, granny, how can you? And the young arms were round granny and the blushing face hidden in granny's breast. Was I ever so foolish about dogs, I wonder? murmured Mrs. Dobbs as she stroked the girl's hair. He was a good-looking young fellow, was Isaac in our courting days, and a temper like a sunshiney morning. And we were overhead in years in love. I know that. And, yes, I believe I was every bit as soft-hearted and silly the Lord be praised. Mr. Bragg called at Jessamine Cottage about noon the day after May's return. He asked to see Mrs. Dobbs and remained talking with her alone for some time. He had made up his mind, he told her, to give Mr. Rivers a permanent post in his employment if he chose to accept it. He thought of offering him the management of the Old Chester office if, after a three-month trial, he found it suited him and he suited it. There was no technical knowledge of the manufacture needed for this post, merely a clear head, honesty, the power of keeping accounts and of conducting a large business correspondence. Well, I think he can do it, said Mr. Bragg, and if he can, he may. Then he informed Mrs. Dobbs that he had telegraphed to Mr. Rivers to come down to Old Chester. He would there find at the office in Friar's Row a letter with all details. As for me, said Mr. Bragg, I shall cross him on the road. I am going to town by the 330 Express. You needn't mention what I've told you to Miss C. I thought perhaps she'd like better to hear it, as an agreeable bit of news, I hope, from him. What more may have passed between them, Granny never reported. He went away without seeing May, merely leaving a message, his kind regards, and he hoped she was feeling well and rested. Oh, I wish I had seen him, exclaimed May when this message was faithfully delivered by Granny. I wanted so much to thank him again. It's too bad. I wonder why he went away without seeing me. Do you, said Granny shortly. Well, perhaps he thought he'd had bother enough with you for one while. He's got other things to do besides dancing attendance on young ladies who wander about the world fainting from want of food and requiring special trains in all manner of dainties. Privately, she observed to Mr. Weatherhead that innocence was mighty cruel sometimes, as could be exemplified any day by trusting a young child with a kitten. Mm, Mr. Bragg isn't exactly a kitten, Sarah, returned Joe. True, a kitten will scratch. He's a man and a goodin', and I'll tell you what, Joe, if Joshua Bragg wanted his shoes blacked, I'd go down on my old knees to do it for him. May's legacy was a great piece of news for Mr. Weatherhead. He was not only delighted at it for her sake, but he enjoyed the importance of disseminating it. Joe went about the city from the house of one acquaintance to another. He also looked in at the black bowl where he ordered a glass of brandy and water in honor of May's good fortune. The item of news he brought was a welcome contribution to the general fund of gossip. The subjects of Mr. Lucius Checkington's funeral and how the old lord had taken the death and whether Captain Checkington would come back to England now that he was the heir and make it up with his uncle, were by this time beginning to be worn a little threadbare or at all events had lost their first gloss. In this way, it speedily became known to those interested in the matter that May Checkington had arrived at her grandmother's house. Among others, the intelligence reached Theodore Bransby. Theodore had been frequently an old chester of late on business of various kinds chiefly connected with the approaching election. He had never relinquished the hope of winning May and he believed that the death of Lucius was a circumstance favorable to his hopes. He did not doubt that the new turn of affairs would bring Captain Checkington to England forthwith. As he had little doubted that many doors, including Mr. Dormersmiths, would be opened widely to Captain Checkington now, which had been closed to him for years. Moreover, Theodore was convinced that one immediate result of her father's presence would be to separate May altogether from Mrs. Dobbs and the unfitting associates who haunted her house and claimed acquaintanceship with Miss Checkington. May, he knew, had a weak affection for the vulgar old woman, but her father's authority would be strong enough to sever her from Mrs. Dobbs and for the rest, Captain Checkington was his friend, whereas he was instinctively aware that Mrs. Dobbs was not. Laterally, too, ever since his father's death, May's manner to him had been very gentle. He was meditating these things as he walked up the garden path to Jezemine Cottage. May caught sight of him from the window and sprang up in consternation, crying to Granny to tell Martha he was not to be admitted. Mrs. Dobbs, however, told May to run upstairs out of the way and determined to receive the visitor herself. I'm so afraid he will persist in asking for me. He's wonderfully obstinate, Granny, said May, ready to fly upstairs with the first sound of the expected knock at the door. Ah, rejoined Mrs. Dobbs, setting her mouth rather grimly. So am I. Show the gentleman into the paw, Emmaothe. Theodore was ushered into the little room and found Mrs. Dobbs seated in state in her big chair. The place was far smaller and poorer than a house in Fryer's Row, but in Theodore's eyes, it was preferable. There was the possibility of some pretensions to gentility on the part of a dweller in Jezemine Cottage, whereas Fryer's Row, though it might perhaps be comfortable, was hopelessly un-gentile. Theodore, when he entered the room, made a low bow, which, unlike his salutation on former occasions, was distinctly a bow and not a nondescript gesture, halfway between a bow and a nod. He had learned by experience that it did not answer to treat Mrs. Dobbs de haut en bas. He also made a movement as if to shake hands, but this Mrs. Dobbs ignored and asked him to sit down in a coldly civil voice. She had been knitting when he came in, but laid the needles and worsted aside on his entrance and sat looking at him with her hands folded in her lap. Theodore could scarcely tell why, but this action seemed to prelude nothing pleasant. There was an air of being armed at all points about the old woman, as she sat there looking at him with a steady attention, unshared by her knitting. But possibly the work had been laid aside out of politeness. In any case, Theodore told himself that he was not likely to be disconcerted by such a trifle. How do you do, Mrs. Dobbs? He asked when he was seated. Very well, I'm much obliged to you. Here ensued a pause. It is some time since we met, Mrs. Dobbs. It's over a 12 months since you called at my house in Friar's Row, Mr. Theodore Bransby. Another pause. There has been trouble in the Cheffington family since then, said Theodore at length. Ah, how strange and unexpected was the death of the eldest son. Lucius, of course, was always delicate. Still, he might have lived. His death has been a sad blow to Lord Casselcombe. Theodore considered himself to be condescending and conciliatory, in thus assuming that Mrs. Dobbs took some part in the affliction of the noble family. In his heart, he resented her having the most distant connection with them, but he intended to be polite. There has been trouble in other families besides the Cheffingtons, returned Mrs. Dobbs gravely with her eyes on the young man's morning garments. Oh, yes, of course, but no trouble with which you can be expected to concern yourself, he answered. He was annoyed and preserved his smooth manner only by an effort. And anyway, continued Mrs. Dobbs, Lord Casselcombe's sons have left no fatherless children nor widows nor anyone to be desolate and depressed like your poor father did. Theodore raised his eyebrows in his favorite supercilious fashion. Your figurative language is a little stronger than the case requires, he said. Widowhood is a desolate thing and poverty oppressive. There's no figure in that, I'm sorry to say. Oh, really, I was not aware, said Theodore, meddled in spite of himself into showing some auteur, that Mrs. Bransby and her family had excited so much interest in you. No, I dare say not, I believe you were not. I think very likely you'd be surprised if you knew how many folks in Old Chester and out of it are interested in them. The young man sat silent, casting about for something to say, which should put down this old woman without absolutely quarreling with her. He was glad to remember that he had always disliked her, but he had come here with a purpose and he did not intend to be turned aside from it. Seeing that he did not speak, Mrs. Dobbs said, why, Ty, ask if you did me the favor to call merely to condole upon the death of my late daughter's husband's cousin. This was an opening for what he wanted to say and he availed himself of it. He replied stiffly that the principal object of his visit had been to see Miss Cheffington, who, he was told, had returned to Old Chester and that, in one sense, his visit might be held to be congratulatory in as much as Miss Cheffington inherited something worth having under her cousin's will. He did not fear being suspected of any interested motive here. Besides that he was rich enough to make the money a matter of secondary importance, his conscience was absolutely clear on this score. He had desired and offered to marry May when she was penniless. He still desired it, but truly none the more for her inheritance. Oh, so you've heard of the legacy, have you? said Mrs. Dobbs. Heard of it, my good lady, I was present at the reading of the will. There were very few persons at the funeral. It was poor Lucius's wish that it should be private, but I thought it my duty to attend. There are peculiar relations between the family and myself, which made me desirous of paying that compliment to his memory. I think there was no stranger present except Mr. Bragg. You have heard of him? Of course. All old Chester persons are acquainted with the name of Bragg. After the ceremony Lord Castlecomb invited us into the library and the will was read. I understood that the deceased had wished its contents to be made known as soon as possible. This narration of his distinguished treatment at Cone Park was soothing to the young man's self-esteem. He ended his speech with patronizing suavity, but Mrs. Dobbs remained silent and irresponsive. I wish, said Theodore, after vainly awaiting a word from her, to see Miss Chuffington if you please. Mrs. Dobbs slowly shook her head. He repeated the request in a louder and more peremptory tone. Oh, I heard you quite well before, she said composedly, but I'm sorry to say your wish can't be complied with. Miss Chuffington is in this house, is she not? Yes, she is at home, but you can't see her. Theodore grew a shade paler than usual and answered sharply, but I insist upon seeing her. He threw aside the mask of civility. It evidently was wasted here. Insist is an unmanly word to use and a ridiculous one under the circumstances which perhaps you'll mind more. You can't see my granddaughter. He glared at her in a white rage. Theodore's anger was never of the blazing explosive sort. If fire typifies that passion in most persons, in him it resembled frost. His metal turned cold in wrath, but it would skin the fingers which unconsciously touched it. A fit of serious anger was apt also to make him feel ill and tremulous. May I ask why I cannot see her? He said, almost setting his teeth as he spoke. Because she wishes to avoid you. She fled away when she saw you coming, answered Mrs. Dobbs with pitiless frankness. He drew two or three long breaths like a person who has been running hard before saying, that is very strange. It is only a few days ago that Ms. Cheffington was sitting beside me at dinner, talking to me in the sweetest and most gracious manner. As to sitting beside you, I suppose she had to sit where she was put and as to sweetness, no doubt she was civil, but at any rate, she declines to see you now. She has said so as plain as plain English can express it. Your statement is incredible. Suppose I say I don't believe it. What guarantee have I that you are telling me the truth? None at all, she answered quietly. He stared blankly for a moment. Then he said, Mrs. Dobbs for some reason or no reason you hate me. That is a matter of perfect indifference to me. His white lips, twitching nostrils and icily gleaming eyes told a different tale, but I am not accustomed to be treated with impertinence by persons of your class, only by your betters, interpreted Mrs. Dobbs. And moreover, I shall take immediate steps to inform Captain Cheffington of your behavior. He will scarcely approve his daughters remaining with a person who, who, says she'd rather not see Mr. Theodore Bransby. Who insults his friends With regard to Mrs. Cheffington, I have no doubt you will endeavour to poison her mind against me, but you may possibly find yourself baffled. I have made proposals to Mrs. Cheffington. No doubt you are acquainted with the fact, which, although not immediately accepted, were not definitively rejected, at least not by the young lady herself. And I shall take an answer from no one else. Mrs. Cheffington's demeanour to me of late has been distinctly encouraging. If it be now changed, I shall know quite well to whose low cunning and insolent interference to attribute it. But you may find yourself mistaken in your reckoning, Mrs. Dobbs. Captain Cheffington is my friend, and Captain Cheffington will hardly be disposed to leave his daughter in such hands when I tell him all. He was speaking in a laboured way, and his lips and hands were tremulous. Mrs. Dobbs looked at him gravely, but with no trace of anger. Look here, she said, when he paused, apparently from want of breath, you may as well know at first as last, may as engaged to be married, has been engaged more than three months. Theodore gave a kind of gasp and turned of so ghostly a pallor that Mrs. Dobbs, without another word, went to a closet in the room, unlocked it, took out a decanter with some sherry in it, poured out a brimming glass full of the wine, and placing one hand behind the young man's head, put the glass to his lips with the other. He made a feeble movement to reject it. Off with it, she said in the voice of a nurse talking to a refractory child. He swallowed the sherry without further resistance, and a tinge of colour began to return to his face. You haven't got too much strength, observed Mrs. Dobbs as she stood and watched him. Your mother was delicate, and I suppose you take after her. She had no intention, no consciousness of doing so, but in speaking thus, she touched a sensitive cord. Any allusion to his mother's feeble constitution made him nervous. He closed his eyes and murmured that he feared he had caught a chill at the funeral that the sensation of shivering pointed to that. Mrs. Dobbs stood looking down on him as he sat with his head thrown back in the chair. And so, my lad, you think I hate you, she said. Why, I should be sorry to be obliged to hate your father's son, or for that matter, your mother's son either. She was a good, quiet, peaceable sort of young woman. I remember her well, and your grandfather-old rabbit that kept the castle comb arms when I was young. No, I don't hate you, Robert, but I'll tell you what I do hate. I hate to see young creatures that ought by rights to be generous and trusting and affectionate, and maybe a little foolish. There's a kind of foolishness that's better than over-wisdom in the young. I hate to see them setting themselves up, valuing themselves on their acuteness, ashamed of them that have gone before them. I hate to see them hard-hearted to the helpless. Young things maybe cruel from the thoughtlessness, but to be cruel out of meanness, well, I own, I do hate that. But as for you, it comes into my head that perhaps I've been a bit too hard on you. Mrs. Dobbs here laid her broad hand on his shoulder. He would feign have shaken it off, but although the wine had greatly restored him, he thought it prudent to remain quiet and recover himself completely before going away. You are but a lad to me, continued Mrs. Dobbs, and perhaps I've been hard on you. There's a deal of excuse to be made. You love my granddaughter after your fashion, and nobody can love better than his best. And it's bitter not to be loved again. You'll get over it, folks with redder blood in their veins than you have got over it before today. But I know you can't think so now, and it's bitter. But if you take an old woman's advice, an old woman that knew your mother and grandmother, and is old enough to be your grandmother herself, you'll just make up your mind to bear a certain amount of pain without flinching, like as if you'd got a bullet in battle, or broken your collarbone out hunting, and turn your thoughts to helping other folks in their trouble. There's no cure for the heartache like that. Take my word for it. Come now, you just face it like a man and try my recipe. You've got good means and good abilities. Do some good with them. Some young fellows, when they're out of spirits, take to climbing up mountains, slaughtering wild beasts, or getting into scrimmages with savages. By the way, I did hear that you were going into parliament. But there's your stepmother now, with her five children, your young brothers and sisters on her hands. Just you go in for making her life easier. There's a good work ready and waiting for you. Theodore moved his shoulder brusquely, and Mrs. Dobbs immediately withdrew her hand. He stood up and said stiffly, "'I must offer you my acknowledgements for the wine you administered.'" Mrs. Dobbs nearly waved her hand as though putting that aside and continued to look at him with a grave expression, which was not without a certain broad motherly compassion. "'I presume the name of the man to whom Miss Chevington has engaged herself is not a secret.'" "'It is Mrs. Hadlow's nephew, Mr. Rowan Rivers,' answered Mrs. Dobbs simply. He had felt as sure of what she was going to say as though he had seen the words printed before him. Nevertheless, the sound of the name seemed to pierce him like a sword blade. He drew himself up with a strong effort to be cutting and contemptuous. But as he went on speaking, he lost his self-command and prudence. "'Miss Chevington is to be congratulated indeed. Captain Chevington will no doubt be delighted at the alliance you have contrived for his daughter. Mr. Rowan Rivers, a clerk in Mr. Bragg's counting house, which, however, is probably the most respectable occupation he has ever followed. Mr. Rowan Rivers, whose name is scandalously connected throughout Old Chester, with that of the person you were so kind as to recommend to my good offices just now, a person whose conduct disgraces my family and dishonours my father's memory, Mr. Rowan Rivers, who hush, hold your tongue, cried Mrs. Dobbs, fairly clapping one hand over his mouth and pointing with the other to the window. There, at the bottom of the garden, was Rowan, hurriedly alighting from a cab, and May, who had witnessed his arrival from an upper window, presently came flying down the pathway into his arms. Theodore had but a lightning-swift glimpse of this little scene, for Mrs. Dobbs, saying, come along here. Resolutely pulled him by the arm into the back room, and so to a door opening onto a lane behind the house. He was astonished at this summery proceeding, but he affected somewhat more bewilderment than he really felt, so as to cover his retreat, and he muttered something about having to deal with a mad woman. Now go, said Mrs. Dobbs, opening the door. I can forgive a deal to love and jealousy and disappointment, but that cowardly lie is not to be forgiven. To think that you, you, should be Martin Bransby's son, why, it's enough to make your father turn in his grave, and with that she thrust him out and shut the door upon him. End of Chapter 12. Volume 3, Chapter 13 of That Unfortunate Marriage. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. That Unfortunate Marriage by Francis Eleanor Trollop. Volume 3, Chapter 13. Mrs. Dormers-Miss' affectionate letter to her brother produced a result which she had not at all anticipated when she wrote it. He arrived in England by the next steamboat from Ostend and took up his quarters in her house. He had come ostensibly for the purpose of visiting Combe Park and patching up a reconciliation with his uncle. This indeed was a pet scheme with Pauline. She had hinted at it in writing to her brother, now that George and poor dear Lucius were gone. Lord Castlecombe might not dislike to be on good terms with his heir. He was old and lonely and as Pauline's correspondence had assured her, greatly broken down by the death of his sons. Frederick scarcely knew which to regret the most, his niece's departure or his brother-in-law's arrival. He missed May very much, but very shortly he began to be reconciled to her engagement. Rivers was a gentleman and an honest fellow and might be trusted to take care of May's money, which Mr. Dormers-Miss thought would otherwise be an imminent jeopardy from the arrival on the scene of May's papa. That gentleman indeed who had at first taken the news of his daughter's engagement with Supreme Indifference showed some lively symptoms of disapprobation on learning the fact of Lucius's bequest. A daughter dependent on the bounty of Mrs. Dobbs for food, shelter, and raiment was an uninteresting person enough, but a daughter who possessed between four and 500 a year of her own ought not to be allowed to marry without her father's consent. Frederick dryly remarked that May's capital was stringently tied up in the hands of trustees, whether she were married or single, whereupon Augustus indulged in very strong language respecting his dead cousin and declared that the terms of the will were appointed and intentional insult to him, who was his child's natural guardian. Still, although the capital was secure, Frederick knew that the income was not, and the more he observed his brother-in-law, the more he felt how desirable it was that May should have a husband to take care of her. Captain Sheffington had not improved during his years of exile. He smoked all day long and even at night in his bed in sensing May's chamber, which he occupied with clouds of tobacco smoke. He had contracted other unpleasant habits, and his temper was diabolical. He had not brought his wife to England with him. He would sit for hours with his slippered feet on the fender in his sister's dressing room, railing at the absent Mrs. Augustus Sheffington in a way which was most grievous to Pauline, for he showed not the least reticence in the presence of Smithson. Talk of floating, how would it be possible to float a woman of whom her own husband spoke in that way? He had no very grave charges to bring against La Bianca after all. She had been faithful to him and stuck to him and worked for him. But he bewailed his fate in having tied himself to a third-rate Italian opera singer, without an idea in her head beyond painting her face and squalling. It was just his cursed luck. Why couldn't Lucius die since he meant to die six months earlier? At another time he would openly rejoice in the death of his cousins and express a fervent hope that the old boy wasn't going to last much longer. Pauline would remonstrate and put her handkerchief to her eyes and beg her brother not to speak so heartlessly of his own family, especially of poor dear Lucius. But Augustus poo-pooed this as confounded humbug. He was uncommonly glad to be the heir of Combe Park and thought at about time that his family and his country and the human race generally made him some amends for the years he had passed under a cloud. He would show them how to enjoy life when he came into possession of his property, as he had taken to call Lord Castlecombe's estate. He planned out several changes in the disposal of the land and decided what rent he would take for the house and home park. For he did not intend to live in this damned foggy little island where one had bronchitis if one hadn't got rheumatism and rheumatism if one hadn't got bronchitis. In one respect, his visions coincided with his sisters. Since he talked of having a villa on the Mediterranean coast, not far from Monte Carlo, but they differed from hers in several important points, notably in providing no place for her in the villa. Frederick would sometimes throw a shade over these rosy dreams by observing doggedly that for his part, he doubted the likelihood of Lord Castlecombe's speedy decease and that looking at them both, he was inclined to consider Uncle George's life the better of the two so that on the whole, domestic life in Mr. Dormersmith's smart house at Kensington was by no means harmonious. Meanwhile, Pauline with considerable pains and earnest meditation composed a letter to her uncle on behalf of Augustus. She did not venture to entrust the task to Augustus himself. It would be impossible to persuade him to be as smooth and conciliatory as the case demanded. But she wrote a letter which she thought combined diplomacy with pathos and from which she hoped for some satisfactory result. But the reply she received by return of post was of such a nature that she hastily thrusted into the fire lest Augustus should see it and told him and her husband that poor dear Uncle George was not yet equal to the effort of seeing Augustus after the great shock he had suffered. Uncle George had in fact stated in the plainest terms that if Captain Sheffington ventured to show himself in Combe Park, the servants had orders to turn him out forcibly. The object for which Captain Sheffington had come to England at that time being thus balked, it would have appeared natural that he should return to his wife in Brussels, but day followed day until nearly three weeks had elapsed since Lucius Sheffington's death and still Augustus remained at Kensington. Every morning with a dreadful regularity Mr. Dormersmith inquired of his wife if she knew whether her brother were going away in the course of that day and every morning the shower of tears with which Mrs. Dormersmith received the inquiry and which generally formed her only answer to it became more copious. Augustus on the whole was the least uncomfortable of the trio. He had contrived to raise a little ready money on his expectations. He was well lodged and well fed. The change to London, now that he had a few pounds in his pocket, was not unwelcome after Brussels and as to his brother-in-law's undisguised dislike to his presence he had grown far too callous to heed it so long as it suited him to ignore it. Not that he took note of it in his mind keenly enough and promised himself the pleasure of paying off Frederick with interest as soon as he should come into his property. All this time a humble household in Oldchester was a great deal happier than the wintry days were long. The news of Captain Cheffington's arrival in England had at first disturbed May. Perhaps he might insist on seeing her and she shrank from seeing him but she thought of her duty to write to him and inform him herself of her engagement and neither Owen nor her grandmother opposed her doing so. If May had any lingering illusions about her father or any hope that he would manifest some gleam of parental tenderness towards her the illusion and the hope were short-lived. The reply to her communications was a hurried scrawl haughtily regretting that Mr. Owen Rivers had not thought proper to wait upon him and ask his consent to the marriage which he totally disapproved of and adding that although Rivers of Rivers Mead was undoubtedly good blood it appeared that the traditions of gentleman-like behavior had been lost by the present bearer of the name since he had entered the service of a tradesman. The letter ended with a peremptory demand for 50 pounds. May and Owen had planned that Granny was to return to Fryer's row on their marriage. Mr. Bragg was willing to break the lease which he held and to remove his office to another house hard-by and Mrs. Dobbs with all her goods and chattels was to be reinstated in her old home. As this scheme was to be kept secret from Granny for the present it involved a vast deal of delightful mystery and plotting. Joe Weatherhead was admitted to the conspiracy and enjoyed it with the keenest relish. A word or two had been said as to Mrs. Dobbs taking up her abode with the young couple when they should be married but this Granny insistently and inflexibly refused. No, no children I'm not quite so foolish as that. It's very well for Owen to take May for better for worse but it would be a little too much to take May and her grandmother for better for worse. Of course it was not long before Owen took his betroth to see Cannon and Mrs. Hadlow. They walked together to the old house in College Quad where however their news had preceded them. The Hadlow's were very cordial. Both of them were very fond of May and Aunt Jane loudly hoped that Owen appreciated his good fortune. And declared it was far above his desserts. Though in her heart she thought no girl in England too good for her favorite nephew. The lovers were affectionately bidden to come again as often as they could and brighten up the old place with the sight of their happy young faces. They agreed as they walked home together that the home in College Quad seemed a little gloomy and lonely without Connie. Connie was still away. She had only been at home on a flying visit of a few days during several months past. She was now staying with a Lady Bellcraft who had a handsome house at Combs St. Mildred's. Mrs. Hadlow had told them so and a word or two uttered in the same breath about Theodore Bransby being often in that neighborhood suggested a suspicion that Theodore might be thinking of returning to his old love. This idea annoyed Owen extremely. The hint which suggested it had been dropped almost in the moment of saying goodbye to Mrs. Hadlow or he would have attempted it once to sound her on the subject. He had interrogated his aunt privately while May was being petted and made much of by the kind old canon as to a rumour which was writhing old Chester, namely that Constance had been betrothed to Lucius Chuffington. But Aunt Jane positively denied this. She admitted that the gossip had reached her own ears and that she had spoken to her daughter about it. But Connie entirely disabused me of any such notion. She said that in the first place nothing was farther from Lucius's thoughts than lovemaking and that in the second place. It would have been a most imprudent marriage for her since she could only expect to be speedily left a widow with a very slender joincha. Connie was never romantic, you know, said Aunt Jane with a quick half-humorous glance at her nephew. Owen began to consider with himself whether it might not be his duty to acquaint Canon Hadlow with many parts of Theodore's conduct which were certainly unknown to him. All inquiries conducted either by himself or by Joe Weatherhead who ferreted out information with untiring zeal and delight in the task showed more and more plainly that the calamities concerning Mrs. Bransby could be traced for the most part to her stepson and in no single instance beyond him. May had long ago acquitted Constance Hadlow of speaking or writing evil things of the widow. Constance had not in fact expended any attention whatever on the Bransby family since their departure from Old Chester. She was spending her time very agreeably. Her hostess, Lady Bellcraft, was a widow. She was a great crony of Mrs. Griffin's and delighted with Mrs. Griffin's protégé. Having, so to speak, retired from business on her own account, her two daughters being married and settled long ago, Lady Bellcraft was still most willing to renew the toils of the chase on behalf of a friend. She and Mrs. Griffin had carefully examined the county list of possible matches for Constance Hadlow and had agreed that there was good hope of a speedy find, a capital run, and a successful finish. It so happened that on the same afternoon when May and Owen were paying their visit to College Quad, Theodore Bransby was making a call at the residence of Lady Bellcraft in Cone St. Mildred's. Ever since his interview with Mrs. Dobbs now several days ago, Theodore had been considering his own case with minute and concentrated attention. We are all of us, it must be owned, supremely interesting to ourselves, but Theodore's interest in himself was of a jealously exclusive kind. His health was undoubtedly delicate. He had felt the loss of a home to which he could repair when he was ailing or out of sorts ever since his father's death. He found, too, that he was apt to become hipped and nervous when alone. He came to the conclusion that he needed a wife to take care of him, and after grave consideration, he resolved to marry Constance Hadlow. If he could, by a word, have destroyed rivers and obtained possession of May Cheffington, he would have said that word without hesitation or remorse. But since that could not be, he did not intend to wear the willow. He would marry Constance. That she would have accepted him long ago, he was well assured, and his circumstances were far more prosperous now than in those days. Cannon and Mrs. Hadlow could not but be impressed by his disinterestedness in coming forward now that he was in the enjoyment of a handsome independence. And on his side, he believed he was choosing prudently. If he were ill, the attentions of a wife, a refined and cultured woman, dependent moreover on him for the comfort of her daily life, would be far preferable to those of a high-earning nurse who would have the power of going away whenever she found her position disagreeable. But this was only one side of the question. When he grew stronger, he always looked forward to growing stronger. Constance would be an admirable helpmate from a social point of view. She had acquired influential friends, was received in the best houses, and would do his taste infinite credit. And whether as a politician or a barrister, she might have it in her power to forward his ambitions. It was as the result of these meditations that he called out Lady Bellcraft. He had met her occasionally in society, and she knew perfectly who he was. But there was a distinct film of ice over the politeness with which she received him when he was ushered into her drawing room. She thought this little attorney's son was taking something like a liberty in appearing there uninvited. She forgave him, however, immediately. When in his most correct manner, he asked for Miss Hadlow. Really, it might do, thought Lady Bellcraft. The young man was very well off and presentable and all that. And dear Connie, though simply charming, had not a penny in the world. Neither was dear Connie her ladyship's own daughter. Yes, she positively thought it might do. She was so sorry that Miss Hadlow was not within, but she expected her every moment. She was walking, she believed, in the park. The park at Combe St. Mildred's meant Combe Park. Oh, yes, she was aware that Mr. Bransby was an old acquaintance. Playfellas from childhood, really, that sort of thing always has such a hold on one, was so extremely, oh, there was dear Connie coming up the drive. Lady Bellcraft sent a message by a servant begging Miss Hadlow to come to the drawing room where she presently appeared. She was dressed in a winter toilet of carefully studied simplicity and looked radiantly handsome. Theodore gazed at her as if he had never seen her before. Self-possessed, she had always been, but she had now acquired something more than that. An air of conscious distinction, of being somebody, as Theodore phrased it in his own mind, which he admired and wondered at. He is an old friend of yours, Connie, said Lady Bellcraft. Constance had been pulling off her gloves as she entered the room and she now extended a white, well-cared forehand to Theodore with a cool little, oh, how'd you do? And the faintest of smiles. Her hostess thought within herself that if there really was anything between her and young Bransby, Connie's behavior was marvelous. And that all the training bestowed on her own daughters had left them far below the point of finish attained by this provincial clergyman's daughter. Did you walk far? Are you tired? She asked. No, thanks, dear Lady Bellcraft. I'm not at all tired. I went to my favorite group of beaches. It's a capital day for walking. And what is the news in Old Chester Theodore? Her calling him Theodore in the old, familiar way seemed to have the mysterious effect of putting him under her feet. It implied such superiority and security. Theodore was conscious of this, but it did not displease him. She had doubtless resented his not making the expected offer earlier. He had thought when he met her in London that hurt a more proper, had much more to do with her cavalier treatment of him. But he had a charm to smooth her ruffled plumes. After a little commonplace conversation, Lady Bellcraft recollected some orders which she wanted to give personally to her gardener. And with a brief excuse, left the room. Constance perfectly understood why she had done so. Theodore did not, but he seized the occasion which he imagined hazard had thrown in his way. I am very glad of this opportunity of speaking with you alone, Constance. He began very solemnly. There was no trepidation such as he had felt in speaking to May. He neither trembled nor stammered nor grew hot and cold by turns. That chapter was closed. He was turning over a new and quite different leaf. Yes, said Constance, really. She removed her hat, smooth the thick dark braids of her hair before a mirror, and sat down with graceful composure. I don't think we have met Constance since, he glanced at his black clothes. No, I think not. I was very sorry. I begged Mama to give you a message from me when she wrote to condole with Mrs. Bransby. I merely allude to that sad subject in order to assure you that I am not unmindful of what is proper and becoming under the circumstances, and lest you should think me guilty of heartless precipitation. He was beginning to enjoy the rounding off of his sentences, a pleasure he had never tasted in May's company, strong emotion being unfavorable to polished periods. Oh, I don't think you are ever guilty of precipitation, answered Constance quietly, but the mirror opposite reflected a flash of her handsome eyes. Nothing, continued Theodore, could be in worse taste than to neglect the accustomed forms of respect. A period of 12 months would not be too long to mourn for a parent, so excellent as my father. But six months could not be considered to outrage decorum, and I should not urge, he paused. He had been on the point of saying that he would not press for the marriage taking place before the summer when he happily remembered that he had not yet gone through the form of asking Constance whether she would marry him or not. To him it seemed so like merely taking up the thread of a story temporarily interrupted that he had lost sight of the probability that Constance's mind had not been keeping pace with his own on the subject. But it recurred to him in time. Constance was sitting on a low couch near the fireside at some distance from him. He now took his place beside her. There was a certain awkwardness in making a proposal of marriage across a spacious room. There can be no need of many words between us, Constance. He began with as much tenderness of manner as he could call up. Then he stopped. Constance had drawn away the skirt of her gown on the side next to him and was examining it attentively. What is the matter, he asked. I thought you had accidentally set your boot on the hem of my frock, she said, and the roads are so muddy, I thought, although it is fine overhead. But it's all right, I beg your pardon, you were saying. This interruption was disconcerting. He had had in his head an elaborate sentence which was now dispersed and irrecoverable. He must begin it all over again. However, when fairly started once more, his eloquence did not fail him. He offered his hand unfortunate to Miss Hadlow in good set terms. She was silent when he had finished and he ventured to take her hand. Am I not to have an answer, dearest Constance? He asked. She drew her hand away very gently with perfect composure before saying, as she looked full at him with her fine dark eyes. You are not joking then. Joking? Well, I know you are not giving to joking and this would certainly be an inconceivably bad joke, but it is almost more inconceivable that you should be an earnest. He was fairly bewildered and doubtful of her meaning. However, she continued, if you really expect a serious answer, you must have it. No, thank you. He stood up erect and stiff as if moved by a spring. She remained leaning back in an easy attitude on the couch and looking at him. I, Constance, I don't understand you, he exclaimed. I refuse you, she replied in a gentle voice and with her best society draw, distinctly, decidedly and unhesitatingly, I think you must understand that. Won't you stay and see Lady Belcraft? Theodore had taken up his hat and was moving towards the door. Oh, very well, I will make your excuses. She rang the bell, which was within reach of her hand and Theodore walked out of the room without proffering another word. End of chapter 13.