 Volume 1 Chapter 7 of that unfortunate marriage. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. That unfortunate marriage by Frances Eleanor Trollop. Volume 1 Chapter 7. Persons like the Simpsons, who knew Mrs. Dobbs intimately, allowed her to have a strong judgment and asserted her to have a still stronger will. She was far too bent on her own way ever to take advice, they said. It certainly did not happen that she took theirs. But Mrs. Dobbs' judgment was stronger than they knew, it was strong enough to show her on what points other people were likely to know better than she did. She would undoubtedly have followed Amelia Simpson's counsels as to the best way of dressing the hair in filmy ringlets, if she had a chance to require that information. On the morning after Theodore Bransby's visit to her house, Mrs. Dobbs put on her bonnet and set off the times to college quad. There she had an interview with Mrs. Hadlow, who it appeared was going to the Bransby's dinner party, and willingly promised to take charge of me. It seemed to me it wouldn't be the right thing for my granddaughter to go alone to a regular formal party, said Mrs. Dobbs. But as I don't pretend to be much of an authority on such matters, I venture to ask you to tell me. Of course, you were quite right, Mrs. Dobbs. And you think she had better accept the invitation? She doesn't much want to do so herself, being shy of going amongst strangers. But to be sure, if she may be under your wing, and in company with Mrs. Hadlow, that would make a vast difference. Oh, yes, let her go, Mrs. Dobbs. Sooner or later she will have to go into the world, and it may be well to begin amongst people she is used to. Is it true that she is to go to her aunt's house in London very soon? Nothing is settled yet. If the had been, you and Canon Hadlow should have been the first to know it. As it would be only my duty to tell you after all your kindness to the child, nothing is settled but I am in favour of her going myself. You take the sensible view, Mrs. Dobbs, as I think you always do, except at election time, added Mrs. Hadlow smiling. The elder woman smiled back, with a little resolute setting of the lips, and begged her best respects to the Canon as she took her leave. The Canon was a great favourite with Mrs. Dobbs, and on his part, their political struggle in that long past election had inspired him with a British respect for his adversary's pluck and fair play. The prospect of going with Mrs. Hadlow and Constance greatly reconciled me to the idea of the dinner party, but she did not look forward to it with anticipations of enjoyment. I would much rather dine in the nursery with the children, she said, unconsciously echoing Mrs. Bransby's suggestion. Mr. Weatherhead, who was present, took her up on this, and said, Why now, may you will enjoy being in good society. Mr. Bransby is a very agreeable man, and used to some of the best company in the county. Mrs. Bransby too was very pleasant and very pretty, and Miss Lutty, as she was, a regular beauty, and belonging to a good old Tropshaw family and young Theodore. Joe Weatherhead, pausing here and hesitating for a moment, may broke in. Come now, Uncle Joe, she exclaimed. You can't say that he's pretty or pleasant. He's not bad looking, returned Mr. Weatherhead rather doubtfully, though, to be sure, he isn't so fine a man as his father. No, this lad is like his mother's family, said Mrs. Dobbs. I remember his grandfather and grandmother very well. Do you, do you, Sarah, who were they? What sort of people now, eh? Common sort of people. Rabbit, their name was. Old Rabbit kept the castle comb arms, a roadside inn, over towards Gloucester Way. He ran a coach between his own market town and Gloucester before the branch railway was made, and they say he did a good deal of money landing. Anyway, he scraped together a goodish bit, and his wife came in for a slice of luck by a legacy. So all together their daughter, the first Mrs. Martin Bransby that was, had a nice fortune of her own. She was sent to a good school and well educated, and she was a very good sort of girl, but she had just the same smooth light hair and smooth pale face as this young Theodore. Martin Bransby had money with his first wife, he's got beauty with his second. Oh ho, exclaimed Joe Weatherhead, eager and attentive. Rabbit, eh? I never knew before who the first Mrs. Bransby was. Not a many folk in Old Chester now do know. I happened to know from being often over at Gloucester visiting Dobbs' family when I was a girl. Many a day we've driven past the castle comb arms in the chairs. Dear, dear, how far off it all seems, and yet so plain and distinct. I couldn't help thinking of those old times when the lad was here the other day. He has such a look of old rabbit. Thus Mrs. Dobbs rather dreamily with her eyes fixed on the opposite houses of fryer's row, or as much of them as could be seen above a wire window blind, and her fingers mechanically busy with her knitting. But she saw neither the quaint gables nor the gray stone walls. Her mind was transported into the past. She was bowling along a smooth high road in an old fashioned chess. A girlfriend sat in a little seat behind her and leaned over her shoulder from time to time to whisper some saucy joke. Beside her was the girlfriend's brother, young Isaac Dobbs, a personable young fellow who drove the old pony humanely and seemed in no hurry to get home to Gloucester. She could feel the moist sweet air of a showery summer evening on her cheek, and smell the scent of a branch of sweet briar which Isaac had gallantly cut for her from the hedge. Theodore Bransby did not guess that Mrs. Dobbs had treated him with forbearance and indulgence. Little less did he imagine that the forbearance and indulgence had been due to reminiscences of her girlhood wherein his maternal grandfather figured as old rabbit. The question of May's dress for the dinner party gave rise to no debate. Mrs. Dobbs had been brought up in the faith that the proper garb for a young girl on all festive occasions was white muslin, and in white muslin May was arrayed accordingly. The delicate fairness of her arms and neck was not marred by the trying juxtaposition of that dead white material. It served only to give value to the soft flesh tints and to the sunny brownness of her hair. When she had driven off in the roomy old fly with Mrs. Hadlow and the cannon and constants who called to fetch her, Mrs. Dobbs and Mr. Weatherhead agreed that she looked lovely and must excite general admiration. But the truth was that May's appearance did not seem to dazzle anybody. Mrs. Hadlow gave her a comprehensive and approving glance when she took her cloak off in the well-lighted hall of Mr. Bransby's house, and said, Very neat, very nice, couldn't be better, May. Cannon Hadlow, a white-haired, venerable figure with the mildest of blue eyes and a sensitive mouth, smiled on her and nodded in confirmation of his wife's verdict. Constance, brilliant in amber, with damask roses at her breast and in her hair, thought her friend looked very schoolgirlish and wanting in style. But she had the good nature to pay the one compliment, which she sincerely thought was merited, and to say, Your complexion stands, even that blue-white book, Muslim May, I should look absolutely mahogany-coloured in it. May felt somewhat excited and nervous as she followed Mrs. Hadlow up the softly-carpeted stairs to the drawing room, but she had a wholesome conviction of her own unimportance on this occasion and comforted herself with the hope of being left to look on without more notice from anyone than near courtesy demanded. Her first impression was one of eager admiration, for just within the drawing room door stood Mrs. Bransby looking radiantly handsome. May thought her the loveliest person she had ever beheld, and her dress struck even May's inexperienced eyes as being supremely elegant. Constance Hadlow's attire, with its unrelieved breadth of bright colour and its stiff outline, suddenly appeared as crude as a cheap chromolithograph beside a Venetian masterpiece. Behind his wife, seated in an easy chair, was Martin Bransby, a fine, powerfully built man of 60, with dark eyes and eyebrows and a shock of grizzled hair. His naturally ready complexion was pallid from recent illness, and the lines under his eyes and round his mouth had deepened perceptibly during the last two months. Theodore stood near his father, stiffly upright, and with a cravat and shirt front so faultlessly smooth and white as to look as though they had been cast in plaster of Paris. Standing with his back to the fire was Dr. Hatch, a familiar figure to May as to most eyes in Old Chester. He was a short man, rather too broad for his height, with benevolent brown eyes, a wide, low forehead, and a wide, firm mouth, singularly expressive of humour when he smiled. No other guest had arrived when the Hadlos entered the drawing room. After the first greetings, the party fell into little groups, the cannon and Mr. Bransby, who were very old friends, conversing together in a low voice whilst Theodore advanced to entertain Mrs. Hadlow with grave politeness, and Constance made a minute and admiring inspection of Mrs. Bransby's dress. May thus found herself a little apart from the rest and sat down in a corner half hidden by the protruding mantle piece of carved oak, which rose nearly to the ceiling, an elaborate erection of richly carved pillars and shelves and niches holding blue and white china in the most approved style. Well, Miss May, and how are you? asked Dr. Hatch, moving a little nearer to her as he stood on the hearth rug. Quite well, thank you, Dr. Hatch, said May, looking up with her bright young smile. That's right, but don't mention to any member of faculty that I said so. There's a professional etiquette in these matters, and I shouldn't like to be quoted as having given any encouragement to rude health. I'll take care, returned May, falling into his humor and assuming a grave look, and I will always bear witness for you that you gave me some very nasty medicine when I had the measles, Dr. Hatch. I'm sure the other doctors would approve of that, wouldn't they? Nice child, murmured Dr. Hatch, understands a joke. It would be as much as my practice is worth to talk in that way to some young ladies, I could mention. Well, and so this is your first entrance into the gay and festive scene, eh? Yes, I have never been to a regular dinner party before. I am so glad Mr. Bransby is quite well again, said May, looking across the room at their host. Are you? Well, I believe you are glad. Yes, it is much to be desired that he should be well again. Dr. Hatch's eyes had followed the girls and rested on Martin Bransby with a thoughtful look. Then after a minute's pause, he went on. Now, as you are not quite familiar here, I'll give you a map of the country as the French say. Do you know who that is who has just come in? No? That is Mr. Bragg. He makes millions and billions of tin tacks every week. You've heard of him, of course? May nodded. Of course you have. Couldn't live long in Old Chester without hearing of Mr. Bragg. That handsome elderly man now bowing to Mrs. Bransby is major mitten of the engineers. Ever hear of him? Oh, well, I suppose not. He's a very good natured, kindly gentleman and an excellent soldier, who distinguished himself greatly in the Crimea. But no one will ever hear him say a word about that. What he is proud of is his reputation as an amateur actor. I have known more reprehensible vanities. Oh, and here come the Pipers, Miss Polly and Miss Patti, and I think that makes up our number. Dr. Hatch did not think of asking May whether she had ever heard of the Miss Pipers. The fact was she had heard of them very often. They were Old Chester celebrities quite as much as Mr. Bragg was, but their fame had not extended beyond Old Chester, whereas Bragg's tin tacks were daily hammered into the consciousness of the civilized world. Miss Mary and Miss Martha Piper, invariably called Polly and Patti, were old maids between 50 and 60 years old. They were not rich, they had never been handsome, they were not even in the opinion of their most partial friends, brilliantly clever. What then was the cause of the distinction they undoubtedly enjoyed in Old Chester society? The cause was Miss Polly Piper's musical talent or at least her reputation for musical talent, which for social purposes was the same thing. Miss Piper had, once upon a time, no matter how many years ago, composed an oratorio and offered it to the committee of a great musical festival for performance. It was not accepted for reasons which Miss Piper was at no loss to perceive. The reader is implored not to conclude rashly that the oratorio was rejected because it failed to reach the requisite high standard. Miss Piper knew a great deal better than that. She had been accustomed to mix with the musical world from an early age. Her father, an amiable Old Chester clergyman, rector of the church, in which Mr. Sebastian Bach Simpson was organized, was considered the best amateur violin cello player in the Midland counties. When the great music meeting brought vocal and instrumental artists to Old Chester, the reverend Ruben Piper's house was always open to several of them. And Miss Polly had poured out tea for more than one great English tenor, great German basso, and great Scandinavian soprano. So that, as she often said, she was clearly quite behind the scenes of the artistic world and thoroughly understood its intrigues, its ambitions, and its jealousies. Thus, she was less mortified and discouraged by the rejection of her oratorio than she would have been had she supposed it due to honest disapproval. The work, which was entitled Esther, was played and sung, however, not indeed by the great English tenor, German basso, and Scandinavian soprano, but by very competent performers. It was performed in the large room in Old Chester, used for concerts and lectures, and called Mercer's Hall. Admission was by invitation, and the hall was quite full, which, as Miss Polly triumphantly observed, was a very gratifying tribute on the part of the town and county. Miss Polly did not conduct her own music. Ladies had not yet wielded the conductor's baton in those days, but she sat in a front row with her father on one side of her and her sister Polly on the other, and bowed her acknowledgements to the executants at the end of each piece. It was a great day for the Piper family, and that one solitary fact, for the oratorio was never repeated, flavored the rest of their lives with an odor of artistic glory, as one Tonkin bean will perfume a whole chest full of miscellaneous articles. Truly, the triumph was not cheap. The rehearsals and the performances had to be paid for, and it was said at the time that the Reverend Rubin had been obliged to sell some excellent canal shares in order to meet the expenses, and had thereby diminished his income by so many pounds sterling forever more. But at least the expenditure purchased a great deal of happiness, and that is more than can be said of most investments which the world would consider wiser. From that day forth, Miss Polly held the position of a musical authority in certain circles, long after a younger generation had grown up, to whom that famous performance of Esther was as vague and historical fact as the Heptarchy. People continued to speak of Miss Polly Piper as a successful composer. The lives of the two sisters were shaped by this tradition. They went every year to London for a month during the season, and for a longer or shorter time to some continental city, Leipzig, Frankfurt, or Brussels, once even as far as Vienna, once they came back bringing with them the latest dikta in musical fashions. Just as Mrs. Clarkson, the chief old Chester Milliner, announced every year her return from Paris with a large and varied assortment of bonnets in the newest styles. It has been written that they brought back with them the newest dikta on musical matters, but it must not be supposed that Miss Patty set up to interpret the law on such points. She was, as to things musical, merely her sister's echo and mouthpiece, but sincerity, that best salt for all human communications, preserved Miss Patty's subservience from any taint of humbug. However extravagant might be her estimate of Polly's artistic gifts and attainments, you could not doubt that it was genuine. These circumstances were, broadly speaking, known to everyone present, but May was acquainted with another aspect of the legend of Miss Piper's oratorio, a seamy side which the poor good lady did not even suspect. That famous oratorio had been a fertile source of mirth at the time to all the performers engaged in it. There were all sorts of stories current as to the amazing things Miss Piper did with her instrumentation, the impossible efforts she expected from the wind, and the anomalous sounds she elicited from the wood. These were retailed with much gusto by Joe Weatherhead, who in virtue of a high nasal voice and a power common enough in those parts of reading music at sight, had sung with the tenors through many a festival chorus and known many professional musicians during his sojourn in Birmingham. One favorite anecdote of was of a trumpet player who at rehearsal in the very climax and stress of the overture, when he was to have come in with a powerful effect, stretched out his arm at full length and produced the most hideous and unearthly noise ever heard, and who on being rebuked by the conductor handed up his part for inspection, observing amid the unrestrained laughter of the band that that was the nearest he could come to the note Miss Piper had written for him, which was some half octave below the usual compass of his instrument. Of this and many another similar story, Miss Piper and Miss Piper's friends knew nothing, but may remembering them looked at the two old ladies as they marched into the room with an interest not so wholly reverential as might have been wished. They were both short, fat, snub-nosed little women with wide smiling mouths and double chins. Miss Piper was rather shorter, rather fatter and rather more snub-nosed than her gifted sister, but the chief difference between the two, which struck one at first sight, was that whereas Miss Piper's own gray locks were disposed in a thick kind of curl like a plethoraic sausage on each side of her face, Miss Piper wore a pale gingerbread colored wig while having all the Widmaker's stores to choose from, she should have chosen just that particular hue, may secretly wondered as she looked at her, but so it was, and if she had worn a blue wig, it could scarcely have been more innocent of any attempt to deceive the beholder. Both ladies wore good substantial silk gowns and little lace caps with artificial flowers in them, but the remarkable feature in their attire was the extraordinary number of chains, beads, and bracelets with which they had festooned themselves, and moreover, these were of a severely mineralogical character. Round Miss Patti's fat deeply creased throat may counted three necklaces, one of coral, one of cornelian, and the third a long string of gray pebble beads, which dangled nearly to her waist. Miss Polly wore, besides a variety of other nondescript adornments which rattled and jingled as she moved, a set of ornaments made apparently of red marble cut into polygonal fragments of irregular length. Their rings, too, which were numerous, seemed to be composed for the most part of building materials, and each sister wore a mosaic brooch, which looked, may thought, like a bit out of the tessellated pavement of the smart new corn exchange in the high street. It did not take that young lady's quick perception long to make all the foregoing observations. Indeed, she had completed them within the minute and a half, which elapsed between the Miss Piper's arrival and the announcement of dinner. End of chapter seven. Volume one, chapter eight, of that unfortunate marriage. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. That unfortunate marriage by Francis Eleanor Trollop. Volume one, chapter eight. The order of the procession to the dining room had been prearranged, not without some difficulty. Mrs. Bransby had pointed out to Theodore that his whim of inviting Miss Chepington must cause a solicism somewhere in marshalling their guests. Constance will, of course, expect you to take her, said Mrs. Bransby, and then what is to be done with little Miss Chepington. I really think I had better invite two more people and get some young man to take her into dinner. Perhaps Mr. Rivers would come. But Theodore utterly opposed this suggestion and said that the simple and obvious course was for him to give his arm to Miss Chepington and for Dr. Hatch to escort Miss Hadlow. Oh, well, if you don't mind, said Mrs. Bransby, looking a little surprised and so it was settled. But at the last moment in arranging her table and disposing the cards with the guest's name before each cover, Mrs. Bransby found that it would be necessary for the sake of symmetrically alternating a lady and a gentleman to divide one couple and place them on opposite sides of the table. She decided that Dr. Hatch and Miss Hadlow would endure this sort of divorce with equanimity. And thus it came to pass that when Theodore took his seat at table, he found himself in the enviable and unexpected position of sitting between the two young ladies of the party, Constance and May. Mr. Bransby let out Mrs. Hadlow, the hostess bringing up the rear with cannon Hadlow. Mr. Mitten had the honor of escorting Miss Piper while Miss Patti fell to Mr. Bragg. There was, as is usual on such occasions, very little conversation while the soup and fish were being eaten. Miss Piper, indeed, who was constitutionally loquacious, talked all the while to Major Mitten, though in a comparatively low tone of voice. But the rest of the company devoted themselves mainly to their plates, or at least said only a fragmentary sentence now and then. But by degrees the desultory talks swelled into a continuous murmur across which bursts of laughter were wafted at intervals. May had the satisfaction she had hoped for of being allowed to be quiet, for her neighbor on the one hand was the cannon who contented himself with smiling on her silently, whilst Theodore was greatly occupied by his neighbor, Miss Hadlow. Being seated between him and Major Mitten, she monopolized the younger gentleman's attention with the undoubting conviction that he enjoyed being monopolized. Mr. Bragg, a heavy melancholy looking man, found Miss Patti Piper a congenial companion on a topic which interested him a good deal, cookery. Not that he was a gastronome. He had a grand French cook, but he invited to Miss Patti that he never tasted anything nowadays, which he relished so much as he had relished a certain beefsteak pudding that his deceased misses used to make for him 30 years ago. And better, Miss Patti had, as it happened, some peculiar and special views as to the composition of a beefsteak pudding, and Mr. Bragg, born backwards by the tide of memory to those distant days when his misses and he lodged in one room and before he had learned the secret of transmuting tin tacks into luxury and French cooks, enjoyed his reminiscences in a slow, sad, ruminating way. Presently when the dessert was on the table, there came a little lull in the general conversation and the husky contralto voice of Miss Piper was heard saying, my dear major, I tell you, it was the same woman. You say you heard her at Marta 15 years ago. Very well, that's no reason, for she might have been only 16 or 17 then. These Italians are so precocious. More like six or seven and 20, Miss Piper. Bless you, she had long outgrown short frocks and pinnifalls in those days. 14, 15, yes, it must be fully 15 years ago. It was the season when we got up the honeymoon for the garrison theatricals. I played the duke. It has been one of my best parts ever since. And there was a scratch company of Italian opera singers doing wretched business. We got up a subscription for them poor things, but fancy labianca, still singing Rosina in the barber. Still, she looked charming, I can tell you. I don't say that her voice may not be a little worn in the upper notes. I wonder there's a rag of it left put in the major. Yes, a little worn, but she knows how to sing if one must listen to such trivial, florid music. That's the only way to sing it. Oh, there we shan't agree, Miss Piper. No, no, I always stand up for Rosini. I don't pretend to be a great swell at music, but I have an ear and I like a tune. Give me a tune that I can remember and whistle and I'll make you a present of Wagner and the other fellows all howlings and growlings. Major, major, called out Dr. Hats from the opposite side of the table. This is terribly obsolete, doctrine. We shall have you confessing next that you like sugar in your tea and prefer a rose to a sunflower. Mr. Brandsby wishing to avert any unpleasant shock of opinions on such high themes, here interposed, he turned the conversation back to the Italian singer who could be abused without ruffling anyone's amor proper. But who is this prima donna you're talking of, Major? Said he. Miss Piper struck in before Major Mitten could reply. It's a certain Moretti, Bianca Moretti. We heard her last summer in a minor theater at Brussels with a strolling Italian opera company. Don't you remember Patty? Moretti, said Miss Patty, instantly breaking off in the middle of a sentence addressed to Mr. Bragg at the sound of her sister's voice. The woman with the fine eyes. The woman with the fine eyes? Oh, yes, I remember her particularly because of the awful scandal there was afterwards about her and that Englishman. Several heads at the table were now turned towards Miss Patty, who shook her gingerbread colored wig with a knowing air. I was just telling the Major, said Miss Piper. We might never have known of it. If it had not been for the Italian consul who was a friend of ours, it was quite a sensation, a bit out of a French novel, eh? Oh, yes, quite ready, Mrs. Brandsby. The last words had reference to a telegraphic signal from the hostess who immediately rose. Mrs. Hadbell had been looking across at her rather uneasily during the last minute or so. The fact was that the Miss Piper's were reputed in Old Chester to have a somewhat unconsidered and free way of talking. Some persons attributed this to their annual visit to the continent. Others thought it connected rather with Miss Piper's artistic experiences, which in some mysterious way were supposed to have had a tendency to make her a little masculine. The implication would seem to be that to be masculine involves a lax government at the tongue, but as no Old Chester gentleman was ever known to protest against this imputation, it is not necessary to examine it here more particularly. When she began to talk about her French novel, my dear, there was no knowing what she might say next, said Mrs. Hadlow afterwards to Mrs. Brandsby. So the latter hurried the departure of the ladies as we have seen. When they rose to go away, may, of course, went out last. Theodore holding the door open with his air of superior politeness. Who is that pretty little girl? I don't think I know her face, said Major Mitten when the young man had resumed his seat and the chairs were drawn closer together. That is Miss Miranda Cheffington. Cheffington? I knew a Cheffington once, a terrible black sheep. Very likely it's not the same family though. What Cheffingtons does this young lady belong to? The family of Viscount Castlecomb. The man I knew was a nephew of Old Castlecomb. Gus Cheffington, his name was, I remember now. Theodore moved a little uneasily on his seat and after a moment's reflection, said gravely, Captain Augustus Cheffington is this young lady's father. He is a friend of mine. Miss Cheffington is going to town to be presented next season by her aunt, Mrs. Dormus Smith. She is a very thoroughbred woman. Do you know the Dormus Smiths, Major Mitten? They are in the best set. The Major did not know the Dormus Smiths and had no interest in pursuing the subject. He turned to join in the conversation going on between Mr. Bransby, the canon, and Dr. Hatch. And then Theodore slipped out of his place and went to sit near to Mr. Bragg, who was looking a little solitary. Mr. Bragg had a great many good qualities, but he was usually considered to be heavy in hand from a conversational point of view. Theodore, however, did not find him dull. He talked to Mr. Bragg with an agreeable sense of making an excellent figure in the eyes of that millionaire. Theodore had a strong memory, considerable powers of application, and had read a great many solid books. He favored Mr. Bragg now with his speech on the subject of the currency, about which he had read all the most modern theories up to date. The currency, he felt, must be a particularly interesting subject to a man who sold millions and billions of tin-tacks in all the markets of the world. Mr. Bragg drank his wine, keeping his eyes on the table, and listened with silent attention. Theodore, warmed by a mental vision of himself speaking in a breathless house of commons, rose to parliamentary heights of eloquence. He had already addressed Mr. Bragg as sir, and had sternly inquired what he supposed would be the consequences if the present movement, in favor of bimetalism, should be still further developed in the United States. When he was interrupted by his father's voice saying, come, shall we ask Mrs. Brands before a cup of coffee? Mr. Bragg lifted his eyes and rose from his chair and Theodore and he moved towards the door side by side. It ought to be boiled in a basin, oughtn't it? said Mr. Bragg plotfully. Oh, no, it wasn't you. I remember now it was Miss Patti Piper who was mentioning. I'll ask her again when we get upstairs. Meanwhile, the elder ladies had been deep in the discussion of Miss Piper's interrupted story. Constance and May had got close together near the Piano Forte, and Mrs. Brands be asked Constance to play something soft and pretty. Constance opened the instrument and ran her fingers over the keys in a desultory manner, playing scraps of waltzes or whatever came into her head, and continuing her chat with May to that running accompaniment. Mrs. Brands be, Mrs. Hadlow and the Miss Piper's grouped themselves near the fireplace at the other end of the room and carried on their talk also undercover of the music. It was odd enough that on my happening to mention the name of the Moretti to Major Mitten, he should remember her at Malta so many years ago, began Miss Piper. Yes, and you ought to see now that I was right and she can't be so young as you thought her, Polly, said her sister. Lord, what does that matter? They only said she looked young and so she did. And besides, I dare say the Major exaggerates her age. When a woman becomes a celebrity or comes before the public in any way, her age is sure to be exaggerated. Many people who only know me through my works suppose me to be 80, I dare say. They never imagine a woman so young as I was at the time composing a serious work like Esther. Is she handsome? The Signora Moretti asked Mrs. Brands be who was always interested in and attracted by beauty. Very handsome in that Italian style, great black eyes and black eyebrows and a fine profile, too thin though. But oh yes, extremely handsome and a very clever singer. And a very worthless hussy, added Miss Polly severely. What a pity, exclaimed Mrs. Hadlow. It does seem so sad when one finds great gifts like talent and beauty without goodness. Well, I don't know that she was so very bad either, replied Miss Piper. Goodness, Polly, how can you talk so, cried her sister, why she was living openly without Englishmen. Some people said she was married to him, you know, Patti. Stuff and nonsense returned Miss Patti, who whilst undoubtedly accepting her sister's views about music, tenaciously reserved the right of private judgment as to the character of its professors and was, moreover, chronically incredulous of the virtue of foreigners in general. No sensible person could believe that. And as to her not being so very bad, what do you make of that nice story of the gambling and the police and all the rest of it? The police, echoed Mrs. Hadlow in a low, shocked voice. What was that? asked Mrs. Bransby. Now, just let me tell it, Patti, said the elder sister. If I am wrong, you can correct me afterwards, but I believe I know more about it than you do. Well, there was an Italian opera company singing in a minor theater of Brussels when we were there and doing very well for the prima donna, Bianca Moretti was a great favorite. They had previously been making a tour through Belgium. One night, we're in the theater with some friends expecting to hear her for the second time in the Barbier when some time after the curtain art was risen, a man came on to the stage and announced that the senora Moretti had been suddenly taken ill and that there would be no performance. But the next day, we learned that the story of the Moretti's illness was only an excuse or at least that if she was ill, it was only from the nervous shock of having her house searched by the police. I think that was quite enough to make her ill, but why did they search her house? said Mrs. Bransby. Well, you see it was in this way, continued Miss Piper, lowering her voice and drawing a little nearer to her hostess. While Mrs. Hadlow cast a glance over her shoulder to assure herself that the girls were occupied with their own conversation, it seems that a set of men were in the habit of meeting every night after the opera in her apartment to play cards. There was the Englishman and a young Russian belonging to a grand family and a Serbian or a Romanian or a Bulgarian or something, said Miss Piper, whose ideas as to the national distinctions between the younger members of the European family were decidedly vague. And others, besides, now this man, the Bulgarian, we may as well call him, was a thorough black leg and bore the worst of characters. He led on the Russian to play for very high stakes and one large sums from him. Well, to make a long story short, one night there was a terrible scene. The Russian accused the other man of cheating. They came to blows, I believe, and there was a regular esglondra. And the next day the Bulgarian was missing. He had got away with a good deal of plunder. How shocking and disgraceful, exclaimed Mrs. Hadlow, in whom this gossip excited far more disgust than interest and who thought Polly Piper showed very bad taste in selecting such a topic. But why on earth did the police search the Italian singer's apartment? It was not her fault, was it? Yes, Mrs. Bransby. Why, you see, the gambling had gone on in her rooms. And the Bulgarian turning out to be connected with a regular gang of swindlers. The search was made for any letters or papers of his that might be there. We were told that the Russian ambassador had something to say to it, for the young Russian was connected with very high people indeed. Nothing was found, however. Nothing was found that could be laid hold of, put in Miss Paddy. But there could be no question what sort of a person that woman was after all that. Oh, really, Paddy, said her sister. It seems to me that the Englishman was a deal more to blame. Nobody pretended that the Moretti wanted to gamble for her own amusement or profit either. It was the ruin of her in Brussels, at any rate, for that season. There was a party made up to hiss her whenever she appeared, and there were disturbances in the theatre, and in short, the performances had to cease. I'm sorry for her. Upon my word, Polly, I don't see why you should be, cried Miss Paddy. She deserved all she got. I have no patience with bestowing pity and sympathy on such creatures. If she had been an ugly washerwoman instead of a painted opera singer, nobody would have had a soft word for her. Oh, surely there are plenty of people who would be gentle to an ugly washerwoman if she needed gentleness, put in Mrs. Hadlow. And you know, my dear Paddy, we are taught to pity all those who stray from the right path. As to that, I hope I can pity Era as well as my neighbours in a religious sense, returned Miss Paddy with some sharpness, but this is different. I was speaking as a member of society. And the Englishman was he implicated, asked Mrs. Brainsby, rather from a desire to divert the conversation from a direction fraught with danger to the general harmony than from any special curiosity on the subject. No, not exactly implicated, replied Miss Piper. That is to say, he was not suspected of any unfair play or anything of that sort, but it was considered disgraceful for him to have been mixed up in these gambling transactions, especially as he was a much older man than the others. And then, and then, continued Miss Paddy, it was not considered exactly creditable, I believe, although perhaps Polly think it was. I'm sure I don't know. It wasn't, most people would say, exactly creditable for a man of family and English gentleman to be strolling about the world with a parcel of foreign singers. And he had been doing just that. We heard of his being at Antwerp and Ghent and Ostend with them. A man of family, do you say, a really well-born man, said Mrs. Hadlow, sitting suddenly very upright in the energy of her feelings. How shocking! That really seems to be the worst of all. Well, I suppose we must pity his errors, observed Miss Paddy, with some causticity. But Mrs. Hadlow was insensible to the sarcasm or at all events her sense of it was swallowed up by a stronger feeling. I do think it's a public misfortune, she went on, when a person on whom providence has bestowed gentle birth derogates from his rank and forgets his duties, it grieves me. He must suffer a good deal in these days, I'm afraid, said Miss Paddy Grimley. Not on that account, replied Mrs. Hadlow. No, truly not. There may be exceptions. I won't deny that there are some. But on the whole, I thoroughly believe that Bonsang ne permiteer. Well, perhaps Mr. Chettington's blood is not so good as he says it is, that's all, said Miss Paddy with a short laugh. Mrs. Hadlow and Mrs. Bransby uttered a simultaneous exclamation of amazement. And then the former said in a breathless whisper, Hush, hush, my dear, for mercy's sake. Did you say Chettington? That is, Chettington is the name of that girl. Don't turn your head. Oh, it can't be the same, said Mrs. Bransby nervously. No, no, I dare say not, but the name. It must, I fear, be a member of the family, answered Mrs. Hadlow. How lucky it wasn't mentioned in her hearing, said Miss Piper, poor little thing. I wouldn't for the world. She's very pretty and bright-looking. I don't think I ever saw her before. Mrs. Bransby hurriedly explained how May came to be there, and as much of her story as she was acquainted with, which was in truth very little, the Miss Piper's listened eagerly and Mrs. Hadlow sat by with a cloud of anxious perplexity on her usually beaming face. They all admitted that, of course, the person spoken of might be no relation of May's at all, but it was evident that no one believed that hypothesis. To the Miss Piper's, the whole matter was simply a relishing morsel of gossip. They dwelt with gusto on the extraordinary coincidence of Miss Checkington's being there just that evening and the singular circumstance that Major Mitton should remember Bianca more ready and enjoyed it all very much. Mrs. Bransby's prevalent feeling was one of annoyance and resentment against Theodore who had brought this girl into the house. Mrs. Bransby detested a fuss of any sort and shrank with a sort of amiable indolence from the conflict of provincial feuds and the excitement of provincial gossip. And now she reflected this story would be spread all over Old Chester and she would be worried to death by questions on a subject about which she knew very little and cared less. We won't say another word about this horrid story, she said looking appealingly at the Miss Piper's. Silence is the only thing under the circumstances. Don't you think so? It would be dreadful if the girl should overhear anything and make a scene, wouldn't it? Miss Polly and Miss Paddy readily promised to be most guardedly silent for that evening and so long as may should be present declaring quite sincerely that they would not for the world risk hurting the poor child's feelings and then Mrs. Bransby began to flatter herself that the subject was done with so far as she was concerned but fate had decided otherwise. When the gentleman came into the drawing room Miss Hadlow was playing one of her most brilliant pieces to which Miss Polly Piper was listening with an air of responsible attention and gently nodding her head from time to time in an encouraging manner. This Paddy Piper and May were looking over a large album full of photographs together while Mrs. Bransby was narrating to Mrs. Hadlow, Bobby's latest witticisms and Billy's extraordinary progress in the art of spelling, these juvenile prodigies being her two younger children. Constance did not interrupt her performance on the entrance of the gentleman and Major Mitten went to stand beside the piano forte gallantly turning over the music leaves at the wrong moment with the best intentions. Cannon Hadlow sat down near Miss Piper. The host with Dr. Hatch crossed the room to speak to Mrs. Hadlow and Mr. Bragg and Theodore approached the table at which Miss Paddy and May Cheffington were seated. Mr. Bragg drew up a chair close to Miss Paddy at once and began to talk with her in a low voice and with more appearance of animation than his manner usually displayed. Theodore, as he observed this, remembered with satisfaction that his friend Captain Cheffington had formerly pronounced Old Bragg to be a damned snob. A man must indeed be on a low level who could prefer Miss Paddy Piper's culinary conversation to a luminous exposition of the currency question as set forth by Mr. Theodore Bransby. He bent over May who was still turning the leaves of the photograph book and said, I'm afraid you are not having a very amusing evening, Miss Cheffington. Oh yes, thank you, returned May, making the queerest little grimace in her effort not to yawn. I am very fond of looking at photographs. I don't suppose there are many portraits there that you would recognise. A little out of your set, said Theodore. In fact, I don't know many of them myself. I have been much away. By the way, have you any commands for your people in town? I go up the day after tomorrow. Shall you see Aunt Pauline? Certainly. I suppose Lord Castlecombe is not likely to be in town at this season. Went on Theodore, raising his tone a little as to be heard by the others. Constance's playing had now come to an end and there was a general lowering of voices, occasioned by the cessation of that piano forte accompaniment. I don't know, I'm sure. I don't know where he lives, answered May innocently. He is at this season in all probability at Cone Park, his place in Gloucestershire. May had never heard of her great-uncle's place in Gloucestershire, but now, when Theodore said the words, her thought flashed through a chain of associations to Mrs. Dobbs' mention of the Castlecombe arms on the Gloucester Road, kept by old rabbit, and she blushed as though she had done something to be ashamed of. The last time I had the pleasure of seeing your father, he was talking to me about Cone Park, continued Theodore, with a complacent sense of superiority to the rest of the company in these manifestations of familiar intercourse with members of the Castlecombe family. Lord Castlecombe was a very important personage in those parts. As May did not speak, Theodore went on, grand old place Cone Park, isn't it? Is it, returned May absently, she was looking with great interest at the portrait of a superb lace dress surmounted by a distorted image of Mrs. Bransby's head and face, which were quite out of focus, but the lace flounces had come out splendidly as the photographer remarked, and if the truth must be told, May admired them greatly. Is it, replied Theodore with a little smile, but you have lived so long abroad that you are quite a stranger to all these ancestral glories. I hope, however, that you have not the same preference for the continent that your father has. Oh, I am sure I should always love England best, but I don't know the most beautiful parts of the continent, Switzerland or Italy. We were always in Belgium, and Belgium isn't beautiful. At least I don't remember any beautiful country. Thus May, with perfect simplicity, still turning over the photographs and all unconscious that the Miss Piper's had simultaneously interrupted their own conversation and were staring at her. No, Belgium is not beautiful, except architecturally, replied Theodore, but there is a very nice society in Brussels and a pleasant court, I believe. No doubt that's one reason why Captain Cheffington likes it. Is Brussels your home, then? Do you live there? asked Miss Paddy, leaning eerily forward. May looked up and perceived all at once that everyone was gazing at her. The Miss Piper's sudden attention to what she was saying had attracted the attention of the others, as one may collect a crowd in the street by fixedly regarding the most familiar object. In her inexperience, she feared that she had committed some breach of the etiquette proper to be observed at a grown-up dinner party. Perhaps she ought not to have devoted so much attention to the photographs. She closed the book hurriedly, as she answered. No, I don't live in Brussels, but Papa does, at least generally. This is Bransby Rose from her chair and came rather quickly across the room. My dear, she said, I want to present our old friend Major Mitten to you. In taking May by the arm, she led her away towards the piano forte. Theodore observed this proceeding with a cool smile and a sense of inward triumph. Mrs. Bransby began to understand then what a very highly connected young lady this was, and was endeavoring, although a little late, to show her proper attention. Another time, Mrs. Bransby would receive his introduction and recommendation with more respect. In the same way, he felt gratification in the eager questions with which Ms. Paddy plied him. Ms. Paddy left the millionaire Mr. Bragg in the lurch and began to cataclyse Theodore on the subject of the Cheffington family. That fastidious young gentleman said within himself that the snobbery of these old Chester people was really too absurd and mentally resolved to cut a great many of them as he gained a firmer footing in the best London circles. Nevertheless, he did not check Ms. Paddy's inquiries. On the contrary, he condescendingly gave her a great deal of information about his friends, the Dormersmiths, the late lamented Dowager, the present Bicount Castlecombe, his two sons, the Honourable George and the Honourable Lucius, as well as some details respecting the more distant branch of the Cheffington family who had intermarried with the Scotch-Clishma clavours and were thus not remotely connected with the great Ducal house of Mbrose. This was all very well, but Ms. Paddy was far more interested in getting some information about Captain Cheffington, which would identify him with the hero of the Brussels story than of following the genealogy of the noble head of the family to its remotest ramifications. And notwithstanding that Theodore was much more reticent about the captain, she did manage to find out that the latter had lived abroad for many years, chiefly in Belgium, and that his pecuniary circumstances were not flourishing. I'm quite convinced it's the same man, Polly, she said afterwards to her sister, and indeed all the inquiries they made in Oldchester confirmed this idea. The Simpsons gave anything but a good character of May's absentee parent, and subsequent conversation with Major Mitten elicited the fact that Augustus Cheffington had been looked upon as a black sheep, even by not very fastidious or straight-laced circles many years ago. The story of the Brussels scandal was not long in reaching the ears of everyone in Oldchester who had any knowledge, even by hearsay, of the party's concern. Theodore Bransby, who left Oldchester on the Monday following the dinner party and spent the intervening Sunday at home, was one of the few in the above-named category who did not hear of it. End of Chapter 8. Volume 1, Chapter 9 of That Unfortunate Marriage. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. That Unfortunate Marriage by Francis Eleanor Trellop. Volume 1, Chapter 9. The correspondence between Mrs. Dobbs and Mrs. Dormersmith on the subject of May's removal to London was not voluminous. It consisted of three letters. Number one, written by Mrs. Dobbs. Number two, written by Mrs. Dormersmith. And number three, Mrs. Dobbs replied to that. Mrs. Dobbs always went straight to the point, both with tongue and pen. And Mrs. Dormersmith, although by no means so forcibly direct in her dealings, had a dislike to letter writing which caused her to put her meaning tolerably clearly on this occasion so as to avoid the necessity of writing again. Mrs. Dobbs had proposed that May should become an inmate of her aunt's house in London at all events for a time in consideration of an annual sum to be paid for her board and dress. The said sum was to be guaranteed by Mrs. Dobbs and was so ample as to make Pauline say plaintively to her husband. Just fancy, Frederick, how deplorably imprudent Augustus has been in offending and neglecting this old woman as he has done. You see, she has plenty of money. I had no idea what her means were, but it is clear that, for a person in her rank of life, she may be called rich, and Augustus might have obtained solid pecuniary assistance from her. I've no doubt if he had played his cards with ordinary prudence, but there never was anyone so reckless of his own interests as Augustus, beginning with that unfortunate marriage. Where unto, Mr. Frederick Dormersmith? Thus made reply. I don't know what you may call solid pecuniary assistance, but it seems to me pretty solid to keep Augustus's daughter and clothe her and pay for her schooling for four years and upwards. As to Augustus's disregard of his own interests, it is not at any rate lie in the direction of refraining from borrowing money or remembering to pay it back. That much I can vouch for. Pauline put a corner of her handkerchief to her eyes. Oh, Frederick, she said, it pains me to hear you speak so harshly. Remember, Augustus is my only brother. Mercifully, by George, if there was another of him, I don't know what would become of us. Mrs. Dormersmith declined to consider this hypothesis, but contented herself with saying that she should like to do something for poor Augustus's girl and asking her husband if he didn't think they could manage to receive her. Mr. Dormersmith thought they could on the terms proposed, which he frankly said were handsome and Pauline added softly, yes, and it is satisfactory that she offers to keep the arrangement strictly secret. It would scarcely do to let it be known that Mrs. Dobbs pays for May. It would be un-convinable. People would ask all sorts of questions. It would put the girl herself in an awkward position. Grandmother, people would say, what grandmother and the whole story of that wretched marriage would be raked up again? But on the conditions proposed, I do think, Frederick, it could do no harm to receive May. I am glad you consent. It would be a comfort to me to feel that I am doing something for poor Augustus's girl and acting as Mama would have wished. So a favorable reply was dispatched to Mrs. Dobbs' application. Mrs. Dormersmith suggested that May should come to town a little before the beginning of the season, so as to give time for preparing her wardrobe, a task to which her aunt looked forward with dilettante relish. And in answer to that, Mrs. Dobbs wrote the third and last letter of the series, assenting to the date proposed for May's arrival and entering into a few minor details. She had also meanwhile received a letter from Captain Sheffington, relisted after a long delay by three successive urgent appeals for an immediate answer. It was a scrawl and a hasty sprawl in hand and ran thus. Brussels, November one, 18 blank. Dear Mrs. Dobbs, I think it would be very desirable for Miranda to be presented by her aunt if she is to be presented at all and to be brought out properly. I have no doubt that my sister will introduce her in the best possible way. Since you seem to press for my consent, you have it herewith, although I hardly feel that I can have much voice in the matter. Being separated, as I have been for years from my country, my family, and my only surviving child, I am a mere exile. It is not a brilliant existence for a man born and brought up as I have been. However, I must make the best of it, yours always, AC. This was sufficient for Mrs. Dobbs. She had made a point of obtaining Augustus's authority for his daughter's removal to town, not because she relied on his judgment, but because she knew him well enough to fear some trick or sudden turn of famed indignation. If from any motive of his own, he thought fit to disapprove the step. As to the tone of his reply, that neither troubled nor surprised her, but Mr. Weatherhead was moved to great wrath by it. Mrs. Dobbs had tossed the note to him one day, saying, there, there's my son-in-law's consent to May's going to town in black and white. That's a document. Mr. Weatherhead eagerly pounced on it. What a disgusting production, he exclaimed, looking up over the rim of the double eyeglasses, which he had set astride his nose to read the note. Is it? returned Mrs. Dobbs carelessly. Is it? Why, Sarah, you surprise me, taking it in that cool way. It is the most thankless, unfeeling, selfish production I ever read in my life. Oh, is that all? Well, but that's just Augustus Chuffington. We know what he is at this time of the day, Joe Weatherhead. It'd be a deal stranger if he wrote thankfully and feelingly and unselfishly. But Mr. Weatherhead refused to dismiss the matter thus easily. He belonged to that numerous category of persons who, having established and proclaimed a conviction, appeared to be immensely astonished at each confirmation of it. He had years ago pronounced Augustus Chuffington to be a heartless scoundrel. Nevertheless, he was shocked and amazed whenever Augustus Chuffington did anything to corroborate that opinion. The letter from Mrs. Dormersmith was not shown to him. Mrs. Dobbs meant to keep the amount she was to pay for May a secret even from her faithful, entrusted friend, Joe. He might guess what he pleased, but she would not tell him. The means, too, by which she meant to raise the money would not she knew meet with his approval. And since she had resolved to use those means, she thought it best to avoid vain discussion beforehand and therefore said nothing about them. Accident, however, revealed a part of the secret in this way. Mr. Weatherhead, calling one afternoon at Laurel Villa to see Mrs. Simpson, who had been kept at home by a cold, found other visitors there. Miss Polly and Miss Patti Piper were drinking tea out of Mrs. Simpson's best cups and saucers and chatting away with their usual cheerfulness and volubility. The Miss Pipers, as they would themselves have expressed it, moved in a superior sphere to that of the music teacher and his wife, but they did not consider that they derogated from their gentility by occasionally drinking tea and having a chat with the Simpsons. They liked to condescend a little, and opportunities for condescension were rather rare. Then, too, they had a certain interest in Sebastian Bach Simpson, inherited from the long ago days when Sebastian Bach's father played the organ in their father's church. And Miss Polly and Miss Patti wore white frocks and blue sashes at evening parties and were the objects of a good deal of attention from the Reverend Ruben's curates. Besides some of sisters, there was present Dr. Hatch, who had come to play a professional visit to Mrs. Simpson and who was just going away. It was a peculiarity of Dr. Hatch to be always just going away. He had a very large practice and was want to avert that his professional duties scarcely left him time to eat or sleep. Yet Dr. Hatch's horses stood wading through many a quarter of an hour, during which their master was engaged in conversation, not of a strictly professional nature. When Mr. Weatherhead entered the best parlor of Laurel Villa, Dr. Hatch had a cup of tea in one hand and his watch in the other and greeted the new arrival with a friendly nod and the assurance that he was just off. Mrs. Simpson shook hands with Mr. Weatherhead and the Miss Piper's graciously bowed to him. He, too, was connected in their minds with old times. Miss Polly especially remembered seeing him on her visits to the Birmingham musical festivals when her father would take the opportunity of turning over Weatherhead's stock of books and making a few purchases. And once the Piper's had lodged during a festival week in the room's over Weatherhead's shop, glad to see you better, Mrs. Simpson, said Joe, taking a seat after having saluted the company. Oh yes, thank you, I'm quite well now. I know Dr. Hatch will scold me if he hears me say so with an arch glance involved of its effect by the unsympathetic spectacles because he tells me I still need great cab but my cough is gone, it is, really. Mrs. Simpson girlishly shook back her curls and proceeded to pour out a cup of tea for Mr. Weatherhead. And how is Simpson, asked the latter, Basi is very well, only immensely busy. He has three new pupils for piano forte and harmony. The daughters of Colonel Tut, I forgot his name, recommended by that kind Major Mitten, or at least it would be more proper to say that Major Mitten recommended Basi to them, not very polite to say that the young ladies were recommended, oh dear, I beg pardon, I'm afraid I've over-sweetened your tea. She had, in fact, put in half a dozen lumps one after the other, but Mr. Weatherhead fished a great part of them out again with his teaspoon and deposited them in the saucer, saying it was of no consequence. I'm so sadly absent-minded, said Mrs. Simpson, smiling sweetly, Basi would scold me if he were here. Serve you right if he did, said Dr. Hatch, rising from the table, you should pay attention to what you're doing, I expect to hear that you have swallowed the embrocation and anointed your throat with syrup of squills. Oh, Doctor, you say the droolest things, exclaimed the amiable Amelia with an enjoying giggle. Oh, no, not the droolest, thank heaven. I hear a great many drooler things than I say. That's what mainly supports me in my day's practice. Mrs. Simpson, not in the least understanding him, giggled again. Dr. Hatch had the reputation of being a wag, and Amelia Simpson was not the woman to defraud him of a laugh on any such selfish ground as not seeing the point of his joke. Well, Mr. Weatherhead, said Miss Patty Piper Blanley, so we are to have your sister-in-law for a neighbor, I hear. Joe poked his nose forward and pursed up his mouth. Oh, oh, my sister-in-law, Mrs. Dobbs, how do you mean, Marm, as a neighbor? We understand that Mrs. Dobbs has been looking after Jessamine Cottage, the little white house with a garden on the Gloucester Road, returned Miss Patty. Dr. Hatch paused with his hand on the latch of the parlor door to hear. Oh, dear no, said Joe Weatherhead decisively. Quite a mistake. Sarah Dobbs is too wedded to her old home. Nothing would induce her to leave Fryer's Row. He must have been misinformed, Marm. As to leaving Fryer's Row put in Miss Polly, she must do that in any case, for she has let the premises as offices, and at a high rent, too, I hear. Fryer's Row is considered a choice position for business purposes. Joe had opened his mouth to protest once more, when a sudden idea made him shudder again without speaking. Oh, he gasped and then made a little pause before proceeding. Ah, well, she—it wasn't quite settled when I heard last. Would you mind stating your authority, Marm? The best, Mr. Bragg told us himself. His managing man at the works has made the arrangement. Mr. Bragg has been looking out for a more central office for some time. I told Mrs. Dobbs long ago that she was living at an extravagant rental by sticking to Fryer's Row, observed Dr. Hatch, turning the handle of the door. Depend on it. She has let it at a swinging rent, and quite right, too. Now I really am off. Joe Wether had sat very still after the doctor's departure, with his cup of tea in his hand and a pondering expression of face. The Miss Pipers were not sufficiently interested in him to observe his demeanor very closely. If they did chance to notice that he was unusually silent, that was accounted for by his sense of the superior company he found himself in. They always spoke of him as a good odd creature with sound principles of very respectable man who knew his station. As for Amelia Simpson, she was habitually observant with an inconvenient faculty, however, of suddenly making clear-sided remarks when they were least expected. I'm sure this is very good news for us, she exclaimed. Jessaman Cottage is so near. At least it was quite close to us when we lived in Marble, Paris. It will be a good move for Mrs. Dobbs. The Arranon neighborhood is so much better than her pot of town, said Miss Paddy with a certain complacency. As who should say, the merit of this atmospheric superiority is all our own, but we are not proud. Any time surprised too at Mrs. Dobbs' moving, replied Amelia, she always declared that she hated the suburbs with their little slight-built houses. That cannot apply to our house, said Miss Polly. Garnet Lodge stood on its own ground many a long year before those new houses sprung up between Green Hill Road and the Gloucester Road. But Mrs. Dobbs isn't going to let him Garnet Lodge returned Amelia with one of her suddenly illuminations of common sense, and Jessaman Cottage is a mere band box. I remember Mrs. Dobbs among the trebles in Esther, observed Miss Polly. She had a fine, clear voice and could take the beef flat and old with perfect ease. And her husband sold capital iron mongry. We have a coal scuttle in the kitchen now, which was bought at his shop. A thoroughly solid article, added Miss Paddy. These appreciative words about the Dobbs', which at other times would have gratified Joe Weatherhead, now fell on an unheeding ear. He took his leave very shortly and walked straight to Fryer's Row. Well, Sarah Dobbs said he on entering the parlor. I didn't think you would steal a march on me like this. I did believe you'd have trusted me sooner than a parcel of strangers after all these years. He did not sit down in his usual place by the fireside but remained standing opposite to his old friend, looking at her with a troubled countenance. Mrs. Dobbs gave him one quick keen glance and then said, so you've heard it, Joe. Well, I didn't mean that you should hear it from anyone but me. But who shall stop chattering tongues? They rage like a fire in the stubble, and the poorer and lighter the fuel, the bigger blaze it makes. It was settled only this very morning, too. It is true, then, Sarah. I had a kind of hankering hope that it might only be trash and chitchat. You mean about my letting my house, don't you? Yes, that's true. And me never to know a word of it to hear it from strangers. Now look here, Joe. Let us talk sensibly. Sit down, can't you? But Joe would not sit down and after a minute's pause, Mrs. Dobbs went on. I'll tell you the truth. I didn't say a word to you of my plan beforehand because I was afraid to, there. Afraid, you, Sarah, Dobbs, afraid of me, that's a good one, but his face relaxed a little from its pained, fixed look. Yes, afraid of what you'd say, I knew you wouldn't approve and I knew why. You wouldn't approve for my sake, but thinks I, when once it's done, Joe may scold a little, but he'll forgive his old friend. And I never thought of chattering jackdaws calling the matter from the house tops. I meant to tell you myself this very afternoon. I did indeed, Joe. Joe drew a little nearer to his accustomed chair and put his hand on the back of it, keeping his face turned away from Mrs. Dobbs. Of course, you're the mistress to do what you like with your own property, he muttered. Nobody's mistress or master either to do what's wrong with their own property. I mean to do what's right if I can. I was never one to heed much what outside folk think of me, but I do heed what you think, Joe, and reason good. And I want you to know my feeling about the matter once for all, and then we can leave it alone. Mr. Weatherhead here slid quietly into the armchair and sat with his face still turned towards the fire. You know, continued Mrs. Dobbs, I told you some weeks ago that I was troubled about the child's position here. She is a real lady and ought to be acknowledged as such. That's the only good that can come now from poor Susie's marriage, and I do hold to it. There was only one way that I could see of managing what I wanted. I could do it at a sacrifice after all a very small sacrifice. Joe Weatherhead shook his head emphatically. Yes, really and truly a very small sacrifice persisted Mrs. Dobbs. I don't see why I shouldn't be just as happy and comfortable in Jessamine Cottage as here, provided, of course, that my old friends don't cut me in silk with me. I shall be lonely enough when once the child's gone and you and me will have to cheer each other up and keep each other company as well as we can. You won't refuse to do that, will you, Joe? I'm Shaikans on it. Joe slowly put out his hand and grasped her proffered one. He then took out, filled and lighted his mirsham and smoked in silence for some quarter of an hour. Mrs. Dobbs, meanwhile, knitting in equal silence. All at once she said, Hark! There's May's step coming downstairs. Now you're pleased to understand that when my moving from this house is mentioned to the child, it's because I find Friar's road too noisy and think the air in Greenhill Road will agree better with my health. I trust you for that, Joe Weatherhead mind. May, at this moment, came galey into the room and Mr. Weatherhead thus solemnly addressed her. Miranda Checkington, you have been to a first-rate school and have read your Roman history and all that, haven't you? Not much, I'm afraid, Uncle Joe. You have read about Lucretia and Portia and the mother of the grouchy. Pronounced grouchy, for Joe's instructions had been chiefly taken in by the eye rather than the ear in the shape of miscellaneous gleaning from his own stocking trade. And other distinguished women of classical times whose virtues were, in my opinion, not wholly unconnected with bounce, may laughed and nodded. Well, allow me to tell you that there are English women at the present day whom I consider far superior and all that makes a real good woman to any Roman or Grecian of them all. English women to whom bounce in every form is boring and obnoxious. English women who do good by stealth and never blush to find it fame because fame is a great deal too busy with rascals and hussies ever to trouble herself about them. Your grandmother, Mrs. Sarah Dobbs, whom I'm proud to call my friend, is one of those women, and what's more, and I'll have you bear it in mind, Miranda Checkington, I believe you'd be puzzled to find her equal in Europe, Asia, Africa, or America, not to mention Australasia and the old of the islands in the Pacific Ocean. With that, Mr. Weatherhead walked gravely out, his nose somewhat redder than usual, and his eyes glistening. End of chapter nine. Volume one, chapter 10 of That Unfortunate Marriage. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. That Unfortunate Marriage by Francis Eleanor Trollop. Volume one, chapter 10. About a year before that dinner party, at which May Checkington had made her debut in Old Chester Society, Mrs. Hadlow had begun to think it probable that Theodore Bransby might wish to marry her daughter and to consider the desirability of his doing so. On the whole she did not disapprove the prospect. Constance was very handsome, but she was also very poor. Her ambition might not be satisfied by a match with Martin Bransby's son, but on the other hand, Theodore was a young man of good abilities and apt to rise in the world. Moreover, he had sufficient property of his own to facilitate his rising, a little ballast of that sort being as useful in the melee of this world as the lead in a toy tumbler, and enabling a man, if not to strike the stars with his sublime head, at least to keep right side uppermost. Certainly Theodore had appeared much attracted by Miss Hadlow, not only her beauty, but her self-assertion approved itself to him, for a man's wife should be able to justify his taste, and there would be no distinction in winning a woman whose meekness made it doubtful whether she could have had the heart to say no to an inferior suitor. They had been playfellows in childhood, but school and Cambridge had separated them. But after Theodore began to read for the bar, and during the two last vacations which he had spent chiefly at home, a great intimacy had sprung up between the two young people. Theodore's frequent visits to the old house in College Quad did not pass unobserved. One or two persons thought his partiality for the Hadlows, especially when contrasted with the lukewarm politeness he bestowed on other families, such as Reigns the Brewer, or the Bertons who lived in a park, and had nothing to do with retail for two generations, was creditable to Theodore's heart. He was not one to neglect old friends, said they, candidly confessing at the same time, that it was more than they should have expected of him, but the majority felt sure that nothing short of being in love with Constance Hadlowe could induce young brands to prefer the cannon's old-fashioned parlor to Mrs. Reigns' red and gold drawing room, or the Bertons' aesthetic upholstery. Old Chester folks did not guess that Theodore intended to frequent a style of society in which neither the Reigns' nor the Bertons would be able to make any figure, nor did they know that he set a considerable value on Mrs. Hadlowe's connections. That lady had been a Miss Rivers, and her family ranked among the oldest landed gentry in the kingdom. There were not many Old Chester magnates to whom Theodore brands be thought at worthwhile to be more than cruelly civil. Mr. Bragg was an exception, but then Mr. Bragg was a man of very great wealth. And as mere size is held in certain cases to be an element of grandeur, so money, Theodore thought, is capable in certain cases of inspiring veneration, that is to say, when there is enough of it. As to Miss Constance's state of mind about young brands be, it was too complex to be described in a word. She liked Theodore and thought him a superior person, if not quite so superior as he thought himself. She had faith too in his future. It would be agreeable to be the wife of a distinguished MP or QC, or perhaps of both combined in one person. Theodore would certainly settle nowhere but in London, and to live in London had been Constance's dream ever since she was 15. Her visions of what her life would be if she married Theodore Brandsby concerned themselves chiefly with their joint entry into some fashionable drawing room, her presentation at court, her name in the morning post, herself exquisitely dressed, driving Theodore down to the house in a neat Victoria and returning the salutations of distinguished acquaintances as they passed along Whitehall. All more serious questions regarding their married life, Constance set at rest by a few formulas. Of course, she should do her duty. Of course, Theodore would always behave like a gentleman. Of course, they should never condescend to vulgar wrangling. Of course, her husband would give way to her in any difference of opinion, particularly since she was pretty sure to be always right. And then Constance knew herself to be so very charming that a man of taste could not fail to delight in her society. Yet it must not be supposed that she had fully made up her mind to marry Theodore. That Theodore would be very glad to marry her. She did not doubt at all. There had been a time, nay, there were moments still when her visions of herself as Mrs. Theodore Brandsby had been blurred by the disturbing element of her cousin Owen's presence. He had shown an attractive appreciation of her attractions and had, to use Mrs. Simpson's phrase, dangled after his cousin a good deal. Owen Rivers had reached the age of three and 20 without ever having earned a dinner and without any serious preparation to enable him to earn one. He had had an expensive education and had done fairly well at Oxford. His mother had died in his infancy and his father, a country clergyman, had allowed the young man to lounge away his life at the parsonage under the specious pretext of taking time to make up his mind what career he would follow. Owen had fished and shot and walked and boated and cricketed, but he had also read a good deal, having an intellectual appetite at once robust and discriminating. His friends and relatives agreed in thinking him very clever, and when they reproached him with wasting his fine abilities and leading a purposeless existence, he would answer jestingly that he would be sorry to belie their judgment by subjecting his talents to the dangerous touchstone of action. His father died before he had determined on a profession. But fortunately, as he thought, and unfortunately, as was thought by some other persons, including his Aunt Jane, he inherited wherewithal to live without working, and with 150 pounds per annum could not lack bread and cheese. On his father's death, he went to travel on the continent. He walked wherever walking was possible, carrying his own knapsack, spending little and seeing much. After more than two years' absence, he returned to England and made his way to Old Chester to see his Aunt Jane with whom he had maintained an intermittent correspondence. There he found Constance, whom he had last remembered as a sallow, self-sufficient schoolgirl, grown to a beautiful young woman. Her sallowness had turned into a creamy pallor, and her self-sufficiency was mitigated to the masculine judgment by the depth and softness of a pair of fine dark eyes. Owen, on his part, made a decidedly favourable impression on his cousin. He was not handsome, which mattered little, nor fashionably dressed, which mattered more, but he was well made and had the grace which belongs to youthful health and strength. And he had, too, that indefinable tone of manner, which ensured his recognition as an English gentleman. Constance was by no means insensible to this attraction. If she had not the sentiments which originate the finest manners, she had the perceptions which recognized them. When Mary Reigns and the Burnett girls criticized the roughness of Owen's demeanor, comparing it with Theodore Bransby's polish, she knew they were wrong. Theodore always behaved with the greatest propriety, but between his manners and Owen's, there was the same sort of difference as between native and a foreigner speaking the same language. The foreigner may often be more accurately correct of the two on minor points, but it is an affair of conscious acquirement and must inevitably break down now and then, whereas the native talks as naturally as he breathes and can no more make certain mistakes than an oak tree can put forth willow leaves. Then Owen was very amusing company when he chose to be so and he usually did choose to be so when at his aunt Jane's and he had good old blood in his veins. This latter fact gave a certain pecancy in Constance's opinion to his political theories which were opposed to the staunch Tory tradition of his family. Constance frequently took her cousin to task on this subject, but with the comfortable conviction to sweeten their controversy that a rivers could afford to indulge in a little democratic heresy, just as Lord Castlecomb could afford to wear a shabbier coat than any of his tenants. All of these considerations together with the crowning circumstance that he evidently admired her a good deal caused Owen to fill a large place in his cousin's mind. She even asked herself seriously more than once if she were in love with Owen, but failed to answer the question decisively. She did, however, arrive at the conviction that falling in love lay much more in one's own power than was commonly supposed and that no Romeo and Juliet destiny could ever inspire her with an ungovernable passion for a man who possessed about 150 pounds a year. Mrs. Hadlow had at one time felt some uneasiness nearly as much on Owen's account as on her daughter's to say the truth, but she had satisfied herself that there was nothing more than a fraternal kind of regard between the young people, wherein she was wrong and that there was no danger of their imprudently marrying, wherein she was right. Mrs. Hadlow had indeed made up her mind that Constance would accept Theodore Bransby whenever he should offer himself and she privately thought at high time that the offer were made. What did Theodore wait for? His means, according to Mrs. Hadlow's estimate of things were sufficient to allow him to marry at once, but even supposing that he did not choose to marry until he had fairly entered on his career as a barrister, still there ought to be at least some clear understanding between him and Constance. All Oldchester expected to hear of their engagement and it was not fair to the girl to leave matters in their present uncertain condition. When, at the end of the vacation, young Bransby left Oldchester again without having made any declaration, Mrs. Hadlow was not only surprised but uneasy and she opened her mind to her husband on the subject, invading his study at an unusual hour for that purpose. Edward, said Mrs. Hadlow, don't you think that Theodore Bransby ought to have spoken before he went to town this last time? Spoken, my dear, to Constance or to us about Constance. The cannon leaned his head on his hand, keeping the thumb of the other hand inserted between the pages of his play-doh as a marker and looked absently at his wife. Well, don't you think he ought? She repeated impatiently. The good cannon meditated for a few moments, then he said, I don't feel quite sure that I understand. What ought he to have said, Jane? Said, goodness Edward, he ought to have declared his intentions, of course. It is high time that something was understood clearly. The cannon's gentle blue eyes lost their abstracted look and a little sparkle came into them as he answered. I hope, may I am sure, Jane, that you would not think of taking any step or saying any word which might compromise our dear child's dignity. Let it not appear that you are eager to put this interpretation on the young man's visits. My dear Edward, Theodore has been paying conny marked attentions for more than a year past, but during this last summer and autumn, he's been in our house morning, noon, and night. He doesn't come for our bows years. But Jane, an attachment of that sort between two young creatures, should be treated with the greatest delicacy. It is shy and sensitive. Let us beware of pulling up our flower by the roots to see if it's growing. This trope by no means corresponded with Mrs. Hatlowe's conception of the relations between Theodore Bransby and her daughter. She was an affectionate mother, but she did not delude herself into thinking Constance's peculiarly sensitive or romantic. In fact, she was want to say that her daughter was 20 years older than herself on some points. But the cannon erroneously attributed to his daughter a quite poetical refinement of feeling. His views on most subjects were romantic and unworldly, and his ideas about women were peculiarly chivalrous. They frequently irked Constance. She was not without respect, as well as affection for her father, and it was sometimes difficult to bring these sentiments into harmony with her deep-seated admiration for herself. However, she usually reconciled all discrepancies between what he expected of her and what she knew to be the fact by declaring that Papa was so old-fashioned. Tell me, Jane, said the cannon after a little pause. Do you think Connie's feelings are seriously engaged? Do you think this matter is likely to make her unhappy? Unhappy? Well, no, I hope not unhappy, answered Mrs. Hadlow slowly. Then all is well, we will not let our spirits be troubled. But Edward, although she may not break her heart, heaven forbid, break her heart, Jane. Well, I say, of course, there's no fear of that, but it is detrimental to a girl to have an affair of this kind dragging on in a vague sort of way. It might spoil her chances in other directions, and the people will talk, you know. And as to spoiling her chance, which is a phrase very distasteful to me in this connection, if you mean that any eligible suitor would be discouraged from wooing Connie because another man is supposed to admire her, too, that's all nonsense. Do you think I should have been frightened away from trying to win you, Jenny, by any such impalpable figment of a rival? You, exclaimed Mrs. Hadlow, with a sudden flush and a proud smile. Oh, that's a very different matter, Edward. I don't see any young men nowadays to compare with what you were. The canon laughs softly. Thank you, my dear. No doubt your grandmother said much the same sort of thing once upon a time, and I hope your granddaughter may say it, too, someday. But set your heart at rest as to this matter. That Theodore Bransby, whom we have known from his birth, should be a frequent guest in our house, can surprise no one. There is youthful society to be found here. Without reckoning Constance, there's Owen Rivers, The Burton Girls, Little May. We may reasonably suppose this to be attractive to a young man who has no companions of his own age at home, without attributing to him any such intentions as you speak of. In fact, added the canon simply, we must believe you are mistaken. Since if Theodore loved our daughter, there's nothing to prevent his saying so. Of all which speech, two words chiefly arrested Mrs. Hadlow's attention and stuck in her memory. Little May, it was true, now she came to think of it, that the increased frequency of Theodore's visits coincided with May Chaffington's presence in Old Chester. Then she suddenly remembered it was by Theodore's influence that May had been invited to Mrs. Bransby's dinner party, and many words and ways of his with reference to Miss Chaffington occurred to her in a new light. But then again came a revulsion, and she told herself that the idea was absurd. It was out of the question that Theodore Bransby, with his social ambition, should think seriously of marrying insignificant Little May Chaffington, who was not even handsome when compared with Constance, who had childish manners, no fortune, and worst of all was Mrs. Dobbs's granddaughter. Besides, said Mrs. Hadlow to herself, he must be fond of Connie. It's quite an old attachment, and though Theodore may not have very ardent feelings, I don't believe he's fickle. Nevertheless, she was not entirely reassured. After Theodore's departure from Old Chester, she observed her daughter solicitously for some time, but she finally convinced herself that Connie's peace of mind was in no danger. She had sometimes been provoked by Connie's matter-of-fact coolness, and had felt that young ladies' worldly wisdom to be an anachronism. But she admitted that in the present case these gifts had their advantage, for when Old Chester friends showed their interest or curiosity by hints and allusions to Theodore, which made Mrs. Hadlow quite hot and uncomfortable, Constance met them all with perfect calmness, and she discussed the young man's prospects with an almost patronizing air that puzzled people. In a few weeks more, May Chaffington departed for London. Owen Rivers also went away, and life in the dark old house in College Quad resumed its usual quiet routine. End of Chapter 10. Volume 1, Chapter 11 of That Unfortunate Marriage. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. That Unfortunate Marriage by Frances Eleanor Trollop. Volume 1, Chapter 11. It was a raw, gusty afternoon towards the end of March when May and her grandmother arrived in London. There had been some difficulty about the journey, arising from Mrs. Dormers' misubjection to her nieces travelling alone and insisting on her being properly attended. In reply to a suggestion that May would be quite safe in a lady's carriage and under the care of the guard, she wrote, it is not that I doubt her being safe, but I cannot let my servant see her arrive alone when I meet her at the station. Why not send a maid with her? To which Mrs. Dobbs made answer that she could not send a maid, having only one servant of all work, but that she herself would bring her granddaughter to London. I shall go up by one train and come down by the next, she said to Joe Weatherhead. And when he remonstrated against her incurring that expense and fatigue, she answered, ah, we won't spoil the ship for a heapeth of tar. If I make it my mind apart with a child, I'll start her as well as I can. The travellers found Mrs. Dormersmith awaiting them at the railway station. She greeted May affectionately and Mrs. Dobbs amiably. My servant has a cab here for the luggage, she said, but hesitatingly, how shall we manage about, I'm afraid the broom is too small for three? Mrs. Dobbs settled the question by declaring that she did not propose going to Mrs. Dormersmith's house. She would get some dinner at the station and return to Old Chester by an evening train. Oh dear, I'm afraid that will be very uncomfortable for you, said Pauline, politely trying to conceal her satisfaction at this arrangement. Will you not come and lunch with us? But Mrs. Dobbs stuck to her own plan. While the footman was superintending the placing of May's luggage on the cab, her grandmother drew her into the waiting room to say goodbye. God bless you, my dear, dear child. Right to me often, keep well and be happy, she said, folding the girl in her arms. Mrs. Dormersmith stood by, not unsympathetic, but at the same time relieved to know James was busy with the luggage so that he could not witness the parting nor hear May's exclamation, darling granny, darling granny, indeed it might be hoped that he would never know the relationship between this stout, common-looking old woman and Miss Chuffington, nor be able to report it in the servants' hall. She felt that Mrs. Dobbs was behaving very properly and said with gracious sweetness, I am sure we ought all to be very much obliged to you for the care you have taken of my niece. It was most good of you to undertake this tiresome journey. Mrs. Dobbs looked up with a flash in her eye. I only hope, she returned hotly, that he will take as good care of my grandchild as I have taken of your niece. The next moment she repented of her retort and said quite humbly, you will be kind to her, won't you, poor motherless lamb? You will be kind to her, I'm sure. Indeed I will, answered Mrs. Dormersmith with unruffled gentleness, I have always wished for a daughter and she shall be like my own daughter to me. And with a motherly caress she drew May to her side. Don't be afraid for me, granny dear, said May, smiling with tearful eyes. I shall be very happy with Aunt Pauline. Besides, I shall see you again very soon. Mrs. Dobbs laid her hand on the girl's shoulder and pushed her gently but firmly out of the waiting room, standing herself in the doorway until May and her aunt had disappeared. Then she sat down by the fire, untied her bonnet strings, pulled out her handkerchief and sobbed unrestrainedly. The waiting room attendant looked at her curiously for she had noticed that Mrs. Dobbs did not belong to the same class as that elegantly dressed lady attended by a servant in livery with whom the young girl had gone away. Presently she drew near on pretence of poking the fire and said, You're very fond of the young lady, ain't you? But don't take on so. You'll see her again very soon, I dare say. Don't cry, poor dear. I have cried, said Mrs. Dobbs, getting up and drying her eyes resolutely. I have cried and it's done me good. And now I'll go and get a bit of food. But she only trifled with the modest dinner set before her, and as she sat in a corner of the second class carriage, which conveyed her back to Old Chester, her handkerchief was soaked with silent tears. To May, the separation naturally seemed far less terrible than it did to Mrs. Dobbs. She had no idea that it was to be a long, much less a permanent one. She found it agreeable to sit in a well-hung, neatly-appointed boulem, with a cushion at her back and a hot water tin under her feet, and to look through the clear glasses at the bustle and movement of London. Her aunt Pauline was very pleasant and sympathetic. May thought that she might come to love her father's sister very dearly. She admired her already. Mrs. Dormersmith's gentle manner, her soft, low voice, the quiet elegance of her dress, and even the delicate perfume of violets which hung about her, were all appreciated by May. My cousin is not at home, is he Aunt Pauline? She asked after a little silence. No, Searle is at Harrow. There are only the children. Oh, children cried May with brightening eyes. I'm so glad I love children. I didn't know you had any children besides Searle. Mrs. Dormersmith laughed, her peculiar little guttural laugh, consisting of several ha-ha-has, slowly and softly uttered, and made no answer. Are they boys or girls? How many are there? How old are they? questioned May eagerly. Two little boys, Harold is, let me see. Harold is six, and Wilfred five. It is very awkward having two little things in the nursery. So many years younger than their elder brother. Searle is turned fifteen. It is like beginning all one's troubles over again, said Pauline, plaintively. The birth of these two children was indeed a standing grievance with her. May thought this an odd way of talking and said no more on the subject of her little cousins, but she looked forward to seeing them with pleasant expectation. The sight of the house in Kensington brought back vividly to her mind the day after the Dowager's funeral, when she had arrived there from school feeling very strange and forlorn. She remembered, too, the abrupt departure next morning with her father, and her impression that the Dormersmith had not behaved well and that her father was very angry with them. May was shown into a bedroom at the back of the house, overlooking some gardens. The maid, having asked if she could do anything for Miss Chepington, and having mentioned that the luncheon gong would sound in ten minutes, withdrew and left May alone. She examined the room with girlish interest. It was very pretty, she thought. Perhaps in point of solid comfort, the old-fashioned furniture of her room in Friar's Row might be superior, but in Friar's Row there was no such ample provision of looking-glasses as there was here. She was still contemplating herself from head to foot in a long-swinged mirror, which stood in a good light near the window when the gong sounded. May ran downstairs, and in the dining-room she found her aunt and a heavy-looking man with grizzled, sandy hair, and dull blue eyes, who asked her how she did, and suppose she would hardly recognize him. Oh, yes I do, Uncle Frederick, she answered, and again an uncomfortable recollection of her father's angry departure from that house came over her. But whatever quarrels there might have been in those days, her aunt and uncle appeared to have forgotten all about them. Mr. Dormersmith told May more than once that he was pleased to see her. You're not a bit like your father, my dear, said he, with an approving air, not altogether flattering to Augustus. Oh, yes, Frederick, interposed his wife, there is a family expression. It's an expression I have never seen on your brother's face, known or any approach to it. Mrs. Dormersmith laughed the soft little laugh which was habitual with her when embarrassed or disconcerted and changed the conversation. I hope you like your room, May, she said. Oh, yes, very much indeed, thank you, Aunt Pauline. I wish I could have come upstairs with you, but I am obliged to menager my strength as much as possible. Are you not well, Aunt Pauline, asked May with ready sympathy? I am not strong, dear. You would be better if you exerted yourself more, said Mr. Dormersmith. Your system gets into a sluggish state from sheer inactivity. Ah, you don't understand, Frederick, answered his wife with a plaintive smile, and May felt indignant at her uncle's want of feeling that the next minute she relented towards him when he said, as he rose from table, I'll go round to the chemist myself for Willie's medicine and bring it back with me, as I suppose you will be wanting James to go out again with a carriage by and by. Is one of the little boys ill, asked May? This time it was her aunt who replied calmly, oh, no, the child has a little nervous cough. It is really more a trick than anything else. Huggins doesn't think so likely, but I can assure you. He tells me great care is needed, said Mr. Dormersmith. Can I, would you mind, might I see my little cousins, asked May with some hesitation? She was puzzled by these discrepancies of opinion between husband and wife. Mr. Dormersmith turned round with a look almost of animation, come now if you like, come with me, he said, and May followed him out of the room, disregarding her aunt's suggestion that it would be better for her to lie down and rest after her journey. The nursery was a large room, in fact, an attic at the top of the house. May noticed how rapidly the elegance and costliness of the furniture and appointments decreased as they mounted. If the dining room and drawing rooms represented tropical luxury, the bedrooms cooled down into a temperate zone, and the top region of all was arctic in its barrenness. The nursery looked very forlorn and comfortless with its bare floor, cheap wallpaper dotted with coarse-colored prints, and its small grate with a small fire in it, which had extinguished its energies in smoking furiously as the smell in the room testified. At a table in the middle of the room sat a hard-featured young woman with high cheekbones and a complexion like that of a varnished wooden doll mending a heap of linen, and in one corner where stood a battered old rocking horse and a top-heavy Noah's Ark, two little boys were kneeling on the floor building houses with wooden bricks. On their father's entrance, they looked up languidly, but when they saw who it was, they scrambled to their feet with some show of pleasure and came to stand one on each side of him holding his hands. They were both like him, blue-eyed and sandy-haired, and both looked pale and sickly. Harold, the elder, seemed the stronger of the two. Wilfred was a meagre, frail-looking little creature with a half-timid, half-sullen expression of face. Their father kissed them both, and sitting down drew the younger child on his knee whilst Harold stood pressing close against his shoulder. Well, do you know who this is? asked Mr. Dormersmith, pointing to May. Apparently they had no wish to know for they nestled closer to their father and so coldly rejected May's proffered caresses. Oh, come, you mustn't be shy, said their father. This is your cousin, May. Kiss her and say, how do you do? But nothing would induce either of the boys to give May his hand nor even to look at her, and at length she begged her uncle not to trouble himself and hoped they would all be very good friends presently. And how do we get on with our lessons, ma'am Zell? asked Mr. Dormersmith of the hard-featured young woman, who, beyond rising from her chair when they came in, had hitherto taken no notice of them. We haven't had no lessons today, put in Harold with a lowering look at ma'am Zell. No, monsieur, it has been impossible till now. I have had so much sewing to do for madame, see? And she pointed to the heap of linen. But we will have our lessons in the afternoon. I don't want lessons, I want to go out with papa. Take me with you, papa, cried Harold, whereupon little Wilfred list out that he too would go out with papa and set up a peevish wine. It is too cold for you, my man, said the father. The sharp wind would make you cough. Harold will stay with you and you can play together and do your lessons afterward like good boys. But the children only wailed and cried the louder whilst madme Zell, with her eyes on her needlework, monotonously repeated in her Swiss French, what is this, speak with my children, and apparently thought she was doing all that she was called upon to do under the circumstances. May thought her little cousins peculiarly disagreeable children, but she could not help feeling sorry for them and for their father who looked quite helpless and distressed. Would you like me to tell you a story? She said, I know some very pretty stories. A wail from Wilfred and a scowl from Harold were all the answers she received from them. But her uncle caught at the suggestion eagerly. Oh, that would be very kind of cousin May, he said, a pretty story. You'll like that, won't you? No, I shan't. I want to go with papa, grumbled Harold. I want to go with papa, sobbed Wilfred. It is always so when Monsieur comes to the nursery, said the Swiss. Coolie going on with her sewing. The children are so fond of Monsieur. Poor little fellows, cried May. Then kneeling down beside her uncle, she began softly to stroke Wilfred's hair and to speak to him coaxingly. After a while, the child glanced shyly into her face and ceased to sob. Presently, he allowed himself to be transferred from his father's knee to May's. The Noah's Ark was brought into requisition. May ranged its inmates all more or less dilapidated on the floor and began to perform a drama with them, making each animal's utterances in an appropriate voice. A smile dawned on Wilfred's pale little face and Harold drew near to look and listen with evident interest. Now, Uncle Frederick, if you have to go out, I will stay and play with the children until lesson time. They're going to be very good now, ain't you, boys? Very good now, assented Wilfred, his attention still absorbed by the Noah's Ark animals. Well, if you make the pig run again, I will be good, said Harold, with a Bismarckian mastery of the dough-ut-dace principle. Mr. Dormersmith's face beamed with satisfaction. It's very good of you, my dear, said he. If you don't mind, it would be very kind to stay with them a little while. That is, if you're not too tired by your journey. As he went away, he repeated, it's very good of you, my dear, very good of you. But May found that her aunt took a different view. Dear May, she said, when she learned where her niece had been spending the two hours after luncheon, this is very imprudent. You should have lain down and taken a thorough rest instead of exerting yourself in that way. Oh, I'm not on the least tired, Aunt Pauline. Dear child, you may not think so, but a railway journey of three or four hours jars the nerves terribly. Oh, I was very glad to amuse the children, Aunt Pauline. They were crying to go out with their father, so I tried to comfort them. They got quite merry before I left them. Mrs. Dormersmith slowly shook her head and smiled. You will find them extremely tiresome, poor things, said she placidly. They are by no means engaging children. Cyril was very different at their age. Oh, Aunt Pauline, I think they might be made. I mean, I think we shall come to be great friends. I couldn't bear to see them cry, poor mites. That is all very sweet in you, dear May, but I fancy it is best to leave their nursery governors to manage them. Her French is not all that I could wish, but a pure accent is not so vitally important for boys. It is much of an Englishman can speak French even decently, and Cyril makes herself very useful with her needle. Pauline then announced that she would not go out again that afternoon, but would devote herself to the inspection of May's wardrobe. Of course you have no evening dresses fit to wear, she said, but we will see whether we cannot manage to make use of some of your clothes. Smithson, my maid, is very clever. Why, of course, Granny would not have sent me without proper clothes, protested May, opening her eyes in astonishment. And I have an evening frock, a very pretty white muslin, quite new. To this speech, Aunt Pauline vouched safe and no answer beyond a vague smile. She scarcely heard it, in fact. Her mind was preoccupied with weighty considerations. As she seated herself on the one easy chair in May's room and watched her niece kneeling down, kneeling in hand before her travelling trunk, she observed with heartfelt thankfulness that the girl's figure was naturally graceful and calculated to set off well-cut garments to advantage. Oh, exclaimed May suddenly, turning round and letting the keys fall with a clash as she clasped her hands, above everything I must not miss the post. I want to send off a letter so that Granny may have it breakfast time tomorrow for a surprise. Have I plenty of time, Aunt Pauline? No doubt, answered her aunt absently. She was debating whether the circumference of May's waist might not be reduced an inch or so by judicious lacing. Perhaps I'd better get my letter written first, Aunt Pauline. I wouldn't miss writing to Granny for the world and any time will do for the clothes. To which her aunt replied with solemnity and with an appearance of energy which May had never witnessed in her before. Your wardrobe, May, demands very serious consideration. April is just upon us. You are to be presented at the second drawing-room. Dress is an important social duty and we must not lose time in trifling. End of Chapter 11. Volume 1, Chapter 12 of That Unfortunate Marriage. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. That Unfortunate Marriage by Frances Eleanor Trollop. Volume 1, Chapter 12. It was a great comfort to Mrs. Dormersmith to find her niece so pretty. Not a beauty, as she said to herself, but extremely pleasing and with capital points and so entirely free from vulgarisms of speech or manner. In fact, May's outward demeanor needed but very few polishing touches to make it all her dear aunt could desire. But a more intimate acquaintance revealed traits of character which troubled Mrs. Dormersmith a good deal. I suppose, she observed to her husband with a sigh, one had no right to expect that poor Augustus's Unfortunate Marriage should have left no trace in his children but it is dreadfully disheartening to come every now and then upon some absolutely middle-class prejudice or scruple in May. Now Augustus, whatever his faults may be, always had such a thoroughbred way of looking at things. Certainly no one can accuse your brother of having scruples, said Frederick. Besides, it is terribly bad form in a girl of her age to set up for a moralist. It doesn't seem much like May to set up for anything. She is always so childish and unpretending. Oh, yes, and that Angé Mieux air is delicious. It goes so perfectly with her physique. But there are so many things which one cannot teach in words but which girls brought up in a certain morned learn by instinct. What sort of things do you mean, asked her husband after a little pause? Well, on Thursday, for instance, I was awfully annoyed. Mrs. Griffin was here and seemed pleased with May and talked to her a good deal. You know that is very important because the Duchess invites people or leaves them out pretty much as her mother dictates. So I was naturally very much gratified to see May making a good impression. In fact, Mrs. Griffin whispered to me, charming, so fresh. Presently Lady Burlington came in and they began talking of those new people, the Aronsons, who have a million and a half a year. Lady Burlington had been at a big dinner there the night before and she told us the most astonishing things of their vulgarity and their pushing ways. When she was gone, Mrs. Griffin said, I do like Lady Burlington and began praising her manners and her air of grand dom and very kindly turning to May, she said, do you know, little one, that that is one of the proudest women in England? Is she, said May, I should never have guessed that she was proud. Something in her way of saying it caught Mrs. Griffin's attention and she pressed her and cross questioned her until May blurted out that she thought it despicable to accept vulgar people's hospitality only because they were rich and then to ridicule them for being vulgar. I never was so shocked for you know the Duchess and Mrs. Griffin both went to the Aronsons' bar last season. Now you know, pursued Mrs. Dormersmith almost tearfully, that kind of thing will never do. You must allow that it will never do, Frederick. It would be awkward, assented Frederick looking grave. Couldn't you tell her? Of course, I spoke to her after Mrs. Griffin had gone away, but she only said, what could I do, Aunt Pauline? The old lady insisted on my answering her and I couldn't tell her a story. You see, what a difficult kind of thing it will be to manage, Frederick. Mr. Dormersmith had become a great partisan of May's. He was genuinely grateful for her kindness to his children and would willingly have taken her part had it been possible. But he felt that his wife was right. It would really never do to carry into society an unfauntering love such uncompromising truthfulness. And this feeling was much strengthened by the recollection of sundry remarks, which May had innocently made to himself. Remarks indicating an inconvenient assumption on her part that one's principles must naturally regulate one's practice. However, as he told his wife, they must trust a time and experience to correct this crudeness. She is but a schoolgirl, after all, he said. Pauline did not pursue the subject, but she reflected within herself that there are schoolgirls and schoolgirls. There had been some discussion as to who should present May. Mrs. Dormersmith was of opinion that had there been a Viscountess, Casselcombe, the office would properly have devolved on her ladyship. But old Lord Casselcombe had been a widower for many years. At length it was decided that May should be presented by her aunt. I know it is a great risk for me to go out de colité on an English spring day, said that devoted woman, and Lady Burlington would do it if I asked her, but I wish to carry out the duty I have undertaken towards Augustus' daughter as thoroughly as my strength will allow. Under all the circumstances of the case, it is important that she should be publicly acknowledged and, as it were, identified with the family. Of course I shall feel justified in buying my gown out of May's money. May's money had come to be the phrase by which the Dormersmith spoke of the payment made by Mrs. Dobbs for her granddaughter. But besides the comforting sense of duty fulfilled, there were other compensations in store for Mrs. Dormersmith. May's presentation dress was pronounced exquisite and was ready in good time, and May herself profited satisfactorily by the instructions of a fashionable professor of deportment in the difficult art of walking and curtsying in a train. To be sure, she had alarmed her aunt at first by going into fits of laughter when describing Madame Melnolt's lessons and imitating the impressive gravity with which the Dancing Mistress went through the dumb show of a presentation at court. But she did what she was told to do, not only with facility, but with an unaffected simplicity which Aunt Pauline's good taste perceived to be infinitely charming. And she said to her husband that she really began to hope May would be a great success. The great day of the drawing room came and went, as do all days, great or small, but whether she had been a success or failure in her aunt's sense of the words May had not the remotest idea. Indeed, the various feelings on the subject of her presentation which had filled her breast beforehand, including a genuine delight in her own appearance as she stood before the big-looking glass while Smithson put the finishing touches to her headdress, were all swallowed up in the supreme feeling of thankfulness that it was over and that she had not disgraced herself by tumbling over her train or otherwise shocking the eyes of a gust personages. Also, in a minor degree, she was thankful that Aunt Pauline's antique lace flounce, a portion of the Dowager's legacy lent for the occasion, had escaped destruction. On their drive homeward, she sat silent, trying to extricate some definite image from her confused impressions of the ceremony and finding that her most distinct recollection recorded the pressure of a persistent and ruthless elbow against her ribs. Mrs. Dormersmith, too, was too much exhausted to say much. She leaned back in the carriage with closed eyes, wrapping her furs round her and sniffing at a bottle of salts. But when refreshed by a glass of wine and seated in a well-cushioned chair before a blazing fire, Mrs. Dormersmith felt very well satisfied with the result of the day. Mrs. Griffin had been there and had nodded approvingly across a struggling crowd of bare shoulders. And Mrs. Griffin's approbation was worth having. Mr. Dormersmith came home from his club a full hour earlier than usual in order to hear the report. A proof of interest, which may, not being a wist player, was unable fully to appreciate. Well, said Pauline, with a kind of pious serenity, we have accomplished this somewhat trying social duty. Trying, indeed, exclaimed May. I'm afraid you're dreadfully tired, Aunt Pauline, and the crowd and closeness made your headache, I saw. How is your head now? It is better, dear, much better. Well, said Mr. Dormersmith, looking interrogatively with raised eyebrows at his wife. Oh yes, Frederick, very nice indeed, very satisfactory, I was very much pleased. I had been a little anxious about the effect of the corsage, but Amelie has done herself great credit. And mercifully, white suits our dear child to perfection. She really looked very well. Did I, Aunt Pauline? Well, I'm sure it didn't much matter how I looked. Didn't matter, echoed Mrs. Dormersmith in a sharp tone. Oh, come, May, cried her uncle. I thought you were above that sort of nonsense. Do you mean to tell me that you don't care about looking pretty? Oh no, I mean, well, I did think my dress was lovely when I looked at myself in the big glass upstairs, but in that crush, who could see it? And I was awfully afraid that Aunt Pauline's lace flounce would be torn completely off the skirt. Her uncle laughed. You don't appear to have altogether enjoyed your first appearance as a corsia, he said. Enjoyed? Oh, who could enjoy it? Then fearful of seeming ungrateful, she added, it was very, very kind of Aunt Pauline to take so much trouble and to get me that beautiful dress. May had not been accustomed to think about ways and means. It had seemed a matter, of course, that her daily wants should be supplied, and she had hitherto bestowed no more thought on the matter than a young bird in the nest. But it was impossible for her to live as a member of the Dormersmith's family without having the question of money brought forcibly to her mind. There were small pinchings and savings of a kind utterly unknown in Friar's Row. Elaborate calculations were made as to the possibility of this or that expenditure. Aunt Pauline frequently lamented her poverty, and yet with all, there was kept up an appearance of wealth and elegance. May was not long in discovering the seamy side of all the luxury which surrounded her, and it amazed her. Why should her aunt so arrange her life as to derive very little comfort from very strenuous effort? And what puzzled her most of all at first was the air of conscious virtue with which this was done, the strange way in which Aunt Pauline would mention some peace of meanness or insincerity, as though it were an act of loftiest duty. On one or two occasions, May had innocently suggested a straightforward way out of some social difficulty, such as wearing an old gown when a new one could not be afforded, or refusing an invitation which could not be accepted at the cost of much bodily and mental harass. But these childish suggestions had been met by an indulgent smile, and she had been told that such and such things must be done or endured in order to keep up the family's position in society. Once May had asked, then why should we keep up our position in society? But her aunt had shown such genuine consternation at this impious inquiry that the girl did not venture to repeat it. Another question, however, soon forced itself upon May, namely how it came to pass that under all the circumstances so much money was spent on her dress. Besides the court train and petticoat, her aunt had provided for her a wardrobe which, to the young girls' inexperienced eyes, appeared absolutely splendid. For Pauline's conscience, although cramped and squeezed into artificial shape like a Chinese lady's foot, was alive and sentient, and she would on no account have failed to expend May's money for May's advantage. And yet, all the while, there were the two little boys in their comfortless nursery wearing coarse clothing and shabby shoes, and there was Cecile, toiling at needlework instead of attending to the children in order that the cost of a seamstress might be saved. On this subject, May felt that she had a right to interrogate her aunt, and accordingly she took courage to do so. Mrs. Dormersmith was considerably embarrassed and made an attempt to fence off the subject, but May persisted. It is very, very good of you and Uncle Frederick to do so much for me, she said, but I cannot bear to take it all. Nonsense, May. Remember, you are a cheffington. You must appear in the world properly equipped. But Aunt Pauline, it isn't fair to Harold and Wilfred. Harold and Wilfred, echoed her aunt, opening wide her soft dark eyes. What do you mean, May? May colored hotly, but stuck to her point. Well, she said, you know, Uncle Frederick was saying the other day that Willie ought to have a change of air, and you said you couldn't afford to send him to the seaside just now, and I think Cecile thinks they ought to have new walking suits, and all the while I have so many expensive new frocks. I can't bear it. It isn't really fair. Then Mrs. Dormersmith found herself compelled to assure her niece that no penny of the cost of her toilet came out of Uncle Frederick's pocket and reading a further question in the girl's face. She hastened to anticipate it by adding, the arrangements made for you here, May, are in entire accordance with your father's wishes. There has been a correspondence with him on the subject, and he wrote quite distinctly, otherwise your uncle and I would not have undertaken to bring you out. I hope, said May, that Papa does not deprive himself of anything for me. He used not to be at all well off, I know. I can remember when I was a little thing in bruge. Augustus deprives himself of nothing, answered Mrs. Dormersmith softly but emphatically. Pray say no more on this subject, my dear. This sort of thing makes my headache. Her conscience, being thus relieved, May accepted and enjoyed her new finery and her new life. She found that taking up one's position in society involved pleasanter things and being presented at a drawing room. It was delightful to be tastefully and becomingly dressed. It was agreeable to be sure of plenty of partners at every dance. It was satisfactory to have so admirable a chaperone as Aunt Pauline. One could no more form a fair judgment of that lady from knowing her only in domestic life than one could fully appreciate a swan from seeing it on dry land. In the congenial element of society, her merits were exhibited to the utmost advantage. They were indeed greater than May had any idea of. Mrs. Dormersmith's tact in warding off ineligible partners and securing as far as possible eligible ones for her niece was masterly but May admired her aunt's unruffled temper and gentle grace. She had been quick to find out with some astonishment but beyond the possibility of doubt that fine people can be exceedingly rude on occasion and she observed with pride that Aunt Pauline was never rude. Moreover, Aunt Pauline's softness of manner was far more effectual protection against impertinence than the brusquery affected by sundry ladies who forgot the wisdom embodied in the homely saying that those who play at bowls must look out for rubbers and who were always liable to be vanquished by greater insolence than their own. May soon began to be reticent of her real sentiments and opinions in speaking to her aunt and uncle. She felt that nine times out of 10 she was not understood or, which was worse, was misunderstood. But in writing to her dear granny, she frankly and fully poured out all her heart. These letters were the joy and consolation of Mrs. Dog's life. Every minutest detail interested her. She laughed over May's description of the drawing room and read it aloud to Joe Weatherhead by way of a wholesome corrective to his Tory prejudices. But at the same time, she secretly treasured a copy of the morning post containing Miss Miranda Cheffington's name and a description of Miss Miranda Cheffington's toilet on that occasion. And she listened with complacency of which she was more than half ashamed to Mrs. Simpson's ecstasies on the subject and to the scraps of information which the good nature of Amelia quoted, generally incorrectly, from social gossip setting forth how Mrs. Stormersmith and her niece, Miss Miranda Cheffington, had been present at this or that grand entertainment. These things might appear frivolous, but was it not for this end to put May in her right place in the world, to give her her birthright that Mrs. Dobbs had made a great sacrifice? Joe Weatherhead understood this so well that the fashionable intelligence in the local newspapers assumed a quite pathetic interest in his eyes. When he went to drink tea with his old friend in the parlour of her new abode with its trashy stuccoed ceiling, miserably thin walls and squeezed little fireplace, he felt it to be a positive comfort to pull from his pocket a copy of the court journal or other equally polite print and read aloud to Sarah some paragraph in which May's name occurred. It was a consolation, too, to let himself be lectured and laughed at by Sarah for his absurd admiration of the aristocracy. And he took every opportunity of combating her radicalism in order that she might victori... In order that she might victoriously vindicate the steadfastness of her political principles. Meanwhile, Captain Cheffington saw the accounts of his daughter's appearance in the fashionable world and began to think that he had been too easy in giving his consent to it. He had got nothing by it and perhaps something might have been got. He wrote twice to Pauline urgently requiring her to tell him what was the exact sum which Mrs. Dobbs paid for her granddaughter's maintenance. That it was handsome, he did not doubt, knowing by experience that the Dormersmith would not contribute a shilling. Pauline had replied evasively to the first letter and not at all to the second with the result that Augustus' imagination absurdly exaggerated Mrs. Dobbs as well. The old woman must be rolling in money after all had May's allowance been a small one. His sister would not have hesitated to tell him the exact sum. It was clear to his mind that the Dormersmiths were making an uncommonly good thing of it and he was decidedly disinclined to leave all the profit to them. He wrote off to Old Chester a demand for money on his own account. It was refused and his anger was very bitter. He even began to cherish a grudge against May. Why should she be surrounded by luxury, enjoying all the gayities of London and taking a social position to which her only claim was the fact of being his daughter whilst he lived the life of an outcast? He went so far as to threaten to come to England and bring away his daughter, having some idea that Mrs. Dobbs might ransom May and penchant him off. But the energy which might once upon a time have enabled Augustus Chekington to take this strong step had waned long ago. He had grown inert and above all the circumstances of his private life rendered such independent action difficult if not impossible. It presently began to be reported among Mrs. Dormersmith's acquaintances with other items of tea table gossip that little May Chekington had a rich old grandmother somewhere down in the country. Theodore Bransby who was admitted as a familiar visitor at the Dormersmith's and who made a parade of his intimacy with the Chekingtons was interrogated on this subject. He maintained a cautious reserve in his replies. He really could say nothing. He had no idea what the old lady's means might be. He could scarcely in fact be said to know her at all. Wishing as he did completely to ignore that objectionable old iron monger's widow, it was irritating to find her existence known and her means discussed in London. To be sure, no one troubled himself to inquire, who is she? General interest being exclusively concentrated on the question, what has she? Theodore's reticence was by no means attributed to his real cause. People said that young Bransby was looking after the girl himself and wanted to choke off possible rivals. Theodore did indeed push himself as far as possible into every house which May frequented. There were some still inaccessible to him but he had patience and perseverance and he was constantly meeting May in the course of the season. She was far more pleased to see him in London than she had ever been in Old Chester. He was associated with persons whom she loved and on many occasions when ballroom lookers on pronounced Miss Chevington and young Bransby to be spooning awfully, May was talking with animation of his half-brothers Bobby and Billy of the dear old Canon and her friend Constance or even of Mr. and Mrs. Sebastian Bach Simpson. Theodore had no relish for these topics but it was better to talk with May of them than not to talk with her at all and to the girl, he seemed the only link between her present life and the dear old Chester days. At the beginning of June, however, he ceased to have this exclusive claim on her attention. One fine day Aunt Pauline, returning from an afternoon drive with her niece found a large visiting card with the Mrs. Piper engraved on it with many elaborate flourishes whilst underneath it was written in pencil, Miss Hadlow. Piper, said Pauline, languidly dropping her eyeglasses and looking round at May. What can this mean? Oh, it means Miss Pauline, Miss Patty and my school fellow, Constance Hadlow, cried May, clapping her hands. Fancy Connie being in town. I dare say the Piper's invited her on a visit. I'm so glad. Mrs. Stormerson's countenance expressed anything but gladness and she privately informed May that it would be impossible to do more than send cards to these ladies by the servant. I can't have them here on my Thursdays, you know, May. She said plaintively and with an injured air. Three months ago, May would have indignantly protested against this tone and would have pointed out that it would be unfeeling and ungrateful on her part to slight her old friends. But she had by this time learned to understand how unavailing were all such representations to convince Aunt Pauline in whose code personal sentiments of goodwill towards one neighbor had to yield to the higher law of duty towards society. Perhaps, said May after a pause, if you cannot go yourself, Uncle Frederick would take me to Miss Piper's some Sunday after church. When we go for a walk with the children, you see they have written Sundays on the corner of their card. Oh, do you think they would be satisfied with that sort of thing? Asked her aunt. They are most kind, good natured old ladies, pursued May. They wouldn't mind the children at all. Indeed, they like children. And as to coming to your Thursdays, Aunt Pauline, I really don't think they would care to do it. Music is their great passion, at least Miss Polly's great passion. And when they're in London, I think they go to concerts morning, noon and night. Miss Hadlow is different. Her grandpa was a rivers, added May, blushing at her own wildiness. And she is very handsome and sure to be asked out a great deal. But May's profound strategy did not end here. She coaxed Uncle Frederick by representing what a treat it would be to Harold and Wilfred to go out visiting with papa. These young gentlemen, privately incited by hints of possible plum cake, were soon all eagerness to go. And when on the very next Sunday, May set off with her uncle and cousins to walk to Miss Piper's lodgings, she felt that she had achieved a diplomatic triumph. End of chapter 12.