 13. Those old Chester persons who considered Miss Piper's artistic tendencies responsible for her occasional freedom of speech, would have been confirmed in their opinion as to the demoralizing tendency of art and continental travel had they known how the daughters of the late Reverend Ruben Piper employed Sunday afternoon in London. Miss Patti herself had been startled at first by the idea of not only receiving callers, but listening to profane music on that day, and the sisters had had some discussion about it. When Patti demurred to the suggestion, Polly inquired whether she truly and conscientiously considered that there was anything more intrinsically wrong in seeing one's friends and opening one's piano on a Sunday than on a Monday. Now, of course not that, answered Patti. If I thought it wrong, I shouldn't discuss it even with you. I should simply refuse to have anything to do with it. I know that, Patti, said her sister, and I hope I am not altogether without a conscience either. No, Polly, but would you do this in Old Chester? Certainly not. Then that's what I say. We ought not to have two weights and two measures. If a thing is objectionable in Old Chester, it is objectionable in London. Not at all. Circumstances alter cases. I may think it a good thing to take a sponge bath every morning, but I should not take it in public. Polly, how can you? What I mean is that so long as we are not a stumbling block of offence to other people, we have a right to please ourselves in this matter. So Miss Polly's will prevailed, as it prevailed with her sister upon most occasions, and the Sunday receptions became an established custom. The house in which the misspipers lodged when they came to London was in a street leading out of Hanover Square. The lower part of it was occupied by a fashionable tailor, a tailor so genteel and exclusive that he scorned any appeal to the general public, and merely had the word girl, which was his name, woven into the wire blind that shaded his partner window. The rooms above were sufficiently spacious and were moreover lofty, a great point in Miss Polly's opinion, as being good for sound. They were furnished comfortably, albeit rather dingily, but a few flowerpots, photographic albums, and bits of crochet work scattered here and there answered the purpose, if not of decoration, at least of showing decorative intention. A grand piano forte, bestriding a large tract of carpet in the very middle of the front drawing room, conspicuously asserted its importance over all the rest of the furniture. May and her uncle, accompanied by the two little boys, were shown upstairs, and the door of the drawing room being thrown open, they found themselves confronted by a rather numerous assembly. The last bars of a piano forte piece were being performed amidst the profound silence of the auditors, and the newly arrived party stood still near the door, waiting until the music should come to an end. At the piano sat a smooth-faced young gentleman playing a series of incoherent discords with an air of calm resolve. Immediately behind him stood an elderly man of gentleman-like appearance, who may found herself watching as one watches a person swallowing something nauseous, and involuntarily expecting him to make a face, as each new dissonance was crashed out close to his ear. But his amiable countenance remained so serene and satisfied that the doubt crossed her mind whether he might not possibly be deaf. In the embrasure of a window stood a very tall, thin man whose bald head was encircled by a fringe of grizzled red hair, and whose eyes were fast shut. But as he stood up, perfectly erect, with his hands folded in a prayerful attitude on his waistcoat, it was obvious that he was not asleep. Miss Piper was seated with her back towards the door and her face towards the pianist, so that May could not see it. But the composer of Esther nodded her head approvingly at every fresh harmonic catastrophe which convulsed the keyboard. Her satisfaction seemed to be shared by a stout lady of majestic men, who sat near her in fired-off exclamations of eulogium, such as charming, wonderful modulation intensely wrought out, and so on, like minute guns, and with a certain air of suppressed exasperation as though she suspected that there might be persons who didn't like it, and was ready to defy them to the death. A dark-eyed girl, very plainly dressed and holding a little leather music roll in her hand, occupied a modest place behind this lady. Sitting close to the dark-eyed girl was a man of about thirty-five years old, well-featured, short in stature, and with reddish-blonde hair and moustaches. This personage's countenance expressed a singular mixture of audacity and servility. His smile was at once impudent and false, and he listened to the music with a pretentious air of knowledge and authority. The rest of the company with Miss Patty were relegated during the performance to the back-drawing room, where tea was served, and the folding doors were closed lest the clink of a teaspoon or the cibulation of a whisper should penetrate to the music room. But in truth nothing less than a crash of all the crockery on the table and a simultaneous bellow from all the guests could have competed successfully with the piano forte piece then in progress. At length with one final bang it came to an end, and there was a general stir and a movement among the company. The amiable-looking elderly man advanced towards Miss Piper with a most beaming smile and said in a soft, refined voice, That is the right way, isn't it? One knows the sort of thing said by people who don't understand this school of music, the only music in fact, but I have long been sure that this is the right way. Of course it is the right way, exclaimed the stout lady, breathing indignation, not loud but deep against all heretics and schismatics. We are so very, very much obliged to you, Mr. Turner, said the hostess, that a new composition of yours is really wonderful. And so indeed it was. As Miss Piper went up to the young gentleman who had been playing the piano, and who remained quite cool and unmoved by the demonstrations of his audience, she caught sight of the group near the door and hastened to welcome them. May was received with enthusiasm and her uncle with one of Miss Piper's best old fashion curtsies. Mr. Dormersmith began to apologize for bringing his little boys and to explain that he had not expected to find so numerous an assembly. But Miss Piper cut him short with hearty assurances that they were very welcome, and that her sister in particular was very fond of children. Then the doors being by this time reopened, she ushered them all into the back room crying, Patti, Patti, who do you think is here? May Charrington. And then Miss Patti added her welcome to that of her sister. Harold and Wilford had been shyly dumb hitherto, although once or twice during the piano forte playing, Wilford had only saved himself from breaking into a shrill whale and begging to be taken home by burying his face in the skirts of May's dress. But on beholding plum cake and other good things set forth on the tea table, they felt that life had compensation still. They took a fancy also to the Miss Piper's, finding their eccentric ornaments a mine of interest. And before three minutes had elapsed, Harold was devouring a liberal slice of cake, and Wilford, seated close to kind Miss Patti, was diversifying his enjoyment of the cake by a close and curious inspection of that lady's bracelet, taken off for his amusement, and endeavouring to count the various geological specimens of which it was composed. As soon as May appeared in the back drawing room, Constance Hadlow rose from her seat in a corner behind the tea table, and greeted her. Dear Connie, cried May, I'm so glad to see you. Then you are staying with the Miss Piper's. I guessed you were. Mr. Dormersmith was then duly presented to Miss Hadlow. Constance was in very good looks, and her beauty and the quiet ease of her manner made a very favourable impression on May's uncle. Miss Hadlow found a seat for him near herself, and then turned again to May, saying, There is another old chest of friend whom you have not yet spoken to. You remember my cousin Owen? May's experience of society had not yet toned down her manner to that repose which stamps the cast of their de verre. She heartily shook hands with the young man, exclaiming, This is a day of joyful surprises. I didn't expect to see you, Mr. Rivers. Now, if we only had the dear Canon and Mrs. Hadlow and Granny, I think I should be quite happy. You are not a bit changed, said Owen Rivers, giving May his chair, and standing beside her in the lounging attitude so familiar to her in the garden at College Quad. Changed? What should change me? The world. What nonsense cried May with her old schoolgirl bluntness, as if I had not been living in the world all my life. Mr. Rivers raised his eyebrows with an amused smile. Well, isn't it nonsense, pursued May, to talk as if a few hundred or thousand persons in one town, though that town is London, made up the world? It is a phrase which everyone uses and everyone understands, but everyone does not understand it alike. Perhaps not. What did you mean by it just now? What could I mean but the world of fashion, the world par excellence, rightly so-called no doubt since it affords the best field for the exercise of the higher and nobler human faculties, those who are not in it exist indeed, but with a half-developed inferior kind of life, like a jellyfish? May laughed her frank young laugh. You are not changed either, she said emphatically. Did you enjoy the performance with which that young gentleman has been obliging us, asked Rivers? I only heard the end of it, very diplomatically answered. Are you fond of music, Mr. Rivers? Yes, of music, very fond. So am I, but I know very little about it. Granny is a good musician. How fond you are of Mrs. Dobbs, said Rivers. I am very proud of her, too, answered May quickly. Owen Rivers looked at her with a singular expression, half admiring, half tenderly, pitying, as one might look at a child whose innocent candor is as yet unspotted from the world. I suppose you know all the people here, said May, looking round on the assembly. I know who they are, most of them. That gentleman who was standing by himself at the window, the tall gentleman, who is he? Mr. Jorla, a great music critic, and the pleasant-faced man who seemed so delighted with the playing? Mr. Sweeting, he is an enthusiastic admirer and patron of young Cleveland Turner, the pianist, a very kindly, amiable, courteous gentleman, with much money and leisure, as I am told. That stout lady talking to Ms. Piper seems to be musical, also. That is Lady Moppet, a very good sort of woman, I daresay, but fanatical. She would boasting all us dogs of Christians who believe in melody. And who is that disagreeable little man in the corner? Disagreeable? The little man with moustaches, there, close to the nice-looking dark-eyed girl. Oh, that man, but he is not considered disagreeable by the world in general, Ms. Chepington. He is, by way of being a rather fascinating individual, Sr. Vicenzo Vali, singing master and composer of songs. I wonder why he condescends to favor Ms. Piper with his presence. Is it a condescension? A great condescension. Sr. Vali is nothing, if not aristocratic. At this moment there was a general movement in the other room. The young pianist seared himself once more at the instrument, the various groups of talkers dispersed, and took their places to listen. May whispered nervously to Ms. Patti that perhaps she and her uncle had better go and take away the children before the music commenced. I'm so afraid, she said naively, that Willie may cry if that gentleman plays again. Ms. Patti found a way out of the difficulty by taking the children away to her own room. It was no deprivation to her, she said, not to hear Mr. Turner play. So the two little boys laden with good things, and further enticed by the promise of picture books, trotted off very contentedly under Ms. Patti's wing. Mr. Dormersmith had passed into the front drawing-room where he was chatting with Lady Moppet, who proved to be an old acquaintance of his. May was following her uncle to explain to him about the children when Ms. Piper hurried up to her with an anxious and important mien. Sit down, my dear. She said, sit down. Cleveland Turner is going to play that fine Beethoven, the one in F Minor, the opera of 57, you know. Mr. Jolla particularly wishes to hear him perform it. May glanced round, and seeing no place fake it near at hand, returned to the other room, and took a seat close to the folding doors, which were now left open. What is our sentence? asked Rivers. Do you mean what is he going to play? A piece of Beethoven's. Oh, well, at least he will have something to say this time. Remains to be seen whether he can say it. Mr. Cleveland Turner performed the sonata appassionata correctly, although coldly, and with a certain hardness of style and touch. But the beauty of the composition made itself irresistibly felt, and when the piece was finished there was a murmur of applause. Mr. Jolla opened his eyes, inclined his head, opened his eyes again, and said apparently to himself, yes, yes, oh yes, which seemed to be interpreted as an expression of approval, for Ms. Piper looked radiant, and even the icy demeanor of Mr. Cleveland Turner thought half a degree or so. Senior Valley had applauded in a peculiar fashion, opening his arms wide, and bringing his gloved hands together with apparent force, but so as to produce no sound whatever. And as he went through this dumb show of applause he was talking all the time to the dark-eyed girl near him, with a sneering smile on his face. Ms. Piper buzzed up to them. Dear Ms. Bertram, she said, you must let us hear your charming voice. Mr. Jolla has heard of you. He would like you to sing some things. Senior Valley, with class pants, might I entreat you to accompany Ms. Bertram in one of your own exquisite compositions? It would be such a treat, such a musical feast, I may say. Ms. Bertram unrolled her music case in a business-like way and spread its contents before the singing master. What are you going to sing Clara, as Lady Muppet turning her head over her shoulder? Senior Valley will choose, answered the young lady quietly. Valley selected a song and offered his arm to Ms. Bertram to lead her to the piano. She did not accept it instantly, being occupied in replacing the rest of her music in its case. And with a sudden, impatient gesture, Valley wheeled around and walked to the piano alone. Ms. Bertram followed him compositely and took her place beside him. May looked at her with interest as she stood there during the few bars of introduction to the song. Clara Bertram was not beautiful but she had a singularly attractive face. Her dark eyes were not nearly so large nor so finely set as Constance Hadlowe's, but they were infinitely more expressive and her rather wide mouth revealed a magnificent set of teeth when she smiled or sang. The song selected for her was one of those compositions which, if ill-sung or even only tolerably sung, would pass unnoticed. But Ms. Bertram sang it to perfection. Her voice was very beautiful, with something peculiarly pathetic in its vibrating tones, and she pronounced the Italian words with a pure, unaffected, and Finnish accent. Oh, how lovely exclaimed May under her breath when the song was over. Isn't it? said Miss Piper, who happened to be near enough to catch the words. I am so glad you're pleased with her. Do you think Mrs. Dormismith would like her to sing now and then at a soiree? She wants to get known in really good houses. Before May could answer, the little woman had hurried off again, and in another minute was leading Ms. Bertram up to Mr. Joller, who spoke to the young singer with evident affability, keeping his eyes open for a full minute at a time. Meanwhile, Valley was left alone at the piano, and an ugly look came into his face as he glanced round and saw himself neglected. But his expression changed in an instant with curious suddenness, when Ms. Hadlow drew near, and leaning on the instrument addressed some words of compliment to him. Will you not let us hear you sing, Senor Valley? she said presently. Valley merely shook his head in answer, keeping his eyes fixed on Ms. Hadlow's face with a look of bold admiration, and letting his fingers stray softly over the keys. Oh, that is a terrible disappointment. I don't think so, replied the singing master, speaking very good English. It is indeed. Again, he shook his head. It is to me at all events. Well, I shall sing for you a little song, soto voce, all to ourselves. Oh, but that would be too selfish on my part to enjoy your singing all to myself. It is a very good plan to be selfish, returned Valley, and forthwith he began a little Neapolitan love song, murmuring rather than singing it, and still keeping his eyes fixed on Ms. Hadlow. At the first sound of his voice, low and subdued though it was, Ms. Piper held up her finger to bespeak silence. There was a general hush. Everyone looked towards the piano, against which Constance was still leaning with her back to the rest of the company. She made a little movement to withdraw to a seat, but Valley immediately ceased singing, and under cover of a noisy ritonelle which he played on the piano, said to her, I am singing for you. If you go away, my song will go away too. But I can't stand here by myself, Senior Valley, protested Constance, by no means displeased. At this moment Ms. Piper approached to implore the maestro to continue, and Constance whispered to her, in a few words, the state of the case. Caprices of genius, my dear, said the little woman, when you have seen as much of professional people as I have, you will not be astonished. Then to Valley, will you not continue that exquisite air? We are all dying to hear it. Yes, on condition that you both stay there and inspire me, answered he with an unconcealed sneer. Ms. Piper, however, took him at his word, and linking her arm in Constance's remained standing close to the instrument. Valley, upon this, resumed his song. He gave it now at the full pitch of his voice, addressing it ostentatiously to Ms. Hadlow, and throwing an exaggerated amount of expression into the love passages. Ms. Piper was enchanted, and led off the applause enthusiastically. Valley was soon surrounded by a group of admirers, Mr. Dormersmith among them. May was conscious of a painful impression, which destroyed any pleasure she might have had in the song, and that Owen Rivers shared this impression was proved by his walking up to the piano and unceremoniously putting his cousin's hand on his arm to lead her away. Oh, don't take Connie away, Mr. Rivers, cried Ms. Piper. Senior Valley is going to favour us with some more of his delicious national airs. Come and sit down, Constance, said Owen authoritatively. Let me get you a seat also, Ms. Piper, he added. It can scarcely be necessary for the due exhibition of this gentleman's national airs to keep two ladies standing. Oh, no, please don't mind me. I'm quite comfortable, said Ms. Piper, with a shade of vexation on her good humoured round face. Constance remained perfectly calm and self-possessed. Only a faint smile and a sparkle in her eyes revealed a gratified vanity as she took the chair near May to which her cousin conducted her. Ms. Piper shrugged up her shoulders and pursed up her mouth. He has no idea what artists are, she whispered in Lady Moppet's ear, and besides poor dear young man, he's so desperately in love with his cousin that he can't bear her even to be looked at. I only hope Senior Valley won't take offense. But Valley, founding himself now the object of general attention, was very gracious. He sang song after song without the inspiration of Ms. Hadlow's handsome face opposite to him, and he sang far better than before with less exaggeration and managing his naturally defective voice with singular skill and finesse. But the praise and flattery which his hearers poured forth unstintingly did not seem quite to satisfy him. His glance wandered restlessly as though in search of something, and finally after a very clever rendering of an old air by Caracini, he addressed himself suddenly to Ms. Bertram, who was standing somewhat apart in the background and asked in Italian, Is the seniorina content? I always liked your singing of that aria, she answered in a quiet matter of fact tone. Like it, indeed, exclaimed Lady Moppet with her severest manner. I should think you did like it, Clara, and you ought to profit by it. To hear singing so finished of such a perfect school is a lesson for you. Valley upon this made a low bow to Lady Moppet, a bow so low as to seem almost burlesque. As he raised his face again, he turned it towards Ms. Bertram with a subtle smile, saying, Her praise is very precious. Clara, however, kept an impassive countenance and declined to meet the glance he shot at her. Then Valley made a second and equally low bow to the hostess, and cutting short her ecstatic compliments and thanks, left the room without further ceremony. The party now broke up. Lady Moppet departed with Ms. Bertram and Mr. Joller, to whom she offered a seat in her carriage. Mr. Cleveland Turner and his patron, Mr. Sweeting, went away together. In a few minutes there remained Mr. Dormersmith with his niece and Owen Rivers. Ms. Patty bustled in with the two children. Dear me, said she, is the music all over? Well, now let us be comfortable. But Mr. Dormersmith declared he must reluctantly bring his visit to an end. I don't know how to thank you, he said to Ms. Patty, for your kindness to my children. I hope you will forgive me for bringing them. Ms. Patty heartily assured him that there was nothing to forgive, and that she hoped he would bring them again. She had gathered from the artless utterances of Harold and Wilfred, an idea of their home life which made her feel compassionately towards them. As for Ms. Polly, she was in the highest spirits. Mr. Joller and Senior Vallee, both stars of considerable magnitude in the musical world, had shown for her with unclouded luster. It had been, she thought, a highly successful afternoon. So also thought Harold and Wilfred, and perhaps these were the only three persons who had enjoyed themselves so thoroughly and unaffectively. End of Chapter 13. Volume 1 Chapter 14 of that Unfortunate Marriage. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. That Unfortunate Marriage by Frances Eleanor Trollop. Volume 1 Chapter 14. The London season proceeded with its usual accumulation of engagements, its usual breathless chase after half hours that have got too long a start ever to be recaptured, its usual fleeting satisfactions and abiding disappointments, its snubs, sneers, smiles, follies, falsehoods, and flirtations. The rising current of fashionable life in London carried Little May Chuffington on its surface together with many brazen vessels of a very different kind. Constance Hadlow observed half-enviously to her friend that she was thoroughly in the swim, a phrase which May found singularly inappropriate in her own case, feeling that there was no more question of a swim than in shooting Niagara. To her, especially the world of society, was confusing, phantasmagoric, and unreal. All the faces were new to her, most of the names awoke no associations in her mind. On the other hand, this peculiar inexperience gave freshness to her impressions and keenness to her insight. She had none of those social traditions, which nine times out of ten supply the place of private judgment. She found her impression of many personages, startlingly at variance with the label which the world had agreed to affix to them. It is possible to be at once simple and shrewd, just as it is possible to be both rusee and dull-witted. May's simplicity was not of the blundering, thick-skinned type, and her ingenuous freshness was admired by a great many persons. Among whom was Mrs. Griffin. Far from being offended by May's moral indignation against those who accepted the hospitality of vulgar people and then ridiculed them for being vulgar, Mrs. Griffin entirely approved her sentiments. Mrs. Griffin herself deported, as she often said, the servility towards mere money, which was degrading the tone of society. And whenever any new instance of it came to her knowledge, she would shake her head and exclaim softly, oh, Mammon, Mammon. But this did not, of course, apply to her daughter, the Duchess, who sometimes went to Aronsons. Her daughter was so very great a lady as to be above ordinary restrictions. Other people worshiped Mammon, the Duchess only patronized Mammon, which was surely a very different thing. Aunt Pauline, however, derived no gratification from May's unconventional frankness. It was, on the contrary, a source of constant anxiety to her, and she felt daily, more and more, that it would be a relief to get May off her hands. Introducing her niece into society, even although the niece was a pretty girl and a cheffington to boot, had not proved so pleasing a task as she had anticipated. There was, to her thinking, a strange perversity in the girl's character, which made her callous where she should be sensitive and sensitive, where she might well be indifferent. For instance, she showed culpable coolness about her great-uncle Castlecombe and his family and provoking warmth about her old Chester friends. Not that May was apt to speak much of her life in old Chester. In the natural course of things, she would have talked freely and eagerly about her dear granny, but very soon after her arrival in London, her affectionate molclassity on this subject received a check. Aunt Pauline had hinted, with her usual mild politeness, that it would be desirable not to speak of Mrs. Dobbs before Smithson or any of the servants. Seeing the startled look in May's eyes and the indignant flesh on May's cheeks, her aunt added diplomatically, Your father would not like it, May. I am trying to carry out his expressed wishes. That ought to be enough for you. It was enough at all events to close May's lips. Her love and pride combined to make her silent. She tried to persuade herself that her father at all events had some good and reasonable motive for this prohibition, and that he, at least, was not ashamed of Mrs. Dobbs, ashamed of Granny. The very thought made her hot with anger, but that Aunt Pauline was ashamed of her was too clear to May's honest mind. Painful as this conviction was, however, she came by degrees to hold it rather in sorrow than in anger, and to regard her aunt with something of the same indulgent toleration that Mrs. Dobbs had once expressed to Joe Weatherhead. For Mrs. Dormers' misworldliness was not all of a cynical sort. It was rather in the nature of a deep-rooted superstition conscientiously held. To some points of her worldly creed Pauline clung with religious fervor. One of these was the duty incumbent on a dourless young lady to marry well. To marry very well was to marry a man with birth and money, but to secure a husband with money only, provided there were enough of it, she allowed to be marrying well. She did not look at the matter with vulgar flippancy. It was, no doubt, a sacrifice for a well-born woman to become the wife of an underbred man, however wealthy, but well-born women were no less called upon than their humbler sisters to make sacrifices in a good cause. None of the Castlecombs much frequented fashionable society and Mrs. Dormersmith had hitherto resigned herself without much difficulty to seeing very little of her noble kinsfolk. But when May was introduced, her aunt thought it desirable to cultivate them. Lord Castlecombs' big gloomy family mansion in town had been let ever since his wife's death many years ago, and whenever his lordship came to London to give his vote in the House of Peers, which was almost a sole object that had power to bring him up from the country, he occupied furnished lodgings. Of his two sons, both bachelors, the elder was governor of a colony on the other side of the globe, and the younger held a permanent post under government. This Lucius Cheffington occasionally met Mr. Dormersmith at the club and exchanged a few words with him. Captain Cheffington, on his penultimate visit to England, when his ungrateful country declined to provide for him, had quarreled with all the castle-combs and had made himself particularly obnoxious to Lucius, for Lucius, whom his cousin considered a solemn ass, held a lucrative place whilst Augustus, who knew himself to be a remarkably clever fellow with an immense knowledge of the world, was relegated to poverty and obscurity. But Pauline had not quarrelled with them. She would not willingly have quarrelled with anyone, least of all with her uncle castle-combe and his family, and as to Mr. Dormersmith, it chanced that the one point of sympathy between himself and his cousin-in-law, Lucius, was the latter's cordial dislike to Gus. Nevertheless, the dislike did not descend to Gus' daughter. Lucius was pleased to approve of his young kin's woman, nonetheless, perhaps, that it was evident her father troubled himself a little about her. Mr. Dormersmith knew very well that the most effectual way of winning Lord Castle-combe's goodwill for his grandniece was to assure his lordship that he would not be called upon to do anything for her. He therefore confidentially informed Lucius that the girl's grandmother in Old Chester was defraying her expenses and would no doubt eventually provide for her altogether. The sagacity of this course was proved soon afterwards when Lucius announced that his father would come and dine with Pauline the next time he should be in town and make Miranda's acquaintance. This was well, and even as to May's Old Chester friends, matters turned out better than her aunt could have hoped. In the first place the Mrs. Piper showed no disposition whatever to force themselves on Mr. Dormersmith. That being the case there was no objection to May's going to see them every Sunday with her uncle and the children. To Harold and Wilford these Sunday visits were such a delightful break in the dull routine of their lives that their father would have endured considerable boredom and discomfort rather than deprive them of it. But in fact he was not bored. Whenever the music became too severe he could withdraw into the tea room where he always found someone to chat with. Possibly he too felt these Sundays to be a break in the monotony of his daily life. There was a cordial hearty tone about the hostesses which was decidedly pleasant although he was aware that Pauline would pronounce it sadly underbred. But Pauline was not there to be shocked and there were some red drops in Mr. Dormersmith's veins. He was not quite so blue-blooded as his wife which warmed to this plebeian kindness. Sometimes even the moisture would come into his eyes when he watched his little boys clinging familiarly about Miss Patty as they never clung about their mother. The good natured old maid had won the children's hearts completely. They were overheard one day in a lively discussion as to which was the prettier, Miss Patty or cousin May. Wilfred inclining on the whole to award the palm of beauty to his cousin but Harold powerfully arguing in favour of Miss Patty that she had such beautiful curls, an ingenuous and probably unique tribute to the gingerbread coloured wig and a shiny brooch like a butterfly. Then Constance Hadlow who Mrs. Dormersmith had unwillingly invited to lunch one day with her former school fellow proved to be in every respect most presentable as Aunt Pauline herself candidly admitted. So presentable was she in fact so handsome, self-possessed and even on the mother's side well connected that there might have arisen objections of a different sort against receiving her as being a dangerous competitor for that solemn duty of marrying well but a chance word of maze to the effect that young Bransby had long been an admirer of Constance and that they were supposed by many persons in Old Chester to be engaged to each other relieved Aunt Pauline's mind on that score. It would be very suitable she said approvingly I think Mr. Bransby a very nice person so quiet. The subject of this glowing eulogium had not appeared at Mrs. Dormersmith's receptions for some time. He had been ordered into the country to cure a violent cold by change of air and although he much disliked leaving town at that moment he never thought of neglecting his physician's advice. Theodore's mother had been consumptive and the fear that he had inherited that her constitution made him anxiously careful of his health. Immediately on his return to London he presented himself about half past five o'clock one Thursday evening in Mrs. Dormersmith's drawing room and experienced a shock of disagreeable surprise in finding Constance Hadlow seated near May at the tea table. May innocently supposing that she was doing him a good turn gave him her place and went to another part of the room but Constance coolly greeted him with a how do you do Theodore in a tone of the politest incipidity which he sincerely approved of. Nevertheless, he would rather not have found her there. On glancing round he was struck by several innovations. In the first place the Piano Forte usually a dumb piece of furniture at Mrs. Dormersmith's house stood open with some loose sheets of music lying on it and Senor Vicenzo Vali sat teak up in hand smiling his false smile beside Mrs. Griffin. Theodore knew perfectly well who Senor Vali was and it needed not Mrs. Griffin's gracious demeanor to instruct this rising young man that Vali was sufficiently the fashion to be worth being civil to but he was surprised to find him there. His surprises however were not at an end for whom should he behold in familiar conversation with a gentleman at the opposite side of the room but Owen Rivers and near them was he could hardly believe his eyes Mr. Bragg it seemed to Theodore as if there had been a conspiracy amongst his acquaintances to make all sorts of fresh combinations on the social chess board during his brief absence. He felt that it was necessary for him to take an accurate survey of the new positions but he saw no immediate opportunity of doing so for there was no one at hand to interrogate except Constance Hadlow who of course knew nothing. She must be spoken to however but he would cut the conversation as short as possible. Thoughts even the weighty thoughts of a diplomatically minded young gentleman move quickly and there was scarcely any perceptible pause between Constance's greeting and his gravely polite remark that it was quite an unexpected pleasure to see her there. Yes, I came up a few weeks ago with the Pipers. Oh, you are staying with them. This with a strong flavour of his superior manner for the Pipers will really nobody's. And what have you been doing with yourself? I haven't seen you anywhere said Constance Cooley. I have been out of town but in any case we might possibly not have met. Have you been going out much? I was much as most people I suppose. I was at the Aronsons dance last night. The Aronsons exclaimed Theodore this time he was so astonished that he spoke quite naturally. I I didn't know that you knew them. No, I don't know them. Then how did you get? I I mean how did I get there? Dear me Theodore your visit to the country has given you a refreshing buttercup and daisy kind of air. Do you suppose that the Aronsons ballroom was filled with their personal friends and acquaintances? Mrs Griffin got me an invitation. Now to be presented to Mrs Griffin and to be invited to the Aronsons were pet objects of Theodore Bransby's social ambition and he had not yet compassed either of them. Oh indeed said he struggling under the disadvantage of Constance's ill humour to maintain that error of indifference to all things in heaven and earth which he imagined to be the completest manifestation of high breeding. I suppose that was achieved through Mrs. Dorma Smith's influence. Not all together. It was May Sheffington who first introduced me to Mrs. Griffin. She's just the same dear little thing as ever. I don't mean Mrs. Griffin but Mrs. Griffin found out that she had known my grandfather rivers. I believe they were sweethearts in their pinafores a hundred years ago. So she has been awfully nice to me. While Constance was speaking Theodore's eyes lighted on Mr. Bragg solid and solemn wearing that look of melancholy respectability which is associated with the British workman in his Sunday clothes. Oh and Mr. Bragg was at the Aronsons too said Constance following the young man's glance. Fancy Mr. Bragg at a ball. Did Mrs. Griffin know his grandfather? asked Theodore with a sneer. It was clear to Constance that he had quite lost his temper. Otherwise he would not. She felt sure have said anything in such bad taste. But she replied calmly, I don't think Mr. Bragg ever had a grandfather but he is rich enough to do without one. It is poor persons like you and me who find grandfather's necessary or at all events useful. Theodore understood the sarcasm of this quiet speech and it helped him to master his growing irritation. There are some natures on which a moral Buffett acts as a sedative. Was it your friend Miss Piper who brought Mr. Bragg here? He asked, showing no sign of having felt the blow except a slight increase of pallor. Oh dear no, the Pipers have never been here themselves except to leave a card at the door. This is not the kind of society they care for, you know. I saw Mr. Bragg come in today with May's cousin, Mr. Lucius Checkington but I can't say whether he first introduced him or not. Is that Mr. Lucius Checkington? That man talking to Owen? Yes. Mrs. Dormismith has rather a mixed collection this afternoon. I see Valley over there. You know who I mean, that short foreign man near. Oh yes, Senior Valley is a great ally of mine. He's delightful I think. His heirs and graces are so amusing. I can tell you how he comes to be here if you like, returned Constance pleasantly. She was secretly enjoying Theodore's discomforture. He had expected to play the part of town mouse and to patronize and instruct her. The fact is, she continued, that Lady Moppet begged Mr. Dormismith to introduce his wife to have her protégé, Miss Bertram, to sing here on Thursday afternoons promising as a kind of bait to get Valley to come too. I don't think Mrs. Dormismith particularly wish to have Miss Bertram, but she thought it would be nice to have Valley who was run after by the best people and is very difficult to get hold of. So the negotiation succeeded. It is too funny how one has to menager and coax these professional people. If you don't want any more information just now, I think I will go and speak to Mrs. Griffin. Whereupon Constance glided away, self-possessed and grateful, and with a becoming touch of animation bestowed by the consciousness that she had been mistress of the situation. Theodore looks decidedly blank for a moment. No one bestowed any attention on him. As he sat watching, he was struck by the evidently familiar way in which Owen Rivers and Mr. Chuffington were talking together. He himself particularly desired to be introduced to Lucius Chuffington, but a secret grudging feeling made him unwilling to owe the introduction to Rivers. Presently Rivers moved away to join May and Miss Bertram, who were turning over some music together, and Mr. Bragg took his place near Mr. Chuffington. This was the opportunity which Theodore had wished for. He at once rose and walked up to them. Theodore's manner was never servile, but there was an added gravity to his demeanor towards certain persons, intended to show that he thought them worth taking seriously, and this tribute he rendered to Mr. Bragg, for although the young man had by no means forgotten Mr. Bragg's deplorable insensibility to an enlightened view of the currency question, yet he prided himself on thoroughly understanding that the great tintac makers claims to consideration rested on a solid basis quite apart from culture or intelligence. I wish, said Theodore after the first salutations, that you would do me the favour to make me known to Mr. Lucius Chuffington. I know so many members of his family, but I have not the pleasure of his personal acquaintance. Mr. Bragg eyed him with his usual heavy deliberation. Oh, he said slowly, this is Mr... I don't call to mind your Christian name, eh? Oh, yes, Mr. Theodore Bransby. Mr. Lucius Chuffington made an unusually low bow, his pride being of the sort which manifests itself in the most ceremonious politeness. He was a small lean man with a pale face deeply lined by ill health and a fretful temperament. He had closely shaven cheeks and chin, heavy grizzled moustaches, and very thick grizzled hair which he wore rather long. His voice was harsh, though subdued, and he spoke very slowly, making such long pauses as occasionally tempted unwary strangers to finish his sentences for him. A double eyeglass with turdish shell rims was set astride his nose, and behind the glasses two dark, nearsighted eyes looked out, somewhat superciliously, upon a world which fell sadly short of what a Chuffington had a right to expect. I have the pleasure of knowing your cousin, Captain Augustus Chuffington, very well indeed, said Theodore. Lucius bowed again and adjusted his eyeglasses, a shade of surprise and annoyance passed over his face. His cousin Augustus had been a sore subject with the family for years, and laterally such rumours as had reached England about him had not made the subject more agreeable. I have often thought, pursued Theodore, quite unaware that his listener was regarding him with a mixture of astonishment and disfavour, that it is a great pity a man of Captain Chuffington's abilities and accomplishments should live out of England, unless indeed he held some diplomatic appointment abroad. In my opinion, these are times in which the great old families should hold fast by the public service. As I ventured to say to one of our county members the other day, and so on and so on, having thus happily launched himself, Theodore proceeded in his best parliamentary style, holding forth with a power of self-complacent and steady boredom beyond his years. A sensitive person would have been petrified by the unsympathising stare from behind those tortoise-shell-roomed glasses, but Theodore was not sensitive to such influences, being fortified by the a priori conviction that he must naturally make a favourable impression. And since Lucius Chuffington could not, compatibly with his own dignity, plainly tell him that he considered him a presumptuous young ass, there was nothing to check his flow of eloquence. But at length the cold stare was softened, and the pale, peevish, furrowed face turned to Theodore with a faint show of interest. Some casual word of this intrusive young man's seemed to show that he came from Old Chester. Do you know a Mrs. Dolbs, asked Lucius, speaking for the first time, and edging in this point blank question between two of Theodore's neatly turned sentences, setting forth a political parallel between the late Lord Tweedledum and the present right honourable Tweedledee. It was a shock, but Theodore bore it stoically. Not exactly, I have spoken with her. Mrs. Dolbs is not precisely in our set, he answered, with a slight smile at one corner of his mouth intended to demolish Mrs. Dolbs. I thought that being a native Old Chester, you might be, began Mr. Checkington in his low harsh tones, be acquainted with her. Really, I thought that being a native of Old Chester, you might be able to tell me something about her. Not much, I fear, replied Theodore. He felt tempted to add that in Old Chester there were natives and natives. And she's rich, isn't she? Pursued Mr. Checkington. Not that I know of, answered Theodore, staring a little. Rich is perhaps too much to say. At any rate, she is quite well. Well off. Oh, as to that, at any rate, she is quite well to do, I presume. Theodore had never considered the question, but he said, oh yes, at a venture, and then suddenly a light flashed upon his mind. Perhaps Mrs. Dolbs was rich after all. Though she lived in so humblest style, she might perhaps have laid by money. She appears to be a person of great good sense, said Mr. Lucius Checkington, remembering how Mrs. Dormersmith had stated that she declined to give any money assistance to Augustus. And after that, he made a second very low bow and brought the interview to an end. Little had Theodore Bransby expected to hear Mrs. Dolbs discussed and approved by a member of the noble house of Castlecombe. He had noticed that Mrs. Dormersmith systematically avoided any mention of the vulgar old woman. But then Mrs. Dormersmith was a person of very finest taste. And to be sure, it could scarcely be expected that Mr. Lucius Checkington should feel Augustus's misaliance, as acutely as it was felt by Augustus's own sister. Besides, if, as really seemed possible, the ironmonger's widow turned out to be a moneyed person. But it must be recorded of Theodore, that not even the idea of her having money reconciled him to Mrs. Dolbs. He said to himself afterwards when he was meditating on what he had heard, that nothing so convincingly proved how much he was in love with Mrs. Checkington as his being ready to forgive her, even her grandmother. End of Chapter 14. Volume 1, Chapter 15 of That Unfortunate Marriage. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, That Unfortunate Marriage, by Francis Eleanor Trollop. Volume 1, Chapter 15. George Frederick Checkington, 5th Viscount Castlecombe, was in many ways a very clever old man. He was extremely ignorant of most things which can be taught by books, but he had a thorough acquaintance with practical agriculture, considerable keenness in finance, and a quick eye to detect the weaknesses of his fellow men. On the other hand, his overweening self-esteem led him to think that what he knew comprised what was chiefly, if not solely, worth knowing, and his avarice occasionally overrode his native talent for business. In his youth, he had been idle and extravagant. The former vice gave him the reputation of a dunce at school and college, and by a reaction which belonged to his character, made him defiantly contemptuous of bookish men, with one single exception presently to be noted. As to his extravagance, that was effectually cured by the death of his father. From the moment that he came into possession of the family estates, which he did at about 30 years of age, his income was administered with sagacious economy, and by the time his two sons arrived at manhood, Lord Casselcombe was a very rich man. If he had a soft place in his heart, it was for his son Lucius, who resembled his dead mother in features, and also, unfortunately, in the delicacy of his constitution. George, his heir, was like himself, strong, tough, and hearty. Lord Casselcombe secretly admired Lucius' talents very much, and had been highly gratified when his second son took honors at his university, that this success had not been followed by any particularly brilliant results later, and that Lucius had, as it were, stuck fast in his career, had even decidedly failed in Parliament, and had finally been shelved in a government post, which, although lucrative, was inglorious. His lordship attributed to the increase of folly, incapacity, and roguery, which he had observed in the world during the last 20 years or so. That a cheffington of such abilities as Lucius should remain undistinguished was part of the general decadence. In politics, Lord Casselcombe was a wig of the old school, and though he continued to vote with his party, yet the only point on which he was thoroughly in sympathy with the Liberals, a word, by the way, which he had come greatly to dislike as covering far too wide a field, was that they fought the Tories. The person whom Lord Casselcombe most detested in all the world was his nephew Augustus. He disliked his extravagance, his poverty, and the biting insolence of his tongue. This antipathy had laterally added poignancy to the old man's desire that his son should marry, and transmit the Casselcombe title and estates in the direct line. For Augustus was the next heir after his two cousins. It was true that the contingency of Captain Cheffington succeeding seemed remote enough. George Cheffington was only his senior by a couple of years, and Lucius was his junior, but neither of them had married, and they were well on in middle life. Lucius indeed seemed to have settled down into incorrigible old bachelorhood. And although George, in answer to his father's exhortations on the subject, always replied that he really would think seriously of looking for a wife on his next visit to England, persons suitable for that dignity, not being to be found, it appeared in the particular portion of the globe where his official duties lay. Yet the years went by, and still there came no daughter-in-law, no grandson to inherit the coronet, and to enjoy the broad acres of Casselcombe. The idea that Augustus Cheffington might ever come to enjoy them was gall and wormwood to their present owner, but he had never breathed a word on this subject to any human being. Mrs. Dormersmith was gratified by her uncle's gracious acceptance of an invitation to dine with her soon after his arrival in town about the middle of June. Lord Casselcombe did not visit her often, but that was from no ill will on his part. In fact, he was rather fond of Pauline. He considered her a bit of a goose, but he thought it by no means unbecoming in a woman to be a bit of a goose, and she had thoroughbred manners, a gentle voice, and was still agreeable to look upon. The old Lord disliked ugly women and to maintain that the sight of them disagreed with him like bad wine. This consideration influenced Pauline in the choice of her guests to meet her uncle. It was understood there was to be no large party. It had been agreed that they should invite Mr. Bragg, who had bought a good deal of land in Lord Casselcombe's county, was director of a company of which the noble Viscount was chairman, and of whom his lordship was known to entertain a favorable opinion, as being a man who made no disguise about his humble origin and was free from the offensive pretensions of many nouveau-ish. For although Lord Casselcombe willingly admitted that money could buy everything on which most people valued themselves, he greatly disliked the notion that it could be supposed to buy the things on which he most valued himself. Well then, Frederick, said Mrs. Dormersmith, that makes four men, my uncle Lucius, Mr. Bragg, and yourself, then D'May and I, and I thought of having that handsome Miss Hadlow. Uncle George likes to see pretty faces. We want another woman, but really I don't know who there is available at this moment. There are so few odd women who ain't frights. Pursued the anxious hostess plaintively, if it were a man now, there are plenty of odd men to be had. Then struck by a sudden inspiration, she said, Why shouldn't we have an odd man instead of another woman? Uncle George gives me his arm, of course. You take Miss Hadlow, Mr. Bragg takes May, and Lucius and the odd man go in together. Positively, I think it would be the best arrangement of all. I suppose Lucius wouldn't mind, eh? It certainly would be the best arrangement for me at all events, for if there are only those two girls, I can simply put my feet up on a sofa when we go into the drawing room, shut my eyes, and be quiet for half an hour, which of course would be out of the question if there was any woman who required to have civilities paid her. And in all probability, I shall be in a state of nervous prostration by Friday. This season with May has tried me severely. Mr. Dormersmith offering no objection, there only remained to make a choice of the odd man, and after a moment's reflection, Pauline decided on young Bransby. Bransby exclaimed Mr. Dormersmith, he's a dreadful prig. I think he's very nice, Frederick, but really that is not the point. He's engaged or wants to be engaged, or something of the sort, to Ms. Hadlow, so of course. What, you don't mean to say that handsome girl would have such an insignificant fellow as Bransby? I mean to say nothing about it. The subject has only faint interest for me, Frederick, but what is important is that, in any case, he will help to take her off. Mr. Dormersmith stared. He understood his wife's phrase, but not her allusion. Why, you don't suppose there's any danger of her setting a cap at Lucius, said he. I should have no objection to her doing so. Well, there's nobody else. We need not discuss it, Frederick. Please give your best attention to the wine. You know that Uncle George is terribly fastidious about his wine, and the worst is that if he is discontented, he will not hesitate to say so before everybody. That really did seem to her the worst. Most of the evils of life, she thought, might be more indurable if people would but be discreet and say nothing about them. The evil of Uncle George's public reprobation of her wine did not, however, befall her. Lord Castlecomb was content with his dinner and looked around him approvingly as he sat on his niece's right hand. A couple of uncommonly pretty girls, those, said his lordship. They've got on pretty frocks, too. I like a good bright colour. Pauline had begged Miss Hadlow beforehand not to wear black or any somber hue. Her uncle having a special dislike to such, and Constance perfectly willing to please Lord Castlecomb by looking as brilliant as she could, had arrayed herself in her favourite maze colour. You have a very nice gown on, too, Pauline, added his lordship graciously. Mrs. Dormersmith privately thought her own toilette detestable. It was a gaily-flowered brocade, a gift from her husband soon after Wilfred's birth, which had been hidden from the light for several years, but she had self-denyingly caused Smithson to refurbish it up for the present occasion, and was gratified that her virtue did not go unrewarded. I know you like vivid colours, Uncle George, said she softly. Of course I do. Everybody does that has the use of his eyes. Don't believe the humbugs who tell you otherwise. Your upholsterer now will show you some wretched washed-out rag of thing and try to persuade you to cover your chairs with it, because it's aesthetic, parcel of fools, not that the fellows who sell the things are fools. They know very well which side their bread is buttered. Then glancing across the table with his keen, sunken black eyes, he continued, that little Miranda, what is that you call her, May? Well, May is a very good name for her, is remarkably fresh and pretty, good frank forehead, not a bit like her father, different type, but the other girl is the beauty, uncommonly handsome, really. I'm glad you think May nice, said Mrs. Dormersmith. Of course I was anxious that you should like her. She is poor Augustus's only child, only surviving child. You know there were five or six of them, but the others all died in babyhood. Lord Castelcombe did know it, and remembered it now with grim satisfaction. At least Augustus had no male heir to come after him. Oh, Gus made a pretty hash of it all together, said the old man, but he did not say it unkindly. He would not willingly have been harsh or brutal towards Pauline. She really was a very sweet creature, and had he thought almost every quality that he could desire in the women of his blood. For it must be observed Lord Castelcombe did not know that Pauline admired aesthetic furniture, nor that she considered Augustus to have been rather hardly treated by the Castelcombes. Of course, replied that gentle lady, my poor brother's unfortunate marriage. But that, at all events, seems to have turned out better than could have been expected. Lucius tells me there is a grandmother who has money and is generous. Not to Augustus uncle George, Mrs. Dobbs positively refuses to assist Augustus. Grunted uncle George, his opinion of Mrs. Dobbs good sense taking a sudden leap upward. Well, my dear, people have to think of their own interests, you know. Then in a louder tone, Frederick, send me that white hermitage. It's a very fair wine, as times go, a very fair wine indeed. When the ladies had left the table, young Bransby felt what he would have called, in speaking of anyone else, a little out of it. My lord talked with Mr. Bragg, Lucius and Frederick were discussing some item of club politics, in the midst of which the host would now and again interpolate some parenthetical observations, addressed to young Bransby, obviously as a matter of duty. At length, in declining Niclerat, which Mr. Dormersmith pushed towards him, Theodore took the opportunity to say, Do you think I might venture to go upstairs? I have a message for Mrs. Dormersmith about a little commission with which she entrusted me. No more wine, really. Oh, my wife will be charmed to see you, replied Frederick with alacrity, and thereupon the young man quietly left the room. It was true that he had undertaken a commission for Mrs. Dormersmith, but he would not have prematurely withdrawn himself from the company of a peer and a millionaire on that account. He was moved by a far way to your purpose. He had made up his mind to propose to Miss Cheffington. And if the fates favoured him, he might do it that very evening. For some time past, before May left Oldchester, Theodore had been sure that he wished to marry her. There were drawbacks. She had no money, or at all events he had not reckoned on her having any money, and she had connections of a very objectionable kind, but he rather dwelt on those things as proving the disinterested nature of his attachment. He was so much in love with May that he liked to fancy himself making some sacrifices on her account. As to her feelings toward him, he was not without misgivings, but he watched her in society at every opportunity and had convinced himself that she was, at all events, fancy free. She did not even flirt, but enjoyed herself with childlike openness or was bored with equal simplicity and sincerity. As to her aunt, Theodore did not doubt that his suit would be favourably received by Mrs. Dormersmith. She must long ago have perceived his intentions, and he felt that his being invited to that intimate little dinner, almost a family dinner, was strong encouragement. Theodore was fortifying himself with this reflection as he mounted the stairs to the drawing room. His foot fell more and more lingeringly on the soft, soundless carpet as he neared the door. He was on an errand which can scarcely be undertaken with cool self-possession, even by a young gentleman holding the most favourable view of his own merits and prospects. One can never certainly reckon on one's soundest views being shared. A servant carrying coffee proceeded him and opened the drawing room door just as he arrived on the landing, and Theodore felt positively grateful to the man for, as it were, covering his entrance and relieving him from the embarrassment of walking in alone. He entered close behind a footman and was, for a few moments, unperceived by the ladies. The room was a little dim, all the lamps being shaded with rose colour. Mrs. Stormersmith was reclining on a sofa with closed eyes, but she was not asleep for beside her in a low lounging chair and talking to her in a subdued voice, sat Constance Hadlow. May was at the other side of the room leaning with both elbows on a little table, which stood in a recess between the fireplace and a window and apparently absorbed in a book. Theodore thought she made a charming picture with the soft light falling on her fair young face and white dress, and his pulse, which had been beating a little quicker than usual all the way upstairs, became suddenly still more accelerated. May looked up. Is that you? She said. Well, are the others? It was not a very warm or flattering welcome, but Theodore was scarcely conscious of her words. He was thinking of what a fortunate chance it was, which left May isolated so far away from the other ladies as to be out of earshot if one spoke in a suitably low tone. At the sound of her niece's voice, Mrs. Dormersmith languidly turned her head. Oh, oh, please don't move, Mrs. Dormersmith, said Theodore, speaking in a quick confused way, very different from his accustomed manner. If I am to disturb you, I must go away at once, but I don't take much wine. And he said, Mr. Dormersmith said he thought I might, if you don't mind my proceeding the other men by a few minutes, I will be as quiet as a mouse. He crashed the room and sat down by May in the shadow of a heavy window curtain. The hostess murmured a gracious word or two and then closed her eyes again. She had been a little vexed by the young man's premature arrival, but if he was content to be quiet and whisper to May, she need not stand on ceremony with him. The fact was she was listening with great interest to Constance's account of the feud, which had arisen between Lady Burlington and Mrs. Griffin's daughter, the Duchess. Constance had the details at first hand from Mrs. Griffin herself on the one side and from Miss Polly Piper on the other, for the feud had arisen about Senior Vicenzo Vallee. The fashionable singing master had thrown over one of the great ladies for the other on the occasion of some soiree musicale. And the quarrel had been espoused by various personages of distinction whose sayings and doings with regard to it Mrs. Dormersmith considered to be at once important and entertaining. She mentally contrasted with a sigh the intelligence tact and correctness of judgment, which Constance brought to bear on this matter with the nonchalance, not to say downright levity and indifference displayed by May. It was impossible to get May to interest herself in the bearings of the case. In fact, she had abandoned the discussion and gone away to her book, whereas this provincial girl, with not one quarter of May's advantages, understood it perfectly, remembered the names of all the people concerned, had a very sufficient knowledge of their relative importance and was able to impart to her hostess a variety of minute circumstances, narrated in a low quiet tone, free from emphasis or emotion, which was delightfully soothing. May, for her part, was by no means pleased to have her reading interrupted, but politeness and the sense that she was, in her degree, responsible for the hospitality of the house, impelled her to close her book at once and to turn a good human countenance towards her companion. Isn't Uncle Frederick coming? She asked, finding nothing better to say at the moment. Presently, are you in a great hurry to see him, returned Theodore? Oh, no, I was amusing myself very well. Are you angry with me for interrupting you? Oh, no, answered May again, but this second, oh, no, was not quite so hardy as the first. May I see what you have been reading? She pushed the book towards him. Mansfield Park? Who's is it? Good gracious, you don't mean to say that you don't know. I don't read novels, said Theodore loftily, but not severely. It was all very well for women to have that weakness. But this is an English classic. Mr. Rivers says so. You really ought to know who wrote Mansfield Park, even if you have never read it. It is one of Jane Austen's works. Ah, do you like it, said Theodore, scarcely knowing what he said. He was playing nervously with a little ivory paper knife which lay on the table, and his whole aspect and manner had not both been to some extent concealed by the shadow of the velvet curtain would have betrayed to the most indifferent observer that he was agitated and unlike himself. He felt that the precious minutes of this chance tata-tata were passing swiftly. He longed to profit by them, and yet, now that the moment had come, he feared to stand the hazard of the dye and kept deferring it by idle words. Oh, yes, I like it, of course, answered May. Not so much perhaps as Emma or Pride and Prejudice. Mr. Rivers advised me to read it. It was the second time she had mentioned Rivers' name, and this fact stung Theodore unaccountably. It acted like a touch of the spur to a lagging horse. He burst out, still speaking almost in a whisper, but with some heat. Rivers is a happy fellow. What would I give if you cared enough about me to follow my advice? You have only to advise me to do something which I like as much as reading Jane Austen, replied May archly, but his tone had struck her disagreeably. She peered at him furtively, as he sat in a shadow, trying in vain to see his countenance clearly. The idea crossed her mind that he might have taken too much wine at dinner, but it was so repulsive an idea to her that she felt she ought not to entertain it without better foundation. It is a most fortunate chance for me to have this blessed opportunity, pursued Theodore. He had hesitated for the epithet and was not by any means satisfied with it when he had got it. I have long been waiting to speak to you. To me? Well, that need not have been very difficult, answered May, edging a little away and trying to obtain a good view of his face. Pardon me. It is not easy to have the privilege of a private word with Miss Chuffington. When we meet in society, you are surrounded, as is but too natural, and laterally in your own home, you have been a good deal and grossed. I could not say what I have to say before. He glanced over at Constance Hadwell as he spoke. This was an immense relief to May, who had been growing more and more uncomfortable and vaguely apprehensive. She thought she understood it all now. Connie had been treating him with coolness and neglect. She herself had noticed this, and now he wanted to enlist the sympathies of Connie's friend. Oh, I see, she exclaimed. It is something about Constance that you wish to say to me. About Constance? Oh, pay, you are cruel. You know too well your power, he said, endeavoring to give a pathetic intonation to his voice, but producing only an odd croaking throaty sound. Then May decided in her own mind that he had been taking too much wine, and angry and disgusted, she tried to rise from her chair and leave him. But she was hemmed in by the little table, and on her first movement Theodore took hold of the skirt of her dress to detain her. May turned round upon him with a pale, indignant face, and flushing eyes. Don't touch my dress, if you please, I wish to go away. Miss Cheffington, May, you must hear what I have to say now, you must know it without my saying, for I have loved you so long and so devotedly, but I have a right to be heard. May was thunderstruck, but she perceived in a moment that she had in one sense done him injustice. He had not drunk too much wine, but this, this was worse. How far easier it would have been to forgive Theodore if he had even gotten tipsy, just a little tipsy, instead of making such a declaration. She had supposed she had no right to be disgusted. She had heard that properly behaved young ladies always took an offer of marriage to be a great honour. But she was disgusted nevertheless, and so far from feeling honoured, she was conscious of a distressing sense of humiliation. She tried however to keep up her dignity, and at the same time to say what was right to this. This dreadful young man who had suddenly presented himself in the odious light of wanting to make love to her. Oh, please don't say any more. I'm very much obliged to you. I mean, I'm extremely sorry, but I beg you won't say another word, and forget all about it as quickly as possible. Forget it! May, that is out of the question. I could not, if I would. Theodore began to recover his self-command, as May lost hers. She was agitated and trembling. Well, he would not have had her listen to his words unmoved. She was very young and inexperienced, and he had it seemed taken her by surprise. It is, is it possible, he continued softly, that you were quite unprepared to hear? Quite unprepared, but that makes no difference, and you really must allow me to go away. I'm very sorry indeed, but I can't stay here another moment. Am I so repulsive, he said, with a sentimental beseeching glance? But he met an expression in her face which made him add quickly in quite another tone. Well, well, I will prefer your wishes to my own, at the same time drawing himself and his chair to one side. She had looked almost capable of leaping over the table to escape. May brushed past him, and darted away out of the room without another word. Theodore seized hold of the book she had left behind, and bent his head over it. He saw not one word on the printed page beneath his eyes, but it saved him from appearing as confused as he felt. Had he been rejected, and if so, was it a rejection which he was bound to consider final, or had he received no real answer at all? Gradually as his throat grew less dry, his head less hot, and his brain more clear, he arrived at the conclusion that he had virtually had no answer. May was little more than a child, and he had startled her. Then he remembered that word of May's. It is about Constance that you wish to speak to me. Could she be under any misapprehension as to his position with regard to Constance? The idea was fraught with comfort, that at least he could set right, and without delay. He rose and walked across the room at once to Mrs. Dormersmith's sofa. At this moment the procession of men, headed by Lord Casselcombe, arrived from the dining room. Constance glided away, leaving her vacant chair for Theodore, who immediately occupied it, thus cutting off Mrs. Dormersmith from the rest of the company. That lady looked anxiously across his shoulder. Would you, she said to Theodore, would you be so very good as to ask my husband to inquire where Miss Chuffington is? My uncle would like to talk to her, I know, and oh, there she is. Thanks, don't trouble yourself. May had returned to the drawing room, but instead of going near her noble-granduncle, she perversely seated herself in a remote nook beside Mr. Bragg, with whom she presently began a conversation, keeping her face persistently turned away from everyone else. Her noble-granduncle did not seem to care. His lordship marched straight up to Miss Hadlow and stood before her coffee cup in hand, with his curious air of perfectly knowing how to behave like a fine gentleman whenever he should think it worthwhile. Lucius and Frederick were continuing their club discussion, which possessed the advantage for persons of leisure, of having neither beginning nor end, and of being indefinitely elastic. Pauline took in the whole room with one comprehensive glance, and then lent back against her cushions with a sigh, which, if not contented, was resigned. She made no effort to recall May to her duty towards Lord Casselcombe. You must forgive me, Mr. Bansby. She said graciously, if I have been selfish in engrossing Miss Hadlow, if you don't take care, my uncle would do the same. Lord Casselcombe admires her very much. Theodore cleared his throat, settled his cravat with a rather unsteady hand, and looked at her as solemnly as if he were about to commence an oration. But all he managed to say was, There has been a mistake, Mrs. Dormersmith. A mistake? Yes, I have some reason to believe that you are under a wrong impression about me. His hostess faintly raised her eyebrows and answered with a smile. I hope not, for all my impressions of you are very pleasant. Theodore bowed gravely. You are very kind, said he. It is important to me to set this matter right. You perhaps imagine, someone may have told you, that I and Miss Hadlow, there has been, I believe, some idle gossip coupling our names together. Not very unnaturally, said Mrs. Dormersmith, still smiling, but she began to wonder what he could be driving at. Well, I do think it hard that one cannot be on friendly terms with a person one has known all one's life, without being supposed to be engaged to her. Or him, put in polling quietly. Of course, I mean, of course, that it is particularly unfair to the lady, but it puts a man in a false position too. I have just been speaking to May. Then, in an instant, the true state of the case flashed on Mrs. Dormersmith to her unspeakable consternation. This then was her model young man, whom she had pronounced to be so nice and so quiet, and who, moreover, had always expressed the most proper sentiments on the subject of unequal marriages. She felt herself to be, of all ladies, the most persecuted by fate. Oh, she said coldly interrupting him. It was scarcely necessary, she say anything to Miss Checkington on the subject, but Theodore was beyond taking heed of any snub or check of that kind. One moment, he said, breathing quickly, if you will allow me to finish what I was saying, you will see I am, as you must have perceived, deeply attached to your niece. No, no, protested Mrs. Dormersmith faintly, I never perceived it. Then that must have been because you were looking in a wrong direction. You were misled about Constance Hadlow, otherwise the nature of my attentions could scarcely have escaped you. And you say that you have been speaking to, to my niece. I have this evening told her how devotedly I love her. Good heavens, whispered Mrs. Dormersmith, letting her head sink back among the sofa cushions. And what was her reply? Her reply was, well, practically it was no reply at all. May was agitated and startled, and I think she had believed that foolish gossip about my engagement to Miss Hadlow, but I trust to you to explain. Pray, Mr. Brandsby, say no more, I regret extremely that this should have happened. Oh, but I don't know that I have any reason to despair, he answered naively. This was almost more than Pauline could endure. She got up from the sofa and plaintively murmuring, say no more, pray, say no more, I really am not equal to it at present, fairly walked away from him. That night when the guests were gone, Mrs. Dormersmith sent for her husband to her dressing room and revealed to him what young Brandsby had said. His indignation at the young man's presumption was equal to her own, although not wholly on the same grounds. You will have to talk to him, Frederick, she said. When he went away he said something about requesting an early interview, I cannot stand any more of it. It upsets me too frightfully. Of course you won't quarrel with him, just give him politely to understand that it is out of the question. Fortunately, May appears to have been as much utre by this preposterous proposal as I could desire. May behave very nicely tonight altogether. I was pleased with her. Oh yes, but I thought she might have paid a little more attention to your uncle. She never went near him after we came upstairs. I think she talked to old Bragg more than to anyone else. Frederick, said his wife slowly, do you know that Lady Houghtonville is making a dead set of Mr. Bragg for Felicia? Is she? Yes, Mrs. Gricken told me all about it. They are moving heaven and earth to catch him. Really? Well, bon chance! It would be Mauve's chance for him, poor man. Felicia has a frightful temper and incredibly extravagant habits. She must be over her eyebrows in debt, but I fancy Mr. Bragg has better taste. Her meaning tone made her husband look at her with sudden earnestness. What do you mean? he asked brusquely. Mrs. Dormersmith put her hand to her forehead. Let me entreat you not to raise your voice, she said. I've had quite enough to try my nerves this evening. I mean that I think Mr. Bragg is interested in May. It would be a splendid match for her. What? cried Frederick, disregarding his wife's request and raising his voice considerably. Old Bragg! What do you mean? he asked brusquely. Pauline turned on him impressively. Frederick, she said, speaking with patient mildness as one imparting higher lore to some untutored savage, Mr. Bragg is barely fifty-four and his income, entirely within his own control, is over sixty thousand a year. Theodore did not take his rejection meekly. In his interview with Mr. Dormersmith, he pressed hard to see May again and insinuated that she was under undue influence. Moreover, he conveyed with stiff civility that he considered himself to have been badly treated by the whole family, who had first encouraged his attentions and then rejected them. He really is a fearful young man, said May to her aunt on hearing the report of the interview. What does he mean by insisting on an answer from my own lips? Could he not believe what Uncle Frederick said? Besides, he has had his answer from me. The truth is, he is so outrageously conceited that he can't believe any young woman would refuse him of her own free will. The idea of his dreaming for an instant that I encouraged him is too preposterous, said Mrs. Dormersmith shaking her head languidly. I am sadly disappointed. I thought him quite a nice person. I fancied he had sufficient savoir-vive to understand. However, it is one more proof that one can never reckon on half-bred people who don't know the world. It was privately a great relief to May to know that her aunt took her part in this affair. Aunt Pauline's motives and views were still very mysterious to May on many points. She did not even now fully understand the grounds of her aunt's virtuous indignation against Theodore Bransby, although she was thankful for it. Aunt Pauline thought him good enough for Connie, said May to herself innocently, and Connie is so beautiful and so much admired. It was true that, thanks in the first place to Mrs. Griffin, Constance had enjoyed a more brilliant season than she had ever ventured to dream of, fashionable houses of which she had read in the newspapers, but which had appeared to her as unattainable, as though they were in another planet, had opened their doors to her, and old connections of her mother's family, finding her in the aforesaid houses, discovered that she was a charming girl and were delighted to open their doors to her. She had accepted several invitations to country houses, and would probably not be at home again until late in the autumn. Mrs. Griffin watched this young lady's progress with considerable interest. She opined that Miss Hadler was a shining instance of the advantages of race. In spite of having been brought up in the pokiest way in some provincial town, as I understand, that girl has a thoroughbred self-possession quite remarkable, said Mrs. Griffin. She never makes a blunder. You are never nervous about her. She has no trace of that loud bouncing style which I detest and which so many underbred people take up nowadays, mistakenly imagining it to be the proper thing. She doesn't go in for anything. And, added Mrs. Griffin musingly, there's a wonderful look of her grandfather, poor Charlie Rivers, about the brow and eyes. The season was rapidly drawing to a close when Mrs. Dobbs received two letters, one from her granddaughter and the other from Mrs. Dormersmith. Joe Weatherhead, arriving one evening at his usual hour in Gesselmine Cottage, was told by his old friend that she had had a letter from May and that she meant to read him a portion of it. No proposition could have been more welcome to Mr. Weatherhead. He drew his chair up to the grate, filled now with fresh boughs instead of hot coals, but Joe kept his place in the chimney corner winter and summer and prepared to listen. Mrs. Dobbs read as follows, You must know, dear Granny, that I told Aunt Pauline yesterday that I really must go home at the end of this season, she's been very kind and so is Uncle Frederick, but Granny is Granny and home is home. Here Mr. Weatherhead slapped his leg with his hand and took his pipe out of his mouth as though about to speak, but on Mrs. Dobbs holding up her hand for silence, he put his pipe back again and slowly drew his forefinger and thumb down the not inconsiderable length of his nose. Mrs. Dobbs read on, To my amazement, Aunt Pauline answered that it was my father's wish that I should remain with her all together. That is not my wish, and it isn't yours, is it, Granny, dear? And if we two are agreed, I cannot think my father would object. I mean to write him about it. I should have done so already, but I have not his address and Aunt Pauline can't or won't give it to me. Please send it. I shall tell my father just what I feel. I don't care for what Aunt Pauline calls society. I was happy enough as long as it was only like being at the play with the prospect of going home when it was over and living my real life. But to go on with this sort of thing and nothing else year in, year out, it would be like being expected to live on wax fruit or those glazed wooden turkeys I remember in a box of toys you gave me long ago. Please answer directly, directly. There's an invitation for me to go in August to a place in the Highlands where Mrs. Griffin's daughter has a shooting box. At least I suppose it is Mrs. Griffin's daughter's husband who has the shooting box. Only nobody talks much about the Duke and everybody talks a great deal about the Duchess. Fancy our Miranda among the Dukes and Duchesses put in Joe Weatherhead softly. And he smacked his lips as though the very sound of the words had a relish for him. Aunt Pauline wants to go to Carlsbad. Uncle Frederick is to join a fishing party in Norway. The children are to be sent to a farmhouse and Mrs. Griffin has offered to take care of me in the Highlands. But I would far, far rather come back to dear old Chester and be among people who know me and care for me and whom I love with all my heart. Do write an ask for me back, Granny Darling and mind you give me Papa's address. I am resolved to write to him whatever Aunt Pauline may say. He is my father and I have a right to telling my feelings. That's all of any consequence, said Mrs. Dobbs, slowly refolding the letter. Oh, of course, she writes at the end. Love to Uncle Joe. She never forgets that. There was a brief silence. Mr. Weatherhead, who was very tender-hearted, blew his nose and wiped his eyes unaffectedly. Of course, you'll have the child down. Sarah said he, anyway, for a time. She's pining. That's where it is. She's pining for a sight of you. Mrs. Dobbs sat choking down her emotion. She had cried privately over that letter herself, but she was resolved to discuss it now with judicial calmness, and it was provoking that Joe endangered her judicial tone of mind by that foolish, soft-hearted way of his, which was terribly catching. But she loved Joe for it, nevertheless, and scolded him so as to let him know that she loved him. It's a good thing your feelings are righter and kinder than most folks, Joe Weatherhead, or you're sadly led by him, my friend. If you'd wait and hear the whole case, you might help me with your advice. Then Mrs. Dobbs pulled another letter from her pocket and handed it to her brother-in-law. This second epistle was from Mrs. Dormersmith, and ran thus. Dear Mrs. Dobbs, I think it's right to let you know how very important it is for May not to miss her visit to Glen Gowery. There will be among the guests there a gentleman who has been paying her a great deal of attention, a man of princely fortune. I have some reason to think that May is disposed to look favorably on this gentleman, but he must be allowed time and opportunity to declare himself. No better opportunity could possibly be found than at Glen Gowery, and I may tell you in confidence that the Duchess has, at my friend Mrs. Griffin's request, invited them both on purpose. I trust, therefore, that in my niece's interests, you will induce her not to relinquish this chance. As to her writing to her father, it is absurd and would only irritate my brother after his giving me carte blanche to do the best I can for her. If the visit to Glen Gowery turns out as we hope, I shall have procured for her a settlement which many a peer's daughter will envy. My husband and I have such confidence in your good sense that we are sure you will second our efforts as far as you can. Of course you will consider this letter strictly private and will not above all mention it to May. I am, dear Mrs. Dobbs, yours very truly, P. Dorma Smith. You see, that alters the case, Joe, said Mrs. Dobbs when he had finished reading the letter. Joe nodded thoughtfully and rubbed his nose. Of course what you want, Sarah, it's for the child to be happy. That's the main thing, said he. Of course I want her to be happy and I want her to have her rights, answered Mrs. Dobbs, setting her lips firmly. Oh yes, to be sure, her rights, eh? My son-in-law brought no good to any of us in himself. If his name can do any good to his daughter, she ought to have the benefit of it, and she shall. My eye, her rights, eh? To be sure only. Only it ain't always quite easy to know what a person's rights are, is it? I know well enough what May's rights are, answered Mrs. Dobbs sharply. Nor yet it ain't quite easy to be sure whether they'd enjoy their rights when they got them, pursued Joe with a thoughtful air. Everybody likes to be happy. There can be no manner of doubt about that. And somehow the Dukes and Duchesses don't seem to be enough to make Miranda quite, not quite happy, huh? I wonder you should confess so much of your dear aristocracy, return Mrs. Dobbs with some heat. Why, you see, Sarah, it may be, I only say it may be, that the way Miranda has been brought up, living here in the holidays in such a simple kind of style and all that, makes her feel not altogether at home among those tip-top folks. If you mean she isn't good enough for them, that's nonsense. Downright nonsense. And I wonder at a man with your brains talking such stuff. If you mean they're not good enough for her, that's another pair of shoes. As to manners, why do you imagine that that aunt of hers, who, though she is a fool, is a well-born fool and a well-bred one, would be taking May about presenting her at court and introducing her to the grandest society if the child didn't do her credit, not she? I'm astonished at you, Joe. I thought you knew the world a little bit better than that. Mrs. Dobbs lent back in her chair and fanned her flushed face with her handkerchief. Mr. Weatherhead, having smoked his pipe out, put it in its case and then sat silent, slowly stroking his nose and casting deprecating glances at his hostess. At length, the latter resumed in a calmer tone. But May's future is what I've got to think of. I'm an old woman. I can leave her next to nothing when I die. I want her to marry. All women ought to marry. Nobody in my own walk of life would suit her. And what gentleman fit to match with her was ever likely to come and look for her in my parlor in Friar's Lane. You ought to know all about it, Joe Weatherhead. We've gone over the whole ground together often enough. They had done so, but Joe Weatherhead understood very well that his old friend was talking now not to convince him, but herself. Well, Sarah, he said, there seems a good chance for May to marry well, according to this good lady, princely fortune, she says. That sounds grand, don't it? Ah, and it isn't a few thousands that Mrs. Dormersmith would call a princely fortune. Not a few thousands, you think, eh, Sarah? Tens of thousands, I shouldn't wonder, Humph. And Mr. Weatherhead pursed up his mouth and poked forward his nose eagerly. Not a doubt of it. Bless my stars to think of our little Miranda. And her aunt says that May is disposed to look favourably on the gentleman. So she says, but I can tell you that May doesn't care a button for him at present. Lord, how do you know, Sarah? How do I know? That's so like a man. No girl in love would give up the chance of meeting her lover, as May wants to give it up. If she'd rather come to Old Chester than go to Scotland, it is because, so far at any rate, she doesn't care a button for him. I never thought of that, but perhaps Sarah, she doesn't know that he is to be invited. Mrs. Darby seems struck by this remark. Well, now, that's an idea, Joe, said she nodding her head. It may be so, they seem to have had the sense not to talk to her about the matter. May's just the kind of girl to fling up her heels and break away if she suspected any scheming to make a fine match for her. But she might come to care for him in time. There's no reason in nature why a rich man shouldn't be nice enough to be fallen in love with. And by his taking to May, and she without a penny, I'm inclined to think well of the young man. After some further consideration, it was agreed that Mrs. Dobbs should write and propose a middle term. In the interval between her aunt's departure for Carlsbad and the date of her invitation to Glengoury, May should come down to Old Chester on condition that she afterwards paid her visit to the Duchess. This arrangement would be a joy to Mrs. Dobbs, would satisfy May's affection at Longing, and could not prejudice the girl's future prospects. A letter to May was written, as well as one to Mrs. Dormersmith. The letter was very short and may as well be given. Dear Mrs. Dormersmith, I have to acknowledge yours of the fifth. I agree with you that it would be a pity for my granddaughter not to accept the invitation you speak of. Some good may come of it, and I do not think that any harm can come. If May spends the three or four weeks with me after you start for the continent, I will undertake for her to meet the lady who was to take charge of her to Scotland at any place that may be agreed upon. I wrote to May by this post, and she will tell you what I propose with regard to her father's address. I have had none for some time past except post office Brussels. This much I shall tell her, as I think she has a right to know it. You need not disturb yourself about her writing to her father, as I think, from what I know of Captain Sheffington, that he is not likely to answer her letter. I am, dear Mrs. Dormersmith, yours truly, Sarah Dobbs. The proposal was accepted, and within a fortnight after the dispatch of this letter, May Sheffington was in Old Chester once more. Volume 2 Chapter 1 Four months in their passage leave traces, more or less perceptible, on us all. On the first evening of May's arrival, her grandmother drew her to the window, where the rosy light of a fine summer evening shone full on her face, and scrutinized her long and lovingly. Then she kissed her granddaughter's cheek, and tapping her lightly on the forehead said, This is not the big baby I parted from. You're a woman now, my lass. God bless thee. May stoutly declared that she was not changed at all, that she had returned from all the pumps and vanities just the same May as ever, but on her side she found changes. On her first view of it, in the glow of a rosy sunset, Jessamine Cottage had been looking its best. The little parlor was fragrant with flowers, and May's tiny bedroom was a pleasant nest of white dimity, smelling of lavender and dried rose leaves. She thought the house delightful, but a very brief acquaintance showed it to be badly built and inconvenient. One of those paltry band boxes of which Mrs. Dobbs had been want to speak with contempt. Moreover, there was an indefinable air of greater poverty than she remembered in Pryor's row, and last and worst of all, she thought Granny herself looking ill. When she hinted this privately to Uncle Joe, he scouted the idea. Ill? No, no. Sarah was never ill, there was nothing amiss with Sarah. But the suggestion made him look at his old friend with new observation, and he was forced to acknowledge to himself that she was not quite so active as formerly. But he still would not admit the idea of illness. She'll be all right now, she's got you back again, Miranda, said Mr. Weatherhead, unconsciously. It's the spirit, you see, the spirit has been praying on the body, that's where it is. The idea that Granny had been fretting in her absence strengthened May and her resolution not to return to London. If it were absolutely insisted upon, she must, she supposed, keep the compact and pay her visit to Glen Gallery. But after that she would resume her place by her grandmother's side, the place to which duty and affection equally bound her. She wrote to her father announcing this intention, and she suggested that the money spent on her expenses in London would be far better employed in paying Granny handsomely for her board. I do not think she's so well off as she used to be, wrote May in simple good faith, and I am sure, my dear father, you will feel with me that we are bound to do anything in the world we can to help her, after all her goodness to me. The subject which mainly occupied Mrs. Dobbs' waking thought after May's arrival was the unknown gentleman of princely fortune who might turn out to be May's fate. But try as she would, she could find no clue to May's feeling about this individual, nor could she discover who he might be. Once she tried a joking question of a general kind about sweethearts and admirers, but May's response was as far as possible from the tone of a love-lorn maiden. Oh, for goodness sake, Granny, don't talk of such things it makes me sick! Was her very unexpected exclamation. And then with a little judicious cross-questioning, the story of Theodore Bransby's wooing came out. Well, well, well, child, you needn't be so fierce, poor young man. I can't help feeling sorry for his disappointment, said Mrs. Dobbs. Don't waste your sorrow on him, Granny. He ought to have known better. Well, as to that, May began her grandmother with a slow smile spreading over her face. Now, Granny, dear, only listen. At any rate, he might have known better when he was told, mightn't he? But he would not take no for an answer, and when Uncle Frederick spoke to him the next day, he was quite rude and declared. It makes me so hot when I think of it, declared he had been encouraged. The idea of his daring to say such a thing, and you know all the time I quite part of is as good as engaged to Connie Hadlow. Everybody said so in Old Chester. Everybody is a person who makes a good many mistakes about his neighbour's affairs, May. Mrs. Simpson says that young Bransby is not coming down here this summer. So much the better. However, in any case, he would not honour you with one of his condescending visits now. Do you remember that evening when he called in Friar's Row? How little we thought. May chatted with as much apparent candour and frankness as ever, but in all her descriptions of the people whom she met in London, there was not one who seemed to fit Mrs. Dormersmith's unknown. Maybe her saying no word is a sign she likes him, reflected Mrs. Dobbs. Girls will keep a secret of that kind very close. They are shy of it even in their own thoughts. If I saw him and her together, I could make a shrewd guess as to how things are. But there was no chance of her seeing them together, and the gentleman of princely fortune remained wrapped in mystery. Meanwhile, May went to see her old friends, and was pronounced by most of them to be quite unspoiled by her London season. But one critical spirit, at least there was in Old Chester, who did not look on Ms. Checkington with unmixed approbation. Mr. Sebastian Bach Simpson declared that she gave herself airs. One of the first visits which May paid was to the old house in College Quad. The cannon received her with his former paternal benevolence, but at first sight, a slight indefinable chill was perceptible in Mrs. Hadlow's usually cordial manner. A little maternal jealousy on the subject of Theodore Brands be rankled in her mind. It was true that Constance did not seem to care for him, would not probably have accepted him had he asked her. But under all the circumstances, Mrs. Hadlow was strongly of opinion that he ought to have asked her, and then a rumour reached Old Chester of Theodore's intentions to Ms. Checkington. But there was no resisting May's warm and single-minded praises of her friend. It seemed that Connie's prospects had grown unexpectedly brilliant. Mr. Owen Rivers, who had recently reappeared in Old Chester after his own erratic fashion, walking in one morning unexpectedly to his aunt's quaint old sitting-room, pronounced his cousin to have made a great social success. You know my opinion of the worth of that game, Aunt Jane, said he, but such as it is, Connie has won it. Old Lord Castlecom was in love with her, and, which is far more important, so is Mrs. Griffin. You and I always knew she was handsome, but there are certain people to whom the evidence of their senses is as nothing compared with the evidence of peers and griffins and such like heraldic creatures. My Aunt Pauline is in love with Connie, too, declared May. I ought to be jealous for Aunt Pauline is always quoting Constance Hadlow to me as an example of everything that is delightful in a girl. But I knew it before. I didn't wait for the heraldic creatures, did I, Mrs. Hadlow? And so the old affectionate familiar intercourse was resumed, and May was welcomed in the old way. The canon missed his daughter, and had not consented easily to her prolonged absence. He liked to see young faces around him, and May's face was particularly pleasant to him. At first May had refused to leave her grandmother, but Mrs. Dobbs urged her to spend some hours every day with the Hadlows. I have my own occupations in the daytime, she said, and when you come home of an evening and tell me all your sayings and doings, I can enjoy it comfortably. I don't want you hanging about this pokey little place all day, my lass. The girl was more easily persuaded to do as her grandmother wished in this matter from her own secret resolve to fix herself in Old Chester. She did not grudge the hours given to her friends. There would be plenty more time to be spent with Granny, so she thought reckoning on the Mara with the assurance of youth. Day after day she sat during the hot afternoon hours under the black shadow of the old yew tree in the canon's garden, sometimes volunteering to do some task of needlework for Mrs. Hadlow, sometimes winding wool for the canon's gray socks, sometimes making up posies for the adornment of the sitting-room. Sometimes making up posies for the adornment of the sitting-room. And there was Fox, the terrier, dividing his attentions between her and his mistress, the peaceful wind flowing by on the other side of the hedge, the gardens blooming, the birds twittering, the distant schoolboy shouting, the sweet cathedral bells chiming, everything as it had been last summer. And yet not quite as it had been. There was some subtle difference between these afternoons and the afternoons of last summer. It was not merely that Constance was missed, nor that Theodore Brainsby no longer made one of the group beneath the yew tree. Of these changes one was scarcely to be regretted, for Connie was enjoying herself extremely and only desired to prolong her leave of absence, and the other was undoubtedly satisfactory. But this could not surely suffice to make it a deep delight to sit silent and wind balls of gray worsted wool for half an hour at a stretch. Was it the negative joy of Theodore's absence which caused me to look forward with her first waking thoughts to those hours in the garden and to live them over again in her mind when she lay down to rest at night? It seemed as if the London season, far from spoiling her for simple things, had marvelously enhanced the quiet pleasures of her home life and given them a new intensity. They were very quiet pleasures truly. Mary Rain and the Burton girls seldom appeared in College Quad, now that Constance was away. Mrs. Hadlow had no lawn tennis court, as has already been set forth, and persons who gave up their garden ground to the frivolous purpose of growing flowers could not expect their younger friends to spare them many minutes out of a summer's day. Visitors of the Stirner sex were chiefly represented by Major Mitten and Dr. Hatch with a liberal sprinkling of the Elder Cathedral clergy. The eldest Miss Burton said to May once, I can't imagine how you stand the door life down there after your aunt's house in town, but I suppose you are simply resting on your oars. We hear you're going to go to Glen Gowrie in the autumn. How delicious! The Duchess is sure to have her house filled with nice people. May emphatically denied that she was dull in Old Chester. Dull? She had never, she thought, been so happy in her life. I wonder, said she to Mrs. Hadlow that same afternoon, where the Violet Burton feels Old Chester to be dull, and if not, why should she assume that I do? Violet has a serious object in life, you know. She is the best tennis player in the county. One cannot be dull within absorbing pursuit of that sort. Answered Mrs. Hadlow, who, with all her genial benevolence, had an occasional turn of the tongue which proved her kinship with her nephew Owen. The fact is, observed the latter, who was lying under the yew tree with a pipe in his mouth and an uncut magazine in his hand, that each of us carries his own supply of dullness about with him, independently of external circumstances. Not but what there are conceivable cases where external circumstances would have a tremendous dullness producing power, such as being banished to a desolate shore beyond the reach of Bakke, or having to read the parliamentary debates right through every day, or being obliged to attend the musical afternoon at Miss Piper's London Lodging three times a week, put in May, laughing, you don't know what a hopeless heretic he is, Mrs. Hadlow. Even amiable Mr. Sweeting gave him up in despair, and Lady Moppet thinks he ought to be excommunicated. Well, I suppose he need not have gone to Miss Piper's unless he had chosen to do so, said Aunt Jane. Owen is rather fond of being pitied for having his own way. He ate his cake in the shape of enjoying Miss Piper's music, and had it in the shape of declaring himself a victim. Enjoying? Good heavens! exclaimed Owen, waving his pipe in protest. Why did you go then? To this simple query, Owen made no other response than muttering with his pipe between his teeth again, that there were compensations. Owen, said his aunt abruptly after a long silence, you are a most unsatisfactory spectacle to behold. That's disappointing, Aunt Jane. I flattered myself that I was a thing of beauty and a joy forever. I shouldn't care about your not being ornamental if only you were useful, but it is dreadful to see you wasting your life. I assure you I am employing my life in a very agreeable manner just now, answered Owen, resting on his elbow and glancing up from under the shadow of his straw hat. Agreeable, that is not the point. It's my point. Ah, well, we won't begin to wrangle, Owen, but my dear Aunt Jane, do I ever wrangle with you? You do worse. I'm afraid you are incorrigible, but everyone else sees that I am right. Ask May what she thinks. May started and coloured violently, but she kept her eyes on the needlework in her hand and said nothing. No, I shall not ask Miss Checkington. She is a partisan and would be sure to side with you. Not at all. May has her own opinions, haven't you, May? One can't help having opinions, returned May shyly. Good gracious Miss Checkington, what an extraordinarily wild assertion! Can't help having opinions. One might suppose you had been nurtured among sages and had never heard of Mr. Thomas Carlyle's celebrated majority. I have been nurtured by Granny, rejoined May, lifting her eyes for the first time with a bright brief glance. I exclaimed Mrs. Hadlow. I'd advise you to ask Mrs. Dobbs what she thinks of a young man with your education and talents. Oh, you need not to exclaim having brains. It only makes your case so much the worse. Sitting lazily in his form and letting all sorts of dunderhead tortoises win the race. Bravo, Aunt Jane! I like dunderhead tortoises. Mobile Queen is good. You wouldn't enjoy hearing Mrs. Dobbs' opinion, I can tell you. I know very well what she would say, pursued Mrs. Hadlow more than half angry. I should like to ask her myself, said Owen, rising to his feet. Do you think I might, Miss Checkington? Of course, if you have courage, answered May, looking up with a smile. I'm quite an earnest. I have long wished to know Mrs. Dobbs. Do you think she would consider it a liberty, if I were to call? May cast her eyes down again and became very busy with her needlework. No, she answered. I don't think Granny would consider it a liberty. She knows about you. I mean, she knows you are Mrs. Hadlow's nephew. Mrs. Hadlow gave no more thought to this conversation, and May, although she gave many thoughts to it, told herself that Mr. Rivers had only been jesting, and that nothing was more unlikely than that he should fulfill his words. She told herself so, with all the more insistence, because at the bottom of her heart, she longed that he and Granny should know each other. Nevertheless, on the very next afternoon when May was absent, Owen Rivers did call at Jessamine Cottage. He was at once received with cordiality for his aunt's sake, but he soon earned a welcome for his own. Joe Weatherhead took to him amazingly. That's what I call a gentleman, said he, a real gentleman, sterly, metal, and not brung-legged and electroplating. What a difference from that young Bransby, a stuck-up impudent, but, Lord, what could one expect from old Rabbit's grandson? There's where it is. Mr. Rivers is a good radical, Joe, Mrs. Dobbs answered slyly, whereupon Joe nodded his head with undiminished complacency, and declared that if it weren't for such radicals as them, radicalism might soon shut up shop altogether, concluding with his favorite apathem, that many good things came down from above, but very few mounted up from below. End of Chapter 1 Owen Rivers was greatly attracted by Mrs. Dobbs. He admired her uprightness of character and downrightness of speech, her shrewd common sense combined with unpretending simplicity, her indomitable strength of purpose, tempered by broad good-nature. At the very beginning of their acquaintance, he told her that he had been recommended by his Aunt Jane to take her, Mrs. Dobbs, opinion as to his mode of life, and when Mrs. Dobbs tried to put him off by declaring that Mrs. Hadlow must have been joking, he answered that he, at any rate, was not joking and begged her to speak candidly. If I speak at all, I shall speak candidly, you may depend, said Mrs. Dobbs. And in truth, Owen soon found that he had no cause to complain of her lack of plain speaking. Mrs. Dobbs was wholly and heartily on the side of Aunt Jane and held many a stout argument with the young man. But pray how is one to manage, asked Owen, my aunt says go into her profession, easier said than done. Besides, although I might not object to be Lord Chancellor or even perhaps Admiral of the Fleet, I have no relish for the intermediate stages which makes a difficulty. That's all stuff and nonsense, said Mrs. Dobbs bluntly. It's a shame to see a gentleman with your book learning and great gifts wasting the advantages God has given him. Wasting my advantages? That's Aunt Jane's pet phrase, but those are mere words, you know. Words are words for certain, and nuts are nuts. Only some of them hold sound kernels, whilst others have got nothing inside but dust. Well, come now, let us get out the kernel, said Owen, half earnest, half amused. What would you have me do, Mrs. Dobbs? Do any honest work that's of use to your fellow creatures. Such as stone-breaking, for instance, better than nothing, and my advantages would not then be wasted, I presume. You might be getting a quarter percent for them, or maybe less, instead of doubling your capital, but that would be better than keeping all you've got in a stocking like some ignorant old woman and pulling out a shilling at a time whenever you happen to want it. Many such passages of arms did they have, and Owen told himself that Mrs. Dobbs was a very interesting study. Meanwhile, from the superior vantage ground of her seniority, she had been making one or two studies of him, and the result of them induced her to give him a hint as to May's prospects. I shall let him know how the land lies, said she to herself. Very likely he's in no danger, so much the better, but all act fair by the young man. He's one of them quiet-looking sort that feels very deeply, though for all his humble-mindedness he's a deal too proud to show it. Accordingly, Mrs. Dobbs took her opportunity one afternoon when Owen strolled in somewhat earlier than usual. He and his hostess were Ted Autet, for May had gone to lunch with Mrs. Martin Bransby, and to enjoy a romp afterwards with the children who adored her. Do you know this duchess my granddaughter is going to visit, Mr. Rivers? began Mrs. Dobbs abruptly. To the best of my belief, I never saw her in my life. My acquaintance among duchesses is not extensive. Nor yet her mother, Mrs. Griffin. Mrs. Griffin I have seen, and I make her a bow when we meet. That's about all. They are very kind to May. Small blame to them, and yet I don't know. It is to their credit when one comes to think of it. May talks of wishing to give up her visit. She's unwilling to leave you, I believe. Yes, bless her, but I mustn't give in to that. Then with a little air of hesitation, very unusual with her, Mrs. Dobbs proceeded. I want you and Mrs. Hadlow and all her friends not to encourage her in that idea. The fact is, it is very important, that May should not miss going to Glen Gowrie this autumn. More important than she knows. Owen Rivers lent forward with a sudden attempt of contraction of the brow. What is it, he asked brusquely. Then, remembering himself, he added, I beg your pardon, I didn't mean to put a conversational pistol to your head, nor to demand any secrets from you. I don't know that there are any secrets, Mr. Rivers, but you understand there are certain opportunities which I am bound to give May if I can. I'm not one for forcing buckets of water down any horse's throat, but unless you take him to the water, he can't drink if he would. The truth is, that I am anxious about my grandchild's future. When I am gone, she will be left very desolate, poor lamb. She paused suddenly and pressed her lips together. Then after a minute's silence, she went on more firmly. God knows I never wished my poor daughter to marry above her station. Her marriage was a sore stroke to me. But now, whatever you and me may think about distinctions of rank, it's certain that May has the right to a lady's place in the world, through her father's birth and family. I sacrificed a good deal in parting from her at all. Sacrifice my feelings, I mean. I don't want it all to be wasted. I want the child to get some good out of it. Do you see, Mr. Rivers? I see. And don't you think I'm right? Yes, the horse ought to have his choice in that matter of drinking. I'm glad you agree with me. My dear old friend Joe Weatherhead is half inclined to think me wrong. He says I ought to consider the child's happiness first and foremost, and that, if being with fine folks don't make her happy, I ought to let her give them up. But May is very young still, barely 18. She hasn't had time to judge. I wouldn't have her think later on that this or that good thing might have befallen her if she had had her chance and seen more of the world. It's bitter to look back on opportunities lost or wasted, and that, added Mrs. Dodds, changing her tone and shaking hands with the young man, who had risen to go away, is why I take the liberty of scolding you now and then. But I hope an old granny like me may speak her mind without offence. That's one of our privileges. It seemed clear that Owen Rivers, at all events, was not offended. His visits to Jessamine Cottage grew longer and more frequent. It became an established custom for him to drop in at tea time. Very often, when May had been spending the afternoon at the cannon's house, he would escort her home through the fields. That was a longer way than by the streets, but so much pleasanter that their preference for it was surely very natural. Oh, those rambles by the wind with the pearly evening sky above them, the dewy, flower-speckled grass underfoot, and in their ears the sound of the sweet shines, which seemed but to accompany some still sweeter melody, felt, not heard. May gave herself no account of the charm which encompassed her. She looked not before and after, but was happy as youth alone can be happy in the intense sweetness of the present. Later life has happiness of its own, but not that. It may be more or less, but it is different. Those young delights can no more return than a rose conferral itself again into a rosebud. And as to Owen, if his daydream was sometimes pierced by a sharp ray of common sense from the workaday world, he turned his eyes away and plunged still deeper into the rainbow-tinted cloudland of young love. It could not hurt her, he argued. It could hurt no one but himself, and he was prepared to suffer. She was sweet and kind, but she had not. She could not have any special feeling of tenderness for him. If indeed that could be possible. But what was there in him to attract so lovely and lovable a creature as May Cheffington? A strongly marked trait in Owen's character was what Mrs. Hadlow, being hotly provoked by some manifestation of it, had once designated as pig-headed modesty. It was often and enough truly at times, and it had a warp of inflexible pride in the wolf of it. But it was genuine modesty for all that. Still, he would not so resolutely have shut his eyes to the possibility that this matter of falling in love might be mutual, but for Mrs. Dobbs well meant words of warning. May was going away in a week or two, away out of his reach, perhaps forever. Since she was in no danger, he needs surely have no scruple in enjoying these few happy moments in her company. They would probably be the last. No one suspected his feeling, and he could keep his own counsel. He honestly believed that no one suspected him. His Aunt Jane, whose observation might have been the most to be dreaded, was in truth blind to what was going on under her eyes. In the first place, it was nothing new or unusual for Owen to spend his afternoons under the yew tree in her garden, nor for May Cheffington to be there also. And it did not occur. It scarcely could have occurred to Connie's mother, that Connie was being a second time supplanted by this girl so much her inferior in beauty. And then, too, it must be acknowledged that neither May nor Owen thought it necessary to trouble Mrs. Hadlow with any detailed report of the number of visits which her nephew paid to Jessamine Cottage. Nor were the chronicle of their many evening strolls beside the wind. Such strange tricks does love play with all, making the simple cunning and the straightforward wily almost in spite of themselves. While, as for Mrs. Dobbs, her usual keenness with regard to her granddaughter was baffled by a vision of the gentleman of princely fortune on whom May had been said to look favorably, and there were but few opportunities for other eyes to note the behavior of Owen and May towards each other. The custom of the Saturday evening wist parties, at which Mr. and Mrs. Simpson and Mr. Weatherhead were the only guests, had been unavoidably broken through at the time of Mrs. Dobbs's removal from Friar's Row, and although efforts had been made to renew it, it had somehow languished like a plant whose roots have been disturbed. Sometimes two or three weeks would elapse without the Simpsons appearing at Jezemine Cottage on the accustomed Saturday evening. The Amy of Olamelia tried to compensate for these gaps in their social intercourse by running in at odd times to see Mrs. Dobbs. She would frequently call on their way home from Mrs. Bransby's or some other house where she gave lessons, and chat in her discursive style, smilingly unconscious for the most part whether Mrs. Dobbs vouch saved her any attention or not, but always too sweet-tempered to resent it, if she chance to discover that Mrs. Dobbs had not heard three sentences of all she had been saying. On one topic she was, at any rate, sure of being listened to, the words Our Dear Miranda were certain to arouse Mrs. Dobbs from her deepest fit of musing, and fits of musing had become more and more frequent with her of late. It was not clear whether Mrs. Simpson had taken to calling May Miranda by way of ceremoniously acknowledging her place in the world as a young lady who had been presented at court, or whether she considered three syllables to be intrinsically more genteel than one, or whether she had simply caught the word from the fashionable journals which had chronicled the appearance of Mrs. Miranda Chepington at various festivities of the season. Mrs. Simpson's reasons for doing or leaving undone were usually of a tangled kind, and an endeavor to extricate one of them often resulted in pulling up a number of others by the roots. At all events, Mrs. Simpson had taken to speak of May as Our Dear Miranda, and the words infallibly ensured her an attentive hearing for Mrs. Dobbs for whatever might follow them. If Mr. Weather had chance to be present at any of Amelia's erratic visits, he listened willingly to all the gossip she might pour forth. It was always good-natured gossip. Sebastian might bear a grudge here and there, and might impute shabby motives to the conduct of his fellow creatures, but Amelia never. There seemed to be an excess of saccharine matter in her disposition which flavored every word she said. This species of excess, being somewhat uncommon, many persons pronounced poor Mrs. Simpson to be an errant humbug, but had she been consciously a humbug, she would assuredly have distributed her sweet speeches with more discretion, for nothing is less popular than uncritical eulogy of other people. There was an unusual air of excitement about her when she appeared one afternoon in jessamine cottage. She found its mistress knitting in her accustomed arm chair, with Joe Weatherhead seated opposite to her reading aloud paragraphs from a local newspaper. My dear, Mrs. Dobbs, cried Amelia, bursting in breathlessly. How do you do? And Mr. Weatherhead, now this is quite against rules, or at least against custom, for I am sure you would never make such a rule. You are far too hospitable, but as I was passing, so nice to be neighbors instead of Friar's Row, though I shall ever look on Friar's Row with affection for the sake of old times. What is it the poet says about portions and parcels of the dreadful past? Only there was nothing dreadful in our little suppers, and Martha's stewed tripe beyond praise. Why, I hope you are going to eat some of our little supper tonight, said Mrs. Dobbs composedly. It's Saturday, you know. How odd you should say that. It is exactly the remark I made to Bassey this morning. Oh, yes, certainly. And as I was saying just now, it's quite all-lean, as the French express it, to inflict myself on you twice in one day. You know you are very welcome. You're always so kind, dear Mrs. Dobbs. I have been busy teaching all the morning. This very moment I have come from Miss Piper's, and you are not giving her lessons, are you? Asked Mrs. Dobbs, looking up with a smile. Oh, dear no! Not I'm sure that she would not be an excellent pupil. Indeed, both of them in their different styles. One the accomplished musician, and the other so domesticated. No doubt you will hear of it from our dear Miranda, for, of course, she will be invited. But I thought I would mention it. Mention what, eh? Asked Joe Weatherhead with impatient curiosity. The party! They are going to give a musical party. Though really I might omit the adjective, for who could imagine that Miss Piper's giving a party that wasn't musical? To be sure some persons find it rather trying. Bassey, for instance, cannot altogether approve the new school. But then he was brought up in the strictest classical principles, and he is so very clever himself that, of course. Some native gift of incoherency, which distinguished Mrs. Simpson's mind, enabled her to reconcile the most conflicting claims on her admiration. Ho-ho! A party, eh? A musical party, said Mr. Weatherhead. Yes, but, of course, there is nothing remarkable in that, replied Mrs. Simpson very unexpectedly. Nothing at all remarkable, I should think, assented Mrs. Dobbs. Ah, but the point is, oh, Pussy, poor old Pussy, did I hurt her? Dear, dear, dear! In the act of throwing herself forward from her place on the sofa, in order to touch Mrs. Dobbs's arm and thus emphasize her communication, Amelia had accidentally set her foot on the tail of the old tabby cat, who at once protested in the frankest manner. I am so sorry, I am so very near-sighted, poor old Pussums, come and let us make a top for what you like, dear! Poor old Pussums, however, declined these advances and took up her position on the other side of her mistress's ample skirts. Once for some time she glared distrustfully at every fresh manifestation of Mrs. Simpson's playful vivacity. Well, for goodness' sake, tell us the point if there is one, cried Mr. Weatherhead, who had been irritably rubbing his nose during this episode. Oh, naughty impatience! That is so like a gentleman. Gentlemen are dreadfully impatient in general. Don't you agree with me, Mrs. Dobbs? However, it really will be quite a musical treat. Mr. Cleveland Turner is one of the most rising musicians of the day. I believe nobody can understand his compositions without severe preliminary training. Mr. Sweeting, who is most amiable, he has taken a country house in the neighborhood, and Miss Piper has invited a young lady down to stay with her who sings divinely, quite divinely. Miss Piper says, and indeed I have no doubt she does, for I saw her name mentioned in the morning post at a very aristocratic soiree, and Bazzie and I are to be invited. Are you now? Well, I'm glad of it, said Mrs. Dobbs hardly. She knew this was a distinction which would give her friend's pleasure. Yes, Bazzie is to accompany the young lady's songs on the piano. Mr. Cleveland Turner will not accompany, or at least not anything of a tuneful sort. He doesn't like it. Well, you know there's no accounting for taste is there. Most people think strawberry is delicious, but I have known a person who couldn't touch them invariably produced a rash with which lucid illustrations Mr. Simpson arose and declared she must positively be going after an effusive leave-taking in the course of which the old tabby leaped on the back of Mrs. Dobbs chair where she sat arching her spine and growling. The good lady set forth on her way down the little garden path in front of the house, but scarcely had she reached the gate when she turned and tripped back again with a girlish step, which neither increase of years nor flesh had much sobered. I never delivered my message, she said. It really is an extraordinary instance of my absence of mind, for that was the chief reason why I came at all at this hour. I was at Mrs. Bransby's about four o'clock and left our dear Miranda there. Here she paused so long that Mrs. Dobbs replied, Yes, I knew May was going to call there. Now I dare say you will scarcely credit it, said Amelia, with her head on one side, her spectacles glistening and an arch smile illuminating her countenance, but for the moment, I had totally forgotten again what I was going to say. Lord bless the woman, Mother Joe Weatherhead, in a tone not perhaps quite so inaudible as politeness required. But I have it now. This is the message. Our dear Miranda begged me to tell you that she will remain at Mrs. Bransby's for afternoon tea and come home in the cool of the evening. Mrs. Bransby, indeed, all the family are most kind to her. Of course, I don't mean to say that. After the brilliant scenes of London society, it can be any particular treat to her, although anything more truly elegant than Mrs. Bransby's new crème brûcher I never beheld in my life. However, they pressed our dear Miranda to stay, and she remarked to me that Granny would not be left alone for she knew Mr. Weatherhead was coming, and now, looking at her watch, I must fly or I shall be too late for tea, and then what would Bazzie say? She tripped once more down the garden path, stopped at the gate to wave her hand, and at length finally departed.