Each mortal's private feelings are the measure of the importance of
events to him. And it often happens that while our neighbours are
pitying or envying us, on account of some circumstance which, all the
world agrees, must have a weighty bearing on our fate, we are mainly
indifferent to it, and are occupied with some inner grief or joy, which
would seem to them very trivial.
To have received and rejected an offer of marriage from a man worth
fifty thousand a year would have been deemed by most of May
Cheffington's acquaintance about as important an event as could have
happened to her--short of death! But to her it was absolutely as
nothing, compared with the facts that Owen was on the point of returning
to England, and that he was to live in Mrs. Bransby's house.
Why did this second fact seem to embitter the sweetness of the first?
No, it was not the fact, she told herself, that was bitter; the
bitterness lay in the manner of its coming to her knowledge. Why had not
Owen written to her? There could be no reason to conceal it! Of course,
none! Owen was doing all that was right, no doubt. But to allow her to
hear of this step for the first time from Theodore Bransby at a
dinner-table conversation--this it was which irked her. So, at least,
she had declared to herself last night. Then the tone in which her uncle
and all of them had spoken of Mrs. Bransby and Owen had jarred upon her
painfully. Theodore had not joined in the tasteless banter; but then
Theodore's way of receiving it--with a partly stiff, partly deprecatory
air, as though there could possibly be anything serious in it--was
almost worse!
The pathway of life which had stretched so clear and fair before her but
a short while ago, seemed now to have contracted into a tangled maze, in
which she lost herself. The events of the morning had made May resolve
that all secrecy as to her engagement must come to an end. She must see
Owen immediately on his arrival in London. But how to do so? She did not
know whether he was or was not in England at that very moment! Well, at
all events she knew Mrs. Bransby's address, and could write to him
there.
This thought gave her a pang. And the pang was intensified by the sudden
and vivid perception--as one sees a whole landscape by a lightning-flash
out of a black sky--that it was caused by jealousy!
Jealousy! She, May Cheffington, jealous--and of Owen? Yes; it might be
painful, humiliating, incredible, but it was true. The flash had been
inexorably sharp and clear.
To young creatures, every revelation that they--even _they_--are subject
to the common woes, pains, and passions of humanity about which they may
have talked glibly enough, is an amazement and a shock. Still earlier in
our earthly course we doubt that Death himself can touch us. What child
ever realizes that it must die? It is only after many lessons that we
begin to accept our share of mortal frailties and afflictions as a
matter of course.
Poor May felt sick at heart. Oh, if she could but see Granny! She longed
for the motherly affection which had never failed her since the day her
father left her--a rather forlorn little waif, whom no one seemed ready
to love or welcome--in the old house in Friar's Row. She thought that to
sit quite still and silent by Granny's knee, while Granny's kind old
hand softly stroked her hair, would charm away all her troubles, or at
least lull them to sleep.
But for the present she could not rest. When she left her uncle, and
felt secure from interruption in her own room, she sat down and wrote
two letters. The first was to Owen, begging him to come and see her
without delay, and at the same time telling him that circumstances had
arisen which made it desirable to declare their engagement. The second
letter was to Granny.
To Granny she poured out her gratitude. She thanked her and scolded her
in a breath. Who had ever been so generous, and so careful to conceal
their generosity? And yet Granny had done very wrong to make such a
sacrifice as was involved in giving up the old home in Friar's Row.
"Had I known this a week ago," wrote May, "I do believe I should have
tried to coax Mr. Bragg into breaking the lease, and _making_ you go
back to the old house which you loved. But I cannot ask any favour of
Mr. Bragg now!" Then she told her grandmother all about her interview
with Mr. Bragg, and her aunt's bitter disappointment, and her uncle's
kind behaviour, although she could see that he was disappointed too. "I
wonder," she added, "if you will be as astonished as I was? Perhaps not.
I remember some things you said when I told you my grand scheme for
marrying Miss Patty! Oh, dear me, I feel like some one who has been
walking in his sleep--calmly and unconsciously tripping over the most
insecure places. But now I have been suddenly awakened, and I feel
chilly, and frightened, and all astray."
When she had written them, she resolved to post the letters herself.
Since she had volunteered to take her little cousins out for a walk
occasionally, the stringent rule which forbade her to leave the house
unattended by a servant had been relaxed--it was so very convenient to
get rid of the little boys for an hour or two at a time! It left Cecile
free to do a great deal of needlework, a large proportion of it expended
on the alteration and re-trimming, and so forth, of May's own toilettes.
Mrs. Dormer-Smith was strictly conscientious as to that; and since May
never went beyond the limits of the neighbouring square, there could be
no objection to the arrangement. One point, however, Aunt Pauline had
insisted on--that these walks should always take place in the morning,
or, at all events, during that portion of the day which did duty for the
morning in her vocabulary. The proprieties greatly depend, as we know,
on chronology; and many things which are permissible before luncheon
become _taboo_ immediately after it.
By the time May had finished her letters, however, it was well on in the
afternoon. Carriages were rolling through the fashionable quarters of
the town, and the footman's rat-tat-tat sounded monotonously like a
gigantic _tam-tam_, sacred to the worship of society.
May went downstairs, and, opening the hall-door, found herself in the
street alone, for the first time since she had lived under her aunt's
roof. There was a pillar letter-box, she knew, not far distant. To this
she proceeded, and dropped her letters into it. It had been a fine day
for a London winter; but the last faint glimmer of daylight had almost
disappeared as she turned to go back home.
There was an assemblage of vehicles waiting before a house which she had
passed on her way to the post-box. Now, as she returned, there was a
stir among them. Servants were calling up the coachmen, and opening and
shutting carriage doors. A number of fashionably dressed persons, mostly
women, came down the steps of the house and drove away. May paused a
moment to let a couple of ladies sweep past her on their way to their
carriage. As she did so, she heard her name called; and, looking round,
she saw Clara Bertram's face at the window of a cab drawn up near the
kerbstone.
"Is it really you?" exclaimed Clara, as they shook hands. "I could
scarcely believe my eyes! What are you doing here alone?"
"I have been posting some letters." Then, reading an expression of
surprise in the other girl's eyes, she added quickly, "You wonder why I
should have done so myself. For a simple reason: I did not wish the
address of one of them to be seen. But Granny knows all about it."
"I am quite sure, dear, you have some good reason for what you have
done," answered Clara, in her quiet, sincere tones.
"And you?" asked May. "What are _you_ doing here?"
"I have been singing at a _matinee_ in that house. I was just about to
drive off, when I caught a glimpse of you. I was not sure that it was
not your ghost in the dusk!"
"I suppose you are constantly engaged now?"
"Yes; I have a great deal to do."
"Oh, I hear of you. Your praises are in every one's mouth. Lady Moppett
declares you are rapidly becoming the first concert singer of the day.
She is as proud of you as if she had invented you! Indeed, she does say
you are her 'discovery': as if you were a Polynesian island! I could
find it in my heart to envy you, Clara. It must be so glorious to be
independent, and earn one's own living!"
Clara smiled a faint little smile. "I am thankful to be able to earn
something," she said. "But I don't think I should care so much about it
if it were only for myself."
"No, of course, dear! I know," rejoined May quickly. She had been told
that the young singer entirely supported an invalid father and sister.
Then she added, "Your voice is a great gift. There are so few things a
woman can do to earn money."
"Why, one would suppose that _you_ wanted to earn money!" said Clara,
smiling.
"Perhaps."
Clara looked more closely at her friend. The street lamps were now
lighted, and she could see May's face distinctly. "You are not looking
well, dear," she exclaimed. "You seem fagged."
"I am sick of London. I want to go home to Granny and be at peace,"
answered May wearily. Then she went on quickly, to stave off any
possible questionings as to her state of mind. "But I must return for
the present to my aunt's house. Good-bye."
"Stay!" cried Clara. "Will you not get into the cab, and let me drive
you home?"
"Drive! It is an affair of some two or three minutes at most."
"Well, then, if you have half an hour to spare, let me drive you round
the square, and then drop you at home. I have been wanting for three or
four days past to speak to you quietly. I can't bear to lose this rare
opportunity. We do not meet very often." Then seeing that her friend
hesitated, she asked, "Are you thinking about the cost of the cab for
me?"
"Yes," answered May frankly.
"I thought so! That is just like you. But, indeed, you need have no
scruples. The cab is engaged for the afternoon. When I sing at people's
houses, unless they send a carriage for me, the cab-fare is 'considered
in my wages.' Do come in!"
May complied, and the cab moved away slowly.
When they had proceeded a few yards, Clara said, "I wanted to tell
you--I think it right to tell you--something I have learned on good
authority. Your father--I hope it won't distress you--is really
married."
May's first thought was that here again her Aunt Pauline had deceived
her!
"Are you sure?" she asked.
"Yes, I think I may say so."
"And how did you learn it?"
"From Valli."
"Oh, from Signor Valli! But you told me he was not to be trusted."
"In some ways not. But I do not doubt what he says on this subject. He
has no motive to invent the information. He cares nothing about the
matter--except that I think he rather likes La--Mrs. Cheffington than
not."
"Is she a foreigner?" asked May, with a little more interest than she
had hitherto shown. Her listless way of receiving the news had surprised
her friend.
"Yes, an Italian. At least, she is Italian by language, if not by law;
for she comes from Trieste. But she is almost Cosmopolitan; for she has
travelled about the world a great deal. She is--or was--an opera-singer.
Her name in the theatre is Bianca Moretti. She was rather celebrated at
one time." Clara paused a moment, and then added, "I hope this news does
not grieve you, dear?"
"No," answered May dreamily, "it does not grieve me. If my father is
content, why should I grieve? He and I have been parted--in spirit as
well as body--for so many years, that his marriage can make but little
difference to me."
"I was afraid you might feel----Of course, Captain Cheffington's family
will look on it as a dreadful _mesalliance_."
May was silent for a few minutes. Then she said a very unexpected
thing--
"Poor woman! I hope he is good to her!"
"I suppose," said Clara, rather hesitatingly, "that the reason why
Captain Cheffington has not announced his marriage to his relations is
that he thinks they would object to receive an opera-singer."
"Possibly," answered May. (In her heart she thought, "The reason is that
he cares nothing for any of us.")
"It must be that," proceeded Clara. "For as far as I can make out there
seems to be no concealment about it in Brussels."
Then they arrived at Mrs. Dormer-Smith's house, and May alighted and
bade her friend farewell.
"Thank you, Clara," she said, "for telling me the truth. I loathe
mysteries and concealments. When one thinks of it, they are despicable."
"Unless when one conceals something to shield others," suggested Clara
gently.
She had told her friend what she believed to be the truth so far as the
fact of her father's marriage was concerned. But she had not given her
all the details and comments which Signor Valli had imparted to her on
the subject. His view of the matter was not flattering to Captain
Cheffington. Valli declared, with cynical plainness of speech, that
Captain Cheffington had married La Bianca merely to have the right to
confiscate her professional earnings. Latterly these had become very
scanty. La Bianca did not grow younger, and her voice was rapidly
failing her. A good deal of gambling had gone on in her house at one
time. But it had been put a stop to--or, at least, shorn of its former
proportions by the ugly incident of which Miss Polly Piper had brought
back a version to Oldchester. Since that, things had not gone well with
the Cheffington _menage_. Captain Cheffington had become insupportable,
irritable, impossible! He was, moreover, a _malade imaginaire_; a
querulous, selfish, tyrannous fellow; always bewailing his hard fate,
and the sacrifice he had made in so far derogating from his rank as to
marry an opera-singer. La Bianca was a slave to his caprices. To be sure
she was not precisely a lamb. There were occasions when she flamed up,
and made quarrels and scenes.
"But," said Signor Valli, "he is an enormous egoist, and, with a woman,
the bigger egoist you are, the surer to subjugate her. La Bianca would
have stabbed a man who loved her devotedly, for half the ill-treatment
she endures from that cold, stiff ramrod of an Englishman."
Such was Vincenzo Valli's version of the case; and Clara Bertram, in
listening to him, believed that, in the main, it was a true one. Valli
had recently been in Brussels, where he had seen the Cheffingtons; and
one or two other foreign musicians whom she knew had come upon them from
time to time, and had given substantially the same account of them. As
to persons in the rank of life to which Captain Cheffington still
claimed to belong, they were no more likely to come across him now than
if he were living on the top of the Andes.
May went into the house wearily. In the hall she met her uncle
Frederick, who had just come in, and had seen the cab drive away.
"Who was that with you, May?" he asked, in some surprise.
"It was Miss Bertram," she answered. Then she asked her uncle to step
for a moment into the dining-room. When he had done so, and closed the
door, she said quietly, "My father is married to a foreign opera-singer;
they are living in Brussels. Did you and Aunt Pauline know this?"
"Know it? Certainly not!"
May was relieved to hear this, and drew a long breath. The sensation of
living in an atmosphere of deception had oppressed her almost with a
feeling of physical suffocation. She then told her uncle all that Clara
Bertram had said.
Mr. Dormer-Smith puckered his brows, and looked more disturbed than she
had expected. "This will be another blow for your aunt," he said
gloomily.
"I don't see why Aunt Pauline should distress herself," she answered
coldly; "my father is not likely to trouble her. Married or unmarried,
my father seems determined to keep aloof from us all." Then she went to
her own room.
Mr. Dormer-Smith shrank from communicating this news to his wife, and as
he went upstairs he anticipated a disagreeable scene. He did not very
greatly care about the matter himself, for he agreed with May that it
was unlikely Augustus would trouble any of the family with his presence;
and to keep away was all that he required of his brother-in-law. On
entering his wife's room, he found her still in a morning wrapper,
reclining on her long chair; but her hair had been dressed, and she
announced her intention of coming down to dinner. Her countenance, too,
wore an unexpected expression of placidity, almost cheerfulness. The
country post had arrived, and there were several letters scattered on a
little table by Mrs. Dormer-Smith's elbow.
Her husband went and placed himself with his back to the fire, which was
burning with a pleasant glow in the grate. "Well," he said, in a
sympathizing tone, to his wife, "how are you feeling now, Pauline?"
They had not met since his outburst about May, and he had been rather
nervously uncertain of his reception. Pauline never sulked, never
stormed, and rarely scolded. But when she felt herself to be injured,
she would be overpoweringly plaintive. Her plaintiveness seemed to wrap
you round, and damp you, and chill you to the bone, like a Scotch mist,
and when used retributively was felt--by her husband, at all events--to
be very terrible. But on this occasion, as has been said, there was a
certain mild serenity in her face which was reassuring.
"Thanks, Frederick," she answered. "There seems to be a _little_ less
pressure on the brain. Smithson bathed my forehead for three-quarters of
an hour after you were gone."
Mr. Dormer-Smith hastened to change the subject. "Post in, I see," he
said. "Any news?"
"I have a very nice letter from Constance Hadlow," answered Pauline,
with her eyes absently fixed on the fire. "How thoughtful that girl is!
What tact! What proper feeling! Ah! the contrast between her and May is
painful at times."
Mr. Dormer-Smith made a little inarticulate sound, which might mean
anything. Despite her beauty, which he admired, Miss Hadlow was no great
favourite of his. But he would not imperil the present calm in his
domestic atmosphere by saying so.
"Misfortunes," pursued Pauline, still gazing at the fire, "never come
singly, they say; and really I believe it."
"Does Miss Hadlow announce any misfortune?"
"Oh no!--at least, we are bound not to look on it as a misfortune. Who
could wish him to linger, poor fellow? She is staying near Combe Park,
and she says Lucius has been quite given up by the doctors. It is a
question of days--perhaps of hours."
"No? By George! Poor old Lucius!" returned Mr. Dormer-Smith, with a
touch of real feeling in his tone.
"Of course, this will make an immense difference in May's prospects. I
don't mean to say that she will easily find another millionnaire, with
such extraordinarily liberal ideas about settlements as Mr. Bragg hinted
to me this morning; _that_ is, humanly speaking, not possible," said
Mrs. Dormer-Smith solemnly. "Still, the affair may not be such an
irretrievable disaster as we feared."
"How do you mean?" asked Frederick, whose mind, as we know, moved rather
slowly.
"It _must_ make a difference to her," repeated his wife in a musing
tone. "The only child and heiress of the future Viscount Castlecombe, of
course----"
"By George! I didn't think of that at the moment. Yes, Gus is the next.
I suppose that's quite certain?"
Mrs. Dormer-Smith did not even condescend to answer this query, but
merely raised her eyebrows with a superior and melancholy smile.
Frederick pondered a minute or so; then he said, "You say 'heiress,' but
I don't think your uncle would leave Gus a pound more than he couldn't
help leaving him."
"I fear that is likely. Still, there is much of the land that must come
to Augustus, and Uncle George has enormously improved the estate. Do you
know I begin to hope that I may see my poor unfortunate brother come
back and take his proper place in the world? When I remember what he was
five-and-twenty years ago, it does seem cruel that he should have been
absolutely eclipsed during all this time. I recollect so well the day he
first appeared in his uniform. He was brilliant. Poor Augustus!"
Mr. Dormer-Smith felt that the difficulty of telling his wife what he
had just heard assumed a new shape. He had feared to add to the load of
what Pauline considered family misfortunes; now it seemed as if his news
would dash her rising spirits, and darken roseate hopes. He passed his
large hand over his mouth and chin, and said, with his eyes fixed
uneasily on his wife, who was still contemplating the fire with an air
of abstraction--
"Ah! Yes. But--there may be a Lady Castlecombe to find a place in the
world for."
"Not improbable. I hope there may be. Augustus is little past the prime
of life. It would compensate for much if----"
"I'm sorry to say, Pauline, that there's no chance of that--I mean of
such a marriage as you are thinking of. I came upstairs on purpose to
tell you. In one way it won't make any difference to _us_. And I'm sure
your brother has never deserved much affection or consideration from
you. But still, I know it will worry you."
Mrs. Dormer-Smith sat upright, with her hands grasping the two arms of
her chair, and said, with a sort of despairing calm, "Be good enough to
go on, Frederick. I entreat you to be explicit. I dare say you mean
well, but I do not think I _can_ endure much more suspense."
"Well, you know the rumours we've heard from time to time about that
disreputable Italian woman in Brussels--opera-singer, or something of
the kind? Well--I'm afraid there's no use deluding ourselves; I think it
comes on good authority--your brother has married her."