When Mrs. Dormer-Smith practised any deception--a necessity which
unfortunately arose rather frequently in the prosecution of her duty to
society--she was wont to call it diplomacy. She called it so to herself,
in her most private cogitations. She was not a woman whose conscience
could be satisfied by any but the best chosen phraseology.
In speaking to May of her conversation with Owen, she gave a
"diplomatic" version of it. It was May herself who innocently suggested
the line her aunt took. When she found that Owen had left the house
without any further farewell to her, she said not a word, she demanded
no explanation; but the disappointed look in her eyes, the drooping
curves of her young mouth, were sufficiently eloquent. Had she fired up
into indignation against her aunt, assuming as a matter of course that
Owen had been refused permission to see her again, that would have
seemed quite in accordance with her character. This was, in fact, what
Pauline had prepared herself to meet. But this quietude was strange. It
seemed as though May were _ready_ to be wounded. Her aunt thought that
it would not have occurred to the girl--who was high-spirited enough in
certain directions--to suspect that her lover might be less eager to see
her again than she was to see him, unless some previous fact or fancy
had put the suspicion into her head. Fact or fancy, Mrs. Dormer-Smith
thought it mattered little which, so long as the suspicion were there.
Of course it would not do to pretend that Owen had not asked to see her.
That would be a clumsy falsehood, sure of speedy detection; and,
besides, Mrs. Dormer-Smith wished to avoid explicit falsehood. She was
only diplomatic.
"I was obliged, I need scarcely tell you, May," she said, "to refuse Mr.
Rivers's request for some more words with you. It would have been a
gross dereliction of duty on my part to permit it."
"He did ask to see me, then?" said May, with a bright eager look in her
eyes. It was a look her aunt was well acquainted with, and usually
presaged some speech which had to be deplored as being "odd," or "bad
form."
"Oh yes," replied Mrs. Dormer-Smith wearily. "Of course, he asked; I had
to go through all that. Under the circumstances he could scarcely do
less."
The shadow of the eyelashes suddenly drooped down over the bright eyes;
and Aunt Pauline saw that her shot had told.
"Has it ever occurred to you, May," Mrs. Dormer-Smith went on, "that you
are prejudicing the future of this gentleman?"
May looked up quickly, but made no answer.
"Of course, it cannot be allowed to go on--this _engagement_, as he
absurdly terms it."
"It is an engagement," interrupted May in a low voice.
Her aunt passed over the interruption, and continued. "But I think that
in justice to him you ought to reflect that meanwhile you are injuring
his prospects. I do not mean," she added with gentle sarcasm, "that you
will injure him by preventing him from marrying the Widow Bransby;
because I cannot honestly say that I think _that_ a good prospect for
any young man."
"All those stories are malicious falsehoods," said May resolutely; but
her throat was painfully constricted, and her heart felt like lead in
her breast.
"My dear child, one scarcely sees why people should trouble themselves
to _invent_ stories about this lady and gentleman, who, after all, are
persons of very small importance. But at any rate the stories are
circulated, and believed. Under these circumstances it seems to me
a--well, to say the least, an indiscreet proceeding, that Mr. Rivers,
the moment he returns to England, should rush to Mrs. Bransby's house,
and take up his abode there! However, it may be quite a usual sort of
thing among persons in their position. Very likely. I only know that in
_our_ world it would not do. We are less Arcadian. When I spoke of
injuring Mr. Rivers's prospects, I meant as between him and his
employer."
"Oh!" cried May, turning round with a pale indignant face. A confused
crowd of words seemed to be struggling in her mind; but she was unable,
for the moment, to utter one of them.
"_Dear_ May," said her aunt, "do not, I beg and implore you, do not be
tragic! I don't think I _could_ stand that sort of thing. It would be
the last straw."
"Do you think--do you mean that Mr. Bragg would turn Owen away, out of
spite?" asked May in a quiet tone, after a short silence.
"We need not employ such a word as that. But Mr. Bragg made you an offer
of marriage, and we can hardly expect him to find it pleasant when he is
told 'the young lady refused you in order to marry your clerk.'"
"Not 'in order to----' You know I have assured you that under no
circumstances would I have married Mr. Bragg."
"Yes, May; you have assured me so. But you are not yet nineteen; and
I--alas!--was nineteen more than nineteen years ago. It struck me that
Mr. Rivers was desirous that you should take your full share of
responsibility in the matter. And he seemed a little anxious about his
place. At all events he brought forward the salary he is earning with
Mr. Bragg as an important element in the financial budget with which he
favoured me. (How the man could think for a moment that your family
would consent!) I gathered that he was decidedly unwilling to lose it."
"He only took it for my sake."
"Ah! That was particularly kind of him. Well, it strikes me that he
would now like to keep it for his own. Of course I must write to your
father. I presume you will admit that it is proper to inform him of the
state of the case?"
"You can write if you choose, Aunt Pauline. It will make no difference,
_now_."
"I think you will find it will make a considerable difference!
Circumstances have entirely altered your father's position in the world.
You will be daughter and heiress to a peer of the realm."
There was a long pause. May stood with one foot on the fender before a
bright fire in her aunt's dressing-room, her elbow on the mantel-shelf,
and her cheek resting in her hand.
Then Mrs. Dormer-Smith resumed softly, "Perhaps I deceive myself--the
wish may be father to the thought--but I confess I got the impression
that it might not be hopeless to induce Mr. Rivers to withdraw,
voluntarily, from his false position. Of course he could do no less than
stand to it so long as you appeared resolved to stand to it; but----I
hope and trust, May, that if it should be as I think, you would not
insist on being obstinate?"
"You know, as well as I know it myself, Aunt Pauline, that I would die
sooner than hold him bound for one instant, unless----But I won't answer
you as if I took your words seriously."
Upon that she managed to walk out of the room with dignity and dry eyes.
But the poor child, for all her brave words, did take her aunt's hint so
seriously as to throw herself on the bed in her own room, and lie
sobbing there for an hour.
To her husband, Mrs. Dormer-Smith had reported the interview with Owen
as accurately as she could. She did, indeed, declare her belief that the
young man was a Nihilist. But that was said genuinely enough. A man of
gentle birth, who deliberately stated--apparently with sympathetic
approval--that there were mechanics who would be ashamed to own Captain
Cheffington as a father-in-law, was, in her opinion, evidently prepared
to demolish the existing bases of human society.
Mr. Dormer-Smith was very sorry for his niece: more sorry than he
thought it necessary to express at that moment to Pauline. But still he
agreed with his wife that every effort ought to be made to prevent her
marrying so disastrously. It might have been supposed, perhaps, that Mr.
Dormer-Smith, not having found his own mode of life productive of
unalloyed felicity, in spite of a fair income, aristocratic connections,
and a wife devoted to keeping up their position in society, would have
been not unwilling to let May try her fate in a different fashion. But
it is a common experience that, although the possession of certain
things gives them not the smallest gleam of happiness, yet, to a large
class of minds, the thought of doing without these things suggests
misery. The unusual is a terrible scarecrow, and keeps many weak-minded
birds from the cherries.
Mr. Dormer-Smith was to go down to Combe Park to attend the funeral of
his deceased cousin-in-law. He had some liking for Lucius, and thought,
as he sat in the railway carriage speeding down to the little wayside
station beyond Oldchester, where he was to alight, that it was a truly
inscrutable dispensation which took away Lucius--a man at least
harmless, and of honourable principles--and left Augustus alive; and he
could not help regretting the death of Lucius on May's account. Lucius
had been, in his dry, peculiar manner, very kind towards his young
cousin. He had resented her father's neglect of her; and he treated her,
when they met, with a certain air of protection, and almost tenderness,
such as one might assume towards a child or an animal that one knew to
have been hardly used. Frederick thought it not impossible that, had
Lucius lived, his influence might have been brought to bear on May for
her good. But Lucius was gone; and Augustus remained to disgrace the
family and annoy his relations more than ever.
This, however, was not Pauline's idea. Although her brother's second
marriage had, apparently, receded into the background, in consequence of
these new troubles about May, yet it had really been occupying many of
Mrs. Dormer-Smith's thoughts. She certainly considered it to be not
_quite_ so terrible a business now that Lucius--poor dear Lucius!--was
out of the way, as it would have been had he lived. A Viscountess
Castlecombe might be floated, Pauline said to herself, where a Mrs.
Augustus Cheffington would stick in the mud. They could live chiefly
abroad--not, of course, in a shabby street in Brussels; but on the
Riviera, for instance. A warm climate had always suited Augustus. And as
for herself, she, Pauline, would never willingly pass an hour in England
between the first of November and the last of April. It really would not
be at all disagreeable to spend one or two of the winter months with
one's brother and sister-in-law--thank Heaven that, at least, she was
not English! So many deviations from "good form" might be got over on
the plea of foreign manners--at some charming, sunny place, say St.
Raphael! That was not so far from Nice as to preclude the enjoyment of
some little gaiety and society. They would have a villa of their own, of
course. Perhaps, Augustus might build himself one. That sort of life
would enable them to catch a good many travellers on the wing. And, with
sufficient tact and _savoir faire_ (which Pauline flattered herself she
could supply), it might be possible to fill their house with a
succession of "nice" people. The "nicest" people were sometimes rather
less exigent on the other side of the Channel! At any rate, there would
be less difficulty in "floating" Lady Castlecombe on the stream of
society abroad than at home. Augustus would be rich; Uncle George could
not prevent that, let him do what he would with his savings and his
investments. For the estates were strictly entailed; and Uncle George
had nursed them into something like treble their value when he succeeded
to the property. Mrs. Griffin heard from Lady Mary, the Dean of
Oldchester's wife, who had it from the Rector of Combe, that Lord
Castlecombe was crushed by the loss of Lucius. Augustus might not have
to wait very long for his inheritance. How strangely things turn out!
Well, she would write very kindly and gently to her brother. There was
the excuse of addressing him about May; and she would take the
opportunity of sending a civil word to his wife. It must be done
delicately, of course. But Augustus should see that there was no
disposition to be hostile, on the part of his sister, at any rate.
It was in the forenoon of the day after Owen's visit that Mrs.
Dormer-Smith was thus meditating. Her husband had started for Combe
Park. The house was very quiet; the fire in her dressing-room was very
warm; several budgets of gossip had arrived by the post from various
country houses, and lay unopened within reach of her hand. Mrs.
Dormer-Smith felt that there was a certain "luxury of woe" in a family
affliction which justified one in saying "not at home," and sitting in a
wadded dressing-gown, without causing one either heart-ache or anxiety.
And she had been softly rocking herself in the day-dreams recorded
above, when they were interrupted as suddenly, if not as fatally, as
those of La Fontaine's milkmaid. James stood before her with a visiting
card on a salver, and a cloud of depression--which was the utmost
revelation of ill-humour his well-trained visage ever allowed itself,
above-stairs--on his shaven countenance.
"What is this, James? What do you mean by bringing me cards here--and
now?"
"I _said_ 'not at home,' ma'am, but the--the party didn't seem to
understand; and, unfortunately, Miss Cheffington happening to pass
through the hall at that moment----"
"Who is it? Where is the person?"
Mrs. Dormer-Smith took the card and examined it through her eyeglass
with a sinking heart. Could that subversive young man have returned? Or
was there, perchance, some other suitor in the field? An anarchical
shoemaker, possibly! Pauline's confidence in Mrs. Dobbs had been
completely blown into the air by learning that she had approved and
encouraged May's engagement to a young man who calmly avowed that he
possessed one hundred and fifty pounds a year of his own; and she
felt that any dreadful revelation might be made at any moment. But
the name on the card was not a masculine one, at any rate. Mrs.
Something-or-other Simpson, she read on it.
"Is the--lady with Miss Cheffington now, James?"
"Yes, ma'am. Miss Cheffington took her into the dining-room. I thought
that, as last time--I mean as Smithson wasn't in the way--I'd better let
you know, ma'am."
"Did the lady ask for me?"
"N-no; I--well, I really hardly know, ma'am."
"You hardly know?"
"Well, ma'am, she talked a great deal, and so--so----It was uncommonly
difficult to follow what she said. At first I thought she announced her
name as being Oldchester. I _did_ say 'not at home' twice, but it was no
use; and then Miss Cheffington happening to pass through the hall----"
"That will do."
James retired with an injured air, and Mrs. Dormer-Smith was left to
consider within herself whether duty required her to be present at the
interview between May and this unknown Mrs. Simpson, or whether she
might indulge herself by sitting still and reading Mrs. Griffin's last
letter in comfort and quietude. After a brief deliberation, she resolved
to go downstairs. There was no knowing who or what the woman might be.
James had said something about Oldchester. No doubt she came from that
place. Perhaps she was an emissary of Mr. Rivers! Pauline, as she rose
and drew a shawl round her shoulders, before facing the chillier
atmosphere of the staircase, breathed a pious hope that her brother
Augustus might sooner or later compensate her for all the sacrifices she
was making on behalf of May.
Before she reached the dining-room, she heard the sound of a fluent
monologue. May was not speaking at all, so far as Mrs. Dormer-Smith
could make out. When she entered the room, she found the girl sitting
beside a stout, florid woman, dressed in _trente-six couleurs_--as
Pauline phrased it to herself--who was holding forth with a profusion of
"nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles."
Mrs. Dormer-Smith made this stranger a bow of such freezing politeness
as ought to have petrified her on the spot; and, turning to May,
inquired with raised eyebrows, "Who is your friend, May?"
But Amelia Simpson had not the least suspicion that she was being
snubbed in the most superior style known to modern science. She rose,
with her usual impulsive vehemence, from her chair, and said smilingly--
"Mrs. Dormer-Smith? I thought so! Permit me to apologize for a seeming
breach of etiquette. I am well aware that my call ought properly to have
been paid to _you_, the mistress of this elegant mansion; but, being
_personally_ unknown--although we are not so 'remote, unfriended,
melancholy, or slow'--not that I use the epithet in a slang sense, I
assure you!--in Oldchester, as to be unaware that Mrs. Dormer-Smith, the
accomplished relative of our dear Miranda, is in all respects 'a glass
of fashion and a mould of form.' Only I wish our divine bard had chosen
any other word than 'mould,' which somehow is inextricably connected in
my mind with short sixes."
"Oh!" ejaculated Pauline, in a faint voice, as she sank into a chair;
and she remained gazing at the visitor with a helpless air.
At another time, May would have had a keen and enjoying sense of the
comic elements in this little scene; but although she saw them now as
distinctly as she ever could have done, she was too unhappy to enjoy
them. She said quietly--
"This is Mrs. Simpson, Aunt Pauline. Her husband is professor of music
at Oldchester; and they are both very old friends of dear Granny."
Now, Pauline was not prepared to break altogether with Mrs. Dobbs. Mrs.
Dobbs had behaved very badly in that matter of young Rivers; but
something must be excused to ignorance; and her allowance for May
continued to be paid up every quarter with exemplary punctuality. Let
matters turn out as well as possible, there must still be a "meantime"
during which Mrs. Dobbs's money would be valuable--and, indeed,
indispensable--if May were to remain under her aunt's roof. It occurred
to Pauline to invite this incredibly attired person to share Cecile's
early dinner in the housekeeper's room, and then to withdraw herself and
May on the plea of some imaginary engagement. She was just about to
carry out this idea when the reiteration of a name in Mrs. Simpson's
rapid talk struck her ear, and excited her curiosity: "Mrs. Bransby."
Amelia was talking volubly to May about Mrs. Bransby. She had resumed
what she was pleased to call her "conversation" with May, having made
some sort of incoherent apology to Mrs. Dormer-Smith, to the effect that
she had a very short time to remain, and "so many interesting topics of
mutual interest to discuss."
She rambled on about her last evening's visit to Collingwood Terrace.
Mr. Rivers and dear Mrs. Bransby would make a charming couple; and as to
the difference in years--what did years signify? And the difference was
not so great, after all. Mr. Rivers was very steady and staid for his
age; and Mrs. Bransby looked so wonderfully youthful!--not a line in her
forehead, in spite of all her troubles. And then Mr. Bragg's friendship
and countenance would be so valuable! He evidently approved it all. And
if he gave Mr. Rivers a share in his business--"even a comparatively
small share," said Amelia, feeling that she was keeping well within the
limits of probability, and even displaying a certain business-like
sobriety of conjecture--considering how colossal an affair _that_ was,
everything would be made smooth for them. Mrs. Bransby's children
evidently adored Mr. Rivers--which was _so_ delightful! And as for Mr.
Rivers's devotion to Mrs. Bransby, no one could doubt that who saw them
together. (This was said rather to a shadowy audience of Oldchester
persons, who had declared that, however ridiculous Mrs. Bransby might
make herself, young Rivers was not likely to tie himself for life to a
middle-aged woman with a family, than to Amelia's present hearers.) And
after all the unkind things which had been reported in Oldchester, it
would be a heartfelt joy to Mrs. Bransby's friends to see her widowhood
so happily brought to a close.
"What unkind things have been reported in Oldchester? What do you mean?"
asked May. She spoke eagerly, but quite firmly. There was no tremor in
her voice, no rising of unbidden tears to her eyes. Her whole heart and
soul were concentrated on getting at the truth.
Amelia pulled herself up a little. She had been running on rather too
heedlessly. Some things had latterly been said of Mrs. Bransby which
could scarcely be repeated with propriety to a young lady--at least,
according to Amelia's code of what was proper.
"Oh, my dear Miranda," she stammered, "the world is ever censorious; but
as the lyric bard so beautifully puts it--
'I'd weep when friends deceive me,
If _thou_ wert like them, untrue.'
Although why it is taken for granted that friends--in any true sense of
the word--should be expected to deceive, I must leave to meta-physics to
determine!"
Mrs. Dormer-Smith here put in her word. "Oh, we had already heard of
these scandals," she said. "My niece was inclined to doubt their
existence, I believe. I hope you are convinced now, May!"
"Really!" exclaimed Mrs. Simpson, glancing with growing uneasiness from
May to her aunt. Something, she perceived, was wrong--but what?
"Dear Mrs. Simpson," said May, "I am very sure that whoever else was
unkind and scandalous, you were not."
"Ever the same sweet nature!" murmured Amelia; "but, perhaps, it was not
so much that people were unkind, not exactly unkind, but mistaken. You
see, when a person tells you a thing, positively, there is a certain
unkindness in not believing it! And yet, on the other hand, one would
not willingly accept evil reports of a fellow-creature. There is a
difficulty in harmoniously blending the two horns of this dilemma--if I
may be allowed to say so--which, to some extent, excuses error."
The good lady's habitual confusion of ideas was increased by the nervous
fear that she had said something unfortunate. She brought her visit to
an end earlier than she otherwise might have done; and in taking
effusive leave of May she whispered--
"I trust I did not commit any solecism against the code of manners which
belongs to the _elite_ of the _haut ton_, in alluding to our fair
friend, Mrs. B----?"
"No, no," answered May gently; "don't vex yourself by thinking so."
Mrs. Simpson brightened up a little, and asked aloud, "And what message
shall I give to grandmamma?"
May scarcely recognized "Granny" under this appellation, adopted in
honour of Mrs. Dormer-Smith's social distinction. But after an instant
she said--
"Oh, give her my dear love; I shall write to her to-morrow. And, please,
my love to Uncle Jo."
"Ah, I recognize our dear Miranda's affectionate constancy there!" cried
Amelia. "Mr. Weatherhead will be much gratified."
"Gratified! I think he would have a right to be disgusted if I forgot
him! Dear, good, honest, kind-hearted Uncle Jo!"
"_Who_ is this person?" demanded Pauline, genuinely aghast at the idea
that some hitherto unknown brother of Susan Dobbs was in existence. The
one extenuating circumstance in that unfortunate marriage had always
appeared to her to be the fact that Susan was an only child.
"He is a certain Mr. Joseph Weatherhead," answered May, with great
distinctness. "He was originally a bookbinder's apprentice, and then a
printer and bookseller in a small way of business at Birmingham. He is
my grandmother's brother-in-law, and one of the best men in the world.
He used to give me shillings when I went back to school; and once I
remember--that was just before my father left me on granny's hands--he
noticed that my boots were disgracefully shabby, and took me out and
bought me a new pair."
Then Mrs. Simpson went away in a nervous flutter, and with the positive,
though puzzled, conviction that there was something very wrong indeed
between the aunt and niece.