Of course Mrs. Dormer-Smith availed herself to the utmost of Mrs.
Simpson's revelations. They were most valuable. And they had the effect
of confirming her own vague suspicions in an unexpected manner. That
which had been merely "diplomatic" colouring in her presentment of the
situation to May, turned out to be real, solid, vulgar fact!
The state of things was certainly very singular. But she did not doubt
that she had discovered the true explanation of it. Mr. Rivers had
probably been infatuated with Mrs. Bransby before her husband's death.
Such infatuations were by no means rare at their respective ages. The
lady had been willing to coquette after a sentimental fashion: which,
also, was not unprecedented! There had probably been no serious
intention of evil-doing on either side. "At all events we can give them
the benefit of the doubt!" reflected Pauline charitably. Meanwhile, Mr.
Rivers had met with May. He had been thrown a great deal into her
society, had been encouraged by her stupid old grandmother, had thought
her connections and prospects desirable, and had probably admired
herself a good deal. Pauline did not see why not. It was very possible
for a man to admire more than one woman at a time! Mr. Rivers makes love
to May, persuades her to enter into a clandestine engagement, and goes
abroad. But then something unforeseen happens: _the husband dies_; and
all the old feeling is revived. Mr. Rivers hastens back to England. The
widow is pathetic--helpless--throws herself on his advice and support.
He goes to live under her roof, and the mischief is done! A handsome,
scheming woman, under these circumstances, might well be irresistible.
As to him, of course he had behaved badly in a way. But, after all, one
must accept men as they are. And, as Pauline said to herself, the folly
of young men in such matters, and their invincible tendency to sacrifice
themselves to the wrong woman, are simply unfathomable! At any rate
whether her cousin's death had made Rivers more willing to fulfil his
engagement to May; or whether he would be glad of a pretext to break
with her in order to marry Mrs. Bransby and her five children; May must
clearly perceive that _she_ could have nothing more to say to him.
All these considerations, and the conclusion to which they led, Mrs.
Dormer-Smith administered to her niece, in larger or smaller doses,
during the remainder of the day. Sometimes it was by way of a few drops
at a time:--a hint, a word, perhaps merely a sigh, accompanied by an
expressive shrug of the shoulders. Sometimes it was a copious pouring
forth of the evidence. Sometimes it was an appeal to May's pride:
sometimes to her principles.
The girl was worn out with fighting against shadows. And, though they
might be shadows, they were gathering darkly.
The worst was that she was, in one sense, as solitary as though she had
been alone on a desert island. There was absolutely no communion of
spirit between her and her aunt on this subject. Had her uncle been
there, she thought that even he would have understood her better. She
could write, of course, to granny; and of course granny would answer
her. But another whole long day must elapse before she could have the
comfort of granny's letter: even supposing it were sent without a post's
delay. She could not see Owen. She was not sure, at moments, whether she
wished to see him. And then again, with a sudden revulsion of feeling,
she would long for his presence.
She had in her pocket the note he had written on the previous evening,
begging her to inform Mr. Bragg of their engagement. It had reached her
hands only an hour or two before Amelia Simpson's visit; and was, as
yet, unanswered. The note had been dashed off quickly, as we know. And
to May, disheartened and confused as she was already by her aunt's
version of the interview with Owen, it seemed needlessly brief and dry.
He begged May to tell Mr. Bragg of their engagement at once. Under the
circumstances he thought Mr. Bragg ought to know it, and the
announcement would come best from her. He had not had a moment in which
to speak of it during their hurried interview. But he did not doubt that
May would feel as he felt on this point. She had better, if possible,
send her communication so that Mr. Bragg should receive it that same
afternoon; since he certainly ought to know the truth soon, at any cost.
These last words had reference to the possibility that the revelation
might affect the fortunes of the Bransby family. But May knew nothing of
that; and they jarred on her. Why should Owen speak to her of the
"cost"? It was almost like a boast that he was ready to sacrifice
himself. In talking to Aunt Pauline he had shown that he was anxious not
to lose his situation. For her sake? Oh yes; no doubt for her sake. But
the words jarred on her. The lightest touch will jar upon a bruise.
And then the loneliness of spirit was so trying! Solitude may sometimes
be a good counsellor for the brain. But it is rarely so for the heart.
Nothing so strengthens our best impulses, faiths, and affections as to
see them reflected in the soul of a fellow-creature. To the young
especially, want of sympathy with their emotions is like want of
daylight to a flower. Those who have travelled half way along life's
journey are apt to forget how much diffidence is often mingled with a
young girl's acceptance of love. The gift seems so unspeakably great! A
trembling sense of unreality sometimes comes with the recognition of its
preciousness and beauty.
"Can it be? Am _I_ really loved so much? Dare I believe it?" These
questions are often asked by sensitive young hearts. Happiness begets
humility in the finer sort of nature.
Elder spectators, looking on at the old, ever-new story, find it clear
and simple enough. But to the actors it may seem complex and difficult.
Lookers on, in any case, see but a small portion of the drama of our
lives. The intensest part of it--the most poignant tragedy, the sunniest
comedy--is played within ourselves by invisible forces. Truly, and in
dread earnest, "we are such stuff as dreams are made of."
All the day May kept Owen's note in her pocket, and when evening came,
she had neither answered it, nor written to Mr. Bragg. Owen was right,
no doubt, in saying that Mr. Bragg ought to know the truth. But what
_was_ the truth? In the whirlpool of her agitated thoughts sometimes one
answer would float uppermost, and sometimes another. Could her aunt be
right in saying that she would prejudice Owen's future by holding him to
his word? Holding him! But it was rather for Owen to hold her. He could
not suspect that his claim would be disallowed. He, at least, had no
reason to doubt the completeness of her love for him. And then a scarlet
blush would burn her cheeks, and hot tears would be forced from her
eyes, by a thought which touched her maiden pride to the quick:--was he
not leaving it to her to claim him? If she wrote that letter to Mr.
Bragg, she would, in fact, be claiming him.
She had told Mr. Bragg, she remembered, when he asked her if her family
approved of the man she had promised to marry, that she, at any rate,
was proud to be loved by him. Yes; but too proud to accept a love that
was not eagerly given. Oh, it was all weariness, and bitterness, and
perturbation of spirit!
Sometimes, for a moment, the recollection of Owen's look and Owen's
words would pierce the clouds like a ray of sunshine, and her heart
would cry out, "Why am I troubled and tormented by lies and foolishness?
Owen is loyal, tender, and true--the soul of truth and honour! I need
only trust to him, and all will be well." But then Aunt Pauline would
repeat some of poor Amelia Simpson's glowing words about "the charming
couple" in Collingwood Terrace--made all the more impressive by the fact
that Aunt Pauline really believed them; and the fog would gather again,
and she would ask herself, "How if he should be loyal against his
inclination?"
In the evening she said to her aunt, "Aunt Pauline, I will go away from
London; I will go to Granny. I could not, in any case, continue to take
her money for keeping me here. I will go down to Oldchester; that will
be best. And Owen and I can arrange afterwards what we will do." For not
by a word would she betray a doubt of Owen. To her aunt she upheld his
faithfulness unwaveringly; she upheld it, indeed, in her own heart,
chiding down her doubts as one chides down a snarling dog. But though
she could chide, she could not remove them; they were there, crouching.
She was conscious of their existence, as pain is felt in a dream.
But it did not at all suit Mrs. Dormer-Smith's views that her niece
should go away in that fashion. "I cannot let you leave my house, May,"
she said; "I am responsible for you to your father."
Then May rebelled. She declared that Granny had been father and mother
and friend to her, and that she did not feel she owed any filial duty
except to Granny.
Pauline privately thought that she recognized the influence of Mr.
Rivers in this speech. She put her handkerchief to her eyes, and
observed plaintively that she was sorry May had no touch of affection
for _her_ or for her uncle, who had striven to treat her as their own
child. She was genuinely hurt, and thought she had reason to complain of
the girl's ingratitude. May recognized that her aunt was sincere in
this. She, too, felt that Aunt Pauline had meant to do well for her,
although it had all turned out amiss. She thought of the day of her
first arrival in town, of her aunt's affectionate reception of her, and
gentle sweetness ever since, until these last unhappy days. Her thoughts
went back farther--to the time when the dowager was alive, and her aunt
used to see her in the dreary old house at Richmond, and mourn over her
clothes, and kiss her kindly when she went away.
With a sudden impulse she knelt down beside Mrs. Dormer-Smith's chair,
and put her arms round her.
"Aunt Pauline," she said, "I know you have meant to be kind. You _have_
been kind. No doubt I have given you trouble and anxiety; partly,
perhaps, by my fault, but more by my misfortune. I am not insensible of
all that. But, dear Aunt Pauline, I want you to believe--do, pray,
believe--that it would be cruel to separate me from Owen. Nothing
_shall_ part us, except his own will," she added in a low voice. Then,
after an instant, she went on, pressing her soft young face against her
aunt's shoulder, "Perhaps you think I don't care so very deeply for him?
Of course you cannot know; you have never seen us together; it has all
come upon you quite suddenly. But, indeed, indeed, if I had to give him
up, I think it would break my heart. Oh, dear Aunt Pauline, do be kind
to us, and help us! I have no mother. And I--I love him so!"
Pauline folded the sobbing girl in her arms. Perhaps she had never felt
the great duty she owed to society so hard of fulfilment as at that
moment. It was really frightful to think of the havoc wrought by the
selfish recklessness of that Nihilist with his hundred and fifty pounds
a year! The recollection of the cold-blooded effrontery with which he
had mentioned the sum made her shudder.
For a little time she held her niece silently in a motherly embrace.
Then she said softly, "This is very sad and distressing, dear May." And
her own eyes were full of tears. "However much I may disapprove"--(the
clinging arms around her shoulders relaxed their hold a little here; but
she gently pressed the girl close to her again)--"and--and deplore the
state of the case, it is most painful to me to see you suffer. But we
must not allow feeling to override all considerations of what is right
and proper. We must not forget that we have duties--duties towards
society."
May quietly removed one arm from her aunt's neck, and began to dry her
eyes.
"I don't say that those duties are easy. Those who have no position in
the world to keep up may be enviable in some respects. I'm sure I am
often tempted to envy the people one sees riding in omnibuses," said
Pauline, with what she felt to be a bold but forcible hyperbole. "But
_noblesse oblige_. You and I are both born Cheffingtons. It may be all
very well for the _bourgeoisie_ to indulge in sentiment, and
sweet-hearts, and that sort of thing; but from us society expects
something different. There are certain opportunities which, it appears
to me, it is absolutely flying in the face of Providence to neglect. I
know perfectly well that if the Hautenvilles had the slightest inkling
of an idea that you had refused Mr. Bragg, Felicia would come flying
back from Rome like a whirlwind. However, I will not dwell on that now.
You are dreadfully worn out, my poor child, and your eyes will not be
fit to be seen for a week. Rose-water the last thing before going to
bed. There is nothing so soothing. Poor child! I _must_ steel myself to
do my duty, May; but it really is excessively trying. Go to rest now,
dear, and sleep off your agitation. To-morrow we will talk more calmly."
May had gently withdrawn herself from her aunt's embrace, and had risen
from her knees. "To-morrow I will go to Granny," she said quietly.
"Ah, no, dearest! that cannot be. It is out of the question. But you may
write to Mrs. Dobbs and hear what she says."
Pauline had resolved to write herself to Mrs. Dobbs, detailing all she
knew (and a great deal more which she thought she knew) about Mr.
Rivers's conduct, and setting forth the change in May's position as the
daughter of the future Lord Castlecombe. Things were very different from
what they had been three or four months ago. Even Mrs. Dobbs--although
she had turned out so disappointingly foolish as to this preposterous
love affair--must see that.
"Good night, dear child; you will get over this distress; and you will
acknowledge hereafter, I am quite confident, that you have had a good
escape. As to that odious woman, _she_ is sure to be miserable, whether
he marries her or not, that's one comfort!" said Aunt Pauline.
The sight of May's tearful white face exacerbated her virtuous
indignation against Mrs. Bransby; nor was this feeling in the slightest
degree mitigated by her strong desire that Mrs. Bransby should marry
young Rivers, and take him out of their way for ever.
"Good night, Aunt Pauline," answered May, bending down, and slightly
touching her aunt's forehead with her lips.
Pauline embraced the girl tenderly. "Poor darling!" she murmured. "Don't
forget the rose-water."