Mrs. Dormer-Smith's affectionate letter to her brother produced a result
which she had not at all anticipated when she wrote it. He arrived in
England by the next steamboat from Ostend, and took up his quarters in
her house. He had come ostensibly for the purpose of visiting Combe
Park, and patching up a reconciliation with his uncle. This, indeed, was
a pet scheme with Pauline. She had hinted at it in writing to her
brother. Now that George and "poor dear Lucius" were gone, Lord
Castlecombe might not dislike to be on good terms with his heir. He was
old and lonely, and, as Pauline's correspondents had assured her,
greatly broken down by the death of his sons.
Frederick scarcely knew which to regret the most--his niece's departure
or his brother-in-law's arrival. He missed May very much, but very
shortly he began to be reconciled to her engagement. Rivers was a
gentleman and an honest fellow, and might be trusted to take care of
May's money, which Mr. Dormer-Smith thought would be otherwise in
imminent jeopardy from the arrival on the scene of May's papa.
That gentleman, indeed, who had at first taken the news of his
daughter's engagement with supreme indifference, showed some lively
symptoms of disapprobation on learning the fact of Lucius's bequest. A
daughter dependent on the bounty of Mrs. Dobbs for food, shelter, and
raiment, was an uninteresting person enough; but a daughter who
possessed between four and five hundred a-year of her own, ought not to
be allowed to marry without her father's consent. Frederick dryly
remarked that May's capital was stringently tied up in the hands of
trustees, whether she were married or single. Whereupon Augustus
indulged in very strong language respecting his dead cousin; and
declared that the terms of the will were a pointed and intentional
insult to _him_, who was his child's natural guardian.
Still, although the capital was secure, Frederick knew that the income
was not. And the more he observed his brother-in-law, the more he felt
how desirable it was that May should have a husband to take care of her.
Captain Cheffington had not improved during his years of exile. He
smoked all day long; and even at night in his bed, incensing May's
chamber, which he occupied, with clouds of tobacco-smoke. He had
contracted other unpleasant habits, and his temper was diabolical. He
had not brought his wife to England with him. He would sit for hours
with his slippered feet on the fender in his sister's dressing-room,
railing at the absent Mrs. Augustus Cheffington in a way which was most
grievous to Pauline; for he showed not the least reticence in the
presence of Smithson. Talk of "floating"--how would it be possible to
"float" a woman of whom her own husband spoke in that way?
He had no very grave charges to bring against La Bianca after all. She
had been faithful to him, and stuck to him, and worked for him. But he
bewailed his fate in having tied himself to "a third-rate Italian
opera-singer, without an idea in her head beyond painting her face and
squalling!" It was just his cursed luck. Why couldn't Lucius die, since
he meant to die, six months earlier?
At another time, he would openly rejoice in the death of his cousins,
and express a fervent hope that the old boy wasn't going to last much
longer. Pauline would remonstrate, and put her handkerchief to her eyes,
and beg her brother not to speak so heartlessly of his own family:
especially of "poor dear Lucius." But Augustus pooh-pooh'd this as
confounded humbug. He was uncommonly glad to be the heir of Combe Park,
and thought it about time that his family, and his country, and the
human race generally, made him some amends for the years he had passed
under a cloud! _He_ would show them how to enjoy life when he came into
possession of "his property," as he had taken to call Lord Castlecombe's
estate. He planned out several changes in the disposal of the land, and
decided what rent he would take for the house and home-park. For he did
not intend to live in this d----d foggy little island, where one had
bronchitis if one hadn't got rheumatism, and rheumatism if one hadn't
got bronchitis. In one respect his visions coincided with his sister's,
since he talked of having a villa on the Mediterranean coast, not far
from Monte Carlo; but they differed from hers in several important
points: notably in providing no place for her in the villa.
Frederick would sometimes throw a shade over these rosy dreams by
observing doggedly that, for his part, he doubted the likelihood of Lord
Castlecombe's speedy decease, and that, looking at them both, he was
inclined to consider Uncle George's life the better of the two; so that,
on the whole, domestic life in Mr. Dormer-Smith's smart house at
Kensington was by no means harmonious. Meanwhile Pauline, with
considerable pains and earnest meditation, composed a letter to her
uncle on behalf of Augustus; she did not venture to entrust the task to
Augustus himself. It would be impossible to persuade him to be as smooth
and conciliatory as the case demanded. But she wrote a letter which, she
thought, combined diplomacy with pathos, and from which she hoped for
some satisfactory result. But the reply she received by return of post
was of such a nature that she hastily thrust it into the fire lest
Augustus should see it, and told him and her husband that "poor dear
Uncle George was not yet equal to the effort of seeing Augustus, after
the great shock he had suffered." Uncle George had, in fact, stated in
the plainest terms that if Captain Cheffington ventured to show himself
in Combe Park, the servants had orders to turn him out forcibly!
The object for which Captain Cheffington had come to England at that
time being thus baulked, it would have appeared natural that he should
return to his wife in Brussels. But day followed day, until nearly three
weeks had elapsed since Lucius Cheffington's death, and still Augustus
remained at Kensington. Every morning, with a dreadful regularity, Mr.
Dormer-Smith inquired of his wife if she knew whether her brother were
going away in the course of that day; and every morning the shower of
tears with which Mrs. Dormer-Smith received the inquiry, and which
generally formed her only answer to it, became more copious. Augustus,
on the whole, was the least uncomfortable of the trio. He had contrived
to raise a little ready money on his expectations; he was well lodged
and well fed; the change to London (now that he had a few pounds in his
pocket) was not unwelcome after Brussels; and as to his brother-in-law's
undisguised dislike to his presence, he had grown far too callous to
heed it, so long as it suited him to ignore it. Not but that he took
note of it in his mind keenly enough, and promised himself the pleasure
of paying off Frederick with interest, as soon as he should come into
"his property."
All this time a humble household in Oldchester was a great deal happier
than the wintry days were long. The news of Captain Cheffington's
arrival in England had at first disturbed May. Perhaps he might insist
on seeing her; and she shrank from seeing him. But she thought it her
duty to write to him and inform him herself of her engagement; and
neither Owen nor her grandmother opposed her doing so.
If May had any lingering illusion about her father, or any hope that he
would manifest some gleam of parental tenderness towards her, the
illusion and the hope were short-lived. The reply to her communications
was a hurried scrawl, haughtily regretting that Mr. Owen Rivers had not
thought proper to wait upon him and ask his consent to the marriage,
which he totally disapproved of! And adding that although Rivers of
Riversmead was undoubtedly good blood, it appeared that the traditions
of gentlemanlike behaviour had been lost by the present bearer of the
name, since he entered the service of a tradesman. The letter ended with
a peremptory demand for fifty pounds.
May and Owen had planned that granny was to return to Friar's Row on
their marriage. Mr. Bragg was willing to break the lease which he held,
and to remove his office to another house hard by. And Mrs. Dobbs, with
all her goods and chattels, was to be reinstated in her old home. As
this scheme was to be kept secret from Granny for the present, it
involved a vast deal of delightful mystery and plotting. Jo Weatherhead
was admitted to the conspiracy, and enjoyed it with the keenest relish.
A word or two had been said as to Mrs. Dobbs taking up her abode with
the young couple when they should be married. But this Granny instantly
and inflexibly refused.
"No, no, children; I'm not quite so foolish as that! It's very well for
Owen to take May for better for worse. But it would be a little too much
to take May and her grandmother for better for worse!"
Of course it was not long before Owen took his betrothed to see Canon
and Mrs. Hadlow. They walked together to the old house in College Quad,
where, however, their news had preceded them. The Hadlows were very
cordial. Both of them were very fond of May; and Aunt Jane loudly hoped
that Owen appreciated his good fortune, and declared it was far above
his deserts, though in her heart she thought no girl in England too good
for her favourite nephew. The lovers were affectionately bidden to come
again as often as they could, and brighten up the old place with the
sight of their happy young faces.
They agreed, as they walked home together, that the home in College Quad
seemed a little gloomy and lonely without Conny. Conny was still away.
She had only been at home on a flying visit of a few days during several
months past. She was now staying with a Lady Belcraft, who had a
handsome house at Combe St. Mildred's. Mrs. Hadlow had told them so; and
a word or two, uttered in the same breath, about Theodore Bransby being
often in that neighbourhood, suggested a suspicion that Theodore might
be thinking of returning to his old love. This idea annoyed Owen
extremely. The hint which suggested it had been dropped almost in the
moment of saying "good-bye" to Mrs. Hadlow, or he would have attempted
at once to sound her on the subject.
He had interrogated his aunt privately--while May was being petted and
made much of by the kind old canon--as to a rumour which was rife in
Oldchester--namely, that Constance had been betrothed to Lucius
Cheffington. But Aunt Jane positively denied this. She admitted that the
gossip bad reached her own ears, and that she had spoken to her daughter
about it.
"But Conny entirely disabused me of any such notion. She said that, in
the first place, nothing was farther from Lucius's thoughts than
love-making; and that, in the second place, it would have been a most
imprudent marriage for her, since she could only expect to be speedily
left a widow with a very slender jointure. Conny was never romantic, you
know," said Aunt Jane, with a quick, half-humorous glance at her nephew.
Owen began to consider with himself whether it might not be his duty to
acquaint Canon Hadlow with many parts of Theodore's conduct which were
certainly unknown to him. All inquiries conducted either by himself or
by Jo Weatherhead--who ferreted out information with untiring zeal and
delight in the task--showed more and more plainly that the calumnies
concerning Mrs. Bransby could be traced, for the most part, to her
step-son, and in no single instance beyond him. May had long ago
acquitted Constance Hadlow of speaking or writing evil things of the
widow. Constance had not, in fact, expended any attention whatever on
the Bransby family since their departure from Oldchester.
She was spending her time very agreeably. Her hostess, Lady Belcraft,
was a widow. She was a great crony of Mrs. Griffin's, and delighted with
Mrs. Griffin's _protegee_. Having, so to speak, retired from business on
her own account (her two daughters being married and settled long ago),
Lady Belcraft was still most willing to renew the toils of the chase on
behalf of a friend. She and Mrs. Griffin had carefully examined the
county list of possible matches for Constance Hadlow; and had agreed
that there was good hope of a speedy find, a capital run, and a
successful finish.
It so happened that on the same afternoon when May and Owen were paying
their visit to College Quad, Theodore Bransby was making a call at the
residence of Lady Belcraft in Combe St. Mildred's.
Ever since his interview with Mrs. Dobbs--now several days ago--Theodore
had been considering his own case with minute and concentrated
attention. We are all of us, it must be owned, supremely interesting to
ourselves; but Theodore's interest in himself was of a jealously
exclusive kind. His health was undoubtedly delicate. He had felt the
loss of a home to which he could repair when he was ailing or out of
sorts ever since his father's death. He found, too, that he was apt to
become hipped and nervous when alone. He came to the conclusion that he
needed a wife to take care of him, and, after grave consideration, he
resolved to marry Constance Hadlow.
If he could by a word have destroyed Rivers and obtained possession of
May Cheffington, he would have said that word without hesitation or
remorse; but since that could not be, he did not intend to wear the
willow. He would marry Constance. That she would have accepted him long
ago he was well assured; and his circumstances were far more prosperous
now than in those days. Canon and Mrs. Hadlow could not but be impressed
by his disinterestedness in coming forward now that he was in the
enjoyment of a handsome independence. And, on his side, he believed he
was choosing prudently. If he were ill, the attentions of a wife--a
refined and cultured woman, dependent, moreover, on him for the comfort
of her daily life--would be far preferable to those of a hireling nurse,
who would have the power of going away whenever she found her position
disagreeable. But this was only one side of the question. When he grew
stronger (he always looked forward to growing stronger) Constance would
be an admirable helpmate from a social point of view. She had acquired
influential friends, was received in the best houses, and would do his
taste infinite credit, and whether as a politician or a barrister she
might have it in her power to forward his ambitions.
It was as the result of these meditations that he called at Lady
Belcraft's.
He had met her occasionally in society, and she knew perfectly who he
was. But there was a distinct film of ice over the politeness with which
she received him when he was ushered into her drawing-room. She thought
this little attorney's son was taking something like a liberty in
appearing there uninvited. She forgave him, however, immediately when,
in his most correct manner, he asked for Miss Hadlow.
Really it might do, thought Lady Belcraft. The young man was very well
off, and presentable, and all that, and dear Conny, though simply
charming, had not a penny in the world (neither was dear Conny her
ladyship's own daughter). Yes; she positively thought it might do! She
was so sorry that Miss Hadlow was not within, but she expected her every
moment. She was walking, she believed, in the park. "The Park" at Combe
St. Mildred's meant Combe Park. Oh, yes; she was aware that Mr. Bransby
was an old acquaintance. Playfellows from childhood? Really! That sort
of thing always had such a hold on one--was so extremely----Oh, there
was dear Conny coming up the drive.
Lady Belcraft sent a message by a servant, begging Miss Hadlow to come
into the drawing-room, where she presently appeared.
She was dressed in a winter toilet of carefully-studied simplicity, and
looked radiantly handsome. Theodore gazed at her as if he had never seen
her before. Self-possessed she had always been, but she had now acquired
something more than that--an air of conscious distinction--of "being
somebody," as Theodore phrased it in his own mind, which he admired and
wondered at.
"Here's an old friend of yours, Conny," said Lady Belcraft.
Constance had been pulling off her gloves as she entered the room, and
she now extended a white, well cared-for hand to Theodore, with a cool
little, "Oh, how d'ye do?" and the faintest of smiles.
Her hostess thought within herself that if there really was anything
between her and young Bransby, Conny's behaviour was marvellous, and
that all the training bestowed on her own daughters had left them far
below the point of finish attained by this provincial clergyman's
daughter.
"Did you walk far? Are you tired?" she asked.
"No, thanks, dear Lady Belcraft; I am not at all tired. I went to my
favourite group of beeches. It's a capital day for walking. And what is
the news in Oldchester, Theodore?"
Her calling him "Theodore" in the old familiar way seemed to have the
mysterious effect of putting him under her feet; it implied such
superiority and security. Theodore was conscious of this, but it did not
displease him; she had doubtless resented his not making the expected
offer earlier. He had thought when he met her in London that hurt
_amoure propre_ had much to do with her cavalier treatment of him. But
he had a charm to smoothe her ruffled plumes.
After a little commonplace conversation, Lady Belcraft recollected some
orders which she wanted to give personally to her gardener, and, with a
brief excuse, left the room. Constance perfectly understood why she had
done so, Theodore did not; but he seized the occasion which, he
imagined, hazard had thrown in his way.
"I am very glad of this opportunity of speaking with you alone,
Constance," he began very solemnly.
There was no trepidation such as he had felt in speaking to May. He
neither trembled, nor stammered, nor grew hot and cold by turns. That
chapter was closed. He was turning over a new and quite different leaf.
"Yes?" said Constance. "Really!" She removed her hat, smoothed the thick
dark braids of her hair before a mirror, and sat down with graceful
composure.
"I don't think we have met, Constance, since----" He glanced at his
black clothes.
"No; I think not. I was very sorry. I begged mamma to give you a message
from me when she wrote to condole with Mrs. Bransby."
"I merely allude to that sad subject in order to assure you that I am
not unmindful of what is proper and becoming under the circumstances;
and lest you should think me guilty of heartless precipitation."
He was beginning to enjoy the rounding off of his sentences--a pleasure
he had never tasted in May's company; strong emotion being unfavourable
to polished periods.
"Oh, I don't think you were ever guilty of precipitation," answered
Constance quietly. But the mirror opposite reflected a flash of her
handsome eyes.
"Nothing," continued Theodore, "could be in worse taste than to neglect
the accustomed forms of respect. A period of twelve months would not be
too long to mourn for a parent so excellent as my father; but six months
could not be considered to outrage decorum. And I should not urge----"
He paused. He had been on the point of saying that he would not press
for the marriage taking place before the summer, when he happily
remembered that he had not yet gone through the form of asking Constance
whether she would marry him or not. To him it seemed so like merely
taking up the thread of a story temporarily interrupted, that he had
lost sight of the probability that Constance's mind had not been keeping
pace with his own on the subject. But it recurred to him in time.
Constance was sitting on a low couch near the fireside, at some distance
from him. He now took his place beside her. There was a certain
awkwardness in making a proposal of marriage across a spacious room.
"There can be no need of many words between us, Constance," he began,
with as much tenderness of manner as he could call up. Then he stopped.
Constance had drawn away the skirt of her gown on the side next to him,
and was examining it attentively. "What is the matter?" he asked.
"I thought you had accidentally set your boot on the hem of my frock,"
she said. "And the roads are so muddy, although it is fine overhead! But
it's all right. I beg your pardon: you were saying----?"
This interruption was disconcerting. He had had in his head an elaborate
sentence which was now dispersed and irrecoverable. He must begin all
over again. However, when fairly started once more, his eloquence did
not fail him. He offered his hand and fortune to Miss Hadlow, "in good
set terms."
She was silent when he had finished, and he ventured to take her hand.
"Am I not to have an answer, dearest Constance?" he asked.
She drew her hand away very gently and with perfect composure before
saying, as she looked full at him with her fine dark eyes--
"You are not joking, then?"
"_Joking!_"
"Well, I know you are not given to joking, and this would certainly be
an inconceivably bad joke; but it is almost more inconceivable that you
should be in earnest."
He was fairly bewildered, and doubtful of her meaning.
"However," she continued, "if you really expect a serious answer, you
must have it. No, thank you."
He stood up erect and stiff, as if moved by a spring. She remained
leaning back in an easy attitude on the couch, and looking at him.
"I----Constance!----I don't understand you!" he exclaimed.
"I refuse you," she replied in a gentle voice, and with her best society
drawl. "Distinctly, decidedly, and unhesitatingly. I think you _must_
understand that. Won't you stay and see Lady Belcraft?" (Theodore had
taken up his hat, and was moving towards the door.) "Oh, very well. I
will make your excuses."
She rang the bell, which was within reach of her hand, and Theodore
walked out of the room without proffering another word.