Canon Hadlow had resolved that his daughter, when she returned to
Oldchester for May's wedding, to which she was, of course, invited,
should remain in her own home at least for some months. He had grown
very discontented with her prolonged and frequent absences. Mrs. Hadlow,
at the earnest request of Constance, backed by a polite invitation from
Lady Belcraft, went to Combe St. Mildred's to remain there one day, and
bring her daughter back with her.
But, instead of doing so, she sent a telegram home, desiring that a box
of clothes might be packed and sent to her; and, most surprising of all,
the box was to be addressed to Dover. This item of news was disseminated
by the Hadlows' servant, whose duty it was to see the trunk conveyed to
the railway station. And the woman declared she believed, from what she
could make out, that her mistress was going to France.
Of course, the canon knew the truth. But the canon was not visible to
callers. He had a cold, and kept his room. All the circle of the
Hadlows' acquaintance--and the circle seemed to be immediately widened
by the dropping into its midst of this puzzling bit of news, as a stone
dropped into water is surrounded by a ring of ever-increasing
circumference--were, however, spared further conjecture by the
publication, in due course, of the supplement to the _Times_ newspaper
of Tuesday, the twenty-seventh of February. It contained the
announcement of the marriage at the British Embassy in Paris, on the
preceding Saturday, of Viscount Castlecombe to Constance Jane, only
daughter of the Reverend Edward Hadlow, Canon of Oldchester.
The general public, or as much of it as had ever heard of the parties
concerned--for that vast entity the general public is really as
divisible as a jelly-fish; each portion being perfect for all purposes
of its existence, when cut off from the rest--was ranged, as is usual in
such cases, in two main camps; those who couldn't have believed it
beforehand, though an angel from Heaven had announced it, and those who
had all along had their suspicions, and were not so _very_ much
surprised as you expected. But only the nearest friends and relatives of
the family enjoyed the not inconsiderable advantage for judging the
matter, of really knowing anything about it.
Owen was the first person whom his uncle admitted to see him. The old
man was greatly overcome. His daughter's marriage was a blow to him. It
gave a rude shock to the ideal Constance, whom he had loved and admired
with a sort of delicate paternal chivalry. There could be no question of
love in such a marriage as this--no question, even, of gratitude, or
reverence, or any of the finer feelings. To the pure-hearted,
simple-minded old man, it seemed to be a sad degradation for his
daughter. Not a soul except his wife ever fully understood his state of
mind on the subject; for he spoke of it to no one. Mrs. Dobbs, perhaps,
came nearest to doing so. She had a great reverence and admiration for
the canon, and considerable sympathetic insight into his feelings. And
when, afterwards, people said in her presence how proud and elated Canon
Hadlow must be at his daughter's making so great a match, she would
tighten her lips, and observe _sotto voce_ that you might as well expect
a Christian saint to be gratified by being decorated with the peacock's
feather of a Chinese mandarin.
When Mrs. Hadlow came home, of course more particulars were divulged.
Many came out by degrees in confidential talks with her nephew. Mrs.
Hadlow spoke to him quite openly.
Constance had earnestly begged her mother to go to her at Combe St.
Mildred's, and almost immediately on her arrival there had announced
that she was about to marry Lord Castlecombe, and that everything was
arranged for the ceremony to take place in Paris; since, under the
circumstances, they both felt that it could not be managed too quietly.
She much wished her mother and father to accompany her to Paris, in
order that everything might be _en regle_.
When the first astonishment was over, Mrs. Hadlow impulsively tried to
dissuade her daughter from taking this step. It was dreadful, it was
really monstrous to think of her Conny marrying that old man, who was
several years the senior of her own father! A man, too, of a hard,
unamiable character--one who was much feared, little respected, and
loved not at all! She was revolted by the idea. And as to the canon, she
could not bear to think of what he would feel. He would never allow it!
It was hopeless to think of gaining his consent.
When her mother's tearful excitement had somewhat subsided, Constance
pointed out that she had a very sincere regard for Lord Castlecombe, who
had behaved in every way excellently towards her; that as to "falling in
love," as depicted by poets and novelists, she had her private opinion,
which was, briefly, that all that was about as historically true as the
adventures of Oberon and Titania; and that, at all events, she was
sufficiently acquainted with her own character to be persuaded that
_she_ was incapable of that species of temporary insanity. Further, with
regard to her father's consent, she deeply regretted to hear that he was
likely to withhold it; since she would, in that case, be compelled to
marry without it, which would be very painful to her. (And when she said
that it would be painful to her, her mother knew that she spoke quite
sincerely.) She was of full age to judge for herself in the matter, and
could not think of breaking her word to Lord Castlecombe. She further
pointed out that although, of course, Oldchester people would chatter
about her--she spoke already, as though she were looking down on those
common mortals from the serene and luminous elevation of some fixed
star--yet there could be nothing scandalous said if she were known to be
accompanied to Paris by her mother. As to papa, his health, and his
duties, and many other excuses might be alleged for his not undertaking
a journey at that inclement season.
Constance spoke with perfect calmness, and without the slightest
disrespect of manner. But Mrs. Hadlow was made aware within five minutes
that nothing on earth which she had power to say or do would, for an
instant, shake her daughter's resolve to be a viscountess. There was
nothing to be done but to put the best face possible on the matter, and
go to Paris. She could not allow her child to travel thither alone. The
bridegroom had already preceded them, to make all needful preparations.
Poor Mrs. Hadlow was in such a whirl of confusion and emotion as
scarcely to know what she was doing or saying. "Had Lady Belcraft known
of this?" she asked. Constance smiled rather scornfully, as she replied
that nobody would be more surprised than poor dear Lady Belcraft when
she should learn the news. No; Conny was not going to share the glory of
her capture with any one. And, in truth, such glory as belonged to it
was all her own.
Mrs. Griffin, on hearing the news, was at first half inclined to be
sharp and spiteful at being kept in the dark. (Although, of course, she
did not allow herself to continue in that vulgar frame of mind.) But
Lady Belcraft was subdued, and almost prostrate in spirit before this
gifted young creature. "She's a wonderful young woman, my dear--a
wonderful young woman!" declared Lady Belcraft.
Just before they landed from the steamboat at Calais, Constance said to
her mother, "Mamma, I do think you and papa are the most unworldly
people I ever heard of! You have never thought of saying a single word
about settlements."
Mrs. Hadlow started, and looked blankly at her daughter. She stood
rebuked. "I have felt, ever since you told me, as if I had received a
stunning blow on the head which deprived me of half my faculties," she
answered. "But I ought to have thought of that. It is not too late now,
perhaps, to secure some provision for you; is it, Conny?"
"I should not have thought of marrying Lord Castlecombe without a proper
settlement, mamma. We might have been married a fortnight ago if it had
not been for the delays of the lawyers; although matters were simplified
for them by my having nothing at all! I am quite satisfied with the
arrangements, and I hope you and papa will be so too. I think you will
admit that Lord Castlecombe has been very generous."
Mrs. Hadlow was a woman of bright intelligence, and she had been apt to
consider Conny a little below the Rivers' standard of brains; but now,
as she looked and listened, she felt tempted to exclaim, like Lady
Belcraft, that this was a wonderful young woman.
But what words can paint the effect of that fateful announcement in the
_Times_ on the family party assembled in Mr. Dormer-Smith's house at
Kensington!
Augustus behaved so outrageously, used such vituperative language, and
comported himself altogether with such violence, that his brother-in-law
privately fortified himself by securing the presence of a policeman well
in view of the windows, on the opposite side of the way, before
requesting Captain Cheffington to withdraw at once from his house. Much
to his surprise, and immensely to his relief, the request was complied
with promptly. Captain Cheffington disappeared in a hansom cab, with a
smart travelling-bag, and followed by a second vehicle containing two
well-filled portmanteaus. Whereas, as James cynically remarked to the
cook, a cigar-case and a tooth-pick was about the amount of his luggage
when he arrived! James had not been fee'd. Augustus asserted his claim
to be considered one of the family by swearing at the servants, and
never giving any of them a sixpence. The explanation of this speedy
departure was shortly forthcoming in the shape of a variety of bills,
which poured in with astonishing rapidity. Augustus also, as has been
stated, had been clever enough to raise a little money on the strength
of his heirship. And Mr. Dormer-Smith had to endure some contumely from
creditors who had looked to getting something like twenty-five per cent.
above market-prices out of the captain, and were roused to a frenzy of
moral indignation when they discovered that he was safe out of England,
and beyond their reach.
To Pauline the blow was the more severe because she persuaded herself
that she had been the victim of black ingratitude on the part of
Constance.
"_That_ girl!" she would murmur, weeping. "That girl, whom I held up as
a model--and who really did behave perfectly when she was here--quite
_perfectly_--to think of that girl being the one to turn round on the
family in this treacherous way! I do not know how I shall endure to see
her face again."
"Then don't see it," suggested Frederick. "If you think she has behaved
so badly, cut her, and have done with it."
"Cut her!" exclaimed Pauline, sitting up from among the pillows in her
_chaise longue_, with a vinagrette in one hand and a pocket-handkerchief
in the other. "How can I cut my uncle's wife? She is now Lady
Castlecombe, Frederick! You seem to have no idea that private feelings
must give way to the duty one owes to society. I wonder who will present
her. I dare say Mrs. Griffin will persuade the duchess to do it. It
would not surprise me at all. Probably they will open the town house
now, and come up every season. Cut her! Frederick, you talk like that
Nihilist who is going to marry poor darling May!"
Frederick more than ever thought that "poor darling May" was to be
congratulated on having secured the love and protection of the honest
young Englishman to whom his wife persisted in attributing anarchical
principles. He wrote a kind letter, in which he proposed to come down to
Oldchester and give his niece away at the marriage, if that would be
agreeable to her and Mr. Rivers. May's affectionate heart was overjoyed
by this proposal. A joint letter, signed by May and Owen, was sent by
return of post, in which both Aunt Pauline and Uncle Frederick were
warmly invited to the wedding. And May put in a special petition that
Harold and Wilfred should be allowed to be present. Granny would find a
nook for them in Jessamine Cottage.
May also sent an invitation to Mrs. Bransby to be present, but she
replied that she would not bring her black gown to be a blot on their
brightness, but that no more loving prayers would be breathed for their
happiness than those of their affectionate friend Louisa Bransby.
Neither did Aunt Pauline accept the invitation. She did not write
unkindly. Her reply seemed to be, indeed, a sort of homily on the text--
"How all unconscious of their doom
The little victims play."
It was a sad business, but she was mildly compassionate and forbearing.
But the best of all was that Harold and Wilfred were to be permitted to
come. In fact, their father insisted on bringing them, to their
inexpressible rapture. They took to Granny at once, and she had to keep
a watch upon her tongue lest she should let slip before Mr. Dormer-Smith
the words she had said on first seeing the children--
"Poor dear motherless little fellows!"
On the wedding morning a letter arrived for Mrs. Dobbs from Mr. Bragg.
Mr. Bragg was about to sail for Buenos Ayres on a twelve-months' visit
to his son. Before going away, he thought it would be agreeable to May
and her husband, he wrote, to be the means of communicating something to
Mrs. Bransby, which he hoped would be to her advantage. The new premises
which he had taken for his office, now removed from Friars' Row, were to
be furnished throughout, and a couple of rooms reserved for Mr. Bragg's
use whenever he wished to come into Oldchester from his country house.
Under these circumstances, a resident housekeeper would be required to
look after the place and govern the servants. Mr. Bragg hoped that Mrs.
Bransby would do him the favour to accept this post, and that she would
find herself more comfortable among her old friends in Oldchester, than
in the wilderness of London. Moreover, he enclosed a cheque for a
handsome sum of money, as to the disposal of which he thus wrote:--
"The cheque I would ask Mr. Rivers to apply to paying young Martin
Bransby's school fees for the ensuing year. And any little matter that
may be over can be used for the boy's books, and so on. He is a fine
boy, I think, and worth helping. Learning is a great thing. I never had
it myself, but I don't undervalue it for that. I have thought that this
would perhaps be the best way I could find of what you might call
testifying my appreciation of Mr. Rivers's services to me. I hope he
will accept it as a wedding present."
To May he sent no gift.
"I could offer her nothing but dross," he wrote, "and I don't want her
thoughts of me to be mixed up with gold and diamonds, and such poor
things as are oftentimes the best a rich man has to give. Some young
ladies would be disappointed at this. I don't believe she will. When
she's dressed and ready to go to church, just you please kiss her
forehead with a blessing in your mind, and--you needn't say anything to
her, but just say to yourself, 'this is from Joshua Bragg.'"
Of the wedding, it may be said that, although it was no doubt in many
respects like other weddings, yet in several it was peculiar. And its
peculiarities were in such flagrant violation of the regulations of
society, that it was almost providential Mrs. Dormer-Smith escaped
witnessing it.
In the first place, although Uncle Frederick was present, a welcome and
an honoured guest, May insisted that Mr. Weatherhead should give her
away. And, perhaps, nothing she had ever done in her life had caused
Granny more heartfelt satisfaction. As to "Uncle Jo," the honour nearly
overpowered him. His appearance in wedding garments, with an enormous
white waistcoat, and a bright rose-coloured tie, was an abiding joy to
all the little boys of the neighbourhood who were lucky enough to behold
him.
Then the Miss Pipers fluttered into the church in such extremely bridal
attire, with long white veils attached to their bonnets, as utterly to
eclipse May, in her quiet travelling dress. May, however, wore two
ornaments of considerable value: a pearl bracelet and brooch, which had
arrived the previous evening. Inside each morocco case had been found a
slip of paper bearing respectively the inscriptions:--"To Miranda
Cheffington, with the good wishes of her great-uncle;" and "To dear May,
with the love of her affectionate friend, Constance Castlecombe."
Lastly, Amelia Simpson was so florid in her raiment, and so exuberant in
her delight, as to be the observed of all observers. In her excitement,
she backed heavily upon people behind her, and trod upon the gowns of
people before her; knelt down at the wrong moment, and then, discovering
her mistake, jumped up again at the very instant when the rest of the
congregation were sinking on to their knees; dropped her metal-clasped
prayer-book with a crash in a solemn pause of silence; lost her
pocket-handkerchief, and, in her near-sightedness and confusion, seized
on Miss Polly Piper's long white veil to wipe her tear-dimmed
spectacles; and was, altogether, a severe trial to the nerves of the
officiating clergyman.
Many other friends were there. Major Mitton, with his amiable face, and
erect, soldierly figure; Dr. Hatch, who said he doubted whether he could
snatch a moment to witness the ceremony, but who remained to the very
last, to wish the young couple God speed! when they drove away from the
door of the church on their honeymoon trip. Even Sebastian Bach Simpson
was in a softened mood. The entire absence of pretension about the whole
affair conciliated his good will; and he played Mendelssohns' "Wedding
March" as a voluntary, when the bride and bridegroom walked down the
church arm-in-arm, with unusual spirit and heartiness. And so May and
Owen began their voyage of life together, followed by many good wishes,
and by less of envy, hatred, malice, and uncharitableness, than perhaps
fall to the lot of most mortals.
* * * * *
Marriage, which is the end of most story-books, is but the beginning of
many stories; but this chronicle cannot follow the personages who have
figured in it much beyond that fateful chapter of the wedding-day.
One or two facts may, however, be told, and a few outlines sketched in,
to indicate the course of future events on a more or less distant
horizon.
For a long time Pauline clung, with the soft pertinacity which was part
of her character, to the hope that "poor dear Augustus" might yet
inherit the Castlecombe acres, and resume his place in society. Uncle
George could not live for ever! But one fine day the bells of Combe St.
Mildred's rang a merry peal, and the news spread like wildfire through
the village that an heir was born in a foreign city called Naples; and
that my lord and my lady--who was doing extremely well--and the
all-important baby were coming home to Combe Park as soon as ever my
lady was strong enough to travel.
Then, indeed, Pauline felt that Providence had decided against her
brother, and that her own duty to society lay plain and clear before
her.
During the following year or two she suffered considerable persecution
in the shape of appeals for money from Augustus. The first were in a
haughty strain, but before long they sank into the whine of the regular
begging-letter writer. She gave him what she could, for to the last she
had a soft place in her heart for her brother. But her husband, finding
the case hopeless, forbade her to give any more, and, as far as he
could, prevented Augustus's letters from reaching her.
Captain Cheffington then brought his wife to London. He had little fear
of his creditors, having by this time sunk so low as not to be worth
powder and shot. He got his wife engaged, under her real name, at a
music-hall of the third class, and caused paragraphs to be inserted in
sundry sporting and theatrical prints to the effect that "the Mrs.
Augustus Cheffington, whose Italian bravura-singing was so successful a
feature in the nightly entertainment," etc., etc., was the niece by
marriage of a peer of the realm--Viscount Castlecombe of Combe Park; and
he furnished his relations liberally with copies of these papers.
Probably he had some hope that they would buy him off to save the honour
of the family, but in this he was totally at fault. The old lord who, in
the joy of his little son's birth seemed to have taken a new lease of
life, merely chuckled at "Gus's making such a confounded ass of
himself," and cared not a snap of the fingers for anything he could say
or do.
Owen Rivers privately supplied his father-in-law with all the
necessaries, and some of the comforts, of life, on condition that he was
never to annoy May by making any kind of appeal to her; on the first
infringement of this condition the supplies would be withdrawn. And in
order to secure its not being all lost at the gaming-table, Owen paid
the money into the hands of La Bianca, who, according to her lights, was
by no means a bad wife, and was certainly a much better one than her
selfish and graceless husband deserved.
Mrs. Bransby gratefully accepted the position offered to her, and
fulfilled its duties entirely to Mr. Bragg's satisfaction. Indeed, when
the latter returned from Buenos Ayres, he took the habit of spending a
good deal of time in the apartment reserved for him over the office. The
house--one of the roomy, old-fashioned mansions in Friar's
Row--contained ample accommodation for Mrs. Bransby's family. Miss Enid
completed, and maintained, her conquest of Mr. Bragg; and some persons
thought that it was this young lady's personal attractions which caused
him to spend so much of his time in Friar's Row; but other observers
thought differently. And, indeed, quite latterly, Mrs. Dormer-Smith has
had her ill-opinion of Mrs. Bransby strengthened by certain rumours
touching the likelihood of that lady's promotion to a higher position in
Mr. Bragg's household than that of paid housekeeper.
"If _that_ should ever come off," says Mrs. Dormer-Smith, "I suppose
poor dear foolish May's eyes will be opened at last; and she may repent
when it is too late having thrown away her magnificent opportunity, to
be picked up by that _designing_ woman."
When these mysterious forecasts are imparted to Lady Castlecombe, she
only smiles faintly, and says in her quiet, well-bred way, "Well, but
why not?" My lady has her own views on the subject--views in which the
discomfiture and mortification of Theodore Bransby form a conspicuous
and pleasing feature. But hitherto nothing has happened to justify the
previsions of either lady on this score.
Theodore is not often seen in Oldchester now. The place is full of
disagreeable associations for him. His political candidature was a
failure: the Castlecombe influence on his behalf having been suddenly
withdrawn after his lordship's marriage--greatly to the perplexity of
his lordship's agent!
Nevertheless, Mr. Theodore Bransby by no means despairs of being able to
write M.P. after his name at some future time. But if he ever does enter
Parliament, it will probably be on what our Continental neighbours term
"the extreme Left of the Chamber." For Theodore's political opinions
have undergone a great revulsion, and he is now loftily contemptuous of
the territorial aristocracy. In fact, he has been heard to support
advanced theories of an almost Communistic complexion--stopping short,
however, at the confiscation of other people's property, and maintaining
the inviolability of Government Stock, of which he is a large holder.
This sort of theory he finds to be quite compatible with the pursuit of
fashionable society.
Although surrounded by every luxury which can minister to his personal
comfort, he is not at all extravagant, and, indeed, saves more than half
his annual income. This he does, not from positive avarice, but because
he feels ever more and more strongly that money is power. Moreover, it
will be well to have a handsome sum in hand whenever he marries: for he
is still firmly minded to find a wife who will devote herself to taking
care of him. Quite recently a paragraph has appeared in the Oldchester
newspaper announcing the probability of a marriage between "our
distinguished townsman, Mr. Theodore Bransby, whose career at the Bar is
being watched with pride and pleasure in his native city, and the Lady
Euphemia Haggistown, daughter of the Earl of Cauldkail, etc., etc.,
etc."
Lady Euphemia is a faded, timid, gentlewoman of some five or
six-and-thirty years of age, with neither money nor beauty. She is
sometimes haunted by the ghost of a romantic attachment to a penniless
young navy officer lost at sea hard upon twenty years ago. But she has a
soft, submissive desire to win the kindly regard of the remarkably stiff
and cold young gentleman whom her father has decided she is to marry
whenever he shall see fit to ask her. But poor Lady Effie does not
succeed in softening the implacable correctness of her suitor's
demeanour into anything very humanly sympathetic. Theodore is quite
certain to make the most of his wife's title and social standing in
dealing with the world in general, but it is to be feared that he may
think fit to balance matters by tyrannizing over her in private with
some rigour.
Mrs. Dormer-Smith often moralizes her family history, entangling herself
in many metaphysical knots in the course of her cogitations as to what
would have happened if something else had happened which never did
happen!
Of course, if poor dear Augustus had not thrown himself away on Susan
Dobbs things would have been very different. But even in spite of that,
much might have been retrieved had he not made a second and still more
shocking _mesalliance_ with a strolling Italian singer; because,
probably, if Augustus had come home after the death of his cousin Lucius
in a proper spirit, and under not discreditable circumstances, and had
conducted himself so as to conciliate his uncle, the old man would never
have thought of marrying again. Constance Hadlow would never have become
Viscountess Castlecombe, and no heir would have appeared to thrust
Augustus from his inheritance.
There was an ever-recurring difficulty in fixing the exact point at
which "poor dear Augustus's misfortunes" had become irretrievable. So
that, although Pauline was on perfectly civil terms with the
Castlecombes, and although Frederick was asked down to Combe Park for
the shooting every season, and although my lady was happy to receive the
Dormer-Smiths (with the least little indefinable touch of condescension)
whenever she was at her house in town; yet, in her confidential moments,
Pauline's intimate friends were never quite sure to which of the three
momentous alliances she was alluding, when she talked plaintively of
"That Unfortunate Marriage."
THE END.