Owen Rivers was greatly attracted by Mrs. Dobbs. He admired her
uprightness of character, and downrightness of speech; her shrewd common
sense, combined with unpretending simplicity; her indomitable strength
of purpose, tempered by broad good nature. At the very beginning of
their acquaintance, he told her that he had been recommended by his aunt
Jane to take her (Mrs. Dobbs's) opinion as to his mode of life. And when
Mrs. Dobbs tried to put him off by declaring that Mrs. Hadlow must have
been joking, he answered that he, at any rate, was not joking; and
begged her to speak candidly.
"If I speak at all, I shall speak candidly, you may depend," said Mrs.
Dobbs.
And, in truth, Owen soon found that he had no cause to complain of her
lack of plain speaking. Mrs. Dobbs was wholly and heartily on the side
of Aunt Jane, and held many a stout argument with the young man.
"But, pray, how is one to manage?" asked Owen. "My aunt says, 'Go into a
profession.' Easier said than done! Besides, although I might not object
to be Lord Chancellor--or even, perhaps, Admiral of the Fleet--I have no
relish for the intermediate stages, which makes a difficulty."
"That's all stuff and nonsense," said Mrs. Dobbs bluntly. "It's a shame
to see a gentleman with your book-learning, and good gifts, wasting the
advantages God has given him."
"Wasting my advantages! That's Aunt Jane's pet phrase. But those are
mere words, you know."
"Words are words, for certain. And nuts are nuts. Only some of 'em hold
sound kernels, whilst others have got nothing inside but dust."
"Well, come now, let us get at the kernel," said Owen, half earnest,
half amused. "What would you have me do, Mrs. Dobbs?"
"Do! Any honest work that's of use to your fellow creatures."
"Such as stone-breaking, for instance?"
"Better than nothing."
"And my 'advantages' would not then be wasted, I presume?"
"You might be getting a quarter per cent. for 'em--or maybe
less--instead of doubling your capital. But that would be better than
keeping all you've got in a stocking, like some ignorant old woman, and
pulling out a shilling at a time whenever you happen to want it."
Many such passages of arms did they have; and Owen told himself that
Mrs. Dobbs was a very interesting study. Meanwhile, from the superior
vantage ground of her seniority, she had been making one or two studies
of _him_; and the result of them induced her to give him a hint as to
May's prospects. "I shall let him know how the land lies," said she to
herself. "Very likely he's in no danger. So much the better. But I'll
act fair by the young man. He's one of them quiet-looking sort that
feels very deeply; though, for all his humble-mindedness, he's a deal
too proud to show it."
Accordingly Mrs. Dobbs took her opportunity one afternoon when Owen
strolled in somewhat earlier than usual. He and his hostess were
_tete-a-tete_; for May had gone to lunch with Mrs. Martin Bransby, and
to enjoy a romp afterwards with the children, who adored her.
"Do you know this Duchess my grand-daughter is going to visit, Mr.
Rivers?" began Mrs. Dobbs abruptly.
"To the best of my belief I never saw her in my life. My acquaintance
among duchesses is not extensive."
"Nor yet her mother--Mrs. Griffin?"
"Mrs. Griffin I have seen; and I make her a bow when we meet. That's
about all."
"They are very kind to May."
"Small blame to them! And yet I don't know; it is to their credit, when
one comes to think of it."
"May talks of wishing to give up her visit."
"She is unwilling to leave you, I believe."
"Yes; bless her! But I mustn't give in to that." Then with a little air
of hesitation very unusual with her, Mrs. Dobbs proceeded: "I want you
and Mrs. Hadlow and all her friends not to encourage her in that idea.
The fact is, it is very important that May should not miss going to
Glengowrie this autumn. More important than she knows."
Owen Rivers leant forward with a sudden attentive contraction of the
brows. "What is it?" he asked brusquely. Then, remembering himself, he
added, "I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to put a conversational pistol
to your head; nor to demand any secrets from you."
"I don't know that there are any secrets, Mr. Rivers. But you understand
there are certain--certain opportunities which I am bound to give May,
if I can. I'm not one for forcing buckets of water down any horse's
throat, but unless you take him to the water he can't drink if he would.
The truth is, that I am anxious about my grandchild's future. When I am
gone, she will be left very desolate, poor lamb!" She paused suddenly,
and pressed her lips together. Then, after a minute's silence, she went
on more firmly, "God knows I never wished my poor daughter to marry
above her station; her marriage was a sore stroke to me. But now,
whatever you and me may think about distinctions of rank, it's certain
that May has a right to a lady's place in the world, through her
father's birth and family. I sacrificed a good deal in parting from her
at all--sacrificed my feelings, I mean--and I don't want it all to be
wasted. I want the child to get some good out of it, do you see, Mr.
Rivers?"
"I see."
"And don't you think I'm right?"
"Yes; the horse ought to have his choice in that matter of drinking."
"I'm glad you agree with me. My dear old friend Jo Weatherhead is half
inclined to think me wrong. He says I ought to consider the child's
happiness first and foremost, and that, if being with fine folks don't
make her happy, I ought to let her give them up. But May is very young
still--barely eighteen; she hasn't had time to judge. I wouldn't have
her think, later on, that this or that good thing might have befallen
her if she had had her chance and seen more of the world. It's bitter to
look back on opportunities lost or wasted, and that," added Mrs. Dobbs,
changing her tone, and shaking hands with the young man, who had risen
to go away, "is why I take the liberty of scolding _you_ now and then.
But I hope an old granny like me may speak her mind without offence?
That's one of our privileges."
It seemed clear that Owen Rivers, at all events, was not offended. His
visits to Jessamine Cottage grew longer and more frequent. It became an
established custom for him to drop in at tea-time. Very often when May
had been spending the afternoon at the Canon's house, he would escort
her home through the fields. That was a longer way than by the streets;
but so much pleasanter, that their preference for it was surely very
natural.
Oh, those rambles by the Wend, with the pearly evening sky above them,
the dewy, flower-speckled grass under foot, and in their ears the sound
of the sweet chimes, which seemed but to accompany some still sweeter
melody, felt not heard. May gave herself no account of the charm which
encompassed her. She looked not "before and after," but was happy, as
youth alone can be happy, in the intense sweetness of the present. Later
life has happiness of its own; but not that. It may be more or less, but
it is different. Those young delights can no more return than a rose can
furl itself again into a rosebud. And as to Owen, if his day-dream was
sometimes pierced by a sharp ray of common sense from the work-a-day
world, he turned his eyes away, and plunged still deeper into the
rainbow-tinted cloudland of young love.
It could not hurt _her_, he argued. It could hurt no one but himself,
and he was prepared to suffer. She was sweet and kind; but she had
not--she could not have--any special feeling of tenderness for him. If,
indeed, that could be possible----! But what was there in him to attract
so lovely and lovable a creature as May Cheffington? A strongly-marked
trait in Owen's character was what Mrs. Hadlow, being hotly provoked by
some manifestation of it, had once designated as "pig-headed modesty!"
It was obstinate enough, truly, at times; and it had a warp of
inflexible pride in the woof of it. But it was genuine modesty for all
that. Still he would not so resolutely have shut his eyes to the
possibility that this matter of falling in love might be mutual, but for
Mrs. Dobbs's well-meant words of warning. May was going away in a week
or two--away out of his reach, perhaps for ever. Since she was in no
danger, he need, surely, have no scruple in enjoying these few happy
moments in her company. They would probably be the last. No one
suspected his feeling, and he could keep his own counsel.
He honestly believed that no one suspected him. His Aunt Jane, whose
observation might have been the most to be dreaded, was in truth blind
to what was going on under her eyes. In the first place, it was nothing
new or unusual for Owen to spend his afternoons under the yew tree in
her garden; nor for May Cheffington to be there also. And it did not
occur, it scarcely could have occurred, to Conny's mother, that Conny
was being a second time supplanted by this girl so much her inferior in
beauty. And then, too, it must be acknowledged, that neither May nor
Owen thought it necessary to trouble Mrs. Hadlow with any detailed
report of the number of visits which her nephew paid to Jessamine
Cottage; nor with a chronicle of their many evening strolls beside the
Wend. Such strange tricks does love play with all: making the simple
cunning, and the straightforward wily, almost in spite of themselves!
While as for Mrs. Dobbs, her usual keenness with regard to her
grand-daughter was baffled by a vision of "the gentleman of princely
fortune" on whom May had been said to look favourably; and there were
but few opportunities for other eyes to note the behaviour of Owen and
May towards each other.
The custom of the Saturday evening whist-parties, at which Mr. and Mrs.
Simpson and Mr. Weatherhead were the only guests, had been unavoidably
broken through at the time of Mrs. Dobbs's removal from Friar's Row:
and, although efforts had been made to renew it, it had somehow
languished, like a plant whose roots have been disturbed. Sometimes two
or three weeks would elapse without the Simpsons appearing at Jessamine
Cottage on the accustomed Saturday evening. The amiable Amelia tried to
compensate for these gaps in their social intercourse by running in at
odd moments to see Mrs. Dobbs. She would frequently call on her way home
from Mrs. Bransby's, or some other house where she gave lessons, and
chat in her discursive style: smilingly unconscious, for the most part,
whether Mrs. Dobbs vouchsafed her any attention or not; but always too
sweet-tempered to resent it, if she chanced to discover that Mrs. Dobbs
had not heard three sentences of all she had been saying. On one topic
she was, at any rate, sure of being listened to: the words "our dear
Miranda" were certain to arouse Mrs. Dobbs from her deepest fit of
musing; and fits of musing had become more and more frequent with her of
late.
It was not clear whether Mrs. Simpson had taken to call May "Miranda" by
way of ceremoniously acknowledging her place in the world as a young
lady who had been presented at Court; or whether she considered three
syllables to be intrinsically more genteel than one; or whether she had
simply caught the word from the fashionable journals which had
chronicled the appearance of Miss Miranda Cheffington at various
festivities of the season. Mrs. Simpson's reasons for doing or leaving
undone were usually of a tangled kind, and an endeavour to extricate one
of them often resulted in pulling up a number of others by the roots. At
all events, Mrs. Simpson had taken to speak of May as "our dear
Miranda," and the words infallibly insured her an attentive hearing from
Mrs. Dobbs for whatever might follow them. If Mr. Weatherhead chanced to
be present at any of Amelia's erratic visits, he listened willingly to
all the gossip she might pour forth. It was always good-natured gossip.
Sebastian might bear a grudge here and there, and might impute shabby
motives to the conduct of his fellow-creatures; but Amelia never. There
seemed to be an excess of saccharine matter in her disposition which
flavoured every word she said. This species of excess being somewhat
uncommon, many persons pronounced poor Mrs. Simpson to be an arrant
humbug. But, had she been consciously a humbug, she would assuredly have
distributed her sweet speeches with more discretion; for nothing is less
popular than uncritical eulogy--of other people.
There was an unusual air of excitement about her when she appeared one
afternoon in Jessamine Cottage. She found its mistress knitting in her
accustomed arm-chair, with Jo Weatherhead seated opposite to her reading
aloud paragraphs from a local newspaper.
"My _dear_ Mrs. Dobbs," cried Amelia, bursting in breathlessly, "how do
you do? _And_ Mr. Weatherhead! Now this is quite against rules--or, at
least, against custom; for I am sure you would never make such a rule.
You are far too hospitable. But as I _was_ passing--so nice to be
neighbours instead of Friar's Row, though I shall ever look on Friar's
Row with affection for the sake of old times. What is it the poet says
about 'portions and parcels of the dreadful past'? Only there was
nothing dreadful in our little suppers; and Martha's stewed tripe beyond
praise."
"I hope you are going to eat some of our little supper to-night," said
Mrs. Dobbs, composedly. "It's Saturday, you know."
"How odd you should say that! It is exactly the remark I made to Bassy
this morning! Oh yes; certainly. And, as I was saying just now, it's
quite _hors ligne_, as the French express it, to inflict myself on you
twice in one day."
"You know you are very welcome."
"You're always _so_ kind, dear Mrs. Dobbs! I have been busy teaching all
the morning. This very moment I have come from Miss Piper's and----"
"You are not giving _her_ lessons, are you?" asked Mrs. Dobbs, looking
up with a smile.
"Oh dear, no! Not, I'm sure, that she would not be an excellent pupil;
indeed, both of them in their different styles. One the accomplished
musician, and the other so domesticated. No doubt you will hear of it
from our dear Miranda, for of course she will be invited. But I thought
I would mention it."
"Mention what?--eh?" asked Jo Weatherhead, with impatient curiosity.
"The party. They are going to give a musical party. Though really I
might omit the adjective, for who could imagine the Miss Pipers giving a
party that _wasn't_ musical? To be sure some persons find it rather
trying. Bassy, for instance, _cannot_ altogether approve the new school.
But then he was brought up in the strictest classical principles, and he
is so very clever himself, that of course----!"
Some native gift of incoherency which distinguished Mrs. Simpson's mind
enabled her to reconcile the most conflicting claims on her admiration.
"Ho, ho! a party, eh? A musical party?" said Mr. Weatherhead.
"Yes; but of course there is nothing remarkable in _that_," replied Mrs.
Simpson, very unexpectedly.
"Nothing at all remarkable, I should think," assented Mrs. Dobbs.
"Ah! But the _point_ is--oh, pussy! Poor old pussy, _did_ I hurt her?
Dear, dear, dear!"
In the act of throwing herself forward from her place on the sofa, in
order to touch Mrs. Dobbs's arm, and thus emphasize her communication,
Amelia had accidentally set her foot on the tail of the old tabby cat,
who at once protested in the frankest manner.
"I'm so sorry! I am so very nearsighted. Poor old pussums! Come and let
us make it up--won't you, like a dear?"
Poor old pussums, however, declined these advances, and took up her
position on the other side of her mistress's ample skirts; whence for
some time she glared distrustfully at every fresh manifestation of Mrs.
Simpson's playful vivacity.
"Well, for goodness' sake tell us the point, if there is one!" cried Mr.
Weatherhead, who had been irritably rubbing his nose during this
episode.
"Ah! Naughty impatience! That is so like a gentleman! Gentlemen are
dreadfully impatient in general; don't you agree with me, Mrs. Dobbs?
However, it really will be quite a musical treat. Mr. Cleveland Turner
is one of the most rising musicians of the day; I believe nobody can
understand his compositions without severe preliminary training. Mr.
Sweeting, too, is _most_ amiable; he has taken a country house in the
neighbourhood. And Miss Piper has invited a young lady down to stay with
her who sings divinely--quite divinely, Miss Piper says; and, indeed, I
have no doubt she does, for I _saw_ her name mentioned in the _Morning
Post_ at a very aristocratic _soiree_. And Bassy and I are to be
invited!"
"Are you, now? Well, I'm glad of it," said Mrs. Dobbs heartily. She knew
this was a distinction which would give her friends pleasure.
"Yes; Bassy is to accompany the young lady's songs on the piano. Mr.
Cleveland Turner will not accompany;--or, at least, not anything of a
tuneful sort. He doesn't like it. Well, you know, there's no accounting
for tastes, is there? Most people think strawberries delicious. But I
_have_ known a person who couldn't touch them--_invariably_ produced a
rash!"
With which lucid illustration Mrs. Simpson rose, and declared she must
positively be going. After an effusive leavetaking--in the course of
which the old tabby leaped on to the back of Mrs. Dobbs's chair, where
she sat arching her spine and growling--the good lady set forth on her
way down the little garden-path in front of the house. But scarcely had
she reached the gate, when she turned and tripped back again with a
girlish step, which neither increase of years nor flesh had much
sobered. "I never delivered my message," she said; "and really it is an
extraordinary instance of my absence of mind, for that was the chief
reason why I came at all at this hour. I was at Mrs. Bransby's about
four o'clock, and left our dear Miranda there."
Here she paused so long that Mrs. Dobbs replied, "Yes; I knew May was
going to call there."
"Now I dare say you will scarcely credit it," said Amelia, with her head
on one side, her spectacles glistening, and an arch smile illumining her
countenance, "but, for the moment, I had totally forgotten again what I
was going to say!"
"Lord bless the woman!" muttered Jo Weatherhead, in a tone not, perhaps,
quite so inaudible as politeness required.
"But I have it now. This is the message; our dear Miranda begged me to
tell you that she will remain at Mrs. Bransby's for afternoon tea, and
come home in the cool of the evening. Mrs. Bransby--indeed, all the
family--are _most_ kind to her. Of course I don't mean to say that after
the brilliant scenes of London society it can be any particular treat to
her, although anything more truly elegant than Mrs. Bransby's new cream
broche I never beheld in my life. However, they pressed our dear Miranda
to stay. And she remarked to me that 'Granny would not be left alone,
for she knew Mr. Weatherhead was coming.' And now"--looking at her
watch--"I must _fly_, or I shall be too late for tea; and then what
would Bassy say?" She tripped once more down the garden path, stopped at
the gate to wave her hand, and at length finally departed.