The Dormer-Smiths arrived in London early in November, and May joined
them almost immediately. Her aunt was delighted to find May looking
remarkably well.
"Some good has come of her vegetating in Oldchester," said Pauline to
her husband. "Her complexion is radiant. Also I think her figure has
improved. If she _would_ but consent to have her stays taken in!
Smithson could manage it half an inch at a time; and might easily get
her waist down to eighteen inches. But there is that lamentable touch of
self-indulgent apathy about May! However, she has really a great deal of
charm; and, in spite of all the drawbacks connected with poor Augustus's
unfortunate marriage, she _looks_ thoroughbred."
The two little boys, Harold and Wilfred, had returned from their sojourn
in a farm-house so much strengthened that their father seriously talked
of sending them into the country altogether for a couple of years. Even
Mrs. Dormer-Smith, although unwilling to relinquish her character of
chronic invalid, confessed that Carlsbad had done her good. In fact, the
whole family returned to London in improved health and spirits. A great
many "nice people" were to be in town for the winter; and the excuse of
May's presence, and the assistance of May's allowance, would enable
Pauline to enjoy society, and at the same time to satisfy that singular
worldly conscience of hers with the sense of duty fulfilled.
There was a little disappointment at Mr. Bragg's absence from England.
But even here Mrs. Dormer-Smith had the not inconsiderable consolation
of knowing that if he were far from May's attractions, he was also far
from those of Constance Hadlow. And she more than ever rejoiced at that
providential interposition in the interests of the Cheffington family
which had kept Mr. Bragg away from Glengowrie. Another symptom which
filled Aunt Pauline with complacent hopes, was May's newly developed
interest in Mr. Bragg, and her eager willingness to talk about his
Spanish tour. Pauline was inclined to attribute something of this
improved state of mind to Mrs. Dobbs's influence; and confessed to
herself that the old woman was doing all she could to compensate the
House of Cheffington for the injury done to it by the disastrous
_mesalliance_.
Mrs. Dormer-Smith's cheerfulness at this time would have been absolutely
unclouded but for the dread hanging over her about her brother. She had
given May to understand that the rumours spread by Valli and others were
based on error. And she even conveyed the idea to her niece (although
scrupulously abstaining from explicit falsehood) that Captain
Cheffington himself had denied those rumours in private communications
to her and Frederick. But the fact was that Augustus had remained
inflexibly silent. The Dormer-Smiths knew nothing of him. And so
completely had he dropped out of the society of all with whom they were
likely to consort, that a doubt sometimes crossed Pauline's mind as to
whether her brother were still living or not.
Meanwhile, every week May received a letter from Owen, forwarded by Mrs.
Dobbs. The latter had restricted the correspondence to one letter a week
on each side. Owen wrote very joyously. His work was easy--too easy, he
said; and he was constantly seeking opportunities to be useful to his
employer. Mr. Bragg he pronounced to be an excellent master: clearheaded
in his commands, and reasonable in his exactions. He seemed to approve
of his secretary so far; and although he was rather taciturn, and not
prone to encourage sanguine expectations, yet Owen began to have good
hope that Mr. Bragg would not turn him adrift when the three months'
engagement should be at an end.
May now became decidedly more popular in society than she had been
during the height of the season. Happiness, like sunshine, beautifies
common things; and the new brightness of her outlook on it was reflected
by the world around her. That feeling which she had expressed in writing
to her grandmother--the forlorn feeling of a child who, in the midst of
some gay spectacle, wearily cries to go home--had disappeared. She knew
that when the curtain should fall on the puppet-show in Vanity Fair, her
own true love was waiting to welcome her.
Sometimes she speculated on how Aunt Pauline would take the revelation
of her attachment to Owen Rivers. That she should have had any doubt on
the subject proved her ignorance of Aunt Pauline's views. Mrs.
Dormer-Smith would not for the world have expressed to May any gross or
sordid sentiments about marriage. She had not the slightest idea that
she entertained any such herself! But, as she had long ago said, there
are many things--never put into words--which "girls brought up in a
certain _monde_ learn by instinct." Now in that kind of instinct May was
greatly deficient.
May reflected that her aunt had spurned Theodore Bransby's proposal on
the avowed ground of his being "nobody." And she understood--or thought
she understood--that Aunt Pauline accorded a tangible existence only to
such persons as could be proved by genealogical records to have had a
certain number of great-grandfathers. Now, thus considered, Owen was
very undeniably and solidly "somebody." He was poor, certainly; but how
often had Aunt Pauline mingled her plaintive regrets with Mrs. Griffin's
about the increasing worship of Mammon which vulgarized London society!
And although Aunt Pauline sometimes showed a deference for wealth which
was rather puzzling in the face of these utterances, yet May observed
that her personal liking and admiration were given on very different
grounds. Witness her regard for Constance Hadlow!
Mrs. Dormer-Smith even kept up an intermittent correspondence with that
young lady. Constance's letters were precisely of the kind which Mrs.
Dormer-Smith delighted in--budgets of social gossip selected with
unerring tact. Constance had returned to Oldchester, but she did not
spend many consecutive weeks in her parents' house, being invited to
visit among "the _elite_ of the county aristocracy," as Mrs. Simpson
phrased it. Miss Hadlow had, in fact, achieved what might be called, all
things considered, a brilliant social position. Her visit to Glengowrie
had been a great success. She had made a conquest of the duchess; and
also--though that was comparatively of small consequence--of the duke.
Mrs. Griffin was charmed that her _protegee_ had done her so much
honour; and promised to take her into society the following season, if
Canon and Mrs. Hadlow would give her leave to come to town. Indeed, Mrs.
Griffin began seriously to revolve in her mind whether she could not
contrive to marry Charley Rivers's grand-daughter, and secure her a fine
establishment. Mrs. Griffin was proud of her achievements in that line,
which, though few, were brilliant. Like a certain famous Italian
singing-master, who was wont in his old age to decline unpromising
pupils on the ground that it was not worth his while to make _seconde
donne_, Mrs. Griffin practised only the higher branches of matchmaking;
and refused to fly her falcons at anything under twenty thousand a
year--or a peerage.
What made Miss Hadlow's letters particularly interesting to Mrs.
Dormer-Smith at this time, was that the former was frequently staying in
the neighbourhood of Combe Park, and occasionally met Lord Castlecombe
and Lucius, whom she reported to be constantly ailing--as, indeed, he
had been since before his brother's death. But his state did not seem to
inspire any immediate apprehension. And Constance even said a word now
and then about "creaking wheels," and intimated her belief that Mr.
Lucius Cheffington would probably outlive many more robust-looking
persons.
But it was not only these polite chronicles which kept the Dormer-Smith
household informed as to the doings of Oldchester people. Mrs. Dobbs, of
course, wrote frequently to her grandchild. The saddest news which she
had to give May was the continuous and rapid decline of Mr. Bransby's
health. Theodore was still away from home, Mrs. Dobbs wrote, and she
commented severely on his heartless neglect of his father. She had
learned through Mrs. Simpson that old Martin Bransby showed great
anxiety for his son's return; and it was reported that he had caused a
letter to be written, telling Theodore that he desired to speak with
him, and urging him to come home without delay.
In the first days of December the end came. Martin Bransby died--rather
suddenly at the last--and his eldest son was not with him. On being
telegraphed to he arrived in Oldchester with the utmost possible
despatch--but too late to see his father alive.
"People are very sorry for the widow and her children," wrote Mrs.
Dobbs; "for it's beginning to be said now that they're left rather badly
off, and that the bulk of everything will go to Theodore. I don't know
any facts, one way or the other; but I do know that foolish folk cackle
louder over a grave than almost anywhere else. So we may hope things are
not so bad with that pretty, gentle woman as Oldchester gossip makes
out."
One of May's first thoughts on reading this letter was, "How grieved
Owen will be!" She grieved herself for the kindly old man who had always
been good to her, and for the grief of those who loved him. And she
incurred a mild rebuke from her aunt by appearing at a dinner party that
evening with pale cheeks and red eyelids.
Contrary to Mrs. Dobbs's hope, it turned out that the gossip had for
once been correct. Martin Bransby's affairs were left in a strange
entanglement. There were many debts, and, as it seemed, very little
money to meet them. People inquired how he had got rid of the handsome
property left him by his father. He had not got rid of it in the
ordinary sense of the words; but the bulk of it was as far beyond his
control as though he had thrown it into the sea.
At the time of Martin Bransby's first marriage, old Rabbitt had made
most stringent arrangements in his daughter's interest. Not only her own
dowry (which was a handsome one), but nearly the whole of Martin's
property was strictly settled on her and her children. Mr. Rabbitt was
enabled to drive a hard bargain by his command of ready money. He
advanced a large sum to his son-in-law for the purchase of Cadell's
share in the firm. Mr. Cadell was old, and wished to retire; the
opportunity was favourable, and promised brilliant results. Nor were
these promises belied by experience. The old-established solicitor's
business was a very flourishing and lucrative one. Martin Bransby was
soon able to pay back the loan to his father-in-law with interest. Old
Rabbitt observed that this was only taking from one hand to give to the
other, for it would all come back to him and his in the end. As a matter
of fact, old Rabbitt left every penny he had in the world to his
daughter and her children after her; but the money was strictly tied up
out of her husband's reach.
This seemed a trifling matter in those days to Martin Bransby. Whom
should he desire to enrich but his own children? and things were going
so well in the office that it seemed probable he might amass another
fortune. But when, after his second marriage, a young family began to
gather round him, he could not help regretting the terms of his original
marriage settlement. As soon as Theodore came of age Mr. Bransby made an
attempt to induce him to relinquish some part of the property in favour
of his younger brothers and sisters; but the attempt failed, and was
never repeated. Mr. Bransby was deeply wounded by Theodore's attitude,
and, on his side, Theodore considered his father's request unreasonable
and unfair.
"If I might venture on a suggestion, I would advise your retrenching a
little, sir," he had said with icy politeness; "in that way you would
soon save enough to provide for Mrs. Bransby and her children in a style
fully equal to what they have any right to expect from you."
The remembrance of that interview was a thorn in the flesh of Martin
Bransby, and it left in Theodore's mind increased resentment against his
father's second marriage.
But Theodore's advice, however unfilially proffered, was sound enough.
Retrenchment in the daily expenses of that easy-going and lavish
household would have been judicious; but then to retrench would have
been to deprive Louisa of the luxuries and elegancies which so became
her, and which gave her so much pleasure. Instead of taking this
disagreeable method, Mr. Bransby tried speculation. He made one or two
lucky strokes, but at the first loss became panic-stricken, and threw
good money after bad in a kind of desperation.
After his death something of all this leaked out in a confused way, to
the public astonishment. "To think of Martin Bransby's money matters
being in a bad way!" people said. "There must be more in this than meets
the eye, for he was acknowledged to be a first-rate man of business."
In brief, as much amazement was expressed as though "men of business"
were commonly infallible, and the world had never heard of a man of
business whose conduct was not ruled by self-restraining prudence. At
the same time many persons declared they had long ago prophesied
disaster, and had even warned Martin to put some check on his wife's
extravagance. But such little inconsistencies as these are but pebbles
in the stream of general gossip; diversifying it with an agreeable
ripple, but never checking its flow.
May wrote an affectionate letter of condolence to Mrs. Bransby. She
received no answer to it; and presently she learned that Mrs. Bransby
and her children had left Oldchester, and gone to London. Constance
Hadlow did not mention the family at all in writing to Mrs.
Dormer-Smith. They had fallen out of the sphere of her observation;
and no one can be expected to turn away his telescope from
contemplating the fixed stars in order to stare at common terrestrial
phenomena--especially phenomena of a non-metallic and unproductive
nature.
About Christmas time Theodore Bransby called unexpectedly at Mrs.
Dormer-Smith's house in London. He came early in the forenoon--so early,
indeed, that Mrs. Dormer-Smith was not yet visible. On asking to see
Miss Cheffington, he was shown into a room where May was sitting with
the children. (Harold and Wilfred were now permitted to spend part of
the morning with their cousin, at her particular request. And it was
found that this arrangement answered the double purpose of delighting
the boys, and leaving Cecile more leisure for needlework.)
May started and flushed on hearing Mr. Theodore Bransby's name
announced. But the first glimpse of Theodore disarmed her wrath. He was
paler than ever--or seemed to be so, in his deep mourning, and there was
unmistakable sorrow in his face. May rose quickly, and gave him her hand
in silence. There were tears in her eyes, and the unexpected sight of
tears in his, made her forgive him for pressing her hand harder, and
holding it longer than mere politeness warranted.
"I have been so sorry!" said May.
"Thank you," he answered. "You are always kind and good."
"So sorry for you all--the widow--the poor children--!" added May, as a
bright drop brimmed over, and rolled down her cheek.
Theodore relinquished her hand, and rapidly passing his handkerchief
across his eyes, gave a dry, husky, little cough in his throat. It was a
sound which curiously repelled sympathy.
"You were not in Oldchester when your dear father died," said May. She
did not intend any covert reproach. Her words were prompted by a pitying
thought of the undying regret which must haunt Theodore on this score.
"No; I was not there. I know I have been blamed for that."
"Oh, indeed I had no such meaning!"
"I well believe it. But I _have_ been blamed--most unjustly. I went away
with my father's full consent; indeed, he thought I needed the change.
He wrote to me when he found himself growing worse, to ask me to come
back. Of course I meant to comply with that request. You cannot doubt
it?"
"I have no right to doubt it," answered May gently.
"No, but pray listen! I wish to justify myself in your eyes. The truth
is, I was in the act of packing my valise to return to Oldchester when a
telegram reached me, saying that my father's danger was imminent. I was
in Yorkshire, in a country house, where there was but one postal
delivery a day. Letters were often delayed, and, in fact, my father's
letter had preceded the telegram only by a few hours."
"Oh, how sad! I am so sorry for you!" cried May, clasping her hands. She
felt some generous compunction for having done him injustice.
"Yes; I have lost a good father," said Theodore.
"You have, indeed. And what a loss is Mrs. Bransby's!"
A subtle change came over his face, although he did not seem to move a
muscle, and he made no answer.
"How is she?" asked May, leaning forward eagerly.
Theodore's eyebrows took their old supercilious curve, as he replied,
"Mrs. Bransby? Oh, she's quite well, I believe."
"Believe! Have you not seen her lately?"
"Oh yes; I have seen her. She appeared perfectly well. I did not at
first quite take in the sense of your question; but I see now what you
meant. Every one has not such keen sensibilities as you, May."
Even this familiar use of her name she let pass, although it jarred upon
her.
"I am sure Mrs. Bransby is not insensible," she answered. "And she loved
your father dearly."
"I am not disputing it. But she was, and is, a doating mother, and her
feelings are greatly engrossed by her children. In one way this is happy
for her. She does not feel the void, the loneliness, which oppresses
me."
It seemed to May that there might be some truth in this. Theodore was
not generally beloved. Cold as he seemed, he doubtless missed his
father's affection. He would feel isolated and forlorn. This might be in
great part his own fault; but May pitied him. She softened towards him
still more when he went on to speak of his plans for assisting his young
step-brothers. He had already offered to send Martin to school at his
own expense. He was endeavouring to be of use to Mrs. Bransby. She was,
unfortunately, very unpractical, and rather impracticable; but he hoped
that, when her grief calmed down, she would listen to reason and take
advice.
"Is she not well off?" asked May, moved by genuine interest in the widow
and her family.
Theodore shook his head. "I may tell _you_," he said, "that she is in
very straitened circumstances. I do not proclaim this generally, because
people who know how indefatigably my poor father worked, and what a
large income he earned, are apt to blame her, and accuse her of
extravagance."
While he was still speaking, a message came from Mrs. Dormer-Smith
asking Mr. Bransby to go to her in the drawing-room. She, too, was
touched by his mourning garb and pale face, and received him with
sympathetic gentleness. May's report of his behaviour in Oldchester had
been favourable, in so far that he had not attempted to renew his suit.
But what most of all conciliated Mrs. Dormer-Smith was the thought of
Mr. Bragg. Now that her niece was so near making a splendid marriage, it
was easier to forgive Theodore's presumption. Doubtless the young man
had already seen his error; and really, putting aside that one
aberration, he was very nice!
Her good opinion was increased in the course of their private
conversation, which turned on matters very interesting to Pauline.
Theodore had seen her uncle lately; he had, moreover, had a good deal of
talk with him about matters political. A vacancy was likely to occur
shortly in the representation of that division of the county where Lord
Castlecombe's landed property was situated. The Castlecombes were
anxious to oppose a threatened Radical candidate, and Theodore had
offered to stand.
On his elder brother's death, Lucius Cheffington had resigned his post
in the Civil Service, and, under normal circumstances, his father would
have desired that he should return to the House of Commons; but his
health was at present too feeble to warrant his attempting any exertion.
Then old Lord Castlecombe thought it would be well to put some one into
the vacant seat who might be willing to resign it whenever Lucius should
be able and willing to come forward again as a candidate. This was not
expressed, but understood; and Lord Castlecombe had approved of
Theodore's ready comprehension of the state of the case, and his clear
view of the advantages such an arrangement would afford to himself.
Election expenses, even in these days of purity and the ballot, retain
as mysterious a rapidity of growth as Jack's beanstalk, and the
assistance of Lord Castlecombe would be very solidly valuable. On the
other hand, Theodore considered that, ambition apart, it would be useful
to him in his career as a barrister to write M.P. after his name, and
was willing to assume some share of the cost of the canvass. The old
lord discovered in this sententious young gentleman two merits--the
possession of money, and the knowledge how to spend it advantageously.
Lucius acquiesced passively in all his father's arrangements; but he
could not be induced to thaw half a degree in his personal relations
with Theodore.
"The fellow is an intolerable prig," he said to his father; "and his
vulgarity is of a particularly objectionable kind--the fine pretentious
kind."
"Oh, of course, he's a d--d snob," answered my lord, with cheerful
candour. "But what the deuce does that matter? We are not going to take
him to our arms; only to throw him into the arms of the voters! And I
can tell you, it will be a vast deal better to have him for our member
than Mr. Butter, the Radical button-maker. At any rate, this young
Bransby won't go in for abolishing the Peers, or starting a Separatist
crusade in the Scilly Islands."
In the course of his talk with Mrs. Dormer-Smith, Theodore hinted to her
as much of his political outlook as seemed good to him. The account of
his relations with Lord Castlecombe greatly impressed her; for she was
very sure her uncle would not waste any of his time and attention on an
entirely insignificant person. And Theodore's tone in speaking of the
political position of the Castlecombe family was such as to win her
complete approval and sympathy.
When Pauline talked over his visit with her husband, after narrating
that part of it which concerned Lord Castlecombe, she added, "And the
young man has a great deal of proper feeling. I really begin to think
that mistake he made must have been in some way May's fault:--oh, not
intentionally, Frederick; but she is so--so unformed in her ideas!
However, we need not discuss all that; for I am convinced Mr. Bransby is
quite _safe_ now. I was going to say that he told me confidentially that
he would not advise us to encourage any intimacy between May and his
step-mother. She is in London, I believe; letting lodgings, or some
dreadful thing of that sort. It is just the kind of thing May would
delight in, if I would let her--visiting and championing people who are
in impossible positions, and talking all kinds of Quixotic nonsense
about them! However, this Mrs. Bransby is not the kind of person who
_can_ be encouraged. She is very handsome, I understand, and _tant soit
peu, coquette_. There was some not too creditable flirtation with young
Rivers before her husband's death; and Mr. Bransby evidently thinks she
is the kind of woman always to have some one dangling after her. He
spoke really very nicely, and said he hoped she might soon marry again,
as she is scarcely fit to be trusted with the responsibility of bringing
up a young family. You are so apt to indulge May in her whims, that I
thought it necessary to repeat all this with distinctness. You must see,
as I do, that it would be quite disastrous for May to keep up any
intimacy with such a person as this Mrs. Bransby--a handsome, flirting,
needy widow! If she were even in society----!"