It was a raw, gusty afternoon towards the end of March when May and her
grandmother arrived in London. There had been some difficulty about the
journey, arising from Mrs. Dormer-Smith's objection to her niece's
travelling alone, and insisting on her being properly attended. In reply
to a suggestion that May would be quite safe in a ladies' carriage, and
under the care of the guard, she wrote:--"It is not that I doubt her
being safe; but I _cannot_ let my servants see her arrive alone when I
meet her at the station. Why not send a maid with her?" To which Mrs.
Dobbs made answer that she could not send a maid, having only one
servant-of-all-work, but that she herself would bring her grand-daughter
to London. "I shall go up by one train, and come down by the next," said
she to Jo Weatherhead. And when he remonstrated against her incurring
that expense and fatigue, she answered, "Oh, we won't spoil the ship for
a ha'porth of tar. If I make up my mind to part with the child, I'll
start her as well as I can."
The travellers found Mrs. Dormer-Smith awaiting them at the
railway station. She greeted May affectionately, and Mrs. Dobbs
amiably. "My servant has a cab here for the luggage," she said.
"But"--hesitatingly--"how shall we manage about----? I'm afraid the
brougham is too small for three." Mrs. Dobbs settled the question by
declaring that she did not purpose going to Mrs. Dormer-Smith's house.
She would get some dinner at the station, and return to Oldchester by an
evening train. "Oh dear, I'm afraid that will be very uncomfortable for
you!" said Pauline, politely trying to conceal her satisfaction at this
arrangement. "Will you not come and--and lunch with us?" But Mrs. Dobbs
stuck to her own plan.
While the footman was superintending the placing of May's luggage on the
cab, her grandmother drew her into the waiting-room to say "good-bye."
"God bless you, my dear, dear child! Write to me often, keep well, and
be happy!" she said, folding the girl in her arms. Mrs. Dormer-Smith
stood by, not unsympathetic, but at the same time relieved to know James
was busy with the luggage, so that he could not witness the parting, nor
hear May's exclamation, "Darling granny! darling granny!" Indeed, it
might be hoped that he would never know the relationship between this
stout, common-looking old woman and Miss Cheffington; nor be able to
report it in the servants' hall. She felt that Mrs. Dobbs was behaving
very properly, and said with gracious sweetness, "I'm sure we ought all
to be very much obliged to you for the care you have taken of my niece.
It was most good of you to undertake this tiresome journey."
Mrs. Dobbs looked up with a flash in her eyes. "I only hope," she
returned hotly, "that you will take as good care of my grandchild as I
have taken of your niece." The next moment she repented of her retort,
and said quite humbly, "You will be kind to her, won't you? Poor
motherless lamb! You will be kind to her, I'm sure!"
"Indeed I will," answered Mrs. Dormer-Smith, with unruffled gentleness.
"I have always wished for a daughter, and she shall be like my own
daughter to me." And, with a motherly caress, she drew May to her side.
"Don't be afraid for me, granny dear!" said May, smiling with tearful
eyes. "I shall be very happy with Aunt Pauline. Besides, I shall see you
again very soon."
Mrs. Dobbs laid her hand on the girl's shoulder and pushed her gently,
but firmly, out of the waiting-room, standing herself in the doorway
until May and her aunt had disappeared. Then she sat down by the fire,
untied her bonnet-strings, pulled out her handkerchief, and sobbed
unrestrainedly. The waiting-room attendant looked at her curiously; for
she had noticed that Mrs. Dobbs did not belong to the same class as that
elegantly dressed lady, attended by a servant in livery, with whom the
young girl had gone away. Presently she drew near, on pretence of poking
the fire, and said--
"You're very fond of the young lady, ain't you? But don't take on so.
You'll see her again very soon, I dare say. Don't cry, poor dear!"
"I _have_ cried," said Mrs. Dobbs, getting up and drying her eyes
resolutely. "I have cried, and it's done me good. And now I'll go and
get a bit of food."
But she only trifled with the modest dinner set before her; and, as she
sat in a corner of the second-class carriage which conveyed her back to
Oldchester, her handkerchief was soaked with silent tears.
To May the separation naturally seemed far less terrible than it did to
Mrs. Dobbs. She had no idea that it was to be a long, much less a
permanent, one. She found it agreeable to sit in the well-hung, neatly
appointed brougham, with a cushion at her back and a hot-water tin under
her feet, and to look through the clear glasses at the bustle and
movement of London. Her aunt Pauline was very pleasant and sympathetic.
May thought that she might come to love her father's sister very dearly.
She admired her already. Mrs. Dormer-Smith's gentle manner, her soft,
low voice, the quiet elegance of her dress, and even the delicate
perfume of violets which hung about her, were all appreciated by May.
"My cousin is not at home, is he, Aunt Pauline?" she asked after a
little silence.
"No; Cyril is at Harrow. There are only the children."
"Oh, children!" cried May, with brightening eyes. "I'm so glad! I love
children. I didn't know you had any children besides Cyril."
Mrs. Dormer-Smith laughed her peculiar little guttural laugh, consisting
of several ha, ha, ha's, slowly and softly uttered, and made no answer.
"Are they boys or girls? How many are there? How old are they?"
questioned May eagerly.
"Two little boys. Harold is--let me see--Harold is six, and Wilfred
five. It is very awkward having two little things in the nursery so many
years younger than their elder brother. Cyril is turned fifteen. It is
like beginning all one's troubles over again," said Pauline plaintively.
The birth of these two children was, indeed, a standing grievance with
her.
May thought this an odd way of talking, and said no more on the subject
of her little cousins. But she looked forward to seeing them with
pleasant expectation.
The sight of the house in Kensington brought back vividly to her mind
the day after the dowager's funeral, when she had arrived there from
school, feeling very strange and forlorn. She remembered, too, the
abrupt departure next morning with her father, and her impression that
the Dormer-Smiths had not behaved well, and that her father was very
angry with them. May was shown into a bedroom at the back of the house,
overlooking some gardens. The maid, having asked if she could do
anything for Miss Cheffington, and having mentioned that the
luncheon-gong would sound in ten minutes, withdrew, and left May alone.
She examined the room with girlish interest. It was very pretty, she
thought. Perhaps, in point of solid comfort, the old-fashioned furniture
of her room in Friar's Row might be superior; but in Friar's Row there
was no such ample provision of looking-glasses as there was here. She
was still contemplating herself from head to foot in a long swing
mirror, which stood in a good light near the window, when the gong
sounded.
May ran downstairs, and in the dining-room she found her aunt and a
heavy-looking man with grizzled, sandy hair, and dull blue eyes, who
asked her how she did, and supposed she would hardly recognize him.
"Oh yes, I do, Uncle Frederick!" she answered.
And again an uncomfortable recollection of her father's angry departure
from that house came over her. But whatever quarrels there might have
been in those days, her aunt and uncle appeared to have forgotten all
about them. Mr. Dormer-Smith told May more than once that he was pleased
to see her.
"You're not a bit like your father, my dear," said he, with an approving
air not altogether flattering to Augustus.
"Oh yes, Frederick!" interposed his wife. "There is a family
expression."
"It's an expression I have never seen on your brother's face. No, nor
any approach to it."
Mrs. Dormer-Smith laughed the soft little laugh which was habitual with
her when embarrassed or disconcerted, and changed the conversation. "I
hope you like your room, May?" she said.
"Oh yes, very much indeed, thank you, Aunt Pauline."
"I wish I could have come upstairs with you. But I am obliged to
_menager_ my strength as much as possible."
"Are you not well, Aunt Pauline?" asked May with ready sympathy.
"I am not _strong_, dear."
"You would be better if you exerted yourself more," said Mr.
Dormer-Smith. "Your system gets into a sluggish state from sheer
inactivity."
"Ah, you don't understand, Frederick," answered his wife, with a
plaintive smile.
And May felt indignant at her uncle's want of feeling. But the next
minute she relented towards him when he said, as he rose from table--
"I'll go round to the chemist's myself for Willy's medicine, and bring
it back with me, as I suppose you will be wanting James to go out again
with the carriage by-and-by."
"Is one of the little boys ill?" asked May.
This time it was her aunt who replied calmly, "Oh no. The child has a
little nervous cough; it is really more a trick than anything else."
"Huggins doesn't think so lightly of it, I can assure you. He tells me
great care is needed," said Mr. Dormer-Smith.
"Can I--would you mind--might I see my little cousins?" asked May, with
some hesitation. She was puzzled by these discrepancies of opinion
between husband and wife.
Mr. Dormer-Smith turned round with a look almost of animation. "Come
now, if you like. Come with me," he said. And May followed him out of
the room, disregarding her aunt's suggestion that it would be better for
her to lie down and rest after her journey.
The nursery was a large room--in fact, an attic--at the top of the
house. May noticed how rapidly the elegance and costliness of the
furniture and appointments decreased as they mounted. If the dining-room
and drawing-rooms represented tropical luxury, the bedrooms cooled down
into a temperate zone; and the top region of all was arctic in its
barrenness. The nursery looked very forlorn and comfortless, with its
bare floor, cheap wall-paper dotted with coarse, coloured prints, and
its small grate with a small fire in it, which had exhausted its
energies in smoking furiously, as the smell in the room testified. At a
table in the middle of the room sat a hard-featured young woman, with
high cheek-bones, and a complexion like that of a varnished wooden doll,
mending a heap of linen; and in one corner, where stood a battered old
rocking-horse and a top-heavy Noah's Ark, two little boys were kneeling
on the floor, building houses with wooden bricks. On their father's
entrance, they looked up languidly; but when they saw who it was, they
scrambled to their feet with some show of pleasure, and came to stand
one on each side of him, holding his hands. They were both like him,
blue-eyed and sandy-haired, and both looked pale and sickly. Harold, the
elder, seemed the stronger of the two. Wilfred was a meagre,
frail-looking little creature, with a half-timid, half-sullen expression
of face. Their father kissed them both, and, sitting down, drew the
younger child on his knee, whilst Harold stood pressing close against
his shoulder.
"Well, do you know who this is?" asked Mr. Dormer-Smith, pointing to
May.
Apparently they had no wish to know, for they nestled closer to their
father, and sulkily rejected May's proffered caresses.
"Oh, come, you mustn't be shy," said their father. "This is your cousin
May; kiss her, and say, 'How d'ye do?'"
But nothing would induce either of the boys to give May his hand, nor
even to look at her; and at length she begged her uncle not to trouble
himself, and hoped they would all be very good friends presently.
"And how do we get on with our lessons, ma'amselle?" asked Mr.
Dormer-Smith of the hard-featured young woman, who, beyond rising from
her chair when they came in, had hitherto taken no notice of them.
"We haven't had no lessons to-day," put in Harold, with a lowering look
at "ma'amselle."
"No, monsieur, it has been impossible till now; I have had so much
sewing to do for madame. See!" and she pointed to the heap of linen.
"But we will have our lessons in the afternoon."
"I don't want lessons; I want to go out with papa. Take me with you,
papa," cried Harold. Whereupon little Wilfred lisped out that he too
would go out with papa, and set up a peevish whine.
"It is too cold for you, my man," said the father. "The sharp wind would
make you cough. Harold will stay with you, and you can play together,
and do your lessons afterwards, like good boys."
But the children only wailed and cried the louder, whilst mademoiselle,
with her eyes on her needlework, monotonously repeated in her
Swiss-French, "What is this? Be good, my children," and apparently
thought she was doing all that she was called upon to do under the
circumstances.
May thought her little cousins peculiarly disagreeable children; but she
could not help feeling sorry for them and for their father, who looked
quite helpless and distressed. "Would you like me to tell you a story?"
she said. "I know some very pretty stories."
A wail from Wilfred and a scowl from Harold were all the answer she
received from them. But her uncle caught at the suggestion eagerly.
"Oh, that would be very kind of Cousin May," he said. "A pretty story!
You'll like that, won't you?"
"No, I shan't! I want to go with papa," grumbled Harold.
"I want to go wis papa," sobbed Wilfred.
"It is always so when monsieur comes to the nursery," said the Swiss,
coolly going on with her sewing. "The children are so fond of monsieur."
"Poor little fellows!" cried May.
Then kneeling down beside her uncle, she began softly to stroke
Wilfred's hair, and to speak to him coaxingly. After a while, the child
glanced shyly into her face, and ceased to sob. Presently he allowed
himself to be transferred from his father's knee to May's. The Noah's
Ark was brought into requisition. May ranged its inmates--all more or
less dilapidated--on the floor, and began to perform a drama with them,
making each animal's utterances in an appropriate voice. A smile dawned
on Wilfred's pale little face, and Harold drew near to look and listen
with evident interest.
"Now, Uncle Frederick, if you have to go out, I will stay and play with
the children, until lesson-time. They are going to be very good now;
ain't you, boys?"
"Ve'y good now," assented Wilfred, his attention still absorbed by the
Noah's Ark animals.
"Well, if you'll make the pig grunt again, I will be good," said Harold,
with a Bismarckian mastery of the _do ut des_ principle.
Mr. Dormer-Smith's face beamed with satisfaction. "It's very good of
you, my dear," said he. "If you don't mind, it would be very kind to
stay with them a little while; that is, if you are not too tired by your
journey?" And as he went away, he repeated, "It's very good of you, my
dear; very good of you!"
But May found that her aunt took a different view.
"_Dear_ May," said she, when she learned where her niece had been
spending the two hours after luncheon, "this is very imprudent! You
should have lain down and taken a thorough rest instead of exerting
yourself in that way."
"Oh, I'm not in the least tired, Aunt Pauline."
"Dear child, you may not think so; but a railway journey of three or
four hours jars the nerves terribly."
"Oh, I was very glad to amuse the children, Aunt Pauline. They were
crying to go out with their father, so I tried to comfort them. They got
quite merry before I left them."
Mrs. Dormer-Smith slowly shook her head and smiled. "You will find them
extremely tiresome, poor things!" said she placidly. "They are by no
means engaging children. Cyril was very different at their age."
"Oh, Aunt Pauline! I think they might be made--I mean I think we shall
come to be great friends. I couldn't bear to see them cry, poor mites!"
"That is all very sweet in you, dear May, but I fancy it is best to
leave their nursery governess to manage them. Her French is not all that
I could wish. But a pure accent is not so vitally important for boys. It
is much if an Englishman can speak French even decently. And Cecile
makes herself very useful with her needle."
Pauline then announced that she would not go out again that afternoon,
but would devote herself to the inspection of May's wardrobe. "Of course
you have no evening dresses fit to wear," she said; "but we will see
whether we cannot manage to make use of some of your clothes. Smithson,
my maid, is very clever."
"Why, of course granny would not have sent me without proper clothes!"
protested May, opening her eyes in astonishment. "And I _have_ an
evening frock--a very pretty white muslin, quite new."
To this speech Aunt Pauline vouchsafed no answer beyond a vague smile.
She scarcely heard it, in fact. Her mind was preoccupied with weighty
considerations. As she seated herself in the one easy-chair in May's
room, and watched her niece kneeling down, keys in hand, before her
travelling trunk, she observed with heartfelt thankfulness that the
girl's figure was naturally graceful, and calculated to set off well-cut
garments to advantage.
"Oh!" exclaimed May suddenly, turning round and letting the keys fall
with a clash as she clasped her hands, "above everything I must not miss
the post! I want to send off a letter, so that granny may have it at
breakfast time to-morrow for a surprise. Have I plenty of time, Aunt
Pauline?"
"No doubt," answered her aunt absently. She was debating whether the
circumference of May's waist might not be reduced an inch or so by
judicious lacing.
"Perhaps I had better get my letter written first, Aunt Pauline. I
wouldn't miss writing to granny for the world, and any time will do for
the clothes."
To which her aunt replied with solemnity, and with an appearance of
energy which May had never witnessed in her before, "Your wardrobe, May,
demands very serious consideration. April is just upon us. You are to be
presented at the second Drawing-room. Dress is an important social duty,
and we must not lose time in trifling."