It was a great comfort to Mrs. Dormer-Smith to find her niece so pretty
("not a beauty," as she said to herself, "but extremely pleasing, and
with capital points"), and so entirely free from vulgarisms of speech or
manner. In fact, May's outward demeanour needed but very few polishing
touches to make it all her aunt could desire. But a more intimate
acquaintance revealed traits of character which troubled Mrs.
Dormer-Smith a good deal.
"I suppose," she observed to her husband, with a sigh, "one had no right
to expect that poor Augustus's unfortunate marriage should have left no
trace in his children. But it is dreadfully disheartening to come every
now and then upon some absolutely middle-class prejudice or scruple in
May. Now, Augustus, whatever his faults may be, always had such a
thoroughbred way of looking at things."
"Certainly, no one can accuse your brother of having scruples," said
Frederick.
"Besides, it is terribly bad form in a girl of her age to set up for a
moralist."
"It doesn't seem much like May to set up for anything: she is always so
childish and unpretending."
"Oh yes; and that _ingenue_ air is delicious: it goes so perfectly with
her _physique_. But there are so many things which one cannot teach in
words, but which girls brought up in a certain _monde_ learn by
instinct."
"What sort of things do you mean?" asked her husband after a little
pause.
"Well, on Thursday, for instance, I was awfully annoyed. Mrs. Griffin
was here, and seemed pleased with May, and talked to her a good deal.
You know that is very important, because the duchess invites people or
leaves them out pretty much as her mother dictates. So I was naturally
very much gratified to see May making a good impression. In fact, Mrs.
Griffin whispered to me, 'Charming! So fresh.' Presently Lady Burlington
came in, and they began talking of those new people, the Aaronssohns,
who have a million and a half a year. Lady Burlington had been at a big
dinner there the night before, and she told us the most astonishing
things of their vulgarity and their pushing ways. When she was gone Mrs.
Griffin said, 'I do like Lady Burlington,' and began praising her
manners and her air of _grande dame_. And, very kindly turning to May,
she said, 'Do you know, little one, that that is one of the proudest
women in England?' 'Is she?' said May. 'I should never have guessed that
she was proud.' Something in her way of saying it caught Mrs. Griffin's
attention; and she pressed her and cross-questioned her, until May
blurted out that she thought it despicable to accept vulgar people's
hospitality only because they were rich, and then to ridicule them for
being vulgar. I never was so shocked; for, you know, the duchess and
Mrs. Griffin both went to the Aaronssohns' ball last season. Now you
know," pursued Mrs. Dormer-Smith almost tearfully, "that kind of thing
will never do. You must allow that it will never do, Frederick."
"It would be awkward," assented Frederick, looking grave. "Couldn't you
tell her?"
"Of course, I spoke to her after Mrs. Griffin had gone away. But she
only said, 'What could I do, Aunt Pauline? The old lady insisted on my
answering her, and I couldn't tell her a story.' You see what a
difficult kind of thing it will be to manage, Frederick."
Mr. Dormer-Smith had become a great partisan of May's. He was genuinely
grateful for her kindness to his children, and would willingly have
taken her part had it been possible. But he felt that his wife was
right; it would really never do to carry into society an _enfant
terrible_ of such uncompromising truthfulness. And this feeling was much
strengthened by the recollection of sundry remarks which May had
innocently made to himself--remarks indicating an inconvenient
assumption on her part that one's principles must naturally regulate
one's practice. However, as he told his wife, they must trust to time
and experience to correct this crudeness.
"She is but a schoolgirl, after all," he said.
Pauline did not pursue the subject, but she reflected within herself
that there are schoolgirls and schoolgirls.
There had been some discussion as to who should present May. Mrs.
Dormer-Smith was of opinion that had there been a Viscountess
Castlecombe, the office would properly have devolved on her ladyship;
but old Lord Castlecombe had been a widower for many years. At length it
was decided that May should be presented by her aunt.
"I know it is a great risk for me to go out _decolletee_ on an English
spring day," said that devoted woman. "And Lady Burlington would do it
if I asked her. But I wish to carry out the duty I have undertaken
towards Augustus's daughter, as thoroughly as my strength will allow.
Under all the circumstances of the case, it is important that she should
be publicly acknowledged, and, as it were, identified with the family.
Of course, I shall feel justified in buying my gown out of May's money."
"May's money" had come to be the phrase by which the Dormer-Smiths spoke
of the payment made by Mrs. Dobbs for her grand-daughter.
But besides the comforting sense of duty fulfilled, there were other
compensations in store for Mrs. Dormer-Smith. May's presentation dress
was pronounced exquisite, and was ready in good time; and May herself
profited satisfactorily by the instructions of a fashionable professor
of deportment, in the difficult art of walking and curtsying in a train.
To be sure, she had alarmed her aunt at first, by going into fits of
laughter when describing Madame Melnotte's lessons, and imitating the
impressive gravity with which the dancing-mistress went through the dumb
show of a presentation at Court. But she did what she was told to do,
not only with docility, but with an unaffected simplicity which Aunt
Pauline's good taste perceived to be infinitely charming. And she said
to her husband that she really began to hope May would be "a great
success."
The great day of the Drawing-room came and went, as do all days, great
or small. But whether she had been a success or a failure, in her aunt's
sense of the words, May had not the remotest idea. Indeed, the various
feelings on the subject of her presentation which had filled her breast
beforehand (including a genuine delight in her own appearance as she
stood before the big looking-glass, while Smithson put the finishing
touches to her head-dress), were all swallowed up in the supreme feeling
of thankfulness that it was over; and that she had not disgraced herself
by tumbling over her train, or otherwise shocking the eyes of august
personages. Also, in a minor degree, she was thankful that Aunt
Pauline's antique lace-flounce--a portion of the dowager's legacy lent
for the occasion--had escaped destruction. On their drive homeward, she
sat silent, trying to extricate some definite image from her confused
impressions of the ceremony, and finding that her most distinct
recollection recorded the pressure of a persistent and ruthless elbow
against her ribs. Mrs. Dormer-Smith, too, was too much exhausted to say
much. She leaned back in the carriage with closed eyes, wrapping her
furs round her, and sniffing at a bottle of salts.
But when refreshed by a glass of wine, and seated in a well-cushioned
chair before a blazing fire, Mrs. Dormer-Smith felt very well satisfied
with the result of the day. Mrs. Griffin had been there, and had nodded
approvingly across a struggling crowd of bare shoulders; and Mrs.
Griffin's approbation was worth having. Mr. Dormer-Smith came home from
his club a full hour earlier than usual, in order to hear the report--a
proof of interest which May, not being a whist-player, was unable fully
to appreciate.
"Well," said Pauline, with a kind of pious serenity, "we have
accomplished this somewhat trying social duty."
"Trying, indeed," exclaimed May. "I'm afraid you are dreadfully tired,
Aunt Pauline. And the crowd and closeness made your head ache, I saw.
How is your head now?"
"It is better, dear, much better."
"Well?" said Mr. Dormer-Smith, looking interrogatively with raised
eyebrows at his wife.
"Oh yes, Frederick; very nice indeed, very satisfactory. I was very much
pleased. I _had_ been a little anxious about the effect of the
_corsage_, but Amelie has done herself great credit. And, mercifully,
white suits our dear child to perfection. She really looked very well."
"Did I, Aunt Pauline? Well, I'm sure it didn't much matter how I
looked."
"Didn't matter!" echoed Mrs. Dormer-Smith in a shocked tone.
"Oh, come, May!" cried her uncle. "I thought you were above that sort of
nonsense. Do you mean to tell me that you don't care about looking
pretty?"
"Oh no! I mean--well, I did think my dress was lovely when I looked at
myself in the big glass upstairs; but in that crush who could see it?
And I was awfully afraid that Aunt Pauline's lace flounce would be torn
completely off the skirt."
Her uncle laughed. "You don't appear to have altogether enjoyed your
first appearance as a courtier," said he.
"Enjoyed! Oh, who _could_ enjoy it?" Then, fearful of seeming
ungrateful, she added, "It was very, very kind of Aunt Pauline to take
so much trouble, and to get me that beautiful dress."
May had not been accustomed to think about ways and means. It had seemed
a matter of course that her daily wants should be supplied, and she had
hitherto bestowed no more thought on the matter than a young bird in the
nest. But it was impossible for her to live as a member of the
Dormer-Smiths' family without having the question of money brought
forcibly to her mind. There were small pinchings and savings of a kind
utterly unknown in Friar's Row; elaborate calculations were made as to
the possibility of this or that expenditure; Aunt Pauline frequently
lamented her poverty; and yet, withal, there was kept up an appearance
of wealth and elegance. May was not long in discovering the seamy side
of all the luxury which surrounded her; and it amazed her. Why should
her aunt so arrange her life as to derive very little comfort from very
strenuous effort? And what puzzled her most of all at first was the air
of conscious virtue with which this was done: the strange way in which
Aunt Pauline would mention some piece of meanness or insincerity as
though it were an act of loftiest duty. On one or two occasions May had
innocently suggested a straightforward way out of some social
difficulty; such as wearing an old gown when a new one could not be
afforded, or refusing an invitation which could only be accepted at the
cost of much bodily and mental harass. But these childish suggestions
had been met by an indulgent smile; and she had been told that such and
such things must be done or endured in order to keep up the family's
position in society. Once May had asked, "Then why _should_ we keep up
our position in society?" But her aunt had shown such genuine
consternation at this impious inquiry, that the girl did not venture to
repeat it.
Another question, however, soon forced itself upon May--namely, how it
came to pass that, under all the circumstances, so much money was spent
on her dress. Besides the court train and petticoat, her aunt had
provided for her a wardrobe which, to the young girl's inexperienced
eyes, appeared absolutely splendid (for Pauline's conscience, although
cramped and squeezed into artificial shape like a Chinese lady's foot,
was alive and sentient; and she would on no account have failed to
expend "May's money" for May's advantage): and yet all the while there
were the two little boys in their comfortless nursery, wearing coarse
clothing and shabby shoes; and there was Cecile toiling at needlework
instead of attending to the children, in order that the cost of a
seamstress might be saved! On this subject May felt that she had a right
to interrogate her aunt; and accordingly she took courage to do so. Mrs.
Dormer-Smith was considerably embarrassed, and made an attempt to fence
off the subject. But May persisted.
"It's very, very good of you and Uncle Frederick to do so much for me,"
she said; "but I can't bear to take it all."
"Nonsense, May! Remember you are a Cheffington. You _must_ appear in the
world properly equipped."
"But, Aunt Pauline, it isn't fair to Harold and Wilfred!"
"Harold and Wilfred?" echoed her aunt, opening wide her soft dark eyes.
"What _do_ you mean, May?"
May coloured hotly, but stuck to her point. "Well," she said, "you know
Uncle Frederick was saying the other day that Willy ought to have change
of air; and you said you couldn't afford to send him to the seaside just
now; and--and I think Cecile thinks they ought to have new walking
suits; and all the while I have so many expensive new frocks. I can't
bear it. It isn't really fair."
Then Mrs. Dormer-Smith found herself compelled to assure her niece that
no penny of the cost of her toilet came out of Uncle Frederick's pocket,
and reading a further question in the girl's face, she hastened to
anticipate it by adding, "The arrangements made for you here, May, are
in entire accordance with your father's wishes. There has been a
correspondence with him on the subject, and he wrote quite distinctly;
otherwise your uncle and I would not have undertaken to bring you out."
"I hope," said May, "that papa does not deprive himself of anything for
me. He used not to be at all well off, I know. I can remember when I was
a little thing in Bruges."
"Augustus deprives himself of _nothing_," answered Mrs. Dormer-Smith
softly, but emphatically. "Pray say no more on the subject, my dear.
This sort of thing makes my head ache."
Her conscience being thus relieved, May accepted and enjoyed her new
finery and her new life. She found that "taking up one's position in
society" involved pleasanter things than being presented at a
Drawing-room. It was delightful to be tastefully and becomingly dressed.
It was agreeable to be sure of plenty of partners at every dance. It was
satisfactory to have so admirable a chaperon as Aunt Pauline. One could
no more form a fair judgment of that lady from knowing her only in
domestic life, than one could fully appreciate a swan from seeing it on
dry land. In the congenial element of "society," her merits were
exhibited to the utmost advantage. They were, indeed, greater than May
had any idea of; Mrs. Dormer-Smith's tact in warding off ineligible
partners, and securing as far as possible eligible ones for her niece,
was masterly. But May admired her aunt's unruffled temper and gentle
grace. She had been quick to find out--with some astonishment, but
beyond the possibility of doubt--that fine people can be exceedingly
rude on occasion; and she observed with pride that Aunt Pauline was
never rude. Moreover, Aunt Pauline's softness of manner was a far more
effectual protection against impertinence, than the _brusquerie_
affected by sundry ladies who forgot the wisdom embodied in the homely
saying, that "those who play at bowls must look out for rubbers;" and
who were always liable to be vanquished by greater insolence than their
own.
May soon began to be reticent of her real sentiments and opinions in
speaking to her aunt and uncle. She felt that nine times out of ten she
was not understood; or, which was worse, was misunderstood. But in
writing to her dear granny, she frankly and fully poured out all her
heart. These letters were the joy and consolation of Mrs. Dobbs's life.
Every minutest detail interested her. She laughed over May's description
of the Drawing-room, and read it out aloud to Jo Weatherhead by way of a
wholesome corrective to his Tory prejudices.
But at the same time she secretly treasured a copy of the _Morning Post_
containing Miss Miranda Cheffington's name, and a description of Miss
Miranda Cheffington's toilet on that occasion. And she listened, with a
complacency of which she was more than half ashamed, to Mrs. Simpson's
ecstasies on the subject; and to the scraps of information which the
good-natured Amelia quoted--generally incorrectly--from social gossip
setting forth how Mrs. Dormer-Smith and her niece, Miss Miranda
Cheffington, had been present at this or that grand entertainment. These
things might appear frivolous; but was it not for this end, to put May
in her right place in the world, to give her her birthright, that Mrs.
Dobbs had made a great sacrifice? Jo Weatherhead understood this so
well, that the "fashionable intelligence" in the local newspapers
assumed a quite pathetic interest in his eyes. When he went to drink tea
with his old friend in the parlour of her new abode with its trashy,
stuccoed ceiling, miserably thin walls, and squeezed little fireplace,
he felt it to be a positive comfort to pull from his pocket a copy of
the _Court Journal_ or other equally polite print, and read aloud to
Sarah some paragraph in which May's name occurred. It was a consolation,
too, to let himself be lectured and laughed at by Sarah for his absurd
admiration of the aristocracy. And he took every opportunity of
combating her Radicalism, in order that she might victoriously vindicate
the steadfastness of her political principles.
Meanwhile, Captain Cheffington saw the accounts of his daughter's
appearance in the fashionable world, and began to think that he had been
too easy in giving his consent to it. He had got nothing by it; and
perhaps something might have been got. He wrote twice to Pauline,
urgently requiring her to tell him what was the exact sum which Mrs.
Dobbs paid for her grand-daughter's maintenance. That it was handsome he
did not doubt; knowing by experience that the Dormer-Smiths would not
contribute a shilling. Pauline had replied evasively to the first
letter, and not at all to the second, with the result that Augustus's
imagination absurdly exaggerated Mrs. Dobbs's wealth. The old woman must
be rolling in money after all! Had May's allowance been a small one, his
sister would not have hesitated to tell him the exact sum. It was clear
to his mind that the Dormer-Smiths were making an uncommonly good thing
of it, and he was decidedly disinclined to leave all the profit to them.
He wrote off to Oldchester a demand for money on his own account. It was
refused; and his anger was very bitter. He even began to cherish a
grudge against May. Why should she be surrounded by luxury, enjoying all
the gaieties of London, and taking a social position to which her only
claim was the fact of being _his_ daughter, whilst he lived the life of
an outcast? He went so far as to threaten to come to England and bring
away his daughter: having some idea that Mrs. Dobbs might ransom May,
and pension him off. But the energy which might once upon a time have
enabled Augustus Cheffington to take this strong step had waned long
ago. He had grown inert. And, above all, the circumstances of his
private life rendered such independent action difficult, if not
impossible.
It presently began to be reported amongst Mrs. Dormer-Smith's
acquaintance, with other items of tea-table gossip, that "little May
Cheffington had a rich old grandmother somewhere down in the country."
Theodore Bransby, who was admitted as a familiar visitor at the
Dormer-Smiths', and who made a parade of his intimacy with the
Cheffingtons, was interrogated on the subject. He maintained a cautious
reserve in his replies:--"He really could say nothing; he had no idea
what the old lady's means might be; he could scarcely, in fact, be said
to know her at all." Wishing, as he did, completely to ignore that
objectionable old ironmonger's widow, it was irritating to find her
existence known, and her means discussed, in London. To be sure, no one
troubled himself to inquire "Who is she?" general interest being
exclusively concentrated on the question, "What has she?" Theodore's
reticence was by no means attributed to its real cause. People said that
young Bransby was looking after the girl himself, and wanted to choke
off possible rivals. Theodore did, indeed, push himself as far as
possible into every house which May frequented. There were some still
inaccessible to him; but he had patience and perseverance. And he was
constantly meeting May in the course of the season. She was far more
pleased to see him in London than she had ever been in Oldchester. He
was associated with persons whom she loved: and on many occasions when
ball-room lookers-on pronounced Miss Cheffington and young Bransby to be
"spooning awfully," May was talking with animation of his half-brothers,
Bobby and Billy, of the dear old canon and her friend Constance, or even
of Mr. and Mrs. Sebastian Bach Simpson. Theodore had no relish for these
topics; but it was better to talk with May of them, than not to talk
with her at all. And to the girl, he seemed the only link between her
present life and the dear Oldchester days.
At the beginning of June, however, he ceased to have this exclusive
claim on her attention. One fine day Aunt Pauline, returning from an
afternoon drive with her niece, found a large visiting card with "The
Misses Piper" engraved on it with many elaborate flourishes, whilst
underneath was written in pencil "Miss Hadlow."
"Piper!" said Pauline, languidly dropping her eyeglass, and looking
round at May. "What can this mean?"
"Oh, it means Miss Polly and Miss Patty and my schoolfellow Constance
Hadlow!" cried May, clapping her hands. "Fancy Conny being in town! I
dare say the Pipers invited her on a visit. I'm so glad!"
Mrs. Dormer-Smith's countenance expressed anything but gladness; and she
privately informed May that it would be impossible to do more than send
cards to these ladies by the servant. "I _can't_ have them here on my
Thursdays, you know, May," she said plaintively, and with an injured
air.
Three months ago May would have indignantly protested against this tone,
and would have pointed out that it would be unfeeling and ungrateful on
her part to slight her old friends. But she had by this time learned to
understand how unavailing were all such representations to convince Aunt
Pauline, in whose code personal sentiments of goodwill towards one's
neighbour had to yield to the higher law of duty towards "Society."
"Perhaps," said May, after a pause, "if you cannot go yourself, Uncle
Frederick would take me to Miss Piper's some Sunday after church, when
we go for a walk with the children. You see they have written 'Sundays'
on the corner of their card."
"Oh, do you think they would be satisfied with that sort of thing?"
asked her aunt.
"They are most kind, good-natured old ladies," pursued May. "They
wouldn't mind the children at all. Indeed, they like children. And as to
coming to your Thursdays, Aunt Pauline, I really don't think they would
care to do it. Music is their great passion--at least, Miss Polly's
great passion--and when they are in London I think they go to concerts
morning, noon, and night. Miss Hadlow is different. Her grandpapa was a
Rivers," added May, blushing at her own wiliness, "and she is very
handsome, and sure to be asked out a great deal."
But May's profound strategy did not end here. She coaxed Uncle Frederick
by representing what a treat it would be to Harold and Wilfred to go out
visiting with papa. Those young gentlemen, privately incited by hints of
possible plum-cake, were soon all eagerness to go; and when, on the very
next Sunday, May set off with her uncle and cousins to walk to Miss
Piper's lodgings, she felt that she had achieved a diplomatic triumph.