The London season proceeded with its usual accumulation of engagements,
its usual breathless chase after half-hours that have got too long a
start ever to be recaptured, its usual fleeting satisfactions and
abiding disappointments, its snubs, sneers, smiles, follies, falsehoods,
and flirtations. The rushing current of fashionable life in London
carried little May Cheffington on its surface, together with many brazen
vessels of a very different kind. Constance Hadlow observed
half-enviously to her friend that she was thoroughly "in the swim," a
phrase which May found singularly inappropriate in her own case, feeling
that there was no more question of a swim than in shooting Niagara! To
her, especially, the whirl of society was confusing, phantasmagoric, and
unreal. All the faces were new to her, most of the names awoke no
associations in her mind. On the other hand, this peculiar inexperience
gave freshness to her impressions and keenness to her insight. She had
none of those social traditions which, nine times out of ten, supply the
place of private judgment. She found her impression of many personages
startlingly at variance with the label which the world had agreed to
affix to them. It is possible to be at once simple and shrewd, just as
it is possible to be both _ruse_ and dull-witted.
May's simplicity was not of the blundering thick-skinned type; and her
ingenuous freshness was admired by a great many persons, among whom was
Mrs. Griffin. Far from being offended by May's moral indignation against
those who accepted the hospitality of vulgar people, and then ridiculed
them for being vulgar, Mrs. Griffin entirely approved her sentiments.
Mrs. Griffin herself deplored, as she often said, "the servility towards
mere money, which was degrading the tone of society." And whenever any
new instance of it came to her knowledge, she would shake her head, and
exclaim, softly, "Oh, Mammon, Mammon!" But this did not, of course,
apply to her daughter the duchess, who sometimes went to the
Aaronssohns'. Her daughter was so very great a lady as to be above
ordinary restrictions. Other people worshipped Mammon; the duchess only
patronized Mammon--which was, surely, a very different thing!
Aunt Pauline, however, derived no gratification from May's
unconventional frankness. It was, on the contrary, a source of constant
anxiety to her; and she felt daily more and more that it would be a
relief to get May off her hands. Introducing her niece into
society--even although the niece was a pretty girl, and a Cheffington to
boot--had not proved so pleasing a task as she had anticipated. There
was, to her thinking, a strange perversity in the girl's character,
which made her callous where she should be sensitive, and sensitive
where she might well be indifferent. For instance, she showed culpable
coolness about her great-uncle Castlecombe and his family, and provoking
warmth about her Oldchester friends. Not that May was apt to speak much
of her life in Oldchester. In the natural course of things she would
have talked freely and eagerly about her dear granny; but very soon
after her arrival in London, her affectionate loquacity on this subject
received a check. Aunt Pauline had hinted, with her usual mild
politeness, that it would be desirable not to speak of Mrs. Dobbs before
Smithson or any of the servants. Seeing the startled look in May's eyes,
and the indignant flush on May's cheeks, her aunt added diplomatically,
"Your father would not like it, May. I am trying to carry out his
expressed wishes. That ought to be enough for you."
It was enough, at all events, to close May's lips. Her love and pride
combined to make her silent. She tried to persuade herself that her
father, at all events, had some good and reasonable motive for this
prohibition, and that he, at least, was not ashamed of Mrs.
Dobbs--ashamed of granny! The very thought made her hot with anger. But
that Aunt Pauline was ashamed of her was too clear to May's honest mind.
Painful as this conviction was, however, she came by degrees to hold it
rather in sorrow than in anger, and to regard her aunt with something of
the same indulgent toleration that Mrs. Dobbs had once expressed to Jo
Weatherhead. For Mrs. Dormer-Smith's worldliness was not at all of a
cynical sort. It was rather in the nature of a deep-rooted superstition
conscientiously held.
To some points of her worldly creed Pauline clung with religious
fervour. One of these was the duty incumbent on a dowerless young lady
to marry well. To marry _very_ well was to marry a man with birth and
money; but to secure a husband with money only--provided there were
enough of it--she allowed to be marrying well. She did not look at the
matter with vulgar flippancy. It was, no doubt, a sacrifice for a
well-born woman to become the wife of an underbred man, however wealthy.
But well-born women were no less called upon than their humbler sisters
to make sacrifices in a good cause.
None of the Castlecombes much frequented fashionable society, and Mrs.
Dormer-Smith had hitherto resigned herself, without much difficulty, to
seeing very little of her noble kinsfolk. But when May was introduced,
her aunt thought it desirable to cultivate them. Lord Castlecombe's big,
gloomy, family mansion in town had been let ever since his wife's death
many years ago; and whenever his lordship came to London to give his
vote in the House of Peers--which was almost the sole object that had
power to bring him up from the country--he occupied furnished lodgings.
Of his two sons, both bachelors, the elder was governor of a colony on
the other side of the globe, and the younger held a permanent post under
Government. This Lucius Cheffington occasionally met Mr. Dormer-Smith at
the club, and exchanged a few words with him. Captain Cheffington, on
his penultimate visit to England, when his ungrateful country declined
to provide for him, had quarrelled with all the Castlecombes, and had
made himself particularly obnoxious to Lucius; for Lucius, whom his
cousin considered a solemn ass, held a lucrative place, whilst Augustus,
who knew himself to be a remarkably clever fellow, with immense
knowledge of the world, was relegated to poverty and obscurity. But
Pauline had not quarrelled with them. She would not willingly have
quarrelled with any one, least of all with her Uncle Castlecombe and his
family. And as to Mr. Dormer-Smith, it chanced that the one point of
sympathy between himself and his cousin-in-law Lucius was the latter's
cordial dislike to Gus. Nevertheless, the dislike did not descend to
Gus's daughter. Lucius was pleased to approve of his young kinswoman,
none the less, perhaps, that it was evident her father troubled himself
little about her.
Mr. Dormer-Smith knew very well that the most effectual way of winning
Lord Castlecombe's goodwill for his grand-niece was to assure his
lordship that he would not be called upon to do anything for her. He,
therefore, confidentially informed Lucius that the girl's grandmother in
Oldchester was defraying her expenses, and would, no doubt, eventually
provide for her altogether. The sagacity of this course was proved soon
afterwards, when Lucius announced that his father would come and dine
with Pauline the next time he should be in town, and make Miranda's
acquaintance.
This was well. And even as to May's Oldchester friends matters turned
out better than her aunt could have hoped. In the first place, the
Misses Piper showed no disposition whatever to force themselves on Mrs.
Dormer-Smith. That being the case, there was no objection to May's going
to see them every Sunday with her uncle and the children. To Harold and
Wilfred these Sunday visits were such a delightful break in the dull
routine of their lives that their father would have endured considerable
boredom and discomfort rather than deprive them of it. But, in fact, he
was not bored. Whenever the music became too severe, he could withdraw
into the tea-room, where he always found some one to chat with. Possibly
he, too, felt these Sundays to be a break in the monotony of his daily
life. There was a cordial, hearty tone about the hostesses which was
decidedly pleasant, although he was aware that Pauline would pronounce
it sadly underbred. But Pauline was not there to be shocked, and there
were some red drops in Mr. Dormer-Smith's veins (he was not quite so
blue-blooded as his wife) which warmed to this plebeian kindness.
Sometimes even the moisture would come into his eyes when he watched his
little boys clinging familiarly about Miss Patty as they never clung
about their mother. The good-natured old maid had won the children's
hearts completely. They were overheard one day in a lively discussion as
to which was the prettier, Miss Patty or Cousin May: Wilfred inclining,
on the whole, to award the palm of beauty to his cousin, but Harold
powerfully arguing in favour of Miss Patty that she had such "beautiful
curls" (an ingenuous, and probably unique, tribute to the ginger-bread
coloured wig!) and a "shiny brooch like a butterfly."
Then Constance Hadlow, whom Mrs. Dormer-Smith had unwillingly invited to
lunch one day with her former schoolfellow, proved to be in every
respect "most presentable," as Aunt Pauline herself candidly admitted.
So presentable was she in fact, so handsome, self-possessed, and even
(on the mother's side) well connected, that there might have arisen
objections of a different sort against receiving her, as being a
dangerous competitor for that solemn duty of marrying well. But a chance
word of May's to the effect that young Bransby had long been an admirer
of Constance, and that they were supposed by many persons in Oldchester
to be engaged to each other, relieved Aunt Pauline's mind on that score.
"It would be very suitable," she said approvingly. "I think Mr. Bransby
a very nice person; so quiet."
The subject of this glowing eulogium had not appeared at Mrs.
Dormer-Smith's receptions for some time. He had been ordered into the
country, to cure a violent cold by change of air; and although he much
disliked leaving town at that moment, he never thought of neglecting his
physician's advice. Theodore's mother had been consumptive; and the fear
that he inherited her constitution made him anxiously careful of his
health. Immediately on his return to London he presented himself, about
half-past five o'clock one Thursday afternoon, in Mrs. Dormer-Smith's
drawing-room, and experienced a shock of disagreeable surprise on
finding Constance Hadlow seated near May at the tea-table. May,
innocently supposing that she was doing him a good turn, gave him her
place, and went to another part of the room. But Constance coolly
greeted him with a "How d'ye do, Theodore?" in a tone of the politest
insipidity, which he sincerely approved of. Nevertheless, he would
rather not have found her there. On glancing round he was struck by
several innovations. In the first place, the pianoforte--usually a dumb
piece of furniture in Mrs. Dormer-Smith's house--stood open, with some
loose sheets of music lying on it; and Signor Vincenzo Valli sat, teacup
in hand, smiling his false smile beside Mrs. Griffin. Theodore knew
perfectly well who Signor Valli was; and it needed not Mrs. Griffin's
gracious demeanour to instruct this rising young man that Valli was
sufficiently the fashion to be worth being civil to. But he was
surprised to find him there. His surprises, however, were not at an end;
for whom should he behold in familiar conversation with a gentleman at
the opposite side of the room but Owen Rivers? And near them was--he
could hardly believe his eyes--Mr. Bragg! It seemed to Theodore as if
there had been a conspiracy amongst his acquaintance to make all sorts
of fresh combinations on the social chess-board during his brief
absence. He felt that it was necessary for him to take an accurate
survey of the new positions. But he saw no immediate opportunity of
doing so; for there was no one at hand to interrogate, except Constance
Hadlow, who, of course, knew nothing. She must be spoken to, however;
but he would cut the conversation as short as possible.
Thoughts--even the weighty thoughts of a diplomatically-minded young
gentleman--move quickly, and there was scarcely any perceptible pause
between Constance's greeting and his gravely polite remark that it was
quite an unexpected pleasure to see her there.
"Yes; I came up a few weeks ago with the Pipers."
"Oh! you are staying with _them_?" (This with a strong flavour of his
superior manner; for the Pipers were really nobodies.)
"And what have you been doing with yourself? I haven't seen you
anywhere," said Constance coolly.
"I have been out of town. But in any case we might possibly not have
met. Have you been going out much?"
"Oh, as much as most people, I suppose. I was at the Aaronssohns' dance
last night."
"The Aaronssohns!" exclaimed Theodore. (This time he was so astonished
that he spoke quite naturally.) "I didn't know that you knew them."
"Oh, I don't know them."
"Then how did you get--I mean----"
"How did I get there? Dear me, Theodore, your visit to the country has
given you a refreshing buttercup-and-daisy kind of air! Do you suppose
that the Aaronssohns' ball-room was filled with their personal friends
and acquaintances? Mrs. Griffin got me an invitation."
Now to be presented to Mrs. Griffin and to be invited to the
Aaronssohns' were pet objects of Theodore Bransby's social ambition, and
he had not yet compassed either of them.
"Oh, indeed!" said he, struggling, under the disadvantage of conscious
ill-humour, to maintain that air of indifference to all things in heaven
and earth which he imagined to be the completest manifestation of high
breeding. "I suppose that was achieved through Mrs. Dormer-Smith's
influence."
"Not altogether. It was May Cheffington who first introduced me to Mrs.
Griffin. She's just the same dear little thing as ever--I don't mean
Mrs. Griffin! But Mrs. Griffin found out that she had known my
grandfather Rivers. I believe they were sweethearts in their pinafores a
hundred years ago; so she has been awfully nice to me."
While Constance was speaking, Theodore's eye lighted on Mr. Bragg, solid
and solemn, wearing that look of melancholy respectability which is
associated with the British workman in his Sunday clothes.
"Oh, and Mr. Bragg was at the Aaronssohns', too," said Constance,
following the young man's glance. "Fancy Mr. Bragg at a ball!"
"Did Mrs. Griffin know _his_ grandfather?" asked Theodore, with a sneer.
It was clear to Constance that he had quite lost his temper. Otherwise
he would not, she felt sure, have said anything in such bad taste. But
she replied calmly--
"I don't think Mr. Bragg ever had a grandfather. But he is rich enough
to do without one. It is poor persons like you and me who find
grandfathers necessary--or, at all events, useful."
Theodore understood the sarcasm of this quiet speech, and it helped him
to master his growing irritation. There are some natures on which a
moral buffet acts as a sedative.
"Was it your friend Miss Piper who brought Mr. Bragg here?" he asked,
showing no sign of having felt the blow, except a slight increase of
pallor.
"Oh dear, no! The Pipers have never been here themselves, except to
leave a card at the door. This is not the kind of society they care for,
you know. I saw Mr. Bragg come in to-day with May's cousin, Mr. Lucius
Cheffington, but I can't say whether he first introduced him or not."
"Is that Mr. Lucius Cheffington?"
"That man talking to Owen?--Yes."
"Mrs. Dormer-Smith has rather a mixed collection this afternoon. I see
Valli over there. You know who I mean? That short, foreign man near----"
"Oh yes; Signor Valli is a great ally of mine. He's delightful, I think.
His airs and graces are so amusing. I can tell you how _he_ comes to be
here, if you like," returned Constance placidly. She was secretly
enjoying Theodore's discomfiture. He had expected to play the part of
town mouse, and to patronize and instruct her. "The fact is," she
continued, "that Lady Moppett begged Mr. Dormer-Smith to induce his wife
to have her _protegee_, Miss Bertram, to sing here on Thursday
afternoons, promising, as a kind of bait, to get Valli to come too. I
don't think Mrs. Dormer-Smith particularly wished to have Miss Bertram;
but she thought it would be nice to have Valli, who is run after by the
best people, and is very difficult to get hold of. So the negotiation
succeeded. It is too funny how one has to _menager_ and coax these
professional people. If you don't want any more information just now, I
think I will go and speak to Mrs. Griffin." Whereupon Constance glided
away, self-possessed and graceful, and with a becoming touch of
animation bestowed by the consciousness that she had been mistress of
the situation.
Theodore looked decidedly blank for the moment. No one bestowed any
attention on him. As he sat watching, he was struck by the evidently
familiar way in which Owen Rivers and Mr. Cheffington were talking
together. He himself particularly desired to be introduced to Lucius
Cheffington, but a secret, grudging feeling made him unwilling to owe
the introduction to Rivers. Presently Rivers moved away to join May and
Miss Bertram, who were turning over some music together, and Mr. Bragg
took his place near Mr. Cheffington. This was the opportunity which
Theodore had wished for. He at once rose and walked up to them.
Theodore's manner was never servile, but there was an added gravity in
his demeanour towards certain persons, intended to show that he thought
them worth taking seriously; and this tribute he rendered to Mr. Bragg.
For, although the young man had by no means forgotten Mr. Bragg's
deplorable insensibility to an enlightened view of the currency
question, yet he prided himself on thoroughly understanding that the
great tin-tack maker's claims to consideration rested on a solid basis
quite apart from culture or intelligence.
"I wish," said Theodore, after the first salutations, "that you would do
me the favour to make me known to Mr. Lucius Cheffington. I know so many
members of his family, but I have not the pleasure of his personal
acquaintance."
Mr. Bragg eyed him with his usual heavy deliberation. "Oh," said he
slowly, "this is Mr.--I don't call to mind your Christian name--eh? Oh
yes--Mr. Theodore Bransby."
Mr. Lucius Cheffington made an unusually low bow, his pride being of the
sort which manifests itself in the most ceremonious politeness.
He was a small, lean man, with a pale face deeply lined by ill-health
and a fretful temperament. He had closely shaven cheeks and chin; heavy,
grizzled moustaches; and very thick, grizzled hair, which he wore rather
long. His voice was harsh, though subdued, and he spoke very slowly,
making such long pauses as occasionally tempted unwary strangers to
finish his sentences for him. A double eyeglass with tortoise-shell rims
was set astride his nose; and behind the glasses two dark, near-sighted
eyes looked out, somewhat superciliously, upon a world which fell sadly
short of what a Cheffington had a right to expect.
"I have the pleasure of knowing your cousin, Captain Augustus
Cheffington, very well indeed," said Theodore.
Lucius bowed again and adjusted his eyeglass. A shade of surprise and
annoyance passed over his face. His Cousin Augustus had been a sore
subject with the family for years; and latterly such rumours as had
reached England about him had not made the subject more agreeable.
"I have often thought," pursued Theodore, quite unaware that his
listener was regarding him with a mixture of astonishment and disfavour,
"that it is a great pity a man of Captain Cheffington's abilities and
accomplishments should live out of England; unless, indeed, he held some
diplomatic appointment abroad. In my opinion these are times in which
the great old families should hold fast by the public service. As I
ventured to say to one of our county members the other day----" And so
on, and so on. Having thus happily launched himself, Theodore proceeded
in his best Parliamentary style: holding forth with a power of
self-complacent and steady boredom beyond his years. A sensitive person
would have been petrified by the unsympathizing stare from behind those
tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses; but Theodore was not sensitive to such
influences: being fortified by the _a priori_ conviction that he must
naturally make a favourable impression. And since Lucius Cheffington
could not, compatibly with his own dignity, plainly tell him that he
considered him a presumptuous young ass, there was nothing to check his
flow of eloquence.
But at length the cold stare was softened, and the pale, peevish,
furrowed face turned to Theodore with a faint show of interest. Some
casual word of this intrusive young man's seemed to show that he came
from Oldchester.
"Do you know--a--Mrs.--a--Dobbs?" asked Lucius, speaking for the first
time, and edging in this point-blank question between two of Theodore's
neatly-turned sentences setting forth a political parallel between the
late Lord Tweedledum and the present Right Honourable Tweedledee.
It was a shock; but Theodore bore it stoically.
"Not exactly. I have spoken with her. Mrs. Dobbs is not precisely----in
our set," he answered, with a slight smile at one corner of his mouth,
intended to demolish Mrs. Dobbs.
"I thought that, being a native of Oldchester, you might--a--be----"
begun Mr. Cheffington in his low, harsh tones.
"Be acquainted with her? Really----"
"I thought that, being a native of Oldchester, you might--a--be able to
tell me something about her."
"Not much, I fear," replied Theodore. He felt tempted to add that in
Oldchester there were natives and natives.
"She's--a--rich, isn't she?" pursued Mr. Cheffington.
"Not that I know of," answered Theodore, staring a little.
"Rich is, perhaps, too much to say. At any rate, she is--a--quite
well----"
"Well off? Oh, as to that----"
"At any rate, she is quite well-to-do, I presume!"
Theodore had never considered the question, but he said, "Oh yes," at a
venture; and then suddenly a light flashed upon his mind. Perhaps Mrs.
Dobbs _was_ rich, after all. Though she lived in so humble a style she
might, perhaps, have laid by money.
"She appears to be a person of--a--great--good sense," said Mr. Lucius
Cheffington, remembering how Mrs. Dormer-Smith had stated that she
declined to give any money-assistance to Augustus. And after that he
made a second very low bow, and brought the interview to an end.
Little had Theodore Bransby expected to hear Mrs. Dobbs discussed and
approved by a member of the noble house of Castlecombe. He had noticed
that Mrs. Dormer-Smith systematically avoided any mention of the vulgar
old woman. But then Mrs. Dormer-Smith was a person of the very finest
taste. And, to be sure, it could scarcely be expected that Mr. Lucius
Cheffington should feel Augustus's _mesalliance_ as acutely as it was
felt by Augustus's own sister. Besides, if, as really seemed possible,
the ironmonger's widow turned out to be a moneyed person----! But it
must be recorded of Theodore, that not even the idea of her having money
reconciled him to Mrs. Dobbs. He said to himself afterwards, when he was
meditating on what he had heard, that nothing so convincingly proved how
much he was in love with Miss Cheffington, as his being ready to forgive
her even her grandmother!