Theodore did not take his rejection meekly. In his interview with Mr.
Dormer-Smith he pressed hard to see May again, and insinuated that she
was under undue influence. Moreover, he conveyed, with stiff civility,
that he considered himself to have been badly treated by the whole
family, who had first encouraged his attentions and then rejected them.
"He really is a fearful young man!" said May to her aunt on hearing the
report of the interview. "What does he mean by insisting on 'an answer
from my own lips'? Could he not believe what Uncle Frederick said?
Besides, he has had his answer from me. The truth is, he is so
outrageously conceited that he can't believe any young woman would
refuse him of her own free will."
"The idea of his dreaming for an instant that _I_ encouraged him is too
preposterous," said Mrs. Dormer-Smith, shaking her head languidly. "I am
sadly disappointed. I thought him quite a nice person. I fancied he had
sufficient _savoir vivre_ to understand----However, it is one more proof
that one can never reckon on half-bred people who don't know the world."
It was privately a great relief to May to know that her aunt took her
part in this affair. Aunt Pauline's motives and views were still very
mysterious to May on many points. She did not even now fully understand
the grounds of her aunt's virtuous indignation against Theodore Bransby,
although she was thankful for it. "Aunt Pauline thought him good enough
for Conny," said May to herself innocently; "and Conny is so beautiful,
and so much admired!"
It was true that--thanks, in the first place, to Mrs. Griffin--Constance
had enjoyed a more brilliant season than she had ever ventured to dream
of. Fashionable houses, of which she had read in the newspapers, but
which had appeared to her as unattainable as though they were in another
planet, had opened their doors to her; and old connections of her
mother's family, finding her in the aforesaid houses, discovered that
she was a charming girl, and were delighted to open _their_ doors to
her. She had accepted several invitations to country houses, and would
probably not be at home again until late in the autumn.
Mrs. Griffin watched this young lady's progress with considerable
interest. She opined that Miss Hadlow was a shining instance of the
advantages of "race."
"In spite of having been brought up in the pokiest way in some
provincial town, as I understand, that girl has a thoroughbred
self-possession quite remarkable," said Mrs. Griffin. "She never makes a
blunder. You are never nervous about her. She has no trace of that loud,
bouncing style, which I detest, and which so many underbred-people take
up nowadays, mistakenly imagining it to be the proper thing. She doesn't
'go in' for anything. And," added Mrs. Griffin musingly, "there's a
wonderful look of her grandfather, poor Charley Rivers, about the brow
and eyes."
The season was rapidly drawing to a close when Mrs. Dobbs received two
letters; one from her grand-daughter, and the other from Mrs.
Dormer-Smith. Jo Weatherhead, arriving one evening at his usual hour in
Jessamine Cottage, was told by his old friend that she had had a letter
from May, and that she meant to read him a portion of it. No proposition
could have been more welcome to Mr. Weatherhead. He drew his chair up to
the grate--filled now with fresh boughs instead of hot coals; but Jo
kept his place in the chimney-corner winter and summer--and prepared to
listen.
Mrs. Dobbs read as follows:--"You must know, dear granny, that I told
Aunt Pauline yesterday that I really must go home at the end of this
season. She has been very kind and so has Uncle Frederick; but granny is
granny, and home is home."
Here Mr. Weatherhead slapped his leg with his hand, and took his pipe
out of his mouth as though about to speak; but on Mrs. Dobbs holding up
her hand for silence, he put his pipe back again, and slowly drew his
forefinger and thumb down the not inconsiderable length of his nose.
Mrs. Dobbs read on: "To my amazement, Aunt Pauline answered that it was
my father's wish that I should remain with her altogether! That is not
my wish. And it isn't yours--is it, granny dear? And if we two are
agreed, I cannot think my father would object. I mean to write to him
about it. I should have done so already, but I have not his address, and
Aunt Pauline can't or won't give it to me. Please send it. I shall tell
my father just what I feel. I don't care for what Aunt Pauline calls
Society. I was happy enough as long as it was only like being at the
play, with the prospect of going home when it was over, and living my
real life. But to go on with this sort of thing and nothing else, year
in, year out--it would be like being expected to live on wax fruit, or
those glazed wooden turkeys I remember in a box of toys you gave me long
ago. Please answer directly, directly. There's an invitation for me to
go in August to a place in the Highlands, where Mrs. Griffin's daughter
has a shooting-box. At least, I suppose it is Mrs. Griffin's daughter's
husband who has the shooting-box. Only nobody talks much about the duke,
and everybody talks a great deal about the duchess." ("Fancy our Miranda
among the dukes and duchesses!" put in Jo Weatherhead, softly. And he
smacked his lips as though the very sound of the words had a relish for
him.) "Aunt Pauline wants to go to Carlsbad; Uncle Frederick is to join
a fishing-party in Norway; the children are to be sent to a farmhouse;
and Mrs. Griffin has offered to take care of me in the Highlands. But I
would far, _far_ rather come back to dear Oldchester, and be amongst
people who know me, and care for me, and whom I love with all my heart.
Do write and ask for me back, granny darling! And mind you give me
papa's address. I am resolved to write to him, whatever Aunt Pauline may
say. He is _my_ father, and I have a right to tell him my feelings."
"That's all of any consequence," said Mrs. Dobbs, slowly refolding the
letter. "Oh, of course she writes at the end 'Love to Uncle Jo.' She
never forgets that."
There was a brief silence. Mr. Weatherhead, who was very tender-hearted,
blew his nose and wiped his eyes unaffectedly. "Of course you'll have
the child down, Sarah," said he; "anyway, for a time. She's pining,
that's where it is; she's pining for a sight of you."
Mrs. Dobbs sat choking down her emotion. She had cried privately over
that letter herself, but she was resolved to discuss it now with
judicial calmness; and it was provoking that Jo endangered her judicial
tone of mind by that foolish, soft-hearted way of his, which was
terribly catching. But she loved Jo for it, nevertheless, and scolded
him so as to let him know that she loved him.
"It's a good thing your feelings are righter and kinder than most
folks', Jo Weatherhead, for you're sadly led by 'em, my friend. If you'd
wait and hear the whole case, you might help me with your advice." Then
Mrs. Dobbs pulled another letter from her pocket, and handed it to her
brother-in-law. This second epistle was from Mrs. Dormer-Smith, and ran
thus:--
"DEAR MRS. DOBBS,
"I think it right to let you know how very important it is for
May not to miss her visit to Glengowrie. There will be among
the guests there a gentleman who has been paying her a good
deal of attention--a man of princely fortune. I have some
reason to think that May is disposed to look favourably on this
gentleman; but he must be allowed time and opportunity to
declare himself. No better opportunity could possibly be found
than at Glengowrie; and I may tell you, _in confidence_, that
the duchess has, at my friend Mrs. Griffin's request, invited
them both _on purpose_. I trust, therefore, that, in my niece's
interests, you will induce her not to relinquish this chance.
As to her writing to her father, it is absurd, and would only
irritate my brother after his giving me _carte blanche_ to do
the best I can for her. If the visit to Glengowrie turns out as
we hope, I shall have procured for her a settlement which many
a peer's daughter will envy. My husband and I have such
confidence in your good sense, that we are sure you will second
our efforts as far as you can. Of course you will consider this
letter _strictly private_, and will not, above all, mention it
to May.
"I am, dear Mrs. Dobbs,
"Yours very truly,
"P. DORMER-SMITH."
"You see that alters the case, Jo," said Mrs. Dobbs, when he had
finished reading the letter.
Jo nodded thoughtfully, and rubbed his nose. "Of course, what you want,
Sarah, is for the child to be happy. That's the main thing," said he.
"Of course I want her to be happy. And I want her to have her rights,"
answered Mrs. Dobbs, setting her lips firmly.
"Ah! Yes, to be sure! Her rights, eh?"
"My son-in-law brought no good to any of us in himself. If his name can
do any good to his daughter, she ought to have the benefit of it--and
she shall."
"Ay, ay. Her rights, eh? To be sure. Only--only it ain't always quite
easy to know what a person's rights are, is it?"
"I know well enough what May's rights are," answered Mrs. Dobbs sharply.
"Nor yet it ain't quite easy to be sure whether they'd enjoy their
rights when they got 'em," pursued Jo, with a thoughtful air. "Everybody
likes to be happy. There can be no manner of doubt about _that_. And
somehow the dukes and duchesses don't seem to be enough to make Miranda
quite--not _quite_ happy, humph?"
"I wonder you should confess so much of your dear aristocracy!" returned
Mrs. Dobbs with some heat.
"Why, you see, Sarah, it may be--I only say it _may_ be--that the way
Miranda has been brought up, living here in the holidays in such a
simple kind of style, and all that, makes her feel not altogether at
home among these tip-top folks."
"If you mean she isn't good enough for them, that's nonsense; downright
nonsense. And I wonder at a man with your brains talking such stuff! If
you mean they're not good enough for her, that's another pair of shoes.
As to manners--why, do you imagine that that aunt of hers, who--though
she _is_ a fool, is a well-born fool, and a well-bred one--would be
taking May about, presenting her at Court, and introducing her to the
grandest society, if the child didn't do her credit? Not she! I'm
astonished at you, Jo! I thought you knew the world a little bit better
than that."
Mrs. Dobbs leant back in her chair, and fanned her flushed face with her
handkerchief. Mr. Weatherhead, having smoked his pipe out, put it in its
case, and then sat silent, slowly stroking his nose, and casting
deprecating glances at his hostess. At length the latter resumed, in a
calmer tone, "But May's future is what I've got to think of. I'm an old
woman. I can leave her next to nothing when I die. I want her to marry.
All women ought to marry. Nobody in my own walk of life would suit her.
And what gentleman fit to match with her was ever likely to come and
look for her in my parlour in Friar's Lane? You ought to know all about
it, Jo Weatherhead. We've gone over the whole ground together often
enough."
They had done so. But Jo Weatherhead understood very well that his old
friend was talking now, not to convince him, but herself. "Well, Sarah,"
he said, "there seems a good chance for May to marry well, according to
this good lady. 'Princely fortune,' she says. That sounds grand, don't
it?"
"Ah! And it isn't a few thousands that Mrs. Dormer-Smith would call a
princely fortune."
"Not a few thousands you think, eh, Sarah? Tens of thousands I shouldn't
wonder, humph?" And Mr. Weatherhead pursed up his mouth, and poked
forward his nose eagerly.
"Not a doubt of it."
"Bless my stars! To think of our little Miranda!--and her aunt says that
May is disposed to look favourably on the gentleman."
"So she says. But I can tell you that May doesn't care a button for him
at present."
"Lord! How do you know, Sarah?"
"How do I know? That's so like a man! No girl in love would give up the
chance of meeting her lover, as May wants to give it up. If she'd rather
come to Oldchester than go to Scotland, it is because--so far, at any
rate--she doesn't care a button for him."
"I never thought of that. But perhaps, Sarah, she doesn't know that he
is to be invited."
Mrs. Dobbs seemed struck by this remark. "Well now, that's an idea, Jo!"
said she, nodding her head. "It may be so. They seem to have had the
sense not to talk to her about the matter. May's just the kind of girl
to fling up her heels and break away, if she suspected any scheming to
make a fine match for her. But she might come to care for him in time.
There's no reason in nature why a rich man shouldn't be nice enough to
be fallen in love with. And by his taking to May--and she without a
penny--I'm inclined to think well of the young man."
After some further consideration it was agreed that Mrs. Dobbs should
write and propose a middle term: in the interval between her aunt's
departure for Carlsbad, and the date of her invitation to Glengowrie,
May should come down to Oldchester, on condition that she afterwards
paid her visit to the Duchess. This arrangement would be a joy to Mrs.
Dobbs, would satisfy May's affectionate longing, and could not prejudice
the girl's future prospects. A letter to May was written, as well as one
to Mrs. Dormer-Smith. This letter was very short, and may as well be
given.
"DEAR MRS. DORMER-SMITH,
"I have to acknowledge yours of the 5th. I agree with you that
it would be a pity for my grand-daughter not to accept the
invitation you speak of. Some good may come of it, and I do not
think that any harm can come. If May spends the three or four
weeks with me after you start for the Continent, I will
undertake for her to meet the lady who is to take charge of her
to Scotland, at any place that may be agreed upon. I wrote to
May by this post, and she will tell you what I propose. With
regard to her father's address, I have had none for some time
past, except, 'Post-Office, Brussels.' This much I shall tell
her, as I think she has a right to know it. You need not
disturb yourself about her writing to her father, as I think,
from what I know of Captain Cheffington, that he is not likely
to answer her letter.
"I am, dear Mrs. Dormer-Smith,
"Yours truly,
"SARAH DOBBS."
The proposal was accepted, and within a fortnight after the despatch of
this letter, May Cheffington was in Oldchester once more.
END OF VOL. I.