That Unfortunate Marriage Volume Ii Part 5

After that d.i.c.k was privileged to do what the boldest parson's wife in the county dared not attempt:--talk to Lord Castlecombe about his son George.

Most of the letters of condolence which he received Lord Castlecombe tossed aside contemptuously after glancing at the first line. But one letter he read through, with a heavy frown on his face, and an occasional drawing down of the corners of his mouth into a bitter smile, far more sinister than the frown. It was from his niece Pauline; and its composition had cost her much thought and anxiety. She flattered herself that she had avoided saying a word which could jar on her uncle's irascible temper. And the letter in itself was a good letter enough; but it was a letter which should not have been written at all, if her object were to soothe and conciliate Lord Castlecombe. Pauline did not allude directly to her brother Augustus; but the very fact of her writing seemed to bring his existence offensively into notice. She refrained from expressing any special anxiety about the health of her cousin Lucius. Yet the few words in which she "hoped to hear of his speedy recovery," made the old man writhe as he read them. Pauline had tried to combine duty with policy. It was, of course, her duty to condole with her uncle in his bereavement, and it was clearly desirable not to irritate the dislike with which, as she more than surmised, he regarded Augustus. But the whole calculation was based on a misapprehension of Lord Castlecombe's feeling towards her brother. It was neither more nor less than hatred. And now jealousy was added to it:--a strange, savage jealousy, on behalf of his sons. George--his strong, healthy, hardy eldest-born--was gone. And Lucius--Lucius was not dying! No, no; not so bad as that. But he was very weakly. And to think for one instant of the possibility that Augustus Cheffington might some day reign in their stead--might lord it over the heritage which he had so carefully garnered for his own sons--was maddening. Any one but Augustus, he said to himself. Any distant scion, the son of some impoverished far-away cousin, parson, lawyer, apothecary. Any one, any one, but Augustus!

But of the pa.s.sionate intensity of this hatred Pauline had no suspicion.

A cleverer and more acute woman than she might not have guessed it. No one, in fact, ever guessed it; unless it were Lucius, and he only in part. His own sensitive antipathy to Augustus was an incomparably feebler sentiment. Lucius had no strain of his father's vigour, whether for good or ill.

Mrs. Dormer-Smith had also written by the same post to May. This epistle was more hastily dashed off, and faithfully reflected the wavering mood of the writer. One of her first preoccupations was whether, under the circ.u.mstances, it would or would not be desirable for May to pay the promised visit to Glengowrie at this juncture. She did not disguise from herself that George Cheffington's death opened up the possibility of a very different future for May from any which could hitherto have been contemplated. It became a question whether it would be prudent to accept Mr. Bragg. At all events it would be well to avoid precipitation. Mr.

Bragg was a fine match for a dowerless girl:--even for a (dowerless) Miss Cheffington. But what if May's father were destined to become a wealthy Peer of the realm? That might be still but a distant possibility. Lucius was not thought to be in any present danger, and certainly might recover. Of course he might recover. And he might marry, and transmit the t.i.tle and estates in the direct line. But--Pauline felt that there was a "but" of vast import.

And then there were minor cares connected with that great duty towards "society" which she so diligently endeavoured to perform.

"I am _most_ anxious about your mourning," she wrote to May.

"It is positively preying on my mind. Of course, nothing could be in worse taste than any a.s.sumption of woe in this case. You never saw poor George, and the kinship is not a very close one.

In fact, had it been one of the Buckinghamshire Cheffingtons, to whom you are related in exactly the same degree, I do not know that any mourning at all would have been necessary for you. But, of course, the heir to the head of our family occupies a different position. At any rate, do not err on the side of exaggeration. White, with _noeuds_ of pale heliotrope, and jet ornaments; or some black fabric of light texture, with a little jet beading, would probably meet the case. But it is impossible for me to give you precise directions. I am too far away to know what is _bien porte_ at this moment. Would that I could be near you! But I cannot break my 'cure' at this point. Carlsbad has done me good, on the whole; although, of course, the anxiety on your account, connected with this painful news, has to some extent thrown me back. Mrs. Griffin's taste might be thoroughly trusted; and, if she would undertake to order your mourning from Amelie----. But now I think of it, Mrs. Griffin will not return to England until she leaves the Engadine for Glengowrie. And here, again, I am greatly perplexed what to advise in your best interests.

_All things considered_, it might be well for you to put off going to the d.u.c.h.ess. There will be the excuse of this terrible news about poor George, you know.

"I fear that I have written in a sadly _decousu_ fashion; but I cannot help it, and my poor head warns me to leave off. As usual, I have to pay for intense mental effort. Carlsbad has not altered that." And the letter concluded with a postscript: "Pearl-gray gloves."

The only clear idea which May gathered from this letter was that her aunt virtually held her released from her promise to go to Glengowrie, and left her free to do as she pleased. She carried the letter to her grandmother, saying, "Granny, I shall not go to Scotland after all. I shall stay with you, whether you like it or not. Oh, don't ask me to _explain_. I often feel with regard to Aunt Pauline like a deaf person watching dancers. There is something which regulates her movements, no doubt. But it is generally mysterious to me."

Mrs. Dobbs privately thought that in this case she held a clue to the mystery. "Ay," she said to herself, "Mrs. Dormer-Smith sees, just as I saw from the first hearing of it, that great changes may come to pa.s.s from this poor man's death. And she don't want May to commit herself too soon. Lord save us! 'tis a sad, low, worldly way of looking at such a matter." At this point some scarcely-articulate whisper of conscience made Mrs. Dobbs's brow redden; and she added mentally, "Well, but if May likes him? If the man's in earnest, and she likes him, it'll all come right in the end." Nevertheless, Mrs. Dobbs had begun to entertain shrewd doubts as to May's caring one straw for the unknown gentleman of princely fortune.

May, meanwhile, made haste to put her escape beyond the danger of Aunt Pauline's changing her mind. She wrote to Mrs. Griffin, saying that she should not be able to accept the d.u.c.h.ess's kind invitation to Glengowrie. She gave no reason. The excuse which Aunt Pauline had suggested she could not find it in her conscience to put forward. "If I had wished very much to go, that would not have stood in my way," she said to herself. "And it would be base and shocking to play the hypocrite about such a tragedy."

Neither did she think for a moment of refusing Miss Piper's invitation.

There had not been wanting a hint that she ought to do so. Mrs. Bransby asked her if she meant to go to the musical party at Garnet Lodge; and, being answered in the affirmative, said, "Well, it seemed to me that it would be quite overstrained to refuse. But Theodore persisted that you would not go; said it would be _inconvenable_. He almost quarrelled with me about it. You know Theodore's infallible way of laying down the law."

It need scarcely be said that if anything could have strengthened the young lady's determination to attend Miss Piper's party, it would have been hearing that Theodore Bransby took upon himself to object to her doing so.

CHAPTER V.

Like the fairy Pari-Banou's magic tent, which could shelter an army of ten thousand men, and yet was capable of being folded into the smallness of a handkerchief, what one calls "the world" shrinks and stretches to suit the individual case. Into the world of Polly and Patty Piper Lord Castlecombe and his family sorrows entered not at all. They might occasionally be viewed afar from the tent door; but even that distant recognition was not vouchsafed to them now, when the great event of the musical party absorbed the attention of the two sisters.

In addition to Miss Clara Bertram and Mr. Cleveland Turner, the occasion was to be graced by the presence of Signor Vincenzo Valli. He was on a visit to a n.o.ble family in Mr. Sweeting's neighbourhood, and had volunteered to accompany that gentleman and his _protege_ to Miss Piper's party. This honour, like other honours, was somewhat of a burthen as well as a distinction. The programme of the evening's performance, so carefully and anxiously arranged beforehand, must be modified to suit Signor Valli; who, if he condescended to sing at all, would do so only in accordance with his own caprice. And this would probably occasion difficulties; since, although Miss Bertram's amiability might be reckoned on, Mr. Cleveland Turner took a more stiff-necked view of his own importance, and would not be disposed to yield the _pas_ to Valli. Still Miss Piper had no cowardly regrets on hearing of the distinction which was to befall her. She rose to the occasion, and was prepared to undergo almost any impertinence from the popular singing master with a Spartan smile.

"I ought to understand how to manage artists, if anybody does," said she, remembering the many cups of tea she had poured out for that _irritable genus_ in old times.

But the crowning interest and glory of the evening to her would be the performance of an air from "Esther," which Miss Bertram had promised to sing. The Misses Piper had invited her to visit them at first from disinterested kindness; the young singer being tired with the work of the season, and in need of rest and change of air. Under these circ.u.mstances, both the sisters were too thoroughly gentlewomen to hint at her singing for them. But Clara Bertram, casting about in her mind for some way to show her grat.i.tude to the kindly old maids, had herself proposed to sing "something from 'Esther.'" And the offer was too tempting to be refused.

The composition selected was of the most infantile simplicity, and could have been learned by heart in ten minutes. But a copy of it had been sent to town a fortnight ago for Miss Bertram to "study." And Mr.

Simpson had been supposed to be "studying" the accompaniment for an equal length of time. In fact, the performance of the air from "Esther"

was the original germ out of which the musical party at Garnet Lodge had been developed.

Clara Bertram arrived in Oldchester the morning before the great day: partly in order that she might not be over-tired, and partly to give the opportunity for a rehearsal of the air with Mr. Simpson. "Oh, I'm sure we need not trouble Mr. Simpson," Clara began thoughtlessly. "It is certain to go all right." But Miss Polly would not allow such a lax view of responsibility.

"Excuse me, my dear," she said, "but the music of 'Esther' is not quite a drawing-room ballad. Not that you will not sing it charmingly--perfectly! There is no doubt about that. But there is a certain breadth--a certain style of phrasing, necessary for sacred music. It is most important that the accompanist should understand your _reading_ of the air. Indeed, I am anxious to hear it myself. I have my own idea as to the proper rendering of the opening phrase, 'Hear, O King, and grant me my pet.i.tion!' But I shan't say a word until I have heard you. Your idea may be better than mine; Ha, ha, ha! Who knows?

'Hear, O King, and grant----?' My own notion would be to begin softly--almost _sotto voce_--in a timid manner: 'Hear, O King;' and then to rise into a _crescendo_ as the strain proceeds 'and grant me my PEt.i.tION!' But I won't say a word. You must sing it as you _feel_ it."

May was, by special favour, admitted to the rehearsal. She had called to see Clara Bertram on the afternoon of her arrival, and was ushered into the long, low, old-fashioned drawing-room, where she found Miss Piper seated at one end of it, amid a wilderness of rout-seats, and Mr.

Sebastian Bach Simpson at the piano, near to which Miss Bertram was standing.

"Oh, it's dear May Cheffington!" said Miss Piper, who had turned round sharply at the opening of the door. "Yes, yes; come in, my dear. Not at home to anybody else, Rachel! Not to _anybody_, do you hear? Now come and sit down by me, my dear. She is going to try 'Hear, O King.' Very glad to see you; you are so sympathetic, and such a favourite with Clara! There now, don't make her talk! Nothing worse for the voice than talking. Come and sit down."

May was, indeed, scarcely allowed to exchange greetings with her friend, who whispered smilingly, "We'll have our chat by-and-by."

Then Mr. Simpson struck up the first chords of the symphony, and there was breathless silence. He had not played three bars, however, before Miss Piper jumped up and ran to the piano.

"Oh, I beg pardon, Mr. Simpson, for offering a suggestion to so sound a musician as yourself, but _don't_ you think a little more stress might be laid on that chord of the diminished seventh? It prepares the way, you see, for the pleading tone of the composition. _Le-da_, _de-da_--like that! Oh, thank you! _Quite_ my meaning. Please go on."

But Mr. Simpson did not proceed far without receiving another "suggestion."

"A little more force and fulness, don't you think, in that resolution of the discord? I should like a richer effect."

"I don't know how to make it richer," rasped out Mr. Simpson. "It is the simple common chord, just four notes--C, E, G, C. I sounded 'em all. I can play the ba.s.s as an octave, if you think _that_'ll be any richer."

"Oh, thank you! Yes, I really think it will. You see 'Esther' was scored for full orchestra, and the composer's ear hankers after the instrumental effects. But that octave in the ba.s.s is a _great_ improvement. Many thanks!"

And in this fashion the symphony was at length got through.

Then Clara uplifted her pure, clear voice, and sang. May listened in delight. Surely Miss Polly must be enchanted! Even Mr. Simpson's hard visage relaxed, as the thrilling notes rose in sweet pathetic pleading.

When they ceased, he wheeled round on the music-stool, and exclaimed with the most unwonted fervour, "It's the loveliest soprano voice I've heard since your great namesake, Clara Novello. Some of your notes remind me of her altogether. Not that I expect to hear anything _quite_ like her 'Let the Bright Seraphim,' on this side of paradise."

May turned to Miss Piper. But, to her astonishment, Miss Piper's face did not express unmingled delight. There was some slight and indefinable shade on it.

"Well, I do think that is most beautiful," said May.

"Do you, my dear? Do you really?"

"Why, how is it possible to think otherwise, Miss Piper? No one could, surely!"

"Well, it is very kind of you to say so, my dear; and, to be frank, it shows a power of appreciation not quite common at your age. Of course it would be affectation on my part, at this time of day, and with my reputation behind me, to say I am surprised. But I am gratified, very much gratified. And don't you think Miss Bertram did _her_ part delightfully?"

May looked at her blankly, unable to say a word in reply. Fortunately, no reply was needed, for Miss Piper bustled up to Clara and thanked her, and praised her. But still her manner fell decidedly short of its usual cordial heartiness. At length, with many apologies and flowery speeches, she begged that the air might be repeated, if Clara were sure it would not tire her; and, this being at once conceded, she asked, hesitatingly, "And would you mind if I offered a little suggestion? Just a hint!"

"Certainly not, dear Miss Piper! I will do my best to carry out your idea."

"Oh, that is so sweet of you! Thank you a thousand times! If Mr. Simpson will kindly oblige us once more----? Now, you see, it is just here, on that G in alt, where the voice rises on the words, 'Grant, oh, grant me my pet.i.tion!' The sound 'grant,' according to my original conception, should be given with a sort of wail--not, of course, an unmusical sound, but just with a tinge of sadness expressive of the then miserable and depressed condition of the Jewish nation, and at the same time with a tone--an _underlying_ tone, as it were--conveying the latent hope (which really was in Queen Esther's mind all along, you know) that by her efforts brighter days might yet be in store for them. You feel what I mean?"

"I will try my best," answered Clara gently. And then she sang the air again--precisely as she had sung it before.

"_Now_," cried Miss Piper, jumping up and clapping her hands in an ecstasy of triumph, "it is _perfect_--absolutely perfect!"

She poured out unstinted thanks and compliments to both singer and accompanist, observing to the latter that this recalled the great days of the public performance of "Esther," and that she considered Miss Bertram's rendering of "Hear, O King," far superior to that of the well-known vocalist who had sung it originally. "But then, you see, _she_ could not, or would not, take a hint. Consequently--although, of course, she sang the notes perfectly--she never fully mastered my conception. Now a word has been enough to show Miss Bertram the inner meaning of my music; and she interprets it in the most _exquisite_ manner."