That Unfortunate Marriage Volume Ii Part 11

"Yes. To say the truth, I almost hoped you might speak on this subject; and so I purposely came when I thought May would not be here. I hinted to her something that Valli had said to me; but I saw she knew nothing."

"I have told her. At least I have told her enough to prevent her being taken by surprise."

"I am glad of that. I think you have done very wisely."

"This Signor Valli, now," said Mrs. Dobbs musingly. "I suppose he tells lies sometimes, eh?"

Clara reflected for a moment before she answered. "In one way--yes. That is to say, if he hated you, and saw you give a penny to a beggar, he would impute some nefarious motive for the action, and say so without scruple; but I don't believe he would be likely to invent circ.u.mstances."

Then she went on to tell how Miss Polly Piper remembered a dreadful story about some gambling transactions; and how Major Mitton had furbished up his Maltese reminiscences; and how everybody found something to say, and not one good thing among them all.

Jo Weatherhead listened with a kind of dread enjoyment. So much curious gossip _could_ not but be interesting; yet he wished with all his heart, for May's sake, that it were not true.

"I speak openly to you," said Clara; "but I am reticent about all this with other people. Pray believe that."

Mrs. Dobbs did believe it. Clara seemed to have become intimate with them all at once.

"May I come again?" asked the young singer as she took her leave.

"May you come! _Will_ you come? I didn't ask you, because, when a person generously gives me one pearl of price, it is not my way to s.n.a.t.c.h at the whole string. Your time is precious; your voice is precious."

"Dear Mrs. Dobbs, your kindness is precious. Not that I am ungrateful for the kindness bestowed on me by--other people; but there is such a delightful feeling of homeliness here. And then, although you have praised me too much, I must say that you and Mr. Weatherhead are good judges of music."

"Well, I won't go so far as to deny that you _might_ strew your pearls before certain animals who would value them less," replied Mrs. Dobbs.

As for Jo Weatherhead, he became so enthusiastic in Miss Bertram's praises behind her back, that Mrs. Dobbs laughingly declared he was in love with her. And perhaps he was, a little. Many more such humble innocent "loves" spring up and die around us every day than we reck of.

They do not ripen into fruit, but simply blossom like the wayside flowers; and the world is all the sweeter for them.

When May came home that evening, she was delighted to hear of the favourable impression her friend had made; although she declared it was shabby of Clara to have come in her absence. May brought the news from College Quad that Constance had written home for a prolonged leave of absence, having been invited by the d.u.c.h.ess to accompany Mrs. Griffin to Glengowrie.

"Canon Hadlow grumbles a little," said May; "but he will let her go. And I am so glad; I hated the idea of going; but Conny will enjoy it, and everybody else will soon find out that she is the right girl in the right place--which, I am sure, I should not have been."

"Mr. Bragg is not going to Glengowrie either, I understand," said Mrs.

Dobbs, growing very red, and coughing to hide her embarra.s.sment.

"No; Mr. Bragg and I are quite agreed in not liking that sort of thing.

He says he feels lonely in a strange house; and so do I. If the duke and d.u.c.h.ess were my _friends_, it would be different."

"Mr. Bragg has a good deal of sense, I think."

"Plenty of common sense."

"And--ahem!--and good feeling--don't you think?"

"What's the matter with your throat, granny? Shall I get you a gla.s.s of water?--Oh yes; he does a great deal of good with his wealth. Canon Hadlow was saying only this afternoon that Mr. Bragg gives away very large sums in private, besides the public subscriptions, where every one sees his name."

"Mr. Bragg was here the other day to speak to me--on business--No, no; I don't want any water! Sit still, child. And I think you are a great favourite of his."

"It's quite mutual, granny. Often and often, in London, I used to prefer a quiet talk with Mr. Bragg to the foolish chatter of smart people."

"Ay, ay! But 'smart people' need not be foolish, May."

"N--no; they _need_ not. Only so many of them--especially the young men--seem to think it part of their smartness to put on a kind of foolishness."

Mrs. Dobbs looked wistfully at her grand-daughter. In that process of "sounding" May, which Mr. Bragg had recommended, and which Mrs. Dobbs was endeavouring to carry out, there arose this difficulty: the chords gave forth a full response to every touch; but who should interpret the meaning of the notes? Mrs. Dobbs had been accustomed to read May's feelings by swift intuition. She was now afraid to trust to that. Her interview with Mr. Bragg had upset so many of her preconceived ideas as to what could be considered probable, or even possible, in the matter of her grandchild's marriage, that her judgment seemed paralyzed. And then to risk a mistake which should involve May's life-long unhappiness, would be too tremendous a responsibility!

Measured by Mrs. Dobbs's unquiet thoughts it seemed a long time, but in reality less than a minute elapsed between May's last words and her saying--

"Talking of smart people, granny, don't you think Aunt Pauline is sure to know the truth about papa?"

"I cannot tell. There might be reasons why she should not have heard it, May."

"Well, at all events, I have been thinking that I will write to her and ask. If she does know, and is keeping her knowledge back from me for any reason--some of Aunt Pauline's mysterious dancing before deaf people, you know--that will make her speak out."

"I don't see why you should not write to her, if you choose, May."

Mrs. Dobbs had little doubt that Mrs. Dormer-Smith would be annoyed and perturbed by May's writing to her on the subject, whether the story of the marriage were true or false, and whether she herself had or had not heard of it. But Mrs. Dobbs was in no mood to shield Pauline from annoyance or perturbation.

"She and her 'gentleman of princely fortune,' indeed!" said Mrs. Dobbs to herself. "Why couldn't she say old Joshua Bragg? and then one would have known where one was."

So it was settled that May should write to her aunt.

CHAPTER IX.

Theodore Bransby at first indignantly repudiated Valli's scandals about Captain Cheffington. He was quite unprepared for them, having, it may be remembered, heard nothing of Miss Piper's story, told at the dinner-party in his father's house; and having, moreover, loftily snubbed every one in Oldchester who ventured to hint anything to the disparagement of his distinguished friend. What could Oldchester know about such persons as the Cheffingtons?

But general testimony and public opinion were too strong for him, and he was forced to give up his distinguished friend. He fell back on mysterious hints of sympathy and intimacy with "the family," and allusions to what "poor dear Lucius" had said to him on the last occasion of their dining together at Mrs. Dormer-Smith's.

In his heart, Theodore was deeply annoyed. He considered that Captain Cheffington (supposing report to speak truly) had not only derogated from his proper place in the world, but had, in some sense, personally injured him (Theodore) by forming a connection so far beneath him.

Nevertheless, it was very possible that Captain Cheffington might some day come to be Viscount Castlecombe, and much would be forgiven to a wealthy peer of the realm. Theodore was conscious that he himself could forgive much to such a one. He was not p.r.o.ne to indulge in idle fancies, yet he caught himself once or twice writing on a corner of his blotting-pad the words "Hon. Mrs. Theodore Bransby," with pensive sentiment. But let her father's fate and fortunes be what they might, Theodore felt that he must still desire to marry May Cheffington. The recognition of this feeling in himself gave him an agreeable sense of his own elevation of soul. That fellow Rivers talked a vast deal of flashy nonsense, which dazzled people; but it was possible to take a serious and sensible view of life without being commonplace. Theodore did not by any means wish to be, or to be thought, commonplace.

He had just been called to the Bar, and ought by this time to have begun his professional career on the Midland Circuit. But he lingered in Oldchester on the plea of delicate health. It was not so much the presence of May Cheffington as that of Owen Rivers which chained him there. If Rivers would but have left Oldchester, Theodore would have turned his back on it also with small reluctance. The dull, vague jealousy of Rivers, which he began to feel long ago, had become acute.

Rivers would have been a distasteful personage to him under any circ.u.mstances; but viewed as a rival, he inspired something like loathing. And yet the desire to watch him--not to lose sight of him so long as May should be in Oldchester--was irresistible. Theodore had never come so near quarrelling with his step-mother as on the subject of Owen Rivers; but he had failed in causing the latter to be excluded, or even coldly received, by Mrs. Bransby.

There was a painful scene one day at luncheon, when Martin, Mrs.

Bransby's eldest boy, vehemently took up the cudgels in defence of his absent friend, Owen, of whom Theodore had been speaking with sneering contempt. Martin was ordered away from the table for being impertinent to his half-brother. But general sympathy was with the culprit; and Mr.

Bransby said when the boy had left the room--

"Of course, it would not do to allow Martin to be saucy; but you are too hard upon Rivers, Theodore. He may have his faults; but, if he be idle, he is not self-indulgent. Rivers has a Spartan disdain of personal luxuries; and although he doesn't work, no one suffers by that but himself. He is incapable of a mean thought, has a most n.o.ble truthfulness of nature, and is a gentleman to the core."

Theodore turned deadly white, and answered, "I am sorry not to be able to agree with you, sir. To be a lounging hanger-on, as Rivers is at the Hadlows', is not compatible with my conception of a gentleman."

He rose as he spoke, and left the room, so as to cut off any possibility of a reply.