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THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
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 https://archive.org/details/thatunfortunatem01trol 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANCES ELEANOR TROLLOPE, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 aunt Margaret’s trouble,” “ a charming fellow,” 
 
 “ LIKE SHIPS UPON THE SEA,” ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON, 
 
 Dttfcltsfjcrs in 0rtrirtarg to fger JRajrstg tf )t 0uccn. 
 1888. 
 
 ( All rights reserved .) 
 
<fc2 3 . 
 
 v. / 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Augustus Cheffington had made an unfor- 
 tunate marriage. That was admitted on all 
 hands. When he was a Cornet in a cavalry 
 regiment quartered in the ancient Cathedral 
 City of Oldchester, he ran away with pretty 
 Susan Dobbs, the daughter of his landlady. 
 Augustus’s friends and family — all the Cheffing- 
 tons, the Dormer-Smiths, the Castlecombes — • 
 deplored this rash step. It was never mentioned, 
 either at the time or afterwards, without ex- 
 pressions of deep commiseration for him. 
 
 Nevertheless, from one point of view there 
 were compensations. This unfortunate marriage 
 was made responsible for a great many short- 
 comings, which would otherwise have been 
 
2 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 attributed more directly to Augustus Cheffington 
 himself. For example, it was said to account 
 for his failure in his profession. He had chosen 
 it chiefly because he very much liked the brilliant 
 uniform of a certain crack regiment (it was in 
 the days before competitive examinations) ; and 
 he had no other aptitude for it than a showy 
 seat on horseback, and a person well calculated 
 to set off the works of the regimental tailor. 
 But when years had passed, and he had re- 
 mained undistinguished, his friends said, “What 
 could one expect after Augustus’s unfortunate 
 marriage ? ” 
 
 After a time he sold out of the Army, and 
 went to live on the Continent, where very 
 shortly he had squandered nearly all his money, 
 and fallen into shady paths of life ; and again 
 there was a chorus of “ I told you so ! ” and 
 a genera] sense that all this was due to the 
 unfortunate marriage. 
 
 Finally, his wife died, leaving him with one 
 little girl, the sole survivor of five children ; 
 and he came to England with the idea of secur- 
 ing some place which should be suited to his 
 birth, his abilities, his habits, and his inclina- 
 tions. No such place was found. Several 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 members of the Peerage were applied to, to 
 exert their influence with “ Government ” on 
 behalf of so well-connected a personage as 
 Augustus Cheffington. But “ Government ” 
 behaved very badly, “ Government ” was in- 
 sensible to his claims. His claims, it is true, 
 were not small. They required a maximum of 
 remuneration for a minimum of labour. He 
 was unable, also, to furnish any proofs of his 
 fitness for one or two posts which happened to 
 be vacant, except the undeniable fact of his 
 cousinship with all the Cheflingtons and Castle- 
 combes in England ; and to this kind of qualifi- 
 cation “ Government,” it appeared, attached no 
 importance at all. 
 
 He paid a round of visits at country houses, 
 and renewed his long-disused acquaintance with 
 a score of more or less distant relations. But 
 he was not popular. It has been observed that 
 unsuccessful men very often are not popular. 
 “ Gus Cheffington has dropped out of the 
 running,” men said. “ A fellow naturally gets 
 forgotten when be has kept out of sight for 
 years — and besides, he makes himself so deuced 
 disagreeable ! He’s always grumbling.” 
 
 This latter accusation was true. If England 
 
4 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 had shown no maternal affection for her long- 
 absent son, the son returned her hard-hearted- 
 ness with interest. Indeed, in his case, it turned 
 into active resentment. He got tired of country 
 houses and town mansions where he was re- 
 ceived but coolly. He was sarcastic and bitter 
 on the failure of his connections to procure him 
 a lucrative sinecure. He considered that the 
 country was travelling downhill at break-neck 
 speed, and, for his part, he did not feel inclined 
 to move his little finger to impede that fatal 
 course. Moreover, the black coffee was, nine 
 times out of ten, utterly undrinkable. One day 
 he shook the dust of England’s inhospitable 
 shores from off his feet, and returned to his 
 shady haunts on the Continent — its irresponsi- 
 bility, its ca/Ss, its boulevards, and its billiards. 
 And when he was fairly gone, all the Cheffing- 
 tons, and the Dormer-Smiths, and the Castle- 
 combes were softened into sympathy ; and with 
 much shrugging of shoulders and shaking of 
 heads declared that it was a heartrending 
 spectacle to behold such a man as Augustus 
 Cheffington ruined, crushed, eclipsed, destroyed 
 by his unfortunate marriage. 
 
 When he went back to Belgium, he left 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 5 
 
 behind him at school in Brighton his little 
 motherless girl Miranda, familiarly called May. 
 The Honourable Mrs. Cheffington, Augustus’s 
 mother, had advised her son to give the little 
 girl a first-rate education, so as to mitigate as 
 far as possible one disastrous effect of the unfor- 
 tunate marriage, which was, that May had a 
 plebeian mother. Mrs. Cheffington, known 
 throughout all the ramifications of the family as 
 “ the dowager,” was a hard-featured, selfish old 
 woman, with a black wig, a pale yellow skin, 
 and frowning eyebrows. She lived on a pension 
 which would cease at her death, and she was 
 supposed by some of her relations to be making 
 a purse. They thought it would turn out that 
 the dowager had considerable savings to leave 
 behind her ; and they founded this supposition 
 on her never giving away anything during 
 her lifetime. Mrs. Dormer-Smith, Augustus 
 Cheffington’s sister, declared that her mother 
 made one exception to her rule of refusing 
 assistance to any of them. She believed that 
 Augustus, who had always been her favourite 
 child, profited by the dowager’s indulgence, 
 and managed to extract some money from 
 her tightly-closed purse. And it certainly 
 
6 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 was true that the old lady had paid May’s 
 school bills — so far as they had been paid 
 at all. 
 
 But one day the Honourable Anne Miranda 
 Cheffington took off her black wig for the last 
 time, and relaxed her frowning eyebrows. The 
 announcement of her death appeared in the first 
 column of the Times , there was a brief obituary 
 notice in a fashionable journal, and her place 
 knew her no more. 
 
 Augustus hastened home to England on the 
 receipt of a telegram from his sister. That is 
 to say, he said he hastened ; but he did not 
 arrive in town until some hours after the funeral 
 was over. Mr. Dormer-Smith was somewhat 
 irritated by this tardiness, and observed to his 
 wife that it was just like Augustus to keep out 
 of the way while there was any trouble to be 
 taken, and only arrive in time to be present at 
 the reading of the will. Any expectations that 
 Augustus might have founded on his mother’s 
 reluctance to give during her lifetime were quite 
 disappointed. The dowager had no money to 
 bequeath. She had spent nearly the last shilling 
 of her quarter’s income. In fact, there was 
 not enough to cover the expenses of the funeral, 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 7 
 
 which were finally paid several months after- 
 wards by Mr. Dormer-Smith. 
 
 It seemed almost superfluous, under the 
 circumstances, to have made a will at all. But 
 the will was there. The chief item in it was a 
 quantity of yellow old lace, extremely dirty, and 
 much in need of mending, which was solemnly 
 bequeathed by Mrs. Cheffington to her daughter, 
 Pauline Augusta Clarissa Dormer-Smith. It 
 was set forth at some length how that the lace, 
 being an heirloom of the Cheffingtons, should 
 have descended in due course to the wife of the 
 eldest son, or, failing that, to the eldest daughter 
 of the eldest son ; and how this tradition was 
 disregarded in the present case by reason of 
 peculiar and unprecedented family circumstances. 
 This was the dowager’s Parthian dart at the 
 unfortunate marriage. There was little other 
 property, except the dingy old furniture of Mrs. 
 Cheffington’s house at Richmond, and a few 
 books, treating chiefly of fortification and 
 gunnery, which had belonged to Lieutenant- 
 General the Honourable Augustus Yane Chef- 
 fington, the dowager’s long-deceased husband. 
 
 “ What the What on earth my mother 
 
 did with her money I can’t conjecture ! ” ex- 
 
8 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 claimed Augustus, staring out of the window of 
 his brother-in-law’s drawing-room the day after 
 the funeral. 
 
 “ She didn’t give it to us, Augustus,” returned 
 Mrs. Dormer-Smith plaintively. “ Even when 
 my boy Cyril went to see her at the end of the 
 holidays, just before returning to Harrow, she 
 never tipped him. Once I think she gave him 
 five shillings. But it’s a long time ago ; he 
 was a little fellow in petticoats.” 
 
 “ Then what did she do with her money ? ” 
 repeated Augustus, with an increasingly gloomy 
 scowl at the gardens of the Kensington square 
 on which his eyes rested. 
 
 “ I believe that, with the exception of what 
 she paid for May’s schooling, she spent it on 
 herself.” 
 
 “ Spent it on herself ? That’s impossible ! 
 It was a very good income indeed for a solitary 
 woman, and she lived very quietly.” 
 
 “ You may get through a good deal of money 
 even living quietly, when you don’t deny your- 
 self anything you can get. For instance, she 
 never would drive one horse ; she had been 
 accustomed to a pair all her life.” 
 
 Augustus checked an oath on his very lips, 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 9 
 
 and, instead of swearing according to his first 
 impulse, observed with solemnity that he knew 
 not how his mother had been able to reconcile 
 such selfishness with her conscience, and hoped 
 her last moments had not been troubled by 
 remorse. 
 
 “ Oh, I don’t think mamma felt anything of 
 that kind,” said Mrs. Dormer-Smith in her slow, 
 gentle tones ; “ she was always complaining of 
 other people’s unreasonable expectations.” 
 
 The brother and sister fell silent for a while 
 after this, each being immersed in private 
 meditation. That very morning a circumstance 
 had occurred which had put the last touch to 
 Augustus’s disappointment and exasperation. 
 The Brighton schoolmistress had sent Miss 
 Miranda Cheffington to London in the charge 
 of a maid-servant, and the little girl had arrived 
 at her aunt’s house in a cab with her worldly 
 possessions, namely, a small black trunk full of 
 clothes, and a canary-bird in a cage. The 
 schoolmistress wrote civilly, hut firmly, to the 
 elfect that, after the lamented decease of the 
 Honourable Mrs. Cheffington, she could not 
 undertake to keep May any longer ; feeling 
 sure, by repeated experience, that all applica- 
 
10 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 tions for payment made to Captain Cheffington 
 would be in vain, and understanding that Mrs. 
 Dormer-Smith declined to charge herself with 
 her niece’s education. Captain Cheffington had 
 been violently angry, and had denounced the 
 schoolmistress — Mrs. Drax — as an insolent, 
 grasping, vulgar harpy. But Mrs. Drax was 
 out of his reach, and there was May, thirteen 
 years old, with a healthy appetite, and limbs 
 rapidly outgrowing her clothes. 
 
 Augustus continued to glare moodily at the 
 square for some minutes. His sister leaned her 
 cheek on her hand, and looked at the fire. At 
 length Augustus, composing his face to a less 
 savage expression, turned away from the win- 
 dow, sat down opposite to his sister, and said, 
 pensively — 
 
 “We must arrange something for May, 
 Pauline.” 
 
 “ You must, indeed, Augustus.” 
 
 “We ought to consider her future.” 
 
 “ Yes ; I think you ought, Augustus.” 
 
 “ The girl is at a hobbledehoy age. It’s a 
 perplexing position. So difficult to know what 
 to do with her.” 
 
 “ There is no age at which it is so awkward 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 11 
 
 to dress a girl. I have sometimes regretted not 
 having daughters ; but upon my word there 
 must be a dreadful amount of harass about their 
 clothes between twelve and fifteen — or in some 
 cases sixteen.” 
 
 “ It’s impossible for me to have her with me 
 in Brussels. The way I live — am obliged to 
 live malgre moi — she’d upset all my arrange- 
 ments and habits. In short, you can see for 
 yourself, Pauline, that it would he out of the 
 question.” 
 
 “ No doubt it would he very bad for the 
 girl.” 
 
 “ Of course ! That’s what I mean. Wouldn’t 
 it be the best plan after all, Pauline, to leave 
 her here with you ? She could have private 
 masters ” 
 
 Mrs. Dormer-Smith shook her head. 
 
 “ At my expense, of course,” added Augustus. 
 “ I must screw and scrape and make some 
 sacrifices no doubt, but— — ” 
 
 “ It really won’t do, Augustus. I assure you 
 it won’t do. Frederick will not have it. He 
 talked to me after luncheon. It isn't the least 
 
 55 
 
 use. 
 
 Mrs. Dormer-Smith continued plaintively to 
 
12 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 shake her head as she spoke, and to look with 
 gentle melancholy at the fire. 
 
 “ H’m ! Frederick is very kind. But let us 
 discuss the thing in a friendly spirit. If I pay 
 for her clothing and education, surely the ex- 
 pense of her board wouldn’t ruin you and 
 Frederick ! ” 
 
 “ No ; but the butcher and the baker are the 
 least part of the matter. It isn’t as if May 
 were the daughter of one’s housekeeper or one’s 
 governess. She is a Cheffington, you know. 
 So many things are required for a girl with her 
 connections ; and as to your paying for her 
 masters, of course we know you wouldn’t, 
 Augustus.” 
 
 “ Upon my soul you are civil and sisterly ! ” 
 
 “ Well, I dare say you would mean to pay, 
 but you wouldn’t. It would be sure to turn out 
 so, don’t you know ? Things always have been 
 like that with you, Augustus.” 
 
 “ Then what the dpvil do you think I’m 
 to do ? ” 
 
 “ Pray don’t be violent ! I really cannot 
 bear any display of violence. You should 
 remember that it is scarcely a week since poor 
 mamma was taken from us.” 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 13 
 
 “ I don’t see what that has to do with it. 
 Miranda hasn’t been taken from ns ; that’s the 
 point.” 
 
 Mrs. Dormer-Smith making no answer, her 
 brother continued, after a moment or two — 
 
 “ You are fertile in objections, but you don’t 
 seem to have any plan to suggest.” 
 
 “ Well, an idea did occur to me. I don’t 
 know whether you would like it.” 
 
 “ Like it ! Probably not. But I am used to 
 sacrifice my inclinations.” 
 
 “Well, I thought that you might put May 
 into a school in France or Germany, or some- 
 where, letting her give lessons in English in 
 return for her board and so on. There are 
 plenty of schools where they do that sort of 
 thing. It wouldn’t so much matter abroad, 
 because people wouldn’t know who she was. 
 You might tide over a year or two in that 
 way.” 
 
 Augustus got up from his chair. “ My 
 daughter a drudge in a Continental school ? ” 
 he exclaimed indignantly. 
 
 “ If you chose a place little frequented by 
 English, I don’t think people would know.” 
 There was a short silence. Then Augustus 
 
14 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 said angrily, “ I’ll take the girl back with me. 
 She must share my home, such as it is. We 
 will neither of us trouble you or Frederick much 
 longer. I shall start for Ostend by the morning 
 mail to-morrow.” And he dashed out of the 
 room emitting a muffled roll of oaths, and 
 jarring the door in a way which made Mrs. 
 Dormer-Smith clasp her forehead with both 
 hands, and lean back shrinkingly in her chair. 
 
 But when the morrow came, Captain Cheffing- 
 ton and his daughter did not go to Ostend. 
 When they had got out of sight of the Dormer- 
 Smiths’ house, he ordered the cabman to drive 
 to the Great Western Railway Station, and 
 started by an express train for Oldchester. 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 15 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Amongst the minor grievances reckoned up 
 by the deceased dowager as accruing from 
 Augustus’s unfortunate marriage was the fact 
 that his wife had borne the plebeian name of 
 Dobbs. One of her most frequent complaints 
 against poor little May was that the child was 
 “ a thorough Dobbs.” And when she was out 
 of temper — which was very often — she would 
 prefer this charge as indignantly as though 
 Dobbs were synonymous with the most dis- 
 graceful epithets in the English language. 
 
 And yet the sound of it awoke very different 
 associations in the city of Oldchester, where 
 Augustus’s mother-in-law had lived all her life. 
 Mrs. Dobbs was the widow of a tradesman. 
 The ironmonger’s business, which her husband 
 had carried on, had long passed into other 
 hands ; but his name still met the eyes of his 
 
16 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 fellow-townsmen in the inscription, “ J. Brown, 
 late Dobbs,” painted over the shop. 
 
 Oldchester is a city in which two streams of 
 life run side by side, mingling hut little with 
 each other. At a certain point in the existence 
 of Oldchester, its ancient course of civil and 
 ecclesiastical history had received a new tribu- 
 tary — a strong and ever-growing current of 
 commerce. Commerce built wide suburbs, with 
 villa residences in various stages of “ detach- 
 ment” and “semi-detachment” from one another. 
 Commerce strewed the pleasant country paths 
 and lanes with coal-dust, and blackened the air 
 with smoke. Commerce set up Art schools, 
 founded hospitals (and furnished patients 
 for them), multiplied railways for miles round, 
 and scored all the new streets, and some of the 
 old, with tramway lines. Commerce bought 
 estates in the neighbourhood, was conveyed 
 to public worship in splendid equipages, sent 
 its sons to Eton, and married its daughters 
 into the Peerage. But, for all that, the fame of 
 Oldchester continued to rest on its character as 
 a cathedral city. The old current surpassed 
 the new one in length and dignity, if in nothing 
 else. The gray cathedral towers rose up 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 17 
 
 majestically above the din and turmoil of forge 
 and loom and factory, with a noble aspiration 
 towards something above and beyond these ; 
 while the vibrations of their mellow chimes 
 shed down sweet suggestions of peace and good- 
 will among the homes of the toilers. 
 
 Mrs. Dobbs particularly loved the sounds of 
 the cathedral chimes ; and she sat with closed 
 eyes listening to them in the twilight of a 
 certain autumn evening. Her house was in a 
 narrow street, called Friar's Row, which turned 
 
 * out of the High Street. A monastery had once 
 stood on the site of it, but all trace of the 
 ancient conventual buildings had long since 
 disappeared. The houses were solid brick 
 dwellings, from one to two hundred years old. 
 Mrs. Dobbs’s husband had bequeathed her a 
 long lease of that which she occupied. Most of 
 the other houses in Friar’s Row were used as 
 offices or warehouses, the wealthier kind of 
 tradespeople who once lived in them having 
 migrated to the suburbs. On her husband's 
 death some of Mrs. Dobbs’s friends had urged 
 her to remove to a newer and more cheerful 
 part of the town, but she had resisted the 
 suggestion with some contempt. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 M. 
 
 2 
 
18 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 “ I know what suits me,” she would say. 
 
 “ And that’s a knowledge the Lord doesn’t 
 bestow on all and sundry. This house suits 
 me. It’s w r eather-proof for one thing. And 
 you needn’t he afraid of putting your foot 
 through the floor if you walk a little heavy, as 
 I do. When I go to see the Simpsons in that 
 bandbox they call Laurel Villa, I daren’t lean 
 my umbrella against the wall, for fear of bring- 
 ing the whole concern down like a pack of 
 cards.” 
 
 She might easily have increased her income 
 by letting her house and removing to one in 
 the suburbs ; for its position was central, and 
 the tenements in Friar’s Row were in great 
 request for business purposes. But she resisted 
 this temptation. There were reasons of a more 
 impalpable kind than the solidity of its floors 
 and roofs, which made Mrs. Dobbs constant to 
 her old home. She had lived there all the days 
 of her married life. Her daughter had been 
 born there. Her husband had died there. The 
 somewhat narrow and dingy street had in her 
 eyes the familiar aspect of a friendly face. She 
 loved to hear the rattle and bustle of the High 
 Street, slightly softened by distance. Those 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 19 
 
 common sounds were full of voices from the 
 past : the common sights around were associated 
 with all the joys and sorrows of her life. Mrs. 
 Dobbs never said anything to this effect, but 
 she felt it. And so she stayed in Friar’s 
 Row. 
 
 The parlour in which she sat was comfortably 
 and substantially furnished. A competent ob- 
 server would have perceived evidences of per- 
 manence and respectability in the solid, old- 
 fashioned chairs and tables, the prints after 
 Morland on the walls, and the corner cupboard 
 full of fine old china. The bookshelves which 
 filled one end of the room contained the 
 accumulations of successive generations. There 
 was a square pianoforte with a pile of old 
 music-hooks on the top of it ; and a big family 
 Bible in massive binding had a place of honour 
 all to itself on a side-table covered with green 
 baize. On this special autumn evening, owing 
 to the hour, and partly to the narrowness of 
 the street, which shut out some of the lingering 
 daylight, the parlour was very dim. A red 
 fire glowed in the grate, a large tabby cat 
 blinked and purred on the hearthrug, and in a 
 spacious easy-chair at one side of the fireplace 
 
20 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 sat Mrs. Dobbs, listening with closed eyes to 
 the cathedral chimes. 
 
 Presently the door was softly opened, and 
 there came into the room Mrs. Dobbs’s life-long 
 friend and crony, Mr. Joseph Weatherhead. 
 This person was her brother-in-law, and a 
 childless widower. He had carried on the trade 
 of bookseller and stationer in Birmingham for 
 many years ; but had sold his business on the 
 death of his wife, and come to live in Old- 
 chester, near the Dobbs’s. Mr. Weatherhead 
 was a tall, lean man, with a benevolent, bald 
 forehead, and mild eyes. The only remarkable 
 feature in his face was the nose, which was 
 large, slightly aquiline, brownish red in colour, 
 and protruded from his face at a peculiar angle. 
 The forehead above, and the chin below, sloped 
 away from it rather rapidly. The nose had 
 thus a singularly inquisitive air of being eagerly 
 in the van, as though it thrust itself forward in 
 quest of news. 
 
 As he closed the door behind him, Mrs. 
 Dobbs opened her eyes. 
 
 “ I thought you were asleep, Sarah,” said 
 Mr. Weatherhead. 
 
 “ Asleep ! ” ejaculated Mrs. Dobbs, with all 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 21 
 
 the indignation which that accusation is so apt 
 mysteriously to excite. “ Nothing of the kind ! 
 I was listening to the chimes. They always 
 make me think ” 
 
 “ Of poor Susy,” interrupted Mr. Weather- 
 head, nodding. “ Ah ! And so they do me. 
 Poor Susy ! How pretty she was ! ” 
 
 “ She had better have been less pretty for her 
 own happiness. The great misfortune of her 
 life wouldn’t have happened but for her pretty 
 face.” 
 
 Mr. Weatherhead nodded again, and sat down 
 opposite to Mrs. Dobbs in a corresponding arm- 
 chair to her own. He then took from his 
 pocket a black leather case, and from the case 
 a meerschaum pipe, which he proceeded to fill 
 and light and smoke. 
 
 “ What an infatuation ! ” sighed Mrs. Dobbs, 
 pursuing her own meditations. “ To think of 
 Susy throwing herself away on that extrava- 
 gant, selfish, good-for-nothing fellow without 
 any principles to speak of, when she might 
 have had an honest tradesman in a first-rate 
 way of business ! She had only to pick and 
 choose.” 
 
 “ Humph ! Honest tradesmen are not as 
 
22 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 plentiful as blackberries, though,” observed Mr. 
 Weatherhead, reflectively. 
 
 Mrs. Dobbs ignored this parenthesis, and 
 went on : “ It was a bad day for ine and mine 
 when he first came swaggering into this 
 house.” 
 
 From which speech it will be seen that the 
 Dobbs side of the family coincided with the 
 Cheffingtons in considering Augustus’s to have 
 been an unfortunate marriage ; only each party 
 arrived at the same conclusion by a different 
 road. 
 
 “ Have you heard from him lately, Sarah ? ” 
 asked Mr. Weatherhead, after a pause. 
 
 “ From my precious son-in-law ? Not I ! ” 
 
 « Oh ! ” 
 
 “ Not a word from him till he wants some- 
 thing. You may take your oath of that, Jo 
 Weatherhead.” 
 
 “ Oh, I thought you might have heard from 
 him, because ” 
 
 “ Well ? ” (very sharply). 
 
 “Well, because I see something has been 
 putting old times into your head ; and I thought 
 it might be that.” 
 
 “ Something been putting old times into my 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 23 
 
 head ? I should like to know when they’re out 
 of my head ! Much you know about it ! ” 
 
 Mr. Weatherhead apparently did know some- 
 thing about it ; for after another long silence, 
 during which he puffed at his pipe and stared 
 into the fire, Mrs. Dobbs justified his penetration 
 by saying— 
 
 “ The truth is, I have been turning things 
 over in my mind a good deal since yesterday.” 
 Mr. Weatherhead was too wary to expose 
 himself to another snub, so he merely nodded 
 two or three times in an oracular manner. 
 
 “ I’m worried out of my mind about that 
 child. She went off yesterday as bright and 
 happy as possible, and looking so pretty and 
 genteel — fit for any company in the land.” 
 
 “ Ah ! She went off, you say, to ? ” 
 
 “ To the Hadlows’. She is to stay there over 
 Sunday.” 
 
 “ Oh ! But I don’t quite see ” 
 
 “ Go on ! What is it that you don’t quite 
 
 r\ 99 
 
 see ? 
 
 “ I don’t quite see what there is to worry you 
 in that. The Hadlows are very good sort of 
 people.” 
 
 “ I should think they were very good sort of 
 
24 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 people ! Canon Hadlow is one of the best 
 men in Oldchester ; or in all England, for the 
 matter of that. And he’s a gentleman to the 
 marrow of his bones. But what sort of a posi- 
 tion has my granddaughter among the Hadlows 
 and their belongings ? ” 
 
 “ A very nice position, I should say.” 
 
 “ A very nice position ! ” exclaimed Mrs. 
 Dobbs, who seemed determined to repeat all 
 poor Mr. Weatherhead’s speeches in a tone of 
 disdainful irony. “ That’s so like you, Jo ! She 
 thinks it a very nice position, too, poor lamb. 
 She knows nothing of the world, bless her 
 innocent heart. And, for all her seventeen 
 years, she is the merest child in some things. 
 But you might know better. You are not 
 seventeen years old, Jo Weatherhead.” 
 
 “ Certainly not,” assented he emphatically. 
 
 “ The fact of the matter is that, whether by 
 good luck or bad luck, May does not belong to 
 my sphere or my class. She’s a Cheffington. 
 She has the ways of a lady, and the education 
 of a lady, and she has a right to the position of 
 a lady. If that father of hers gives her nothing 
 else he might give her that ; and he shall, if I 
 can make him.” 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 25 
 
 “ Perhaps it might have been better, after all, 
 if you had not sent the child back to her old 
 school, but just brought her up here, under your 
 own eye, in a plain sort of way. It would have 
 been better for you, anyhow.” 
 
 “ I don’t know that.” 
 
 “ Why, you’d have been spared a good many 
 sacrifices. There’s not another woman in 
 England would have done what you’ve done, 
 Sarah.” 
 
 “ Nonsense ; there are plenty of women in 
 England as big fools as me. Even that wooden 
 old figurehead of a dowager — Lord forgive me, 
 she’s dead and gone ! — had the grace to pay the 
 child’s schooling as long as she lived.” 
 
 “ She ! ” exclaimed Jo Weatherhead, firing up 
 suddenly, and tapping his meerschaum sharply 
 against the hob. “ That’s a very different pair 
 of shoes. She could afford it a precious sight 
 better than you. What did she ever deprive 
 herself of ? I say there’s not another woman in 
 England would have done what you’ve done, 
 and it’s no good your contradicting.” 
 
 “ There, bless the man ! Don’t let us quarrel 
 about it.” 
 
 “ But I shall quarrel about it, unless you give 
 
26 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 in. Here’s the case fairly put : — A young spark 
 runs away with your only daughter, and pretty 
 well breaks your heart. He takes her wander- 
 ing about into foreign parts, and you only get 
 news of her now and then, and never good 
 news. He’s too fine a gentleman to do a stroke 
 of work for his family, but as soon as he has 
 run through his bit of money he’s not too fine a 
 gentleman to fall into disreputable ways of life, 
 nor yet to let who will look after his motherless 
 little girl, and feed, and clothe, and educate her. 
 When his own mother dies — leaving two 
 quarters’ school-bills unpaid, which you have to 
 settle, by-the-by — the rest of the family, in- 
 cluding his own sister, refuse to advance a 
 sixpence to save the child from the workhouse.” 
 
 “ I sav, Jo, that’s putting it a little too 
 strong, my friend ! There was no talk of the 
 workhouse.” 
 
 “ Let me finish summing up the case. I say 
 they wouldn’t spend sixpence to save that child 
 from starvation — there, now! When the dowager 
 is dead, and the rest of them button up their 
 breeches’ pockets, and the schoolmistress sends 
 away the poor little girl because she can’t afford 
 to keep her and teach her for nothing, what 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 27 
 
 does my gentleman do ? Does he try in any 
 one way to do his duty by his only child ? Not 
 he. He coolly shuffles off all trouble and re- 
 sponsibility on other folks’ shoulders. He hasn’t 
 taken any notice of you for years, except writing 
 once to borrow fifty pounds ” 
 
 “ Which he didn’t get, Jo.” 
 
 “ Which he didn’t get because an over-ruling 
 Providence had ordained that you shouldn’t 
 have it to lend him. Well, after years of silence 
 and neglect, he turns up in Oldchester one fine 
 morning, and walks into your house bringing 
 his little girl ‘ on a visit to her dear grand- 
 mother.’ Talk of brass ! What sort of a 
 material do you suppose that man’s features are 
 composed of ? ” 
 
 “ G-utta percha, very likely,” returned Mrs. 
 Dobbs, who now sat resting her head against 
 the cushions of her chair, and listening to Mr. 
 Weatherhead’s eloquence with a half-humorous 
 resignation ; “ that’s a good, tough, elastic kind 
 of stuff.” 
 
 “ Tough ! He had need have some toughness 
 of countenance to come into this house as he 
 did. And that’s not the end. He swaggers 
 about Oldchester for a week or two, using your 
 
28 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 house as an inn, neither more nor less — except 
 that there’s no hill ; — and then one day he 
 starts off for the Continent, leaving little May 
 here, and promising to send for her as soon as 
 he gets settled. From that day to this, and it’s 
 four years ago, you have had the child on your 
 hands, and her precious father has never con- 
 tributed one shilling towards her support. You 
 sent the child back to school. You pinched, 
 and saved, and denied yourself many little 
 comforts to keep her there. You have never 
 let her feel or guess that she has been a burthen 
 on you in your old age. And I say again, 
 Sarah Dobbs, that, considering all the circum- 
 stances of the case, there’s not another woman 
 in England would have done what you’ve done. 
 No, nor in Europe ! ” 
 
 “ Well, having come to that, I hope you’ve 
 finished, Jo Weatherhead.” 
 
 “ I hope I have,” returned Mr. Weatherhead, 
 mopping his flushed face with a very large red 
 pocket-handkerchief. “ I hope I have, for the 
 present. But if you attempt to contradict a 
 word of what I have been saying, I’ll begin 
 again and go still further ! ” 
 
 “ There, there, then that’s settled. But I am 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 29 
 
 thinking of the future. Supposing I died to- 
 morrow, what’s to become of May ? I have 
 nothing to leave her. My hit of property goes 
 back to Dobbs’s family, and all right and fair, 
 too. I’ve nothing to say against my husband’s 
 will. But people like the Hadlows, who invite 
 May, and make much of her, have no idea that 
 she has no one to look to but me. I don’t say 
 they’d give her the cold shoulder if they did 
 know it ; but it would make a difference. As 
 it is, they talk to her about her aunt, Mrs. 
 Dormer-Smith, and her cousin, Lord This, and 
 her connection, Lady T’other, and a kind of a — 
 what shall I say ? — a sort of atmosphere of high 
 folks hangs about her. She’s Miss Miranda 
 Cbeffington, with fifty relations in the peerage. 
 If she was known only as the grandchild of 
 Mrs. Dobbs, the ironmonger’s widow, she would 
 seem mightily changed in a good many eyes. 
 Sometimes it comes over me as if I was letting 
 May go on under false pretences.” 
 
 “ Why, she has got fifty relations in the 
 peerage, hasn’t she ? ” 
 
 “ A hundred, for all I know. But folks are 
 not aware that her father’s family take no 
 notice of her. She hardly knows it herself.” 
 
30 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 “ But her aunt, Mrs. Dormer-Smith, writes 
 to her, doesn’t she ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, a iine once in a blue moon, to say she’s 
 g'lad to hear May is well, and to complain of 
 the great expense of living in London.” 
 
 “ The selfish meanness of that woman is 
 beyond belief.” 
 
 “ Well — I don’t know, Jo. She’s a poor 
 creature, certainly. But I feel more a sort of 
 pity for her than anything else.” 
 
 “ Do you ? It’s only out of contradiction, 
 then.” 
 
 “ Not altogether,” said Mrs. Dobbs, laughing 
 good-humouredly. “ I made her out pretty 
 well that time I took May up to London before 
 she went back to school.” 
 
 “ Ah ! I remember. You tried if the aunt 
 would do anything to help.” 
 
 “Yes, I tried. It was right to try. But I 
 very soon saw that there was nothing to be 
 hoped for from that quarter. Mrs. Dormer- 
 Smith has been brought up to live for the world 
 and the world’s ways. To be sure her world 
 is a funny, artificial little affair compared with 
 God Almighty’s : pretty much as though one 
 should take a teaspoonful of Epsom salts for the 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 31 
 
 sea. But, at any rate, I do believe sbe sincerely 
 thinks it ought to be worshipped and bowed 
 down to. It’s no use to tell such a woman that 
 she could do without this or that useless finery, 
 and spend the money better. She’ll answer 
 you with tears in her eyes that it’s impossible', 
 and, what’s more, sbe’ll believe it. Why, if 
 some Tomnoddy or other, belonging to what 
 she calls “ the best people,” was to ordain to- 
 morrow that nobody should eat his dinner 
 unless he was waited on by a man with a long 
 pigtail, that poor creature would know no peace, 
 nor her meat would have no relish until a man 
 with a pigtail stood behind her chair. That’s 
 Mrs. Dormer-Smith, Jo Weatherhead.” 
 
 Mr. Weatherhead drew up his lips into the 
 form of a round 0, as his manner was w T hen 
 considering any matter of interest, and appeared 
 to meditate a reply. But the reply was never 
 spoken ; for a brisk ring at the street door gave 
 a new turn to his thoughts and those of his 
 sister-in-law. 
 
 “ Dear me ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Dobbs, putting 
 up her bands to settle her cap, and stretching- 
 out her feet with a sudden movement which 
 made the old tabby on the hearthrug arch her 
 
32 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 back indignantly. “Why, that must be the 
 Simpsons ! I didn’t think it was so late. Just 
 light the candles, will you, Jo? I hope Martha 
 has remembered the roasted potatoes.” 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 33 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The Simpsons were old friends of Mrs. Dobbs. 
 Mr. Simpson was organist of tbe largest parish 
 church in Oldchester, where his father had been 
 organist before him. To this circumstance he 
 owed his singular Christian name. The elder 
 Simpson, whose musical enthusiasm had run all 
 into one channel, insisted on naming his son 
 Sebastian Bach. Some men would have felt 
 this to he a disadvantage for the profession of 
 organist and music-teacher, as involving a 
 suggestion of ridicule. But Mr. Sebastian 
 Bach Simpson was not apt to he diffident about 
 any distinguishing characteristic of his own. 
 His wife had been a governess, and still gave 
 daily lessons in sundry respectable Oldchester 
 families. By an arrangement begun during 
 her late husband’s lifetime, this couple came 
 every Saturday evening to sup with Mrs. Dobbs, 
 
 VOL. i. 3 
 
34 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 and to play a game of whist for penny points 
 before the meal. 
 
 The two guests entered the parlour just as 
 Mr. Weatherhead was lighting the candles. 
 
 “Dear me,” exclaimed Mrs. Simpson, “are 
 we too early ? I had no idea ! Surely the 
 choir practice was not over earlier than usual, 
 Bassy ? ” 
 
 She was a large stout woman of forty, with a 
 pink-and-white complexion and filmy brown 
 curls ; and she wore spectacles. She had once 
 been very slim and pretty, and still retained a 
 certain girlishness of demeanour. It has been 
 said that a man is as old as he feels, and a 
 woman as old as she looks. Mrs. Simpson had 
 innocently usurped the masculine privilege ; 
 and, not feeling herself to be either wiser or 
 less trivial than she was at eighteen, had never 
 thought of trying to bring her manners into 
 harmony with her appearance. Her husband 
 was a short, dark man, with quick black eyes, 
 and thick, stubby, black hair. His voice was 
 singularly rasping and dissonant, which seemed 
 an unfortunate incongruity in a professor of 
 music. Such as he was, however, his wife had 
 a 2,'reat admiration for him, and considered his 
 
 o 7 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 35 
 
 tiilents to be remarkable. Her marriage, she 
 was fond of saying, had been a love-match, and 
 she had never got beyond the romantic stage of 
 her attachment. 
 
 “Good evening, Mrs. Dobbs,” said the organist, 
 advancing to shake hands, and taking no notice 
 of his wife’s inquiry. 
 
 “ How are you, Weatherhead ? I suppose 
 you were napping — having forty winks in the 
 twilight, eh ? ” 
 
 “No, Mr. Weatherhead and I were chatting,” 
 said Mrs. Dobbs. 
 
 “ Chatting in this kind of blind man’s holiday, 
 were you ? I should have thought you could 
 hardly see to talk ! ” 
 
 “ See to talk ! Oh, Bassy, what an expres- 
 sion ! You do say the drollest things ! ” exclaimed 
 Mrs. Simpson with a giggle. “ Doesn’t he, Mrs. 
 Dobbs ? Did you ever hear ? ” 
 
 Mrs. Dobbs, for all reply, hospitably stirred 
 the fire until it blazed, helped Mrs. Simpson to 
 remove her bonnet and cloak, and placed her 
 in a chair near her own. Mr. Simpson took 
 his accustomed seat, and the four persons drew 
 round the fire, whilst Martha, Mrs. Dobbs’s 
 middle-aged servant, set out a little card-table, 
 
36 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 and disposed the candles on it in two old- 
 fashioned, spindle-shanked, silver candlesticks. 
 It was all done according to long-established 
 custom, which was seldom deviated from in any 
 particular. 
 
 “And how are you, dear Mrs. Dobbs?” 
 asked Mrs. Simpson, taking her hostess’s hand 
 between both her own. “ And dear May — 
 where’s May ? ” 
 
 “ May has been away from home on a visit 
 since yesterday morning. She won’t come hack 
 before Monday.” 
 
 “ And may one ask where she is ? It is not, 
 I presume, a Mystery of Udolpho ! ” 
 
 “ She is at the Hadlows’.” 
 
 “ The Hadlows’ ? Canon Hadlow’s ? ” cried 
 Mrs. Simpson, clasping her hands with a gesture 
 of amazement. Then she added rather incon- 
 sistently, “ Well, I’m not surprised. I know 
 they have lately taken a great deal of notice of 
 her. Miss Hadlow and she having been at 
 school together, of course created an intimacy 
 which — ah, the friendships of early youth, 
 ■where they are genuine, have a warmth, a 
 charm ” 
 
 “Now, Amelia ! ” interposed her husband’s 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 37 
 
 rasping voice. (This ejaculation was his 
 habitual manner of recalling Mrs. Simpson's 
 attention to the matter in hand, whatever it 
 might be ; for the good lady’s mind was discur- 
 sive.) “If you’ll be kind enough to leave off 
 your nonsense, we can begin our game. Come 
 and cut for partners.” 
 
 An earnest whist player would have been 
 outraged by the performances of the four 
 persons who met weekly in Mrs. Dobbs’s parlour. 
 They chatted, they misdealt, they even revoked 
 sometimes ; and they overlooked each other’s 
 misdemeanours with unscrupulous laxity. In a 
 word, they regarded the noble game of whist 
 merely as a means and not as an end, and were 
 scandalously bent on amusing themselves re- 
 gardless of Hoyle. The only one of the party 
 who had any pretensions to play tolerably was 
 Mr. Weatherhead. But even his attention was 
 always to be diverted from his cards by a new 
 piece of gossip. And perhaps it was as well 
 that he did not take the game too much to 
 heart — especially on the present occasion ; for 
 the fair Amelia fell to his lot as a partner, and 
 her performances with the cards were calculated 
 to drive a zealous player into a nervous fever. 
 
38 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 The first hand or two proceeded in decorous 
 silence. But by degrees the players began to 
 talk, throwing out first detached sentences, and 
 at last boldly entering into general conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 “ Bassy had a great deal of trouble with the 
 choir this evening,” said Mrs. Simpson plain- 
 tively. “ The sopranos were so inattentive ! 
 And inattention is so particularly — oh dear, I 
 beg pardon, I have a diamond ! Well, it does 
 not much matter, for we couldn’t have made 
 the odd trick in any case.” 
 
 “ A nice business at Sheffield with those 
 Trades Unions,” said Mr. Weatherhead. “ Some 
 severe measures ought to be taken ; but they 
 won’t be. That’s what your precious Liberalism 
 comes to ! — Your lead, Simpson.” 
 
 “ Nonsense about Liberalism, Jo Weather- 
 head,” replied Mrs. Dobbs. “ I believe you’d 
 like to accuse the Liberals of the bad weather. 
 There ! — Did you ever see such a hand ? One 
 trump ! and that fell. Mrs. Simpson playing 
 out her knave misled me.” 
 
 “ Oh, if you reckon on Amelia’s having any 
 sufficient motive for playing one card more 
 than another ” exclaimed Amelia’s husband. 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 30 
 
 “ Have you heard, Mrs. Dobbs, that Mr. Bransby 
 is getting better ? ” 
 
 “ What Bransby is that ? ” asked Mr. Weather- 
 head, thrusting his head forward inquiringly. 
 
 “ Cadell and Bransby, Solicitors to the Dean 
 and Chapter.” 
 
 “ Oh-o ! He has been ill, then ? ” 
 
 “Very ill. But I hear he was pronounced 
 out of danger on Wednesday.” 
 
 “ Is it not good news ? ” cried Mrs. Simpson. 
 “ Such a misfortune for his young family ! I 
 mean if he had died, you know.” 
 
 “ But I suppose he’s a warm man, isn’t he ? 
 Cadell and Bransby — it’s a fine business, isn’t 
 it?” asked Mr. Weatherhead. 
 
 “ It had need be,” rejoined the organist, “ to 
 maintain that tribe of boys and girls, and an 
 extravagant young wife into the bargain.” 
 
 “ Oh, Bassy, but they are such pretty children ! 
 And Mrs. Bransby is so truly elegant and 
 interesting. All her bonnets come from Paris, 
 I am told. And indeed there is a certain 
 
 style Eh? You don't mean to say that 
 
 spades are trumps ? What a disappointment ! 
 I thought I had all four honours.” 
 
 This ingenuous speech might have called 
 
40 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 forth some remonstrance from Mrs. Simpson’s 
 partner, but that the latter was too much 
 interested in the subject of the Bransby s to 
 attend to it. 
 
 “ The eldest son is provided for by his 
 mother’s fortune, isn’t he ? ” he inquired. 
 
 “Well — ‘provided for;’ I don’t know that 
 it is very much. But it was all tightly settled. 
 Otherwise Bransby’s second marriage would 
 have been a greater misfortune for the young 
 man than it is,” replied the organist. 
 
 “ I don’t see that it is any misfortune at all,” 
 observed Mrs. Dobbs. “ Theodore Bransby is 
 quite well enough off for a young fellow. And 
 why shouldn’t his father marry again if he 
 liked it ? ” 
 
 “ He is an extremely gentlemanlike young 
 man, is Mr. Theodore Bransby,” said Mrs. 
 Simpson. “ I have been imparting daily 
 instruction to the younger children, and I saw 
 him rather frequently when he was at home 
 during the University vacation. He is now 
 
 reading for the Bar, you know, and I believe 
 
 Was that your knave, Mr. Weatherhead ? 
 Really ! Then I have thrown away my queen. 
 However,” smiling amiably, “ one can but take 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 41 
 
 the trick. I believe that Mr. Theodore Bransby 
 means to go into Parliament later. There is 
 really something of the statesman about him 
 already, I think — a way of buttoning his coat 
 to the chin, don’t you know ? ” 
 
 “ Is Theodore Bransbv in Oldchester now ? ” 
 asked Mrs. Dobbs, sorting her cards. 
 
 “ Oh yes,” replied Mr. Simpson. “ I wonder 
 you didn’t know, for he is a great deal at Canon 
 Hadlow’s. They say he’s making up to Miss 
 Hadlow.” 
 
 “ O-ho ! But there’s Mrs. Hadlow’s nephew, 
 young Rivers,” put in Mr. Weatherhead. 
 “ He 's supposed to he dangling after his cousin, 
 isn’t he ? ” 
 
 “ I should think young Rivers had better 
 dangle after an employment that will give him 
 bread and cheese. Miss Constance Hadlow 
 won’t have a penny.” 
 
 “ Oh, Bassy, but where there’s real affection 
 mercenary considerations must give way. True 
 love — true love is above all ! ” As she uttered 
 these words with great fervour, Mrs. Simpson 
 flourished her arm enthusiastically, and in so 
 doing swept off the table several coins which 
 had served as counters to register her opponent's 
 
42 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 score. The silver discs rolled swiftly away into 
 various inaccessible corners of the room, with 
 the perversity usually observed in such cases. 
 Fortunately the game had just come to an end, 
 and Martha had announced that the supper was 
 ready. This circumstance, and the fact that 
 her husband was a winner, spared Mrs. Simpson 
 a sharp reprimand. 
 
 Mr. Simpson uttered, indeed, a few sarcastic 
 croaks. “ Now, Amelia ! There you go ! 
 Always up to some nonsense or other.” But 
 he watched Mr. Weatherhead and Martha as 
 they crawled about on hands and knees to 
 recover the missing shillings and sixpences, 
 with considerable equanimity ; merely observing 
 that Amelia ought to he ashamed of herself for 
 giving so much trouble. 
 
 When the supper was set on the table, three 
 of the party, at least, were in high good humour, 
 and disposed to enjoy it. Mr. Simpson had 
 won, and was content. Mr. Weatherhead paid 
 his losses without a murmur, conscious, no 
 doubt, that they were due as much to his own 
 wandering attention as to his partner’s aberra- 
 tions. As for Mrs. Simpson, the sweetness of 
 her disposition was proof against far more 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 43 
 
 souring circumstances than having spoiled Jo 
 Weather-head's game. She was not the least 
 out of humour with him. Mrs. Dobbs alone 
 was a little more silent and a little less genial 
 than usual. The talk that evening with her 
 old friend had awakened painful thoughts of 
 the past and anxieties for the future. She very 
 rarely mentioned her son-in-law’s name, even 
 to Mr. Weatherhead, who was thoroughly in 
 her confidence ; and, whenever she did speak of 
 him, the result was invariably to irritate and 
 depress her. However, her hospitable instincts 
 roused her to shake off her cares in some degree, 
 and to make her friends welcome to the fare set 
 before them. 
 
 When the more substantial part of the supper 
 was disposed of, and a jug of hot punch steamed 
 on the board, Mrs. Simpson, delicately tapping 
 with her teaspoon on the edge of her tumbler, 
 observed, with an air at once penetrating and 
 amiable — 
 
 “ Well, I’m sure it will be very gratifying to 
 Mrs. Dormer-Smith when she hears that dear 
 May has been invited to the Hadlows’.” 
 
 “H’m ! I don’t think Mrs. Dormer-Smith will 
 lose her wits with joy,” answered Mrs. Dobbs 
 drily. 
 
44 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 “ No ? Oh, hut surely ! She must feel 
 
 it agreeable that her niece should he noticed by 
 persons of such eminent gentility.” 
 
 Mrs. Dobbs would have dismissed the subject 
 with a smile and a shake of the head, avoiding, 
 as she always did, any discussion or even men- 
 tion of her son-in-law’s family ; but Mr. Simpson 
 interposed magisterially — 
 
 “ If Mrs. Dormer-Smith isn’t gratified, it must 
 he because she is ignorant of the position held 
 by Canon ETadlow’s family in Oldchester.” 
 
 Mrs. Dobbs faced about upon this, and said 
 bluntly, “ My dear good man, all the best society 
 of Oldchester put together would seem mighty 
 small beer to Mrs. Dormer-Smith.” 
 
 “Oh, really!” returned Mr. Simpson, morti- 
 fied and incredulous. “ Such a very fine lady, 
 is she ? Well, ‘ Dormer-Smith ’ doesn’t sound 
 very aristocratic ; but it may be, of course.” 
 
 “ Mrs. Dormer-Smith is a fine lady, and 
 accustomed to mix with still finer ladies. It’s 
 no use shutting one’s eyes to facts. If we 
 won’t look at them, we only bump up against 
 them, because they’re there, all the same. As 
 to opinions, that’s different. I suppose I needn’t 
 say anything about mine at this time of day. 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 45 
 
 I’m a staunch Radical — always was, and always 
 will be.” 
 
 “ Pooh, pooh ! Call yourself a Radical ! ” 
 said Mr. Weatherhead, laughing his peculiar 
 laugh, which consisted of a series of guttural 
 ho, ho, lio's. “ You’re convicted out of your 
 own mouth of not being one. Whoever heard 
 of a Radical that cared about facts ? ” 
 
 Mrs. Simpson put out her hand, and tapped 
 him on the shoulder. “ Now, now ; that’s very 
 naughty of you,” she exclaimed. “ Politics are 
 strictly forbidden on Saturday evenings by the 
 ancient statutes of our society. Isn’t it so, Mr. 
 Dobbs ? I appeal to the chair.” And she 
 threatened Mr. Weatherhead playfully with her 
 forefinger, at the same time casting an arch 
 look through her spectacles. Glasses are not 
 favourable to any effective play of the eyes, and 
 usually screen the most expressive of glances 
 behind a ghastly glitter, void of all speculation. 
 But of this consideration Mrs. Simpson was 
 habitually oblivious. Then, by way of turning 
 the conversation into more agreeable channels, 
 she continued, “ And, apropos of May, dear Mrs. 
 Dobbs, when did you last hear from her papa ? ” 
 
 This simple inquiry startled the company into 
 
46 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 absolute silence for a few moments. Mrs. 
 Dobbs’s resolute reserve on the subject of her 
 son-in-law was so well known that none of her 
 friends for several years past bad ventured to 
 mention him to her. Some refrained because 
 they did not wish to hurt her ; and many 
 because they were afraid she might hurt them : 
 for Mrs. Dobbs’s uncompromising frankness of 
 speech and force of character made her a hard 
 hitter, when she did hit. But the specific levity 
 of Mrs. Simpson’s mind gave her a certain 
 immunity from hard retorts — the immunity of a 
 fly from a cannon ball. On the present occasion, 
 however, she received no rebuke ; for greatly to 
 Jo Weatherhead’s surprise, and somewhat to 
 Mr. Simpson’s, Mrs. Dobbs, after a brief pause, 
 answered — 
 
 “ I have not heard lately from Captain 
 Cheffington. He is a bad correspondent. But 
 we shall soon be obliged to communicate with 
 each other. May is seventeen, and various 
 arrangements will have to be made about her 
 future.” 
 
 “ Goodness ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Simpson, clasp- 
 ing her hands. “ You don’t mean to say that 
 May isn’t to remain with you ? ” 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 47 
 
 “ That will depend on what is agreed on in 
 the family. May must take her place in the 
 world as Miss Cheffington, you know, and not 
 as my grand-daughter.” 
 
 The Simpsons exchanged a glance of surprise. 
 This was the first time they had heard Mrs. 
 Dobbs assume any such position for her grand- 
 child. Sebastian was inclined to resist her 
 doing so now. But something in Mrs. Dobbs’s 
 manner checked him from expressing this feel- 
 ing. It is generally found easier to criticize 
 our friends’ shortcomings when we are free from 
 the disturbing element of their presence. The 
 short remainder of the evening was passed in 
 talking of other things. But on their way 
 home Mr. and Mrs. Simpson discussed this new 
 turn of affairs with some eagerness. 
 
 The organist considered that the notion of the 
 Hadlows not being good enough company for 
 the Dormer-Smiths was preposterous ; and he 
 feared that Mrs. Dobbs was giving herself airs. 
 In reply to his wife’s observations that Mrs. 
 Dobbs was a “ dear old soul,” he pointed out 
 that, dear and good though she might be, yet 
 her husband had kept an ironmonger’s shop, 
 and publicly sold hardware therein behind his 
 
48 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 counter, to the knowledge of all Oldchester. 
 This retort depended for its cogency on the 
 understanding of an ellipsis ; ■which, however, 
 Mrs. Simpson was perfectly able to supply, for 
 she answered immediately — 
 
 “ Oh, I’m sure, Bassy, Mrs. Dobbs would 
 never undervalue your position as a professional 
 man. She knows very well that the Arts rank 
 superior to trade.” 
 
 On the other hand, when Mrs. Simpson pro- 
 ceeded to opine that if May were taken up by 
 her father’s family she would become quite a 
 grand personage, Mr. Simpson declared, with a 
 good deal of heat, that for his part he thought 
 Mrs. Dobbs quite as good any day as the 
 Cheffingtons, about whom nothing certain was 
 known in Oldchester except that they were 
 shabby in their dealings and “ stuck-up ” in 
 their pretensions. 
 
 Mr. Weatlierhead lingered behind the organist 
 and his wife, to say a word to Mrs. Dobbs after 
 their departure. 
 
 “ I can tell you one thing, Sarah ; what you 
 said about May will be all over Oldchester by 
 Monday.” 
 
 “ So I guess.” 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 49 
 
 “ O-ho ! Then you mean it to be talked 
 about ? ” 
 
 “ I mean it to be known that May is to take 
 her place in the world as Miss Cheffington.” 
 
 “ But is she ? That’s more than you can 
 say, Sarah.” 
 
 “ I shall have a try for it, Jo.” 
 
 Now whenever Mrs. Dobbs had said in that 
 emphatic manner that she would “ have a try ” 
 for anything, that thing, so far as Jo Weather- 
 head’s experience went, had infallibly come to 
 pass. But with all his faith in his old friend, 
 he could not help doubting her success in the 
 present case. He was eagerly curious to know 
 how she intended to proceed ; but Mrs. Dobbs 
 refused to say any more on the subject, delaring 
 that she must think things over quietly. 
 
 “ I don’t see it,” said Mr. Weatherhead to 
 himself, poking forward his nose, and pursing 
 up his lips as he walked homeward. “ Sarah 
 Dobbs is a wonderful woman, but even she 
 can’t gather grapes from thorns. And in 
 respect of justice or generosity — -not to mention 
 common honesty — I’m afraid all the Cheffingtons 
 are rather thorny.” 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 4 
 
50 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 CHAPTER IY. 
 
 Among other features peculiar to itself, Old- 
 chester possesses a quadrangular building with 
 an inner cloister, commonly called College Quad. 
 It is in the immediate neighbourhood of the 
 cathedral, and is divided into small tenements 
 inhabited by clergy forming part of the cathedral 
 body. At the hack of the houses on the south 
 side of the quadrangle, pleasant gardens slope 
 down towards the river Wend. The cloister is 
 a very beautiful piece of Gothic work, with 
 fretted roof and springing pillars. Peace and 
 quiet reign within it. In summer there comes 
 a sleepy sound of rooks from the Bishop’s garden 
 close at hand ; and, towards sunrise and sunset, 
 the chirp of innumerable sparrows mingled with 
 the richer notes of thrush, blackbird, and 
 nightingale in their season. At certain times 
 of the day, too, the stillness is broken by the 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 51 
 
 thrilling freshness of children’s voices, as the 
 scholars of the ancient Grammar School scatter 
 themselves over the Cathedral Green, shouting 
 and calling in the shrill silvery treble of boyhood. 
 But these sounds are softened and subdued by 
 distance and thick masonry before they pene- 
 trate within the precincts of College Quad. In 
 autumn and winter there is a chill dampness on 
 the greenish-gray paving-stones of the cloister, 
 and the rain drips heavily from carven capitals 
 into the resounding court. The very order 
 and cleanliness of the place — its decorous, 
 clerical, smooth-shaven air — seem sometimes 
 under a watery sky, and when the winds are 
 moaning and complaining, or thrumming like 
 ghostly fingers on the fine resonant Gothic fret- 
 work, to fill the mind with melancholy. 
 
 A rich contrasting note is seldom wanting : — 
 firelight and the glimpse of a crimson curtain 
 seen through lozenge-shaped window-panes ; or 
 an open door sending out a gush of warmth 
 and spicy smells from the kitchen, and the 
 sound of friendly voices. Yet even within 
 doors there seems to be a haunting sense of the 
 old, old times when hands long crumbled into 
 dust built up that dainty cloister, and when 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF Illinois 
 
52 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 patient monkish feet, long stilled for ever, paced 
 its stones. It is not a wholly sad feeling. It 
 may even give zest to the glance of living eyes, 
 and the warm pressure of dear hands. But it 
 has a peculiar pathos : — a pathos which, perhaps, 
 is felt peculiarly by northern people, as the 
 sad-sweet twilight belongs to northern climates, 
 and which many of those, to the manner born, 
 would not exchange for the unbroken garishness 
 of golden-blue days and silver-blue nights. 
 
 The habitations on the south side of College 
 Quad are considered the most desirable of all, 
 by reason of the gardens before-mentioned 
 running down to the Wend, although one or 
 two houses on the west side may be a trifle 
 larger. Canon Hadlow’s family of three persons 
 inhabited one of these coveted southern houses, 
 and found it roomy enough for their needs ; yet 
 it was a small — a very small — dwelling. The 
 front door opened on to the beautiful cloister. 
 Immediately on entering the house you found 
 yourself in a tiny entrance-hall, to the left of 
 which a steep and narrow staircase of dark 
 oak conducted to the one upper story. On the 
 right, a massive oaken-door gave access to a 
 long, low parlour, whose three latticed windows 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 53 
 
 — darkened somewhat by a drooping fringe of 
 jessamine and virginia-creeper — looked across 
 the garden and the river to wide meadows. 
 Opposite to the front door, a glass one, which 
 in summer stood wide open all day long, led 
 into the garden. In winter, swinging double- 
 doors, covered with dark baize, shut out the 
 cold air and the chill, damp mist which some- 
 times crept up from the river. 
 
 The exterior of the houses in College Quad 
 was coeval with the Gothic cloister ; within, 
 the passing centuries had somewhat modified 
 their aspect. The main features, however, were 
 ancient, and most of the inhabitants had chosen 
 to preserve this general air of antiquity. Only 
 in some few cases had disastrous attempts at 
 modernizing been made with paint and French 
 wall-papers. It would have been needless to 
 tell any Oldchester person that no such sacri- 
 legious innovations deformed the fine oak beams 
 and wainscoting in Canon Hadlow’s house. 
 There was a dark tone all through it, which, 
 however, was not chill. It was rather the rich 
 darkness of Rembrandt’s shadows, which seem 
 to have a latent glow in the heart of them. A 
 deep red curtain here and there, or a well-worn 
 
54 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 Turkey carpet, with its kaleidoscope of subdued 
 tints, relieved the general sombreness. Flowers 
 in all manner of receptacles — from a precious 
 old china punch-bowl to the cheapest of glass 
 goblets — adorned every room in the house 
 throughout the year. Even in winter there 
 was ivy to be had, and red-berried holly, and 
 the coral clusters of the mountain ash, and pale 
 chrysanthemums. The garden furnished an 
 ample supply of stocks, roses, carnations, holly- 
 hocks, china asters, sweetwilliams, wallflowers, 
 and the like old-fashioned blossoms with homely 
 names. But as Mrs. Hadlow herself quaintly 
 remarked, she cared more for the sight and 
 smell of a flower than its sound. 
 
 One sacrifice the flowers cost ; the Hadlows 
 had no lawn-tennis ground. Mrs. Hadlow 
 declared she could not spare the space. Her 
 neighbours to the right and left boasted of 
 lawns which, with their white lines, looked like 
 tables chalked on the pavement for the popular 
 street game of hop-scotch — and were very little 
 bigger. But the Hadlows’ garden was a mosaic 
 of box-bordered flower-beds. Only quite at the 
 lower end, where a clipped hedge divided it 
 from a footpath on the river bank, there was a 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 55 
 
 strip of green sward like a velvet carpet, spread 
 completely across the garden. At one angle 
 stood a yew-tree of fabulous age, and in its 
 shadow were a garden bench and table, and a 
 few rustic chairs. This was Mrs. Hadlow’s 
 drawing-room whenever the weather permitted 
 her to be out-of-doors. There she sewed, and 
 read, and received visits. The oak parlour, 
 which served also as a dining-room, was the 
 ordinary family living room. There was a 
 small room called the study, lined with books 
 from floor to ceiling ; but drawing-room, 
 properly so-called, there was none at all. 
 Constance Hadlow was the only one of the 
 family who regretted this circumstance. The 
 canon was perfectly content with his abode. 
 And as to Mrs. Hadlow, no one who valued her 
 good opinion would have ventured to hint to 
 her that her house lacked anything to make it 
 convenient and delightful. An ill-advised 
 stranger had once opined in her presence that 
 the near neighbourhood of the river must make 
 the south side of the College Quad damp and 
 unhealthy during the autumn and winter, and 
 Mrs. Hadlow’s indignation had been boundless. 
 That it was sometimes cold in College Quad she 
 
56 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 was willing to admit — just as it was sometimes 
 cold on the Riviera or in Cairo. But that it 
 could, under any circumstances, or for the 
 shortest space of time, he damp, was w’hat she 
 would never be brought to acknowledge. As 
 to the Wend, if any exhalations did arise from 
 that gentle stream, they could not, she was 
 sure, be unwholesome — above bridge. It was 
 important to bear in mind this limitation, since 
 below bridge, where the factories were, and 
 where the poorer dwellings stood in crowded 
 ranks, and the streets vibrated to the rumble of 
 heavy waggons and tramway cars, the Wend 
 must naturally incur such corruption of its 
 good manners as came from evil communica- 
 tions. Mrs. Hadlow loved and admired Old- 
 chester with enthusiasm. But Oldchester, in 
 her mind, meant the cathedral and its im- 
 mediate surroundings. Her admiration was 
 bounded by the cathedral precincts ; and, to 
 judge from her words, so was her love also. 
 But her heart was not to be imprisoned within 
 any such confines. Prejudice might rule her 
 speech, and warp her judgments, but her warm 
 human sympathies went out towards those 
 unfortunates who dwelt beyond the pale, even 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 57 
 
 under the shadow of Bragg’s factory chimney ; 
 nay, even in those vulgar suburban villas, with 
 fine names, which were particularly abhorrent to 
 Mrs. Hadlow’s soul. 
 
 The sun shone brightly on a group of 
 persons assembled in Mrs. Hadlow’s garden on 
 the Monday forenoon after Mrs. Dobbs’s supper- 
 party. It was a sun more bright than warm ; 
 and a little crisp breeze fluttered now and then 
 among the scarlet and gold leaves of the vir- 
 ginia-creeper which draped the back of the 
 house. Constance Hadlow, wrapped in a fleecy 
 shawl, and sitting in a patch of sunshine out- 
 side the shadow of the yew-tree, declared it 
 was “ bitterly cold.” Her opinion was evidently 
 shared by a black-and-tan terrier that shivered 
 convulsively at intervals with a sort of ostenta- 
 tion, as though to hint to the less sensitive 
 bipeds that it was high time to retire to the 
 shelter of a roof and the comforts of the hearth- 
 rug. Mrs. Hadlow’s round, rosy face seemed 
 to shed a glow around it like a terrestrial sun, 
 as she beamed from behind a great basket piled 
 with grey woollen socks belonging to the 
 canon : which socks were never darned by any 
 other than his wife’s fingers. Her nephew, 
 
58 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 Owen Rivers, lounged on the bench beside her. 
 Seated on a low chair, May Cheffington was 
 winding a ball of grey worsted for the socks ; 
 and standing opposite to her, with his shoulder 
 against the trunk of the yew-tree, was Mr. 
 Theodore Bransby. This young gentleman 
 had just said something which had startled the 
 assembled company. He was not given to 
 saying startling things. He would probably 
 have pronounced it “ bad form ” to do so : — a 
 phrase which, to his mind, carried with it fhe 
 severest condemnation. He had merely observed, 
 “ You will all be sorry to lose Miss Cheffington, 
 shall you not, Mrs. Hadlow ? ” quite unconscious 
 of saying anything to cause surprise. Surprise, 
 however, was plainly expressed on every counte- 
 nance, including that of Miss Cheffington herself. 
 
 The fact was that rumour, speaking by the 
 voices of Mr. and Mrs. Simpson, had already 
 announced in Oldchester that May Cheffington 
 was going away to live with her grand relations 
 in London. The report had not yet penetrated 
 College Quad, but it had been brought to the 
 Bransbys’ house that morning by Mrs. Simpson 
 when she came to give her daily lesson to the 
 children. 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 59 
 
 “ Lose her ! What do you mean ? ” asked 
 Mrs. Hadlow. 
 
 “ You’re not going to be married, are you, 
 May ? ” cried Miss Constance, dropping her 
 parasol in order to look full at the other girl ; 
 while Mr. Rivers, on the other hand, raised 
 himself on his elbow and stared at young 
 Bransby. 
 
 May laughed and coloured at her friend’s 
 question. “ Certainly not that I know of, 
 Constance,” she answered. 
 
 “ Are you going away, then ? ” 
 
 “You must ask Mr. Bransby. He seems to 
 know ; I don’t.” 
 
 As she spoke, May turned a pair of bright 
 hazel eyes full on the young gentleman in 
 question, and smiled. The admixture of Dobbs 
 blood with the noble strain of Cheffington had 
 certainly not produced any physical deteriora- 
 tion of the race. Yet the dowager had been 
 discontented with her grand-daughter’s appear- 
 ance, and had particularly lamented the absence 
 of the Chef&ngton profile. Now the Cheffington 
 profile was handsome enough in its way, in 
 certain subjects and at a certain time of life ; 
 but with advancing years it was apt to resemble 
 
60 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 the profile of an owl : the nose being beaky, 
 and the orbit of the eyes very large, with eye- 
 brows nearly semi-circular ; while the chin 
 tended to disappear in hanging folds and creases 
 of throat. The Cheffingtons, moreover, were 
 sallow and dark-haired. May inherited her 
 mother’s fair skin and soft brown hair. Her 
 slender young figure, not yet fully grown, w~as 
 rather below than above the middle height. 
 She had the healthy, though delicate, freshness 
 of a field-flower ; but, like the field-flower, she 
 might easily pass unnoticed. There was 
 nothing of high or dazzling beauty about May 
 Cheffington, but she had that subtle attraction 
 which does not always belong to beauty. A 
 great many persons, however, thought she did 
 not bear comparison with Constance Hadlow, 
 her friend and schoolfellow. Besides a firm 
 faith in her own beauty — which is a more 
 powerful assistance to its recognition by others 
 than is generally supposed — Miss Hadlow 
 possessed a pair of fine dark eyes and eyebrows, 
 a clear, pale skin, regular features, and white 
 teeth. Those who were disposed to be critical 
 observed that her face and head were rather too 
 massive for her height ; and that her figure, 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 61 
 
 sufficiently plump at present, threatened to 
 become too fat as sbe approached middle life. 
 But at twenty years of age that would have 
 appeared a very remote contingency to Con- 
 stance Hadlow, supposing her to have ever 
 thought about it. Although circumstances 
 often prevented her from being dressed after 
 the latest fashion, her hair — dark, wavy, and 
 abundant — was always skilfully arranged in 
 the prevalent mode, whatever that might be. 
 It happened just then to be a becoming one 
 to Miss Hadlow’s head and face. The crimson 
 colour of the shawl wrapped round her made 
 a fine contrast with the creamy pallor of her 
 skin and the vivid darkness of her eyes. 
 Altogether, she looked handsome enough to 
 excuse Owen Rivers for finding it difficult to 
 remove himself from her society, supposing Mr. 
 Simpson’s statement to be true that the young 
 man was “ dangling after his cousin instead of 
 minding his business.” 
 
 Theodore Branshy, on being called upon to 
 explain himself, answered that he understood 
 Miss Cheffington was shortly going to London 
 to reside with her aunt, Mrs. Dormer-Smith. 
 
 “ Oh no, I’m not,” said May promptly, before 
 
62 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 any one else could speak. “ That is quite a 
 mistake.” 
 
 “ Indeed ! ” 
 
 “ Oh yes, indeed it is. I’m going to stay 
 with granny.” 
 
 “ Indeed ! ” said Theodore Bransby once 
 more. Then he added, “ Are you quite sure ? 
 Because I had it from a person who had it from 
 Mrs. Dobbs herself.” 
 
 “ From granny ? ” In her astonishment May 
 let fall the ball of worsted. It rolled across the 
 grass under the very nose of the toy terrier, who 
 snapped at it, and then shivered more strongly 
 than ever with an added sense of injury. 
 
 “Yery likely nothing is positively settled 
 yet,” continued Theodore. “ Mrs. Dobbs was 
 speaking of family arrangements for the future.” 
 “ Then I suppose,” said May, with an anxious 
 look, “ that she has heard from papa ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, I believe so ; something was said about 
 a communication from Captain Cheffington.” 
 There was a little pause. Then Mrs. Hadlow 
 said, “ Well, of course we shall be sorry to lose 
 you, my dear, as Theodore says. But it is 
 quite right that you should be amongst your 
 own people, and be properly introduced.” 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 63 
 
 “ Granny is my own people,” returned May 
 in a low voice. 
 
 “ Of course ; and a most kind and excellent 
 grandmother she is. But I mean — in short, 
 since it is Mrs. Dobbs’s own plan, we must 
 suppose she thinks it best for you to go to 
 town ; and I must say I agree with her.” 
 
 “It is obviously necessary,” said young 
 Bransby. “ Miss Cheffington will have, of 
 course, to be presented.” 
 
 “ Why, you look quite glum, May ! ” cried 
 Constance laughing. “ Oh, you little goose ! 
 I only wish I had the chance of going to town 
 to he presented.” 
 
 Owen Rivers, who had hitherto been silent, 
 now addressed May, and asked her if she 
 disliked her aunt. 
 
 “ Dislike Aunt Pauline ? Oh no ; I don’t 
 dislike her at all. But I — I don’t know her 
 very well.” 
 
 “ I thought,” said Bransby, “ that you had 
 been in the habit of staying with Mrs. Dormer- 
 Smith during the school vacations ? ” 
 
 “ No ; before Grandmamma Cheffington died 
 I used to go to Richmond, and I only saw Aunt 
 Pauline now and then. Since that time I 
 
64 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 haven’t, seen her at all, for I’ve spent all my 
 holidays with dear granny.” 
 
 Constance began to question young Bransby 
 as to who had given him the news about May’s 
 departure ; what it was that had been said ; 
 whether the time of her going away were 
 positively fixed ; and so forth. May rose, and, 
 under cover of picking up her hall of worsted, 
 walked away out of earshot. 
 
 “Are you that phenomenon, a young lady 
 devoid of curiosity, Miss Cheffington ? ” asked 
 Owen Rivers, as she passed near him. 
 
 “ Oh, there’s nothing to he curious about.” 
 returned the girl, flushing a little. “ Granny 
 and I shall talk it all over together this evening. 
 I need not trouble myself about what other 
 people may say or guess.” 
 
 Miss Hadlow had apparently forgotten that 
 it was “ bitterly cold : ” for she continued to 
 sit on the lawn talking with Theodore after the 
 others had gone into the house. She moved at 
 length from her seat at the summons of the 
 luncheon-bell. Fox the terrier, more consistent, 
 had availed himself of the breaking-up of the 
 little party to hasten indoors and establish 
 himself on the dining-room hearthrug : — a step 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 65 
 
 which nothing but his unconquerable dislike to 
 being alone, had prevented him from taking 
 long ago. 
 
 When the two loiterers at length entered the 
 dining-room, Mrs. Hadlow announced that May 
 had gone home. Her grandmother had sent 
 the servant for her a little earlier than usual, 
 and May had refused to remain for luncheon. 
 The young girl’s absence gave an opportunity 
 for discussing her and her prospects ; and they 
 were discussed accordingly, as the party sat at 
 table. 
 
 Mrs. Hadlow expressed great satisfaction at 
 hearing that May was to be received and 
 accepted “ as a Cheffington ; ” Constance in- 
 clined to think that May would not duly appre- 
 ciate her good fortune ; and Theodore Bransby 
 observed stiffly, that Miss Cheffington’s removal 
 to town had always been inevitable, and that 
 the date of it alone could have been matter for 
 uncertainty to persons who knew anything of 
 the Cheffington family. 
 
 “ Well,” said Rivers, “ I suppose Constance is 
 the only one of us here present who possesses 
 that knowledge.” 
 
 “ No ; I never knew much of them,” answered 
 
 5 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
66 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 his cousin. “ I saw them occasionally when I 
 was at school. Sometimes the dowager came 
 down to stay at Brighton, and she used," now 
 and then, to call for May in her carriage ; hut 
 she never entered the doors. And once or 
 twice Mrs. Dormer-Smith came. I remember 
 we girls used to make game of old Mrs. Cheffing- 
 ton with her black wig and her airs.” 
 
 “ She was thoroughly grande dame , I believe,” 
 said Theodore Bransby. 
 
 “ Yery likely. The servants used to say she 
 was dreadfully stingy, and call her an old cat. 
 Mrs. Dormer-Smith had nice manners, and was 
 always beautifully dressed.” 
 
 “ Your information is somewhat sketchy, my 
 dear Constance ; hut no doubt the outline is 
 correct as far as it goes,” observed Rivers. 
 
 “ Decidedly sketchy ! ” said Mrs. Hadlow, 
 who was helping her guests to minced mutton. 
 
 “ Miss Hadlow, however, is not the only one 
 of us who knows anything about the Cheffing- 
 tons,” said young Bransby, with his grave air. 
 
 “ Oh, dear me, I had forgotten ! ” interposed 
 Mrs. Hadlow, after a quick glance at the young 
 man’s face. “ To be sure, Theodore has visited 
 the family in town. The fact is, Theodore has 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 67 
 
 been a stranger himself so long, that we have 
 had no opportunity of hearing his report. Tell 
 us what the Dormer-Smiths are like, Theodore, 
 since you know them.” 
 
 “ Like ? They are like people who move in 
 the best society — like thoroughbred people,” 
 returned Theodore, drawing himself up, stiffly. 
 
 “ Poor little May ! ” said Mrs. Hadlow, 
 thoughtfully. “ She’s a sweet little thing. I 
 hope they’ll be kind to her.” 
 
 “ Do you know anything of Mrs. Dobbs, 
 Aunt Jane?” asked Rivers. “I mean,” he 
 added, “ of course, you know of her. But do 
 you know her ? ” 
 
 “ Oh yes. Once, many years ago, the canon 
 had a tough battle with Mrs. Dobbs, when he 
 was helping to canvas for the city member. 
 We couldn’t get her husband’s vote for the 
 right side. But he was a worthy man, and 
 sold very good ironmongery. When Constance 
 first asked leave to invite her schoolfellow here, 
 I had an interview with Mrs. Dobbs. She came 
 to the point at once. She said, ‘ Mrs. Hadlow, 
 you need not be uneasy. My friends and equals 
 are not yours ; but neither are they my grand- 
 daughter’s. She belongs by her father’s family 
 
68 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 to a different class. As for me, I am too old to 
 make any mistakes about my place in the world, 
 and too proud to wish to change it.” 
 
 “ Too proud ! ” repeated Bransby, with raised 
 eyebrows. 
 
 “ I thought it was very well said,” answered 
 Mrs. Hadlow. “ I only wish all the people of 
 her class had the same honest pride. But Mrs. 
 Dobbs is a woman of great good sense, and of 
 the highest integrity. All the same, of course, 
 now that May is grown up, the girl’s position 
 in that house is too anomalous. Captain 
 Cheffington no doubt feels that. He probably 
 left his daughter there so long out of tenderness 
 to Mrs. Dobbs’s feelings ; and perhaps also to 
 help out the old lady’s income. But now, 
 naturally, it must come to an end. He can’t 
 sacrifice May’s future. That is how I explain 
 the state of the case ; and it seems to me to be 
 creditable to all concerned.” 
 
 “ At all events, it is creditable to Mrs. Dobbs, 
 Aunt Jane,” said Rivers. 
 
 “ And why not, pray, to Captain Cheffington 
 too ? ” asked Constance. “ But Captain Cheffing- 
 ton has the misfortune to be born a gentleman, 
 so, of course, Owen disapproves of him.” 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 69 
 
 “ Not at all, ‘ of course.’ But I agree with 
 you as to the misfortune — for the other gentle- 
 men, at all events ! ” 
 
 “ I think you’re a little mistaken about Cap- 
 tain Cheffington, Rivers,” said Theodore. “ He’s 
 a friend of mine.” 
 
 “ In that case I’m very sorry,” answered 
 Owen drily. 
 
 Mrs. Hadlow here interposed, rising from the 
 table with a show of cheerful bustle. “ Come,” 
 said she, “you children must not loiter here all 
 day. The canon comes home from Wendhurst 
 by the three-forty train, and I am going to 
 meet him ; Constance has an engagement with 
 the Burtons ; and as for you two boys, I shall 
 turn you out without ceremony.” 
 
 The kind lady’s intention had been to break 
 off the discourse between the two young men, 
 which threatened to become disagreeable. But 
 as Bransby and Rivers walked away side by 
 side through the fretted cloister of College 
 Quad, the former, with a certain quiet dogged- 
 ness which belonged to him, returned to the 
 subject. 
 
 “ You must understand,” he said, “ that I am 
 not very intimate with Captain Cheffington ; 
 
70 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 but I know him, and am bis debtor for some 
 courteous attentions. And I think you are a 
 little — rash, if you don’t mind my saying so, in 
 condemning him.” 
 
 “ I don’t at all mind your saying so.” 
 
 “ You see, there are a great many circum- 
 stances to be taken into account, in judging of 
 Captain Cheffington’s career. In the first place, 
 there was his unfortunate marriage.” 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 71 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 When Augustus Chefifington had paid that 
 sudden visit to his mother-in-law which resulted 
 in leaving May on her hands, Theodore Bransby 
 happened to be at home during a University 
 vacation, and was flattered by Captain ChefBng- 
 ton’s notice. The fact was that Augustus found 
 himself greatly bored and out of his element in 
 Oldchester, and was glad to accept a dinner or 
 two from Mr. Bransby, the solicitor to the Dean 
 and Chapter ; for Mr. Bransby ’s port wine was 
 unimpeachable. He had also condescended to 
 play several games of billiards with Theodore 
 upon a somewhat mangy old table in the Green 
 Dragon Hotel ; and to smoke that young gentle- 
 man’s cigars without stint ; and to hold forth 
 about himself in the handsomest terms, pleased 
 to be accepted, apparently, pretty much at his 
 own valuation. Theodore Bransby was no fool. 
 
72 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 But he was young, and he had his illusions. 
 These were not of a high-flown, ideal cast. He 
 would have shrugged his shoulders at any one 
 who should set up for philanthropy, or poetry, 
 or socialism, or chivalry. But he was subdued 
 by a display of nonchalant disdain for all the 
 things and persons which he had been accus- 
 tomed to look up to, from childhood. Mr. 
 Bragg, the great tin-tack manufacturer, his 
 father’s wealthiest client, was dismissed by 
 Augustus Cheffington in two words : “ Damned 
 snob ! ” and even the bishop he pronounced to 
 be a “ prosin’ old prig,” and spoke of the 
 bishop’s wife as “ that vulgar fat woman.” 
 These indications of superiority, together with 
 many references to the noble and honourable 
 Castlecombes and Cheflingtons who composed 
 Augustus’s kith and kin, had greatly fascinated 
 Theodore. And Augustus had completed his 
 conquest over the young man by giving him a 
 letter of introduction to his sister, Mrs. Dormer- 
 Smith, which letter was delivered when young 
 Bransby went to London to read for the Bar. 
 
 Although the brother and sister had parted 
 not on the best terms with each other, yet 
 Augustus had not hesitated to give the intro- 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 73 
 
 duction. He believed that his sister would be 
 willing to honour bis recommendation by show- 
 ing civilities which cost her nothing ; and, 
 moreover, he was quite indifferent (being then 
 on the point of saying a long farewell to Old- 
 chester) as to whether the Dormer-Smiths 
 snubbed young Bransby or not. They did not 
 snub him. Mrs. Dormer-Smith rather approved 
 of his manners ; and it was quite clear that he 
 wanted neither for means nor friends. She was 
 therefore inclined to receive him with something 
 more than politeness. And, in justice to Pauline, 
 it must he said that she was really glad of the 
 opportunity to please her brother. She was 
 not without fraternal sentiments ; and she 
 strongly felt that an introduction from a 
 Cheffington to a Cheffington was not a docu- 
 ment to he lightly dishonoured. As for Mr. 
 Dormer-Smith, although his feelings towards his 
 brother-in-law — never very cordial — had been 
 exacerbated by having to pay the hill for the 
 dowager’s funeral expenses, yet his resentment 
 had been to some degree soothed by Augustus’s 
 abrupt departure, and by his withdrawal of 
 May from her aunt’s house. For many years 
 past the attachment of Augustus’s relations for 
 
74 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 him had increased in direct proportion to the 
 distance which, divided him from them. In 
 Belgium he was tolerated and pitied ; had he 
 gone to the Antipodes he would doubtless have 
 been warmly sympathized with ; and it might 
 safely be prophesied that, when he should finally 
 emigrate from this planet altogether, the sur- 
 viving members of the family would be pene- 
 trated by a glow of affection. 
 
 “ I think he’s rather nice, Frederick,” said 
 Mrs. Dormer-Smith, with a little sigh of relief 
 after young Bransby’s first visit. 
 
 “ We may be thankful,” returned her husband, 
 “ that Augustus has sent us a possible person. 
 One never can reckon on what he may choose 
 to do.” 
 
 “ Mr. Bransby is quite possible. Indeed, I 
 think he is nice. He shall have a card for my 
 Thursdays.” 
 
 In this way Theodore had been received by 
 Mrs. Dormer-Smith, and had established himself 
 in her good opinion on further acquaintance. 
 “ He was,” she said, “ so quiet and so safe.” 
 At this time May Cheffington was still at 
 school, being maintained there, as has been 
 recorded, by her grandmother Dobbs ; and 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 75 
 
 Pauline would occasionally speak of her niece 
 to young Bransby. She always spoke kindly, 
 though plaintively, of the girl, over whom there 
 hung the shadow of the unfortunate marriage. 
 
 Theodore Bransby was an Oldchester person, 
 and could not, therefore, be supposed to be 
 ignorant of that lamentable event. The fact 
 was, however, that he had never heard a word 
 about it until he made Captain Cheffington’s 
 acquaintance in his native city. It had taken 
 place before he was born ; and, indeed, Old- 
 chester had been less agitated by the marriage, 
 even at the time when it happened, than any 
 Cheffington or Castlecombe would have believed 
 possible. But Pauline found young Bransby ’s 
 sentiments on the subject all that they should 
 be. No one could have expressed himself more 
 shocked at the idea of a gentleman’s marrying 
 a person in Susan Dobbs’s rank of life than did 
 this solicitor’s son. And Mrs. Dormer-Smith 
 had not the least suspicion that he would have 
 considered such a marriage quite as shocking a 
 mesalliance for himself as for Captain Cheffing- 
 ton. “ Misunderstanding ” is used as a synonym 
 for “ discord ; ” but, perhaps, a great deal of 
 social harmony depends on misunderstandings. 
 
76 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 Theodore could not, of course, have the 
 slightest personal interest in a schoolgirl whom 
 he had never seen ; but his sympathies were so 
 entirely with the Cheffingtons on the question 
 of the unfortunate marriage as to inspire him 
 with an odd feeling of antagonism against Mrs. 
 Dobbs, and a sense that she ought to he firmly 
 kept in her place. He secretly thought Mrs. 
 Dormer-Smith weakly indulgent in allowing 
 Miss Cheffington to associate so freely with her 
 grandmother, and was indignant at the idea of 
 that plebeian exercising any authority over 
 Lord Castlecombe’s grandniece. However, all 
 that would doubtless come to an end when the 
 girl left school, and was introduced into society 
 under her aunt’s protection. Theodore flattered 
 himself that he thoroughly understood the posi- 
 tion. As for Yiscount Castlecombe, he certainly 
 knew all about him — or, at least, what was 
 chiefly worth knowing ; for he had read about 
 him in the Peerage. 
 
 Primed with this varied knowledge, young 
 Bransby held forth to Owen Rivers as they 
 walked together through College Quad, across 
 the open green beyond it, and up to the house 
 of Mr. Bransby, senior, in the Cathedral Close. 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 77 
 
 Here they parted. Rivers declined a polite 
 invitation from the other to enter, and pursued 
 his way alone towards the High Street ; and 
 Bransby, as he waited for the door to be opened, 
 stood looking after him for a few moments. 
 
 The two young men had known each other 
 more or less all their lives, hut theirs was a 
 familiarity without real intimacy. The years 
 had not made them more congenial to each 
 other. People began to say that they were 
 rivals in Constance Hadlow’s good graces. But, 
 whether this were so or not, the latent an- 
 tagonism between them had existed long before 
 they grew to be men. They had never quarrelled. 
 The air is always still enough in a frost. They 
 did not even know how much they disliked one 
 another. As Theodore watched Owen’s retreat- 
 ing figure, the thought uppermost in his mind 
 was that his friend’s shooting-coat was badly 
 cut, and that he did not remember ever to have 
 seen him wear gloves. 
 
 The home of Mr. Martin Bransby, of the 
 old-established firm of Cadell and Bransby, was 
 a luxurious one. The house was an ancient 
 substantial stone building, with a spacious 
 walled garden behind it, contiguous to the 
 
78 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 bishop’s. The present occupant had made con- 
 siderable additions to it. It is perhaps needless 
 to say that he had been severely criticized for 
 doing so, there being no point on which it is 
 more difficult to content public opinion than the 
 expenditure of one’s own money. Several of 
 Mr. Bransby’s acquaintances were unable to 
 reconcile themselves to the fact that he was not 
 satisfied with that which had satisfied his father 
 and grandfather (for Martin Bransby was the 
 third of his family who had successively held 
 that house and the business of solicitor to the 
 Dean and Chapter of Oldchester). It would 
 have been better, they opined, if, instead of 
 building new rooms, he had saved his money to 
 provide for the young family rising around 
 him. If it were observed to this irreconcilable 
 party that the presence of a numerous family 
 necessitated more space to lodge them in 
 than the original house afforded, they would 
 triumphantly retort, “ Very well, then, what 
 business had Martin Bransby to marry a second 
 time ? Or, if he must marry, w T hy did he 
 choose a young girl without a penny instead 
 of some person nearer his own age and with a 
 little property ? ” Martiu Bransby, however, 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 79 
 
 marrying rather to please himself than to earn 
 the approval of his friends, had chosen a re- 
 markably pretty girl of twenty, a Miss Louisa 
 Lutyer, of a good Shropshire family, whom he 
 had met in London. They had now been 
 married twelve years, during which time five 
 children had been horn to them, and they had 
 lived together in the utmost harmony. Those 
 persons who disapproved of the match (solely 
 in Mr. Branshy’s interests, of course) could find 
 nothing worse to say than that Martin was 
 absurdly in love with his wife, and treated her 
 with weak indulgence. In short, the irrecon- 
 cilables were driven, year by year, to put off 
 the date at which their unfavourable judgments 
 were to he corroborated by facts, much as sundry 
 popular preachers have been compelled by cir- 
 cumstances over which they had no control, to 
 postpone the end of the world. 
 
 Latterly they had had the mournful satisfac- 
 tion of observing that Martin Bransby was 
 looking far from well — harassed and aged. And 
 when he was attacked by the severe illness 
 which threatened his life, they solemnly hinted 
 that the malady had been aggravated by anxiety 
 about his young family ; for although Martin 
 
80 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 had made, and was making, a great deal of 
 money, yet, with three boys to put out in the 
 world, two daughters to provide for, and an 
 extravagant wife to maintain, even the excellent 
 business of Cadell and Bransby must be some- 
 what strained to supply his needs. 
 
 At any rate, the evidences of wealth and 
 comfort were as abundant as ever in the home 
 which Theodore entered when he parted from 
 his friend. There was plenty of solid furniture, 
 dating from the dark ages before modern 
 aestheticism had arisen to reform upholstery 
 and teach us the original sinfulness of the 
 prismatic colours. But these relics of the earlier 
 part of the century were not to be found in the 
 two spacious drawing-rooms, which had been 
 arranged by the fashionablest of fashionable 
 house-decorators from London. These rooms, 
 together with a tiny cabinet behind them, which 
 was styled “ The Boudoir,” were Mrs. Bransby ’s 
 special domain. And here Theodore found her 
 seated by the fireside. A book lay on her 
 knees ; but she was not reading it. She was 
 resting in a position of complete repose, with 
 her head leaning against the back of the chair, 
 her hands carelessly crossed on her lap, and 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 81 
 
 her feet supported on a cushion. She was 
 enjoying the sense of bodily and mental rest 
 which comes from the removal of a keen-edged, 
 anxiety ; for during several weeks Mrs. Bransby 
 had been the most devoted of sick-nurses, and 
 had scarcely left her husband’s room. But now 
 the doctors had pronounced all danger to be 
 over ; the children’s active feet and shrill voices 
 were no longer hushed down by warning 
 fingers ; the housemaid sang over her brooms 
 and dusters ; and the mistress of the house had 
 unpacked and put on a new “ tea-gown,” which 
 had lain neglected for more than a fortnight in 
 its brown-paper wrappings. From the golden- 
 brown clusters of hair on her forehead to the 
 tip of her dainty shoe every detail of her 
 appearance was cared for minutely. Yet there 
 was nothing of stiffness or affectation. She 
 reminded one of an exquisitely-tended hothouse 
 flower, and carried her beauty and her toilet 
 with as perfect an air of unconscious refinement 
 as the flower itself. Certainly Oldchester held 
 no more lovely and graceful figure than Mrs. 
 Bransby presented to the eyes of her stepson. 
 Yet the eyes of her stepson rested on her with 
 a glance of cool disapprobation. His manner of 
 yol. i. 6 
 
82 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 addressing her, however, was not more chilly 
 than his manner of addressing most other per- 
 sons — perhaps rather less so ; and he was 
 scrupulously polite. 
 
 “ Did Hatch give a good account of my 
 father this morning ? ” he asked, seating himself 
 by the fire opposite to Mrs. Bransby. 
 
 “ Excellent, thank goodness ! He is to drive 
 out on Wednesday, if the weather is favourable. 
 I felt so soothed and comforted by Dr. Hatch’s 
 report, that I thought I would indulge myself 
 with half an hour of perfect laziness,” added 
 Mrs. Bransby, with a deprecating glance at 
 Theodore. She constantly reproved herself for 
 assuming an apologetic attitude towards her 
 stepson, but constantly recurred to it ; she was 
 so keenly conscious of his — always unexpressed 
 — criticism. 
 
 “ Mrs. Hadlow desired to send word that the 
 canon means to call on my father this afternoon, 
 if he is well enough to see him.” 
 
 “ Oh yes ; a talk with Canon Hadlow will do 
 him good.” Then, after an instant’s pause, 
 Mrs. Bransby asked, “ Have you been in College 
 Quad, then ? ” 
 
 “ I lunched with Mrs. Hadlow. Rivers was 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 83 
 
 there ; I parted from him just now. And Miss 
 Cheffington.” 
 
 “ Oh, really ? Mrs. Hadlow is very kind to 
 that little May Cheffington.” 
 
 Theodore made no answer, hut looked stiffly 
 at the fire. 
 
 Mrs. Bransby went on : “I saw her in the 
 cathedral at afternoon service yesterday, with 
 the Hadlows. It struck me she was growing 
 quite pretty. Don’t you think so ? ” 
 
 “ I should not call her pretty ” began 
 
 Theodore slowly. 
 
 Mrs. Bransby broke in : “ Well, of course, 
 she is eclipsed by Constance. Constance is so 
 
 very handsome. But still ” 
 
 “ I should not describe Miss Cheffington as 
 pretty ,” pursued Theodore, in an inflexible kind 
 of way. “ She is something more than pretty. 
 She looks thoroughbred.” 
 
 “ But that’s exactly what she is not , isn’t it ? ” 
 exclaimed Mrs. Bransby impulsively. 
 
 “ I am not sure that I apprehend you.” 
 
 “ I mean her mother was quite a common 
 person, was she not ? ” 
 
 “ A woman takes her husband’s rank.” 
 
 “ Yes ; but she doesn’t inherit his ancestors. 
 
84 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 Besides, one really doesn’t know much about 
 the father, for that matter. To he sure, Simmy 
 was making a great flourish about May’s grand 
 relations in London this morning. But then 
 all poor dear Simmy’s geese are swans.” (The 
 name of “ Simmy ” had been bestowed on Mrs. 
 Simpson by the youngest little Bransby but 
 one ; and although the elder children were 
 reproved for using it, the appellation had come 
 to be that by which she was most familiarly 
 known in the Bransby family.) 
 
 “ Mrs. Simpson is a silly person, but her 
 information happens, in this case, to be correct,” 
 returned Theodore. “ The relations with whom 
 Miss Cheffington is going to live in London are 
 friends of mine.” 
 
 “ Oh ! Then what Simmy said is true ? ” 
 said Mrs. Bransby simply. 
 
 Theodore proceeded, with a scarcely per- 
 ceptible hesitation, “ I think you might invite 
 Miss Cheffington here before she goes to town. 
 I — I should be obliged to you for the oppor- 
 tunity of showing her some attention, in return 
 for the Dormer-Smiths’ kindness to me in 
 London.” 
 
 “ Yes, I can ask the girl if you like,” answered 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 85 
 
 Mrs. Bransby, not quite as warmly as Theodore 
 thought she ought to have answered such a 
 suggestion from him ; “ but it will be rather 
 stupid for her, I’m afraid. At the Hadlows’ 
 there is a young girl near her own age ; but 
 here, unless she likes to play with the children, 
 I don’t see how we are to amuse her.” 
 
 “ I did not contemplate Miss Cheffington’s 
 playing with the children. I meant that you 
 should invite her to a dinner-party, or some- 
 thing of that sort.” 
 
 “ Invite May Cheffington to a dinner-party ! ” 
 repeated Mrs. Bransby, opening her soft, brown 
 eyes in astonishment. 
 
 “ My father spoke of giving a dinner before 
 I go back to the Temple, and he said he thought 
 he should be well enough to see his friends by 
 the end of next week.” 
 
 “ Yes. He talked of inviting the Pipers, and 
 the Hadlows, and perhaps Mr. Bragg.” 
 
 “ Could you not include Miss Cheffington ? 
 Perhaps if you allowed me to see your list I 
 might help to arrange it.” 
 
 “Oh, I suppose one could; but wouldn’t it 
 seem a very strange thing to do ? ” 
 
 A little colour came into Theodore’s pale fair 
 
86 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 face, and his chin grew visibly more rigid above 
 his cravat, as he answered, “ I don’t know. But 
 the social convenances are not to be measured by 
 Oldchester’s provincial ideas as to their strange- 
 ness. And — pardon me — I don't think you 
 quite understand Miss Cheffington’s position.” 
 
 And then he entered on an explanation of 
 the “ position,” much as he had explained it to 
 Owen Rivers ; with only such suppressions and 
 variations (chiefly regarding the private history 
 of Augustus Cheffington) as he thought the 
 difference between his hearers demanded. 
 
 “ Well, I’m sure if your father has no 
 objection, I have none,” said Mrs. Bransby at 
 length. And so Theodore got his own way. 
 It was a matter of course that he should get his 
 own way so far as his stepmother was con- 
 cerned. Mrs. Bransby had, indeed, successfully 
 resisted him on many occasions ; but always 
 through the medium of her husband. If Theo- 
 dore attacked her face to face, she never had 
 the courage to oppose him. Not that in the 
 present case she very much wished to oppose 
 him. Nor, in truth, had their wills ever clashed 
 seriously. But the secret consciousness of her 
 weakness and timidity was mortifying : for 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 87 
 
 Mrs. Bransby, although too gentle to fight, was 
 not too gentle to wish she could fight. And 
 after Theodore had left the room, she sat for 
 some time imagining to herself various neat 
 and pointed speeches which would doubtless 
 have brought down her stepson’s sententious, 
 supercilious tone, if she had only had the 
 presence of mind to utter them. 
 
88 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 Mat Cheffington went back to her grand- 
 mother’s house, very eager to understand the 
 origin of the rumours about herself which she 
 had heard at the Hadlows’. Mrs. Dobbs had 
 not calculated on this, and would have preferred 
 to break the project to May herself, and in her 
 own fashion. However, as it had been men- 
 tioned, she spoke of it openly. She merely 
 cautioned her grand-daughter against rashly 
 jumping at any conclusions : the future being 
 very vague and unsettled. 
 
 “There’s one conclusion I have jumped at, 
 granny,” said the girl, “ and that is, that I 
 don’t mean to give you up for any aunts, or 
 uncles, or cousins of them all. They are 
 strangers to me, and I don’t care a straw about 
 them — how should I ? — whilst you are — 
 granny ! ” 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 89 
 
 “ There is no question of giving me up, May. 
 Perhaps I should not like that much better than 
 you would. But if your father should think it 
 right for you to stay for a while with his 
 family, we mustn’t oppose him. And I must 
 tell you that I should think it right, too.” 
 
 “ Oh, if it’s only staying ‘ for a while ’ ! ” 
 
 “ Well, at all events we needn’t look beyond 
 a ‘ while ’ and a short while, for the present.” 
 Mrs. Dobbs found it more difficult than she 
 had anticipated to put before May the prospect 
 of being removed from Oldchester altogether, 
 and, now that the idea of losing May out of her 
 daily life fully presented itself, she felt a grip 
 at the heart which frightened her. But she 
 had one of those strong characters whose 
 instinct it is to hide their wounds and suffer 
 silently ; and she resolutely put aside her own 
 pain at this prospect — or rather, put it off to 
 the solitary hours to come. 
 
 During the four years since her father had 
 left her at Oldchester, May’s life had been 
 passed between her school at Brighton and her 
 holidays in Oldchester. These had certainly 
 been the happiest years she could remember in 
 all her young life. Her grandmother’s house 
 
90 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 had been the first real home she had ever 
 known. Her recollections of their life on the 
 Continent were dim and melancholy. She 
 remembered fragmentary scenes and incidents 
 in certain dull Flemish towns ; their strong- 
 smelling gutters, their toppling gables, the 
 carillons sounding high up in some ancient 
 cathedral belfry. She had a vision of her 
 mother’s face, very pale and thin, with large 
 bright eyes, and streaks of gray in the brown 
 hair. May, as the youngest of Susan Cheffing- 
 ton’s children, had come in for the worst part 
 of their Continental life. The earlier years, 
 when there was still some money to spend, and 
 fewer debts to he run away from, had not been 
 quite devoid of brightness. But poor little 
 May’s conscious observation had little to take 
 note of at home save poverty, sickness, domestic 
 dissensions, and frequent migrations from one 
 shabby lodging to another. Then her mother 
 died, and some six or eight months afterwards 
 she was brought to England, and — Fate and 
 the dowager so willing it — was sent to school 
 to Mrs. Drax in Brighton. The choice of this 
 school proved to be a very fortunate one for the 
 little motherless stranger. And perhaps the 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 91 
 
 credit of it ought fairly to be assigned rather to 
 Destiny than the dowager. The latter would 
 have selected a more fashionable, pretentious, 
 and expensive establishment had she consulted 
 merely her idea of what was becoming and 
 suitable for Miss Miranda Chefifington. But she 
 soon found out that whatever was paid for that 
 young lady’s schooling must, sooner or later, 
 come out of her own pocket, and she therefore 
 preferred to honour Mrs. Drax with her patron- 
 age, rather than Madame Liebrecht, who had 
 been governess for years in a noble family, and 
 was supposed to accept no pupil who could not 
 show sixteen quarterings ; or, of course, their 
 equivalent in cash. 
 
 The choice made was, as has been said, very 
 fortunate for May. Mrs. Drax had the manners 
 of a gentlewoman, and more amiability than 
 could perhaps have been reasonably expected to 
 survive a long struggle with her special world 
 — a world of parents and guardians, who held, 
 for the most part, a liberal view of her duties 
 and a niggardly one of her rights. Here little 
 May Cheffington remained as a pupil for nearly 
 eight years. During the first half of that time 
 she sometimes spent her holidays with the 
 
92 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 dowager at Richmond, and sometimes in 
 Brighton under the care of Mrs. Drax. She 
 preferred the latter. Old Mrs. Cheffington did 
 not treat the child with any active unkindness ; 
 but she showed her no tenderness. The little 
 girl was usually left to the care of her grand- 
 mother’s maid — an elderly woman, to whom 
 this young creature was merely an extra 
 burthen not considered in her wages. The 
 child passed many a lonely hour in the garden, 
 or beside the dining-room fire with a book, un- 
 heeded. Her aunt Pauline she only saw at 
 rare intervals. She had a confused sense of 
 innocently causing much sorrow to Mrs. 
 Dormer-Smith, who seemed always to be 
 afflicted (why, May did not for several years 
 understand) by the sight of her clothes ; and 
 who used to complain softly to the dowager 
 that “ the poor dear child was lamentably 
 dressed.” But, on the whole, she retained a 
 rather agreeable impression of her aunt, as 
 being pretty and gentle, and kissing her kindly 
 when they met. 
 
 Then came the dowager’s death, the sudden 
 journey to Oldchester, and the first acquaintance 
 with that unknown Grandmother Dobbs, whose 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 93 
 
 very name she had heard uttered only in a 
 reproachful tone by the dowager, or in a hushed 
 voice by the dowager’s elderly maid, speaking 
 as one who names a hereditary malady. And 
 to this taboo Grandmother Dobbs the neglected 
 child soon gave the warm love of a very grateful 
 and affectionate nature. May did not know or 
 guess that she was a burthen on her grand- 
 mother’s means, nor would the knowledge have 
 increased her gratitude at that time. It was 
 the fostering affection which the child was 
 thankful for. She nestled in it like a half- 
 fledged bird in the warm shelter of the mother’s 
 wing. She was not timid or reserved by 
 temperament ; but the circumstances of her life 
 had given her a certain repressed air. That 
 disappeared now like hoar-frost in the sunshine. 
 She was like a young plant whose growth had 
 been arrested by a too chilly atmosphere. She 
 burgeoned and bloomed into the natural joyous- 
 ness of childhood, which needs, above all 
 things, the warmth of love, and cannot be 
 healthily nurtured by any artificial heat. 
 
 In her school there was no influence tending 
 to diminish May’s attachment to her grand- 
 mother, or her perfect contentment with the 
 
94 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 simple bourgeois home in Oldchester. Plain 
 Mrs. Dobbs, who paid her bills punctually, and 
 listened to reason, stood far higher in the 
 schoolmistress’s esteem than the Honourable 
 Mrs. Cheffington, who was never contented, 
 and required to he dunned for the payment of 
 her just debts. As to her noble relations, May 
 had no acquaintance with them, and never 
 sighed to make it. She was ignorant of the 
 very existence of many of them. When, at 
 seventeen years of age, she was removed from 
 school, she looked forward to living in the old 
 house in Friar’s Row, and she certainly desired 
 no better home. Mrs. Drax, it has been said, 
 had the manners of a gentlewoman, and she 
 had not vulgarized May’s natural refinement of 
 mind by misdirecting her admiration towards 
 ignoble things. The provincialisms in her 
 grandmother’s speech, and the homely style of 
 her grandmother’s household — although she 
 clearly perceived both — neither shocked nor 
 mortified May. On the other hand, she 
 accepted it as a quite natural thing that she 
 should be invited to Canon Hadlow’s house as 
 a guest on equal terms. As Mrs. Dobbs had 
 said to Jo Weatherhead, May was very much 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 95 
 
 of a child still, and understood nothing of the 
 world. Her unquestioning acceptance of the 
 situation as her grandmother presented it to 
 her had something very childlike. She did 
 not inquire how it came to pass that her aunt 
 Pauline, who had taken very little notice of her 
 during the past four years, should now desire 
 to have her as an inmate of her home. She 
 did not ask why her father, after so long a 
 torpor on the subject, had suddenly awakened 
 to the necessity of asserting his daughter’s 
 position in the world ; neither did she, even in 
 her private thoughts, reproach him for having 
 delegated all the care and responsibility of her 
 education to “ granny.” A healthy-minded 
 young creature has deep well-springs of un- 
 questioning faith in its parents, or those who 
 stand in the place of parents. 
 
 But there was one person not so easily con- 
 tented with the first statement offered ; and 
 that person was Mr. Joseph Weatherhead. 
 Mr. Weatherhead -was very fond of May, and 
 admired her very much. His social and political 
 theories ought logically to have made him 
 regard her with peculiar interest and considera- 
 tion as coming of such very blue blood — at 
 
96 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 least on one side of the house. But it so 
 happened that these theories had nothing on 
 earth to do with his attachment to May. That 
 arose, firstly, from her being Sarah Dobbs’s 
 grandchild (Jo would have loved and championed 
 any creature, biped or quadruped, that belonged 
 to Sarah Dobbs), and, secondly, from her being 
 very lovable. The poor man was often em- 
 barrassed by the conflict between his curiosity 
 and his principles. His curiosity, which was 
 as insatiable and omnivorous as the appetite of 
 a pigeon, would have led him to cross-question 
 May minutely about all she knew or guessed 
 respecting her own future, and the probable 
 behaviour of her father’s family towards her ; 
 but his conscience told him that it would not 
 be right to put doubts and suspicions into the 
 girl’s trusting young soul. Certainly he him- 
 self cherished many doubts and suspicions as 
 to the future conduct of May’s papa. He 
 questioned Mrs. Dobbs, indeed ; but there was 
 neither sport nor exercise for his sharp in- 
 quisitiveness in that. When Mrs. Dobbs did 
 not choose to answer him, she said so roundly, 
 and there was an end. She had told him 
 that she was in correspondence with Captain 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 97 
 
 Cheffington, and that she believed he would 
 share her views about his daughter. Jo, 
 however, entertained a rooted disbelief as to 
 Captain Cheffington’s holding any “ views ” 
 which had not himself for their supreme object. 
 
 “ And this Mrs. Dormer-Smith, now, Sarah,” 
 said he. “ What reason have you to suppose 
 that she will be willing to take charge of her 
 niece now, when she would have nothing to 
 say to her before ? ” 
 
 “ A pretty girl of seventeen is a different 
 charge from a lanky child of twelve, Jo. Mrs. 
 Dormer-Smith couldn’t have taken a schoolgirl 
 in short frocks out into the world with her.” 
 
 “ Humph ! You don’t know that she will 
 take May out into the world with her ? ” 
 
 “ I have written. I shall have an answer in 
 a few days, I dare say. I don’t expect matters 
 to be settled like a flash of greased lightning, as 
 Mr. Simpson says. There’s a deal to be con- 
 sidered. Hold your tongue, now ; here’s May.” 
 Similar conversations took place between them 
 nearly every day. And when they were not 
 interrupted by any external circumstance, Mrs. 
 Dobbs would resolutely put an end to them by 
 declining to pursue the subject. 
 
 VOL. i. 
 
 7 
 
98 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 One afternoon, about a week after May’s 
 return from her visit to the Hadlows’, the young 
 girl was seated at the old-fasliioned square 
 pianoforte, singing snatches of ballads in a 
 fresh, untrained voice ; Mr. Weatherhead had 
 just taken his accustomed seat by the fireside ; 
 and Mrs. Dobbs was opposite to him in her own 
 armchair, with the old tabby purring in the 
 firelight at her feet, when Martha opened the 
 parlour door softly, shut it quickly after her, 
 and announced, with a slight tone of excitement 
 in her usually quiet voice, that there was a 
 gentleman in the passage asking for Miss May. 
 
 “ For me, Martha ? ” exclaimed May, turning 
 round at the sound of her own name, with one 
 hand still on the keys of the pianoforte. “ Who 
 is he ? ” 
 
 “ He said ‘ Miss Cheffington.’ I don’t know 
 him, not by sight. But here’s his card.” 
 
 Mrs. Dobbs took the card from the servant, 
 and put on her spectacles, bending down to 
 read the name by the firelight. “ Bun — Brun — 
 oh, Bransby ! Mr. Theodore Bransby. Ask the 
 gentleman to walk in, Martha.” 
 
 As Martha left the room, Mr. Weatherhead 
 pointed to the door with one thumb, and 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 99 
 
 whispered, “ Wonder what he wants ! ” To 
 which Mrs. Dobbs replied by lifting her 
 shoulders and slightly shaking her head, as 
 much as to say, “ I’m sure I can’t guess.” The 
 next moment Mr. Theodore Bransby was ushered 
 into the parlour. 
 
 The room was rather dim, and Theodore did 
 not immediately perceive May, who still sat at 
 the piano. “ Miss Cheffington ? ” he said in- 
 terrogatively, with a stiff little gesture of the 
 head towards Mrs. Dobbs, which might pass 
 for a bow. 
 
 Mrs. Dobbs had risen from her chair, and 
 now motioned her visitor to be seated. “ My 
 grand-daughter is here. Pray sit down, Mr. 
 Theodore Bransby,” she said. Then May got up, 
 and came forward, and shook hands with him. 
 
 “ I don’t think you know my grandmother, 
 Mrs. Dobbs,” she said, presenting him. 
 
 Theodore, upon this, began to hold out his 
 hand rather slowly ; but, as Mrs. Dobbs made 
 no answering gesture, but merely pointed again 
 to a chair, he was fain to bow once more — a 
 good deal more distinctly, this time — and to sit 
 down with the sense of having received a little 
 check. 
 
100 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 “ I hope I have not interrupted you, Miss 
 Cheffington ? ” said he, clearing his throat and 
 settling his chin in his shirt-collar. “ You were 
 singing.” 
 
 “Oh no; you haven’t interrupted me at all. 
 And, even if you had, it wouldn’t matter. My 
 singing is not worth much.” 
 
 “ Pardon me if I decline to believe that. 
 From some sounds which reached me through 
 the door, 1 am sure you sing charmingly.” 
 
 May laughed. “ Ah,” said she, “ the other 
 side of the door is the most favourable position 
 for hearing me. I really don’t know how to 
 sing. Ask granny.” 
 
 “ No ; May doesn’t know how to sing,” said 
 Mrs. Dobbs quietly, hut very decisively. (For 
 she had caught an expression on Mr. Theodore 
 Bransby’s pale, smooth face, which seemed to 
 wonder superciliously what on earth she could 
 know about it.) Whereupon his pale, smooth 
 eyebrows raised themselves a hair’s breadth 
 more, but he said nothing. 
 
 “ My grandmother is a great judge of sing- 
 ing, you must know,” went on May innocently. 
 “ She has heard all the best singers at the 
 Oldchester Musical Festivals for years and years 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 101 
 
 past, and she used to sing herself in the choruses 
 of the oratorios.” 
 
 “ Oh, I see ! ” said Theodore, with a little 
 contemptuous air of enlightenment. 
 
 Jo Weatherhead looked across at him uneasily. 
 He had a half-formed suspicion that this young 
 spark with the smooth, rather closely-cropped 
 blonde head, severe shirt-collar, faultlessly-fitting 
 coat, and slightly pedantic utterance, showed a 
 tendency to treat Mrs. Dobhs with impertinence. 
 But he checked the suspicion, for, he argued 
 with himself, young Bransby had had the train- 
 ing of a gentleman. And what gentleman 
 would he impertinent to a worthy and respected 
 woman, and in her own house, too ? He 
 thought, as he looked at him, that Theodore 
 bore very little resemblance to his father, Martin 
 Bransby, who was altogether of a different and 
 more massive type. 
 
 j “ You don’t favour your father much, sir,” 
 said Jo blandly. 
 
 The young man turned his pale blue eyes 
 upon him with a look studiously devoid of all 
 expression. “ I had the honour of knowing 
 your worthy father well, some five-and-twenty 
 — or it may be thirty — years ago.” 
 
102 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 Theodore, continuing to stare at him stonily, 
 said, “ Oh, really ? ” in a low monotone. 
 
 “ Yes ; I knew him in the way of business. 
 He was a customer of mine when I was in the 
 bookselling business at Brummagem, as we 
 called it. Your father was, even at that time, 
 very highly thought of by some of the leading 
 legal luminaries. We had no assizes at Birming- 
 ham, as no doubt you’re aware ; but I used to 
 go over to Warwick Assizes pretty reg’larly in 
 those days, having some dealings there in the 
 stationery line — which I afterwards gave up 
 altogether, though that isn’t to the point — and 
 I used to frequent a good deal of legal company. 
 Mr. Martin Bransby was thought a good deal 
 of, among ’em, I can tell you, and was taken a 
 great deal of notice of by some of the county 
 families — quite the real old gentry,” added Mr. 
 Weatherhead, pursing up his mouth and nodding 
 his bead emphatically, like a man enforcing a 
 statement which his hearers might reasonably 
 hesitate to accept. 
 
 “ Oh, how is Mr. Bransby ? ” asked May. 
 
 “ Tbanks ; my father is going on very well 
 indeed. He has driven out twice, and, in fact, 
 is nearly himself again. He purposes asking 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 103 
 
 some friends to dine with him next week. 
 Indeed, that furnishes the object of my visit 
 here. I — Mrs. Branshy — of course, you under- 
 stand that my father’s long illness has given 
 her a great deal to do.” 
 
 “ Truly it must ! ” broke in Mrs. Dobbs, 
 thinking at once sympathetically of the wife 
 and mother threatened with so cruel a bereave- 
 ment, and now almost suddenly relieved from 
 overwhelming anxiety. “ I’m sure most folks 
 in Oldchester have been feeling greatly for 
 Mrs. Branshy.” 
 
 “ And so,” continued Theodore, addressing 
 himself exclusively to May, “ she has not really 
 been — been able to see as much of you as she 
 would have liked, Miss Cheffington.” 
 
 May looked at him in surprise. “ Why of 
 course ? ” said she. “ Mrs. Branshy hasn’t been 
 thinking about me ! How should she ? ” 
 
 “ That is the reason — I mean my father’s 
 illness, and all the occupations resulting from 
 it — which has induced Mrs. Branshy to make 
 me her ambassador on this occasion.” 
 
 As he spoke, Theodore took a little note from 
 his pocket-book, and handed it to May. She 
 glanced at it, and exclaimed with open astonish- 
 
104 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 ment, “ It’s an invitation to dinner ! Look, 
 granny ! ” 
 
 Mr. Weatherhead poked forward his head to 
 see. It was, in fact, a formal card requesting 
 the pleasure of Miss Cheffington’s company at 
 dinner on the following Saturday. Mrs. Dobbs 
 once more put on her spectacles and read the 
 card. 
 
 “ I hope you will be disengaged,” said Theo- 
 dore, severely ignoring “ granny.” 
 
 “ Oh, I couldn’t go to a grand dinner-party. 
 It would be ridiculous ! ” 
 
 “ May ! That’s not a gracious fashion of 
 receiving an invitation, anyhow,” said Mrs. 
 Dobbs, smiling a little. 
 
 “It’s very kind indeed of Mr. and Mrs. 
 Bransby, but I would much rather not, please,” 
 said May, endeavouring to amend her phrase. 
 
 “ Oh, that’s dreadfully cruel, Miss Cheffing- 
 ton ! ” 
 
 “ You don’t think I ought to go, do you, 
 granny ? ” 
 
 “ That,” replied Mrs. Dobbs, “ depends on 
 circumstances.” 
 
 “ I assure you,” said Theodore, turning round 
 with his most imposing air, “that it would be 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 105 
 
 quite proper for Miss Cheffington to accept the 
 invitation. I should certainly not urge her to 
 do so unless that were the case.” 
 
 Jo Weatherhead’s suspicions as to this young 
 spark’s tendency to impertinence were rather 
 vividly revived hy this speech, and his forehead 
 flushed as dark a red as his nose. But Mrs. 
 Dohhs, looking at Theodore’s fair young face 
 made up into an expression of solemn import- 
 ance, smiled a broad smile of motherly toleration, 
 and answered in a soothing tone — 
 
 “ No, no ; to he sure, you mean to do what’s 
 right and proper ; only young folks don’t look 
 at everything as has to be considered. But 
 youth has the best of it in so many ways, it can 
 afford to be not quite so wise as its elders.” 
 
 This glimpse of himself, as Mrs. Dobbs saw 
 him, was so totally unexpected as completely to 
 dumfounder Theodore for a moment. Never, 
 since he left off round jackets, had he been so ad- 
 dressed : for the behaviour of our acquaintances 
 towards us in daily life is generally modified by 
 their idea of what we think of ourselves. 
 
 “ I — I can assure you,” he stammered ; and 
 then stopped, at a loss for words, in most un- 
 accustomed embarrassment. 
 
106 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 “ There, there, we ain’t bound to say yes or 
 no all in a minute,” pursued Mrs. Dobbs. 
 “ Any way, we couldn’t think of making you 
 postman. That’s all very well for your step- 
 mother, of course ; but May must send her 
 answer in a proper way. Meanwhile, will you 
 stay and have a cup of tea, Mr. Bransby ? It’s 
 just our teatime. The tray will be here in a 
 minute.” 
 
 Theodore had risen as if to go. He now 
 stood hesitating, and looking at May, who 
 certainly gave no answering look of encourage- 
 ment. She wanted him gone, that she might 
 “ talk over ” the invitation with her grand- 
 mother. 
 
 With a pleasant clinking sound, Martha now 
 brought in the tea-tray ; and in another minute 
 had fetched the kettle and placed it on the 
 hob, where, after a brief interval of wheezing 
 and sputtering, consequent on its sudden re- 
 moval from the kitchen fire, it resumed its 
 gurgling sound, and made itself cheerfully at 
 home. 
 
 If Mrs. Dobbs had urged him by another 
 word, — if she had shown by any look or tone 
 that she thought it would be a condescension in 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 107 
 
 him to remain, Theodore would have refused. 
 But she began placidly to scoop out the tea 
 from the caddy, and awaited his reply with 
 unfeigned equanimity. There was an unac- 
 knowledged feeling in his heart that, to go 
 away then and so, would be to make a tiat kind 
 of exit disagreeable to think of. He would like 
 to leave this obtuse old woman impressed with 
 a sense of his superiority ; and apparently it 
 would still require some little time before that 
 impression was made. 
 
 “ Thanks,” he said. “ If I am not disturbing 
 you ” 
 
 “ Dear no ! How could it disturb me ? 
 Martha, bring another cup and saucer.” 
 
 And then Theodore, laying aside his hat and 
 gloves, drew a chair up to the table and accepted 
 the proffered hospitality. 
 
 Having found the method of supercilious 
 reserve rather a failure, the young man now 
 adopted a different treatment for the purpose of 
 awaking Mrs. Dobbs, and that objectionably 
 familiar person with the red nose, to a sense of 
 his social distinction and general merits. He 
 talked — not volubly, indeed. : for that would 
 have been out of his power, even had he wished 
 
108 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 it, but he talked — in a succession of short 
 speeches, beginning 1 for the most • part with 
 “ I.” His efforts were not, however, exclusively 
 aimed at Mrs. Dobbs and Jo Weatherhead. He 
 watched May a good deal, and spoke to her of 
 the Dormer-Smiths as though that were a topic 
 between themselves, from which the profane 
 vulgar (especially profane ex-booksellers, with 
 red noses) were necessarily excluded. As the 
 others said very little — with the exception of 
 an occasional question from Jo Weatherhead — 
 Theodore’s talk assumed the form of a monologue 
 spoken to a dull audience. 
 
 He was conscious, as he walked away from 
 Friar’s Row, of being a little surprised at his 
 own conversational efforts, and half-repentant 
 of his condescension. He had been obliged to 
 take his leave without obtaining any definite 
 answer to the dinner invitation. But, perhaps, 
 the feeling uppermost in his mind was irritation 
 at May’s perfectly simple acceptance of her 
 position as Mrs. Dobbs’s grand-daughter, and 
 her perfectly filial attachment to her grand- 
 mother. “ It is really too bad ! Cheffington 
 ought never to have allowed his daughter to be 
 got hold of by those people, Mrs. Dormer- 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 109 
 
 Smith cannot have the least idea what sort of 
 a milieu her niece lives in ! ” he said to himself. 
 
 The worst was that May was so evidently 
 contented ! If she had been at all distressed by 
 her surroundings, Theodore could have better 
 borne to see her there. 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 1 10 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Persons like the Simpsons, who knew Mrs. 
 Dobbs intimately, allowed her to have a strong 
 judgment, and asserted her to have a still 
 stronger will. She was far too bent on her 
 own way ever to take advice, they said. It 
 certainly did not happen that she took theirs. 
 But Mrs. Dobbs’s judgment was stronger than 
 they knew. It was strong enough to show her 
 on what points other people were likely to 
 know better than she did. She would un- 
 doubtedly have followed Amelia Simpson’s 
 counsels as to the best way of dressing the hair 
 in filmy ringlets — if she had chanced to require 
 that information. 
 
 On the morning after Theodore Bransby’s 
 visit to her house, Mrs. Dobbs put on her bonnet 
 and set off betimes to College Quad. There she 
 had an interview with Mrs. Hadlow, who, it 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 appeared, was going to the Bransbys’ dinner- 
 party, and willingly promised to take charge of 
 May. 
 
 “ It seemed to me it wouldn’t be the right 
 thing for my grand-daughter to go alone to a 
 regular formal party,” said Mrs. Dobbs. “ But, 
 as I don’t pretend to be much of an authority on 
 such matters, I ventured to ask you to tell me.” 
 “ Of course you were quite right, Mrs. Dobbs.” 
 “ And you think she had better accept the 
 invitation ? She doesn’t much want to do so 
 herself, being shy of going amongst strangers. 
 But, to be sure, if she may be under your wing, 
 and in company with Miss Hadlow, that would 
 make a vast difference.” 
 
 “ Oh yes, let her go, Mrs. Dobbs. Sooner 
 or later she will have to go into the world, 
 and it may be well to begin amongst people she 
 is used to. Is it true that she is to go to her 
 aunt’s house in London very soon ? ” 
 
 “ Nothing is settled yet. If there had been, 
 you and Canon Hadlow should have been the 
 first to know it — as it would be only my duty 
 to tell you, after all your kindness to the child. 
 Nothing is settled. But I am in favour of her 
 going myself.” 
 
112 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 “ You take the sensible view, Mrs. Dobbs, as 
 I think you always do — except at election time,” 
 added Mrs. Hadlow, smiling. 
 
 The elder woman smiled back, with a little 
 resolute setting of the lips, and begged her best 
 respects to the canon as she took her leave. 
 The canon was a great favourite with Mrs. 
 Dobbs ; and, on bis part, their political struggle 
 in that long past election bad inspired him with 
 a British respect for his adversary’s pluck and 
 fair play. 
 
 The prospect of going with Mrs. Hadlow and 
 Constance greatly reconciled May to the idea 
 of the dinner-party. But she did not look 
 forward to it with anticipations of enjoyment. 
 
 “ I would much rather dine in the nursery 
 with the children,” she said, unconsciously 
 echoing Mrs. Bransby’s suggestion. 
 
 Mr. Weatherhead, who was present, took her 
 up on this, and said, “ Why, now, May, you 
 will enjoy being in good society ! Mr. Bransby 
 is a very agreeable man, and used to some of 
 the best company in the county. Mrs. Bransby, 
 too, is very pleasant and very pretty ; a Miss 
 Lutyer she was, a regular beauty, and belonging 
 to a good old Shropshire family. And young 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 113 
 
 Theodore ” Jo Weatherhead pausing here, 
 
 and hesitating for a moment, Ma'y broke in, 
 “ Come now, Uncle Jo,” she exclaimed, “ you 
 can’t say that lie's pretty or pleasant ! ” 
 
 “ He’s not bad-looking,” returned Mr. 
 Weatherhead, rather doubtfully. “ Though, to 
 be sure, he isn’t so fine a man as his father.” 
 
 “ No ; this lad is like his mother’s family,” 
 said Mrs. Dobbs. “ I remember his grandfather 
 and grandmother very well.” 
 
 “ Do you ? Do you, Sarah ? Who were 
 they ? What sort of people, now, eh ? ” 
 
 “ Common sort of people ; JRabbitt, their 
 name was. Old Rabbitt kept the Castlecombe 
 Arms, a roadside inn over towards Gloucester 
 way. He ran a coach between his own market- 
 town and Gloucester before tbe branch railway 
 was made, and they say he did a good deal of 
 money-lending; any way, he scraped together 
 a goodish bit, and his wife came in for a slice 
 of luck by a legacy. So altogether their 
 daughter — the first Mrs. Martin Bransby that 
 was — had a nice fortune of her own. She was 
 sent to a good school and well educated, and 
 she was a very good sort of girl ; but she had 
 just the same smooth, light hair, and smooth, 
 
 8 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
114 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 pale face as this young Theodore. Martin 
 Bransby bad money with bis first wife — lie’s 
 got beauty with his second.” 
 
 “ O-ho ! ” exclaimed Jo Weatherhead, eager 
 and attentive. “ Babbitt, eb ? I never knew 
 before who the first Mrs. Bransby was.” 
 
 “ Not a many folks in Oldcbester now do 
 know. I happened to know from being often 
 over at Gloucester, visiting Dobbs’s family, 
 when I was a girl. Many a day we’ve driven 
 past the Castlecombe Arms in the chaise. 
 Dear, dear, how far off it all seems, and yet so 
 plain and distinct ! I couldn’t help thinking 
 of those old times when the lad was here the 
 other day ; he has such a look of old Rabbitt ! ” 
 Thus Mrs. Dobbs, rather dreamily, with her 
 eyes fixed on the opposite houses of Friar’s 
 Row — or as much of them as could be seen 
 above a wire window-blind — and her fingers 
 mechanically busy with her knitting. But she 
 saw neither the quaint gables nor the gray 
 stone- walls. Her mind was transported into 
 the past. She was bowling along a smooth 
 highroad in an old-fashioned chaise. A girl 
 friend sat in the little seat behind her, and 
 leaned over her shoulder from time to time to 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 115 
 
 whisper some saucy joke. Beside her was the 
 girl-friend’s brother, young Isaac Dobbs : — A 
 personable young fellow, who drove the old 
 pony humanely, and seemed in no hurry to get 
 home to Gloucester. She could feel the moist, 
 sweet air of a showery summer evening on her 
 cheek, and smell the scent of a branch of 
 sweetbriar which Isaac had gallantly cut for 
 her from the hedge. 
 
 Theodore Bransby did not guess that Mr. 
 Dobbs had treated him with forbearance and 
 indulgence ; still less did he imagine that the 
 forbearance and indulgence had been due to 
 reminiscences of her girlhood, wherein his 
 maternal grandfather figured as “ Old Rabbit.” 
 
 The question of May’s dress for the dinner- 
 party gave rise to no debate. Mrs. Dobbs had 
 been brought up in the faith that the proper 
 garb for a young girl on all festive occasions 
 was white muslin ; and in white muslin May 
 was arrayed accordingly. The delicate fairness 
 of her arms and neck was not marred by the 
 trying juxtaposition of that dead white material. 
 It served only to give value to the soft flesh 
 tints, and to the sunny brownness of her hair. 
 When she had driven off in the roomy old fly 
 
116 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 with Mrs. Hadlow and the canon and Con- 
 stance, who called to fetch her, Mrs. Dobbs and 
 Mr. Weatherhead agreed that she looked lovely, 
 and must excite general admiration. But the 
 truth was that May’s appearance did not seem 
 to dazzle anybody. Mrs. Hadlow gave her a 
 comprehensive and approving glance when she 
 took her cloak off in the well-lighted hall of 
 Mr. Bransby’s bouse, and said, “ Very neat. 
 Yery nice. Couldn’t be better, May.” Canon 
 Hadlow — a white-haired venerable figure, with 
 the mildest of blue eyes, and a sensitive mouth 
 — smiled on her, and nodded in confirmation 
 of his wife’s verdict. Constance, brilliant in 
 amber, with damask roses at her breast and in 
 her hair, thought her friend looked very school- 
 girlish, and wanting in style. But she had the 
 good-nature to pay the one compliment which 
 she sincerely thought was merited, and to say, 
 “ Your complexion stands even that blue-white 
 book muslin, May. I should look absolutely 
 mahogany-coloured in it ! ” 
 
 May felt somewhat excited and nervous as 
 she followed Mrs. Hadlow up the softly carpeted 
 stairs to the drawing-room. But she had a 
 wholesome conviction of her own unimportance 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRTAGE. 
 
 117 
 
 on this occasion, and comforted herself with the 
 hope of being left to look on without more 
 notice from any one than mere courtesy 
 demanded. Her first impression was one of 
 eager admiration; for just within the drawing- 
 room door stood Mrs. Bransby, looking radiantly 
 handsome. May thought her the loveliest 
 person she had ever beheld ; and her dress 
 struck even May’s inexperienced eyes as being 
 supremely elegant. Constance Hadlow’s attire, 
 with its unrelieved breadth of bright colour 
 and its stiff outline, suddenly appeared as 
 crude as a cheap chromo-lithograph beside a 
 Venetian masterpiece. Behind his wife, seated 
 in an easy-chair, was Martin Bransby, a fine, 
 powerfully built man of sixty, with dark eyes 
 and eyebrows, and a shock of grizzled hair. 
 His naturally ruddy complexion was pallid 
 from recent illness, and the lines under his 
 eyes and round his mouth had deepened per- 
 ceptibly during the last two months. Theodore 
 stood near his father, stiffly upright, and with 
 a cravat and shirt-front so faultlessly smooth 
 and white as to look as though they had been 
 cast in plaster of Paris. Standing with his 
 back to the fire, was Dr. Hatch : — a familiar 
 
118 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 figure to May, as to most eyes in Oldchester. 
 He was a short man, rather too broad for his 
 height ; with benevolent brown eyes, a wide, 
 low forehead, and a wide, firm mouth, singularly 
 expressive of humour when he smiled. No 
 other guest had arrived when the Hadlows 
 entered the drawing-room. 
 
 After the first greetings, the party fell into 
 little groups : the canon and Mr. Bransby, 
 who were very old friends, conversing together 
 in a low voice, whilst Theodore advanced to 
 entertain Mrs. Hadlow with grave politeness, 
 and Constance made a minute and admiring 
 inspection of Mrs. Bransby’s dress. 
 
 May thus found herself a little apart from 
 the rest, and sat down in a corner half hidden 
 by the protruding mantelpiece of carved oak, 
 which rose nearly to the ceiling ; an elaborate 
 erection of richly carved pillars, and shelves 
 and niches holding blue-and-white china, in the 
 most approved style. 
 
 “ Well, Miss May, and how are you ? ” asked 
 Dr. Hatch, moving a little nearer to her, as he 
 stood on the hearthrug. 
 
 “ Quite well, thank you, Dr. Hatch,” said 
 May, looking up with her bright young smile. 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 119 
 
 “ That’s right ! But don’t mention to any 
 member of the Faculty that I said so. There’s 
 a jnofessional etiquette in these matters ; and I 
 shouldn’t like to be quoted as having given any 
 encouragement to rude health.” 
 
 “ I’ll take care,” returned May, falling into 
 his humour, and assuming a grave look. “ And 
 I will always bear witness for you that you 
 gave me some very nasty medicine when I had 
 the measles, Dr. Hatch. I’m sure the other 
 doctors would approve of that, wouldn’t they ? ” 
 “ Nice child,” murmured Dr. Hatch. “ Under- 
 stands a joke. It would be as much as my 
 practice is worth to talk in that way to some 
 young ladies I could mention. Well, and so 
 this is your first entrance into the gay and 
 festive scene, eh ? ” 
 
 “ Yes ; I have never been to a regular dinner- 
 party before. I am so glad Mr. Bransby is 
 quite well again,” said May, looking across the 
 room at tbeir host. 
 
 “Are you? Well, I believe you are ‘glad. 
 Yes ; it is much to be desired that he should 
 be quite well again.” Dr. Hatch’s eyes had 
 followed the girl’s, and rested on Martin 
 Bransby with a thoughtful look. Then, after a 
 
120 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 minute’s pause, he went on : “ Now, as you are 
 not quite familiar here, I’ll give you a map of 
 the country, as the French say. Do you know 
 who that is who has just come in ? No ? That 
 is Mr. Bragg. He makes millions and billions 
 of tin-tacks every week. You’ve heard of him, 
 of course ? ” May nodded. “ Of course you 
 have. Couldn’t live long in Oldchester without 
 hearing of Mr. Bragg. That handsome, elderly 
 man, now bowing to Mrs. Bransby, is Major 
 Mitton, of the Engineers. Ever hear of him f 
 Ah, well ; I suppose not. He’s a very good- 
 natured, kindly gentleman, and an excellent 
 soldier, who distinguished himself greatly in 
 the Crimea. But no one will ever hear him say 
 a word about that. What he is proud of is his 
 reputation as an amateur actor. I have known 
 more reprehensible vanities. Ah, and here 
 come the Pipers, Miss Polly and Miss Patty ; 
 and I think that makes up our number.” 
 
 Dr. Hatch did not think of asking May 
 whether she had ever heard of the Miss Pipers. 
 The fact was she had heard of them very often. 
 They were Oldchester celebrities quite as much 
 as Mr. Bragg was. But their fame had not 
 extended beyond Oldchester ; whereas Bragg’s 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 121 
 
 tin-tacks were daily hammered into the con- 
 sciousness of the civilized world. 
 
 Miss Mary and Miss Martha Piper (invariably 
 called Polly and Patty) were old maids between 
 fifty and sixty years old. They were not rich ; 
 they had never been handsome ; they were not, 
 even in the opinion of their most partial friends, 
 brilliantly clever. What, then, was the cause 
 of the distinction they undoubtedly enjoyed in 
 Oldchester society ? The cause was Miss Polly 
 Piper’s musical talent — or at least her reputation 
 for musical talent, which, for social purposes, 
 was the same thing. Miss Piper had once upon 
 a time, no matter how many years ago, com- 
 posed an oratorio, and offered it to the Com- 
 mittee of a great Musical Festival, for perform- 
 ance. It was not accepted — for reasons which 
 Miss Piper was at no loss to perceive. The 
 reader is implored not to conclude rashly that 
 the oratorio was rejected because it failed to 
 reach the requisite high standard. Miss Piper 
 knew a great deal better than that. She had 
 been accustomed to mix with the musical world 
 from an early age. Her father, an amiable 
 Oldchester clergyman, rectoy of the church in 
 which Mr. Sebastian Bach Simpson was organist, 
 
122 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 was considered the best amateur violoncello 
 player in the Midland Counties. When the 
 great music meeting brought vocal and instru- 
 mental artists to Oldchester, the Reverend 
 Reuben Piper’s house was always open to 
 several of them ; and Miss Polly had poured 
 out tea for more than one great English tenor, 
 great German basso, and great Scandinavian 
 soprano. So that, as she often said, she was 
 clearly quite behind the scenes of the artistic 
 world, and thoroughly understood its intrigues, 
 its ambitions, and its jealousies. Thus she was 
 less mortified and discouraged by the rejection 
 of her oratorio than she would have been had 
 she supposed it due to honest disapproval. The 
 work, which was entitled “ Esther,” was played 
 and sung, however ; — not indeed by the great 
 English tenor, German basso, and Scandinavian 
 soprano, but by very competent performers. It 
 was performed in the large room in Oldchester, 
 used for concerts and lectures, and called 
 Mercers’ Hall. Admission was by invitation, 
 and the hall was quite full, which, as Miss 
 Patty triumphantly observed, was a very grati- 
 fying tribute on ^the part of the town and 
 county. Miss Polly did not conduct her own 
 
:hat unfortunate marriage. 
 
 123 
 
 music. Ladies had not jet wielded the con- 
 ductor’s baton in those days. But she sat in a 
 front row, with her father on one side of her 
 and her sister Patty on the other, and bowed 
 her acknowledgments to the executants at the 
 end of each piece. 
 
 It was a great day for the Piper family, and 
 that one solitary fact (for the oratorio was 
 never repeated) flavoured the rest of their lives 
 with an odour of artistic glory, as one Tonquin 
 bean will perfume a whole chest full of mis- 
 cellaneous articles. Truly, the triumph was 
 not cheap. The rehearsals and the performance 
 had to be paid for, and it was said at the time 
 that the .Reverend Reuben had been obliged to 
 sell some excellent Canal Shares in order to 
 meet the expenses, and had thereby diminished 
 his income by so many pounds sterling for 
 evermore. But at least the expenditure pur- 
 chased a great deal of happiness ; and that is 
 more than can be said of most investments 
 which the world would consider wiser. From 
 that day forth, Miss Polly held the position of 
 a musical authority in certain circles. Long 
 after a younger generation had grown up, to 
 whom that famous performance of “ Esther ” 
 
124 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 was as vague an historical fact as the Hep- 
 tarchy, people continued to speak of Miss Polly 
 Piper as a successful composer. The lives of 
 the two sisters were shaped by this tradition. 
 They went every year to London for a month 
 during the season ; and, for a longer or shorter 
 time, to some Continental city, — Leipsic, Frank- 
 fort, or Brussels : once, even, as far as Vienna, 
 — whence they came back bringing with them 
 the latest dicta in musical fashions, just as 
 Mrs. Clarkson, the chief Oldchester milliner, 
 announced every year her return from Paris 
 with a large and varied assortment of bonnets 
 in the newest styles. It has been written that 
 “ they ” brought hack with them the newest dicta 
 on musical matters ; hut it must not he supposed 
 that Miss Patty set up to interpret the law on 
 such points. She was, as to things musical, 
 merely her sister’s echo and mouthpiece. But 
 sincerity, that best salt for all human communi- 
 cations, preserved Miss Patty’s subservience 
 from any taint of humbug. However extrava- 
 gant might be her estimate of Polly’s artistic 
 gifts and attainments, you could not doubt that 
 it was genuine. 
 
 These circumstances were, broadly speaking, 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 125 
 
 known to every one present. But May was 
 acquainted with another aspect of the legend of 
 Miss Piper’s oratorio : a seamy side which the 
 poor good lady did not even suspect. That 
 famous oratorio had been a fertile source of 
 mirth at the time to all the performers engaged 
 in it. There were all sorts of stories current as 
 to the amazing things Miss Piper did with her 
 instrumentation : the impossible efforts she 
 expected from the “ wind,” and the anomalous 
 sounds she elicited from the “ wood.” These 
 were retailed with much gusto by Jo Weather- 
 head, who, in virtue of a high nasal voice, and 
 a power (common enough in those parts) of 
 reading music at sight, had sung with the 
 tenors through many a Festival chorus, and 
 known many professional musicians during his 
 sojourn in Birmingham. One favourite anecdote 
 was of a trombone player who at rehearsal, in 
 the very climax and stress of the overture, 
 when he was to have come in with a powerful 
 effect, stretched out his arm at full length, and 
 produced the most hideous and unearthly noise 
 ever heard ; and who, on being rebuked by the 
 conductor, handed up his part for inspection, 
 observing, amid the unrestrained laughter of 
 
126 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 the hand, that that was the nearest he could 
 come to the note Miss Piper had written for 
 him, which was some half octave below the 
 usual compass of his instrument. Of this, and 
 many another similar story, Miss Piper and 
 Miss Piper’s friends knew nothing. But May, re- 
 membering them, looked at the two old ladies as 
 they marched into the room with an interest not 
 so wholly reverential as might have been wished. 
 
 They were both short, fat, snub-nosed little 
 women, with wide smiling mouths, and double 
 „ chins. Miss Patty was rather shorter, rather 
 fatter, and rather more snub-nosed than her 
 gifted sister. But the chief difference between 
 the two, which struck one at first sight, was 
 that whereas Miss Piper’s own grey locks were 
 disposed in a thick kind of curl, like a plethoric 
 sausage, on each side of her face, Miss Patty 
 wore a pale, gingerbread-coloured wig. Why, 
 having all the wigmaker’s stores to choose from, 
 she should have chosen just that particular hue, 
 May secretly wondered as she looked at her. 
 But so it was. And if she had worn a blue 
 wig, it could scarcely have been more innocent 
 of any attempt to deceive the beholder. Both 
 ladies wore good substantial silk gowns, and 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 127 
 
 little lace caps witli artificial flowers in them. 
 But the remarkable feature in their attire was 
 the extraordinary number of chains, beads, and 
 bracelets with which they had festooned them- 
 selves. And, moreover, these were of a severely 
 mineralogical character. Round Miss Patty’s 
 fat, deeply-creased throat, May counted three 
 necklaces : — One of coral, one of cornelian, and 
 the third a long string of grey pebble heads 
 which dangled nearly to her waist. Miss Polly 
 wore — besides a variety of other nondescript 
 adornments which rattled and jingled as she 
 moved — -a set of ornaments made apparently of 
 red marble, cut into polygonal fragments of 
 irregular length. Their rings too, which were 
 numerous, seemed to be composed for the most 
 part of building materials ; and each sister wore 
 a mosaic brooch which looked, May thought, 
 like a bit out of the tesselated pavement of the 
 smart new Corn Exchange in the High Street. 
 
 It did not take that young lady’s quick per- 
 ception long to make all the foregoing observa- 
 tions. Indeed, she had completed them within 
 the minute and a half which elapsed between 
 the Miss Pipers’ arrival, and the announcement 
 of dinner. 
 
128 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The order of the procession to the dining-room 
 had been pre-arranged not without some diffi- 
 culty. Mrs. Bransby had pointed out to Theo- 
 dore that his whim of inviting Miss Cheffington 
 must cause a solecism somewhere in marshalling 
 their guests. 
 
 “ Constance will, of course, expect you to 
 take her,” said Mrs. Bransby, “ and then what 
 is to he done with little Miss Cheffington ? I 
 really think I had better invite two more people, 
 and get some young man to take her in to 
 dinner. Perhaps Mr. Rivers would come.” 
 
 But Theodore utterly opposed this suggestion, 
 and said that the simple and obvious course 
 was for him to give his arm to Miss Cheffington, 
 and for Dr. Hatch to escort Miss Hadlow. 
 
 “Oh, well, if you don’t mind,” said Mrs. 
 Bransby, looking a little surprised. And so it 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 129 
 
 was settled. But at the last moment, in 
 arranging her table and disposing the cards 
 with the guest’s name before each cover, Mrs. 
 Bransby found that it would be necessary, for 
 the sake of symmetrically alternating a lady 
 and gentleman, to divide one couple, and place 
 them on opposite sides of the table. She decided 
 that Dr. Hatch and Miss Hadlow would endure 
 this sort of divorce with equanimity ; and thus 
 it came to pass that when Theodore took his 
 seat at table he found himself in the enviable and 
 unexpected position of sitting between the two 
 young ladies of the party — Constance and May. 
 
 Mrs. Bransby led out Mrs. Hadlow, the 
 hostess bringing up the rear with Canon 
 Hadlow. Major Mitton had the honour of 
 escorting Miss Piper, while Miss Patty fell to 
 Mr. Bragg. There was, as is usual on such 
 occasions, very little conversation while the 
 soup and fish were being eaten. Miss Piper, 
 indeed, who was constitutionally loquacious, 
 talked all the while to Major Mitton, though in 
 a comparatively low tone of voice ; but the rest 
 of the company devoted themselves mainly to 
 their plates ; or at least said only a fragmentary 
 sentence now and then. But by degrees the 
 
 VOL. i. 9 
 
130 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 desultory talk swelled into a continuous mur- 
 mur, across which bursts of laughter were 
 wafted at intervals. May had the satisfaction 
 she had hoped for, of being allowed to he quiet ; 
 for her neighbour on the one hand was the 
 canon, who contented himself with smiling on 
 her silently, whilst Theodore was greatly occu- 
 pied by his neighbour, Miss Hadlow. Being 
 seated between him and Major Mitton, she 
 monopolized the younger gentleman’s attention 
 with the undoubting conviction that he enjoyed 
 being monopolized. 
 
 Mr. Bragg, a heavy, melancholy-looking man, 
 found Miss Patty Piper a congenial companion 
 on a topic which interested him a good deal — 
 cookery. Not that he was a gastronome. He 
 had a grand French cook; hut he confided to 
 Miss Patty that he never tasted anything now- 
 adays which he relished so much as he had 
 relished a certain beef- steak pudding that his 
 deceased “missis” used to make for him thirty 
 years ago, and better. Miss Patty had, as it 
 happened, some peculiar and special views as to 
 the composition of a beef-steak pudding; and 
 Mr. Bragg — borne backwards by the tide of 
 memory to those distant days when his missis 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 131 
 
 and he lodged in one room, and before he had 
 learned the secret of transmuting tin-tacks into 
 luxury and French cooks — enjoyed his reminis- 
 cences in a slow, sad, ruminating way. 
 
 Presently, when the dessert was on the table, 
 there came a little lull in the general conver- 
 sation, and the husky contralto voice of Miss 
 Piper was heard saying, “ My dear Major, I tell 
 you it was the same woman. You say you 
 heard her at Malta fifteen years ago. Very 
 well. That’s no reason ; for she might have 
 been only sixteen or seventeen then. These 
 Italians are so precocious.” 
 
 “ More like six or seven-and-twenty, Miss 
 Piper. Bless you, she had long outgrown short 
 frocks and pinafores in those days. Fourteen — 
 fifteen — yes ; it must be fully fifteen years ago. 
 It was the season that we got up the ‘Honey- 
 moon ’ for the garrison theatricals. I played 
 the Duke. It has been one of my best parts 
 ever since. And there was a scratch company 
 of Italian opera-singers doing wretched business. 
 We got up a subscription for them, poor things. 
 But fancy ‘ La Bianca’ still singing Rosina in 
 the ‘ Barber ! ’ ” 
 
 “ She looked charming, I can tell you. I 
 
132 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 don’t say that her voice may not be a little 
 
 worn in the upper notes ” 
 
 “ I wonder there’s a rag of it left,” put in the 
 Major. 
 
 “ Yes ; a little worn. But she knows how to 
 sing. If one must listen to such trivial, florid 
 music, that’s the only way to sing it.” 
 
 “ Ah, there we shan’t agree, Miss Piper ! 
 No, no ; I always stand up for Rossini. I 
 don’t pretend to he a great swell at music, but 
 I have an ear, and I like a toon. Gfive me a 
 toon that I can remember and whistle, and I’ll 
 make you a present of Wagner and the other 
 fellows, all howlings and growlings.” 
 
 “ Major, Major,” called out Dr. Hatch from 
 the opposite side of the table, “ this is terribly 
 obsolete doctrine ! We shall have you confessing 
 next that you like sugar in your tea, and prefer 
 a rose to a sunflower ! ” 
 
 Mr. Bransby, wishing to avert any unpleasant 
 shock of opinions on such high themes, here 
 interposed. He turned the conversation back 
 to the Italian singer, who could be abused 
 without ruffling anybody’s amour proper. 
 
 “ But who is this prima donna you’re talking 
 of, Major ? ” said he. 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 133 
 
 Miss Piper struck in before Major Mitton 
 could reply. “ It’s a certain Moretti : — Bianca 
 Moretti. We heard her last summer in a minor 
 theatre at Brussels, with a strolling Italian 
 Opera Company. Don’t you remember, Patty ? ” 
 
 “ Moretti ? ” said Miss Patty, instantly break- 
 ing off in the middle of a sentence addressed to 
 Mr. Bragg, at the sound of her sister’s voice. 
 
 “ The woman with the fine eyes ? Oh yes. 
 I remember her particularly, because of the 
 awful scandal there was afterwards about her 
 and that Englishman.” 
 
 Several heads at the table were now turned 
 towards Miss Patty, who shook her ginger- 
 bread-coloured wig with a knowing air. 
 
 “I was just telling the Major,” said Miss 
 Piper. “ We might never have known of it, if 
 it had not been for the Italian Consul, who was 
 a friend of ours. It was quite a sensation ! A 
 bit out of a French novel, eh ? — Oh yes ; quite 
 ready, Mrs. Bransby.” 
 
 The last words had reference to a telegraphic 
 signal from the hostess, who immediately rose. 
 Mrs. Hadlow had been looking across at her 
 rather uneasily during the last minute or so. 
 The fact was that the Miss Pipers were reputed 
 
134 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 in Oldchester to have a somewhat unconsidered 
 and free way of talking. Some persons at- 
 tributed this to their annual visit to the Con- 
 tinent : others thought it connected rather with 
 Miss Piper’s artistic experiences, which in some 
 mysterious way were supposed to have had a 
 tendency to make her “ a little masculine.” 
 The implication would seem to be that to be 
 “ masculine ” involves a lax government of the 
 tongue. But as no Oldchester gentleman was 
 ever known to protest against this imputation, 
 it is not necessary to examine it here more 
 particularly. “ When she began to talk about 
 a French novel, my dear, there was no knowing 
 what she might say next,” said Mrs. Hadlow 
 afterwards to Mrs. Bransby. So the latter 
 hurried the departure of the ladies as we have 
 seen. 
 
 When they rose to go away, May, of course, 
 went out last ; Theodore holding the door open 
 with his air of superior politeness. 
 
 “ Who is that pretty little girl ? I don’t 
 think I know her face,” said Major Mitton, 
 when the young man had resumed his seat, and 
 the chairs were drawn closer together. 
 
 “ That is Miss Miranda Cheffington.” 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 135 
 
 “ Cheffington ? I knew a Cheffington once — 
 a terrible black sbeep. Very likely it’s not the 
 same family, though. What Cheffingtons does 
 this young lady belong to ? ” 
 
 “ The family of Viscount Castlecombe.” 
 
 “The man I knew was a nephew of old 
 Castlecombe. Gus Cheffington his name was, 
 I remember now.” 
 
 Theodore moved a little uneasily on his seat, 
 and, after a moment’s reflection, said gravely, 
 “ Captain Augustus Cheffington is this young 
 lady’s father; he is a friend of mine. Miss 
 Cheffington is going to town to be presented 
 next season by her aunt, Mrs. Dormer-Smith. 
 She is a very thoroughbred woman. Do you 
 know the Dormer-Smiths, Major Mitton ? They 
 are in the best set.” 
 
 The Major did not know the Dormer-Smiths, 
 and had no interest in pursuing the subject. 
 He turned to join in the conversation going on 
 between Mr. Bransby, the canon, and Dr. 
 Hatch, and then Theodore slipped out of his 
 place and went to sit nearer to Mr. Bragg, who 
 was looking a little solitary. Mr. Bragg had a 
 great many good qualities, but he was usually 
 considered to be heavy in hand from a conver- 
 
136 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 sational point of view. Theodore, however, did 
 not find him dull. He talked to Mr. Bragg 
 with an agreeable sense of making an excellent 
 figure in the eyes of that millionaire. Theodore 
 had a strong memory, considerable powers of 
 application, and had read a great many solid 
 hooks. He favoured Mr. Bragg now with a 
 speech on the subject of the currency, about 
 which he had read all the most modern theories 
 up to date. The currency, he felt, must be a 
 peculiarly interesting subject to a man who sold 
 millions and billions of tin-tacks in all the 
 markets of the world. Mr. Bragg drank his 
 wine, keeping his eyes on the table, and listened 
 wuth silent attention. Theodore, warmed by a 
 mental vision of himself speaking in a breathless 
 House of Commons, rose to parliamentary heights 
 of eloquence. He had already addressed Mr. 
 Bragg as “Sir,” and had sternly inquired what 
 he supposed would be the consequence if the 
 present movement in favour of bimetallism 
 should be still further developed in the United 
 States, when he was interrupted by his father’s 
 voice saying — 
 
 “ Come, shall we ask Mrs. Bransby for a cup 
 of coffee ? ” 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 137 
 
 Mr. Bragg lifted his eyes and rose from his 
 chair, and Theodore and he moved towards the 
 door side by side. 
 
 “ It ought to be boiled in a basin, oughtn’t 
 it ? ” said Mr. Bragg thoughtfully. “ Ah, no ; 
 it wasn’t you. I remember now, it was Miss 
 Patty Piper who was mentioning — I’ll ask her 
 again when we get upstairs.” 
 
 Meanwhile the elder ladies had been deep in 
 the discussion of Miss Piper’s interrupted story. 
 Constance and May had got close together near 
 the pianoforte, and Mrs. Bransby asked Con- 
 stance to play something “ soft and pretty.” 
 Constance opened the instrument and ran her 
 fingers over the keys in a desultory manner, 
 playing scraps of waltzes or whatever came 
 into her head, and continuing her chat with 
 May to that running accompaniment. Mrs. 
 Bransby, Mrs. Hadlow, and the Miss Pipers 
 grouped themselves near the fireplace at the 
 other end of the room, and carried on their talk 
 also under cover of the music. 
 
 “It was odd enough that on my happening 
 to mention the name of the Moretti to Major 
 Mitton he should remember her at Malta so 
 many years ago,” began Miss Piper. 
 
138 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 “ Yes ; and you see now that I was right, 
 and she can’t be so young as you thought her, 
 Polly,” said her sister. 
 
 “ Lord, what does that matter ? I only said 
 she looked young, and so she did. And besides, 
 I dare say the Major exaggerates her age. 
 When a woman becomes a celebrity, or comes 
 before the public in any way, her age is sure to 
 be exaggerated. Many people who only know 
 me through my works suppose me to be eighty, 
 I dare say. They never imagine a woman so 
 young as I was at the time composing a serious 
 work like 1 Esther.’ ” 
 
 “ Is she handsome, this Signora Moretti ? ” 
 asked Mrs. Rransby, who was always interested 
 in, and attracted by, beauty. 
 
 “Very handsome — in that Italian style. 
 Great black eyes, and black eyebrows, and a 
 fine profile. Too thin, though. But, oh yes ; 
 extremely handsome. And a very clever 
 singer.” 
 
 “ And a very worthless hussey,” added Miss 
 Patty severely. 
 
 “ What a pity ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Hadlow. 
 “ It does seem so sad when one finds great 
 gifts, like talent and beauty, without goodness ! ” 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 139 
 
 “Well, I don’t know that she was so very 
 bad either,” replied Miss Piper. 
 
 “ Goodness, Polly ! How can you talk so ! ” 
 cried her sister. “ Why, she was living openly 
 with that Englishman ! ” 
 
 “ Some people said she was married to him, 
 you know, Patty.” 
 
 “ Stuff and nonsense ! ” returned Miss Patty, 
 who, whilst undoubtedly accepting her sister’s 
 views about music, tenaciously reserved the 
 right of private judgment as to the character of 
 its professors, and was, moreover, chronically 
 incredulous of the virtue of foreigners in general. 
 “ No sensible person could believe that. And 
 as to her ‘ not being so very bad ’ — what do you 
 make of that nice story of the gambling, and 
 the police, and all the rest of it ? ” 
 
 “ The police ! ” echoed Mrs. Hadlow, in a low 
 shocked voice. 
 
 “ What was that ? ” asked Mrs. Bransby. 
 
 “ Now, just let me tell it, Patty,” said the 
 elder sister. “ If I am wrong you can correct 
 me afterwards. But I believe I know more 
 about it than you do. Well, there was an 
 Italian Opera Company singing in a minor 
 theatre of Brussels when we were there, and 
 
140 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 doing very well ; for the prima donna, Bianca. 
 Moretti, was a great favourite. They had 
 previously been making a tour through Belgium. 
 One night we were in the theatre with some 
 friends, expecting to hear her for the second 
 time in the ‘ Barbiere,’ when, some time after the 
 curtain ought to have risen, a man came on to 
 the stage, and announced that the Signora 
 Moretti had been suddenly taken ill, and there 
 would be no performance. But the next day 
 we learned that the story of the Moretti’s 
 illness was only an excuse — or, at least, that if 
 she was ill, it was only from the nervous shock 
 of having her house searched by the police.” 
 
 “I think that was quite enough to make her 
 ill ! But why did they search her house ? ” 
 said Mrs. Bransby. 
 
 “ Well, you see, it was in this way,” con- 
 tinued Miss Piper, lowering her voice, and 
 drawing a little nearer to her hostess, while 
 Mrs. Hadlow cast a glance over her shoulder to 
 assure herself that the girls were occupied with 
 their own conversation. “ It seems that a set 
 of men were in the habit of meeting every night 
 after the opera in her apartment to play cards. 
 There was the Englishman, and a young 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 141 
 
 Russian belonging to a grand family, and a 
 Servian, or a Roumanian, or a Bulgarian, or 
 something,” said Miss Piper, whose ideas as to 
 the national distinctions between the younger 
 members of the European family were decidedly 
 vague, “ and others besides. Now this man, 
 the — the Bulgarian, we may as well call him, 
 was a thorough blackleg, and bore the worst of 
 characters. He led on the Russian to play for 
 very high stakes, and won large sums from 
 him. Well, to make a long story short, one 
 night there was a terrible scene. The Russian 
 accused the other man of cheating. They came 
 to blows, I believe, and there was a regular 
 esclandre. And next day the Bulgarian was 
 missing. He had got away with a good deal 
 of plunder.” 
 
 “ How shocking and disgraceful ! ” exclaimed 
 Mrs. Hadlow, in whom this gossip excited far 
 more disgust than interest ; and who thought 
 Polly Piper showed very bad taste in selecting 
 such a topic. 
 
 “But why did the police search the Italian 
 singer's apartment ? It was not her fault, was 
 it ? ” asked Mrs. Bransby. 
 
 “ Why, you see, the gambling had gone on 
 
142 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 in her rooms. And the Bulgarian turning out 
 to be connected with a regular gang of swindlers, 
 the search was made for any letters or papers 
 of his that might be there. We were told that 
 the Russian ambassador had something to say 
 to it ; for the young Russian was connected with 
 very high people indeed. Nothing was found, 
 however.” 
 
 “Nothing was found that could be laid hold 
 of,” put in Miss Patty. “ But there could be 
 no question what sort of a person that woman 
 was after all that ! ” 
 
 “ Well, really, Patty,” said her sister, “ it 
 seems to me that the Englishman was a deal 
 more to blame. Nobody pretended that the 
 Moretti wanted to gamble for her own amuse- 
 ment, or profit either ! It was the ruin of her 
 in Brussels ; at any rate for that season. There 
 was a party made up to hiss her whenever she 
 appeared ; and there were disturbances in the 
 theatre ; and, in short, the performances had to 
 cease. I was sorry for her.” 
 
 “ Upon my word, Polly, I don’t see why you 
 should be,” cried Miss Patty. “ She deserved 
 all she got. I have no patience with bestowing 
 pity and sympathy on such creatures. If she had 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 143 
 
 ibeen an ugly washerwoman, instead of a painted 
 opera-singer, nobody would have had a soft 
 word for her.” 
 
 “ Oh, surely there are plenty of people who 
 would be gentle to an ugly washerwoman, if 
 she needed gentleness,” put in Mrs. Hadlow. 
 “ And you know, my dear Miss Patty, we are 
 taught to pity all those who stray from the 
 right path.” 
 
 “ As to that, I hope I can pity error as well 
 as my neighbours — in a religious sense,” re- 
 turned Miss Patty with some sharpness. “ But 
 this is different. I was speaking as a member 
 of society.” 
 
 “ And the Englishman — was he implicated ? ” 
 asked Mrs. Bransby, rather from a desire to 
 divert the conversation from a direction fraught 
 with danger to the general harmony than from 
 any special curiosity on the subject. 
 
 “ No ; not exactly implicated,” replied Miss 
 Piper. “ That is to say, he was not suspected 
 of any unfair play, or anything of that sort ; 
 but it was considered disgraceful for him to 
 have been mixed up in these gambling transac- 
 tions ; especially as he was a much older man 
 than the others. And then ” 
 
144 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 “ And then,” continued Miss Patty, “ it was 
 not considered exactly creditable, I believe — 
 although perhaps Polly thinks it was ; Pm sure 
 I don’t know, — it wasn’t, most people would 
 say, exactly creditable for a man of family, an 
 English gentleman, to be strolling about the 
 world with a parcel of foreign singers. And 
 he had been doing just that. We heard of his 
 being at Antwerp, and Ghent, and Ostend with 
 them.” 
 
 “ A man of family, do you say ? A really 
 well-born man ? ” said Mrs. Hadlow, sitting 
 suddenly very upright in the energy of her 
 feelings. “ How shocking ! That really seems 
 to be the worst of all ! ” 
 
 “Well, I suppose we must pity his errors,” 
 observed Miss Patty, with some causticity. But 
 Mrs. Hadlow was insensible to the sarcasm ; or, 
 at all events, her sense of it was swallowed up 
 by a stronger feeling. “ I do think it’s a public 
 misfortune,” she went on, “ when a person on 
 whom Providence has bestowed gentle birth 
 derogates from his rank and forgets his duties. 
 It grieves me.” 
 
 “ You must suffer a good deal in these days, 
 I’m afraid,” said Miss Patty, grimly. 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 145 
 
 “ Not on that account,” replied Mrs. Hadlow. 
 “ No ; truly not. There may be exceptions — I 
 won’t deny that there are some. But, on the 
 whole, I thoroughly believe that bon sang ne 
 peut mentir .” 
 
 “Well, perhaps Mr. Cheffington’s blood is not 
 so good as he says it is ; that’s all,” said Miss 
 Patty, with a short laugh. 
 
 Mrs. Hadlow and Mrs. Bransby uttered a 
 simultaneous exclamation of amazement ; and 
 then the former said in a breathless whisper, 
 “ Hush, hush, my dear, for mercy’s sake ! Did 
 you say Cheffington ? That is — Cheffington is 
 the name of that girl ! Don’t turn your head.” 
 
 “ Oh, it can’t be the same ! ” said Mrs. Bransby, 
 nervously. 
 
 “ No, no ; I dare say not. But the name — 
 it must, I fear, be a member of the family,” 
 answered Mrs. Hadlow. 
 
 “ How lucky it wasn’t mentioned in her hear- 
 ing,” said Miss Piper. “Poor little thing, I 
 
 wouldn’t for the world ! She’s very pretty 
 
 and bright-looking. I don’t think I ever saw 
 her before.” 
 
 Mrs. Bransby hurriedly explained how May 
 came to be there, and as much of her story as 
 
 VOL. i. 10 
 
146 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 she was 'acquainted with — which was, in truth, 
 very little. The Miss Pipers listened eagerly, 
 and Mrs. Hadlow sat by with a cloud of anxious 
 perplexity on her usually beaming face. They 
 all admitted that of course the person spoken of 
 might be no relation of May’s at all ; hut it was 
 evident that no one believed that hypothesis. 
 To the Miss Pipers the whole matter was simply 
 a relishing morsel of gossip. They dwelt with 
 gusto on “the extraordinary coincidence” of 
 Miss Cheffington’s being there just that very 
 evening, and “ the singular circumstance ” that 
 Major Mitton should remember Bianca Moretti, 
 and enjoyed it all very much. Mrs. Bransby’s 
 prevalent feeling was one of annoyance, and 
 resentment against Theodore, who had brought 
 this girl into the house. Mrs. Bransby detested 
 a “ fuss ” of any sort ; and shrank, with a sort 
 of amiable indolence, from the conflict of pro- 
 vincial feuds and the excitement of provincial 
 gossip. And now, she reflected, this story would 
 be spread all over Oldchester, and she would be 
 “ worried to death ” by questions on a subject 
 about which she knew very little, and cared 
 less. 
 
 “We won’t say another word about this 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 147 
 
 horrid story,” she said, looking appealingly at 
 the Miss Pipers. “ Silence is the only thing 
 under the circumstances. Don’t you think so ? 
 It would be so dreadful if the girl should over- 
 hear anything, and make a scene ; wouldn’t it ? ” 
 
 Miss Polly and Miss Patty readily promised 
 to be most guardedly silent — for that evening, 
 and so long as May should be present ; declaring 
 quite sincerely that they would not for the 
 world risk hurting the poor child’s feelings. 
 And then Mrs. Bransby began to flatter herself 
 that the subject was done with, so far as she 
 was concerned. But Fate had decided other- 
 wise. 
 
 When the gentlemen came into the drawing- 
 room, Miss Hadlow was playing one of her 
 most brilliant pieces, to which Miss Polly Piper 
 was listening with an air of responsible atten- 
 tion, and gently nodding her head from time 
 to time in an encouraging manner ; Miss Patty 
 Piper and May were looking over a large album 
 full of photographs together; while Mrs. Bransby 
 was narrating to Mrs. Hadlow, Bobby’s latest 
 witticisms, and Billy’s extraordinary progress 
 in the art of spelling : — these juvenile prodigies 
 being her two younger children. 
 
148 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 Constance did not interrupt her performance 
 on the entrance of the gentlemen, and Major 
 Mitton went to stand beside the pianoforte, 
 gallantly turning over the music leaves at the 
 wrong moment, with the best intentions. Canon 
 Hadlow sat down near Miss Piper ; the host 
 with Dr. Hatch crossed the room to speak to 
 Mrs. Hadlow, and Mr. Bragg and Theodore 
 approached the table, at which Miss Patty and 
 May Cheffington were seated. Mr. Bragg drew 
 up a chair close to Miss Patty at once, and 
 began to talk with her in a low voice, and with 
 more appearance of animation than his manner 
 usually displayed. Theodore, as he observed 
 this, remembered with satisfaction that his 
 friend Captain Cheffington had formerly pro- 
 nounced old Bragg to be a d d snob. A 
 
 man must indeed he on a low level who could 
 prefer Miss Patty Piper’s culinary conversation 
 to a luminous exposition of the currency ques- 
 tion as set forth by Mr. Theodore Bransby. He 
 bent over May, who was still turning the leaves 
 of the photograph book, and said, “ I’m afraid 
 you are not having a very amusing evening, 
 Miss Cheffington.” 
 
 “ Oh yes, thank you,” returned May, making 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 149 
 
 the queerest little grimace in her effort not to 
 yawn. “ I am very fond of looking at photo- 
 graphs.” 
 
 “ I don’t suppose there are many portraits 
 there that you would recognize. A little out of 
 your set,” said Theodore. “ In fact, I don’t 
 know many of them myself, I have been so 
 much away. By the way, have you any com- 
 mands for your people in town ? I go up the 
 day after to-morrow.” 
 
 “ Shall you see Aunt Pauline ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly. I suppose Lord Castlecom.be is 
 not likely to be in town at this season ? ” went 
 on Theodore, raising his tone a little so as to be 
 heard by the others. Constance’s playing had 
 now come to an end, and there was a general 
 lowering of voices, occasioned by the cessation 
 of that pianoforte accompaniment. 
 
 “ I don’t know, I’m sure. I don’t know where 
 he lives,” answered May innocently. 
 
 “ Ahem ! He is at this season, in all pro- 
 bability, at Combe Park, his place in Gloucester- 
 shire.” 
 
 May had never heard of her great-uncle’s 
 place in Gloucestershire ; but now, when Theo- 
 dore said the words, her thought flashed through 
 
150 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 a chain of associations to Mrs. Dobbs’s mention 
 of the Castlecombe Arms on the Gloucester 
 Road, kept by “ Old Rabbitt,” and she blushed 
 as though she had done something to be 
 ashamed of. 
 
 “ The last time I had the pleasure of seeing 
 your father, he was talking to me about Combe 
 Park,” continued Theodore, with a complacent 
 sense of superiority to the rest of the company 
 in these manifestations of familiar intercourse 
 with members of the Castlecombe family. Lord 
 Castlecombe was a very important personage in 
 those parts. As May did not speak, Theodore 
 went on : “ Grand old place, Combe Park, isn’t 
 it?” 
 
 “Is it?” returned May absently. She was 
 looking with great interest at the portrait of 
 a superb lace dress, surmounted by a distorted 
 image of Mrs. Bransby’s head and face, which 
 were quite out of focus. But the lace flounces 
 had “ come out splendidly,” as the photographer 
 remarked. And, if the truth must be told, May 
 admired them greatly. 
 
 “ Is it ? ” repeated Theodore, with a little 
 smile. “ But you have lived so long abroad, 
 that you are quite a stranger to all these 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 151 
 
 ancestral glories. I hope, however, that you 
 have not the same preference for the Continent 
 that your father has ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, I’m sure I should always love England 
 best. But I don’t know the most beautiful 
 parts of the Continent — Switzerland or Italy. 
 We were always in Belgium, and Belgium isn’t 
 beautiful. At least I don’t remember any 
 beautiful country.” 
 
 Thus May, with perfect simplicity, still turn- 
 ing over the photographs, and all unconscious 
 that the Miss Pipers had simultaneously inter- 
 rupted their own conversation, and were staring 
 at her. 
 
 “ No ; Belgium is not beautiful — except 
 architecturally,” replied Theodore. “ But there 
 is very nice society in Brussels, and a pleasant 
 Court, I believe. No doubt that’s one reason 
 why Captain Cheffington likes it.” 
 
 “ Is Brussels your home, then ? Do you 
 live there ? ” asked Miss Patty, leaning eagerly 
 forward. 
 
 May looked up, and perceived all at once 
 that every one was gazing at her. The Miss 
 Pipers’ sudden attention to what she was saying 
 had attracted the attention of the others — as 
 
152 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 one may collect a crowd in the street by fixedly 
 regarding the most familiar object. In her 
 inexperience she feared she had committed some 
 breach of the etiquette proper to be observed at 
 a “ grown-up dinner party.” Perhaps she ought 
 not to have devoted so much attention to the 
 photographs ! She closed the hook hurriedly 
 as she answered — 
 
 “ No, I don't live in Brussels, hut papa does 
 — at least, generally.” 
 
 Mrs. Bransby rose from her chair, and came 
 rather quickly across the room. “ My dear,” 
 she said, “ I want to present our old friend, 
 Major Mitton, to you ; ” and taking May by the 
 arm, she led her away towards the pianoforte. 
 
 Theodore observed this proceeding with a 
 cool smile, and sense of inward triumph. Mrs. 
 Bransby began to understand, then, what a 
 very highly connected young lady this was, 
 and was endeavouring, although a little late, to 
 show her proper attention. Another time Mrs. 
 Bransby would receive his introduction and 
 recommendation with more respect. In the 
 same way, he felt gratification in the eager 
 questions with which Miss Patty plied him. 
 Miss Patty left the millionaire Mr. Bragg in 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 153 
 
 the lurch, and began to catechize Theodore on 
 tne subject of the Cheffington family. 
 
 That fastidious young gentleman said within 
 himself that the snobbery of these Oldchester 
 people was really too absurd ; and mentally 
 resolved to cut a great many of them, as he 
 gained a firmer footing in the best London 
 circles. Nevertheless he did not check Miss 
 Patty’s inquiries. On the contrary, he con- 
 descendingly gave her a great deal of informa- 
 tion about his friends the Dormer-Smiths, the 
 late lamented Dowager, the present Miscount 
 Castlecombe, his two sons, the Honourable 
 George and the Honourable Lucius, as well as 
 some details respecting the more distant branch 
 of the Cheffington family, who had intermarried 
 with the Scotch Clishmaclavers, and were thus, 
 not remotely, connected with the great ducal 
 house of M‘Brose. 
 
 This was all very well ; hut Miss Patty was 
 far more interested in getting some information 
 about Captain Cheffington which would identify 
 him with the hero of the Brussels story, than 
 of following the genealogy of the noble head of 
 the family into its remotest ramifications. And, 
 notwithstanding that Theodore was much more 
 
154 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 reticent about tbe Captain, she did manage to 
 find out that the latter had lived abroad for 
 many years — chiefly in Belgium — and that his 
 pecuniary circumstances were not flourishing. 
 
 “ I’m quite convinced it’s the same man, 
 Polly,” she said afterwards to her sister. And, 
 indeed, all the inquiries they made in Oldchester 
 confirmed this idea. The Simpsons gave any- 
 thing but a good character of May’s absentee 
 parent. And subsequent conversation with 
 Major Mitton elicited the fact that Augustus 
 Cheffington had been looked upon as a “ black 
 sheep ” even by not very fastidious or strait- 
 laced circles many years ago. The story of 
 the Brussels scandal was not long in reaching 
 the ears of every one in Oldchester who had 
 any knowledge, even by hearsay, of the parties 
 concerned. 
 
 Theodore Bransby, who left Oldchester on 
 the Monday following the dinner-party, and 
 spent the intervening Sunday at home, was 
 one of the few in the above-named category 
 who did not hear of it. 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 155 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The correspondence between Mrs. Dobbs and 
 Mrs. Dormer-Smith on the subject of May’s 
 removal to London was not voluminous. It 
 consisted of three letters : number one, written 
 by Mrs. Dobbs ; number two, written by Mrs. 
 Dormer-Smith ; and number three, Mrs. Dobbs’s 
 reply to that. Mrs. Dobbs always went straight 
 to the point, both with tongue and pen ; and 
 Mrs. Dormer-Smith, although by no means so 
 forcibly direct in her dealings, had a dislike to 
 letter-writing, which caused her to put her 
 meaning tolerably clearly on this occasion, so 
 as to avoid the necessity of writing again. 
 
 Mrs. Dobbs had proposed that May should 
 become an inmate of her aunt’s house in London 
 —at all events for a time — in consideration of 
 an annual sum to be paid for her board and 
 dress. The said sum was to be guaranteed by 
 
156 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 Mrs. Dobbs, and was so ample as to make 
 Pauline say plaintively to her husband, “Just 
 fancy, Frederick, how deplorably imprudent 
 Augustus lias been in offending and neglecting 
 this old woman as he has done ! You see she 
 has plenty of money. I had no idea what her 
 means were ; but it is clear that, for a person 
 in her rank of life, she may be called rich. And 
 Augustus might have obtained solid pecuniary 
 assistance from her, I’ve no doubt, if he had 
 played his cards with ordinary prudence. But 
 there never was any one so reckless of his own 
 interests as Augustus — beginning with that 
 unfortunate marriage.” 
 
 Whereunto Mr. Frederick Dormer-Smith thus 
 made reply, “ I don’t know what you may call 
 ‘ solid pecuniary assistance,’ but it seems to me 
 pretty solid to keep Augustus’s daughter, and 
 clothe her, and pay for her schooling, for four 
 years and upwards. As to Augustus’s disregard 
 of his own interests, it does not at any rate lie 
 in the direction of refraining from borrowing 
 money, or remembering to pay it back ; that 
 much I can vouch for.” 
 
 Pauline put a corner of her handkerchief to 
 her eyes. “ Oh, Frederick,” she said, “ it pains 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 157 
 
 me to hear you speak so harshly. Remember, 
 Augustus is my only brother.” 
 
 “ Mercifully ! By George, if there was 
 another of ’em I don’t know what would become 
 of us.” 
 
 Mrs. Dormer-Smith declined to consider this 
 hypothesis, hut contented herself with saying 
 that she should like to do something for poor 
 Augustus’s girl, and asking her husband if he 
 didn’t think they could manage to receive her. 
 Mr. Dormer-Smith thought they could on the 
 terms proposed, which, he frankly said, were 
 handsome. And Pauline added softly — 
 
 “ Yes ; and it is satisfactory that she offers 
 to keep the arrangement strictly secret. It 
 would scarcely do to let it be known that Mrs. 
 Dobbs pays for May. It would be inconvenable. 
 People would ask all sorts of questions. It 
 would put the girl herself in an awkward 
 position. ‘ Grandmother ! ’ people would say. 
 ‘ What grandmother ? ’ and the whole story of 
 that wretched marriage would be raked up 
 again. But, on the conditions proposed, I do 
 think, Frederick, it could do no harm to receive 
 May. I am glad you consent. It will be a 
 comfort to me to feel that I am doing something 
 
158 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 for poor Augustus’s girl, and acting as mamma 
 would have wished.” 
 
 So a favourable reply was dispatched to Mrs. 
 Dobbs’s application. Mrs. Dormer-Smith sug- 
 gested that May should come to town a little 
 before the beginning of the season, so as to give 
 time for preparing her wardrobe — a task to 
 which her aunt looked forward with dilettante 
 relish. And in answer to that, Mrs. Dobbs 
 wrote the third and last letter of the series, 
 assenting to the date proposed for May’s arrival, 
 and entering into a few minor details. 
 
 She had also, meanwhile, received a letter 
 from Captain Cheffington, elicited, after a long 
 delay, by three successive urgent appeals for an 
 immediate answer. It was a scrawl in a hasty, 
 sprawling hand, and ran thus : 
 
 “Brussels, Nov. 1, 18 — . 
 
 “ Dear Mrs. Dobijs, 
 
 “ I think it would he very desirable 
 for Miranda to he presented by her aunt, if she 
 is to he presented at all, and to he brought out 
 properly. I have no doubt that my sister will 
 introduce her in the best possible way. Since 
 you seem to press for my consent, you have it 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 159 
 
 herewith, although I hardly feel that I can 
 have much voice in the matter, being separated, 
 as I have been for years, from my country, my 
 family, and my only surviving child. I am a 
 mere exile. It is not a brilliant existence for a 
 man horn and brought up as I have been. 
 However, I must make the best of it. 
 
 “ Yours always, 
 
 “ A. 0.” 
 
 This was sufficient for Mrs. Dobbs. She had 
 made a point of obtaining Augustus’s authority 
 for his daughter’s removal to town ; not because 
 she relied on his judgment, but because she 
 knew him well enough to fear some trick, or 
 sudden turn of feigned indignation, if, from any 
 motive of his own, he thought fit to disapprove 
 the step. As to the tone of his reply, that 
 neither troubled nor surprised her. But Mr. 
 Weatherhead was moved to great wrath by it. 
 Mrs. Dobbs had tossed the note to him one day, 
 saying — 
 
 “ There ; there’s my son-in-law’s consent to 
 May’s going to town, in black and white. 
 That’s a document.” 
 
 Mr. Weatherhead eagerly pounced on it. 
 
160 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 “ What a disgusting production ! ” he exclaimed, 
 looking up over the rim of the double eyeglass 
 which he had set astride his nose to read the 
 note. 
 
 “ Is it ? ” returned Mrs. Dobbs carelessly. 
 
 “ Is it ? Why, Sarah, you surprise me, taking 
 it in that cool way. It is the most thankless, 
 unfeeling, selfish production I ever read in my 
 life.” 
 
 “ Oh, is that all ? Well, but that’s just 
 Augustus Cheffington. We know what he is 
 at this time of dav, Jo Weatherhead. It ’ud 
 be a deal stranger if he wrote thankfully, and 
 feelingly, and unselfishly.” 
 
 But Mr. Weatherhead refused to dismiss the 
 matter thus easily. He belonged to that 
 numerous category of persons who, having 
 established and proclaimed a conviction, appear 
 to be immensely astonished at each confirmation 
 of it. He had years ago pronounced Augustus 
 Cheffington to be a heartless scoundrel. Never- 
 theless he was shocked and amazed whenever 
 Augustus Cheffington did anything to corrobo- 
 rate that opinion. 
 
 The letter from Mrs. Dormer-Smith was not 
 shown to him. Mrs. Dobbs meant to keep the 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 161 
 
 amount she was to pay for May a secret even 
 from her faithful and trusted friend Jo. He 
 might guess what he pleased, but she would 
 not tell him. The means, too, by which she 
 meant to raise the money would not, she knew, 
 meet with his approval. And, since she had 
 resolved to use those means, she thought it best 
 to avoid vain discussion beforehand, and there- 
 fore said nothing about them. 
 
 Accident, however, revealed a part of the 
 secret in this way : 
 
 Mr. Weatherhead, calling one afternoon at 
 Laurel Yilla to see Mrs. Simpson, who had 
 been kept at home by a cold, found other 
 visitors there. Miss Polly and Miss Patty 
 Piper were drinking tea out of Mrs. Simpson’s 
 best cups and saucers, and chatting away with 
 their usual cheerfulness and volubility. The 
 Miss Pipers, as they would themselves have 
 expressed it, “ moved in a superior sphere ” to 
 that of the music-teacher and his wife ; but 
 they did not consider that they derogated from 
 their gentility by occasionally drinking tea and 
 having a chat with the Simpsons. They liked 
 to condescend a little, and opportunities for 
 condescension were rather rare. Then, too, 
 
 11 
 
 YOL. I. 
 
162 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 they had a certain interest in Sebastian Bach 
 Simpson, inherited from the long-ago days 
 when Sebastian Bach’s father played the organ 
 in their father’s church, and Miss Polly and 
 Miss Patty wore white frocks and blue sashes at 
 evening parties, and were the objects of a good 
 deal of attention from the Reverend Reuben’s 
 curates. Besides the sisters there was present 
 Dr. Hatch, who had come to pay a professional 
 visit to Mrs. Simpson, and who was just going 
 away. It was a peculiarity of Dr. Hatch to be 
 always just going away. He had a very large 
 practice, and was wont to aver that his pro- 
 fessional duties scarcely left him time to eat or 
 sleep. Yet Dr. Hatch’s horses stood waiting 
 through many a quarter of an hour during 
 which their master was engaged in conversation 
 not of a strictly professional nature. 
 
 When Mr. Weatherhead entered the best 
 parlour of Laurel Villa, Dr. Hatch had a cup of 
 tea in one hand, and his watch in the other, 
 and greeted the new arrival with a friendly 
 nod, and the assurance that he was “just off.” 
 Mrs. Simpson shook hands with Mr. Weather- 
 head, and the Miss Pipers graciously bowed to 
 him. He, too, was connected in their minds 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 163 
 
 with old times. Miss Polly specially remem- 
 bered seeing him on her visits to the Birming- 
 ham Musical Festivals, when her father would 
 take the opportunity of turning over Weather- 
 head’s stock of books, and making a few 
 purchases. And once the Pipers had lodged 
 during a Festival week in the rooms over 
 Weatherhead’s shop. 
 
 “ Glad to see you better, Mrs. Simpson,” said 
 Jo, taking a seat after having saluted the 
 company. 
 
 “ Oh yes, thank you, I’m quite well now. I 
 know Dr. Hatch will scold me if he hears me 
 say so ” — (with an arch glance baulked of its 
 effect by the unsympathetic spectacles) — “ be- 
 cause he tells me I still need great care. But 
 my cough is gone. It is, really ! ” 
 
 Mrs. Simpson girlishly shook back her curls, 
 and proceeded to pour out a cup of tea for Mr. 
 Weatherhead. 
 
 “ And how is Simpson ? ” asked the latter. 
 
 “ Bassy is very well, only immensely busy. 
 He has three new pupils for pianoforte and 
 
 harmony ; the daughters of Colonel , — tut, 
 
 I forget his name, — recommended by that kind 
 Major Mitton. Or at least it would be more 
 
164 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 proper to say that Major Mitton recommended 
 Bassy to them ! Not very polite to say that 
 the young ladies were recommended — oh dear ! 
 I beg pardon. I’m afraid I’ve over-sweetened 
 your tea ? ” 
 
 She had, in fact, put in half a dozen lumps, 
 one after the other. But Mr. Weatherhead 
 fished the greater part of them out again with 
 his teaspoon, and deposited them in the saucer, 
 saying it was of no consequence. 
 
 “ I am so sadly absent-minded ! ” said Mrs. 
 Simpson, smiling sweetly. “ Bassy would scold 
 me if he were here.” 
 
 “ Serve you right, if he did ! ” said Dr. Hatch, 
 rising from the table. “ You should pay atten- 
 tion to what you’re doing. I expect to hear 
 that you have swallowed the embrocation and 
 anointed your throat with syrup of squills.” 
 
 “ Oh, doctor ! You do say the drollest 
 things ! ” exclaimed the amiable Amelia, with 
 an enjoying giggle. 
 
 “ Ah, no ; not the drollest ! Thank Heaven, 
 I hear a great many droller things than I say ! 
 That’s what mainly supports me in my day’s 
 practice.” 
 
 Mrs. Simpson, not in the least understanding 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 1(55 
 
 him, giggled again. Dr. Hatch had the reputa- 
 tion of being a wag ; and Amelia Simpson was 
 not the woman to defraud him of a laugh on 
 any such selfish ground as not seeing the point 
 of his joke. 
 
 “Well, Mr. Weatherhead,” said Miss Patty 
 Piper, blandly, “ so we are to have your sister- 
 in-law for a neighbour, I hear.” 
 
 Jo poked his nose forward, and pursed up his 
 mouth. “ 0-ho ! my sister-in-law, Mrs. Dobbs ? 
 How do you mean, ma’am, ‘ as a neighbour ’ ? ” 
 “ We understand that Mrs. Dobbs has been 
 looking after Jessamine Cottage ; the little white 
 house with a garden on the Gloucester Road,” 
 returned Miss Patty. Dr. Hatch paused with his 
 hand on the latch of the parlour door to hear. 
 
 “Oh dear no,” said Jo Weatherhead deci- 
 sively. “ Quite a mistake. Sarah Dobbs is too 
 wedded to her old home. Nothing would 
 induce her to leave Friar’s Row. You must 
 have been misinformed, ma’am.” 
 
 “ As to leaving Friar’s Row,” put in Miss 
 Polly, “ she must do that in any case ; for she 
 has let the premises as offices ; and at a high 
 rent, too, I hear. Friar’s Row is considered a 
 choice position for business purposes.” 
 
166 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 Jo had opened his mouth to protest once 
 more, when a sudden idea made him shut it 
 again without speaking. “ Oh ! ” he gasped, 
 and then made a little pause before proceeding. 
 “ Ah, well — she — it wasn’t quite settled when 
 I heard last. Would you mind stating your 
 authority, ma’am ? ” 
 
 “ The best — Mr. Bragg told us himself. His 
 managing man at the works has made the 
 arrangement. Mr. Bragg has been looking out 
 for a more central office for some time.” 
 
 “ I told Mrs. Dobbs long ago that she was 
 living at an extravagant rental by sticking to 
 Friar’s Row,” observed Dr. Hatch, turning the 
 handle of the door. “ Depend on it, she has let 
 it at a swinging rent ; and quite right, too. 
 Now I really am off.” 
 
 Jo Weatherhead sat very still after the 
 doctor’s departure, with his cup of tea in his 
 hand, and a pondering expression of face. The 
 Miss Pipers were not sufficiently interested in 
 him to observe his demeanour very closely. If 
 they did chance to notice that he was unusually 
 silent, that was accounted for by his sense of 
 the superior company he found himself in. 
 They always spoke of him as “a good, odd 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 167 
 
 creature, with sound principles — a very respect- 
 able man, who knew his station.” As for 
 Amelia Simpson, she was habitually unob- 
 servant, with an inconvenient faculty, however, 
 of suddenly making clear-sighted remarks when 
 they were least expected. 
 
 “ I’m sure this is very good news for us ! ” 
 she exclaimed. “Jessamine Cottage is so near ! 
 At least, it was quite close to us when we lived 
 in Marlborough Terrace.” 
 
 “ It will be a good move for Mrs. Dobbs. 
 The air in our neighbourhood is so much better 
 than in her part of the town,” said Miss Patty, 
 with a certain complacency, as who should say, 
 “ The merit of this atmospheric superiority is 
 all our own ; but we are not proud.” 
 
 “ And yet I am surprised, too, at Mrs. Dobbs 
 moving,” replied Amelia. “ She always declared 
 that she hated the suburbs, with their little 
 slight-built houses.” 
 
 “ That cannot apply to our house,” said Miss 
 Polly. “ Garnet Lodge stood in its own ground 
 many a long year before those new houses 
 sprung up between Greenhill Road and the 
 Gloucester Road.” 
 
 “ But Mrs. Dobbs isn’t going to live in 
 
168 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 Garnet Lodge ! ” returned Amelia, with one of 
 her sudden illuminations of common sense. 
 “ And Jessamine Cottage is a mere bandbox.” 
 
 “ I remember Mrs. Dobbs among the trebles 
 in ‘ Esther,’ ” observed Miss Polly. “ She had a 
 fine clear voice, and could take the B flat in alt 
 with perfect ease.” 
 
 “ And her husband sold capital ironmongery. 
 We have a coal-scuttle in the kitchen now 
 which was bought at his shop — a thoroughly 
 solid article,” added Miss Patty. 
 
 These appreciative words about the Dobbses, 
 which at another time would have gratified Jo 
 Weatherhead, now fell on an unheeding ear. 
 He took his leave very shortly, and walked 
 straight to Friar’s Row. 
 
 “ Well, Sarah Dobbs,” said he, on entering 
 the parlour, “ I didn’t think you would steal a 
 march on me like this ! I did believe you’d 
 have trusted me sooner than a parcel of 
 strangers, after all these years ! ” 
 
 He did not sit down in his usual place by the 
 fireside, hut remained standing opposite to his 
 old friend, looking at her with a troubled 
 countenance. Mrs. Dobbs gave him one quick, 
 keen glance, and then said — 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 169 
 
 “So you’ve heard it, Jo? Well, I didn’t 
 mean that you should hear it from any one but 
 me. But who shall stop chattering tongues ? 
 They rage like a fire in the stubble. And the 
 poorer and lighter the fuel, the bigger blaze it 
 makes. It was settled only this very morning, 
 too.” 
 
 “ It is true, then, Sarah ? I had a kind of a 
 hankering hope that it might be only trash and 
 chit-chat.” 
 
 “ You mean about my letting my house, don’t 
 you ? Yes ; that's true.” 
 
 “ And me never to know a word of it ! — To 
 hear it from strangers ! ” 
 
 “ Now look here, Jo ; let us talk sensibly. 
 Sit down, can’t you ? ” 
 
 But Jo would not sit down ; and after a 
 minute’s pause, Mrs. Dobbs went on — 
 
 “ I’ll tell you the truth. I didn’t say a word 
 to you of my plan beforehand, because I was 
 afraid to — there ! ” 
 
 “ Afraid ! You, Sarah Dobbs, afraid of me ! 
 That’s a good one ! ” But his face relaxed a 
 little from its pained, fixed look. 
 
 “ Yes ; afraid of what you’d say. I knew 
 you wouldn’t approve, and I knew why. You 
 
170 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 wouldn’t approve for my sake. But, thinks I, 
 when once it’s done, Jo may scold a little, but 
 he’ll forgive his old friend. And I never 
 thought of chattering jackdaws cawing the 
 matter from the house-tops. I meant to tell you 
 myself this very afternoon ; I did indeed, Jo. ” 
 
 Jo drew a little nearer to his accustomed 
 chair, and put his hand on the back of it, keep- 
 ing his face turned away from Mrs. Dobbs. 
 “ Of course, you’re the mistress to do what you 
 like with your own property,” he muttered. 
 
 “ Nobody’s mistress, or master either, to do 
 what’s wrong with their own property. I 
 mean to do what’s right if I can. I was never 
 one to heed much what outside folks think of 
 me ; but I do heed what you think, Jo, and 
 reason good. And I want you to know my 
 feeling about the matter once for all, and then 
 we can leave it alone.” 
 
 Mr. Weatherhead here slid quietly into the 
 armchair, and sat with his face still turned 
 towards the fire. 
 
 “ You know,” continued Mrs, Dobbs, “ I told 
 you some weeks ago that I was troubled about 
 the child’s position here. She is a real lady, 
 and ought to be acknowledged as such. That’s 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 171 
 
 the only good that can come now from poor 
 Susy’s marriage, and I do hold to it. There 
 was only one way, that I could see, of managing 
 what I wanted. I could do it at a sacrifice — 
 after all, a very small sacrifice.” 
 
 Jo Weatherhead shook his head emphati- 
 cally. 
 
 “ Yes, really and truly a very small sacrifice,” 
 persisted Mrs. Dobbs. “ I don’t see why I 
 shouldn’t he just as happy and comfortable in 
 Jessamine Cottage as here — provided, of course, 
 that my old friends don’t cut me and sulk with 
 me. I shall be lonely enough when once the 
 child’s gone ; and you and me’ll have to cheer 
 each other up, and keep each other company, as 
 well as we can. You won’t refuse to do that, 
 will you, Jo ? Come, shake hands on it ! ” 
 
 Jo slowly put out his hand and grasped her 
 proffered one. He then took out, filled, and 
 lighted his meerschaum, and smoked in silence 
 for some quarter of an hour, Mrs. Dobbs, mean- 
 while, knitting in equal silence. All at once 
 she said — 
 
 “ Hark ! There’s May’s step coming down- 
 stairs. Mow you’ll please to understand that 
 when my moving from this house is mentioned 
 
172 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 to the child, it’s because I find Friar’s Row too 
 noisy, and think the air in Greenhill Road will 
 agree better with my health. I trust you for 
 that, Jo Weatherhead, mind! ” 
 
 May at this momnt came gaily into the room, 
 and Mr. Weatherhead thus solemnly addressed 
 her : “ Miranda Cheffington, you have been to 
 a first-rate school, and have read your Roman 
 history and all that, haven’t you ? ” 
 
 “ Not much, I’m afraid, Uncle Jo.” 
 
 “You have read about Lucretia, and Portia, 
 and tbe mother of the Gracchi ” (pronounced 
 “ Gratch-I;” for Jo’s instruction had been chiefly 
 taken in by the eye rather than the ear, in the 
 shape of miscellaneous gleanings from his own 
 stock-in-trade), “and other distinguished women 
 of classical times, whose virtues were, in my 
 opinion, not wholly unconnected with bounce ? ” 
 Mary laughed and nodded. 
 
 “ Well, allow me to tell you that there are 
 Englishwomen at the present day whom I con- 
 sider far superior, in all that makes a real good 
 woman, to any Roman or Grecian of them all. 
 Englishwomen to whom bounce in every form 
 is foreign and obnoxious. Englishwomen who 
 do good by stealth and never blush to find it 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 173 
 
 Fame, because Fame is a great deal too busy 
 with rascals and hussies ever to trouble herself 
 about them ! Your grandmother, Mrs. Sarah 
 Dobbs, whom I’m proud to call my friend, is 
 one of those women. And what’s more — and 
 I’ll have you bear it in mind, Miranda Cheffing- 
 ton — I believe you’d be puzzled to find her 
 equal in Europe, Asia, Africa, or America — 
 not to mention Australasia and the ’ole of the 
 islands in the Pacific Ocean.” 
 
 With that, Mr. Weatherhead walked gravely 
 out ; his nose somewhat redder than usual, and 
 his eyes glistening. 
 
174 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 About a year before that dinner-party at which 
 May Cheffington had made her debut in Old- 
 chester society, Mrs. Hadlow had begun to 
 think it probable that Theodore Bransby might 
 wish to marry her daughter, and to consider 
 the desirability of his doing so. On the whole 
 she did not disapprove the prospect. Constance 
 was very handsome, but she was also very poor. 
 Her ambition might not be satisfied by a match 
 with Martin Bransby ’s son ; but on the other 
 hand, Theodore was a young man of good 
 abilities, and apt to rise in the world. More- 
 over, he had sufficient property of his own to 
 facilitate his rising — a little ballast of that sort 
 being as useful in the melee of this world as the 
 lead in a toy tumbler, and enabling a man, if 
 not to strike the stars with his sublime head, at 
 least to keep right side uppermost. 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 175 
 
 Certainly Theodore had appeared much at- 
 tracted hy Miss Hadlow. Not only her beauty 
 but her self-assertion approved itself to him ; for 
 a man’s wife should be able to justify his taste ; 
 and there would be no distinction in winning 
 a woman whose meekness made it doubtful 
 whether she could have had the heart to say 
 “ No ” to an inferior suitor. They had been 
 playfellows in childhood, but school and Cam- 
 bridge had separated them. But after Theodore 
 began to read for the Bar, and, during the two 
 last vacations, which he had spent chiefly at 
 home, a great intimacy had sprung up between 
 the young people. Theodore’s frequent visits 
 to the old house in College Quad did not pass 
 unobserved. One or two persons thought his 
 partiality for the Hadlows — especially when 
 contrasted with the lukewarm politeness he 
 bestowed on other families, such as Baynes the 
 brewer, or the Burtons who lived in a park, 
 and had had nothing to do with retail for two 
 generations — was creditable to Theodore’s heart . 
 “ He was not one to neglect old friends,” said 
 they, candidly confessing at the same time that 
 it was more than they should have expected of 
 him. But the majority felt sure that nothing 
 
176 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 short of being in love with Constance Hadlow 
 could induce young Bransby to prefer the 
 canon’s old-fashioned parlour to Mrs. Raynes’s 
 red and gold drawing-room, or the Burtons’ 
 aesthetic upholstery. Oldchester folks did not 
 guess that Theodore intended to frequent a style 
 of society in which neither the Rayneses nor 
 the Burtons would be able to make any figure, 
 nor did they know that he set a considerable 
 value on Mrs. Hadlow’s connections. That 
 lady had been a Miss Rivers, and her family 
 ranked among the oldest landed gentry in the 
 kingdom. There were not many Oldchester 
 magnates to whom Theodore Bransby thought 
 it worth while to he more than coolly civil. Mr. 
 Bragg was an exception, hut then Mr. Bragg 
 was a man of very great wealth ; and as mere 
 size is held in certain cases to he an element 
 of grandeur, so money, Theodore thought, 
 is capable in certain cases of inspiring venera- 
 tion — that is to say, when there is enough of it. 
 
 As to Miss Constance’s state of mind about 
 young Bransby, it was too complex to be 
 described in a word. She liked Theodore, and 
 thought him a superior person ; if not quite so 
 superior as he thought himself. She had faith, 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 177 
 
 too, in his future. It would be agreeable to be 
 the wife of a distinguished M.P. or Q.C., or 
 perhaps of both combined in one person. Theo- 
 dore would certainly settle nowhere but in 
 London, and to live in London had been Con- 
 stance’s dream ever since she was fifteen. Her 
 visions of what her life would be if she married 
 Theodore Bransby concerned themselves chiefly 
 with their joint-entry into some fashionable 
 drawing-room, her presentation at Court, her 
 name in the Morning Post, herself exquisitely 
 dressed driving Theodore down to the House in 
 a neat victoria, and returning the salutations of 
 distinguished acquaintances as they passed along 
 Whitehall. All more serious questions regard- 
 ing their married life Constance set at rest by a 
 few formulas. Of course, she should do her 
 duty. Of course, Theodore would always behave 
 like a gentleman. Of course, they should never 
 condescend to vulgar wrangling. Of course, 
 her husband would give way to her in any 
 difference of opinion ; — particularly since she 
 was pretty sure to be always right. And then 
 Constance knew herself to be so very charming, 
 that a man of taste could not fail to delight in 
 her society. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 12 
 
178 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 Yet it must not be supposed that she had 
 fully made up her mind to marry Theodore. 
 That Theodore would be very glad to marry 
 her she did not doubt at all. There had been a 
 time — nay, there were moments still — when her 
 visions of herself as Mrs. Theodore Bransby had 
 been blurred by the disturbing element of her 
 cousin Owen’s presence. He had shown an 
 attractive appreciation of her attractions ; and 
 had, to use Mr. Simpson’s phrase, “ dangled 
 after his cousin” a good deal. Owen Rivers 
 had reached the age of three and twenty with- 
 out ever having earned a dinner, and without 
 any serious preparation to enable him to earn 
 one. He had had an expensive education, and 
 had done fairly well at Oxford. His mother 
 had died in his infancy ; and his father, a 
 country clergyman, had allowed the young 
 man to lounge away his life at the parsonage, 
 under the specious pretext of taking time to 
 make up his mind what career he would follow, 
 Owen had fished, and shot, and walked, and 
 boated, and cricketed ; but he had also read a 
 good deal, having an intellectual appetite at 
 once robust and discriminating. His friends 
 and relatives agreed in thinking him very 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 179 
 
 clever ; and, when they reproached him with 
 wasting his fine abilities and leading a purpose- 
 less existence, he would answer jestingly that 
 he should be sorry to belie their judgment by 
 subjecting his talents to the dangerous touch- 
 stone of action. His father died before he had 
 determined on a profession. But, fortunately 
 as he thought, and unfortunately as was thought 
 by some other persons, including his Aunt 
 Jane, he inherited wherewithal to live without 
 working, and, with a hundred and fifty pounds 
 per annum, could not lack bread and cheese. 
 On his father’s death he went to travel on the 
 Continent. He walked wherever walking was 
 possible, carrying his own knapsack, spending 
 little, and seeing much. After more than two 
 years’ absence, he returned to England and 
 made his way to Oldchester to see his Aunt 
 Jane, with whom he had maintained an inter- 
 mittent correspondence. There he found Con- 
 stance, whom he last remembered as a sallow, 
 self-sufficient schoolgirl, grown to a beautiful 
 young woman. Her sallowness had turned into 
 a creamy pallor, and her self-sufficiency was 
 mitigated, to the masculine judgment, by the 
 depth and softness of a pair of fine dark eyes. 
 
180 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 Owen, on his part, made a decidedly favourable 
 impression on his cousin. He was not handsome 
 — which mattered little — nor fashionably dressed 
 — which mattered more ; hut he was well made, 
 and had the grace which belongs to youthful 
 health and strength. And he had, too, that 
 indefinable tone of manner which ensured his 
 recognition as an English gentleman. Con- 
 stance was by no means insensible to this 
 attraction. Tf she had not the sentiments which 
 originate the finest manners, she had the per- 
 ceptions which recognize them. When Mary 
 Raynes and the Burnet girls criticized the 
 roughness of Owen’s demeanour, comparing it 
 with Theodore Bransby’s “ polish,” she knew 
 they were wrong. Theodore always behaved 
 with the greatest propriety ; but between his 
 manners and Owen’s there was the same sort of 
 difference as between a native and a foreigner 
 speaking the same language. The foreigner 
 may often be more accurately correct of the 
 two on minor points, but it is an affair of 
 conscious acquirement, and must inevitably 
 break down now and then ; whereas the native 
 talks as naturally as he breathes, and can no 
 more make certain mistakes than an oak tree 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 181 
 
 can put forth willow leaves. Then Owen was 
 very amusing company when he chose to he 
 so, — and he usually did choose to be so when at 
 his Aunt Jane’s ; and he had good old blood 
 in his veins. This latter fact gave a certain 
 piquancy, in Constance’s opinion, to his political 
 theories, which were opposed to the staunch 
 Tory traditions of his family. Constance 
 frequently took her cousin to task on this 
 subject ; but with the comfortable conviction to 
 sweeten their controversy that a Rivers could 
 afford to indulge in a little democratic heresy, 
 just as Lord Castlecombe could afford to wear a 
 shabbier coat than any of his tenants. 
 
 All these considerations, together with the 
 crowning circumstance that he evidently ad- 
 mired her a good deal, caused Owen to fill a 
 large place in his cousin’s mind. She even 
 asked herself seriously more than once if she 
 were in love with Owen, but failed to answer 
 the question decisively. She did, however, 
 arrive at the conviction that falling in love lay 
 much more in one’s own power than was 
 commonly supposed ; and that no Romeo-and- 
 Juliet destiny could ever inspire her with an 
 ungovernable passion for a man who possessed 
 
182 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 but a hundred and fifty pounds a year. Mrs. 
 Hadlow had at one time felt some uneasiness — 
 nearly as much on Owen’s account as on her 
 daughter’s, to say the truth. But she had 
 satisfied herself that there was nothing more 
 than a fraternal kind of regard between the 
 young people — wherein she was wrong ; and 
 that there was no danger of their imprudently 
 marrying — wherein she was right. 
 
 Mrs. Hadlow had, indeed, made up her mind 
 that Constance would accept Theodore Bransby 
 whenever he should offer himself ; and she 
 privately thought it high time that the offer 
 were made. What did Theodore wait for ? 
 His means (according to Mrs. Hadlow’s estimate 
 of things) were sufficient to allow him to marry 
 at once. But even supposing that he did not 
 choose to marry until he had fairly entered on 
 his career as a barrister, still there ought to be 
 at least some clear understanding between him 
 and Constance. All Oldchester expected to 
 hear of their engagement, and it was not fair 
 to the girl to leave matters in their present 
 uncertain condition. When, at the end of the 
 vacation, young Bransby left Oldchester again 
 without having made any declaration, Mrs. 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 183 
 
 Hadlow was not only surprised, but uneasy ; 
 and she opened her mind to her husband on 
 the subject, invading his study at an unusual 
 hour for that purpose. 
 
 “ Edward,” said Mrs. Hadlow, “ don't you 
 think that Theodore Barnsby ought to have 
 spoken before he went to town this last time ? ” 
 
 “ Spoken, my dear ? ” 
 
 “ To Constance ; or to us about Constance.” 
 
 The canon leaned his head on his hand, 
 keeping the thumb of the other hand inserted 
 between the pages of his Plato as a marker, and 
 looked absently at his wife. 
 
 “Well? Don’t you think he ought?” she 
 repeated impatiently. 
 
 The good canon meditated for a few moment 
 Then he said — 
 
 “ I — I don’t feel quite sure that I understand. 
 What ought he to have said, Jane ? ” 
 
 “ Said ! Goodness, Edward ! He ought to 
 have declared his intentions, of course. It is 
 high time that something was understood 
 clearly.” 
 
 The canon’s gentle blue eyes lost their 
 abstracted look, and a little sparkle came into 
 them as he answered, “ I hope — nay, I am 
 
184 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 sure — Jane, that you would not think of taking 
 any step, or saying any word, which might 
 compromise our dear child’s dignity. Let it 
 not appear that you are eager to put this inter- 
 pretation on the young man’s visits.” 
 
 “ My dear Edward, Theodore has been paying 
 Conny marked attentions for more than a year 
 past ; but during this last summer and autumn 
 he has been in our house morning, noon, and 
 night. He doesn’t come for our beaux yeux .” 
 
 “ H’m, h’m, h’m ! But, Jane, an attachment 
 of that sort between two young creatures should 
 he treated with the greatest delicacy. It is shy 
 and sensitive. Let us beware of pulling up our 
 flower by the roots to see if it is growing.” 
 
 This trope by no means corresponded with 
 Mrs. Hadlow’s conception of the relations 
 between Theodore Bransby and her daughter. 
 She was an affectionate mother, hut she did not 
 delude herself into thinking Constance peculiarly 
 sensitive or romantic. In fact, she was wont 
 to say that her daughter was twenty years older 
 than herself on some points. But the canon 
 erroneously attributed to his daughter a quite 
 poetical refinement of feeling. His views on 
 most subjects were romantic and unworldly, and 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 185 
 
 his ideas about, women were peculiarly chival- 
 rous. They frequently irked Constance. She 
 was not without respect as well as affection for 
 her father ; and it was sometimes difficult to 
 bring these sentiments into harmony with her 
 deep-seated admiration for herself. However, 
 she usually reconciled all discrepancies between 
 what he expected of her and what she knew to 
 be the fact, by declaring that “ Papa was so old- 
 fashioned ! ” 
 
 “ Tell me, Jane,” said the canon, after a little 
 pause, “ do you think Conny’s feelings are 
 seriously engaged ? Do you think this matter 
 is likely to make her unhappy ? ” 
 
 “ Unhappy ? Well, no ; I hope not unhappy,” 
 answered Mrs. Hadlow slowly. 
 
 “ Then all is well. We will not let our spirits 
 be troubled.” 
 
 “ But, Edward, although she may not break 
 her heart ” 
 
 “ Heaven forbid ! Break her heart, Jane ? ” 
 
 “ Well, I say of course there’s no fear of 
 that ; but it is detrimental to a girl to have an 
 affair of this kind dragging on in a vague sort 
 of way. It might spoil her chance in other 
 directions ; and people will talk, you know.” 
 
186 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 “ Tut, tut ! As to ‘ spoiling her chance ’ — » 
 which is a phrase very distasteful to me in this 
 connection — if you mean that any eligible suitor 
 would be discouraged from wooing Conny 
 because another man is supposed to admire her 
 too, that’s all nonsense. Do you think I should 
 have been frightened away from trying to win 
 you, Jenny, by any such impalpable figment of 
 a rival ? ” 
 
 “ You ? ” exclaimed Mrs. Hadlow, with a 
 sudden flush and a proud smile. “ Oh, that’s a 
 very different matter, Edward. I don’t see any 
 young men nowadays to compare with what 
 you were.” 
 
 The canon laughed softly. “ Thank you, my 
 dear. No doubt your grandmother said much 
 the same sort of thing once upon a time ; and I 
 hope your grand-daughter may say it too, some 
 day. But set your heart at rest as to this 
 matter. That Theodore Bransby, whom we 
 have known from his birth, should be a frequent 
 guest in our house, can surprise no one. There 
 is youthful society to be found here. Without 
 reckoning Constance, there’s Owen Rivers, the 
 Burton girls, little May — we may reasonably 
 suppose this to be attractive to a young man 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 187 
 
 who has no companions of his own age at home, 
 without attributing to him any such intentions 
 as you speak off. In fact,” added the canon 
 simply, “ we must believe you are mistaken ; 
 since, if Theodore loved our daughter, there’s 
 nothing to prevent his saying so ! ” 
 
 Of all which speech, two words chiefly 
 arrested Mrs. Hadlow’s attention and stuck in 
 her memory — “little May.” It was true, now 
 she came to think of it, that the increased 
 frequency of Theodore’s visits coincided with 
 May Cheffington’s presence in Oldchester. 
 Then she suddenly remembered it was by 
 Theodore’s influence that May had been invited 
 to Mrs. Bransby’s dinner-party, and many words 
 and ways of his with reference to Miss Cheffing- 
 ton occurred to her in a new light. But then, 
 again, came a revulsion, and she told herself 
 that the idea was absurd. It was out of the 
 question that Theodore Bransby, with his social 
 ambition, should think seriously of marrying 
 insignificant little May Cheffington, who was not 
 even handsome (when compared with Constance), 
 who had childish manners, no fortune — and, 
 worst of all, was Mrs. Dobbs’s grand-daughter ! 
 “ Besides,” said Mrs. Hadlow to herself, “ he 
 
188 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 must be fond of Conny. It’s quite an old attach- 
 ment ; and, though Theodore may not have very 
 ardent feelings, I don’t believe he is fickle.” 
 
 Nevertheless, she was not entirely reassured. 
 After Theodore’s departure from Oldchester she 
 observed her daughter solicitously for some 
 time ; but she finally convinced herself that 
 Conny’s peace of mind was in no danger. She 
 had sometimes been provoked by Conny’s matter- 
 of-fact coolness, and had felt that young lady’s 
 worldly wisdom to he an anachronism. But 
 she admitted that in the present case these gifts 
 had their advantage ; for, when Oldchester 
 friends showed their interest or curiosity by 
 hints and allusions to Theodore, which made 
 Mrs. Hadlow quite hot and uncomfortable, 
 Constance met them all with perfect calmness, 
 and she discussed the young man’s prospects 
 with an almost patronizing air that puzzled 
 people. 
 
 In a few weeks more May Cheffington de- 
 parted for London ; Owen Rivers also went 
 away, and life in the dark old house in College 
 Quad resumed its usual quiet routine. 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 1S9 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 It was a raw, gusty afternoon towards the end 
 of March when May and her grandmother 
 arrived in London. There had been some 
 difficulty about the journey, arising from Mrs. 
 Dormer-Smith’s objection to her niece’s travelling 
 alone, and insisting on her being properly 
 attended. In reply to a suggestion that May 
 would he quite safe in a ladies’ carriage, and 
 under the care of the guard, she wrote : — “ It is 
 not that I doubt her being safe ; but I cannot 
 let my servants see her arrive alone when I 
 meet her at the station. Why not send a maid 
 with her ? ” To which Mrs. Dobbs made answer 
 that she could not send a maid, having only one 
 servant-of-all-work, hut that she herself would 
 bring her grand-daughter to London. “ I shall 
 go up by one train, and come down by the 
 next,” said she to Jo Weatherhead. And when 
 
190 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 he remonstrated against her incurring that 
 expense and fatigue, she answered, “ Oh, we 
 won’t spoil the ship for a ha’porth of tar. If I 
 make up my mind to part with the child, I’ll 
 start her as well as I can.” 
 
 The travellers found Mrs. Dormer-Smith 
 awaiting them at the railway station. She 
 greeted May affectionately, and Mrs. Dobbs 
 amiably. “ My servant has a cab here for the 
 luggage,” she said. “But” — hesitatingly — 
 
 “ how shall we manage about ? I’m afraid 
 
 the brougham is too small for three.” Mrs. 
 Dobbs settled the question by declaring that 
 she did not purpose going to Mrs. Dormer- 
 Smith’s house. She would get some dinner at 
 the station, and return to Oldchester by an 
 evening train. “ Oh dear, I’m afraid that will 
 be very uncomfortable for you ! ” said Pauline, 
 politely trying to conceal her satisfaction at 
 this arrangement. “ Will you not come and — 
 and lunch with us ? ” But Mrs. Dobbs stuck to 
 her own plan. 
 
 While the footman was superintending the 
 placing of May’s luggage on the cab, her 
 grandmother drew her into the waiting-room 
 to say “good-bye.” “God bless you, my dear, 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 191 
 
 dear child! Write to me often, keep well, and 
 be happy ! ” she said, folding' the girl in her 
 arms. Mrs. Dormer-Smith stood by, not un- 
 sympathetic, hut at the same time relieved to 
 know James was busy with the luggage, so that 
 he could not witness the parting, nor hear May’s 
 exclamation, “Darling granny! darling granny ! ” 
 Indeed, it might he hoped that he would never 
 know the relationship between this stout, 
 common-looking old woman and Miss Cheffing- 
 ton ; nor he able to report it in the servants’ 
 hall. She felt that Mrs. Dobbs was behaving 
 very properly, and said with gracious sweetness, 
 “ I’m sure we ought all to be very much obliged 
 to you for the care you have taken of my niece. 
 It was most good of you to undertake this tire- 
 some journey.” 
 
 Mrs. Dobbs looked up with a flash in her 
 eyes. “ I only hope,” she returned hotly, “ that 
 you will take as good care of my grandchild 
 as I have taken of your niece.” The next 
 moment she repented of her retort, and said 
 quite humbly, “ You will be kind to her, won’t 
 you ? Poor motherless lamb ! You will be 
 kind to her, I’m sure ! ” 
 
 “ Indeed I will,” answered Mrs. Dormer- 
 
192 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 Smith, with unruffled gentleness. “ I have 
 always wished for a daughter, and she shall be 
 like my own daughter to me.” And, with a 
 motherly caress, she drew May to her side. 
 
 “ Don’t be afraid for me, granny dear ! ” said 
 May, smiling with tearful eyes. “ I shall he 
 very happy with Aunt Pauline. Besides, I 
 shall see you again very soon.” 
 
 Mrs. Dobbs laid her hand on the girl’s 
 shoulder and pushed her gently, but firmly, out 
 of the waiting-room, standing herself in the 
 doorway until May and her aunt had dis- 
 appeared. Then she sat down by the fire, 
 untied her bonnet-strings, pulled out her hand- 
 kerchief, and sobbed unrestrainedly. The wait- 
 ing-room attendant looked at her curiously ; 
 for she had noticed that Mrs. Dobbs did not 
 belong to the same class as that elegantly 
 dressed lady, attended by a servant in livery, 
 with whom the young girl had gone away. 
 Presently she drew near, on pretence of poking 
 the fire, and said — 
 
 “ You’re very fond of the young lady, ain’t 
 you ? But don’t take on so. You’ll see her again 
 very soon, I dare say. Don’t cry, poor dear ! ” 
 
 “ I have cried,” said Mrs. Dobbs, getting up 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 193 
 
 and drying her eyes resolutely. “ I have cried, 
 and it’s done me good. And now I’ll go and 
 get a bit of food.” 
 
 But she only trifled with the modest dinner 
 set before her ; and, as she sat in a corner of 
 the second-class carriage which conveyed her 
 back to Oldchester, her handkerchief was soaked 
 with silent tears. 
 
 To May the separation naturally seemed far 
 less terrible than it did to Mrs. Dobbs. She 
 had no idea that it was to be a long, much less 
 a permanent, one. She found it agreeable to sit 
 in the well-hung, neatly appointed brougham, 
 with a cushion at her back and a hot-water tin 
 under her feet, and to look through the clear 
 glasses at the hustle and movement of London. 
 Her aunt Pauline was very pleasant and 
 sympathetic. May thought that she might 
 come to love her father’s sister very dearly. 
 She admired her already. Mrs. Dormer-Smith’s 
 gentle manner, her soft, low voice, the quiet 
 elegance of her dress, and even the delicate 
 perfume of violets which hung about her, were 
 all appreciated by May. 
 
 “ My cousin is not at home, is he, Aunt 
 Pauline ? ” she asked after a little silence. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 13 
 
194 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 “ No ; Cyril is at Harrow. There are only 
 the children.” 
 
 “ Oh, children ! ” cried May, with brightening 
 eyes. “ I’m so glad ! I love children. I didn’t 
 know you had any children besides Cyril.” 
 
 Mrs. Dormer-Smith laughed her peculiar 
 little guttural laugh, consisting of several ha, 
 ha, ha’s, slowly and softly uttered, and made no 
 answer. 
 
 “ Are they boys or girls ? How many are 
 there ? How old are they ? ” questioned May 
 eagerly. 
 
 “ Two little hoys. Harold is — let me see — 
 Harold is six, and Wilfred five. It is very 
 awkward having two little things in the nursery 
 so many years younger than their elder brother. 
 Cyril is turned fifteen. It is like beginning 
 all one’s troubles over again,” said Pauline 
 plaintivel} 7 . The birth of these two children 
 was, indeed, a standing grievance with her. 
 
 May thought this an odd way of talking, and 
 said no more on the subject of her little cousins. 
 But she looked forward to seeing them with 
 pleasant expectation. 
 
 The sight of the house in Kensington brought 
 back vividly to her mind the day after the 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 195 
 
 dowager’s funeral, when she had arrived there 
 from school, feeling very strange and forlorn. 
 She remembered, too, the abrupt departure next 
 morning with her father, and her impression 
 that the Dormer-Smiths had not behaved well, 
 and that her father was very angry with them. 
 May was shown into a bedroom at the back of 
 the house, overlooking some gardens. The maid, 
 having asked if she could do anything for Miss 
 Cheffington, and having mentioned that the 
 luncheon-gong would sound in ten minutes, 
 withdrew, and left May alone. She examined 
 the room with girlish interest. It was very 
 pretty, she thought. Perhaps, in point of solid 
 comfort, the old-fashioned furniture of her room 
 in Friar’s Row might be superior ; but in Friar’s 
 Row there was no such ample provision of 
 looking-glasses as there was here. She was 
 still contemplating herself from head to foot in 
 a long swing mirror, which stood in a good 
 light near the window, when the gong sounded. 
 
 May ran downstairs, and in the dining-room 
 she found her aunt and a heavy-looking man 
 with grizzled, sandy hair, and dull blue eyes, 
 who asked her how she did, and supposed she 
 would hardly recognize him. 
 
196 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 “ Oh yes, I do, Uncle Frederick ! ” she an- 
 swered. 
 
 And again an nncomfortable recollection of 
 her father’s angry departure from that house 
 came over her. But whatever quarrels there 
 might have been in those days, her aunt and 
 uncle appeared to have forgotten all about 
 them. Mr. Dormer-Smith told May more than 
 once that he was pleased to see her. 
 
 “ You’re not a bit like your father, my dear,” 
 said he, with an approving air not altogether 
 flattering to Augustus. 
 
 “ Oh yes, Frederick ! ” interposed his wife. 
 “ There is a family expression.” 
 
 “ It’s an expression I have never seen on your 
 brother’s face. No, nor any approach to it.” 
 
 Mrs. Dormer-Smith laughed the soft little 
 laugh which was habitual with her when 
 embarrassed or disconcerted, and changed the 
 conversation. “I hope you like your room, 
 May ? ” she said. 
 
 “ Oh yes, very much indeed, thank you, Aunt 
 Pauline.” 
 
 “ I wish I could have come upstairs with 
 you. But I am obliged to menager my strength 
 as much as possible.” 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 197 
 
 “Are you not well, Aunt Pauline?” asked 
 May with ready sympathy. 
 
 “ I am not strong , dear.” 
 
 “ You would be better if you exerted your- 
 self more,” said Mr. Dormer-Smith. “ Your 
 system gets into a sluggish state from sheer 
 inactivity.” 
 
 “Ah, you don’t understand, Frederick,” an- 
 swered his wife, with a plaintive smile. 
 
 And May felt indignant at her uncle’s want 
 of feeling. But the next minute she relented 
 towards him when he said, as he rose from 
 table — 
 
 “ I’ll go round to the chemist’s myself for 
 Willy’s medicine, and bring it back with me, 
 as I suppose you will be wanting James to go 
 out again with the carriage by-and-by.” 
 
 “ Is one of the little boys ill ? ” asked May. 
 
 This time it was her aunt who replied calmly, 
 “ Oh no. The child has a little nervous cough ; 
 it is really more a trick than anything else.” 
 
 “ Huggins doesn’t think so lightly of it, I can 
 assure you. He tells me great care is needed,” 
 said Mr. Dormer-Smith. 
 
 “ Can I — would you mind — might I see my 
 little cousins ? ” asked May, with some hesitation. 
 
198 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 She was puzzled by these discrepancies of 
 opinion between husband and wife. 
 
 Mr. Dormer-Smith turned round with a look 
 almost of animation. “ Come now, if you like. 
 Come with me,” he said. And May followed 
 him out of the room, disregarding her aunt’s 
 suggestion that it would be better for her to lie 
 down and rest after her journey. 
 
 The nursery was a large room — in fact, an 
 attic — at the top of the house. May noticed 
 bow rapidly the elegance and costliness of the 
 furniture and appointments decreased as they 
 mounted. If the dining-room and drawing- 
 rooms represented tropical luxury, the bedrooms 
 cooled down into a temperate zone ; and the 
 top region of all was arctic in its barrenness. 
 The nursery looked very forlorn and comfort- 
 less, with its bare floor, cheap wall-paper dotted 
 with coarse, coloured prints, and its small grate 
 with a small fire in it, which had exhausted its 
 energies in smoking furiously, as the smell in 
 the room testified. At a table in the middle of 
 the room sat a hard-featured young woman, 
 with high cheek-bones, and a complexion like 
 that of a varnished wooden doll, mending a 
 heap of linen ; and in one corner, where stood 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 199 
 
 a battered old rocking-horse and a top-heavy 
 Noah’s Ark, two little hoys were kneeling on 
 the floor, building houses with wooden bricks. 
 On their father’s entrance, they looked up 
 languidly ; but when they saw who it was, 
 they scrambled to their feet with some show 
 of pleasure, and came to stand one on each side 
 of him, holding his hands. They were both 
 like him, blue-eyed and sandy-haired, and both 
 looked pale and sickly. Harold, the elder, 
 seemed the stronger of the two. Wilfred was 
 a meagre, frail-looking little creature, with a 
 half-timid, half-sullen expression of face. Their 
 father kissed them both, and, sitting down, drew 
 the younger child on his knee, whilst Harold 
 stood pressing close against his shoulder. 
 
 “Well, do you know who this is?” asked 
 Mr. Dormer-Smith, pointing to May. 
 
 Apparently they had no wish to know, for 
 they nestled closer to their father, and sulkily 
 rejected May’s proffered caresses. 
 
 “ Oh, come, you mustn’t be shy,” said their 
 father. “ This is your cousin May ; kiss her, 
 and say, ‘ How d’ye do ? ’ ” 
 
 But nothing would induce either of the boys 
 to give May his hand, nor even to look at her ; 
 
200 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 and at length she begged her uncle not to 
 trouble himself, and hoped they would all be 
 very good friends presently. 
 
 “ And how do we get on with our lessons, 
 ma’amselle ? ” asked Mr. Dormer-Smith of the 
 hard-featured young woman, who, beyond rising 
 from her chair when they came in, had hitherto 
 taken no notice of them. 
 
 “We haven’t had no lessons to-day,” put in 
 Harold, with a lowering look at “ ma’amselle.” 
 
 “ No, monsieur, it has been impossible till 
 now ; I have had so much sewing to do for 
 madame. See ! ” and she pointed to the heap of 
 linen. “ But we will have our lessons in the 
 afternoon.” 
 
 “ I don’t want lessons ; I want to go out with 
 papa. Take me with you, papa,” cried Harold. 
 Whereupon little Wilfred lisped out that he 
 too would go out with papa, and set up a 
 peevish whine. 
 
 “It is too cold for you, my man,” said the 
 father. “ The sharp wind would make you 
 cough. Harold will stay with you, and you 
 can play together, and do your lessons after- 
 wards, like good boys.” 
 
 But the children only wailed and cried the 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 201 
 
 louder, whilst mademoiselle, with her eyes on 
 her needlework, monotonously repeated in her 
 Swiss-French, “ What is this ? Be good, my 
 children,” and apparently thought she was doing 
 all that she was called upon to do under the 
 circumstances. 
 
 May thought her little cousins peculiarly dis- 
 agreeable children ; but she could not help 
 feeling sorry for them and for their father, who 
 looked quite helpless and distressed. “Would 
 you like me to tell you a story ? ” she said. “ I 
 know some very pretty stories.” 
 
 A wail from Wilfred and a scowl from 
 Harold were all the answer she received from 
 them. But her uncle caught at the suggestion 
 
 “ Oh, that would be very kind of Cousin 
 May,” he said. “ A pretty story ! You’ll like 
 that, won’t you ? ” 
 
 “ Mo, I shan’t ! I want to go with papa,” 
 grumbled Harold. 
 
 “ I want to go wis papa,” sobbed Wilfred. 
 
 “ It is always so when monsieur comes to the 
 nursery,” said the Swiss, coolly going on with 
 her sewing. “The children are so fond of 
 monsieur.” 
 
202 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 “ Poor little fellows ! ” cried May. 
 
 Then kneeling down beside her uncle, she 
 began softly to stroke Wilfred’s hair, and to 
 speak to him coaxingly. After a while, the 
 child glanced shyly into her face, and ceased to 
 sob. Presently he allowed himself to be trans- 
 ferred from his father’s knee to May’s. The 
 Noah’s Ark was brought into requisition. May 
 ranged its inmates — all more or less dilapidated 
 — on the floor, and began to perform a drama 
 with them, making each animal’s utterances in 
 an appropriate voice. A smile dawned on 
 Wilfred’s pale little face, and Harold drew near 
 to look and listen with evident interest. 
 
 “ Now, Uncle Frederick, if you have to go 
 out, I will stay and play with the children, 
 until lesson-time. They are going to be very 
 good now ; ain’t you, boys ? ” 
 
 “ Ye’y good now,” assented Wilfred, his atten- 
 tion still absorbed by the Noah’s Ark animals. 
 
 “ Well, if you’ll make the pig grunt again, I 
 will be good,” said Harold, with a Bismarckian 
 mastery of the do ut des principle. 
 
 Mr. Dormer-Smith’s face beamed with satis- 
 faction. “ It’s very good of you, my dear,” said 
 he. “ If you don’t mind, it would be very kind 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 203 
 
 to stay with them a little while ; that is, if you 
 are not too tired by your journey ? ” And as 
 he went away, he repeated, “ It’s very good of 
 you, my dear ; very good of you ! ” 
 
 But May found that her aunt took a different 
 view. 
 
 “ Dear May,” said she, when she learned 
 where her niece had been spending the two 
 hours after luncheon, “ this is very imprudent ! 
 You should have lain down and taken a 
 thorough rest instead of exerting yourself in 
 that way.” 
 
 “ Oh, I’m not in the least tired, Aunt 
 Pauline.” 
 
 “ Dear child, you may not think so ; hut a 
 railway journey of three or four hours jars the 
 nerves terribly.” 
 
 “ Oh, I was very glad to amuse the children, 
 Aunt Pauline. They were crying to go out 
 with their father, so I tried to comfort them. 
 They got quite merry before I left them.” 
 
 Mrs. Dormer-Smith slowly shook her head 
 and smiled. “You will find them extremely 
 tiresome, poor things ! ” said she placidly. 
 “ They are by no means engaging children. 
 Cyril was very different at their age.” 
 
204 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 “ Oh, Aunt Pauline ! I think they might be 
 made— I mean I think we shall come to he 
 great friends. I couldn’t bear to see them cry, 
 poor mites ! ” 
 
 “ That is all very sweet in you, dear May, 
 but I fancy it is best to leave their nursery 
 governess to manage them. Her French is not 
 all that I could wish. But a pure accent is not 
 so vitally important for boys. It is much if an 
 Englishman can speak French even decently. 
 And Cecile makes herself very useful with her 
 needle.” 
 
 Pauline then announced that she would not 
 go out again that afternoon, but would devote 
 herself to the inspection of May’s wardrobe. 
 “ Of course you have no evening dresses fit to 
 wear,” she said ; “ but we will see whether we 
 cannot manage to make use of some of your 
 clothes. Smithson, my maid, is very clever.” 
 
 “ Why, of course granny would not have sent 
 me without proper clothes ! ” protested May, 
 opening her eyes in astonishment. “ And I 
 have an evening frock — a very pretty white 
 muslin, quite new.” 
 
 To this speech Aunt Pauline vouchsafed no 
 answer beyond a vague smile. She scarcely 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 205 
 
 heard it, in fact. Her mind was preoccupied 
 with weighty considerations. As she seated 
 herself in the one easy-chair in May’s room, and 
 watched her niece kneeling down, keys in hand, 
 before her travelling trunk, she observed with 
 heartfelt thankfulness that the girl’s figure was 
 naturally graceful, and calculated to set off well- 
 cut garments to advantage. 
 
 “ Oh ! ” exclaimed May suddenly, turning 
 round and letting the keys fall with a clash as 
 she clasped her hands, “ above everything I 
 must not miss the post ! I want to send off a 
 letter, so that granny may have it at breakfast 
 time to-morrow for a surprise. Have I plenty 
 of time, Aunt Pauline ? ” 
 
 “No doubt,” answered her aunt absently. 
 She was debating whether the circumference of 
 May’s waist might not be reduced an inch or so 
 by judicious lacing. 
 
 “ Perhaps I had better get my letter written 
 first, Aunt Pauline. I wouldn’t miss writing to 
 granny for the world, and any time will do for 
 the clothes.” 
 
 To which her aunt replied with solemnity, 
 and with an appearance of energy which May 
 had never witnessed in her before, “ Your 
 
206 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 wardrobe, May, demands very serious considera- 
 tion. April is just upon us. You are to be 
 presented at the second Drawing-room. Dress 
 is an important social duty, and we must not 
 lose time in trifling.” 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 207 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 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 thorough- 
 bred way of looking at things.” 
 
208 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 “ Certainly, no one can accuse your brother 
 of having scruples,” said Frederick. 
 
 “ Besides, it is terribly had 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 un- 
 pretending.” 
 
 “ 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, hut 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 , 1 Charming ! So fresh.’ 
 Presently Lady Burlington came in, and they 
 began talking of those new people, the Aarons- 
 sohns, who have a million and a half a year. 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 209 
 
 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 he awkward,” assented Frederick, 
 looking grave. “ Couldn’t you tell her ? ” 
 
 “ Of course, I spoke to her after Mrs. Griffin 
 
 VOL. i. 14 
 
210 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 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 truth- 
 fulness. 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 school- 
 girls and schoolgirls. 
 
 There had been some discussion as to who 
 should present May. Mrs. Dormer-Smith was 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 2 LI 
 
 of opinion that had there been a Viscountess 
 Castlecombe, the office would properly have 
 devolved on her ladyship ; but old Lord Castle- 
 combe 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 ac- 
 knowledged, 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 pay- 
 ment 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 presenta- 
 tion dress was pronounced exquisite, and was 
 ready in good time ; and May herself profited 
 
212 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 satisfactorily by the instructions of a fashionable 
 professor of deportment, in the difficult art of 
 walking and curtsying in a train. To he sure, 
 she had alarmed her aunt at first, by going into 
 fits of laughter when describing Madame Mel- 
 notte’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 per- 
 ceived 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 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 213 
 
 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 pres- 
 sure 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. Gfriffin 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 
 
214 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 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. 
 
 “ Ob, come, May ! ” cried her uncle. “ I 
 thought you were above that sort of nonsense. 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 215 
 
 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 
 
216 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 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^neanness 
 or insincerity as though it were an act of loftiest 
 duty. On one or two occasions May had inno- 
 cently 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 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 217 
 
 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 inex- 
 perienced 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 cloth- 
 ing 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. 
 
218 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 “ 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, hut 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 com- 
 pelled 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, 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 219 
 
 May, are in entire accordance with your father’s 
 wishes. There has been a correspondence with 
 him on the subject, and he wrote quite dis- 
 tinctly ; 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 re- 
 member 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 judg- 
 ment of that lady from knowing her only in 
 domestic life, than one could fully appreciate a 
 
220 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 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 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 221 
 
 granny, she frankly and fully poured out all her 
 heart. These letters were the joy and consola- 
 tion of Mrs. Dobbs’s life. Every minutest detail 
 interested her. She laughed over May’s descrip- 
 tion 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. Dor- 
 mer-Smith and her niece, Miss Miranda Chef- 
 fington, had been present at this or that grand 
 entertainment. These things might appear fri- 
 volous ; 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 
 
222 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 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 he 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 conso- 
 lation, too, to let himself he 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 some- 
 thing 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 granddaughter’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 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 223 
 
 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 out- 
 cast ? 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 
 
224 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 such independent action difficult, if not im- 
 possible. 
 
 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 some- 
 where 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 
 he ; 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 ex- 
 clusively 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 him- 
 self, and wanted to choke off possible rivals. 
 Theodore did, indeed, push himself as far as 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 225 
 
 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 heen in Old- 
 chester. 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. Theo- 
 dore 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.” 
 
 VOL. i. 15 
 
226 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 “ 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. Pm so glad ! ” 
 
 Mrs. Dormer-Smith’s countenance expressed 
 anything but gladness ; and she privately in- 
 formed 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 plain- 
 tively, and with an injured air. 
 
 Three months ago May would have in 
 dignantly 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 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 227 
 
 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 he 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 repre- 
 senting 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 
 
228 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 go ; and when, on the very next Sunday, May 
 set off with her uncle and cousins to walk to 
 Miss Pipers lodgings, she felt that she had 
 achieved a diplomatic triumph. 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 229 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Those Oldchester persons who considered Miss 
 Piper’s artistic tendencies responsible for her 
 occasional freedom of speech would have been 
 confirmed in their opinion as to the demoralizing 
 tendency of Art and Continental travel had 
 they known how the daughters of the late 
 Reverend Reuben Piper employed Sunday after- 
 noon in London. Miss Patty herself had been 
 startled at first by the idea of not only receiving 
 callers, but listening to profane music on that 
 day ; and the sisters had had some discussion 
 about it. When Patty demurred to the sugges- 
 tion, Polly inquired whether she truly and 
 conscientiously considered that there was any- 
 thing more intrinsically wrong in seeing one’s 
 friends and opening one’s piano on a Sunday 
 than on a Monday. 
 
 “No; of course not that,” answered Patty. 
 
230 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 “ If I thought it wrong, I shouldn’t discuss it 
 even with you. I should simply refuse to have 
 anything to do with it.” 
 
 “ I know that, Patty,” said her sister. “ And 
 I hope I am not altogether without a conscience 
 either.” 
 
 “ No, Polly ; but would you do this in Old- 
 chester ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly not.” 
 
 “ Then that’s w T hat I say. We ought not to 
 have two weights and two measures. If a 
 thing is objectionable in Oldchester, it is objec- 
 tionable in London.” 
 
 “Not at all. Circumstances alter cases. I 
 may think it a good thing to take a sponge-bath 
 every morning ; but I should not take it in 
 public.” 
 
 “ Polly ! How can you ? ” 
 
 “ What I mean is, that, so long as we are not 
 a stumbling-block of offence to other people, we 
 have a right to please ourselves in this matter.” 
 
 So Miss Polly’s will prevailed, as it prevailed 
 with her sister upon most occasions ; and the 
 Sunday receptions became an established custom. 
 
 The house in which the Miss Pipers lodged 
 when they came to London was in a street 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 231 
 
 leading out of Hanover Square. The lower 
 part of it was occupied by a fashionable tailor — 
 a tailor so genteel and exclusive that he scorned 
 any appeal to the general public, and merely 
 had the word “ Groll ” (which was his name) 
 woven into the wire blind that shaded his 
 parlour window. The rooms above were suffi- 
 ciently spacious, and were, moreover, lofty — a 
 great point in Miss Polly’s opinion, as being 
 good for sound. They were furnished comfort- 
 ably, albeit rather dingily. But a few flower-pots, 
 photographic albums, and bits of crochet-work, 
 scattered here and there, answered the purpose 
 — if not of decoration, at least of showing 
 decorative intention. A grand pianoforte, be- 
 striding a large tract of carpet in the very 
 middle of the front drawing-room, conspicuously 
 asserted its importance over all the rest of the 
 furniture. 
 
 May and her uncle, accompanied by the two 
 little boys, were shown upstairs, and, the door 
 of the drawing-room being thrown open, 
 they found themselves confronted by a rather 
 numerous assembly. The last bars of a piano- 
 forte-piece were being performed amidst the 
 profound silence of the auditors, and the newly 
 
232 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 arrived party stood still near the door, waiting 
 until the music should come to an end. 
 
 At the piano sat a smooth-faced young 
 gentleman playing a series of incoherent dis- 
 cords with an air of calm resolve. Immediately 
 behind him stood an elderly man of gentleman- 
 like appearance, whom May found herself 
 watching, as one watches a person swallowing 
 something nauseous, and involuntarily expecting 
 him to “ make a face ” as each new dissonance 
 was crashed out close to his ear. But his 
 amiable countenance remained so serene and 
 satisfied, that the doubt crossed her mind 
 whether he might not possibly he deaf. In 
 the embrasure of a window stood a very tall, 
 thin man, whose bald head was encircled by 
 a fringe of grizzled red hair, and whose eyes 
 were fast shut. But as he stood up perfectly 
 erect, with his hands folded in a prayerful 
 attitude on his waistcoat, it was obvious that 
 he was not asleep. Miss Piper was seated with 
 her hack towards the door and her face towards 
 the pianist, so that May could not see it. But 
 the composer of “ Esther ” nodded her head 
 approvingly at every fresh harmonic catastrophe 
 which convulsed the keyboard. Her satisfaction 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 233 
 
 seemed to be shared by a stout lady of majestic 
 mien, who sat near her and fired off exclamations 
 of eulogium, such as “ Charming ! ” “ Wonderful 
 modulation ! ” “ Intensely wrought out,” and so 
 on — like minute guns ; and with a certain air 
 of suppressed exasperation, as though she sus- 
 pected that there might be persons who didn’t 
 like it, and was ready to defy them to the 
 death. A dark-eyed girl, very plainly dressed, 
 and holding a little leather music-roll in her 
 hand, occupied a modest place behind this lady. 
 Sitting close to the dark-eyed girl was a man 
 of about thirty-five years old, well-featured, 
 short in stature, and with reddish blonde hair 
 and moustaches. This personage’s countenance 
 expressed a singular mixture of audacity and 
 servility. His smile was at once impudent and 
 false, and he listened to the music with a pre- 
 tentious air of knowledge and authority. The 
 rest of the company, with Miss Patty, were 
 relegated, during the performance, to the back 
 drawing-room, where tea was served ; and the 
 folding-doors were closed, lest the clink of a 
 tea-spoon, or the sibillation of a whisper, should 
 penetrate to the music-room. But, in truth, 
 nothing less than a crash of all the crockery on 
 
234 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 the table, and a simultaneous bellow from all 
 the guests, could have competed successfully 
 with the pianoforte-piece then in progress. 
 
 At length, with one final bang, it came to an 
 end, and there was a general stir and movement 
 among the company. The amiable-looking 
 elderly man advanced towards Miss Piper with 
 a most beaming smile, and said, in a soft refined 
 voice — 
 
 “ That is the right way, isn’t it ? One knows 
 the sort of thing said by people who don’t 
 understand this school of music, the only music, 
 in fact ; hut I have long been sure that this is 
 the right way.” 
 
 “ Of course, it is the right way,” exclaimed 
 the stout lady, breathing indignation, not loud 
 hut deep, against all heretics and schismatics. 
 
 “We are so very, very much obliged to you, 
 Mr. Turner,” said the hostess. “ That new 
 composition of yours is really wonderful ! ” (And 
 so, indeed, it was.) 
 
 As Miss Piper went up to the young' gentle- 
 man who had been playing the piano, and who 
 remained quite cool and unmoved by the demon- 
 strations of his audience, she caught sight of 
 the group near the door, and hastened to 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 235 
 
 welcome them. May was received with enthu- 
 siasm, and her uncle with one of Miss Piper’s 
 best old-fashioned curtsies. Mr. Dormer-Smith 
 began to apologize for bringing his little boys, 
 and to explain that he had not expected to find 
 so numerous an assembly ; but Miss Piper cut 
 him short with hearty assurances that they 
 were very welcome, and that her sister in 
 particular was very fond of children. Then, 
 the doors being by this time reopened, she 
 ushered them all into the back room, crying — 
 
 “ Patty ! Patty ! Who do you think is here ? 
 May Cheffington ! ” and then Miss Patty added 
 her welcome to that of her sister. 
 
 Harold and Wilfred had been shyly dumb 
 hitherto, although once or twice during the 
 pianoforte-playing Wilfred had only saved him- 
 self from breaking into a shrill wail and begging 
 to be taken home, by burying his face in the 
 skirts of May’s dress ; but on beholding plum- 
 cake and other good things set forth on the 
 tea-table, they felt that life had compensations 
 still. They took a fancy also to the Miss Pipers, 
 finding their eccentric ornaments a mine of 
 interest ; and before three minutes had elapsed 
 Harold was devouring a liberal slice of cake, 
 
236 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 and Wilfred, seated close to kind Miss Patty, 
 was diversifying his enjoyment of the cake by 
 a close and curious inspection of that lady’s 
 bracelet, taken off for his amusement, and 
 endeavouring to count the various geological 
 specimens of which it was composed. 
 
 As soon as May appeared in the back draw- 
 ing-room, Constance Hadlow rose from her seat 
 in a corner behind the tea-table, and greeted 
 her. 
 
 “ Dear Conny,” cried May, “ I am so glad 
 to see you ! Then you are staying with the 
 Miss Pipers ! I guessed you were.” 
 
 Mr. Dormer-Smith was then duly presented 
 to Miss Hadlow. Constance was in very good 
 looks, and her beauty and the quiet ease of her 
 manner made a very favourable impression on 
 May’s uncle. 
 
 Miss Hadlow found a seat for him near 
 herself ; and then turned again to May, saying, 
 il There is another Oldcbester friend whom you 
 have not yet spoken to. You remember my 
 cousin Owen ? ” 
 
 May’s experience of society had not yet toned 
 down her manner to “ that repose which stamps 
 the caste of Vere de Mere.” She heartily shook 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 237 
 
 hands with the young naan, exclaiming, “ This 
 is a day of joyful surprises. I didn’t expect to 
 see you, Mr. Rivers. Now, if we only had the 
 dear canon, and Mrs. Hadlow, and granny, I 
 think I should be quite happy.” 
 
 “ You are not a bit changed,” said Owen 
 Rivers, giving May his chair, and standing 
 beside her in the lounging attitude so familiar 
 to her in the garden at College Quad. 
 
 “ Changed ! What should change me ? ” 
 
 “ The world.” 
 
 “ What nonsense ! ” cried May, with her old 
 schoolgirl bluntness. “ As if I had not been 
 living in the world all my life ! ” 
 
 Mr. Rivers raised his eyebrows with an 
 amused smile. 
 
 “ Well, isn’t it nonsense,” pursued May, “ to 
 talk as if a few hundred or thousand persons in 
 one town — though that town is London — made 
 up the world ? ” 
 
 “ It is a phrase which every one uses, and 
 every one understands.” 
 
 “ But every one does not understand it alike.” 
 “ Perhaps not.” 
 
 “ What did you mean by it, just now ? ” 
 
 “ What could I mean but the world of fashion, 
 
238 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 the world par excellence ? Rightly so-called, 
 no doubt, K since it affords the best field for the 
 exercise of the higher and nobler human 
 faculties. Those who are not in it exist, in- 
 deed ; hut with a half-developed, inferior kind 
 of life, like a jelly-fish.” 
 
 May laughed her frank young laugh. 
 
 “ You’re not changed either ! ” she said 
 emphatically. 
 
 “ Did you enjoy the performance with which 
 that young gentleman has been obliging us ? ” 
 asked Rivers. 
 
 “ I only heard the end of it.” 
 
 “ Yery diplomatically answered.” 
 
 “ Are you fond of music, Mr. Rivers ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, of music — very fond.” 
 
 “ So am I ; hut I know very little about it. 
 Granny is a good musician.” 
 
 “ How fond you are of Mrs. Dobbs ! ” said 
 Rivers. 
 
 “I am very proud of her, too,” answered 
 May quickly. 
 
 Owen Rivers looked at her with a singular 
 expression, half-admiring, half-tenderly, pitying 
 — as one might look at a child whose innocent 
 candour is as yet “ unspotted from the world.” 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 239 
 
 “ I suppose you know all tlie people here,” 
 said May, looking round on the assembly. 
 
 *•' I know who they are, most of them.” 
 
 “ That gentleman who was standing by him- 
 self at the window — the tall gentleman — who 
 is he ? ” 
 
 “ Mr. Jawler, a great musical critic.” 
 
 “ And the pleasant-faced man who seemed so 
 delighted with the playing ? ” 
 
 “ Mr. Sweeting. He is an enthusiastic 
 admirer and patron of young Cleveland Turner, 
 the pianist : a very kindly, amiable, courteous 
 gentleman, with much money and leisure, as I 
 am told.” 
 
 “ That stout lady talking to Miss Piper seems 
 to he musical also ? ” 
 
 “ That is Lady Moppett : a very good sort of 
 woman, I dare say, but fanatical. She would 
 bowstring all us dogs of Christians who believe 
 in melody.” 
 
 “ And who is that disagreeable little man in 
 the corner ? ” 
 
 “ Disagreeable ? ” 
 
 “ The little man with moustaches. There. 
 Close to the nice-looking, dark-eyed girl.” 
 
 “ Oh, that man ? But he is not considered 
 
240 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 disagreeable by the world in general, Miss 
 Cheffington ! He is by way of being a rather 
 fascinating individual : Signor Vincenzo Yalli, 
 singing-master, and composer of songs. I 
 wonder why be condescends to favour Miss 
 Piper with his presence.” 
 
 “ Is it a condescension ? ” 
 
 “A great condescension. Signor Yalli is 
 nothing, if not aristocratic.” 
 
 At this moment there was a general move- 
 ment in the other room. The young pianist 
 seated himself once more at the instrument. 
 The various groups of talkers dispersed, and 
 took their places to listen. May whispered 
 nervously to Miss Patty, that perhaps she and 
 her uncle had better go, and take away the 
 children before the music commenced. 
 
 “ I am so afraid,” she said naively, “ that 
 Willy may cry if that gentleman plays again.” 
 Miss Patty found a way out of the difficulty 
 by taking the children away to her own room. 
 It was no deprivation to her, she said, not to 
 hear Mr. Turner play. 
 
 So the two little boys, laden with good 
 things, and further enticed by the promise of 
 picture-books, trotted off very contentedly under 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 241 
 
 Miss Patty’s wing. Mr. Dormer-Smith had 
 passed into the front drawing-room, where he 
 was chatting with Lady Moppett, who proved 
 to be an old acquaintance of his. May was 
 following her uncle to explain to him about the 
 children, when Miss Piper hurried up to her 
 with an anxious and important mien. 
 
 “ Sit down, my dear,” she said ; “ sit down. 
 Cleveland Turner is going to play that fine 
 Beethoven, the one in F minor, the opera 57, 
 you know. Mr. Jawler particularly wishes to 
 hear him perform it.” 
 
 May glanced round, and seeing no place 
 vacant near at hand, returned to the other 
 room, and took a seat close to the folding-doors, 
 which were now left open. 
 
 “ What is our sentence ? ” asked Rivers. 
 
 “ Do you mean what is he going to play ? 
 A piece of Beethoven’s.” 
 
 “ Ah ! Well, at least he will have something 
 to say this time. Remains to be seen whether 
 he can say it.” 
 
 Mr. Cleveland Turner performed the sonata 
 appassionata correctly, although coldly, and 
 with a certain hardness of style and touch. 
 But the beauty of the composition made itself 
 
 16 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
242 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 irresistibly felt, and when the piece was 
 finished there was a murmur of applause. Mr. 
 Jawler opened his eyes, inclined his head, 
 opened his eyes again, and said, apparently to 
 himself, “ Yes, yes — oh yes ! ” which seemed to 
 he interpreted as an expression of approval ; 
 for Miss Piper looked radiant, and even the icy 
 demeanour of Mr. Cleveland Turner thawed 
 half a degree or so. Signor Yalli had applauded 
 in a peculiar fashion — opening his arms wide, 
 and bringing his gloved hands together with 
 apparent force, but so as to produce no sound 
 whatever. And as he went through this dumb 
 show of applause, he was talking all the time to 
 the dark-eyed girl near him, with a sneering 
 smile on his face. 
 
 Miss Piper bustled up to them. “ Pear Miss 
 Bertram,” she said, “ you must let us hear your 
 charming voice. Mr. Jawler has heard of you. 
 He would like you to sing something. Signor 
 Yalli,” with clasped hands, “ might I entreat 
 you to accompany Miss Bertram in one of 
 your own exquisite compositions ? It would 
 he such a treat — such a musical feast, I may 
 
 I 9? 
 
 say! 
 
 Miss Bertram unrolled her music-case in a 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 243 
 
 business-like way, and spread its contents before 
 the singing-master. 
 
 “ What are you going to sing, Clara ? ” asked 
 Lady Moppett, turning her head over her 
 shoulder. 
 
 “ Signor Yalli will choose,” answered the 
 young lady quietly. 
 
 Yalli selected a song, and offered his arm to 
 Miss Bertram to lead her to the piano. She 
 did not accept it instantly, being occupied in 
 replacing k the rest of her music in its case ; and 
 with a sudden, impatient gesture, Yalli wheeled 
 round and walked to the piano alone. Miss 
 Bertram followed him composedly, and took her 
 place beside him. May looked at her with 
 interest, as she stood there during the few bars 
 of introduction to the song. 
 
 Clara Bertram was not beautiful, but she had 
 a singularly attractive face. Her dark eyes 
 were not nearly so large, nor so finely set, as 
 Constance Hadlow’s, but they were infinitely 
 more expressive, and her rather wide mouth 
 revealed a magnificent set of teeth when she 
 smiled or sang. The song selected for her was 
 one of those compositions which, if ill-sung, or 
 even only tolerably sung, would pass unnoticed. 
 
244 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 But Miss Bertram sang it to perfection. Her 
 voice was very beautiful, with something 
 peculiarly pathetic in its vibrating tones, and 
 she pronounced the Italian words with a pure, 
 unaffected, and finished accent. 
 
 “ Oh, how lovely ! ” exclaimed May, under 
 her breath, when the song was over. 
 
 “ Isn’t it ? ” said Miss Piper, who happened 
 to be near enough to catch the words. “ I am 
 so glad you are pleased with her ! Bo you 
 think Mrs. Dormer-Smith would like her to 
 sing now and then at a soiree ? She wants to 
 get known in really good houses.” 
 
 Before May could answer the little woman 
 had hurried off again, and in another minute 
 was leading Miss Bertram up to Mr. Jawler, 
 who spoke to the young singer with evident 
 affability, keeping his eyes open for a full 
 minute at a time. 
 
 Meanwhile Valli was left alone at the piano, 
 and an ugly look came into his face as he 
 glanced round and saw himself neglected. But 
 his expression changed in an instant with 
 curious suddenness when Miss Hadlow drew 
 near, and, leaning on the instrument, addressed 
 some words of compliment to him. 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 245 
 
 “ Will you not let us hear you sing, Signor 
 Yalli ? ” she said presently. 
 
 Yalli merely shook his head in answer, keep- 
 ing his eyes fixed on Miss Hadlow’s face with a 
 look of bold admiration, and letting his fingers 
 stray softly over the keys. 
 
 “ Oh, that is a terrible disappointment ! ” 
 
 “ I don’t think so,” replied the singing- 
 master, speaking very good English. 
 
 “ It is, indeed.” 
 
 Again he shook his head. 
 
 “ It is to me, at all events.” 
 
 “Well, I shall sing for you; a little song 
 sotto voce , all to ourselves.” 
 
 “ Oh, hut that would be too selfish on my 
 part, to enjoy your singing all to myself.” 
 
 “ It is a very good plan to be selfish,” returned 
 Yalli ; and forthwith he began a little Neapolitan 
 love-song — murmuring, rather than singing, it 
 — and still keeping his eyes fixed on Miss 
 Hadlow. 
 
 At the first sound of his voice, low and 
 subdued though it was, Miss Piper held up her 
 finger to bespeak silence. There was a general 
 hush. Every one looked towards the piano, 
 against which Constance was still leaning, with 
 
246 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 her back to the rest of the company. She made 
 a little movement to withdraw to a seat, but 
 Yalli immediately ceased singing, and, under 
 cover of a noisy ritournelle which he played on 
 the piano, said to her, “ I am singing for you. 
 If you go away, my song will go away too.” 
 
 “ But I can’t stand here by myself, Signor 
 Yalli,” protested Constance, by no means dis- 
 pleased. At this moment Miss Piper approached 
 to implore the maestro to continue, and Constance 
 whispered to her in a few words the state of the 
 case. 
 
 “ Caprices of genius, my dear,” said the little 
 woman. “ When you have seen as much of 
 professional people as I have, you will not be 
 astonished.” Then to Yalli, “ Will you not 
 continue that exquisite air ? We are all dying 
 to hear it.” 
 
 “ Yes ; on condition that you both stay there 
 and inspire me,” answered he, with an uncon- 
 cealed sneer. 
 
 Miss Piper, however, took him at his word, 
 and, linking her arm in Constance’s, remained 
 standing close to the instrument. Yalli, upon 
 this, resumed his song. He gave it now at the 
 full pitch of his voice, addressing it ostentatiously 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 247 
 
 to Miss Hadlow, and throwing an exaggerated 
 amount of expression into the love passages. 
 Miss Piper was enchanted, and led off the 
 applause enthusiastically. Valli was soon sur- 
 rounded by a group of admirers, Mr. Dormer- 
 Smith among them. May was conscious of a 
 painful impression, which destroyed any pleasure 
 she might have had in the song. And that 
 Owen Rivers shared this impression was proved 
 by his walking up to the piano, and uncere- 
 moniously putting his cousin’s hand on his arm 
 to lead her away. 
 
 “Oh, don’t take Conny away, Mr. Rivers,” 
 cried Miss Piper. “ Signor Yalli is going to 
 favour us with some more of his delicious 
 national airs.” 
 
 “ Come and sit down, Constance,” said Owen 
 authoritatively. “ Let me get you a seat also, 
 Miss Piper,” he added. “ It can scarcely be 
 necessary for the due exhibition of this gentle- 
 man’s national airs to keep two ladies standing.” 
 
 “ Oh no, no ; please don’t mind me. I’m 
 quite comfortable,” said Miss Piper, with a shade 
 of vexation on her good-humoured round face. 
 
 Constance remained perfectly calm and self- 
 possessed ; only a faint smile and a sparkle 
 
248 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 in her eyes revealed a gratified vanity as she 
 took the chair near May, to which her cousin 
 conducted her. 
 
 Miss Piper shrugged up her shoulders and 
 pursed up her mouth. “ He has no idea what 
 artists are,” she whispered in Lady Moppett’s 
 ear. “ And, besides, poor dear young man, he’s 
 so desperately in love with his cousin that he 
 can’t bear her to be even looked at. I only 
 hope Signor Valli won’t take offence.” 
 
 But Yalli, finding himself now the object of 
 general attention, was very gracious. He sang 
 song after song without the inspiration of Miss 
 Hadlow’s handsome face opposite to him ; and 
 he sang far better than before ; — with less 
 exaggeration, and managing his naturally de- 
 fective voice with singular skill and finesse. 
 But the praise and flattery which his hearers 
 poured forth unstintingly did not seem quite to 
 satisfy him. His glance wandered restlessly, as 
 though in search of something; and finally, 
 after a very clever rendering of an old air by 
 Carissimi, he addressed himself suddenly to 
 Miss Bertram, who was standing somewhat 
 apart in the background, and asked, in Italian — 
 
 “Is the Signorina content ?” 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 249 
 
 “ I always like your singing of that aria,” she 
 answered, in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone. 
 
 “ Like it, indeed ! ” exclaimed Lady Moppett, 
 with her severest manner. “ I should think 
 you did like it, Clara ! And you ought to profit 
 by it. To hear singing so finished — of such a 
 perfect school — is a lesson for you.” 
 
 Yalli, upon this, made a low bow to Lady 
 Moppett — a bow so low as to seem almost 
 burlesque. As he raised his face again he 
 turned it towards Miss Bertram with a subtle 
 smile, saying, “ Miladi is such a judge ! Her 
 praise is very precious.” Clara, however, kept 
 an impassive countenance, and declined to meet 
 the glance he shot at her. Then Yalli made a 
 second and equally low how to the hostess, and, 
 cutting short her ecstatic compliments and 
 thanks, left the room without further ceremony. 
 
 The party now broke up. Lady Moppett 
 departed with Miss Bertram and Mr. Jawler, 
 to whom she offered a seat in her carriage. 
 Mr. Cleveland Turner and his patron, Mr. 
 Sweeting, went away together. In a few 
 minutes there remained Mr. Dormer-Smith, with 
 his niece, and Owen Rivers. Miss Patty bustled 
 in with the two children. 
 
250 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 “ Dear me,” said she. “ Is the music all 
 over? Well, now let us be comfortable.” 
 
 But Mr. Dormer-Smith declared he must 
 reluctantly bring his visit to an end. “ I don’t 
 know how to thank you,” said he to Miss Patty, 
 “ for your kindness to my children. I hope you 
 will forgive me for bringing them.” 
 
 Miss Patty heartily assured him that there was 
 nothing to forgive, and that she hoped he would 
 bring them again. She had gathered from the 
 artless utterances of Harold and Wilfred an idea 
 of their home life, which made her feel compas- 
 sionately towards them. 
 
 As for Miss Polly, she was in the highest 
 spirits. Mr. Jawler and Signor Yalli, both 
 stars of considerable magnitude in the musical 
 world, had shone for her with unclouded lustre. 
 It had been, she thought, a highly successful 
 afternoon. So also thought Harold and 
 Wilfred. And perhaps these were the only 
 three persons who had enjoyed themselves 
 thoroughly and unaffectedly. 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 251 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 The London season proceeded with its usual 
 accumulation of engagements, its usual breath- 
 less chase after half-hours that have got too 
 long a start ever to be recaptured, its usual 
 fleeting satisfactions and abiding disappoint- 
 ments, its snubs, sneers, smiles, follies, false- 
 hoods, 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. Con- 
 stance Hadlow observed half-enviously to her 
 friend that she was thoroughly “ in the swim,” 
 a phrase which May found singularly inappro- 
 priate 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 
 
252 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 tlie 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 senti- 
 ments. 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 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 253 
 
 the duchess, who sometimes went to the 
 Aaronssohns.’ Her daughter was so very great 
 a lady as to he above ordinary restrictions. 
 Other people worshipped Mammon ; the duchess 
 Only patronized Mammon — which was, surely, 
 a very different thing ! 
 
 Aunt Pauline, however, derived no gratifica- 
 tion 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 he indifferent. For instance, she 
 showed culpable coolness about her great-uncle 
 Castlecomhe 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 
 
254 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 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 s May’s cheeks, her aunt added diplo- 
 matically, “ 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 reason- 
 able 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 Weather- 
 head. For Mrs. Dormer- Smith’s worldliness 
 w r as not at all of a cynical sort. It was rather 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 255 
 
 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 under-bred 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 
 
256 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 almost the sole object that had power to bring 
 him op 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 Cheffing- 
 ton 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 he 
 a remarkably clever fellow, with immense know- 
 ledge 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 Castle- 
 combe 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. Never- 
 theless, the dislike did not descend to Gus’s 
 daughter. Lucius was pleased to approve of 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 257 
 
 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 Castle- 
 combe’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 pro- 
 vide 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 Old- 
 chester friends matters turned out better than 
 her aunt could have hoped. In the first place, 
 the Misses Piper showed no disposition what- 
 ever 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 
 
 17 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
258 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 lives that their father would have endured con- 
 siderable 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 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 259 
 
 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 present- 
 able 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 
 
260 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 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 after- 
 noon, 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 be 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 Yincenzo Yalli sat, teacup in 
 hand, smiling his false smile beside Mrs. Griffin. 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 261 
 
 Theodore knew perfectly well who Signor Yalli 
 was ; and it needed not Mrs. Griffin’s gracious 
 demeanour to instruct this rising young man 
 that Yalli was sufficiently the fashion to be 
 w r orth 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 combina- 
 tions 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 
 
262 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 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 your- 
 self? 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 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 263 
 
 acquaintances ? Mrs. Griffin got me an invita- 
 tion.” 
 
 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. 
 
264 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 “ Oh, and Mr. Brag‘S 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 grand- 
 father. 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 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 265 
 
 to-day with May’s cousin, Mr. Lucius Cheffing- 
 ton, 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 Yalli over 
 there. You know who I mean ? That short, 
 foreign man near ” 
 
 “Oh yes; Signor Yalli 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 he here, if you like,” returned Con- 
 stance 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 Yalli 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 Yalli, 
 who is run after by the best people, and is very 
 difficult to get hold of. So the negotiation 
 
266 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 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 to- 
 gether. 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. Cheffing- 
 ton. 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 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 267 
 
 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 intelli- 
 gence. 
 
 “ I wish,” said Theodore, after the first saluta- 
 tions, “ that you would do me the favour to 
 make me known to Mr. Lucius ChefSngton. 1 
 know so many members of his family, but I 
 have not the pleasure of his personal acquaint- 
 ance.” 
 
 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 polite- 
 ness. 
 
 He was a small, lean man, with a pale face 
 deeply lined by ill-health and a fretful tempera- 
 ment. He had closely shaven cheeks and chin ; 
 
268 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 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 eye-glass 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 ChefEng- 
 ton had a right to expect. 
 
 “ I have the pleasure of knowing your cousin, 
 Captain Augustus Cheffington, very well in- 
 deed,” said Theodore. 
 
 Lucius bowed again and adjusted his eye- 
 glass. 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 Chef- 
 fington’s abilities and accomplishments should 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 269 
 
 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, com- 
 patibly 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. 
 
270 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 “ 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. 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 271 
 
 “ Bich 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. Per- 
 haps 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, re- 
 membering 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 how, and brought the interview to an 
 end. 
 
 Little had Theodore Branshy expected to hear 
 Mrs. Dobbs discussed and approved by a mem- 
 ber 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 Cheffing- 
 
272 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 ton should feel Augustus’s mesalliance as acutely 
 as it was felt by Augustus’s own sister. Be- 
 sides, if, as really seemed possible, the iron- 
 monger’s widow turned out to be a moneyed 
 person ! But it must be recorded of Theo- 
 
 dore, 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 con- 
 vincingly proved how much he was in love 
 with Miss Cheffington, as his being ready to 
 forgive her even her grandmother ! 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 273 
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 
 George Frederick Cheffington, fifth Viscount 
 Castlecombe, was, in many ways, a very clever 
 old man. He was extremely ignorant of most 
 things which can he taught by books. But he 
 had a thorough acquaintance with practical 
 agriculture, considerable keenness in finance, 
 and a quick eye to detect the weaknesses of his 
 fellow men. On the other hand, his overween- 
 ing self-esteem led him to think that what he 
 knew comprised what was chiefly, if not solely, 
 worth knowing, and his avarice occasionally 
 overrode his native talent for business. In his 
 youth he had been idle and extravagant. The 
 former vice gave him the reputation of a dunce 
 at school and college, and, by a reaction which 
 belonged to his character, made him defiantly 
 contemptuous of bookish men, with one single 
 exception, presently to be noted. As to his 
 
 VOL. I. 18 
 
274 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 extravagance, that was effectually cured by the 
 death of his father. From the moment that he 
 came into possession of the family estates, which 
 he did at about thirty years of age, his income 
 was administered with sagacious economy, and 
 by the time his two sons arrived at manhood 
 Lord Castlecombe was a very rich man. 
 
 If he had a soft place in his heart, it was for 
 his son Lucius, who resembled his dead mother 
 in features, and also, unfortunately, in the 
 delicacy of his constitution. George, his heir, 
 was like himself — strong, tough, and hardy. 
 Lord Castlecombe secretly admired Lucius’s 
 talents very much, and had been highly 
 gratified when his second son took honours at 
 his University. That this success had not been 
 followed by any particularly brilliant results 
 later, and that Lucius had, as it were, stuck 
 fast in his career, had even decidedly failed in 
 Parliament, and had finally been shelved in a 
 Government post which, although lucrative, 
 was inglorious, his lordship attributed to the 
 increase of folly, incapacity, and roguery which 
 he had observed in the world during the last 
 twenty years or so. That a Cheffington of 
 such abilities as Lucius should remain undis- 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 275 
 
 tinguished was part of the general decadence. 
 In politics Lord Castlecombe was a Whig of the 
 old school ; and though he continued to vote 
 with his party, yet the only point on which he 
 was thoroughly in sympathy with the Liberals 
 — a word, by the way, which he had come 
 greatly to dislike, as covering far too wide a 
 field — was that they fought the Tories. 
 
 The person whom Lord Castlecombe most 
 detested in all the world was his nephew 
 Augustus. He disliked his extravagance, his 
 poverty, and the biting insolence of his tongue. 
 This antipathy had latterly added poignancy to 
 the old man’s desire that his son should marry, 
 and transmit the Castlecombe title and estates 
 in the direct line ; for Augustus was the next 
 heir after his two cousins. It was true that 
 the contingency of Captain Cheffington succeed- 
 ing seemed remote enough. George Cheffington 
 was only his senior by a couple of years, and 
 Lucius was his junior. But neither of them 
 had married ; and they were well on in middle 
 life. Lucius, indeed, seemed to have settled 
 down into incorrigible old bachelorhood. And 
 although George, in answer to his father’s 
 exhortations on the subject, always replied that 
 
276 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 he really would think seriously of looking for a 
 wife on his next visit to England (persons suit- 
 able for that dignity not being to be found, it 
 appeared, in the particular portion of the globe 
 where his official duties lay), yet the years went 
 by, and still there came no daughter-in-law, no 
 grandson to inherit the coronet and enjoy the 
 broad acres of Castlecombe. The idea that 
 Augustus Cheffington might ever come to enjoy 
 them was gall and wormwood to their present 
 owner. But he had never breathed a word on 
 this subject to any human being. 
 
 Mrs. Dormer-Smith was gratified by her 
 uncle’s gracious acceptance of an invitation to 
 dine with her, soon after his arrival in town, 
 about the middle of June. Lord Castlecombe 
 did not visit her often ; hut that was from no 
 ill-will on his part. In fact, he was rather fond 
 of Pauline. He considered her a bit of a goose. 
 But he thought it by no means unbecoming in 
 a woman to be a hit of a goose. And she had 
 thoroughbred manners, a gentle voice, and was 
 still agreeable to look upon. The old lord dis- 
 liked ugly women, and maintained that the 
 sight of them disagreed with him like bad 
 
 wine. 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 277 
 
 This consideration influenced Pauline in the 
 choice of her guests to meet her uncle. It was 
 understood there was to be no large party. It 
 had been agreed that they should invite Mr. 
 Bragg, who had bought a good deal of land in 
 Lord Castlecombe’s county, was director of a 
 company of which the noble viscount was chair- 
 man, and of whom his lordship was known to 
 entertain a favourable opinion, as being a man 
 who made no disguise about his humble origin, 
 and was free from the offensive pretensions of 
 many nouveaux riches. For, although Lord 
 Castlecombe willingly admitted that money 
 could buy everything on which most people 
 valued themselves, he greatly disliked the 
 notion that it could be supposed to buy the 
 tilings on which he most valued himself. 
 
 “ Well, then, Frederick,” said Mrs. Dormer- 
 Smith, “ that makes four men : my uncle, 
 Lucius, Mr. Bragg, and yourself. Then May 
 and I ; and I thought of having that handsome 
 Miss Hadlow. Uncle George likes to see 
 pretty faces. We want another woman, but 
 really I don’t know who there is available at 
 this moment. There are so few odd women 
 who ain’t frights,” pursued the anxious hostess 
 
278 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 plaintively. “ If it were a man, now 
 
 There are plenty of odd men to be had.” 
 Then, struck by a sudden inspiration, she said, 
 “ Why shouldn’t we have an odd man instead 
 of another woman ? Uncle George gives me 
 his arm, of course. You take Miss Hadlow, 
 Mr. Bragg takes May, and Lucius and the odd 
 man go in together. Positively, I think it 
 would be the best arrangement of all.” 
 
 “ I suppose Lucius wouldn’t mind, eh ? ” 
 
 “ It certainly would be the best arrangement 
 for me, at all events ; for if there are only those 
 two girls, I can simply put my feet up on a 
 sofa when we go into the drawing-room, shut 
 my eyes, and be quiet for half an hour, which, 
 of course, would be out of the question if there 
 was any woman who required to have civilities 
 paid her ; and in all probability I shall be in a 
 state of nervous prostration by Friday. This 
 season with May has tried me severely.” 
 
 Mr. Dormer-Smith offering no objection, there 
 only remained to make choice of the “ odd 
 man,” and, after a moment’s reflection, Pauline 
 decided on young Bransby. 
 
 “ Bransby ! ” exclaimed Mr. Dormer-Smith. 
 “ He’s a dreadful prig.” 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 279 
 
 “ I think he’s very nice, Frederick. But 
 really that is not the point. He’s engaged, or 
 wants to he engaged, or something of the sort, 
 
 to Miss Hadlow, so of course ” 
 
 “ What ? You don’t mean to say that hand- 
 some girl would have such an insignificant 
 fellow as Bransby ? ” 
 
 “ I mean to say nothing about it. The 
 
 subject has only a faint interest for me, 
 Frederick. But what is important is that, in 
 any case, he will help to take her off” 
 
 Mr. Dormer-Smith stared ; he understood his 
 wife’s phrase, but not her allusion. “ Why, you 
 don’t suppose there’s any danger of her setting 
 her cap at Lucius ? ” said he. 
 
 “ I should have no objection to her doing so.” 
 “ Well, there’s nobody else.” 
 
 “ We need not discuss it, Frederick. Please 
 give your best attention to the wine ; you know 
 that Uncle Gleorge is terribly fastidious about his 
 wine, and the worst is that if he is discontented, 
 he will not hesitate to say so before everybody.” 
 That really did seem to her the worst. Most 
 of the evils of life, she thought, might be more 
 endurable if people would but be discreet, and 
 say nothing about them. 
 
280 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 The evil of Uncle George’s public reprobation 
 of her wine did not, however, befall her. Lord 
 Oastlecombe was content with his dinner, and 
 looked round him approvingly as he sat on his 
 niece’s right hand. 
 
 “ A couple of uncommonly pretty girls 
 those,” said his lordship. “ They’ve got on 
 pretty frocks, too ; I like a good bright colour.” 
 
 Pauline had begged Miss Hadlow beforehand 
 not to wear black, or any sombre hue, her uncle 
 having a special dislike to such ; and Constance, 
 perfectly willing to please Lord Oastlecombe by 
 looking as brilliant as she could, had arrayed 
 herself in her favourite maize-colour. 
 
 “ You have a very nice gown on, too, 
 Pauline,” added his lordship graciously. 
 
 Mrs. Dormer- Smith privately thought her 
 own toilette detestable. It was a gaily-flowered 
 brocade (a gift from her husband soon after 
 Wilfrid’s birth), which had been hidden from 
 the light for several years. But she had self- 
 denyingly caused Smithson to furbish it up for 
 the present occasion, and was gratified that her 
 virtue did not go unrewarded. 
 
 • “ I knew you liked vivid colours, Uncle 
 George,” said she softly. 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 281 
 
 “ Of course I do. Everybody does, that has 
 the use of his eyes. Don’t believe the humbugs 
 who tell you otherwise. Your upholsterer now 
 will show you some wretched washed-out rag 
 of a thing, and try to persuade you to cover 
 your chairs with it, because it’s aesthetic ! Parcel 
 of fools ! Not that the fellows who sell the 
 things are fools. They know very well which 
 side their bread is buttered.” Then glancing 
 across the table with his keen, sunken, black 
 eyes, he continued, “ That little Miranda — 
 what is it you call her ? May ? Well, May is 
 a very good name for her — is remarkably fresh 
 and pretty. Good frank forehead. Not a hit 
 like her father. Different type. But the other 
 girl is the beauty. Uncommonly handsome, 
 really.” 
 
 “ I’m glad you think May nice,” said Mrs. 
 Dormer-Smith. “ Of course I was anxious that 
 you should like her. She is poor Augustus’s 
 only child — only surviving child. You know 
 there were five or six of them, but the others 
 all died in babyhood.” 
 
 Lord Castlecombe did know it, and remembered 
 it now with grim satisfaction. At least Augustus 
 had no male heir to come after him. 
 
282 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 “ Ah ! Gus made a pretty hash of it 
 altogether,” said the old man. 
 
 But he did not say it unkindly. He would 
 not willingly have been harsh or brutal towards 
 Pauline. She really was a very sweet creature, 
 and had, he thought, almost every quality that 
 he could desire in the women of his blood. 
 For, it must he observed, Lord Castlecombe 
 did not know that Pauline admired aesthetic 
 furniture, nor that she considered Augustus to 
 have been rather hardly treated by the Castle- 
 combes. 
 
 “ Of course,” replied that gentle lady. “ My 
 poor brother’s unfortunate marriage ” 
 
 “ Oh ! Ah ! Yes. But that, at all events, 
 seems to have turned out better than could 
 have been expected. Lucius tells me there 
 is a grandmother who has money, and is 
 generous.” 
 
 “ Not to Augustus, Uncle George ; Mrs. 
 Dobbs positively refuses to assist Augustus.” 
 
 “ H'm ! ” grunted Uncle George, his opinion 
 of Mrs. Dobbs’s good sense taking a sudden 
 leap upward. “ Well, my dear, people have to 
 think of their own interests, you know.” Then, 
 in a louder tone, “ Frederick, send me that 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 283 
 
 white Hermitage. It’s a very fair wine, as 
 times go — a very fair wine indeed.” 
 
 When the ladies had left the table, young 
 Bransby felt what he would have called, in 
 speaking of any one else, “ a little out of it.” 
 My lord talked with Mr. Bragg, Lucius and 
 Frederick were discussing some item of club 
 politics, in the midst of which the host would 
 now and again interpolate some parenthetical 
 observations addressed to young Bransby, 
 obviously as a matter of duty. At length, in 
 declining the claret which Mr. Dormer-Smith 
 pushed towards him, Theodore took the oppor- 
 tunity to say — 
 
 “ Do you think I might venture to go 
 upstairs ? I have a message for Mrs. Dormer- 
 Smith about a little commission with which she 
 entrusted me.” 
 
 “No more wine, really ? Oh, my wife will 
 be charmed to see you,” replied Frederick, with 
 alacrity. And, thereupon, the young man 
 quietly left the room. 
 
 It was true that he had undertaken a com- 
 mission for Mrs. Dormer-Smith ; but he would 
 not have prematurely withdrawn himself from 
 the company of a peer and a millionaire, on that 
 
284 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 account. He was moved by a far weightier 
 purpose. He had made up his mind to propose 
 to Miss Cheffington ; and, if the Fates favoured 
 him, he might do it that very evening. For 
 some time past — before May left Oldchester — 
 Theodore had been sure that he wished to marry 
 her. There were drawbacks. She had no 
 money (or at all events he had not reckoned 
 on her having any money), and she had connec- 
 tions of a very objectionable kind. But he 
 rather dwelt on these things, as proving the 
 disinterested nature of his attachment. He was 
 so much in love with May, that he liked to 
 fancy himself making some sacrifices on her 
 account. As to her feelings towards him, he 
 was not without misgivings. But he watched 
 her in society at every opportunity, and had 
 convinced himself that she was, at all events, 
 fancy-free. She did not even flirt ; but enjoyed 
 herself with child-like openness : — or was bored 
 with equal simplicity and sincerity. As to her 
 aunt, Theodore did not doubt that his suit would 
 he favourably received by Mrs. Dormer-Smith. 
 She must, long ago, have perceived his inten- 
 tions ; and he felt that his being invited to that 
 intimate little dinner — almost a family dinner 
 — was strong encouragement. 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 285 
 
 Theodore was fortifying himself with this 
 reflection as he mounted the stairs to the draw- 
 ing-room. His foot fell more and more linger- 
 ingly on the soft, soundless carpet as he neared 
 the door. He was on an errand which can 
 scarcely he undertaken with cool self-possession, 
 even by a young gentleman holding the most 
 favourable view of his own merits and prospects. 
 One can never certainly reckon on one’s soundest 
 views being shared. A servant carrying coffee, 
 preceded him, and opened the drawing-room 
 door just as he arrived on the landing ; and 
 Theodore felt positively grateful to the man for, 
 as it were, covering his entrance, and relieving 
 him from the embarrassment of walking in 
 alone. He entered close behind the footman, 
 and was, for a few moments, unperceived by 
 the ladies. 
 
 The room was a little dim ; all the lamps 
 being shaded with rose-colour. Mrs. Dormer- 
 Smith was reclining on a sofa, with closed eyes. 
 But she was not asleep ; for beside her in a low 
 lounging-chair, and talking to her in a subdued 
 voice, sat Constance Hadlow. May was at the 
 other side of the room, leaning with both elbows 
 on a little table which stood in a recess between 
 
286 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 the fireplace and a window, and apparently 
 absorbed in a book. Theodore thought she 
 made a charming picture, with the soft light 
 falling on her fair young face and white dress ; 
 and his pulse, which had been beating a little 
 quicker than usual all the way upstairs, became 
 suddenly still more accelerated. 
 
 May looked up. 
 
 “ Is that you ? ” she said. “ Where are the 
 others ? ” 
 
 It was not a very warm or flattering welcome ; 
 but Theodore was scarcely conscious of her 
 words. He was thinking what a fortunate 
 chance it was which left May isolated, so far 
 away from the other ladies as to he out of 
 earshot, if one spoke in a suitably low tone. 
 At the sound of her niece’s voice Mrs. Dormer- 
 Smith languidly turned her head. 
 
 “ Oh, please don’t move, Mrs. Dormer-Smith,” 
 said Theodore, speaking in a quick, confused 
 way, very different from his accustomed manner. 
 “ If I am to disturb you, I must go away at once. 
 But I — I don’t take much wine, and he said — 
 Mr. Dormer-Smith said he thought I might — if 
 you don’t mind my preceding the other men by 
 a few minutes, I will be as quiet as a mouse.” 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 287 
 
 He crossed the room and sat down by May, 
 in the shadow of a heavy window-curtain. 
 
 The hostess murmured a gracious word or two, 
 and then closed her eyes again. She had been 
 a little vexed by the young man’s premature 
 arrival ; hut if he was content to be quiet, and 
 whisper to May, she need not stand on ceremony 
 with him. The fact was, she was listening 
 with great interest to Constance’s account of a 
 feud which had arisen between Lady Burlington 
 and Mrs. Griffin’s daughter, the duchess. 
 Constance had the details at first hand, from 
 Mrs. Griffin herself, on the one side, and from 
 Miss Polly Piper on the other : for the feud had 
 arisen about Signor Vincenzo Valli. The 
 fashionable singing-master had thrown over one 
 of the great ladies for the other, on the occasion 
 of some soiree musicale ; and the quarrel had 
 been espoused by various personages of distinc- 
 tion, whose sayings and doings with regard to 
 it Mrs. Dormer-Smith considered to he at once 
 important and entertaining. She mentally con- 
 trasted with a sigh the intelligence, tact, and 
 correctness of judgment which Constance 
 brought to bear on this matter, with the 
 nonchalance — not to say downright levity and 
 
288 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 indifference — displayed by May. It was im- 
 possible to get May to interest herself in the 
 bearings of the case. In fact, she bad abandoned 
 the discussion, and gone away to her book ; 
 whereas this provincial girl, with not one 
 quarter of May’s advantages, understood it per- 
 fectly, remembered the names of all the people 
 concerned, had a very sufficient knowledge of 
 their relative importance, and was able to 
 impart to her hostess a variety of minute cir- 
 cumstances, narrated in a low, quiet tone, free 
 from emphasis or emotion, which was delight- 
 fully soothing. 
 
 May, for her part, was by no means pleased to 
 have her reading interrupted ; but politeness, and 
 the sense that she was, in her degree, responsible 
 for the hospitality of the house, impelled her to 
 close her book at once, and to turn a good- 
 humoured countenance towards her companion. 
 
 “ Isn’t Uncle Frederick coming ? ” she asked, 
 finding nothing better to say at the moment. 
 
 “ Presently. Are you in a great hurry to 
 see him ? ” returned Theodore. 
 
 “ Oh no ; I was amusing myself very well.” 
 
 “ Are you angry with me, for interrupting 
 you? 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 289 
 
 “ Oh no,” answered May again. But this 
 second “ Oh no ” was not quite so hearty as 
 the first. 
 
 “ May I see what you have been reading ? ” 
 She pushed the hook towards him. 
 
 “ ‘ Mansfield Park.’ Whose is it ? ” 
 
 “ Good gracious ! You don’t mean to say 
 that you don’t know ? ” 
 
 “ I don’t read novels,” said Theodore loftily, 
 but not severely. It was all very well for 
 women to have that weakness. 
 
 “ But this is an English classic ! Mr. Rivers 
 says so. You really ought to know who wrote 
 * Mansfield Park,’ even if you have never read 
 it. It is one of Jane Austen’s works.” 
 
 “ Ah ! Do you — do you like it ? ” said 
 Theodore, scarcely knowing what he said. He 
 was playing nervously with a little ivory paper- 
 knife which lay on the table, and his whole 
 aspect and manner — had not both been to some 
 extent concealed by the shadow of the velvet 
 curtain — would have betrayed to the most 
 indifferent observer that he was agitated and 
 unlike himself. He felt that the precious 
 minutes of this chance tete-a-tete were passing 
 swiftly ; he longed to profit by them ; and yet, 
 
 19 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
290 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 now that the moment had come, he feared to 
 stand the hazard of the die, and kept deferring 
 it by idle words. 
 
 “ Oh yes ! I like it, of course,” answered 
 May. “ Not so much, perhaps, as * Emma,’ or 
 ‘ Pride and Prejudice.’ Mr. Rivers advised me 
 to read it.” 
 
 It was the second time she had mentioned 
 Rivers’s name, and this fact stung Theodore 
 unaccountably. It acted like a touch of the 
 spur to a lagging horse. He burst out, still 
 speaking almost in a whisper, hut with some 
 heat — 
 
 “ Rivers is a happy fellow ! What would I 
 give if you cared enough about me to follow 
 my advice ! ” 
 
 “ You have only to advise me to do some- 
 thing which I like as much as reading Jane 
 Austen,” replied May archly. But his tone had 
 struck her disagreeably. She peered at him. 
 furtively as he sat in tlie shadow, trying in vain 
 to see his countenance clearly. The idea crossed 
 her mind that he might have taken too much 
 wine at dinner. But it was so repulsive an 
 idea to her, that she felt she ought not to enter- 
 tain it without better foundation. 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 291 
 
 “ It is a most fortunate chance for me to 
 have this — this blessed opportunity,” pursued 
 Theodore. (He had hesitated for the epithet, 
 and was not hy any means satisfied with it 
 when he had got it). “I have long been 
 wanting to speak to you.” 
 
 “ To me ? Well, that need not have been very 
 difficult,” answered May, edging a little away, 
 and trying to obtain a good view of his face. 
 
 “ Pardon me. It is not easy to have the 
 privilege of a private word with Miss Cheffing- 
 ton. When we meet in society, you are 
 surrounded, as is but too natural. And latterly, 
 in your own home, you have been a good deal 
 engrossed. I could not say what I have to say 
 before ” 
 
 He glanced over at Constance Hadlow as he 
 spoke. This was an immense relief to May, 
 who had been growing more and more uncom- 
 fortable, and vaguely apprehensive. She thought 
 she understood it all now. Conny had been 
 treating him with coolness and neglect. She 
 herself had noticed this, and now he wanted to 
 enlist the sympathies of Conny ’s friend. 
 
 “ Oh, I see ! ” she exclaimed. “ It’s something 
 about Constance that you wish to say to me.” 
 
292 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 “ About Constance ? Ab, May, you are 
 cruel ! You know too well your power ! ” he 
 said, endeavouring to give a pathetic intonation 
 to bis voice, but producing only an odd, croak- 
 ing, throaty sound. Then May decided, in her 
 own mind, that he had been taking too much 
 wine ; and, angry and disgusted, she tried to 
 rise from her chair and leave him. But she 
 was hemmed in by the little table, and on her 
 first movement, Theodore took hold of the skirt 
 of her dress to detain her. May turned round 
 upon him with a pale, indignant face, and 
 flashing eyes. 
 
 “ Don’t touch my dress, if you please. I wish 
 to go away.” 
 
 “ Miss Cheffington — May — you must hear 
 what I have to say now. You must know it 
 without my saying, for I have loved you so 
 long and so devotedly. But I have a right to 
 be heard.” 
 
 May was thunderstruck. But she perceived 
 in a moment that she had, in one sense, done 
 him injustice — he had not drunk too much wine. 
 
 But this ! This was worse ! How far 
 
 easier it would have been to forgive Theodore 
 if he had even got tipsy — just a little tipsy — 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 293 
 
 instead of making such a declaration ! She 
 supposed she had no right to be disgusted ; she 
 had heard that properly behaved young ladies 
 always took an offer of marriage to be a great 
 honour. But she was disgusted, nevertheless ; 
 and so far from feeling honoured, she was con- 
 scious of a distressing sense of humiliation. She 
 tried, however, to keep up her dignity, and at 
 the same time to say what was right to this — 
 this dreadful young man, who had suddenly 
 presented himself in the odious light of wanting 
 to make love to her. 
 
 “ Oh, please don’t say any more. I’m very 
 much obliged to you. I mean I’m extremely 
 sorry. But I beg you won’t say another word, 
 and forget all about it as quickly as possible.” 
 
 “ Forget it ! Nay, that is out of the question. 
 I could not if I would.” 
 
 Theodore began to recover his self-command 
 as May lost hers. She was agitated and 
 trembling. Well, he would not have had her 
 listen to his words unmoved. She was very 
 young and inexperienced. And he had, it 
 seemed, taken her by surprise. 
 
 “ Is it possible,” he continued softly, “ that 
 you were quite unprepared to hear ” 
 
294 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 “Quite unprepared. But that makes no 
 difference. And you really must allow me to 
 go away. I’m very sorry, indeed, but I can’t 
 stay here another moment.” 
 
 “ Am I so repulsive ? ” said he, with a senti- 
 mental beseeching glance. But he met an 
 expression in her face which made him add 
 quickly, in quite another tone, “Well, well, I 
 will prefer your wishes to my own,” at the 
 same time drawing himself and his chair to one 
 side. 
 
 She had looked almost capable of leaping 
 over the table to escape. May brushed past 
 him, and darted away out of the room without 
 another word. 
 
 Theodore seized hold of the book she had left 
 behind her, and bent his head over it. He saw 
 not one word on the printed page beneath his 
 eyes, but it saved him from appearing as con- 
 fused as he felt. Had he been rejected ? And, 
 if so, was it a rejection which die was bound to 
 consider final ? Or had he received no real 
 answer at all ? Gradually, as his throat grew 
 less dry, his head less hot, and his brain more 
 clear, he arrived at the conclusion that he had 
 virtually had no answer. May was little more 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 295 
 
 than a child, and he had startled her. Then 
 he remembered that word of May’s, “ It is 
 about Constance you wish to speak to me.” 
 Could she be under any misapprehension as to 
 his position with regard to Constance ? The 
 idea was fraught with comfort. That, at least, 
 he could set right, and without delay. He rose 
 and walked across the room at once to Mrs. 
 Dormer-Smith’s sofa. 
 
 At this moment the procession of men, headed 
 by Lord Castlecombe, arrived from the dining- 
 room. Constance glided away, leaving her 
 vacant chair for Theodore, who immediately 
 occupied it, thus cutting off Mrs. Dormer-Smith 
 from the rest of the company. That lady 
 looked anxiously across his shoulder. 
 
 “ d Would you,” she said to Theodore, “ would 
 you be so very good as to ask my husband to 
 inquire where Miss Cheffington is ? My uncle 
 
 would like to talk to her, I know ; and 
 
 Oh, there she is ! Thanks. Don’t trouble 
 yourself.” 
 
 May had returned to the drawing-room ; but 
 instead of going near her noble grand-uncle, 
 she perversely seated herself in a remote nook 
 beside Mr. Bragg, with whom she presently 
 
206 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 began a conversation, keeping her face per- 
 sistently turned away from every one else. 
 Her noble grand-uncle did not seem to care. 
 His lordship marched straight up to Miss 
 Hadlow, and stood before her, coffee-cup in 
 hand, with his curious air of perfectly knowing 
 how to behave like a fine gentleman whenever 
 he should think it worth while. Lucius and 
 Frederick were continuing their club discussion, 
 which possessed the advantage — for persons of 
 leisure — of having neither beginning nor end, 
 and of being indefinitely elastic. Pauline took 
 in the whole room with one comprehensive 
 glance, and then leant back against her cushions 
 with a sigh, which, if not contented, was 
 resigned. She made no effort to recall May to 
 her duty towards Lord Castlecombe. 
 
 “ You must forgive me, Mr. Bransby,” she 
 said graciously, “ if I have been selfish in 
 engrossing Miss Hadlow. If you don’t take 
 care, my uncle will do the same ! Lord Castle- 
 combe admires her very much.” 
 
 Theodore cleared his throat, settled his cravat 
 with a rather unsteady hand, and looked at her 
 as solemnly as if he were about to commence an 
 oration. But all he managed to say was — 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 297 
 
 “ There has been a mistake, Mrs. Dormer- 
 Smith.” 
 
 “ A mistake ? ” 
 
 “ Yes. I have some reason to believe that 
 you are under a wrong impression about me.” 
 
 His hostess faintly raised her eyebrows, and 
 answered with a smile, “ I hope not : for all my 
 impressions of you are very pleasant.” 
 
 Theodore bowed gravely. “ You are very 
 kind,” said he. “ It is important to me to set 
 this matter right. You perhaps imagine — 
 some one may have told you that I and Miss 
 Hadlow — there has been, I believe, some idle 
 gossip coupling our names together.” 
 
 “ Not very unnaturally,” said Mrs. Dormer- 
 Smith, still smiling. But she began to wonder 
 what he could be driving at. 
 
 “ Well, I do think it hard that one cannot be 
 on friendly terms with a person one has known 
 all one’s life without being supposed to be 
 engaged to her.” 
 
 “ Or him,” put in Pauline quietly. 
 
 “ Of course. I mean, of course, that it is 
 particularly unfair to the lady. But it puts a 
 man in a false position too. I have just been 
 speaking to May ” 
 
298 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 Then, in an instant, the true state of the case 
 flashed on Mrs. Dormer-Smith, to her unspeak- 
 able consternation. This, then, was her model 
 young man, whom she had pronounced to he so 
 “ nice ” and so “ quiet ; ” and who, moreover, 
 had always expi'essed the most proper senti- 
 ments on the subject of unequal marriages ! 
 She felt herself to be of all ladies the most 
 persecuted by fate. 
 
 “ Oh,” she said, coldly interrupting him ; “ it 
 was scarcely necessary to say anything to Miss 
 Cheffington on the subject.” 
 
 But Theodore was beyond taking heed of any 
 snub or check of that kind. “ One moment,” 
 he said, breathing quickly. “ If you will allow 
 
 me to finish what I was saying, you will see 
 
 I am, as you must have perceived, deeply 
 attached to your niece.” 
 
 “ No, no,” protested Mrs. Dormer-Smith 
 faintly. “ I never perceived it.” 
 
 “ Then that must have been because you 
 were looking in a wrong direction. You were 
 misled about Constance Hadlow ; otherwise, the 
 nature of my attentions could scarcely have 
 escaped you.” 
 
 “ And you say that you have been speaking 
 to — to my niece ? ” 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 299 
 
 “ I have this evening told her how devotedly 
 I love her.” 
 
 “ Good heavens ! ” -whispered Mrs. Dormer- 
 Smith, letting her head sink hack among the 
 sofa-cushions. “ And what was her reply ? ” 
 
 “ Her reply was — well, practically, it was no 
 reply at all. May was agitated and startled, 
 and I think she had believed that foolish gossip 
 about my engagement to Miss Hadlow. But I 
 trust to you to explain — — ” 
 
 “ Pray, Mr. Bransby, say no more. I regret 
 extremely that this should have happened.” 
 
 “ Oh, but I don’t know that I have any 
 reason to despair,” he answered naively. 
 
 This was almost more than Pauline could 
 endure. She got up from the sofa, and plain- 
 tively murmuring, Say no more ; pray say no 
 more. I really am not equal to it at present,” 
 fairly walked away from him. 
 
 That night when the guests were gone, Mrs. 
 Dormer-Smith sent for her husband to her 
 dressing-room, and revealed to him what 
 young Bransby had said. His indignation at 
 the young man’s presumption was equal to her 
 own : although not wholly on the same grounds. 
 “ You will have to talk to him, Frederick,” 
 
300 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 she said. “ When he went away he said some- 
 thing about requesting an early interview. I 
 cannot stand any more of it. It upsets me too 
 frightfully. Of course, you won’t quarrel with 
 him. Just give him politely to understand that 
 it is out of the question. Fortunately, May 
 appears to have been as much outree by this 
 preposterous proposal as I could desire. May 
 behaved very nicely to-night altogether. I was 
 pleased with her.” 
 
 “ H’m ! Oh yes ; but I thought she might 
 have paid a little more attention to your uncle. 
 She never went near him after we came upstairs. 
 I think she talked to old Bragg more than to 
 any one else.” 
 
 “Frederick,” said his wife slowly, “do you 
 know that Lady Hautenville is making a dead 
 set at Mr. Bragg for Felicia ? ” 
 
 “ Is she ? ” 
 
 “ Yes. Mrs. Griffin told me all about it. 
 They are moving heaven and earth to catch 
 him.” 
 
 “ Really ? Well, bonne chance l ” 
 
 “ It would be mauvaise chance for him, poor 
 man ! Felicia has a frightful temper, and 
 incredibly extravagant habits. She must be 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 301 
 
 over her eyebrows in debt. But I fancy Mr. 
 Bragg bas better taste.” 
 
 Her meaning tone made her husband look at 
 her with sudden earnestness. “ What do you 
 mean ? ” he asked brusquely. 
 
 Mrs. Dormer- Smith put her hand to her fore- 
 head. “ Let me entreat you not to raise your 
 voice ! ” she said. “ I have had quite enough to 
 try my nerves this evening. I mean that I 
 think Mr. Bragg is interested in May. It 
 would be a splendid match for her.” 
 
 “ What? ” cried Frederick, disregarding his 
 Avife’s request, and raising his voice considerably. 
 “ Old Bragg ! ” 
 
 Pauline turned on him impressively. 
 “ Frederick,” she said, speaking with patient 
 mildness, as one imparting higher lore to some 
 untutored savage, “ Mr. Bragg is barely fifty- 
 four ; and his income — entirely within his own 
 control — is over sixty thousand a year.” 
 
302 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 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 con- 
 sidered 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 be 
 not believe what Uncle Frederick said ? Be- 
 sides, 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 UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 303 
 
 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 inno- 
 cently ; “ 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 
 
304 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 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 pro- 
 gress 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 thorough-bred 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 granddaughter, and the other from 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 305 
 
 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 hold- 
 ing 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 
 
 20 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
306 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 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. Grriffin’s daughter 
 has a shooting-box. At least, I suppose it is 
 Mrs. Grriffin’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 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 307 
 
 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 L would 
 far, far rather come hack 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 
 
308 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 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 gentle- 
 man ; hut he must he allowed time and oppor- 
 tunity to declare himself. No better opportunity 
 
TEAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 309 
 
 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. Dohhs, 
 
 “ 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. 
 
310 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 “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 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 311 
 
 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. 
 
312 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 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 dis- 
 posed to look favourably on the gentleman.” 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 313 
 
 “ 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 
 
314 
 
 THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 
 
 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 pros- 
 pects, A letter to May was written, as well as 
 one to Mrs. Dormer-Smith. This letter was 
 very short, and may as well he 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 granddaughter 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 Conti- 
 nent, I will undertake for her to meet the lady 
 who is to take charge of her to Scotland, at any 
 place that may he agreed upon. I wrote to 
 May by this post, and she will tell you what 
 I propose. With regard to her father’s address, 
 
THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE. 315 
 
 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 fort- 
 night after the despatch of this letter, May 
 Cheffington was in Oldchester once more. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
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