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

Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen.

1888.

(All rights reserved.)

CONTENTS

[CHAPTER I.]
[CHAPTER II.]
[CHAPTER III.]
[CHAPTER IV.]
[CHAPTER V.]
[CHAPTER VI.]
[CHAPTER VII.]
[CHAPTER VIII.]
[CHAPTER IX.]
[CHAPTER X.]
[CHAPTER XI.]
[CHAPTER XII.]
[CHAPTER XIII.]
[CHAPTER XIV.]
[CHAPTER XV.]
[CHAPTER XVI.]

THAT UNFORTUNATE MARRIAGE.

CHAPTER I.

Augustus Cheffington had made an unfortunate 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 Cheffingtons, the Dormer-Smiths, the Castlecombes—deplored this rash step. It was never mentioned, either at the time or afterwards, without expressions of deep commiseration for him.

Nevertheless, from one point of view there were compensations. This unfortunate marriage was made responsible for a great many shortcomings, which would otherwise have been 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 remained 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 general 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 securing some place which should be suited to his birth, his abilities, his habits, and his inclinations. No such place was found. Several 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 insensible 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 Cheffingtons and Castlecombes in England; and to this kind of qualification "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 he 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 had shown no maternal affection for her long-absent son, the son returned her hard-heartedness with interest. Indeed, in his case, it turned into active resentment. He got tired of country houses and town mansions where he was received 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 irresponsibility, its cafés, its boulevards, and its billiards. And when he was fairly gone, all the Cheffingtons, and the Dormer-Smiths, and the Castlecombes 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 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 unfortunate 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 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, which were finally paid several months afterwards 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 Vane Cheffington, the dowager's long-deceased husband.

"What the——What on earth my mother did with her money I can't conjecture!" exclaimed 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 yourself 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, 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, but firmly, to the effect 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 applications 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 window, 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 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 malgré moi—she'd upset all my arrangements and habits. In short, you can see for yourself, Pauline, that it would be out of the question."

"No doubt it would be 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 use."

Mrs. Dormer-Smith continued plaintively to 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 expense 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 devil 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."

"I don't see what that has to do with it. Miranda hasn't been taken from us; 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 somewhere, 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 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 Cheffington 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.

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 disgraceful 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 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 but 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 tributary—a strong and ever-growing current of commerce. Commerce built wide suburbs, with villa residences in various stages of "detachment" 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 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 goodwill 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.

"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 weather-proof for one thing. And you needn't be 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 bringing 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 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 observer would have perceived evidences of permanence 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-books 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 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 Oldchester, 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 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. Weatherhead, 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 armchair 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 extravagant, 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 plentiful as blackberries, though," observed Mr. Weatherhead, reflectively.

Mrs. Dobbs ignored this parenthesis, and went on: "It was a bad day for me 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 something. 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 head? I should like to know when they're out of my head! Much you know about it!"

Mr. Weatherhead apparently did know something 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 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 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 position has my grand-daughter 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."

"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 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 wandering 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, including his own sister, refuse to advance a sixpence to save the child from the workhouse."

"I say, 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 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 responsibility 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 grandmother.' Talk of brass! What sort of a material do you suppose that man's features are composed of?"

"Gutta 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 house as an inn, neither more nor less—except that there's no bill;—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 contributed 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 circumstances 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 thinking of the future. Supposing I died to-morrow, what's to become of May? I have nothing to leave her. My bit 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 Cheffington, 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."

"But her aunt, Mrs. Dormer-Smith, writes to her, doesn't she?"

"Oh, a line once in a blue moon, to say she's glad 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 sea. But, at any rate, I do believe she 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, she'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 O, as his manner was when 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 hands to settle her cap, and stretching out her feet with a sudden movement which made the old tabby on the hearthrug arch her 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."

CHAPTER III.

The Simpsons were old friends of Mrs. Dobbs. Mr. Simpson was organist of the 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 be 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 be 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, 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 great admiration for him, and considered his talents 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 expression! 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, 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 back 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 inconsistently, "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 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 discursive.) "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 regardless 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.

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 conversation.

"Bassy had a great deal of trouble with the choir this evening," said Mrs. Simpson plaintively. "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 Weatherhead," 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. "Have you heard, Mrs. Dobbs, that Mr. Bransby is getting better?"

"What Bransby is that?" asked Mr. Weatherhead, 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 forth some remonstrance from Mrs. Simpson's partner, but that the latter was too much interested in the subject of the Bransbys 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 gentleman-like 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 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 Bransby 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 be 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 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 be 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 aberrations. As for Mrs. Simpson, the sweetness of her disposition was proof against far more souring circumstances than having spoiled Jo Weatherhead'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.

"No? Oh, but surely——! She must feel it agreeable that her niece should be 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 mention of her son-in-law's family; but Mr. Simpson interposed magisterially—

"If Mrs. Dormer-Smith isn't gratified, it must be because she is ignorant of the position held by Canon Hadlow'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, mortified 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. 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, ho'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, àpropos of May, dear Mrs. Dobbs, when did you last hear from her papa?"

This simple inquiry startled the company into 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 had 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, clasping her hands. "You don't mean to say that May isn't to remain with you?"

"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 grandchild. Sebastian was inclined to resist her doing so now. But something in Mrs. Dobbs's manner checked him from expressing this feeling. 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 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 proceeded 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. Weatherhead 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."

"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 Weatherhead'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, declaring 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."

CHAPTER IV.

Among other features peculiar to itself, Oldchester 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 back 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 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 penetrate 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 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—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 sometimes 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 sacrilegious 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 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 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 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, be damp, was what 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 communications. Mrs. Hadlow loved and admired Oldchester with enthusiasm. But Oldchester, in her mind, meant the cathedral and its immediate 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 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 virginia-creeper which draped the back of the house. Constance Hadlow, wrapped in a fleecy shawl, and sitting in a patch of sunshine outside 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 ostentation, 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 hearthrug. 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, 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 the 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 countenance, 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.

"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 deterioration of the race. Yet the dowager had been discontented with her grand-daughter's appearance, and had particularly lamented the absence of the Cheffington 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 the profile of an owl: the nose being beaky, and the orbit of the eyes very large, with eyebrows 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, was 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, sufficiently plump at present, threatened to become too fat as she approached middle life. But at twenty years of age that would have appeared a very remote contingency to Constance 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 Bransby, 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 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.

"Very 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."

"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 be 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 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 ball 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 be 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 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 inclined to think that May would not duly appreciate 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 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; but she never entered the doors. And once or twice Mrs. Dormer-Smith came. I remember we girls used to make game of old Mrs. Cheffington with her black wig and her airs."

"She was thoroughly grande dame, I believe," said Theodore Bransby.

"Very 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; but 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 Cheffingtons," 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 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 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 Cheffington has the misfortune to be born a gentleman, so, of course, Owen disapproves of him."

"Not at all, 'of course.' But I agree with you as to the misfortune—for the other gentlemen, at all events!"

"I think you're a little mistaken about Captain 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 doggedness which belonged to him, returned to the subject.

"You must understand," he said, "that I am not very intimate with Captain Cheffington; but I know him, and am his 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 circumstances to be taken into account, in judging of Captain Cheffington's career. In the first place, there was his unfortunate marriage."

CHAPTER V.

When Augustus Cheffington 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 Cheffington'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 gentleman'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. 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 accustomed 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 Cheffingtons 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 introduction. He believed that his sister would be willing to honour his recommendation by showing civilities which cost her nothing; and, moreover, he was quite indifferent (being then on the point of saying a long farewell to Oldchester) 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 be 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 document to be 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 bill 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 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 surviving members of the family would be penetrated 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 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, Oldchester 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 mésalliance for himself as for Captain Cheffington. "Misunderstanding" is used as a synonym for "discord;" but, perhaps, a great deal of social harmony depends on misunderstandings.

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 be 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 grand-niece. 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 position. As for Viscount 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. 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, but 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 antagonism 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 retreating 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 bishop's. The present occupant had made considerable 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, why did he choose a young girl without a penny instead of some person nearer his own age and with a little property?" Martin Bransby, however, marrying rather to please himself than to earn the approval of his friends, had chosen a remarkably 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 born to them, and they had lived together in the utmost harmony. Those persons who disapproved of the match (solely in Mr. Bransby'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 irreconcilables were driven, year by year, to put off the date at which their unfavourable judgments were to be corroborated by facts, much as sundry popular preachers have been compelled by circumstances over which they had no control, to postpone the end of the world.

Latterly they had had the mournful satisfaction 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 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 somewhat 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 æstheticism 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 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 addressing her, however, was not more chilly than his manner of addressing most other persons—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 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, but 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. Besides, one really doesn't know much about the father, for that matter. To be 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.)