That Unfortunate Marriage, Vol. 1

by Frances Eleanor Trollope

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. Dormer-Smith and her niece, Miss Miranda Cheffington, had been present at this or that grand entertainment. These things might appear frivolous; 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 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 be 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 consolation, too, to let himself be 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 something 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 grand-daughter'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 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 outcast? 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 such independent action difficult, if not impossible.

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 somewhere 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 be; 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 exclusively 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 himself, and wanted to choke off possible rivals. Theodore did, indeed, push himself as far as 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 been in Oldchester. 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. Theodore 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."

"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. I'm so glad!"

Mrs. Dormer-Smith's countenance expressed anything but gladness; and she privately informed 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 plaintively, and with an injured air.

Three months ago May would have indignantly 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 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 be satisfied with that sort of thing?" asked her aunt.