That Unfortunate Marriage Volume I Part 22

May, for her part, was by no means pleased to have her reading interrupted; but politeness, and the sense that she was, in her degree, responsible for the hospitality of the house, impelled her to close her book at once, and to turn a good-humoured countenance towards her companion.

"Isn't Uncle Frederick coming?" she asked, finding nothing better to say at the moment.

"Presently. Are you in a great hurry to see him?" returned Theodore.

"Oh no; I was amusing myself very well."

"Are you angry with me, for interrupting you?"

"Oh no," answered May again. But this second "Oh no" was not quite so hearty as the first.

"May I see what you have been reading?"

She pushed the book towards him.

"'Mansfield Park.' Whose is it?"

"Good gracious! You don't mean to say that you don't know?"

"I don't read novels," said Theodore loftily, but not severely. It was all very well for women to have that weakness.

"But this is an English cla.s.sic! Mr. Rivers says so. You really ought to know who wrote 'Mansfield Park,' even if you have never read it. It is one of Jane Austen's works."

"Ah! Do you--do you like it?" said Theodore, scarcely knowing what he said. He was playing nervously with a little ivory paper-knife which lay on the table, and his whole aspect and manner--had not both been to some extent concealed by the shadow of the velvet curtain--would have betrayed to the most indifferent observer that he was agitated and unlike himself. He felt that the precious minutes of this chance _tete-a-tete_ were pa.s.sing swiftly; he longed to profit by them; and yet, now that the moment had come, he feared to stand the hazard of the die, and kept deferring it by idle words.

"Oh yes! I like it, of course," answered May. "Not so much, perhaps, as 'Emma,' or 'Pride and Prejudice.' Mr. Rivers advised me to read it."

It was the second time she had mentioned Rivers's name, and this fact stung Theodore unaccountably. It acted like a touch of the spur to a lagging horse. He burst out, still speaking almost in a whisper, but with some heat--

"Rivers is a happy fellow! What would I give if you cared enough about me to follow my advice!"

"You have only to advise me to do something which I like as much as reading Jane Austen," replied May archly. But his tone had struck her disagreeably. She peered at him furtively as he sat in the shadow, trying in vain to see his countenance clearly. The idea crossed her mind that he might have taken too much wine at dinner. But it was so repulsive an idea to her, that she felt she ought not to entertain it without better foundation.

"It is a most fortunate chance for me to have this--this blessed opportunity," pursued Theodore. (He had hesitated for the epithet, and was not by any means satisfied with it when he had got it). "I have long been wanting to speak to you."

"To me? Well, that need not have been very difficult," answered May, edging a little away, and trying to obtain a good view of his face.

"Pardon me. It is not easy to have the privilege of a private word with Miss Cheffington. When we meet in society, you are surrounded, as is but too natural. And latterly, in your own home, you have been a good deal engrossed. I could not say what I have to say before----"

He glanced over at Constance Hadlow as he spoke. This was an immense relief to May who had been growing more and more uncomfortable, and vaguely apprehensive. She thought she understood it all now. Conny had been treating him with coolness and neglect. She herself had noticed this, and now he wanted to enlist the sympathies of Conny's friend.

"Oh, I see!" she exclaimed. "It's something about Constance that you wish to say to me."

"About Constance? Ah, May, you are cruel! You know too well your power!"

he said, endeavouring to give a pathetic intonation to his voice, but producing only an odd, croaking, throaty sound. Then May decided, in her own mind, that he _had_ been taking too much wine; and, angry and disgusted, she tried to rise from her chair and leave him. But she was hemmed in by the little table, and on her first movement, Theodore took hold of the skirt of her dress to detain her. May turned round upon him with a pale, indignant face, and flas.h.i.+ng eyes.

"Don't touch my dress, if you please. I wish to go away."

"Miss Cheffington--May--you must hear what I have to say now. You must know it without my saying, for I have loved you so long and so devotedly. But I have a right to be heard."

May was thunderstruck. But she perceived in a moment that she had, in one sense, done him injustice--he had not drunk too much wine. But this----! This was worse! How far easier it would have been to forgive Theodore if he had even got tipsy--just a little tipsy--instead of making such a declaration! She supposed she had no right to be disgusted; she had heard that properly behaved young ladies always took an offer of marriage to be a great honour. But she was disgusted, nevertheless; and so far from feeling honoured, she was conscious of a distressing sense of humiliation. She tried, however, to keep up her dignity, and at the same time to say what was right to this--this dreadful young man, who had suddenly presented himself in the odious light of wanting to make love to her.

"Oh, please don't say any more. I'm very much obliged to you. I mean I'm extremely sorry. But I beg you won't say another word, and forget all about it as quickly as possible."

"Forget it! Nay, that is out of the question. I could not if I would."

Theodore began to recover his self-command as May lost hers. She was agitated and trembling. Well, he would not have had her listen to his words unmoved. She was very young and inexperienced. And he had, it seemed, taken her by surprise.

"Is it possible," he continued softly, "that you were quite unprepared to hear----"

"Quite unprepared. But that makes no difference. And you really must allow me to go away. I'm very sorry, indeed, but I can't stay here another moment."

"Am I so repulsive?" said he, with a sentimental beseeching glance. But he met an expression in her face which made him add quickly, in quite another tone, "Well, well, I will prefer your wishes to my own," at the same time drawing himself and his chair to one side.

She had looked almost capable of leaping over the table to escape. May brushed past him, and darted away out of the room without another word.

Theodore seized hold of the book she had left behind her, and bent his head over it. He saw not one word on the printed page beneath his eyes, but it saved him from appearing as confused as he felt. Had he been rejected? And, if so, was it a rejection which he was bound to consider final? Or had he received no real answer at all? Gradually, as his throat grew less dry, his head less hot, and his brain more clear, he arrived at the conclusion that he had virtually had no answer. May was little more than a child, and he had startled her. Then he remembered that word of May's, "It is about Constance you wish to speak to me."

Could she be under any misapprehension as to his position with regard to Constance? The idea was fraught with comfort. That, at least, he could set right, and without delay. He rose and walked across the room at once to Mrs. Dormer-Smith's sofa.

At this moment the procession of men, headed by Lord Castlecombe, arrived from the dining-room. Constance glided away, leaving her vacant chair for Theodore, who immediately occupied it, thus cutting off Mrs.

Dormer-Smith from the rest of the company. That lady looked anxiously across his shoulder.

"_Would_ you," she said to Theodore, "would you be so very good as to ask my husband to inquire where Miss Cheffington is? My uncle would like to talk to her, I know; and----Oh, there she is! Thanks. Don't trouble yourself."

May had returned to the drawing-room; but instead of going near her n.o.ble grand-uncle, she perversely seated herself in a remote nook beside Mr. Bragg, with whom she presently began a conversation, keeping her face persistently turned away from every one else. Her n.o.ble grand-uncle did not seem to care. His lords.h.i.+p marched straight up to Miss Hadlow, and stood before her, coffee-cup in hand, with his curious air of perfectly knowing how to behave like a fine gentleman whenever he should think it worth while. Lucius and Frederick were continuing their club discussion, which possessed the advantage--for persons of leisure--of having neither beginning nor end, and of being indefinitely elastic.

Pauline took in the whole room with one comprehensive glance, and then leant back against her cus.h.i.+ons with a sigh, which, if not contented, was resigned. She made no effort to recall May to her duty towards Lord Castlecombe.

"You must forgive me, Mr. Bransby," she said graciously, "if I have been selfish in engrossing Miss Hadlow. If you don't take care, my uncle will do the same! Lord Castlecombe admires her very much."

Theodore cleared his throat, settled his cravat with a rather unsteady hand, and looked at her as solemnly as if he were about to commence an oration. But all he managed to say was--

"There has been a mistake, Mrs. Dormer-Smith."

"A mistake?"

"Yes. I have some reason to believe that you are under a wrong impression about me."

His hostess faintly raised her eyebrows, and answered with a smile, "I hope not: for all my impressions of you are very pleasant."

Theodore bowed gravely. "You are very kind," said he. "It is important to me to set this matter right. You perhaps imagine--some one may have told you that I and Miss Hadlow--there has been, I believe, some idle gossip coupling our names together."

"Not very unnaturally," said Mrs. Dormer-Smith, still smiling. But she began to wonder what he could be driving at.

"Well, I do think it hard that one cannot be on friendly terms with a person one has known all one's life without being supposed to be engaged to her."

"Or him," put in Pauline quietly.

"Of course. I mean, of course, that it is particularly unfair to the lady. But it puts a man in a false position too. I have just been speaking to May----"