That Unfortunate Marriage Volume Ii Part 7

He piloted May into the dining-room, where tea and coffee were being served, and where the new waiter from Winnick's was, so far, conducting himself in an exemplary manner.

"Have one of those little cakes, Miss Cheffington? They look very good."

"No, thank you."

Mr. Bragg provided May with a cup of tea, and then took one of the little cakes himself. "They eat uncommonly short," said he with strong, though quiet, approbation. "All the eatables seem good."

"Not a doubt of it. Miss Patty is a wonderful housekeeper."

"Now, do you suppose she made those little cakes herself?"

"I cannot tell; but I am sure she could if she chose. She makes excellent cakes."

"Ah! I remember her giving me some very good ideas about a beefsteak pudding. I tried to make my cook do one according to her receipt; but it didn't answer," said Mr. Bragg with a sigh. Presently he remarked, as he slowly stirred his tea round and round, "This is a bad job about Mr.

George Cheffington."

"Yes; I am very sorry for Lord Castlecombe."

"Ah, your uncle--or great-uncle is he?--I'm not much of a hand at remembering the ins and outs of families--is hard hit. But he bears up wonderfully, to outward appearance."

"Have you seen him, Mr. Bragg?"

"Yes; saw him o' Monday about some business. He's a keen hand at a bargain, is Lord Castlecombe. I don't know that I ever met with a keener."

"Poor old man!"

"Ay, that's what _I_ say, Miss Cheffington. Keenness and all that is very well, so long as you've got somebody to be keen for. But it's a dreary thing to be alone in advancing years. I feel it myself, though I'm--well, I dare say nigh upon twenty years younger than his Lords.h.i.+p."

There was a little pause, during which Mr. Bragg sipped his tea and ate another cake. Then he repeated, "It's a dreary thing to be alone."

"Are you alone, Mr. Bragg?" asked May, feeling that she was expected to say something. "I thought you had sons and daughters."

"Only one son, and he's away in South America--settled in Buenos Ayres years ago. He's a rich man already, is Joshua. I started him well, though I hadn't so much money in those days as I have now, not by a deal, and he's done well. And he married a lady with money--a Spanish merchant's daughter. No; there's no likelihood of Josh coming home to England to keep me company, even supposing I wanted him to."

Then ensued another pause. Then Mr. Bragg said, "I'm to have the pleasure of meeting you at Glengowrie this autumn, I understand."

"No; I have decided not to go. I have written to Mrs. Griffin to say so."

"Oh! What--on account of this death in your family?"

"No, I cannot say that. It would be mere pretence. I never saw George Cheffington in my life; and he was not a very close relation." Mr. Bragg nodded approvingly. "That's a straightforward way of looking at it," he said. "But I'm disappointed you ain't to be at Glengowrie."

"Thank you. But my absence will not make much difference, I should say."

"I don't know. It might make a deal of difference," returned Mr. Bragg, speaking even more slowly than was his wont. "But where _shall_ you be then?"

"Where I like best to be; here, with Granny."

"Granny?"

"My grandmother, Mrs. Dobbs. You must know her by name, at all events, for you are her tenant."

"What! old Dobbs the ironmonger's widow?--begging your pardon."

May drew herself up with a proud movement of the head, which might have satisfied even the deceased dowager that there was a strong strain of the Cheffington nature in her. "There is nothing to beg pardon for, Mr.

Bragg," she said haughtily. "You cannot suppose that I am ashamed of my grandparents."

"You've no call to be ashamed of them; but people don't always see things in the right light," answered Mr. Bragg composedly. "Yes; to be sure, now I come to think of it, Mrs. Dobbs's daughter did marry--Ah! Of course, Susan Dobbs was your mother! I never knew her to speak to; but I remember her. Uncommonly pretty she was, too. Why I might ha'

known--But, you see, your aunt, Mrs. Dormer-Smith, never mentioned your mother's family."

At this moment Owen Rivers approached them. He said he had been sent by Mrs. Bransby to look for May; and, thereupon, carried her off to the drawing-room. Mr. Bragg remained behind, pondering for a minute or so.

"To think of this girl being Lord Castlecombe's grand-niece _and_ old Dobbs's grand-daughter! Well, things do turn out queer in this world!"

Then Mr. Bragg also repaired to the drawing-room.

The musical portion of the evening went off brilliantly. But the great success was undoubtedly Clara Bertram's performance of "Hear, O King!"

She sang poor Polly Piper's bald and _jejeune_ phrases in a way which made such of the elder auditors as remembered its first performance ask themselves, wonderingly, if this were indeed the music they had listened to long ago. And she concluded with a _cadenza_, so expressive and beautiful that Mr. Simpson, raptly listening, very nearly omitted to play the final chords.

When the song was over, there was a burst of applause, and an unusually loud clapping together of kid-gloved palms. But, from the doorway, where he had stood to listen, Valli precipitated himself through the crowd like some swift missile; clearing his way, utterly regardless of intervening backs and shoulders, male or female, and rus.h.i.+ng up to Miss Bertram, he exclaimed, "_Divinamente!_"

"I am glad you are content," she answered in English.

But Valli went on volubly in his own tongue, "Content? No; 'content' is not the word. I am enchanted. You sang divinely! Demon of a girl, never in all your life did you sing a song of _mine_ like that! What possessed you?"

"Grat.i.tude," answered Clara quietly.

Miss Piper now came up and kissed her effusively. Composer and singer were soon surrounded by a little crowd, to whose polite exclamations of "Charming!" "Immense treat!" "Really delicious!" and so forth, Miss Polly kept replying, with lofty magnanimity, "Oh, but you must not attribute all the honour to _me_! I a.s.sure you that more depends upon the execution than you are, perhaps, aware of."

This first triumph had a subtle effect on Mr. Cleveland Turner. He was moved by it to play a das.h.i.+ng _valse de concert_ in place of a composition of his own, modelled on a great original, which he ent.i.tled "Twilight in the Gardens of Walhalla." It had been much praised in esoteric circles. But it was somewhat trying to the unregenerate ear; so much so, that a profane and flippant outsider had rechristened it "Feeding Time in the Gardens of the Royal Zoological Society." Mr.

Sweeting afterwards mildly reproached his young friend for not having performed it, and thus doing something towards improving and elevating the taste of Oldchester.

"It's no answer, my dear boy, to say they wouldn't have liked it," said Mr. Sweeting. "No answer at all!"

But it is to be feared that Cleveland Turner had some depraved enjoyment of the applause which resulted from his lapse into heresy.

Signor Valli, determined not to be eclipsed in popularity, and utterly indifferent to the improvement of Oldchester's musical taste, made himself unprecedentedly amiable. He sang vivacious Neapolitan street songs, quaint Tuscan _stornelli_, pathetic Sicilian airs. And these tuneful productions were greatly relished by that vast majority of the listeners, who had not progressed so far as to connect ugliness with righteousness--in music.

When Valli at length rose from the piano, Mrs. Simpson made a sudden plunge across the room, and presented herself breathlessly before him.

He was in a group of persons, among whom were Mr. Sweeting, Cleveland Turner, and Miss Piper. Amelia's round, plump face was flushed by heat and excitement to a rose-pink hue, several shades deeper than that of her gown; and her spectacles glittered with a blank and baffling brightness.

"I cannot," she said, "quit this elegant scene of the Muses without offering my poor tribute to you, Signor" (which she p.r.o.nounced "senior"), "for the delightful addition your performances have contributed to refined enjoyment."

Valli looked up rather bewildered, and, not knowing what else to do, made her a profound bow.

"I trust," continued the lady, "that I may be allowed to congratulate you, signor, in the harmonious words of our great poet, upon your 'linked sweetness, long drawn out'--not, I'm sure, that any one present considered for a moment that you were drawing it out at all _too_ long!"

And with a sweeping curtsey, in the performance of which she overwhelmed Mr. Sweeting's legs in a flood of pink silk skirt, and backed heavily on to Mr. Cleveland Turner's toes, Amelia withdrew, beaming.

At supper Valli was in high good humour. He had been presented to Mrs.

Bransby, and was gratified to find himself placed beside her at the supper-table, she being incontestably the most beautiful woman in the room. Major Mitton sat near them, and pleased Valli by praises of his singing--a pleasure not at all diminished by his quick perception that the good major had no knowledge whatever of the subject.