That Unfortunate Marriage Volume Ii Part 8

"It's a real treat, I a.s.sure you," said Major Mitton, "to hear a toon. I don't pretend to be a great connoisseur, but I can enjoy a toon. Ah, they may say what they please, but there's no music like Italian music, and n.o.body can sing it like Italians."

This led to some reminiscences of the major's garrison life in Malta; and to the mention of the _prima donna_ Bianca Moretti. Mrs. Bransby recognized this name as that of the heroine of Miss Piper's story, told at her dinner-party several months ago.

"Oh, you have heard the Moretti?" said Valli. "Yes; she _could_ sing. By the way, I hear she is a kind of _maratre_--how do you call it?--to that pretty Miss Cheffington."

"Miss Cheffington? Oh, impossible!"

"Pardon! Not at all impossible! I mean the young lady opposite, at the other end of the table, sitting between those two young men. I know one of them--the one with the blonde smooth head. I meet him in society. He is tremendously annoying--_nojoso_--what you call a bore."

"That is Miss Cheffington, certainly. But you don't mean to say that Signora Moretti has married her father?"

"Oh, married!" answered Valli, with a shrug. "She has been living with him for years; that is what I mean. I hear _la Bianca_ has grown steady now. But she had a _jeunesse pas mal orageuse_."

Major Mitton tried to change the subject, glancing uneasily at Mrs.

Bransby. But Valli was impervious to the hint. Not that he had any intention of outraging the proprieties, or any suspicion that he was doing so. Mrs. Bransby was not a _jeune meess_. He had heard of English cant and hypocrisy long before he came to England. But he had been agreeably surprised to find them conspicuous by their absence in the section of London fas.h.i.+onable society which he chiefly frequented. So he went on narrating anecdotes of _la Bianca_ and her adventures, until Mrs. Bransby rose, and quietly left the table. Upon this, Major Mitton and several other men drew closer to Valli. And the consequence was that, not only the mess-table, but other circles in Oldchester, were regaled the next day with some choice morsels of scandal, in which the name of Gus Cheffington figured conspicuously.

But whatever might be the subsequent results of that talk, Miss Piper's musical party had undoubtedly turned out a great success.

That night, when the sisters were alone together, they sat up for an hour discussing the events of the evening in a glow of pleasurable excitement. Every point was remembered and dwelt upon, but of course their interest centred in the song from "Esther."

"It was a real triumph, Polly," said Miss Patty. "There can't be two opinions about that. But--there, I thought I wouldn't tell you; but I can't help it--I overheard Signor Valli and that Cleveland Turner, whom I never did like, and never shall, speaking of 'Hear, O King,' in a sneering, slighting manner."

Quoth Miss Polly with a lofty smile, and laying her hand on her sister's shoulder, "My dear Patty, I am not at all surprised to hear it. I have experience of artists, if anybody has, and in the best of them I have always observed one defect in judging my music--professional jealousy!"

CHAPTER VII.

The day after the party at Garnet Lodge Mrs. Dobbs was surprised by the announcement from her old servant, Martha, that Mr. Bragg was at the gate, and would be glad to speak with her if she was at liberty.

"Quite at liberty, Martha, and very happy to see Mr. Bragg. Now what can _he_ want?" said Mrs. Dobbs to the faithful Jo Weatherhead, who was in his usual place by the hearth.

"Something about the house in Friar's Row?" suggested Jo.

"Ah! I suppose so. Though I don't know what there can be to say.

However, it's no use guessing. It's like staring at the outside of a letter instead of reading it. He'll speak for himself."

Meanwhile Mr. Bragg had alighted from the plain brougham which had brought him from his country house; and, walking up the garden path, and in at the open door, presented himself in the little parlour.

"I hope you'll excuse my calling, Mrs. Dobbs. You and me have met years ago."

"No excuse needed, Mr. Bragg. I remember you very well. This is my brother-in-law, Mr. Weatherhead. Please to sit down."

Mr. Bragg sat down; and he and his hostess looked at each other for a moment attentively.

Mr. Bragg was a large, solidly built man, with an impression on his face of perplexity and resolution subtly mingled together. It is a look which may be often seen on the countenance of an intelligent workman, whose employment brings him into conflict with physical phenomena--at once so docile and so intractable; so simply and so eternally mysterious. The expression had long survived the days of Mr. Bragg's personal struggle with facts of a metallic nature. In his present position, as a man of large wealth and influence, he had to deal chiefly with the more complex phenomena of humanity, and very seldom found it so trustworthy in the manipulation as the iron and lead and tin and steel of his younger days.

Mrs. Dobbs marked the changes wrought by time and circ.u.mstances in Joshua Bragg. She remembered him--he had even been temporarily in her husband's employment, at one time--in a well-worn suit of working clothes, and with chronically black finger-nails. She saw him now, dressed with quiet good taste (for he left that matter to his London tailor), with irreproachably clean hands--on which, however, toil had left ineffaceable traces--and a ma.s.sive watch chain worth half a year's earnings of his former days.

"You're very little changed in the main, Mr. Bragg. And the years haven't been hard on you," said Mrs. Dobbs, summing up the result of her observations.

"No; I believe I don't feel the burthen of years much; not bodily, that is. In the mind, I think I do. You see, I've come to a time of life when a man can't keep putting off his own comfort and happiness to the day after to-morrow. Which," added Mr. Bragg thoughtfully, "is exactly where young folks have the pull, I think."

"That's queer, too, Mr. Bragg!" remarked Jo Weatherhead. "Putting off your own comfort and happiness seems a poor way to enjoy yourself, sir."

"Ah, but what you only _mean_ to do, always comes up to your expectations; and what you _do_ do, doesn't!" rejoined Mr. Bragg, with a slow, emphatic nod of the head.

"Well, but as to 'feeling the burthen of years,' that's putting it too strong," said Mrs. Dobbs. "You have no right to feel that burthen yet awhile. Why, you must be--let me see!--under fifty-three."

"Fifty-three last birthday."

"Ay; I wasn't far out. Lord, that's no age! I might be your mother, Mr.

Bragg."

"I'm glad to hear you say so!--I mean, I'm glad you don't think me too old--not quite an old fellow, in short."

"No; to be sure not!"

Mr. Bragg was silent for fully a minute. Then he said, "Well, whether I'm quite an old fellow or not, I'm too old to trust much to the day after to-morrow. So, if not inconvenient to you, Mrs. Dobbs, I should like to say a few words to you about a matter that has been on my mind for some little time."

"Certainly, Mr. Bragg. I'm quite at your service."

Mr. Bragg looked slowly round the little parlour; looked out of the window at the tiny garden; looked at Mr. Weatherhead; finally looked at Mrs. Dobbs again, and said, "It's a private matter."

"I had better go, Sarah," said Jo. "I shall look round again at tea-time;" and he made a show of rising from his chair, very slowly and reluctantly.

"Oh, perhaps you've no call to go away, Jo. I have no business secrets from my brother-in-law, Mr. Bragg. He is my oldest and best friend in the world."

Mr. Bragg rubbed his chin slowly with his hand, and answered with a certain embarra.s.sment, but quite straightforwardly, "It's a matter private to _me_."

After this Jo Weatherhead had nothing for it but to take his departure, and to endeavour to calm the fever of his curiosity with tobacco.

Mrs. Dobbs remained alone with her visitor, wondering more and more what could be the subject of his proposed communication. Her thoughts, in connection with Mr. Bragg, persistently hovered about the house in Friar's Row. But his first words scattered them in widespread confusion.

"Your grand-daughter, Miss Cheffington, tells me that she is not going to Glengowrie Castle this autumn, Mrs. Dobbs."

"Why--no--I believe not," answered Mrs. Dobbs, looking at him curiously.

"In that case I don't think I shall go there myself. I'm no sportsman. I always feel lonely in a house full of strangers. And, besides--I was invited partic'larly to meet Miss Cheffington."

Mrs. Dobbs preserved her outward composure; but something seemed to whirl and spin in her brain; and, although she kept her eyes fixed on Mr. Bragg, she saw neither him nor anything else in the room for several seconds.

"I was asked through Mrs. Griffin. You may have heard speak of her?"

Mrs. Dobbs made an affirmative movement of the head. She could not have articulated a word at that moment to save her life.

"Mrs. Griffin is a well-meaning lady. But she's a lady who now and then gets out of her depth, along of not--what you might call minding her own business. But she always means to be kind. And the best of us make mistakes."