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."