To one so habitually resolute, sagacious, and self-reliant as Mrs. Dobbs, the shock of discovering that she has been living under a delusion is severe. It is not merely mortifying—it is alarming. After her conversation with Mr. Bragg, Mrs. Dobbs felt like a person who, walking along what seems to be like a solid path, suddenly finds his foot sink into a quagmire. The firmer and bolder the tread, the greater the danger.

She had not been conscious, until the disenchantment came, how much hope and pride she had lavished on the image conjured up in her fancy by Pauline's "gentleman of princely fortune." The image had been vague, it is true, but brilliant. All that she knew of Mrs. Dormer-Smith's pride of birth, her contemptuous rejection of young Bransby's suit, the importance she attached to introducing her niece into the "best set," and so forth, served to strengthen Mrs. Dobbs in all kinds of delusions. She had taken it for granted that the sort of person whom Pauline could approve of as May's husband must possess certain qualifications. She no more thought, for instance, of doubting that he would be a gentleman, than that he would be a white man. The "princely fortune" added something chivalrous to the idea of him in her mind, since he was ready to share it with portionless May. And now these airy visions had been rolled aside like glittering clouds; and the solid, prosaic, ugly fact presented itself in the form of Joshua Bragg!

Mrs. Dobbs sat for more than an hour after he had left her, with bowed head and hands clasped, scarcely stirring. For a while she could not order her thoughts. Her mind was confused. Images came and went without her will. Under all was a bitter sense of disappointment, and a vague disquietude for the future. At first she had dismissed the notion of May's marrying Mr. Bragg, as one too preposterous to be entertained for a moment; but by degrees she began to ask herself whether she might not be as mistaken here as she had been in other undoubting judgments. Mr. Bragg was a man of probity, and—or so she had hitherto thought him—of excellent sense. Oldchester held many substantial proofs of his benevolence. Could it be possible that girlish May was willing to think of this man for a husband? Mrs. Dobbs tried to look at the matter judicially.

There were many instances of happy marriages where the disparity in years was as great as in this case. Who could be happier than Martin Bransby and his beautiful young wife? But this example had not the effect of reconciling Mrs. Dobbs to the possibility of May's accepting the great tin-tack maker. Martin Bransby was a man whom any woman might love—well educated, clever, genial, of a handsome presence, and with manners of fine old-fashioned courtesy. There could be no comparison between Martin Bransby and Joshua Bragg.

No, no, no! Such a match would be a mere coarse bargain. The very thought of it was an outrage to May. And yet—the pendulum of her thoughts swinging suddenly in the opposite direction—she remembered that neither Mrs. Dormer-Smith nor Mrs. Griffin had so considered it. And was it not true what Mr. Bragg had said—that many people did very well without romance, and were useful and happy? Self-distrust, once aroused, became wild and uncontrollable. She fought against her better instincts; telling herself that she was a fool, and that the world was no place for story-book sentimentality. If May married this man she would be safe from the gusts of fortune; she would be honoured and caressed (for it was clear that society accepted Mr. Bragg without qualm or question), and she would have boundless possibilities of doing good. This, surely, at all events, was a worthy aim!

At this point—just as after a conflict between winds and waves there sometimes comes a sudden calm and the serenity of sunshine—the turmoil of her mind was stilled all at once, and she saw clearly. She lifted up her head and said aloud—

"'What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?' Lord, forgive me! I was arguing on the devil's side every bit as much as that poor creature, Mrs. Dormer-Smith. And without her excuse of knowing no better! The whole thing is plain enough. If May could bring herself to care for the man—and such unlikely things happen in that line that one daren't say it's downright impossible!—she'd do right to marry him; if not, she'd do wrong. And that's all about it."

Here, at least, was a firm foothold. And having struggled out of the quagmire, Mrs. Dobbs was able to consider the other subject of Mr. Bragg's talk with her—the rumour that Captain Cheffington had married again. If it were true, and, above all, if his new wife were such a one as Mr. Bragg had described, there was a new source of anxiety as to May's future.

As she was meditating on this point, Jo Weatherhead returned, eager to hear all about her interview with Bragg, and to impart to her something he had just heard himself. Mrs. Dobbs was glad to be able to feed Jo's hungry curiosity by telling him the reports about her son-in-law, since she could not betray Mr. Bragg's confidence respecting May. She found that he had been hearing a version of them from Mr. Simpson, whom he had met in the road. Valli's utterances at Miss Piper's supper-table had already revived all kinds of obsolete gossip about Captain Cheffington.

"It'll be terrible for my poor lamb if half the bad things they say are true," said Mrs. Dobbs, shaking her head.

Jo's private opinion was that Captain Cheffington's conduct under any given circumstances was pretty sure to be the worst possible; but he tried to comfort his old friend, as he had succeeded in comforting himself, by setting forth that her father's behaviour, be it what it might, could scarcely affect May's happiness very deeply, seeing that she had been entirely separated from him for so long.

"And as to her position in the world, that you think so much of"—Mrs. Dobbs winced at this, and turned her head away—"why, I shrewdly suspect, Sarah, that a deal worse things than ever reached you and me have been known about Captain Cheffington in aristocratic circles this long time back. And yet Miranda has been received among the tip-toppest people as if she belonged to 'em. And there's her own great-uncle, the Lord Viscount Castlecombe of Combe Park, a nobleman notorious for his heighth" (Jo did not mean his stature), "has quite taken to her, by all accounts."

After some consultation, they agreed together that it would be well for Mrs. Dobbs to tell her grand-daughter something of the reports which were flying about, lest they might reach her accidentally, or, in a still more painful way, through malice, and find her unprepared. Moreover, Jo urged his old friend to write boldly to Augustus demanding an answer as to the truth of the statement that he had married a second wife. Mrs. Dobbs at length consented to do so, although she had little hope of eliciting the truth by those means. But Jo was strongly of opinion that if Captain Cheffington were not married he would be desirous, for many reasons, of repudiating the statement; and if he were married he might not be displeased at this opportunity of saying so, although pride, or indolence, or a hundred other motives, might prevent him from making the opportunity for himself.

The communication was made to May when she came home from College Quad that afternoon. And, although greatly surprised at first, it did not produce so much effect as her grandmother had anticipated.

May had enough of the healthy, unquestioning veneration of a child for its parent to take her father on trust; and Mrs. Dobbs had always been careful not to lower Captain Cheffington in his daughter's esteem. But May did not—naturally could not—feel for him any of that strong personal attachment which is apt to look jealously on interlopers. She regarded him with a somewhat hazy affection, largely compounded of imagination and dim childish traditions. Some added tenderness sprang, perhaps, from the notion that "poor papa" had been unfortunate, and that the world had treated him below his deserts.

After the first surprise was over, she said, "But why should he keep it secret? Wouldn't he have told you, granny?"

"Perhaps not, May; I hear from him very seldom, as you know."

"Very seldom! Yes; but in such a case as this! Perhaps, though, papa thought it might hurt your feelings, on account of mamma."

"Perhaps," returned Mrs. Dobbs drily.

"People are unreasonably sensitive sometimes, are they not? As for me, it never entered into my head to think of my father's marrying again; but now I do think of it, it seems to me that it would be a very good thing."

"Its goodness or badness would depend, of course, on—circumstances."

"I do really think more and more that it would be a good thing, granny. Papa must have many lonely hours, you know. He likes Continental life best, to be sure; but still he is far away from his own country and his own people. It seems almost selfish in us not to have thought of it for him. Oh, I hope she is a nice, kind woman, who will be good to him and take care of him. I think I ought to write at once and assure him that I have no grudge in my heart about it. And I'm sure you have none either; have you, granny dear?"

Mrs. Dobbs found it at once more painful and more difficult than she had foreseen to breathe degrading suspicions into this frank, pure mind. But it was necessary not to allow May to cherish what might prove to be disastrous illusions.

"It isn't all such plain sailing, May," she answered slowly. "I will write to your father, and you had better wait for his reply. We don't know that he is married at all. And if he is, we don't know that there's much to be glad about. They do say that the lady is not a fit match for your father."

"He is the best judge of that, I should think," returned May. Then she added, her young face flushing with a generous impulse, "I dare say people may have said the same of my own dear mother."

"No, May. No one ever said of your own dear mother what is said of this woman."

There was a sternness in her grandmother's voice and face which startled the girl.

"What do they say, granny?" she asked quickly.

Mrs. Dobbs checked herself. "Oh, I cannot tell you exactly. There are lots of stories about. Some will have it that—her character is not quite blameless."

"Who dares to say so of my father's wife?"

"Hush! May. There's no need to call her your father's wife yet. Signor Valli says the person in question——"

"Signor Valli? Then I don't believe a word of it. Not one word. I know he talks wildly, and jumps at things. Why, he told Clara Bertram that my mother was a foreigner, and that he had met her. So you see how accurate and trustworthy Signor Valli is." Then, after a moment, as if struck by a sudden thought, she asked, "Is—she a foreigner?"

"I believe so."

"Then that is what he meant, I suppose."

"It's right to tell you, May, that Signor Valli is not the only one who has heard disagreeable things."

"Oh, of course, they all baa' one after the other! You have no idea, granny, what foolish back-biting talk goes on among the people whom Aunt Pauline calls 'society.' I've seen them roll a morsel of gossip over and over, while it kept growing all the time like a snow-ball—or a mud-ball. And no doubt many people whom Aunt Pauline doesn't call 'society' are as bad. A sheep is a sheep, whichever side of the hedge it is on," said this young censor with fine scorn.

Mrs. Dobbs in her heart did not put implicit faith in the stories which reached her. The young and the old—when they are sound-hearted—are both prone to disbelieve slander—the young from innocence, the old from experience; for there is no lesson more surely taught by life than the evil lightness with which evil is attributed.

But with regard to these particular stories, unwelcome corroboration was given to Mrs. Dobbs by Clara Bertram. Clara carried out her proposal of going to sing at Jessamine Cottage. She went there one afternoon when May was absent at the Hadlows', and introduced herself. There were only Mrs. Dobbs and Mr. Weatherhead to listen to her; but she sat down at the old square piano—feebly tinkling now, but tinkling always in tune, like the conscientious ghost of a defunct instrument—and sang her best. Her audience, though limited, was highly appreciative; and she soon found that their applause was not given ignorantly.

Apart from the charm of her singing, Clara won their sympathies by her kindly, unaffected simplicity. She inspired trustfulness. One must have been blindly false one's self to doubt her truth. Mrs. Dobbs was moved to question her a little about Valli.

"Of course, you have heard this gossip about May's father?" she said.

"Yes. To say the truth, I almost hoped you might speak on this subject; and so I purposely came when I thought May would not be here. I hinted to her something that Valli had said to me; but I saw she knew nothing."

"I have told her. At least I have told her enough to prevent her being taken by surprise."

"I am glad of that. I think you have done very wisely."

"This Signor Valli, now," said Mrs. Dobbs musingly. "I suppose he tells lies sometimes, eh?"

Clara reflected for a moment before she answered. "In one way—yes. That is to say, if he hated you, and saw you give a penny to a beggar, he would impute some nefarious motive for the action, and say so without scruple; but I don't believe he would be likely to invent circumstances."

Then she went on to tell how Miss Polly Piper remembered a dreadful story about some gambling transactions; and how Major Mitton had furbished up his Maltese reminiscences; and how everybody found something to say, and not one good thing among them all.

Jo Weatherhead listened with a kind of dread enjoyment. So much curious gossip could not but be interesting; yet he wished with all his heart, for May's sake, that it were not true.

"I speak openly to you," said Clara; "but I am reticent about all this with other people. Pray believe that."

Mrs. Dobbs did believe it. Clara seemed to have become intimate with them all at once.

"May I come again?" asked the young singer as she took her leave.

"May you come! Will you come? I didn't ask you, because, when a person generously gives me one pearl of price, it is not my way to snatch at the whole string. Your time is precious; your voice is precious."

"Dear Mrs. Dobbs, your kindness is precious. Not that I am ungrateful for the kindness bestowed on me by—other people; but there is such a delightful feeling of homeliness here. And then, although you have praised me too much, I must say that you and Mr. Weatherhead are good judges of music."

"Well, I won't go so far as to deny that you might strew your pearls before certain animals who would value them less," replied Mrs. Dobbs.

As for Jo Weatherhead, he became so enthusiastic in Miss Bertram's praises behind her back, that Mrs. Dobbs laughingly declared he was in love with her. And perhaps he was, a little. Many more such humble innocent "loves" spring up and die around us every day than we reck of. They do not ripen into fruit, but simply blossom like the wayside flowers; and the world is all the sweeter for them.

When May came home that evening, she was delighted to hear of the favourable impression her friend had made; although she declared it was shabby of Clara to have come in her absence. May brought the news from College Quad that Constance had written home for a prolonged leave of absence, having been invited by the duchess to accompany Mrs. Griffin to Glengowrie.

"Canon Hadlow grumbles a little," said May; "but he will let her go. And I am so glad; I hated the idea of going; but Conny will enjoy it, and everybody else will soon find out that she is the right girl in the right place—which, I am sure, I should not have been."

"Mr. Bragg is not going to Glengowrie either, I understand," said Mrs. Dobbs, growing very red, and coughing to hide her embarrassment.

"No; Mr. Bragg and I are quite agreed in not liking that sort of thing. He says he feels lonely in a strange house; and so do I. If the duke and duchess were my friends, it would be different."

"Mr. Bragg has a good deal of sense, I think."

"Plenty of common sense."

"And—ahem!—and good feeling—don't you think?"

"What's the matter with your throat, granny? Shall I get you a glass of water?—Oh yes; he does a great deal of good with his wealth. Canon Hadlow was saying only this afternoon that Mr. Bragg gives away very large sums in private, besides the public subscriptions, where every one sees his name."

"Mr. Bragg was here the other day to speak to me—on business—No, no; I don't want any water! Sit still, child. And I think you are a great favourite of his."

"It's quite mutual, granny. Often and often, in London, I used to prefer a quiet talk with Mr. Bragg to the foolish chatter of smart people."

"Ay, ay! But 'smart people' need not be foolish, May."

"N—no; they need not. Only so many of them—especially the young men—seem to think it part of their smartness to put on a kind of foolishness."

Mrs. Dobbs looked wistfully at her grand-daughter. In that process of "sounding" May, which Mr. Bragg had recommended, and which Mrs. Dobbs was endeavouring to carry out, there arose this difficulty: the chords gave forth a full response to every touch; but who should interpret the meaning of the notes? Mrs. Dobbs had been accustomed to read May's feelings by swift intuition. She was now afraid to trust to that. Her interview with Mr. Bragg had upset so many of her preconceived ideas as to what could be considered probable, or even possible, in the matter of her grandchild's marriage, that her judgment seemed paralyzed. And then to risk a mistake which should involve May's life-long unhappiness, would be too tremendous a responsibility!

Measured by Mrs. Dobbs's unquiet thoughts it seemed a long time, but in reality less than a minute elapsed between May's last words and her saying—

"Talking of smart people, granny, don't you think Aunt Pauline is sure to know the truth about papa?"

"I cannot tell. There might be reasons why she should not have heard it, May."

"Well, at all events, I have been thinking that I will write to her and ask. If she does know, and is keeping her knowledge back from me for any reason—some of Aunt Pauline's mysterious dancing before deaf people, you know—that will make her speak out."

"I don't see why you should not write to her, if you choose, May."

Mrs. Dobbs had little doubt that Mrs. Dormer-Smith would be annoyed and perturbed by May's writing to her on the subject, whether the story of the marriage were true or false, and whether she herself had or had not heard of it. But Mrs. Dobbs was in no mood to shield Pauline from annoyance or perturbation.

"She and her 'gentleman of princely fortune,' indeed!" said Mrs. Dobbs to herself. "Why couldn't she say old Joshua Bragg? and then one would have known where one was."

So it was settled that May should write to her aunt.