Meanwhile, May was playing with Mrs. Martin Bransby's children, in the
delightful old walled garden; and Mrs. Martin Bransby herself was
looking on from the shade of a trellised arbour. These two had become
very good friends. Whether Mrs. Bransby was or was not aware of her
stepson's rejected suit, May had no means of knowing; but she felt
instinctively that Mrs. Bransby was not likely to be super-sensitive on
her stepson's behalf, nor to bear her a grudge for having refused him.
Theodore's absence was not lamented in his own home. His young
half-brothers and sisters openly rejoiced at it; and even his father
felt that life went on more pleasantly without him.
May's popularity with the children was a sure passport to their mother's
heart; while on her side Mrs. Bransby had developed a most endearing
trait of character: she liked Owen Rivers, and was always happy to
welcome him to her house. Although Owen admired her beauty and elegance
extremely, there was no alloy of coquetry in the preference she showed
for his company. Indeed, Owen told his Aunt Jane that Mrs. Bransby's
delight in adorning her graceful person came nearer to being a pure case
of _l'Art pour l'Art_ than any he had ever witnessed. Nevertheless, the
most transcendental of artists enjoys appreciation. So it chanced that
on this special afternoon, Mr. Rivers being announced just when she was
urging May to remain and drink tea with her, Mrs. Bransby at once
suggested that perhaps Mr. Rivers would stay too, and be kind enough to
see Miss Cheffington home. Mr. Rivers handsomely acceded to the
proposal; and these three persons passed a very agreeable afternoon
together.
The romping, happy children, with that disregard for any "plurality of
worlds" theory which belongs to their age, accepted the whole
arrangement as being ordained for their sole and peculiar enjoyment.
Under this impression they declined to allow Owen to remain lounging
beside their mother in the shade, but imperiously required him "not to
be lazy," but to "come and play." He withstood the clamour of the boys
for some time; but when three-year-old Enid toddled up to him, and
gravely seized one of his hands with both hers, evidently under the
conviction that she was quite able to drag him off with her by main
force, it was impossible to resist any longer. A very noisy game--known
to the younger Bransbys under the alliterative appellation of "Tiggy,
Tiggy, touchwood," and which involved a great deal of confused rushing
about, and shrill vociferation--was proceeding in the liveliest manner,
when forth from the long window of the drawing-room stepped a figure at
sight of whom Martin, the eldest boy, stopped short in a headlong
course, and Bobby and Billy were so surprised that they checked a wild
halloo in their very throats.
It was Theodore. He was dressed in travelling garb (Theodore had
appropriate costumes for every department of life; and adhered to them
as punctiliously as a Chinese), and was advancing with his usual erect
gravity towards his step-mother, when, catching sight of May and Owen,
he stopped, surprised in his turn.
"Dear me, Theodore, is that you?" said Mrs. Bransby, rising and coming
forward. "When did you arrive? We did not expect you. You did not write,
did you?"
"No; I took a sudden resolution to run down for a week. I wished to
consult my father about a little matter of business, and I wanted change
of air besides."
In answer to Mrs. Bransby's nervous inquiries whether the servants had
attended to him, and whether she should order his room to be prepared,
he replied--
"Thanks; I have given the necessary orders. My valise has been carried
upstairs. I will go and wash my hands, and then I shall ask you for a
cup of tea, if you please," glancing at the table already spread beneath
the trees. Then he marched up to May, who was standing on the lawn, with
a look of little less dismay than the children ingenuously exhibited. He
raised his hat with one hand, and shook her reluctant hand with the
other, saying in his deliberate accents--
"This is truly an unexpected favour of Fortune. I knew you were in
Oldchester, but I scarcely hoped to find you _here_. How do you do,
Rivers?" (This in an indefinable tone of condescension.) Then again
addressing himself to May, he said, "You have not had any communication
from town this morning?"
"No."
"Nor from Combe Park?"
"Oh no!"
"Ah! I imagined not. May I beg the favour of a word with you presently?
I am only going to get rid of some of the dust of travel. You will still
be here when I return?"
May was tempted to declare that she positively must go home immediately.
But before she could speak Mrs. Bransby answered for her: "Oh, of course
Miss Cheffington will be here still. I do not mean to let her run away
just yet."
Then, with another formal bow, Theodore returned to the house and
disappeared through the drawing-room window.
There was an awkward silence, broken by Martin's exclaiming, in a solemn
tone, "He's just like the vampire."
The laugh which followed came as a relief to the embarrassment of the
elders.
"Martin!" exclaimed his mother reprovingly.
"Well, mother, he _is_," persisted Martin, who was unspeakably disgusted
at the sudden quenching of the festivities. "What does he come stalking
and prowling like that for? He's _exactly_ like the vampire!"
May and Owen avoided each other's eye, feeling a guilty consciousness
that Martin had in a great measure expressed their own sentiments.
Certainly, the whole party appeared to have been suddenly iced. The
three younger children were dismissed to the nursery; and Martin and his
sister Ethel voluntarily withdrew, feeling that all the fun was over. A
large slice of cake apiece was looked upon as very inadequate amends,
and accepted under protest.
"I should think he might have stayed in London when he _was_ there,"
grumbled Martin, as he walked away, viciously digging his heels into the
turf at every step by way of a vent to his injured feelings. "Nobody
wants stalking, prowling vampires _here_. Why couldn't he stop in
London?"
As though "stalking, prowling vampires" were generally admitted to be
popular members of society in the metropolis.
Mr. Rivers and the two ladies beguiled the time until Theodore should
return, by drinking tea and discussing Miss Piper's forthcoming musical
party. Curiously enough no one said a word about young Bransby. They all
seemed to avoid the topic by a tacit understanding. But though out of
sight, he was not out of mind--at any rate, he was not out of May's
mind. She was secretly wondering what he could have to say to her. Could
he possibly intend to renew his offer of marriage? The idea seemed a
wild one; nevertheless, it darted through her mind. One could never
tell, she thought, what his obstinate self-conceit might lead him to do.
However, May resolved, come what might, to cling tightly to Mrs.
Bransby's sheltering presence so long as she remained in that house; and
in going home she would have the protection of Mr. Rivers's escort. Even
Theodore Bransby could scarcely propose to her before these witnesses!
At length Theodore reappeared, brushed and trim, in speckless raiment.
He took his place at the tea-table; and after the exchange of a few
commonplace remarks, silence stole over the company. Theodore seemed to
be waiting for something; and from time to time he looked at Owen as
though expecting him to take his leave. Finally he cleared his throat,
and said gravely, "Miss Cheffington, I see you are not taking any more
tea; may I crave the favour of a few words with you?"
"Oh, please, I think I _will_ have some more tea," said May, hastily
pushing her cup towards Mrs. Bransby. Theodore, who had half risen from
his chair, bowed, resumed his seat, and folded his arms in a waiting
attitude. Then May added, with desperate resolution, "Will you not be
kind enough to say what you have to say, now? I must be going home
immediately; and I'm sure there can be no secrets to tell." She buried
her face in her teacup to hide the colour which flamed into her cheeks
as she said the words.
"If you desire it," returned Theodore stiffly, "of course I shall obey.
I merely thought you might prefer to receive painful tidings in----"
"Painful!" cried May, turning pale, and suddenly interrupting him. "Is
anything the matter with Granny?"
A glance at his raised eyebrows reassured her, for the next moment she
said, "Oh, how stupid I am! Of course you could know nothing, you have
only just arrived. It isn't--it isn't my father, is it?"
"Pray do not alarm yourself, Miss Cheffington. Captain Cheffington is,
so far as I know, perfectly well."
"Wouldn't it be better to speak out?" said Owen. As soon as he had
spoken, he felt that he had no right to put in his word. But he could
not help it; Theodore's self-important slowness was too exasperating.
"Yes; do, please," said May.
"There is no cause for alarm, as I said," returned Theodore, trying to
look as if he had not heard Owen's suggestion. "But a shock--a slight
shock--is apt to be felt at the announcement of sudden death, even in
the case of a total stranger."
"Sudden death!"
"Yes; I regret to inform you that your cousin, George Cheffington, has
been killed by the accidental discharge of a gun, when he was on a
shooting expedition up the country."
All three of his listeners drew a deep sigh of relief.
"Oh!" sighed May, the colour returning to her cheeks and lips, "I felt a
horrible fear for the moment about Aunt Pauline!"
"This is a very important event," said Theodore, looking over his cravat
with his House-of-Commons air, and indicating by his tone that the fate
of Aunt Pauline was a matter of comparative insignificance.
"I am sorry for poor old Lord Castlecombe," said May.
"It will, of course, be a severe blow to your great-uncle; all the more
so that Mr. Lucius Cheffington is in deplorably weak health."
"Lucius is never very strong, is he?"
"He is never robust, but this season he has been extremely delicate. I
have reason to believe that a very high medical authority has expressed
considerable anxiety about him."
"Does Aunt Pauline know?--I mean about George Cheffington's death?"
Theodore drew himself up even more stiffly than usual as he answered, "I
am not aware what means Mrs. Dormer-Smith may have had of hearing the
news; but my impression is that it can scarcely yet have been
communicated to her. The original telegram to Lord Castlecombe only
reached him yesterday."
"Did they--Lucius, or any of them--ask you to tell me?" inquired May. It
now for the first time struck her as being odd that Theodore Bransby
should have been selected for such an office.
"Ahem! No. I was not precisely commissioned to inform you. But I was
anxious to spare you the shock of hearing of this disaster
accidentally."
The fact was that Theodore had seen the telegram in a London newspaper
of that morning.
There ensued a short silence. Then Theodore said to his step-mother,
with an elaborate shivering movement of the shoulders, "Don't you think
it grows very damp and chilly? I cannot consider it prudent to remain
here whilst the dews are falling."
No one was sorry for this excuse to break up the sitting. Mrs. Bransby
made a move towards the house; and May said it was time for her to be
going home.
"With your permission, I will have the pleasure of escorting you, Miss
Cheffington," said Theodore.
"Oh no, please!--thank you. Mr. Rivers said----"
"I have undertaken to see Miss Cheffington safe home," said Rivers. And
Mrs. Bransby suggested that Theodore must be tired with his journey;
and, moreover, that dinner would be ready at eight. But he disregarded
both suggestions. "I shall enjoy a stroll at this cool hour; and I don't
mean to dine. I lunched rather late, and will have something light
cooked for my supper about ten. Do you mean to go, Rivers? Oh! well,
I'll join you as far as Mrs. Dobbs's house."
Of course, under the circumstances it was impossible for May to say a
word to prevent him. And accordingly he walked from his father's door on
one side of her, while Owen strode on the other. As for May, she had
been ready to cry at first with vexation and resentment; but after a
while the sense of something ludicrous in the behaviour of her bodyguard
so overcame her, that she was very near bursting out into a fit of
almost hysterical laughter.
The two young men were full of smouldering animosity towards each other.
But they both manifested this feeling chiefly by a severe, and almost
sullen, demeanour towards May. She felt that she was being marched along
between them more like a detected malefactor than a young lady whom one
of them, at least, had besieged with tender proposals. If she addressed
a word to Owen, he answered her in dry monosyllables; if she spoke to
Theodore, he replied as from a lofty pinnacle of freezing politeness.
"It only needs a pair of handcuffs to make the thing complete," said May
to herself. Then she finally gave up all attempts to be conversational,
and so they arrived at Jessamine Cottage in solemn silence.
As they walked up the little garden-path in the gathering dusk, they
were overtaken by Mr. and Mrs. Simpson. The latter, as soon as she
recognized them, began to pour forth a fluent stream of talk, which did
not cease when Martha opened the door; and then, in some confused way
which neither May nor Owen could afterwards account for, they all found
themselves crowding into the little parlour together. As for Theodore,
he had from the first resolved to go in if Rivers went in, and to remain
as long as Rivers remained.
Mrs. Dobbs looked up astonished at sight of Theodore. She glanced
inquiringly at May, who had a queer look on her face, half-distressed,
half-amused. Jo Weatherhead rose, staring glumly at the new arrivals, of
whom Sebastian brought up the rear, with an expression of countenance
which showed that his temper was bristling like his hair. But Mrs.
Simpson's sprightly eloquence spread itself impartially over all these
shades of feeling, as water makes a smooth and level surface above the
roughest bottom.
"_So_ astonished, dear Mrs. Dobbs, to find Mr. Bransby, junior! Having
not the slightest idea that he was in Oldchester, you know; and what a
singular coincidence our coming upon them all three _just at your very
door_, was it not?"
"Well," observed Sebastian in his rasping voice, "considering that we
were coming to sup with Mrs. Dobbs, and that Miss May was on her way
home, it would have been stranger if we had met at any one else's door."
"Now, Bassy, I will not be overwhelmed by your stern logic. Ladies are
privileged to indulge in some _little_ play of the imagination.
Besides"--with an arch smile of triumph--"it really was the _fact_ in
this case. Oh! thank you, Mr. Weatherhead; any chair will do for me.
Don't let me disturb----! I suppose I may venture to make a shrewd
guess, Mr. Bransby, that you have come down to attend Miss Piper's
musical party? A great compliment, indeed, when one considers your
professional occupations. But the bow cannot always be bent. Even Homer,
I believe, is said _sometimes_----Oh, no; he nods, I fancy: which, of
course, is different. I really believe that Miss Hadlow will be the
_only_ star of our Oldchester firmament absent from the festive scene.
Now acknowledge, dear Mrs. Dobbs, that you were surprised as I was. You
did not expect this addition of 'youth at the prow'--if I may venture on
the expression--to our little circle this evening. At the same time I
must confess that three such sober young persons I never beheld. They
were all as silent as----It put me in mind of those beautiful lines:
'Not a drum was heard; not a funeral note, As his----' Not, of course,
that there was anything of a funereal nature. Far from it."
This last touch overcame May's self-command. She burst into a fit of
uncontrollable laughter; breaking out afresh every time she glanced at
Owen's face, provoked and frowning (though with a twitch at the corner
of the mouth which showed he had to make an effort not to laugh, too);
or at Theodore's, solemnly bewildered. She laughed until the tears
poured down her cheeks; and her grandmother exclaimed, "May, May! Don't
be so silly, child! You'll get hysterical if you go on that way." But
the outburst relieved the nervous tension from which the girl had been
suffering; and as she wiped her eyes she was conscious that the laughter
had saved her from shedding tears of a different sort.
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Simpson," she said. "I don't know what
possessed me."
"Don't think of apologizing, my dear Miranda. Indeed, why should you?
Nothing is more delightful than the unaffected hilarity of youth. I'm
sure I always enjoy it," returned the good Amelia, with a beaming glance
around her.
"It's lucky Amelia doesn't mind being laughed at," said Sebastian
bitterly.
"Oh fie, Bassy! We must distinguish, love. That all depends on who
laughs, and _how_ they laugh," observed his wife, with unexpected
perspicuity.
"No doubt," said Theodore, "Miss Cheffington's nerves have been agitated
by the sad news which I brought her this evening." He spoke in a low
mysterious tone, addressing himself apparently to Mrs. Dobbs, although
he did not do so by name. At these words Mr. Weatherhead pricked up his
ears; and, although he had previously made up his mind not to say a word
to this "young spark" until the "young spark" should speak to him, his
curiosity so far overcame his dignity that he could not help
ejaculating--
"Sad news, ha! What news? What sad news,--eh?"
Theodore turned to Mrs. Dobbs, and pointedly ignored poor Jo, as he
said, "Miss Cheffington will doubtless take a fitting opportunity of
speaking with you about this event in her family."
"It's nothing that deeply concerns _us_, Uncle Jo!" broke in May,
flushing indignantly, and speaking with impetuosity. "A certain Mr.
George Cheffington has been accidentally killed out in Africa. But since
neither you, nor I, nor Granny ever saw him--nor even heard of him until
quite lately--we cannot pretend to be overwhelmed with grief."
"Nay! George Cheffington killed?" exclaimed Mrs. Dobbs.
Theodore had turned very pale, as he always did when angered. (May had
certainly meant to hit him, but she had no idea that the unkindest cut
of all had been her publicly addressing Mr. Weatherhead as "Uncle Jo.")
He answered slowly, "_I_ should not have chosen this moment when you
are--er--entertaining these--ahem!--your friends, to impart the
intelligence. But Miss Cheffington has taken the matter out of my
hands."
"George Cheffington," repeated Mrs. Dobbs, pondering. "Why, let me see,
now; he'll be Lord Castlecombe's eldest son. Poor old man! Oh, I'm sorry
to hear it: very sorry. It's hard for the old to see their hopes die
before them."
"I'm sorry for him, too, Granny," whispered May, somewhat penitent and
ashamed of her vehemence. She had certainly betrayed a touch of the
Cheffington imperiousness, and had spoken in a manner quite inconsistent
with meek amiability. She had also made Theodore Bransby feel
considerable resentment. Nevertheless, he had never been less inclined
than at that moment to relinquish the hope of making her his wife. Our
passions have various methods of special pleading. But if reason presses
them too hard, they will boldly substitute an "in spite of" for a
"because," and pursue their aim as though, like Beauty, they were "their
own excuse for being."
"Don't let us intrude on a scene of family affliction," said Mr. Simpson
dryly. "Now, Amelia! We had better withdraw, I think."
"Don't you talk nonsense, Sebastian Simpson," returned Mrs. Dobbs,
without ceremony. "Sit down, Amelia. I'm sorry I can't ask you young
gentlemen to stay and share our plain supper, for the truth is I don't
know that there's enough of it. But my friends, Mr. and Mrs. Simpson,
would break an old charter if they didn't remain."
After that the two young men had, of course, nothing to do but to take
their leave. Owen's good humour had quite returned. Wisdom and virtue
should, no doubt, have made him disapprove of Miss May's little outbreak
of hot temper. But the truth is, that this fallible young man had
enjoyed her attack on Bransby. When the latter approached May to say
"Good night," he murmured reproachfully, "You were rather severe on me,
Miss Cheffington. I had no idea of displeasing you by what I said."
She was conscience-stricken in a moment, and answered quite humbly, "I
beg your pardon if I offended you. But I thought you were not civil to
Mr. Weatherhead, and that vexed me. Please forgive me." And she endured
the tender pressure of her hand which immediately followed, as some
expiation of her offence.
Mrs. Dobbs detained Jo Weatherhead that night for a moment, after Mr.
and Mrs. Simpson had gone away, and May was in bed.
"I say, Jo, the death of yon poor man in Africa may bring about strange
changes," said Mrs. Dobbs, looking at him gravely.
"Changes! How? What changes?"
"Well, not changes for me and you, except through other folks. But do
you know that after Lucius Cheffington--who, they say, is but
sickly--Lord Castlecombe's next heir is my precious son-in-law?"
"No!" exclaimed Mr. Weatherhead, making his mouth into a perfect round O
of astonishment.
"Ay; but he is, though."
"Next heir! Viscount Castlecombe, of Combe Park, and all the property!"
gasped Jo.
"I don't know about the property. Only what's entailed, I suppose. But
if Lucius was to die, Augustus would be next heir to the title, as sure
as you stand there, Jo Weatherhead."