Theodore Bransby at first indignantly repudiated Valli's scandals about
Captain Cheffington. He was quite unprepared for them, having, it may be
remembered, heard nothing of Miss Piper's story, told at the
dinner-party in his father's house; and having, moreover, loftily
snubbed every one in Oldchester who ventured to hint anything to the
disparagement of his distinguished friend. What could Oldchester know
about such persons as the Cheffingtons?
But general testimony and public opinion were too strong for him, and he
was forced to give up his distinguished friend. He fell back on
mysterious hints of sympathy and intimacy with "the family," and
allusions to what "poor dear Lucius" had said to him on the last
occasion of their dining together at Mrs. Dormer-Smith's.
In his heart, Theodore was deeply annoyed. He considered that Captain
Cheffington (supposing report to speak truly) had not only derogated
from his proper place in the world, but had, in some sense, personally
injured him (Theodore) by forming a connection so far beneath him.
Nevertheless, it was very possible that Captain Cheffington might some
day come to be Viscount Castlecombe, and much would be forgiven to a
wealthy peer of the realm. Theodore was conscious that he himself could
forgive much to such a one. He was not prone to indulge in idle fancies,
yet he caught himself once or twice writing on a corner of his
blotting-pad the words "Hon. Mrs. Theodore Bransby," with pensive
sentiment. But let her father's fate and fortunes be what they might,
Theodore felt that he must still desire to marry May Cheffington. The
recognition of this feeling in himself gave him an agreeable sense of
his own elevation of soul. That fellow Rivers talked a vast deal of
flashy nonsense, which dazzled people; but it was possible to take a
serious and sensible view of life without being commonplace. Theodore
did not by any means wish to be, or to be thought, commonplace.
He had just been called to the Bar, and ought by this time to have begun
his professional career on the Midland Circuit. But he lingered in
Oldchester on the plea of delicate health. It was not so much the
presence of May Cheffington as that of Owen Rivers which chained him
there. If Rivers would but have left Oldchester, Theodore would have
turned his back on it also with small reluctance. The dull, vague
jealousy of Rivers, which he began to feel long ago, had become acute.
Rivers would have been a distasteful personage to him under any
circumstances; but viewed as a rival, he inspired something like
loathing. And yet the desire to watch him--not to lose sight of him so
long as May should be in Oldchester--was irresistible. Theodore had
never come so near quarrelling with his step-mother as on the subject of
Owen Rivers; but he had failed in causing the latter to be excluded, or
even coldly received, by Mrs. Bransby.
There was a painful scene one day at luncheon, when Martin, Mrs.
Bransby's eldest boy, vehemently took up the cudgels in defence of his
absent friend, Owen, of whom Theodore had been speaking with sneering
contempt. Martin was ordered away from the table for being impertinent
to his half-brother. But general sympathy was with the culprit; and Mr.
Bransby said when the boy had left the room--
"Of course, it would not do to allow Martin to be saucy; but you are too
hard upon Rivers, Theodore. He may have his faults; but, if he be idle,
he is not self-indulgent. Rivers has a Spartan disdain of personal
luxuries; and although he doesn't work, no one suffers by that but
himself. He is incapable of a mean thought, has a most noble
truthfulness of nature, and is a gentleman to the core."
Theodore turned deadly white, and answered, "I am sorry not to be able
to agree with you, sir. To be a lounging hanger-on, as Rivers is at the
Hadlows', is not compatible with my conception of a gentleman."
He rose as he spoke, and left the room, so as to cut off any possibility
of a reply.
Mrs. Bransby had sat by with downcast eyes, parted lips, and beating
heart. She was divided between delight at hearing her husband assert his
own opinion against Theodore and her constitutional timidity and dread
of a quarrel. When Theodore was gone, she put her hand on her husband's
shoulder, and said--
"It is like you, dear Martin, to stand up for the absent. We are
all--the children and I--so fond of young Rivers."
"I hate priggishness, and I hate spitefulness," rejoined Martin Bransby,
with a sparkle in his fine dark eyes.
The old man's face had flushed when he uttered his protest. It was an
unusual outburst; for of late--whether from failing health, or from
whatever cause--Mr. Bransby had more and more shrunk from opposing or
contradicting Theodore. He seemed almost timidly anxious to conciliate
him; and was evidently distressed by any symptom of ill-will between his
eldest son and the rest of the family. After a while the flush died from
his cheek, and the fire from his eye. He sat with bowed head, softly
caressing the white jewelled hand which had slidden down from his
shoulder. Presently he said--
"Don't let us cherish feuds, or blow up resentment, Loui. If there are
subjects on which Theodore thinks differently from you--and me; and me,
too, my dear--let us avoid them. He has his good points, though he has
weak ones--as we all have. Let us spare them. Theodore may be very
helpful to the boys when I am gone. And I have it very much at heart
that there should be peace and goodwill between them."
In Theodore's mind, however, the little incident rankled. He was silent
about it. But that was no indication that he had either forgiven or
forgotten it.
He was also annoyed and disappointed at seeing May Cheffington so seldom
during this sojourn at home. He had formerly met her constantly at
College Quad; but he could not now frequent Canon Hadlow's house as he
had done in old days, even had he wished it. And although it appeared
that Mrs. Bransby had struck up a great friendship with May during his
absence, May's visits to her were very brief and rare. Theodore half
suspected that his step-mother perversely stinted her invitations to the
girl, for the express purpose of vexing him, and at length he plainly
asked her how it was that Miss Cheffington came to their house so
seldom. Mrs. Bransby was tempted to give him her real opinion as to the
reason, but she refrained. She would not vex Martin by saying sharp
things to his son. So she answered vaguely that Miss Cheffington now
passed a good deal of her time at Garnet Lodge with her friend, Clara
Bertram.
"Excuse me," said Theodore, tilting his chair, and looking down as from
the summit of Mont Blanc upon his step-mother. "The Dormer-Smiths were
very kind to that little Bertram girl in town, and Mrs. Dormer-Smith
launched her in some of the best houses; but--pardon me for setting you
right--she is not quite on such a footing as to be a _friend_ of Miss
Cheffington's."
However, he acted on the hint accidentally given, and began to honour
the Miss Pipers with frequent visits.
The good-natured old maids received him very kindly; but it may be
doubted whether he were particularly welcome to any of the persons who
had taken the habit of dropping in nearly every evening at Garnet Lodge.
Major Mitton and Dr. Hatch were old _habitues_; but the circle now
included some new ones. Mr. Bragg was often there. (Theodore considered
it a striking proof of the incurable commonness of Mr. Bragg's
tastes--already illustrated, to Theodore's apprehension, by a memorable
instance--that he, to whom some of the best county society was
accessible, and who had even been invited to Glengowrie, should prefer
the middle-class sitting-room, and the middle-class gossip of Polly and
Patty Piper.) There was, too, the inevitable Owen Rivers, and
occasionally Mr. Sweeting and Cleveland Turner would drive over from the
country-house which the former had hired in the neighbourhood. Miss
Bertram's visit was prolonged; in Theodore's opinion very unduly. It
might be all very well to invite her for professional purposes; but,
once the musical party was over, it was absurd to keep the girl as a
visitor in the house. Altogether, there was much that Theodore
disapproved of at Garnet Lodge; but, as he told himself, he went there
for a purpose totally disconnected with its owners. And if he did some
violence to his social principles by condescending to frequent such an
undistinguished and _bourgeois_ set of people, he was resolved to make
amends by totally dropping their acquaintance in the, not distant,
future.
As to May, although he genuinely believed that the Dormer-Smiths had
influenced her against him, he was not so foolish as to think that she
had been coerced, or that she was at all in love with him. Nevertheless,
a vast deal might depend on the influence of those around her, in the
case of a girl so young, so fresh-hearted, and so inexperienced. He had
faith in his own perseverance and constancy. The main point--the only
vital point--was to prevent any rival from succeeding. So long as May
were free he had good hope. It was quite certain that the Cheffington
family would never sanction her marrying Owen Rivers. _That_ must be
taken as absolutely sure. And, indeed, Miss Cheffington herself would
probably scout the idea. But with regard to what Rivers hoped and
intended Theodore could not be mistaken. There, at least, he was
clear-sighted. It was disgraceful on the part of a fellow like Rivers,
subsisting in idleness on a beggarly pittance, and without prospects for
the future, or advantages in the present, to aspire to such a girl as
May Cheffington. Of course, Rivers knew very well that it would prove a
good speculation. May might prove to be the sole heiress of a rich
nobleman. At any rate, she would certainly inherit her grandmother's
money. Mrs. Dobbs's savings, however paltry, would be a sufficient bait
for Rivers, who had none of that ambition for fine tailoring,
upholstery, and the paraphernalia of fashionable life which becomes a
gentleman. Jealousy apart, perhaps that which made Owen peculiarly
offensive to him was to see a man at once so poor, so contented, and so
free from any misgivings as to his right to be generally respected.
On his side, it must be owned that Owen wasted no cordiality on
Theodore. To see May speaking civilly to that correctly dressed and
dignified young man caused Mr. Rivers a certain irritation which
occasionally manifested itself in the most unreasonable ill-humour
towards her.
"I really believe you _like_ his empty arrogance," he said to her once.
"Why else you should sit and listen to him with that complacent air, I
cannot conceive."
"Oh, I enjoy it of all things," answered May mischievously; "otherwise I
should, of course, cut him short by remarking, in a loud voice, and with
a ferocious glare, 'Mr. Bransby, I look upon you as a tedious prig.' How
delightful social intercourse would become if we had all reached that
fine point of sincerity!"
But there were other causes of dislike between the young men unconnected
with May Cheffington. Owen felt not only admiration, but regard, for
Mrs. Bransby, and resented her stepson's demeanour towards her, while
Theodore was embittered by hearing Owen's praises in his own family.
The perception of this lurking enmity between them made May anxious to
smoothe asperities and prevent a rupture. In her heart, although she
admitted he had done nothing to startle or offend her of late, she
intensely disliked Theodore Bransby; yet she found herself in a position
of taking his part against Owen. Owen was too absolute, too inflexible,
too implacable, she said. After all, Theodore had always conducted
himself irreproachably. He might not be agreeable to _them_ (May had
innocently come to join herself with Owen in this kind of partnership in
sentiment), but probably _they_ were not always agreeable to other
people; they ought to be tolerant if they wished to be tolerated--and
the like sage reflections. All which pretty lectures, though they made
Owen no whit less obdurate towards Theodore, melted his heart into ever
softer tenderness for May.
She had not gone to Glengowrie. The reprieve he had allowed himself,
after which she was to depart, and he must steel himself to endure her
absence for, probably, the remainder of his life, had expired. But May
was still there. And there, too, was he. He was free to go away at any
moment. But he lingered. He began to suffer sharp pangs of regret when
he thought of the lost opportunities which lay behind him; for now
sometimes it seemed to him as if this sweet, pure girl might come to
love him. And what had he to offer her? How could he ask her to share
such a life as his? Owen had held certain uncompromising theories: such
as that a woman who hesitated to partake poverty with the man she
professed to love was not worth winning; and that a man must be but a
poor creature who should weigh a woman's fortune against himself, and
fear to woo a well-dowered girl lest he might be thought to love her
money bags and not her. And he had long ago decided that with _his_
marriage, at least (supposing that unlikely event ever took place),
considerations of money should have nothing to do on either side. But
theories--even true theories--are apt to find themselves a little out of
breath when suddenly confronted with the fact.
The advice so vigorously given by Mrs. Dobbs to do some honest work, if
it were but breaking stones upon the road, took a new significance when
he thought of May. That on this point May agreed with her grandmother's
view he had ascertained, although a shy consciousness restrained her
from urging him to change his course of life. He began to cast about in
his mind for some possible employment; but he found, as so many others
had found before him, how difficult it is to turn "general acquirements"
into a definite channel.
A chance word of Mr. Bragg's at length suddenly suggested a hope to him.
Mr. Bragg mentioned one evening at Garnet Lodge that he purposed making
a journey into Spain, partly on matters connected with his son's
business; and said that he should like to find some trustworthy person
to accompany him as secretary and interpreter.
"I don't speak any foreign language myself," said Mr. Bragg. "Of course,
there's always somebody that knows English; and pounds sterling are a
pretty universal language, I find, and make themselves understood
everywhere. But still, you're at a disadvantage with people who can talk
your tongue while you can't talk theirs."
"But you could send somebody, couldn't you?" suggested Miss Patty.
"Spain, I've heard, is such a horrid country."
"Horrid!" cried Major Mitton indignantly. (He was strong in
recollections of sundry youthful escapades and excursions from "Gib.")
"Most delightful country! Most picturesque, poetical, and----"
"Oh yes; but I meant the cooking," explained Miss Patty.
Mr. Bragg, however, valorously declared himself ready to face the perils
of Spanish cookery. His son was not satisfied with his correspondent at
Barcelona. Mr. Bragg wanted change of air; and since he had given up the
idea of visiting the Highlands this autumn, he would take this
opportunity of seeing foreign parts, and at the same time looking into
matters at Barcelona for his son.
Owen's heart beat fast as the thought occurred to him of offering
himself to Mr. Bragg as secretary for this journey. He hurried after Mr.
Bragg when the latter's carriage was announced, and stopped him in the
hall to ask when and where he could have a private interview with him.
Mr. Bragg answered in his slow, ruminating way, as he took his coat from
the servant--
"An interview with me? Oh, well, why not come over to lunch? My house
ain't beyond a pleasant walk for your young legs."
"No, thank you; I won't come to luncheon. But I want an appointment--I
shall not take up much of your time--on business."
"Oh, on business, is it?" said Mr. Bragg. It was curious to note how
evidently the sound of the word made him bring his mind to bear on what
was said to him, with a new and keener attention. "On business! It's
nothing you could write, I suppose."
"Yes; I could write it. Shall I?"
"I think it would be the best plan, if you don't mind. You see I find,
in a general way, that talk--what you might call, branches out so. Now a
letter limits a man. I don't mean this for your partic'lar case, you
know, but speaking in a general way. Perhaps, if we find afterwards that
there is anything to talk over, you might look me up at my office in
Friar's Row. It'll be easier to settle all that when I know what the
business is. Good night. My respects to your aunt."
Owen hastened to his lodgings, and set himself at once to compose a
letter to Mr. Bragg. Seeing that it was then past eleven o'clock at
night, and that Mr. Bragg had set out for his country-house, it was
scarcely probable that he should have found a secretary between that
hour and the following morning. But Owen felt as if every moment's delay
might be fatal. Oldchester persons, who had seen him lounging on Canon
Hadlow's lawn, and merely knew him as a young man fond of smoking, and
reading, and such unprofitable employments, would have been amazed at
the impetuous energy he threw into the writing of this letter. But the
same weight of character which gives massiveness to repose adds a
formidable momentum to action.
The main difficulty, he soon found, was to make his letter short. This,
after several failures, and the tearing up of three copies, he
accomplished to a fair extent, if not wholly to his own satisfaction.
When he had finished the letter, he put it into a cover, stamped and
addressed it, and went out to post it with his own hand. By that time it
was considerably past midnight. The letter could have been delivered by
hand in Friar's Row next morning, and would probably have reached Mr.
Bragg equally soon. But it was a relief to Owen in his restless,
impetuous mood to have done something irrevocable. And there are few
actions in life so obviously irrevocable as posting a letter. This is
what he had written--
"DEAR SIR,
"I venture to offer myself for the post of your secretary
during the journey you propose making to Spain.
"My qualifications are--Honesty; a fair knowledge of the
Spanish language; and considerable experience of travelling in
Spain, where I have made two long tours on foot. Perhaps I
ought to add to these good health, and willingness to be
useful. My disadvantages are--Ignorance of the forms of
mercantile correspondence, and inexperience of the duties of a
secretary. I believe I could learn both very quickly.
"I have hitherto been a man without occupation. I am now
anxious to have one by which I can earn money. Should you, on
inquiry and consideration, think I could honestly earn some as
your secretary, I should be grateful if you would give me a
trial.
"I am ready to wait on you at your office, or elsewhere, in
case you wish for an interview, and remain,
"Dear Sir,
"Yours truly,
"OWEN RIVERS."
The following afternoon Owen was summoned to see Mr. Bragg at his
office. The old house in Friar's Row had been painted and varnished
inside and out. Plate glass glittered in the window panes, and elaborate
brass handles shone on the doors. Owen had never been in the house
during the days of Mrs. Dobbs's occupation. But he knew that May had
spent much of her childhood there; and he looked round the private room
into which he was shown with a tender glance such as probably never
before rested on those mahogany office fittings, morocco-covered chairs,
and neatly ranged account-books.
Mr. Bragg was sitting at a writing-table, and held out his hand without
rising, when Owen entered.
"Sit down, Mr. Rivers," he said, pointing to a chair opposite to his
own, on the other side of the table.
Owen sat down, and remained waiting in silence.
"Well, so you think you'd like to go to Spain with me?" said Mr. Bragg,
slowly rubbing his chin, and looking thoughtfully at the young man.
"I should like to get work to do, Mr. Bragg. I don't care much where it
is. But it struck me that I might be useful to you in Spain."
"Ah! Well, I was surprised at your letter."
"Nothing in it that you object to, I hope?"
"Oh no. Oh dear, no. Only I didn't know you was in want of employment.
And I should have thought----"
"Yes?"
"I should have thought you'd ha' liked some more--what you might call
professional employment."
"A man can't step into a profession from one day to another. And
besides, the professions are overstocked. There's no elbow-room in any
of them--especially for a poor man."
"Ah! Yes; I hear that sort of thing is said a great deal; but it seems
to me that might be a reason for giving up living altogether. There's a
good many of us in all classes, one way and another; but a man has got
to _make_ room for himself."
"You have a right to say so, Mr. Bragg, and I have no right to dispute
it: for you have tried and succeeded, and I have not even tried."
"Ah! That seems a pity--with your education, and all. However, I didn't
intend to branch out, as I said to you last night. With regard to the
point in hand, I would just say at once that this situation would be
strictly tempor'y, you understand. It couldn't be looked on in the light
of what you might call an opening."
"I understand."
"At the same time it might--I don't say it would--lead _to_ an opening,"
continued Mr. Bragg, indenting the paper before him by drawing his
thumb-nail along it with a strong, steady movement, as though he
mentally saw the opening in question, and were mapping out the way to
it.
"I quite understand that if you engaged me as secretary for this
journey, you would not bind yourself to anything beyond. Whether
anything further came of it, or not, would depend, first, on my
suitableness; and next, on circumstances."
"That's it," said Mr. Bragg, leaning back in his chair, and nodding
slowly.
"Well, Mr. Bragg, I can only say I would do my best. As to my knowledge
of Spanish, I'm not afraid. I began to learn the language first for the
sake of reading Cervantes, as so many people have done before me; but
since then I have acquired a colloquial knowledge of it by talking with
all sorts of Spaniards when I was tramping about their country."
"I _have_ heard," said Mr. Bragg, not displeased to show himself
acquainted with the literary aspect of the matter, "of a man that
learned Spanish in order to read a book called 'Don Quixote.'"
"Just as I did."
"Oh! _Did_ you? I thought you mentioned a different name. And can you
write it?"
"Fairly well; but I should have to learn the commercial style."
"There'd be more need, perhaps, for you to understand it than to write
it yourself. All communications with my son in Buenos Ayres could, of
course, be written in English."
Mr. Bragg here made a long, thoughtful pause. It was so long a pause
that Owen at length broke it by saying with a smile, though the colour
rose to his brow--
"As to my character, I can't give you one from my last place, because I
never had a place; but my uncle, Canon Hadlow, will, I believe,
guarantee my trustworthiness."
He felt a queer little shock when Mr. Bragg, instead of protesting
himself fully satisfied on that score, answered in a matter-of-fact
tone--
"Ah! yes, I dare say he will. I make no doubt but what that'll be all
right." Then, after a second, shorter pause, he continued, "There's one
point, Mr. Rivers, that I must put quite plain. I expect everybody in my
employment to obey orders. Now, you see, you, having been what you might
call brought up a gentleman, might not----"
"Oh, I hope you don't think that insubordination is part of a
gentleman's bringing up?"
"It hadn't ought to be; but it's best to be clear."
"Clearly, then, I can undertake to obey your orders; and I would only
warn you to give them carefully, because I shall carry them out to the
letter. If you ordered me to make a bonfire of your bank-notes, I should
burn 'em all without mercy."
Mr. Bragg laughed his quiet, inward laugh. There was something in the
conception of himself ordering bank-notes to be burned, which keenly
touched his not very lively sense of the ludicrous.
"All right," said he. "I'll take _that_ risk."
"Then am I to conclude--may I hope that you will engage me?" asked Owen,
with nervous eagerness.
"Why, I shall ask leave to turn it over in my mind a little longer. But
I'll undertake not to keep you waiting beyond to-morrow morning. You
see, if I do make an offer, it's best you should have it in writing. And
sim'larly, if you accept it, I ought to have that in writing."
"Thank you. Then I need not intrude longer on your time."
"No intrusion at all, Mr. Rivers. Good morning to you."
Owen turned round at the door, and coming back to the writing-table,
said, "May I ask you to keep my application to yourself for the
present?"
"Certainly," answered Mr. Bragg. But he looked slightly surprised.
"Of course, I don't mean the thing to be secret so far as I am
concerned."
"Why, no; we couldn't hardly keep it secret," said Mr. Bragg gravely.
"Of course not. But if your answer should be favourable, I should like
to be the first to tell--a--a person--the one or two persons who take
any interest in me."
"But I shall have to say a word to your uncle; and that's pretty well
the same thing as saying it to your aunt, I take it."
"Oh yes; to be sure. I didn't mean you not to mention it to _them_."
"All right. I certainly shall not mention it to anybody else," returned
Mr. Bragg.
And when the young man was gone, he said to himself, "I wonder who else
there is I _could_ mention it to that would care two straws one way or
the other. I like his way. He don't jaw like that young Bransby. And he
didn't try to soap me."
The next day Owen Rivers was formally engaged as travelling secretary to
Mr. Bragg for three months, beginning from October, which was now near
at hand.