About a year before that dinner-party at which May Cheffington had made
her _debut_ in Oldchester society, Mrs. Hadlow had begun to think it
probable that Theodore Bransby might wish to marry her daughter, and to
consider the desirability of his doing so. On the whole she did not
disapprove the prospect. Constance was very handsome, but she was also
very poor. Her ambition might not be satisfied by a match with Martin
Bransby's son; but on the other hand, Theodore was a young man of good
abilities, and apt to rise in the world. Moreover, he had sufficient
property of his own to facilitate his rising--a little ballast of that
sort being as useful in the _melee_ of this world as the lead in a toy
tumbler, and enabling a man, if not to strike the stars with his sublime
head, at least to keep right side uppermost.
Certainly Theodore had appeared much attracted by Miss Hadlow. Not only
her beauty but her self-assertion approved itself to him; for a man's
wife should be able to justify his taste; and there would be no
distinction in winning a woman whose meekness made it doubtful whether
she could have had the heart to say "No" to an inferior suitor. They had
been playfellows in childhood, but school and Cambridge had separated
them. But after Theodore began to read for the Bar, and, during the two
last vacations, which he had spent chiefly at home, a great intimacy had
sprung up between the young people. Theodore's frequent visits to the
old house in College Quad did not pass unobserved. One or two persons
thought his partiality for the Hadlows--especially when contrasted with
the lukewarm politeness he bestowed on other families, such as Raynes
the brewer, or the Burtons who lived in a park, and had had nothing to
do with retail for two generations--was creditable to Theodore's heart.
"He was not one to neglect old friends," said they, candidly confessing
at the same time that it was more than they should have expected of him.
But the majority felt sure that nothing short of being in love with
Constance Hadlow could induce young Bransby to prefer the canon's
old-fashioned parlour to Mrs. Raynes's red and gold drawing-room, or the
Burtons' aesthetic upholstery. Oldchester folks did not guess that
Theodore intended to frequent a style of society in which neither the
Rayneses nor the Burtons would be able to make any figure, nor did they
know that he set a considerable value on Mrs. Hadlow's connections. That
lady had been a Miss Rivers, and her family ranked among the oldest
landed gentry in the kingdom. There were not many Oldchester magnates to
whom Theodore Bransby thought it worth while to be more than coolly
civil. Mr. Bragg was an exception, but then Mr. Bragg was a man of very
great wealth; and as mere size is held in certain cases to be an element
of grandeur, so money, Theodore thought, is capable in certain cases of
inspiring veneration--that is to say, when there is enough of it.
As to Miss Constance's state of mind about young Bransby, it was too
complex to be described in a word. She liked Theodore, and thought him a
superior person; if not quite so superior as he thought himself. She had
faith, too, in his future. It would be agreeable to be the wife of a
distinguished M.P. or Q.C., or perhaps of both combined in one person.
Theodore would certainly settle nowhere but in London, and to live in
London had been Constance's dream ever since she was fifteen. Her
visions of what her life would be if she married Theodore Bransby
concerned themselves chiefly with their joint-entry into some
fashionable drawing-room, her presentation at Court, her name in the
_Morning Post_, herself exquisitely dressed driving Theodore down to the
House in a neat victoria, and returning the salutations of distinguished
acquaintances as they passed along Whitehall. All more serious questions
regarding their married life Constance set at rest by a few formulas. Of
course, she should do her duty. Of course, Theodore would always behave
like a gentleman. Of course, they should never condescend to vulgar
wrangling. Of course, her husband would give way to her in any
difference of opinion;--particularly since she was pretty sure to be
always right. And then Constance knew herself to be so very charming,
that a man of taste could not fail to delight in her society.
Yet it must not be supposed that she had fully made up her mind to marry
Theodore. That Theodore would be very glad to marry her she did not
doubt at all. There had been a time--nay, there were moments still--when
her visions of herself as Mrs. Theodore Bransby had been blurred by the
disturbing element of her cousin Owen's presence. He had shown an
attractive appreciation of her attractions; and had, to use Mr.
Simpson's phrase, "dangled after his cousin" a good deal. Owen Rivers
had reached the age of three and twenty without ever having earned a
dinner, and without any serious preparation to enable him to earn one.
He had had an expensive education, and had done fairly well at Oxford.
His mother had died in his infancy; and his father, a country clergyman,
had allowed the young man to lounge away his life at the parsonage,
under the specious pretext of taking time to make up his mind what
career he would follow. Owen had fished, and shot, and walked, and
boated, and cricketed; but he had also read a good deal, having an
intellectual appetite at once robust and discriminating. His friends and
relatives agreed in thinking him very clever; and, when they reproached
him with wasting his fine abilities and leading a purposeless existence,
he would answer jestingly that he should be sorry to belie their
judgment by subjecting his talents to the dangerous touchstone of
action. His father died before he had determined on a profession. But,
fortunately as he thought, and unfortunately as was thought by some
other persons, including his Aunt Jane, he inherited wherewithal to live
without working, and, with a hundred and fifty pounds per annum, could
not lack bread and cheese. On his father's death he went to travel on
the Continent. He walked wherever walking was possible, carrying his own
knapsack, spending little, and seeing much. After more than two years'
absence, he returned to England and made his way to Oldchester to see
his Aunt Jane, with whom he had maintained an intermittent
correspondence. There he found Constance, whom he last remembered as a
sallow, self-sufficient schoolgirl, grown to a beautiful young woman.
Her sallowness had turned into a creamy pallor, and her self-sufficiency
was mitigated, to the masculine judgment, by the depth and softness of a
pair of fine dark eyes. Owen, on his part, made a decidedly favourable
impression on his cousin. He was not handsome--which mattered
little--nor fashionably dressed--which mattered more; but he was well
made, and had the grace which belongs to youthful health and strength.
And he had, too, that indefinable tone of manner which ensured his
recognition as an English gentleman. Constance was by no means
insensible to this attraction. If she had not the sentiments which
originate the finest manners, she had the perceptions which recognize
them. When Mary Raynes and the Burnet girls criticized the roughness of
Owen's demeanour, comparing it with Theodore Bransby's "polish," she
knew they were wrong. Theodore always behaved with the greatest
propriety; but between his manners and Owen's there was the same sort of
difference as between a native and a foreigner speaking the same
language. The foreigner may often be more accurately correct of the two
on minor points, but it is an affair of conscious acquirement, and must
inevitably break down now and then; whereas the native talks as
naturally as he breathes, and can no more make certain mistakes than an
oak tree can put forth willow leaves. Then Owen was very amusing company
when he chose to be so,--and he usually did choose to be so when at his
Aunt Jane's; and he had good old blood in his veins. This latter fact
gave a certain piquancy, in Constance's opinion, to his political
theories, which were opposed to the staunch Tory traditions of his
family. Constance frequently took her cousin to task on this subject;
but with the comfortable conviction to sweeten their controversy that a
Rivers could afford to indulge in a little democratic heresy, just as
Lord Castlecombe could afford to wear a shabbier coat than any of his
tenants.
All these considerations, together with the crowning circumstance that
he evidently admired her a good deal, caused Owen to fill a large place
in his cousin's mind. She even asked herself seriously more than once if
she were in love with Owen, but failed to answer the question
decisively. She did, however, arrive at the conviction that falling in
love lay much more in one's own power than was commonly supposed; and
that no Romeo-and-Juliet destiny could ever inspire _her_ with an
ungovernable passion for a man who possessed but a hundred and fifty
pounds a year. Mrs. Hadlow had at one time felt some uneasiness--nearly
as much on Owen's account as on her daughter's, to say the truth. But
she had satisfied herself that there was nothing more than a fraternal
kind of regard between the young people--wherein she was wrong; and that
there was no danger of their imprudently marrying--wherein she was
right.
Mrs. Hadlow had, indeed, made up her mind that Constance would accept
Theodore Bransby whenever he should offer himself; and she privately
thought it high time that the offer were made. What did Theodore wait
for? His means (according to Mrs. Hadlow's estimate of things) were
sufficient to allow him to marry at once. But even supposing that he did
not choose to marry until he had fairly entered on his career as a
barrister, still there ought to be at least some clear understanding
between him and Constance. All Oldchester expected to hear of their
engagement, and it was not fair to the girl to leave matters in their
present uncertain condition. When, at the end of the vacation, young
Bransby left Oldchester again without having made any declaration, Mrs.
Hadlow was not only surprised, but uneasy; and she opened her mind to
her husband on the subject, invading his study at an unusual hour for
that purpose.
"Edward," said Mrs. Hadlow, "don't you think that Theodore Barnsby ought
to have spoken before he went to town this last time?"
"Spoken, my dear?"
"To Constance; or to us about Constance."
The canon leaned his head on his hand, keeping the thumb of the other
hand inserted between the pages of his Plato as a marker, and looked
absently at his wife.
"Well? Don't you think he ought?" she repeated impatiently.
The good canon meditated for a few moments. Then he said--
"I--I don't feel quite sure that I understand. What ought he to have
said, Jane?"
"Said! Goodness, Edward! He ought to have declared his intentions, of
course. It is high time that something was understood clearly."
The canon's gentle blue eyes lost their abstracted look, and a little
sparkle came into them as he answered, "I hope--nay, I am sure--Jane,
that you would not think of taking any step, or saying any word, which
might compromise our dear child's dignity. Let it not appear that you
are eager to put this interpretation on the young man's visits."
"My dear Edward, Theodore has been paying Conny marked attentions for
more than a year past; but during this last summer and autumn he has
been in our house morning, noon, and night. He doesn't come for _our
beaux yeux_."
"H'm, h'm, h'm! But, Jane, an attachment of that sort between two young
creatures should be treated with the greatest delicacy. It is shy and
sensitive. Let us beware of pulling up our flower by the roots to see if
it is growing."
This trope by no means corresponded with Mrs. Hadlow's conception of the
relations between Theodore Bransby and her daughter. She was an
affectionate mother, but she did not delude herself into thinking
Constance peculiarly sensitive or romantic. In fact, she was wont to say
that her daughter was twenty years older than herself on some points.
But the canon erroneously attributed to his daughter a quite poetical
refinement of feeling. His views on most subjects were romantic and
unworldly, and his ideas about women were peculiarly chivalrous. They
frequently irked Constance. She was not without respect as well as
affection for her father; and it was sometimes difficult to bring these
sentiments into harmony with her deep-seated admiration for herself.
However, she usually reconciled all discrepancies between what he
expected of her and what she knew to be the fact, by declaring that
"Papa was so old-fashioned!"
"Tell me, Jane," said the canon, after a little pause, "do you think
Conny's feelings are seriously engaged? Do you think this matter is
likely to make her unhappy?"
"Unhappy? Well, no; I hope not unhappy," answered Mrs. Hadlow slowly.
"Then all is well. We will not let our spirits be troubled."
"But, Edward, although she may not break her heart----"
"Heaven forbid! Break her heart, Jane?"
"Well, I say of course there's no fear of that; but it _is_ detrimental
to a girl to have an affair of this kind dragging on in a vague sort of
way. It might spoil her chance in other directions; and people will
talk, you know."
"Tut, tut! As to 'spoiling her chance'--which is a phrase very
distasteful to me in this connection--if you mean that any eligible
suitor would be discouraged from wooing Conny because another man is
supposed to admire her too, that's all nonsense. Do you think I should
have been frightened away from trying to win you, Jenny, by any such
impalpable figment of a rival?"
"You?" exclaimed Mrs. Hadlow, with a sudden flush and a proud smile.
"Oh, that's a _very_ different matter, Edward. I don't see any young men
nowadays to compare with what you were."
The canon laughed softly. "Thank you, my dear. No doubt your grandmother
said much the same sort of thing once upon a time; and I hope your
grand-daughter may say it too, some day. But set your heart at rest as
to this matter. That Theodore Bransby, whom we have known from his
birth, should be a frequent guest in our house, can surprise no one.
There is youthful society to be found here. Without reckoning Constance,
there's Owen Rivers, the Burton girls, little May--we may reasonably
suppose this to be attractive to a young man who has no companions of
his own age at home, without attributing to him any such intentions as
you speak off. In fact," added the canon simply, "we must believe you
are mistaken; since, if Theodore loved our daughter, there's nothing to
prevent his saying so!"
Of all which speech, two words chiefly arrested Mrs. Hadlow's attention
and stuck in her memory--"little May." It was true, now she came to
think of it, that the increased frequency of Theodore's visits coincided
with May Cheffington's presence in Oldchester. Then she suddenly
remembered it was by Theodore's influence that May had been invited to
Mrs. Bransby's dinner-party, and many words and ways of his with
reference to Miss Cheffington occurred to her in a new light. But then,
again, came a revulsion, and she told herself that the idea was absurd.
It was out of the question that Theodore Bransby, with his social
ambition, should think seriously of marrying insignificant little May
Cheffington, who was not even handsome (when compared with Constance),
who had childish manners, no fortune--and, worst of all, was Mrs.
Dobbs's grand-daughter! "Besides," said Mrs. Hadlow to herself, "he
_must_ be fond of Conny. It's quite an old attachment; and, though
Theodore may not have very ardent feelings, I don't believe he is
fickle."
Nevertheless, she was not entirely reassured. After Theodore's departure
from Oldchester she observed her daughter solicitously for some time;
but she finally convinced herself that Conny's peace of mind was in no
danger. She had sometimes been provoked by Conny's matter-of-fact
coolness, and had felt that young lady's worldly wisdom to be an
anachronism. But she admitted that in the present case these gifts had
their advantage; for, when Oldchester friends showed their interest or
curiosity by hints and allusions to Theodore, which made Mrs. Hadlow
quite hot and uncomfortable, Constance met them all with perfect
calmness, and she discussed the young man's prospects with an almost
patronizing air that puzzled people.
In a few weeks more May Cheffington departed for London; Owen Rivers
also went away, and life in the dark old house in College Quad resumed
its usual quiet routine.