That Unfortunate Marriage Volume Ii Part 4

"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 circ.u.mstances 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, Ba.s.sy, 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, Ba.s.sy! 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 p.r.i.c.ked 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, flus.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sions have various methods of special pleading. But if reason presses them too hard, they will boldly subst.i.tute 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 t.i.tle, as sure as you stand there, Jo Weatherhead."

CHAPTER IV.

Probably of all the persons in Oldchester who knew or cared anything about the death of George Cheffington, May was the only one who did not immediately begin to make some calculations based on that event. The contingency of her father's succeeding to the family honours had not occurred to her. And her thoughts and feelings were now occupied with other things. But Oldchester gossips discussed it with gusto; or, at least, that small minority of them who interested themselves in the fortunes of the Castlecombe family. The old lord was little personally known in Oldchester, and the city had long outgrown any sense of the overweening importance of a Viscount Castlecombe of Combe Park, which it might have had a century earlier. To most of the rich manufacturers of the place (whether they really thought themselves "as good as a lord" or not) a lord whom they never beheld, and into whose house neither they nor their children had the remotest chance of being admitted, was, at any rate, genuinely uninteresting.

In the rural parts of the county it was otherwise. People there could not be indifferent to the domestic history of a large land-owner who resided during the greater part of the year on his estate. In many a country dwelling, from luxurious mansions down to mere labourers'

cottages, George Cheffington's untimely death was canva.s.sed. From a matrimonial point of view he had been considered the best match in the county, and dowagers with daughters to marry had looked forward to the time (often spoken of, but always postponed) when he should give up his colonial appointment, settle down on his inheritance, and choose a wife.

And there was a large number of persons (tenants and dependents) to whom the heir's character and conduct were matters of deep importance. To these, Mr. Lucius Cheffington suddenly became an interesting personage.

Lucius had been very little at Combe Park since his boyhood, and the report which gradually spread in the neighbourhood that he was a chronic invalid, was received with many head-shakings and long faces. It seemed impossible that a Cheffington should be delicate or weakly. "Look at the old lord," people said; "why, he was sound and tough as a yew-tree!" And the last time Mr. George was at home he had proved himself a true chip of the old block by out-riding, out-walking, and out-cricketing all his contemporaries.

But that was years ago. Now George was stricken down in his strength, Lucius lay ill of a low fever in London, and Lord Castlecombe sat lonely and sorrow-laden in the home of his fathers.

The old man was not one to seek for sympathy, nor even to tolerate much manifestation of it. The only being to whom for many weeks he mentioned his dead son's name was a superannuated stable-helper, who had set "Master George" on his first pony, and in whose mind that somewhat selfish and hardhearted individual had never outgrown the engaging period of boyhood. "Master George" was the old man's idol, and "Master George" had, to a great extent, reciprocated the man's liking, partly, perhaps, from the sort of gratified vanity which makes us all prize the exclusive attachment of any generally unamiable creature, biped or quadruped. Old d.i.c.k was characterized by his fellow-servants as a crusty old curmudgeon, and was notorious for a formidable power of swearing, which he wielded freely, without much respect of persons.

The first day after receiving the news of his son's death, Lord Castlecombe towards evening walked out in a very unfrequented part of the grounds, a path between two high holly hedges, leading by a back way to the stable-yard; and there, with his hat pulled low on his brow, his head bent, and his hands clasped behind him, he paced slowly, plunged in bitter meditation. When he came to the corner whence the stables were visible, he caught sight of old d.i.c.k seated on an ancient horse-block, and busily rubbing at something in his hand. Lord Castlecombe stopped short, and looked at the man, who evidently saw him, but made no sign, neither ceased a moment from his occupation. After a minute or so Lord Castlecombe called to him to ask what he was doing, and received no answer. He repeated his question. Still no reply. A third time he spoke, in a harsh, angry tone. And then d.i.c.k turned round upon him, and, with a tremendous volley of oaths, answered furiously, "What am I doing of? I'm a rubbing up Master George's little silver spurs as you gave him first time he ever rode to hounds. I've allus kep' 'em bright from that day to this. And I arn't a-going to leave off now, because some d----d blundering fool as didn't ought never to have been trusted with a gun--I wish I'd the rewarding of him, curse him!--has been and put an end to the boy. That's what I'm a doing of, if ye _must_ know!"

A tear fell on the little burnished spur; and then another, and another.

But old d.i.c.k rubbed on. And his master, after a short silence, came and laid his hand upon his shoulder, and then walked away without a word.