Mr. Bradfield inwardly called down upon his old friend’s head something which was not a blessing. He was not going back to town then, but proposed to potter about the place, chattering of course to everyone he met about his old friendship with the rich Mr. Bradfield, and either letting fall or picking up some scrap of information which it would be prejudicial to the rich Mr. Bradfield’s interests to be known.
The first suggestion which came into John Bradfield’s mind was bribery, but the next moment’s reflection told him that this was always a dangerous method, for if he were to make Marrable a handsome money present with the condition that he must take himself back to town immediately, that gentleman, little gifted as he was with intellectual brilliancy, could hardly fail to see that his old friend must have some strong motive for wishing to get rid of him. His curiosity once roused, he could hardly fail to find out something which would serve as an excuse for blackmailing in the time to come. The only alternative to this course was, John Bradfield felt, to keep his old chum under his own eye while he remained at Wyngham, so he said:
“Come, come; that’s not the way I treat my old friends. Stay and spend Christmas with me, Alf, and when it’s over, and you back to town, where I suppose your heart lies—for you’re a thoroughbred cockney, I know—I’ll see what I can do to set you on your legs, and give you a fresh start in life.”
Although Marrable was pleased, he was not overwhelmed with joy and gratitude as John Bradfield had expected. In truth Alfred, on learning by chance of the change in his old friend’s circumstances, had taken it for granted that he would be allowed, nay, invited to share in John Bradfield’s luck, as, in the old days of struggling and hardship, he, then the more prosperous one of the two, had shared what he had with John. An invitation to spend Christmas, even with the promise of help afterwards, was only a small measure of the hospitality he had expected; his answer betrayed his feelings.
“Thank you, thank you, John. I thought you couldn’t have forgotten old times altogether. I thought you had more heart than that. As for London, I seem to have lost my old fondness for it somehow. The old folk are dead; my poor mother died there as soon as we got back. I seem to have got disgusted with the bricks and mortar somehow. There’s nothing I should like better than to settle down for the rest of my days in a nice country place, as you have done.”
John Bradfield did not take this hint, as his friend had hoped. But he invited Marrable to come upstairs, and said he would see what he could do for him in the way of evening dress.
Unfortunately this was not much. John Bradfield was slim, Alfred Marrable was stout. The struggle of the latter to get into the clothes of the former left him, therefore, both uncomfortable and apoplectic. No persuasions, however, would induce him to go down to dinner in his own shabby morning clothes, for Marrable flattered himself that he was a lady’s man, and that he looked his best—which he did not—in evening dress.
John Bradfield, who had been turning over the situation in his mind, gave his old friend a hint as they went downstairs.
“I say, old chap,” said he, in a confidential tone, “there’s one thing I want you to do to oblige me.”
“Anything, old man, anything.”