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—