This is rather a dull chapter perhaps, but it will not have been written in vain, if it should start a few serious reflections in any thoughtless mind. There is an old saying that unmerited curses come home to roost. And it is quite as true of treachery, such as has been rather hinted at than described in our previous pages.
[CHAPTER XX.]
HOW TOM GRIGSON SPED IN HIS WOOING.
AND now for Tom Grigson, and how his wooing sped. That he is married has already been told in the early part of our story, and to the lady of his first choice, moreover. But, having promised to give some account of this important matter, we must invite our readers to accompany us (and Tom) one fine day to the place called the Mumbles, which, as already intimated, had strong attractions to the younger Grigson, even in the early days of our history.
Tom had left college—had had enough of Oxford, he said. The truth is, he and Oxford did not very well agree with each other. Understand me, they never exactly fell out; that is to say, Tom had been neither rusticated nor plucked. He had passed his "Little-go" with tolerable credit. What might have happened at the "Great-go" can never be known, as Tom was too modest, say, to face the ordeal. At all events, he had brought home his cap and gown unsullied; but it would not have broken his heart to know that he should never wear gown, of any shape or texture, again.
But what was Tom to do? He had only a younger son's portion, and that was a small one. As to waiting to step into his brother's shoes, such a thought had never entered his head. He would have despised himself, if it had. And, good-tempered as he was, he would have quarrelled with any one offhand who had hinted at such a conclusion. Besides, Richard, though so many years older than himself, might outlive him for all that. Still, when the question occurred to him as to how he was to make his way in the world—and in spite of his habit of putting off disagreeable topics the thought would come into his mind now and then—he was at a loss for a reply. He had learned "how not to do it" with great success at Oxford. But "how to do it" was yet to be proved.
He could hunt and shoot and ride (his brother's horses, of course) to perfection, or pretty near it, it is true; but as he was not likely to be a candidate for the situation of a gamekeeper or whipper-in, or master of the hounds even, these qualifications were not likely to help him on in the world much. So Richard Grigson sometimes reflected, when he saw Tom employing himself industriously enough in these special gifts, but otherwise "taking it easy," as he said. But Richard was too fond of his brother to want to part with him, and so contented himself with hoping and trusting and half-believing in something turning up unexpectedly so as to solve the difficult problem.
How, under such circumstances, could Tom (as we must go on calling him) possibly commit the imprudence of falling seriously in love with Kate Elliston or any other Kate? Or how could that young lady for a moment seriously think of Tom as her future husband? And yet so it was. And the infatuated youth, on the fine morning of which I am thinking, rode over to the Mumbles as happy perhaps as the richest fellow in the world; for on the previous day he had made the young lady an offer, and had been accepted—conditionally.