Meanwhile, May was playing with Mrs. Martin Bransby's children, in the delightful old walled garden; and Mrs. Martin Bransby herself was looking on from the shade of a trellised arbour. These two had become very good friends. Whether Mrs. Bransby was or was not aware of her stepson's rejected suit, May had no means of knowing; but she felt instinctively that Mrs. Bransby was not likely to be super-sensitive on her stepson's behalf, nor to bear her a grudge for having refused him. Theodore's absence was not lamented in his own home. His young half-brothers and sisters openly rejoiced at it; and even his father felt that life went on more pleasantly without him.

May's popularity with the children was a sure passport to their mother's heart; while on her side Mrs. Bransby had developed a most endearing trait of character: she liked Owen Rivers, and was always happy to welcome him to her house. Although Owen admired her beauty and elegance extremely, there was no alloy of coquetry in the preference she showed for his company. Indeed, Owen told his Aunt Jane that Mrs. Bransby's delight in adorning her graceful person came nearer to being a pure case of l'Art pour l'Art than any he had ever witnessed. Nevertheless, the most transcendental of artists enjoys appreciation. So it chanced that on this special afternoon, Mr. Rivers being announced just when she was urging May to remain and drink tea with her, Mrs. Bransby at once suggested that perhaps Mr. Rivers would stay too, and be kind enough to see Miss Cheffington home. Mr. Rivers handsomely acceded to the proposal; and these three persons passed a very agreeable afternoon together.

The romping, happy children, with that disregard for any "plurality of worlds" theory which belongs to their age, accepted the whole arrangement as being ordained for their sole and peculiar enjoyment. Under this impression they declined to allow Owen to remain lounging beside their mother in the shade, but imperiously required him "not to be lazy," but to "come and play." He withstood the clamour of the boys for some time; but when three-year-old Enid toddled up to him, and gravely seized one of his hands with both hers, evidently under the conviction that she was quite able to drag him off with her by main force, it was impossible to resist any longer. A very noisy game—known to the younger Bransbys under the alliterative appellation of "Tiggy, Tiggy, touchwood," and which involved a great deal of confused rushing about, and shrill vociferation—was proceeding in the liveliest manner, when forth from the long window of the drawing-room stepped a figure at sight of whom Martin, the eldest boy, stopped short in a headlong course, and Bobby and Billy were so surprised that they checked a wild halloo in their very throats.

It was Theodore. He was dressed in travelling garb (Theodore had appropriate costumes for every department of life; and adhered to them as punctiliously as a Chinese), and was advancing with his usual erect gravity towards his step-mother, when, catching sight of May and Owen, he stopped, surprised in his turn.

"Dear me, Theodore, is that you?" said Mrs. Bransby, rising and coming forward. "When did you arrive? We did not expect you. You did not write, did you?"

"No; I took a sudden resolution to run down for a week. I wished to consult my father about a little matter of business, and I wanted change of air besides."

In answer to Mrs. Bransby's nervous inquiries whether the servants had attended to him, and whether she should order his room to be prepared, he replied—

"Thanks; I have given the necessary orders. My valise has been carried upstairs. I will go and wash my hands, and then I shall ask you for a cup of tea, if you please," glancing at the table already spread beneath the trees. Then he marched up to May, who was standing on the lawn, with a look of little less dismay than the children ingenuously exhibited. He raised his hat with one hand, and shook her reluctant hand with the other, saying in his deliberate accents—

"This is truly an unexpected favour of Fortune. I knew you were in Oldchester, but I scarcely hoped to find you here. How do you do, Rivers?" (This in an indefinable tone of condescension.) Then again addressing himself to May, he said, "You have not had any communication from town this morning?"

"No."

"Nor from Combe Park?"

"Oh no!"

"Ah! I imagined not. May I beg the favour of a word with you presently? I am only going to get rid of some of the dust of travel. You will still be here when I return?"

May was tempted to declare that she positively must go home immediately. But before she could speak Mrs. Bransby answered for her: "Oh, of course Miss Cheffington will be here still. I do not mean to let her run away just yet."

Then, with another formal bow, Theodore returned to the house and disappeared through the drawing-room window.

There was an awkward silence, broken by Martin's exclaiming, in a solemn tone, "He's just like the vampire."

The laugh which followed came as a relief to the embarrassment of the elders.

"Martin!" exclaimed his mother reprovingly.

"Well, mother, he is," persisted Martin, who was unspeakably disgusted at the sudden quenching of the festivities. "What does he come stalking and prowling like that for? He's exactly like the vampire!"

May and Owen avoided each other's eye, feeling a guilty consciousness that Martin had in a great measure expressed their own sentiments. Certainly, the whole party appeared to have been suddenly iced. The three younger children were dismissed to the nursery; and Martin and his sister Ethel voluntarily withdrew, feeling that all the fun was over. A large slice of cake apiece was looked upon as very inadequate amends, and accepted under protest.

"I should think he might have stayed in London when he was there," grumbled Martin, as he walked away, viciously digging his heels into the turf at every step by way of a vent to his injured feelings. "Nobody wants stalking, prowling vampires here. Why couldn't he stop in London?"

As though "stalking, prowling vampires" were generally admitted to be popular members of society in the metropolis.

Mr. Rivers and the two ladies beguiled the time until Theodore should return, by drinking tea and discussing Miss Piper's forthcoming musical party. Curiously enough no one said a word about young Bransby. They all seemed to avoid the topic by a tacit understanding. But though out of sight, he was not out of mind—at any rate, he was not out of May's mind. She was secretly wondering what he could have to say to her. Could he possibly intend to renew his offer of marriage? The idea seemed a wild one; nevertheless, it darted through her mind. One could never tell, she thought, what his obstinate self-conceit might lead him to do. However, May resolved, come what might, to cling tightly to Mrs. Bransby's sheltering presence so long as she remained in that house; and in going home she would have the protection of Mr. Rivers's escort. Even Theodore Bransby could scarcely propose to her before these witnesses!

At length Theodore reappeared, brushed and trim, in speckless raiment. He took his place at the tea-table; and after the exchange of a few commonplace remarks, silence stole over the company. Theodore seemed to be waiting for something; and from time to time he looked at Owen as though expecting him to take his leave. Finally he cleared his throat, and said gravely, "Miss Cheffington, I see you are not taking any more tea; may I crave the favour of a few words with you?"

"Oh, please, I think I will have some more tea," said May, hastily pushing her cup towards Mrs. Bransby. Theodore, who had half risen from his chair, bowed, resumed his seat, and folded his arms in a waiting attitude. Then May added, with desperate resolution, "Will you not be kind enough to say what you have to say, now? I must be going home immediately; and I'm sure there can be no secrets to tell." She buried her face in her teacup to hide the colour which flamed into her cheeks as she said the words.

"If you desire it," returned Theodore stiffly, "of course I shall obey. I merely thought you might prefer to receive painful tidings in——"

"Painful!" cried May, turning pale, and suddenly interrupting him. "Is anything the matter with Granny?"

A glance at his raised eyebrows reassured her, for the next moment she said, "Oh, how stupid I am! Of course you could know nothing, you have only just arrived. It isn't—it isn't my father, is it?"

"Pray do not alarm yourself, Miss Cheffington. Captain Cheffington is, so far as I know, perfectly well."

"Wouldn't it be better to speak out?" said Owen. As soon as he had spoken, he felt that he had no right to put in his word. But he could not help it; Theodore's self-important slowness was too exasperating.

"Yes; do, please," said May.

"There is no cause for alarm, as I said," returned Theodore, trying to look as if he had not heard Owen's suggestion. "But a shock—a slight shock—is apt to be felt at the announcement of sudden death, even in the case of a total stranger."

"Sudden death!"

"Yes; I regret to inform you that your cousin, George Cheffington, has been killed by the accidental discharge of a gun, when he was on a shooting expedition up the country."

All three of his listeners drew a deep sigh of relief.

"Oh!" sighed May, the colour returning to her cheeks and lips, "I felt a horrible fear for the moment about Aunt Pauline!"

"This is a very important event," said Theodore, looking over his cravat with his House-of-Commons air, and indicating by his tone that the fate of Aunt Pauline was a matter of comparative insignificance.

"I am sorry for poor old Lord Castlecombe," said May.

"It will, of course, be a severe blow to your great-uncle; all the more so that Mr. Lucius Cheffington is in deplorably weak health."

"Lucius is never very strong, is he?"

"He is never robust, but this season he has been extremely delicate. I have reason to believe that a very high medical authority has expressed considerable anxiety about him."

"Does Aunt Pauline know?—I mean about George Cheffington's death?"

Theodore drew himself up even more stiffly than usual as he answered, "I am not aware what means Mrs. Dormer-Smith may have had of hearing the news; but my impression is that it can scarcely yet have been communicated to her. The original telegram to Lord Castlecombe only reached him yesterday."

"Did they—Lucius, or any of them—ask you to tell me?" inquired May. It now for the first time struck her as being odd that Theodore Bransby should have been selected for such an office.

"Ahem! No. I was not precisely commissioned to inform you. But I was anxious to spare you the shock of hearing of this disaster accidentally."

The fact was that Theodore had seen the telegram in a London newspaper of that morning.

There ensued a short silence. Then Theodore said to his step-mother, with an elaborate shivering movement of the shoulders, "Don't you think it grows very damp and chilly? I cannot consider it prudent to remain here whilst the dews are falling."

No one was sorry for this excuse to break up the sitting. Mrs. Bransby made a move towards the house; and May said it was time for her to be going home.

"With your permission, I will have the pleasure of escorting you, Miss Cheffington," said Theodore.

"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 circumstances 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, Bassy, 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, Bassy! 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 pricked 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, flushing 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 passions have various methods of special pleading. But if reason presses them too hard, they will boldly substitute 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 title, as sure as you stand there, Jo Weatherhead."