The Quiet Gentleman

With Martin, it was otherwise. Every change of mood was reflected in his eyes, so dark a brown as to appear almost black, and in the sensitive curves of his full mouth. Six years younger than his cousin, he had not altogether thrown off the boy; and, from having been the idol of his mother and the pet of his father, he was a good deal spoiled, impatient of restraint, thrown into the sulks by trifling causes, and into wild rages by obstacles to his plans. Treated from his earliest youth as though he, and not his half-brother, had been his father’s heir, it was not to be expected that he could face with equanimity the succession of the seventh Earl. A vague belief that his brother would not survive the rigours of the campaign in Spain had fostered in him the unexplored thought that he would one day step into his father’s shoes; the emergence of the seventh Earl, unscathed, from the war found him unprepared, and filled him, when his first shocked incredulity had passed, with a sense of burning resentment. He had only a slight recollection of the brother seven years his senior, his memory retaining little beyond the impression of a fair, quiet boy, with a gentle manner, and a very soft voice; but he was sure that he would dislike him. He said, with a defiant glance cast in the direction of his impassive cousin: “I daresay it is past six o’clock already! When are we to dine? If he thinks to bring town ways to Stanyon, I for one won’t bear it!”

“Do not put yourself about, my dear!” recommended his parent. “Dinner must for this once await his convenience, but with all his faults his disposition was always compliant. I assure you, I do not expect to find our style of living overset by any fashionable nonsense which he may have learnt in Lady Penistone’s establishment. That would not suit me at all, and I am not quite nobody at Stanyon, I believe!”

This announcement, being plainly in the nature of a pleasantry, caused Mr. Clowne to laugh a little, and to say: “Indeed your ladyship is not nobody! Such a whimsical fancy must really quite startle anyone unacquainted with those flashes of wit we know so well!” He encountered a sardonic look from Theodore, and added hastily. “How many years it is since I have had the pleasure of meeting his lordship! How much he will have to tell us of his experiences! I am sure we shall all hang upon his lips!”

“Hang upon his lips!” exclaimed Martin, with one of his fiery looks. “Ay! toad-eat him to the top of his bent! I shall not do so! I wish he were underground!”

“Take care what you say!” interposed his cousin sternly.

Martin flushed, looking a little conscious, but said in a sullen tone: “Well, I do wish it, but of course I don’t mean anything! You need not be so quick to take me up!”

“Military anecdotes are never acceptable to me,” said the Dowager, as though the brief interchange between the cousins had not occurred. “I have no intention of encouraging Desborough to enlarge upon his experiences in Spain. The reflections of a General must always be of value — though I fancy we have heard enough of the late war: those of a junior officer can only weary his auditors.”

“You need feel no alarm on that score, ma’am,” said Theodore. “My cousin has not altered so much!”

This was uttered so dryly that the Chaplain felt himself impelled to step into a possible breach. “Ah, Mr. Theodore, you remind us that you are the only one amongst us who can claim to know his lordship! You have frequently been meeting him, while we — ”

“I have met him occasionally,” interrupted Theodore. “His employment abroad has not made frequent meetings possible.”

“Just so — precisely as I was about to remark! But you know him well enough to have a kindness for him!”

“I have always had a great kindness for him, sir.”

The reappearance of Miss Morville, bearing a small firescreen set upon an ebony stick, which she handed to the Dowager, created a timely diversion. The Dowager bestowed a smile upon her, saying that she was very much obliged to her. “I do not know how I shall bear to relinquish you to your worthy parents when they return from the Lakes, for I am sure I shall miss you excessively. My daughter — Lady Grampound, you know — is for ever advising me to employ some genteel person to bear me company, and to run my little errands for me. If ever I should decide to do so I shall offer the post to you,I promise you!”

Miss Morville, not so swift as Mr. Clowne to recognize her ladyship’s wit, replied to this pleasantry in a practical spirit. “Well, it is very kind in you to think you would like to have me to live with you, ma’am,” she said, “but I do not think it would suit me, for I should not have nearly enough to do.”

“You like to be very busy, don’t you?” Theodore said, smiling at her in some amusement.