The rivalry continued, more quietly but fully as intense, after the brothers came back from Cambridge, but both of them feared to put the question of precedence to the test. Marcia went through two seasons scathless and apparently heart-free, so perhaps her mind was made up after all.
If Arthur Dysart had the advantage of the heirship on his side and of nearness to the Churchill estates while Sichard was grinding away at his lawbooks in London, the latter had his own little compensations, for he saw the girl constantly during the season, and lost no occasion of quietly keeping himself to the fore. Richard divined somehow that Arthur would not propose while his father lived, and so was content to wait, hoping the while that his own ship would come into port.
Matters were at this stage of truce and tension when there came the news of Sir Arthur's death.
Richard went down for the funeral, and then it was discovered that there was no will. Immediately his position flashed upon him; he was absolutely dependent upon his brother's bounty, for naturally his allowance stopped with the demise of his father. It also dawned upon him that now Marcia would be called upon to make her decision, and that she would perhaps prefer a baronet de facto and de jure to a penniless young barrister with no law and few facts in his favor.
It is not surprising, then, that he felt very much like a modern Esau, and in no pleasant mood, when, on the third day after the funeral, as the brothers were at breakfast, the new Sir Arthur said, in his hesitating habit of speech:
"Er—er—Rick, if you're not going out this morning I should like a word with you."
Sir Arthur had what is called a bad manner; he was self-conscious and bashful to a degree; upon ordinary occasions he was apt to hesitate and falter and flounder, although at other times and upon topics where he was sure of his ground he could be terse and even epigrammatic.
Rick looked up from his letters, and, being "in the dumps," as he would have expressed it, merely grunted an assent.
Nothing more was said until the meal was ended. Then, leaning back in his leather chair and lighting a cigar,—Sir Arthur abhorred tobacco,—he said sulkily, sarcastically giving his brother his title,—
"Well, 'Sir Arthur,' what is it?"
It was not a very inviting opening. Yet it may be conceded that fate had certainly not been kind to Richard. At bottom he loved his brother, and in his heart he knew that Sir Arthur wanted to do the right thing. But a perverse humor held him that morning, and he would make no effort at complaisance or conciliation.
