The next morning's post brought Owen May's note. She had written it
hurriedly--not so much from stress of time as under the influence of
that kind of hurry which comes from thronging thoughts and eager
emotions. The sight of her handwriting was a joyful surprise to Owen;
and he wondered, as he tore open the cover, how she could have learned
his arrival so quickly. But he found that she had written simply in the
hope that he might get her letter as soon as possible, and without any
knowledge of the fact that he was already in London.
The contents of it did not much disquiet him. She had something to say
to him: he must come and speak with her as soon as possible after his
arrival. She was safe and well, he knew; and, with that knowledge, he
thought that he could defy fortune. As to urging him to go to her
quickly--that was, he told himself with a smile, a superfluous
injunction. What need of persuasion to do that which he ardently longed
to do?
He rapidly planned out the hours of his day. At ten o'clock he must be
with Mr. Bragg in the City. He had received a telegram in Paris making
that appointment. He would probably find duties to detain him there
until the afternoon. Between two and three o'clock, however, he thought
he could reach Mrs. Dormer-Smith's house at Kensington. From what he
knew of the habits of the household, he judged that May would be at home
at that hour.
He had much to think of regarding the future. A momentous decision lay
with him. Had Mr. Bragg's offer of sending him to Buenos Ayres come a
couple of months earlier, he might have accepted it. It was not, of
course, a certain road to success; and it had many draw-backs--chief
among them being banishment from England. But, as he had told Mrs.
Dobbs, he was ready to face that if it were required of him,
understanding that he who starts late in a race must needs run hard. But
latterly he had come to think that it might not be best for May that he
should go; and to do what was best for her was the supreme aim of his
life. He discovered from her letters that she was not happy and
contented in her aunt's house. The necessity of concealing her
engagement was already painful and oppressive. How could she endure it
for two years? Truly, she might announce it, and go back to Oldchester
to her grandmother's house (for Owen had more than a suspicion that the
Dormer-Smiths would be very unwilling to keep her with them as the
betrothed bride of Mr. Bragg's clerk!)
But there were other objections. Theodore Bransby, Owen was inwardly
convinced, was his rival. He might try to injure him in his absence. The
absent are always in the wrong. Or Theodore might annoy May with
persecutions. If he and May were to wait for each other, had they not
better wait, at all events, in the same hemisphere? Owen knew very well
that _some_ money--a decent competency--was indispensable to his
marriage. But that he might now reasonably hope to obtain in England.
The balance of his judgment, the more he reflected on the situation,
inclined the more decisively towards remaining.
Other considerations than what was due to May could not have inclined
the scale one hair's breadth in these deliberations. But when he thought
over his last evening's interview with Mrs. Bransby, it pleased him to
believe that his stay, if he stayed, would be very welcome to her and
hers.
He felt a profound and tender compassion for the widow. He admired her
patience, and the simple way in which she tried to do hard duties;
accepting them as matters of course. And he was filled with indignation
against Theodore Bransby. To these sentiments may be added the sense
that Mrs. Bransby relied on him; and the recollection of that day in the
Oldchester garden, when he had solemnly promised to be a friend to her
and her children at their need. All these were powerful incentives to
help her and stand by her.
There was in Owen a somewhat unusual combination of heat and
steadfastness. He seldom belied his first impulse--the mark of a rarely
sincere character, swayed only by honest motives. The offer he had made
last night to teach Martin he was not inclined to repent of in the "dry
light" of next morning. It was plain, too, that his contribution to the
weekly income was a matter of serious importance to the family;--far
more so than he had any idea of when he first proposed to board with
them, although the offer had been made in the hope of assisting them. He
turned over in his mind various projects on their behalf as he walked
down to the City. It occurred to him that he might do well to speak to
Mr. Bragg on the subject. It was even possible that Mr. Bragg might find
some place for young Martin. Owen had a high opinion of his employer's
rectitude and good sense; and he thought him, moreover, a kindly
disposed man. But he had no glimpse of the tenderness which was hidden
under Mr. Bragg's plain, unattractive exterior, nor of the yearning for
some affection in his daily life, which sometimes made the millionnaire
look back regretfully on the days when he and his comely young wife
toiled together; and when he, Joshua Bragg, in his fustian working suit,
had been the dearest being on earth to a loving woman.
Mr. Bragg appeared that day at his place of business looking as usual.
He was clean shaven, and soberly and appropriately attired. He was
attentive to the matter in hand, mindful of details, accurate,
deliberate--all as usual. And yet, so subtle is the quality of the
spiritual atmosphere which we all carry about with us, there was not a
junior clerk in the place who did not feel that there was a cloud on Mr.
Bragg's mind, and did not wonder "what was up with the governor."
One wag opined that "Old Grimalkin had caught him at last." By which
irreverent phrase the profane fellow meant that the Most Noble the
Dowager Marchioness of Hautenville had succeeded in arranging an
alliance between Mr. Bragg and her daughter, the Lady Felicia. For it
was an open secret in the office, and the theme of infinite jest there,
that Lady Hautenville pursued this aim with an indomitable, and even
ferocious, perseverance worthy of the Berseker race from which she
professed to trace her descent. Her ladyship's hired barouche might
often be seen during the season, floating like a high-beaked ship of the
Vikings on the busy tide of commercial life, and coasting down towards
that plebeian shore of Tom Tiddler, where Mr. Joshua Bragg picked up so
much gold and silver. She would willingly have made as clean a sweep of
all his treasure as any piratical Scandinavian who ever carried off the
peaceful wealth of Kentish villages. Neither craft nor valour were
wanting to her. She made ingenious excuses to see him:--sometimes she
wanted to consult him as to the investment of non-existent sums of
money; sometimes to engage his presence at some fashionable gathering,
where he was, of course, peculiarly fitted to shine. She sent in to his
office little perfumed notes, directed by the fair hand of Felicia in
Brobdingnagian characters. Felicia herself, bright-eyed and crowned with
gorgeous bonnets--spoil gallantly wrested from some lily-livered West
End milliner, who had not the courage to refuse her credit,--sat by her
mother's side, and smiled with haughty fascination on Mr. Bragg,
whenever he could be coaxed forth to speak with their ladyships at the
carriage door. And every creature in Mr. Bragg's wholesale office, down
to the sharp Cockney urchin who sprinkled and swept the floors,
perfectly understood why Lady Hautenville did all these things, and
watched her proceedings as a spectacle of very high sporting interest.
Thus it was that when the wag before-mentioned opined that "Grimalkin
had caught the governor," by way of accounting for Mr. Bragg's low
spirits, it was received with the benevolence due to a deserving old
jest which has seen service. But when a younger man ventured to
suggest--more than half seriously--that, "perhaps the governor was in
love," the suggestion was received with genuine hilarity, and the
originator of it immediately took credit for having fully intended a
capital joke.
Owen Rivers, arriving punctually, was shown into Mr. Bragg's private
room. There he was greeted with the invariable grave, "How do you do,
Mr. Rivers?" And then, after a moment, Mr. Bragg added, "So you've got
over punctual. I thought you _might_ manage without an extra day in
Paris. But you must have put your shoulder to the wheel to do it." A
speech expressive, in Mr. Bragg's mouth, of very marked approbation.
Then Owen proceeded to report what he had done in Paris, and to lay
letters and papers before Mr. Bragg; and for some time they attended to
various matters of business. When these were over, Owen said--
"When could I speak to you about some affairs of my own?"
"Well, now, p'raps; if you don't want to be long."
"Half an hour?"
Mr. Bragg looked at his watch, nodded, and, leaning his head on his
hand, prepared to listen with quiet attention.
Owen began by saying that he was inclined towards remaining in England
rather than accepting the opportunity of going abroad; whereat Mr. Bragg
looked thoughtful, but waited to hear him out without interruption. Then
Owen went on to speak of Mrs. Bransby and her altered circumstances, and
of his wish and intention to assist and stand by her.
When he ceased Mr. Bragg, having heard him with careful attention,
said--
"The first point to be considered is your own position. Concerning the
situation we spoke of, I think I can promise to keep you on as my--what
you might call _business_ secretary. As to a private secretary, I don't
have much private correspondence, and what I have, I can pretty well
manage myself. I should expect you to take a journey now and then into
foreign parts if necessary. Terms as before. But I tell you frankly, I
see no immediate prospect of a rise for you. If you went to Buenos Ayres
you might have a chance--only a chance, of course--of getting into
something on your own account. One 'ud be steady as far as it went; the
other 'ud be like what you might call a throw of the dice at
backgammon--chance _and_ play. It's for you to choose. With regard to
Mrs. Bransby, I--of course----Look here, Mr. Rivers, I'm a deal older
than you--old enough to be your father--and I should like to give you a
little word of advice, if I could do it without offence."
"I shall take it gratefully, Mr. Bragg, whether I act upon it or not."
"Oh! as to acting upon it," said Mr. Bragg slowly; "it's a great thing
to be sure that your advice won't be picked up and pitched back at your
head like a stone. Well, you must understand that I don't mean any
disrespect to Mrs. Bransby, who is an excellent lady, I've no doubt. I
haven't much acquaintance with her, though I have dined at her table.
Her husband, Martin Bransby, I knew for years. I was his client, and had
reason to be well satisfied with him in all respects. So, you
understand, my feeling is quite friendly. But I would just drop a word
of warning. You're a young man, and Mrs. Bransby, though she's older
than you are, is still a young woman. And what's more, she's a very
handsome woman. And----Ah, I see you're making ready to shy back that
stone, by-and-by. But just listen one moment. For you, at your age, to
get entangled in that sort of engagement, and to undertake the charge of
a ready-made family of hungry boys and girls, would be simply ruin.
You'd repent it; and then she'd repent it because you did, and you'd all
be miserable together; that's all."
Owen's mouth was set, and his eyes sparkling with a rather dangerous
look. But he answered quietly, "Thank you, Mr. Bragg. I am sure you mean
well, or why should you trouble yourself to speak at all on the matter?"
"Just so; I'm glad you see that."
"But may I ask what put the idea of any--any 'entanglement,' as you call
it, between me and Mrs. Bransby into your head?"
"Understand me, Mr. Rivers; I meant all in honour, you know."
Owen winced. The very assurance was almost offensive, but he returned,
"I spoke very stupidly and awkwardly; I'll amend my phrase. I should
have said, what put it into your head that I was likely to marry Mrs.
Bransby?"
"Put it into my head? Well, when a young man feels a soft sort of
compassion for a beautiful woman who--who throws herself a good deal on
his sympathy, and looks to him for help and advice and all the rest of
it, and when the young man and the beautiful woman have opportunities of
seeing each other pretty constantly, why then I believe such a thing has
been heard of in history as their falling in love with each other. It
don't need much 'putting into your head' to see that when you've come to
my years."
"Are you quite sure," persisted Owen, "that no suggestion of this kind
was made to you by any third person? I have a particular reason for
wishing to know."
Mr. Bragg pondered. He had, in fact, heard Theodore's hints and
innuendos at the Dormer-Smiths, and although he was not consciously
moved by them in what he had now said, there could be no doubt that the
idea had been originally suggested to him by young Bransby and Pauline;
Owen's words to-day had merely revived those impressions. After a long
pause, he answered--
"Well, I think I _have_ heard it spoken of; but, if so, all the more
reason for you to be cautious."
"I thought so!" said Owen. "Spoken of by----"
"Why, by Mrs. B.'s step-son for one; so you may suppose there was
nothing said against the lady. _He_'d think it an uncommon good thing, I
dare say; it would relieve him of a burthen. He might wash his hands of
the family if she was to marry again."
"Relieve him of a burthen!" cried Owen, starting up from his chair.
"Have you any idea what he does for his father's widow and children, Mr.
Bragg? Theodore Bransby is a liar. I know him. There's nothing too base
for him to insinuate against his stepmother, who is, I declare to God,
one of the best and most innocent women breathing! Theodore has a grudge
against her and her children--a jealous, petty, despicable kind of
grudge; and he's a mean-minded scoundrel!" He checked himself in walking
furiously about the room, and turned to Mr. Bragg with an apology. "I
beg your pardon, but I _cannot_ talk coolly of that fellow."
"I'm inclined to agree with you, and yet I wish I could think better of
him; or rather, I wish he was somebody else altogether," said Mr. Bragg
enigmatically, thinking of May.
"Mr. Bragg," said Owen, with a sudden inspiration, "will you come to
Collingwood Terrace and see Mrs. Bransby? You will learn more about them
all with your own eyes and ears in ten minutes than I could convey to
you in an hour. You shall take them unprepared. If you would look in
this evening about their tea-time you would find them all at home; it
would be a kind and natural act on your part, and would need no
explanation. Do come."
"Well, yes; I will," answered Mr. Bragg. "Perhaps I ought to have done
so before. Any way, I'll come; just put down the address."
"Thank you. Shall I write those Spanish letters now?"
"Ah! you'd better. Mr. Barker, there, will give you a seat for the
present in his room."
And so they parted.
Mr. Bragg was by no means reassured as to his secretary being in
considerable danger from the widow's fascinations. He remarked to
himself that Rivers had not said one word explicitly denying any
attachment between them, but he felt a new bond of sympathy with Rivers.
It was agreeable to meet with such thorough fellow-feeling about
Theodore Bransby. Perhaps a mutual dislike is a stronger tie than a
mutual friendship, because our hatreds need more justifying than our
affections.
By the time Owen's business was transacted, and he had eaten some food
at a neighbouring chop-house, it was past two o'clock, and then he set
out for Mrs. Dormer-Smith's house on foot. It was a long way off, but it
seemed to him more tolerable to walk than to jog along on the top of an
omnibus, or to burrow underground in the crowded railway. In his
impatient and excited frame of mind the rapid exercise was a relief.
It was barely three o'clock when he reached the house in Kensington. The
servant who opened the door murmured something in a low voice, about the
ladies not receiving visitors in consequence of a family affliction.
Being further interrogated, he believed that Mrs. Dormer-Smith's cousin,
Lord Castlecombe's son, was dead.
"Tell Miss Cheffington that I am here," said Owen. "Give her this card,
and say I am waiting to see her."
His manner was so peremptory that, after a brief hesitation, the man
took the card, and ushered Owen into the dining-room to wait. The room
was dimmer than the dim wintry day without need have made it, by reason
of the red blinds being partly drawn down, and filling it with a lurid
gloom.
The servant had not been gone many seconds before the door opened, and a
rather pale face, not raised very high above the level of the floor,
peeped into the room. The eyes belonging to the face soon made out
Owen's figure in the dimness, and a childish voice said, in a subdued
and stealthy tone, "Hulloa!"
"Hulloa!" returned Owen, in a tone not quite so subdued, but still low;
for there was a general hush in the house which would have made ordinary
speech seem startling.
"Do you want May?" asked the child.
"Yes; I do."
"I heard you tell James to give her your card. Who are you?"
"I'm Owen. Who are you?" replied Owen, listening all the while for the
expected footfall.
"I'm Harold."
Upon this, a second rather pale face, still nearer to the ground, peeped
in at the door; and a second childish voice piped out faintly, "And I'm
Wilfred." Then the two children marched solemnly into the room, shutting
the door behind them, and stared at Owen with judicial gravity.
"May's my cousin," said Harold, after contemplating the stranger for a
while in silence.
"And May's my cousin, too," observed Wilfred.
"I'm fond of her," pursued Harold.
"So am I," exclaimed Owen, walking across the room impatiently. "But why
doesn't she come? Where is she? Do you know?"
"Yes," replied Harold, with deliberation; "I know."
"What can that man be about? He can't have given her the message!" said
Owen, speaking half to himself, his nervous impatience rising with every
minute of delay.
Harold looked profoundly astute, as he answered, with a series of
emphatic nods, "No; he didn't. He took the card to Smithson; and I know
what Smithson will do; she'll read it first herself, and then she'll
take it to mamma, and then perhaps mamma will tell May--if you're
a--what is it?--a proper person. _Are_ you a proper person?"
"I say," said Owen suddenly, "will you go and fetch May? Tell her Owen
is here waiting. Do go, there's a good boy!"
"Is May fond of you?" inquired Harold hesitating.
"May will be pleased with you if you go and fetch her. Run! Be off at
once now--quick!"
After one searching look at Owen's face, the child disappeared swiftly
and silently. In less than two minutes a light footstep was heard
descending the stairs at headlong speed. The door opened, and May,
almost breathless with haste and surprise, half stumbled into the dark
room, and he caught her in his arms.
"Is it really you?" she exclaimed, looking up at him with one hand on
his shoulder, and the other pushing back the hair from her forehead.
Owen took the hand which rested on his shoulder, and pressed it to his
lips. "It is very really I," he said, with his eyes fixed on her face in
a tender rapture.
"It seems like a dream! So unexpected!"
"Unexpected! Why, you summoned me, and of course I am here!"
"Yes, it really does seem as if my note had been a spell to bring you
across the seas."
"'Over seas, over mountains,
Love will find out the way!'
It doesn't alter that truth, that I happened to arrive in England only
last night."
"Only last night! How strange it seems! And you never let me know----"
"Darling, by the time it was quite certain what day I should be in
England, a letter would not have outstripped me. I got my orders by
telegram. Oh, my love, what a long, long time it seems since I looked on
your dear face!"
"Tell me all about yourself, Owen. I want to hear everything."
"So you shall. But you must explain first the meaning of your note. Tell
me now--sit down here--what has happened?"
"I have so many things to say, I scarcely know where to begin!"
"Begin with what was in your mind when you wrote that note."
May sat down close to him, and began in a low voice, little above a
whisper, and with some confusion, to narrate the story of Mr. Bragg's
wooing, and its effect on her aunt and uncle. As he listened, Owen's
face expressed the most unbounded amazement.
"Oh, it can't be!" he exclaimed. "It's impossible! There must be some
mistake!"
May laughed, though the tears were in her eyes. "You are not very
civil," she said. "Nobody else seemed to think it impossible."
"But _old Bragg_!" repeated Owen incredulously.
"Perhaps he was temporarily insane, but I really think he meant it,"
answered May, blushing so bewitchingly, that Owen could not resist the
temptation to kiss the glowing cheek so close to his lips.
At this point, Harold called out in a resolute tone, "You mustn't kiss
May."
The lovers started. They had forgotten the children--had forgotten
everything in the world except each other. But the two little boys had
followed May into the room, and had been witnessing the interview in
dumb astonishment. It was characteristic that they now held each other
by the hand, as though seeking support from union, in the presence of
this stranger, who might, they instinctively felt, turn out to be a
common enemy.
"Halloa!" said Owen. "Here's another rival. Their name seems to be
Legion."
"It was Harold who told me you were here," said May.
"Yes; I sent him to fetch you," answered Owen. Then he added
ungratefully, "They might as well be sent off now, mightn't they?"
"Oh, let them stay. There are no secrets now. At least, I hope you will
agree with me that we ought to say out the truth. Come here, Harold and
Wilfred. You must love Owen, for my sake."
Harold advanced and stood in front of them.
"I say," he said, with a curious look at Owen, "I'm going to marry May
when I grow up."
"_Are_ you? That's a little awkward."
"Why is it a little awkward?" demanded Harold gravely.
"Well, because, to tell the truth, I was rather hoping to marry her
myself."
The child had evidently intended to draw forth this explicit statement,
for he looked full at Owen, and said doggedly, "I just thought you
were!" Then he suddenly turned away and hid his face on May's lap. Upon
which Wilfred, conscious of a cloud in the air, began to cry softly.
"Don't be angry with them, poor little fellows!" said May, checking some
manifestation of impatience on Owen's part. Then she coaxed the
children, and soothed them, and the childish emotion, brief though
poignant, soon passed. And at length Harold lifted up his face, and,
after a short struggle, said--
"I will shake hands with him, if you like, but I won't love him--not if
he kisses you."
"All right, old fellow," said Owen, taking the child's hand. "I
sympathize with your feelings."
Wilfred, of course, put out his small paw to be shaken like his
brother's, and peace once more reigned.
May then hurriedly--for she knew not how long they might remain
uninterrupted--repeated what Clara Bertram had told her of her father's
marriage; and, lastly, she spoke in terms of deep affection and
gratitude of "Granny's" generosity. But on this point, as we know, Owen
was already informed.
All that he now heard strengthened and justified the strong inclination
he already felt to abandon the idea of Buenos Ayres and to remain in
England at all costs. With her father more completely cut off from his
family than ever by this new marriage, her aunt hostile, her uncle, to
say the least, dissatisfied, and sure to oppose her engagement when it
should be announced, and no one friend in the world to rely upon except
her grandmother, May's position would be very desolate if he, too, were
far away on the other side of the world. Mrs. Dobbs was the trustiest
and most devoted of parents, but she was old; and, moreover, she would
have no power to insist on keeping May with her should her father take
it into his head to decide otherwise. No; he must and would remain at
hand to protect and watch over her. These were the sole considerations
which decided him to come to this resolution then and there. But as soon
as he had taken his resolution the thought arose pleasantly in his mind
that it would bring some cheerfulness into the household at Collingwood
Terrace, and he expressed it impulsively by saying all at once--
"I have made up my mind, darling, to stay in London. Poor Mrs. Bransby
will be overjoyed. She is in such need of some one to stand by her."
May felt a little chill, like the breath of a cold wind. In the first
warm delight of seeing her lover again, all the lurking jealousy, which
she hated herself for feeling, but which was alive in spite of her hate,
had been forgotten. But his words revived it. "Is she?" she answered.
"Oh yes; I have not had time to tell you--haven't even _begun_ to say
the thousand things I want to say to you."
"You could not have written them, I suppose?" said May, withdrawing her
chair slightly from its close proximity to his, and thereby allowing
Harold, who had been watching for this opportunity, to wedge himself in
between them.
"No; I could not have written all about _her_, because I have only just
heard many of the details."
"All about '_her_'? You mean about Mrs. Bransby?"
"Of course. Poor soul, she has been so harshly, so cruelly treated!
Theodore's conduct is----"
"You know I have no partiality for him," interrupted May. "But I think
you are a little unjust, or at least mistaken, in this instance.
Theodore Bransby has done a great deal for his stepmother."
"Done a great deal for her! Good Heavens, my dear child, you can't
conceive with what meanness he treats her! It's dastardly. A woman who
was so idolized, so tended, so petted----And what a sweet creature she
is! And as lovely as ever! Her sorrows seem only to have spiritualized
her beauty."
"Yes," said May. And the dry monosyllable cost her a painful effort to
utter it. Perhaps the constraint of her tone, the deadness of her
manner--naturally so warm and cordial--would have aroused Owen's
surprise, and led to an explanation. But they were interrupted here by
the door being thrown open, not violently, but very wide open, and the
appearance of Mrs. Dormer-Smith on the threshold.