Before going to bed that night Mrs. Dobbs sat down and wrote a letter,
marked "private and confidential," to Mr. Bragg.
"DEAR MR. BRAGG" (she wrote),
"I think it my duty to let you know at once that the idea
mentioned in your conversation with me must be given up. I have
made quite sure in my own mind that there is no chance of its
coming to anything. I feel very much how right you were to
speak to me first. You have spared other people's feelings as
well as your own. When you asked me the question, I answered
you truly, to the best of my belief, that there was nobody else
in the field. But since our talk together I have found out that
I was wrong there. There _is_ another attachment. It may come
to something, or it may not. And you will understand that I am
putting a great confidence in you. But I know I can trust to
your honour as you trusted to mine. Not a word has passed my
lips of what you said to me, and never will. Of course, you may
think me mistaken, and choose to find out the state of the case
for yourself at first-hand. If you do so I shall not have a
word to say against it. Anyway, I know you will act upright
according to your conscience, as I have tried to act according
to mine. I want to tell you that I appreciate how generous your
intentions were, though I'm afraid I did not show it at the
time, being surprised and upset.
"Believe me,
"With sincere respect,
"Yours truly,
"SARAH DOBBS."
Shortly after that, Mr. Bragg came and called upon her. He thanked her
for her letter, and spoke in a friendly tone. But he seemed indisposed
to consider the matter as finished.
"Young people sometimes don't know their own minds," he said. He further
declared that he had no present intention of speaking to May; but that,
as he was going abroad, he might--if nothing were settled
meanwhile--resume the subject on his return to England.
"I'm quite sure in my own mind that it's no use," said Mrs. Dobbs
firmly. "And it's only fair to tell you so as strong as possible.
However, of course, you must act according to your own judgment."
"There is one question I should like to ask if I might," said Mr. Bragg,
lingering at the door on his way out. "You and me can trust each other.
And, if you feel at liberty to tell me, I should like to know whether
the--the party you alluded to in your letter is Mr. Theodore Bransby."
"Certainly not!"
"Well, I'm glad of it. There was a talk of his paying Miss C. a great
deal of attention in town. In fact, I did hear she had refused him.
Understand, I'm not fishing as to that. It's no matter to me one way or
the other, so long as he is _not_ the party. I can't say that I know any
harm of the young man; but he's what you might call a poor sort of
metal: not pleasant to handle, and, I should fear, brittle in the
working. I really am relieved in my mind to know that he is not the
party. Thank ye."
The news of Owen's engagement to Mr. Bragg was variously received by his
various acquaintances in Oldchester. Some laughed good-naturedly, some
ill-naturedly; some said it was a good thing the young man had at last
seen the necessity for exerting himself; some wondered why on earth he
had accepted such a position; and some--a good many those--wondered why
Mr. Bragg had accepted _him_. Mrs. Hadlow did not feel unmixed
satisfaction by any means.
"It's just like Owen," she said to her husband. "There is such a
singular perversity about him! He has thrown away one straight stick
after the other, and now all of a sudden he clutches at this crooked
one, as eagerly as though his life depended on getting hold of it."
Canon Hadlow, for his part, was well pleased enough. The sentiment at
the bottom of his wife's heart was that to employ a Rivers in any such
base mechanic business as writing commercial letters was like harnessing
a thoroughbred Arab to the dust-cart. But the canon could not, in the
nature of things, fully share that feeling. Nevertheless, he had a
strong regard for Owen, and spoke of him in high terms to Mr. Bragg.
But the testimony in Owen's favour which chiefly impressed Mr. Bragg was
the testimony which Owen gave himself--by deeds, not words.
Being moved by a certain energetic simplicity which belonged to him, to
perform the duties he had undertaken with the most complete thoroughness
he could command, he got a clerk who conducted the foreign
correspondence of a great Oldchester manufacturer to give him lessons
after business hours. He worked away evening after evening at the
composition of mercantile letters in Spanish until he succeeded in
producing epistles so surprisingly technical that his instructor
declared he went far beyond what was necessary in that line, and would
do well to mitigate his business style with a little good Spanish! He
studied, also, to improve his handwriting. It was a legible hand
already, since he wrote with the single-minded aim of being read. But he
strove to make it distinctly commercial in character, and succeeded.
All this became known to Mr. Bragg, who said nothing. But, when it got
wind among the little circle of persons who frequented Garnet Lodge, it
was the subject of some raillery from Owen's friends. So long as the
raillery proceeded from such persons as Dr. Hatch or Major Mitten, there
was no offence in it; but with Theodore Bransby the case was different.
Theodore was, in truth, delighted: first of all, because Rivers had, as
he phrased it, "entered Mr. Bragg's service" (a step which must for ever
disqualify him for aspiring to ally himself with the Cheffingtons,
supposing he were not disqualified already); and, secondly, because his
engagement would take him out of England for three months. So delighted
was Theodore, that his spirits rose to the unwonted pitch of attempting
some pleasantries. Now, there is nothing which more surely reveals the
quality, if not the quantity, of a man's mind than his notion of a joke.
Laughter, like wine, is a great betrayer of secrets; and for incurable
coarseness of feeling a stout cloak of gravity is "your only wear."
Theodore would tilt his head, and say with a sneering smile, "Burton's
clerk declares that Rivers is as thorough-going as the man who blacked
himself all over to play Othello! _Do_ you write a page of round-hand
copies every morning before breakfast, Rivers?" or, "I hear that Rivers
has taken to frequent the commercial 'gents'' ordinary at the Bull in
order to pick up the correct phraseology."
Owen paid very little attention to these sparkling sallies; but Mr.
Bragg, after listening for some time, broke silence one evening by
saying, in his quiet, ponderous way--
"You're rather hard on me, I think, Mr. Bransby."
Theodore looked at him with sudden gravity and unfeigned surprise. "Hard
on _you_?" he exclaimed.
"Oh, when a young gentleman is what you might call satirical, he's apt
to be harder than he means. You needn't look so serious. I'm not
offended."
The moment Mr. Bragg declared he was not offended, Theodore began to
fear that he _was_; and, whatever might be his private opinion of the
millionaire, he had no intention of affronting him. So he protested that
Mr. Bragg must be under some misapprehension, and that he (Theodore)
could not even guess what he meant.
"Oh, come, Mr. Bransby! It's pretty clear. I am but a plain business
man, but it isn't necessary to copy the company at the Bull in order to
come down to my level."
"Good heavens, my dear sir! You can't suppose----! I
was--ahem!--merely----" Theodore paused an instant, and then went on
with a little disconcerted laugh. "Ha, ha, ha! I was merely paying my
humble tribute of admiration to Rivers's energy!"
"Oh yes; I quite understand _that_. You appreciate seeing how a
honourable gentleman sets to work to keep his part of a bargain; whereas
a half-and-half chap, like that little clerk of Burton's, don't see the
highmindedness of it."
Theodore was so entirely taken by surprise, and so uncertain how far Mr.
Bragg was in earnest, that he could but stammer out renewed assurances
that he had been misunderstood. And after that, he subsided into a glum
and dignified silence for the rest of the evening.
He would probably have cut short his visit and gone away early but for
his persistent resolution never to leave Owen in possession of the field
when May was present. There was no question of seeing her home now; for
either old Martha was sent to fetch her, or one of Miss Piper's servants
walked with her to Jessamine Cottage. But, nevertheless, Theodore made a
point of outstaying Owen; or, at the very least, going away
simultaneously with him. On this particular evening, however, Dr. Hatch
interfered with this practice by requesting Theodore to accompany him
when his carriage was announced.
"I want to have a word with you quietly," whispered the doctor, "and it
is almost impossible to do so in your father's house without alarming
Mrs. Bransby. Come along with me, and I'll give you a lift home."
There was no refusing this invitation. But Theodore withdrew, comforted
by the conviction that his rival would have no chance of profiting by
his absence.
Here, however, he reckoned without his hostess; for, Martha failing to
appear at her accustomed hour, and the maid who usually supplied her
place being ill, Miss Piper bustled into the drawing-room, after a brief
absence, demanding which of the gentlemen present would volunteer to
escort Miss Cheffington home.
Mr. Bragg, who kept early hours, had already departed; and only Mr.
Sweeting, Major Mitton, and Owen remained. Mr. Sweeting begged to be
allowed the honour of lending Miss Cheffington his carriage. But May
declined the offer, saying that Mr. Sweeting's horses had a long enough
journey before them, and that, moreover, it being a lovely moonlight
night, she would prefer to walk. Upon this, Owen offered his services,
and Miss Piper at once accepted them.
"It is a good deal out of your way," she said; "but I am sure you will
not mind for once, Mr. Rivers. I am responsible to Mrs. Dobbs for
sending her grand-daughter safely home."
Owen assured Miss Piper that he should not mind at all.
While May was putting on her wraps, Miss Polly and Miss Patty jocosely
reproached Major Mitton for not having displayed his usual gallantry in
offering to escort the young lady.
"Major, Major, you are growing terribly lazy!" said Miss Polly.
"You will lose your reputation for being the most devoted Squire of
Dames in Oldchester," added Miss Patty.
"I'm getting to be an old fellow," returned the Major quietly. Then, as
they all three stood for a moment in the porch, watching the two young
figures pass down the garden in a glory of moonlight, the good Major
whispered to Miss Patty, "Do you think I was going to spoil _that_? Lord
bless me, one has been young one's self!"
As soon as May and her companion had got clear of Garnet Lodge, the girl
said, "I find that I had never thoroughly done justice to Mr. Bragg. The
more I know of him, the more highly I think of him."
"Lucky Mr. Bragg!"
"But, now, did he not administer an admirable rebuke to Theodore
Bransby?"
"Never mind Theodore. Let us talk about more interesting things."
"What _can_ be more interesting?" asked May, laughing.
"Ourselves." As she remained silent, he went on, "Do you know that we
have not had one opportunity for a quiet talk together since I got this
engagement?"
"Haven't we?"
"Ah! you don't remember so accurately as I do. But that was not to be
expected. Take my arm."
She obeyed as simply as a child. She had been drawing on her gloves when
they left Garnet Lodge, but the operation had not been completed, and it
chanced that the hand next to Owen was ungloved. She laid her fingers,
which gleamed snow-white in the moonlight, on his sleeve.
"You think I have done right in taking this employment?" he said.
"Quite right." She turned her young face, and looked at him with a sweet
fervour of sympathy and approval.
Owen raised the white, slender fingers to his lips, and then, replacing
them on his arm, laid his own warm, strong hand over them with a gentle
pressure. "You know why I did so, don't you, darling?" he said.
"Yes, Owen," was the answer, given in a shy whisper, but with innocent
frankness.
"My own dear love!" he exclaimed, pressing her arm strongly and suddenly
to his side. "There is no one like you in the world. Look at me, May.
Let me see your sweet, honest eyes."
He caught her two hands in both his, and they stood for a moment at
arm's length, facing each other, and holding hands like two children.
The moonlight shone full on the young girl's fair face, and glittered on
the bright tear-drops in her eyes, as she raised them to Owen's.
"What can I do to deserve you?" he said. "But why do I talk of desert?
You are God's gift, May, and no more to be earned than the blessed
sunshine."
He put her arm under his once more, and they paced on again without
speaking. But to them the silence was full of voices. It was the silence
of a dream. They might have wandered Heaven knows whither had not their
feet instinctively carried them along the right path, and they found
themselves, almost with a start, arrived at the white palings in front
of Jessamine Cottage.
"We must tell granny, mustn't we?" said May, looking up at Owen, with a
delicious sense of implicit reliance on him.
"Yes; but I am terribly afraid. I hope she will not be angry."
"Angry! How can you think so? Granny is fond of you."
"But she is fonder of _you_, and she knows your value, although, thank
God, you don't! If you did, what chance should I have had? You know how
poor I am--not quite penniless, but very poor."
"Not so poor as I, since I am really and truly quite penniless; but I
don't mind that, if you don't."
Owen felt a desperate temptation to fold her in his arms and beseech her
to marry him to-morrow, throwing prudence and pounds sterling to the
winds. But the ardour of a genuine passion purifies the nobler soul, as
fire purifies the nobler metal, and burns away the dross of self. He
answered gravely--
"Our positions are very different, darling. I hope I have not done wrong
to tell you how dear you are to me?"
"I think it would have been unkind and cruel to go away without telling
me," she answered bravely, though the sound of the words as she said
them brought the hot colour into her cheeks.
"Thank you, dearest; that is the best comfort I could have, if I may
dare to believe it. But it does seem so wonderful that you should care
for me!"
The contemplation of this wonder might have occupied them both for an
indefinite time but that they saw a light begin to shine through the
fanlight of the little entrance-hall of Jessamine Cottage. In the
stillness of the night the sound of their voices, subdued though they
were, had reached the ears of Mrs. Dobbs. She presently opened the door,
and stood looking at them as they hurried up the garden path.
"Oh, granny dear, I'm afraid I'm late!" said May. "I did not guess that
you were sitting up for me."
"Martha had a touch of her rheumatism, so I sent her to bed. I did not
mind waiting. I suppose Miss Piper's maid couldn't come with you? Was
that it?" asked Mrs. Dobbs.
She lingered at the open door, expecting Owen to say "Good-night." But
May took her grandmother's hand and pulled her into the house, while he
followed them. When they reached the lamp-lighted parlour, May, still
holding her grandmother's hand with her left hand, stretched out her
right to Owen, and gently drew him forward. Then she flung her left arm
round the old woman's neck, and kissed her. There was no need for words.
Mrs. Dobbs sank down, white and tremulous, in her great chair, while May
nestled beside her on her knees, and tried to place Owen's hand, which
she still clasped, in that of her grandmother. But the old woman
brusquely drew her hand away.
"You have done wrong," she said, turning to Owen, and scarcely able to
control the trembling of her lips. "I didn't think it of you. But men
are all alike; selfish, selfish, selfish!"
"Why, granny!" exclaimed the girl, breathless with dismay. Then she
started up with a flash of impetuous indignation, and stood beside her
lover. "He is _not_ selfish!" she said vehemently.
"Hush, May! Granny is right," said Owen in a low voice. "I told you that
I feared I had done wrong."
Mrs. Dobbs still trembled, but she was struggling to regain her
self-command. "You might have waited yet awhile," she said brokenly.
"The child is young! You ought not to have bound her until you see your
way more clear."
"Oh, believe me, I will not hold her bound," answered Owen. "I never
meant that. I ought not to have spoken yet. I feared so before, and now
that you say so, I know it. But I am not wholly selfish."
May had stood listening silently, looking, with wide eyes and parted
lips, from one to the other. She now fell on her knees again beside her
grandmother, and, clasping the old woman's hands in both her own, cried
eagerly--
"But listen! If there was any fault, it was mine. I love him so much!
And he's going away. Think of that, granny! Come here and kneel down
beside me, Owen, and let her look you in the face. Think, if he had gone
away and never told me! And I so fond of him! You didn't guess how I
cried that night when I heard he was to leave England. He has made me so
happy--so happy! And we can wait. We don't mind being poor. You said you
were fond of him. And he is so good--and I love him so--and you to speak
to him so cruelly! Oh, granny, granny!" The tears were pouring down her
face, and dropping warm upon the wrinkled hands she held.
Suddenly Mrs. Dobbs opened her arms, and folding May in one of them,
laid the other round Owen's shoulder as he knelt before her, and drew
them both into her embrace.
"Come along, you two!" she said, sobbing and smiling. "I've got a
precious pair of babies to look after in my old age. No more common
sense between you than would lie on the point of a needle! No prudence,
no worldly wisdom, no regard for society--nothing but love and truth;
and what do you suppose _they'll_ fetch in the market?"
After a few minutes she ordered Owen away. "I'm tired," she said. "And
we have all had our feelings worked up enough for one while. Go home
now, Mr. Rivers--well, well, Owen, then, if it must be!--go home, Owen,
and sleep, and dream. And to-morrow, when you're quite awake--broad,
staring, work-a-day-world awake, which you're not now, either of
you,--come here, and we will talk rationally."
Owen obeyed heroically, and marched off without a word of remonstrance.
But May kept her grandmother listening and talking, long after he had
gone. She made Mrs. Dobbs go to bed, and sat by her bedside, pouring out
her young heart, joyfully secure of granny's understanding and sympathy,
until at length Mrs. Dobbs inexorably commanded her to go to rest.
"Good night, dear, dearest, good, goodest granny!" said May, leaning
down to kiss her grandmother's broad, furrowed brow. "Only this one
last--very last--word! Do you know, I am very hopeful about Owen's
future, because I am sure that Mr. Bragg has taken a great fancy to him,
and appreciates him. And Mr. Bragg can make Owen's fortune if he likes."
"Mr. Bragg," murmured Mrs. Dobbs, turning her head on her pillow. "Ah,
_there's_ a nice kettle of fish! I'm as big a baby as the children, for
up to this very instant I'd clean forgotten all about Mr. Bragg!"