OWEN THE MATCHMAKER
Undoubtedly it was hard on Wynyard that, at a time when his own
love-affair was absorbing his soul and thoughts, he should be burthened
with the anxieties of another--in fact, with two others--those of Tom
Hogben and Dilly Topham.
For some weeks Tom had been unlike himself, silent, dispirited,
and almost morose, giving his mother short answers or none; yet,
undoubtedly, it _is_ galling to be accused of a bilious attack when it
is your heart that is affected.
Mrs. Hogben was dismayed. What had come over her boy? Her lodger, too,
was concerned, for Tom, hitherto sober, now brought with him at times a
very strong suggestion of raw whisky! At last he was received into his
confidence--the communication took place over an after-dinner pipe in
the Manor grounds.
During the dog-days, the atmosphere of Mrs. Hogben’s little kitchen
was almost insupportable--such was the reek of soap-suds, soda, and
the ironing blanket; and Wynyard suggested that he and Tom should
carry their dinner, and eat it in the old summer-house on the Manor
bowling-green.
“We’ll be out of your road,” he added craftily, “and save ourselves the
tramp here at midday.”
At first Tom did not see precisely eye-to-eye with his comrade; he
liked his victuals “conformable”--and to be within easy reach of the
loaf, pickle jar, and--though this was not stated--the Drum!
But after one trial he succumbed. There was no denying it was rare and
cool in the old thatched tea-house, and his mother, who was thankful to
get rid of “two big chaps a-crowding her up--so awkward at her busiest
laundry season,”--provided substantial fare in the shape of cold meat
and potatoes, home-made bread, and cheese--and, for Tom, the mordant
pickles such as his soul loved. The pair, sitting at their meal,
presented a curious contrast, although both in rough working clothes,
and their shirt-sleeves.
The chauffeur, erect, well-groomed, eating his bread and cheese with
the same relish, and refinement as if he were at mess.
The gardener, exhibiting a four days old beard, and somewhat earthy
hands, as he slouched over the rustic table, bolting his food with the
voracity of a hungry dog.
They were both, in their several ways, handsome specimens of British
manhood. Hogben, for all his clownish manners, had good old blood in
his veins; he could, had he known the fact, have traced and established
his pedigree back to King Henry the Sixth!
Wynyard’s progenitors had never been submerged; their names were
emblazoned in history--a forebear had distinguished himself in the
tilting ring, and achieved glory at Agincourt.
Possibly, in days long past, the ancestors of these two men had fought
side by side as knight and squire--who knows?
Having disposed of his last enormous mouthful, closed his clasp-knife,
and produced his pipe, Hogben threw himself back on the seat, and
said--
“Look here, mate, I want a bit of a talk with ’ee.”
“Talk away, Tom,” he replied, as he struck a match. “You have fifteen
minutes and a clear course.”
“Oh, five will do me. As fer the course, it bain’t clear, and that’s
the truth. It’s like this, Jack, I’m in a mort o’ trouble along o’
Dilly Topham.”
Wynyard nodded, the news had not taken him by surprise.
“An’ you, being eddicated, and having seen London and life--and no
doubt well experienced with young females--might give me a hand.”
Wynyard nodded again--Tom was undoubtedly about to make a clean breast
of it. So he lit his cigarette, and prepared to listen.
“Dilly and I was children together--I’m five year older nor she--and
my mother, being a widder, I had to start to work when I was ten, with
a milk round--and indeed long afore--so my schoolin’ wasn’t much,
as ye may know! ’Owever, Dilly and I was always goin’ to be married
for fun; and she grew up a main pretty girl, and then it was agreed
on in earnest. Well, now she gives me the go-by! Most days she won’t
look near me, and she never comes ’ere; she’s got a gold bangle from
some other chap, and when I ask about it, she gives me a regular
doing, and says I’m to mind me own business! What do ye say to that?
It’s the insurance fellow, I’ll go bail, from Brodfield; if I catch
him--I’ll--I’ll bash ’is ’ead in--so I will--’im and ’is legs! What am
I to do--I ask you as a friend?”
“Well, Tom, I’m not as experienced as you suppose,” said Wynyard, after
a thoughtful pause, “but, if I were in your shoes, I’ll tell you just
exactly my plan of operations.”
“Ay, let’s have ’em right away.”
“First of all I’d have my hair cut, and trim myself about a bit.”
“What! an old blossom like me?”
“Yes; shave that fringe of yours altogether, and wear your hair like
mine,” running his hand over his cropped head. “I declare, I could not
live with a mop like yours! And you may not know it, Tom, but you are
an awfully good-looking fellow.”
“Eh--am I?” with slow complacency. “They do say so of Ottinge folk;
they are mostly of fine old blood, come down in the world--and the only
thing that’s stuck is the features--especially the nose.”
“I can’t tell you anything about that, but I’m certain of one
thing--you must give up whisky.”
“Ay”--reddening--“must I so?”
“Don’t let it get a hold, or it may never leave you.”
“Ay, but sometimes when I’m down, the devil ’e comes, and ’e says,
‘You go and ’ave a _drink_, Tom, it will do you good’; and ’e keeps on
a-whisperin’ ‘Go and ’ave a drink, Tom, go and ’ave a drink, Tom,’ and
so I goes at last, and ’as three or four!”
“Tell the devil to shut up, and do you go to the barber.”
“’E’s away this week thatching,” was the amazing reply.
“Well, when he comes back get shaved, and you won’t know yourself!
Then I’d like to give you one of my old coats, and a tie, and a few
collars--we are about the same size--and Miss Dilly won’t recognise
you; and after that, mind you take no notice of her; but share your
hymn-book with Nellie Hann--ask her out walking of an evening, and I
bet you anything you like, you will have Miss Dilly after you like a
shot!”
“Well, mate, I’ll do it,” said Tom moodily; “but it’s a tricky
business walkin’ with another girl--she might take notions--and if it
falls out badly with Dilly, I’ll drown myself, but thank you all the
same.”
After a long and brooding silence, Tom struggled to his feet and
scratched his head--
“If ye understood what it was to be _set_ on a girl--you would know
what a misery I feel; but you are not built that way, as any one can
see--and now I must go back to my job, or I’ll have the old lady on
to me. She stands in the landing window, a-watching like a cat at a
mouse-hole. It’s not so much the work--as that she likes to see us
_a-slaving_. Well, I’ll take yer advice, and I am much obliged to ye.”
And, shouldering his spade, Tom lurched away, with long uneven strides.
“Now, what did you do that for?” Wynyard asked himself. “You silly
idiot! giving advice and putting your finger in other people’s pies.
Why should you meddle?”
No answer being forthcoming from the recesses of his inner
consciousness, he rose and stretched himself, and presently returned to
his struggle with a contrary old lawn-mower.
By chance, the very next evening, on the road to Brodfield, Wynyard
came upon Dilly and the insurance agent; they were evidently about to
part, and were exchanging emphatic last words. He accosted them in a
cheery, off-hand manner, and after a few trivial remarks about the
weather, and the heat, said--
“As I suppose you are going back, Miss Topham, we might as well walk
together. May I have the honour of your company?”
Dilly beamed and giggled, the agent glowered and muttered
inarticulately; but he was a little in awe of the chauffeur chap, with
his quiet manners, steady eye, and indefinable suggestion of a reserve
force never exerted--and with a snort and a “So long, Miss Dilly!” he
mounted his bike, and sped homewards.
Dilly was both amazed and enchanted. So, after all, she had made an
impression on this quiet, good-looking Owen chap! and for him, did he
wish to “walk out with her,” she was ready--to speak the brutal, naked
truth--to throw over both Ernest Sands and Tom Hogben.
“I’m glad to have met you like this,” he said, as they proceeded side
by side.
“Oh yes,” she responded eagerly, “so am I--awfully glad!”
“Because I want to have a word about Tom.”
“Oh--_Tom_,” with inexpressible scorn, “I’ve just about done with Tom!”
“Done for him, you mean! You’re breaking his heart; he’s a topping good
chap, I know, for I live in the house with him.”
Here, indeed, was a bitter disappointment for Miss Dilly. So the smart
chauffeur was merely talking to her as a friend of Tom’s!
“I say,” he continued, “do you think it’s playing the game to be
carrying on with this other chap, if you are engaged to Tom?”
“Who says so?” she demanded sharply.
“He does--Ottinge does.”
“Laws! A lot of jangling old women! Much I care what they say!” and she
tossed her head violently.
“You need not tell me that.”
“Why?” she snapped.
“Because you meet a young man you are not engaged to, and walk miles
with him through the lanes after sundown.”
“Well, I’m sure! Why mayn’t I have a friend if I choose?”
“It is entirely a matter of opinion; if I were in Tom’s shoes, Miss
Dilly, and knew of this evening’s outing, I’d give you the chuck at
once, and have nothing more to do with you.”
“Oh--_you_!”--insolently--“they say you’re a sort of half gentleman as
has got into some trouble. Why don’t you mind your own affairs? Come
now!”
“Tom is my friend and my affair.”
“Bah! a working man and a gentleman--friends! Go on!” and she stared at
him defiantly.
“Yes, he is; and I won’t stand by and see his life spoiled, if I can
help it.”
“Well, then,” and she burst into sudden tears, “it’s his mother as is
spoiling it--not me.”
“How do you make that out?”
“Wasn’t we pledged four year ago, and I took his ring, and there’s
Maggie Tuke engaged years after me, and nicely set up in her own house
now, with a gramaphone and a big glass--yes, and Nellie Watkin too; and
I’ve got to wait and wait till Mrs. Hogben pleases. _She_ won’t give up
Tom, so there it is! Oh, of course she’s all butter and sugar to a good
lodger like you, but she’s as hard as a turnpike, and she’s waiting on
till my grandmother comes forward--and that she’ll never do. Why, she
grudges me a bit of chocolate, let alone a fortin’.”
“Oh, so that’s it, is it?”
“Yes, that’s it, since you must know; and I tell you I’m not going on
playing this ’ere waiting game no longer--I’m about fed up, as they
say; I’m twenty-six, and I’ve told Ernest as I’m going to break it off
with Hogben.”
“Come now, which do you like the best?” asked Wynyard, amazed at his
own impertinence, “Tom or Ernest?”
“Why, Tom, of course, but what’s the good?”
“Look here, will you promise not to hate me--and will you let me see
what I can do?”
For a moment she gazed at him with an air of profound mistrust; at last
she muttered in a peevish voice--
“Yes, you can’t make things no worse, anyway--and that’s certain sure.”
This was not a very gracious permission, but Miss Topham wiped her
eyes and held out her hand; at the moment, by most provoking bad luck,
the Rector and his daughter dashed by in a dog-cart, and the former,
recognising him, called back a cheery “Good-night, Owen!”
“Is it possible that the fellow has cut out Tom Hogben, and is making
up to Dilly Topham?” he said to his daughter.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” she answered stiffly.
“I should not have thought she was _his_ sort; but one never can tell!
At any rate, she was crying and holding his hand--there must be an
understanding between them, eh?”
But Aurea made no reply; apparently she was engrossed in watching a
long train of rooks flying quickly homewards--drifting across the
rose-tinted sky--and had not heard the question. Her father glanced at
her; her pretty lips were very tightly compressed, one would almost
suppose that something had annoyed Aurea!
* * * * *
That evening, when Tom was at the Drum, Wynyard had a serious
conversation with Mrs. Hogben--a really straight and private talk,
respecting her son and his love-affair. “If Leila were to see me now!”
he said to himself, “trying to engineer this job, how she would laugh!”
To his landlady he pointed out that one was not always young, and
that Tom and Dilly had been engaged four years. (He had a vague idea
that Tom’s wages and Tom’s company all to herself, were considerable
factors in his mother’s reluctance to name the wedding-day.)
And for once Wynyard was positively eloquent! He put down his pipe, and
spoke. He pleaded as he had never in his life pleaded for himself--he
felt amazed by his own arguments! Mrs. Hogben was thunder-struck;
generally, the fellow had not a word to throw to a dog, and now to hear
him talk!
“Think, Mrs. Hogben,” he urged, “what is Tom to wait for? He has his
twenty-five shillings a week and this house--it’s his, I understand,”
and he paused. “If Dilly gives him up who will blame her? She has
waited--and for what?” Another dramatic pause. “_You_ are waiting for
Mrs. Topham to die. She is likely to hold on another ten or twenty
years. You say this is a healthy place--and she may even see you out;
it’s a way old people have--they get the living habit, and hold on in
spite of no end of illnesses. And I tell you plainly that if Dilly
throws over Tom--as she threatens--Tom will go to the bad; and then
perhaps you will be sorry and blame yourself when it’s too late.”
By this time Mrs. Hogben was in tears.
“And so I’m to turn out, am I?--out of the house I was in ever since
I married and the house where my poor husband died of ‘roses on the
liver’” (_cirrhosis_) “and let that giddy girl in on all my good china
and linen,” she sobbed stertorously.
“No, not by any means--there’s room for all! I shall not always be
here, you know. Well, Mrs. Hogben,” rising, “I hope you will forgive me
for intruding into your family affairs, but just think over what I have
said to you; you know I mean well, and I’m Tom’s friend,” and with this
declaration her lodger bade her good-night, and climbed up the creaking
stairs into his crooked chamber.
The immediate result of the chauffeur’s interference was the
transformation of Tom into a smart, clean-shaven young man--who openly
neglected his lady-love, actually escorted her hated rival from evening
church, and remained to share the family supper of pig’s cheek and
pickles. Owen’s prescription had a marvellous effect; for, three weeks
after this too notorious entertainment, it was officially given out at
the Drum that Tom and Dilly Topham were to be wed at Christmas--and
to make their home with Sally Hogben. On hearing this, so to speak,
postscript, various maids and matrons were pleased to be sarcastic
respecting the two Mrs. Hogbens, and wished them both “joy.”