Her absence from chapel on the next Sunday disagreed with him. However,
Robert was away nearly all the week, and he had the house to himself to
dream in. It frequently happened to him to pass by Miss Emery's shop,
but he caught no glimpse of her, and though he really was in serious
need of writing-paper and envelopes, he dared not enter. Robert
returned on the Friday.
On the morning of the second Sunday, John got up early, in order to
cope with a new necktie that he had purchased in Hanbridge.
Nevertheless he found Robert afoot before him, and Robert, by some
unlucky chance, was wearing not merely a new necktie, but a new suit of
clothes. They breakfasted in their usual august silence, and John
gathered from a remark of Robert's to Maggie when she brought in the
boots that Robert meant to go to chapel. Now, Robert, being a
commercial traveller and therefore a bit of a caution, did not attend
chapel with any remarkable assiduity. And John, in the privacy of his
own mind, blamed him for having been so clumsy as to choose that
particular morning for breaking the habits of a lifetime. Still, the
presence of Robert in the pew could not prejudicially affect John, and
so there was no genuine cause for gloominess.
After a time it became apparent that each was waiting for the other to
go. John began to get annoyed. At last he made the plunge and went.
Turning his head halfway up Oldcastle Street, opposite the mansion
which is called 'Miss Peel's', he perceived Robert fifty yards behind.
It was a glorious June day.
He blushed as he entered chapel. If he was nervous, it may be accorded
to him as excuse that the happiness of his life depended on what he
should see within the next few minutes. However, he felt pretty sure,
though it was exciting all the same.
To reach the Hessian pew he was obliged to pass Miss Emery's. And it
was empty! Robert arrived.
The organist finished the voluntary. The leading tenor of the choir put
up the number of the first hymn. The minister ascended the staircase of
the great mahogany pulpit, and prayed silently, and arranged his papers
in the leaves of the hymn-book, and glanced about to see who was there
and who was presumably still in bed, and coughed; and then Miss Annie
Emery sailed in with that air of false calm which is worn by the
experienced traveller who catches a train by the fifth of a second. The
service commenced.
John looked.
She was wearing white roses. There could be no mistake as to that.
There were about a hundred and fifty-five white roses in the garden of
her hat.
What a thrill ran through John's heart! He had won Annie, and he had
won the fortune. Yes, he would give Robert the odd five thousand
pounds. His state of mind might even lead him to make it guineas. He
heard not a word of the sermon, and throughout the service he rose up
and sat down several instants after the rest of the congregation,
because he was so absent-minded.
After service he waited for everybody else to leave, in order not to
break his promise to the divine Annie. So did Robert. This ill-timed
rudeness on Robert's part somewhat retarded the growth of a young
desire in John's heart to make friends with poor Bob. Then he got up
and left, and Robert followed.
They dined in silence, John deciding that he would begin his overtures
of friendship after he had seen Annie, and could tell Robert that he
was formally engaged. The brothers ate little. They both improved their
minds during their repast--John with the Christian Commonwealth, and
Robert with the Saturday cricket edition of the Signal (I regret it).
Then, after pipes, they both went out for a walk, naturally not in the
same direction. The magnificence of the weather filled them both with
the joy of life. As for John, he went out for a walk simply because he
could not contain himself within the house. He could not wait immovable
till four-thirty, the hour at which he meant to call on Annie for tea
and the betrothal kiss. Therefore he ascended to Hillport and wandered
as far as Oldcastle, all in a silk hat and a frock-coat.
It was precisely half-past four as he turned, unassumingly, from Brick
Street into Brick Passage, and so approached the side door of Annie
Emery's. And his astonishment and anger were immense when he saw
Robert, likewise in silk hat and frock-coat, penetrating into Brick
Passage from the other end.
They met, and their inflamed spirits collided.
'What's the meaning of this?' John demanded, furious; and,
simultaneously, Robert demanded: 'What in Hades are YOU doing here?'
Only Sunday and the fine clothes and the proximity to Annie prevented
actual warfare.
'I'm calling on Annie,' said John.
'So am I,' said Robert.
'Well, you're too late,' said John.
'Oh, I'm too late, am I?' said Robert, with a disdainful laugh. Thanks!'
'I tell you you're too late,' said John. 'You may as well know at once
that I've proposed to Annie and she's accepted me.'
'I like that! I like that!' said Robert.
'Don't shout!' said John.
'I'm not shouting,' said Robert. 'But you may as well know that you're
mistaken, my boy. It's me that's proposed to Annie and been accepted.
You must be off your chump.'
'When did you propose to her?' said John.
'On Friday, if you must know,' said Robert.
'And she accepted you at once?' said John.
'No. She said that if she was wearing white roses in her hat this
morning at chapel, that would mean she accepted,' said Robert.
'Liar!' said John.
'I suppose you'll admit she WAS wearing white roses in her hat?' said
Robert, controlling himself.
'Liar!' said John, and continued breathless: 'That was what she said to
ME. She must have told you that white roses meant a refusal.'
'Oh no, she didn't!' said Robert, quailing secretly, but keeping up a
formidable show of courage. 'You're an old fool!' he added vindictively.
They were both breathing hard, and staring hard at each other.
'Come away,' said John. 'Come away! We can't talk here. She may look
out of the window.'
So they went away. They walked very quickly home, and, once in the
parlour, they began to have it out. And, before they had done, the
reading of cricket news on Sunday was as nothing compared to the
desecrating iniquity which they committed. The scene was not such as
can be decently recounted. But about six o'clock Maggie entered, and,
at considerable personal risk, brought them back to a sense of what was
due to their name, the town, and the day. She then stated that she
would not remain in such a house, and she departed.