Part 45 (1/2)

”Yours shall be no life of slavery; but there, you have known me long, and for some time past,” he said tenderly; ”I have not been without hope that you loved me in return.”

”Mr Brough,” sobbed May, throwing herself on her knees at his feet, ”I do love you, I have loved you ever since I was a child--loved you as one should love a dear father. Have I not often come to you with my girlish troubles; but you surely never can mean this--you cannot wish what you say? How can I be your wife, when you know how long--how long--O, Frank, Frank, Frank!” she cried, with a wail of despair that seemed to thrill through her suitor's heart, and raising her in his arms he kissed her tenderly--as lovingly as might a father--and placed her on a sofa at his side, drawing her nearer to him in spite of a slight resistance, as he tried to whisper a few words in his endeavour to soothe the fierce burst of despair that shook the poor girl's frame.

”There, May--my child,” he said at last, ”try and command yourself,”

when a thought seemed to strike him, and, though evidently troubled and reluctant, he rose to go, tenderly taking leave of the weeping girl.

But before he could reach the door, May had him by the hand.

”Dear Mr Brough,” she said beseechingly, ”I cannot think that you would wish to make me unhappy for life.”

”Indeed, no,” he said gently, as he held both her hands in his. ”I would devote my life to making you happy.”

”But you know--for some time--Mr Frank Marr--”

Then the recollection of what she had heard and seen that morning seemed to flash across her brain, scathing her as it pa.s.sed, and with a wild look she sought to withdraw her hands, but they were fist held.

”Nay, my child,” said Mr Brough tenderly, ”I love you too well to wish to give you pain. I would sooner suffer myself than cause a pang to your gentle little heart. Show me that Frank Marr is worthy of you-- that is, that your father's words which he told me were either untrue, or that he had been deceived; tell me, in fact, that by waiving my claims I can give you happiness, and I will do so, and at once, even though--” His voice trembled as he spoke, and then he added hastily: ”But you are much agitated; I will go. Only one question before a painful subject is buried for ever--Are you aware that Frank Marr was with your father this morning?”

May bowed her head, for the words would not come.

”And you know of the offer made and accepted? Good G.o.d, what a brute I am!” he exclaimed, as he had just time to catch May in his arms, and save her from falling.

”That's just what you are!” exclaimed a harsh voice, and the visitor became aware of the presence of Keziah Bay, who indignantly caught the fainting girl from him, and apparently without much effort bore her from the room.

It was with a quiet, thoughtful face that Tom Brough, the well-known wealthy, charitable sugar-baker, made his way to one of the City chop-houses, and sat down in a dark box to think for quite an hour, with a newspaper before his face, a newspaper that the impatient waiter swooped down at a good half-dozen times, but never asked for on account of its being in the hands of so excellent a customer. But never a word read Tom Brough; it was only a blind behind which he wished to think on that eventful morning; and he thought till his countenance lightened, for it seemed to him that his way ahead was very clear, and in that way ahead he saw himself a happy man, cheered by May's smiles, in spite of his years, and playing with her children; and at last, his own eyes dewy and twinkling, his bright grey hair glistening, and the ruddy hues of his open countenance ruddier than ever, he laid aside the paper just at a moment when, unable to bear it any longer, the waiter was swooping down with the fell intent of striking and bearing off the sheet. But just as he stooped to seize it, the paper was dropped, and he was standing face to face with the old and regular attendant at the place.

”Charles,” said Mr Brough, ”I think I'll take a chop.”

”And hysters, sir?” said Charles.

”And oysters,” said Tom Brough.

”Port _or_ sherry, sir?” said Charles respectfully.

”Pint of port--yellow seal,” said Tom Brough with a sigh of content, and then he leaned back and looked up at the dingy soot-darkened skylight, till the hissing hot chop was brought, moistening his lips from time to time with the gla.s.s of tawny astringent wine, seeing, though, no yellow gla.s.s, no floating blacks, nothing but a bright future; and then he ate--ate like a man who enjoyed it, finished his fifth gla.s.s of port, and walked to his office, brisk, bustling, and happy.

”Gentleman been waiting to see you two hours, sir,” said a clerk.

”Bless my soul, how tiresome!” he muttered. ”I wanted to do as little as possible to-day; and if news came that the sugar crops were a failure to a cane, I believe I'm so selfish that I shouldn't care a--”

But, whatever might have been the proper finish of that sentence, it was never uttered; for, bustling forward with an easy elastic step, the pleasant countenance suddenly became grave as opening the door of his inner office Tom Brough stood face to face with pale, stern-looking Frank Marr.

STORY FIVE, CHAPTER FOUR.

HOPELESS.

If there is anything obstinate in this life it is Time, whom poets and painters are so fond of depicting as a goose-winged, forelocked, bald-headed, scraggy old gentleman, exceedingly hard up for clothes, but bearing an old, overgrown egg-boiler, and a scythe with a shaft that, however well adapted for mowing in his own particular fields, would, for want of proper bend and handles, if he were set to cut gra.s.s in some Ess.e.x or Suss.e.x mead, make that old back of his double down in a grander curve than ever, and give him such a fit of lumbago as was never suffered by any stalk of the human corn he delights to level. Just want the hours, weeks, and months to seem extended, and they shrink like fourteen-s.h.i.+lling trouser legs. Just want the days to glide by so that some blissful moment may be swift to arrive, and one might almost swear that the ancient hay-maker had been putting his lips to some barrel, and was lying down behind a hedge for a long nap. He had been busy enough though at Walbrook, as many a defaulting bill acceptor knew to his cost, and small mercy was meted to him by John Richards. The time, too, with May seemed to speed by, as evening after evening it brought her December, in the shape of Tom Brough--always pleasant, cheerful, and apparently happy, if he gained one sad pleasant smile.