"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 THREE, 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-shilling 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.

For there was a sadness in May Richards' face that was even at times painful; but she seemed to bear her cares patiently. Only once had she sought to talk to her father, to find him even gentle.

"You had better throw it all aside," he said. "Take my advice, child, you will find it better."

"But I must see those papers, father," she said hoa.r.s.ely.

She had followed the old man into his office, and stood facing him as he laid one hand upon his great iron safe.

He did not seem to heed her for a few minutes; but at last he spoke.

"You will not destroy them?" he said. "No."

The next minute the great iron door opened with a groan, and he had placed a cancelled cheque bearing frank Marr's name on the back, and a couple of other doc.u.ments before her.

She stood there and read them through, word for word, twice, and then they dropped from her hand, and gazing straight before her she slowly left the place.

He had sold her, then. He had preferred worldly prosperity to her love, and she had been deceived in him as hundreds of others were every day deceived by those in whom they trusted. But one doc.u.ment she held to still--the one in her desk, the little desk that stood by her bed's head, and that letter she had read night after night, and wept over when there was none to see, till the blistering tears had all but obliterated the words on the paper. But no tears could wash them out from her heart, where they were burned in by anguish--those few cold formal words dictated by her father--that he, Frank Marr, feeling it to be his duty, then and there released her from all promises, and retained to himself the right without prejudice to enter into any new engagement.

She had been asked to indite a few lines herself, setting him free on her part, but she could not do it; and now, after the first month of agony, she was striving hard to prepare herself for what she felt to be her fate.

But all seemed in vain, and one day, almost beside herself with the long strain, Keziah found her pacing the room and wringing her thin hands.

"You sha'n't marry him, and that's an end of it!" cried Keziah fiercely.

"I'll go over and see him to-night and talk to him; and if I can't win him round my name isn't Bay. I'll marry him myself if it can't be done any other how, that I will. Cheer up, then, my darling. Don't cry, please, it almost breaks my heart to see you. He's a good old fellow, that he is; and I'm sure when he comes to know how you dread it all he'll give it up. If I only had that Mr Frank--What? Don't, my little one? Then I won't; only it does seems so hard. Married on the shortest day, indeed! I daresay he'd like to be. There's no day so short nor so long ever been made that shall see you Tom Brough's wife, so I tell him.

Now, only promise me that you'll hold up."

"Don't talk to me, please. I shall be better soon," sobbed May; and then after an interval of weeping, "'Ziah, I know you love me: when I'm dead, will you think gently of me, and try to forgive all my little pettish ways?"

"When you're what?" cried Keziah.

"When I'm dead; for I feel that it can't be long first. I used to smile about broken hearts and sorrow of that kind, but, except when I'm asleep and some bright dream comes, all seems here so black and gloomy that I could almost feel glad to sleep always--always, never to wake again."

"O, O, O!" cried Keziah, bursting into a wail of misery, but only to stop short and dash away a tear right and left with the opposite corners of her ap.r.o.n. "There, I won't have it, and if you talk to me again like that, I'll--I'll--I'll go to Mr Brough at once. No, my child, I'm not going to sit still and see you murdered before my very eyes if I know it. But though I don't want to be cruel I must tell you that your poor affections really were misplaced; for that Frank Marr is as well off now and as happy as can be. He lodges, you know, at Pash's, and they've got all the best furnished rooms that he got ready for me; not that I was going to leave you, my pet; and he's making money, and taking his mother out of town, and all sorts, I can tell you."

It did not escape Keziah's eye how every word was eagerly drunk in, and feeling at last that she was but feeding and fanning a flame that scorched and seared the young life before her, she forbore, and soon after left the room.

"But if I don't see Mr Tom Brough, and put a stop to this marriage, and his preparations, and new house, and furnishing," she cried, "my name isn't Keziah Bay?"

And Keziah kept her word.

STORY THREE, CHAPTER FIVE.

MR PASH LOOKS GREEN.

Keziah Bay had made up her mind to go to Mr Tom Brough, and, attended by Peter Pash as her faithful squire, she started, loading him to begin with in case of rain, for on one arm Peter carried a large scarlet shawl, and under the other a vast blue-faded gingham umbrella, with a great staghorn beak and a grand ornamental bra.s.s ferule.

But Peter Pash looked proud at the confidence placed in him, and, following rather than walking by the side of his lady, he accompanied her to Finsbury-square, in one corner of which place lived Tom Brough.

All the same, though, Peter Pash was not comfortable, for he did not know the object of Keziah's mission. What was she going to Mr Brough's for? It was not because she was sent--she had declared that before starting, and when pressed for her reason she said that she was "going because she was going," and Peter did not feel satisfied. In fact, before they were half-way to Finsbury, Peter was fiercely jealous, and telling himself that he was being made a fool of.

"You'd better let me carry that umbrella if you are going to bring it down thump at every step like that," said Keziah.

"No, thank you, I can manage it," said Peter, as, tucking it once more beneath his arm, he trotted on by her side, trying to make up his mind how he should find out the truth of his suspicions.

"It only wants a little looking into," said Peter to himself, "and then you can find out anything. I can see it all now. And do they think they are going to deceive me? No, I've boiled down and purified too much not to be able to separate the wrong from the right. She's going to ask him if he means to marry her instead of Miss Richards, and if he don't, she'll fall back on me. But she won't, for I don't mean to be fallen on, and so I tell her."

"Here we are," said Keziah, stopping short in front of Mr Brough's house.

"Yes, here we are," said Peter, with what he meant for a searching look.

"Now, look here, Peter," said Keziah, "I'm going to see Mr Brough, and you'll wait outside till I come back."

"But what are you going for?" said Peter.

There was no reply save what was conveyed in a hitch of Keziah's shawl, and then, her summons being responded to, she entered, leaving Peter perspiring on the door-step, brandishing the great umbrella and peering at the door with eyes that threatened to pierce the wood--varnish, paint, and all.

Meanwhile, Keziah was ushered into the room where Tom Brough was seated, rosy and hearty, over his decanter and gla.s.s.

"Well, Keziah," he said, "and how are all at home? Take a chair."

The visitor did not condescend to reply until the door was shut, when, folding her arms, she stood looking at him with a fierce uncompromising aspect.

"I've come about that poor girl," she said at last.