Two days after May's interview with Mrs. Bransby, Owen's weekly letter arrived. In it he informed her of the unexpected postponement of his return; and he mentioned having written this news to Mrs. Bransby in answer to a letter from her appealing to him for help and advice. But he did not expend many words on the Bransby family. He had to keep May minutely informed of his own doings, and of his prospects, so far as he could judge of them. And whatsoever time and space remained at his disposal when this was accomplished was devoted to a theme which touched him more nearly than the fortunes of gentle Louisa Bransby—although his regard for her was very real. Owen was deeply in love, and wrote love-letters. And that species of composition does not deal with circumstantial and connected narrative—at any rate, about third persons.

But although Owen did not return to England at the end of December, Mr. Bragg did. He appeared one day in Mrs. Dormer-Smith's drawing-room, when he was received by that lady with marked graciousness, and by May with a changing colour and shy eagerness which he might have been excused for misinterpreting.

Mrs. Dormer-Smith was delighted. May's behaviour appeared to her to be just what it ought to be. Uncle Frederick, too, who happened to be at home—for Mr. Bragg called at so unfashionably an early hour that the master of the house had not yet gone out to his club—had reason to be gratified. He took the opportunity of consulting Mr. Bragg as to a little investment he purposed making. And Mr. Bragg, while dissuading him from that particular investment, spontaneously offered to put his money into "a good thing" for him.

"I make it a rule not to advise people in general about such matters," said Mr. Bragg. "The responsibility's too great; not to mention that if it once, what you might call got wind that I did give such advice, I should have my time took up altogether with other people's business. And I don't see the force of that."

"Of course not! Most inconsiderate!" murmured Mr. Dormer-Smith.

"But I reserve the right to make exceptions now and then," continued Mr. Bragg. "And I shall be happy to be of use to you."

All this while no word had been said about Owen. May's secret consciousness made her too bashful to introduce his name. But at length Mr. Bragg mentioned it of his own accord. It was in speaking of Mr. Bransby's death. Mr. Bragg expressed kindly sympathy with the widow, and added—

"She has one good friend, poor soul, anyway. My secretary takes the greatest interest in her. You know him, Miss Cheffington—Mr. Owen Rivers."

"Yes," answered May, in as constrained a tone as though the subject were distasteful to her. Yet the poor child was longing with all her heart to speak of Owen, and to hear him spoken of.

"To be sure you do. We used to meet him at the Miss Pipers' pretty well every evening, didn't we? Besides, he's a cousin of your great friend, Miss Hadlow."

"Oh, of course!" exclaimed Mrs. Dormer-Smith, with a sudden remembrance of that relationship, and a consequent increase of interest in Owen, whom personally she knew but very slightly. "A cousin of Constance Hadlow's! Yes, yes; I recall it now. Mrs. Griffin told me that his grandfather, who married a Lespoony——" She stopped, remembering that family genealogy was a subject not likely to be specially agreeable to Mr. Bragg, and asked that gentleman sweetly, "How do you like him? Does he do well?"

"First rate!" answered Mr. Bragg emphatically.

May coloured with pleasure, and turned aside her face, to hide a broad, childlike smile which stole over it.

"First rate," repeated Mr. Bragg. "He gives full satisfaction. Not but what there are little what you may call twists in him here and there. He's peculiar in some ways. But I never did expect angels from heaven to come down and do office-work for me. I consider myself lucky if I get honesty and fair industry. Now, Mr. Rivers is more than honest—he's honourable."

"Isn't that a distinction without a difference in this case?" asked Mr. Dormer-Smith lightly.

"Well, no; I don't think so," answered Mr. Bragg in his slow, pondering way. "You see, honesty makes a capital slow-combustion kind of fire, but if you want a white heat you must have honour. I can't express myself quite clear, but I have it in my mind."

"And so Mr. Rivers takes a great interest in this Mrs. Bransby," said Pauline. Her thoughts had been busy with this point ever since Mr. Bragg had uttered the words. And she was pleased that May should hear something like corroboration of the charge against Mrs. Bransby.

"Uncommon. He's quite what you might call devoted to her."

"She's a deuced pretty woman, isn't she?" put in Mr. Dormer-Smith, with a little knowing laugh.

Mr. Bragg replied, with perfect seriousness, "Mrs. Bransby is a lady of great personal attractions, and, so far as I know of her, most amiable. I'm sorry to hear she's left in poor circumstances. Martin Bransby seems to have made most imprudent speculations. If he'd have come to me, poor man, I could have given him some useful warnings; and would have done it, too. I'd have made one of my exceptions in his favour."

Mrs. Dormer-Smith's interest in the deceased Martin Bransby was too slight to enchain her attention. When the widow was no longer being spoken of, Pauline's thoughts flew off rapidly to the fashion and texture of May's wedding-dress (which had already haunted her solitary musings), and to the question whether Mr. Bragg would be likely to do anything for her boy Cyril, who was just about to be entered at the University. But her eyes remained fixed with a politely attentive look on Mr. Bragg, and, when he ceased speaking, she murmured plaintively, as being a safe thing to say, "That is so good of you!"

As soon as Mr. Bragg was gone, May sat down to write an account of his visit to Owen. Her heart swelled with pride as she repeated to him Mr. Bragg's words about himself. Indeed, she was so enthusiastic about Mr. Bragg, that Owen jestingly told her in his next letter that he was growing jealous of his "master"—so he always termed Mr. Bragg.

It was out of the question that May should hint to Owen a word of the unkind things which were said of Mrs. Bransby. She could not bring her pen to write them. It seemed to her as if she could never even speak them to him. But she said all the most sympathetic and affectionate things she could think of about the poor widow and her children, being inspired by the malicious gossip only to a more chivalrous warmth on her friend's behalf. But yet—that gossip was like a barbed seed that clings where it alights, and could not wholly be shaken out of her memory. If she could but have spoken with granny! She could not write all the confused feelings that were in her mind. To have tried to do so would have seemed almost like hinting something which might be construed into a doubt of Owen! But if she could speak, with her living voice, granny—who loved her so much, and would listen with such understanding ears—would surely find the right words to conjure away the oppression which weighed on her spirits! She was ashamed of not feeling so happy as she had felt three weeks ago. And yet it was impossible to deny that a cloud—light and filmy, but still a cloud—had come between her and the sun. She was very lonely. Sometimes she was startled by the sudden recognition of how completely aloof she was in spirit from the beings around her.

Next to Owen's letters, her little cousins were her chief comfort. She had them with her as much as possible, helping them with their lessons, and joining in their play. Their brother Cyril being now at home from Harrow, the younger children received even less than the scanty share of her attention which their mother had ever vouchsafed to them. Mr. Dormer-Smith was a good deal engrossed by his eldest son; and Harold and Wilfred would have been forlorn indeed, at this time, but for Cousin May. Yes, the children were a great comfort to her; and, after them, she liked Mr. Bragg's society better than that of most people! He was so closely associated with Owen.

Mr. Bragg had become a frequent and familiar guest at the Dormer-Smiths' house. Uncle Frederick highly valued his advice and assistance in financial matters, while Aunt Pauline was never tired of repeating his praises. Only—as she privately complained to her husband—he "hung fire" a little.

"Why in the world he shouldn't speak out, I cannot conjecture," said she, with that soft, suffering expression of countenance, which Mr. Bragg's assiduous visits had recently banished for as much as two or three days together. "It really is not May's fault this time. Nothing could be nicer than she is to him. I should be uneasy about the Hautenvilles, but that they are spending the winter at Rome. And besides, Mrs. Griffin assured me that he wouldn't look at Felicia. In fact, he told her in plain terms that Miss Cheffington was the one young lady he admired. Dear Mrs. Griffin! I shall never forget what a friend she has been all through the affair. And the dear duchess! But really, Mr. Bragg does hang fire most unaccountably! I think it is beginning to tell on May herself a little. She mopes. Now, that is a very serious matter, for her complexion is of the delicate kind which will not stand worry."

The new year opened dark and damp in London. But the external gloom did not quench social gaiety, of which there was a good deal going on at this time. Mrs. Dormer-Smith entered into it, and insisted on May's entering into it, as much as possible. She reflected that this would be the last year during which she would have the assistance of May's allowance, and that it would be well to profit by it to the utmost while it lasted. The allowance was never expended in any way by which May could not benefit. For example, if Mrs. Dormer-Smith were going to a dinner-party without her niece, she would not spend May's money on the hire of a carriage to save her own hard-worked brougham horse; but when May accompanied her she would do so. And on such occasions she would indulge in some little extra elegance of dress, on the plea (quite genuinely preferred) that she must be decently dressed in the girl's interests.

In spite of Theodore Bransby's recent mourning they frequently met in society.

"It is my duty to keep up my social connections," he would say to Mrs. Dormer-Smith, with a grave, resigned air. And no one could have more fully appreciated and approved the sentiment than she did.

Theodore travelled rather frequently backwards and forwards between London and Oldchester in these days. He was busy in the neighbourhood of his native city, preparing the ground for his political campaign; while he was constantly attracted to London by the hope of seeing May. He had discovered that Mrs. Bransby wrote sometimes to Owen Rivers, and he frequently volunteered to give her items of news about May, which he thought and hoped she might transmit to Spain. Miss Cheffington had sat near him at Lady A.'s dinner-party; he had escorted Miss Cheffington and her aunt to Mrs. B.'s soirÉe musicale; Mrs. C. had given him a seat in her box at the theatre—where he met Miss Cheffington; and so forth.

"Miss Cheffington appears to be very gay!" said Mrs. Bransby once, with a sigh, not envious, but regretful; her own life was so dull and dark.

"Miss Cheffington is very much in the world, of course. Her birth and her beauty entitle her to a good deal of attention, and she gets it. I see no objection to that. On the contrary, it delights me that she should be admired."

His step-mother stared at him in sudden surprise.

"Theodore!" she exclaimed impulsively. "There is nothing between you and May, is there?"

He drew himself up, and answered in as coldly offended a tone as though he had not desired, and even angled for, that very question. "Excuse me, Mrs. Bransby, but I do not think it well to use a young lady's name in that way. It is too delicate a matter to be handled at all in its present stage."

"Don't you believe him, mother," said Martin when Theodore had gone away. "May Cheffington isn't likely to think of him."

"I don't know, Martin. It may not seem likely to us, because——"

"Because we know what Theodore is," interposed Martin boldly.

His mother let that suggestion lie, but she said, "You must remember, my boy, that Theodore has many qualities which—which——He is very well educated, and clever, and gentlemanlike."

"No; that he is not!" put in the irrepressible Martin.

"And he probably has a distinguished career before him. Besides, he is rich now, you know."

"As if May would care for that!" exclaimed Martin, with innocently lofty disdain.

"Her friends might care for it for her," answered Mrs. Bransby thoughtfully.

She had fallen into the habit of consulting with Martin on all kinds of subjects. Sometimes she reproached herself for harassing the boy with cares and questions beyond his years. But, in truth, it would have been impossible at that time to keep Martin from sharing her cares; and the pride of being allowed to share her counsels also, more than made him amends.

Mrs. Bransby had a lodger now—a lodger who was the incubus of her life. He was an elderly German, engaged in the City; and, besides occupying the chamber which Theodore had ordained must be let if possible, he breakfasted with the family every day, and dined with them on Sundays. The man was vulgar, greedy, and sullen in his manners. His habits at table, without being absolutely gross, were revolting to Mrs. Bransby's refinement. And his exigencies on the score of the Sunday dinner were such as to keep her in constant anxiety, and to excite boundless indignation in Phoebe. Phoebe, indeed, so detested Mr. Bucher, that Mrs. Bransby was occasionally reduced to beg for a cessation of hostilities; and (very much against the grain) to plead Mr. Bucher's cause even with tears in her eyes.

Such being the state of things, it can well be imagined with what an ebullition of joy Mrs. Bransby hailed a letter from Owen Rivers, announcing his approaching arrival in London, and proposing himself to her as a lodger. He would like, he said, to board entirely with the family, and offered terms which Mrs. Bransby feared were almost too generous. Martin, it is needless to say, enthusiastically welcomed the idea of having Owen Rivers to live with them. And Phoebe's delight in the prospect of Mr. Bucher's being speedily superseded, made her volunteer to prepare his favourite pudding on the very next Sunday, although hitherto she had obstinately professed the blankest ignorance of its composition.

Before, however, giving the unpopular Mr. Bucher notice to quit her house, Mrs. Bransby thought herself bound to consult Theodore. Her mind misgave her lest Theodore, who, as she knew, detested Owen Rivers, should strongly set his face against receiving him; and she wrote her letter to her stepson in considerable trepidation. But, to her surprise, she speedily received an answer entirely approving the plan. It was not gracious; Theodore was never gracious to her. But that was a small matter in comparison with obtaining his consent to the arrangement, and this consent was unmistakably given.

"I believe," he wrote, "that you will be justified in taking Rivers for a lodger, if you wish it. I meet his employer, Mr. Bragg, very frequently at the house of Mrs. Dormer-Smith, and he apparently intends to retain Rivers in his service—at all events, for the present. You will, therefore, I should say, be quite sure of regular payments."

So Owen's offer was joyfully and gratefully accepted.

He had, of course, written to tell May as nearly as possible the time of his arrival in England, but he had not mentioned his scheme of living at the Bransbys, fearing lest it might not be practicable. He did not, in fact, receive Mrs. Bransby's reply to his proposal until he was on his way home. He found it addressed, as he had directed Mrs. Bransby, to the "Poste Restante" in Paris, where he spent one day on business for Mr. Bragg. And thus it chanced that the first intimation which May received of the matter came from Theodore Bransby.

He was dining at the Dormer-Smiths'. Mr. Bragg was there also. It was what Mrs. Dormer-Smith called "a very quiet little dinner—just one or two people, quite cosily," and had been given simply and solely for Mr. Bragg. There was but one other guest, Lady Moppett. Mrs. Dormer-Smith did not consider Lady Moppett to be worth cultivating. She was rich, but not "in the best set." Moreover, she had a craze for music. Mrs. Dormer-Smith's private sentiment about all the Arts was akin to that of the Turkish potentate who inquired at a ball why they did not make their slaves dance for them, instead of taking all that trouble themselves! She considered, in fact, that the Muses ought to be kept in their places. But she would never have uttered any word approaching to such a Boeotian phrase. She had an almost perfect taste in phrases. There, however, sat Lady Moppett at her dinner-table. Mr. Dormer-Smith had stipulated for "some human being to speak to." Mr. Bragg must, of course, be left to May, and Mr. Dormer-Smith could not endure young Bransby. Theodore was not generally popular with his own sex, but Pauline had quite reinstated him in her good graces. And, indeed, how was it possible not to feel agreeably towards a young man whom Lord Castlecombe himself delighted to honour?

Lady Moppett was an old acquaintance of her host's, as has been stated. And, except on the subject of music, she was a good-humoured woman enough; making amends for the inflexible rigidity of her dogma as to the divine art by a rather broad indulgence towards the merely moral shortcomings of her fellow-creatures. Mr. Dormer-Smith led her out to dinner. Mr. Bragg, of course, conducted his hostess; and Theodore, therefore, had to give May his arm to the dining-room. There was no help for that. But the party was small and the table was round, and Mr. Bragg would not be far sundered from May. And once in the drawing-room, Aunt Pauline would take care that he should have abundant opportunities for private conversation with her niece.

May endured Theodore's proximity far more graciously than would have been the case three months ago. He was not naturally quick at discerning the effect he produced on others, nor careful to spare their feelings. But Love stimulates the perceptions in a wonderful way. Prosaic though his subjects may be, the Arch-Magician has lost nothing of his cunning; and under his potent influence Theodore Bransby developed some little sympathetic insight into May's feelings. He even divined that part of her new, soft kindliness of manner towards himself was due to pity for his bereavement. And he had learned in a more unmistakeable way—for she had told him so—that she approved his care of his step-mother and young brothers and sisters. Theodore was pretty safe in vaunting his disinterested efforts on their behalf. Mrs. Bransby and May were effectually kept apart, and neither of them suspected that this was chiefly his doing.

He now, as he sat by May's side, had something in his mind which he greatly desired she should hear. But some feeling, unaccountable to himself—or, at least, which he did not choose to account for—made him hesitate to utter it to her directly. At length, in a little pause of the conversation, he bent slightly forward towards Mr. Bragg, who sat opposite to him, and said—

"I suppose you do not propose returning to Spain, Mr. Bragg?"

"Me? Oh no. I don't think I've any call to do so. And there's plenty for me to look after elsewhere."

"Of course! Transactions on such a colossal scale! When I heard that Rivers was coming back to London, I concluded that you had wound up the business which took you to Spain."

"Mr. Rivers has been very helpful to me, indeed. I feel myself under an obligation to him."

To say the truth, Mr. Bragg was impelled to offer this testimony—even at the cost of dragging it in somewhat inopportunely—by his lively remembrance of sundry spiteful speeches made by young Bransby in former times; but rather to his surprise, Theodore did not now seek to divert the conversation from Owen's praises.

"Yes; Rivers has come out wonderfully well, I understand," said Theodore. "I hear a good deal about him. He is in constant correspondence with Mrs. Bransby; as, perhaps, you know?"

"Oh!" said Mr. Bragg quietly. "No; I can't say I know it. By the way, I do call to mind Mrs. Bransby sending me a letter for him some time ago. Well, he may be in correspondence with her."

"Oh, he is. I have reason to know it, for I think he is the sole topic of conversation at my step-mother's house just now. The whole family are in a fever of excitement about his coming to live with them."

Without turning his head, or even glancing at May, he felt that she was listening with a new and suddenly concentrated attention; and he said to himself, with a glow of elation, "She did not know it."

"Ah! Really?" said Mr. Bragg, addressing himself to his dinner. The matter did not seem to him one of any very special interest. If young Rivers went to lodge at Mrs. Bransby's, it would probably be a good arrangement for both.

"Who's that? Anybody I know?" asked Lady Moppett from her place at the host's right hand.

Theodore answered, "I was merely speaking of a man named Rivers, who——"

"Owen Rivers? Oh, of course I know him. A dreadful heretic! He enunciates the most intolerable, old-fashioned stuff! And he's so frightfully obstinate; battles, and argues one down, positively! I really have no patience. But what about him? Is he going to be married?"

"Not that I know of," replied Theodore, with his correct air, and an odd effect, as though his white cravat and shirt-front had been suddenly petrified.

"Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought you said something of the sort."

"By Jove, more unlikely things have happened," put in Mr. Dormer-Smith jocosely. "He's exposing himself to a tremendous fire. Dangerous work for a fellow to live under the roof of a lovely and captivating woman who sets him up as a kind of 'guide, philosopher, and friend,'—eh?"

"Dangerous! I should think the end of that arrangement is a foregone conclusion!" exclaimed Lady Moppett. "Mr. Rivers is a very agreeable young fellow—when he isn't talking about music. But who's your 'lovely and captivating woman?' Does anybody know her?"

There was an instant's pause, during which Pauline cast an expressive glance of the most poignant reproach at her husband. Then Theodore answered very gravely, "Mr. Dormer-Smith was merely jesting. The lady is Mrs. Martin Bransby—my father's widow."

END OF VOL. II.