CHAPTER XIXOWEN THE MATCHMAKER
Undoubtedlyit 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, itisgalling 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 hiscomrade; 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 adrink, 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; “butit’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 beseton 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 usa-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 neverexerted—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.Shewon’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 washissort; 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’scompany 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. “Youare 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.”