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Mr Bray, named at his baptism Onesimus, replied by stroking his cheek and looking thoughtfully at his lady.

“The rain’s about over now, and they might surely walk,” shrieked Mrs Bray. “Dudgeon grumbles so, too, when he has to go out like this, and he was ordered for two o’clock.”

“Better send, my dear,” whispered Mr Bray, with a meaning look. “Vining won’t like it if you don’t.”

Mrs Bray evidently approved of her husband’s counsel; for orders were given that the brougham should be in immediate readiness.

“They won’t be long,” she now screamed, all smiles once more. “But do come in and have some lunch, Mr Vining: don’t sit there in your wet clothes.”

“No – no. I’m all right,” cried Charley. “I’m off again directly.”

But for all that, he lingered.

“You’ll be at the flower-show to-morrow, won’t you?” said Mrs Bray.

“Well, yes, I think I shall go,” said Charley. “I suppose everybody will be there.”

“O, of course; Laura’s going. I suppose you send some things from the Court?”

“Yes,” said Charley; but he added, laughing, “What will be the use, when you are going to send such a prize blossom?”

“For shame, you naughty man!” said Mrs Bray. “I shall certainly tell Laura you’ve turned flatterer.”

“I say, Charley Vining,” squeaked a loud voice from the next window, “we’re going to beat you Court folks.”

“We are, are we?” laughed Charley, turning in the direction of the voice, which proceeded from a very tall angular young lady of sixteen – a tender young plant, nearly all stem, and displaying very little blossom or leaf. She was supported on either side by two other tender plants, of fourteen and twelve respectively, forming a trio known at the Elms as “the children.” “I’m very glad to hear it, Miss Nell; but suppose we wait till after the judge’s decision. But there goes the carriage. Good-bye, all!”

And turning his horse’s head, he soon overtook the brougham, when, after soothing Mr Dudgeon, the driver, with a shilling, the progress was pretty swift until they reached the tree, where, now finding shelter from the sun instead of the rain, yet stood Laura Bray and her companion.

“O, how good of you, Mr Vining! and to come back, too!” gushed Laura, with sparkling eyes. “I shall never be out of debt, I’m sure. I don’t know what I should have done if it had not been for you!”

“Walked home, and a blessed good job, too!” muttered Mr John Dudgeon.

“Don’t name it!” said Charley. “Almost a pity it’s left off raining.”

“For shame – no! How can you talk so!” exclaimed Laura, shaking her sunshade at the speaker. “But I really am so much obliged – I am indeed!”

Charley dismounted and opened the carriage-door, handing in first Miss Bray, who stepped forward, leaned heavily upon his arm, and then took her place, arranging her skirts so as to fill the back seat, talking gushingly the while as she made play at Charley with her great dark eyes.

But the glances were thrown away, Charley’s attention being turned to her companion, who bent slightly, just touched the proffered hand, and stepped into the brougham, taking her seat with her back to the horse.

“So much obliged – so grateful!” cried Laura, as Charley closed the door. “I shall never be able to repay you, I’m sure. Thanks! So much! Good-bye! See you at the flower-show to-morrow, of course? Good-bye! —good-bye!”

“She’s getting a precious deal too affectionate! Talk about wanting me to marry her, why she’ll run away with me directly!” grumbled Charley, as Mr Dudgeon impatiently drove off, leaving the young man with the impression of a swiftly passing vision of Laura Bray showing her white teeth in a great smile as she waved her hand, and of a fair gentle face bent slightly down, so that he could see once more the rich massive braids resting upon a shapely, creamy neck. “Have they been saying anything to her?” said Charley, as the brougham disappeared. “She’s getting quite unpleasant. Grows just like the old woman: regularly parrot-beaked. Why didn’t she introduce me? Took the best seat, too! Looks strange! I say, though, ‘bai Jove’ – as that sweet brother says – this sort of thing won’t do! I should like to please the dad; but I don’t think I could manage to do it ‘that how,’ as they say about here. She quite frightens me! Heigho! what a bother life is when you can’t spend it just as you like! Wish I was out in Australia or Africa, or somewhere to be free and easy – to hunt and shoot and ride as one liked. Let’s see: I shall not go over to the town now – it’s nearly lunch-time, and I’m wet.”

He had mounted his horse, and was about to turn homeward, when something shining in the grass caught his eye, and leaping down, he snatched up from among the glistening strands, heavy with raindrops, a little golden cross – one that had evidently slipped from velvet or ribbon as the ladies stood beneath that tree.

“That’s not Miss Laura’s – can’t be!” muttered Charley, as he gazed intently at the little ornament. “Not half fine enough for her.”

Then turning it over, he found engraved upon the reverse:

“E.B. From her Mother, 1860.”

“E.B. – E.B. – E.B.! And pray who is E.B.?” muttered Charley, as, once more mounting, he turned his horse’s head homeward. “Eleanor B. or Eliza – no, that’s a housemaid’s name – Ernestine, Eva. Who can she be? Not introduced – given the back seat – hardly spoken to, and yet so ladylike, and – There, get on, Beauty! What am I thinking about? We sha’n’t be back to lunch.”

He cantered on for a mile: and then as they entered a sunny lane – a very arcade of gem-besprinkled verdure – he drew rein, and taking the little cross from his pocket, once more read the inscription.

“‘E.B. From her mother, 1860.’ And pray who is her mother? and who is E.B.? Nobody from about here, I’ll be bound. But what a contrast to that great, tall, dark woman! And they call her beautiful! Not half so beautiful as you, my lass!” he cried, rousing himself, and patting his mare’s arched neck. “You are my beauty, eh, lass? Get on, then!”

But as Charley Vining rode on he grew thoughtful, and more than once he absently muttered:

“Yes; I think I’ll go to the flower-show to-morrow!”

Volume One – Chapter Six.
A Second Meeting

Maximilian Bray, Esq., clerk in her Majesty’s Treasury, Whitehall, sat in his dressing-room soured and angry. He had been hard at work trying to restore the mischief done by the rain; but in spite of “Bandoline” and “Brilliantine,” he could not get hair, moustache, or whiskers to take their customary curl: they would look limp and dejected. Then that superfine coat was completely saturated with water, as was also his hat, neither of which would, he knew, ever again display the pristine gloss. And, besides, he had been unseated before “that coarse boor, Charley Vining,” and the fellow had had the impertinence to grin. But, there, what could you expect from such a country clown? Altogether, Maximilian Bray, Esq., was cross – not to say savage – and more than once he had caught himself biting his nails – another cause for annoyance, since he was very careful with those almond-shaped nails, and had to pare, file, and burnish them afterwards to remove the inequality.

The above causes for a disordered temper have been recorded; but they were far from all. It is said that it never rains but it pours, and as that was the case out of doors, so it was in. But it would be wearisome to record the breaking of boot-loops, the tearing out of shirt-buttons, and the crowning horror of a spot of iron-mould right in the front of the principal plait. Suffice it that Maximilian Bray felt as if he could have quarrelled with the whole world; and as he sat chilled with his wetting, he had hard work to keep from gnawing his finger-nails again and again.

He might have gone down into the drawing-room, warm with the sun, while his northern-aspected window lent no genial softness; but no: there was something on his mind; and though he was dressed, he lingered still.

He knew that the luncheon bell would ring directly; in fact, he had referred several times to his watch. But still he hung back, as if shrinking from some unpleasant task, till, nerving himself, he rose and went to the looking-glass, examining himself from top to toe, grinning to see if his teeth were perfectly white, dipping a corner of the towel in water to remove the faintest suspicion of a little cherry tooth-paste from the corner of his mouth, biting his lips to make them red, trying once more to give his lank moustache the customary curl, but trying in vain – in short, going through the varied acts of a man who gives the whole of his mind to his dress; and then, evidently thoroughly dissatisfied, he strode across the room, flung open the door, and began to descend the stairs.

The builder of the Elms, not being confined for space, had made on the first floor a long passage, upon which several of the bedrooms opened; and this passage, being made the receptacle for the cheap pictures purchased at sales by Mr Onesimus Bray, was known in the house as the “long gallery.”

Descending a short flight of stairs, Maximilian Bray was traversing this gallery, when the encounter which in his heart of hearts he had been dreading ever since he came down the night before was forced upon him; for, turning into the passage from the other end, the companion of Laura Bray’s morning walk came hurriedly along, slackening her pace, though, as she perceived that there was a stranger in advance; but as their eyes met, a sudden start of surprise robbed the poor girl for a few moments of her self-control; the blood flushed to her temples, and for an instant she stopped short.

But Maximilian Bray was equal to the occasion. He had fought off the encounter as long as he could; but now that the time had come, he had determined upon brazening it out.

“Ha ha!” he laughed playfully. “Know me again, then? Quite frightened you, didn’t I? Shouldn’t have been so cross last time, when I only wanted to see you safe on your journey. Didn’t know who I was, eh? But, bai Jove! glad to see you again – am indeed!”

There was no reply for an instant to these greetings. But as the flush faded, to leave the lace of her to whom they were addressed pale and stern, Maximilian Bray’s smile grew more and more forced. The words were too shallow of meaning not to be rightly interpreted; and overcoming the surprise that had for a few moments fettered her, the fair girl turned upon Bray a keen piercing look, as moving forward she slightly bent, and said coldly in her old words:

“I think, sir, you have made some mistake.”

“Mistake? No! Stop a minute. No mistake, bai Jove – no! You remember me, of course, when I startled you at the station. Only my fun, you know, only that young donkey must interfere. Glad to see you again – am, indeed, bai Jove! We shall be capital friends, I know.”

As he spoke, he stepped before his companion, arresting her progress, and holding out his hand.

Driven thus to bay, the young girl once more turned and faced her pursuer with a look so firm and piercing, that he grew discomposed, and the words he uttered were unconnected and stammering.

“Sorry, you know, bai Jove! Mistook my meaning. Glad to see you again – am, bai Jove! Eh? What say?”

“I was not aware that Mr Maximilian Bray and the gentleman” – she laid a hardly perceptible emphasis on the word “gentleman” – “whom I encountered at that country station were the same. Allow me to remind you, sir, that you made a mistake then in addressing a stranger. You make another error in addressing me again; for bear in mind we are strangers yet. Excuse me for saying so, but I think it would be better to forget the past.”

“Ya-as, just so – bai Jove! yes. It was nothing, you know, only – ”

Maximilian Bray stopped short, for the simple reason that he was alone; for, turning hastily, his companion had retraced her steps, leaving the exquisite son of the house – the pride of his mother, the confidant of his sister, and the pest of the servants – looking quite “like a fool, you know, bai Jove!”

They were his own words, though meant for no other ears but his own, being a little too truthful. Then he stood thinking and gnawing one nail for a few moments before continuing his way down to the dining-room.

“So we are to be as if we met for the first time, are we?” he muttered; and then his countenance lighted up into an inane smile as he thought to himself, “Well, I’ve got it over. And, after all, it’s something like being taken into her confidence, for haven’t we between us what looks uncommonly like a secret?”

Volume One – Chapter Seven.
A Dawning Sense

They were rather famous for their flower-shows at Lexville, not merely for the capital displays of Nature’s choicest beauties, educated by cunning floriculturists to the nearest point to perfection, but also for their wet days. When the exhibition was first instituted, people said that the marquee was soaked and the ladies’ dresses spoiled, simply because the show was held upon a Friday. “Just,” they said, “as if anybody but a committee would have chosen a Friday for an outdoor fête!”

But, if anything, the day was a little worse upon the next occasion, when Thursday had been selected, the same fate attending the luckless managers upon a Monday, a Tuesday, and a Wednesday. But now at last it seemed as if the fair goddess Flora herself had enlisted the sympathies of that individual known to mortals as “the clerk of the weather,” and, in consequence, the day was all that could be desired. In fact, the weather was so fine, that the bandsmen of the Grenadier Guards, instead of coming down in their old and tarnished uniforms – declared, as a rule, to be good enough for Lexville – mustered in full force, gorgeous in their brightest scarlet and gold. The committee-men had shaken hands in the secretary’s tent a dozen times over as many glasses of sherry, and forgotten to eat their biscuits in their hurry to order the cords of Edgington’s great tent to be tightened, so potent were the rays of the sun; while within the canvas palace, in a golden hazy shade, the floral beauties from many a hot house and conservatory were receiving the last touches by way of arrangement.

Lexville was in a profound state of excitement that day, and Miss l’Aiguille, the dressmaker, declared that she had been nearly torn to pieces by her customers.

“As for Miss Bray,” she said, “not another dress would she make for her – no, not if she became bankrupt to-morrow – that she wouldn’t! Six tryings-on, indeed, and then not satisfied!”

However, Miss l’Aiguille’s troubles were so far over that, like the rest of Lexville, she had partaken of an early dinner, or lunch, and prepared herself to visit the great fête.

Lexville flower-show was always held in the grounds of one of the county magistrates, the Rev. Henry Lingon, concerning whose kindness the reporter for the little newspaper generally went into raptures in print, and received orders for half-a-dozen extra copies the next bench-day. And now fast and furiously the carriages began to set down – the wealth and fashion of the neighbourhood making a point of being the earlier arrivals, so as to miss the crowd of commoner beings who would afterwards flock together.

“Ah, Vining! You’re here, then, mai dear fellow! Why didn’t you come to lunch?” exclaimed Maximilian Bray, sauntering up to the young man, who, rather flushed and energetic, was talking to a knot of flower-button-holed committee-men.

“How do, Max?” exclaimed Charley, hastily taking the extended hand, and giving it a good shake. Then, turning to the committee-men: “Much rather not – would, really, you know – don’t feel myself adapted. Well, there,” he exclaimed at last, in answer to several eager protestations, “I’ll do it, if you can get no one else! – Want me to give away the prizes,” he said, turning to Max Bray, who was gazing ruefully at his right glove, in whose back a slight crack was visible, caused, no doubt, by the hearty but rough grasp it had just received.

“To be sure – of course!” drawled Bray. “You’re the very man, bai Jove! But won’t you come towards the gate? I expect our people here directly.”

Nothing loth, Vining strolled with his companion down one of the pleasant floral avenues, but seeing no flowers, hearing no band; for his gaze, he hardly knew why, was directed towards the approach; and though Maximilian Bray kept up a drawling series of remarks, they fell upon inattentive ears.

“Do you expect them soon?” said Charley at last, somewhat impatiently, for he was growing tired of his companion’s chatter.

“Ya-as, directly,” said Bray, smiling. “But, mai dear fellow, why didn’t you come over and then escort them?”

Charley did not answer; for just then he caught sight of Laura, radiant of lace and dress, sweeping along beside Mrs Bray, who seemed to cut a way through the crowd at the farther part of the great marquee.

“Here they are,” said Bray, drawing Charley along; “so now you can be out of your misery.”

“What do you mean?” said Charley sharply.

“Bai Jove! how you take a fellow up! Nothing at all – nothing at all!”

Charley frowned slightly, and then suffered himself to be led up to the Elms party, Mrs Bray smiling upon him sweetly, and Laura favouring him with a look that was meant to bring him to her side.

But Laura’s look had not the desired effect; for Charley stayed talking to Mrs Bray, after just passing the customary compliments to the younger lady.

A frown – no slight one – appeared on Laura’s brow; but in a few seconds it was gone, and, walking back a few paces, she stayed by her younger sisters, with whom Charley could see the young lady of the previous day’s encounter.

And now he would have followed Laura in the hope of obtaining an introduction, but he was arrested by a stout committee-man.

“Would he kindly step that way for a moment?”

With an exclamation of impatience, the young man followed, to find that his opinion was wanted as to the suitability of the site chosen for the distribution of the prizes.

“But surely you can obtain some one else?” exclaimed Charley.

“Impossible, my dear sir,” was the reply.

So, after two or three unavailing attempts to obtain a substitute, Charley gave in; for the owner of the grounds, upon being asked, declared that a better choice could not have been made; the principal doctor shook his head; while Mr Onesimus Bray literally turned and fled upon hearing Charley’s request. So, with a feeling of something like despair, the elected prize-giver began to cudgel his brains for the verbiage of a speech, telling himself that he should certainly break down and expose himself to the laughter of the assemblage; for the grandees from miles round had made their way to Lexville to patronise the flower-show; and at last, quite in despair, Charley walked hurriedly down one of the alleys of the garden, passing closely by the Bray party, and making Laura colour with annoyance at what she called his neglect.

But Charley Vining’s perturbed spirit was not soothed by the anticipated solitude of the shady alley; for, before he had gone twenty yards, he saw Max Bray side by side with the lady who had occupied a goodly share of his thoughts since the encounter of the previous day.

Their backs were towards him, but it was quite evident that Mr Maximilian Bray was exerting himself to be as agreeable as possible to his companion, though with what success it was impossible to say. At all events, Charley Vining turned sharply round upon his heel, with a strange feeling of annoyance entirely new pervading his spirit.

“How absurd!” he muttered to himself. “What an ass I was to come to a set-out of this kind! No fellow could be more out of place!”

Turning out of the alley, he made his way, with rapid, business-like steps, on to the lawn, where the rapidly-increasing company were now gathering in knots, and listening to one of Godfrey’s finest selections. To an unbiased observer, the thought might have suggested itself that there was as bright a flower-show, and as beautiful a mingling of hues, out there upon the closely-shaven turf, as within the tent; but Charley Vining was just then no impartial spectator; and, though more than one pair of eyes grew brighter as he approached, he saw nothing but two figures slowly issuing from the other end of the alley, where the guelder roses were showering down their vernal snows.

“I should uncommonly like to wing that Max Bray’s neck!” said Charley to himself, as he threw his stalwart form into a wicker garden-chair, which creaked and expostulated dismally beneath the weight it was called upon to bear; and then, indulging in rather a favourite habit, he lolled there, muttering and talking to himself – cross-examining and answering questions respecting his uneasiness.

But the more he thought, the more uneasy he grew, and twice over he shifted his seat to avoid an attack from some conversational friend whom he saw approaching.

“There, this sort of thing won’t do!” he exclaimed at last. “I’m afraid I’m going on the pointed-out road rather too fast. Suppose I take a dose of the Bray family by way of antidote.”

So, leaving his seat, he strode towards where he could see Laura’s white parasol; but his intent was baffled by a couple of committee-men, who literally took him into custody – their purpose being to give him divers and sundry explanations respecting the distribution of the prizes.