Dutch the Diver: or, A Man's Mistake

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

“And you know of the offer made and accepted? Good God, 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 glass of tawny astringent wine, seeing, though, no yellow glass, no floating blacks, nothing but a bright future; and then he ate – ate like a man who enjoyed it, finished his fifth glass 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 3-Chapter IV.

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 grass in some Essex or Sussex 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 hoarsely.

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 documents 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 document 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 apron. “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 3-Chapter V.

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 brass 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 glass.

“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.

“About what poor girl?” said Tom Brough.

“That poor girl whose heart’s being broken up into tiny bits by you and him – her father,” cried Keziah, fiercely, “and I’ve come to know if you ain’t ashamed of yourself. There, hold your tongue, and listen to what I’ve got to say; I haven’t said anything to him at home, because it’s like talking to stone and marbles. But I’ve come to talk to you.”

“Talk away, then,” said Tom Brough, pleasantly.

“I’m going to,” said Keziah, angrily, “and don’t you think, Mr Brough, that you’re going to get rid of me like that, because you are not, so now then. This marriage can’t go on.”

“Why not?” said Tom Brough, offering a glass of wine, which was refused.

“Because I’m not going to see my darling that I’ve nursed and tended ever since she was a baby driven into her grave to please you. There, keep off – gracious, if the man isn’t mad!”

Keziah half shrieked the last words, for, leaping from his seat, Tom Brough made a rush at her, chased her round the table with an activity hardly to have been expected from one of his years, followed her out on to the landing as she hastily beat a retreat, down the stairs, along the passage, and caught her on the door-mat, where, after a sharp scuffle, he succeeded in imprinting a couple of sounding kisses upon her cheek before she got the door open, and, panting and tumbled, rushed out nearly to the oversetting of Peter Pash, who, with his eye to the keyhole, had seen the chase in part, heard the scuffle in full, and now stood gazing grandly at the panting object of his affections.

“Keziah!” he exclaimed at length, “I thought better of you.”

“What do you mean by that?” exclaimed the irate dame.

“I thought you had been a woman as could be trusted,” he said, sadly.

“Trusted, indeed!” cried Keziah. “Why, he’s a madman, that’s what he is. He’s off his head because of this wedding: see if he ain’t.”

“Keziah!” said Peter, loftily, “I’ve done with you.”

“Give me that umbrella,” cried Keziah, snatching the great gingham from his hand. “Now just you speak to me again like that, young man, and I’ll talk to you.”

“I’ll see you home. I won’t be mean,” said Peter. “But you’ve broken a true and trusting heart, Keziah.”

“Hold your tongue, do,” she cried; “just as if I hadn’t enough to bother me without your silly clat. I did think he’d be open to reason,” she added half aloud.

Peter did not answer, but walked by Keziah’s side till they turned down by the Mansion House and entered Walbrook, when with a start the latter caught Peter by the arm and pointed down the deserted way to where a light figure was seen to hurriedly leave John Richards’ door, and then to flit beneath lamp after lamp in the direction of Cannon-street.

“Where’s she going?” exclaimed Keziah, hoarsely. “What is she out for to-night?”

“Who is it?” said Peter, though it was for the sake of speaking, for he knew.

“She’s mad, too, and we’re all mad, I believe,” cried Keziah. “O, Peter, if you love me as you say, hold by me now, for there’s something going wrong; don’t lose sight of her for an instant, if you value me. Make haste, man, and come on.”

“That’s cool!” said Peter, “and after me seeing some one else kissing and hugging you.”

“Quick, quick!” cried Keziah, excitedly catching Peter’s hand in hers; and then together they passed down Walbrook and across the street at the bottom, both too fat and heavy to keep the light figure in sight without great exertion.

Down one of the hilly lanes and into Thames-street they panted, with the light drapery now lost sight of, now seen again at some corner, and then to disappear down one of the dark fog-dimmed openings, up which came the faint odour of the river and the low lapping noise of its waters against the slimy steps below.

“Quick, quick!” said Keziah hoarsely, “or we shall be too late.”

Her earnest manner more than her words seemed to impress Peter Pash, and hurrying along he was the first to catch sight of the light figure they chased now standing motionless on the edge of a wharf, while the wind came mournfully sighing off the river, in whose inky breast, all blurred and half-washed-out, shone the light of star and Keziah’s breath seemed drawn in deep groans, as for a few minutes she stood, as it were, paralysed. Then recovering herself, and motioning Peter back, she advanced quickly, and just as the light figure gave a start and seemed about to step forward, she threw her arms round it and held it tightly, sobbing hysterically the while.

But only for a few seconds.

“Here, Peter, quick,” she cried, “that shawl. And were you looking for me, my pet? We’ve been walking. But never mind, we’ve found you now, and I won’t leave you again. Don’t talk – don’t say anything, only come home quickly!”

Without a word, without resistance, May Richards suffered herself to be led homeward, merely gazing from time to time at her old servant in a half-dazed way as if she could not understand the meaning of it all, nor yet why she was being led with Keziah’s arm so tightly holding hers.

And so they walked back to find the door in Walbrook ajar, with Tom Brough standing in the entry.

“Go back now, Peter,” whispered Keziah, “and not a word of this to a soul.”

“But what’s he here for?” said Peter, in the same tone.

“You miserable jealous pate,” whispered the old servant fiercely, “if you don’t be off – ”

She said no more, for Peter was off, and then she turned to Mr Brough.

“You may well look,” she whispered to him, as he said a few unnoticed words to May. “All your doing – all your doing. Another minute, and the poor lamb would have been sleeping in the river.”

Tom Brough started, and then caught May in his arms, and bore her up-stairs, where for quite an hour she sat in a dazed, heedless way that troubled Keziah more than would a passionate outburst.

“If she’d only cry,” she whispered at last to Mr Brough, “But you won’t press for it now, Mr Brough; you won’t, sir, I’m sure. People say you’re a good man, and that you’re kind and charitable. Look at the poor thing; her heart’s broke – it is indeed.”

“I’m going now,” said Mr Brough in answer, and then when Keziah accompanied him down to the door, “Do not leave her for an instant, if you love the poor child; and, look here, Keziah, the wedding must take place, and it is for her good —mark me, for her good. I love her too well to make her unhappy, and if you do your duty you will help me all you can.”

Keziah closed the door without a word, and a minute after she was kneeling beside and crying over the heartbroken girl.

Story 3-Chapter VI.

Hard-Hearted

Time glided on.

“You’ve come again, then?” said Keziah Bay.

“Yes, I’ve come again,” said Mr Peter Pash. “Trade’s very brisk, Keziah.”

“Is it?” said that lady, in the most indifferent of tones.

“Yes, things are looking up well,” said Mr Pash, “and my lodger has dropped dips and taken to composites. You know what that means, of course.”

“Not I,” said Keziah indifferently. “I don’t trouble my head about such things.”

“You’re always a-snubbing me, Keziah,” said the little man dolefully. “It’s no good for me to try and please you.”

“Not a bit,” said Keziah with a smile. “You ought to know better than to come wherrittin’ me when there’s so much trouble in the house.”

“But it ain’t our trouble,” said Peter Pash. “Why, if I was to make myself unhappy about other folks’ candles, where should I be? Now, I say, Keziah dear, when’s it to be?”

“Once for all, I tell you,” said Keziah, “that until I see poor Miss May happily settled, I won’t bother about that nonsense; so you may hold your tongue, for I can see what you mean.”

Peter Pash gave a great groan of despair, but the next minute he was patiently submitting to a severe cross-examination concerning the habits and customs of his lodger Frank Marr.

“He’s no good, Peter,” said Keziah at last, “and the sooner you get rid of him the better.”

“But he pays his rent very regular,” said Peter, “and that’s a consideration, you know. And he’s a good son, and pays no end of attention to his mother. And I say, Keziah, dear, I’ve seen Mr Brough, and I ain’t a bit jealous now.”

Keziah snorted.

“He’s been to my place twice to see Mr Marr, and they’re the best of friends, and he tells me it was only his fun, and Mr Marr don’t seem to mind a bit. And I say, Keziah dear, now that Miss May is really going to get married and settled, sha’n’t we make it right now?”

“Now I tell you what it is, young man,” said Keziah fiercely, “I hate the very name of marrying, and if you say another word to me about it I’ll never have you at all. When I want to be married I’ll ask you, and not before, so now be off.”

“But will you want to some day?” said Peter pitifully.

“Perhaps I shall, and perhaps I sha’n’t; I’m seeing enough of it to satisfy me, so I tell you.”

Peter groaned.

“Now don’t make that noise here,” cried Keziah snappishly. “If you can’t behave yourself, you’d better go.”

“I won’t do so any more, dear,” said Peter softly. “How’s poor dear Miss May?”

“O, don’t ask me – poor lamb!” cried Keziah.

“It is to be, isn’t it?” said Peter.

“To be! Yes. They’ve talked her into it, now that your fine Mr Marr has proved himself such a good-for-nothing. It’s to be, sure enough, and I wish them all joy of what they’ve done. They’re killing her between them, and then they’ll be happy. Get married! There, don’t drive me wild, Peter Pash, but be off out of my sight, for I hate the very sound of the word, and don’t you come here any more till I ask you.”

Peter Pash groaned; and then rising he departed in a very disconsolate state of mind, for he considered himself to be far more worthy of pity than May Richards.

Story 3-Chapter VII.

May’s Marriage

The wedding day, and for once in a way a crisp, bright, hearty, frosty time – cold but inspiriting; and at ten o’clock, pale and trembling, but nerved for her trial, May Richards stood suffering Keziah to give the finishing touches to her dress before starting for the church. There was to be no form; May had stipulated for that. The wedding was to be at an old City church hard by, and in place of meeting her there Tom Brough had arrived, and was in the dining-room talking to old Richards bound to an easy-chair with gout, and too ill to think of going to the church.

As May entered at last, led in by Keziah, defiant and snorting, Tom Brough, active as a young man, hurried to meet the trembling girl, caught her in his arms, and kissed her fondly, heedless of the sigh she gave.

“Don’t look like that, my darling,” he whispered. “I’m going to make you happy as the day is long.”

May’s only reply was a look so full of misery and despair, that Keziah put her apron to her eyes and ran out of the room.

For a moment there was a shade as of uneasiness crossed old Richards’ face – it might have been a twinge of gout – but it passed on the instant.

“Don’t look like that, May!” he exclaimed angrily. “If you don’t know what is for your good you must be taught. Now, Brough, time’s going – get it over, man. She’ll be happier as soon as you have her away.”

“Yes, yes,” said Tom Brough tenderly. “Come May, my child, have you not one look for me?”

May placed her hands in his, and looked up in his face with the faintest dawning of a smile upon her lip, and this time she did not shrink back when he kissed her forehead, but hung upon his arm as if resigned to her fate; the sound of wheels was heard in the narrow street; the friends ready to accompany them were summoned from the room below – two old friends of Mr Brough’s, for old Richards had, as he often boasted, no friends; May was led out, the door was heard to close, wheels rattled away, and then, for a wonder, there fell a dead silence upon Walbrook, one which seemed to affect old Richards, even as he sat there looking haggard and drawn of feature, thinking of the past, and of the day he wed his own wife long before gold had become his care – almost his god. For the first time remorse had seized upon him, and it wanted not the words of Keziah Bay, who now entered the room, for reproach to be heaped upon his head.

But Keziah’s words were not fierce now, only the words of sorrow; and at last she sank down sobbing before him, and said:

“O, Master Richards – Master Richards – what have you done?”

He did not turn round fiercely to bid her begone, but shrank from her, farther and farther, into his great roomy chair, and at that moment, could he have done so, he would have arrested the farther progress of the ceremony, for remorse was beating strongly at his heart.

But the time was passed now, and with him action was impossible. He sat there motionless, listening to the sobs of his old servant till nearly an hour had passed, when suddenly Keziah rose, wiping her eyes, and saying, —