"She's a sing'lar character," observed Mr. Bragg, after they had walked a few steps.
"You mean Mrs. Simpson?"
"Ah, yes; Mrs. Simpson. There's too much clack about her; and her talk's puzzling from being—what you might call of a zigzag sort of a nature; and she's cast in a queer kind of a mould altogether. But I think she rings true, and that's the main thing, in mortals or metals."
"I'm quite sure her praise of Mrs. Bransby is true, at any rate," said Owen warmly.
"H'm!" grunted Mr. Bragg, and walked on in silence. When they came within view of a cabstand, he turned round, and said he would not trouble Owen to come any further with him. And just as the latter was about to say "Good-night," Mr. Bragg observed meditatively, "She has that little place beautifully neat, and as clean as a new pin. Seems to be bringing up those children in the right way, too. Poor soul! it's a heavy charge for a delicate lady like her. I think I shall be able to do something for that eldest boy. But p'r'aps you'd better not say anything at present—eh? It's cruel to raise up false hopes; and some folks build such a wonderful high scaffolding of expectations on a word or two; and if there's not bricks enough to do anything adequate to the scaffolding—why, then that's awkward. Good night, Mr. Rivers."
Owen well knew that hopes had already been aroused by the mere presence of the rich man in that poor little home. But he knew, also, that there was no danger of Mrs. Bransby's hopes turning into claims; and that she would be humbly grateful for very small help. He felt almost elated on her behalf as he returned to Collingwood Terrace. "I only hope," he said to himself, "that Mr. Bragg won't visit any of my sins on Mrs. Bransby's head, when he finds them out! But no; to do the old boy justice, I believe he is above that."
Meanwhile, Amelia Simpson had been imparting a budget of Oldchester news. After many discursive sallies she came to the topic of Lucius Cheffington's recent death. He had died since the Simpsons' departure from Oldchester, but his case had been known to be hopeless for several days previous. The old lord was said to be dreadfully cut up; more so, even, than on the death of his eldest son. But Lucius had always been understood to be his father's favourite.
"And they do say," continued Mrs. Simpson, "that to a certain fair young friend of ours the blow will be very severe."
"A young friend of ours! Do you mean May Cheffington?"
"Ah, no! Our dear Miranda knew scarcely anything of her noble relatives at Combe Park. And even the most affectionate disposition—and I'm sure our dear Miranda is imbued with every proper feeling—can scarcely cling with personal devotion to an almost total stranger, although united by the ties of kindred! No; I was speaking of Miss Hadlow."