"Well, now, you remember that on that occasion I said to you that I hoped we might be friends, you and me—real, true friends. You remember, don't you?"
"Gratefully."
"Well, I meant what I said. If you have been——" He was about to say "persecuted," but changed the word. "If you have been any way bothered in consequence of that conversation, I'm truly sorry for it. But don't let it make any difference as between you and me. Your aunt, Mrs. Dormer-Smith, she's a most well-meaning lady, and has beautiful manners. But she's liable to make mistakes like the rest of us. And don't you fret, you know. You're going to your grandmother, Mrs. Dobbs, you tell me. And she's a woman of wonderful good sense. She'll understand some things better than what your aunt can. It'll be all right. Don't you worrit yourself."
He spoke in a gentle, soothing tone, such as one might use to a child, and kept nodding his head slowly as he spoke, still with his eyes fixed on the fire.
"It isn't that! I mean—I wanted to tell you something!"
He turned his head now quickly, and looked at her. Her eyes were cast down, and she was plucking nervously at the fur lining of the cloak which lay on the seat beside her.
"Is it something about that confidence that you made me, and that I look upon as an honour, and always shall? Well, now, if you're going to speak about that, I shall take it as a sign that you really mean to be friends with me, and trust me. And there's nothing in the world would make me so proud as that you should trust me, full and free."
Then she told him all the story of her engagement to Owen. How it had been kept secret for three months by her grandmother's express stipulation. How, when Owen returned to England, they had revealed it to Mrs. Dormer-Smith; how that lady had disapproved and forbidden Owen the house, and had written to Captain Cheffington requesting him to interpose his parental authority; how, finally, May had felt so miserable and lonely, that she had made up her mind to leave her aunt's house and take refuge with her grandmother.
Mr. Bragg sat like a rock while she told her story, hesitatingly and shyly at first, but gathering courage as she went on. When she first mentioned Owen's name, his brows contracted for a moment, in a way which might mean anger, or perplexity, or simply surprise. But he remained otherwise quite unmoved to all appearance, and perfectly silent.
When May had finished her little story, she said timidly, as she had said to him on that memorable day in her aunt's house, "You are not angry, Mr. Bragg?"