Chapter XXI A Matter of Wages
After this declaration, Dora’s father, knowing something of the nature of women, expected a fresh outburst of tears. But none came. Dora turned towards her glass, and a moment later wheeled round with a smile upon her face.
“And so, you see, dear,” she said, “you must make the most of me, while you have me. It does seem a short time, doesn’t it—a month—such a very little time for us to be together!”
Mr Maybury took the girl’s soft hand in his and looked thoughtfully into her face. For this news came as a sudden shock to him. He had not anticipated parting with her for at least a twelve-month—or perhaps more—from the day of her betrothal to Harold Jefferson.
Dora and he had been very firm friends from the earliest days, and since his commercial downfall this bond between the two had increased tenfold. For, when Mr Maybury was rich, Dora had been a queen-in-little, very imperious, exacting, impetuous, and possibly somewhat selfish. But ever she had been her father’s most treasured possession, and he had loved to see her in dainty dresses, and surrounded by those pretty things which his wealth had enabled him to buy for her in abundance. So devoted was he to the child, indeed, that when he married for the second time, his new wife had exhibited no little jealousy on Dora’s account.
Then came the crash—when Dora was a schoolgirl—and then, when the elder Miss Maybury and Mrs Maybury uttered lamentations for their altered estate, and even went so far as to upbraid Mr Maybury for his short-sighted business policy, Dora’s arms closed about his neck, her lips sought his haggard face, and Dora’s voice, with words of love and affection, acted like healing balm upon his sore heart.
“Yes,” he said at length, “it does seem a little time—a month!”
He sighed—and Dora’s eyes filled with tears she would not let fall, so that she saw him as through a mist, dimly.
“Oh, father,” she said, laying her head upon his shoulder, “it does seem dreadful to have to leave you, but I shall come to see you very often—very, very often!”
“Yes, yes, dear,” he said, “you will come and see me. I must not be selfish. I cannot expect to keep you by my side all my life. It is the same with most fathers. Their sons seek wives, their daughters are taken from them, and they are left alone.”
“Poor father,” said Dora, gently, as she kissed him.
Mr Maybury sat down, and Dora placed herself on his knees, as had been her custom from babyhood, with one round arm encircling his neck.
In those early days Dora may have sadly plagued her nurse or governess, but with her father she had always been docile, serving him with a demure obedience that had been very sweet to see. As a child, her storms of tears would be replaced of a sudden by sunny smiles when she heard his voice or noticed his approaching form. Their mutual love was a talisman which chased away her frowns and pouts, and changed her, upon his entrance, into a totally different creature, her nurse or governess wondering greatly the while. And so, though of a naturally wilful disposition, Dora would often strive to conquer the rebellious mood when she felt it coming upon her, simply that she might please her father.
Tender recollections had both now of the strolls they used to take through the fields which surrounded their old home, which stood far enough outside Manchester to be free from the smoke of the factories. Mr Maybury revelled in the peace of the meadowland after the din of the city in whose midst he earned his money, and Dora, though she loved to romp with other girls, and to go to theatres and concerts and parties, preferred these quiet walks to anything else—the walks which came to an end when she was just merging into womanhood. And now they lived in a poor crescent, and one had to go by train to reach woods and green fields. On Sunday evenings now the clang of many bells came to their ears above the ceaseless hum of toiling omnibuses and trams, and the badinage of Londoners promenading—so sadly different was it all to the excursions of olden times, her little hand in his big one, the grave father’s voice mingling with her childish tones.
Picture after picture presented itself to their minds in phantasmal fashion. There was the cool old church where they sat side by side in a roomy, ancient pew, Dora nestling close to her father and watching the preacher with wondering big eyes. Then there was the pleasant after-service talk with their neighbours, and finally the walk home along the leafy lanes, with Nature’s winged choristers chanting songs of the holy day, and all sorts of tiny hedge-people buzzing and laughing in the sunshine.
“Father, you look so sad!” said Dora. “But there is still a month, and we must make the most of that—you and I! We will go to the theatre together—so as to be quite by ourselves—and sit in the pit and enjoy ourselves tremendously. It will be such a change, after stalls and boxes! I don’t suppose I shall ever sit in the pit after I am married.”
It seemed to Mr Maybury that her voice lost its gay ring as she uttered these concluding words, but it never occurred to him to ask her whether she was quite sure that she loved the man she was going to marry. He took it for granted that she did.
They chatted on together until a clock near at hand tolled out “One.” Then Mr Maybury said it was time they both went to bed.
He kissed her tenderly on the forehead, and then she held the light so that he might see his way down to the next landing. “Good-night, dear!” she said; and he, glancing upwards, thought he had never beheld so fair a picture as she made standing there in the dark doorway.
And thus they parted—he to rest, she to think. For, long after the house was hushed in slumber, Dora paced up and down her little bedroom. Often she paused in front of her glass and communed with the white-faced reflection that gazed back at her.
On their way home from the theatre, Harold Jefferson had told her that he intended to use all his influence to procure her father a more remunerative position at the office.
“And then,” said Dora, at length, to the face in the glass, “father will be comfortably off all his life. That is everything!”
With a little shiver she blew out her candle and crept into bed. For long she lay sleepless, but presently a compassionate angel, in the course of her flight over the Dark City, entered the little room, and, touching the girl’s eyelids with her cool finger-tips, led her away to Dreamland.
Harold Jefferson was as good as his word, for, shortly before lunch time on the following day, Mr Maybury was informed that the head of the firm wished to see him in his private room. Mr Maybury at once obeyed the summons, concluding that it must have something to do with his daughter’s engagement to Harold. Possibly the elder Jefferson objected to the match, and a curious feeling of elation took possession of Mr Maybury as it occurred to him that this might be the case.
Mr Jefferson was a stout, rather apoplectic-looking man of some sixty years—quite unlike his son in appearance. There was nothing of the keen, lean stockbroker about him; indeed, his ponderous manner and measured speech reminded one of an old-fashioned type of merchant that is now almost extinct.
“Ha! sit down, Mr Maybury. A pleasant change after the muggy weather we have been experiencing lately! Ahem! yes, I wanted to see you on a little matter—quite a little matter—ahem! You have been with us now——”
“Three years, sir,” said the other quietly.
“Three years? So long! Well, well—time flies, time flies. But to business. I—er—I have—er—asked my manager, Mr Jacobs, to recommend such persons in—er—in my employ as he considers deserving of an increase in salary. The new year is close at hand, and it appears to me an—er—an appropriate season for such—er—recommendations. Your name, Mr Maybury, comes first on the list. I am assured that you are most punctilious in—er—in the discharge of your duties, and that you are a man to be implicitly trusted in all respects. I gather, in short, that you are in all respects a most satisfactory servant of the—er—firm. I have decided, therefore, to make a substantial addition to your present salary. You are now paid—er—you receive——”
“One hundred and fifty pounds a year, sir.”
“One hundred and fifty? Well, well,—that is hardly adequate remuneration for a man of your integrity and ability. A good man is—er—is worth good pay. I shall have much pleasure, therefore, Mr Maybury, in raising your salary to—er—three hundred pounds a year.”
Three hundred a year! The amount had a refreshing, satisfying sound! It would mean a very different state of things at No. 9, would three hundred a year.
“I am deeply grateful to you, sir——” began Mr Maybury.
“Don’t mention it. You deserve it. Your increase of salary will commence on New Year’s Day. And now, Mr Maybury, we will turn to another topic. There has for some time been a little affair—a little love-making—between two young people we both know very well. I have known, of course, that my son Harold was paying attentions to your daughter; he has spoken of her—in fact, he has shown me her photograph. She is, if I may say so, a very charming young lady, and I hope to have the—er—pleasure of making her acquaintance quite shortly. In fact, I trust that Mrs Maybury and yourself will bring Miss—er—Flora——”
“Dora,” corrected Mr Maybury, with a slight smile.
“Dora! Pardon my mistake! Yes, I trust you will all three come and dine with Harold and myself at an early date. I—er—I had no idea that Harold contemplated matrimony—ahem!—quite so soon, but I shall be glad to see him settle down, as he has hitherto been a little restless—a little—ahem!—a little irregular in his habits. So I am not displeased at this—er—this approaching union.”
“I am glad to hear that it meets with your approval, sir.”
Mr Jefferson drummed thoughtfully on the table with his fingers. For a long time he had been dissatisfied with his son’s conduct, and the news of the latter’s matrimonial intentions had come as an immense relief to the worried parent.
“I do not think I need keep you any longer, Mr Maybury,” said the stockbroker, at length; “er—we shall no doubt see a little more of each other in—er—in future.”
Mr Maybury rose from his chair with a curiously determined look on his face. He had fully made up his mind on a certain matter that had dawned upon him during the latter part of this short interview.
“I wish to ask you one question, sir,” he said, “before I definitely accept your proffered increase of salary.”
“Certainly, certainly,” said the other. “What is it?”
“I wish to ask you, as man to man, and not as servant to employer, whether your son’s forthcoming marriage with my daughter has anything to do with your proposed doubling of my salary?”
The stockbroker frowned. “That, Mr Maybury,” he replied, “is entirely my business. It is sufficient for you to know that I have decided to enlarge your stipend by the amount I have named.”
“I wish you to answer my question, sir,” said Mr Maybury, firmly.
“And I decline to answer it,” returned the other, his previously urbane manner vanishing as he spoke.
“Then, sir, I shall take it that I am correct in my assumption—that you are making this increase solely because you wish me to occupy a better position in the world than my present salary enables me to hold.”
“And supposing it were that?” demanded the stockbroker, roughly. “Do you mean to say you will refuse such an offer?”
“I do, sir. I absolutely decline this increase of salary. I will take what I earn, and not a penny more.”
So saying, with a slight bow, Mr Maybury turned on his heel and left the room.
The stockbroker sat for some time in a state of amazement. At length he spoke.
“I could not have imagined—I would not have believed—that the City of London contained such a fool. Here is a man, as poor as a rat, actually throwing away a hundred and fifty a year! He must be mad!”
Mr Maybury breathed not a word at home of his interview with Mr Jefferson the elder. As for Harold, when he was informed by his father of the result of the conversation, he too marvelled greatly.
But he did not think it necessary to mention the upshot of the interview to Dora.