Johnny Ludlow Third Series Part 1

Johnny Ludlow.

Third Series.

by Mrs. Henry Wood.

THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE.

I.

Our old grey church at Church d.y.k.ely stood in a solitary spot. Servant maids (two of ours once, Hannah and Molly), and silly village girls went there sometimes to watch for the "shadows" on St. Mark's Eve, and owls had a habit of darting out of the belfry at night. Within view of the church, though at some distance from it, stood the lonely, red-brick, angular dwelling-house belonging to Copse Farm. It was inhabited by Mr.

Page, a plain worthy widower, getting in years; his three daughters and little son. Abigail and Susan Page, two experienced, sensible, industrious young women, with sallow faces and bunches of short dark curls, were at this period, about midway between twenty and thirty: Jessy, very much younger, was gone out to get two years' "finishing" at a plain boarding-school; Charles, the lad, had bad health and went to school by day at Church d.y.k.ely.

Mr. Page fell ill. He would never again be able to get about much. His two daughters, so far as indoor work and management went, were hosts in themselves, Miss Abigail especially; but they could not mount a horse to superintend out-of-doors. Other arrangements were made. The second son of Mr. Drench, a neighbouring farmer and friend, came to the Copse Farm by day as overlooker. He was paid for his services, and he gained experience.

No sooner had John Drench, a silent, bashful young farmer, good-looking and fairly-well educated, been installed in his new post, than he began to show a decided admiration for Miss Susan Page--who was a few months younger than himself. The slight advances he made were favourably received; and it was tacitly looked upon that they were "as good as engaged." Things went on pleasantly through the spring, and might have continued to go on so, but for the coming home at Midsummer of the youngest daughter, Jessy. That led to no end of complications and contrariety.

She was the sweetest flower you ever saw; a fair, delicate lily, with a mild countenance, blue eyes, and golden hair. Jessy had never been very strong; she had always been very pretty; and the consequence was that whilst her sisters had grown up to be useful, not to be idle a minute throughout the long day, Jessy had been petted and indulged, and was little except being ornamental. The two years' schooling had not improved her taste for domestic occupation. To tell the truth, Jessy was given to being uncommonly idle.

To John Drench, who had not seen her since her early girlhood, she appeared as a vision of beauty. "It was like an angel coming in at the door," he said of the day she first came home, when telling the tale to a stranger in after years. "My eyes were fairly dazzled."

Like an angel! And unfortunately for John Drench, his heart was dazzled as well as his eyes. He fell desperately in love with her. It taught him that what he had felt for Miss Susan was not love at all; only esteem, and the liking that so often arises from companionship. He was well-meaning, but inexperienced. As he had never spoken to Susan, the utmost sign he had given being a look or a warmer handshake than usual, he thought there would be no difficulty in transferring his homage to the younger sister. Susan Page, who really loved him, and perhaps looked on with the keen eyes of jealousy, grew at last to see how matters were.

She would have liked to put him in a corn-sack and give him a good shaking by way of cure. Thus the summer months went over in some silent discomfort, and September came in warm and fine.

Jessy Page stood at the open parlour window in her airy summer muslin, twirling a rose in her hand, blue ribbons falling from her hair: for Jessy liked to set herself off in little adornments. She was laughing at John Drench outside, who had appeared covered with mud from the pond, into which he had contrived partially to slip when they were dragging for eels.

"I think your picture ought to be taken, just as you look now, Mr.

John."

He thought _hers_ ought to be: the bright fair face, the laughing blue eyes, the parted lips and the pretty white teeth presented a picture that, to him, had never had its equal.

"Do you, Miss Jessy? That's a fine rose," he shyly added. He was always shy with her.

She held it out. She had not the least objection to be admired, even by John Drench in an unpresentable state. In their hearts, women have all desired men's flattery, from Eve downwards.

"These large roses are the sweetest of any," she went on. "I plucked it from the tree beyond the gra.s.s-plat."

"You are fond of flowers, I've noticed, Miss Jessy."

"Yes, I am. Both for themselves and for the language they symbolise."

"What language is it?"

"Don't you know? I learnt it at school. Each flower possesses its own meaning, Mr. John Drench. This, the rose, is true love."

"True love, is it, Miss Jessy!"

She was lightly flirting it before his face. It was too much for him, and he took it gently from her. "Will you give it me?" he asked below his breath.

"Oh, with great pleasure." And then she lightly added, as if to damp the eager look on his face: "There are plenty more on the same tree."

"An emblem of true love," he softly repeated. "It's a pretty thought. I wonder who invented----"

"Now then, John Drench, do you know that tea's waiting. Are you going to sit down in those muddy boots and leggings?"

The sharp words came from Susan Page. Jessy turned and saw her sister's pale, angry face. John Drench disappeared, and Miss Susan went out again, and banged the door.

"It is high time Jessy was put to some regular employment," cried Susan, bursting into the room where Miss Page sat making the tea. "She idles away her time in the most frivolous and wasteful manner, never doing an earthly thing. It is quite sinful."

"So it is," acquiesced Miss Page. "Have you a headache, Susan? You look pale."

"Never mind my looks," wrathfully retorted Susan. "We will portion out some share of work for her from to-day. She might make up the b.u.t.ter, and undertake the pies and puddings, and do the plain sewing."

William Page, a grey-haired man, sitting with a stick by his side, looked up. "Pretty creature!" he said, for he pa.s.sionately loved his youngest daughter. "I'll not have her hard-worked, Susan."

"But you'd not have her sit with her hands before her from Monday morning till Sat.u.r.day night, I suppose, father!" sharply returned Miss Susan. "She'll soon be nineteen."

"No, no; idleness brings nothing but evil in its train. I didn't mean that, Susan. Let the child do what is suitable for her. Where's John Drench?"

"In a fine mess--up to his middle in mud," was Miss Susan's tart answer.

"One would think he had been trying to see how great an object he could make of himself."

John Drench came in, somewhat improved, his coat changed and the rose in his b.u.t.ton-hole. He took his seat at the tea-table, and was more shy and silent than ever. Jessy sat by her father, chattering gaily, her blue ribbons flickering before his loving eyes.

But the b.u.t.ter-making and the other light work was fated not to be inaugurated yet for Jessy. Charles Page, a tiresome, indulged lad of twelve, became ill again: he was subject to attacks of low fever and ague. Mr. Duffham, peering at the boy over his gold-headed cane, said there was nothing for it but a dose of good seaside air. Mr. Page, anxious for his boy, began to consult with his daughters as to how it might be obtained. They had some very distant connections named Allen, living at Aberystwith. To them Miss Page wrote, asking if they could take in Charles and one of his sisters to live with them for a month or so. Mrs. Allen replied that she would be glad to have them; since her husband's death she had eked out a scanty income by letting lodgings.

It was Jessy who went with him. The house and farm could not have spared Abigail; Susan said neither should it spare her. Jessy, the idle and useless one had to go. Miss Susan thought she and John Drench were well rid of the young lady.

September was in its second week when they went; November was at its close when they returned. The improvement in Charles had been so marked and wonderful--as Mrs. Allen and Jessy both wrote to say--that Mr.

Duffham had strongly urged his staying as long as the weather remained fine. It was a remarkably fine late autumn that year, and they stayed until the end of November.

Charles came home well and strong. Jessy was more beautiful than ever.

But there was some change in her. The light-hearted, talking, laughing girl had grown rather silent: she was often heard singing s.n.a.t.c.hes of love songs to herself in a low voice, and there was a light in her eyes as of some intense, secret happiness that might not be told. John Drench, who had begun to show signs of returning to his old allegiance (at least, Miss Susan so flattered herself), fell a willing captive again forthwith, and had certainly neither eyes nor ears for any one but Jessy. Susan Page came to the conclusion that a shaking in a sack would be far too good for him.

The way of dressing the churches for Christmas in those past days was quite different from the new style of "decoration" obtaining now. Sprays of holly with their red berries, of ivy with its brown cl.u.s.ters, were stuck, each alternately into the holes on the top of the pews. It was a better way than the present one, far more effective--though I, Johnny Ludlow, shall be no doubt laughed at for saying so. Your woven wreaths tied round the pulpit and reading-desk; your lettered scrolls; your artificial flowers, may be talked of as "artistic," but for effect they all stand absolutely as nothing, in comparison with the more simple and natural way, and they are, perhaps, the least bit tawdry. If you don't believe me, pay a visit to some rural church next Christmas morning--for the old fashion is observed in many a country district still--and judge for yourselves. With many another custom that has been changed by the folly and fashion of these later days of pretension, and not changed for the better, lies this one. That is my opinion, and I hold to it.

The dressing in our church was always done by the clerk, old b.u.mford.

The s.e.xton (called familiarly with us the grave-digger) helped him when his health permitted, but he was nearly always ill, and then b.u.mford himself had to be grave-digger. It was not much trouble, this manner of decoration, and it took very little time. They had only to cut off the sprays almost of the same size, trim the ends, and lodge them in the holes. In the last century when a new country church was rebuilt (though that did not happen often), the drilling of these holes in the woodwork of the pews, for the reception of the "Christmas," was as much a matter of course as were the pews themselves. Our Christmas was supplied by Mr.

Page with a liberal hand; the Copse Farm abounded with trees of holly and ivy; one of his men, Leek, would help b.u.mford to cut it, and to cart it in a hand-truck to the church. It took a good deal to do all the pews.

On this Christmas that I am telling you of, it fell out that Clerk b.u.mford and the s.e.xton were both disabled. b.u.mford had rheumatic gout so badly that getting him into church for the morning service the past three Sundays had been a marvel of dexterity--while the s.e.xton was in bed with what he called catarrh. At first it seemed that we should not get the church dressed at all: but the Miss Pages, ever ready and active in a good work, came to the rescue, and said they would do it themselves, with John Drench's help. The Squire was not going to be behind-hand, and said we boys, for Tod and I were just home for the holidays, should help too.

And when Christmas Eve came, and Leek had wheeled up the holly, and we were all in the cold church (not I think that any of us cared whether it was cold or warm), we enjoyed the work amazingly, and decided that old b.u.mford should never be let do it again, gout or no gout.

Jessy Page was a picture to look at. The two elder ladies had on tight dark cloth dresses, like a riding-habit cut short, at the ankles: Jessy was in a bright blue mantle edged with swans-down, and a blue bonnet on her pretty head. She came in a little late, and Miss Susan blew her up sharply, for putting on that "best Sunday cape" to dress a church in: but Jessy only laughed good-naturedly, and answered that she would take care not to harm it. Susan Page, tr.i.m.m.i.n.g the branches, had seen John Drench's eyes fixed on the girl: and her knife worked away like mad in her vexation.