Johnny Ludlow Third Series Part 45

"You should not have come", he managed to say. "My love, my love!"

"Is there no hope?" she sobbed. "Oh, Charles, is there _no_ hope?"

"May G.o.d soothe it to you! May He have you always in His good keeping!"

"And is it no trouble to you to die?" she went on, reproach in her anguished tone. "Have you no regret for the world, and--and for those you leave behind?"

"It is G.o.d's will," he breathed. "To myself it is no trouble, for He has mercifully taken the trouble from me. I regret you, my Helen, I regret the world. Or, rather, I should regret it, but that I know I am going to one brighter and better. You will come to me there, my dear one, and we shall live together for ever."

Helen knelt down by the bed; he was lying close on the edge of it; and laid her wet face against his. He held her to him for a moment, kissed her fervently, and then motioned to me to take her away.

"For your own sake, my dear," he whispered. "You are in danger here.

Give my dear love to them all."

Helen just waved her hand back at me, as much as to say, Don't _you_ interfere. But at that moment the fat old nurse bustled in again, with the announcement that two of the doctors and Mr. Leafchild's rector were crossing the road. That aroused Helen.

One minute's close embrace, her tears bedewing his dying cheeks, one lingering hand-clasp of pain, and they parted. Parted for all time. But not for eternity.

"G.o.d be with you ever!" he breathed, giving her his solemn blessing.

"Farewell, dear Johnny Ludlow!"

"I am so sorry! If you could but get well!" I cried, my eyes not much dryer than Helen's.

"I shall soon be well: soon," he answered with a sweet faint smile, his feeble clasp releasing my hand, which he had taken. "But not here. Fare you well."

Helen hid herself in a turn of the pa.s.sage till the doctors had gone in, and then we walked down the street together, she crying softly. Just opposite Salt Lane, a fly pa.s.sed at a gallop. Dr. Leafchild sat in it m.u.f.fled in coats, a cloud of sorrow on his generally pompous face.

And that was the abrupt end of poor Charles Leafchild, for he died at midnight, full of peace. G.o.d's ways are not as our ways; or we might feel tempted to ask why so good and useful a servant should have been taken.

And so, you perceive, there was another marriage of Helen Whitney frustrated. Fortune seemed to be against her.

JELLICO'S PACK.

I.

The shop was not at all in a good part of Evesham. The street was narrow and dirty, the shop the same. Over the door might be seen written "Tobias Jellico, Linen-draper and Huckster." One Monday--which is market-day at Evesham, as the world knows--in going past it with Tod and little Hugh, the child trod on his bootlace and broke it, and we turned in to get another. It was a stuffy shop, filled with bundles as well as wares, and behind the counter stood Mr. Jellico himself, a good-looking, dark man of forty, with deep-set blue eyes, that seemed to meet at the nose, so close were they together.

The lace was a penny, he said, and Tod laid down sixpence. Jellico handed the sixpence to a younger man who was serving lower down, and began showing us all kinds of articles--neckties, handkerchiefs, fishing-lines, cigar-lights, for he seemed to deal in varieties. Hugh had put in his bootlace, but we could not get away.

"I tell you we don't want anything of this," said Tod, in his haughty way, for the persistent fellow had tired him out. "Give me my change."

The other man brought the change wrapped up in paper, and we went on to the inn. Tod had ordered the pony to be put in the chaise, and it stood ready in the yard. Just then a white-haired, feeble old man came into the yard, and begged. Tod opened the paper of half-pence.

"The miserable cheat," he called out. "If you'll believe me, Johnny, that fellow has only given me fourpence in change. If I had time I'd go back to him. Sam, do you know anything of one Jellico, who keeps a fancy shop?" asked he of the ostler.

"A fancy shop, sir?" echoed Sam, considering.

"Sells calico and lucifer-matches."

"Oh, I know Mr. Jellico!" broke forth Sam, his recollection coming to him. "He has got a cousin with him, sir."

"No doubt. It was the cousin that cheated me. Mistakes are mistakes, and the best of us are liable to them; but if that was a mistake, I'll eat the lot."

"It's as much of a leaving-shop as a draper's, sir. Leastways, it's said that women can take things in and borrow money on them."

"Oh!" said Tod. "Borrow a shilling on a Dutch oven to-day, and pay two shillings to-morrow to get it out."

"Anyway, Mr. Jellico does a fine trade, for he gives credit," concluded Sam.

But the wrong change might have been a mistake.

In driving home, Tod pulled up at George Reed's cottage. Every one must remember hearing where that was, and of Reed's being put into prison by Major Parrifer. "Get down, Johnny," said he, "and see if Reed's there.

He must have left work."

I went up the path where Reed's children were playing, and opened the cottage door. Mrs. Reed and two neighbours stood holding out something that looked like a gown-piece. With a start and a grab, Mrs. Reed caught the stuff, and hid it under her ap.r.o.n, and the two others looked round at me with scared faces.

"Reed here? No, sir," she answered, in a sort of flurry. "He had to go over to Alcester after work. I don't expect him home much afore ten to-night."

I shut the door, thinking nothing. Reed was a handy man at many things, and Tod wanted him to help with some alteration in the pheasantry at the Manor. It was Tod who had set it up--a long, narrow place enclosed with green trellised work, and some gold and silver pheasants running about in it. The Squire had been against it at first, and told Tod he wouldn't have workmen bothering about the place. So Tod got Reed to come in of an evening after his day's work, and in a fortnight the thing was up. Now he wanted him again to alter it: he had found out it was too narrow.

That was one of Tod's failings. If he took a thing into his head it must be done off-hand. The Squire railed at him for his hot-headed impatience: but in point of fact he was of just the same impatient turn himself. Tod had been over to Bill Whitney's and found their pheasantry was twice as wide as his.

"Confound Alcester," cried Tod in his vexation, as he drove on home. "If Reed could have come up now and seen what it is I want done, he might have begun upon it to-morrow evening."

"The pater says it is quite wide enough as it is, Tod."

"You shut up, Johnny. If I pay Reed out of my own pocket, it's nothing to anybody."

On Tuesday he sent me to Reed's again. It was a nice spring afternoon, but I'm not sure that I thanked him for giving me that walk. Especially when upon lifting the latch of the cottage door, I found it fastened.

Down I sat on the low bench outside the open window to wait--where Cathy had sat many a time in the days gone by, making believe to nurse the children, and that foolish young Parrifer would be leaning against the pear-tree on the other side the path. I had to leave my message with Mrs. Reed; I supposed she had only stepped into a neighbour's, and might be back directly, for the two little girls were playing at "shop" in the garden.

Buzz, buzz: hum, hum. Why, those voices were in the kitchen! The lower part of the cas.e.m.e.nt was level with the top of my head; I turned round and raised my eyes to look.

Well! surprises, it is said, are the lot of man. It _was_ his face, unless my sight deceived itself. The same blue eyes that were in the shop at Evesham the day before, were inside Mrs. Reed's kitchen now: Mr.

Tobias Jellico's. The place seemed to be crowded with women. He was smiling and talking to them in the most persuasive manner imaginable, his hands waving an accompaniment, on one of which glittered a ring with a yellow stone in it, a persuasive look on his rather well-featured face.

They were a great deal too agreeably engrossed to see me, and I looked on at leisure. A sort of pack, open, rested on the floor; the table was covered with all kinds of things for women's dress; silks, cottons, ribbons, mantles; which Mrs. Reed and the others were leaning over and fingering.

"Silks ain't for the like of us; I'd never have the cheek to put one on," cried a voice that I knew at once for shrill Peggy d.i.c.kon's. Next to her stood Ann Dovey, the blacksmith's wife; who was very pretty, and vain accordingly.

"What kind o' stuff d'ye call this, master?" Ann Dovey asked.

"That's called laine," answered Jellico. "It's all pure wool."