Johnny Ludlow Fourth Series Part 43

Tod! The two girls were about the most self-possessed girls I ever saw; their manners quite American. Not their accent: that was good. Major Letsom and Sir Dace fraternized wonderfully: they discovered that they had once met in the West Indies.

After dinner we had music. The sisters sang a duet, and Mary Ann Letsom a song; and Herbert Tanerton sang, forgetting his throat, Grace playing for him; and they made me sing.

The evening soon pa.s.sed, and we all left together. It was a warmish night, with a kind of damp smell exhaling from the shrubs and hedges.

The young ladies m.u.f.fled some soft white woollen shawls round their faces, and called our climate a treacherous one. The parson and Grace said good-night, and struck off on the near way to Timberdale; the rest of us kept straight on.

"Why don't your people always live here?" asked Verena of me, as we walked side by side behind the rest. "By something that was said at dinner I gather that you are not here much."

"Mr. Todhetley's princ.i.p.al residence lies at a distance. We only come here occasionally."

"Well, I wish you stayed here always. It would be something to have neighbours close to us. Of course you know the dreadful little cottage we are in--Maythorn Bank?"

"Quite well. It is very pretty, though it is small."

"Small! Accustomed to our large rooms in the western world, it seems to us that we can hardly turn in these. I wish papa had managed better!

This country is altogether frightfully dull. My sister tells us that unless things improve she shall take flight back to the States. She _could_ do it," added Verena; "she is twenty-one now, and her own mistress."

I laughed. "Is she obliged to be her own mistress because she is twenty-one?"

"She is her own," said Verena. "She has come into her share of the money mamma left us and can do as she pleases."

"Oh, you were speaking in that sense."

"Partly. Having money, she is not tied. She could go back to-morrow if she liked. We are not bound by your English notions."

"It would not suit our notions at all. English girls cannot travel about alone."

"That comes of their imperfect education. What harm do you suppose could anywhere befall well brought-up girls? We have been self-dependent from childhood; taught to be so. Coral could take care of herself the whole world over, and meet with consideration, wheresoever she might be."

"What do you call her--Coral? It is a very pretty name."

"And coral is her favourite ornament: it suits her pale skin. Her name is really Coralie, but I call her Coral--just as she calls me Vera. Do you like my name--Verena?"

"Very much indeed. Have you read 'Sintram'?"

"'Sintram'!--no," she answered. "Is it a book?"

"A very nice book, indeed, translated from the German. I will lend it you, if you like, Miss Verena."

"Oh, thank you. I am fond of nice books. Coralie does not care for books as I do. But--I want you to tell me," she broke off, turning her fair face to me, the white cloud drawn round it, and her sweet blue eyes laughing and dancing--"I can't quite make out who you are. They are not your father and mother, are they?"--nodding to the Squire and Mrs.

Todhetley, who were on ever so far in front with Sir Dace.

"Oh no. I only live with them. I am Johnny Ludlow."

Maythorn Bank had not an extensive correspondence as a rule, but three letters were delivered there the following morning. One of the letters was for Verena: which she crushed into her hand in the pa.s.sage and ran away with to her room. The others, addressed to Sir Dace, were laid by his own man, Ozias, on the breakfast-table to await him.

"The West Indian mail is in, papa," observed Coralie, beginning to pour out the coffee as her father entered. "It has brought you two letters. I think one of them is from George Bazalgette."

Sir Dace wore a rich red silk dressing-gown, well wadded. A large fire burnt in the grate of the small room. He felt the cold here much.

Putting his gold eye-gla.s.ses across his nose, as he slowly sat down--all his movements were deliberate--he opened the letter his daughter had specially alluded to, and read the few lines it contained.

"What a short epistle!" exclaimed Coralie.

"George Bazalgette is coming over; he merely writes to tell me so,"

replied Sir Dace. "Verena," he added, for just then Verena entered and wished him good-morning, with a beaming face, "I have a letter here from George Bazalgette. He is coming to Europe; coming for you."

A defiant look rose to Verena's bright blue eyes. She opened her mouth to answer; paused; and closed it again without speaking. Perhaps she recalled the saying, "Discretion is the better part of valour." It certainly is, when applied to speech.

Breakfast was barely over when Ozias came in again. He had a copper-coloured face, as queer as his name, but he was a faithful, honest servant, and had lived in the family twenty years. The gardener was waiting for instructions about the new flower-beds, he told his master; and Sir Dace went out. It left his daughters at liberty to talk secrets. How pretty the two graceful little figures looked in their simple morning dresses of delicate print, tied with bows of pale green ribbon.

"I told you I knew George Bazalgette would be coming over, Vera," began Coralie. "His letter by the last mail quite plainly intimated that."

Verena tossed her pretty head. "Let him come! He will get his voyage out and home for nothing. I hope he'll be fearfully sea-sick!"

Not to make a mystery of the matter, which we heard all about later, and which, perhaps, led to that most dreadful crime--but I must not talk of that yet. George Bazalgette was a wealthy West Indian planter, and wanted to marry Miss Verena Fontaine. She did not want to marry him, and for the very good reason that she intended to marry somebody else. There had been a little trouble about it with Sir Dace; and alas! there was destined to be a great deal more.

"Shall I tell you what _I_ hope, Vera?" answered Coralie, in her matter-of-fact, unemotional way. "I hope that Edward Pym will never come here, or to Europe at all, to worry you. Better that the sea should swallow him up en voyage."

Verena's beaming face broke into smiles. Her sister's pleasant suggestion went for nothing, for a great joy lay within her.

"Edward Pym _has_ come, Coral. The ship has arrived in port, and he has written to me. See!"

She took the morning's letter from the bosom of her dress, and held it open for Coralie to see the date, "London," and the signature "Edward."

Had the writer signed his name in full, it would have been Edward Dace Pym.

"How did he know we were here?" questioned Coralie, in surprise.

"I wrote to tell him."

"Did _you_ know where to write to him?"

"I knew he had sailed from Calcutta in the _Rose of Delhi_; we all knew that; and I wrote to him to the address of the ship's brokers at Liverpool. The ship has come on to London, it seems, instead of Liverpool, and they must have sent my letter up there."

"If you don't take care, Vera, some trouble will come of this. Papa will never hear of Edward Pym. That's my opinion."

She was as cool as were the cuc.u.mbers growing outside in the garden, under the gla.s.s shade. Verena was the opposite--all excitement; though she did her best to hide it. Her fingers were restless; her blushes came and went; the sweet words of the short love-letter were dancing in her heart.

"MY DARLING VERA,

"The ship is in; I am in London with her, and I have your dear letter. How I wish I could run down into Worcestershire! That cannot be just yet: our skipper will take care to be absent himself, I expect, and I must stay: he is a regular Martinet as to duty. You will see me the very hour I can get my liberty. How strange it is you should be at that place--Crabb! I believe a sort of aunt of mine lives there; but I have never seen her.

"Ever your true lover, "EDWARD."

"Who is it--the sort of aunt?" cried Coralie, when Verena had read out the letter; "and what does he mean?"

"Mrs. Letsom, of course. Did you not hear her talking to papa, last night, about her dead sister, who had married Captain Pym?"