Johnny Ludlow Fourth Series Part 80

"You might well say that if you knew all," returned Scott. "She drinks like a fish. Like a fish, I a.s.sure you. Twice over she has had a shaking-fit of three days' duration--I suppose you take me, Ludlow--had to be watched in her bed; the last time was not more than a week ago.

She'll do for herself, if she goes on. It's an awful clog on Bevere. The marriage in itself was a piece of miserable folly, but if she had been a different sort of woman and kept herself steady and cared for him----"

"The problem to me is, how Bevere could have been led away by such a woman."

"Ah, but you must not judge of that by what she is now. She was a very attractive girl, and kept her manners within bounds. Just the kind of girl that many a silly young ape would lose his head for; and Bevere, I take it, lost his heart as well as his head."

"Did you know of the marriage at the time?"

"Not until after it had taken place."

"They could never have pulled well together as man and wife; two people so opposite as they are."

"No, I fancy not," answered Richard Scott, looking straight out before him, but as though he saw nothing. "She has not tried at it. Once his wife, safe and sure, she thought she had it all her own way--as of course in one sense she had, and could give the reins to her inclination. Nothing that Bevere wanted her to do, would she do. He wished her to give up all acquaintance with the two girls at the Bell-and-Clapper; but not she. He----"

"Is Miss Panken flourishing?"

"Quite," laughed Scott, "The other one came to grief--Mabel Falkner."

"Did she! I thought she seemed rather nice."

"She was a very nice little girl indeed, as modest as Polly Panken is impudent. The one could take care of herself; the other couldn't--or didn't. Well, Mabel fell into trouble, and of course lost her post.

Madam Lizzie immediately gave her house-room, setting Bevere, who forbade it, at defiance. What with grief and other disasters, the girl fell sick there; had an illness, and had to be kept I don't know how long. It put Bevere out uncommonly."

"Is this lately?"

"Oh no; last year. Lizzie---- By the way," broke off Scott, stopping again and searching his pocket, "I've got a note from her for Bevere.

You can give it him."

The words nearly seared away my senses. A note from Lizzie to Bevere!

"Why, then, she must know he is here!" I cried.

"You don't understand," quietly said Scott, giving me a note from his pocket-book. "A day or two ago, I met Lizzie near the Bell-and-Clapper.

She----"

"She is well enough to be out, then!"

"Yes. At times she is as well as you are. Well, I met her, and she began to give me a message for her husband, which I could not then wait to hear. So she sent this note to me later, to be delivered to him when we next met. I had not time to go to him yesterday, and here the note is still."

It was addressed "Mr. Bevary." I pointed out the name to Scott.

"Does she not know better, think you?"

"Very likely not," he answered. "A wrong letter, more or less, in a name, signifies but little to one of Lizzie's standard of education. It is not often, I expect, she sees the name on paper, or has to write it.

Fare you well, Ludlow. Remember me to Bevere."

Scott had hardly disappeared when they met me. I said nothing of having seen him. After treating Tottams to some tarts and a box of bonbons, we set off home again; the winter afternoon was closing, and it was nearly dark when we arrived. Getting Roger into his room, I handed him the note, and told him how I came by it. He showed me the contents.

"DEAR ROGER,

"When you where last at home, you said you should not be able to spend Christmas with me, so I am thinking of trying a little jaunt for myself. I am well now and mean to keep so, and a few days in the country air may help me and set me up prime. I inscribe this to let you know, and also to tell you that I shall pay my journey with the quarter's rent you left, so you must send or bring the sum again. Aunt d.y.k.e has got the rumaticks fine, she can't come bothering me with her lectures quite as persistent as usual.

Wishing you the compliments of the season, I remain,

"Your affectionate wife, "LIZZIE."

"Gone into Ess.e.x, I suppose; she has talked sometimes of her cousin there," was all the remark made by Bevere. And he set the note alight, and sent it blazing up the chimney. Of course I did not mention Scott's fancy about the red-gold hair.

Sunday. We crossed the waste land in the morning to the little church I have spoken of. A few cottages stood about it, and a public-house with a big sign, on which was painted a yellow bunch of wheat, and the words The Sheaf o' Corn. It was bitterly cold weather, the wind keen and cutting, the ground a sort of grey-white from a sprinkling of snow that had fallen in the night. I suppose they don't, as a rule, warm these rural churches, from want of means or energy, but I think I never felt a church so cold before. Mr. Brandon said it had given him a chill.

In the evening, after tea, we went to church by moonlight. Not all of us this time. Mr. Brandon stayed away to nurse his chill, and Roger on the plea of headache. The snow was beginning to come down smartly. The little church was lighted with candles stuck in tin sconces nailed to the wall, and was dim enough. Lady Bevere whispered to me that the clergyman had a service elsewhere in the afternoon, so could only hold his own in the evening.

It was snowing with a vengeance when we came out--large flakes half as big as a shilling, and in places already a foot deep. We made the best of our way home, and were white objects when we got there.

"Ah!" remarked Mr. Brandon, "I thought we should have it. Hope the wind will go down a little now."

The girls and their mother went upstairs to take off their cloaks. I asked Mr. Brandon where Roger was. He turned round from his warm seat by the fire to answer me.

"Roger is outside, enjoying the benefit of the snow-storm. That young man has some extraordinary care upon his conscience, Johnny, unless I am mistaken," he added, his thin voice emphatic, his eyes throwing an inquiry into mine.

"Do you fancy he has, sir?" I stammered. At which Mr. Brandon threw a searching look at me, as if he had a mind to tax me with knowing what it was.

"Well, you had better tell him to come in, Johnny."

Roger's great-coat, hanging in the hall, seemed to afford an index that he had not strayed beyond the garden. The snow, coming down so thick and fast but a minute or two ago, had temporarily ceased, following its own capricious fashion, and the moon was bright again. Calling aloud to Roger as I stood on the door-step, and getting no answer, I went out to look for him.

On the side of the garden facing the church, was a little entrance-gate, amid the cl.u.s.ters of laurels and other shrubs. Hearing footsteps approach this, and knowing all were in from church, for the servants got back before we did, I went down the narrow cross-path leading to it, and looked out. It was not Roger, but a woman. A lady, rather, by what the moonbeams displayed of her dress, which looked very smart. As she seemed to be making for the gate, I stepped aside into the shrubs, and peered out over the moor for Roger. The lady gave a sharp ring at the bell, and old Jacob came from the side-door of the house to answer it.

"Is this Prior's Glebe?" she asked--and her voice gave an odd thrill to my pulses, for I thought I recognized it.

"Yes, ma'am," said Jacob.

"Lady Beveer's, I think."

"That's near enough," returned Jacob, familiar with the eccentricities of p.r.o.nunciation accorded to the name. "What did you please to want?"

"I want Miss Field."

"Miss Field!" echoed the old man.

"Harriet Field. She lives here, don't she? I'd like to see her."

"Oh--Harriet! I'll send her out," said he, turning away.

The more I heard of the voice, the greater grew my dismay. Surely it was that of Roger's wife! Was it really she that Scott had seen at the station? Had she come after Roger? Did she know he was here? I stood back amid the sheltering laurels, hardly daring to breathe. Waiting there, she began a little dance, or shuffle of the feet, perhaps to warm herself, and broke into a verse of a gay song. "As I live, she's not sober!" was the fear that flashed across me. Harriet, her things still on, just as she came in from church, came swiftly to the gate.

"Well, Harriet, how are you?"

"Why, Lizzie!--it's never you!" exclaimed Harriet, after an amazed stare at the visitor.