Johnny Ludlow Sixth Series Part 29

"I wandered once at break of day, While yet upon the sunless sea In wanton sighs the breeze delayed, And o'er the wavy surface played.

Then first the fairest face I knew, First loved the eye of softest blue, And ventured, fearful, first to sip The sweets that hung upon the lip Of faithless Emma.

So mixed the rose and lily white That nature seemed uncertain, quite, To deck her cheek which flower she chose, The lily or the blushing rose.

I wish I ne'er had seen her eye, Ne'er seen her cheeks of doubtful dye, Nor ever, ever dared to sip The sweets that hung upon the lip Of faithless Emma.

Now though from early dawn of day, I rove alone and, anxious, stray Till night with curtain dark descends, And day no more its glimmering lends; Yet still, like hers no cheek I find, No eye like hers, save in my mind, Where still I fancy that I sip The sweets that hung upon the lip Of faithless Emma."

"I think all Emmas are faithless," exclaimed Georgiana, speaking at random, as the last sounds of the sweet song died away.

"A sweeping a.s.sertion, Miss Georgie," laughed Tod.

"Any way, I knew two girls named Emma who were faithless to their engaged lovers, and one of them's not married yet to any one else,"

returned Georgie.

"I think I know one Emma who will be true for ever and a day," cried Tod, as he pointed significantly to Emma Paul, still walking side by side with Tom Chandler in the distance.

"I could have told you that before now," said Mary MacEveril. "I have seen it for a long time, though Miss Emma will never confess to it."

"And now, I fancy it will soon be a case," continued Tod.

"A case!" cried Georgie. "What do you mean?"

"A regular case; dead, and gone, and done for," nodded Tod. "Church bells and wedding gloves, and all the rest of the paraphernalia. Looks like it, anyhow, to-night."

"Oh!" exclaimed Georgie, "then how sly Tom has been over it, never to tell us! Is it really true? I shall ask Valentine."

"The last person likely to know," said Tod. "You'll find it's true enough, Georgie."

"Then----" Georgie began, and broke off. "Listen!" she cried. "They are beginning to dance on the lawn. Come, Mary." And the two girls moved away, attracted by the sc.r.a.ping of the fiddle.

Oliver Preen moved a step forward from the tree, speaking in a low, calm tone; but his face was white as death.

"Were you alluding to _them_?" he asked, looking across to those two pacing about. "Why do you say it is a 'case'?"

"Because I am sure it is one," answered Tod. "They have been in love with one another this many a day past, those two, months and months and years. As everyone might see who had eyes, except old Paul. That's why, Preen."

Oliver did not answer. He had his arm round the trunk of a tree looking across as before.

"And I wouldn't stake a fortune that Paul has not seen it also," went on Tod. "All the same, I had a rumour whispered to me to-day that he sees it now, and has said, 'Bless you, my children.' Tom Chandler is to be made his partner and to marry Emma."

"We are too many girls there, and want you for partners," cried Eliza Letsom, dashing up. "Do come and dance with us, Johnny!"

What else could I do? Or Tod, either.

It was nearly eleven o'clock when the party separated. The waggonettes held us all, and nice scrambling and crowding we had for seats. One of the vehicles, after setting down some of its freight--ourselves and the Miss Chandlers--continued its way to Duck Brook with Jane and Oliver Preen.

It was a lovely night. The moon had risen, and was flooding the earth with its soft light. Jane sat looking at it in romantic reverie.

Suddenly it struck her that her brother was unusually still; he had not spoken a single word.

"How silent you are, Oliver. You are not asleep, are you?"

Oliver slowly raised his bent head. "Silent?" he repeated. "One can't talk much after a tiring day such as this."

"I think it must be getting on for twelve o'clock," said Jane. "What a delightfully happy day it has been!"

"The one bad day of all my life," groaned Oliver, in spirit. But he broke into the two lines, in pretended gaiety, that some one had sung on the box-seat of the waggonette when leaving Mrs. Cramp's:

"For the best of all ways to lengthen our days Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear."

III

"MY DEAR SIR,--Robert Derrick is getting troublesome. He has been here three times in as many days, pressing for ten pounds, the instalment of your debt now due to him. Will you be good enough to transmit it to me, that I may pay and get rid of him.

"Truly yours, JOHN PAUL."

This letter, written by Lawyer Paul of Islip, came to Mr. Preen by the Thursday morning post, just a week after the picnic. It put him into a temper.

"What do Paul's people mean by their carelessness?" he exclaimed angrily, as he s.n.a.t.c.hed a sheet of paper to pen the answer.

"DEAR MR. PAUL,--I don't know what you mean. I sent the money to you ten days ago--a bank-note, enclosed in a letter to yourself.

"Truly yours, G. PREEN."

Calling Oliver from his breakfast, Mr. Preen despatched this answer by him at once to the post-office. There was no hurry whatever, since the day mail had gone out, and it would lie in Mrs. Sym's drawer until towards evening, but an angry man knows nothing of patience.

The week since the picnic had not been productive of any particular event, except a little doubt and trouble regarding d.i.c.k MacEveril.

Mr. Paul was so much annoyed, at d.i.c.k's taking French leave to absent himself from the office that day, that he attacked him with hot words when he entered it on the Friday morning. d.i.c.k took it very coolly--old Paul said "insolently," and retorted that he wanted a longer holiday than that, a whole fortnight, and that he must have it. Shortly and sharply Mr. Paul told him he could not have it, unless he chose to have it for good.

d.i.c.k took him at his word. Catching up his hat and stick, he went out of the office there and then, and had not since appeared at it. Not only that: during the Friday he disappeared also from Islip. n.o.body knew for certain whither he had gone, or where he was: unless it might be London.

He had made no secret of what he wanted a holiday for. Some young fellow whom he had known in Australia had recently landed at the docks and was in London, and d.i.c.k wanted to go up to see him.

Deprived of his friend, and deprived of his heart's love, Oliver Preen was in a bad case. The news of Emma Paul's engagement to Thomas Chandler, and the news that Chandler was to have a share in her father's business, had been made public; the speedy marriage was already talked of. No living person saw what havoc it was making of Oliver Preen. Jane found him unnaturally quiet. He would sit by the hour together and never say a word to her or to anyone else, apparently plunged in what might be either profound scientific calculations or grim despondency. It was as if he had the care of the world upon his mind, and at times there would break from him a sudden long-drawn sigh. Poor Oliver! Earth's sunshine had gone out for him with sweet Emma Paul.

She had not been faithless, like the Faithless Emma of the song, for she had never cared for anyone but Tom Chandler, had never given the smallest encouragement to another. Oliver had only deluded himself.

To his heart, filled and blinded with its impa.s.sioned love, her open, pleasing manners had seemed to be a response, and so he had mistaken her. That was all.

But this is sentiment, which the world, having grown enlightened of late years, practically despises; and we must go on to something more sensible and serious.

The answer sent by Mr. Preen to John Paul of Islip brought forth an answer in its turn. It was to the effect that Mr. Paul had not seen anything of the letter spoken of by Mr. Preen, or of the money it was said to contain.

This reached Duck Brook on the Sat.u.r.day morning. Mr. Preen, more puzzled this time than angry, could not make it out.

"Oliver," said he, "which day was it last week that I wrote that letter to Paul of Islip, enclosing a ten-pound note?"

"I don't remember," carelessly replied Oliver. They had not yet settled to work, and Oliver was stretched out at the open window, talking to a little dog that was leaping up outside.

"Not remember!" indignantly echoed Mr. Preen. "My memory is distracted with a host of cares, but yours has nothing to trouble it. Bring your head in, sir, and attend to me properly."