Johnny Ludlow Sixth Series Part 36

"He said the little pink flower had got broken off, and that Mrs.

Todhetley did it with her shawl," persisted Stephenson, unable to stare away his perplexity. And I think we were all feeling perplexed too.

"He knew what the brooch cost, and that it was bought for a wedding present, and that Mrs. Todhetley kept the brooch for herself because the wedding did not come off," went on Stephenson. "How could I suppose, sir, it was anybody but your own son? Why once I called him 'Mr.

Todhetley;' I remember it quite well; and he did not tell me I was mistaken. Rely upon it, if you'll excuse me for saying so, Squire Todhetley, that it is some young gentleman who is intimate at your house and familiar with all its ways."

"Hang him for a young rogue!" retorted the Squire.

"And your own name was on the note, sir, which he bade me notice, and all! And--and I don't see how it was possible to _help_ falling into the mistake that he came from you," concluded Stephenson, with a slightly injured accent.

Upon which the Squire, having had time to take in the bearings of the matter, veered round altogether to the same opinion, and said so, and shook hands with Stephenson when we departed.

Tom Chandler let us go on, remaining behind for a minute or two. He wanted to put quietly a few questions about the appearance of the young man who had changed the note. He also examined the silver-gilt pencils, finally buying one which was precisely similar, stone and all, to the one which had been sold that other morning.

Stephenson answered the questions to the best of his ability and recollection. And Tom Chandler found that while on some points the description would have served very well for that of Richard MacEveril, on other points it did not seem to fit in with it at all.

A TRAGEDY

IV.--OLIVER

I

Dinner was over. Emma Paul had gone out to stroll in the shady garden and wait for the evening breeze that would soon come on, and was so delightful after the heat of the day. Her father remained at the table.

He was slowly sipping at his one gla.s.s of port wine, which he took in a large claret gla.s.s, when the door opened and Thomas Chandler entered.

"Oh," said Mr. Paul. "So you _are_ back, are you, young man!"

"I went on to Worcester, sir," explained Tom; who though he was now made Mr. Paul's partner, could not get rid all at once of the old mode of addressing him. Managing clerks in these days, who are qualified solicitors, do not condescend to say "Sir" to their chief, no matter though he be their elder by half a life-time; but they did in the days gone by.

"When I got to Crabb Cot this morning, sir, Mr. Todhetley was on the point of starting for Worcester in the phaeton with his son and Johnny Ludlow," went on Tom. "After listening to the news I took him, he naturally wished me to go also, and I did so. He was in a fine way about it."

"But you need not have stayed at Worcester all day."

"Well, being there, I thought--after I had conferred with Corles at his office upon this other matter--I should do well to go on to Oddingley and see William Smith about that troublesome business of his; so I hired a gig and went there; and I've just got back by train, walking from Crabb," answered Tom Chandler.

"Had any dinner?"

"Oh, yes, thank you; and some tea also at Shrub Hill station, while waiting for the train: this weather makes one thirsty. No, thank you, sir," as Mr. Paul pushed the decanter towards him; "wine would only make me still more thirsty than I am."

"I never saw you looking so hot," remarked the old lawyer.

Tom laughed, and rubbed his face. The walk from Crabb was no light one: and, of course, with Miss Emma at the end of it, he had come at a steaming pace.

"Well, and what did you and Todhetley make of the matter?"

It was the day, as may readily be understood, when we had gone to Worcester to have it out at the silversmith's. Tom Chandler recounted all that pa.s.sed, and repeated the description given to himself by Stephenson of the fellow who had changed the bank-note. Mr. Paul received it with an impatient and not at all orthodox word, meant for Richard MacEveril.

"But I cannot feel sure, no, nor half sure, that it was MacEveril," said Tom Chandler.

"What have your feelings got to do with it?" asked old Paul, in his crusty way. "It seems to me, the description you give would be his very picture."

"Stephenson says he had blue eyes. Now d.i.c.k's are brown."

"Eyes be sugared," retorted the lawyer. "As if any man could swear to a chance customer's eyes after seeing them for just a minute or two! It was d.i.c.k MacEveril; he caught up the letter as it lay on Hanborough's desk in the office and decamped with it; and went off the next day to Worcester to get the note changed, as bold as though he had been d.i.c.k Turpin!"

Still Tom was not convinced. He took out the pencil he had bought and showed it to Mr. Paul.

"Ay," said the old gentleman, "it's a pretty thing, and perhaps he may get traced by it. Do you forget, Mr. Thomas, that the young rascal absented himself all that day from the office on pretext of going to the picnic at Mrs. Cramp's, and that, as you told me, he never made his appearance at the picnic until late in the afternoon?"

"I know," a.s.sented Tom. "He said he had been to the pigeon match."

"If he said he had been to the moon, I suppose you'd believe it. Don't tell me! It was d.i.c.k MacEveril who stole the note; every attendant circ.u.mstance helps to prove it. There: we'll say no more about the matter, and you can be off to the garden if you want to; I know you are on thorns for it."

From that day the matter dropped into oblivion, and nothing was allowed to transpire connecting MacEveril with the theft. Mr. Paul enjoined silence, out of regard for his old friend the captain, on Tom Chandler and Mr. Hanborough, the only two, besides himself, who suspected d.i.c.k.

Some letters arrived at Islip about this time from Paris, written by d.i.c.k: one to Captain MacEveril, another to Mr. Paul, a third to his cousin Mary. He coolly said he was gone to Paris for a few weeks with Jim Stockleigh, and they were both enjoying themselves amazingly.

So, the ball of gossip not being kept up, the mysterious loss of the letter containing the bank-note was soon forgotten. Mr. Paul was too vexed to speak of it; it seemed a slur on his office; and he shielded d.i.c.k's good name for his uncle's sake; whilst Preen was silent because he did not wish the _debt_ talked about.

We left Crabb Cot for d.y.k.e Manor, carrying our wonder with us. The next singular point to us was, how the changer of the note could have been so well acquainted with the circ.u.mstances attending the buying of the brooch. Mrs. Todhetley would talk of it by the hour together, suggesting now this person and now that; but never seeming to hit upon a likely one.

July pa.s.sed away, August also, and September came in. On the Thursday in the first week of the latter month, Emma Paul was to become Emma Chandler.

All that while, through all those months and weeks, poor Oliver Preen had been having a bad time of it. No longer able to buoy himself up with the delusive belief that Emma's engagement to Chandler was nothing but a myth, he had to accept it, and all the torment it brought him. He had grown pale and thin; nervous also; his lips would turn white if anyone spoke to him abruptly, his hot hand trembled when in another's grasp.

Jane thought he must be suffering from some inward fever; she did not know much about her brother's love for Emma, or dream that it could be so serious.

"I'm sure I wish their wedding was over and done with; Oliver might come to his proper senses then," Jane told herself. "He is very silly. _I_ don't see much in Emma Paul."

September, I say, came in. It was somewhat singular that we should again be for just that one first week of it at Crabb Cot. Sir Robert Tenby had invited the Squire to take a few days' shooting with him, and included Tod in the invitation--to his wild delight. So Mr. and Mrs. Todhetley went from d.y.k.e Manor to Crabb Cot for the week, and we accompanied them.

On the Monday morning of this eventful week--and terribly eventful it was destined to be--Mr. Paul's office had a surprise. Richard MacEveril walked into it. He was looking fresh and blooming, as if he had never heard of such a thing as running away. Mr. Hanborough gazed up at him from his desk as if he saw an apparition; t.i.te Batley's red face seemed illumined by sudden sunshine.

"Well, and is n.o.body going to welcome me back?" cried d.i.c.k, as he put out his hand, in the silence, to Mr. Hanborough.

"The truth is, we never expected to see you back; we thought you had gone for good," answered Hanborough.

d.i.c.k laughed. "The two masters in there?" he asked, nodding his head at the inner door.

Hearing that they were, he went in. Old Paul, in his astonishment, dropped a penful of ink upon a letter he was writing.

"Why, where do you spring from?" he cried.

"From my uncle's now, sir; got home last night. Been having a rare time of it in Paris. I suppose I may take my place at the desk again?" added d.i.c.k.

The impudence of this supposition drove all Mr. Paul's wisdom out of him. Motioning to Tom Chandler to close the doors, he avowed to d.i.c.k what he was suspected of, and accused him of taking the letter and the bank-note.