BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 "EastLynnj^^ 
 
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 in 2010 witii funding from 
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JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM THE PRESS. 
 
 From the Standard, 
 
 " A goodly collection of stories, fresh, liyely, and vigorous in point of style, 
 full of clever dialogue, and pointed witli common sense as well as sound, healthy, 
 moral tone. It is long since we have met with such a capital addition to a boy's 
 library, for not only are the tales well fitted for young people, but are such as will 
 really attract them, as well as readers of a riper age. . . . Touches of pathos and 
 real humour run through them all. . . . The author is masterly in the skill 
 with which he manages his successive dramas. " 
 
 From the Saturday Review. 
 
 " It is an agreeable change to come upon a book like ' Johnny Ludlow.' . . . 
 The interest aroused is considerable. . . . There is considerable merit in the 
 stories. . . . Freshness of description in the scenes of country life and country 
 peoi^le." 
 
 From the Athen^euh. 
 
 " The author shows vigour of description and a certain strong grasp of 
 character. . . . There is a great deal of honest purpose, and a substratum of 
 truth, in fact, underlying the stories. ... A considerable sense of humour- is dis- 
 played. . . . The author attains to genuine pathos. " 
 
 From the Nonconformist. 
 
 "Several of the most difficult puzzles of authorship have here been successfully 
 overcome. . . . ' Johnny Ludlow ' is very real to us as a character, but of his 
 style we have never met with any trace hitherto. It is his own unmistakably. . . 
 The author has given proof of a rarer dramatic instinct than we had suspected 
 among our living writers of fiction. ... It is impossible for us by any means of 
 extracts to convey any adequate sense of the humour, the pathos, the dramatic 
 power, and graphic description of this book. . . . "We recommend our readers to 
 procure it for themselves, and we are quite certain that they will thank us for 
 li-iving led them to a rare enjoyment." 
 
EXTllACrS FROM THE PIlESS. 
 
 From the Spectator. 
 
 "Turning from the mass of ordinary tliree-volume novels to such, a work aa 
 * Johnny Ludlow ' is like coming out of a thick atmosphere to walk along a 
 country road in the clear morning air. . . . ' Johnnj Ludlow ' is a singularly 
 pleasant companion. ... A series of short stories told with a naivete of 
 ostensible realism which is very admirable, rising here and there into 
 genuine humour and pathos, which are tlie more effective from the well-sustained 
 simplicity of the style. . . . We have read the book with peculiar pleasiu-e. 
 The stories we regard as almost perfect of their kind. The writer not only 
 possesses large knowledge of human nature, but is a humourist in the strictest 
 sense of the word, and is besides master of that simple pathos which so often lies 
 close to it. In addition there is a remarkable power of graphic description, and 
 we are certain we cannot be wrong in saying that the author has given earnest 
 thought to many of the social problems that trouble us all. . . . "We trust the 
 book, in the midst of much competition, may not fail in meeting with the recei)- 
 tion that such markedly natural and healthy fiction so well deserves and claims." 
 
 Fro7n Yanitt Fair. 
 
 "A series of tales full of interest. . . . Johnny is capital; his descriptions 
 are humorous, vigorous, and full of force ; his pictures of rustic life and 
 character are evidently true portraits. ... A very clever and amusing collection 
 of stories." 
 
 Fi'om the Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 ' ' Told with pathetic simplicity. . . . Thci-e is sound sense as well as good 
 feeling in the reasoning of the Squire. . . . Johnny Ludlow appears to have lived 
 in the world." 
 
 From tltc Globe. 
 
 ' ' The stories have already achieved a deservedly wide popularity. . . . Very 
 few have surpassed in homely pathos and quiet, unforced humour, the greater 
 number of these. . . . The local colouring and the delineation of characters, with 
 whom we gradually become as familiar as with intimate friends, are singularly 
 admirable : to have read ' Johnny Ludlow ' is simjily to have lived in Worcester- 
 shire in company with an acute and genial observer, who extends unlimited 
 sympathies to rich and poor. . . . There are few if any better books of its class 
 than 'Johnny Ludlow,' who may be recommended as a pleasant and profitable 
 acquaintance to all who have not already had the benefit of his society." 
 
JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 Sccoub Series. 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. HENRY WOOD, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "east LYNNE.' 
 
 ■ Come, read to me some storj-, 
 Some simple and heartfelt lay, 
 That shall soothe this restless feeling. 
 And banish the thoughts of day. 
 
 ' Such words have power to quiet 
 
 The restless pulse of care. 
 
 And come like the benediction 
 
 That follows after prayer." 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON, 
 
 NEW BURLINGTON STREET, 
 
 publishers in (Drbinaru to ^tr ^Tiijestg tlw Qu££n. 
 
 i8So. 
 
 [AU Ri^^hfs Resa-'cd.] 
 
<v 
 

 PREFACE 
 
 COAIE speculation has existed as to who is the 
 writer of the Papers purporting to be by Johnny 
 Ludlow, and more tlian one individual has come for- 
 ward claiming to be the Author. In answer to this, 
 and to divers suppositions, I think the time has come 
 for me to state that they are written by myself. When 
 I began the stories — for the Argosj Magazine — my 
 only motive for not putting my name to them was 
 that they appeared to be told by a boy ; and to ap- 
 pend my name as the Author would have destroyed 
 the illusion ; or, at least, have clashed with it. Many 
 of my friends, the publishers, printers, etc., have 
 known from the first who wrote " Johnny Ludlow." 
 
 And now, having said thus much, it only remains 
 for me to thank the public, as I do sincerely and 
 heartily, for the very great favour they have accorded 
 to these simple and unpretending stories. 
 
 ELLEN WOOD. 
 
 London, September, iSSo. 
 
CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 I'AGE 
 
 I. LOST IN THE POST - - - - - I 
 
 II. A LIFE OF TROUBLE - - - - "39 
 
 III. HESTER reed's PILLS - - - -73 
 
 IV. ABEL crew - - - - - - II-J. 
 
 V. ROBERT ASHTON'S WEDDING-DAY - - "153 
 
 Vr. HARDLY WORTH TELLING - - - - 1 85 
 
 Vn. CHARLES VAN RHEYN - - - - 222 
 
 ■VIII, :mrs. todhetley's earrings - - - 270 
 
JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 LOST IN THE POST. 
 
 ANY a true tale has been told of the 
 disappearance of money in passing 
 through the post. Sometimes the loss is never 
 cleared up, but remains a mystery to the end. 
 One of these losses happened to us, and the 
 circumstances were so curious that they would 
 have puzzled a bench of Judges, It was a 
 regular mystery, and could not be accounted for 
 in any way. 
 
 If you chanced to read the first series of these 
 papers, it may scarcely be necessary to recall cer- 
 tain points to your recollection — that Mr. Tod- 
 hetley, commonly called the Squire, had two 
 estates. The chief one, Dyke Manor, lay on the 
 borders of Worcestershire and Warwickshire, 
 partly in both counties ; the other, Crabb Cot, 
 was a smaller place altogether, and lay much 
 nearer Worcester. Sometimes we stayed at one 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
2 Johnny Lztdlozv. 
 
 place, sometimes at the other. By an arrangement 
 with Mr. Brandon, my guardian and the trustee 
 to my property, I, Johnny Ludlow, hved with 
 the Todhetleys. Mrs. Todhetley, the Squire's 
 present wife, was my stepmother, my father 
 having married her after my own mother's 
 death. After my father's death — which took 
 place speedily — she became the second wife of 
 Squire Todhetley, and the stepmother of his 
 only son and heir, Joseph. Two children were 
 subsequently born, Hugh and Lena, to whom 
 Joseph was of course the half-brother. Joseph, 
 unlike myself, had been old enough to resent 
 the advent of a stepmother when she came : 
 indulged and haughty, he did not like the gentle 
 control she brought ; though she was good as 
 gold, as loving to him as he would let her be^ 
 and kind to everybody. I don't say but that 
 she was tall and thin as a lamp-post, with a 
 mild face, given to have aches in it, scanty 
 light hair, and kindly blue eyes ; so she had 
 not much to boast of in the way of appearance. 
 Joe and I grew up together like brothers : he 
 was several years the elder, and domineered 
 over me absolutely. At school he was always 
 called "Tod;" and I fell into the same habit. 
 Perhaps that is enough of explanation. 
 
 "And if you don't come back to-night, you 
 had better send me a five-pound note in a 
 letter," said Mrs. Todhetley. 
 
Lost ill the Post. 3 
 
 " All right," replied the Squire. 
 
 This was said on the platform of Timberdale 
 station. We were staying at Crabb Cot, and 
 were taking the train at Timberdale instead of 
 that at South Crabb. The Squire was going 
 to Worcester, and was taking Tod and myself 
 with him. It was a fine morning in April, and 
 Mrs. Todhetley and little Hugh had come 
 with us through the Ravine for the sake of the 
 walk. Our returning at night, or not, was left 
 an open question, contingent upon the Squire's 
 business at Worcester being over. 
 
 " Bring me a whip, and a new bird-cage for 
 my thrush, and a pot of marmalade, papa," 
 called out Hugh. 
 
 "What else would you like, sir ?" retorted the 
 Squire. 
 
 "You bring 'em, Joe." 
 
 " I dare say !" said Tod. 
 
 The train puffed off, drowning Hugh's further 
 commands. We saw him throw his cap at the 
 train, and Mrs. Todhetley holding him back 
 from running after it. 
 
 " That young gentleman wants to be sent to 
 school," remarked the Squire. "I'm afraid you 
 two boys make him worse than he would be." 
 
 We reached Worcester about twelve, and 
 went to the Star and Garter. The Squire had 
 no end of matters on hand that day : but the 
 two chief things that had brought him to Wor- 
 cester were — to draw some money at the bank, 
 
 I — 2 
 
4 JoJinny Ludlow. 
 
 and to negotiate with ]\Ir. Prothero, a corn- 
 dealer, for the sale of a load of wheat. Mr. 
 Prothero was a close man to deal with : he 
 wanted the wheat at one price, the Squire said 
 it should only go at another : if he held out, the 
 Squire meant to hold out, even though it in- 
 volved the staying of the night at Worcester. 
 
 It was Wednesday ; market-day. Not so 
 large a market as the Saturday's is, but the 
 town looked pretty full. The first thing the 
 Squire did was to go to the Old Bank. At the 
 door he turned round and said there was no 
 need for three of us to crowd into the place. 
 However, we were then inside, and so went on 
 with him. 
 
 He had something particular to say to Mr. 
 Isaac, and asked for him. They were talking 
 together in private for a minute or two, and 
 then the Squire pulled out his cheque for fifty 
 pounds, and laid it on the counter. 
 
 " How will you take it ?" asked Mr. Isaac. 
 
 " In. five-pound notes." 
 
 Mr. Isaac brought the money himself. The 
 Squire put it in his pocket-book, and we said 
 good-morning, and departed. There were shops 
 to call at and people to see : and of course the 
 market to walk through. You'd not Qret the 
 Squire to keep himself out of the market-house, 
 when in Worcester on market-day : he'd go 
 asking the price of the butter and fowls like any 
 old woman. A little after four o'clock we got 
 
Lost in the Post. 5 
 
 back to the Star ; and found Mr. Prothero had 
 not made his appearance. 
 
 "Just hke him!" cried the Squire. "His 
 appointment was for four o'clock sharp. He 
 means to hold out against my price ; that's what 
 he thinks to do. Let him! he'll not get the 
 wheat at less." 
 
 " I'd see him a jolly long way before he should 
 have it at all," said haughty Tod. " Do you 
 hear, sir ?" 
 
 " Hold your tongue, Joe," was the Squire's 
 answer. 
 
 "Anyway, sir, Prothero gives you more trouble 
 than all the rest of the buyers put together. He's 
 a stingy, close-fisted fellow." 
 
 " But his money's safe and sure. Prothero 
 is a respectable man, Joe ; his word's as good 
 as his bond." 
 
 Half-past four, and no Prothero. The 
 Squire began to fume a little : if he hated one 
 thing more than another, it was to be kept 
 waitinof. 
 
 " Look here, boys, I'll send that note to your 
 mother," he said, taking out his pocket-book, 
 " There's not much chance of our going home 
 to-night at this rate. Ring, one of you, for 
 some paper and envelopes." 
 
 Separating one of the notes from the roll Mr. 
 Isaac had given him, he gave it to me to put 
 up. I asked him if I should take down the 
 number. 
 
6 Johnny Lzidlow. 
 
 " I don't think it matters, Johnny.' 
 
 But I took it down, perhaps through some 
 unconscious instinct — for I don't suppose I am 
 more cautious than other people. In my pocket 
 was a letter from Anna Whitney : and I pen- 
 cilled on it the number of the note. 
 
 "Write inside the envelope 'Not home till 
 to-morrow,' " growled the Squire, forgetting that 
 it could not be there till the morning. But he 
 was in an ill-humour, 
 
 I wrote it at his bidding, enclosed the bank- 
 note, and addressed the letter to Mrs, Todhetley 
 at Crabb Cot. Tod and I went out to post it, 
 and began laying plans of how we should spend 
 the evening at Worcester, 
 
 The post-office is not far from the Star, as 
 everybody knows : and though we met a fellow 
 who used to go to school with us, a doctor's 
 son, and stayed talking with him, not ten 
 minutes elapsed before we were back again. 
 And behold in that short v/hile there was a 
 change' in the programme. Old Prothero had 
 been in, the barofain about the wheat was con- 
 eluded, and the Squire intended to start for 
 home as soon as dinner was over. Tod resented 
 the chano-e, 
 
 "Johnny and I were going to that advertised 
 sdancc — or whatever they call the thing — on 
 electro-biology, sir. It will be first-rate fun, they 
 say." 
 
 " Very sorry for you and Johnny, You'll 
 
Lost in the Post. 7 
 
 have to go home instead. Prothero has bought 
 the wheat : and that's all I should have had to 
 stay here for." 
 
 "At his own price!" cried Tod, rather mock- 
 
 " No, Mr. Joe ; at mine." 
 
 "Well, it's an awful sell for us," grumbled Tod, 
 " It's not so often we get a night at Worcester, 
 that we should be done out of this chance." 
 
 " The fact is, I don't feel well," said the 
 Squire, "and should most likely have gone 
 home, whether Prothero had come in or not. 
 I'm afraid I have caught cold, Joe," 
 
 There was not any more to be said. The 
 Squire's colds were no joke : once he caught 
 one, he'd be downright ill ; laid up for days. 
 We went back by rail to Timberdale, and took 
 a fly home. 
 
 The next morning the Squire did not get up. 
 Sure enough he had a cold, and was feverish. 
 At breakfast Mrs. Todhetley said one of us 
 should go over to South Crabb and ask Mr, 
 Cole to call and see him. 
 
 "Why, the Pater hates doctors!" exclaimed 
 Tod. 
 
 " I know he does," she answered, " But I 
 feel sure that if he would only take remedies for 
 his colds in time, they would not be so bad as 
 they usually are, Joseph. Who's that ?" she 
 added — for she was seated where she could not 
 see out, and had heard the gate click. 
 
8 Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 It was the postman : so I opened the glass 
 doors. 
 
 " Only one, sir," said he, handing me the 
 letter we had posted at Worcester the previous 
 afternoon. 
 
 Mrs. Todhetley laughed as she opened it, 
 saying it would have come sooner had we 
 brought it with us. Looking to see that the 
 bank-note was safe, she left it in the envelope 
 on the breakfast-table. 
 
 "You may as well get it changed for me at 
 Salmon's," she said, handing it to Tod as we 
 were going out, " and then I need not disturb 
 your father. But you must make haste back, 
 for you know I want the money." 
 
 She had no money in the house save a few 
 shillings : and this was why the note was to be 
 posted to her if we stayed at Worcester. You 
 are often run short for money in rural country 
 places : its quite different from town, where the 
 banks are at hand. 
 
 We went through North Crabb, and met the 
 doctor coming out at his door. Tod told him 
 the Squire wanted some physicking. 
 
 "Got a cold, has he," cried Cole. "If he 
 will only be reasonable and keep himself warm 
 in bed, we'll soon have that out of him." 
 
 Cole lived close upon South Crabb — I think 
 I've said so before. A few yards beyond his 
 house the shops began. Salmon's was the fifth 
 from the corner : a double shop, grocer's and 
 
Lost in the Post. 9 
 
 draper's. The savings' bank was at Salmon's, 
 and the post-office : he was the busiest trades- 
 man in South Crabb, rather conceited over it, 
 but very intelHgent. His brother was in busi- 
 ness at Timberdale, This is what occurred. 
 
 "Will you be good enough to change this 
 five-pound note for me, Mr. Salmon ?" says 
 Tod, laying the note down on the grocer's 
 counter, on the left of the door, behind which 
 Salmon stood, his grey hair carefully brushed 
 and a white apron on. 
 
 Salmon takes the note up for a moment, and 
 then unlocks the inner drawer of his till, where 
 he kept his gold. He was counting out the five 
 sovereigns when he paused ; put them down, 
 and picked up the note again with a snatch. I 
 had seen his eyes fall on it. 
 
 ''Where did you get this note from, sir?" 
 asks he of Tod. 
 
 " From the Old Bank at Worcester." 
 
 " Well, it's one of them notes that was lost in 
 the robbery at Tewkesbury, unless I'm much 
 mistaken," cries Salmon, beginning to turn over 
 the leaves of a small account-book that he 
 fetched from the post-office desk. " Ay, I 
 thought I was right," he adds, putting his 
 finger to some figures on one of the pages. 
 "I'd got the numbers correct enough in my 
 head." 
 
 "You must be out of your mind, Salmon," 
 retorts Tod in his defiant way. " That note 
 
lo Johnny LtLcilow. 
 
 was paid to my father yesterday at Worcester 
 Old Bank." 
 
 " I don't think it was, sir," 
 
 "You don't think it was! Why, I was 
 present. I saw Mr. Isaac count the notes out 
 himself. Ten of them ; and that was one." 
 
 " Mr. Isaac never counted out this note," 
 persists Salmon. 
 
 He smoothed it out on the counter as he 
 spoke. I had not noticed it before : but it 
 struck me now as I looked at it that it was 
 not the note I had put into the envelope at 
 Worcester. That was a new, crisp note ; this 
 was not crisp, and it looked a little soiled. 
 Tod turned passionate over it : he was just like 
 the Squire in some things. 
 
 " I don't understand your behaviour, Salmon. 
 I can swear that this note was one given with 
 the nine others at the bank yesterday, and 
 given by Mr. Isaac." 
 
 Salmon shook his head. As much as to say 
 he knew to the contrary. 
 
 "You'd better accuse Mr. Isaac of dealinsf in 
 stolen notes — or me," cries hot Tod. 
 
 "You'd neither of you be likely to deal in 
 them, Mr. Todhetley. There's a mistake 
 somewhere. That's what it is. Mr. Isaac 
 would be too Qflad to Q-et this note into his 
 possession to pay it away again. No people 
 are more severe against money-robberies than 
 bankers." 
 
Lost ill tJie Post. 1 1 
 
 Salmon talked, and Tod talked ; but neither 
 could agree. The apprentice behind the counter 
 on the drapery side listened with admiration, 
 evidently not knowing which side to take. I 
 spoke then, saying that the note did not appear 
 to be the same as the one I had enclosed in the 
 letter ; and Tod looked as though he could 
 knock me down for saying it. I had changed 
 my clothes and had not Anna Whitney's letter 
 with me. 
 
 " Tod, it is of no use your taking it up in this 
 way. If the thing is so, it is. And it can soon 
 be proved. I say I don't think it is the same 
 note, or the same numbers." 
 
 "If I had taken down the numbers of a 
 bank-note, I could remember what they were ; 
 so would anyone but a muff, Johnny," says he, 
 sarcastically. 
 
 " I don't remember what they were. But I 
 do seem to remember that they were not these." 
 
 Tod flung out of the shop in a passion : to 
 him it seemed impossible that anything could be 
 wrono^ with a note had direct from the bank. 
 As to its not beinof the same note, he scouted 
 it utterly. Had it dropped through the envelope 
 and changed itself en route from Worcester ? 
 he sarcastically demanded — coming in again 
 to ask it. 
 
 Salmon was quietly going over the circum- 
 stances of the Tewkesbury robbery to me. 
 About three weeks before, a butcher's shop was 
 
12 Johnny L2idlow. 
 
 robbed In Tewkesbury — the till carried off in 
 open day. It had gold and silver in it and two 
 five-pound notes. The numbers of the notes 
 happened to be known, and notice of them was 
 circulated, to put people on their guard against 
 takino; them. 
 
 " Look here, Mr. Ludlow," said Salmon, 
 showing me the numbers of the stolen notes 
 written down in his book, and comparing the 
 one with the bank-note we had taken to him. 
 " It's the same, you see. Reason's reason, 
 sir." 
 
 " But I don't see how it's practicable," cried 
 Tod, coming round the least bit in the world, 
 as he condescended to look himself at the 
 numbers. 
 
 "Well, sir, neither do I — the facts being as 
 you state 'em," acknowledged Salmon. " But 
 here's the proof to stagger us, you observe. 
 It's in black and white." 
 
 " There must be two notes with the same 
 numbers,"- said Tod. 
 
 Salmon smiled : great in his assumption of 
 superior knowledge. " There never was yet, 
 Mr. Todhedey." 
 
 "Who numbers the notes, I wonder? I 
 suppose mistakes are not impossible to those 
 who do it, any more than to other people." 
 
 " No fear of that, sir, with their system. 
 The note has been changed in the post." 
 
 " Nonsense !" retorted Tod. 
 
Lost in the Post. 13 
 
 They'd have cavilled until night, with no 
 result, one holding- out against the other. Tod 
 brought away the note and the five sovereigns 
 — which Salmon offered. We could send over 
 another note at leisure, he said. I examined 
 the envelope after we had hastened home : it 
 was the same we had posted at Worcester, and 
 did not appear to have been tampered with. 
 
 Getting Anna Whitney's letter out of my 
 best clothes' pocket, I brought it to Tod. The 
 numbers were quite different from the note's. 
 He stared like one bewildered : his eyes passing 
 between those on the letter, and those on the 
 note. 
 
 "Johnny, this beats bull-baiting." 
 
 So it did — for mystification. 
 
 "Are you sure you copied the figures cor- 
 rectly, old fellow ?" 
 
 "Now, Tod! Of course I did." 
 
 " Let us go up to the Pater." 
 
 The Pater was getting up, in defiance of old 
 Cole and of Mrs. Todhetley, and was dressed, 
 up to his coat. He had got a fire in his room 
 and his white night-cap on. I told him about 
 the note. Tod was outside, telling Mrs. Tod- 
 hetley. He did not receive the news kindly. 
 
 " The note I gave you to put into the enve- 
 lope was one of those stolen from the butcher 
 at Tewkesbury ! How dare you bring your 
 rubbishing stories to me, Mr. Johnny !" 
 
 I tried to explain how it was — that it was not 
 
14 Johnny Ltidloiv. 
 
 the same note ; as the numbers proved. He'd 
 hear nothing at first, only went on at me, stamp- 
 ing his shppers and nodding his head, the big 
 white tassel of the night-cap bobbing up and 
 down. If Salmon dared to say he had sent him 
 a stolen note to change, he'd teach Salmon what 
 slander meant the next day the magistrates sat. 
 
 Tod came in then with Mrs. Todhetley. 
 The Squire had talked himself quiet, and I got 
 a hearing : showing him the numbers I had 
 taken down outside Anna's letter and the 
 numbers on the stolen bank-note. It brought 
 him to reason. 
 
 "Why, bless my heart ! How can they have 
 been changed, Johnny ?" 
 
 Getting the packet of notes out of his pocket- 
 book, he went over their numbers. They were 
 all consecutive, the nine of them ; and so was 
 the tenth, the one I had taken down. He 
 pushed his night-cap back and stared at us. 
 
 " Did you two get larking yesterday and drop 
 the letter on your way to the post T 
 
 "We took it straight to the post, sir, and put 
 it safely in." 
 
 " I don't know that I'd answer for that," 
 stormed the Squire. " Once dropped in the 
 street, there's no knowing who might pick it 
 up, or what tricks might be played with it. 
 Hold your tongues, you two. How else do 
 you suppose it could have been done } We 
 don't live in the days of miracles." 
 
Lost in the Post. 15 
 
 Off went his night-cap, on went his coat. 
 Ringing the bell until it was answered, he 
 ordered the phaeton to be got ready on the 
 instant, to take him to the station : he was 
 going to Worcester. Mrs. Todhetley quite 
 implored him not to go ; as good as went down 
 on her knees : he would increase his cold, and 
 perhaps be laid up. But he'd not listen. 
 " Hang the cold !" he said : "he had no cold ; 
 it was gone. People shouldn't have it to say 
 that tricks could be played on him with im- 
 punity, and stolen notes substituted for honest 
 ones." 
 
 " What a way he puts himself into !" laughed 
 Tod, when he had ordered us off to make 
 ready. 
 
 " I know somebody else who does just the 
 same." 
 
 "You'll get it presently, Johnny." 
 
 Away we went to the station, Bob and Blister 
 spanking along and Tod driving : the Squire, 
 wrapped in about fifteen rugs and com.forters, 
 sitting beside him. The groom, Dwarf Giles, 
 was behind with me : he would have to take 
 the carriage back. A train came up pretty 
 soon, and we reached Worcester. 
 
 Of all commotions, the Squire made the 
 worst. When he got to the bank, Mr. Isaac 
 was out : would not be in till three o'clock : and 
 that put the finishing stroke on the Pater's im- 
 patience. Next he went to the Star, and told 
 
1 6 Jokmty Lzidlozu. 
 
 of the matter there, gathering half the house 
 about him. The post-office was taken next. 
 They seemed to know nothing whatever about 
 the letter — and I don't think they did — had not 
 particularly noticed it in sorting : could not have 
 seemed to see less had they been in a fog at 
 sea : except one thing, and that they'd swear to 
 — that every letter posted at the office the 
 previous day, and all other days, had been duly 
 forwarded, untampered with, to its destination. 
 
 The first dawn of reason that fell over us 
 was in the interview with Mr. Isaac. It was 
 pleasant to be with anybody so cheerfully calm. 
 Taking the roll of five-pound notes in his hand, 
 he pronounced them to be the same he had 
 given us on the previous clay ; and the number 
 I had dotted down to have been the one belong- 
 ing to the tenth note. 
 
 "And is this one of those two stolen ones 
 that were advertised ?" demanded the Squire, 
 putting it into Mr. Isaac's hands. 
 
 Mr. Isaac spoke with a clerk for a minute — 
 perhaps referring to the numbers as Salmon 
 had done — and came back saying that it was 
 the note. So there we were : the matter laid, 
 so far, to rest. Nothing could be more unsatis- 
 factory. The Squire sat quite still, as if he 
 had been struck dumb. 
 
 " I'm sure I shall never see daylight out of 
 this," cried the Squire in a kind of hopeless, 
 mazy tone. " It's worse than conjuring." 
 
Lost in the Post. ly 
 
 Mr. Isaac was called away. The Squire 
 fastened upon one of the old clerks, and went 
 over the matter with him. He could not 
 readily understand it. 
 
 " The note must have been changed, Mr. 
 Todhetley," said he. 
 
 " Changed in the post ?" 
 
 " Changed somewhere." 
 
 " But who did it ?" 
 
 " That's the question." 
 
 The Squire could not tear himself away. 
 Once out of the bank he would be at a nonplus. 
 He began casting a doubt on the Worcester 
 post-office ; the clerk retorted that there was a 
 post-office at our end, Timberdale : and at that 
 the Squire fired. Each would have held out for 
 the good faith of his respective post-office to the 
 death. It put Tod and me in mind of the fable 
 of the crows, each old mother saying that her 
 own young crow was the whitest. After glaring 
 at one another for a bit through their spectacles, 
 they shook hands and parted. 
 
 We got home to a late dinner at Crabb Cot, 
 just as wise as we had left it in the morning. 
 The Squire had an awful cold, though he'd not 
 admit it. At nine o'clock he virtually gave in, 
 went up to bed, and said Molly was to make 
 him a basin of hot gruel, and we might put a 
 drop of brandy in it. 
 
 The mode of conveying the letters from 
 Worcester was this. The Timberdale bag, 
 
 VOL. I. 2 
 
1 8 Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 made up at the Worcester office, was brought 
 out at night by the late train, and dropped at 
 the Timberdale station. The postmaster of 
 Timberdale (if you can give that title to one in 
 so insignificant a place) would be at the station 
 to receive it, and carried it home. 
 
 His name was Rymer. A man of standing 
 respectability in the place, and of good con- 
 nections, the son of a clergyman. He had been 
 brought up for a surgeon, but somehow never 
 got the chance to pass ; and, years and years 
 ago, opened a chemist and druggist's shop at 
 Timberdale. Then he added on other things : 
 stationery, Christmas cards, valentines, boys' 
 marbles, purses, and such like, which his wife 
 attended to. In time he got the post-office. 
 As to suspecting Rymer of doing anything 
 wTong with the note, it was not to be thought 
 of. He had two children : a son, who seemed 
 never to do any good for himself, and if placed 
 away from home would return to it again ; and a 
 daughter, a nice little girl of sixteen, who was as 
 useful amid the drugs and the post-office work 
 as her father. 
 
 Timberdale had two letter-carriers. One for 
 the place itself, the other for the country round. 
 This last had a regular journey of it, for the 
 farm-houses were scattered. There had always 
 been talk that our two houses — the Squire's and 
 old Coney's — ought not to be put in the Timber- 
 dale district for delivery, and why it was origi- 
 
Lost ill the Post. 19 
 
 nally done nobody could make out ; seeing that 
 we were ever so far off Timberdale, and in 
 Crabb parish. But people did not bestir them- 
 selves to alter it, and so the old custom went 
 on. The out-postman was Lee : a trustworthy 
 old soul with shaky legs. 
 
 The next morning, Cole the surgeon came 
 in, vexed. The Squire ought not to have got 
 up at all the past day, he said, much less have 
 gone to Worcester ; and where was the use of 
 his prescribing remedies if they were not 
 attended to. Upon that, the Squire (after re- 
 torting that he should do as he pleased in spite 
 of Cole and his remedies, and speaking out of a 
 kind of foggy hoarseness) told about posting the 
 bank-note to Mrs. Todhetley, and what had 
 come of it. 
 
 " Well, it's a strange thing," said Cole, when 
 he had turned the news about in his mind. 
 " What do you think, Johnny ?" 
 
 He would often say to me when talking of 
 things and people " What diO yott think ?" He 
 had a theory that I saw clearly, just as Duffham 
 at Church Dykely had. I had nothing particular 
 to think about this : it seemed a hopeless puzzle. 
 
 " Lee's sure," said Cole, speaking of the post- 
 man ; "so is Rymer. There are no other hands 
 it could have been in on this side." 
 
 "The Worcester side say it was not tampered 
 with on theirs.'' 
 
 " Have you questioned Rymer about it ?" 
 
20 Johnny Ludlow, 
 
 "Not yet," croaked the Squire. " I meant 
 to have gone to him to-day." 
 
 " Which you'll not do," cried Mr. Cole. 
 " But now, look here : I'd not tell people at 
 first that the substituted note was one of those 
 stolen ones, if I were you : not even Rymer. 
 Nobody likes to be mixed up with robberies. 
 You'd put folks on their guard at once ; and 
 any chance word of enlightenment, that might 
 otherwise be dropped, would be kept in." 
 
 We did not quite take him. " /would not," 
 repeated Cole. 
 
 " But we must inquire about it," said Tod. 
 "What's to be said of the note T 
 
 ' ' Say that the bank-note you put in was changed 
 en route for another one : that the numbers did 
 not tally. That's all you need tell at first." 
 
 Tod could not see any reason in the argu- 
 ment ; but the Squire took up the idea eagerly, 
 and ordered Tod to do as was suggested. He 
 was unable to go to Timberdale himself, but 
 was far too impatient to let it rest until another 
 day, and so Tod was to be his deputy. 
 
 With at least five hundred suggestions and 
 injunctions from the Squire — who only ceased 
 when his voice disappeared completely — we set 
 off, taking the way of the Ravine. It was a 
 fine spring day : the trees were coming into 
 leaf, the thorns and other bushes were budding ; 
 violets and primroses nestled at their feet. I 
 picked some early cowslips for a ball for Lena, 
 
Lost in the Post. 21 
 
 and some double white sweet violets for Mrs. 
 Todhetley. 
 
 Past Timberdale Court went we ; past the 
 church ; pastjael Batty's and the other straggling 
 cottages, and came to the village street. It was 
 paved : and you can't say that of all villages. 
 
 Mr. Rymer was behind his counter : a 
 delicate-faced, thin man, with a rather sad 
 expression and mild brown eyes. In spite of 
 his poor clothes and his white apron, and the 
 obscure shop he had served in for twenty years, 
 his face had ''gentleman" plainly written in it : 
 but he gave you the idea of being too meek- 
 spirited ; as if in any struggle with the world he 
 could never take his own part. 
 
 The shop was a double shop, resembling 
 Salmon's at South Crabb in shape and arrange- 
 ments. The druses and chemicals were on the 
 left-hand side as you entered ; the miscellaneous 
 wares on the other. Horse and cattle medicines 
 were kept with the drugs : and other things too 
 numerous to mention, such as pearl barley, 
 pickles, and fish-sauce. The girl, Margaret 
 Rymer, was serving a woman with a penny- 
 worth of writing-paper when we went in (three 
 sheets to the penny), and a postage-stamp. Tod 
 asked for Mr. Rymer. 
 
 He came forward from the little parlour, at 
 one end of which was the desk where he did his 
 postal work. 
 
 Upon Tod's saying that we wished to speak 
 
22 Johnny Lndloza. 
 
 with him privately, he took us into the parjour. 
 As we sat down opposite to him, I could not 
 help thinking what a nice face he had. It was 
 getting very careworn, A stranger would have 
 given him more than his forty-five years : 
 though the bright brown hair was good still. 
 Tod told his story. The chemist looked 
 thoroughly surprised, but open and upright as 
 the day. I saw at once that no fault attached 
 to him. 
 
 " A bank-note exchanged as it passed through 
 the post !" he exclaimed. " But, Mr. Joseph 
 Todhetley, the thing seems impossible." 
 
 " It is so," said Tod. " I was just as un- 
 willing to believe it at first : but facts are facts." 
 
 " I cannot see the motive," said Rymer. 
 "Why should one bank-note be taken out of a 
 letter, if another were substituted T' 
 
 Tod looked at me. Wanting to say that the 
 other was a stolen note, and was no doubt put 
 in to be got rid of. But the Squire had tied 
 us downl 
 
 "Had the note been simply abstracted from 
 the letter, we should be at no loss to understand 
 that a thief had helped himself to It ; but a thief 
 would not put another note of the same value in 
 its place," went on Rymer. 
 
 "Well, the facts are as I tell you, Mr. 
 Rymer," returned Tod, inwardly Impatient at 
 beine trammelled and havlns^ to tell so lame a 
 tale. " One bank-note was taken out of the 
 
Lost ill the Post, 23 
 
 letter and another put in its place. We want 
 you to help us discover the mystery." 
 
 " I will help you to the utmost of my power," 
 was Rymer's answer. " But — are you sure you 
 have told me the circumstances correctly .''" 
 
 " Quite sure," answered wrathful Tod. " The 
 thing was done between Worcester post-office 
 and our house. How it was done, and by 
 whom, is the question." 
 
 "You enclosed the note in the letter yourself 
 at Worcester on Wednesday afternoon, and put 
 it into the post-office : when we delivered the 
 letter at Crabb Cot yesterday morning, you 
 found the note inside had been taken out 
 and another put in ? These are the circum- 
 stances ?" 
 
 " Precisely so. Except that it was not I who 
 
 iclosed the note and took down its number, 
 but Johnny Ludlow. The Worcester office dis- 
 claims all fino-erino: in the matter, and so we are 
 thrown on this side of the journey. Did you 
 go to the station yourself for the bag of letters, 
 Rymer ?" 
 
 " I did, sir. I brought it home and sorted 
 the letters at that desk — turning to it — ready 
 for the two men to take out in the morning. I 
 had used to sort all the letters in the morning, 
 London and others ; but lately I've done what 
 we call the local bags — that come in before 
 bed-time — at night. It saves time in the 
 morninsf." 
 
24 Johmiy Liidlozv. 
 
 " Do you recollect noticing the letter for 
 Crabb Cot ?" 
 
 " I think I noticed it. Yes-, I feel sure I did. 
 You see, there's often something or other for 
 you, so that it's not remarkable. But I am sure 
 I did notice the letter." 
 
 " No one could have got to it in the night V 
 
 "What — here?" exclaimed Rymer, opening 
 his eyes in surprise that such a question should 
 be put. "No, certainly not. The letter-bags 
 are locked up in this desk, and I keep the key 
 about me." 
 
 "And you gave them as usual to Lee in the 
 morning ?" 
 
 Mr. Rymer knitted his patient brow the least 
 in the world, as if he thought that Tod's pur- 
 suing these questions reflected some suspicion 
 on himself. He answered very meekly — going 
 over the whole from the first. 
 
 "When I brought the Worcester bag in on 
 Wednesday night, I was at home alone : my 
 wife and daughter happened to be spending the 
 evening with some friends, and the servant had 
 asked leave to go out. I sorted the letters, and 
 locked them up as usual in one of the deep 
 drawers of the desk. I never unlocked it 
 again until the last thing in the morning, when 
 the other letters that had come in were ready to 
 go out, and the two men were waiting for them. 
 The letter would be in Lee's packet, of course — 
 which I delivered to him. But Lee is to be 
 
Lost in the Post. 25 
 
 depended on : he would not tamper with it. 
 That is the whole history so far as I am con- 
 nected with it, Mr. Joseph Todhetley. I could 
 not tell you more if I talked till mid-day." 
 
 "What's that, Thomas? Anything amiss 
 with the letters ?" called out a voice at this 
 juncture, as the inner door opened, that shut 
 out the kitchen. 
 
 I knew it. Knew it for Mrs. Rymer's. I 
 didn't like her a bit : and how a refined man 
 like Rymer (and he was so in all respects) could 
 have made her his wife seemed to me to be a 
 seven days' wonder. She had a nose as long 
 as from Crabb Ravine to the First of April ; 
 and her hair and face were red, and her flounces 
 fine. As common a woman as you'd see in a 
 summer's day, with a broad Brummagem accent, 
 But she was very capable, and not unkindly 
 natured. The worst Timberdale said of her 
 was, that she had done her best to spoil that 
 ugly son of hers. 
 
 Putting her head, ornamented with yellow 
 curl-papers, round the door-post, she saw us 
 seated there, and drew it away again. Her 
 sleeves were stripped up, and she had a coarse 
 apron on ; altogether not dressed for company. 
 Letting the door stand ajar, she asked again if 
 anything was amiss, and went on with her work 
 at the same time : which sounded like the chop- 
 ping of suet. Mr. Rymer replied in a curt word 
 or two, as if he felt annoyed she should inter- 
 
26 Johnny Ltcdlow. 
 
 fere. She would not be put off: strong-minded 
 women never are : and he had to give the 
 explanation, A five-pound bank-note had been 
 mysteriously lost out of a letter addressed to 
 Mrs. Todhetley. The chopping stopped. 
 
 '' Stolen out of it ?" 
 
 " Well — yes ; it may be said so." 
 
 " But why do you call it mysterious ?" 
 
 Mr. Rymer said why. That the bank-note 
 had not, in one sense, been stolen ; since 
 another of the same value had been substituted 
 for it. 
 
 Chop, chop, chop : Mrs. Rymer had begun 
 again vigorously. 
 
 " I'd like to know who's to make top or tail 
 of such a story as that," she called out presently. 
 ''Has anything been lost, or not ?" 
 
 " Yes, I tell you, Susannah : a five-pound 
 note." 
 
 Forgetting her curl-papers and the apron, 
 Mrs. Rymer came boldly inside the room, chop- 
 ping-knife in hand, and requested further en- 
 lightenment. We told her between us : she 
 stood with her back against the door-post while 
 she listened. 
 
 " When do you say this took place, young 
 gents T 
 
 " On Wednesday night, or Thursday morn- 
 inof. When the letter qoX. to us at breakfast 
 time, the job was done." 
 
 She said no more then, but went back and 
 
Lost in the Post. 27 
 
 chopped faster than ever. Tod and I had got 
 uj) to go when she came In again. 
 
 " The odd part about it is, their putting in a 
 note for the same value," cried she. " I never 
 heard of such a thing as that. Why not spend 
 the other note, and make no bother over it .''" 
 
 " You would be quite justified in doing so 
 under the circumstances, Mr. Todhetley," said 
 the quieter husband. 
 
 " But we can't," returned Tod, hotly — and all 
 but said more than he was to say. 
 
 " Why not ?" asked she. 
 
 " Because it's not ours ; there, Mrs. Rymer." 
 
 " Well, I know what I'd say — if the chance 
 was given me," returned she, resenting Tod's 
 manner. " That the note found in the letter 
 was the one put into it at Worcester. Changed 
 in the post ! It does not stand to reason." 
 
 " But, my dear," — her husband was beginning. 
 
 *' Now, Thomas Rymer, that's what I think : 
 and so would you, if you had a grain of sense 
 beyond a gander's. And now good-morning, 
 young gents : my pudding won't get done for 
 dinner at this rate." 
 
 Mr. Rymer came with us through the shop 
 to the door. I shook hands with him : and 
 Tod's nose went up in the air. But I think it 
 lies in what you see a man is, by mind and 
 nature, whether he is your equal, and you feel 
 proud to think he is — not in his wearing an 
 apron. There are some lords in the land I'd 
 
28 Johnny Ludloiv. 
 
 not half care to shake hands with as I would 
 with Thomas Rymer. 
 
 " I hope you will pardon me for reverting to 
 my first opinion, Mr. Todhetley," he said, turn- 
 ing to Tod — " but indeed I think there must be 
 some mistake. Mrs. Rymer may be right — 
 that the note found in the letter was the one 
 put into it." 
 
 Tod flung away. The facts he had obsti- 
 nately refused to believe at first, he had so fully 
 adopted now, that any other opinion offended 
 him. He was stamping when I caught him up. 
 
 ** To think that the Pater should have sent us 
 there like two fools, Johnny ! Closing our 
 mouths so that we could not speak the truth." 
 
 " Rymer only three parts believes it. His 
 wife not at all." 
 
 " Sugar his wife ! It's nothing to her. And 
 all through the suggestion of that precious calf, 
 Cole. Johnny, I think I shall act on my own 
 judgment, and go back and tell Rymer the note 
 was a stolen one." 
 
 " The Pater told us not to." 
 
 *' Stuff! Circumstances alter cases. He 
 would have told it himself before he had been 
 with Rymer two minutes. The man's hands 
 are partly tied, you see ; knowing only half of 
 the tale." 
 
 " Well ; / won't tell him." 
 
 " Nobody asked you. Here goes. And the 
 Squire will say I've done right." 
 
Lost in the Post. 29 
 
 Rymer was standing at his door still. The 
 shop was empty, and there were no ears near. 
 Tod lowered his voice, though. 
 
 " The truth is, Mr. Rymer, that the note, 
 substituted in the letter for ours, was one of 
 those two lost by the butcher at Tewkesbury. 
 I conclude you heard of the robbery." 
 
 " One of those two !" exclaimed Rymer. 
 
 " Yes : Salmon at South Crabb recognised it 
 yesterday, when we were asking him to give 
 change for it." 
 
 " But why not have told me this at once, Mr. 
 Joseph ?" 
 
 " Because the Squire and Cole, laying their 
 wise heads together this morning, thought it 
 might be better not to let that much get abroad : 
 it would put people on their guard, they said. 
 You see now where the motive lay for the 
 exchange of notes." 
 
 " Of course I do," said Mr. Rymer in his 
 quiet way. " But it is very unaccountable. I 
 cannot imagine where the treason lies." 
 
 " Not on this side, seemingly," remarked 
 Tod. " The letter appears to have passed 
 through nobody's hands but Lee's ; and he is 
 safe." 
 
 " Safe and sure. It must have been accom- 
 plished at Worcester. Or — in the railway train," 
 he slowly added. " I have heard of such things." 
 
 "You had better keep counsel at present as 
 to the stolen note, Mr. Rymer." 
 
30 Johnny Ludlozv. 
 
 " I will until you give me leave to speak. 
 All I can do to assist in the discovery is 
 heartily at Squire Todhetley's service. I'd 
 transport these rogues, for my part." 
 
 We carried our report home — that the thing 
 had not been, and could not have been, effected 
 on the Timberdale side, unless old Lee was to 
 be suspected : which was out of the question. 
 
 Time went on, and it grew into more of a 
 mystery than ever. Not as to the fact itself or 
 the stolen note, for all that was soon known 
 high and low. The Worcester office exonerated 
 itself from suspicion, as did the railway letter- 
 van. The van let off" its resentment in a little 
 private sneering : but the office waxed hot, and 
 declared the fraud must lie at the door of Tim- 
 berdale. And so the matter was given up for a 
 bad job, the Squire submitting to the loss of his 
 good note. 
 
 But a curious circumstance occurred, con- 
 nected with Thomas Rymer. And, to me, his 
 behaviour had seemed curious nearly through- 
 out. Not at that first interview — as I said, he 
 was open, and, so to say, indifferent then ; but 
 soon afterwards his manner changed. 
 
 On the day following that interview, the 
 Squire, who was very restless over it, wanting 
 the thing to come to light in no time, sent me 
 
Lost in the Post. 31 
 
 again to Rymer's place, to know if he had 
 gleaned any news. Rymer said he had not ; 
 and his manner was just what it had been the 
 past day. I could have staked my life, if neces- 
 sary, that the man believed what he said — that 
 news must be looked for elsewhere, not at 
 Timberdale. I am sure that he thought it 
 impossible that the theft could have been effected 
 after the letters came into his hands. But some 
 days later on, when the whole matter had been 
 disclosed, and the public knew as much about 
 it as we did, the Squire, well of his cold, except 
 for sniffinof, thouQ^ht he would have a talk with 
 Rymer himself, went over, and took me with 
 him, 
 
 I shall not forget it. In Rymer's windovv^ 
 the chemical side, there was a picture of a bul- 
 lock eating up some newly-invented cattle-food 
 and growing fat upon it. It caught the Squire's 
 eye. While he stopped to read the advertise- 
 ment, I went in. The moment Rymer saw me 
 — his daughter called t,o him to come out of the 
 parlour where he was at dinner — his face turned 
 first red, and then of a ghastly whiteness. 
 
 "Mr. Todhetley thought he would like to 
 come and see you, Mr. Rymer." 
 
 ''Yes, yes," he said, in an agitated kind of 
 tone, and then he stooped to put some jars 
 closer together under the counter ; but I thought 
 he knew how white he was, and wanted to 
 hide it. 
 
32 Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 When the Squire came in, asking first of all 
 about the new cattle-food, he noticed nothing. 
 Rymer was pretty nigh himself then, and said 
 he had taken the agency of it, and old Massock 
 had ordered some. 
 
 Then they talked about the note. Rymer's 
 tone was quite different from what it had been 
 before ; though whether I should have noticed 
 it but for his white face I can hardly tell. That 
 had made me notice Jam. He spoke in a low, 
 timid voice, saying no more than he was obliged 
 to say, as if the subject frightened him. One 
 thine I saw — that his hands trembled. Some 
 camomile blows lay on a white paper on the 
 counter, and he began doing them up with 
 shaky fingers. 
 
 Was his wife given to eavesdropping ? I 
 should have thought not — she was too inde- 
 pendent for it. But there she was, standing 
 just within the little parlour, and certainly lis- 
 tening. The Squire caught sight of her gown- 
 tail, and called out, " How d'ye do, Mrs. 
 Rymer ?" upon which she came forward. There 
 was a scared look on her face also, as if its im- 
 pudence had shrunk out of it. She did not stay 
 an instant — just answered the Squire, and went 
 away again. 
 
 " We must come to the bottom of the business 
 somehow, you know, Rymer," concluded the 
 Squire, as he was leaving. "It would never do 
 to let the thief get off. What I should think is, 
 
Lost in the Post. '^2> 
 
 that It must be the same fellow who robbed 
 the butcher " 
 
 " No, no," hastily interrupted Rymer. 
 
 ''No! One of the gang, then. Any way, 
 you'll help us all you can. I should like to bring 
 the lot to trial. If you get to learn anything, 
 send me word at once." 
 
 Rymer answered "Yes," and attended us to 
 the door. Then the Squire went back to the 
 cattle-food ; but we got away at last. 
 
 " Thomas Rymer breaks, Johnny, I think. 
 He doesn't seem in spirits somehow. It's hard 
 for a man to be in a shop all clay long, from 
 year's end to year's end, and never get an hour's 
 holiday." 
 
 Ever after this, when the affair was spoken 
 of with Rymer, he showed more or less the 
 same kind of shrinking — as if the subject gave 
 him some terrible pain. Nobody but myself 
 noticed it ; and I only because I looked out for 
 it. I believe he saw I thought something ; for 
 Avhen he caught my eye, as he did more than 
 once, his own fell. 
 
 But the curious circumstance connected with 
 him has to be told yet. One summer evening, 
 when it was getting towards dusk, he came over 
 to Crabb Cot to see the Squire. Very much to 
 the Pater's surprise, Rymer put a five-pound 
 note into his hand. 
 
 "Is the money found }'" cried he, eagerly. 
 
 " No, sir, it is not found," said Rymer, in a 
 
 VOL. I. :! 
 
34 Johnny Ludlozv. 
 
 subdued tone. "It seems likely to remain a 
 mystery to the last. But I wish to restore it 
 myself. It lies upon my conscience — being- 
 postmaster here — that such a loss should have 
 taken place. With three parts of the public, 
 and more, it is the Timberdale side that gets 
 the credit of beinof to blame. And so — it 
 weighs heavily upon me. Though I don't see 
 how I could have prevented it : and I lie awake 
 niofht after ni^ht, thinkingf it over." 
 
 The Squire stared for awhile, and then pushed 
 back the note. 
 
 " Why, goodness, man !" cried he, when his 
 amazement let him speak, " you don't suppose 
 I'd take the money from you! What in the 
 world ! — —what right have you to bear the loss ? 
 You must be dreamincr," 
 
 o 
 
 *' I should feel better satisfied," said poor 
 Rymer, in his subdued voice of pain. " Better 
 satisfied." 
 
 "And how do you think / should feel .'^" 
 stamped the Squire, nearly flinging the note 
 into the fire. " Here, put It up ; put it up. 
 Why, my good fellow, don't, for mercy's sake, 
 let this bother take your senses away. It's no 
 more your fault that the letter was rifled than it 
 was mine. Well, this is a start — your coming 
 to say this." 
 
 They went on, battling it out. Rymer pray- 
 ing him to take the note as if he'd pray his life 
 away ; the Squire accusing the other of having 
 
Lost in the Post. 35 
 
 gone clean mad, to think of such a thing. I 
 happened to go into the room In the midst, but 
 they had not leisure to look at me. It ended in 
 Rymer's taking back the note : it could not 
 have ended in any other manner : the Squire 
 vowing, if he did not, that he should go before 
 the magistrates for lunacy. 
 
 " Get the port wine, Johnny." 
 
 Rymer declined to take any : his head was 
 not accustomed to wine, he said. The Squire 
 poured out a bumper and made him drink it : 
 telling him he believed it was something of the 
 kind his head wanted, or it would never have 
 got such a wild notion into it as the errand he 
 had come upon that evening. 
 
 A few minutes after Rymer had left, I heard 
 the Squire shouting to me, and went back to 
 the room. He had in his hand a little thin 
 note-case of green leather, something like two 
 leaves folded together. 
 
 " Rymer must have dropped this, Johnny, in 
 putting it into his pocket. The note is in it. 
 You had better run after him." 
 
 I took it, and went out. But which way 
 had Rymer gone } I could see far along the 
 solitary road, and it was light enough yet, but 
 nobody was in view, so I guessed he was taking 
 the short-cut through the Ravine, braving the 
 ghost, and I went across the field and ran down 
 the zigzag path. Wasn't it gloomy there! 
 
 Well, It was a surprise ! Thinking himself 
 
36 Johnny Lzidlozu. 
 
 alone, he had sat down on the stump of a tree, 
 and was sobbing with all his might : great loud 
 sobs and moans that prevented his hearing me. 
 There was no time for me to draw back, or for 
 him to hide his trouble. I could only hold out 
 the green case, and make the best of it. 
 
 " I am afraid you are in some great trouble, 
 Mr. Rymer ?" 
 
 He got up and swallowed all his sobs at once. 
 " The best of us have trouble at times, Master 
 Johnny." 
 
 " What can I do for you ?" 
 
 " Nothing. Nothing. Except forget that you 
 have seen me giving way to it. It was very 
 foolish of me : but there are moments when — 
 when one loses self-control." 
 
 Either through his awkwardness or mine, the 
 leaves of the case opened, and the bank-note 
 fluttered out. I picked it up and gave it to 
 him. Our eyes met in the gloom. 
 
 " I think you know," he whispered. 
 
 " I think I suspect. Don't be afraid : no one 
 else does : and I'll never drop a hint to mortal 
 man." 
 
 Putting my hand into his that he might feel 
 its warm clasp, he took it as it was meant, and 
 wrung it in answ^er. Had we been of the same 
 age, I could have felt henceforth like his brother. 
 
 " It will be my death-blow," he whispered. 
 " Heaven knows I was not prepared for it. I 
 was unsuspicious as a child." 
 
Lost in tJic Post. 2>7 
 
 He went his way with his grief and his load 
 of care, and I went mine, my heart aching for 
 him. I am older now than I was then : and I 
 have learnt to think that God sends these dread- 
 ful troubles to try us, that we may fly from them 
 to Him. Why else should they come ? 
 
 And I dare say you have guessed how it was. 
 The time came when it was all disclosed ; so I 
 don't break faith in telling. That ill-doing son 
 of Rymer's had been the thief. He was staying 
 at home at the time with one of the notes stolen 
 from Tewkesbury in his possession : some of his 
 bad companions had promised him a bonus if he 
 could succeed in passing it. It was his mother 
 who surreptitiously got the keys of the desk for 
 him, that he might open it in the night : he 
 made the excuse to her that there was a letter 
 in the Worcester ba;? for himself under a false 
 direction, which he must secure, unsuspected. 
 To do Madam Rymer justice, she thought no 
 worse : and it was she who in her fright, when 
 the commotion arose about the Tewkesbury 
 note, confessed to her husband that she had let 
 Ben have the keys that night. There could be 
 no doubt in either of their minds after that. 
 The son, too, had decamped. It was to look for 
 our letter he had wanted the keys. For he 
 knew it might be coming, with the note in it : 
 he was on the platform at Timberdale railway 
 station in the morning — I saw him standing 
 
38 Johnny Ltidlow. 
 
 there — and must have heard what Mrs. Tod-, 
 hetley said. And that was the whole of the 
 mystery. 
 
 But I'd have given the money from my own 
 pocket twice over, to have prevented its happen- 
 ing, for Thomas Rymer s sake. 
 
11. 
 
 A LIFE OF TROUBLE. 
 
 MRS. TODHETLEY says that you may 
 sometimes read a person's fortunes in 
 their eyes. I don't know whether it's true. 
 She holds to it that when the eyes have a sad, 
 mournful expression naturally, their owner is 
 sure to have a life of sorrow. Of course such 
 instances may be found : and Thomas Rymer's 
 was one. 
 
 You can look back and read what was said 
 of him: "A delicate-faced, thin man, with a 
 rather sad expression and mild brown eyes. 
 The sad expression was in the eyes : that was 
 certain : thoughtful, dreamy, and would have 
 been painfully sad but for its sweetness. But 
 it is not given to everybody alike to discern this 
 inward sadness in the look of another man. 
 
 It was of no avail to say that Thomas Rymer 
 had brought trouble upon himself, and marred 
 his own fortune. His father was a curate in 
 Warwickshire, poor in pence, rich in children. 
 Thomas was put apprentice to a doctor in 
 
40 Johnny Ltidlow. 
 
 Birminofham, who was also a chemist and drue- 
 gist. Tom had to serve in the shop, take out 
 teeth, make up the physic, and go round with 
 his master to fevers and rheumatisms. While he 
 was doins: this, the curate died : and thenceforth 
 Thomas would have to make his own way in 
 the world, with not a soul to counsel him. 
 
 Of course he might have made it. But Fate, 
 or Folly, was against him. Some would have 
 called it fate, Mrs. Todhetley for one ; others 
 might have said it was folly. 
 
 Next door to the doctor's was a respectable 
 pork and sausage shop, carried on by a widow, 
 one Mrs. Bates. Rymer took to go in there of 
 an evening when he had the time, and sit in the 
 parlour behind with Mrs. Bates and her two 
 daughters. Failing money for theatres and 
 concerts, knowing no friends to drop in at, 
 youno; fellows drift awav anvwhere for relaxa- 
 tion when work is done. Mrs. Bates, a good 
 old motherly soul, as fat as her best pig, bade 
 him run in whenever he felt inclined. Rymer 
 liked her for her hearty kindness, and liked 
 uncommonly the dish of hot sausages, or chops, 
 that used to come on the table for supper. The 
 worst was, he o-rew to like somethinsf else — and 
 that was Miss Susannah. 
 
 If it's true that people are attracted by their 
 contrasts, there might have been some excuse 
 for Rymer. He was quiet and sensitive, with 
 a refined mind and person, and timid manners. 
 
A Life of Trouble. 41 
 
 Susannah Bates was free, loud, good-humoured, 
 and vulgar. Some people, it was said, called 
 her handsome then ; but, judging by what she 
 was later, we thought it must have been quite a 
 broad style of handsomeness. The Miss Bateses 
 were intended by their mother to be useful ; but 
 they preferred to be stylish. They played " Buy 
 a broom," and other fashionable tunes on the 
 piano, spent time over their abundant hair, wore 
 silks for best, carried a fan to chapel on Sundays, 
 and could not be persuaded to serve in the shop 
 on the busiest day. Good Mrs. Bates managed 
 the shop herself with the help of her foreman : 
 a steady young man, whose lodgings were up 
 a court hard by. 
 
 Well, Tom Rymer, the poor clergyman's son, 
 got to be as intimate there as if it were his 
 home, and he and Susannah struck up a friend- 
 ship that continued all the years he was at the 
 next door. Just before he was out of his time, 
 Mrs. Bates died. 
 
 The young foreman somehow contrived to 
 secure the business for himself, and married the 
 elder Miss Bates off-hand. There ensued some 
 frightful squabbling between the sisters. The 
 portion of money said to be due to Miss 
 Susannah was handed to her with a request 
 that she should find herself another home. 
 Rymer came of age just then, and the first 
 thing he did was to give her a home himself by 
 making her his wife. 
 
42 Johnny LtLciloza. 
 
 There was the bHght. His prospects of 
 advancement were over from that day. The 
 httle money she had was soon spent : he must 
 provide a Hving how he could. Instead of going 
 on to quaHfy himself for a surgeon, he took a 
 situation as a chemist and druc^Qfist's assistant : 
 and, later, set up for himself in the shop at 
 Timberdale. For the first ten years of his 
 married life, he was always intending to pass 
 the necessary examinations : each year saying 
 it should be done the next. But expenses came 
 on thick and fast ; and that great need with 
 everybody, present wants, had to be served first. 
 He gave up the hope then : went on in the old 
 jog-trot line, and subsided into an obscure rural 
 chemist and druggist. 
 
 The son, Benjamin, was intended for a 
 surgeon. As a preliminary, he was bound 
 apprentice to his father to learn the mysteries of 
 drugs and chemicals. When out of his time, 
 he was transferred to a chemist and druggist's 
 at Tewkesbury, who was also in practice as a 
 medical man. There, Mr. Benjamin fell in with 
 bad companions; which lapse, in course of time, 
 resulted in his coming home, and changing the 
 note in our letter for the stolen one, and then 
 decamping from Timberdale. What with the 
 sharp blow the discovery itself was to Mr. 
 Rymer, and what with the concealment of the 
 weighty secret — for he had to conceal it : he 
 could not go and tell of his own son — it pretty 
 
A Life of Trouble. 43 
 
 nearly did for him. R)mer tried to make 
 reparation in one sense — by the bringing of 
 that five-pound bank-note to the Squire. For 
 which the Squire, ignorant of the truth, thought 
 him a downright lunatic. 
 
 For some months, after that evening, Thomas 
 Rymer was to be seen in his shop as usual, 
 getting to look like a yellow ghost. Which 
 Darbyshire, the Timberdale doctor, said was 
 owing to the liver, and physicked him well. 
 
 But the physic did not answer. Of all obstinate 
 livers, as Darbyshire said, Rymer's was about 
 the worst he'd ever had to do with. Some days 
 he could not go into the shop at all, and Mar- 
 garet, his daughter, had to serve the customers. 
 She could make up prescriptions just as well 
 as he and people grew to trust her. They 
 had a good business. It was known that 
 Rymer's drugs were genuine ; had down direct 
 from the fountain-head. He had given up the 
 post-office, and the grocer opposite had taken 
 to^it: Salmon; who was brother to Salmon of 
 South Crabb. In this uncertain way, a week 
 sick, and a week tolerably well, Rymer con- 
 tinued to go on for about two years. 
 
 Margaret Rymer stood behind the counter : 
 
 a neat little girl in grey merino. Her face was 
 
 -just like her father's ; with the same delicate 
 
 features, the sweet brown eyes, and the look of 
 
 native refinement. Margaret belonged to his 
 
44 Johnny Licdlozu. 
 
 side of the house ; there was not an atom of the 
 Brummagem Bateses in her. The Squire, who 
 remembered her grandfather the clergyman, 
 said Margaret took after him. She was in her 
 nineteenth year now, and for steadiness you 
 might have trusted her alone all over the world 
 and back again. 
 
 She stood behind the counter, making up 
 some medicine. A woman in a coarse brown 
 cloak with a showy cotton handkerchief tied on 
 her head, was waiting for it. It had been a 
 dull autumn day : evening was coming on, and 
 the air felt chill. 
 
 " How much be it, please, miss ?" asked the 
 woman, as Marofaret handed her the bottle of 
 mixture, done up nicely in white paper. 
 
 " Eighteenpence. Thank you." 
 
 " Be the master better .^" the woman turned 
 round from the door to inquire, as if the state of 
 Mr. Rymer's health had been an after-thought, 
 
 " I think he is a little. He has a very bad 
 cold, and is lying in bed to-day. Thank you 
 for asking. Good-night." 
 
 When dusk came on, Margaret shut the street- 
 door and went to the parlour. Mrs. Rymer sat 
 there writing a letter. Margaret just glanced in. 
 
 " Mother, can you listen to the shop, please ?" 
 
 '' I can if I choose — what should hinder me .^" 
 responded Mrs. Rymer. "Where arc you off 
 to, Margaret ?" 
 
 " To sit with my father for a few minutes." 
 
A Life of Trotible. 45 
 
 " You needn't bother to leave the shop for 
 that. I dare say he's asleep." 
 
 " I won't stay long," said Margaret. " Call 
 me, please, if anyone comes in." 
 
 She escaped up the staircase, which stood in 
 the nook between the shop and the parlour. 
 Thomas Rymer lay back in the easy-chair by 
 his bit of bedroom fire. He looked as ill as 
 a man could look, his face thin and sallow, 
 the fine nose pinched, the mild brown eyes 
 mournful. 
 
 " Papa, I did not know you were getting up," 
 said Margaret in a soft, low tone. 
 
 " Didn't you hear me, child T' was his reply, 
 for the room was over the shop. " I've been 
 long enough about it." 
 
 " I thought it was my mother stirring about." 
 
 " She has not been here all the afternoon. 
 What's she doing ?" 
 
 " I think she is writing a letter." 
 
 Mr. Rymer groaned — which might have been 
 caused by the pain that he was always feeling. 
 M rs. Rymer's letters were few and far between, 
 and written to one correspondent only — her 
 son Benjamin. That Benjamin was random 
 and must be getting a living In any chance way, 
 or not getting one, and that he had never been 
 at home for between two and three years, 
 Margaret knew. But she knew no worse. The 
 secret hidden between Mr. and Mrs. Rymer, 
 
46 Johnny Liidlow. 
 
 that they never spoke of to each other, had 
 been kept from her. 
 
 " I wish you had not got up," said Margaret. 
 "You are not well enough to come down to- 
 night." 
 
 He looked at her, rather quickly ; and spoke 
 after a pause. 
 
 "If I don't make an effort — as Darbyshire 
 tells me — it may end in my being a confirmed 
 invalid, child. I must get down while I can, 
 Margaret — while I can." 
 
 " You will get better soon, papa ; Mr. Darby- 
 shire says so," she answered, quietly swallowing 
 down a sigh. 
 
 "Ay, I know he does. I hope it will be so, 
 please God. My life has been only a trouble 
 throuQ^hout, Marofaret ; but I'd like to struofele 
 with it yet for all your sakes." 
 
 Looking at him as he sat there, the fire-light 
 playing upon his worn face with its subdued 
 spirit, you might have seen it was true — that 
 his life .had been a continuous trouble. Was 
 he born to it '^ or did it only come upon him 
 through marrying Susannah Bates ? On the 
 surface of things, lots seemed very unequally 
 dealt out in this world. What had been the lot 
 of Thomas Rymer ? A poor son of a poor 
 curate, he had known little but privation in his 
 earlier years ; then came the long drudgery of 
 his working apprenticeship, then his marriage, 
 and the longer drudgery of his life since. An 
 
A Life of Trouble. 47 
 
 uncongenial and unsuitable marriage — and he 
 had felt It to the back-bone. From twenty to 
 thirty years had Rymer tolled In a shop late and 
 early ; never taking a day's rest or a day's holi- 
 day, for some one must be on duty always, and 
 he had no substitute. Even on Sundays he 
 must be at hand, lest his neighbours might be 
 taken ill, and want drugs. If he went to church, 
 there was no security that his servant-maid — 
 generally a fat young woman In her teens, with 
 a black face, rough hair, and waving a dirty 
 dish-cloth — would not astonish the conQ-resfation 
 by flying up to his pew-door to call him out. 
 Indeed the vision was not so very uncommon. 
 Where, then, could have been Rymer's pleasure 
 in life ? He had none : it was all work. And 
 upon the work came the trouble. 
 
 Just as the daughter, Margaret, was like her 
 father, so the son, Benjamin, resembled his 
 mother. But for the difference of years, and 
 that his red hair was short and hers long:, he 
 might have put on a lace cap, and sat for her 
 portrait. He was the eldest of the children ; 
 Margaret the youngest ; those between had 
 died. Seven years between children makes a 
 difference, and Margaret with her gentleness 
 had always been afraid of rough Benjamin. 
 
 But whether a child's ugly or handsome. It's 
 all the same to the parents ; and for some years 
 the only white spot In Thomas Rymer's life had 
 been the love of his little Benjamin. For the 
 
48 Jo Jinny Lttdlozu. 
 
 matter of that, as a child, Ben was rather pretty. 
 He grew up and turned out wild ; and it was 
 just as bad a blow as could have fallen upon 
 Rymer : but when that horrible thing was 
 brougfht home to him — the takinor of the bank- 
 note out of the letter, and the substituting of 
 the stolen one for it— then Rymer's heart gave 
 in. Ever since that time it had been as good 
 as breaking. 
 
 Well, that was Thomas Rymer's lot in life. 
 Some people seem, on the contrary, to have 
 nothing but brightness. Do you know what Mrs. 
 ' Todhetley says? — that the greater the cloud 
 here, the brighter will be the recompense here- 
 after. Looking at Thomas Rymer's face as the 
 fire played on it — its goodness of expression, 
 almost that of a martyr ; remembering his pro- 
 longed battle with the world's cares, and his 
 aching heart ; knowing how inoffensive he had 
 been to his fellow-creatures, ever doinof them a 
 good turn when it lay in his power, and never 
 an ill one — one could but hope that his recom- 
 pense would be of the largest. 
 
 " Had many people in this afternoon, Mar- 
 garet ?" 
 
 " Pretty well, papa." 
 
 Mr. Rymer sighed. "When I get stronger — " 
 
 " Margaret ! Shop." 
 
 The loud coarse mouthful was Mrs. Rymer's. 
 Margaret's spirit recoiled from it the least in 
 the world. In spite of her having been brought 
 
A Life of Trouble . 49 
 
 up to the " shop," there had always been some- 
 thing in her native refinement that rebelled 
 ao^ainst it and agfainst the havinof to serve in it. 
 
 "A haperth o' liquorish" was the large order 
 from a small child, whose head did not come 
 much above the counter. Margaret served it 
 at once : the liquorice, being often in demand, 
 was kept done up in readiness. The child laid 
 down the halfpenny and went out with a bang. 
 
 " I may as well run over with the letter," 
 thouorht Marraret — alludino- to an order she had 
 written to London for some drug they were out 
 of. " And there's my mother's. Mother," she 
 added, going to the parlour-door, " do you want 
 your letter posted ?" 
 
 " I'll post it myself when I do," replied Mrs. 
 Rymer. " Ain't it a'most time you got the gas 
 lighted ? That shop must be in darkness." 
 
 It was, nearly. But the gas was never lighted 
 until really needed, in the interests of economy. 
 Margaret ran across the road, put her letter into 
 the post ^ in Salmon's window, and ran back 
 again. She stood for a moment at the door, 
 looking at a huge lumbering caravan that was 
 passing — a menage on wheels, as seen by the 
 light within its small windows. "It must be on 
 its way to Worcester fair," she thought. 
 
 " Is it you, Margaret ? How d'ye do T 
 
 Some great rough man had come up, and was 
 attempting to kiss her. Margaret started back 
 with a cry. She would have closed the door 
 
 VOL. I. 4 
 
50 Jo Jinny Lzidlow. 
 
 against him ; but he was the stronger, and 
 got in. 
 
 " Why, what possesses the child ! Don't you 
 know me ?" 
 
 Every pulse within Margaret Rymer's body 
 tingled to pain as she recognised him. It was 
 her brother Benjamin. Better, than this, that 
 it had been what she fancied — some rude 
 stranger, who in another moment would have 
 passed on and been gone. Benjamin's coming 
 was always the signal for discomfort at home, 
 and Margaret felt half paralysed with dis- 
 may. 
 
 " How are the old folks, Maggie ?" 
 
 " Papa is very ill," she answered, her voice 
 slightly trembling. " My mother is well as 
 usual. I think she was writing to you this 
 afternoon." 
 
 "Governor ill! so I've heard. Upstairs a 
 good deal, is he not ?" 
 
 " Quite half his time, I think." 
 
 " WHio attends here .'^" 
 
 '^ I do." 
 
 " You ! — you little mite ! Brought your know- 
 ledge of rhubarb to good, eh ? What's the 
 matter with papa ?" 
 
 " He has not been well for a long while. I 
 don't know what it is. Mr. Darbyshire says" — 
 she dropped her voice a little — " that he is sure 
 there's somethino: on his mind." 
 
 " Poor old dad ! — just like him ! If a woman 
 
A Life of Trouble. 51 
 
 came in with a broken arm, he'd take it to 
 heart." 
 
 " Benjamin, I think it \s you that he has most 
 at heart," the girl took courage to say. 
 
 Mr. Benjamin laughed heartily. " Me ! He 
 needn't have me. I am as steady as old Time, 
 Maggie. I've come home to stay ; and I'll 
 prove to him that I am." 
 
 " Come home to stay !" faltered Margaret. 
 
 " I can take care of things here. I am better 
 able to do it than you." 
 
 " My father will not put me out of my place 
 here," said Margaret, steadily. " He has con- 
 fidence in me ; he knows I do things just as he 
 does." 
 
 " And for that reason he makes you his sub- 
 stitute ! Don't assume. Miss Maggie ; you'd 
 be more in your place stitching wristbands in 
 the parlour than as the presiding genius in a 
 drug-shop. How d'ye do, mother ?" 
 
 The sound of his voice had reached Mrs. 
 Rymer. She did not believe her own ears, and 
 came stealinsf forth to look, afraid of what she 
 might see. To give Madam Rymer her due, 
 she was quite as honest-natured as her husband ; 
 and the matter of the bank-note, the wrong use 
 made of the keys she was foolish enough to 
 surreptitiously lend Mr. Benjamin, had brought 
 her no light shock at the time. Ill-conduct, in 
 the shape of billiards, and beer, and idleness, 
 she had found plenty of excuse for in her son ; 
 
 4—2 
 
52 JoJumy Ludlow. 
 
 but when It came to felony, it was another 
 thing. 
 
 " It is him !"she muttered, as he saw her, and- 
 turned. 
 
 "Where on earth have you sprung from?" 
 demanded Mrs. Rymer. 
 
 ** Not from the skies, mother. Hearing the 
 governor was on the sick Hst, I thought I ought 
 to come over and see him," 
 
 *' None of your Hes, Ben," said Mrs. Rymer. 
 " That has not brought you here. You are in 
 some disgraceful mess again." 
 
 "It has brought me here — and nothing else," 
 said Ben: and he spoke truth. "Ashton of 
 Timberdale " 
 
 A faint groan — a crash as of the breaking of 
 glass. When they turned to look, there was 
 Mr. Rymer, fallen against the counter in his 
 shock of surprise and weakness. His arm had 
 thrown down a slight-made empty syrup-bottle. 
 
 And that's how Benjamin Rymer came home. 
 His father and mother had never seen him since 
 before the discovery of the trouble ; for as soon 
 as he had changed the bank-note in the letter, 
 he was off. The affair had frightened him a 
 little — that is, the stir made over it, which he 
 had contrived to get notice of; since then he 
 had been passably steady, making a living for 
 himself in Birmingham as assistant to a surgeon 
 and druggist. He had met Robert Ashton a 
 short while ago (this was the account he now 
 
A Life of Trouble. 53 
 
 gave), heard from that gentleman rather a bad 
 account of his father, and so thought it his 
 duty to give up what he was about, and come 
 home. His duty ! Ben Rymer's duty ! ! 
 
 Ben was a tall, bony fellow, with a passably 
 liberal education. He might not have been 
 unsteady but for bad companions. Ben did not 
 aid in robbing the butcher's till — he had not 
 quite come to that — neither was he privy to it ; 
 but he did get persuaded into trying to dispose 
 of one of the stolen notes. It had been the one 
 desperate act of his life, and it had sobered him. 
 Time, however, effaces impressions ; from two 
 to three years had gone on since ; nothing had 
 transpired, never so much as a suspicion fallen on 
 Mr. Benjamin, and he grew bold and came home. 
 
 Timberdale rubbed its eyes with astonish- 
 ment that next autumn-day, when it woke up 
 to see Benjamin Rymer in his father's shop, a 
 white apron on, and serving the customers who 
 went in, as naturally as though he had never left 
 it. Where had he been all that while, they 
 asked. Improving himself in his profession, 
 coolly avowed Ben with unruffled face. 
 
 And so the one chance — rest of mind — for the 
 father's uninterrupted return to health and life, 
 went out. The prolonged time, passing with- 
 out discovery, giving a greater chance day by 
 day that it might never supervene, could but have 
 a beneficial effect on Mr. Rymer. But when 
 Ben made his appearance, put his head, so to 
 
54 Johnny Lztdloiu. 
 
 say, into the very stronghold of danger, all his 
 sickness and his fear came back again. 
 
 Ben did not know why his father kept so 
 poorly and looked so ill. Never a word, in his 
 sensitiveness, had Mr. Rymer spoken to his son 
 of that past night's work. Ben might suspect, 
 but he did not know. Mr. Rymer would come 
 down when he was not fit, and take up his place 
 in the shop on a stool. Ben made fun of it : in 
 sport more than ill-feeling : telling the cus- 
 tomers to look at the old ghost there. Ben 
 made himself perfectly at home ; would some- 
 times hold a levee in the shop if his father was 
 out of it, when he and his friends, young men 
 of Timberdale, would talk and laugh the roof 
 off: could noise have done it. 
 
 People talk of the troubles of the world, and 
 say their name is legion : poverty, sickness, 
 disappointment, disgrace, debt, difficulty ; but 
 there is no trouble the human heart can know 
 like that brought by rebellious children. To 
 old Ryrner, with his capacity for taking things 
 to heart, it had been as a long crucifixion. 
 And yet — the instinctive love of a parent can- 
 not die out : recollect David's grief for wicked 
 Absolom : " Would God I had died for thee, 
 my son, my son !' 
 
 Still, compared with what he used to be, Ben 
 Rymer was steady. As the winter approached, 
 there set in another phase of the reformation ; 
 for he pulled up even from the talking and 
 
url Life of Trouble. 55 
 
 laughing, and became as good as gold. You 
 might have thought he had taken his dead 
 grandfather, the clergyman, for a model, and was 
 striving to walk in his steps. He went to 
 church, read his medical works, was pleasant at 
 home, gentle with Margaret, and altogether the 
 best son in the world. 
 
 " Will it last, Benjamin ?" his father asked him 
 sorrowfully. 
 
 "It shall last, father; I promise it," was the 
 earnestly-spoken answer. " Forget the past, 
 and I will never, I hope, try you again." 
 
 Ben kept his promise throughout the winter, 
 and seemed likely to keep it always. Mr. 
 Rymer grew stronger, and was in business 
 regularly, which gave Ben more leisure for his 
 books. It was thought that a good time had set 
 in for the Rymers ; but, as Mrs. Todhetley says, 
 you cannot control Fate. 
 
 One day, when we were again staying at 
 Crabb Cot, I had to call at the shop for a box of 
 *' Household Pills," Rymer's own making. When 
 anybody was ailing at home, Mrs. Todhetley 
 would administer a dose of these pills : two, or 
 one, or half one, according to our ages and 
 capacity for swallowing ; for they were about as 
 big as a small pumpkin. But that Rymer was 
 so conscientious a man, I should have thought 
 they were composed of bread and pepper. 
 
56 Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 Mrs. Todhetley pinned her faith to them, and 
 said they did wonders. 
 
 Well, I had to go to Timberdale on other 
 matters, and was told to call, when there, for a 
 box of these delectable Household Pills. Mr. 
 Rymer and his son stood behind the counter, 
 the one making up his books, Ben pounding 
 something in a mortar. Winter was just on the 
 turn, and the trees and hedges were beginning 
 to shoot into bud. Ben left his pounding to get 
 the pills. 
 
 ♦' Is this Mr. Rymer's ? Halloa, Ben !— Al! 
 right. How goes it, old boy ?" 
 
 The door had been pushed open with a burst, 
 and the above words were sent into our ears, in 
 a tone not over-steady. They came from a 
 man who wore sporting clothes, and his hat so 
 much aside that it seemed to be falling off his 
 head. Ben Rymer stared in surprise ; his 
 mouth dropped. 
 
 But that it was early in the day, and one does 
 not like to libel people, it might have been 
 thought the gentleman had taken a little too 
 much of something strong. He swaggered up 
 to the counter, and held out his hand to Ben. 
 Ben, just then wrapping up the box of pills, did 
 not appear to see it. 
 
 " Had a hunt after you, old fellow," said the 
 loud stranger. '' Been to Birmingham and all 
 kinds of places. Couldn't think where you'd hid 
 yourself." 
 
A Life of Trouble. 57 
 
 ** You are back pretty soon," growled Ben, 
 who certainly seemed not to relish the visit. 
 
 " Been back a month. Couldn't get on in the 
 New World ; its folks are too down for me. I 
 say, I want a word with you. Can't say it here, 
 I suppose." 
 
 " No," returned Ben, rather savagely. 
 
 " Just you come out a bit, Ben," resumed the 
 stranger, after a short pause. 
 
 " I can't," replied Ben — and his tone sounded 
 more like I won't. " I have my business to 
 attend to." 
 
 "• Bother business ! Here goes, then ; it's 
 your fault if you make me speak before people. 
 Gibbs has come out of hiding, and he's getting 
 troubl esome 
 
 "If you will go outside and wait, I'll come to 
 you," interrupted Ben at this, with summary 
 quickness. 
 
 The man turned and swaggered out. Ben 
 gave me the pills with one hand, and took off 
 his apron with the other. Getting his hat, he 
 was hastening out, when Mr. Rymer touched 
 his arm. 
 
 "Who is that man, Benjamin ?" 
 
 "A fellow I used to know in Tewkesbury, 
 father." 
 
 " What's his name T 
 
 " Cotton. I'll soon despatch him and be back 
 again," concluded Ben, as he disappeared. 
 
 I put down half-a-crown for the pills, and Mr. 
 
58 Johnity Ludlow. 
 
 Rymer left his place to give me the change. 
 There had been a kind of consciousness between 
 us, understood though not expressed, since the 
 night when I had seen him giving way to his 
 emotion in Crabb Ravine. This man's visit 
 brought the scene back again. Rymer's eyes 
 looked into mine, and then fell. 
 
 " Ben is all right now, Mr. Rymer." 
 
 " I could not wish him better than he is. It's 
 just as though he were striving to make atone- 
 ment for the past. I thought it would have 
 killed me at the time." 
 
 " I should forget it." 
 
 " Forget it I never can. You don't know 
 what it was, Mr. Johnny," he continued in a 
 kind of frightened tone, a red spot of hectic 
 coming into his pale thin cheeks, *' and I trust 
 you never will know. I never went to bed at 
 night but to lie listening for a summons at my 
 door — the officers searching after my son, or to 
 tell me he was taken ; I never rose up in the 
 morning but my sick spirit fainted within me, 
 as to what news the day might bring forth." 
 
 Mr. Benjamin and his friend were pacing side 
 by side In the middle of the street when I got 
 out, probably to be out of the reach of eaves- 
 droppers. They did not look best pleased with 
 each other ; seemed to be talking sharply. 
 
 " I tell you I can't and I won't," Ben was 
 saying, as I passed them In crossing over. 
 "What do you come after me for.'* When a 
 
A Life of Trouble. 59 
 
 fellow wants to be on the square, you'll not let 
 him. As to Gibbs " 
 
 The voices died out of hearing. I went 
 home with the pills, and thought no more about 
 the matter. 
 
 Spring weather is changeable, as we English 
 know. In less than a week, a storm of sleet 
 and snow was drifting down. In the midst of 
 it, who should present himself at Crabb Cot at 
 mid-day but Lee the letter-carrier. His shaky 
 old legs seemed hardly able to bear him up 
 against the storm, as he came into the garden. 
 I opened the door, wondering what he wanted. 
 
 " Please can I see the Squire in private, sir ?" 
 asked Lee, who was looking partly angry, partly 
 rueful. Lee had never been in boisterous spirits 
 since the affair of the bank note took place. 
 Like a great many more people, he got fanciful 
 with years, and could not be convinced but that 
 the suspicion in regard to it lay on Jiim. 
 
 " Come in out of the storm, Lee. What's up ?" 
 
 " Please, Mr. Ludlow, sir, let me get to see 
 the Squire," was all his answer. 
 
 The Squire was in his little room, hunting for 
 a mislaid letter in the piece of furniture he called 
 his bureau. As I shut old Lee in, I heard him, 
 Lee, begin to say something about the bank-note 
 and Benjamin Rymer. An instinct of the truth 
 flashed over me — ^as sure as fate something 
 connecting Ben with it* had come out. In 1 
 
6o Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 shot again, to make one at the conference. The 
 Squire was looking too surprised to notice me. 
 
 "It was Mr. Rymer's son who took out the 
 good note and put in the bad one ?" he ex- 
 claimed. " Take care what you say, Lee." 
 
 Lee stood outside the worn hearth-rug ; his 
 old hat, covered with flakes of snow, held be- 
 tween his two hands. The Squire had put his 
 back against the bureau and was staring at him 
 through his spectacles, his nose and face of a 
 finer red than ordinary. 
 
 The thing had been tracked home to Ben- 
 jamin Rymer by the man Cotton, Lee explained 
 in a rambling kind of tale. Cotton, incensed at 
 Rymer's not helping him to some money — which 
 was what he had come to Timberdale to ask for 
 — had told in revenge of the past transaction. 
 Cotton had not been connected with it, but 
 knew of the part taken in it by Rymer. 
 
 " I don't believe a syllable of it," said the 
 Squire stoutly, flinging himself into his bureau 
 chair, which he twisted round to face the fire. 
 "You can sit down, Lee. Where did you say 
 you heard this ?" 
 
 Lee had heard it at the Plough-and- Harrow,, 
 where the man Cotton had been staying. Jelf, 
 the landlord, had been told it by Cotton himself,, 
 and Jelf in his turn had whispered it to Lee. 
 That was last nig^ht : and Lee had come burst- 
 ing up with it now to Mr. Todhetley. 
 
A Life of Tro2ible. 6r 
 
 " I tell you, Lee, I don't take in a syllable of 
 it," repeated the Squire. 
 
 " It be true as gospel, sir," asserted Lee. 
 *' Last night, when I went in to Jelf s for a drop 
 o' beer, being a'most stiff all over with the cold, 
 I found Jelf in a passion because a guest had 
 gone off without paying part of his score, leaving 
 nothing but a letter to say he'd send it. Cotton 
 by name, Jelf explained, and a sporting gent to 
 look at. A good week, Jelf vowed he'd been 
 there, living on the best. And then Jelf said I 
 had no cause to be looked down upon any 
 longer, for it was not me that had done that 
 trick with the bank-notes, but Benjamin Rymer." 
 
 "Now just you stop, Lee," interrupted the 
 Squire. " Nobody looked down upon you for 
 it, or suspected you : neither Jelf nor other 
 people. I have said it to you times enough." 
 
 " But Jelf knows I thought they did, sir. 
 And he told me this news to put me a bit at my 
 ease. He " 
 
 "Jelf talks at random when his temper's up," 
 cried the Squire. "If you believe this story, 
 Lee, you'll believe anything." 
 
 " Ben Rymer was staying at home at the 
 time, sir," urged Lee, determined to have his 
 say. " If he is steady now, it's known what he 
 was then. He must have got access to the 
 letters somehow, while they lay at his father's 
 that night, and opened yours and changed the 
 note. Cotton says Mr. Ben had had the stolen 
 
62 Johnny Liidlozu. 
 
 note hid about him for ever-so-lonsf, waitingf for 
 an opportunity to get rid of it." 
 
 " Do you mean to accuse Mr. Ben of being 
 one of the thieves that robbed the butcher's' 
 till ?" demanded the Squire, getting wrathful. 
 
 " Well, sir, I don't go as far as that. The 
 man told J elf that one of the stolen notes was 
 given to young Rymer to pass, and he was to 
 have a pound for himself if he succeeded in 
 doing it." 
 
 The Squire would hardly let him finish. 
 
 " Cotton said this to Jelf, did he } — and Jelf 
 rehearsed it to you T 
 
 ''Yes, sir. Just that much." 
 
 " Now look you here, Lee. First of all, to 
 whom have you repeated this tale ?" 
 
 " Not to anybody," answered Lee. " I 
 thought I'd better bring it up here, sir, to begin 
 with." 
 
 "And you'd better let it stop here to end 
 with," retorted the Squire. " That's my best 
 advice to you, Lee. My goodness ! Accuse a 
 respectable man's son of what might transport 
 him, on the authority of a drunken fellow who 
 runs away from an inn without paying his bill ! 
 The likeliest thing is that this Cotton did it 
 himself. How else should he know about it ? 
 Don't you let your tongue carry this further, 
 Lee, or you may find yourself in the wrong box." 
 
 Lee looked just a little staggered. A faint 
 flush appeared in his withered face. The 
 
A Life of Trouble. 63 
 
 Squire's colour was at its fiercest. He was 
 hard at the best of times to take in extraordinary 
 tales, and utterly scouted this. There was no 
 man he had a greater respect for than Thomas 
 Rymer. 
 
 " I hoped you might be for prosecuting, sir. 
 It would set me right with the world." 
 
 "You are a fool, Lee. The world has not 
 thought you wrong yet. Prosecute ! I ! Upon 
 this cock-and-bull story ! Mr. Rymer would 
 prosecute me in turn, I expect, if I did. You'd 
 better not let this get to his ears : you might 
 lose your post." 
 
 "Mr. Rymer, sir, must know how wild his son 
 have been." 
 
 "Wild! Most of the young men of the 
 present day are that, as it seems to me," cried 
 the Squire in his heat. " Mine had better not 
 let me catch them at it, though. I'd warm their 
 ears well beforehand if I thought they ever 
 would Do you hear, Mr. Johnny ?" 
 
 I had been leaning on the back of a chair in 
 the quietest corner for fear of being sent away. 
 When the Squire put himself up like this, he'd 
 say anything. 
 
 " To be a bit wild is one thing, Lee ; to com- 
 mit felony quite another : Rymer's son would 
 be no more guilty of it than you would. It's 
 out of all reason. And do you take care of 
 your tongue. Look here, man : suppose I took 
 this up, as you want me, and it was found to 
 
64 Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 have been Cotton or some other gaol-bird that 
 did it, instead of young Rymer : where would 
 you be ? In prison for defamation of character, 
 if the Rymers chose to put you there. Be 
 wise in time, Lee, and say no more." 
 
 "It might have been as you say, sir — Cotton 
 himself; though I'm sure that never struck me," 
 returned Lee, veerincr round to the arofument. 
 "One thing that made me believe it, was the 
 knowing that Ben Rymer might easily get 
 access to the letters." 
 
 " And that's just the reason why you should 
 have doubted it," contradicted the Squire, 
 " He'd be afraid to touch them because of the 
 ease. Forgive you for coming up, you say ?" 
 added the Squire, as Lee rose with some humble 
 words of excuse. " Of course I will. But 
 don't you forget that a word of this, dropped 
 abroad, might put your place, as letter-man, in 
 jeopardy." 
 
 " And that would never do," said Lee, shaking 
 his head; 
 
 "/ should think not. It's cold to-day, 
 isn t It .'* 
 
 " Frightful cold, sir." 
 
 " And you could come through it with this 
 improbable story ! Use your sense another 
 time, Lee. Here, Johnny, take Lee into the 
 kitchen, and tell them to give him some cold 
 beef and beer." 
 
 I handed him over, with the order, to Molly; 
 
A Life of Trouble. 65 
 
 who went into one of her tantrums at it, for she 
 was in the midst of pastry-making. The Squire 
 was sitting with his head bent, looking as per- 
 plexed as an owl, when I got back to the room. 
 
 "Johnny — shut the door. Something has 
 got into my mind. Do you recollect Thomas 
 Rymer's coming up one evening, and wanting 
 to give me a five-pound note ?" 
 
 " Quite well, sir." 
 
 " Well ; I — I am not so sure now that there's 
 nothing in this fresh tale." 
 
 " I sat down ; and in a low voice told him all. 
 Of the sobbing fit in which I had found Rymer 
 that same night in the Ravine ; and that I had 
 known all along it was the son who had done it. 
 
 " Bless my heart !" cried the Squire softly, 
 very much taken aback. " It's that perhaps 
 that has been making Rymer so ill." 
 
 " He said it was slowly killing him, sir." 
 
 " Mercy on him ! — poor fellow ! An ill-doing 
 scapegrace of a rascal ! Johnny, how thankful 
 we ought to be when our sons turn out well, 
 and not ill ! But I think a good many turn out 
 ill nowadays. If you should live to have sons, 
 sir, take care how you bring them up." 
 
 " I think Mr. Rymer must have tried to bring 
 Ben up well," was my answer. 
 
 "Yes; but did the mother.^" retorted the 
 
 Squire. " More responsibility lies with them 
 
 than with the father, Johnny: and she spoilt him. 
 
 Take care, sir, how you choose a wife when 
 
 VOL. I. 5 
 
66 Johmiy L2idloiv. 
 
 the time comes. And there was that miserable 
 lot the lad fell in with at Tewkesbury! Johnny, 
 that Cotton must be an awful blackguard," 
 
 " I hope he'll live to feel it." 
 
 " Look here, we must hush this up," cried the 
 Squire, sinking his voice and glancing round the 
 room. " I'd not bring fresh pain on poor Rymer 
 for the world. You must forget that you've 
 told me, Johnny." 
 
 " Yes, that I will." 
 
 " It's only a five-pound note, after all. And 
 if it were fifty pounds, I'd not stir in it. No. 
 nor for five hundred; be hanged if I would! 
 It's not I that would bring the world about 
 Thomas Rymer's ears. I knew his father and 
 respected him, Johnny ; though his sermons 
 were three quarters of an hour long ; and I 
 respect Thomas Rymer. You and I must keep 
 this close. And I'll make a journey to Timber- 
 dale when this snow-storm's gone, Johnny, and 
 frighten Jelf out of his life for propagating 
 libellous tales." 
 
 That's where it ouo-ht to have ended. The 
 worst is, " oughts " don't go for much in the 
 M'Orld ; as perhaps every reader of this paper 
 has learned to know. 
 
 When Lee appeared the next morning with 
 the letters as usual, I went out to him. He 
 dropped his voice to speak, as he put them in 
 my hand. 
 
 " They say Benjamin Rymer is off, sir." 
 
A Life of Trouble. 6^ 
 
 "Off where ?" 
 
 " Somewhere out of Timberdale." 
 "Ofiffor what ?" 
 
 " I don't know, sir. Jelf accused me of having 
 carried tales there, and called me a jackass for 
 my pains. He said that what he had told me 
 .wasn't meant to be repeated again, and I ought 
 not to have gone canking it about, especially to 
 the Rymers theirselves ; that it might not be 
 
 true " 
 
 " As the Squire said, yesterday, you know, 
 Lee." 
 
 "Yes, sir. I answered Jelf that it couldn't have 
 been me that had gone canking to the Rymers, 
 for I had not as much as seen them. Any way, 
 he said, somebody had, for they knew of it, and 
 Benjamin had gone off in consequence. Jelt's 
 as cross over it as two sticks put cornerwise. 
 It's his own fault ; why did he tell me what 
 wasn't true ?' 
 
 Lee went off— looking cross also. After 
 breakfast I related this to the Squire. He 
 didn't seem to like it, and walked about thinking. 
 " Johnny, I can't stir in it, you see," he said 
 presently. "If it got abroad, people might 
 talk about compromising a felony, and all that 
 sort of rubbish : and I am a magistrate.. You 
 must go. See Rymer : and make him under- 
 stand — without telling him in so many words, 
 you know — that there's nothing to fear from 
 me, and he may call Ben back again. If the 
 
 5— --^ 
 
68 Johnny Litdlozcj. 
 
 young man has set-in to lead a new life, heaven 
 forbid that I, having sons myself, should be a 
 stumbling-block in the way of it." 
 
 It was striking twelve when I reached Tim- 
 berclale. Margaret said her father was poorly, 
 having gone out in the storm of the previous 
 day and got a chill. He was in the parlour 
 alone, cowering over the fire. In the last few 
 hours he seemed to have aged years. I shut the 
 door. 
 
 " What has happened ?" I whispered. " I 
 have come on purpose to ask you." 
 
 " That which I have been dreadino- all aloncr.'' 
 he said, in a quiet, hopeless tone. " Benjamin 
 has run away. He got some information, it 
 seems, from the landlord of the PlouQfh and 
 Harrow, and was off the next hour." 
 
 "Well, now, the Squire sent me to you pri- 
 vately, Mr, Rymer, to say that Ben might come 
 back again. He has nothing to fear." 
 
 " The Squire knows it, then !" 
 
 " Yes.- Lee came up about it yesterday : Jelf 
 had talked to him. Mr. Todhetley did not 
 believe a word : he blew up Lee like anything 
 for listening to such a tale ; he means to blow 
 up jelf for repeating anything said by a vaga- 
 bond like Cotton. Lee came round to his way 
 of thinkinof. Indeed there's nothino: to be 
 afraid of. Jelf is eating his words. The Squire 
 would not harm your son for the world." 
 
 Rymer shook his head. He did not doubt 
 
A Life of Trouble. 69 
 
 the Squire's friendly feeling, but thought it was 
 out of his hands. He told rne all he knew 
 about it. 
 
 " Benjamin came to me yesterday morning in 
 a great tiurry, saying something was wrong, and 
 he must absent himself. Was it about the bank- 
 note. I asked — and it was the first time a syllable 
 in regard to it had passed between us," broke 
 off Mr, Rymer. " Jelf had given him a friendly 
 hint of what had dropped from the man Cotton — 
 you were in the shop that first day when he came 
 in, Mr. Johnny — and Benjamin was alarmed. 
 Before I had time to collect my thoughts, or say 
 further, he was gone." 
 
 " Where is he T' 
 
 " I don't know. I went round at once to 
 Jelf, and the man told me all. Jelf knows 
 the truth ; that is quite clear. He says he has 
 spoken only to Lee ; is sorry now for having 
 done that, and he will hush it up as far as 
 he can." 
 
 " Then it will be quite right, Mr. Rymer. 
 Why should you be taking it In this way ?" 
 
 " I am ill," was all he answered. " I caught 
 a chill orolnor round to the Plouofh and Harrow. 
 So far as mental sickness goes, we may battle 
 it to the end, strength from Above being lent 
 to us ; but when it takes a bodily shape — why 
 there's nothing for it but crivinof in." 
 
 Even while we spoke, he was seized with 
 what seemed to be an ague-fit. Head, and legs, 
 
70 Johnny Lud/ozv. 
 
 and arms, and teeth, and the chair he sat in, all 
 shook together. Mrs. Rymer appeared with 
 some scaldincr-hot broth, and I said I'd run for 
 Darbyshire. 
 
 A few days went on, and then news came up 
 to Crabb Cot that Mr. Rymer lay dying. 
 Robert Ashton, ridino- back from the hunt in 
 his scarlet coat and white cords on his fine grey 
 horse (the whole a mass of splashes with the 
 thaw) pulled up at the door to say How d'ye 
 do ; and mentioned it amidst other items. It 
 was just a shock to the Squire, and nothing less. 
 
 *' Goodness preserve us ! — and all through 
 that miserable five-pound note, Johnny !" he 
 cried in a wild flurry. "Where's my hat and 
 top-coat ?" 
 
 Away to Timberdale by the short cut through 
 the Ravine, never heeding the ghost — although 
 its traditional time of appearing, the dusk of 
 evening, was drawing on — went the Squire. 
 He thought Rymer must be ill through fear of 
 him ; and he accused me of having done my 
 errand of peace badly. 
 
 It was quite true — Thomas Rymer lay dying. 
 Darbvshire was comino^ out of the house as the 
 Squire reached it, and said so. Instead of 
 being sorry, he flew in a passion and attacked 
 the doctor. 
 
 " Now look you here, Darbyshire — this won't 
 do. We can't have people dying off like this 
 
A Life of Trouble. yi 
 
 for nothing. If you don't cure him, you had 
 better give up doctoring." 
 
 " How d'ye mean for nothing?" asked Darby- 
 shire, who knew the Squire well 
 
 "It can't be for much : don't be insolent. 
 Because a man gets a bit of anxiety on his 
 mind, is he to be let die .^" 
 
 "I've heard nothing about anxiety," said 
 Darbyshire.- " He caught a chill through going 
 out that day of the snowstorm, and it settled on 
 a vital part. That's what ails him. Squire." 
 
 " And you can't cure the chill ! Don't tell me." 
 
 " Before this time to-morrow, Thomas Rymer 
 will be where there's neither killing nor curing," 
 was the answer. " I told them yesterday to 
 send for the son : but they don't know where 
 he is." 
 
 The Squire made a rush through the shop 
 and up to the bedroom, hardly saying, With 
 your leave, or By your leave. Thomas Rymer 
 lay in bed at the far end ; his white face whiter 
 than the pillow ; his eyes sunken ; his hands 
 outside, plucking at the counterpane. Margaret 
 left the room when the Squire went in. He 
 gave one look ; and knew that he saw Death 
 there. 
 
 " Rymer, I'd almost have given my own life 
 to save you from this," cried he in the shock. 
 " Oh, my goodness ! what's to be done .'^" 
 
 " I seem to have been waiting for it all along ; 
 to have seen the exposure coming," said Thom.as 
 
72 Johnny Ltidlozv. 
 
 Rymer, his faint fingers resting in the Squire's 
 strong ones. "And now that it's here, I can't 
 do battle with it." 
 
 " Now, Rymer, my poor fellow, couldn't you 
 — cotddn t you make a bit of an effort to live ? 
 To please me : I knew your father, mind. It 
 can't be right that you should die." 
 
 "It must be right ; perhaps it is well. I can 
 truly say with old Jacob that few and evil have 
 the days of my life been. Nothing but dis- 
 appointment has been my lot here ; struggle 
 upon struggle, pain upon pain, sorrow upon 
 sorrow. I think my merciful Father will 
 remember it in the last Great Account." 
 
 He died at five o'clock in the mornino;-. Lee 
 told us of it when he brought up the letters at 
 breakfast-time. The Squire let fall his knife 
 and fork. 
 
 " It's a shame and a sin, though, Johnny, that 
 sons should inflict this cruel sorrow upon their 
 l^arents," .he said later. " Rymer has been 
 brought down to the grave by his son before 
 his hair was grey. I wonder how tJieir accounts 
 will stand at the Great Reckoning ?" 
 
w 
 
 III. 
 
 HESTER REED'S PILLS. 
 
 TE were at our other and chief home, 
 Dyke Manor : and Tod and I were 
 there for the short Easter hohdays, shorter in 
 those days than in these. 
 
 It was Easter Tuesday. The Squire had 
 gone riding over to old Jacobson's with Tod. 
 I, having nothing else to do, got the Mater 
 to come with me for a practice on the church 
 organ ; and we were taking the round home 
 again through the village, Church Dykely. 
 
 Easter was that year very late. It was 
 getting towards the end of April : and, to judge 
 by the weather, it might have been the end of 
 May, the days were so warm and glorious. 
 
 In passing the gate of George Reed's cottage^ 
 Mrs. Todhetley stopped. 
 
 " How are the babies, Hester ?" 
 
 Hester Reed, sunning her white cap and 
 clean cotton gown in the garden, the three elder 
 children around, watering- the beds with a doll's 
 
74 Johnny L^idlow. 
 
 vvatering-pot, and a baby hiding its face on her 
 shoulder, dropped a curtsey as she answered. 
 
 " They be but poorly, ma'am, thank you. 
 Look up, Susy," turning the baby's face up- 
 wards to show it : and a pale mite of a face it 
 was, with sleepy eyes. " For a day or two past 
 they've not seemed the thing ; and they be both 
 cross." 
 
 " I should think their teeth are troublinQ; 
 them, Hester." 
 
 " Maybe, ma'am. I shouldn't wonder. Hetty, 
 she seems worse than Susy. She's a-lying there 
 in the basket indoors. Would you please spare 
 a minute to step in and look at her, ma'am T 
 
 Mrs. Todhetley opened the gate. " I may as 
 well go in and see, Johnny," she said to me in 
 an undertone : "I fear both the children are 
 rather sickly." 
 
 The other baby, " Hetty," lay in the kitchen 
 in a clothes-basket. It had just the same sort 
 of puny white face as its sister. These two 
 were twins, and about a year old. When they 
 were born. Church Dykely went on finely at 
 Hester Reed, asking her if she would not have 
 had enough with one new child but she must q;o 
 and set up two. 
 
 "It does seem very poorly," remarked Mrs. 
 Todhetley, stooping over the young mortal 
 (which was not cross just now, but very still and 
 quiet), and letting it clasp its little hst round 
 one of her fincrers. "No doubt it is the teeth. 
 
Hester Rcecfs Pills. 75 
 
 If the children do not get better soon, I think, 
 were I you, Hester, I should speak to Mr. 
 Duffham." 
 
 The advice seemed to strike Hester Reed all 
 of a heap. '' Speak to him ! to Dr. Duffham !" 
 she exclaimed. " Why, ma'am, they must both 
 be a good deal worse than they be, afore we 
 does that. I'll give 'em a dose o' mild physic 
 apiece ; I dare say that'll bring 'em round." 
 
 " I should think it would not hurt them," 
 assented Mrs. Todhetley. " They both seem 
 feverish ; this one especially. I hear you have 
 had Cathy over," she went on, passing to 
 another subject. 
 
 " Sure enough us have," said Mrs. Reed. 
 " She come over yesterday v/as a week and 
 stayed till Friday night." 
 
 " And what is she doinof now ?" 
 
 "Well, ma'am, Cathy's keeping herself; and 
 that's something. She has got a place at 
 Tewkesbury to serve in some shop ; is quite in 
 clover there, by all accounts. Two good gownds 
 she brought over to her back ; and she's pretty 
 nigh as light-hearted as she was afore she went 
 off to enter on her first troubles." 
 
 " Hannah told me she was not looking well." 
 
 " She have had a nasty attack of — what was 
 it ? — neuralgy, I think she called it, and been 
 obliged to go to a doctor," answered Hester 
 Reed. " That's why they gave her the holiday. 
 She was very well while she was here." 
 
76 Johnny Lndlozu. 
 
 I had stood at the door, talking to the httle 
 ones with their watering-pot. As the Mater 
 was taking her last final word with Mrs. Reed, 
 I went on to hold open the gate for her, when 
 some woman whisked round the corner from 
 Piefinch Lane, and in at the qfate. 
 
 " Thank ye, sir," said she to me : as if I had 
 been holding it open for her especial benefit. 
 
 It was Ann Dovey, the blacksmith's wife 
 down Piefinch Cut : a smart young woman fond 
 of fine gowns and caps. Mrs. Todhetley came 
 away, and Ann Dovey went in. And this is 
 what passed at Reed's — as leaked out to the 
 world afterwards. 
 
 The baby in the basket began to cry, and 
 Ann Dovey lifted it out and took it on her lap. 
 She understood all about children, having been 
 the eldest of a numerous fiock at home, and was 
 no doubt all the fonder of them because she had 
 none of her own. Mrs. Dovey was moreover 
 a great gossip, liking to have as many fingers 
 in her neighbours' pies as she could conveniently 
 get in. 
 
 "And now what's amiss with these here two 
 twins T asked she in a confidential tone, bend- 
 ing her face forward till it nearly touched INIrs. 
 Reed's, who had sat down opposite to her with 
 the other baby. " Sarah Tanken, passing our 
 shop just now, telled me they warn't the thing 
 at all, so I thought I'd run round." 
 
 " Sarah Tanken looked in while I was a- 
 
Hester Reed's Pills. 77 
 
 washing up after dinner, and saw 'em both," 
 assented Mrs. Reed. " Hetty's the worst of 
 the two ; more peeky hke." 
 
 "Which is Hetty .^" demanded Ann Dovey ; 
 who, with all her neighbourly visits, had not 
 learnt to distinguish the two apart. 
 
 " The one that you be a-nursing." 
 
 " Did the mistress of the Manor look at 'em?" 
 
 "Yes: and she thinks I'd better orive 'em 
 both some mild physic. Leastways, I said a 
 dose miofht brincr 'em round," added Hester 
 Reed, correctinof herself, " and she said it mieht." 
 
 " It's the very thing for 'em, Hester Reed," 
 pronounced Mrs. Dovey, decisively. "There's 
 nothing like a dose of physic for little ones : it 
 often stops a bout of illness. You give it to the 
 two ; and don't lose no time. Grey powder's 
 best." 
 
 " I've not got any grey powder by me," said 
 Mrs. Reed. "It crossed my mind to try 'em 
 with one o' them pills I had from Abel Crew." 
 
 " What pills be they ?" 
 
 '•'■ I had 'em from him for myself the beginning 
 o' the year, when I was getting the headache so 
 much. They be as mild as mild can be ; but 
 they did me good. The box is upstairs." 
 
 " How do you know they'd be the right pills 
 to give to babies ?" sensibly questioned Mrs. 
 Dovey. 
 
 " Oh, they be right enough for that ! W^hen 
 little Georgy was poorly two or three weeks 
 
78 Johnny Ludloiu. 
 
 back, I ran out to Abel Crew, chancinof (o see 
 him go by the gate, and asked whether one of 
 his pills would do the child harm. He said no, 
 it would do him good." 
 
 "And did it get him round ?" 
 
 " I never gave it. Georgy seemed to be so 
 much pearter afore night came, that I thought 
 I'd wait till the morrow. He's a rare bad one 
 to take physic, he is. You may cover a powder 
 in treacle that thick, Ann Dovey, but the boy 
 scents it out somehow, and can't be got to touch 
 it. His father always has to make him ; I can't. 
 He got well that time without the pill." 
 
 "Well, I should try the pills on the two little 
 twins," advised Ann Dovey. " I'm sure they 
 want something o' the sort. Look at this one ! 
 lying like a lamb in my arms, staring up at me 
 with its poor eyes, and never moving. You may 
 always know when a child's ill by its quietness. 
 Nothing ailing 'em, they worry the life out of 
 vou." 
 
 " Both. of them were cross enough this morn- 
 inof," remarked Hester Reed, "and for that 
 reason I know they be worse now. I'll try the 
 pill to-night." 
 
 Now, whether it was that Ann Dovey had 
 any especial love for presiding at the ceremony 
 of administering pills to children, or whether she 
 only looked in again incidentally in passing, 
 certain it was that in the evening she was for 
 the second time at Georo-e Reed's cottaq;e. 
 
Hester Reed's Pills. 79 
 
 Mrs. Reed had put the three elder ones to bed ; 
 or, as she expressed it, " got 'em out o' the way ;" 
 and was undressing the twins by firehght, when 
 Ann Dovey tripped into the kitchen, George 
 Reed was at work in the front sfarden, dio-orinof : 
 though it was getting ahnost too dark to see 
 where he inserted the spade. 
 
 " Have ye give 'em their physic yet }" was 
 Mrs. Dovey's salutation. 
 
 "No, but I'm a-going to," answered Hester 
 Reed. " You be just come in time to hold 'em 
 for me, Ann Dovey, while I go upstairs for 
 the box." 
 
 Ann Dovey received the pair of babies, and 
 sat down in the low chair. Taking the candle, 
 jNIrs. Reed ran upstairs to the room where the 
 elder children slept. The house was better 
 furnished than cottages o:enerallv are, and the 
 rooms were of a fairly good size. Opposite the 
 bed stood a high deal press with a flat top, 
 which Mrs. Reed made a shelf of, for keeping 
 things that must be out of the children's reach. 
 Stepping on a chair, she put her hand out for 
 the box of pills, which stood in its usual place 
 near the corner, and went downstairs with it. 
 
 It was an ordinary pasteboard pill-box, con- 
 taining a few pills — six or seven, perhaps. Mrs. 
 Dovey, curious in all matters, lifted the lid and 
 smelt at the pills. Hester Reed was getting 
 the moist sugar thev were to be administered in. 
 " What did you have these here pills for?" 
 
8o JoJinuy L^idloiv. 
 
 questioned Ann Dovey, as Mrs. Reed came 
 back with the surar. " Thev hain't over bipf." 
 
 " For headache, and pain in the side. I asked 
 ■okl Abel Crew if he coukl cfive me something 
 for it, and he gave me these pills." 
 
 Mrs, Reed was moistening a teaspoonful of the 
 sugar, as she spoke, with warm water. Taking 
 out one of the pills she proceeded to press it into 
 little bits, and then mixed it with the suQfar. It 
 formed a kind of paste. Dose the first. 
 
 " That ain't moist enough, Hester Reed," 
 pronounced Mrs. Dovey, critically. 
 
 " No } I'll put a drop more warm water." 
 
 The water was added, and one of the children 
 was fed with the delectable compound — Hetty. 
 Mrs. Dovey spoke again. 
 
 '■ Is it all for her ? Won't a whole pill be 
 too much for one, d'ye think ?" 
 
 " Not a bit. When I asked old Abel whether 
 one pill would be too much for Georgy, he 
 said. No — two wouldn't hurt him. I tell ye, 
 Ann Dovey, the pills be as mild as milk." 
 
 Hetty sucked in the whole dose by degrees. 
 Susy had a similar one made ready, and swal- 
 lowed it in her turn. Then the two babies 
 weVe conveyed upstairs and put to bed side by 
 side in their mother's room. 
 
 Mrs. Dovey, the ceremony being over, took 
 ]ier departure. George Reed came in to his 
 early supper, and soon afterwards he and his 
 wife went up to bed. Men who have to be up 
 
Hester Reed's Pills. 8 1 
 
 at five in the morning, must go to rest betimes. 
 The fire and candle were put out, the doors 
 locked, and the cottage was steeped in quietness 
 at a time when in larger houses the evening 
 was not much more than beginning. 
 
 How long she slept, Mrs. Reed could not 
 tell. Whether it might be the first part of the 
 night, early or late, or whether morning might 
 be close upon the dawn, she knew not ; but she 
 was startled out of her sleep by the cries of the 
 babies. Awful cries, they seemed, coming from 
 children so young ; and there could be no mis- 
 take that each of them was in terrible agony. 
 
 " Why, it's convulsions !" exclaimed George 
 Reed, when he had got a candle. " Both of 
 them, too !" 
 
 Going downstairs as he was, he hastily lighted 
 the kitchen fire and put a kettle of water on. 
 Then, dressing himself, he ran out for Mr. 
 Dufi"ham, The doctor came in soon after 
 George Reed had got back again. 
 
 Duffham was accustomed to scenes, and he 
 entered on one now. Mrs. Reed, in a state of 
 distress, had put the babies in blankets and 
 brought them down to the kitchen fire ; the 
 three elder children, aroused by the cries, had 
 come down too, and were standing about in 
 their night-clothes, crying with fright. One of 
 the babies was dead — Hetty. She had just 
 expired in her father's arms. The other was 
 dying. 
 
 VOL. I. 6 
 
82 Johnny Lttdlozo. 
 
 "What on earth have you been giving to 
 these children ?" exclaimed Duffham, after 
 taking a good look at the two. 
 
 " Oh, sir, what is it. please ?" sobbed Mrs. 
 Reed in her terror. " Convulsions ?" 
 
 " Convulsions — no, "said the doctor, in a fume. 
 " It is something else, as I believe — poison," 
 
 At which she set up a shriek that might have 
 been heard out of doors. 
 
 Well, Hetty was dead, I say ; and Duffham 
 could not do anything to save the other. It 
 died while he stood there. Duffham repeated 
 his conjecture of poison ; and Mrs. Reed, all 
 topsy-turvy though she was, three parts bereft 
 of her senses, resented the implication almost 
 angrily. 
 
 " Poison!" cried she. " How can you think 
 of such a thinof, sir ?" 
 
 " I tell you that to the best of my belief these 
 children have both died from some irritant 
 poison," asserted Duffham, coolly imperative. 
 " I ask what you have been giving them." 
 
 " They have not been well this three or four 
 days past," replied she, wandering from the 
 point ; not in evasion, but in her mind's bewil- 
 derment. " It must have been their teeth, sir ; 
 I thought they were cutting 'em with fever." 
 
 "Did you give them any physic .'*" 
 
 " Yes, sir. A pill apiece when I put 'em to 
 bed.'" 
 
Hester Reed's Pills. Zt^ 
 
 " Ah !" said Mr. Duffham. " What pill was 
 it ?" 
 
 " One of Abel Crew's." 
 
 This answer surprised him. Allowing that 
 his suspicion of poison was correct, he assumed 
 that these pills must have contained it ; and he 
 had never had cause to suppose that Abel 
 Crew's pills were otherwise than innocent. 
 
 Mrs. Reed, her voice broken by sobs, ex- 
 plained further in answer to his questions, 
 telling him how she had procured these pills 
 from Abel Crew some time before, and had 
 given one of the said pills to each of the babies. 
 Duffham stood agfainst the dresser, takinpf it all 
 in with a solemn face, his cane held up to his 
 chin. 
 
 " Let me see this box of pills, Mrs. Reed." 
 She went upstairs to get it. A tidy woman 
 in her ways, she had put the box in its place 
 again, atop of the press. Duffham took off the 
 lid, and examined the pills. 
 
 " Do you happen to have a bit of sealing-wax 
 in the house, George Reed ?" he asked pre- 
 sently. 
 
 George Reed, who had stood like a man 
 dazed, looking first on one, then on the other of 
 his dead little ones, answered that he had not. 
 But the eldest child, Annie, spoke up, saying 
 that there was a piece in her little work-box ; 
 Cathy had given it her last week when she was 
 at home. 
 
 6—2 
 
84 Jo Jinny Ludlow. 
 
 It was produced — part of a small stick of 
 fancy wax, green and gold. Duffham wrapped 
 the pill-box up in the back of a letter that he 
 took from his pocket, and sealed it with a seal 
 that hung to his watch-chain. He put the parcel 
 into the hand of George Reed. 
 
 " Take care of it," he said. " This will be 
 wanted." 
 
 *' There could not have been poison in them 
 pills, sir," burst out Mrs. Reed, her distress in- 
 creasing at the possibility that he might be 
 right. " If there had been, they'd ha' poisoned 
 me. One night I took three of 'em." 
 
 Duffham did not answer. He was nodding 
 his head to his own thoughts. 
 
 " And who ever heard of Abel Crew mixing 
 up poison in his pills ?" went on Mrs. Reed. 
 " If you please, sir, I don't think he could 
 doit." 
 
 " Well, that part of it puzzles me — how he 
 came to do it," acknowledged Duffham. " I 
 like old Abel, and shall be sorry if it is proved 
 that his pills have done the mischief." 
 
 Mrs. Reed shook her head. She had better 
 faith than that in Abel Crew. 
 
 Ever so many years before — for it was in the 
 time of Sir Peter Chavasse — there appeared one 
 day a wanderer at Church Dykely. It was hot 
 weather, and he seemed to think nothing of en- 
 camping out in the fields by night, under the 
 
Hester Reed's Pills. 85 
 
 summer stars. Who he was, or what he was, 
 or why he had come, or why he stayed, nobody 
 knew. He was evidently not a tramp, or a 
 gipsy, or a travelling tinker — quite superior to 
 it all ; a slender, young, and silent man, with a 
 pale and gentle face. 
 
 At one corner of the common, spreading itself 
 between the village and Chavasse Grange, there 
 stood a covered wooden shed, formerly used to 
 impound stray cattle, but left to itself since the 
 square space for the new pound had been railed 
 round. By-and-by it was found that the wan- 
 derer had taken to this shed to sleep in. Next, 
 his name leaked out — " Abel Crew." 
 
 He lived how he could, and as simply as a 
 hermit. Buying a penny loaf at the baker's, 
 and makinof his dinner of it with a handful of 
 sorrel plucked from the fields, and a drink from 
 the rivulet that ran throuorh the wilderness out- 
 side the Chavasse grounds. His days were 
 .spent in examining roots and wild herbs, now 
 and then in digging one up ; and his nights 
 mostly in studying the stars. Sir Peter struck 
 up a kind of speaking acquaintanceship with 
 him, and, it was said, was surprised by his stock 
 of knowledge and at the extent of his travels ; 
 for he knew personally many foreign places 
 where even Sir Peter himself had never been. 
 That may have caused Sir Peter — who was lord 
 of the manor and of the common included — to 
 tolerate In him what it was supposed he would 
 
86 Johnny Ltidlow. 
 
 not in others. Any way, when Abel Crew 
 began to dig the ground about his shed, and 
 plant roots and herbs in it, Sir Peter let him do 
 it and never interfered. It was quite the oppo- 
 site ; for Sir Peter would sometimes stand to 
 watch him at his work, talking all the while. 
 
 In the course of time there was quite an 
 extensive garden round the shed — speaking 
 comparatively, you know, for we do not expect 
 to see a shed o^arden as laro^e as that of a man- 
 sion. It was fenced in with a hedge and wooden 
 palings, all the work of Abel Crew's hands. 
 Sir Peter was dead then ; but Lady Chavasse, 
 guardian of the young heir. Sir Geoffry, ex- 
 tended to him the same favour that her husband 
 had, and, if she did not absolutely give sanction 
 to what he was doing, she at any rate did not 
 oppose. Abel Crew filled his garden with rare 
 and choice and useful field herbs, the valuable 
 properties of which he alone understood ; and 
 of ordinary sweet flowers, such as bees love to 
 suck. He set up bee-hives and sold the honey ; 
 he distilled lavender and bergamotte for per- 
 fumes ; he converted his herbs and roots into 
 medicines, which he supplied to the poor people 
 around, charging so small a price for them that 
 It could scarcely more than cover the cost of 
 making, and not charging at all the very poor. 
 At the end of about ten years from his first ap- 
 pearance, he knocked down the old shed, and 
 built up a convenient cottage in its place, doing 
 
Hester Reed's Pills. 87 
 
 it all with his own sole pair of hands. And the 
 years went on and on, and Abel Crew and his 
 cottage, and his herbs, and his flowers, and his 
 bees, and his medicines, were just as much of 
 an institution in the parish as was the Grange 
 itself. 
 
 He and I became good friends. I liked him. 
 You have heard how I take likes and dislikes to 
 faces, and I rarely saw a face that I liked as I 
 liked Abel Crew's. Not for its beauty, though 
 it really was beautiful, with its perfect shape 
 and delicately carved features ; but for its un- 
 mistakable look of goodness and its innate 
 refinement — perhaps also for the deep, far- 
 seeing, and often sad expression that sat in the 
 earnest eyes. He was old now — sixty, I dare 
 say; tall, slender, and very upright still; his white 
 hair brushed back from his forehead and worn 
 rather long. What his original condition of life 
 might have been did not transpire ; he never 
 talked of it. More than once I had seen him 
 reading Latin books ; and though he fell into 
 the diction of the country people around when 
 talking with them, he changed his tones and 
 language when conversing with his betters. A 
 character, no doubt, he was, but a man to be 
 respected ; a man of religion, too — attending 
 church regularly twice on a Sunday, wet or dry, 
 and carrying his religion into the little things 
 of every-day life. 
 
 His style of dress was old-fashioned and 
 
88 Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 peculiar. So far as I saw, It never varied, 
 A stout coat, waistcoat, and breeches every day, 
 all of one colour — drab ; with leather gaiters 
 buttoned nearly to the knee. On Sundays he 
 wore a suit of black silk velvet, and a frilled shirt 
 of fine cambric. His breeches were tied at the 
 knee with black ribbon, in which was a plain, 
 shining steel buckle ; buckles to match shone 
 in his shoes. His stockings were black, and in 
 the winter he wore black cloth oraiters. In 
 short, on vSundays Abel Crew looked like a fine 
 old-fashioned English gentleman, and would 
 have been taken for one. The woman who did 
 up his linen declared he was more particular 
 over his shirt-frills than Sir Peter himself. 
 
 Strangers in the place would sometimes ask 
 what he was. The answer was not easy to 
 give. He was a botanist and herbalist, and 
 made pills, and mixtures, and perfumes, and 
 sold honey, and had built his cottage and 
 planted out his garden, and lived alone, cooking 
 his food and waiting on himself; doing all in 
 fact with his own hands, and was very modest 
 always. On the other side, he had travelled in 
 his youth, he understood paintings, studied the 
 stars, read his store of Latin and classical books, 
 and now and then bought more, and was as 
 good a doctor as Duffham himself. Some 
 people said a better one. Certain it was, that 
 more than once when legitimate medical 
 nostrums had failed — calomel and blisters and 
 
Hester Reed's Pills. 89 
 
 bleeding— Abel Crew's simple decoctions and 
 leaves had worked a cure. Look at young Mrs. 
 Sterling at the Court. When that first baby of 
 hers came to town — and a fine squalling young 
 brat he was, with a mouth like a crocodile's ! — 
 gatherings arose in her chest or somewhere, 
 one after another ; it was said the agony was 
 awful. Duffham's skill seemed to have gone a 
 blackberrying, the other doctor's also, for neither 
 of the two could do anything for her, and the 
 Court thought she would have died of it. Upon 
 that, some relation of old Sterlincr's was sum- 
 moned from London — a great physician in great 
 practice. He came in answer, and was liberal 
 with his advice, telling them to try this and to 
 try the other. But it did no good ; and she 
 only got worse. When they were all in despair, 
 seeing her increased weakness and the prolonged 
 pain, the woman who nursed her spoke of old 
 Abel Crew ; she had known him cure in these 
 cases when the doctor could not : and the poor 
 young lady, willing to catch at a straw, told 
 them to go for Abel Crew. Abel Crew took 
 a prepared plaster of herbs with him, green 
 leaves of some kind, and applied it. That 
 night the patient slept more easily than she had 
 for weeks ; and in a short time was well. 
 
 But, skilful thouofh he seemed to be in the 
 science of herbs, as remedies for sickness and 
 sores, Abel Crew never obtruded himself upon 
 the ailing, or took money for his advice, or 
 
90 Johnny Ludloiu. 
 
 willingly interfered with the province of Duff- 
 ham ; he never would do it unless compelled in 
 the interests of humanity. The patients he 
 chiefly treated were the poor, those who could 
 not have paid Duffham a coin worth thinking 
 of. Duffham knew this. And, instead of being 
 jealous of him, as some medical men might have 
 been, or ridiculing him for a quack, Duffham 
 liked and respected old Abel Crew. He was 
 simple in his habits still : living chiefly upon 
 bread-and-butter, with radishes or mustard-and- 
 cress for a relish, cooking vegetables for his 
 dinner, but rarely meat : and his drink was tea 
 or spring water. 
 
 So that Abel Crew was rather a notable 
 character amid us ; and when it was known 
 abroad that tvvo of his pills had caused the 
 death of Mrs. Reed's twins, there arose no end 
 of a commotion. 
 
 It chanced that the same night this occurred, 
 just about the time in fact that the unfortunate 
 infants -were taking down the pills under the 
 superintendence of their mother and the black- 
 smith's wife, Abel Crew met with an accident ; 
 though it was curious enough that it should be 
 so. In taking a pan of boiling herbs off the 
 fire, he let one of the handles slip out of his 
 fingers ; it sent the pan down on that side, 
 spilled a lot of the stuff, and scalded his left 
 foot on the instep. Therefore he was about 
 the last person to hear of the calamity ; for his 
 
Hester Reed's Pills. 91 
 
 door was not open as usual the following 
 morning, and nobody knocked to tell him 
 of it. 
 
 Duffham was the first. Passing by on his 
 morning rounds, the doctor heard the comments 
 of the people, and it arrested him. It was so 
 unusual a thing for Abel Crew not to be about, 
 and for his door to be closed, that some of them 
 had been arriving at a sensible conclusion — 
 Abel Crew, knowing the mischief his pills had 
 done, was shutting himself up within the house, 
 unable to face his neighbours. 
 
 " Rubbish !" said Duffham. And he strode 
 up the garden-path, knocked at the door with 
 his cane, and entered. Abel had dressed, but 
 was lying down on the bed again to rest his 
 lame foot. 
 
 Duffham would have asked to look at it, but 
 that he knew Abel Crew was as good at burns 
 and scalds as he himself was. It had been 
 doctored at once, and was now wrapped up 
 in a handkerchief 
 
 "The fire is nearly out," said Abel, " but it 
 must have rest ; by to-night I shall be able to 
 dress it with my healing salve. I am much 
 obliged to you for coming in, sir : though in 
 truth I don't know how you could have heard 
 of the accident." 
 
 " Ah ; news flies," said Duffham, evasively, 
 knowing that he had not heard of the foot, 
 or the neighbours either, and had come in 
 
92 Johnny Lndlozu. 
 
 for something altogether different. " What 
 is this about the pills ?" 
 
 "About the pills ?" repeated Abel Crew, who 
 had got up out of respect, and was putting on 
 his coat. "What pills, sir?" 
 
 The doctor told him what had happened. 
 Hester Reed had given one of his pills to each 
 of her babies, and both had died of it. Abel 
 Crew listened quietly ; his face and his eyes 
 fixed on Duffham. 
 
 " The children cannot have died of the pills," 
 said he, speaking as gently as you please. 
 " Something else must have killed them." 
 
 " According; to Hester Reed's account, nothinof 
 can have done it but the pills," said Duffham. 
 " The children had only taken their ordinary 
 food throughout the day, and very little of 
 that. George Reed came running to me in 
 the night, but it was too late ; one was dead 
 before I got there. There could be no mis- 
 taking the children's symptoms — that they were 
 poisoned.'' 
 
 " This is very strange," exclaimed Abel, look- 
 ing troubled. " By what kind of poison ?" 
 
 " Arsenic, I think. I " 
 
 But here they were interrupted. Dovey the 
 blacksmith, hearing of the calamity, together 
 with the fact that it was his wife who had 
 assisted to administer the suspected doses, 
 deemed it his duty to look into the affair a little, 
 and to resent it. He had left his forge and a 
 
Hester Reed's Pills, 93 
 
 bar of iron reeking hot in it, and come tearing 
 along in his leather apron, his shirt-sleeves 
 stripped up to the elbow, and his arms grimy. 
 A dark-eyed, good-natured little man in general, 
 was Dovey, but exploding with rage at the 
 jDresent moment. 
 
 " Now then, Abel Crew, what do you mean 
 by selling pills to poison people .^" demanded 
 he, pushing back the door with a bang, and 
 stepping in fiercely. Duffham, foreseeing there 
 was going to be a contest, and having no time 
 to waste, took his departure. 
 
 " I have not sold pills to poison people," 
 replied Abel. 
 
 " Look here," said Dovey, folding his black 
 arms, " be you a-going to eat them pills, or be 
 you not ? Come !" 
 
 " What do you mean, Dovey!" 
 
 " What do I mean ! Ain't my meaning 
 l^laln ? Do you own to having selled a box of 
 pills to Hester Reed last winter ? — be you a 
 thinking to eat that there fact, and deny of it } 
 Come, Abel Crew ?" 
 
 " I remember it well," readily spoke up Abel. 
 " Mrs. Reed came here one day, complaining 
 that her head ached continually, and her side 
 often had a dull pain in it, and asked me to give 
 her something. I did ; I gave her a box of 
 pills. It was early In January, I think. I know 
 there was ice on the ground." 
 
 " Then you do own to them pills," returned 
 
94 Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 Dovey, more quietly, his fierceness subdued by 
 Abel's civility. "It were you that furnished 
 em r 
 
 " I furnished the box of pills I speak of, that 
 Hester Reed had from me in the winter. 
 There's no mistake about that." 
 
 " And made 'em too ?" 
 
 " Yes, and made them." 
 
 " Well, I'm glad to hear you say that there ; 
 and now don't you go for to eat your words 
 later, Abel Crew. Our Ann, my wife, helped 
 to give them there two pills to the children ; 
 and I'm not a-going to let her get into trouble 
 over it. You've confessed to the pills, and I 
 be a witness." 
 
 " My pills did not kill the children, Dovey," 
 said Abel in a pleasant tone, putting his lame 
 foot up on an opposite chair. 
 
 " Not kill 'em r 
 
 " No, that they did not. I've not made pills 
 all these years to poison children at last." 
 
 " But what done it if the pills didn't ?" 
 
 ** How can I say ? 'Twasn't my pills." 
 
 *' Dr. Duff ham says it was the pills. And 
 he " 
 
 " Dr. Duffham says it was ?" 
 
 " Reed telled me that the doctor asked out- 
 right, all in a flurry, what his wife had gave the 
 babies, and she said she had gave 'em nothing 
 but them there two pills of Abel Crew's. 
 Duffham said the pills must have had poison in 
 
Hester Rced\^ Pi lis. 95 
 
 'em, and he asked for the box ; and Hester 
 Reed, she give him the box, and he sealed it 
 up afore their eyes with his own seal." 
 
 Abel nodded. He knew that any suspected 
 medicine must in such a case be sealed up. 
 
 " And now that I've got that there word 
 from ye, I'll say good-day to ye, neighbour, for 
 I've left my forge to itself, and some iron red- 
 hot in it. And I hope with all my heart and 
 mind," — the blacksmith turned round from the 
 door to say more kindly, his good-nature crojD- 
 ping up again, — "that it'll turn out it warnt 
 the pills, but some'at else : our Ann won't have 
 no cause to be in a fright then." 
 
 Which was as much as to say that Ann 
 Dovey was in a fright, you observe. 
 
 That same afternoon, going past the common, 
 I saw Abel Crew in his garden, sitting back 
 against the cottage wall in the sun, his foot 
 restino^ on a block of wood. 
 
 " How did it all happen, Abel ?" I asked, 
 turning in at the gate. " Did you give Mrs. 
 Reed the wrong pills T' 
 
 " No, sir," he answered, " I gave her the 
 right pills ; the pills I make expressly for such 
 complaints as hers. But if I had, in one sense, 
 given her the wrong, they could not have 
 brought about any ill effect such as this, for my 
 pills are all innocent of poison." 
 
 " I should say it could not have been the pills 
 that did the mischief, after all, then." 
 
96 Johnny Liidloic. 
 
 " You might swear it as well, Master Johnny, 
 with perfect safety. What killed the poor chil- 
 dren, I don't pretend to know, but my pills 
 never did. I tried to get down as far as Reed's 
 to inquire particulars, and found I could not 
 walk. 'Twas a bit of ill-luck, the disabling my- 
 self just at this time." 
 
 "Shall you have to appear at the inquest 
 to-morrow T 
 
 He lifted his head quickly at the question — 
 as though it surprised him. Perhaps not having 
 cast his thoughts that w^ay. 
 
 " Is there to be an inquest. Master Johnny ?" 
 " I heard so from old Jones. He has gone 
 over to see the coroner T 
 
 "Well, I wish the investigation was all over 
 and done with," said he. " It makes me uneasy, 
 though I know I am innocent." 
 
 Lookinof at him sittinof there in the sflisteninpf 
 sun, at his beautiful face with its truthful eyes 
 and its silver hair, it was next to impossible to 
 believe, he could be the author of the two chil- 
 dren's death. Only — the best of us are liable 
 to mistakes, and sometimes make them. I said 
 as much. 
 
 " / made none. Master Johnny," was his 
 answer. " When my pills come to be analysed 
 — as of course they must be — they will be found 
 pure and innocent." 
 
 The inquest did not take place till the Friday. 
 
Hester Reed's Pills. 97 
 
 Old Jones had fixed it for the Thursday, but the 
 coroner put it off to the next day. And by the 
 time Friday morning dawned, opinion had 
 veered round, and was strongly in favour of 
 Abel Crew. All the parish had been to see 
 hirn ; and his protestations, that he had never 
 in his life put any kind of poison in his 
 medicines, made a' great impression. The pills 
 could not have been in fault, said everybody. 
 Dr. Duffham might have sealed them up as a 
 matter of precaution, but the mischief would not 
 be found there. 
 
 In the middle of Church Dykely, next door 
 to Perkins the butcher's, stood the Silver Bear 
 Inn ; a better sort of public-house, kept by 
 Henry Rimmer. It was there that the inquest 
 was held. Henry Rimmer himself and Perkins 
 the butcher were two of the jurymen. Dobbs 
 the blacksmith was another. They all dressed 
 themselv^es in their Sunday-going clothes to 
 attend it. It was called for two in the after- 
 noon ; and soon after that hour, the county 
 coroner (who had dashed up to the Silver Bear 
 in a fast gig, his clerk driving) and the jury 
 trooped down to George Reed's cottage and 
 took a look at the two pale little faces lying 
 there side by side. Then they went back again, 
 and the proceedings began. 
 
 Of course as many spectators went crowding 
 into the room as it would hold. Three or four 
 chairs were there (besides those occupied by 
 
 VOL. I. 7 
 
98 Johnny Lndloz<\ 
 
 the jury at the table), and a bench stood against 
 the wall. The bench was speedily fought for 
 and filled ; but Henry Rimmer's brother, con- 
 stituting himself master of the ceremonies, 
 reserved the chairs for what he called the " big 
 people," meaning those of account in the place. 
 The Squire was bowed into one ; and to my 
 surprise I got another. Why, I could not 
 imagine, unless it was that the}^ remembered I 
 was the owner of George Reed's cottage. But 
 I did not like to sit when so many older persons 
 were standing, and I would not take the chair. 
 
 Some little time was occupied with prelimi- 
 naries before what might be called the thick of 
 the inquest set in. First of all, the coroner went 
 into a passion because Abel Crew had not put 
 in an appearance, asking old Jones if he 
 supposed that was the way justice must be 
 administered in England, and that he ous^^ht to 
 have had Crew present. Old Jones, who was 
 in a regular fluster with It all, and his legs more 
 gouty than ever, told the coroner, calling him 
 " his worship," that he had understood Crew 
 meant to be present. Upon which the coroner 
 sharply answered that " understanding " went 
 for nought, and Jones should know his business 
 better. 
 
 However, In walked Abel Crew in the midst 
 of the contest. His delayed arrival was caused 
 by his difficulty in getting his damaged foot 
 there ; which had been accomplished by the 
 
Hester Reed's Pills. 99 
 
 help of a stick and somebody's arm. Abel had 
 dressed himself in his black velvet suit ; and as 
 he took off his hat on entering and bowed 
 respectfully to the coroner, I declare he could 
 not be taken for anything but a courtly gentle- 
 man of the old school. Nobody offered him a 
 chair. I wished I had not given up mine : he 
 should have had it. 
 
 Evidence was first tendered of the death of 
 the children, and of the terrible pain they had 
 died in. Duffham and a medical man, who was 
 a stranger and had helped at the post-mortem, 
 testified to arsenic being the cause of death. 
 The next question was, how had it got 
 administered. A rumour arose in the room 
 that the pills had been analysed ; but the result 
 had not transpired. Everybody could see a 
 small paper parcel standing on the table before 
 the coroner, and knew by its shape that it must 
 contain the pill-box. 
 
 Hester Reed was called. She said (giving 
 her evidence very quietly, just a sobbing sigh 
 every now and then alone betraying what she 
 felt) that she was the wife of George Reed. 
 Her two little ones — twins, aged eleven months 
 and a half — had been ailing for a day or tw^o, 
 seemed feverish, would not eat their food, were 
 very cross at times and unnaturally still at 
 others, and she came to the conclusion that 
 their teeth must be plaguing them, and thought 
 she would give them some mild physic. Mrs. 
 
 7—2 
 
loo. Jiihnny Ludlow. 
 
 Todhetley, the Squire's lady at Dyke Manor, 
 had called in on the Tuesday afternoon, and 
 agreed with her that some mild physic " 
 
 "Confine your statement to what is evidence," 
 interrupted the coroner, in a stern voice. 
 
 Hester Reed, looking scared at the check, and 
 perhaps not knowing what was evidence and 
 what not, went on the best way she could. She 
 and Ann Dovey — who had been neighbourly 
 enough to look in and help her — had given the 
 children a pill apiece in the evening after they 
 were undressed, mashing the pill up in a little 
 sugar and warm water. She then put them to 
 bed upstairs and went to bed herself not long 
 after. In the night she and her husband were 
 awoke by the babies' screams, and they thought 
 it must be convulsions. Her husband lighted 
 the fire and ran for Dr. Duffham ; but one had 
 died before the doctor could get there, and the 
 other died close upon it. 
 
 "What food had you given them during the 
 day ?" asked the coroner. 
 
 "Very little indeed, sir. They wouldn't take 
 it." 
 
 "What did the little that they did take con- 
 sist of ?" 
 
 " It were soaked bread, sir, with milk and 
 some sprinkled sugar. I tried them with some 
 potato mashed up in a spoonful o' broth at 
 midday — we'd had a bit 'o biled neck o' mutton 
 for dinner — but they both turned from it." 
 
Hester Reed's Pills. loi 
 
 "Then all they took that day was bread 
 soaked in milk and sweetened with sugar ?" 
 
 " Yes, it were, sir. But the bread was soaked 
 in warm water and the milk and sugar was put 
 in afterwards. 'Twas but the veriest morsel 
 they'd take, poor little dears !" 
 
 "Was the bread — and the milk — and the 
 sugar, the same that the rest of your household 
 used T 
 
 " In course it were, sir. My other children 
 ate plenty of it. Their appetites didn't fail 
 em. 
 
 "Where did you get the warm water from 
 that you say you soaked the bread in T 
 
 " Out o' the tea-kettle, sir. The water was 
 the same that I biled for our tea morning and 
 night." 
 
 " The deceased children, then, had absolutely 
 no food given to them apart from what you had 
 yourselves T' 
 
 " Not a scrap, sir. Not a drop." 
 
 " Except the pills." 
 
 " Excepting of them in course, sir. None o' 
 the rest of us wanted no physic." 
 
 " Where did you procure these pills ?" 
 
 She went into the history of the pills. Giving 
 the full account of them, as already related. 
 
 " By your own showing, witness, it must be 
 three months, or thereabouts, since you had that 
 box of pills from Abel Crew," spoke the coroner. 
 " How do you know that the two pills you 
 
102 Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 administered to the deceased children came 
 from the same box ?" 
 
 Hester Reed's eyes opened in a wide stare. 
 She looked as surprised as though she had been 
 asked whether she got the two pills from the 
 moon. 
 
 " Yes, yes," interposed one of the jury, " how 
 do you know it was the same box T 
 
 "Why, gentlemen, I had no other box of 
 pills at all, save that," she said, when speech 
 came to her. " We've not hacl no physic but 
 that in the cottage since winter, nor for ever so 
 long afore. I'll swear it were the same box, 
 sirs ; there can't be no mistake about it." 
 
 " Did you leave it about in the way of 
 people.''" resumed the coroner. "So that it 
 might be handled by anybody who might come 
 into your cottage ?" 
 
 " No, sir," she answered, earnestly. " I 
 never kept the pill-box but in one place, and 
 that was on the top of the high press upstairs 
 out of harm's way. I put it there the first night 
 Abel Crew gave it me, and when I wanted to get 
 a pill or two out for my own taking, I'd used to 
 step on a chair — for it's too high for me to 
 reach up without — and help myself The box 
 have never been took from the place at all, sir, 
 till Tuesday night, when I brought it downstairs 
 with me. When I've wanted to dust the press- 
 top, I've just lifted the pill-box with one hand 
 and passed the duster along under it with the 
 
Hester Reed's Pills. 103 
 
 other, as I stood on the chair. It's the same 
 box, sir; I'll swear to that much; and it's the 
 same pills." 
 
 Strong testimony. The coroner paused a 
 moment. " You swear that, you say ? You are 
 quite sure ?" 
 
 "Sir, I am sure and positive. The box was 
 never took from its place since Abel Crew give 
 it me, till I reached up for it on Tuesday even- 
 ing and carried it downstairs." 
 
 " You had been in the habit of taking these 
 pills yourself, you say ?" 
 
 " I took two three or four times when I first 
 had "em, sir, once I took three ; but since then 
 I've felt better and not wanted any." 
 
 " Did you feel any inconvenience from them ^ 
 Any pain ?" 
 
 "Not a bit, sir. As I said to Ann Dovey 
 that night, when she asked whether they was 
 fit pills to give the children, they seemed as 
 mild as milk." 
 
 " Should you know the box again, witness ?" 
 
 " Law yes, sir, what should hinder me ?" re- 
 turned Hester Reed, inwardly marvelling at 
 what seemed so superfluous a question. 
 
 The coroner undid the paper, and handed 
 the box to her. She was standino^ close to him, 
 on the other side his clerk — who sat writing 
 down the evidence. "Is this the box?" he 
 .asked. " Look at it well." 
 
 Mrs. Reed did as she was bid : turned it 
 
I04 Johnny Liidloiv. 
 
 about and looked "well." "Yes, sir. it is the 
 same box," said she. " That is, I am nearly 
 sure of it." 
 
 " What do you mean by nearly sure ?" quickly 
 asked the coroner, catching at the word. " Have 
 you any doubt ?" 
 
 "Not no moral doubt at all, sir. Only them 
 pill-boxes is all so like one another. Yes, sir, 
 I'm sure it is the same box." 
 
 "Open it, and look at the pills. Are they, 
 in your judgment, the same ?" 
 
 " Just the same, sir," she answered, after 
 takino- off the lid. " One miMit a'most know 
 'em anywhere. Only " 
 
 " Only what ?" demanded the coroner, as she 
 paused. 
 
 " Well, sir, I fancied I had rather more left — 
 six or seven, say. There's only five here." 
 
 The coroner made no answer to that. He 
 took the box from her and put on the lid. We 
 soon learnt that two had been taken out for the 
 purpose of being analysed. 
 
 For who should loom into the room at that 
 juncture but Pettipher, the druggist from Pie- 
 finch Cut. He had been analysing the pills in 
 a hasty way in obedience to orders received 
 half-an-hour ago, and came to tell the result. 
 The pills contained arsenic, he said ; not enough 
 to kill a grown person, he thought, but enough 
 to kill a child. As Pettipher was only a small 
 man (in a business point of view) and sold 
 
Hester Reed's Pills. 105 
 
 groceries as well as drugs, and spectacles and 
 ear-trumpets, some of us did not think much of 
 his opinion, and fancied the pills should have 
 been analysed by Duffham. That was just like 
 old Jones : giving work to the wrong man, " - 
 
 George Reed was questioned, but could tell 
 nothing, save that he had never touched either 
 box or pills. While Ann Dovey was being 
 called, and the coroner had his head bent over 
 his clerk's notes, speaking to him in an under- 
 tone, Abel Crev/ suddenly asked to be allowed 
 to look at the pills. The coroner, never lifting 
 his head, just pushed the box downwards on 
 the green cloth ; and one of the jury handed it 
 over his shoulder to Abel Crew. 
 
 " This is not the box I gave Mrs, Reed," said 
 Abel, in a clear, firm tone, after diving into it with 
 his eyes and nose, " Nor are these the pills." 
 
 Up went the coroner's head with a start. He 
 had supposed the request to see the box canie 
 from a juryman. It might have been irregular 
 for Abel Crew to be allowed so much ; but as it 
 arose partly through the coroner's own fault, he 
 was too wise to make a clatter over it, 
 
 " What is that you say ?" he asked, stretch- 
 ino- out his hand for the box as eagrerlv as though 
 it had contained ofold. 
 
 " That this box and these pills are not the 
 same that I furnished to Mrs, Reed, sir," replied 
 Abel, advancing and placing the box in the 
 coroner's hand. " They are not, indeed." 
 
io6 Johnny Lndlow. 
 
 " Not the same pills and box !" exclaimed the 
 coroner. " Why, man, you have heard the 
 evidence of the witness, Hester Reed ; you may 
 see for yourself that she spoke nothing but 
 truth. Don't talk nonsense here." 
 
 " But they are not the same, sir," respectfully 
 persisted Abel. " I know my own pills, and I 
 know my own boxes : these are neither the one 
 nor the other." 
 
 " Now that won't do ; you must take us all for 
 fools," exploded the coroner, who was a man of 
 quick temper. "Just you stand back and be 
 quiet." 
 
 " Never a pill-box went out from my hands, 
 sir, but it had my little private mark upon it," 
 urged Abel. " That box does not bear the 
 mark." 
 
 " What is the mark, pray?" asked the coroner. 
 
 " Four little dots of ink on the inside of the 
 rim of the lid, sir ; and four similar dots on the 
 inside of the box near the edge. They are so 
 faint that a casual observer might not notice 
 them ; but they are always there. Of all the 
 pill-boxes now in my house, sir — and I suppose 
 there may be two or three dozen of them — you 
 will not find one but has the mark." 
 
 Some whispering had been going on in 
 different parts of the room ; but this silenced it. 
 You might have heard a pin drop. The words 
 seemed to make an impression on the coroner : 
 they and Abel Crew were both so earnest. 
 
Hcsiei" Reed's Pills. \oy 
 
 " You assert also that the pills are not yours," 
 spoke the coroner, who was known to be fond of 
 desultory conversations while holding his in- 
 quests. " What proof have you of that ?" 
 
 "No proof; that is, no proof that I can 
 advance, tangible to the eye or ear. But I am 
 certain, by the look of them, that those were 
 never my pills." 
 
 All this took the jury aback ; the coroner 
 also. It had seemed to some of them an odd 
 thing that Hester Reed should have swallowed 
 two or three of the pills at once without their 
 entailing an ache or a pain, and yet that one 
 each had poisoned the babies. Perkins the 
 butcher observed to the coroner that the box 
 must have been changed since Mrs. Reed helped 
 herself from it. Upon which the coroner, after 
 pulling at his whiskers for a moment as if in 
 thouo^ht, called out for Mrs. Reed to return. 
 
 But when she did so, and was further ques- 
 tioned, she only kept to what she had said before, 
 strenuously denying that the box cotddYvdMO. been 
 changed. It had never been touched by any 
 hands but her own while it stood in its place 
 atop of the press, and had never been removed 
 from it at all until she took it downstairs on the 
 past Tuesday night. 
 
 " Is the room where this press stands your 
 own sleeping-room ?" asked the coroner. 
 
 " No, sir. It's the other room, where my 
 three children sleep." 
 
io8 Johnny Lndloiv. 
 
 " Could these children get to the box ?" 
 
 " Dear no, sir ! 'Twould be quite impossible." 
 
 " Had anyone an opportunity of handling the 
 box when you took it downstairs on Tuesday 
 night ?" went on the coroner after a pause. 
 
 " Only Mrs. Dovey, sir. Nobody else was 
 there." 
 
 " Did she touch it ?" 
 
 " She laid hold of it to look at the pills." 
 
 " Did you leave her alone with it T' 
 
 "No, sir. Leastways — yes, I did for a minute 
 or so, while I went into the back'us to get the 
 sugar and a saucer and spoon." 
 
 "Had she the box in her hands when vou 
 returned ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, I think she had. I think she was 
 still a-smelling at the pills. I know the poor 
 little innocents was lying one on one knee, and 
 one on t'other, all flat, and her two hands was 
 lifted with the box in em." 
 
 "It was after that that you took the pills out 
 of it to give the children ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; directly after. But Ann Dovey 
 wouldn't do nothing wrong to the pills, sir." 
 
 " That will do," said the coroner in his curt 
 way. " Call Ann Dovey." 
 
 Ann Dovey walked forward with a face as red 
 as her new bonnet-strings. She had heard the 
 whole colloquy : something seemed, too, to have 
 put her out. Possessing scant veneration for 
 coroners at the best of times, and none for the 
 
Hester Reed's Pills. 109 
 
 jury at present assembled, she did not feel dis- 
 posed to keep down her temper. 
 
 The few first questions asked her, however, 
 afforded no opportunity for resentment, for they 
 were put quietly, and tended only to extract 
 confirmation of Mrs. Reed's evidence, as to the 
 fetching the pill-box from above stairs and the 
 administering of the pills. Then the coroner 
 cleared his throat. 
 
 " Did you see the last witness, Hester Reed, 
 go into the back kitchen to get a spoon and 
 saucer ?" 
 
 " I saw her go and fetch 'em from some- 
 where," replied Ann Dovey, who felt instinc- 
 tively the ball was beginning, and gave the 
 reins to her tongue accordingly. 
 
 " Did you take charge of the pill-box while 
 she was gone .'^" 
 
 " I had it in my hand, if you mean that." 
 
 " Did anybody come Into the kitchen during 
 that interval T 
 
 "No they didn't," was the tart response. 
 
 " You were alone, save for the two infants ?" 
 
 *' I were. What of it T 
 
 " Now, witness, did you do anything with 
 that box ? Did you, for instance, exchange it 
 for another ?" 
 
 " I think you ought to be ashamed o' your- 
 selves, all on you, to sit and ask a body such a 
 thing!" exploded Mrs. Dovey, growino^ more 
 resentful, at being questioned, with every 
 
I lo Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 moment. "If I had knowed the bother that 
 was to spring up, I'd have chucked the box, 
 pills and all, into the fire first. I wish I had !" 
 
 "Was the box, that you handed to Hester 
 Reed on her return, the same box she lefi; with 
 you ? Were the pills the same pills T' 
 
 " Why, where d'ye think I could have got 
 another box from ?" asked she in a shriekinof 
 tone. " D'ye suppose, sir, I carry boxes and 
 pills about with me ? I bain't so fond o' physic 
 as all that comes to." 
 
 '' Dovey takes pills on occasion for that giddi- 
 ness he gets ; I've seen him take 'em ; mayhap 
 ye'd picked up a box of his," spoke Dobbs the 
 blacksmith, mildly. 
 
 That was adding fuel to fire. Two of a trade 
 don't agree. Dovey and Dobbs were both 
 blacksmiths : the one in Church Dykely, the 
 other in Piefinch Cut, not much more, so to say, 
 than a stone's throw from one another. The 
 men were good friends enough ; but their 
 respective ladies were apt to regard jealously 
 all work taken to the rival establishment. Any 
 other of the jurymen might have made the 
 remark with comparative impunity ; not so 
 Dobbs. And, besides the turn the inquiry 
 seemed to be taking, Mrs. Dovey had not been 
 easy about it in her mind from the first ; proof 
 of which was furnished by the call, already told 
 of, made by her husband on Abel Crew. 
 
 " Dovey takes pills on occasion, do he !" she 
 
Hester Reeifs Pills. 1 1 1 
 
 shrilly retorted. "And what do you take, Bill 
 Dobbs ? Pints o' beer when you can get 'em. 
 Who lamed Poole's white horse the t'other day 
 a shoeing of him ?" 
 
 " Silence !" sternly interrupted the coroner. 
 While Dobbs, conscious of the self-importance 
 imparted to him by the post he was now filling, 
 and of the necessity of maintaining the dignity 
 of demeanour which he was apt to put on with 
 his best clothes, bore the aspersion with equa- 
 nimity and a stolid face. 
 
 " Attend to me, witness, and confine yourself 
 to replying to the questions I put," continued 
 the coroner. " Did you take with you any pills 
 or pill-box of your own when you went to Mrs. 
 Reed's that evening ?" 
 
 "No I didnt^' returned Ann Dovey, the 
 emphasis culminating in a sob : and why she 
 should have set on to shiver and shake was 
 more than the jury could understand. 
 
 " Do you wear pockets ?" 
 
 " W^hat if I do ?" she said, after a momentary 
 pause. But her lips took a white shade, and I 
 thought she was trying to brave it out. 
 
 " Had you a pocket on that evening ?" 
 
 " Heaven be sfood to me !" I heard her mutter 
 under her breath. And if ever I saw a woman 
 look frightened nearly to death, Ann Dovey 
 looked it then. 
 
 "' Had you a pocket on that evening, witness?" 
 repeated the coroner, sharply. 
 
1,12 Johnny Ludloiu. 
 
 "Y— es." 
 
 " What articles were in it ? Do you recollect? 
 Come !" 
 
 "It were a key or two," came the answer at 
 length, her very teeth chattering and all the 
 impudence suddenly gone out of her. " And 
 my thimble, sir ; — and some coppers ; — and a 
 part of a nutmeg ; — and — and I don't remember 
 nothing else, sir." 
 
 "No box of pills } You are sure you had 
 not that T 
 
 " Haven't I said so, sir ?" she rejoined, burst- 
 ing into a frantic Mood of tears. For which, and 
 for the sudden agitation, nobody could see any 
 reason : and perhaps it was only that which 
 made the coroner harp upon the same string. 
 Her demeanour had become suspicious. 
 
 " You had no poison of any kind in your 
 pocket, then ?" 
 
 But he asked the question in jest more than 
 earnest. For when she went into hysterics 
 instead of replying, he let her go. He was 
 used to see witnesses scared at being brought 
 before him. 
 
 The verdict was not arrived at that day. 
 When other witnesses had been examined, the 
 coroner addressed the jury. Ten of them 
 listened deferentially, and were quite prepared 
 to return a verdict of Manslauofhter aofainst 
 Abel Crew : seemed red-hot to do it, in fact. 
 But two of them dissented. They were not 
 
Hester Reed's Pills. 113 
 
 satisfied, they said ; and they held out for 
 adjourning the inquest to see if any more Hght 
 could be thrown upon the affair. As they 
 evidently had the sense of the room with them, 
 the coroner yielded, and adjourned the inquest 
 in a temper. 
 
 And then it was discovered that the name 
 was not Crew but Carew. Abel himself cor- 
 rected the coroner. Upon that, the corner 
 sharply demanded why it was that he had lived 
 under a false name. 
 
 " Nay, sir," replied Abel, as dignified as you 
 please, " I have not had any intention of doing 
 so. When I first came to this neighbourhood 
 I gave my name correctly — Carew : but the 
 people at once converted it into Crew by their 
 mode of pronunciation." 
 
 "At any rate, you must have sanctioned it." 
 
 "Tacitly I have. What did it signify? When 
 I have had occasion to write my name — but 
 that has been very rare — I have written it 
 Carew. Old Sir Peter Chavasse knew it was 
 Carew, and used to call me so ; as did Sir 
 Geoffry. Indeed, sir, I have had no reason to 
 conceal my name." 
 
 " That's enough," said the corner, cutting 
 him short. " Stand back, Abel Carew. The 
 proceedings are adjourned to this day week." 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
IV. 
 
 ABEL CREW. 
 
 THINGS are done In remote country places 
 that would not be done in towns. Whether 
 the law is understood by us, or whether it is 
 not, it often happens that it is very much ex- 
 ceeded, or otherwise not acted upon. Those 
 who have to exercise it sometimes show them- 
 selves as ignorant as if they had lived all their 
 lives in the wilds of America. 
 
 Old Jones the constable was one of these. 
 When not checked by his masters, the magis- 
 trates, he would do most outrageous things — 
 speaking- of legality and common sense. And 
 he did one in reference to Abel Crew. I still 
 say Crew. Though it had come out that his 
 name was Carew, we should be sure to call him 
 Crew to the end. 
 
 The inquest might have been concluded at 
 its first sitting, but for the two malcontents 
 amid the jury. Perkins the butcher and Dobbs 
 the blacksmith. Truth to say, these two had 
 plenty of intelligence ; which could not be said of 
 
Abel Crew. 115 
 
 all the rest. Ten of the jury pronounced the case 
 to be as clear as daylight : the infants had been 
 poisoned by Abel Crew's pills : and the coroner 
 seemed to agree with them — he hated trouble. 
 But Dobbs and Perkins held out. They were 
 not satisfied, they said ; the pills furnished by 
 Abel Crew might not have been the pills 
 that were taken by the children ; moreover, 
 they considered that the pills should be "more 
 officially " analysed. Pettlpher the druggist 
 was all very well in his small way, but hardly 
 up, in their opinion, to pronouncing upon pills 
 when a man's life or liberty was at stake. They 
 pressed for an adjournment, that the pills might 
 be examined by some competent authority. 
 The coroner, as good as telling them they were 
 fools to their faces, had adjourned the inquest 
 in suppressed passion to that day week. 
 
 "And I've got to take care of you, Abel 
 Crew," said old Jones, floundering up on his 
 gouty legs to Abel as the jury and crowd dis- 
 persed. "You've got to come along o' me." 
 
 " To come where ?" asked Abel, who was 
 hobbling towards home on his scalded foot, by 
 the help of his stick and the arm of Gibbon the 
 gamekeeper." 
 
 " To the lock-up," said old Jones. 
 
 " To the lock-up !" echoed Abel Crew. 
 
 "In course," returned old Jones. "Where 
 else but the lock-up ? Did you think it was 
 to the pound ?" 
 
ii6 Johnny Lttdlozv. 
 
 Abel Crew, lifting the hand that held his 
 stick to brush a speck of dirt off his handsome 
 velvet coat, turned to the constable ; his nice 
 face, a little paler than usual, gazing inquiringly 
 at old Jones's, his silver hair shining in the 
 setting sun. 
 
 " I don't understand you, Mr. Jones," he said 
 calmly. " You cannot mean to lock me up ?" 
 
 "Well I never!" cried old Jones, " who had 
 a knack of considering every suspected person 
 guilty, and treating them accordingly. " You 
 have got a cheek, you have, Abel Crew ! ' Not 
 a-going to take me to the lock-up, Mr. Jones,' 
 says you ! Where 'ould you be took to ? 
 Come !" 
 
 " But there's no necessity for it," said Abel. 
 " I shall not run away. I shall be in my house 
 if I'm wanted again." 
 
 " I dare say you would !" said old Jones, 
 ironically. " You might or you mightn't, you 
 know. You be as good as committed for the 
 killing and slaying o' them there two twins, and 
 it's my business to see as you dont make your 
 escape aforehand, Abel Crew." 
 
 Quite a company of us, sauntering out of the 
 inquest-room, were listening by this time. I 
 gave old Jones a bit of my mind. 
 
 " He is not yet committed, Jones, therefore 
 you have no right to take him or to lock him up." 
 
 " You don't know nothing about it, Mr. Lud- 
 low. I do. The crowner gave me a hint, and 
 
Abel Ci'ew. wj 
 
 I'm acting on it. ' Don't you go and let that 
 man escape,' says his worship to me : ' it'll be 
 at your peril if you do.' ' Fll see to him, your 
 worship,' says I. And I be a-doing of it." 
 
 But it was hardly likely that the coroner 
 meant Abel Crew to be confined in that precious 
 lock-up for a whole week. One night there 
 was bad enough. At least, I did not think he 
 meant it ; but the crowd, to judge by their com- 
 ments, seemed divided on the point. 
 
 " The shortest way to settle the question will 
 be to ask the coroner, old Jones," said I, turn- 
 ing back to the Silver Lion. " Come along." 
 
 " You'd be clever to catch him. Master 
 Johnny," roared out old Jones after me. " His 
 worship jumped into his gig ; It was a-waiting 
 for him when he come out ; and his clerk druv 
 him off at a slapping pace." 
 
 It was true. The coroner was gone ; and 
 old Jones had it all his own way ; for, you see, 
 none of us liked to interfere with the edict of 
 an official gentleman who held sway in the 
 county and sat on dead people. Abel Crew 
 accepted' the alternative meekly. 
 
 "Any way, you must allow me to go home 
 first to lock my house up, and to see to one or 
 two other little matters," said he. 
 
 " Not unless you goes under my own eyes," 
 retorted old Jones. " You might be for 
 destroying of your stock o' pills for fear they 
 should bear evidence again' you, Abel Crew." 
 
Ii8 Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 " My pills are, of all things, what I would 
 not destroy." said Abel. " They would bear 
 testimony for me, instead of against me, for 
 they are harmless." 
 
 So Abel Crew hobbled to his cottage on the 
 common, attended by old Jones and a long tail 
 of followers. Arrived there, he attended the 
 first thing to his scalded foot, dressing it with 
 some of his own ointment. Then he secured 
 some bread-and-butter, not knowing what the 
 accommodation at the lock-up might be in the 
 shape of eatables, and changed his handsome 
 quaint suit of clothes for those he wore every 
 day. After that, he was escorted back to the 
 lock-up. 
 
 Now, the lock-up was in Piefinch Cut, 
 nearly opposite to Dovey the blacksmith's. 
 The Squire remembered the time when the 
 lock-up stood alone ; when Piefinch Cut had no 
 more houses in it than Piefinch Lane now has ; 
 but since then Piefinch Cut had been built upon 
 and inhabited ; houses touching even the sacred 
 walls of the lock-up. A tape-and-cotton and 
 sweetstuff shop flanked it on one side, and a 
 small pork-butcher's on the other. Pettipher's 
 druggist's shop, should anybody be curious on 
 the point, was next to the tape-and-cotton mart. 
 
 To see Abel Crew arrive in the custody of 
 old Jones the constable, and the excited tail of 
 stragglers after them, astonished Piefinch Cut 
 not a little. Figg the pawnbroker — who was 
 
Abel Crew. 1 19 
 
 originally from Alcester — considered himself 
 learned in the law. Any way, he was a great 
 talker, and liked to give his opinion upon every 
 topic that might turn up. His shop joined 
 Dovey's forge : and when we got up there, 
 Figg was outside, holding forth to Dovey, who 
 had his shirt-sleeves rolled up above his elbows 
 as usual, and his leather apron on. Mrs. Dovey 
 stood listening behind, in the smart gown and 
 red-ribboned bonnet she had worn at the inquest. 
 
 " Why — what on earth ! — have they been and 
 gone and took up Crew ?" cried Figg in his sur- 
 prise. 
 
 " It is an awful shame of old Jones," I broke 
 in ; speaking more to Dovey than Figg, for 
 Figg was no favourite of mine. " A whole 
 week of the lock-up! Only think of it, Dovey!" 
 
 " But have they brought it in again' him, 
 Master Johnny ?" cried Dovey, unfolding his 
 grimy arms to touch his paper cap to me as 
 he spoke. 
 
 " No ; that's what they have not done. The 
 inquest is adjourned for a week ; and I don't 
 believe old Jones has a right to take him at all. 
 Not in law, you know." 
 
 " That's just what her brought word," said 
 Dovey, with a nod backward to indicate his 
 wife. " ' Well, how be it turned, Ann ?' says I 
 to her when her come back — for I'd got a sight 
 o' work in to-day and couldn't go myself. ' Oh, 
 it haven't turned no ways yet, Jack,' says her ; 
 
120 Johnny Lndlozu. 
 
 * it be put off to next week.' There he goes ! 
 right in." 
 
 This last remark appHed to Abel Crew. After 
 fumbling in his pocket for the two big keys, tied 
 together by string, and then fumbling at the 
 latch, old Jones succeeded in opening the door. 
 Not being used much, the lock was apt to grow 
 rusty. Then he stood back, and with a flourish 
 of hands motioned Abel in. He made no re- 
 sistance. 
 
 " They must know for certain as 'twere his 
 pills what done it," struck in Mrs. Dovey. 
 
 " No, they don't," said I. "What's more, I 
 do not think it was his pills. Abel Crew says 
 he never put poison in his pills yet, and I be- 
 lieve him." 
 
 "Well, and no more it don't stand to reason 
 as he would, Mr. Ludlow," said Figg, a man 
 whose self-complaisance was not to be put 
 down by any amount of discouragement. " I 
 
 were just a-saying so to Dovey. Why have 
 
 old Jones took him up ?" went on Figg to 
 Gibbon the gamekeeper, who came striding by. 
 
 " Jones says he has the coroner's orders for 
 it," answered Gibbon. 
 
 " Look here, I know a bit about law, and I 
 know a man oughtn't to be shut up till some 
 charge is brought again' him," contended Figg. 
 " Crew's pills is suspected, but he have not 
 been charged yet." 
 
 "Any way, it's what Jones has gone and 
 
Abel Crezu. 121 
 
 clone," said Gibbon. " Perhaps he is right. 
 And a week's not much ; it'll soon pass. But 
 as to any pills of Abel Crew's having killed 
 them children, it's just preposterous to think 
 of it." 
 
 " What d'ye suppose did kill 'em, then, 
 Richard Gibbon ?" demanded Ann Dovey, a hot 
 flush on her face, her tone resentful, 
 
 ''That's just what has to be found out," re- 
 turned Gibbon, passing on his way. 
 
 " If it hadn't been for that there Dobbs and 
 Butcher Perkins a-holding out again' it. Crew 
 'ud ha' been brought in guilty safe enough," said 
 Ann Dovey. And the tone was again so ex- 
 cited, so bitterly resentful against Dobbs and 
 Perkins, that I could not help looking at her in 
 wonder. It sounded just as though the non- 
 committal of Abel were a wrong inflicted on 
 herself. 
 
 " No, he would not have been brought in 
 guilty," I answered her; " he would have been 
 committed for trial ; but that's a different thing. 
 If the matter could be sifted to the bottom, I 
 know it would be found that the mischief did 
 not lie with Abel Crew's pills. There, Mrs. 
 Dovey." 
 
 She was looking at me out of the corners of 
 her eyes — for all the world as if she were afraid 
 of me, or of what I said. I could not make 
 her out. 
 
 " Why should you wish so particularly to 
 
122 Johnny Ludlozv. 
 
 bring it home to Crew ?" I pointedly asked her ; 
 and Figg turned round to look at her, as if 
 seconding the question. 
 
 " Me want particular to bring it home to 
 Crew !" she retorted, her voice rising to a shriek 
 with temper ; or perhaps fear, for she trembled 
 like an aspen leaf. " I don't want to bring it 
 home particular to him, Mr. Ludlow. 'Twere 
 his pills, though, all the same, what done it." 
 
 And with that she whisked through the forge 
 to her kitchen. 
 
 On the morning following I got old Jones to 
 let me into the lock-up. The place consisted of 
 two rooms opening into one another, and a small 
 square space, no bigger than a closet, at the 
 end of the passage, where they kept the pen 
 and ink. For that small space had a window in 
 it, lookinor to the fields at the back ; the two 
 rooms had only skylights in the roof. In the 
 inner room a narrow iron bedstead stood against 
 the wall, a mattress and blanket on it. Abel 
 was sitting on that when we went in. 
 
 " You must have been lively here last night, 
 Abel !" 
 
 " Yes, very, sir," answered he, with a half 
 smile. *' I did not really mind it ; I am used 
 to be alone. I could have done with fewer rats, 
 though." 
 
 " Oh, are there rats here ?" 
 
Abel Crew. 123 
 
 " Lots of them, Master Johnny. I don't like 
 rats : nasty things ! They came upon my face, 
 and all about me." 
 
 " Why does old Jones not set traps for them ? 
 He considers this place to be under his special 
 protection." 
 
 " There are too many for any trap to catch," 
 answered Abel. 
 
 Old Jones had gone off to the desk in the 
 closet, having put some bread and butter and 
 milk on the shelf for Abel. His errand there 
 was to enter the cost of the bread in the account- 
 book, to be settled for later. A prisoner in the 
 lock-up was commonly treated to bread and 
 water: old Jones had graciously allowed this 
 one to pay for some butter and milk from his 
 own pocket. 
 
 " I don't want never to treat 'em harsher nor 
 I be obliged. Master Ludlow," he said to me, 
 when coming in, in reference to the paper of 
 butter and the jug of milk he was carrying. 
 " Abel Crew have been known as a decent man 
 ever since he come among us : and if he chooses 
 to pay for the butter and the milk, there ain't 
 no law again' his having 'em. 'Tain't as if he 
 was a burglar." 
 
 " No, he is not a burglar," I answered. " And 
 you must mind that you do not get into the 
 wrong box about him. There's neither law nor 
 justice in locking him up, Jones, before he is 
 charged." 
 
124 Johnny Ltidlow. 
 
 " If I had never locked up nobody till diey 
 was charged, I should ha' been In the wrong 
 box many a time afore now,'" said old Jones, 
 doggedly. " Look at that there man last Christ- 
 mas ; what I caught prowling in the grounds at 
 Parrifer Hall, with a whole set of house-breaking 
 things concealed in his pockets ! After I'd took 
 him, and lodged him in here safe, it was found 
 that he was one o' the worst characters in the 
 county, only let out o' Worcester gaol two days 
 afore. Suppose I'd not took him, Master 
 Johnny ? — where 'ud the spoons at Parrifer 
 Hall ha' been ?" 
 
 " That was a different case altorether." 
 
 "/ know what I'm about," returned Jones. 
 " The coroner, he just give me a nod or two, 
 looking at Crew as he give it. I knew what it 
 meant, sir : a nod's as good as a wink to a blind 
 horse." 
 
 Any way, Jones had got him, here in the 
 lock-up ; and had gone off to enter the loaf of 
 bread in the account-book; and I was sitting 
 on the bench opposite Abel. 
 
 "It is a wicked shame of them to have put 
 you here, Abel." 
 
 " It is not right in law — as I believe," he 
 answered. " And I am sure it is not in justice, 
 sir. I swear those pills and that box, produced 
 at the inquest, were none of mine. They never 
 went out of my hands. Old Jones thinks he is 
 doing right to secure me, I suppose, and he is 
 
Abel Crew. 125 
 
 civil over It ; so I must not grumble. He 
 brought me some water to wash In this morning, 
 and a comb." 
 
 " But there's no sense in it. You would not 
 attempt to escape ; you would wait for the 
 reassembling of the Inquest." 
 
 " Escape !" he exclaimed. " I should be the 
 first to stay for it. I am more anxious than 
 anyone to have the matter Investigated. Truth 
 to say, Master Johnny, my curiosity Is excited. 
 Hester Reed is so persistently sure in regard to 
 their being the same pills and box that I gave 
 her ; and as she Is a truthful, honest woman, 
 one can't see where the mistake lies. There 
 must be a mystery In It somewhere." 
 
 " Suppose you are committed to take your 
 trial ? And found guilty ?" 
 
 " That I shall be committed, I look upon as 
 certain," he answered. " As to being found 
 guilty — if I am, I must bear It. God knows my 
 Innocence, and I shall hope that In time He 
 will brlnof It to lig'ht." 
 
 " All the same, Abel, they ought not to put 
 you In here." 
 
 " That's true, sir." 
 
 "And then there will be the lying in prison 
 until the Assizes — two or three good months to 
 come ! Don't you go and die of it, Abel." 
 
 " No, I shall not do that," he answered, 
 smiling a little. " The consciousness of my 
 Innocence will keep me up." 
 
126 Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 I sat looking at him. What Hght could get 
 in through the dusty skylight fell on his silver 
 hair, smooth as usual, thanks to the comb, and 
 falling back from his pale face. He held his 
 head down in thought, only raising it to answer 
 me. Some movement in the closet betokened 
 old Jones's speedy approach, and I hastened to 
 assure Abel that all sensible people would not 
 doubt his innocence. 
 
 " Nobody need doubt it, Master Johnny," he 
 answered firmly, his eye kindling. "I never 
 had a grain of arsenic in my house ; I have 
 never had any other poison. There are herbs 
 from which poison may be distilled, but I have 
 never gathered them. When it comes to 
 people requiring poison — and there are some 
 diseases of the human frame that it may be good 
 for — they should go to a qualified medical man, 
 not to a herbalist. No. I have never, never 
 had poison or poisonous herbs within my dwell- 
 ing ; therefore (putting other reasons aside) it 
 is impossible that those poisonous pills can be 
 my pills. God hears me say it, and knows that 
 it is true." 
 
 Old Jones, balancing the keys in his hand 
 and himself on his fat and gouty legs, cased in 
 their white ribbed stockings, was standing within 
 the room, listening. Abel Crew was so respect- 
 able and courteous a prisoner, compared with 
 those he generally had in the lock-up, burglars, 
 tipsy men, and the like, returning him a " thank 
 
Abel Crezv. 127 
 
 you " instead of an oath, that he had already- 
 begun to regard him with some favour, and the 
 assertion seemed to make an impression on 
 him. 
 
 " Look here," said he. " Whose pills could 
 they have been, if they warn't your'n }'" 
 
 " I cannot imaofine," returned Abel Crew. 
 " I am as curious about it as anybody else — 
 Master Ludlow here knows I am. I dare say 
 it will come out sometime. They cotdd not 
 have been made up by me." 
 
 " What was that you told the coroner about 
 your pill-boxes being marked T' asked old 
 Jones. 
 
 " And so they are marked ; all of them. 
 The pill-box I saw there " 
 
 " I mean the stock o' boxes you've got at 
 home. Be them all marked ?" 
 
 "■ Every one of them. W^hen I get in a 
 fresh lot of pill-boxes the first thing I do, on 
 bringing them home, is to mark them." 
 
 " Then look here. You just trust me with 
 the key of your place, and tell me where the 
 boxes is to be found, and I'll go and secure 'em 
 and lay 'em afore the coroner. If they be all 
 found marked, it'll tell in your favour." 
 
 The advice sounded good, and Abel Crew 
 handed over his key. Jones looked solemn as 
 he and I went away together. 
 
 " It's an odd thing, though. Master Johnny, 
 ain't it, how the pison could ha' got into them 
 
128 Johnny Ludlozv. 
 
 there pills," said he slowly, as he put the big 
 key into the lock of the outer door. 
 
 And we had an audience round us before the 
 words were well spoken. To see the lock-up 
 made fast when there was a prisoner inside it, 
 was always a coveted recreation in Piefinch Cut. 
 Several individuals had come running up ; not 
 to speak of children from the gutters. Dovey 
 stood gazing in front of his forge ; Figg, who 
 liked to be lounging about outside when he had 
 no customers transacting delicate negotiations 
 within, put his back against his shop-window, 
 and stared in concert with Dovey. Jones, 
 flourishing the two formidable keys, crossed 
 over to them. 
 
 " How do he feel to-day ?" asked Figg, 
 nodding towards the lock-up. 
 
 "He don't feel no worse appariently nor he 
 do other days," replied old Jones. " It be a 
 regular odd thing, it be." 
 
 " What be odd ?" asked Dovey. 
 
 " How the pison could ha' got into them 
 there pills. Crew says he has never had no pison 
 in his place o' no kind, herbs nor else." 
 
 " And I would pledge my word that it is the 
 truth," I put in. 
 
 "Well, and so I think it is," said Dovey. 
 " Last night George Reed was in here, a-talking. 
 He says he one day come across Abel Crew 
 looking for herbs in the copse behind the 
 Grange. Crew was picking and choosing : 
 
Abel Crei<:. 129 
 
 some herbs he'd leave alone, and some he dug 
 up. Reed spied out a fine-looking plant, and 
 called to him. Up comes Crew, trowel in 
 hand, bends down to take a look, and then 
 gives his head a shake. ' That won't do for 
 me,' says he, ' that plant has poisonous proper- 
 ties,' says he ; ' and I never meddles with them 
 what has,' says he. George Reed told us that 
 much in this here forge last night. Him and 
 his wife have a'most had words about it." 
 
 " Had words about what ?" asked old Jones. 
 
 " Why about them there pills. Reed tells 
 her that if it is the pills what poisoned the 
 young ones, she have made some mull o' the 
 box Abel give her and got it changed. But he 
 don't believe as 'twere the pills at all. And 
 Hester Reed, she sticks to it that she never 
 made no mull o' the box, and that the pills is 
 the same." 
 
 At this juncture, happening to turn my head, 
 I saw Mrs. Dovey at the door at the back of 
 the forge. Her body was in the kitchen, her 
 face was screwed round the doorpost, listening ; 
 and there was a great fear on it. Seeing me 
 looking at her, she disappeared like a shot, and 
 quietly closed the door. A thought flashed 
 into me. 
 
 *' That woman knows more about it than she 
 will say ! And it is frightening her. What can 
 the mystery be .^" 
 
 The children were buried on the Sunday 
 
 VOL. I. 9 
 
130 Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 afternoon, all the parish flocking to the funeral ; 
 and the next morning Abel Crew was released. 
 Whether old Jones took a qualm as to the 
 legality of what he had done, or whether he got 
 a mandate from the coroner by the early post, 
 nobody knew. Certain it was, that before nine 
 o'clock old Jones held the lock-up doors open, 
 and Abel Crew walked out. It was thought 
 that some one must have written privately to 
 the coroner — which was more than likely. Old 
 Jones was down in the mouth all day, as if he 
 had had an official blowing up. 
 
 Abel and his stick went home. The perfect 
 rest and his own doctoring had nearly cured the 
 instep. On the Saturday old Jones had made 
 a descent upon the cottage and cleared it of the 
 pill-boxes. Jones found that every box had 
 Abel's private mark upon it. 
 
 "Well, this is a curious start. Crew!" ex- 
 claimed Mr. Duffham, meeting him as he was 
 turning in at his gate. " Now in the lock-up, 
 and now out of it ! It may be old Jones's 
 notion of law, but it is not mine. How have 
 you enjoyed it T 
 
 "It would not have been so bad but for the 
 rats, sir," replied Abel. " I could see a few 
 stars shining through the skylight." 
 
 The days went on to the Thursday, and it 
 was now the evening before the adjourned 
 inquest. Tod and I, in consideration of the 
 
Abel Creiu. 131 
 
 popular ferment, had taken the Squire at a 
 favourable moment, and extracted from him 
 another week's holiday. Opinions were divided : 
 some believed in Crew, others in the poisoned 
 pills. As to Crew himself, he was out in his 
 garden as usual, attending to his bees, and his 
 herbs and flowers, and quietly awaiting the 
 good or the ill luck that Fate might be holding 
 in store for him. 
 
 It was Thursday evening, I say ; and I was 
 taking tea with Duff ham. Having looked in 
 upon him, when rushing about the place, he 
 asked me to stay. The conversation turned 
 upon the all-engrossing topic ; and I chanced to 
 mention that the behaviour of Ann Dovey 
 puzzled me. Upon that, Duffham said that it 
 was puzzling him. He had been called in to 
 her the previous day, and found her in a regular 
 •fever, eyes anxious, breath hysterical, face hectic. 
 Since the day of the inquest she had been in 
 this state, and the blacksmith told Duffham he 
 could not make out what had come to her. 
 "Them pills have druv her mad, sir," were 
 Dovey 's words; "she can't get 'em off her 
 mind." 
 
 The last cup of tea was poured out, and 
 Duffham was shaking round the old black pot 
 to see if he could squeeze out more, when we 
 had an interruption. Dovey came bursting in 
 upon us straight from his forge ; his black hair 
 all ruffled, and his small dark face hot with 
 
 9—2 
 
132 Johnny L^tdlow. 
 
 flurry. It was a singular tale he had come to 
 tell. His wife had been making a confession 
 to him. Driven pretty nearly out of her mind 
 by the weight of a secret, she could hold it no 
 longer. 
 
 To begin at the beginning. Dovey's house 
 swarmed with black beetles. Dovey himself 
 did not mind the animals, but Mrs. Dovey did ; 
 and no wonder, when she could not step out of 
 bed in the night without putting her foot on 
 some. But, if Dovey did not dislike black- 
 beetles, there was another thing he did dislike — 
 hated in fact ; and that was the stuff called 
 beetle-powder : which professed to kill them. 
 Mrs. Dovey would have scattered some on the 
 floor every night ; but Dovey would not allow 
 it. He forbid her to bring a grain of it into 
 the house : it was nothing but poison, he said, 
 and might chance to kill themselves as well as 
 the beetles. Ann Dovey had her way in most 
 matters, for Dovey was easy, as men and hus- 
 bands go ; but when once he put his veto on a 
 thing, she knew she might as well try to turn 
 the house round as turn him. 
 
 Now what did Ann Dovey do ? On that 
 very Easter Tuesday, as it chanced, as soon as 
 dusk set in, off she went to Dame Chad's 
 general shop in Church Dykely, where the 
 beetle-powder was sold, and bought a packet of 
 it. It seemed to her, that of the choice between 
 two evils — to put up with the horrible black 
 
Abel CrcziK 133 
 
 animals, or to disobey Dovey, the latter was the 
 more agreeable. She could easily shake some 
 of the powder down lightly of a night ; the 
 beetles — or, as she always pronounced it, 
 beedles — would eat it up before morning, and 
 Dovey would never know it. Accordingly, 
 paying for the powder — a square packet, done 
 up in blue paper, on which was labelled "■ Poison" 
 in as large letters as the printer could get into 
 the space — she thrust it into the depths of her 
 gow^n pocket — it was her holiday gown — and 
 .set off home again. Calling in at George 
 Reed's cottage on her way, she there assisted, 
 as it also chanced, at the administering of the 
 pills to the unfortunate children. And perhaps 
 her motive for callino; in was not so much from 
 a love of presiding at physic-giving, as that she 
 might be able, when she got home, to say " At 
 Reed's," if her husband asked her where she 
 had been. It fell out as she thought. No 
 sooner had she put foot inside the forge than 
 Dovey began, " Where'st been, Ann ;" and she 
 told him at Reed's, helping with the sick little 
 ones. Dovey's work was over for the night ; 
 he wanted his supper ; and she had no oppor- 
 tunity of using the beetle-powder. It was left 
 untouched in the pocket of her gown. The 
 following morning came the astounding news of 
 the children's death ; and in the excitement 
 caused by that, Mrs. Dovey lost sight of the 
 powder. Perhaps she thought that the general 
 
134 Johnny Ltidlow. 
 
 stir might cause Dovey to be more wakeful 
 than usual, and that she might as well let the 
 powder be for a short while. It was safe where 
 it was, in her hung-up gown. Dovey never 
 meddled with her pockets : on or off, they were 
 no concern of his. 
 
 But, on the Friday morning, when putting on 
 this same holiday gown to attend the inquest, 
 to which she had been summoned, what was her 
 horror to find the packet burst, and her pocket 
 filled with the loose powder. Mrs. Dovey had 
 no greater love for beetle-powder in itself than 
 she had for beetles, and visibly shuddered. 
 She could not empty it out ; there it had to 
 stay ; for Dovey, excited by his w^ife's having to 
 give evidence, was in and out of her room like 
 a dog in a fair ; and she went off perforce with 
 the stuff in her pocket. And when during her 
 examination the questions took the turn they 
 did take, and the coroner asked her whether 
 she had had any poison in her pocket that night 
 at George Reed's ; this, with the consciousness 
 of what had been that night in her pocket, of 
 what was in her pocket at that very moment, 
 then present, nearly frightened her into fits. 
 From that hour, Ann Dovey had lived in a 
 state of terror. It was not that she believed 
 any of the beetle-powder could have got inside 
 the ill-fated young ones (though she did not feel 
 quite easy on the point), as that she feared the 
 accusation might be shifted off Crew's shoulders 
 
Abel Crew. 135 
 
 and on to hers. On this Thursday evening she 
 could hold out no longer ; and disclosed all to 
 Dovey. 
 
 Dovey burst upon us in a heat. He was as 
 straightforward a man as ever lived, of an 
 intensely honest nature, and could no more 
 have kept it in, now that he knew it, than he 
 could have given up all righteous dealing 
 together. His chief concern was to tell the 
 truth, and to restore peace to his wife. He 
 went through the narrative to Duffham without 
 stopping ; and seemed not in the least to care 
 for my being present. 
 
 " It ain't possible, sir, there ain't a moral 
 possibility that any o' that there dratted powder 
 could ha' come anigh the babies," wound up 
 Dovey. "I'd be thankful, sir, if you'd come 
 down and quieten her a bit ; her be in a fine 
 way." 
 
 What with surprise, and what with the man's 
 rapid speech, Duffham had not taken in the 
 one-half of the tale. He had simply sat behind 
 the tea-pot and stared. 
 
 " My good fellow, I don't understand," he 
 said. " A pocketful of poison ! What on 
 earth made her take poison to George 
 Reed's ?" 
 
 So Dovey went over the heads of the story 
 again. 
 
 " 'Twere in her pocket, sir, our Ann's ; it's true ; 
 but the chances is that at that time the paper 
 
136 Jo Jinny Ludloiu. 
 
 hadn't burst. None of it coiildnt ha' got to 
 them there two young ones." 
 
 To see the blacksmith's earnestness was good. 
 His face was as eager, his tone as imploring as 
 though he were pleading for his life. 
 
 " And it 'ud be a work o' charity, sir, if you'd 
 just step down and see her. I'd pay handsome 
 for the visit, sir ; anything you please to charge. 
 She's like one a-o-oinof rio-ht out of her mind." 
 
 " I'll come," said Duft'ham, who had his 
 curiosity upon the point. 
 
 And the blacksmith set out on the run home 
 ao^ain, 
 
 " Well, this is a curious thins: !" exclaimed 
 Duffham when he had gone. 
 
 " Could the beetle-powder have poisoned the 
 children ?" I asked. 
 
 "'I don't know, Johnny. It is an odd tale 
 altogether. We will go down and inquire 
 into it." 
 
 W^hich of course implied that he expected me 
 to go with him. Nothing loath was I ; more 
 eager than he. 
 
 Finishing what was left of the tea and bread- 
 and-butter, we went on to Piefinch Cut. Ann 
 Dovey was alone, save for her husband and 
 mother. She flung herself on the sofa when 
 she saw us — the blacksmith's house was com- 
 fortably off for furniture — and began to shriek. 
 
 " Now just you stop that, Ann Dovey," said 
 Duffham, who was always short with hysterics. 
 
Abel Crezu. 137 
 
 *' I want to come to the bottom of this business ; 
 you can't tell it me while you scream. What in 
 the world possessed you to go about with your 
 pocket full of poison ?" 
 
 She had her share of sense, and knew 
 Duffham was not one to be trifled with ; so she 
 told the tale as well as she could for sobs. 
 
 " Have you mentioned this out of doors ?" 
 was the first question Duffham asked when it 
 was over. 
 
 " No," interposed Dovey. " I telled 'em afore 
 I come to you not to be soft enough for that. 
 Not a soul have heard it, sir, but me and her " 
 — pointing to the old mother — "and you and 
 ]\Iaster Johnny. We don't want all the parish 
 swarming about us like so many hornets." 
 
 " Good," said Duffham. " But it is rather 
 a serious thing, I fear. Uncertain, at any rate." 
 
 " Be it, sir?" returned Ann, raising her heavy 
 eyes questioningly. " Do you think so ?" 
 
 " W^hy, you see. the mischief must have lain 
 between that beetle-powder and Crew's pills. 
 As Crew is so careful a man, I don't think it 
 could have been the pills ; and that's the truth." 
 
 " But how could the beetle-powder have got 
 anigh the children out of my pocket, sir ?" she 
 asked, her face scarlet, her eyes wild. " I never 
 put my hand into my pocket while I sat there ; 
 I never did." 
 
 " You can't be sure of that," returned 
 Duffham. " We may put our hands into our 
 
13S Johnny Ludlozv. 
 
 pockets fifty times a day without remembering 
 it." 
 
 " D'you suppose, sir, I should take out some 
 o' that there beedle-povvder and cram it down 
 the poor innocents' throats ?" she demanded, 
 on the verge of further screams. 
 
 " Where is the powder?" questioned Duff ham. 
 
 The powder was where it had been all along : 
 in the gown-pocket. Want of opportunity, 
 through fear of Dovey's eyes, or dread of touch- 
 ing the stuff, had kept her from meddling with 
 it. When she took the cfown ofT, the nisrht of 
 the inquest, she hung it up on the accustomed 
 hook, and there it was still. The old mother 
 went to the bedroom and brought it forward, 
 handling it gingerly : a very smart print gown 
 with bright liowers upon it. 
 
 Duffham looked round, saw a tin pie-dish, 
 and turned the pocket inside out into it. A 
 speckled kind of powder, brown and white. 
 He plunged his fingers into it fearlessly, felt it, 
 and smelt it. The blue paper it had been sold 
 in lay amid it, cracked all across. Duffham 
 took it up. 
 
 " Poison !" read out he aloud, gazing at the 
 large letters through his spectacles. " How 
 came you to let it break open in your pocket, 
 Ann Dovey ?" 
 
 " I didn't let it ; it braked of itself," she 
 sobbed. "If you saw the black-beedles we gets 
 here of a night, sir, your legs 'ud be fit to dance 
 
Abel Creiv. 139 
 
 a hornpipe, they would. The floor be covered 
 with 'em." 
 
 "If the ceiling was covered with 'em too, I'd 
 not have that there dangerous stuff brought into 
 the place — and so I've telled ye often," roared 
 Dovey. 
 
 '* It's frightful uncomfortable, is black beedles ; 
 mother knows it," said his wife in a subdued 
 voice — for Dovey in great things was master. 
 " I thought if I just sprinkled a bit on't down, 
 it 'ud take 'em away, and couldn't hurt nobody." 
 
 "And you went off on the sly that there 
 Tuesday night and bought it," he retorted; "and 
 come back and telled me you had been to 
 Reed's a-helping to physic the babies." 
 
 " And so I had been there, a-helping to 
 physic 'em." 
 
 " Did you go straight to Reed's from the shop 
 — with this powder ?" asked Duffham. 
 
 "It were right at the bottom o' my pocket : 
 I put it there as soon as Dame Chad had served 
 me with it," sobbed Ann Dovey. " And I can 
 be upon my Bible oath, Dr. Duffham, that I 
 never touched it after ; and I don't believe it 
 had then burst. A-coming hasty out of Reed's 
 back gate, for I were in a hurry to get home, 
 the side o' me, where the pocket is, swung again 
 the post, and I think the blue paper must ha' 
 burst then. I never knowed it had burst, for 
 I'd never thought no more about the beedles, 
 till I put on the gownd to go up to the inquest. 
 
140 Johnny LzLcilozu. 
 
 Master Johnny, you be a-staring at me fearful, 
 but I be telling nothing but the naked truth," 
 
 She did seem to be telling the truth. And 
 as to my " staring at her fearful," that was just 
 her imagination. I was listening to the talk 
 from the elbow of the easy wooden chair, where 
 I had perched myself. Duffham recommended 
 Dovey to put the tin dish and its contents away 
 safely, so that it did not get near any food, but 
 not to destroy the stuff just yet. He talked a 
 bit with Ann, left her a composing draught, and 
 came away. 
 
 * I don't see that the powder could have had 
 anything to do with the children's death," I said 
 to him as we went along. 
 
 " Neither do I, Johnny!" 
 
 " Shall you have to declare this at the inquest 
 to-morrow, Mr. Duffham ?" 
 
 '* I am sure I don't know," he answered, 
 looking up at the sky overhead through his 
 spectacles, just as a perplexed owl might do. 
 "It might only serve to complicate matters : 
 and I don't think it's possible it could have been 
 the powder. On the other hand, if it be proved 
 not to have been the pills, we have only this 
 poisonous powder to fall back upon. It is a 
 strange affair altogether, take it in all its bear- 
 ings." 
 
 I did not answer. The eveninof star was be- 
 ginning to show itself in the sky. 
 
 " I must feel my way in this, Johnny : be 
 
Abel Crew. 141 
 
 guided by circumstances," he resumed, when we 
 halted at the stile that led across the fields to 
 the Manor. '' We must watch the turn matters 
 take to-morrow at the inquest. Of course if I 
 find it necessary to declare it, I shall declare it. 
 Meanwhile, lad, you had better not mention it 
 to anybody." 
 
 " All right, Mr. Duffham. Good-evening." 
 
 The jury went straggling into the Silver Lion 
 by twos and threes. Up dashed the gig of the 
 coroner, as before, he and his clerk seated side 
 by side. All the parish had collected about the 
 doors, and were trying to push into the inquest 
 room. 
 
 Gliding quietly in, before the proceedings 
 were opened, came Abel Crew in his handsome 
 quaint velvet suit, his silver hair shining in the 
 sunlight, his pale face calm as marble. The 
 coroner ordered him to sit on a certain chair, and 
 whispered to old Jones. Upon which the con- 
 stable turned his gouty legs round, marched up, 
 and stood guard over Crew, just as though Abel 
 were his prisoner. 
 
 " Do you see that, sir ?" I whispered to 
 Duffham. 
 
 "Yes, lad, and understand it. Crew's pills 
 have been analysed — officially this time, as the 
 jury put it — and found to contain arsenic. Petti- 
 pher was right. The pills killed the children." 
 
 Well, you might have sent me down with a 
 
142 Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 flash of moonshine. I had been fully trusting 
 in Crew's innocence. 
 
 About the first witness called, and sworn, was 
 the professional man from a distance who had 
 analysed the pills. He said that they contained 
 arsenic. Not in sufficient quantity to hurt a 
 grown person ; more than sufficient to kill a 
 little child. The coroner drew in his lips. 
 
 '* I thought it must be so," he said, apparently 
 for the benefit of the jury. "Am I to under- 
 stand that these were improper pills to send 
 out ? — pills that no medical man would be likely 
 to send ?" 
 
 " Not improper at all, sir," replied the witness. 
 '* A medical man would prescribe them for cer- 
 tain cases. Not for children : to an infant one 
 would be what it has been here — destruction." 
 
 I felt a nudge at my elbow, and turned to see 
 the Squire's hot face close to mine. 
 
 "Johnny, don't you ever stand up for that 
 Crew again. He ought to be hanged." 
 
 But the coroner, after a bit, seemed puzzled; 
 or, rather, doubtful. Led to be so, .perhaps, by 
 a question put by one of the jury. It was 
 Perkins the butcher. 
 
 " If these pills were furnished by Abel Crew 
 for Hester Reed, a growed woman, and she 
 went and gave one of her own accord to the 
 two babies, ought Crew to be held responsible 
 for that ?" 
 
 Upon which there ensued some cavilling. 
 
Abel Crciu. 143 
 
 Some of the jury holding that he was nol re- 
 sponsible ; others that he was. The coroner 
 reminded them of what Hester Reed had stated 
 in her evidence — that she had asked Crew's 
 opinion about the suitability of the pills for 
 children, and he had told her they were suitable. 
 
 Hester Reed was called. As the throng 
 parted to make way for her to advance, I saw 
 Ann Dovey seated at the back of the room, look- 
 ing more dead than alive. Dovey stood by her, 
 having made himself spruce for the occasion. 
 Ann would have gone off a mile in some oppo- 
 site direction, but old Jones's orders to all the 
 witnesses of the former day, to appear again, 
 had been peremptory. They had been wanted 
 before, he told them, and might be wanted again. 
 
 " You need not look such a scare-crow with 
 fright," I whispered in Ann Dovey's ear, making 
 my way to her side to reassure her, the woman 
 was so evidently miserable. "It was the pills 
 that did the mischief, after all — didn't you hear ? 
 Nothing need come out about your pocket and 
 the powder." 
 
 " Master Johnny, I'm just about skeered out 
 o' my life, I am. Fit to go and drownd myself." 
 
 " Nonsense ! It will be all rio;ht as far as vou 
 are concerned." 
 
 " I said it was Crew's pills, all along, I did ; 
 it couldn't have been anything else, sir. All the 
 same, I wish I was dead." 
 
 As good try to comfort a post, seemingly, as 
 
144 Johnny Lztdlotc. 
 
 Ann Dovey. I went back to my standing-place 
 between the Squire and Duffham. Hester 
 Reed was being questioned then. 
 
 " Yes, sir, it were some weeks ago. MyHttle 
 boy was ailing, and I ran out o' the house to 
 Abel Crew, seeing the old gentleman go past 
 the gate, and asked whether I might give him 
 one of them there same pills, or whether it 
 would hurt the child. Crew said I might give 
 it freely ; he said two even wouldn't hurt him." 
 " And did you give the pill ?" asked the 
 coroner. 
 
 " No, sir. He's a rare bad one to give physic 
 to, Georgy is, and I let him get well without it." 
 •' How old is he ?" 
 " Turned of three, sir." 
 
 "You are absolutely certain, Mrs. Reed, that 
 these pills, from which you took out two to give 
 the deceased children, were the very self-same 
 pills you had from Abel Crew ?" 
 
 "I be sure and certain of it, sir. Nobody 
 never put a finger upon the box but me. It 
 stood all the while in that there corner o' the 
 press-shelf in the children's bedroom. Twice a 
 week when I got upon a chair to dust the shelf, 
 I see it there. There was nobody in the house 
 but me, except the little ones. My husband 
 don't concern himself with the places and things." 
 Circumstantial evidence could not well go 
 farther. Mrs. Reed was dismissed, and the 
 coroner told Abel Crew to come near the table. 
 
Abel CreK'. 145 
 
 He did as he was bid, and stood there upright 
 and manly, a gentle look on his face. 
 
 " You have heard the evidence, Abel Carew," 
 said the coroner. " The pills have been analysed 
 and found to contain a certain portion of arsenic 
 — a great deal more than enough to kill a child. 
 What have you to say to it ?" 
 
 ** Only this, sir ; only what I said before. 
 That the pills analysed were not my pills. The 
 pills I gave to Mrs. Reed contained neither 
 arsenic nor any other poison." 
 
 "It is showing great obstinacy on your part 
 to repeat that," returned the coroner, impatiently. 
 " Mrs. Reed swears that the pills were the same 
 pills ; and she evidently speaks the truth." 
 
 " I am sure she thinks she speaks it," replied 
 Abel, gently. " Nevertheless, sir, I assure you 
 she is mistaken. In some way the pills must 
 have been changed while in her possession, box 
 and all." 
 
 " Why, man, in what manner do you suppose 
 they could have been changed ?" 
 
 " I don't know, sir. All I do know is, that 
 the pills and the box produced here last week 
 were not, either of them, the pills and the box 
 she had from me. Never a box went out from 
 me, sir, but it had my private mark on it — the 
 mark I spoke of. Jones the constable searched 
 my place while I was detained in the lock-up, and 
 took away all the pill-boxes out of it. Let him 
 testify whether he found one without the mark." 
 
 VOL. I. 10 
 
146 Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 At this juncture a whole cargo of pill-bcxes 
 were shot out of a bag on the table by old 
 Jones, some empty, some filled with pills. The 
 coroner and jury set on to examine them, and 
 found the mark on all, lids and boxes. 
 
 " And if you'd be so good as cause the pills 
 to be analysed, sir, they would be found per- 
 fectly free from poison," resumed Abel. " They 
 are made from herbs that possess healing pro- 
 perties, not irritant ; a poisonous herb, whether 
 poisonous in itself, or one from which poison 
 may be extracted, I never plucked. Believe 
 me, sir, for I am telling the truth ; the truth 
 before Heaven." 
 
 The coroner said nothing for a minute or 
 two : I think the words impressed him. He 
 began lifting the lid again from one or two of 
 the boxes. 
 
 " What are these pills for ? All for the same 
 
 disorder .'^" 
 
 " They were made up for different disorders, 
 ■>■) 
 sir. 
 
 "And pray how do you distinguish them ?" 
 " I cannot distinguish them now. They have 
 been mixed. Even if returned to me, I could 
 not use them. I have a piece of furniture at 
 home, sir, that I call my pill-case. It has 
 various drawers in it, each drawer being labelled 
 with the sort of pills kept in it : camomile, dan- 
 delion, and so on. Mr. Jones must be able to 
 corroborate this." 
 
Abel Creiu. 147 
 
 Old Jones nodded. He had never seen 
 nothing- neater nor more exact in all his life, 
 than the keeping o' them there pills. He, 
 Mr. Jones, had tumbled the drawerfuls in- 
 discriminately into his bag, and so mixed 
 them. 
 
 " And they will be so much loss to me," 
 quietly observed Abel. ''It does not matter." 
 
 " Were you brought up to the medical pro- 
 fession ?" cried the coroner — and some of us 
 thought he put the question in irony. 
 
 " No, sir," replied Abel, taking it to be 
 serious. " I have learnt the healing art, as 
 supplied by herbs and roots, and I know their 
 value. Herbs will cure sometimes where the 
 regular doctor fails. I have myself cured cases 
 with them that the surgeons could not cure ; 
 cases that but for me, under God, might never 
 have been cured in this world. I make no 
 boast of it ; anybody else might do as much 
 who had made herbs a studv, as I have." 
 
 " Are you making a fortune by it T went on 
 the coroner. 
 
 Abel shook his head. 
 
 " I have a small income of my own, sir, and 
 it is enough for my simple wants. What little 
 money I make by m.y medicines, and honey, 
 and that — it is not much — I find uses for in 
 other ways. I indulge in a new book now and 
 then ; and there are many poor people around 
 who need a bit of help sometimes." 
 
 10 — 2 
 
148 Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 "You 'read' the stars, I am told, Abel 
 Carew. What do you read in them ?" 
 
 " The same that I read, sir, in all other of 
 nature's works: God's wonderful hand. His wis- 
 dom. His power. His omnipotent providence." 
 
 Perhaps the coroner thought to bring Abel to 
 self-ridicule in his replies : if so, it was a mis- 
 take, for he seemed to be getting the worst of 
 it himself. At any rate, he quitted the subject 
 abruptly, brushed his energy up, and began 
 talking to the jury. 
 
 The drift of the conversation being, so far as 
 the room could hear it, that Crew's pills, and 
 only Crew's, could have been the authors of the 
 mischief to the two deceased children, whose 
 bodies they were sitting upon, and that Crew 
 must be committed to take his trial for man- 
 slaughter, " Hester Reed's evidence," he con- 
 tinued, " is so clear and positive, that it quite 
 puts aside any suspicion of the box of pills 
 having been changed "' 
 
 " The box had not my mark upon it, sir," 
 respectfully spoke Abel Crew, his tone anxious. 
 
 " Don't interrupt me," rebuked the coroner, 
 sharply. "As to the box not having what he 
 calls his private mark upon it," he added to the 
 jury, " that in my opinion tells little. Because 
 a man has put a mark on fifty pill-boxes, he is 
 not obliged to have put it on the fifty-first. An 
 unintentional omission is readily made. It ap- 
 pears to me " 
 
Abel Creio. 149 
 
 " Am I In time ? Is it all over ? Is Abel 
 Crew found guilty ?" 
 
 This unceremonious interruption to the official 
 speech came from a woman's voice. The door 
 of the room was pushed open with a fling, con- 
 siderably discomposing those who had their 
 backs against it and were taken unawares, and 
 they were pushed right and left by the struggles 
 of somebody to get to the front. The coroner 
 looked daggers ; old Jones lifted his staff; but 
 the intruder forced her way forward with resolute 
 equanimity. Cathy Reed : we never remem- 
 bered to call her Parrlfer. Cathy in her Sunday- 
 going gown and a pink bonnet. 
 
 "How dare you!" cried the coroner. "What 
 do you mean by this } Who are you ?" 
 
 " I have come rushing over from Tewkesbury 
 to clear Abel Crew," returned Cathy, getting up 
 her breath after the fight. " The pills that 
 killed the children were my pills." 
 
 The commotion this avowal caused In the 
 room was beyond describing. The coroner 
 stared, the jury all turned to look at the speaker, 
 the crowd trod upon one another. 
 
 "And sorry to my heart I am that it should 
 have been so," went on Cathy. " I loved those 
 two dear little ones as if they were my own, 
 and I'd rather my pills had killed myself. Just 
 look at that, please, Mr. Coroner." 
 
 The ease with which Cathy spoke to the 
 official gentleman, the coolness with which she 
 
150 Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 put down a pill-box on the green cloth before 
 him, took the room by surprise. As Ann 
 Dovey remarked, later, " She must ha' learnt 
 that there manner in her travels with young 
 Parrifer." 
 
 "What is this?" questioned the coroner 
 curtly, picking up the box. 
 
 " Perhaps you'll ask Mr. Crew whether he 
 knows it, sir, afore I say what it is," returned Cathy. 
 
 The coroner had opened it. It contained 
 seven pills ; just the size of the other pills, and 
 looking exactly like them. On the lid and on 
 the box was the private mark spoken of by 
 Abel Crew. 
 
 " That is my box, sir ; and these — I am cer- 
 tain of it — are my pills," spoke Abel, earnestly, 
 bending over the shoulder of the topmost jury- 
 man to look into the box. " The box and the 
 pills that I gave to Mrs. Reed." 
 
 " And so they are, Abel Crew," rejoined 
 Cathy, emphatically. " The week afore last, 
 which I was spending at home at father's, I 
 changed the one pill-box for the other, inad- 
 vertent, you see," — with a nod to the coroner — 
 "and took the wrong box away with me. And 
 I wish both boxes had been in the sea afore I'd 
 done it." 
 
 Cathy was ordered to give her account more 
 clearly, and did so. She had been suffering 
 from illness, accompanied by neuralgia, and a 
 doctor at Tewkesbury had prescribed some pills 
 
Abel Creiv. 151 
 
 for it, one to be taken occasionally. The chemist 
 who made them up told her they contained 
 arsenic. He was about to write the directions 
 on the box, when Cathy, who was in a hurry, 
 snatched it from him, saying she could not 
 wait for that bother, flung down the money, and 
 departed. This box of pills she had brought 
 with her on her visit to her father's, lest she should 
 find occasion to take one; and she had put it on 
 the shelf of the press, side by side with the other 
 pill-box, to be out of the way of the children. 
 Upon leaving, she took up the wrong box inad- 
 vertently : carrying away Abel Crew's pills, 
 leaving hers. There lay the explanation of the 
 mystery of the fatal mistake. Mrs. Reed had 
 not known that Cathy had any pills with her ; 
 the girl, who was just as light-headed as ever, 
 not having chanced to mention it ; and Cathy 
 had the grace to dust the room herself while she 
 was there. 
 
 " When father and his wife sent me word about 
 the death of the two little twins, and that it was 
 some pills of Abel Crew's that had done it, I 
 never once thought o' my pills," added Cathy. 
 " They didn't as much as come into my head. 
 But late last night I got lent to me last Saturday's 
 Worcester Herald, and there I read the inquest, 
 and what Crew had said about the marks he put 
 on his pill-boxes, and mother's evidence about 
 never having shifted the pill-box from its place 
 atop o' the press. ' Sure and I couldn't have 
 
152 Johnny Ludlon'. 
 
 changed them boxes,' thought I to myself ; and 
 upstairs I ran in a fright to look at the box I had 
 brought away. Yes, there it was; Abel Crew's 
 box with the marks on it; and I knew then that 
 I had left my own pills at home here, and that 
 they had killed the babies. As soon as I could 
 get away this morning — which was not as soon 
 as I wanted to — I started to come over. ■ And 
 that's the history — and the blessed truth." 
 
 Of course it was the truth. Abel's beautiful 
 face had a glow of light upon it. "I knew I 
 should be cleared in God's good time," he 
 breathed. The Squire pounced upon him, and 
 shook both his hands as if he would never let 
 them go again. Duffham held out his. 
 
 So that was the end of the story. Cathy got 
 a reprimand from the coroner for her careless- 
 ness, and burst into tears in his face. 
 
 " And thee come off home wi' thee, and see 
 me chuck that there powder into the fire ; and 
 don't go making a spectacle o' th' self again," 
 cried Dovey sharply in his wife's ear. " Thee 
 just let me catch thee a-bringing in more o' the 
 dratted stuff; that's all." 
 
 " I shall never look at a black-beedle again, 
 Jack, without shivering," she answered ; going 
 in for a slight instalment of the shivering there 
 and then, "It miQ^ht ha' come to hancrincr. 
 Leastways, that's what I've been a-dreaming of." 
 
V. 
 
 ROBERT ASHTON'S WEDDING-DAY. 
 
 THE hall clock was striking half-past five 
 as we went out into the sharp night air : 
 Mr. and Mrs. Todhetley, I, and Tod. We 
 were spending Christmas that year at Crabb 
 Cot. Old Coney's dinner was fixed for six : 
 but country people don't observe the fashion of 
 dashing in at the last stroke of the hour. The 
 weather was cold, and no mistake ; the snow 
 lay on the ground ; the stars shone like silver. 
 This was Tuesday, New Year's Day ; and to- 
 morrow, the second of January, Jane Coney 
 would be married to Robert Ashton of Timber- 
 dale. The Ashtons were to dine to-night at 
 the Farm, and we had been asked to meet 
 them. If everybody stood upon his own level, 
 we should shoot up some degrees over the 
 Coneys' heads in the scale of the globe's ladder ; 
 for old Coney was only a plain farmer ; and 
 you've learnt by this time what the Squire was. 
 But the Coneys were right down good people, 
 and made the best neighbours in the world. 
 
154 Johnny Lndlozv. 
 
 We had but to cross the road at an angle, 
 and old Coney had had it swept for us. It was 
 an old-fashioned farm-house, full of nooks and 
 angles, with one ugly, big room in it, oak- 
 panelled. The cloth was laid there for to-night, 
 the breakfast would be for the morrow. Old 
 Coney and Mrs. Coney came out of the drawing- 
 room to meet us : that was small and snug, with 
 a running pattern of pale roses on its white- 
 watered walls. He was jolly; she, plain, homely, 
 and sensible. 
 
 Jane was quiet, like her mother ; very well 
 she looked, standing on the carpet in her pretty 
 blue silk dress. Her brother Tom, a tall, strong 
 young fellow with a red face, lifted her out of 
 the way by the waist, that he might shake 
 hands all round. The eldest daughter, Mary 
 West, was staying there with her nurse and 
 baby ; she looked ill, and got up only for a 
 minute from her chair by the fire. Her 
 husband was a lawyer, in practice at Worcester. 
 Another young lady was sitting by, with light 
 frizzed hair : Mrs. James Ashton. 
 
 Before we had settled down, wheels were 
 heard. It was Robert Ashton's dog-cart, bring- 
 ing his two brothers, Charles and James ; and 
 Mary West's husband. Miss Jane's cheeks 
 turned as red as a rose for nothing : Robert 
 Ashton had not come with them. 
 
 I had better say who the Ashtons were. Old 
 Ashton (the father) had lived at Timberdale 
 
Robert Ashtons Wedding-day. 155 
 
 Court always. It was one of the best farms in 
 all Worcestershire. Old Ashton lived in good 
 style, educated his children, and started them 
 well in life. Lucy, the only girl, married a 
 Captain Bird, who turned out to be a frightful 
 scamp. Robert remained on the farm with his 
 father ; Charles was a clergyman ; James a 
 doctor in Worcester. Everybody respected Mr. 
 Ashton. It was about three years now since he 
 died, and he left a good pot of money behind 
 him. Robert succeeded to the farm, and it was 
 he who was to marry Jane Coney to-morrow. 
 
 They went upstairs with their carpet-bags, 
 having come direct from Worcester by train ; 
 Robert Ashton's dog-cart had been waiting, as 
 arranged, at Timberdale Station to bring them 
 on. Mrs. James Ashton came over earlier in 
 the day with Mrs. West. Robert and Charles 
 Ashton were both fine young men, but the 
 doctor was slight and short. Now I hope all 
 that's clear ; because it was needful to say it. 
 
 What with talking and looking at the presents, 
 the time passed. They were laid out on a table 
 against the wall, on a snow-white damask cloth 
 of rare beauty. 
 
 " Look here," whispered Mrs. Coney, taking 
 up a scented blue-and-white case of satin ribbon 
 and beads for keeping pocket-handkerchiefs in, 
 " Poor Lucy Bird sent this. She must have 
 made it herself: a thing like this, bought, would 
 be as much as fifteen or sixteen shillings. It 
 
156 Jo Jinny Liidloiu. 
 
 came almost anonymously : ' With best love and 
 ever kind wishes for Robert and Jane,' written 
 on it ; but we knew Lucy's handwriting." 
 
 " Where are they now ?" asked Mrs. Tod- 
 hetley, in the same mysterious whisper. 
 
 " I fancy they are staying somewhere in 
 Worcester, We should have liked to get 
 Lucy over for the wedding ; but — you know- 
 how it is : we could not ask him." 
 
 Mrs. Todhetley nodded. She wore her grey 
 silk gown that night, which always seemed 
 to make her look taller and thinner than ever, 
 and a white lace cape with pink ribbons. A 
 pink bow was in her light hair, and she had 
 put on her beautiful earrings. 
 
 There is some thorn in most families, and 
 Lucy was the one in that of Ashton. She was 
 educated at the best school in Worcester, and 
 came home at eio-hteen brimfull of romance. It 
 lay in her nature. You'd hardly have found 
 so pretty and sentimental a girl in the county. 
 Because her name was Lucy Ashton, she 
 identified herself with Scott's Lucy Ashton, and 
 looked out for a Master of Ravenswood. These 
 sentimental girls sometimes come to grief, for 
 they possess but three parts of their share of 
 plain common-sense. The Master of Ravens- 
 wood came in the shape of Captain Bird, a tall, 
 dark man, with a flaming coat and fierce mous- 
 tache. He paid court to Lucy, and she fell in 
 love with him before a week was over. The 
 
Robert Ashtons IVedding-day. 157 
 
 Ashtons turned their backs upon him : there 
 was something in the man they did not hke, in 
 spite of the red coat and the black moustache. 
 But he won over Lucy — he had heard of her 
 fortune, you see — and she promised to marry 
 him. She was a gentle, yielding, timid girl 
 then ; but her love was strong, and she ran 
 away. She ran away, and was married the 
 same morning at St. Helen's church in Wor- 
 cester, in which parish Bird had been staying. 
 It was the talk of the county ; but when the 
 clatter had subsided, everybody began to pity 
 Lucy, saying she would have plenty of time and 
 cause for repentance. After all, he was not a 
 real captain now. He had sold out of the army ; 
 and there arose a rumour that he had done some- 
 thing wrong, and was obliged to sell out. 
 
 Mr. Ashton had loved Lucy better than all 
 his children. He forgave the marriage for 
 Lucy's sake, and had them home on a visit, and 
 presented her with a handsome sum. But he 
 made a great mistake — I've heard the Squire 
 say it often — in not setding It upon her. Bird 
 spent it as soon as he well could ; and he would 
 have spent some more that came to Lucy when 
 her father died, only that it was left in Robert 
 Ashton's hands to be paid to her quarterly. 
 People called Bird a black-leg : said he was 
 about the worst man that ever stepped. Robert 
 had offered Lucy a home at Timberdale Court, 
 but she would not quit her husband : she had 
 
15S Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 married him, she said, for better or for worse. 
 If he came to be transported — and he was going 
 on for it — the chances were that Lucy would 
 follow him to Van Diemen's Land. 
 
 " I say, there's six o'clock !" exclaimed Mr. 
 Coney, as the hour struck. "Jane, what have 
 you done with Robert ?" 
 
 " Not anything, papa. He said he should be 
 here half-an-hour before dinner." 
 
 " And it will soon be half-an-hour after it," 
 returned old Coney. "If he does not make 
 haste, we shall sit down without him." 
 
 The clock on the mantel-piece went ticking 
 on, and struck half-past six. Dinner. The 
 Squire led off the van with Mrs. Coney. Tod 
 laid hold of Jane. 
 
 " I'll be in Robert's place while I can, Jenny." 
 
 The oak-room was a surprise. It looked 
 beautiful. The dark walls were quite covered 
 with holly and ivy, mixed with the blossoms of 
 laureltinus and some bright flowers. Old 
 Thomas {borrowed from us) and the maids 
 stood by the sideboard ; it glittered with silver. 
 The Coneys had their stores as well as other 
 people, and did things well when they did them 
 at all. On the table was a larofe codfish, 
 garnished with horseradish and lemon. Our 
 names were before our places, and we took 
 them without bustle, Robert Ashton's, next to 
 Jane, being left vacant. 
 
 ' For what " 
 
Robej^t As/it OILS Wedding-day. 159 
 
 A faint shriek Interrupted the Reverend Mr. 
 Ashton, and the grace was broken off. Lifting 
 his head towards the quarter whence the shriek 
 came, he saw his sister-ln-law with a scared 
 face. 
 
 "We are thirteen!" exclaimed Tvlrs. James 
 Ashton. " I beg your pardon, Charles — I beg 
 everybody's pardon ; but Indeed we must not 
 sit down thirteen to dinner on New Year's Day. 
 I would not for any money !" 
 
 " What nonsense, my dear !" cried her hus- 
 band, rather crossly. " Robert will be here 
 directly." 
 
 It was of no use. The ladies took her 
 part, saying they ought not to sit down. And 
 there we all stood, uncertain what to be at, the 
 dinner hovering In mid-air like Mahomet's 
 coffin, and not to be eaten. 
 
 " There are two days In the year when it Is 
 not well to sit down thirteen : New Year's Day 
 and Christmas Day," said Mrs. Todhetley, and 
 the rest held with her. 
 
 "Are we all to go back to the drawing-room, 
 and leave our dinner ?" demanded old Coney, In 
 wrath. "Where the plague is Robert ? Look 
 here : those that won't sit down thirteen can go, 
 and those that don't mind It can stop." 
 
 " Hear, hear !" cried the Squire. 
 
 But Jane Coney went gliding to her mother's 
 side. " I will wait for Robert In the drawing- 
 room, mamma, and you can sit down twelve. 
 
i6o Johnny LudlonK 
 
 Yes, please ; it is best so. Indeed I could not 
 eat if I stayed." 
 
 " Shall we send you some dinner in, child .'^" 
 asked Mr. Coney. 
 
 " No, thank you, papa. I would like best to 
 take it with Robert when he comes." 
 
 " All right," said old Coney. " Johnny, you 
 go over to that side, to make the table even. 
 We'll have the grace now, parson." 
 
 And the parson said it. 
 
 It was a dinner that pleased the Squire's 
 heart. He had a mortal objection to what he 
 called kickshaws, meaning the superfluous dishes 
 you get at a modern entertainment. The 
 Coneys never had kickshaws, only a plain, sub- 
 stantial dinner, the best of its kind. 
 
 " Coney, I never taste such oyster-sauce as 
 yours, go where I will," cried the Squire. ''It 
 can't be matched." 
 
 Old Coney winked, as much as to say he 
 knew it. '' The missis gives an eye to that, you 
 see. Squire," he answered, in a side whisper. 
 " She had been in the kitchen till you came." 
 
 The Squire took another ladleful. He went 
 once or twice to every dish, and drank cham- 
 pagne with all of us. But still Robert Ashton 
 did not come. 
 
 I slipped round to Mrs. Coney when the 
 plum-pudding appeared, whispering that I would 
 take a slice to Jane. 
 
 *' So you shall, Johnny," she said, giving me 
 
Robert Ashtons Wedding-day. i6i 
 
 some on a plate, and putting a mince-pie beside 
 it. " She'll have no luck unless she eats a 
 bit of pudding and pie on the first day of the 
 year." 
 
 Jane sat in a low elbow-chair before the fire, 
 her head leaning sideways on her hand, her hair 
 a little tumbled. It was very nice hair, dark 
 chestnut, and her eyes were hazel. Robert 
 Ashton was fair-haired and blue-eyed ; Saxon all 
 over, and very good-looking. 
 
 " I have brought you some pudding, Jane." 
 
 " Oh, Johnny ! why did you leave the table ? 
 I can't eat it." 
 
 " But Mrs. Coney says you are to ; and some 
 mince-pie, too, or else you'll have no luck." 
 
 As if in obedience she ate a small bit of the 
 pudding, cut a quarter out of the mince-pie with 
 her fork, and ate that. 
 
 "■ There, Johnny, that's enough for ' luck.' 
 You go back now to your dinner ; I dare say 
 you've not had any pudding." 
 
 "■ I'll stay with you, and eat this : as it is going 
 begging."^ 
 
 She neither said yes nor no. She was look- 
 ing frightfully uneasy. 
 
 "Are you vexed that Robert Ashton's not 
 here, Jane ?" 
 
 " I am not vexed, because I know he would 
 Tiave been here if he could. I think something 
 has happened to him." 
 
 I stared at her. " What ! because he is a 
 
 VOL. I. II 
 
1 62 Johnny L^idlow. 
 
 little late In coming ? Why, Jane, you must be 
 nervous." 
 
 She kept looking into the fire^ her eyes fixed. 
 I sat on a stool on the other side the hearth ; the 
 empty pudding-plate with its fork standing on 
 the rug between us, where I had put it. 
 
 *' Robert was sure to come for this dinner, 
 Johnny, all being well, and to be in time." 
 
 *' Tell me what you fear, Jane— and why,'^" 
 
 '* I think I will tell you," she said, after a 
 pause. " I should like to tell some one. I wish 
 I had told Robert when he called thisaiiorning ; 
 but I was afraid he would laugh at me. You 
 will lauQfh too." 
 
 And Jane Coney told it. In a low, dread 
 voice, her eyes staring into the fire as before, 
 just as though they could see through the blaze 
 into the future. 
 
 Early that morning she had had a dream ; a 
 nasty, disagreeable, ugly dream about Robert 
 Ashton. She thought he was in some frightful 
 peril, that she cried out to him to avoid it, or it 
 would stop their marriage. He seemed not to 
 take the least notice of her, but to go right on 
 to it ; and in the alarm this brought her, she 
 awoke. I listened in silence, saying nothing to 
 the end ; no, nor then. 
 
 " The dream w^as so intensely real, Johnny. 
 It seemed to be to-day ; this very day then 
 dawning ; and we both of us knew that it was ; 
 the one before our marriage. I woke up in a 
 
Robert Ashtoiis Wedding-day. i6 
 
 3 
 
 fever ; and but that it was night and not day, 
 should have had a difficulty to persuade myself 
 at first that we were not really enacting the 
 scene — it was, as I say, so vividly real. And 
 Robert went out to the peril, never heeding me." 
 
 " What was the peril T 
 
 " That's what I can't tell. A consciousness 
 lay upon me that it was something very bad and 
 frightful ; but of its nature I saw nothing. I 
 did not go to sleep again : it must have been 
 about six o'clock, but the mornings are very 
 dark, you know, I got up soon : what with this 
 dinner-party and other things, there has been a 
 great deal to do to-day, and I soon forgot the 
 dream. Robert called after breakfast, and the 
 sight of him put me in mind of it. I felt a great 
 inclination to tell him to take especial care of 
 himself ; but he would only have laughed at me. 
 He drove away direct to the Timberdale station, 
 to take the train for Worcester." 
 
 She did not say, though, what he had gone 
 for to Worcester. To get the ring and licence. 
 
 " I have not felt the smallest fear of the dream 
 all along, Johnny, since I awoke. Save for the 
 few minutes Robert was here, I don't remember 
 even to have thought of it. But when his 
 brothers and Mr. West came in without him to- 
 night, it flashed into my mind like a dart. I felt 
 sure then that something had happened. I dare 
 say we shall never be married now." 
 
 " Jane !" 
 
 II — 2 
 
164 Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 "Well, Johnny Ludlow, I think it." 
 
 To me it seemed to be getting serious. There 
 might be nothing at all in what she had said : 
 most people would have said there was nothing ; 
 but, sitting there in the quiet room listening to 
 her earnest voice, seeing her anxious face, a 
 feeline came over me that there was. What had 
 become of Robert Ashton ? Where could he 
 be? 
 
 " I wish you'd give me that shawl of 
 mamma's," she said, pointing to one on a chair. 
 - I feel cold." 
 
 She was shivering when I put it over her 
 pretty white shoulders and arms. And yet the 
 fire was roaring to the very top of the grate. 
 
 " Alone here, while you were at dinner, I 
 went over all kinds of probabilities," she re- 
 sumed, drawing the shawl round her as if she 
 were out in the snow. " Of course there are 
 five hundred things that might happen to him, 
 but I can only think of one." 
 
 " Well ?" — for she stopped. She seemed to 
 be speaking very unwillingly. 
 
 "If he walked he would be almost sure to 
 take the near way, across the Ravine." 
 
 Was she ever coming to the point ? I said 
 nothing. It was better to let her go on in her 
 own way. 
 
 "I dare say you will say the idea is far-fetched, 
 Johnny. What I think is, that he may have 
 fallen down the Ravine, in coming here." 
 
Robert Ashtoii s Wedding-day. 165 
 
 Well, I did think it far-fetched. I'd as soon 
 have expected her to say fallen down the 
 chimney. 
 
 "Those zigzag paths are not very safe in 
 good weather, especially the one on the Timber- 
 dale side," she went on. " With the snow on 
 them, perhaps ice, they are positively danger- 
 ous. One false step at the top — and the fall 
 might kill him." 
 
 Put in this way, it seemed feasible enough. 
 But yet — somehow I did not take to it. 
 
 " Robert Ashton is strong and agile, Jane. 
 He has come down the zigzag hundreds of 
 times." 
 
 " I seem to see him lying there, at the bottom 
 of the Ravine," she said, staring as before into 
 the fire. " I — wish — some of you would go and 
 look for him." 
 
 "Perhaps we had better. I'll make one. 
 Who's this ?" 
 
 It was Tom Coney. His mother had sent 
 him to see after me. I thought I'd tell him — 
 keeping counsel about the dream — that Robert 
 Ashton might have come to grief in the Ravine. 
 
 " What kind of grief ?" asked Tom. 
 
 " Turned a summerset down the zigzag, and 
 be lying with a leg broken." 
 
 Tom's laugh displayed his small white teeth : 
 the notion amused him excessively. " What 
 else would you like to suppose, Johnny T' 
 
 " At any rate, Jane thinks so." 
 
1 66 . Johnny Lndlow. 
 
 She turned round then, the tears In her eyes, 
 and went up to Tom in a burst of grief. It 
 took him aback. 
 
 " Tom ! Tom ! if no one goes to see after 
 him, I think I must go myself. I cannot bear 
 the suspense much longer!" 
 
 " Why, Jenny girl, what has taken you ?" 
 
 That had taken her. The fear that Robert 
 Ashton might be lying disabled, or dead, in the 
 Ravine. Tom Coney called Tod quietly out 
 of 'the dining-room, and we started. Putting 
 on our dark greatcoats in silence, w^e went out 
 at the back-door, which was nearest the Ravine. 
 Jane came with us to the gate. I never saw- 
 eyes so eager as hers were, as she gazed across 
 the snow in the moonlight. 
 
 " Look here," said Tom, "we had better tuck 
 our trousers up." 
 
 The expedition was not pleasant, I can assure 
 you, especially the going down the zigzag. 
 Jane was right about its being slippery : we 
 had to hold on by the trees and bushes, and tread 
 cautiously. When pretty near the bottom, Tod 
 made a false step, and shot down into the snow. 
 
 " Murder!" he roared out. 
 
 " Any bones broke ?" asked Tom Coney, who 
 could hardly speak for laughing. Tod growled, 
 and shied a handful of snow at him. 
 
 But the slip brought home to us the proba- 
 bility of the fear about Robert Ashton. To 
 slip from where Tod did, was fun ; to slip from 
 
Robert AsJuons Wedding-day. 167 
 
 the top of the opposite zigzag quite another 
 thing. The snow here at the bottom was up to 
 our calves, and the black trousers got rolled up 
 higher. The moonlight lay cold and white on 
 the Ravine ; the clustering trees, thick in 
 summer, were leafless now. Had any fellow 
 been gazing down from the top, we must have 
 looked, to him, like three black-coated under- 
 takers, gliding along to a funeral. 
 
 " I'll tell you what," cried Tod : "if Ashton 
 did lose his footing, he'd not come to such mortal 
 grief. The depth of snow would save him." 
 
 " I don't believe he did fall," said Tom Coney, 
 stoutly. " Bob Ashton's as sure-footed as a 
 hare. But for Jane's being so miserable, I'd 
 have said, flat, I'd not come out on any such 
 wild-goose errand." 
 
 On we went, wading through the sea of snow. 
 Some of us looked round for the ghost's light, 
 and did not see it. But rumour said that it 
 never came on a bright moonlit night. Here 
 we were at last ! — at the foot of the other zig- 
 zag. But Robert Ashton wasn't here. And, 
 the best proof that he had not fallen, was the 
 unbroken surface of the snow. Not so much as 
 a rabbit had scudded across to disturb its smooth- 
 ness. 
 
 " I knew it," said Tom Coney. " He has 
 not come to grief at all. It stands to reason 
 that a fellow must have heaps to do the day 
 before his wedding, if it's only in burning his 
 
i68 Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 old letters from other sweethearts. Bob had a 
 heap of them, no doubt ; and couldn't get away 
 In time for dinner." 
 
 " We had better go on to the Court, and see," 
 I said. 
 
 " Oh, that be hanged !" cried the other two in 
 a breath. 
 
 "Well, I shall. It's not much farther. You 
 can go back, or not, as you like." 
 
 This zigzag, though steeper than the one on 
 our side, was not so slippery. Perhaps the sun 
 had shone on it in the day and melted the snow. 
 I went up it nearly as easy as in good weather. 
 Tod and Coney, thinking better of the turning 
 back, came after me. 
 
 We should have been at Timberdale Court in 
 five minutes, taking the short cut over hedges 
 and ditches, but for an adventure by the way, 
 which I have not just here space to tell of It 
 had nothing to do with Robert Ashton. Getting 
 to the Court, we hammered at it hotly till the 
 door was opened. The servant started back in 
 surprise. 
 
 " Goodness me !" said she, " I thought it was 
 master." 
 
 " Where is the master V asked Tom. 
 
 " Not come home, sir. He has not been in 
 since he left this morning." 
 
 It was all out. Instead of pitchpolling into 
 Crabb Ravine and breaking his limbs, Bob 
 Ashton had not got back from Worcester. It 
 
Robert Ashton s Wedding-day. 169 
 
 was very strange, though, what could be keeping 
 him, and the Court was nearly in a commotion 
 over it. 
 
 When we got back to the Farm, they were 
 laying the table for the wedding-breakfast. 
 Plenty of kickshaws now, and some lovely 
 flowers. The ladies, helping, had their gown- 
 skirts turned up. This helping had not been in 
 the evening's programme ; but things seemed 
 to have been turned upside down, and they were 
 glad to seize upon it. Jane and her sister, Mrs. 
 West, sat alone by the drawing-room fire, never- 
 saying a word to one another. 
 
 " Johnny, I don't half like this," whispered 
 Mrs. Todhetley to me. 
 
 '* Like what, good mother ?" 
 
 " This absence of Robert Ashton." 
 
 I don't know that I liked it either. 
 
 Morning came. In an uncertainty of com- 
 motion like this, people go into each other's 
 houses indiscriminately. The first train came 
 in from Worcester before it was well light ; but 
 it did not bring Robert Ashton. As to the snow 
 on the ground, it was pretty well beaten now. 
 
 ■ " He'd not travel by that slow parliamentary 
 thing : he'll come by the express to South Crabb 
 Junction," said Tom Coney, thinking he would 
 cheer away the general disappointment. Jane 
 we had not seen. 
 
170 Johnny Lttdlozu. 
 
 The express would be at the Junction between 
 nine and ten. A whole lot of us went down 
 there. It was not farther off than Timberdale 
 station, but the opposite way. I don't think 
 one of us was more eager than another, unless 
 it was the Squire. The thing was getting 
 serious, he told us ; and he went puffing about 
 like a man looking for his head. 
 
 To witness the way he seized hold of 
 the doors when the express steamed in, and 
 put his old red nose inside all the carriages, 
 looking for Robert Ashton, was a sicrht. The 
 guard laid hold of his arm, saying he'd come to 
 damage. But Robert Ashton was not in the 
 train. 
 
 "He may come yet," said old Coney, look- 
 ing fit to cry. " There'll be a train in again at 
 Timberdale. Or, he may drive over." 
 
 But everyone felt that he would 7iot come. 
 Something told us so. It was only making 
 believe to one another, saying he would. 
 
 " I shall go to Worcester by the next down 
 train," said the Squire to old Coney. 
 
 " The next does not stop here." 
 
 " They'd better stop it for me," said the 
 Squire, defiantly. " You can't come, Coney. 
 You must stop to give Jane away." 
 
 " But if there's no bridegroom to give her 
 to T' debated old Coney. 
 
 " There may be. You must stop on the 
 strength of it." 
 
Robert Ashtoii s JVedding-day . 171 
 
 The down train came up, and obeyed the 
 signal to stop made by the station-master. The 
 Squire, Tod, and Tom Coney got in, and it 
 steamed on agfain. 
 
 " Now mind, I shall conduct this search," the 
 Squire said to the others with a frown. " You 
 young fellows don't know your right hand from 
 your left in a business of this sort. We must 
 go about it systematically, and find out the dif- 
 ferent places that Robert Ashton went to yester- 
 day, and the people he saw." Tod and Tom 
 Coney told us this later. 
 
 When they arrived at Worcester, the first 
 man they saw at Shrubb Hill Station was Harry 
 Coles, who had been seeing somebody off by 
 the train, which was rather curious ; for his 
 brother, Fred Coles, was Robert Ashton's great 
 chum, and was to be groom's-man at the wedding. 
 Harry Coles said his brother had met Ashton 
 by appointment the previous day, and went 
 with him to the Registrar's office for the mar- 
 riage licence — which was supplied to them 
 by Mr. Clifton himself. After that, they 
 went to the jeweller's, and chose the wedding- 
 ringr. 
 
 " Well, what after that ?" cried the impatient 
 Squire, 
 
 Harry Coles did not know what. His brother 
 had come back to their office early in the after- 
 noon — about one o'clock — saying Ashton was 
 going, or had gone, home. 
 
172 Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 " Can't you tell which he said — going, or 
 gone ?" demanded the Squire, getting red. 
 
 " No, I can't," said Harry Coles. " I was 
 busy with some estimates, and did not pay 
 particular heed." 
 
 " Then you ought to have paid it, sir," re- 
 torted the Squire. " Your brother ? — where is 
 he r 
 
 " Gone over to Timberdale ao-es aofo. He 
 started the first thing this morning, Squire ; a 
 big coat thrown over his wedding toggery." 
 
 The Squire growled, as a relief to his feelings, 
 not knowing what in the world to do. He sud- 
 denly said he'd go to the Registrar's office, and 
 started for Edofar Street on the run. 
 
 Mr. Clifton was not there, but a clerk was. 
 Yes, Mr. Ashton of Timberdale had been there 
 the previous day, he said, in answer to the 
 Squire, and had got his licence. The governor 
 (meaning Mr. Clifton, who knew the Ashtons 
 and the Coneys well) had joked a bit with young 
 Ashton, when he gave it. As to telling where 
 Ashton of Timberdale and Mr. Coles had gone 
 to afterwards, the clerk did not know at all. 
 
 So there was nothing to be gathered at the 
 Registrar's office, and the Squire turned his 
 steps up the town again, Tod and Coney follow- 
 ing him like two tame lambs ; for he'd not let 
 them make a suggestion or put in a word edge- 
 ways. He was on his way to the jeweller's now : 
 but as he had omitted to ask Harry Coles which 
 
Robert Ashtons Wedding-day. 173 
 
 of the jewellers' shops the ring was bought at, 
 he took them all in succession, and hit upon the 
 right one after difficulty. 
 
 He learnt nothing there, either. Mr. Ashton 
 of Timberdale had bought the ring and keeper, 
 and paid for them, the master said. Of course 
 everybody knew the young lady was Miss Jane 
 Coney : he had brought one of her rings as a 
 guide for size : a chased gold, with small garnet 
 stone in it. 
 
 " I am not asking for rings and stones," in- 
 terrupted the Squire, wrathfully. " I want to 
 know if Mr. Ashton said where he was going 
 afterwards ?" 
 
 "He said never a word about it," returned 
 the master. "When they went out of here — 
 young Fred Coles was with him — they took the 
 way towards the hop-market." 
 
 The Squire went to the Crown next — the inn 
 used by the Ashtons of Timberdale. Robert 
 Ashton had called in the previous day, about one 
 o'clock, the waiter said, taking a small piece of 
 bread-and-cheese, observing that he had no time 
 for anything else, and half a glass of table-beer. 
 Mr. Coles had come down Broad Street with 
 him, as far as the inn door, when they shook 
 hands and parted ; Mr. Coles going back again. 
 The waiter thought Mr. Ashton was not in the 
 house above five minutes at the most. 
 
 "And don't you know where he went to next V 
 urged the Squire. 
 
1 74 Johnny Lndlozv. 
 
 " No," the waiter replied. The impression 
 on his mind was, that Mr. Ashton's business in 
 Worcester was over, and that he was returning 
 home agrain. 
 
 The Squire moved slowly up Broad Street, 
 more gloomy than an owl, his hands in his 
 pockets, his nose blue. He boasted of his 
 systematic abilities, as applied to seekings and 
 searchings, but he knew no more what to be at 
 next than the man in the moon. Turning up 
 the Cross, he came to an anchor outside the 
 linen-draper's shop; propping his back against 
 the window, as if the hanging silks had offended 
 him. There he stood, staring up at St. Nicholas's 
 clock opposite. 
 
 " Tom," said he, virtually giving in, " I think 
 we had better talk to the police. Here's one 
 comino; alonof now." 
 
 When the policeman was abreast, the Squire 
 took his hands from his pockets, and pinned the 
 man by his button-hole. 
 
 " Mr. ■ Ashton of Timberdale i^ — oh, he has 
 got into trouble, sir," was the man's ready answer. 
 " He is before the magistrates now, on a charge 
 of " 
 
 The railway omnibus, . coming along at the 
 moment, partially drowned the word. 
 
 " Charge of zu/ia^ f" roared the Squire. 
 
 The policeman repeated it. The omnibus was 
 making a frightful clatter, and the Squire only 
 just caught it now. W^ith a great cry he dashed 
 
Robert Ashtons Wedding-day. 175 
 
 over to the fly-stand, got into one, and ordered 
 it to gallop away with him. Tom Coney and 
 Tod barely escaped having to hang on behind. 
 
 " Drive like mad !" stamped the .Squire. 
 
 " Yes, sir," said the man, doing it. " Where 
 
 to r 
 
 " Go on, will you, sir! To the deuce." 
 " To the police-court," corrected Tom Coney. 
 Arrived there, the Squire left them to pay the 
 fare, and fought his way inside. The first thing 
 his spectacles caught sight of distinctly, was the 
 fair Saxon face and fine form of Robert Ashton, 
 standing, a prisoner, in the criminal dock. 
 
 At the Farm, things were in a state more 
 easy to imagine than describe. The carriages 
 came bowling up, bringing the guests. The 
 four bridesmaids wore pale-blue silk, trimmed 
 with white fur. Jane was dressed. In passing 
 her door, I saw her. They had sent me up to 
 fetch something from Tom's room. 
 
 "IsTt not a mockery, Johnny?" she said, 
 letting me go inside. And her poor pale face 
 looked more fit for a burying than a wedding, 
 and her eyes had dark circles round them. 
 
 " If you mean your dress, Jane, I never saw 
 anything less like a mockery, or more like a 
 princess's in a fairy tale." 
 
 It was of rich white silk ; a delicate wreath 
 of myrtle and orange-blossoms on her chestnut 
 hair. The veil lay upon the bed. 
 
176 Johnny LtLcilow. 
 
 "You know what I mean, Johnny. There 
 will be no wedding at North Crabb Church to- 
 day — and nothing can have been more fooHsh 
 than to prepare me for it. Oh, Johnny ! if I 
 could but go to sleep till ten years hence, and 
 never wake up between !" 
 
 Before the cfate waited the carriages, their 
 postilions in scarlet jackets ; the company, in 
 their fine plumage, jostled each other in the 
 nooks and corners of the house ; the maids, 
 wearing a bright uniform of purple gowns and 
 white muslin aprons, ran about wildly. Every 
 two minutes, old Coney went up to a staircase 
 window that faced Timberdale, looking out to 
 see whether Robert Ashton was coming: — like 
 Sister Anne, in " Bluebeard." 
 
 Twelve o'clock ! It was like a knell booming 
 out ; and the carriages went away with the 
 company. A fine ending to a wedding, that was ! 
 
 I was standing at the back-door, disconsolate 
 as the moaning wind, when the Timberdale 
 station fly came rattling along. A gentleman 
 put his head out of it, to tell the driver to stop. 
 He got down, and came limping up to me. It 
 was Mr. West's partner, old Lawyer Cocker- 
 muth, who had declined an invitation to the 
 wedding because of gout. 
 
 " Look here," said he, catching hold of my 
 shoulder, " I want to say half-a-dozen words to 
 Mr. Coney. Can you manage to bring him out 
 to me, or smuggle me into any little place where 
 
Robert Ashton s Wedding-day. 
 
 / / 
 
 we can be alone ? I suppose the house is chock- 
 full of them wedding" people." 
 
 " You have brought bad news of Robert 
 Ashton !" I said, in sudden conviction. " What 
 IS It : 
 
 "Well, so I have'' '\\& answered confiden- 
 tially. " It will soon be known to everybody, but 
 I'd like to break it to Coney first. I've come 
 over to do it. Robert Ashton is in custody for 
 murder !" 
 
 I felt my face turn as pale as a girl's. *' For 
 vturder ?'' 
 
 Old Cockermuth's chin grew long as he 
 nodded. " He is in custody for nothing less 
 than the murder of his brother-in-law, Bird. 
 Yesterday — " 
 
 A smothered cry behind us, and I turned 
 sharply. There stood Jane. She had seen 
 Cockermuth's arrival ; and came down, knowing 
 he must have brouo-ht bad news. The white 
 robe and wreath were gone, and she wore her 
 every-day dress of violet merino. 
 
 " Now, my dear ! my dear, be calm !" cried 
 the old lawyer, in a fright. " For goodness' sake 
 shut us in somewhere, Johnny Ludlow ! We 
 shall have the whole pack out upon us." 
 
 Some of the pack did come, before he could 
 be shut up. And there we were — hearing that 
 Robert Ashton had been taken up for murder. 
 
 It appeared that, after quitting the Crown on 
 the previous day, he met his sister's husband, 
 
 VOL. I. 12 
 
17S Johnny Ludloiu. 
 
 Captain Bird — from habit, people still accorded 
 him his title. Captain Bird told him Lucy was 
 dangerously ill, and asked him to go and see 
 her. Robert went at once to their lodgings. 
 What exactly happened there, nobody as yet 
 knew ; but Robert and Bird got quarrelling. 
 Robert did not come out again. In the morning 
 (this morning) the neighbours heard a hue-and- 
 cry ; and on the door being opened by two 
 policemen. Bird was found lying in the passage 
 dead, as was supposed, and Robert Ashton was 
 given into custody for his murder. 
 
 Jane touched me on the arm, and I followed 
 her into the large, empty dining-room. That 
 miserable breakfast ! waiting for those who could 
 not sit down to eat it. The evergreens on the 
 walls seemed to look faded ; the flowers on the 
 table to have lost their first brightness. 
 
 " You see I was right, Johnny," she said. 
 " That dream was a dream of warning. And 
 sent as one." 
 
 It did look like it. But dreams are things you 
 can't lay hold of ; no, nor altogether believe in. 
 Standing by the cold grate, she began to shake. 
 In the confusion, the servants had let the fire 
 go out. 
 
 "I'd forget the dream if I were you, Jane. 
 Where's the use of people having dreams " 
 
 " Say warnings, Johnny." 
 
 " if they cannot see how to make use 
 
 of them } Call them warnings, an' you like 
 
Robert AsJitoiis Wedding-day. 179 
 
 the word better. They are of no good at 
 all." 
 
 *' Oh, Johnny, if I could but die ! It was hard 
 enough to bear when he was only missing ; but 
 now " 
 
 It was just as though she never meant to 
 leave off shivering. I went to hunt for some 
 small sticks, and saw our cook, Molly, in the 
 kitchen amidst the maids. Trust her for being 
 in the thick of any gossip. Bringing the sticks 
 back, I pushed them in, and they soon crackled 
 up into a blaze. Jane sat down and watched 
 them. 
 
 " I wouldn't be afraid, Jane, if I were you. 
 There must be some mistake." 
 
 " I am not afraid — in one sense. That 
 Robert has done nothing wrong willingly, I 
 know. But — he is rather passionate ; and there's 
 no telling how they might provoke him. If 
 there is much prolonged suspense ; a trial, or 
 anything of that — well, I suppose I shall live 
 through it." 
 
 How hopeless she looked ! her head bent, her 
 eyes not lifted. Just then there was a cry out- 
 side for Jane. " Jane !" 
 
 "Go out, Johnny, and say I am all right. 
 Pray to them to let me be alone. Tell mamma 
 not to come in ; I am easier by myself — and 
 the fire's burning up. They have gone calling 
 upstairs ; they'd not think I am here." 
 
 Was there anything incoherent in her words ? 
 
 12 — 2 
 
i8o Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 I looked at her narrowly. I suppose that they 
 sounded something like it. 
 
 " One has been coming to soothe me, and 
 another has been coming ; I've not known how 
 to bear it. They mean it in kindness — great 
 kindness ; but I would so much rather be alone. 
 You go now, Johnny." 
 
 So I shut her in. And whispered to Mrs. 
 Coney that she was praying to be left alone. 
 
 I don't know how the day went on, except 
 that it was miserably uncomfortable. We had 
 some cold beef in the every-day dining-room, 
 and old Coney, after saying he'd have given a 
 thousand pounds out of his pocket for it not to 
 have happened, went and smoked a pipe with 
 Cockermuth in the best kitchen. Dusk began 
 to come on. 
 
 Why ! who was that — driving up in Robert 
 Ashton's doo--cart ? Robert ! Robert himself? 
 
 O 
 
 Yes, it was ; and the Squire, and Tod, and Tom 
 Coney with him. The dog-cart had gone to 
 the station to wait for the Squire and the other 
 two : they came, bringing Robert Ashton. 
 
 " Is it all right, Mr. Ashton ?" 
 
 " Quite right, Johnny. You did not think it 
 could be wrong, did you ?" 
 
 " You are out on bail ?" 
 
 " Out for good. There has been no real 
 damage done. I wonder where Jane is ?" 
 
 " I'll take you to her. She has been wishing 
 she was dead." 
 
Robert Ashtons Wedding-day. i8r 
 
 Nobody in the house scented his presence. 
 I opened the door of the large oak-room. Jane 
 was kneehng on the hearth-rug, her face buried 
 in the cushion of the arm-chair. She started up 
 at the noise, and stood hke one struck into^stone. 
 
 '' Robert r 
 
 I do beheve she thought it was not real — his 
 ghost, or something. He went up in silence, 
 slightly smiling — he was always a quiet-man- 
 nered man — and holding out his hand. 
 
 " It is I, myself, Jane. You look as though 
 you doubted it." 
 
 With a great cry she fell forward. Robert 
 caught her to his breast. I was going away 
 when he hastily called to me. For the first 
 time in her life she had fainted away. The 
 thing had been too much for her. 
 
 " Get a drop of water, Johnny. Don't call 
 anybody. She'll soon come to." 
 
 There was water on the table ; wine too. He 
 gave Jane some of both. And then she listened 
 to his story, leaning on his arm, and crying as 
 softly and peacefully as a little child. 
 
 Those outside were listeninof to the wonder- 
 ful tale. When I went out, they had gathered 
 in the best kitchen, round the Squire, who had 
 gone there in search of old Coney. The 
 Squire's glowing face was a sight to be seen. 
 Mrs. Coney had sat down on the mahogany 
 bench ; her hands lifted. Coney stood with 
 his pipe held at arm's length. As to Mrs. 
 
1 82 Johnny Ltidlozv. 
 
 Todhetley, the tears were running down her 
 cheeks in a stream. 
 
 It was quite true that Lucy Bird was very 
 ill. Robert saw her in bed. As he was leav- 
 ing, Bird began upon the old grievance — that he 
 should have some of Lucy's money advanced in 
 a lump. He wanted it for his cards and dice, 
 you see. Robert told him, No : as he had told 
 him all along. An associate of Bird's was 
 there ; a very bad man, named Dawler. They 
 got Robert to take a friendly glass of wine — 
 which purported to be sherry : and from that 
 moment he lost all power, and partly conscious- 
 ness. The wine was drugged. Their object, 
 no doubt, had been to partly stupify him, and so 
 induce him to sign an undertaking to hand 
 over the money to Bird. But they had made 
 the potion a trifle too strong, not calculating on 
 the effect it would take on a young and habitually 
 sober man. Robert fell into a deep sleep, from 
 which it was impossible to arouse him all night : 
 as to writing, his hands were as dead. Late in 
 the morning he awoke ; and, bit by bit, realised 
 where he was and what had passed. He was a 
 little stupid even then, but sensible enough 
 to remember that it was his wedding-day, and 
 to foresee that he might have some trouble to 
 get away from the house. On attempting to 
 leave, Bird and Dawler placed themselves 
 in the passage to prevent him. There was a 
 hot contest. Robert Ashton. a stronoer man 
 
Robert AsJiton s Wedding-day. 183 
 
 than either of the others, but aware that all his 
 strength was not then at his own command, 
 seized on a knotted stick, or club, that was 
 lying in a corner, and lifted it to fight his way 
 through. Dawler struck at it, to thrust it out 
 of his hand, and struck it against Bird's head 
 with frightful force. The fellow dropped as 
 one dead, and the door was burst open by the 
 neighbours and policeman. The excitement, 
 perhaps the exertion, acting on Robert Ashton's 
 only partly recovered state, turned him stupid 
 again : the people took him to be drunk, and 
 Dawler gave him in charge for murder. 
 
 That was the history. When the Squire had 
 got into the police-court, Robert Ashton (who 
 was nearly himself again through the remedies 
 the doctor had given him in the police-station) 
 was telling this tale. Dawler was contradicting 
 him, and swearing hard and fast that it was a 
 case of deliberate murder. The magistrates 
 invited the Squire to a seat beside them : and 
 the first thing he did was to break into a 
 hot tantrum, vowing Robert Ashton couldn't be 
 guilty. How it would have terminated no one 
 knew, but Lucy saved him. 
 
 Lucy saved him. A wan, haggard young 
 woman, wrapped in an old shawl, staggered into 
 the justice-room, to the front of the room. It 
 was Lucy Bird. She had come crawling along 
 the streets to tell the truth. 
 
 " My brother Robert did not attempt to strike 
 
184 Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 any one," she said, in a low, weak, earnest tone. 
 " He but held the club in his hand. I saw it 
 all ; I stood by. It was Dawler who threw his 
 weight upon the club, and struck down my 
 husband. Robert fell too ; pushed down 
 by Dawler. This is the sole truth, before 
 Heaven!" 
 
 They believed her. The best was, that Bird 
 was not dead at all, only stunned : and the next 
 to appear in court was himself, with a big white 
 plaisteron his forehead. Discovering his wife's 
 private flight to the magistrates, he thought it 
 well to go after her : there was no knowing 
 what plots might be in the wind. He had the 
 grace to acknowledge that the blow was an 
 accident. The whole bench shook hands with 
 Robei-t Ashton, telling Bird and the other man 
 significantly that they had better take care what 
 they were about for the future : and the Squire 
 brought him home in triumph. 
 
 " But where is Robert T asked old Coney 
 and the rest. Why, in there with Jane : where 
 else should he be } They burst into the oak- 
 room in a body, and found him trying on the 
 rinof. 
 
 " Why shouldn't we have a dinner to-night ?"' 
 asked old Coney. " Last night's was but half 
 a dinner, through some bother or another." 
 
 " Hear, hear !" cried the Squire, " Why 
 
 not r 
 
 The only thing against it was — as Mrs. Coney 
 
Robert Ashfoiis Wedding-day. 185 
 
 said — that no dinner was prepared. Unless 
 they could put up with a cold one. 
 
 " And glad to," spoke up everybody. So the 
 cold meats were brought from the larder, and 
 the fowls from the breakfast-table, and laid in 
 the every-day dining-parlour. The ladies were 
 in their ordinary gowns, and there was no room 
 for elbows, but we made up with laughter. 
 Sixteen this evening ; Fred Coles being there 
 and old Cockermuth, who sat down in spite of 
 the gout. Afterwards we went off by the light 
 of the stars to summon the company to the 
 morrow's wedding : it was good to go knocking 
 at the doors with the news. While the servants 
 at the Farm, with Molly to help them, began 
 cooking fresh fowls for the breakfast-table. 
 
 And that's about all. There was never a 
 better wedding seen, and the scarlet jackets of 
 the post-boys dazzled one's eyes in the morning 
 sun. Robert Ashton was calm and quiet in 
 church ; Jane too, and not a bit nervous. The 
 chief speech at the breakfast was undertaken by 
 the Squire, so you may give a guess what it 
 was like : but it didn't spoil the wedding-cake. 
 
 Jane was shut up with her mother when the 
 time came for starting, and came out in a great 
 flood of sobbing tears. She was leaving her 
 childhood's home, you see. Robert would have 
 hurried her straight to the carriage, but the 
 company wouldn't be done out of their leave- 
 taking. I was the last. 
 
1 86 Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 " Thank you for all, Johnny," she sobbed, 
 wringing my hand as she went down the path. 
 " They were all very kind to me yesterday, but 
 it seemed that you were kindest." 
 
 In, the next minute, both of them, with the 
 door shut, and the carriage away towards South 
 Crabb Junction. The people cheered, the cocks 
 crew, and the old shoes flew after them in a 
 shower. 
 
VI. 
 HARDLY WORTH TELLING . 
 
 YOU remember what I, Johnny Ludlow, said 
 in the last paper — that on our way to 
 Timberdale Court we met with an adventure, 
 which I had not then time to tell of. It was this. 
 After our race through Crabb Ravine by 
 moonlight, looking for Robert Ashton, we went 
 on to Timberdale Court as fast as the snowy 
 ground would admit of, Joseph Todhetley and 
 Tom Coney rushing on in front, I after them 
 - — they were older and stronger than I was. 
 Not by the ordinary highway, but over fields 
 and hedges and ditches, straight as the crow 
 flies, wishing to save time. Instead of saving 
 time, we lost it, for though the road, had we 
 taken it, was longer, the snow was beaten there ; 
 whereas it was lying deep across the country 
 and had to be waded through. But you can't 
 always bring common sense to bear at the 
 moment it's wanted. And if we had looked 
 like three undertakers at a funeral, stalking 
 after one another in the Ravine, with our dark 
 
1 88 Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 coats showincr out acjainst the white snow, I'm 
 sure we must have looked more Hke it in the 
 open ground. 
 
 At the far corner of the square meadow was 
 a cow-shed, unused since the autumn, when 
 Ashton of Timberdale had caused the fields 
 about here to be ploughed. Beyond the shed, 
 touching its walls, ran a brook; and it brought 
 us up. We had meant to take it at a Hying 
 leap ; but the snow had melted there, and the 
 brook was swollen. It was not asfreeable to 
 run the chance of pitching in, and it seemed 
 that we should have to make for the rate, lower 
 down. Standing for a moment to reconnoitre, 
 there broke on our ears a low moan ; and then 
 another. 
 
 "I say," cried Tod, "is that the ghost!" I 
 said in that last paper, as anybody may see, that 
 we had looked out for the ghost in the Ravine. 
 The moanino- came arain. 
 
 " If I don't believe it is in the cow-shed !" 
 exclaimed Tom Coney. And he went round to 
 the door and shook it open. 
 
 Pitch dark inside and the same moaning, soft 
 and low. Tom Coney had some lights in his 
 pocket, and struck one. Well ! we were as- 
 tonished. On the ground lay a woman — or girl 
 — and a very little child. She had a young- 
 face with anxious eyes and feverish cheeks. 
 She said she was dying, and so answered our 
 questions ; but we had to kneel down to hear. 
 
Hardly Worth Telling. 189 
 
 She had walked across the country from some- 
 where in Gloucestershire, carrying her baby of a 
 fortnight old, but the weakness and fever over- 
 took her. Two nights ago she had crept into 
 the shed, and lain there, unsuspected, since. 
 
 " But why did you leave your home ?" in- 
 quired Tod. 
 
 " I couldn't stay for the shame," was the 
 nearly inaudible answer : and but that our ears 
 were good ones, we should not have caught it. 
 If we would but fetch her a drop of water for 
 the love of Christ, she said as we got up. 
 
 It was impossible to help wondering whether 
 God had not let Robert Ashton be lost on pur- 
 pose to bring us round there. But for our passing, 
 both she and the baby must very soon have 
 died, for the shed was quite out of the reach of 
 any road likely to be traversed. We must have 
 seemed to her like angels of mercy. Perhaps 
 we were made use of as such that night. 
 
 " Have you lain here all that while — two 
 nights and days — without food T asked Tod in 
 his softest voice. 
 
 '' Without food, sir, and without drink. Oh 
 for a drop of water ! — If you could but bring it 
 me, I should die easier." 
 
 We got some clean snow and moistened her 
 lips with it. She gave a sobbing cry as it 
 trickled down her throat : Tom Coney said it 
 was choking, but I thought it was joy. To a 
 poor creature in a burning fever, lying without 
 
190 Johnny Ludlozv, 
 
 any kind of drink for days and nights, the fresh 
 ■cold snow must have tasted like dew from 
 heaven. She motioned that the baby should 
 have some, but we were afraid : it looked to be 
 -dying. 
 
 What could be done with her ? To carry 
 her away was not practicable — and she seemed 
 too ill besides. Tom Coney offered to cover up 
 the baby under his coat and take it to the Court 
 for food and shelter ; but she clutched it closer 
 to her side as it lay on her arm, and faintly said 
 it couldn't do without her. Shutting the shed door 
 again, we got quickly to Timberdale Court, found 
 Robert Ashton was not at home, as you heard, 
 •and asked for the housekeeper, Mrs. Broom. 
 
 She was sitting in her little carpeted room, 
 ■off the big kitchen, with one of the maids. 
 They were sewing white bows on a lot of caps, 
 .and wondering what had become of the master. 
 To be burst in upon by us, all three telling the 
 story at once of the woman and child, pretty 
 nearly scared good old Mother Broom's senses 
 away. 
 
 " You be just playing a trick upon me, 
 young gentlemen." 
 
 "It is as true as that we are here, Mrs. 
 Broom ; it is true as gospel. They'll both be 
 dead if something's not done for them." 
 
 " Well, I never heard of such a thing," she 
 exclaimed, beginning to stir about. " Lying in 
 that cow-shed for two days without help ! You 
 
Hardly Worth Tcllmg. 191 
 
 ought to have brought the poor baby away with 
 you, sirs." 
 
 " She'd not let it come." 
 
 " I'd not have minded her saying that. A 
 fortnight-old baby lying in the shed in this cold!" 
 
 " I don't think it will make much difference 
 in the long-run, whether the baby stays in the 
 shed or comes out of it," said Tom Coney. " If 
 it sees to-morrow's dawn, I shall wonder." 
 
 "Well, this is a fine start!" cried Mother 
 Broom. " And the master never to have come 
 home — that's another," she went on. For, what 
 to do, she didn't know the least in the world, 
 and was like a lunatic with a lost head. 
 
 We left the matter to her, carrying some 
 things to the shed as we passed it on our way 
 home — blankets and a pillow, fresh water, milk- 
 and-water for the baby, and a candle and 
 matches. One of the women servants was to 
 come after us, with hot broth and wine. 
 
 W^hen we reached Crabb Cot, the dismay 
 there at hearinof Robert Ashton had not turned 
 up, was diversified by this news, which we told 
 of. Not that they thought very much of it ; the 
 woman was but a poor tramp, they said ; and 
 such things — fevers, and that — happen to poor 
 tramps every day. 
 
 "Do you think the baby's dying?" asked 
 Charles Ashton, the parson. 
 
 "I'm nearly sure it is," said Tom Coney. 
 
 " That's a kind of woman, you know, that 
 
192 Johnny Lndlozu. 
 
 ought to be committed for fourteen days' hard 
 labour," observed the Squire, fiercely, who was 
 in a frightfully cross mood, with the various 
 mishaps and uncertainties of the evening. 
 " Seems to be very sickly and humble, you 
 say, Mr. Johnny! Hold your tongue, sir : what 
 should you know about It .'* These women 
 tramps bring death on their Infants through ex- 
 posure." 
 
 "And that's true," said old Coney. "I'd 
 punish 'em. Squire, if I were a magistrate like 
 you." 
 
 But what do you think that Parson Ashton. 
 did ? When the dog-cart had taken him and 
 Mr. and Mrs. James Ashton to the Court — 
 where they were to stay all night — he started 
 off for the shed, and did not come away from 
 It until he had baptized the baby. 
 
 We heard nothino" more about it until the 
 next day — and I don't suppose anybody has 
 forgotten what sort of a miserable day that was, 
 at old Coney's Farm. How the wedding never 
 took place, and Robert Ashton was still missing, 
 and Jane Coney was dressed in her bridal robes 
 for nothing, and the breakfast could not be 
 eaten, and we guests staring In each other's 
 faces like so many helpless dummies. What 
 news we had of It then, came from Charles 
 Ashton : he had been to the shed again that 
 morning. While the carriages stood waiting at 
 the gate, the post-boys' scarlet jackets flaming 
 
Hardly Worth Telling. 193 
 
 in the sun, and the company indoors sat looking 
 hopelessly for the bridegroom, Parson Ashton 
 talked about it in a corner to Mrs. Coney and 
 the Squire's wife : both of them in their grand 
 silk plumage then, one plum- coloured, the other 
 sea-green, with feathers for top-knots. 
 
 The little baby was dead, Charles Ashton said. 
 The mother had been removed to a shelter in 
 Timberdale village, and was being cared for. 
 The doctor, called in to her, Darbishire, thought 
 she might get over it. 
 
 "You baptized the child, I hear, Charles?" 
 said Mrs. Coney, to the parson. 
 
 " Oh yes." 
 
 " What did you name it ?" 
 
 " Lucy. Something in the mother's face put 
 me in mind of my sister, and it was the name I 
 first thought of. I asked the mother what she 
 would have it called. Anything, she answered; 
 it did not matter. Neither did it, for the little 
 thing was dying then. Hot-water bottles and 
 other remedies were tried last night as soon as 
 they could be had, to get warmth into the child 
 — to renew its life, in fact ; but nothing availed." 
 
 " Where was the woman taken to ?" 
 
 "To Jael Batty's. Jael consented to take 
 her in." 
 
 " I suppose it is but another case of the old, 
 sad story ?" groaned Mrs, Todhetley. 
 
 " Nothing else. And she, poor thing, is not 
 much more than a girl." 
 
 VOL. I. I -x 
 
194 Johnny Ltidlozv. 
 
 " Now, Charles, I tell you what. It may be 
 all very consistent for you clergymen — men of 
 forgiveness, and that — to waste your compas- 
 sion over these poor stray creatures, but I think 
 it might do more good sometimes if you gave 
 them blame," spoke Mrs. Coney, severely. 
 
 " There are times and seasons when you can- 
 not express blame, however much it may be 
 deserved," he answered. " The worst of it in 
 these cases is, that we rarely know there exists 
 cause for censure before it is too late for any 
 censure to avail, or avert the evil." 
 
 What with the astounding events of the day, 
 connected with the broken-off wedding, nothing 
 more was said or thought of the affair. Except 
 by Jane. When she and I were in the big 
 dining-room together — I trying to blow up the 
 fire, and she in full dread that Robert Ashton 
 would have to be tried for his life at the Wor- 
 cester Spring Assizes, and lie in prison until 
 then — she suddenly spoke of it, interrupting the 
 noise made by the crackling of the sticks. 
 
 " So that poor baby's dead, Johnny ! What 
 a happy fate — not to grow up to trouble. 
 Charles named it Lucy, I hear. I should like 
 to see the poor mother." 
 
 " See her for what, Jane ?" 
 
 " She is in distress, and so am I. I don't 
 suppose she has a corner to turn to for comfort 
 in the wide world. I have not." 
 
 It was not so very long after this that hei" 
 
Hardly Worth Telling. 195 
 
 distress was over. Robert Ashton arrived in 
 triumph, and so put an end to it. One might 
 suppose Jane would no longer have remembered 
 that other one's distress ; what with the im- 
 promptu dinner, where we had no room for our 
 •elbows, and the laughter, and the preparations 
 for the next day's wedding. 
 
 But the matter had laid hold of Jane Coney's 
 mind, and she reverted to it on the morrow 
 before going away. When the wedding-break- 
 fast was over, and she — never more Jane Coney, 
 but Jane Ashton — had changed her dress and 
 was saying good-bye to her mother upstairs, 
 she suddenly spoke of it. 
 
 " Mamma, I want to ask you to do something 
 for me." 
 
 " Well, my dear .?" 
 
 " Will you see after that poor young woman 
 who was found in the shed ?" 
 
 Naturally Mrs. Coney was taken by surprise. 
 She didn't much like it. 
 
 " After that young woman, Jane ?" 
 
 " Yes ; for me." 
 
 "Mrs. Broom has seen to her," returned Mrs. 
 Coney, in a voice as if her tongue had frozen. 
 
 " Mother dear," said Jane, "I was comparing 
 myself with her yesterday ; wondering which of 
 us was the worst off, the most miserable. I 
 thought I was. I almost felt that I could have 
 changed places with her." 
 
 "Jane !" angrily interjected Mrs. Coney. 
 
 13—2 
 
196 Johnny Litdlow. 
 
 *' I did. She knew the extent of her trouble, 
 she could see all that it involved ; I did not see 
 the extent of mine. I suppose it is always 
 thus — that other people's sorrows seem light 
 when compared with our own. The reason 
 must no doubt be that we cannot realise theirs, 
 while we realise ours only too sharply." ^ 
 
 " My dear, I don't care to talk of this." 
 
 " Nor I much — but hear me for a minute, 
 mother. God has been so merciful to me, and 
 she is still as she was, that I — I should like to 
 do what I can for her when we come back, and 
 comfort and keep her." 
 
 " Keep her !" 
 
 '* Keep her from want, I mean." 
 
 *' But, child, she has been — you don't know 
 what she has been," gravely rebuked Mrs. 
 Coney. 
 
 " I think I do, mother." 
 
 " She is a poor outcast, Jane ; with neither 
 home to go to, nor friends to look upon her." 
 
 Jane burst into tears : they had been hardly 
 kept down since she had begun to speak. 
 
 "Just so, mother. But what was I yester- 
 day ? If Robert had been tried for his life, and 
 condemned, I should have felt like an outcast ; 
 perhaps been looked upon as no better than one 
 by the world." 
 
 " Goodness, Jane, I wish you'd exercise 
 your common sense," cried Mrs. Coney, losing 
 patience. " I tell you, she is an outcast, and 
 
Hardly Worth Telling. 197 
 
 has forfeited home and friends. She has been 
 a great sinner." 
 
 " Mother, if she had a home and friends, 
 there would be no need to succour her. As to 
 sin — perhaps we can save her from that for the 
 future. My gratitude for the mercy shown to 
 nie is such, that I feel as if I could take her to 
 my bosom ; it seems to my mind that I ought 
 to do something for her, that she is thrown in 
 my way that I should do it. Mother, it is my 
 last petition to you : see after her a little for me 
 until we come back." 
 
 " Very well, dear ; as you make this point of 
 it," concluded Mrs. Coney, relenting just a little. 
 And then Jane began to sob hysterically ; and 
 Tom Coney knocked at the door, saying time 
 was up. 
 
 Mrs. Coney was not a hard-hearted woman, 
 just the opposite : but it is only those who live 
 in rural parts of the country can imagine the 
 tricks and turns of regular tramps, and what a 
 bad lot some of them are. They deceive you 
 with no end of a plausible tale, and stare piti- 
 fully in your face while they tell it. Not long 
 before this, a case had happened where both 
 our house and the Coneys' had been taken in. 
 A woman in jagged-out-widows' garments pre- 
 sented herself at the door of Crabb Cot and 
 asked to see the Squire. Her shoes wanted the 
 upper-leathers, and had no soles, and one side 
 of her face was bandaged up. Mrs. Tod- 
 
198 Johnny Lzidlow, 
 
 hetley went to her. Of all pitiable tales that 
 poor woman told the most : 'twould have melted 
 a heart of stone. She came from near Droit- 
 witch, she said : her husband had worked under 
 Sir John Pakington; that is, had been a labourer 
 on part of his estate, Westwood Park. She lost 
 her husband and grown-up son the past autumn 
 with fever; she caught it herself, and was reduced 
 to a skeleton, lost her cottage home through the 
 things being seized for rent, and went to live 
 with a married daughter in Oxfordshire. Cancer 
 had appeared in her cheek — here she pulled aside 
 the big bandage and showed a glimpse of some- 
 thing frightful — the daughter could not keep her, 
 for she and all her children were down with sick- 
 ness, and the husband had no work — and she, 
 the widow, w^as making her way by easy walking 
 stages to Worcester, there to try and get into 
 the infirmary. What she wanted at Crabb Cot 
 was — not to beg, either money or food : money 
 she could do without, food she could not eat — 
 but to implore the gentleman (meaning the 
 Squire) to give her a letter to the infirmary doc- 
 tors so that they might take her in. 
 
 I can tell you that she took tis in — every one 
 of us. The Squire, coming up during the con- 
 ference, surrendered without fis^ht. Ouestions 
 were put to her about Droitwitch and Ombersley, 
 which she answered at once. There could be 
 no mistake that she knew all the neighbourhood 
 about there well, and Sir John and Lady Pak- 
 
Hardly W'orth Telling. 199 
 
 ington into the bargain. I think it was that 
 that threw us off our guard. Mrs. Todhetley, 
 brimming over with compassion, offered her some 
 Hght refreshment, broth or milk. She said she 
 could not swallow either, it "went against her," 
 but she'd be thankful for a drink of water. Molly, 
 the greatest termagant to tramps and beggars in 
 general, brought out a half-pint bottle of store 
 cordial, made, by her own hands, of sugared 
 blackberry juice and spice, for the woman to put 
 in her pocket and sip, on her journey to Wor- 
 cester. Mrs. Todhetley gave her a pair of good 
 shoes and some shillings, and two old linen 
 handkerchiefs for the sick face ; and the Squire, 
 putting on his wTiting spectacles, wrote a letter 
 to Mr. Garden, begging him to see if anything, 
 in the shape of medical aid, could be done for 
 the bearer. The woman burst into tears of loud 
 thankfulness, and went away with her presents, 
 including the letter, Molly the cross-grained 
 actually going out to open the back gate for 
 her. 
 
 And now would anybody believe that this 
 woman had only then come out of the Coneys' 
 house — where she had been with the same tale 
 and request, and had received nearly the same 
 relief '^ We never saw or heard of her again. 
 The note did not reach Mr. Garden ; no such 
 patient applied to the infirmary. She was a 
 clever impostor ; and we got to think that the 
 cheek had only been rubbed up with a little 
 
200 Johnny Ludloiu. 
 
 blistering-salve. Many another similar thing I 
 could tell of — and every one of them true. So 
 you must not wonder at Mrs. Coney's unwilling- 
 ness to interfere with this latest edition in the 
 tramp line. 
 
 But she had given her promise : perhaps, as 
 Jane put it, she could not do otherwise. And 
 on the morning after the wedding she went 
 over to Timberdale. I was sliding in the 
 Ravine — for there was Ice still in that covered 
 spot, though the frost had nearly disappeared, 
 elsewhere — when I saw Mrs. Coney come down 
 the zigzag by the help of her umbrella, and her 
 every-day brown silk gown on. 
 
 " Are you here, Johnny! Shall I be able to 
 get along ?" 
 
 " If I help you, yoy will, Mrs. Coney." 
 
 '*Take care. I had no idea it would be 
 slippery here. But it is a long way round by 
 the road to walk, and the master has taken out 
 the pony-chaise." 
 
 " What wind is blowing you to Timberdale 
 to-day ?" 
 
 " An errand that I'm not at all pleased to go 
 upon, Johnny ; only Jane made a fuss about It 
 before leaving yesterday. If I told the master 
 he would be in a fine way. I am going to 
 see the woman that you boys found in the 
 shed." 
 
 " I fancied Jane seemed to think a good deal 
 about her." 
 
Hardly Worth Telling. 201 
 
 " Jane did think a good deal about her," 
 returned Mrs. Coney. " She has not had the 
 experience of this kind of people that I have, 
 Johnny ; and girls' sympathies are so easily 
 aroused." 
 
 " There was a romance about it, you see." 
 
 " Romance, indeed !" wrathfully cried Mrs. 
 Coney. " That's what leads girls' heads away : 
 I wish they'd think of good plain sense instead. 
 It was nothing but romance that led poor Lucy 
 Ashton to marry that awful man, Bird." 
 
 " Why does Lucy not leave him ?" 
 
 " Ah ! it's easier to talk about leaving a man 
 than to do it, once he's your husband. You 
 don't understand it yet, Johnny." 
 
 "And shall not, I suppose, until I am married 
 myself. But Lucy has never talked of leaving 
 Bird." 
 
 " She w^on't leave him. Robert has offered 
 
 her goodness me, Johnny, don't hurry along 
 
 like that ! It's nothing but ice here. If I were 
 to get a tumble, I might be lamed for life." 
 
 " Nonsense, Mrs. Coney ! It would be only 
 a Christmas gambol." 
 
 " It's all very well to laugh, Johnny. Christ- 
 mas gambols mean fun to you young fellows 
 with your supple limbs ; but to us fifty-year-old 
 people they may be something else. I wish I 
 had tied some list round my boots." 
 
 We left the ice in the Ravine, and she came 
 
202 JoJmny Lttdlow. 
 
 up the zigzag path easily to the smooth road. 
 I offered to take the umbrella. 
 
 " Thank you, Johnny ; but I'd rather carry it 
 myself. It's my best silk one, and you might 
 break it. I never dare trust my umbrellas to 
 Tom : he drives them strais^ht out against trees 
 and posts, and snaps the sticks." 
 
 She turned into Timberdale Court, and asked 
 to see Mrs. Broom. Mrs. Broom appeared in 
 the parlour with her gown-sleeves turned up to 
 the elbow, and her hands floury. She had 
 been housekeeper during old Mr. Ashton's time. 
 
 " Look here," said Mrs. Coney, dropping her 
 voice a little, " I've come to ask a word or two 
 about that woman — from the shed, you know. 
 Who is she ? — and what is she ?" 
 
 But the dropping of Mrs. Coney's voice was 
 as nothing to the dropping of the housekeeper's 
 face. The questions put her out uncommonly. 
 
 " I wish to my very heart, ma'am, that the 
 woman — she's but a poor young thing at best I 
 — had chose any part to fall ill in but this ! It's 
 like a Fate." 
 
 " Like a what ?" cried Mrs. Coney. 
 
 " And so it is. A cross Fate for this house. 
 'Tis nothing less." 
 
 " Why, what do you mean, Broom ?" 
 
 Mother Broom put her head forward, and 
 said a word or two in Mrs. Coney's ear. 
 Louder, I suppose, than she thought for, if she 
 had intended me not to hear. 
 
Hardly Worth Telling. 203, 
 
 " Raves about Captain Bird !" repeated Mrs. 
 Coney. 
 
 " He is all her talk, ma'am — George Bird. 
 And, considering that George Bird, blackleg 
 though he has turned out to be, married the 
 young lady of this house, Miss Lucy Ashton,. 
 why it goes again the grain for me to hear it." 
 
 Mrs. Coney sat down in a kind of bewilder- 
 ment, and grave me the silk umbrella. Folding- 
 her hands, she stared at Mother Broom. 
 
 "It seems as though we were always hearing 
 fresh news about that man, Broom ; each time 
 it is something worse than the last. If he took 
 all the young women within his reach, and — 
 and — cut their arms off, 'twould be only like 
 him." 
 
 " ' George !' she'll moan out in her sleep. 
 That is, in her dreaming, or her fever, or what- 
 ever it is. ' George, you ought not to have left 
 me ; you should have taken care of me.' And 
 then, ma'am, she'll be quiet a bit, save for 
 turning of her head about ; and begin again, 
 ' Where's my baby ? where's my baby ?' Good- 
 ness knows 'twould be sad enough to hear her 
 if it was anybody's name but Bird's." 
 
 " There might be worse names than his, in 
 the matter of giving us pain," spoke Mrs. 
 Coney. " As to poor Lucy — it is but another 
 cross in her sad life." 
 
 " I've not told this to nobody," went on 
 Mother Broom. " Jael Batty's three parts 
 
204 Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 deaf, as the parish knows, and may not have 
 caught Bird's name. It will vex my master 
 frightfully for Miss Lucy's sake. The baby is 
 to be buried to-day. Mr. Charles has stayed to 
 do it." 
 
 " Oh, indeed !" snapped Mrs. Coney, and got 
 up, for the baby appeared to be a sore subject 
 with her. " I suppose the girl was coming 
 across the country in search of Bird T' 
 
 Broom tossed her head. " Whether she was 
 or not, it's an odd thinsf that this house should 
 be the one to have to succour her." 
 
 " I am going," said Mrs. Coney, " and I half 
 wish I had never come in. Broom, I am sorry 
 to have hindered you. You are busy." 
 
 " I am making my raised pies," said Broom. 
 " It's the second batch. What with master's 
 coming marriage, and one thing and another, 
 I did not get 'em done before the new year. 
 Your Molly says hers beat mine, Master Lud- 
 low ; but I don't believe it." 
 
 " She does, does she ! It's just like her boast- 
 ing. Mrs. Todhetley often makes the pork-pies 
 herself." 
 
 "Johnny," said Mrs. Coney, as we went 
 along, she in deep thought, " that poor Lucy 
 Bird might keep a stick for notches — as it is 
 said some prisoners used to do, to mark their 
 days — and notch off her dreadful cares, that 
 are ever recurring. Why, Johnny, what's that 
 crowd for ?" 
 
Hardly Worth Telling: 205 
 
 The church stood on the right between Tim- 
 berdale Court and the village. A regular mob 
 of children seemed to be pressing round the 
 gate of the churchyard. I ran to look, leaving 
 Mrs. Coney standing. 
 
 Charles Ashton was coming out of the church 
 in his surplice, and the clerk, old Sam Mullet, 
 behind him, carrying a little coffin. The grave 
 was in the corner of the burial-ground, and Mr. 
 Ashton went straight to it, and continued the 
 service begun in the church. If it had been a 
 lord's child, he could not have done it all in 
 better order. 
 
 But there were no mourners, unless old 
 Mullet could be called one. He put the coffin 
 on the grass, and was in a frightful temper. I 
 took off my hat and waited : it would have 
 looked so to run away when there was nobody 
 else to stand there : and Mrs. Coney's face, as 
 cross as old Mullet's, might be seen peering 
 through the hedge. 
 
 " It's come to a pretty pass, when tramps' 
 brats have to be put in the ground like honest 
 folks's," grunted Sam, when Mr. Ashton had 
 walked away, and he began to fling in the spade- 
 fuls of earth. " What must he needs go and bap- 
 tize that there young atom for ? — he ain't 
 our parson ; he don't belong to we in this 
 parish. I dun-no what the world be a-coming 
 to. 
 
 Mr. Ashton was talking to Mrs. Coney when 
 
.2o6 Johnny Lztdlow. 
 
 I got up. I told him what a way Sam Mullet 
 was in. 
 
 " Yes," said he. " I believe what I did has 
 not given satisfaction in all quarters; so I waited 
 to take the service myself, and save other people 
 trouble." 
 
 "In what name is the dead child registered, 
 Charles ?" asked Mrs. Coney. 
 
 " Lucy Bird." 
 
 "Lucy Bird! Bird?' 
 
 "It was the name the mother gave me in one 
 ■of her lucid intervals," answered the clergyman, 
 shortly. 
 
 He hastened away, saying he must catch a 
 train, for that his own parish was wanting him ; 
 but I fancied he did not care to be further ques- 
 tioned. Mrs. Coney stood still to stare after 
 him, and would have liked to ask him how 
 much and how little he knew. 
 
 Lucy Bird! It did sound strange to hear the 
 name — as if it were the real Lucy Bird we knew 
 so well. ' I said so to Mrs. Coney. 
 
 " The Impudence of the woman must pass all 
 belief," she muttered to herself. " Let us get 
 ■on, Johnny! I'd rather run a mile any other 
 way than go to see her." 
 
 Leaving me on the wooden bench outside Jael 
 Batty's door, she went in. It was remarkably 
 lively : the farrier's shop opposite to look at, 
 five hay-ricks, and a heap of children who 
 strolled after us from the churchyard, and stayed 
 
Hardly Worth Telling. 207 
 
 to stare at me. Mrs. Coney came out again 
 soon. 
 
 " It's of no use my remaining, Johnny. She 
 ■can't understand a word said to her, only lies 
 there rambling, and asking people to bring her 
 baby. If she had any sense left in her, she 
 might just go down on her knees in thankful- 
 ness that it's gone. Jael Batty says she has 
 •done nothing else but wail for it all the blessed 
 morning." 
 
 "Well, it is only natural she should." 
 
 " Natural ! Natural to mourn for that baby ! 
 Don't you say stupid things, Johnny. It's a 
 great mercy that it has been taken ; and you 
 must know that as well as anybody." 
 
 " I don't say it's not ; babies must be no end 
 of noise and work ; but you see mothers care 
 for them." 
 
 " Do not be a simpleton, Johnny. If you take 
 to uphold tramps and infants dying in sheds, 
 goodness knows what you'll come to in time." 
 
 At the end of a fortnight, Ashton of Timber- 
 dale and his wife came home. It was a fine 
 afternoon in the middle of January, but getting 
 dusk, and a lot of us had gone over to the Court 
 to see them arrive. Jane looked as happy as a 
 queen. 
 
 " Johnny," she whispered, while we w^ere 
 standing to drink some tea that Mother Broom 
 (with a white cockade in her cap) brought in 
 
2o8 Johnny Ludlozu. 
 
 upon a silver tray, " how about that poor woman ? 
 She is not dead, I hope ?" 
 
 I told Jane that she was better. The fever 
 had gone down, but she was so weak and re- 
 duced that the doctor had not allowed her to 
 be questioned. We knew no more of who she 
 was than we had known before. Mrs. Coney 
 overheard what I was saying, and took Jane 
 aside. 
 
 There seemed to be a bit of a battle : Mrs. 
 Coney remonstrating with a severe face, Jane 
 holdino- out and flushinof a little. She was 
 telling Jane not to go to Jael Batty's, and repre- 
 senting why she ought not to go. Jane said she 
 must go — her heart was set upon it : and began 
 to re-tie her bonnet strings. 
 
 " Mother dear, don't be angry with me in 
 this the first hour of entering on my new home 
 — it would seem like a bad omen for me. You 
 don't know how strongly I have grown to think 
 that my duty lies in seeing this poor woman, in 
 comforting her if I can. It cannot hurt me." 
 
 " What do you suppose Robert would say ? 
 It is to him you owe obedience now, Jane, not 
 to me." 
 
 " To him first, and to you next, my mother ; 
 and I trust I shall ever yield it to you both. 
 But Robert is quite willing that I should go : 
 he knows all I think about it." 
 
 " Jane, I'd not have said a word against it ; 
 indeed I had made up my mind that it was a 
 
Hardly ]]^orth Telling. 209 
 
 c^ood wish on your part ; but now that we have 
 discovered she is in some way connected with — 
 with the Birds — why, I don't think Robert will 
 like you to meddle with it. I'm sure I shrink 
 from telling him." 
 
 Jane Coney — Ashton I mean : one can't get 
 out of old names all at once — looked down in 
 distress, thinking of the pain it would cause her 
 husband for his sister's sake. Then she took 
 her mother's hand. 
 
 " Tell Robert what you have told me, mamma. 
 He will still let me go, I think ; for he knows 
 how much I wish it." 
 
 They had their conference away from us ; 
 Mrs. Coney, Robert Ashton, and Jane. Of 
 course he was frightfully put out ; but Jane was 
 right — he said she should go all the same. 
 Mrs. Coney shut her lips tight, and made no 
 further comment. 
 
 " I promised her, you see, Mrs. Coney," he 
 urged. " She has an idea in her head that — 
 I'm sure I scarcely know what it is, except that 
 her going is connected with gratitude and Duty, 
 and — and Heaven's blessing. Why, do you 
 know we might have stayed out another week, 
 but for this ? I could have spared it ; but she 
 would come home." 
 
 " I never knew Jane take a thing up like this 
 before," said Mrs. Coney. 
 
 " Any way, I suppose it is I who shall have 
 to deal with it — for the sake of keeping it from 
 
 VOL. I. 14 
 
2 10 Johnny Lttdlow. 
 
 Lucy," was Robert's answer. " I wish with all 
 my heart Bird had been at the bottom of the 
 sea before his ill-omened steps brought him to 
 Timberdale ! There's not, as I believe, another 
 such scamp in the world," 
 
 Jane waited for nothing else. Shielded by 
 the dusk of the evening, she went running to 
 Jael Batty 's and back again. 
 
 " I'll go down for her presently," said Robert. 
 But she was back before he started. 
 
 " I came back at once to set the misappre- 
 hension right," said Jane, her eyes bright with 
 eagerness, her cheeks a beautiful crimson. 
 " Mother dear — ^Robert — Johnny — listen all of 
 you : that poor sick woman is George Bird's 
 sister." 
 
 "Jane!" 
 
 " Indeed she is. Captain Bird used to talk 
 to Lucy of his little sister Clara — I have heard 
 you say so, Robert — in the old days when he 
 first came here. It is she who is lying at Jael 
 Batty's — Clara Bird." 
 
 The company sat down like so many lambs, 
 Mrs. Coney's mouth and eyes alike opening. 
 It sounded wonderful. 
 
 " But — Jane, child — there was still the baby !" 
 
 " Well — yes — I'm afraid so," replied Jane in 
 an uncomfortable hurry. " I did not like to ask 
 her about that, she cries so. But she is Clara 
 Bird ; Captain Bird's sister, and Lucy's too." 
 
 " Well, I never !" cried Mrs. Coney, rubbing 
 
Hardly Woi^tJi Telling. 2 1 r 
 
 her face. " Poor misguided young thing — left 
 to the guardianship of such a man as that, he 
 let her go her own way, no doubt. This 
 accounts for what Broom heard her say in the 
 fever — ' George, you should have taken care 
 of me.' " 
 
 " Is she being taken care of now in her 
 sickness, down at Jael Batty's," spoke up 
 Robert. 
 
 "Yes. For Jael, though three parts deaf, is 
 a kind and an excellent nurse." 
 
 Robert Ashton wrote that night to Worcester ; 
 a sharp letter ; bidding Captain Bird come over 
 and see to his sister. The poor thing took to 
 Jane wonderfully, and told her more than she'd 
 have told anybody else. 
 
 " I am twenty," she said, " and George is 
 six-and-thirty ; there is all that difference be- 
 tween us. Our father and mother were dead, 
 and I lived with my aunt in Gloucestershire : 
 where George lived, I did not know. He had 
 been adopted by a wealthy relative in London, 
 and went into the army. My mother had been 
 a lady, but married beneath her, and it was her 
 family who took to George and brought him up 
 a gentleman. Mine was a hard, dull life. My 
 aunt — she was my father's sister — counted ever- 
 so-many children, and J had to nurse and see to 
 them. Her husband was a master plumber and 
 glazier. One day — it is fifteen months ago 
 now — I shall never forget it — my brother George 
 
 14 — 2 
 
212 Johnny LndlonK 
 
 came. I did not know him : I had not seen 
 him since I was thirteen, and then he was a 
 fine handsome q-entleman in an officer's res:i- 
 mentals. He was rather shabby now, and he 
 had come to see if he could borrow money, but 
 my aunt's husband would not lend ; he told him 
 he had much ado to keep his own family. I 
 cried a good deal, and George said he would 
 take me to London to his wife. I think he did 
 it to sjDite them, because of their not lending 
 the money, as much as to please me — he saw 
 that I should be a loss there. We went up — 
 and oh how nice I thought his wife ! She was 
 a kind, gentle lady, formerly Miss Lucy Ashton ; 
 but nearly always sick, and afraid of George. 
 George had gay acquaintances, men and women, 
 and he let me go to theatres and balls with 
 them. Lucy said it was wrong, that they were 
 not nice friends for me ; but I grew to like the 
 gaiety, and she could do nothing. One night, 
 upon going home from church, I found both 
 George and Lucy gone from the lodgings. I 
 had been spending the Sunday with some 
 people they knew, the quietest of all their 
 friends. There lay a note on the table from 
 Lucy, saying they were obliged to leave London 
 unexpectedly, and begging me to go at once — 
 on the morrow — back to Gloucestershire, for 
 which she enclosed a sovereign. I did not go : 
 one invited me, and another invited me, and it 
 was two months, good, before I went down. 
 
Hardly Worth Telling. 213 
 
 Ah me ! I heard no more of George ; he had 
 got into some trouble in London, and was 
 afraid to let it be known where he was, I've 
 never heard of him or his wife to this hour. 
 My aunt was glad to see me for the help I 
 should be to her ; but I felt ill always and could 
 not do so much as I used. I dian't know what 
 ailed me ; I didn't indeed ; I did not think it 
 could be much ; and then, when the time went 
 on and it all happened, and they knew, and I 
 knew, I came away with the baby because of 
 the reproach and the shame. But George 
 ought not to have left me to myself in London." 
 
 And when Jane i\shton repeated all this to 
 Robert, he said Bird deserved to be hung and 
 quartered. 
 
 There came no answer from Captain Bird. 
 Perhaps Ashton of Timberdale did not really 
 expect any would come. 
 
 But on the Sunday afternoon, from the train 
 that passed Timberdale from Worcester about 
 the time folks came out of church, there 
 descended a poor, weak woman (looking like a 
 girl too) in a worn shawl that was too thin for 
 the weather. She waited until the roads should 
 be clear, as if not wanting to be seen, and then 
 lapped the shawl close around her arms and 
 went out with her black veil down. It was 
 Lucy Bird. And she was so pretty still, in 
 spite of the wan thin cheeks and the faded 
 clothes ! There were two ways of getting to 
 
2 14 Johnny L^idlozv. 
 
 Jael Batty's from the station. She took the 
 long and obscure one : and in turning the 
 corner of the lane between the church and 
 Timberaale Court, she met Robert Ashton, 
 
 But for her own movement, he might never 
 have noticed her. It was getting dusk ; and 
 when she saw him coming, she turned sharp off 
 to a side stile and stood as if looking for some- 
 thinof in the field. There's not much to stare 
 at in a ploughed field at dusk, as Ashton of 
 Timberdale knew, and he naturally looked at 
 the person who had gone so fast to do it. 
 Somethins: in the cut of the shoulders struck 
 him as being familiar, and he stopped. 
 
 " Lucy ! Is it you ?" 
 
 Of course it was no use her saying it was 
 not. She burst into tears, trembling and shaking. 
 Robert passed round her his good strong arm. 
 He guessed what had brought her to Timber- 
 dale. 
 
 " Lucy, my dear, have you come o\-er from 
 Worcester ?" 
 
 "Yes," she sobbed. " I shall be better in a 
 minute, Robert. I am a little tired, and the 
 train shook me." 
 
 "You should have sent me word, and I'd 
 have had a fly at the station." 
 
 Sent him word ! It was good of Robert to 
 pretend to say that ; but he knew that she'd 
 not have presumed to do it. It was that feel- 
 ing on Lucy's part that vexed him so much. 
 
Hardly Worth Telling. 215 
 
 Since Bird had turned out the villain that he 
 had, Lucy acted, even to her own family, as 
 though she had lost caste, identifying herself 
 with her husband, and humbling herself to 
 them. What though she was part and parcel 
 with the fellow, as Robert said, she was not 
 responsible for his ill-doings. 
 
 " Lean on me, Lucy. You must have a 
 good rest." 
 
 " Not that way," she said at the bottom of 
 the lane, as he was turning to the Court. " I 
 am going to Jael Batty's." 
 
 "When you have had some rest and refresh- 
 ment at home." 
 • " I cannot go to your home, Robert." 
 
 " Indeed but you can ; and will," he an- 
 swered, leadinof her on. 
 
 " rd rather not. Your wife may not care to 
 receive me." 
 
 " Come and try her." 
 
 " Robert, I am not fit to see anyone : I am 
 not indeed. My spirits are low now, and I 
 often burst into tears for nothing. I have 
 been praying, all the way over, not to meet 
 you. After what was done to you at our 
 house but a week or two ago, I did not expect 
 ever to have been noticed by you again. Jane 
 must hate me." 
 
 " Does she ! Jane and I have been concoct- 
 ing a charming little plot about you, Lucy. We 
 are going to have your old room made ready. 
 
2i6 Johnny LudloziJ. 
 
 and the sweet-scented lavender sheets put on 
 the bed, and get you over to us. For good, If 
 you will stop ; long enough to recruit your 
 health if you will not. Don't you remember 
 how you used to talk in the holidays about the 
 home sheets ; saying you only got them smelling 
 of soap at school ?" 
 
 A faint smile, like a shade, flitted over Lucy 
 Bird's face at the reminiscence. 
 
 " I should not know the feel of fine white 
 linen sheets now : coarse calico ones have had 
 to content me this many a day. Let me turn, 
 Robert ! For my own sake Ld rather not 
 meet your wife. You cannot know how I feel 
 about seeinof old friends ; those who — who—- — " 
 
 Those who once knew me, she meant to say; 
 but broke down with a sob. Robert kept 
 walking on. Lucy was a great deal younger 
 than he, and had been used to yield to him 
 from the time she was a child. Well for her 
 would it have been, that she had yielded to his 
 opinion when Captain Bird came a-courting to 
 Timberdale. 
 
 " You have company at your house, perhaps. 
 Robert ?" 
 
 " There's not a soul but Jane and me. The 
 Coneys invited us to dine there to-day, but we 
 thought we'd have the first Sunday to ourselves. 
 We went to church this morning ; and I came 
 out after dinner to ask after old Arkwright : 
 they fear he is dying." 
 
Hardly Worth Telling. 217 
 
 She made no further opposition, and Robert 
 took her into the Court, to the warm dining- 
 room. Jane was not there. Robert put her 
 into the arm-chair that used to be their father's, 
 and brought her a glass of wine. 
 "No, thank you," she faintly said. 
 " You must drink it, Lucy." 
 " I am afraid. My head is weak." 
 "Asign youwantsomethinggoodto strengthen 
 it," he urged ; and she drank the wine. 
 
 "And now take off your bonnet, Lucy, and 
 make yourself at home, while I go to seek Jane," 
 said he. 
 
 " Lucy is here," he whispered, when he had 
 found his wife. " The merest shadow you 
 ever saw. A wan, faded thinsf that one's heart 
 bleeds to look upon. We must try and keep 
 her for a bit, Jane." 
 
 " Oh, Robert, if we can ! And nurse her 
 into health." 
 
 "And deliver her from that brute she calls 
 husband — as I should prefer to put it, Jane. 
 Her life with him must be something woful." 
 
 When they got in, she was leaning forward 
 in the chair, crying silently. In the dear old 
 room, with all its familiar features about her, 
 memory could but have its most painful sway. 
 Her grand old father with his grand old white 
 hair, used to sit where she was sitting ; her 
 brothers had each his appointed place; and she 
 was the lovely bright child amidst them, petted 
 
2i8 Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 by all ; the sentimental girl with her head as 
 brimful of romance as ever the other Lucy 
 Ashton's had been, when she went out to her 
 trysts with the Master of Ravenswood. Which 
 had been the more bitter after-fate In life — that 
 Lucy's or this one's ? 
 
 Mrs. Ashton went quietly up, put her arms 
 round Lucy, and kissed her many times. She 
 untied the bonnet, which Lucy had not done, 
 and gave It with the shawl to Robert, standing 
 behind. The bright hair fell down In a shower 
 — the bonnet had caught it — and she put her 
 feeble hand up as if to feel the extent of the 
 disaster. It made her look so like the sweet 
 young sister they had all prized, that Robert 
 turned to the window and gave a few stamps, 
 as if his boots were cold. 
 
 How she cried ! — tears that came from the 
 very heart. Putting her face down on the arm 
 of the chair, she let her grief have Its way. 
 Jane held her hand and stroked it lovingly. 
 Robert felt Inclined to dash his arms throuofh 
 the dark window-panes on which the fire-light 
 played. In Imaginary chastisement of the scamp. 
 Bird. 
 
 " Could you lend me a shawl of your own,. 
 Jane ?" she asked by-and-by, when Robert said 
 they would have tea In — and she glanced down 
 at her shabby brown gown. " I don't wish the 
 servants to see me like this." 
 
 Jane flew out and brought one. A handsome 
 
Hardly JVorth Telling. 219 
 
 cashmere of scarlet and gold-colour, that her 
 mother had given her before the wedding. 
 
 "Just for an hour or two, until I leave," said 
 Lucy, as she covered herself up in it. 
 
 " You will not go out of this house to-night, 
 Lucy." 
 
 " I must, Robert. You can guess who it was. 
 I came to Timberdale to see." 
 
 " Of course I can. She is oroingf on all riofht 
 and getting stronger ; so there's no immediate 
 haste about that. Mr. Bird would not — not 
 come, I suppose." 
 
 Lucy did not answer. Robert was right — 
 Bird would not come : his young sister might 
 die where she was or be sheltered in the work- 
 house, for all the concern he gave himself. For 
 one thing, the man was at his wits' end for 
 money, and not too sure of his own liberty. 
 But Lucy's conscience had not let her be still : 
 as soon as she had scraped together the means 
 for a third-class ticket, she came over. 
 
 " The poor girl has lain like a weight upon 
 my mind, since the time when we abandoned 
 her in London," confessed Lucy. 
 
 " Why did you abandon her .^" 
 
 "It was not my fault," murmured Lucy ; and 
 Robert felt vexed to have asked the hasty 
 question. " I hoped she went home, as I desired 
 her ; but I did not feel sure of it, for Clara was 
 but thoughtless. And those unsuspicious 
 country girls cannot take care of themselves too 
 
2 20 Johnny Liidloiu. 
 
 well. Robert, whatever has happened I regard 
 as our fault," she added, looking up at him with 
 some fever in her eyes. 
 
 " As Mr. Bird's fault ; not yours," corrected 
 Robert — who, strange perhaps to say, observed 
 courtesy in speech towards Bird v/hen talking 
 with Lucy : giving him in general a handle to 
 his name. It might have sounded ironical, but 
 that he couldn't help. " Did you never write 
 to ascertain what had become of her, Lucy ?" 
 
 " My husband would not let me. He is often 
 in difficulties : and we never have a settled 
 home, or address. What will be done with her, 
 Robert ?" 
 
 " She'll stay where she is until she is strong ; 
 Jane wishes it ; and then we shall see about 
 the future. Something will turn up for her in 
 some place, I've little doubt.' 
 
 Jane glanced' at her husband and smiled. 
 Robert had made her the promise to help the 
 girl to an honest living. But, as he frankly told 
 his wife, had he known it was a sister of Bird's, 
 he miijht never have Qfiven it. 
 
 "About yourself, Lucy; that may be the 
 better theme to talk of just now," he resumed. 
 "Will you remain here for good in your old 
 home ?" 
 
 The hot tears rushed to her eyes, the hot 
 flush to her cheeks. She looked deprecatingly 
 at them both, as if craving pardon. 
 
 " I cannot. You know I cannot." 
 
Hardly Jl^orfh Telling: 221 
 
 " Shall I tell you what Bird is, Lucy ? — And 
 what he most likely will be ?" 
 
 " To what end, Robert ?" she faintly asked. 
 " I know it without." 
 
 " Then you ought to leave him — for your own 
 sake. Leave him before you are compelled." 
 
 "Not before, Robert." 
 
 " But why ?" . 
 
 " Oh, Robert, don't you see !" she answered, 
 breaking down. '' He is my husband." 
 
 And nothing else could they get from her. 
 Though she cried and sobbed, and did not deny 
 that her life was a fear and a misery, yet she 
 would go back to him ; go back on the morrow^ 
 it was her duty. In the moment's anger Robert. 
 Ashton said he'd wash his hands of her as well 
 as of Bird. But Jane and Lucy knew better. 
 
 "What can have induced you and Robert tO' 
 take up this poor Clara, in the way you are 
 doing — and mean to do ?" she asked when she 
 was alone with Jane at the evening's close. 
 
 " I owe a debt of gratitude ; and I 
 
 thought I could best pay it this way," was Mrs. 
 Ashton's timid and rather unwilling answer. 
 
 " A debt of orratitude ! To Clara ?" 
 
 " No, To Heaven." 
 
 And that's all the history. Perhaps it was 
 hardly worth telling. 
 
VII. 
 
 CHARLES VAN RHEYN. 
 
 I SHALL always say It was a singular thing 
 that I should chance to go back to school 
 that time the clay before the quarter opened. 
 Singular, because I heard and saw more of the 
 boy I am going to tell of than I otherwise might 
 have heard and seen. I was present at his 
 arrival ; and I was present at his — well, let us 
 say, at his departure. 
 
 The midsummer holidays were nearly up 
 when Hugh was taken ill. Duffham was un- 
 certain what the illness was going to be : so he 
 pitched upon scarlatina. Upon that, the Squire 
 and Mrs. Todhetley packed me back to school 
 there and then. Not from any fear of my 
 taking it ; I had had it, and Tod too (and both 
 of us were well again, I recollect, within a week 
 •or so) ; but if once the disease had really shown 
 Itself, Dr. Frost would not have liked us to 
 return lest we might convey It to the school. 
 Tod was In Gloucestershire. He was written 
 to, and told not to return home, but to go 
 straight to school. 
 
Charles Van Rheyn. 223 
 
 Dr. Frost was surprised to see me. He said 
 niy coming back was quite right ; and I am sure 
 he tried to put me at ease and make me com- 
 fortable. Not a single boy had stayed the holi- 
 days that summer, and the Doctor and I were 
 alone. The school would open the following 
 day, when masters and boys were alike expected 
 to return, I had dinner with the Doctor^ — he 
 usually dined late during the holidays — and we 
 played at chess afterwards. 
 
 Breakfast was just over the next morning 
 when the letters came in. Amid them was one 
 from France, bearing the Rouen post-mark. 
 Now the Doctor, learned man though he was 
 in classics, and what not, could make nothing 
 of French. Carrying the letter to the window, 
 turning its pages over and back again, and 
 staring at it through his spectacles, he at last 
 brought it to me. 
 
 " You are a pretty g^ood French scholar, 
 Johnny ; can you read this ? I can't, I confess. 
 But the paper's so thin, and the ink so pale, and 
 the writing so small, I could scarcely see it if it 
 were English." 
 
 And I had to go over it twice, before I could 
 make it out. As he said, the ink was pale, and 
 it was a frightfully small and cramped hand- 
 writing. The letter was dated Rouen, and was 
 signed curtly, "Van Rheyn," French fashion, 
 without the writer's Christian name. Monsieur 
 Van Rheyn wrote to say, that he was about to 
 
2 24 Johmiy L^idlozv. 
 
 consign his son, Charles Aberleigh Van Rheyn, 
 to Dr. Frost's care, and that he would arrive 
 quickly after the letter, having already departed 
 on his journey under the charge of a " gentil- 
 homme Anglais," It added that the son would 
 bring credentials with him ; that he spoke 
 English, and was of partly English descent, 
 through his mother, the late Madame Van 
 Rheyn, nee Aberleigh, 
 
 " Rather a summary way of consigning a pupil 
 to my charge," remarked Dr. Frost. "Aber- 
 leigh .'^ — Aberleigh ?" he continued, as if trying 
 to recollect something, and bending his spec- 
 tacles over the letter. " She must have been 
 one of the Aberleighs of Upton, I should think. 
 Perhaps Hall knows ? — I have heard her men- 
 tion the Aberleighs." 
 
 Ringing the bell, the housekeeper was sent 
 for. Dr. Frost asked her what she knew of 
 the Aberleighs of Upton. 
 
 " There's none of them left now to know, sir," 
 answered Hall. " There never was but two — 
 after the old mother died : Miss Aberleigh and 
 Miss Emma Aberleigh. Good fortunes the 
 young ladies had, sir, and both of them, I 
 remember, married on the same day. Miss 
 Aberleigh to Captain Scott, and Miss Emma to 
 a French gentleman, Mosseer Von Rheyn." 
 
 " I should think, by the name, he was Dutch 
 — or Flemish ; not French," remarked the 
 Doctor. 
 
CJuirlcs Van Rheyii. 225 
 
 " Anyway, sir, he was said to be French," 
 returned Hall. " A dark, sallow gentleman who 
 wore a braided coat. The young ladies never 
 came back to their home after the wedding-day, 
 and the place was sold. Captain Scott sailed 
 with his wife for Injee, and Mosseer Von Rheyn 
 took Miss Emma off to his house in France." 
 
 " Do you recollect where his home was ? — In 
 what part of France T 
 
 " No, sir. And if I did, I should never be 
 able to speak the name. Not long ago, I heard 
 it said that poor Miss Emma was dead — Mrs. 
 Von Rheyn, that is. A nice quiet girl, she was." 
 
 " Then I conclude the new pupil, spoken of 
 to me, must be the son of Monsieur Van Rheyn 
 and Miss Emma Aberleigh," remarked the 
 Doctor, when Hall was dismissed. " You must 
 help to make things pleasant for him, Johnny : 
 it will be a change at first from his own home 
 and country. Do you remember that other 
 French boy we had here T 
 
 I did. And the remembrance made me laugh. 
 He used to lament every day that he had not a 
 jDlate of soup to dine off, and say the meat was 
 tough. 
 
 Strolling out at the front iron gates in the 
 course of the morning, wondering how long the 
 boys were going to be before some of them put 
 in an appearance, I caught sight of the first. 
 He was walking up from the Plough and 
 Harrow Inn, and must have come by the omni- 
 VOL. I. ir 
 
2 26 Johnny Liidlow. 
 
 bus that plied backwards and forwards between 
 the inn and the station, The Plough and 
 Harrow man-of-all-work followed behind, carry- 
 ing a large trunk. 
 
 Of all queer figures, that boy looked the 
 queerest, I wondered who he was, and whether 
 he could really be coming as a pupil. His 
 trousers and vest were nankeen, his coat was a 
 kind of open blouse, and flew out behind him like 
 a big round tail ; the hat he wore was a great big 
 tall chimney-pot with a wide brim. Off went 
 the hat, with a bow and a flourish of the arm. as 
 he reached me and the gates, 
 
 " I ask your pardon, sir. This is, I believe, 
 the pension of Mister the Doctor Frost ?" 
 
 The French accent, though that was slight, 
 the French manners, the French turn of the 
 words told me who it was. For a minute or two 
 I really could not answer for staring at him. 
 He seemed to have arrived with a shaved head, 
 as if just out of gaol, or of brain fever. 
 
 The hair was cut as closely as it could be cut, 
 short of shaving: his face was red and round and 
 covered with freckles : you could not have put a 
 pin's point between them. Really and truly it 
 was the most remarkable figure ever seen out of 
 a picture. I could not guess his age exactly : 
 something perhaps between twelve and fourteen. 
 He was slender and upright, and to all appear- 
 ance strong. 
 
 " I think you must be Charles Van Rheyn/' 
 
Oharles Van Rheyn. 227 
 
 I said then, holding out my hand to welcome 
 him. " Dr. Frost is expecting you." 
 
 He put his hand into mine after a moment's 
 hesitation, not seeming quite to understand that 
 he might : but such a glad brightness came into 
 his rather large and honest grey eyes, that I liked 
 him from that hour, in spite of the clothes and 
 the freckles and the shorn head. He had crossed 
 to Folkestone by the night boat, he said, had 
 come on to London, and the gentleman, who 
 was his escort so far, had there put him into an 
 early train to come on to his destination. 
 
 Dr. Frost was at the window, and came to the 
 door. Van Rheyn stood still when within a 
 yard of him, took his hat off with the most re- 
 spectful air, and bowed his head down to the 
 ground. He had evidently been brought up 
 with a reverence for pastors and masters. The 
 Doctor shook hands. The first thing Van Rheyn 
 did on entering the reception parlour, was to 
 produce from some inner pocket a large, square 
 letter, sealed with two flaming red seals and a 
 coat of arms ; which he handed to the Doctor. 
 It contained a draft for a good sum of money in 
 advance of the first three months' payment, and 
 some pages of closely-written matter in the 
 crabbed hand of Monsieur Van Rheyn. Dr. 
 Frost put the pages aside to await the arrival of 
 the French master. 
 
 "My father was unable to remit the exact 
 amount of money for the trimestre, sir, not know- 
 
 15—2 
 
2 28 Johnny Ludloiv. 
 
 ing what it would be," said young Van Rheyn. 
 " And there will be the extra expenses besides. 
 He will arrange that with you later." 
 
 " The end of the term would have been time 
 enough to remit this," said the Doctor, smiling. 
 "It is not our custom to receive payment in 
 advance." 
 
 "It is the custom in France, sir, I assure 
 you. And, besides, I am to you a stranger." 
 
 "Not quite a stranger altogether : I believe 
 I know something of your mother's family," said 
 Dr. Frost. " How came your father to fix upon 
 my school for you ?" 
 
 " My mother knew of your school, sir ; she 
 and my father used to talk of placing me at it. 
 And an English gentleman who came lately to 
 Rouen spoke of it — he said he knew you very 
 well. That again put it into my father's head 
 to send me." 
 
 It was the same Van Rheyn that they had 
 thought — the son of Miss Emma Aberleigh. 
 She had been dead two years. 
 
 " Are you a Protestant or a Roman Catholic ?" 
 questioned Dr. Frost. 
 
 " I am Protestant, sir : the same that my 
 mother was. We attended the Eglise of Mon- 
 sieur le Pastor Mons, of the Culte Evangelique." 
 
 The Doctor asked him if he would take any- 
 thing before dinner, and he chose a glass of eau 
 sucree. The mal de mer had been rather 
 
Charles Van Rhcyn. 229 
 
 strong, he said, and he had not since been able 
 to eat. 
 
 Evidently Hall did not approve of eau sucree. 
 She had never made eau sucary, she said, when 
 sent to for it. Bringing in the water and sugar, 
 she stood by to watch Van Rheyn mix it, her 
 face sour, her lips drawn in. I am sure it gave 
 her pleasure, when he asked for a few drops of 
 orange-flower water, to be able to say there was 
 not such a thing in the ho^use. 
 
 " This young gentleman is the son of the 
 Miss Emma Aberleigh you once knew, Hall," 
 spoke the Doctor, with a view no doubt to put 
 her on good terms with the new pupil. 
 
 " Yes, sir," she answered crustily. " He 
 favours his mamma about the eyes." 
 
 " She must have had very nice eyes," I put in. 
 " And so she had," said Van Rheyn, looking 
 at me gratefully. " Thank you for saying it. 
 I wish you could have known her !" 
 
 " And might I ask, sir, w^hat has become of 
 the other Miss Aberleigh ?" asked Hall of Van 
 Rheyn. " The young lady who went off to 
 Injee with her husband on the wedding-day." 
 
 " You would say my Aunt Margaret," he 
 rejoined. " She is quite well. She and the 
 Major and the children will make the voyage to 
 Europe next year." 
 
 Efter the eau sucree came to an end, the 
 Doctor turned him over to me, telling me to 
 take care of him till dinner-time, which that day 
 
230 Johnny Liidlozu. 
 
 would be early. Van Rheyn said he should like 
 to unpack his box, and we went upstairs together. 
 Growing confidential over the unpacking, he 
 gave me scraps of information touching his home 
 and family, the mention of one item leading to 
 another. 
 
 His baptismal name in full, he said, was 
 Charles Jean /Vberleigh ; his father's was Jean 
 Marie. Their home was a tres joli chateau 
 close to Rouen : in five minutes you could walk 
 thither. It was all much changed since his 
 mother died (he seemed to have loved her with 
 a fervent love and to revere her memory) ; the 
 last thing he did on coming away for England 
 was to take some flowers to her grave. It was 
 thought in Rouen that his father was going to 
 make a second marriaofe with one of the 
 Demoiselles de Tocqueville, whom his Aunt 
 Claribelle did not like. His Aunt Claribelle, 
 his father's sister, had come to live at the 
 chateau when his mother died ; but if that 
 Theresine de Tocqueville came into the house 
 she would quit it. The Demoiselles de Tocque- 
 ville had hardly any dot, — which would be much 
 against the marriage. Aunt Claribelle thought, 
 and bad for his father ; because when he, 
 Charles, should be the age of twenty-one, the 
 money came to him ; it had been his mother's 
 and was so settled : and his father's own pro- 
 perty was but small. Of course he should wish 
 his father to keep always as much as he pleased, 
 
Charles Van Rheyn. 231 
 
 but Aunt Claribelle thought the Eno^Hsh trustees 
 would not allow that. Aunt Claribelle's opinion 
 was, that his father had at length decided to 
 send him to a pension in England while he 
 made the rriarriage ; but he (Charles) knew that 
 his mother had wished him to finish his educa- 
 tion in England, and to go to one of the two 
 colleo^es to which Eng-lish orentlemen went. 
 
 " Here comes old Fontaine," I interrupted at 
 this juncture, seeing his arrival from the windows 
 
 Van Rheyn looked up from his shirts, which 
 he was counting. He seemed to have the 
 tidiest ways in the world. " Who is it that you 
 say ? Fontaine ?" 
 
 " Monsieur Fontaine, the French master. 
 You can talk away with him in your native 
 tongue as much as you will, Van Rheyn." 
 
 " But I have come here to speak the English 
 tongue, not the French," debated he, looking at 
 me seriously. " My father wishes me to speak 
 and read it without any strange accent ; and I 
 wish it also." 
 
 "You speak it very well already." 
 
 " But you can hear that it is not my native 
 tongue — that I am the foreigner." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Well, I must learn to speak it without that 
 — as the English do. It will be necessary." 
 
 I supposed he might allude to his future life. 
 " What are you to be, Van Rheyn?" I inquired. 
 
 " What profession, do you ask ? I need not 
 
232 . Johnny Liidknu. 
 
 be anv : I have enouo-h fortune to be a rentier 
 — I don't know what you call that in English ; 
 it means a gentleman who lives on his money. 
 But I wish, myself, to be an English priest." 
 
 " An English priest ! Doyou mean a parson ?" 
 
 "Yes, I mean that. So you see I must learn 
 the English tongue. My mother used to talk 
 to me about the priests in her land " 
 
 " Parsons, Van Rheyn." 
 
 " I beg your pardon : I forget. And I fear 
 I have much caught up the French names for 
 things since my mother died. It was neither 
 priest nor parson she used to call the English 
 ministers." 
 
 " Clergymen, perhaps." 
 
 " That was it. She said the clergymen were 
 good men, and she should like me to be one 
 clergyman. In winter, when it was cold, and 
 she had some fire in her chamber, I used to sit 
 up there with her, after coming home from 
 classe, and we talked together, our two selves. 
 I should' have much money, she said, when I 
 grew to be a man, and could lead an idle life. 
 But she would not like that : she wanted me to 
 be a good man, and to go to heaven when I 
 died, where she would be ; and she thought if I 
 were a clergyman I should have serious thoughts 
 always. So I wish to be one clergyman." 
 
 He said all this with the utmost simplicity 
 and composure, just as he might have spoken of 
 going for a ride. There could be no mistake 
 
Charles ]'an ■Rlieyn. 233 
 
 that he was of a thoroughly straightforward and 
 simple-minded nature. 
 
 " It might involve your living over here, Van 
 Rheyn : once you were in Orders." 
 
 " Yes, I know. Papa would not mind. Eng- 
 land was mamma's country, and she loved it. 
 There was more peace in England than in 
 France, she thought." 
 
 " I say, she must have been a good mother, 
 \"an Rheyn." 
 
 In a moment his grey eyes were shining at 
 me through a mist of tears. " Oh, she was so 
 good, so good ! You can never know. If she 
 had lived I should never have had sorrow," 
 
 " What did she die of Y' 
 
 " Ah, I cannot tell. She was well in the 
 morning, and she was dead at night. Not that 
 she was stronof ever. It was one Dimanche. 
 We had been to the office, she and I " 
 
 '' What office T 
 
 " Oh, pardon— I forget I am speaking Eng- 
 lish. I mean to church. Monsieur Mons had 
 preached ; and we were walking along the street 
 towards home afterwards, mamma talking to me 
 about the sermon, which had been a very holy 
 one, when we met the Aunt Claribelle, who had 
 come into the town for high mass at St. Ouen. 
 Mamma asked her to come home and dine 
 with us : and she said yes, but she must first go 
 to say bon-jour to old Madam Soubites. As 
 she parted from us, there was suddenly a great 
 
2 34 Johnny Lnd/ozu. 
 
 outcry. It was fete at Rouen that Sunday. 
 Some bands of music were to play on the 
 estrade in the pubHc garden, competing for a 
 prize, consequentify the streets were crowded. 
 We looked back at the noise, and saw many 
 horses, without riders, galloping along towards 
 us ; men were running after them, shouting and 
 calling ; and the people, mad with fright, 
 tumbled over one another in the effort to get 
 away. Later, we heard that these horses, 
 frightened by something, had broken out of an 
 hotel post-yard. Well, mamma gave just a cry 
 of fear and held my hand tighter, as we set off 
 to run with the rest, the horses stamping wildly 
 after us. But the people pushed between us, 
 and I lost her. She was at home before me, 
 and was sittinQ^ on the side of the fountain, 
 inside the chateau entrance-gate, when I got 
 up, her face all white and blue, and her neck 
 and throat beating, as she clung to the nearest 
 lion with both hands. It alarmed me more 
 than the horses had, for I had never seen her 
 look so. ' Come in, mamma,' I said, ' and take 
 a little glass of cordial ;' but she could not 
 answer me, she did not stir. I called one of 
 the servants, and by-and-by she got a little 
 breath again, and went into the house leaning 
 upon both of us, and so up to her chamber. 
 Quite immediately papa came home : he always 
 went into town to his club on the Sunday 
 mornings, and he ran for Monsieur Petit, the 
 
Charles Van Rhcyn. 
 
 -6:) 
 
 medecin — the dbctor. By seven o'clock in the 
 evening, mamma was dead." 
 
 " Oh dear ! What was the cause ?" 
 
 " Papa did not tell me. He and Monsieur 
 Petit talked about the heart : they said it was 
 feeble. Oh, how we cried, papa and I ! He 
 
 -cried for many days. 1 hope he will not 
 
 bring home Theresine de Tocqueville !" 
 
 The dinner-bell rang out, and we went down. 
 Dr. Frost was putting up the letter, which old 
 Fontaine had been translating to him. It was 
 full of directions about Van Rheyn's health. 
 What he was to do, and what not to do. 
 Monsieur Van Rheyn said his son was not 
 strong: he was not to be allowe^O do the gym- 
 nastics, or the " boxing," or to play at rough 
 games, or take violent exercise of any kind ; 
 and a small glass of milk was to be given him 
 at niofht when he went to bed. If the clothes 
 sent over with him were not suitable to the 
 school, or in accordance with the English mode, 
 Dr. Frost was prayed to be at the trouble of 
 procuring him new ones. He was to be 
 brought well on in all the studies necessary to 
 constitute the " gentilhomme." and especially in 
 the speaking and reading of English. 
 
 Dr. Frost directed his spectacles to Charles 
 Van Rheyn, examining him from top to toe. 
 The round, red face, and the strongly-built 
 frame appeared to give nothing but indications 
 of robust health. The Doctor questioned him 
 
236 Johnny Ludloic. 
 
 in what way he was not strong — whether he 
 was subject to a cough, or to want of appetite, 
 and other such items. But Van Rheyn seemed 
 to know nothing about it, and said he had 
 always been quite well. 
 
 " The father fears we should make him into 
 a muscular Englishman, hence these restric- 
 tions," thought Dr. Frost. 
 
 In the afternoon, the fellows beQ-an to come 
 in, thick and threefold : Tod amidst them, who 
 arrived about tea-time. To describe their 
 amazement when they saw Van Rheyn is quite 
 beyond me. It seemed that they never meant 
 to leave off staring. Some of them gave him a 
 little chaff, even that first night. Van Rheyn 
 was very shy and silent. Entirely at his ease 
 as he had been with me alone, the numbers 
 seemed to daunt him ; to strike him and his 
 courage into himself. 
 
 On the whole, Van Rheyn was not liked. 
 Once let a school set itself against a new fellow 
 at first — and Van Rheyn's queer appearance 
 had done that much for him — it takes a long 
 while to bring matters around — if they ever are 
 brought round. When his hair began to sprout, 
 it looked exactly like pig's bristles. And that 
 was the first nickname he o^ot : Brisdes. The 
 Doctor had soon chanwd his stvle of coat, and 
 he wore jackets, as we did. 
 
diaries Van Rhcyu. 237 
 
 Charles Van Rheyn did not seem inclined to 
 grow sociable. Shy and silent as he had shown 
 himself to them that first evening, so he re- 
 mained. True, he got no encouragement to be 
 otherwise. The boys threw ridicule on him 
 continually, making him into an almost per- 
 petual butt. Any mistake in the pronunciation 
 of an English word — Van Rheyn never made a 
 mistake as to its meaning — they hissed, and 
 groaned, and shouted at. I shall never forget 
 one. Beino; asked when that Indian lot in- 
 tended to arrive (meaning the Scotts), and 
 whether they would make the voyage in a pal- 
 anquin (for the boys plied him with questions 
 purposely), he answered, " Not in a palanquin, 
 but in a sheep " — meaning ship. The uproar 
 at that was so loud, that some of the masters 
 looked in to know what was up. 
 
 Van Rheyn, too, was next door to helpless. 
 He did not climb, or leap, or even run. Had 
 not been used to it, he said. What JiadYai been 
 used to do, then, he was asked one day. Oh, 
 he had sat out in the garden with his mother ; 
 and since her death, with Aunt Claribelle, and 
 gone for an airing in the carriage three times 
 a week. Was he a girl ? roared the boys. 
 Did he sew patchwork ? Not now" ; he had 
 left off sewing when he was nine, answered Van 
 Rheyn innocently, unconscious of the storm of 
 mockery the avowal would invoke. " Pray, 
 were you born a young lady } — or did they 
 
238 Jolinny Liidloiv. 
 
 change you at nurse ?" shouted Jessup, who' 
 would have kept the ball rolling" till midnight. 
 " I say, you fellows, he has come to the wrong 
 school : we don't take in girls, we don't. Let 
 me introduce this one to you, boys — ' Miss 
 Charlotte.' " And, so poor Charley Van Rheyn 
 Cfot that nickname as well as the other. Miss. 
 Charlotte ! 
 
 Latin was a stumbling-block. Van Rheyn 
 had learnt it according to French rules and 
 French pronunciation, and he could not readily 
 ^et into our Encrlish mode. "It was bad 
 enough to have to teach a stupid boy Latin," 
 grumbled the under Latin master (under Dr. 
 Frost), "but worse to have to un-teach him." 
 Van Rheyn was not stupid, however ; if he 
 seemed so, it was because his new life was so 
 strange to him. 
 
 One day the boys dared him to a game at 
 leap-frog. Some of them were at it in the yard, 
 and Van Rheyn stood by, looking on. 
 
 " Why don't you go in for it ?" suddenly 
 asked Parker, giving him a push. " There is 
 to be a round or two at boxing this evening, 
 why don't you go in for that .^" 
 
 " They never would let me do these rough 
 things," replied Van Rheyn, who invariably 
 answered all the chaffing questions civilly and 
 patiently. 
 
 " Who wouldn't ? Who's ' they 1 " 
 
 " My mother and my Aunt Claribelle. Also^ 
 
Charles Win RJicyn. 239 
 
 when I was starting to come here, my father 
 said I was not to exert myself." 
 
 '' All right, Miss Charlotte ; but why on earth 
 did not the respectable old gentleman send you 
 over in petticoats ? Never was such a thing 
 heard of, you know, as for a girl to wear a coat 
 and pantaloons. It's not decent, Miss Charlotte ; 
 it's not modest." 
 
 ''Why you say all this to me for ever ? I 
 am not a girl," said poor Van Rheyn. 
 
 "No? don't tell fibs. If you were not a girl 
 you'd go in for our games. Come ! Try this. 
 Leap-frog's especially edifying, I assure you : 
 expands the mind. Woiit you try it ?" 
 
 Well, the upshot was, that they dared him to 
 try it. A dozen, or so, set on at him like so 
 many wolves. What with that, and what with 
 their stinging ridicule, poor Van Rheyn was 
 goaded out of his obedience to home orders, 
 and did try it. After a few tumbles, he went 
 over very tolerably, and did' not dislike it at all. 
 
 " If I can only learn to do as the rest of you 
 do, perhaps they will let me alone," he said to 
 me that same night, a kind of hopeful eagerness 
 in his bright grey eyes. 
 
 And gradually he did learn to go in for most 
 of the games : running, leaping, and climbing. 
 One thing he absolutely refused — wrestling, 
 
 " Why should gentlemen, who were to be 
 gentlemen all their lives, fight each other }'' he 
 asked ; " they would not have to fight as men ; 
 
240 Johnny Lndloiu. 
 
 it was not kind ; it was not pleasant ; it was 
 hard." 
 
 The boys were hard on him for saying it, 
 mocking him frightfully ; but they could not 
 shake him there. He was of right blue blood ; 
 never caving-in before them, as Bill Whitney 
 expressed it one day ; he was only quiet ; and 
 endured. 
 
 Whether the native Rouen air is favourable 
 to freckles, I don't know ; but those on Van 
 Rheyn's face gradually disappeared over here. 
 The complexion lost its redness also, becoming 
 fresh and fair, with a brightish colour on the 
 cheeks. The hair, getting longer, turned out 
 to be of a smooth brown : altogether he was 
 good-looking. 
 
 " I say, johnny, do you know Van Rheyn's 
 ill ?" 
 
 The words came from William W^hitney. 
 He whispered them in my ear as we stood up 
 for prayers before breakfast. The school had 
 opened about a month then. 
 
 " What's the matter with him Y' 
 
 " Don't know," answered Bill. " He is stay- 
 ing in bed." 
 
 Cribbinof some minutes from breakfast, I went 
 up to his room. Van Rheyn looked pale as he 
 lay, and said he had been sick. Hall declared 
 it was nothing but a bilious attack, and Van 
 Rheyn thought she might be right. 
 
Charles Van Rlieyn. 241 
 
 " Meaning that you have a sick headache, I 
 suppose ?" I said to him. 
 
 "Yes, the migraine. I have had it before." 
 
 " Well, look here, Charley," I went on, after 
 thinking a minute ; " if I were you, I'd not say 
 as much to any of them. Let them suppose 
 you are regularly ill. You'll never hear the 
 last of it if they know you lie in bed for only a 
 headache." 
 
 " But I cannot get up," he answered ; " my 
 head is in much pain. And I have the fever. 
 Feel my hand." 
 
 The hand he put out was burning hot. But 
 that went with sick headaches sometimes. 
 
 It turned out to be nothing worse, for he was 
 well on the morrow ; and I need not have men- 
 tioned it at all, but for a little matter that arose 
 out of the day's illness. Going up again to see 
 him after school in the afternoon, I found Hall 
 standing over the bed with a cup of tea, and a 
 most severe, not to say horror-struck, expression 
 of countenance, as she gazed down on him, 
 staring at something with all her eyes. Van 
 Rheyn was asleep, and looked better ; his face 
 flushed and moist, his brown hair, still uncom- 
 monly short compared with ours, pushed back. 
 He lay with his hands outside the bed, as if the 
 clothes were heavy — the weather was fiery hot. 
 One of the hands was clasping something that 
 hung round his neck by a narrow blue ribbon ; 
 it seemed to have been pulled by him out of the 
 
 VOL. I. ■ 16 
 
242 Johnny Lndlozv. 
 
 opening in his night-shirt. Hall's quick eyes 
 had detected what it was — a very small, flat 
 cross (hardly two inches long), on which was 
 carved a figure of the Saviour, all in gold. 
 
 Now Hall had doubtless many virtues. One 
 of them was docking us boys of our due allow- 
 ance of sugar. But she had also many prejudices. 
 And, of all her prejudices, none was stronger 
 than her abhorrence of idols, as exemplified in 
 carved images and Chinese gods, 
 
 " Do you see that, Master Ludlow T' she 
 whispered to me, pointing her finger straight at 
 the little cross of gold, " It's no better than a 
 relict of paganism." 
 
 Stooping down, she gently drew the cross out 
 of Van Rheyn's hot-clasped hand, and let it lie 
 on the sheet. A beautiful little cross it was : 
 the face of our Saviour — an exquisite face in its 
 expression of suffering and patient humility — 
 one that you might have gazed upon and been 
 the better for. How they could have so per- 
 fectly carved a thing so small, I knew not. 
 
 " He must be one of them worshipping 
 Romanics," said Hall with horror, snatching her 
 fingers from the cross as if she thought it would 
 give her the ague. " Or else a pagan," 
 
 And the two were no doubt alike in Hall's 
 mind. 
 
 " And he goes every week and says his com- 
 mandments in class here, a-standing up afore all 
 the school ! I wonder what the Doctor " 
 
Charles Van RJieyn. 243 
 
 Hall cut short her complaints. Van Rheyn 
 had suddenly opened his eyes, and was looking 
 up at us. 
 
 " I find myself better," he said with a smile. 
 " The pain has mosdy departed." 
 
 " We wasn't thinking of pains and headaches. 
 Master Van Rheyn, but of this'' said Hall 
 resentfully, taking the spoon out of the saucer, 
 and holding it within an inch of the gold cross. 
 Van Rheyn raised his head from the pillow to 
 look. 
 
 " Oh, it is my litde cross !" he said, holding 
 It out to our view as far as the ribbon allowed, 
 and speaking with perfect ease and unconcern. 
 " Is it not beautiful T' 
 
 ''Very," I said, stooping over it. 
 
 " Be you of the Romanic sex T demanded 
 Hall of Van Rheyn. 
 
 "Am I What is it Mistress Hall would 
 
 ask ?" he broke off to question me, in the midst 
 of my burst of laughter. 
 
 " She asks if you are a Roman Catholic, Van 
 Rheyn." 
 
 " But no. Why you think that T he added 
 to her. "My father is the Roman Catholic^: I 
 am the Protestant, like my mother." 
 
 "Then why on earth, sir, do you wear such 
 a idol as that ?" returned Hall. 
 
 " This ? Oh, it is nothing! it is not an idol. 
 It does me good." 
 
 " Good !" fiercely repeated Hall. " Does you 
 
 i6 — 2 
 
244 • JoJnmy Liidlow. 
 
 2:ood to wear a brazen imaQ-e next the skin ! 
 
 right under the flannel waistcoat. I wonder 
 
 what the school will come to next !" 
 
 " Why should I not wear it ?" said Van 
 Rheyn. " What harm does it do me,' this ? It 
 was my poor Aunt Annette's. The last time 
 we went to the Aunt Claribelle's to see her, 
 when the hope of her was gone, she put the 
 cross into my hand, and bade me keep it for 
 her sake." 
 
 " I tell you, Master Van Rheyn, it's just a 
 brazen image," persisted Hall. 
 
 " It is a keepsake," dissented Van Rheyn. 
 " I showed it to Monsieur Mons one day when 
 he was calling on mamma, and told him it was 
 the gift to me of the poor Tante Annette. 
 Monsieur Mons thought it very pretty, and said 
 it would remind me of the great Sacrifice." 
 
 " But to wear it again' your skin !" went on 
 Hall, not giving in. Giving in on the matter 
 of graven images was not in her nature. Or 
 on any matter, as far as that went, that con- 
 cerned us boys. " I've heard of poor misde- 
 luded people putting horse-hair next 'em. And 
 fine torment it must be !" 
 
 " I have worn it since mamma died," quietly 
 answered Van Rheyn, who seemed not to under- 
 stand Hall's zeal. " She kept it for me always 
 in her little shell-box that had the silver crest 
 on it ; but when she died, I said I would put 
 the cross round my neck, for fear of losing it : 
 
Charles Van Rheyn. 245 
 
 and Aunt Claribelle, who took the shell-box 
 then, bought me the blue ribbon." 
 
 " That blue ribbon's new — or a'most new — if 
 ever I saw new ribbon," cried Hall, who was in 
 a mood to dispute every word. 
 
 " Oh yes. It was new when I left Rouen. 
 I have another piece in my trunk to put on 
 when this shall wear out." 
 
 "Well, it's a horrid heathenish thing to do, 
 Master Van Rheyn ; and, though it may be 
 gold, I don't believe Miss Emma Aberleigh 
 would ever have gave countenance to it. Least- 
 ways afore she lived among them foreign French- 
 folks,' added Hall, virtually dropping the con- 
 test, as Van Rheyn slipped the cross out of 
 view within his night-shirt. "What she might 
 have come to, after she went off there, heaven 
 alone knows. Be you a-going to drink this tea, 
 sir, or be you not ?" 
 
 Van Rheyn drank the tea and thanked her 
 gratefully for bringing it, the gratitude shining 
 also out of his nice grey eyes. Hall, took back 
 the cup and tucked him up again, telling him to 
 get a bit more sleep and he would be all right in 
 the morning. With all her prejudices and 
 sourness, she was as good as gold when any of 
 us were ill. 
 
 "Not bathe ! Not bathe ! I say, you fel- 
 lows, here's a lark. Bristles thinks he'd better 
 not try the water." 
 
246 Johnny Liidloiv. 
 
 It was a terribly hot evening, close upon sun- 
 set. Finding ourselves, some half-dozen of us, 
 near the river, Van Rheyn being one, the water 
 looked too pleasant not to be plunged into. 
 The rule at Dr. Frost's was, that no boy should 
 be compelled to bathe against his inclination : 
 Van Rheyn was the only one who had availed 
 himself of it. It was Parker who spoke : we 
 were all undressing quickly." 
 
 " What's your objection. Miss Charlotte } 
 Girls bathe." 
 
 " They would never let me go into cold water 
 at home," was the patient answer. " We take 
 warm baths there." 
 
 " Afraid of cold water ! well, I never ! What 
 an everlasting big pussy-cat you are. Miss 
 Charlotte ! We've heard that pussies don't like 
 to wet their feet." 
 
 " Our doctor at Rouen used to say I must 
 not plunge into cold water," said poor Van 
 Rheyn. speaking patiently as usual, though he 
 must ha:ve been nearly driven wild. *' The 
 shock would not be good for me." 
 
 " I say, who'll write off to Evesham for a 
 pair of water-proofs to put over his shoes ? 
 Just give us the measure of your foot. Miss 
 Charlotte ?" 
 
 " Let's shut him up in a feather-bed !" 
 
 " Wliy, the water's not cold, you donkey !" 
 cried out Bill Whitney, who had just leaped in. 
 " It's as warm as new milk. What on earth 
 
Charles Van Rheyn. 247 
 
 will you be fit for, Bristles ? You'll never make 
 a man." 
 
 " Make a man ! What are you thinking of, 
 Whitney ? Miss Charlotte has no ambition 
 that way. Girls prefer to grow up into young 
 ladies, not into men." 
 
 "Is it truly warm ?" asked Van Rheyn, 
 gazing at the river irresolutely, and thinking 
 that if he went in the mockery might cease. 
 
 I looked up at him from the water. "It is 
 indeed, Van Rheyn. Quite warm." 
 
 He knew he might trust me, and began slowly 
 to undress. We had continued to be the best of 
 comrades, and I never went in for teasing him 
 as the rest did ; rather shielded him when I 
 could, and took his part. 
 
 By the time he was ready to go in— for he did 
 nothing nimbly, and the undoing his buttons 
 made no exception— some of us were ready to 
 come out. One of Dr. Frost's rules in resfard 
 to bathing was stringent — that no boy should 
 remain in the water more than three minutes at 
 the very extent. He held that a great deal of 
 harm was done by prolonged bathing. Van 
 Rheyn plunged in — and liked it. 
 
 " It is warm and pleasant," he exclaimed. 
 " This cannot hurt me." 
 
 " Hurt you, you great baby!" shouted Parker. 
 
 Van Rheyn had put his clothes in the tidiest 
 manner upon the grass ; not like ours, which 
 were flung down any way, waistcoats here, stock- 
 
24S Johnny Lttdlozu. 
 
 ings yonder. His things were laid smoothly 
 one upon another, in the order he took them off 
 — the jacket first, the flannel waistcoat upper- 
 most. Though I daresay I should not have 
 noticed this but for a shout from Jessup. 
 . " Halloa ! What's that ?" 
 
 Those of us who were out, and in the several 
 stages of drying or dressing, turned round at the 
 words. Jessup, buttoning his braces, was stand- 
 ing by Van Rheyn's heap, looking down at it. 
 On the top of the flannel singlet, exposed to full 
 view, lay the gold cross with the blue ribbon. 
 
 "What on earth is it T' cried Jessup, picking 
 it up ; and at the moment Van Rheyn, finding 
 all the rest out of the water, came out himself. 
 " Is it a charm T' 
 
 " It is mine — it is my gold cross," spoke Van 
 Rheyn, catching up one of the wet towels to rub 
 himself with. The bath this evening had been 
 impromptu, and we had but two towels between 
 us, that Parker and Whitney had brought. In 
 point of fact, it had been against rules also, for 
 we were not expected to go into the river with- 
 out the presence of a master. But just at this 
 bend it was perfectly safe. Jessup passed the 
 blue ribbon round his neck, letting the cross 
 hang behind. This done, he turned himself 
 about for general inspection, and the boys 
 crowded round to look. 
 
 " What do you say it is, Bristles ?" 
 
 " My gold cross." 
 
Charles Van RJicyn. 249 
 
 "You don't mean to tell us to our faces that 
 you wear it ?" 
 
 " I wear it always," freely answered Van 
 Rheyn. 
 
 " Jessup took it off his neck, and the boys 
 passed it about from one to another. They did 
 not ridicule the cross — I think the emblem on it 
 prevented that — but they ridiculed Van Rheyn. 
 
 " A friend of mine went over to the tar-and- 
 feather islands," said Millichip, executing an 
 aggravating war-dance round about Charley. 
 "He found the natives sporting no end of 
 charms and amulets — nearly all the attire they 
 did sport — rings in the nose and chains in the 
 ears. What relation are those natives to you. 
 Miss Charlotte ?" 
 
 " Don't injure it, please," pleaded Van Rheyn. 
 
 "We've got an ancient nurse at home that 
 carries the tip of a calf's tongue in her pocket 
 for luck," shrieked out Thorne. " And I've 
 heard — I have heard, Bristles — that any fellow 
 who arms himself with a pen'orth of blue-stone 
 from the druggist's, couldn't have the yellow 
 jaundice if he tried. What might you wear this 
 for, pray .''" 
 
 " My Aunt Annette gave it me as a present 
 when she was dying," answered poor helpless 
 Charley, who had never the smallest notion of 
 taking the chaff otherwise than seriously, or of 
 giving chaff back again. 
 
 He had dressed himself to his trousers and 
 
250 Jo Jinny Lndlow. 
 
 shirt, and stood with his hand stretched out, 
 waiting for his cross. 
 
 "In the Worcester Journal, one day last 
 June, I read an advertisement as big as a house, 
 offering a child's caul for sale," cried Snepp. 
 " Any gentleman or lady buying that caul and 
 taking it to sea, could never be drowned. 
 Bristles thinks as long as he wears this, hell 
 not come to be hanged." 
 
 " How's your grandmother. Miss Charlotte .^" 
 
 " I wish you would please to let me alone," 
 said he patiently. "My father would not have 
 placed me here had he known." 
 
 " Why don't you write and tell him, Bristles ?" 
 
 " I would not like to grieve him," simply 
 answered Charley. " I can bear. And he does 
 so much want me to learn the good English." 
 
 " This cross is gold, I suppose ?" said Bill 
 Whitney, who now had it. 
 
 " Yes, it is gold," answered Van Rheyn. 
 
 " I'd not advise you to fall amid thieves, then. 
 They rriight ease you of it. The carving must 
 be worth something." 
 
 " It cost a great deal to buy, I have heard my 
 aunt say. Will you be so good as to give it me, 
 that I may finish to dress myself?" 
 
 Whitney handed him the cross. Time was 
 up, in fact ; and we had to make a race for the 
 house. Van Rheyn was catching It hot and 
 sharp, all the way. 
 
 One might have thought that his very meek- 
 
Charles Van Rhcyn. 251 
 
 ness, the non-resisting spirit in which he took 
 things, would have disarmed the mockery. But 
 it did not. Once go in wholesale for putting 
 upon some particular fellow in a school, and the 
 fun gains with use. I don't think any of them 
 meant to be really unkind to Van Rheyn ; but 
 the play had begun, and they enjoyed it. 
 
 I once saw him drowned in tears. It was at 
 the dusk of evening. Charley had come in for 
 it awfully at tea-time, I forget what about, and 
 afterwards disappeared. An hour later, going 
 into Whitney's room for something Bill asked 
 me' to fetch, I came upon Charles Van Rheyn — 
 who also slept there. He was sitting at the 
 foot of his low bed, his cheek leaning on one 
 of his hands, and the tears running down 
 swiftly. One might have thought his heart 
 was broken. 
 
 "What is the grievance, Charley ?" 
 
 " Do not say to them that you saw me," 
 returned he, dashing away his tears. " I did 
 not expect any of you would come up." 
 
 " Look here, old fellow : I know it's rather 
 hard lines for you just now. But they don't 
 mean anything : it is done in sport, not malice. 
 They don't think, you see, Van Rheyn. You 
 will be sure to live it down." 
 
 "Yes," he sighed, " I hope I shall. But it is 
 so different here from what it used to be. I 
 had the happy home ; I never had one sorrow 
 when my mother was alive. Nobody cares for 
 
252 Johnny Lztdlow. 
 
 me now ; nobody Is kind to me : it is a great 
 change." 
 
 " Take heart, Charley," I said, holding out my 
 hand. " I know you will live it down in time." 
 Of all the fellows I ever met, I think he was 
 the most grateful for a word of kindness. As 
 he thanked me with a glad look of hope in his 
 €yes, I saw that he had been holding the cross 
 clasped In his palm ; for it dropped as he put 
 his hand into mine. 
 
 " It helps me to bear," he said, in a whisper. 
 ^' My mother, who loved me so, is in Heaven ; 
 my father has married Mademoiselle Theresine 
 de Tocqueville. I have no one now." 
 
 " Your father has not married that Theresine 
 •de Tocqueville !" 
 
 " But, yes. I had the letter close after 
 dinner." 
 
 So perhaps he was crying for the home un- 
 happiness as much as for his school grievances. 
 It all reads strange, no doubt, and just the 
 opposite of what might be expected of one of us 
 English boys. The French bringing-up is dif- 
 ferent from ours : perhaps it lay in that. On 
 the other hand, a French boy, generally speak- 
 ing, possesses a very shallow sense of religion. 
 But Van Rheyn had been reared by his English 
 mother ; and his disposition seemed to be 
 naturally serious and uncommonly pliable and 
 gentle. At any rate, whether it reads impro- 
 bable or probable, it is the truth. 
 
diaries l^an Rheyn. 25,3, 
 
 I got what I wanted for Bill Whitney, and 
 went down, thinking what a hard life it was for 
 him — what a shame that we made it so. In- 
 dulged, as Van Rheyn must have always been» 
 tenderly treated as a girl, sheltered from the 
 world's roughness, all that coddling must have 
 become to him as second nature ; and the re- 
 membrance lay with him still. Over here, he 
 was suddenly cut off from it, thrown into another 
 and a rougher atmosphere, isolated from country, 
 home, home-ties, and associations ; and com- 
 pelled to stand the daily brunt of this petty 
 tyranny. 
 
 Getting Tod apart that night, I put the matter 
 to him : what a shame it was, and how sorry I 
 felt for Charley Van Rheyn ; and I asked him 
 whether he thought he could not (he having a 
 great deal of weight in the school) make things 
 pleasanter for him. Tod responded that I 
 should never be anything but a muff, and that 
 the roasting Van Rheyn got treated to was 
 superlatively good for him, if ever he was to be 
 made into a man. 
 
 However, before another week ran out, Dn 
 Frost interfered. How he obtained an inkling 
 of the reigning politics we never knew. One 
 Saturday afternoon, when old Fontaine had 
 taken Van Rheyn out with him, the Doctor 
 walked into the midst of us, to the general 
 consternation. 
 
 Standing in the centre of the schoolroom. 
 
2 54 Johnny Ltidlozu. 
 
 with a solemn face, all of us backing as much as 
 the wall allowed, and those of the masters who 
 ■chanced to be present rising to their feet, the 
 Doctor spoke of Van Rheyn. He had reason 
 to suspect, he said, that we were doing our best 
 to worry Van Rheyn's life out of him : and he 
 put the question deliberately to us (and made 
 us answer it), how we, if consigned alone to a 
 foreign home, all its inmates strangers, would 
 like to be served so. He did not wish, he went 
 •on, to think he had pitiful, ill-disposed boys, 
 lacking hearts and common kindness, in his 
 house : he felt sure that what had passed arose 
 from a heedless love of mischief ; and it would 
 greatly oblige him to find from henceforth that 
 our conduct to Van Rheyn was changed : he 
 thought, and hoped, that he had only to express 
 a wish upon the point, to ensure obedience. 
 
 With that — and a hearty nod and smile 
 around, as if he put it as a personal favour to 
 himself, and wanted us to see that he did, and 
 was not angry, he went out again. A counsel 
 was held to determine whether we had a sneak 
 among us — else how could Frost have known ? 
 — that Charley himself had not spoken, his 
 worst enemy felt sure of. But not one could be 
 pitched upon : every individual fellow, senior 
 and junior, protested earnestly that he had not 
 let out a syllable. And, to tell the truth, I don't 
 think we had. 
 
 However, the Doctor was obeyed. From 
 
Charles Van Rhcyn. 255 
 
 that day all real annoyance to Charles Van 
 Rheyn ceased. I don't say but what there 
 would be a laugh at him now and then, and a 
 word of raillery, or that he lost his names of 
 Bristles and Miss Charlotte ; but virtually the 
 sting was gone. Charley was as grateful as 
 could be, and seemed to become quite happy; 
 and upon the arrival of a hamper by grande 
 vitesse from Rouen, containing a huge rich 
 wedding-cake and some packets of costly sweet- 
 meats, he divided the whole amid us, keeping 
 the merest taste for himself. The school made 
 its comments in return. 
 
 '' He's not a bad lot after all, that Van Rheyn. 
 He will make a man yet." 
 
 "It isn't a bit of use your going in for this, 
 Van Rheyn, unless you can run like a lamp- 
 lighter." 
 
 " But I can run, you know," responded Van 
 Rheyn. 
 
 "Yes. But can you keep the pace up ?" 
 
 "Why not ?" 
 
 " We may be out for three or four hours, 
 pelting like mad all the time." 
 
 " I feel no fear of keeping up," said Van 
 Rheyn. " I will go." 
 
 " All right." 
 
 It was on a Saturday afternoon ; and we were 
 turning out for hare and hounds. The quarter 
 
256 Johnny L^idlozu. 
 
 was hard upon its close, for September was 
 passing. Van Rheyn had never seen hare and 
 hounds : it had been let alone during the hotter 
 weather : and it was Tod who now warned him 
 that he might not be able to keep up the running. 
 It requires fleet legs and easy breath, as every- 
 body knows ; and Van Rheyn had never much, 
 exercised either. 
 
 '* What is just the game ?" he asked in his 
 quaintly-turned phrase. And I answered him 
 — for Tod had gone away. 
 
 "You see those strips of paper that they 
 have torn out of old copy-books, and are twist- 
 ing ? That is for the scent. The hare fills his 
 pockets with it, and drops a piece of it every 
 now and then as he runs. We, the hounds, 
 follow his course by means of the scent, and 
 catch him if we can." 
 
 " And then ?" questioned Van Rheyn. 
 " Then the game is over." 
 " And what if you not catch him ?" 
 " The hare wins ; that's all. What he likes 
 to do is to double upon us cunningly and lead 
 us home again after him." 
 
 " But in all that there is only running." 
 " We vault over the obstructions — gates, and 
 stiles, and hedges. Or, if the hedges are too 
 high, scramble through them." 
 
 " But some hedges are very thick and close : 
 nobody could get through them," debated Van 
 Rheyn, taking the words, as usual, too literally. 
 
Charles Van Rheyn. 257- 
 
 " Then we are dished. And have to find 
 some other way onwards, or turn back." 
 
 " I can do what you say quite easily." 
 
 "All right, Charley," I repeated: as Tod had 
 done. And neither of us, nor anybody else, 
 had the smallest thought that it was not all right. 
 
 Millichip was chosen hare. Snepp turned 
 cranky over something or other at the last 
 moment, and backed out of it. He made the 
 best hare in the school : but Millichip was 
 nearly as fleet a runner. 
 
 What with making the scent, and having it 
 out with Snepp, time was hindered ; and it 
 must have been getting on for four o'clock when 
 we started. Which docked the run considerably, 
 for we had to be in at six to tea. On that ac- 
 count, perhaps, Millichip thought he must get 
 over the ground the quicker ; for I don't think 
 we had ever made so swift a course. Letting 
 the hare get on well ahead, the signal was given, 
 and we started after him in full cry, rending the 
 air with shouts, and rushing along like the wind. 
 
 A right-down good hare Millichip turned out 
 to be ; doubling and twisting and finessing, and 
 exasperating the hounds considerably. About 
 five o'clock he had made tracks for home, as we 
 found by the scent ; but we could neither see 
 him nor catch him. Later, I chanced to come 
 to grief in a treacherous ditch, lost my straw 
 hat, and tore the sleeve of my jacket. This 
 threw me behind the rest ; and when I pelted 
 
 VOL. I. 17 
 
258 Johnny Liidlozu. 
 
 up to the next stile, there stood Van Rheyn. 
 He had halted to rest his arms on it ; his breath 
 was coming in alarming gasps, his face whiter 
 than any sheet. 
 
 " Halloa, Van Rheyn ! What's up ! The 
 pace is too much for you." 
 
 " It was my breath," said he, when the gasps 
 allowed him to answer. " I go on now." 
 
 I put my hand on him. " Look here : the 
 run's nearly over ; we shall soon be at home. 
 Don't go on so fast." 
 
 " But I want to be in at what they call the 
 death." 
 
 " There'll be no death to-day : the hare's safe 
 to win." 
 
 " I want to keep up," he answered, getting 
 over the stile. " I said I could keep up, and do 
 what the rest did." And off he was again, full 
 rush. 
 
 Before us, on that side of the stile, was a 
 tolerably wide field. The pack had wound half 
 over it during this short halt, making straight 
 for the entrance to the coppice at the other 
 end. We were doing our best to catch them 
 up, when I distinctly saw a heavy stone flung into 
 their midst. Looking at the direction it came 
 from, there crept a dirty raggamuffin over the 
 ground on his hands and knees. He did not 
 see us two behind ; and he flung another heavy 
 stone. Had it struck anyone's head it would 
 have done serious damage. 
 
Charles Van Rheyn. 259 
 
 Letting the chase go, I stole across and 
 .pounced upon him before he could get away. 
 He twisted himself out of my hands like an eel, 
 and stood ofrinning- defiance and whistlino; to his 
 dog. We knew the young scamp well : and 
 could never decide whether he was a whole 
 scamp, or a half natural. At any rate, he was 
 vilely bad, was the pest of the neighbourhood, 
 and had enjoyed some short sojourns in prison 
 for trespass. Raddy was the name he went by; 
 we knew him by no other ; and how he got a 
 living nobody could tell. 
 
 "What did you throw those stones for ?" 
 
 " Shan't tell ye. Didn't throw 'ern^ at you." 
 
 " You had better mind what you are about, 
 Mr. Raddy, unless you want to get into trouble." 
 
 "Yah — you!" grinned Raddy. 
 
 There was nothing to be made of him ; there 
 never was anything. I should have been no 
 match for Raddy in an encounter ; and he would 
 have killed me without the slightest compunc- 
 tion. Turning to go on my way, I was in time 
 to see Van Rheyn tumble over the stile and 
 disappear within the coppice. The rest must 
 have nearly shot out of its other end by that 
 time. It was a coppice that belonged to Sir 
 John Whitney. Once through it, we were on 
 our own grounds, and within a field of home. . 
 
 I went on leisurely enough : no good to try 
 to catch them" up now. Van Rheyn would not 
 do it, and he had more than half a field's start 
 
26o Johnny Ltidlow. 
 
 of me. It must have been close upon six, for 
 the sun was setting in a ball of fire ; the amber 
 sky around it was nearly as dazzling as the sun, 
 and lighted up the field. 
 
 So that, plunging into the coppice, it was like 
 ofoing' into a dungfeon. For a minute or two, 
 with the reflection of that red light lingering in 
 my eyes, I could hardly see the narrow path : 
 the trees were dark, thick, and met overhead. 
 I ran along whistling : wondering whether that 
 young Raddy was after me with his ugly dog ; 
 wondering why Sir John did not 
 
 The whistlino- and the thoug^hts came to a 
 summary close together. At the other end of 
 the coppice, but a yard or two on this side the 
 stile that divided it from the open field, there 
 was Charles Van Rheyn on the ground, his back 
 against the trunk of a tree, his arms stretched 
 up, clasping hold of it. But for that clasp, and 
 the laboured breath, I might have thought he 
 was . dead. For his face was ghastly to look 
 upon, blue all round the mouth, and wore the 
 strangest expression I ever saw. 
 
 " Charley, what's the matter ?" 
 
 But he could not answer. He was panting 
 frightfully, as though every gasp would be his 
 last. What on earth was I to do ? Down I 
 knelt, saying never another word. 
 
 " It — gives — me — much — hurt," said he, at 
 length, with a long pause between every word. 
 
 " What does ?" 
 
Charles Van Rheyn. 261 
 
 *' Here " — pointing to his chest — towards the 
 left side. 
 
 " Did you hurt yourself? — Did you fall ?" 
 
 *' No, I not hurt myself. I fall because I not 
 able to run more. It is the breath. I wish 
 papa was near me !" 
 
 Instinct told me that he must have assistance, 
 and yet I did not like to leave him. But what 
 if delay in getting it should be dangerous ? I 
 rose up to go, 
 
 " You — you not going to quit me !" he cried 
 out, putting his feeble grasp on my arm. 
 
 " But, Charley, I want to get somebody to 
 you," I said in an agony. " I can't do anything 
 for you myself: anything in the world." 
 
 '' No, you stay. I not like to be alone if I 
 die." 
 
 The shock the word gave me I can recall yet. 
 Die ! If there was any fear of that, it was all 
 the more necessary I should make a rush for 
 Dr. Frost and Featherston. Never had I 
 been so near my wit's end before, in the uncer- 
 tainty as to what course I ought to take. 
 
 All in a moment, there arose a shrill whistle 
 on the other side the stile. It was like a god- 
 send. I knew it quite well for that vicious 
 young reptile's, but it was welcome to me as 
 sunshine in harvest. 
 
 " There's Raddy, Van Rheyn. I will send 
 
 h)) 
 im. 
 
 Vaulting over the stile, I saw the young man 
 
262 JoJinny Ludlow. 
 
 standing with his back to me near the hedge, his 
 wretched outer garment — a sack without shape 
 — hitched up, his hands in the pockets of his 
 dilapidated trousers, that hung in fringes below 
 the knee. He was whistling to his dog in the 
 coppice. They must have struck through the 
 tangles and briars higher up, which was a feat 
 of difficulty, and strictly forbidden by law. It 
 was well Sir John's agent did not see Mr. 
 Raddy — whose eyes, scratched and bleeding, 
 gave ample proof of the trespass. 
 
 " Yah ! — yah !" he shrieked out, turning at 
 the sound of me, and grinning fresh defiance. 
 
 " Raddy," I said, speaking in a persuasive 
 tone to propitiate him in my great need, " I 
 want you to do something for me. Go to Dr. 
 Frost as quickly as you are able, and say " 
 
 Of all the derisive horrible laughs, his inter- 
 rupting one was the worst and loudest. It 
 drowned the words. 
 
 " Qne of the school has fallen and hurt him- 
 self," I said, putting it in that way. " He's lying 
 here, and I cannot leave him. Hush, Raddy ! I 
 want to tell you," — advancing a step or two 
 nearer to him and lowering my voice to a 
 whisper, — " I think he is dying." 
 
 " None o' yer gammon here ; none o' yer 
 lies " — and in proportion as I adv^anced, he re- 
 treated. " You've o-ot a ambush in that there 
 coppy — all the spicy lot on ye a-waiting to be 
 
Charles Van Rheyn. 263 
 
 down on me and serve me out ! Just you try 
 
 I" 
 It on ! 
 
 " I am telling you the truth, Raddy. There's 
 not a soul in there but the one I speak ot". I 
 say I fear he is dying. He is lying down 
 helpless. I will pay you to go " — feeling in my 
 pockets to see how much I had there. 
 
 Raddy displayed his teeth : it was a trick of 
 his when feeling particularly defiant. " What'll 
 yer pay me ?" 
 
 " Sixpence " — showing it to him. " I will 
 give it you when you have taken the message." 
 
 '' Give it first." 
 
 Just for a moment I hesitated in my ex- 
 tremity of need, but I knew it would be only 
 the sixpence thrown away. Paid beforehand, 
 Raddy would no more do the errand than he'd 
 fly. I told him as much. 
 
 " Then, be dashed if I go !" And he passed 
 off into a round of swearing. 
 
 Good heavens ! if I should not be able to 
 persuade him ! If Charles Van Rheyn should 
 die for lack of help ! 
 
 "Did you ever have anybody to care for, 
 Raddy ? Did you ever have a mother ?" 
 
 " Her's sent over the seas, her is ; and I be 
 glad on't. Her beated of me, her did: I warn't 
 a-going to stand that." 
 
 "If you ever had anybody you cared for the 
 least bit in the world, Raddy ; if you ever did 
 anybody a good turn in all your life, you will 
 
264 Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 help this poor fellow now. Come and look at 
 him. See whether I dare leave him." 
 
 " None o' yer swindles ! Ye wants to get me 
 in there, ye does. Yah ! I warn't horned 
 yesterday." 
 
 Well, it seemed hopeless. " Will you go for 
 the sixpence, if I give it to you beforehand, 
 Raddy r 
 
 " Give it over, and see. Where the thunder 
 have ye been ?" dealing his dog a savage kick, 
 as it came up, barking. "Be I to whistle ye all 
 day, d'ye think ?" Another kick. 
 
 I had found two sixpences in my pocket ; all 
 its store. Bringing forth one, I held it out to 
 him. 
 
 " Now listen, Raddy. I give you this six- 
 pence now. You are to run with all your might 
 to the house — and you can run, you know, like 
 the wind. Say that I sent you — you know my 
 name, Johnny Ludlow — sent you to tell them 
 that the French boy is in the coppice dying :" 
 for I thought it best to put it strong. " Dr. 
 Frost, or some of them, must come to him at 
 once, and they must send oft" for Mr. Feather- 
 ston. You can remember that. The French 
 boy, mind." 
 
 " I could remember it if I tried." 
 
 "Well, I'll give you the sixpence. And, look 
 here — here's another sixpence. It is all the 
 money I have. That shall be yours also, when 
 you have clone the errand." 
 
Charles Van RJieyn. 265 
 
 I slipped one of the sixpences back into my 
 pocket, holding out the other. But I have often 
 wondered since that he did not stun me with a 
 blow, and take the two. Perhaps he could not 
 entirely divest himself of that idea of the 
 " ambush." I did not like the leering look on 
 his false face as he sidled cautiously up towards, 
 the sixpence. 
 
 " Take a look at him ; you can see him from 
 the stile," I said, closing my hand over the six- 
 pence while I spoke; "convince yourself that 
 he is there, and that no trickery is meant. 
 And, Raddy," I added, slowly opening the hand 
 again, " perhaps you may want help one of 
 these days yourself in some desperate need. 
 Do this good turn for him, and the like will be 
 done for you." 
 
 I tossed him the sixpence. He stole cau- 
 tiously to the stile, making a wide circuit round 
 me to do it, glanced at Van Rheyn, and then 
 made straight off in the right direction as fast 
 as his legs would carry him, the dog barking at 
 his heels. 
 
 Van Rheyn was better when I got back to 
 him ; his breathing easier, the mouth less blue ; 
 and his arms were no longer up, clutching the 
 tree-trunk. Nevertheless, there was that in his 
 face that gave me an awful fear and made my 
 breath for a moment nearly as short as his. I 
 sat down beside him, letting him lean against 
 me, as well as the tree, for better support. 
 
266 Johnny Ludlozu. 
 
 " Are you afraid, Charley ? I hope they'll 
 not be long." 
 
 " I am not afraid with this," he answered with 
 a happy smile — and, opening his hand, I saw 
 the little cross clasped in it. 
 
 Well, that nearly did for me. It was as 
 though he meant to imply he knew he was 
 dying, and was not afraid to die. And he did 
 mean it. 
 
 " You not comprehend ?" he added, mistaking 
 the look of my face — which no doubt was des- 
 perate. " I have kept the Saviour with me 
 here, and he will keep me with Him there." 
 
 " Oh but Charley ! You caii t think you 
 
 are going to die." 
 
 " Yes, I feel so," he answered quite calmly. 
 " My mother said, that last Sunday, I might 
 not be long after her. She drew me close to 
 her, and held my hand, and her tears were fall- 
 ing with mine. It was then she said it." 
 
 " Oh, Charley ! how can I help you T I cried 
 out in my pain and dread. '* If I could but do 
 something for you !" 
 
 " I would like to give you this," he said, half 
 opening his hand again, as it rested on his breast, 
 just to show me the cross. " My mother has 
 seen how good you have always been for me : 
 she said she should look down, if permitted, to 
 watch for me till I came. Would you please 
 keep it to my memory ? ' 
 
 The hardest task I'd ever had in my life was 
 
Charles Van Rhcyn. 267 
 
 to sit there. To sit there quietly — helpless. 
 Dying ! And I could do nothing to stay him ! 
 Oh, why did they not come } If I could but 
 have run somewhere, or done something ! 
 
 In a case like this the minutes seem as long 
 as hours. Dr. Frost was up sooner than could 
 have been hoped for by the watch, and Feather- 
 ston with him. Raddy did his errand well. 
 Chancing to see the surgeon pass down the road 
 as he was delivering the message at the house, 
 he ran and arrested him. Putting his ill-looking 
 face over the stile, as they came up, I flung him 
 the other sixpence, and thanked him too. The 
 French master came running ; others came : I 
 hardly saw who they were, for my eyes were 
 troubled. 
 
 The first thing that Featherston did was to 
 open Van Rheyn's things at the throat, spread 
 a coat on the ground and put his head flat down 
 upon it. But oh, there could be no mistake. 
 He was dying : nearly gone. Dr. Frost knelt 
 down, the better to get at him, and said some- 
 thing that we did not catch. 
 
 '' Thank you, sir," answered Van Rheyn, 
 panting again and speaking with pain, but 
 smiling faintly his grateful smile. " Do not be 
 sorrowful. I shall see my mother. Sir — if you 
 please — I wish to give my cross to Johnny 
 Ludlow." 
 
 Dr. Frost only nodded in answer. His heart 
 must have been full. 
 
268 Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 "Johnny Ludlow has been always good for 
 me," he went on in his translated French. " He 
 will guard it to my memory : a keepsake. My 
 mother would give it to him — she has seen that 
 Johnny has stood by me ever since that first day." 
 
 Monsieur Fontaine spoke to him in French, 
 and Van Rheyn answered in the same language. 
 While giving a fond message for his father, his 
 voice grew feeble, his face more blue, and the 
 lids slowly closed over his eyes. Dr. Frost said 
 somethinof about removino^ him to the house, 
 but Featherston shook his* head. " Presently, 
 presently." 
 
 " Adieu, sir," said Van Rheyn faintly to Dr. 
 Frost, and partly opening his eyes again. 
 "Adieu Monsieur Fontaine. Adieu, all. Johnny, 
 say my very best adieux to the boys ; say to them 
 it has been very pleasant lately ; say they have 
 been very good comrades ; and say that I shall 
 see them all again when they come to Heaven. 
 Will you hold my hand ?" 
 
 Taking his left hand In mine — the other had 
 the ofold cross in it — I sat on beside him. The 
 dusk was increasing, so that we could no longer- 
 very well see his features in the dark coppice. 
 My tears were dropping fast and thick, just as 
 his tears had dropped that evening when I 
 found him sitting at the foot of his bed. 
 
 Well, it was over directly. He gave one 
 long deep sigh, and then another after an in- 
 terval, and all was over. It seemed like a dream 
 
Charles Van RJieyn, 269 
 
 then in the acting ; it seems, looking" back, Hke 
 a dream now, 
 
 He had died from the running at Hare and 
 Hounds. The violent exercise had been too 
 much for the heart. We heard later that the 
 French family doctor had suspected the heart 
 was not quite sound ; and that was the reason 
 of Monsieur Rheyn's written restrictions on the 
 score of violent exercise. But, as Dr. Frost 
 angrily observed, why did the father not 
 distinctly warn him against that special danger : 
 how was it to be suspected in a lad of hearty 
 and healthy appearance } Monsieur Van Rheyn 
 came over, and took what remained of Charles 
 back to Rouen, to be laid beside his late wife. 
 It was a great blow to him to lose his only son. 
 And all the property went away from the Van 
 Rheyn family to Mrs. Scott in India. 
 
 The school went into a state that night, when 
 we got in from the coppice, and I gave them 
 Van Rheyn's message. They knew something 
 was up with him, but never suspected it could 
 be death. 
 
 "I say, though," cried Harry Parker, in a great 
 access of remorse, speaking up amid the general 
 consternation, " we would never have worried 
 him had we foreseen this. Poor Van Rheyn !" 
 
 And I have his gold cross by me this day. 
 Sometimes, when looking at it, a fancy comes 
 over me that he, looking down from his abode 
 of peace in Heaven, sees it too. 
 
VIII. 
 
 MRS. TODHETLEY'S EARRINGS. 
 
 AGAIN we had been spending the Christ- 
 mas at Crabb Cot. It was January 
 weather, cold and bright, the sun above head 
 and the white snow on the ground. Mrs. 
 Todhetley had been over to Timberdale Court, 
 to the christening of Robert and Jane Ashton's 
 baby : a year had gone by since their marriage. 
 The Mater went to represent Mrs, Coney, who 
 was godmother. Jane was not strong enough 
 to sit out a christening dinner, and that was to 
 be given later. After some midday feasting, 
 the party dispersed. 
 
 I went out to help Mrs. Todhetley from the 
 carriage when she got back. The Squire was 
 at Pershore for the day. It was only three 
 o'clock, and the sun quite warm in spite of the 
 snow. 
 
 " It is so fine, Johnny, that I think I'll walk 
 to the school," she said as she "stepped down. 
 " It may not be like this to-morrow, and I must 
 see about those shirts." i 
 
Mrs. TodJietlcy s Earrings. 271 
 
 The parish school was making Tod a set of 
 new shirts ; and some bother had arisen about 
 them, Orders had been given for large plaits 
 in front, when Tod suddenly announced that 
 he'd have the plaits small. 
 
 "Only can* I go as I am?" cried Mrs. 
 
 Todhetley, suddenly stopping In Indecision, as 
 she remembered her fine clothes : a silver-grey 
 gown that shone like silver, white shawl of 
 china crape, and be-feathered bonnet. 
 
 "Why, yes, of course you can go as you are, 
 good mother. And look all the nicer for it." 
 
 " I fear the children will stare! But then — 
 if the shirts get made wrong ! Well, will you 
 go with me, Johnny ?" 
 
 We reached the school-house, I waiting out- 
 side while she went in. It was during that 
 time of strike that I have told of before, when 
 Eliza Hoar died of it. The strike was In full 
 swing still ; the men looked discontented, the 
 women miserable, the children pinched. 
 
 " I don't know what In the world Joseph will 
 say !" cried Mrs. Todhetley as we were walking 
 back. " Two of the shirts are finished with the 
 large plaits. I ought to have seen about it 
 earlier ; but I did not think they would begin 
 
 them quite so soon. We'll just step into 
 
 Mrs. Coney's, Johnny, as we go home. I must 
 tell her about the christenino-." 
 
 For Mrs. Coney was a prisoner from an 
 attack of rheumatism. It had kept her from 
 
272 Johnny Ltidlow. 
 
 the festivity. She was asleep, however, when 
 we got in : and Mr. Coney thought she had 
 better not be disturbed, even for the news of 
 the little grandson's christening, as she had lain 
 awake all the past night in pain ; so we left 
 again. 
 
 " Why, Johnny ! who's that T' 
 
 Leaning against the gate of our house, in the 
 red light of the setting sun, was an elderly 
 woman, dark as a gipsy. 
 
 "A tramp," I whispered, noticing her poor 
 clothes. 
 
 " Do you want an)thing, my good woman ?" 
 asked Mrs. Todhetley. 
 
 She was half kneeling in the snow, and lifted 
 her face at the words : a sickly face, that some- 
 how I liked now I saw it close. Her tale was 
 this. She had set out from her home, three 
 miles off, to walk to Worcester, word having 
 been sent her that her daughter, who was in 
 service there, had met with an accident. She 
 had not been strong of late, and a faintness 
 came over her as she was passing the gate. 
 But for leaning on it she must have fallen. 
 
 " You should go by train : you should not 
 walk," said Mrs. Todhetley. 
 
 " I had not the money just by me, ma'am," 
 she answered. " It 'ud cost two shillinofs or 
 half-a-crown. My daughter sent word I was to 
 take the train and she'd pay for it : but she did 
 
Mrs. Todhetleys Earrings. 273 
 
 not send the money, and I'd not got it just 
 handy." 
 
 "You live at IsHp, you say. What is your 
 name ?" 
 
 " Nutt'n, ma'am," said the woman in the 
 local dialect. Which name I interpreted into 
 Nutten ; but Mrs. Todhetley thought she said 
 Nutt. 
 
 " I think you are telling me the truth," said 
 the Mater, some hesitation in her voice, though. 
 " If I were assured of it I would advance you 
 half-a-crown for the journey." 
 
 "The QTOod Lord above us knows that I'm 
 telling it," returned the woman earnestly, turn- 
 ing her face full to the glow of the sun. " It's 
 more than I could expect you to do, ma'am, and 
 me a stranger ; but I'd repay it faithfully." 
 
 Well, the upshot was that she got the half- 
 crown lent her ; and I ran in for a sup of warm 
 ale. Molly shrieked out at me for it, refusing 
 to believe that the mistress gave any such order, 
 and saying she was not going to warm ale for 
 parish tramps. So I got the ale and the tin, and 
 warmed it myself The woman was very grate- 
 ful, drank it, and disappeared. 
 
 "Joseph, I am so very sorry! They have 
 made two of your shirts, and the plaits are 
 the large ones you say you don't like." 
 
 " Then they'll just unmake them," retorted 
 Tod, in a temper. 
 
 We were sitting round the table at tea, Mrs. 
 
 VOL. J. 18 
 
2 74 Johnny Ltidlow. 
 
 Todhetley having ordered some tea to be made 
 while she went upstairs. She came down with- 
 out her bonnet, and had chancfed her best orown 
 for the one she mostly wore at home : it had 
 two shades in it, and shone like the copper tea- 
 kettle. The Squire was not expected home 
 yet, and we were to dine an hour later than 
 usual. 
 
 " That Miss Timmens is not worth her salt," 
 fired Tod, helping himself to two slices of thin 
 bread-and-butter. " What business has she to 
 go and make my shirts wrong ?" 
 
 " I fear the fault lies with me, Joseph, not 
 with Miss Timmens. I had given her the 
 pattern shirt, which has large plaits, you know, 
 
 before you said you would prefer oh, we 
 
 hardly want the lamp yet, Thomas !" broke off 
 the Mater, as old Thomas came in with the 
 lighted lamp. 
 
 " I'm sure we do, then," cried Tod. " I can't 
 see which side's the butter and which the bread." 
 
 '' And I, not thinking Miss Timmens would 
 put them in hand at once, did not send to her as 
 soon as you spoke, Joseph," went on the Mater, 
 as Thomas settled the lamp on the table and its 
 light went gleaming around. " I am very sorry, 
 my dear ; but It is only two. The rest shall be 
 done as you wish." 
 
 Something, apart from the shirts, had put out 
 Tod. I had seen it as soon as we got In. For 
 one thing, he had meant to go to Pershore : and 
 
Mrs. TodJictley s Earrings. 275 
 
 the Pater, not knowinq- it, started without 
 him. 
 
 '* Let them unmake the two," growled Tod. 
 
 " But it would be a great pity, Joseph. They 
 are very nicely done ; the stitching 's beautiful. 
 I really don't think it will signify." 
 
 " Y021 don't, perhaps. You may like odd 
 things. A pig with one ear, for example." 
 
 " A what, Joseph T' she asked, not catching 
 the last simile. 
 
 " I said a pig with one ear. No doubt you 
 do like it. You are looking like one now, 
 ma'am." 
 
 The words made me gaze at Mrs. Todhetley, 
 for the tone told that they bore some personal 
 meaning, and then I saw what Tod meant : an 
 earring was absent. The lamp-light shone on 
 the flashing diamonds, the bright pink topaz of 
 the one earring ; but the other ear was bare and 
 empty. 
 
 " You have lost one of your earrings, mother?" 
 
 She clapped her hand on her two ears in suc- 
 cession, and started up in alarm. These earrings 
 were very valuable : they had been left to her, 
 when she was a child, in some old lady's will, 
 and constituted her chief possession in jewellery 
 worth boasting of. Not once in a twelvemonth 
 did she venture to put them on ; but she had 
 got them out to-day for the christening. 
 
 Whether it was that I had gazed at the 
 earrings when I was a little fellow and sat in 
 
 18—2 
 
276 Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 her lap, I don't know ; but I never saw any that 
 I liked so well. The pink topaz was in a long 
 drop, the slender rim of gold that encircled it 
 being set with diamonds. Mrs. Todhetley said 
 they were worth fifty guineas : and perhaps 
 they were. The glittering white of the dia- 
 monds round the gleaming pink was beautiful 
 to look upon. 
 
 The house went into a commotion. Mrs. 
 Todhetley made, for her bedroom, to see 
 whether the earring had dropped on the .floor 
 or was lodging inside her bonnet. She shook 
 out her grey dress, hoping it had fallen amid 
 the folds. Hannah searched the stairs, candle 
 in hand ; the two children were made to stand 
 in corners for fear they should tread on it. But 
 the search came to nothing. It seemed clear 
 enough that the earring was not in the house. 
 
 " Did you notice, Johnny, whether I had them 
 both in my ears when we went to the school T 
 the Mater asked. 
 
 No, I did not. I had seen them sparkling 
 when she got out of the carriage, but had not 
 noticed them after. 
 
 I went out to search the garden path that she 
 had traversed, and the road over to the Coneys' 
 farm. Tod helped me, forgetting his shirts and 
 his temper. Old Coney said he remarked the 
 earrings while Mrs. Todhetley was talking to 
 him, and thought how beautiful they were. 
 That is, he had remarked one of them ; he was 
 
Mrs. Todhetleys Earrings. 277 
 
 sure of that ; and he thought if the other had 
 been missinsf, Its absence would have struck 
 him. But that was just saying nothing ; 
 for he could not be certain that both were 
 there. 
 
 "You may hunt till to-morrow morning and 
 get ten lanterns to it," cried Molly in her tart 
 way, meeting us by the bay tree, as we went 
 stooping up the path again ; " but you'll be 
 none the nearer finding it. That tramp's got 
 the earring, Master Joe." 
 
 " What tramp ?" demanded Tod, straighten- 
 ing himself. 
 
 "A tramp that Master Johnny there must 
 needs give hot ale to," returned Molly. *' / 
 know what them tramps be worth. They'd pull 
 rings out of ears with their own fingers, give 
 'em the chance : and perhaps this woman did, 
 without the missis seeing her." 
 
 Tod turned to me for an explanation. I 
 gave it, and he burst Into a derisive laugh, meant 
 for me and the Mater. " To think we could be 
 taken in by such a tale as that !" he cried : " we 
 should never see tramp, or half-crown, or 
 perhaps the earring again." 
 
 The Squire came home in the midst of the 
 stir. He blustered a little, partly at the loss, 
 chiefly at the encouragement of tramps, calling 
 it astounding folly. Ordering Thomas to bring 
 a lantern, he went stooping his old back down 
 the path, and across to Coney's and back again ; 
 
278 Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 not believing anybody had searched properly, 
 and finely kicking the snow about. 
 
 " It's a pity this here snow's on the ground, 
 sir," cried Thomas, " A little thing like an ear- 
 ring might easily slip into it in falling." 
 
 " Not a bit of it," growled the Squire. " That 
 tramp has got the earring." 
 
 " I don't believe the tramp has," I stoutly 
 said. " I don't think she was a tramp at all : 
 and she seemed honest. I liked her face." 
 
 " There goes Johnny with his 'faces ' again !" 
 said the Squire in laughing mockery ; and Tod 
 echoed it. 
 
 " It's a good thing you don't have to buy 
 folks by their faces, Johnny : you'd get finely 
 sold sometimes." 
 
 "And she had a true voice," I persisted, not 
 choosing to be put down, also thinking it right 
 to assert what was my conviction. " A voice 
 you might trust without as much as looking at 
 herself.'^ 
 
 Well, the earring was not to be found ; though 
 the search continued more or less till bed-time, 
 for every other minute somebody would be 
 looking again on the carpets. 
 
 "It is not so much for the value I regret it," 
 spoke Mrs. Todhetley, the tears rising in her 
 meek eyes ; "as for the old associations con- 
 nected with it. I never crot the earrino:s out, 
 but they brought back to me the remembrance 
 of my girlhood's home." 
 
Slfrs. Todhetley s Earrings. 279 
 
 Early in the morning I ran down to the 
 school-house. More snow had fallen in the 
 night. The children were flocking in. Miss 
 Timmens had not noticed the earrings at all, 
 but several of the girls said they had. Strange 
 to say, though, most of them could not say for 
 certain whether they saw both the earrings : they 
 thought they did ; but there it ended. Just like 
 old Coney ! 
 
 " I am sure both of them were there," spoke 
 up a nice, clean little girl, from a back form. 
 
 "What's that, Fanny Fairfax?" cried out 
 Miss Timmens, in her quick way. " Stand up. 
 How are you sure of it ?" 
 
 " Please, governess, I saw them both," was 
 the answer ; and the child blushed like a peony 
 as she stood up above the others and said it. 
 
 " Are you sure you did ?" 
 
 " Yes, I'm quite sure, please, governess. I 
 was looking which o' the two shined the most. 
 'Twas when the lady was stooping over the 
 shirt, and the sun came in at the window." 
 
 " What did they look like ?" asked Miss 
 Timmens. 
 
 " They looked " and there the young 
 
 speaker came to a standstill. 
 
 "Come, Fanny Fairfax!" cried Miss Tim- 
 mens, sharply. " What d' you stop for ? I ask 
 you what the earrings looked like. You must 
 be able to tell if you saw them." 
 
 "They were red, please, governess, and had 
 
2 8o Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 shining things round them like the ice when it 
 glitters." 
 
 " She's right, Master Johnny," nodded Miss 
 Timmens to me: "and she's a very correct 
 child in general. I think she must have seen 
 both of them." 
 
 I ran home with the news. They were at 
 breakfast still. 
 
 " What a set of muffs the children must be, 
 not to have taken better notice !" cried Tod. 
 *' Why, when I saw only the one earring in, it 
 struck my eye at once." 
 
 "And for that reason it is nearly sure that 
 both of them were in at the school-house," I 
 rejoined. " The children did not particularly 
 observe the two, but they would have remarked 
 it directly had only one been in. Old Coney 
 said the same." 
 
 "Ay: it's that tramp that has got it," said 
 the Squire. "While your mother was talking 
 to her, it must have slipped out of the ear, and 
 she managed to secure it. Those tramps lay 
 their hands on anything ; nothing comes amiss 
 to them ; they are as bad as gipsies. I dare say 
 this was a gipsy — dark as she was. I'll be off 
 to Worcester and see the police : we'll soon 
 have her found. You had better come with 
 me, Johnny ; you'll be able to describe her." 
 
 We went off without delay, caught a passing 
 train, and were soon at Worcester and at the 
 police-station. The Squire asked for Sergeant 
 
Mrs. Todhetky s Earrings. 281 
 
 Cripp : who came to him, and prepared to hsten 
 to his tale. 
 
 He began It in his impulsive way ; saying 
 outright that the earring had been stolen by a 
 gipsy-tramp. I tried to say that it might have 
 been only lost, but the Pater scoffed at that, and 
 told me to hold my tongue. 
 
 " And now, Cripp, what's to be done ?" he 
 demanded, not having- oriven the ser<yeant an 
 opportunity to put in a word edgeways. " We 
 must get the earring back ; it is of great value, 
 and much prized, apart from that, by Mrs. Tod- 
 hetley. The woman must be found, you know." 
 
 "Yes, she must be found," agreed the ser- 
 geant. " Can you give me a description of her ?" 
 
 "Johnny — this young gentleman can," said 
 the Squire, rubbing his brow with his yellow silk 
 handkerchief, for he had put himself into a heat, 
 in spite of the frosty atmosphere that surrounded 
 us. " He was with Mrs. Todhetley when she 
 talked to the woman." 
 
 " A thin woman of middle height, stooped a 
 good deal, face pale and quiet, wrinkles on it, 
 brown eyes," wrote the sergeant, taking down 
 what I said. " Black poke bonnet, clean cap 
 border, old red woollen shawl with the fringe 
 torn off in places. Can't remember gown ; 
 except that it was dark and shabby." 
 
 "And, of course, sir, you've no clue to her 
 name T' cried the sergeant, looking at me. 
 
 "Yes; she said it was Nutten — as I under- 
 
282 Johnny Ludlozi'. 
 
 stood it ; but Mrs. Todhetley thought she said 
 Nutt," And I went on to relate the tale the 
 woman told. Sergeant Cripp's lips extended 
 themselves in a silent smile. 
 
 " 'Twas well got up, that tale," said he, when 
 I finished. " Just the thing to win over a 
 warm-hearted lady." 
 
 " But she could not have halted at the gate, 
 expecting to steal the earring T' 
 
 " Of course not. She was prowling about to 
 see what she could steal, perhaps watching her 
 opportunity to get into the house. The ear- 
 ring fell in her way, a more valuable prize than 
 she expected, and she made off with it. 
 
 *' You'll be able to hunt her up if she's in 
 Worcester, Cripp," put in the Pater. " Don't 
 lose time." 
 
 "//"she's in Worcester," returned Mr. Cripp, 
 withemphasis. "She'sabout as likely tobe in Wor- 
 cester, Squire Todhetley, as I am to be at this pre- 
 sent minute in Brummagem," he familiarly added. 
 "After saying she was coming to Worcester, she'd 
 strike off in the most opposite direction to it." 
 
 " Where on earth are we to look for her, 
 then ?" asked the Pater in commotion. 
 
 " Leave it to us. Squire. We'll try and track 
 her. And — I hope — get back the earring." 
 
 " And about the advertisement for the news- 
 papers, Cripp : we ought to put one in." 
 
 Sergeant Cripp twirled the pen in his fingers 
 while he reflected. " I think, sir, we will let the 
 
Mrs. Todhetley s Earrings. 283 
 
 advertisement alone for a day or two," he pre- 
 sently said. " Sometimes these advertisements 
 do more harm than good : they put thieves on 
 their guard." 
 
 " Do they ? Well, I suppose they do." 
 
 "If the earring had been simply lost, then I 
 should send an advertisement to the papers at 
 once. But if it has been stolen by this tramp, 
 and you appear to consider that point pretty 
 conclusive " 
 
 " Oh, quite conclusive," interrupted the Pater. 
 " She has got that earring as sure as that this is 
 an umbrella in Johnny Ludlow's hand. Had it 
 been dropped anywhere on the ground, we must 
 have found it." 
 
 " Then we won't advertise it. At least, not 
 in to-morrow's papers," concluded Sergeant 
 Cripp. And, telling us to leave the matter 
 entirely in his hands, he showed us out. 
 
 The Squire went up the street with his hands 
 in his pockets, looking rather glum. 
 
 "I'm not sure that he's riorht about the adver- 
 tisement, Johnny," he said at length. " I lay 
 awake last night in bed, making up the wording 
 of it in my own mind. Perhaps he knows best, 
 though." 
 
 " I suppose he does, sir," 
 
 And he went on again, up one street, and 
 down another, deep in thought. 
 
 " Let's see — we have nothing to do here to- 
 day, have we, Johnny T' 
 
284 JoJuuiy Lndlow. 
 
 " Except to get the pills made up. The 
 mother said we were to be sure and not forget 
 them." 
 
 " Oh, ay. And that's all the way down in 
 Sidbury ! Couldn't we as well get them made 
 up by a druggist nearer ?" 
 
 " But it is the Sidbury druggist who holds 
 the prescription." 
 
 "What a bother! Well, lad, let us put our 
 best foot foremost, for I want to catch the one 
 o'clock train, if I can." 
 
 Barely had we reached Sidbury, when who 
 should come swinging along the pavement but 
 old Coney, in a rough, white great-coat and top- 
 boots. Not being market-day, we were surprised 
 to see him. 
 
 "I had to come in about some oats," he ex- 
 plained. And then the Squire told him of our 
 visit to the police, and the sergeant's opinion 
 about the advertisement. 
 
 " Cripp's wrong," said Coney, decisively. 
 "Not advertise the earring ! — why, it is the first 
 step that ought to be taken." 
 
 "Well, so I thought," said the Pater. 
 
 " The thing's not obliged to have been stolen. 
 Squire : it may have been dropped out of the 
 ear in the road, and picked up by somebody. The 
 offering of a reward might bring it back again." 
 
 "And I'll be shot if I don't do it," exclaimed 
 the Pater. " I can see as far through a mill- 
 stone as Cripp can." 
 
Mrs. Todhetley s Earrings. 285 
 
 Turning in to the Hare-and- Hounds, which 
 •was old Coney's inn, they sat down at a table, 
 called for pen and ink, and began to draw out 
 an advertisement between them. " Lost ! An 
 earring of great value, pink topaz and dia- 
 monds," wrote the Squire on a leaf of his 
 pocket-book ; and when he had got as far as 
 that he looked up. 
 
 " Johnny, you go over to Eaton's for a sheet 
 or two of writing-paper. We'll have it in all 
 three of the newspapers. And look here, lad — 
 you can run for the pills at the same time. Take 
 care of the street slides. I nearly came down 
 on one just now, you know." 
 
 When I got back with the paper and pills, 
 the advertisement was finished. It concluded 
 with an offer of ^5 reward. Applications to be 
 made to Mr. Sergeant Cripp, or to Squire Tod- 
 hetley of Crabb Cot. And, leaving it at the 
 offices of the Herald, Joicrnal, and Chronicle, 
 we returned home. It would appear on the 
 next day, Saturday ; to the edification, no doubt, 
 of Sergeant Cripp. 
 
 " Any news of the earring ?" was the Squire's 
 first question when we got in. 
 
 No, there was no news of it, Mrs. Todhetley 
 answered. And she had sent Luke Macintosh 
 over to the little hamlet, I slip ; who reported 
 when he came back that there was no Mrs. 
 Nutt, or Nutten, known there. 
 
 " Just what I expected," observed the Pater. 
 
286 Jo Jinny Ltidloiv. 
 
 "That woman was a thieving tramp, and she 
 has got the earring." 
 
 Saturday passed over, and Sunday came. 
 When the Worcester paper arrived on Saturday 
 morninof the advertisement was in it as larg^e as 
 hfe, and the Pater read it out to us. Friday 
 and Saturday had been very dull, with storms of 
 snow ; on Sunday the, sun shone again, and the 
 air was crisp. 
 
 It was about three o'clock, and we were sit- 
 ting at the dessert-table cracking filberts, for on 
 Sundays we always dined early, after morning 
 service — when Thomas came in and said a 
 stranger had called, and was asking if he could 
 see Mrs. Todhetley, But the Mater, putting a 
 shawl over her head and cap, had just stepped 
 over to sit a bit with sick Mrs. Coney. 
 
 "Who is it. Thomas.'*" asked the Squire. 
 " A stranger ! Tell him to send his name 
 in." 
 
 "His name's Eccles, sir," said Thomas, 
 coming back again. "He comes, he says, from 
 Sergeant Cripp." 
 
 " My goodness ! — it must be about the ear- 
 ning," cried the Squire. 
 
 " That it is, sir," said old Thomas. " The first 
 word he put to me was an inquiry whether you 
 had heard news of it." 
 
M7's. Todhctlcys Earrings. 2S7 
 
 I followed the Pater Into the study. Tod did 
 not leave his filberts. Standing by the fire was 
 a tall, well-dressed man, with a black moustache 
 and blue silk necktie. I think the Squire was a 
 little taken back at the fashionable appearance 
 of the visitor. He had expected to see an ordi- 
 nary policeman. 
 
 " Have you brought tidings of Mrs. Tod- 
 hetley's earring ?" began the Pater, all in a 
 fiuster of eagerness. 
 
 " I beg a thousand pardons for intruding upon 
 you on a Sunday," returned the stranger, cool 
 and calm as a spring cucumber, " but the loss of 
 an hour Is sometimes most critical in these cases. 
 I have the honour, I believe, of speaking to 
 Squire Todhetley ?" 
 
 The Squire nodded. "Am I mistaken in 
 supposing that you come about the earring ?" 
 he reiterated. " I understood my servant to 
 mention Sergeant Cripp. But — you do not, I 
 presume, belong to the police force ?" 
 
 " Only as a detective officer," was the answer, 
 given with a taking smile. '' A private o^QO-Vy' 
 he added, putting a stress upon the word. " My 
 name is Eccles." 
 
 " Take a seat, Mr. Eccles," said the Squire, 
 sitting down himself, while I stood back by the 
 window. " I do hope you have brought tidings 
 of the earring." 
 
 "Yes — and no," replied Mr. Eccles, with 
 another fascinating smile, as he unbuttoned his 
 
2 88 Johnny Ludloiv. 
 
 top-coat. " We think we have traced it ; but 
 we cannot yet be sure." 
 
 " And where is it ^ — who has ofot it ?" cried 
 the Squire, eagerly. 
 
 "It is a very delicate matter, and requires 
 delicate handling," observed the detective, after 
 a slight pause. " For that reason I have come 
 over to-day myself. Cripp did not choose to 
 entrust it to one of his men." 
 
 " I am sure I am much obliged to him, and 
 to you too," said the Squire, all his face beam- 
 ing. " Where is the earring ?" 
 
 " Before I answer that question, will you be 
 so kind as to relate to me, in a few concise 
 words, the precise circumstances under which 
 the earring was lost ?" 
 
 The Pater entered on the story, and I helped 
 him. Mr. Eccles listened attentively. 
 
 " Exactly so," said he, when it was over. 
 " Those are the facts Cripp gave me ; but it was 
 only second-hand, you see, and I preferred to 
 hear them direct from yourselves. They serve 
 to confirm our suspicion." 
 
 " But where is the earring ?" repeated the 
 Pater. 
 
 "If it is where we believe it to be, it is in a 
 gentleman's house at Worcester. At least, he 
 may be called a gentleman. He is a profes- 
 sional man : a lawyer, in fact. But I may 
 not name names in the present stage of the 
 affair." 
 
Airs. Todhcflcy s Earrings. 289 
 
 " And how did the earrhig get Into his house ?" 
 pursued the Squire, all aglow with interest. 
 " News reached us last eveninof," beofan Mr. 
 
 o o 
 
 Eccles, after searching in his pockets for some- 
 thing that he apparently could not find : perhaps 
 a note-case — " reached us in a very singular 
 way, too — that this gentleman had been making 
 a small purchase of jewellery in the course of 
 yesterday ; had been making it in j^rivate, and 
 did not wish it talked of. A travelling pedlar 
 — that was the description we received — had 
 come in contact with him and offered him an 
 article for sale, which he, after some hao-srline, 
 purchased. By dint of questioning, we dis- 
 covered this article to be an earring : one ear- 
 ring, not a pair. Naturally Mr. Cripp's suspicion 
 was at once aroused ; he thouQfht it mieht be 
 the very self-same earring that you have lost. 
 We consulted together, and the result is, I 
 decided to come over and see you." 
 
 "I'd lay all I've got it is the earring!" 
 exclaimed the Squire, in excitement. " The 
 travelling pedlar that sold it must have been 
 that woman tramp." 
 
 ''Well, no," returned the detective, quietly. 
 "It was a man. Her husband, perhaps ; or 
 some confederate of hers." 
 
 "No doubt of that ! And how can we ofet 
 back the earring ,?" 
 
 " We shall get it, sir, never fear ; if it be the 
 earring you have lost. But, as I have just 
 
 VOL. I. 19 
 
290 Johnny Ltidlozu. 
 
 observed, it is a matter that will require extreme 
 delicacy and caution in the handling. First of 
 all, we must assure ourselves beyond doubt that 
 the earring is the one in question. To take any 
 steps upon an uncertainty would not do : this 
 gentleman might turn round upon us unplea- 
 santly." 
 
 "Well, let him!" cried the Squire. 
 
 The visitor smiled his candid smile arain, and 
 shook his head. " For instance, if, after taking 
 means to obtain possession of the earring, we 
 found it to be coral set with pearls, or opal set 
 with emeralds, instead of a pink topaz with 
 diamonds, we should not only look foolish our- 
 selves, but draw down upon us the wrath of the 
 present possessor." 
 
 " Is he a respectable man ?" asked the Pater. 
 " I know most of the lawyers ' 
 
 " He stands high enough in the estimation of 
 the town, but I have known him do some very 
 dirty actions in his profession," interrupted Mr. 
 Eccles,' speaking rapidly. "With a man like 
 him to deal with, M^e must necessarily be 
 wary." 
 
 " Then, what are you going to do T' 
 
 " The first step, Squire Todhetley, is to make 
 ourselves sure that the earring is the one we are 
 in quest of. With this view, I am here to re- 
 quest Mrs. Todhetley to allow me to see the 
 fellow earring. Cripp has organized a plan by 
 which he believes we can get to see the one I 
 
Mrs. Todhetley s Earrings. 291 
 
 have been telling you of; but it will be of no 
 use our seeing it unless we can identify it." 
 
 " Of course not. By all means. Johnny, go 
 over and ask your mother to come in," added 
 the Squire, eagerly. "I'm sure I don't know 
 where she keeps her things, and might look in 
 her places for ever without finding it. — Mean- 
 while, Mr. Eccles, can I offer you some refresh- 
 ment } We have just dined off a beautiful sirloin 
 of beef: it's partly cold now, but perhaps you 
 won't mind that." 
 
 Mr. Eccles said he would take a little, as the 
 Squire was so good as to offer it, for he had 
 come off by the first train after morning service, 
 and so lost his dinner. Taking my hat, I dashed 
 open the dining-room door in passing. Tod was 
 at the nuts still, Hugfh and Lena on either side 
 him. 
 
 " I say. Tod, do you want to see a real live 
 detective ? There's one in the study." 
 
 Who should be seated in the Coneys' drawing- 
 room, her bonnet and shawl on, and her veil 
 nearly hiding her sad face, but Lucy Bird — 
 Lucy Ashton that used to be. It always gave 
 me a turn when I saw her : bringing up all 
 kinds of ugly sorrows and troubles. I shook 
 hands, and asked after Captain Bird. 
 
 She believed he was very well, she said, but 
 she had been spending the time since yesterday 
 .at Timberdale Court with Robert and Jane. 
 To-day she had been dining with the Coneys — 
 
 19 — 2 
 
292 Johnny Lztdlon'. 
 
 who were always kind to her, she added with a 
 risinsf siQfh- — and she was now about to Qfo off to 
 the station to take the train for Worcester. 
 
 The Mater was in Mrs. Coney's bedroom 
 with old Coney and Cole the doctor, who was 
 paying his daily visit. One might have thought 
 they were settling all the cases of rheumatism in 
 the parish by the time they took over it. While 
 I waited, I told Mrs. Bird about the earrinof and 
 the present visit of Detective Eccles. Mrs. 
 Todhetley came down in the midst of it ; and 
 lifted her hands at the prospect of facing a 
 detective. 
 
 " Dear me ! Is he anything dreadful to look 
 at, Johnny ? Very rough ? — Has he got hand- 
 cuffs ?" 
 
 It made me laugh. " He is a regular good- 
 looking fellow — a gentleman. Tall and slender 
 and well dressed : g-old studs and a blue neck- 
 tie. He has a rine on his finofer and wears a 
 black moustache." 
 
 Mrs. Bird suddenly lifted her head, and stared 
 at me : perhaps the description surprised her. 
 The Mater seemed inclined to question my 
 words ; but she said nothing, and came away, 
 after bidding good-bye to Lucy. 
 
 " Keep up your heart, my dear, "she whispered. 
 " Things may get brighter for you sometime." 
 
 When I got back, Mr. Eccles had nearly 
 finished the sirloin, some cheese, and a large 
 tankard of ale. The Squire sat by, hospitably 
 
Mrs. Todhetley s Earrings. 293 
 
 pressing him to take more, whenever his knife 
 and fork gave signs of flagging. Tod stood 
 looking on, his back against the mantelpiece. 
 Mrs, Todhetley soon appeared with a little card- 
 board box, where the solitary earring was lying 
 on a bed of cotton. 
 
 Rising from the table, the detective carried 
 the box to the window, and stood there ex- 
 amining the earring ; first In the box, then out 
 of it. He turned It about In his hand, and looked 
 at it on all sides ; it took him a good three 
 minutes. 
 
 " Madam," said he, breaking the silence, "will 
 you entrust this earring to us for a day or two ? 
 It will be under Sergeant Cripp's charge, and 
 perfectly safe." 
 
 " Of course, of course," Interposed the Squire, 
 before anybody could speak. "You are welcome 
 to take it." 
 
 " You see, it is possible — Indeed, most 
 probable — that only one of us may be able to 
 obtain sight of the other earring. Should it be 
 Cripp, my having seen this one will be nearly 
 useless to him. It is essential that he should 
 see it also : and It will not do to waste time." 
 
 " Pray take charge of it, sir," said Mrs. Tod- 
 hetley, mentally recalling what I had said of his 
 errand to her and Lucy Bird. " I know it will 
 be safe in your hands and Sergeant Cripp's. I 
 am only too glad that there is a probability of 
 the other one beinsf found." 
 
2 94 Johnny Ltidiozu. 
 
 " And look here," added the Squire to Eccles, 
 while the latter carefully wrapped the box in 
 paper, and put it into his inner breast-pocket, 
 " don't you and Cripp let that confounded 
 gipsy thief escape. Have her up and punish 
 her." 
 
 " Trust us for that," was the detective's 
 answer, given with an emphatic nod. '' S/ie is- 
 already as good as taken, and her confederate 
 also. There's not a doubt — I avow it to you — 
 that the other earring is yours. We only wait 
 to verify it." 
 
 And, with that, he buttoned his coat, and 
 bowed himself out, the Squire himself attending 
 him to the door. 
 
 " He is as much like a detective as I'm like a 
 Dutchman," commented Tod. "At least, ac- 
 cording to what have been all my previous 
 notions of one. Live and learn." 
 
 " He seems quite a polished man, has quite 
 the manners of society," added the Mater. " I 
 do hope 'he will get back my poor earring," 
 
 " Mother, is Lucy Bird in more trouble than 
 usual V I asked. 
 
 " She is no doubt in deep distress of some 
 kind, Johnny. But she is never out of it. I 
 wish Robert Ashton could induce her to quit 
 that most worthless husband of hers !" 
 
 The Squire, after watching off the visitor, 
 came in, rubbing his hands and looking as 
 delighted as old Punch. He assumed that the 
 
Mrs. Tod/ieilcys Earrings. 295 
 
 earring was as good as restored, and was im- 
 mensely taken with Mr. Eccles. 
 
 '•A most intelligent, superior man," cried he. 
 " I suppose he is what is called a gentleman- 
 detective : he told me he had been to college. 
 I'm sure it seems quite a condescension in him 
 to work with Cripp and the rest." 
 
 And the whole of tea-time and all the way to 
 church, the praises were being rung of Mr. Eccles. 
 I'm not sure but that he was more to us that 
 night than the sermon. 
 
 " I confess I feel mortified about that woman, 
 though," confessed Mrs. Todhetley. " You 
 heard him say that she was as good as taken : 
 they must have traced the earring to her. I 
 did think she was one to be trusted. How one 
 may be deceived in people !" 
 
 "I'd have trusted her with a twenty-pound 
 note, mother." 
 
 " Hark at Johnny !" cried Tod. " This will 
 be a lesson for you, lad." 
 
 Monday morning. The Squire and Tod had 
 gone over to South Crabb, Mrs. Todhetley 
 sat at the window, adding up some bills, her nose 
 red with the cold : and I was boxing Hugh's 
 ears, for he was in one of his frightfully trouble- 
 some moods, when Molly came stealing In at 
 the door, as covertly as if she had been com- 
 mittlnsf murder. 
 
296 Johnny Ludloiu. 
 
 " Ma'am ! missis ! — there's that tramp in the 
 yard !" 
 
 " What ?" cried the Mater, turning round. 
 " I vow it's her : I know the old red shawl 
 again," pursued Molly, with as much importance 
 as though she had caught half the thieves in 
 Christendom. " She turned into the yard as 
 bold as brass ; so I just slipped the bolt o' the 
 door again' her, and come away. You'll have 
 her took up on the instant, ma'am, won't you ?" 
 " But if she has come back, I don't think she 
 can be guilty," cried Mrs. Todhetley, after a 
 bewildered pause. " We had better see what 
 she wants. What do you say, Johnny ?" 
 
 "Why, of course we had. I'll go to her, as 
 Molly's afraid." 
 
 Rushing out of hearing of Molly's vindictive 
 answer, I went round through the snow to the 
 yard, and found the woman meekly tapping at 
 the kitchen door — the old red shawl, and the 
 black bonnet, and the white muslin cap border, 
 all the same as before. Before I got quite up, 
 the kitchen door was cautiously drawn open, and 
 Mrs. Todhetley looked out. The poor old 
 woman dropped a curtsey and held out half-a- 
 crown on the palm of her withered hand. 
 
 " I've made bold to call at the door to leave 
 it, lady. And I can never thank ye enough, 
 ma'am," she added, the tears rising to her eyes ; 
 " my tongue would but fail if I tried at it. 'Tis 
 not many as would ha' trusted a stranger ; and, 
 
Airs. Tocihctky s Earrings. 297 
 
 that, a poor body like me. I got over to Wor- 
 cester quick and comfortable, ma'am, thanks to 
 you, and found my daughter better nor I had 
 hoped for." 
 
 The same feeling of reliance, of trust, arose 
 within me as I saw her face and heard her voice 
 and words. If this woman was what they had 
 been fancying her, I'd never eat tarts again. 
 
 " Come in," said Mrs. Todhetley ; and Molly, 
 looking daggers as she heard it, approached her 
 mistress with a whisper. 
 
 " Don't, ma'am. It's all a laid-out plan. She 
 has heard that she's suspected, and brings back 
 the half-crown, thinking to put us off the scent." 
 
 " Step this way," went on Mrs. Todhetley, 
 giving no heed to Molly, except a nod — and she 
 took the woman into the little store-room where 
 she kept her jam-pots and things, and bade her 
 go to the fire. 
 
 "What did you tell me your name was," she 
 asked, " when you were here on Friday ?" 
 
 " Nutt'n, ma'am." 
 
 " Nutten," repeated the Mater, glancing at 
 me. " But I sent over to Islip, and no one 
 there knew anything about you — they denied 
 that anybody of your name lived there." 
 
 " Why, how could they do that T returned 
 the woman, with every appearance of surprise. 
 " They must have mistook somehow. I live in 
 the little cottage, ma'am, by the dung-heap. 
 I've lived there for five-and-twenty year, and 
 
298 Johnny L^idlow. 
 
 brought up my children there, and never had 
 parish pay." 
 
 " And gone always by the name of Nutten ?" 
 
 " Not never by no other, ma'am. Why 
 should I .'^" 
 
 Was she to be believed ? There was the 
 half-crown in Mrs. Todhetley's hand, and there 
 was the honest old wrinkled face looking up at 
 us openly. But, on the other side, there was 
 the assertion of the I slip people ; and there was 
 the earring. 
 
 " What was the matter with your daughter, 
 and in what part of \\ orcester does she live ?" 
 queried the Mater. 
 
 " She's second servant to a family in Mel- 
 cheapen Street, ma'am ; minds the children and 
 does the beds, and answers the door, and that. 
 When I got there — ^and sick enough my heart 
 felt all the way, thinking what the matter could 
 be — I found that she had fell from the parlour 
 window .that she'd got outside to clean, and 
 broke her arm and scarred her face, and frighted 
 and shook herself finely. But thankful enough 
 I was that 'twas no worse. Her father, ma'am, 
 died of an accident, and I can never abear to 
 hear tell of one." 
 
 "I — I lost an earring out of my ear that after- 
 noon," said Mrs. Todhetley, plunging into the 
 matter, but not without hesitation. " I think I 
 must have lost it just about the time I was 
 talking to you. Did you pick it up T 
 
]\Irs. Todhctleys Earrings. 299 
 
 "No, ma'am, I didn't. I should have gave 
 it to you if I had." 
 
 " You did not carry it off with you. I suppose!" 
 interrupted wrathful Molly ; who had come in 
 to get some eggs, under pretence that the batter- 
 pudding was waiting for them. 
 
 And whether it was Molly's sharp and signifi- 
 cant tone, or our silence and looks, I don't 
 know ; but the woman saw it all then, and what 
 she was suspected of. 
 
 " Oh, ma'am, were you thinking that ill of 
 me .'^" — and the hands shook as they were raised, 
 and the white border seemed to lift itself from 
 the horror-stricken face. " Did you think I 
 could do so ill a turn, and after all the kindness 
 showed me ? The good Lord above knows 
 I'm not a thief. Dear heart! I never set eyes, 
 lady, on the thing you've lost." 
 
 " No, I am sure you didn't," I cried ; " I said 
 so all along. It might have dropped anywhere 
 in the road." 
 
 " I never see it, nor touched it, sir," she 
 reiterated, the tears raining down her cheeks. 
 " Oh, ma'am, do believe me !" 
 
 Molly tossed her head as she went out with 
 the eggs in her apron ; but I'd have sooner be- 
 lieved myself guilty than that poor woman. Mrs. 
 Todhetley thought with me. She offered her 
 some warm ale and a crust ; but the old woman 
 shook her head in refusal, and went off in a fit 
 of sobs. 
 
300 Johnny Ltidlow. 
 
 " She knows no more of the earring than I 
 know of it, mother." 
 
 " I feel sure she does not, Johnny." 
 
 " That Molly's getting unbearable. I wonder 
 you don't send her away." 
 
 " She has her good points, dear," sighed 
 Mrs. Todhetley. " Only think of her cooking ! 
 and of what a thrifty, careful manager she is !" 
 
 The Squire and Tod got home for lunch. 
 Nothing could come up to their ridicule when 
 they heard what had occurred, saying that the 
 mother and I were two muffs, fit to go about 
 the world in a caravan as specimens of credulity. 
 Like Molly, they thought we ought to have 
 secured the woman. 
 
 " But you see she was honest in the matter of 
 the half-crown," debated Mrs. Todhetley in her 
 mild way. " She brought that back. It does 
 not stand to reason that she would have dared 
 to come within miles of the place, if she had 
 taken the earring." 
 
 " Why, it's just the thing she would do," 
 retorted the Squire, pacing about in a com- 
 motion. *' Once she had got rid of the earring, 
 she'd show herself here to throw suspicion off her- 
 self. And she couldn't come without returning 
 the half-crown : it must have gone nicely against 
 the orrain to return i/uiL" 
 
 And Mrs. Todhetley, the most easily swayed 
 spirit in the world, began to veer round again 
 like a weathercock, and fear we had been foolish. 
 
Mrs. Todhetlcys Earrings. 301 
 
 " You should see her jagged-out old red- 
 shawl," cried Molly, triumphantly. "All the 
 red a'most washed out of it, and the edges in 
 tatters, / know a tramp when I see one : and 
 the worst of all tramps is them that do the 
 tricks with clean hands and snow-white cap- 
 borders." 
 
 The theme lasted us all the afternoon. I 
 held my tongue, for it was of no use contend- 
 ing against the stream. It was getting dusk 
 when Cole called in, on his way from the 
 Coneys. The Squire put the grievance be- 
 fore him, demanding whether he had ever 
 heard of two people so simple as I and the 
 mother. 
 
 "What did she say her name was .^" asked 
 Cole. " Nutten '^ — of I slip ? Are you sure she 
 did not say Norton ?" 
 
 " She said Nutt'n. We interpreted it into 
 Nutten." 
 
 "Yes, Johnny, that's how she would say it. 
 I'll lay a guinea it's old Granny Norton." 
 
 " Granny Norton !" echoed the Squire. " She 
 is respectable ?" 
 
 " Respectable, honest, upright as the day," 
 replied Cole. " I have a great respect for old 
 Mrs. Norton. She's very poor now, but she 
 was not always so." 
 
 " She told us this morning that she lived in 
 the cottage by the dung-heap," I put in. 
 
 " Exactly ; she does so. And a nice savoury 
 
302 Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 •dung-heap it is ; the disgrace of Islip," added 
 Cole. 
 
 " And you mean to say, Cole, that you know 
 this woman — that she's not a tramp, but Mrs. 
 Norton ?" spoke the Pater. " Come !" 
 
 •' I know Mrs. Norton of Islip," he answered. 
 " I saw her pass my window this morning : she 
 seemed to be coming from the railway station. 
 It was no tramp, Squire." 
 
 " How was she dressed ?" asked Mrs. Tod- 
 hetley. 
 
 " Dressed ? Well, her shawl was red, and 
 her bonnet black. I've never seen her dressed 
 otherwise, when abroad, these ten years past." 
 
 " And — has she a daughter in service at 
 Worcester ?" 
 
 "Yes, I think so. — Yes, I am sure so. It's 
 Susan. Oh, it is the same person : you need 
 not doubt it." 
 
 " Then what the deuce did Luke Macintosh 
 mean by bringing word back from Islip that she 
 was not known there ?" fiercely demanded the 
 Squire, turning to me. 
 
 " But Luke said he asked for her by the name 
 of Nutt — Mrs. Nutt. I questioned him about 
 it this afternoon, sir, and he said he understood 
 Nutt to have been the name we gave him." 
 
 This was very unsatisfactory as far as the 
 earring went. (And we ascertained later that 
 poor Mrs. Norton was Mrs. Norton, and had 
 been suspected wrongly). For, failing the 
 
Mrs. Todhetley s Earrings. ^PZ 
 
 tramp view of the case, who could have sold 
 the earring to the professional gentleman in 
 Worcester ? 
 
 " Cripp knows what he is about ; never fear," 
 observed the Squire, " Now that he has the 
 case well in hand, he is sure to pull it success- 
 fully through." 
 
 " Yes, you may trust Cripp, said the doctor. 
 " And I hope, Mrs. Todhetley, you will soon 
 be gladdened by the sight of your earring 
 again." And Cole went out, telling us we were 
 going to have a thaw. Which we could have 
 told him, for it had already set in, and the snow 
 was melting rapidly. 
 
 " To think that I should have done so stupid 
 a thing ! But I have been so flustered this 
 morning by that parson and his nonsense that I 
 hardly know what I'm about." 
 
 The speaker was Miss Timmens. She had 
 come up in a passion, after twelve o'clock school. 
 Not with us, or with her errand — which was to 
 bring one of the new shirts to show, made after 
 Tod's fancy — but with the young parson. Upon 
 arrivinof and unfoldinsf the said shirt, Miss Tim- 
 mens found that she had brou<2:ht the wronQf 
 shirt — one of those previously finished. The 
 thaw had gone on so briskly in the night that 
 this morning the roads were all mud and slop, and 
 Miss Timmens had walked up in her pattens. . 
 
 " He is enough to make a saint swear, with 
 
304 Johnny Ludlozv. 
 
 his absurdities and his rubbish," went on Miss 
 Timmens, turning from the table where lay the 
 unfolded shirt, and speakinc^ of the new parson ; 
 between whom and herself wao-ed hot war. 
 "You'd never believe, ma'am, what he did this 
 morning" — facing Mrs. Todhetley. "I had 
 got the spelling-class up, and the rest of the 
 girls were at their slates and copies, and that, 
 when in he walked amid the roomful. ' Miss 
 Timmens,' says he to me in the hearing of 'em 
 all, ' I think these children should learn a little 
 music. And perhaps a little drawing might not 
 come amiss to those who have talent for it.' 
 ' Oh yes, of course,' says I, hardly able to keep 
 my temper, ' and a little dancing as well, and 
 let 'em go out on the green daily and step their 
 figures to a fife and tambourine !' ' There's 
 nothin<2: like education,' he Ofoes on, starinof 
 hard at me, as if he hardly knew whether to 
 take my words for jest or earnest ; ' and it is 
 well to unite as far as we can, the ornamental 
 with the useful, it makes life pleasanter. It is 
 quite right to teach girls to hem dusters and 
 darn stockings, but I think some fancy-work 
 should be added to it ; embroidery and the like.' 
 ' Oh, you great gaby !' I thought to myself, and 
 did but just stop my tongue from saying it, 
 ' Will embroidery and music and drawing help 
 these orirls to scour floors, and cook dinners, and 
 wash petticoats ?' I asked him. ' If I had a 
 set of young ladies here, it would be right for 
 
Mrs. Todhetlcy s Earrings. 305 
 
 them to learn accomplishments : but these girls 
 are to be servants. And all I can say, sir, is, 
 that if ever those new-fangled notions are intro- 
 duced, you'll have to find another mistress, for 
 I'll not stop to help in it. It would just lead 
 many a girl to her ruin, sir ; that's what it would 
 •do, whoever lives to see it.' Well, he went 
 ■away with that, ma'am ; but he had put my 
 temper • up — talking such dangerous nonsense 
 before the girls, their ears all agape to listen ! — 
 and when twelve o'clock struck, I was not half 
 through the spelling-class ! Altogether, it's no 
 wonder I brought away the wrong shirt." 
 
 Miss Timmens, her errand a failure, began 
 folding up the shirt in a bustle, her thin face 
 quite fiery with anger, Mrs. Todhetley shook 
 her head ; she did not approve of nonsensical 
 notions for these poor peasant girls any more 
 than did the rest of us. 
 
 " I'll bring up the right shirt this evening 
 when school's over ; and if it suits we'll get on 
 with the rest," concluded Miss Timmens, making 
 her exit with the parcel. 
 
 " What the world will come to later, Mr. 
 Johnny, if these wild ideas get much ground, 
 puzzles me to think of," resumed Miss Timmens, 
 ■as I went with her, talking, along the garden- 
 path. " We shall have no servants, sir ; none. 
 It does not stand to reason that a girl will work 
 for her bread at menial offices when she has had 
 fine notions Instilled into her. Grammar, and 
 
 VOL. I. 20 
 
o 
 
 06 Johnny Ltidlow. 
 
 geography, and history, and botany, and music, 
 and singing, and fancy-work ! — what on earth 
 good will they be of to her in making beds and 
 cleaning saucepans ? The upshot will be that 
 they won't make beds and they won't clean 
 saucepans ; they'll be above it. The Lord pro- 
 tect 'em ! — for I don't see what else will ; or 
 what will become of them. Or of the world, 
 either, when it can get no servants. My good- 
 ness, Master Johnny ! what's that ? Surely it's 
 the lost earring ?" 
 
 Close to the roots of a small fir-tree it lay : 
 the earring that had caused so much vexation 
 and hunting. I picked it up : its pink topaz 
 and its diamonds shone brightly as ever in the 
 sun, and were quite uninjured. Mrs. Todhetley 
 remembered then, though it had slipped her 
 memory before, that in coming indoors after 
 our interview with the woman at the gate, she 
 had stopped to shake this fir-tree, bowed down 
 almost to breaking with its weight of snow. 
 The earring must have fallen from her ear then 
 into the snow, and been hidden by it. 
 
 Without giving himself time for a mouthful 
 of lunch, the Squire tore away to the station 
 through the mud, as fast as his legs would carry 
 him, and thence to Worcester by train. What 
 an unfortunate mistake it would be should that 
 professional gentleman have been accused, who 
 had bouc^ht somethino- from the travellinfr 
 pedlar ! 
 
Mrs. TodJietlcy s Earrings. 307 
 
 " Well, Cripp, here's a fine discovery !" panted 
 the Squire, as he went bursting into the police- 
 station and to the presence of Sergeant Cripp. 
 " The lost earring has turned up." 
 
 " I'm sure I am very glad to hear it," said the 
 sergeant, facing round from a letter he was 
 writing. " How has it been found T 
 
 And the Squire told him how. 
 
 " It was not stolen at all, then!" 
 
 " Not at all, Cripp. And the poor creature 
 we suspected of taking it proves to be a very 
 respectable old body indeed, nothing of the 
 tramp about her. You — you have not gone 
 any lengths yet with that professional gentle- 
 man, I hope !" added the Squire, dropping his 
 voice to a confidential tone. 
 
 Cripp paused for a minute as if not under- 
 standing. 
 
 " We have not employed any professional 
 man at all in the matter," said he; "have not 
 thought of doing so." 
 
 " I don't mean that, Cripp. You know. The 
 gentleman you suspected of having bought the 
 earring." 
 
 Cripp stared. " I have not suspected any- 
 one. 
 
 " Goodness me ! you need not be so cautious, 
 Cripp," returned the Squire, somewhat nettled. 
 " Eccles made a confidant of me. He told me 
 all about it — except the name." 
 
 20 — 2 
 
3o8 Johnny Ludlow. 
 
 "What Eccles ?" asked Cripp. " I really do' 
 not know what you are talking of, sir," 
 
 " What Eccles — why your Eccles. Him you 
 sent over to me on Sunday afternoon : a well- 
 dressed, gentlemanly man with a black mous- 
 tache. Detective Eccles," 
 
 " I do not know any Detective Eccles," 
 
 " Dear me, my good man, you must be losing 
 your memory !" retorted the Squire in wrath, 
 " He came straight to me from you on Sunday ; 
 you sent him off in haste without his dinner." 
 
 " Quite a mistake, sir," said the sergeant, 
 "It was not I who sent him," 
 
 "Why, bless my heart and mind, Cripp, 
 you'll be for telling me next the sun never 
 shone ! Where's your recollection gone T 
 
 " I hope my recollection is where it always 
 has been. Squire, We must be at cross pur- 
 poses, I do not know anyone of the name of 
 Eccles, and I have not sent anybody to you. 
 As a i^roof that I could not have done it, I may 
 tell you, sir, that I was summoned to Gloucester 
 on business last Friday directly after I saw you, 
 and did not get back here until this morn- 
 
 ing." 
 
 The Squire rubbed his face, w^hile he revolved 
 probabilities, and thought Cripp must be dream- 
 ing. 
 
 " He came direct from you — from yourself, 
 Cripp ; and he disclosed to me your reasons 
 for hoping you had found the earring, and your 
 
Mrs. Todhetlcy s Earrings. • 309- 
 
 doubts of the honesty of the man who had 
 
 bought it the lawyer, you remember. And 
 
 he brought back the other earring to you that 
 you might compare them." 
 
 " Eh — what?" cried Cripp, briskly. " Brought 
 away the other earring, do you say, sir ?" 
 
 " To be sure he did. What else did you send 
 him for ?" 
 
 " And he has not returned it to you ?" 
 
 " Returned it ! of course not. You hold it,. 
 don't you T 
 
 " Then, Squire Todhetley, you have been 
 cleverly robbed of this second earring," cried 
 Cripp, quietly. " Dodged out of it, sir. The 
 man who went over to you must have been a 
 member of the swell-mob. Well-dressed, and 
 a black moustache !" 
 
 "He was a college man ; he had been at 
 Oxford," debated the unfortunate Pater, sitting 
 on a chair, in awful doubt. "He told me 
 so. 
 
 "You did not see him there, sir," said the 
 sergeant, with a suppressed laugh. " I might 
 tell you I had a duke for a grandmother ; but it 
 would be none nearer the fact." 
 
 "Mercy upon us all!" groaned the Squire. 
 "What a mortification it will be if that other 
 earring's gone ! Don't you think somebody in 
 your station here may have sent him, if you 
 were out yourself ?" 
 
 " I will inquire for your satisfaction, Squire 
 
oio Johnny Lzidlow. 
 
 Todhetley," said the sergeant, opening the door; 
 " but I can answer for it beforehand that it will 
 be useless." 
 
 It was as Cripp thought. Eccles was not 
 known at the station, and nobody had been 
 sent to us. 
 
 " It all comes of that advertisement you put 
 in, Squire," finished up Cripp, by way of con- 
 solation. " The swell-mob would not have 
 known there was a valuable jewel missing but 
 for that, or the address of those who had 
 missed it." 
 
 The Pater came home more crestfallen than 
 a whipped schoolboy, after leaving stringent 
 orders with Cripp and his men to track out the 
 swindler. It was a blow to all of us. 
 
 " I said he looked as much like a detective as 
 I'm like a Dutchman," quoth Tod. 
 
 "Well, it's frightfully mortifying," said the 
 Squire. 
 
 "And the way he polished off that beef, and 
 drank down the ale ! I wonder he did not con- 
 trive to walk off with the silver tankard !" 
 
 " Be quiet, Joe ! You are laughing, sir! Do 
 you think it is a laughing matter ?" 
 
 "Well, I don't know," said bold Tod. "It 
 was cleverly done." 
 
 Up rose the Pater in a passion. Vowing 
 vengeance against the swindlers who went 
 about the world, got up in good clothes and 
 a moustache ; and heartily promising the 
 
Mrs. Todhetlcys Earrings. 3 1 1 
 
 absent and unconscious Cripp to be down up- 
 on him if he did not speedily run the man to 
 earth. 
 
 And that's how Mrs. Todhetley lost the other 
 earrino". 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS AND ELECTROTYPERS, GUILDFORD. 
 
 S.i^ H.