Johnny Ludlow Second Series Part 70

It had come to Margaret's knowledge that during the past few months her mother had occasionally written to Benjamin. But Mrs. Rymer would not allow Margaret to write or give her his address. It chanced, however, that about a fortnight ago Mrs. Rymer incautiously left a letter on the table addressed to him, and her daughter saw it. When, some days subsequently, Mr. Sale received the offer of the chaplaincy, and laid it and himself before Margaret, urging her to accompany him, saying that he could not go without her, she took courage to write to Benjamin. She did not ask him to return and release her; she only asked him whether he had any intention of returning, and if so, when; and she gave him in simple words the history of her acquaintances.h.i.+p with Mr. Sale, and said that he wanted her to go out with him to the Bahamas. To this letter Margaret had not received any answer. She therefore concluded that it had either not reached her brother, or else that he did not mean to return at all to Timberdale; and so she gave up all hopes of it.

"Life is not very long, Margaret, and G.o.d has placed us in it to do the best we can in all ways; for Him first, for social obligations afterwards. But He has not meant it to be all trial, all self-denial. If you and I part now, the probability is that we part for ever. Amidst the world's chances and changes we may never meet again, howsoever our wills might prompt it."

"True," she faintly answered.

"And I say that you ought not to enforce this weighty penance upon me and yourself. It is for your brother's sake, as I look upon it, that you are making the sacrifice, and it is he, not you, who ought to be here.

Why did he go away?"

"I never knew," said Margaret, lifting her eyes to her lover's, and speaking so confidingly and earnestly that, had he needed proof to convince him she was ignorant of the story he had that day been regaled with, it would have amply afforded it. "Benjamin was at home, and so steady and good as to be a comfort to papa; when quite suddenly he left without giving a reason. Papa seemed to be in trouble about it--it was only a few days before he died--and I have thought that perhaps poor Benjamin was unexpectedly called upon to pay some debt or other, and could not find the money to do it. He had not always been quite so steady."

"Well, Margaret, I think----"

A loud bang of the entrance-door, and a noisy burst into the room, proclaimed the return of Mrs. Rymer. Her ma.s.s of scarlet curls garnished her face on either side, and looked particularly incongruous with her widow's cap and bonnet. Mr. Sale, rising to hand her a chair, broke off what he had been about to say to Margaret, and addressed Mrs. Rymer instead; simply saying that the decision, as to her going out with him, or not going, could no longer be put off, but must be made.

"It has been made," returned Mrs. Rymer, disregarding the offered chair, and standing to hold her boots, one after the other, to the fire.

"Margaret can't go, Mr. Sale; you know it."

"But I wish her to go, and she wishes it."

"It's a puzzle to me what on earth you can see in her," cried Mrs.

Rymer, flinging her grey m.u.f.f on the table, and untying her black bonnet-strings to tilt back the bonnet. "Margaret won't have any money.

Not a penny piece."

"I am not thinking about money," replied the curate; who somehow could never keep his temper long in the presence of this strong-minded Amazon.

"It is Margaret that I want; not money."

"And it's Margaret, then, that you can't have," she retorted. "Who is to keep the shop on if she leaves it?--it can't go to rack and ruin."

"I see you serving in it yourself sometimes."

"I can serve the stationery--and the pickles and fish sauce--and the pearl barley," contended she, "but not the drugs. I don't meddle with them. When a prescription comes in to be made up, if I attempted to do it I might put opium for senna, and poison people. I have not learnt Latin, as Margaret has."

"But, Mrs. Rymer----"

"Now we'll just drop the subject, sir, if it's all the same to you,"

loudly put in Mrs. Rymer. "I have told you before that Margaret must stay where she is, and keep the business together for me and her brother. No need to repeat it fifty times over."

She caught up her m.u.f.f, and went out of the room and up the stairs as she delivered this final edict. Mr. Sale rose.

"You see how it is," said Margaret, in a low tone of emotion, and keeping her eyelids down to hide the tears. "You must go without me. I cannot leave. I can only say, G.o.d speed you."

"There are many wrongs enacted in this world, and this is one," he replied in a hard voice--not hard for her--as he took her hands in his, and stood before her. "I don't know that I altogether blame you, Margaret; but it is cruel upon you and upon me. Good-night."

He went out quite abruptly without kissing her, leaving her alone with her aching heart.

Tuesday afternoon, and the ice and the snow on the ground still. We were to dine at five o'clock--the London codfish and a prime turkey--and the Coneys were coming in as well as the Rector and his wife.

But Mrs. Coney did not come; old Coney and Tom brought in word that she was not feeling well enough; and the Tanertons only drove up on the stroke of five. As I helped Grace down from the pony-chaise, m.u.f.fled up to the chin in furs, for the cold was enough to freeze an Icelander's nose off, I told her her aunt was not well enough to come.

"Aunt Coney not well enough to come!" returned Grace. "What a pity! Have I time to run in to see her before dinner, Johnny?"

"That you've not. You are late, as it is. The Squire has been telling us all that the fish must be in rags already."

Grace laughed as she ran in; her husband followed her unwinding the folds of his white woollen comforter. There was a general greeting and much laughter, especially when old Coney told Grace that her cheeks were as purple as his Sunday necktie. In the midst of it Thomas announced dinner.

The codfish came up all right, and the oyster sauce was in Molly's best style--made of cream, and plenty of oysters in it. The turkey was fine: the plum-pudding better than good. Hugh and Lena sat at the table; and altogether we had a downright merry dinner. Not a sober face amongst us, except Herbert Tanerton's: as to his face--well, you might have thought he was perpetually saying "For what we are going to receive----" It had struck eight ever so long when the last nut was eaten.

"Will you run over with me to my aunt's, Johnny?" whispered Grace as she pa.s.sed my chair. "I should like to go at once, if you will."

So I followed her out of the room. She put her wraps on, and we went trudging across the road in the moonlight, over the crunching snow.

Grace's foot went into a soft rut, and she gave a squeal.

"I shall have to borrow a shoe whilst this dries," said she. "Do you care to come in, Johnny?"

"No, I'll go back. I can run over for you presently."

"Don't do that. One of the servants will see me safe across."

"All right. Tell Mrs. Coney what a jolly dinner it was. We were all sorry she did not come."

Grace went in and shut the door. I was rus.h.i.+ng back through our own gate, when some tall fellow glided out of the laurels, and put his hand on my arm. The moonlight fell upon his face and its reddish beard--and, to my intense surprise, I recognized Benjamin Rymer. I knew him then for the man who had been dodging in and out of the shrubs the night but one before.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "It is, as I am well aware, a very unusual and unceremonious way of accosting you, or any one else, but I want particularly to speak with you, in private, Mr. Ludlow."

"You were here on Sunday night!"

"Yes. I saw the Squire and the rest of them go out to church, but I did not see you go, and I was trying to ascertain whether you were at home and alone. Tom Coney's coming in startled me and sent me away."

We had been speaking in a low key, but Ben Rymer dropped his to a lower, as he explained. When he went away ten months before, it was in fear and dread that the truth of the escapade he had been guilty of, in regard to the bank-note, was coming out to the world, and that he might be called upon to answer for it. His mother had since a.s.sured him he had nothing to fear; but Ben was evidently a cautious man, and preferred to ascertain that fact before showing himself openly at Timberdale. Knowing I was to be trusted not to injure a fellow (as he was pleased to say), he had come down here to ask me my opinion as to whether the Squire would harm him, or not. There was no one else to fear now Jelf was dead.

"Harm you!" I exclaimed in my enthusiasm, my head full of poor, patient Margaret; "why, the Squire would be the very one to hold you free of harm, Mr. Rymer. I remember his saying, at the time, Heaven forbid that he, having sons of his own, should put a stumbling-block in your path, when you were intending to turn over a new leaf. He will help you on, instead of harming you."

"It's very good of him," said Ben. "I was an awful fool, and nothing else. That was the only dangerous thing I ever did, and I have been punished severely for it. I believe it was nothing but the fear and remorse it brought that induced me to pull up, and throw ill ways behind me."

"I'm sure I am glad that you do," I answered, for something in Ben's tone seemed to imply that the bad ways were thrown behind him for good.

"Are you thinking of coming back to Timberdale?"

"Not until I shall have pa.s.sed for a surgeon--which will not be long now. I have been with a surgeon in London as a.s.sistant, since I left here. It was a letter from Margaret that induced me to come down.

She--do you know anything about her, Mr. Johnny?"

"I know that a parson wants her to go out with him to the Bahamas; he is Tanerton's curate; and that the pills and powders stand in the way of it."

"Just so. Is he a good fellow, this parson?"

"Good in himself. Not much to look at."

"Maggie shall go with him, then. I should be the last to stand willingly in her way. You see, I have not known whether it was safe for me at Timberdale: or I should never have left Maggie to the shop alone. Does any one know of the past--my past--besides you and the Squire?"