Johnny Ludlow Second Series Part 71

"Yes; Herbert Tanerton knows of it; and--and the curate, Mr. Sale."

And I told him what had pa.s.sed only on the previous day, softening the Rector's speeches--and it seemed a curious coincidence, taken with this visit of Ben's, that it should have pa.s.sed. His mouth fell as he listened.

"It is another mortification for me," he said. "I should like to have stood as well as might be with Margaret's husband. Perhaps, knowing this, he will not think more of her."

"I don't believe he will let it make any difference. I don't think he is the man to let it. Perhaps--if you were to go to him--and show him how straight things are with you now--and----"

I broke down in my hesitating suggestion. Ben was years older than I, miles taller and broader, and it sounded like the mouse attempting to help the lion.

"Yes, I will go to him," he said slowly. "It is the only plan. And--and you think there's no fear that Herbert Tanerton will get talking to others?"

"I'm sure there's none. He is indoors now, dining with us. I am sure you are quite safe in all respects. The thing is buried in the past, and even its remembrance will pa.s.s away. The old postman, Lee, thinks it was Cotton; the Squire persuaded him into the belief at the time. Where _is_ Cotton?"

"Where all such rogues deserve to be--transported. But for him and his friends I should never have done much that's wrong. Thank you for the encouragement you give me."

He half put out his hand to endorse the thanks, and drew it back again; but I put mine freely into his. Ben Rymer _was_ Ben Rymer, and no favourite of mine to boot; but when a man has been down and is trying to get up again, he deserves respect and sympathy.

"I was about here all last evening, hoping to get sight of you," he remarked, as he went out at the gate. "I never saw such light nights in all my life as these few last have been, what with the moon and the snow. Good-night, Mr. Johnny. By the way, though, where does the curate live?"

"At Mrs. Boughton's. Nearly the last house, you know, before you come to the churchyard."

Ben Rymer went striding towards Timberdale, putting his coat-collar well up, that he might not be recognized when going through the village, and arrived at the curate's lodgings. Mr. Sale was at home, sitting by the fire in a brown study, that seemed to have no light at all in it. Ben, as I knew later, sat down by him, and made a clean breast of everything: his temptation, his fall, and his later endeavours to do right.

"Please G.o.d, I shall get on in the world now," he said; "and I think make a name in my profession. I don't wish to boast--and time of course will alone prove it--but I believe I have a special apt.i.tude for surgery. My mother will be my care now; and Margaret--as you are good enough to say you still wish for her--shall be your care in future.

There are few girls so deserving as she is."

"I know that," said the curate. And he shook Ben's hand upon it as heartily as though it had been a duke royal's.

It was close upon ten when Ben left him. Mrs. Rymer about that same time was making her usual preparations before retiring--namely, putting her curls in paper by the parlour fire. Margaret sat at the table, reading the Bible in silence, and so trying to school her aching heart. Her mother had been cross and trying all the evening: which did not mend the inward pain.

"What are you crying for?" suddenly demanded Mrs. Rymer, her sharp eyes seeing a tear fall on the book.

"For nothing," faintly replied Margaret.

"_Nothing!_ Don't tell me. You are frizzling your bones over that curate, Sale. I'm sure _he_ is a beauty to look at."

Margaret made no rejoinder; and just then the young servant put in her head.

"Be there anything else wanted, missis?"

"No," snapped Mrs. Rymer. "You can be off to bed."

But, before the girl had shut the parlour-door, a loud ring came to the outer one. Such late summonses were not unusual; they generally meant a prescription to be made up. Whilst the girl went to the door, Margaret closed the Bible, dried her eyes, and rose up to be in readiness.

But instead of a prescription, there entered Mr. Benjamin Rymer. His mother stood up, staring, her hair a ma.s.s of white corkscrews. Ben clasped Margaret in his arms, and kissed her heartily.

"My goodness _me_!" cried Mrs. Rymer. "Is it you, Ben?"

"Yes, it is, mother," said Ben, turning to her. "Maggie, dear, you look as though you did not know me."

"Why, what on earth have you come for, in this startling way?" demanded Mrs. Rymer. "I don't believe your bed's aired."

"I'll sleep between the blankets--the best place to-night. What have I come for, you ask, mother? I have come home to stay."

Margaret was gazing at him, her mild eyes wide open, a spot of hectic on each cheek.

"For your sake, Maggie," he whispered, putting his arm round her waist, and bending his great red head (but not so red as his mother's) down on her. "I shall not much like to lose you, though, my little sister. The Bahamas are further off than I could have wished."

And, for answer, poor Margaret, what with one thing and another, sank quietly down in her chair, and fainted. Ben strode into the shop--as much at home amongst the bottles as though he had never quitted them--and came back with some sal volatile.

They were married in less than a month; for Mr. Sale's chaplaincy would not wait for him. The Rector was ailing as usual, or said he was, and Charles Ashton came over to perform the ceremony. Margaret was in a bright dark silk, a light shawl, and a plain bonnet; they were to go away from the church door, and the boxes were already at the station.

Ben, dressed well, and looking not unlike a gentleman, gave her away; but there was no wedding-party. Mrs. Rymer stayed at home in a temper, which I dare say n.o.body regretted: she considered Margaret ought to have remained single. And after a day or two spent in the seaport town they were to sail from, regaling their eyes with the s.h.i.+ps crowding the water, the Reverend Isaac Sale and his wife embarked for their future home in the Bahama Isles.

XIII.

THE OTHER EARRING.

"And if I could make sure that you two boys would behave yourselves and give me no trouble, possibly I might take you this year just for a treat."

"Behave ourselves!" exclaimed Tod, indignantly. "Do you think we are two children, sir?"

"We would be as good as gold, sir," I added, turning eagerly to the Squire.

"Well, Johnny, I'm not much afraid but that you would. Perhaps I'll trust you both, then, Joe."

"Thank you, father."

"I shall see," added the pater, thinking it well to put in a little qualification. "It's not quite a promise, mind. But it must be two or three years now, I think, since you went to them."

"It seems like six," said Tod. "I know it's four."

We were talking of Worcester Races. At that period they used to take place early in August. Dr. Frost had an unpleasant habit of rea.s.sembling his pupils either the race-week or the previous one; and to get over to the races was almost as difficult for Tod and for me as though they had been run in California. To hear the pater say he might perhaps take us this year, just as the Midsummer holidays were drawing to an end, and say it voluntarily, was as good as it was unexpected. He meant it, too; in spite of the reservation: and Dr. Frost was warned that he need not expect us until the race-week was at its close.

The Squire drove into Worcester on the Monday, to be ready for the races on Tuesday morning, with Tod, myself, and the groom--Giles; and put up, as usual, at the Star and Garter. Sometimes he only drove in and back on each of the three race-days; or perhaps on two of them: this he could do very well from Crabb Cot, but it was a good pull for the horses from d.y.k.e Manor. This year, to our intense gratification, he meant to stay in the town.

The Faithful City was already in a bustle. It had put on its best appearance, and had its windows cleaned; some of the shop-fronts were being polished off as we drove slowly up the streets. Families were, like ourselves, coming in: more would come before night. The theatre was open, and we went to it after dinner; and saw, I remember, "Guy Mannering" (over which the pater went to sleep), and an after-piece with a ghost in it.

The next morning I took the nearest way from the hotel to Sansome Walk, and went up it to call on one of our fellows who lived near the top. His friends always let him stay at home for the race-week. A maid-servant came running to answer my knock at the door.

"Is Harry Parker at home?"

"No, sir," answered the girl, who seemed to be cleaning up for the races on her own account, for her face and arms were all "colly." "Master Harry have gone down to Pitchcroft, I think."