Johnny Ludlow Fifth Series Part 30

It could not be said that she had any special complaint, but she was too weak to live.

In less than three weeks it was all over. The end, when it came, was quite sudden. For a day or two she had seemed so much better that we told her she had taken a turn at last. On the Thursday evening, quite late--it was between eight and nine o'clock--Madame Carimon asked me to run there with some jelly which she had made, and which was only then ready. When I arrived, Flore said she was sure her mistress would like me to go up to her room; she was alone, monsieur having stepped out.

Nancy, wrapped in a warm dressing-gown, sat by the fire in an easy-chair and a great shawl. Her fair curls were all put back under a small lace cap, which was tied at the chin with grey ribbon; her pretty blue eyes were bright. I told her what I had come for, and took the chair in front of her.

"You look so well this evening, Nancy," I said heartily--for I had learnt to call her so at Madame Carimon's, as they did. "We shall have you getting well now all one way."

"It is the spurt of the candle before going out," she quietly answered.

"I have not the least pain left anywhere--but it is only that."

"You should not say or think so."

"But I know it; I cannot mistake my own feelings. Fancy any one, reduced as I am, getting well again!"

I am a bad one to keep up "make-believes." Truth to say, I felt as sure of it as she did.

"And it will not be very long first. Johnny," she went on, in a half-whisper, "I saw Lavinia to-day."

I looked at her, but made no reply.

"I have never seen her since I came back here. Edwin has, though; I am sure of it. This afternoon at dusk I woke up out of a doze, for getting up to sit here quite exhausts me, and I was moving forward to touch the hand-bell on the table there, to let Flore know I was ready for my tea, when I saw Lavinia. She was standing over there, just in the firelight.

I thought she seemed to be holding out her hand to me, as if inviting me to go to her, and on her face there was the sweetest smile of welcome; sweeter than could be seen on any face in life. All the sad, mournful, beseeching look had left it. She stood there for about a minute, and then vanished."

"Were you very much frightened?"

"I had not a thought of fear, Johnny. It was the contrary. She looked radiantly happy; and it somehow imparted happiness to me. I think--I think," added Nancy impressively, though with some hesitation, "that she came to let me know I am going to her. I believe I have seen her for the last time. The house has, also, I fancy; she and I will shortly go out of it together."

What could I answer to that?

"And so it is over at last," she murmured, more to herself than to me.

"Very nearly over. The distress and the doubt, the terror and the pain.

_I_ brought it all on; you know that, Johnny Ludlow. I feel sure now that she has pardoned me. I humbly hope that G.o.d has."

She caught up her breath with a long-drawn sigh.

"And you will give my dear love to all the old friends in England, Johnny, beginning with Mr. Featherston; he has been very kind to me; you will see them again, but I shall not. Not in this life. But we shall be together in the Life which has no ending."

At twelve o'clock that night Nancy Fennel died. At least, it was as near twelve as could be told. Just after that hour Flore went into the room, preparatory to sitting up with her, and found her dead--just expired, apparently--with a sweet smile on her face, and one hand stretched out as if in greeting. Perhaps Lavinia had come to greet her.

We followed her to the grave on Sat.u.r.day. Captain Fennel walked next the coffin--and I wondered how he liked it. I was close behind him with Monsieur Carimon. Charley Palliser came next with little Monsieur le Docteur Dupuis and Monsieur Gustave Sauvage. And we left Nancy in the cemetery, side by side with her sister.

Captain Edwin Fennel disappeared. On the Sunday, when we English were looking for him in church, he did not come--his grief not allowing him, said some of the ladies. But an English clerk in the broker's office, hearing this, told another tale. Fennel had gone off by the boat which left the port for London the previous night at midnight.

And he did not come back again. He had left sundry debts behind him, including that owing to Madame Veuve Sauvage. Monsieur Carimon, later, undertook the payment of these at the request of Colonel Selby. It was understood that Captain Edwin Fennel had emigrated to South America. If he had any conscience at all, it was to be hoped he carried it with him.

He did not carry the money. The poor little income which he had schemed for, and perhaps worse, went back to the Selbys.

And that is the story. It is a curious history, and painful in more ways than one. But I repeat that it is true.

WATCHING ON ST. MARK'S EVE.

Easter-Day that year was nearly as late as it could be--the twenty-third of April. That brought St. Mark's Day (the twenty-fifth) on the Tuesday; and Easter Monday was St. Mark's Eve.

There is a superst.i.tious belief in our county, and in some others--more thought of in our old grannies' days than in these--that if you go to the churchyard on St. Mark's Eve and watch the gate, the shadows, or phantoms, of those fated to die that year, and destined there to be buried, will be seen to enter it.

Easter Monday is a great holiday with us; the greatest in all the year.

Christmas-Day and Good Friday are looked upon more in a religious light; but on Easter Monday servants and labourers think themselves at liberty to take their swing. The first day of the wake is nothing to it.

Now Squire Todhetley gave in to these holidays: they did not come often, he said. Our servants in the country are not a bit like yours in town; yours want a day's holiday once a month, oftener sometimes, and strike if they don't get it; ours have one or two in a year. On Easter Monday the work was got over by mid-day; there was no cooking, and the household could roam abroad at will. No ill had ever come of it; none would have come of it this time, but for St. Mark's Eve falling on the day.

Tod and I got home from school on the Thursday. It was a despicable old school, taking no heed of Pa.s.sion Week. Other fellows from other schools could have a fortnight at Easter; we but a week. Tod entered on a remonstrance with the pater this time; he had been planning it as we drove home, and thought he'd put it in a strongish point of view.

"It is sinful, you know, sir; awfully so. Pa.s.sion Week _is_ Pa.s.sion Week. We have no right to pa.s.s it at school at our desks."

"Well, Joe, I don't quite see that," returned the pater, twisting his lip. "Discipline and lessons are more in accordance with the season of Pa.s.sion Week than kicking up your heels at large in all sorts of mischief; and that's what you'd be at, you know, if you were at home.

What's the matter with Johnny."

"He has been ill for three days, with a cold or something," said Tod.

"Tell it for yourself, Johnny."

I had no more to tell than that. For three or four days I had felt ill, feverish; yesterday (Wednesday) had done no lessons. Mrs. Todhetley thought it was an attack of influenza. She sent me to bed, and called in the doctor, Mr. Duffham.

I was better the next day--Good Friday. Old Duff--as Tod and I called him for short--came in while they were at church, and said I might get up. It was slow work, I told him, lying in bed for one's holidays. He was a wiry little man, with black hair; good in the main, but pompous, and always carried a gold-headed cane.

"Not to go out, you know," he said. "You must promise that, Johnny."

I promised readily. I only wanted to be downstairs with the rest. They returned home from church, saying they had promised to go over and take tea with the Sterlings; Mrs. Todhetley looked grave at seeing me, and thought the doctor was wrong. At which I put on a gay air, like a fellow suddenly cured.

But I could not eat any dinner. They had salt fish and cold boiled beef at two o'clock--our usual way of fasting on Good Friday. Not a morsel could I swallow, and Hannah brought me some mutton-broth.

"Do you mind our leaving you, Johnny?" Mrs. Todhetley said to me in her kind way--which Tod never believed in. "If you do--if you think you shall feel lonely, I'll stay at home."

I answered that I should feel very jolly, not lonely at all; and so they started, going over in the large carriage, drawn by Bob and Blister. Mr.

and Mrs. Todhetley, with Lena, in front, Tod and Hugh behind. Standing at the window to watch the start, I saw Roger Monk looking on from the side of the house.

He was a small, white-faced chap of twenty or so, with a queer look in his eyes, and black sprouting whiskers. Looking full at the eyes, when you could get the chance, which was not very often, for they rarely looked at you, there was nothing wrong to be seen with them, and yet they gave a sinister cast to the face. Perhaps it was that they were too near together. Roger Monk was not one of our regular men; for the matter of that, he was above the condition; but was temporarily filling the head-gardener's place, who was ill with rheumatism. Seeing me, he walked up to the window, and I opened it to speak to him. "Are you here still, Monk?"

"And likely to be, Mr. Ludlow, if it depends upon Jenkins's coming on again," was the answer. "Fine cattle, those that the governor has just driven off."

He meant Bob and Blister, and they were fine; but I did not like the tone, or the word "governor," as applied to Mr. Todhetley. "I can't keep the window up," I said; "I'm not well."

"All right, sir; shut it. As for me, I must be about my work.

There's enough to do with the gardens, one way or another; and the responsibility lies on my shoulders."