Johnny Ludlow Sixth Series Part 24

"I have been telling Oliver we call Duck Brook the f.a.g end of the world, and that it was you who first said it," cried Jane.

"Oh, how could you?" laughed Emma, turning her beaming face upon Oliver.

And they might have gone on for ever, if left alone; but Mr. Paul reminded his daughter that it was growing late, and he wanted to get home to dinner. So she lightly stepped into the low chaise, Oliver Preen a.s.sisting her, and they drove off, Emma calling to Jane not to forget that they were engaged to drink tea at North Villa on the morrow.

"What's Preen going to do with that young fellow?" wondered the lawyer, as he drove on.

"I'm sure I don't know, papa," said Emma. "Take him into the b.u.t.tery, perhaps."

Old Paul laughed a little at the idea. "Not much more work there than Preen can do himself, I expect."

"When I last saw Jane she said she thought her brother might be coming home. It may be only for a visit, you know."

Old Paul nodded, and touched up the pony.

Oliver stood in the pathway gazing after the chaise until it was out of sight. "What a charming girl!" he cried to his sister. "I never saw one so unaffected in all my life."

II

If the reader has chanced to read the two papers ent.i.tled "Chandler and Chandler," he may be able to recall North Villa, and those who lived in it.

It stood in the Islip Road--hardly a stone's throw from Crabb Cot.

Jacob Chandler's widow lived in it with her three daughters. She was empty-headed, vain, frivolous, always on the high ropes when in company, wanting to give people the impression that she had been as good as born a d.u.c.h.ess: whereas everyone knew she had sprung from small tradespeople in Birmingham. The three daughters, Clementina, Georgiana, Julietta, took after her, and were as fine as their names.

But you have heard of them before--and of the wrong inflicted by their father, Jacob Chandler, upon his brother's widow and son. The solicitor's business at Islip had been made by the elder brother, Thomas Chandler; he had taken Jacob into partners.h.i.+p, and given him a half share without cross or coin of recompense: and when Thomas died from an accident, leaving his only son Tom in the office to succeed him when he should be of age, Jacob refused to carry out the behest. Ignoring past obligations, all sense of right or wrong, he made his own son Valentine his partner in due course of time, condemning Tom, though a qualified solicitor, to remain his clerk.

It's true that when Jacob Chandler lay on his death-bed, the full sense of what he had done came home to him: any glaring injustice we may have been committing in our lives does, I fancy, often take hold of the conscience at that dread time: and he enjoined his son Valentine to give Tom his due--a full partners.h.i.+p. Valentine having his late father's example before him (for Jacob died), did nothing of the kind. "I'll raise your salary, Tom," said he, "but I cannot make you my partner."

So Tom, thinking he had put up with injustice long enough, quitted Valentine there and then. John Paul, the other Islip lawyer, was only too glad to secure Tom for his own office; he made him his manager and paid him a good salary.

About two years had gone on since then. Tom Chandler, a very fine young fellow, honest and good-natured, was growing more and more indispensable to Mr. Paul; Valentine was growing (if the expression may be used) downwards. For Valentine, who had been an indulged son, and only made to work when he pleased, had picked up habits of idleness, and other habits that we are told in our copy-books idleness begets. Gay, handsome, pleasant-mannered, with money always in his pocket, one of those young men sure to be courted, Valentine had grown fonder of pleasure than of work: he liked his game at billiards; worse than that, he liked his gla.s.s. When a client came in, ten to one but a clerk had to make a rush to the Bell Inn opposite, to fetch his master; and it sometimes happened that Valentine would not return quite steady. The result was, that his practice was gradually leaving him, to be given to Mr. Paul. All this was telling upon Valentine's mother; she had an ever-haunting dread of the poverty which might result in the future, and was only half as pretentious as she used to be.

Her daughters did not allow their minds to be disturbed by anxiety as yet; the young are less anxious than the old. When she dropped a word of apprehension in their hearing, they good-humouredly said mamma was fidgety--Valentine would be all right; if a little gay now it was only what other young men were. It was a pleasant house to visit, for the girls were gay and hospitable; though they did bedeck themselves like so many peac.o.c.ks, and put on airs and graces.

Jane Preen found it pleasant; had found it so long ago; and she introduced Oliver to it, who liked it because he sometimes met Emma Paul there. It took a very short time indeed after that first meeting by the Inlets for him to be over head and ears in love with her. Thus some weeks went on.

More pure and ardent love than that young fellow's for Emma was never felt by man or woman. It filled his every thought, seemed to sanctify his dreary days at Duck Brook, and made a heaven of his own heart. He would meet her at North Villa, would encounter her sometimes in her walks, now and then saw her at her own house at Islip. Not often--old Mr. Paul did not particularly care for the Preens, and rarely gave Emma leave to invite them.

Emma did not care for _him_. She had not found out that he cared for her. A remarkably open, pleasant girl in manner, to him as to all the world, she met him always with frank cordiality--and he mistook that natural cordiality for a warmer feeling. Had Emma Paul suspected his love for her she would have turned from it in dismay; she was no coquette, and all the first love of her young heart was privately given to someone else.

At this time there was a young man in Mr. Paul's office named Richard MacEveril. He was a nephew of Captain MacEveril of Oak Mansion--a pretty place near Islip. Captain MacEveril--a retired captain in the Royal Navy--had a brother settled in Australia. When this brother died, his only son, Richard, came over to his relatives, accompanied by a small income, about enough to keep him in coats and waistcoats.

The arrival very much put out Captain MacEveril. He was a good-hearted man, but afflicted with gout in the feet, and irascible when twinges took him. Naturally the question arose to his mind--how was he to put Richard in the way of getting bread and cheese. Richard seemed to have less idea of how it was to be done than his uncle and aunt had. They told him he must go back to Australia and find a living there. Richard objected; said he had only just left it, and did not like Australia.

Upon the captain's death, whenever that should take place, Richard would come into a small estate of between two and three hundred a-year, of which nothing could deprive him; for Captain MacEveril had no son; only a daughter, who would be rich through her mother.

Richard was a gay-mannered young fellow and much liked, but he was not very particular. He played billiards at the Bell Inn with Valentine Chandler, with young Scott, and with other idlers; he hired horses, and dashed across country on their backs; he spent money in all ways. When his own ready money was gone he went into debt, and people came to the Captain to ask him to liquidate it. This startled and angered the old post-captain as no twinge of gout had ever yet done.

"Something must be done with d.i.c.k," said Mrs. MacEveril.

"Of course it must," her husband wrathfully retorted; "but what the deuce is it to be?"

"Can't you get John Paul to take him into his office as a temporary thing? It would keep him out of mischief."

Mrs. MacEveril's suggestion bore fruit. For the present, until something eligible should "turn up," d.i.c.k was placed in the lawyer's office as a copying clerk. Mr. Paul made a favour of taking him in; but he and Captain MacEveril had been close friends for many a year. d.i.c.k wrote a bold, clear hand, good for copying deeds.

He and Oliver became intimate. It is said that a fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind, and they could feel for one another. Both were down in life, both had poverty-stricken pockets. They were of the same age, twenty-one, and in appearance were not dissimilar--fair of face, slight in person.

So that Oliver Preen needed no plea for haunting Islip three or four times a week. "He went over to see d.i.c.k MacEveril," would have been his answer had any inquisitive body inquired what he did there: while, in point of fact, he went hoping to see Emma Paul--if by delightful chance he might obtain that boon.

Thus matters were going on: Oliver, shut up the earlier part of the day in the b.u.t.tery with his father, answering letters, and what not; in the latter part of it he would be at Islip, or perhaps with Jane at North Villa. Sometimes they would walk home together; or, if they could have the gig, Oliver drove his sister back in it. But for the love he bore Emma, he would have found his life intolerable; nothing but depression, mortification, disappointment: but when Love takes up its abode in the heart the dreariest lot becomes one of suns.h.i.+ne.

III

The garden attached to North Villa was large and very old-fas.h.i.+oned: a place crowded with trees and shrubs, intersected with narrow paths and homely flowers. The Malvern hills could be seen in the distance, as beautiful a sight in the early morning, with the lights and shadows lying upon them, as the world can show.

It was summer now, nearly midsummer. The garish day was fading, the summer moon had risen, its round s.h.i.+eld so delicately pale as to look like silver; and Valentine Chandler was pacing the garden with Jane Preen in the moonlight. They had been singing a duet together at the piano, "I've wandered in dreams," and he had taken the accompaniment. He played well; and never living man had sweeter voice than he. They were wandering in dreams of their own, those two, had been for some time now.

Silence between them as they paced the walk; a sort of discomforting, ominous silence. Valentine broke it.

"Why don't you reproach me, Jane?"

"Do I ever reproach you?" she answered.

"No. But you ought to do so."

"If you would only keep your promises, Valentine!"

Young Mr. Valentine Chandler, having stayed his steps while they spoke, backed against the corner of the latticed arbour, which they were just then pa.s.sing. The same arbour in which his aunt, Mrs. Mary Ann Cramp, had sat in her copper-coloured silk gown to convict her brother Jacob, Valentine's father, of his sins against Tom Chandler, one Sunday afternoon, not so very long gone by.

Val did not answer. He seemed to be staring at the moon, to investigate what it was made of. In reality he saw no moon; neither moon, nor sky above, nor any earthly thing beneath; he only saw his own reckless folly in his mind's clouded mirror.

"You know you do make promises, Valentine!"

"And when I make them I fully mean to keep them; but a lot of idle fellows get hold of me, and--and--I _can't_," said he, in a savage tone.

"But you might," said Jane. "If I made promises I should keep them to you--whatever the temptation."

"I cannot think who it is that comes tattling to you about me, Jane! Is it Oliver?"

"Oliver! Never. Oliver does not know, or suspect--anything."

"Then it must be those confounded girls indoors!"

"Nor they, either. It is not anyone in particular, Valentine; but I hear one and another talking about you."

"I should like to know what they say. You must tell me, Jane."

Jane caught her breath, as if she did not like to answer. But Valentine was waiting.