Johnny Ludlow Sixth Series Part 26

When the receipt was written, Mr. Preen took up the note, looked at it for a moment or two, and then pa.s.sed it back again.

"Would you mind writing your name on this note, Squire?"

The Squire laughed gently. "Not at all," he answered; "but why should I?

Do you think it is a bad one? No fear, Preen; I had it from the Old Bank at Worcester."

"No, I do not fear that," said Preen, speaking quietly. "But since a disagreeable trouble which happened to me some years ago, I have always liked, when receiving a bank-note, to get, if possible, the donor's name upon it in his own handwriting."

"What was the trouble?"

"I was playing cards at the house of a man of fas.h.i.+on, who was brother to an earl, and lived in a fas.h.i.+onable square at the West End of London, and I had a ten-pound note paid me, for I won, by a man who, I understood, had recently retired with honours from the army, a Major D----. I will not give you his name. The next day, or next but one, I paid this note away to a tradesman, and it was found to be forged; cleverly forged," repeated Preen, with emphasis.

"What did you do?" asked the Squire.

"I got Major D.'s address from the house where we had played, carried the note to him, and inquired what it meant and whence he got it. Will you believe, Mr. Todhetley," added the speaker, with slight agitation, "that the man utterly repudiated the note, saying----"

"But how could he repudiate it?" interrupted the Squire, interested in the tale.

"He said it was not the note he had paid me; he stood it out in the most impudent manner. I told him, and it was the pure truth, that it was impossible there could be any mistake. I was a poor man, down on my luck just then, and it was the only note I had had about me for some time past. All in vain. He held to it that it was not the note, and there the matter ended. I could not prove that it was the note except by my bare word. It was my word against his, you see, and naturally I went to the wall."

The Squire nodded. "Who was at the loss of the money?"

"I was. Besides that, I had the cold shoulder turned upon me. Major D.

was believed; I was doubted; some people went so far as to say I must have trumped up the tale. For some time after that I would not take a bank-note from any man unless he put his signature to it, and it has grown into a habit with me. So, if you don't mind, Squire----"

The Squire smiled goodnaturedly, drew the bank-note to him, and wrote upon the back in a corner, "J. Todhetley."

"There, Preen," said he, returning it, "I won't repudiate that. Couldn't if I would."

Mr. Preen put the note into his pocket-book, and rose to leave. We strolled with him across the front garden to the gate, where his gig was waiting.

"I have to go as far as Norton; and possibly after that on to Stoulton,"

he remarked, as he took the reins in his hand and got in.

"You will have a hot drive of it," said the Squire.

"Yes; but if one undertakes business it must be attended to," said Preen, as he drove off.

A TRAGEDY

II.--IN THE b.u.t.tERY

I

The windows of the room, called the b.u.t.tery, which Mr. Preen used as an office in his house at Duck Brook, were thrown open to the warm, pure air. It was about the hottest part of the afternoon. Oliver Preen sat back in his chair before the large table covered with papers, waiting in idleness and inward rebellion--rebellion against the untoward fate which had latterly condemned him to this dreary and monotonous life. Taking out his pocket-handkerchief with a fling, he pa.s.sed it over his fair, mild face, which was very hot just now.

To-day, of all days, Oliver had wanted to be at liberty, whereas he was being kept a prisoner longer than usual, and for nothing. When Mr. Preen rode out after breakfast in the morning he had left Oliver a couple of letters to copy as a beginning, remarking that there was a great deal to do that day, double work, and he should be back in half-an-hour. The double work arose from the fact that none had been done the day before, as Mr. Preen was out. For that day, Monday--this was Tuesday--was the day Mr. Preen had paid us a visit at Crabb Cott, to be paid for Taffy, the pony, and had then gone to Norton, and afterwards to Stoulton, and it had taken him the best part of the day. So the double work was waiting. But the half hours and the hours had pa.s.sed on, and Mr. Preen had not yet returned. It was now three o'clock in the afternoon, and they had dined without him.

Oliver, who did not dare to absent himself without permission, and perhaps was too conscientious to do so, left his chair for the window.

The old garden was quite a wilderness of blossom and colour, with all kinds of homely flowers crowded into it. The young man stretched forth his hand and plucked a spray or two of jessamine, which grew against the wall. Idly smelling it, he lost himself in a vision of the days gone by; his careless, happy life at Tours, in his aunt's luxurious home, when he had no fear of a dark future, had only to dress well and ride or drive out, and idly enjoy himself.

Suddenly he was brought back to reality. The sound of hoofs clattering into the fold-yard behind the house struck upon his ear, and he knew his father had come home.

Ten minutes yet, or more, and then Mr. Preen came into the room, his little dark face looking darker and more cross than usual. He had been s.n.a.t.c.hing some light refreshment, and sat down at once in his place at the table, facing the windows; Oliver sat opposite to him.

"What have you done?" asked he.

"I have only copied those two letters; there was nothing else to do,"

replied Oliver.

"Could you not have looked over the pile of letters which came this morning, to see whether there were any you could answer?" growled Mr.

Preen.

"Why, no, father," replied Oliver in slight surprise; "I did not know I might look at them. And if I had looked I should not have known what to reply."

Mr. Preen began reading the letters over at railroad speed, dictating answers for Oliver to write, writing some himself. This took time. He had been unexpectedly detained at the other end of Captain Falkner's land by some business which had vexed him. Most of these letters were from farmers and others, about the new patent agricultural implements for which Mr. Preen had taken the agency. He wished to push the sale of them, as it gave him a good percentage.

The answers, addressed and stamped for the post, at length lay ready on the table. Mr. Preen then took out his pocket-book and extracted from it that ten-pound bank-note given him the previous morning by Mr. Todhetley for the children's pony, the note he had got the Squire to indorse, as I have already told. Letting the bank-note lie open before him, Mr. Preen penned a few lines, as follows, Oliver looking on:--

"DEAR SIR,--I enclose you the ten pounds. Have not been able to send it before. Truly yours, G. PREEN."

Mr. Preen folded the sheet on which he had written this, put the bank-note within it, and enclosed all in a good-sized business envelope, which he fastened securely down. He then addressed it to John Paul, Esquire, Islip, and put on a postage stamp.

"I shall seal this, Oliver," he remarked; "it's safer. Get the candle and the wax. Here, you can seal it," he added, taking the signet ring from his finger, on which was engraved the crest of the Preen family.

Oliver lighted a candle kept on a stand at the back for such purposes, brought it to the table, and sealed the letter with a large, imposing red seal. As he pa.s.sed the ring and letter back to his father, he spoke.

"If you are particularly anxious that the letter should reach Mr. Paul safely, father, and of course you are so, as it contains money, why did you not send it by hand? I would have taken it to him."

"There's nothing safer than the post," returned Mr. Preen, "and I want him to have it to-morrow morning."

Oliver laughed. "I could have taken it this evening, father. I can do so still, if you like."

"No, it shall go by post. You want to be off to MacEveril, I suppose."

"No, I do not," replied Oliver. "Had I been able to finish here this morning I might have gone over this afternoon; it is too late now."

"You had nothing to do all day yesterday," growled his father.

"Oh, yes, I know. I am not grumbling."

Mr. Preen put the letter into his pocket, gathered up the pile of other letters, handed half of them to his son, for it was a pretty good heap, and they started for the post, about three minutes' walk.