

E-text prepared by David Edwards, eagkw, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made
available by Internet Archive (http://archive.org)



Note: Images of the original pages are available through
      Internet Archive. See
      http://archive.org/details/johnnyludlowthir00wood


Transcriber's note:

      Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).

      Text enclosed by plus signs is in Old English font
      (+Old English+).

      Small capitals were changed to all capitals.

      A list of corrections is at the end of the book.





JOHNNY LUDLOW.

THIRD SERIES

[Illustration]


JOHNNY LUDLOW

by

MRS. HENRY WOOD

Author of
"East Lynne," "The Channings," etc.

THIRD SERIES.







+Twenty-Third Thousand+

+London:+
Macmillan and Co., Limited.
New York: the Macmillan Company.
1899.

London:
Printed by William Clowes and Sons, Limited,
Stamford Street and Charing Cross.




CONTENTS

                                             PAGE

  THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE                     1

  CRABB RAVINE                                 43

  OUR VISIT                                    87

  JANET CAREY                                 112

  DR. KNOX                                    135

  HELEN WHITNEY'S WEDDING                     158

  HELEN'S CURATE                              180

  JELLICO'S PACK                              203

  CAROMEL'S FARM                              223

  CHARLOTTE AND CHARLOTTE                     244

  THE LAST OF THE CAROMELS                    267

  A DAY IN BRIAR WOOD                         290

  THE STORY OF DOROTHY GRAPE: DISAPPEARANCE   313

  THE STORY OF DOROTHY GRAPE: IN AFTER YEARS  335

  LADY JENKINS: MINA                          359

  LADY JENKINS: DOUBT                         382

  LADY JENKINS: MADAME                        406

  LADY JENKINS: LIGHT                         429

  THE ANGELS' MUSIC                           452




    "God sent his Singers upon earth
    With songs of sadness and of mirth,
    That they might touch the hearts of men,
    And bring them back to heaven again."
                                   LONGFELLOW.




JOHNNY LUDLOW




THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE.


I.

Our old grey church at Church Dykely stood in a solitary spot. Servant
maids (two of ours once, Hannah and Molly), and silly village girls went
there sometimes to watch for the "shadows" on St. Mark's Eve, and owls
had a habit of darting out of the belfry at night. Within view of the
church, though at some distance from it, stood the lonely, red-brick,
angular dwelling-house belonging to Copse Farm. It was inhabited by Mr.
Page, a plain worthy widower, getting in years; his three daughters
and little son. Abigail and Susan Page, two experienced, sensible,
industrious young women, with sallow faces and bunches of short dark
curls, were at this period, about midway between twenty and thirty:
Jessy, very much younger, was gone out to get two years' "finishing" at
a plain boarding-school; Charles, the lad, had bad health and went to
school by day at Church Dykely.

Mr. Page fell ill. He would never again be able to get about much. His
two daughters, so far as indoor work and management went, were hosts in
themselves, Miss Abigail especially; but they could not mount a horse to
superintend out-of-doors. Other arrangements were made. The second son
of Mr. Drench, a neighbouring farmer and friend, came to the Copse
Farm by day as overlooker. He was paid for his services, and he gained
experience.

No sooner had John Drench, a silent, bashful young farmer, good-looking
and fairly-well educated, been installed in his new post, than he began
to show a decided admiration for Miss Susan Page--who was a few months
younger than himself. The slight advances he made were favourably
received; and it was tacitly looked upon that they were "as good as
engaged." Things went on pleasantly through the spring, and might have
continued to go on so, but for the coming home at Midsummer of the
youngest daughter, Jessy. That led to no end of complications and
contrariety.

She was the sweetest flower you ever saw; a fair, delicate lily, with a
mild countenance, blue eyes, and golden hair. Jessy had never been very
strong; she had always been very pretty; and the consequence was that
whilst her sisters had grown up to be useful, not to be idle a minute
throughout the long day, Jessy had been petted and indulged, and
was little except being ornamental. The two years' schooling had not
improved her taste for domestic occupation. To tell the truth, Jessy was
given to being uncommonly idle.

To John Drench, who had not seen her since her early girlhood, she
appeared as a vision of beauty. "It was like an angel coming in at the
door," he said of the day she first came home, when telling the tale to
a stranger in after years. "My eyes were fairly dazzled."

Like an angel! And unfortunately for John Drench, his heart was dazzled
as well as his eyes. He fell desperately in love with her. It taught
him that what he had felt for Miss Susan was not love at all; only
esteem, and the liking that so often arises from companionship. He was
well-meaning, but inexperienced. As he had never spoken to Susan, the
utmost sign he had given being a look or a warmer handshake than usual,
he thought there would be no difficulty in transferring his homage to
the younger sister. Susan Page, who really loved him, and perhaps looked
on with the keen eyes of jealousy, grew at last to see how matters were.
She would have liked to put him in a corn-sack and give him a good
shaking by way of cure. Thus the summer months went over in some silent
discomfort, and September came in warm and fine.

Jessy Page stood at the open parlour window in her airy summer muslin,
twirling a rose in her hand, blue ribbons falling from her hair: for
Jessy liked to set herself off in little adornments. She was laughing at
John Drench outside, who had appeared covered with mud from the pond,
into which he had contrived partially to slip when they were dragging
for eels.

"I think your picture ought to be taken, just as you look now, Mr.
John."

He thought _hers_ ought to be: the bright fair face, the laughing blue
eyes, the parted lips and the pretty white teeth presented a picture
that, to him, had never had its equal.

"Do you, Miss Jessy? That's a fine rose," he shyly added. He was always
shy with her.

She held it out. She had not the least objection to be admired, even by
John Drench in an unpresentable state. In their hearts, women have all
desired men's flattery, from Eve downwards.

"These large roses are the sweetest of any," she went on. "I plucked it
from the tree beyond the grass-plat."

"You are fond of flowers, I've noticed, Miss Jessy."

"Yes, I am. Both for themselves and for the language they symbolise."

"What language is it?"

"Don't you know? I learnt it at school. Each flower possesses its own
meaning, Mr. John Drench. This, the rose, is true love."

"True love, is it, Miss Jessy!"

She was lightly flirting it before his face. It was too much for him,
and he took it gently from her. "Will you give it me?" he asked below
his breath.

"Oh, with great pleasure." And then she lightly added, as if to damp the
eager look on his face: "There are plenty more on the same tree."

"An emblem of true love," he softly repeated. "It's a pretty thought. I
wonder who invented----"

"Now then, John Drench, do you know that tea's waiting. Are you going to
sit down in those muddy boots and leggings?"

The sharp words came from Susan Page. Jessy turned and saw her sister's
pale, angry face. John Drench disappeared, and Miss Susan went out
again, and banged the door.

"It is high time Jessy was put to some regular employment," cried
Susan, bursting into the room where Miss Page sat making the tea. "She
idles away her time in the most frivolous and wasteful manner, never
doing an earthly thing. It is quite sinful."

"So it is," acquiesced Miss Page. "Have you a headache, Susan? You look
pale."

"Never mind my looks," wrathfully retorted Susan. "We will portion out
some share of work for her from to-day. She might make up the butter,
and undertake the pies and puddings, and do the plain sewing."

William Page, a grey-haired man, sitting with a stick by his side,
looked up. "Pretty creature!" he said, for he passionately loved his
youngest daughter. "I'll not have her hard-worked, Susan."

"But you'd not have her sit with her hands before her from Monday
morning till Saturday night, I suppose, father!" sharply returned Miss
Susan. "She'll soon be nineteen."

"No, no; idleness brings nothing but evil in its train. I didn't mean
that, Susan. Let the child do what is suitable for her. Where's John
Drench?"

"In a fine mess--up to his middle in mud," was Miss Susan's tart answer.
"One would think he had been trying to see how great an object he could
make of himself."

John Drench came in, somewhat improved, his coat changed and the rose in
his button-hole. He took his seat at the tea-table, and was more shy and
silent than ever. Jessy sat by her father, chattering gaily, her blue
ribbons flickering before his loving eyes.

But the butter-making and the other light work was fated not to be
inaugurated yet for Jessy. Charles Page, a tiresome, indulged lad of
twelve, became ill again: he was subject to attacks of low fever and
ague. Mr. Duffham, peering at the boy over his gold-headed cane, said
there was nothing for it but a dose of good seaside air. Mr. Page,
anxious for his boy, began to consult with his daughters as to how it
might be obtained. They had some very distant connections named Allen,
living at Aberystwith. To them Miss Page wrote, asking if they could
take in Charles and one of his sisters to live with them for a month or
so. Mrs. Allen replied that she would be glad to have them; since her
husband's death she had eked out a scanty income by letting lodgings.

It was Jessy who went with him. The house and farm could not have spared
Abigail; Susan said neither should it spare her. Jessy, the idle and
useless one had to go. Miss Susan thought she and John Drench were well
rid of the young lady.

September was in its second week when they went; November was at its
close when they returned. The improvement in Charles had been so marked
and wonderful--as Mrs. Allen and Jessy both wrote to say--that Mr.
Duffham had strongly urged his staying as long as the weather remained
fine. It was a remarkably fine late autumn that year, and they stayed
until the end of November.

Charles came home well and strong. Jessy was more beautiful than ever.
But there was some change in her. The light-hearted, talking, laughing
girl had grown rather silent: she was often heard singing snatches of
love songs to herself in a low voice, and there was a light in her eyes
as of some intense, secret happiness that might not be told. John
Drench, who had begun to show signs of returning to his old allegiance
(at least, Miss Susan so flattered herself), fell a willing captive
again forthwith, and had certainly neither eyes nor ears for any one but
Jessy. Susan Page came to the conclusion that a shaking in a sack would
be far too good for him.

                 *       *       *       *       *

The way of dressing the churches for Christmas in those past days was
quite different from the new style of "decoration" obtaining now. Sprays
of holly with their red berries, of ivy with its brown clusters, were
stuck, each alternately into the holes on the top of the pews. It was a
better way than the present one, far more effective--though I, Johnny
Ludlow, shall be no doubt laughed at for saying so. Your woven wreaths
tied round the pulpit and reading-desk; your lettered scrolls; your
artificial flowers, may be talked of as "artistic," but for effect they
all stand absolutely as nothing, in comparison with the more simple and
natural way, and they are, perhaps, the least bit tawdry. If you don't
believe me, pay a visit to some rural church next Christmas morning--for
the old fashion is observed in many a country district still