Johnny Ludlow, Third Series

III

“Dear Johnny,

“I expect your stay at Lefford is drawing towards a close; mine is, here. It might be pleasant if we travelled home together. I could take Lefford on my way—starting by an early train—and pick you up. You need some one to take care of you, you know. Let me hear when you intend to be ready. I will arrange my departure accordingly.

“Hope you have enjoyed yourself, old fellow.”

The above letter from Tod, who was still in Leicestershire, reached me one morning at breakfast-time. Dr. Knox and Janet, old Tamlyn—all the lot of them—called out that they could not spare me yet. Even Cattledon graciously intimated that she should miss me. Janet wrote to Tod, telling him he was to take Lefford on his way, as he proposed, and to stay a week when he did come.

It was, I think, that same day that some news reached us touching Captain Collinson—that he was going to be married. At least that he had made an offer, and was accepted. Not to Mina Knox; but to an old girl (the epithet was Sam’s) named Belmont. Miss Belmont lived with her father at a nice place on the London Road, half-a-mile beyond Jenkins House; he had a great deal of money, and she was his only child. She was very plain, very dowdy, and quite forty years of age; but very good, going about amongst the poor with tracts and soup. If the tidings were true, and Captain Collinson had made Miss Belmont an offer, it appeared pretty evident that his object was her money: he could not well have fallen in love with her, or court a wife so much older than himself.

When taxed with the fact—and it was old Tamlyn who did it, meeting him opposite the market-house—Collinson simpered, and stroked his dark beard, and said Lefford was fond of marvels. But he did not deny it. Half-an-hour later he and Miss Belmont were seen together in the High Street. She had her old cloth mantle on and her brown bonnet, as close as a Quaker’s, and carried her flat district basket in her hand. The captain presented a contrast, with his superb dandy-cut clothes and flourishing his ebony cane.

“I think it must be quite true,” Janet observed, as we watched them pass the house. “And I shall be glad if it is: Arnold has been tormenting himself with the fancy that the gallant captain was thinking of little Mina.”

A day or two after this, it chanced that Dr. Knox had to visit Sir Henry Westmorland, who had managed to give a twist to his ankle. Sir Henry was one of those sociable, good-hearted men that no one can help liking; a rather elderly bachelor. He and Tamlyn were old friends, and we had all dined at Foxgrove about a week before.

“Would you like to go over with me, Johnny?” asked Dr. Knox, when he was starting.

I said I should like it very much, and got into the “conveyance,” the doctor letting me drive. Thomas was not with us. We soon reached Foxgrove: a low, straggling, red-brick mansion, standing in a small park, about two miles and a half from Lefford.

Dr. Knox went in; leaving me and the conveyance on the smooth wide gravel-drive before the house. Presently a groom came up to take charge of it, saying Sir Henry was asking for me. He had seen me from the window.

Sir Henry was lying on a sofa near the window, and Knox was already beginning upon the ankle. A gentlemanly little man, nearly bald, sat on the ottoman in the middle of the room. I found it was one Major Leckie.

Some trifle—are these trifles chance?—turned the conversation upon India. I think Knox spoke of some snake-bite in a man’s ankle that had laid him by for a month or two: it was no other than the late whilom mayor, Sir Daniel Jenkins. Upon which, Major Leckie began relating his experience of some reptile bites in India. The major had been home nearly two years upon sick leave, he said, and was now going back again.

“The 30th Bengal Cavalry!” repeated Dr. Knox, as Major Leckie happened to mention that regiment—which was his, and the doctor remembered that it was Captain Collinson’s. “One of the officers of that regiment is staying here now.”

“Is he!” cried the major, briskly. “Which of them?”

“Captain Collinson.”

“Collinson!” echoed the major, his whole face alight with pleasure. “Where is he? How long has he been here? I did not know he had left India.”

“He came home last autumn, I fancy; was not well, and got twelve months’ leave. He has been staying at Lefford for some time.”

“I should like to see him! Good old Collinson! He and I were close friends. He is a nice fellow.”

“Old, you style him!” cried Dr. Knox. “I should rather call him young—of the two.”

Major Leckie laughed. “It is a word we are all given to using, doctor. Of course Collinson’s not old in years. Why is he staying at Lefford?”

“I’m sure I don’t know. Unless it is that he has fallen in love. I heard him remark one day that the air of the place suited him.”

“Ah ah, Master Collinson!” laughed the major. “In love, are you, sir! Caught at last, are you! Who is the lady?”

“Nay, I spoke only in jest,” returned Dr. Knox. “He seems to be a general admirer; but I don’t know that it is any one in particular. Report has mentioned one or two ladies, but report is often a false town-crier.”

“Well, she will be in luck—whoever gets him. He is one of the nicest, truest fellows I know; and will make a rare good husband.”

“It is said he has private means. Do you know whether that’s true?”

“He has very good private means. His father left him a fortune. Sometimes we fancy he will not stay with us long. I should not be surprised if he sells out while he is at home, and settles down.”

“Johnny Ludlow heard him say something the other night to that effect,” observed the doctor, looking at me.

“Yes,” I said, confirming the words. “He is about buying an estate now, I believe. But he talked of going back to India for a few years.”

“I hope he will. There’s not a man amongst us, that I would not rather spare than Collinson. I should like to see him. I might walk into Lefford now—if you will give me his address, doctor. Will you spare me for an hour or two, Sir Henry?”

“Well, I must, I suppose,” grumbled Sir Henry. “It’s rather bad of you, though, Leckie; and after putting me off with so miserably short a stay. You get here at ten o’clock last night, and you go off at ten o’clock to-night! Fine behaviour that!”

“I am obliged to go to-night, Westmorland; you know I am, and I could not get to you earlier, although I tried. I won’t be away a minute longer than I can help. I can walk into Lefford in half-an-hour—my pace is a quick one. No; and I won’t stay an unconscionable time with Collinson,” he added, in answer to a growl of the baronet’s. “Trust me. I’ll be back under two hours.”

“Bring him back with you for the rest of the day,” said Sir Henry.

“Oh, thank you. And I am sure you will say he is the best fellow going. I wonder you and he have not found out one another before.”

“If you don’t mind taking a seat in yonder nondescript vehicle—that Mr. Johnny Ludlow here has the audacity to say must have been built in the year One,” laughed Dr. Knox, pointing outside, “I can drive you to Captain Collinson’s lodgings.”

“A friend in need is a friend indeed,” cried the major, laughing also. “What style of vehicle do you call it?”

“We call it the conveyance. As to its style—well I never had the opportunity of asking that of the builder. I believe my father bought it second-hand when he first went into practice many a year ago.”

The doctor drove this time; Major Leckie sitting beside him, I in the perch behind. Leaving the major at the hairdresser’s, upon reaching Lefford, Dr. Knox and I went home. And this is what occurred—as we heard later.

Ringing at the private door, which was Captain Collinson’s proper entrance, a young servant-girl appeared, and—after the manner of many young country servants—sent Major Leckie alone up to Captain Collinson’s rooms, saying she supposed the captain was at home. It turned out that he was not at home. Seated before the fire was a gentleman in a crimson dressing-gown and slippers, smoking a huge pipe.

“Come in,” cried out he, in answer to the major’s knock.

“I beg your pardon,” said the major, entering. “I understood that Captain Collinson lodged here.”

“He does lodge here,” replied he of the dressing-gown, putting his pipe into the fender, as he rose. “What is it that you want with him?”

“I only called to see him. I am one of his brother-officers—home on sick leave; as I understand he is.”

“Collinson is out,” said the gentleman. “I am sorry it should happen so. Can you leave any message?”

“Will he be long? I should much like to see him.”

“He will be back to dinner to-night; not much before that, I think. He is gone by train to—to—some place a few miles off. Boom—or Room—or Doom—or some such name. I am a stranger here.”

“Toome, I suppose,” remarked the major. “It’s the last station before you get to Lefford—I noticed the name last night. I am very sorry. I should liked to have seen Collinson. Tell him so, will you. I am Major Leckie.”

“You will be calling again, perhaps?”

“I can’t do that. I must spend the rest of this day with my friend, Sir Henry Westmorland, and I leave to-night. Tell Collinson that I embark in a few days. Stay: this is my address in London, if he will write to me. I wonder he did not attempt to find me out—I came home before he did: and he knew that he could always get my address at my bankers’.”

“I will tell Collinson all you say, Major Leckie,” said the stranger, glancing at the card. “It is a pity he is out.”

“Should he come back in time—though I fear, by what you say, there’s little chance of it—be so good as to say that Sir Henry Westmorland will be happy to see him to dinner this evening at Foxgrove, at six o’clock—and to come over as much earlier as he can.”

With the last words, Major Leckie left, Collinson’s friend politely attending him down to the front-door. I was standing at Mr. Tamlyn’s gate as he passed it on his way back to Foxgrove. Dr. Knox, then going off on foot to see a patient, came across the yard from the surgery at the same moment.

“Such a mischance!” the major stopped in his rapid walk to say to us. “Collinson has gone to Toome to-day. I saw a friend of his, who is staying with him, and he thinks he won’t be back before night.”

“I did not know Collinson had any one staying with him,” remarked the doctor. “Some one called in upon him, probably.”

“This man is evidently staying with him; making himself at home too,” said the major. “He was in a dressing-gown and slippers, and had his feet on the fender, smoking a pipe. A tall, dark fellow, face all hair.”

“Why, that is Collinson himself,” cried I.

“Not a bit of it,” said the major. “This man is no more like Collinson—except that Collinson is dark and has a beard—than he is like me. He said he was a stranger in the place.”

A rapid conclusion crossed me that it must be a brother of Collinson’s—for a resemblance to himself, according to the major’s description, there no doubt was. Major Leckie wished me good-day, and continued his way up the street, Dr. Knox with him.

“What are you gazing at, Johnny Ludlow?”

I turned at the question, and saw Charlotte Knox. She was coming to call on Janet. We stood there talking of one thing and another. I told Charlotte that Collinson’s brother, as I took it to be, was staying with him; and Charlotte told me of a quarrel she had just had with Mina on the score of the captain.

“Mina won’t believe a word against him, Johnny. When I say he is nothing but a flirt, that he is only playing with her, she bids me hold my tongue. She quite scorns the notion that he would like to marry Miss Belmont.”

“Have you seen any more letters, that concern me, in at Madame St. Vincent’s?” I asked.

“Do you think I should be likely to?—or that such letters are as plentiful as blackberries?” retorted Charlotte. “And you?—have you discovered the key to that letter?”

“I have not discovered it, Charlotte. I have taxed my memory in vain. Never a girl, no matter whose sister she may be, can I recall to mind as being likely to owe me a grudge.”

“It was not that the girl owed you a grudge,” quickly spoke Charlotte. “It was that she must not meet you.”

“Does not the one thing imply the other? I can’t think of any one. There was a young lady, indeed, in the years gone by, when I was not much more than a lad, who—may—have—taken up a prejudice against me,” I added slowly and thoughtfully, for I was hardly sure of what I said. “But she cannot have anything to do with the present matter, and I am quite sure she was not a sister of Madame St. Vincent.”

“What was her name?” asked Charlotte.

“Sophie Chalk.”

LADY JENKINS.

LIGHT