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--and judge

for yourselves. With many another custom that has been changed by the

folly and fashion of these later days of pretension, and not changed for

the better, lies this one. That is my opinion, and I hold to it.

The dressing in our church was always done by the clerk, old Bumford.

The sexton (called familiarly with us the grave-digger) helped him when

his health permitted, but he was nearly always ill, and then Bumford

himself had to be grave-digger. It was not much trouble, this manner of

decoration, and it took very little time. They had only to cut off the

sprays almost of the same size, trim the ends, and lodge them in the

holes. In the last century when a new country church was rebuilt (though

that did not happen often), the drilling of these holes in the woodwork

of the pews, for the reception of the "Christmas," was as much a matter

of course as were the pews themselves. Our Christmas was supplied by Mr.

Page with a liberal hand; the Copse Farm abounded with trees of holly

and ivy; one of his men, Leek, would help Bumford to cut it, and to cart

it in a hand-truck to the church. It took a good deal to do all the

pews.

On this Christmas that I am telling you of, it fell out that Clerk

Bumford and the sexton were both disabled. Bumford had rheumatic gout so

badly that getting him into church for the morning service the past

three Sundays had been a marvel of dexterity--while the sexton was in

bed with what he called catarrh. At first it seemed that we should

not get the church dressed at all: but the Miss Pages, ever ready and

active in a good work, came to the rescue, and said they would do it

themselves, with John Drench's help. The Squire was not going to be

behind-hand, and said we boys, for Tod and I were just home for the

holidays, should help too.

And when Christmas Eve came, and Leek had wheeled up the holly, and we

were all in the cold church (not I think that any of us cared whether it

was cold or warm), we enjoyed the work amazingly, and decided that old

Bumford should never be let do it again, gout or no gout.

Jessy Page was a picture to look at. The two elder ladies had on tight

dark cloth dresses, like a riding-habit cut short, at the ankles: Jessy

was in a bright blue mantle edged with swans-down, and a blue bonnet on

her pretty head. She came in a little late, and Miss Susan blew her up

sharply, for putting on that "best Sunday cape" to dress a church in:

but Jessy only laughed good-naturedly, and answered that she would take

care not to harm it. Susan Page, trimming the branches, had seen John

Drench's eyes fixed on the girl: and her knife worked away like mad in

her vexation.

"Look here," said Jessy: "we have never had any Christmas over the

pulpit; I think old Bumford was afraid to get up to do it; let us put

some. It would hide that ugly nail in the wall."

"There are no holes up in the wall," snapped Miss Susan.

"I meant a large bunch; a bunch of holly and ivy mixed, Susan. John

Drench could tie it to the nail: it would look well."

"I'll do it, too," said John. "I've some string in my pocket. The parson

won't know himself. It will be as good as a canopy over him."

Miss Page turned round: she and Charley had their arms full of the

branches we had been cutting.

"Put a bunch there, if you like, but let us finish the pews first," she

said. "If we go from one thing to another we shall not finish while it's

daylight."

It was good sense: she rarely spoke anything else. Once let darkness

overtake us, and the dressing would be done for. The church knew nothing

about evening service, and had never felt the want of means to light

itself up.

"I shall pick out the best sprays in readiness," whispered Jessy to me,

as we sat together on the bench by the big christening bowl, she

choosing branches, I trimming them. "Look at this one! you could not

count the berries on it."

"Did you enjoy your visit to Aberystwith, Jessy?"

I wondered what there was in my simple question to move her. The branch

of holly went anywhere; her hands met in a silent clasp; the expression

of her face changed to one of curious happiness. In answering, her voice

fell to a whisper.

"Yes, I enjoyed it."

"What a long time you stayed away! An age, Mrs. Todhetley says."

"It was nearly eleven weeks."

"Eleven weeks! How tedious!"

Her face was glowing, her eyes had a soft light in them. She caught up

some holly, and began scattering its berries.

"What did you do with yourself, Jessy?"

"I used to sit by the sea--and to walk about. It was very fine. They

don't often have it like that in November, Mrs. Allen said."

"Did Mrs. Allen sit and walk with you?"

"No. She had enough to do with the house and her lodgers. We only saw

her at meal times."

"The Miss Allens, perhaps?"

"There are no Miss Allens. Only one little boy."

"Why, then, you had no one but Charley!"

"Charley? Oh, he used to be always about with little Tom Allen--in a

boat, or something of that sort. Mrs. Allen thought the sea breezes must

be so good for him."

"Well, you must have been very dull!"

Jessy looked rather foolish. She was a simple-minded girl at the best.

The two elder sisters had all the strong sense of the family, she the

simplicity. Some people called Jessy Page "soft": perhaps, contrasted

with her sisters, she was so: and she was very inexperienced.

The dusk was gathering, and Charley had gone out tired, when John Drench

got into the pulpit to tie the bunch of holly to the wall above it. Tod

was with him. Drench had his hands stretched out, and we stood watching

them in a group in the aisle below, when the porch-door was burst open,

and in leaped Charles.

"Jessy! I say! Where's Jessy?"

"I am here," said Jessy, looking round. "What do you want?"

"Here's Mr. Marcus Allen."

Who Mr. Marcus Allen might be, Charles did not say. Jessy knew: there

was no doubt of that. Her face, just then close to mine, had flushed as

red as a June rose.

A tall, dark, imposing man came looming out of the dusk. His handsome,

furred great-coat was open, his waistcoat was of crimson velvet; he wore

two chains, three rings, and an eye-glass. And I'll leave you to judge

of the effect this vision of grandeur made, dropping down on us plain

church-dressers in our every-day clothes. John Drench leaned over the

pulpit cushion, string in hand; the two Miss Pages stood staring; Jessy

turned white and red with the unexpected amazement. It was to her he

approached, and spoke.

"How do you do, Miss Jessy?"

She put her hand out in answer to his; but seemed to have been struck as

dumb as the old stone image on the monument against the wall.

"These are your sisters, I presume, Miss Jessy? Will you do me the

honour of introducing me to them?"

"Mr. Marcus Allen," murmured Jessy. "My sister Abigail; my sister

Susan."

Mr. Marcus Allen, bowing over his hat, said something about the pleasure

it gave him to make their acquaintance personally, after hearing so much

of them from Miss Jessy at Aberystwith, and begged to be allowed to

shake their hands. Miss Page, when the hand-shaking was over, said in

her straightforward way that she did not know who he was, her young

sister never having mentioned him. Jessy, standing like a little

simpleton, her eyes bent down on the aisle bricks, murmured in confusion

that she "forgot it." John Drench had his face over the cushion all that

time, and Tod's arms began to ache, holding up the bunch of green.

Mr. Marcus Allen, it turned out, was related in some way to the Allens

of Aberystwith: he happened to go to the town soon after Jessy Page and

her brother went there, and he stayed until they left it. Not at the

Allens' house: he had lodgings elsewhere. Mrs. Allen spoke of him to

Jessy as a "grand gentleman, quite above them." An idea came over me, as

we all now stood together, that he had been Jessy's companion in the

walking and the sitting by the sea.

"I told Miss Jessy that I should be running down some day to renew my

acquaintanceship with her and make that of her family," said Mr. Marcus

Allen to Miss Page. "Having no particular engagement on my hands this

Christmas time, I came."

He spoke in the most easy manner conceivable: his accent and manner were

certainly those of a gentleman. As to the fashionable attire and the

rings and chains, rather startling though they looked to us in the

dark church on that dark and busy evening, they were all the rage for

dandies in the great world then.

Noticing the intimation that he had come purposely to see them, Miss

Page supposed that she ought, in hospitably good manners, to invite him

to stay a day or two at the farm, but doubted whether so imposing a

gentleman would condescend to do so. She said nothing about it then, and

we all went out of the church together; except John Drench, who stayed

behind with Leek to help clear up the litter for the man to carry away.

It was light outside, and I took a good look at the stranger: a handsome

man of seven-or-eight-and-twenty, with hard eyes, and black whiskers

curled to perfection.

"In what way is he related to the Allens of Aberystwith, Jessy?"

questioned Miss Page, drawing her sister away, as we went through the

coppice.

"I don't quite know, Abigail. He is some distant cousin."

"How came you never to speak of him?"

"I--I did not remember to do so."

"Very careless of you, child. Especially if he gave you cause to suppose

he might come here. I don't like to be taken by surprise by strangers;

it is not always convenient."

Jessy walked along in silence, meek as a lamb.

"What is he?--in any profession, or trade?"

"Trade? Oh, I don't think he does anything of that kind, Abigail. That

branch of the family would be above it, Mrs. Allen said. He has a large

income, she says; plenty of money."

"I take it, then, that he is above _us_," reasoned Miss Page.

"Oh dear, yes: in station. Ever so much."

"Then I'm sure I don't care to entertain him."

Miss Page went straight into the best kitchen on arriving at home. Her

father sat in the large hearth corner, smoking his pipe. She told him

about the stranger, and said she supposed they must ask him to stay over

the morrow--Christmas-Day.

"Why shouldn't we?" asked Mr. Page.

"Well, father, he seems very grand and great."

"Does he? Give him the best bedroom."

"And our ways are plain and simple, you know," she added.

"He must take us as he finds us, Abigail. Any friend of Mrs. Allen's is

welcome: she was downright kind to the children."

We had a jolly tea. Tod and I had been asked to it beforehand.

Pork-pies, Miss Susan's making, hot buttered batch-cakes, and lemon

cake and jams. Mr. Marcus Allen was charmed with everything: he was a

pleasant man to talk to. When we left, he and Mr. Page had gone to the

best kitchen again, to smoke together in the wide chimney corner.

* * * * *

You Londoners, who go in for your artistic scrolls and crosses, should

have seen the church on Christmas morning. It greeted our sight, as we

entered from the porch, like a capacious grove of green, on which the

sun streamed through the south windows. Old Bumford's dressing had never

been as full and handsome as this of ours, for we had rejected all

niggardly sprays. The Squire even allowed that much. Shaking hands with

Miss Page in the porch after service, he told her that it cut Clerk

Bumford out and out. Mr. Marcus Allen, in fashionable coat, with the

furred over-coat flung back, light gloves, and big white wristbands, was

in the Pages' pew, sitting between old Page and Jessy. He found all the

places for her in her Prayer-book (a shabby red one, some of the leaves

loose); bowing slightly every time he handed her the book, as if she had

been a princess of the blood royal. Such gallantry was new in our parts:

and the congregation were rather taken off their devotions watching it.

As to Jessy, she kept flushing like a rose.

Mr. Marcus Allen remained more than a week, staying over New-Year's Day.

He made himself popular with them all, and enjoyed what Miss Abigail

called their plain ways, just as though he had been reared to them. He

smoked his pipe in the kitchen with the farmer; he drove Miss Susan to

Alcester in the tax-cart; he presented Miss Abigail with a handsome

work-box; and gave Charley a bright half-sovereign for bullseyes. As to

Jessy, he paid her no more attention than he did her sisters; hardly as

much: so that if Miss Susan had been entertaining any faint hope that

his object in coming to the Copse was Jessy, and that in consequence

John Drench might escape from bewitching wiles, she found the hope

fallacious. Mr. Marcus Allen had apparently no more thought of Jessy

than he had of Sally, the red-armed serving-girl. "But what in the world

brought the man here at all?" questioned Miss Susan of her sister. "He

wanted a bit of country holiday," answered Miss Page with her common

sense.

One day during the week the Squire met them abroad, and gave an

impromptu invitation to the Manor for the evening. Only the three Miss

Pages came. Mr. Marcus Allen sent his compliments, and begged to be

excused on the score of headache.

One evening at dusk we met him and Jessy. She had been out on some

errand, and he overtook her in the little coppice path between the

church and the farm. Tod, dashing through it to get home for dinner, I

after him, nearly dashed right upon them. Mr. Marcus Allen had his face

inside her bonnet, as if he were speaking in the ear of a deaf old lady

of seventy. Tod burst out laughing when we got on.

"That fellow was stealing a sly kiss in the dark, Johnny."

"Like his impudence."

"Rubbish," retorted Tod. "It's Christmas-tide, and all fair. Didn't you

see the bit of mistletoe he was holding up?" And Tod ran on, whistling a

line of a song that the Squire used to sing in his young days:

"We all love a pretty girl, under the rose."

Mr. Marcus Allen left the Copse Farm with hearty thanks for its

hospitality. He promised to come again in the summer, when the fields

should be sweet with hay and the golden corn was ripening.

No sooner had he gone than John Drench asked Jessy to promise to be his

wife. Whether he had felt any secret jealousy of Mr. Marcus Allen and

his attractions, and deemed it well to secure Jessy as soon as the coast

was clear, he spoke out. Jessy did not receive the honour kindly. She

tossed her pretty head in a violent rage: the idea, she said, of her

marrying _him_. Jessy had never flirted with John Drench since the

Aberystwith journey, or encouraged him in any way--that was certain.

Unpleasantness ensued at the farm. Mr. Page decidedly approved of the

suitor: he alone had perceived nothing of Susan's hopes: and, perhaps

for the first time in his life, he spoke sharply to Jessy. John Drench

was not to be despised, he told her; his father was a wealthy man, and

John would have a substantial portion; more than double enough to put

him into the largest and best farm in the county: Mr. Drench was only

waiting for a good one to fall in, to take it for him. No: Jessy would

not listen. And as the days went on and John Drench, _as she said_,

strove to further his suit on every opportunity, she conceived, or

professed, a downright aversion to him. Sadly miserable indeed she

seemed, crying often; and saying she would rather go out as lady's-maid

to some well-born lady than stay at home to be persecuted. Miss Susan

was in as high a state of rapture as the iniquity of false John Drench

permitted; and said it served the man right for making an oaf of

himself.

"Let be," cried old Page of Jessy. "She'll come to her senses in time."

But Miss Abigail, regarding Jessy in silence with her critical eyes,

took up the notion that the girl had some secret source of discomfort,

with which John Drench had nothing to do.

It was close upon this, scarcely beyond the middle of January, when one

Monday evening Duffham trudged over from Church Dykely for a game at

chess with the Squire. Hard weather had set in; ice and snow lay on

the ground. Mrs. Todhetley nursed her face by the fire, for she had

toothache as usual; Tod watched the chess; I was reading. In the midst

of a silence, the door opened, and old Thomas ushered in John Drench, a

huge red comforter round his neck, his hat in his hand.

"Good-evening, Squire; good-evening, ma'am," said he in his shy way,

nodding separately to the rest of us, as he unwound the comforter. "I've

come for Miss Jessy, please."

"Come for Miss Jessy!" was the Squire's surprised echo. "Miss Jessy's

not here. Take a seat, Mr. John."

"Not here?" cried Drench, opening his eyes in something like fear, and

disregarding the invitation to sit down. "Not here! Why where can she

have got to? Surely she has not fallen down in the snow and ice, and

disabled herself?"

"Why did you think she was here?"

"I don't know," he replied, after a pause, during which he seemed to be

lost. "Miss Jessy was not at home at tea: later, when I was leaving for

the night, Miss Abigail asked me if I would come over here first and

fetch Jessy. I asked no questions, but came off at once."

"She has not been here," said Mrs. Todhetley. "I have not seen Jessy

Page since yesterday afternoon, when I spoke to her coming out of

church."

John Drench looked mystified. That there must have been some

misapprehension on Miss Page's part; or else on his, and he had come to

the wrong house; or that poor Jessy had come to grief in the snow on her

way to us, seemed certain. He drank a glass of ale, and went away.

They were over again at breakfast time in the morning, John Drench and

Miss Abigail herself, bringing strange news. The latter's face turned

white as she told it. Jessy Page had not been found. John Drench and two

of the men had been out all night in the fields and lanes, searching for

her. Miss Abigail gave us her reasons for thinking Jessy had come to

Dyke Manor.

On the Sunday afternoon, when the Miss Pages went home from church,

Jessy, instead of turning indoors with them, continued her way onwards

to the cottage of a poor old woman named Matt, saying Mrs. Todhetley had

told her the old granny was very ill. At six o'clock, when they had

tea--tea was always late on Sunday evenings, as Sally had leave to stay

out gossiping for a good hour after service--it was discovered that

Jessy had not come in. Charley was sent out after her, and met her at

the gate. She had a scolding from her sister for staying out after dark

had fallen; but all she said in excuse was, that the old granny was

so very ill. That passed. On the Monday, soon after dinner, she came

downstairs with her things on, saying she was going over to Dyke Manor,

having promised Mrs. Todhetley to let her know the real state of Granny

Matt. "Don't thee get slipping in the snow, Jessy," said Mr. Page to

her, half jokingly. "No danger, father," she replied: and went up and

kissed him. As she did not return by tea-time, Miss Page took it for

granted she was spending the evening with us. Since that, she had not

been seen.

It seemed very odd. Mrs. Todhetley said that in talking with Jessy in

the porch, she had incidentally mentioned the sickness of Granny Matt.

Jessy immediately said she would go there and see her; and if she found

her very ill would send word to Dyke Manor. Talk as they would, there

was no more to be made of it than that: Jessy had left home to come to

us, and was lost by the way.

Lost to her friends, at any rate, if not to herself. John Drench and

Miss Page departed; and all day long the search after Jessy and the

speculation as to what had become of her continued. At first, no one had

glanced at anything except some untoward accident as the sole cause, but

gradually opinions veered round to a different fear. They began to think

she might have run away!

Run away to escape Mr. John Drench's persevering attentions; and to seek

the post of lady's-maid--which she had been expressing a wish for. John

stated, however, that he had _not_ persecuted her; that he had resolved

to let a little time go by in silence, and then try his luck again.

Granny Matt was questioned, and declared most positively that the young

lady had not stayed ten minutes with her; that it was only "duskish"

when she went away. "Duskish" at that season, in the broad open country,

with the white snow on the ground, would mean about five o'clock. What

had Jessy done with herself during the other hour--for it was past six

when she reached home,--and why should she have excused her tardiness by

implying that Granny Matt's illness had kept her?

No one could fathom it. No one ever knew. Before that first day of

trouble was over, John Drench suggested worse. Deeply mortified at its

being said that she might have run away from him, he breathed a hasty

retort--that it was more likely she had been run away with by Mr. Marcus

Allen. Had William Page been strong enough he had certainly knocked him

down for the aspersion. Susan heard it with a scared face: practical

Miss Abigail sternly demanded upon what grounds he spoke. Upon no

grounds in particular, Drench honestly answered: it was a thought that

came into his mind and he spoke it on the spur of the moment. Any way,

it was most unjust to say he had sent her.

The post-mistress at the general shop, Mrs. Smail, came forward with

some testimony. Miss Jessy had been no less than twice to the shop

during the past fortnight, nay, three times, she thought, to inquire

after letters addressed J. P. The last time she received one. Had she

been negotiating privately for the lady's-maid's situation, wondered

Abigail: had she been corresponding with Mr. Marcus Allen, retorted

Susan, in her ill-nature; for she did not just now hold Jessy in any

favour. Mrs. Smail was asked whether she had observed, amongst the

letters dropped into the box, any directed to Mr. Marcus Allen. But

this had to be left an open question: there might have been plenty

directed to him, or there might not have been a single one, was the

unsatisfactory answer: she had "no 'call' to examine the directions,

and as often did up the bag without her spectacles as with 'em."

All this, put together, certainly did not tend to show that Mr. Marcus

Allen had anything to do with the disappearance. Jessy had now and

then received letters from her former schoolfellows addressed to the

post-office--for her sisters, who considered her but a child, had an

inconvenient habit of looking over her shoulder while she read them. The

whole family, John Drench included, were up to their ears in agony: they

did not know in what direction to look for her; were just in that state

of mind when straws are caught at. Tod, knowing it could do no harm,

told Miss Abigail about the kiss in the coppice. Miss Abigail quite

laughed at it: kisses under the mistletoe were as common as blackberries

with us, and just as innocent. She wrote to Aberystwith, asking

questions about Marcus Allen, especially as to where he might be found.

In answer, Mrs. Allen said she had not heard from him since he left

Aberystwith, early in December, but had no doubt he was in London at his

own home: she did not know exactly where that was, except that it was

"somewhere at the West End."

This letter was not more satisfactory than anything else. Everything

seemed vague and doubtful. Miss Page read it to her father when he was

in bed: Susan had just brought up his breakfast, and he sat up with the

tray before him, his face nearly as white as the pillow behind him. They

could not help seeing how ill and how shrunken he looked: Jessy's loss

had told upon him.

"I think, father, I had better go to London, and see if anything's to be

learnt there," said Miss Page. "We cannot live on, in this suspense."

"Ay; best go," answered he, "_I_ can't live in it, either. I've had

another sleepless night: and I wish that I was strong to travel. I

should have been away long ago searching for the child----."

"You see, father, we don't know where to seek her; we've no clue,"

interrupted Abigail.

"I'd have gone from place to place till I found her. But now, I'll tell

ye, Abigail, where you must go first--the thought has been in my mind

all night. And that is to Madame Caron's."

"To Madame Caron's!" echoed both the sisters at once. "Madame Caron's!"

"Don't either of you remember how your mother used to talk of her? She

was Ann Dicker. She knows a sight of great folks now--and it may be that

Jessy's gone to her. Bond Street, or somewhere near to it, is where she

lives."

In truth they had almost forgotten the person mentioned. Madame Caron

had once been plain Ann Dicker, of Church Dykely, intimate with William

Page and his wife. She went to London when a young woman to learn the

millinery and dress-making; married a Frenchman, and rose by degrees to

be a fashionable court-milliner. It struck Mr. Page, during the past

night-watch, that Jessy might have applied to Madame Caron to help her

in getting a place as lady's-maid.

"It's the likeliest thing she'd do," he urged, "if her mind was bent

that way. How was she to find such a place of herself?--and I wish we

had all been smothered before we'd made her home here unhappy, and put

her on to think of such a thing."

"Father, I don't think her home was made unhappy," said Miss Page.

To resolve and to do were one with prompt Abigail Page. Not a moment

lost she, now that some sort of clue was given to act upon. That same

morning she was on her way to London, attended by John Drench.

* * * * *

A large handsome double show-room. Brass hooks on the walls and slender

bonnet-stands on the tables, garnished with gowns and mantles and

head-gear and fal-lals; wide pier-glasses; sofas and chairs covered

with chintz. Except for these articles, the room was empty. In a small

apartment opening from it, called "the trying-on room," sat Madame Caron

herself, taking a comfortable cup of tea and a toasted muffin, after the

labours of the day were over. Not that the labours were great at that

season: people who require court millinery being for the most part out

of town.

"You are wanted, if you please, madame, in the show-room," said a page

in buttons, coming in to disturb the tea.

"Wanted!--at this hour!" cried Madame Caron, as she glanced at the

clock, and saw it was on the stroke of six. "Who is it?"

"It's a lady and gentleman, madame. They look like travellers."

"Go in and light the gas," said madame.

"Passing through London and requiring things in a hurry," thought she,

mentally running through a list of some of her most fashionable

customers.

She went in with a swimming curtsy--quite that of a Frenchwoman--and the

parties, visitors and visited, gazed at each other in the gaslight.

_They_ saw a very stylish lady in rich black satin that stood on end,

and lappets of point lace: _she_ saw two homely country people, the one

in a red comforter, muffled about his ears, the other in an antiquated

fur tippet that must originally have come out of Noah's ark.

"Is it--Madame Caron?" questioned Miss Abigail, in hesitation. For,

you see, she doubted whether it might not be one of Madame Caron's

duchesses.

"I have the honour to be Madame Caron," replied the lady with her

grandest air.

Thus put at ease in regard to identity, Miss Page introduced

herself--and John Drench, son of Mr. Drench of the Upland Farm. Madame

Caron--who had a good heart, and retained amidst her grandeur a vivid

remembrance of home and early friends--came down from her stilts on the

instant, took off with her own hands the objectionable tippet, on the

plea of heat, conducted them into the little room, and rang for a fresh

supply of tea and muffins.

"I remember you so well when you were a little thing, Abigail," she

said, her heart warming to the old days. "We always said you would grow

up like your mother, and so you have. Ah, dear! that's something like a

quarter-of-a-century ago. As to you, Mr. John, your father and I were

boy and girl sweethearts."

Over the refreshing tea and the muffins, Abigail Page told her tale. The

whole of it. Her father had warned her not to hint a word against Jessy;

but there was something in the face before her that spoke of truth

and trust; and, besides, she did not see her way clear _not_ to speak

of Marcus Allen. To leave him out altogether would have been like

bargaining for a spring calf in the dark, as she said later to John

Drench.

"I have never had a line from Jessy in all my life: I have neither seen

her nor heard of her," said madame. "As to Mr. Marcus Allen, I don't

know him personally myself, but Miss Connaway, my head dressmaker, does:

for I have heard her speak of him. I can soon find out for you where he

lives."

Miss Page thought she should like to see the head dressmaker, and a

message was sent up for her. A neat little middle-aged woman came down,

and was invited to the tea-table. Madame turned the conversation on Mr.

Marcus Allen; telling Miss Connaway that these country friends of hers

knew him slightly, and would be glad to get his address to call upon

him; but she did not say a syllable about Jessy.

Mr. Marcus Allen had about two hundred a year of his own, and was an

artist in water-colours. The certain income made him idle; and he played

just as much as he worked. The few pictures he completed were good, and

sold well. He shared a large painting-room somewhere with a brother

artist, but lived in chambers. All this Miss Connaway told readily; she

had known him since he was a child.

Late though it was, Miss Abigail and her cavalier proceeded to Marcus

Allen's lodgings; or "chambers," as they were ostentatiously called, and

found him seated at dinner. He rose in the utmost astonishment at seeing

them; an astonishment that looked thoroughly genuine.

Jessy missing! Jessy left her home! He could but reiterate the words in

wondering disbelief. Abigail Page felt reassured from that moment; even

jealous John Drench in his heart acquitted him. He had not written to

Jessy, he said; he had nothing to write to her about, therefore it could

not have been his letter she went to receive at the post-office; and

most certainly she had not written to him. Miss Abigail--willing perhaps

to offer some excuse for coming to him--said they had thought it

possible Jessy might have consulted him about getting a lady's-maid's

place. She never had consulted him, he answered, but had once told him

that she intended to go out as one. He should imagine, he added, it was

what she had done.

Mr. Marcus Allen pressed them to sit down and partake of his dinner,

such as it was; he poured out glasses of wine; he was altogether

hospitable. But they declined all. He then asked how he could assist

them; he was most anxious they should find her, and would help in any

way that lay in his power.

"He knows no more about her than we know," said John Drench as they

turned out into the lighted streets, on their way back to the inn they

had put up at, which had been recommended to them by Mr. Page. "I'm

sorry I misjudged him."

"I am sorry too, John Drench," was Miss Abigail's sorrowful answer. "But

for listening to the words you said, we should never have had such a

wicked thought about her, poor child, and been spared many a bitter

moment. Where in the wide world are we to look for her now?"

The wide world did not give any answer. London, with its teeming

millions, was an enormous arena--and there was no especial cause for

supposing Jessy Page had come to it.

"I am afraid it will be of no use to stay here any longer," said Miss

Abigail to John Drench, after another unsatisfactory day had gone by,

during which Marcus Allen called upon them at the inn and said he had

spoken to the police. It was John Drench's own opinion.

"Why, you see, Miss Abigail, that to look for her here, not knowing

where or how, is like looking for a needle in a bottle of hay," said

John.

They reached home none too soon. Two unexpected events were there to

greet them. The one was Mr. Page who was lying low in an attack of

paralysis; the other was a letter from Jessy.

It gave no clue to where she was. All she said in it was that she had

found a situation, and hoped to suit and be happy in it; and she sent

her love to all.

And the weeks and the months went on.