II

Had the clerk of the weather been bribed with a purse of gold, he could

not have sent a finer day than Thursday turned out to be. The sun shone,

the air sparkled, and the bells of Islip church rang out from the old

steeple. Islip was much behind other churches in many respects; so

primitive, indeed, in some of its ways, that had an edifice of advanced

views come sailing through the air to pay it a visit, it would have

turned tail again and sailed away; but Islip could boast of one thing

few churches can boast of--a delightful peal of bells.

The wedding took place at eleven o'clock, and was a quiet one. Its

attendants were chiefly confined to the parties themselves and their

immediate relatives, but that did not prevent other people from flocking

in to see it.

I and Dick MacEveril went in together, and got a good place close up;

which was lucky, for the old church is full of pillars and angles

that obstruct the view. Emma was in white silk; her bridesmaid, Mary

MacEveril, the same; it was the custom in those days. Tom looked

uncommonly well; but he and she were both nervous. Old Paul gave her

away; and a thin aunt, with a twisted nose, who had come on a visit to

superintend the wedding, in place of Emma's dead mother, did nothing but

weep. She wore an odd gown, pink one way, blue another; you might have

thought she had borrowed its colours from their copper teakettle. Mrs.

Chandler, Tom's mother, in grey silk, was smarter than she had ever

been in her life; and his aunt, Mrs. Cramp, was resplendent in a dress

bordering upon orange.

The ceremony came to an end very quickly, I thought--you do think so

at most simple weddings; and Tom and his wife went away together in

the first carriage. Next came the breakfast at Mr. Paul's; the aunt

presiding in a gentle stream of tears. Early in the afternoon the bride

and bridegroom left for London, on their way to the Continent.

* * * * *

Everyone does not care to dash to a church to see a marriage: some would

as soon think of running to look on at a funeral. Mr. Preen was one of

these insensible people, and he, of course, did not care to go near it.

He made game of Jane for doing so; but Jane wanted to see the dresses

and the ceremony. Oliver had not the opportunity of going; and would not

have gone though he had had it. Just about eleven o'clock, when the gay

doings were in full swing, Mr. Preen took Oliver off to Worcester in the

gig.

About a fortnight before, Mr. Preen had appointed a saddler in Worcester

to be his agent for the new patent agricultural implements, for which he

was himself agent-in-chief. Until this under agency should be well in

hand, Mr. Preen considered it necessary to see the saddler often: for

which purpose he drove into Worcester at least three times a week. Once,

instead of going himself, he had sent Oliver, but this day was the first

time the two had gone together. It might have been--one cannot tell--but

it might have been that Mr. Preen discerned what this wedding of Emma

Paul's must be to his son, and so took him out to divert his mind a bit.

Now, upon entering Worcester, to get to the saddler's it was necessary

to drive through High Street and turn into Broad Street. At least, that

was the straightforward route. But Oliver had not taken it the day he

drove in alone; he had preferred the more roundabout way of the back

streets. After driving through Sidbury, he--instead of going forward up

College Street and so into High Street--went careering along Friar

Street, along the whole length of New Street, turned up St. Swithin

Street, or Goose Lane, or one of those dingy thoroughfares, made a dash

across the top of High Street, and so into his destination, Broad

Street. In returning he took the same way. What his objection to the

better streets could be, he alone knew. To-day, however, Mr. Preen held

the reins.

Mr. Preen was driving quietly up College Street, when Oliver spoke.

"I wish you'd put me down here, father."

"Put you down here!" repeated Mr. Preen, turning to look at him. "What

for?"

"I want to get a little book for Jane," answered Oliver, glancing

towards Mr. Eaton's house. "I shall be up in Broad Street nearly as soon

as you are, if you want me there."

"I don't particularly want you," said Mr. Preen, crustily, "but you

needn't be long before you come." And, drawing up to the side, he let

Oliver get out.

Driving on to the saddler's, Mr. Preen transacted his business with him.

When it was over, he went to the door, where his gig waited, and looked

up and down the street, but saw nothing of Oliver.

"Hasn't given himself the trouble to come up! Would rather put his lazy

legs astride one of those posts opposite the college, and watch for my

passing back again!"

Which was of course rather a far-fetched idea of Mr. Preen's; but

he spoke in a temper. Though, indeed, of late Oliver had appeared

singularly inert; as if all spirit to move had gone out of him.

Mr. Preen got into his gig at the saddler's door and set off again.

Turning into High Street, he drove gently down it, looking out on all

sides, if truth must be told, for Oliver. This caused him to see

Stephenson standing at the silversmith's door, the silversmith himself,

back now for good at his business, being behind the counter. Now and

then, since the bank-note was traced, Mr. Preen had made inquiries of

Stephenson as to whether any news had been heard of its changer, but he

had not done so lately. Not being in a hurry, he pulled up against the

curb-stone. Stephenson crossed the flags to speak.

"Nothing turned up yet, I suppose?" said Mr. Preen.

"Well, I can hardly say it has," replied Stephenson; "but I've seen the

gentleman who paid it in to us."

"And who is it? and where was he?" cried Preen, eagerly.

Stephenson had stepped back a pace, and appeared to be looking

critically at the horse and gig.

"It was last Saturday," he said, coming close again. "I had to take a

parcel into Friar Street for one of our country customers, a farmer's

wife who was spending the day with some people living down there, and I

saw a gig bowling along. The young fellow in it was the one who changed

the note."

"Are you sure of it?" returned Mr. Preen.

"Quite sure, sir. I had no opportunity of speaking to him or stopping

him. He was driving at a good pace, and the moment he caught sight of

me, for I saw him do that, he touched the horse and went on like a

whirlwind."

Mr. Preen's little dark face took a darker frown. "_I_ should have

stopped him," he said, sternly. "You ought to have rushed after him,

Stephenson, and called upon the street to help in the pursuit. You

might, at least, have traced where he went to. A gig, you say he was

in?"

"Yes," said Stephenson. "And, unless I am greatly mistaken, it was this

very gig you are in now."

"What do you mean by that?" retorted Preen, haughtily.

"I took particular notice of the horse and gig, so as to recognise them

again if ever I got the chance; and I say that it was this gig and this

horse, sir. There's no mistake about it."

They stared into one another's eyes, one face looking up, and the other

looking down. All in a moment, Stephenson saw the other face turn

ghastly white. It had come into Mr. Preen's recollection amidst his

bewilderment, that Oliver had gone into Worcester last Saturday

afternoon, driving the horse and gig.

"I can't understand this! Who should be in my gig?" he cried, calling

some presence of mind to his aid. "Last Saturday, you say? In the

afternoon?"

"Last Saturday afternoon, close upon four o'clock. As I turned down Lich

Street, I saw the lay-clerks coming out of College. Afternoon service is

generally over a little before four," added Stephenson. "He was driving

straight into Friar Street from Sidbury."

Another recollection flashed across Mr. Preen: Oliver's asking just now

to be put down in College Street. Was it to prevent his passing through

High Street? Was he afraid to pass through it?

"He is a nice-looking young fellow," said Stephenson; "has a fair, mild

face; but he was the one who changed the note."

"That may be; but as to his being in my gig, it is not---- Why, I was

not in town at all on Saturday," broke off Mr. Preen, with a show of

indignant remonstrance.

"No, Mr. Preen; the young man was in it alone," said Stephenson, who

probably had his own thoughts upon the problem.

"Well, I can't stay longer now; I'm late already," said Mr. Preen. "Good

morning, Stephenson." And away he drove with a dash.

Oliver was waiting in College Street, standing near the Hare and Hounds

Inn. Mr. Preen pulled up.

"So you did not chose to come on!" he said.

"Well, I--I thought there'd be hardly time, and I might miss you; I went

to get my hair cut," replied Oliver, as he settled himself in his place

beside his father.

Mr. Preen drove on in silence until they were opposite the Commandery

gates in the lower part of Sidbury. Then he spoke again.

"What made you drive through Friar Street on Saturday last, instead of

going the direct way?"

"Through--Friar Street?" stammered Oliver.

"Through Friar Street, instead of High Street," repeated Mr. Preen, in a

sharp, passionate accent.

"Oh, I remember. High Street is so crowded on a market day; the back

streets are quiet," said Oliver, as if he had a lump in his throat, and

could not make his voice heard.

"And in taking the back streets you avoid the silversmith's, and the

risk you run of being recognised; is that it?" savagely retorted Mr.

Preen.

Not another word did he speak, only drove on home at a furious pace.

Oliver knew all then: the disgrace for which he had been so long waiting

had come upon him.

But when they got indoors, Mr. Preen let loose the vials of his wrath

upon Oliver. Before his mother, before Jane, he published his iniquity.

It was he, Oliver, who had stolen the ten-pound note; it was he who had

so craftily got it changed at Worcester. Oliver spoke not a word of

denial, made no attempt at excuse or defence; he stood with bent head

and pale, meek face, his blue eyes filled with utter misery. The same

look of misery lay in Mrs. Preen's eyes as she faintly reproached him

amid tears and sobs. Jane was simply stunned.

"You must go away now and hide yourself; I can't keep you here to be

found and pounced upon," roared Mr. Preen. "By the end of the week you

must be gone somewhere. Perhaps you can pick up a living in London."

"Yes, I will go," said Oliver, meekly. And at the first lull in the

storm he crept up to his room.

He did not come down to dinner; did not come to tea. Jane carried up

a cup of tea upon a waiter and some bread-and-butter, and put it down

outside the chamber door, which he had bolted.

Later, in passing his room, she saw the door open and went in. Cup and

plate were both empty, so he had taken the refreshment. He was not in

the house, was not in the garden. Putting on her sun-bonnet and a light

shawl, she ran to the Inlets.

Oliver was there. He sat, gazing moodily at the brook and the melancholy

osier-twigs that grew beside it. Jane sat down and bent his poor

distressed face upon her shoulder.

"Dear Oliver! Don't take it so to heart. I know you must have been

sorely tempted."

Bending there upon her, her arms clasping him, yielding to the loving

sympathy, so grateful after those harsh reproaches, he told her all,

under cover of the gathering shades of evening. Yes, he had been

tempted--and had yielded to the temptation.

He wanted money badly for necessary things, and things that he had

learned to deem necessaries, and he had it not. A pair of new gloves

now and again, a necktie to replace his shabby ones, a trifle of loose

silver in his pocket. He owed a small sum to MacEveril, and wanted to

repay him. Once or twice he had asked a little money of his father, and

was refused. His mother would give him a few shillings, when pressed,

but grumbled over it. So Oliver wrote to a friend at Tours, whom he had

known well, asking if he would lend him some. That was the first week in

June. His friend wrote back in answer that he could lend him some after

quarter day, the 24th, but not before; he would send him over ten pounds

then, if that would do.

Never a thought had presented itself to Oliver of touching the ten

pounds in his father's letter to Mr. Paul, which he had sealed and saw

posted. But on the following afternoon, Wednesday, he saw the letter

lying on Mr. Hanborough's desk; the temptation assailed him, and he took

it.

It may be remembered that Mr. Preen had gone out that hot day, leaving

Oliver a lot of work to do. He got through it soon after four o'clock,

and went dashing over the cross route to Islip and into Mr. Paul's

office, for he wanted to see Dick MacEveril. The office was empty; not

a soul was in it; and as Oliver stood, rather wondering at that unusual

fact, he saw a small pile of letters, evidently just left by the

postman, lying on the desk close to him. The uppermost of the letters

he recognised at once; it was the one sent by his father. "If I might

borrow the ten pounds inside that now, I should be at ease; I would

replace it with the ten pounds coming to me from Tours, and it might

never get known," whispered Satan in his ear, with plausible cunning.

Never a moment did he allow himself for thought, never an instant's

hesitation served to stop him. Catching up the letter, he thrust it into

his breast pocket, and set off across country again at a tearing pace,

not waiting to see MacEveril.

He seemed to have flown over hedges and ditches and to be home in no

time. Little wonder that when he was seen sitting under the walnut tree

in the garden and was called in to tea, his mother and sister exclaimed

at his heated face. They never suspected he had been out.

All that night Oliver lay awake: partly wondering how he should

dispose of his prize to make it available; partly telling himself, in

shame-faced reproach, that he would not use it, but send it back to old

Paul. It came into his mind that if he did use it he might change it at

the silversmith's as if for the Todhetleys, the Squire's name on the

back suggesting the idea to him. It would not do, he thought, to go into

a shop, any shop, purchase some trifling article and tender a ten-pound

note in payment. That might give rise to suspicion. Some months before,

when at Crabb Cot, he had heard Mrs. Todhetley relate the history of her

brooch, where she bought it, what she paid for it, and all about it, to

Colonel Letsom's wife and other people, for it happened that several

callers had come in together. The brooch had been passed round the

company and admired. Oliver remembered this, and resolved to make use of

it to disarm suspicion at the silversmith's. He knew the principal shops

in Worcester very well indeed, and Worcester itself. He had stayed for

some time, when sixteen, with an uncle who was living there; but he had

not visited the city since coming to Duck Brook.

Thursday, the day following that on which he took the money, was the day

of the picnic. Oliver started with Jane for it in the morning, as may be

remembered, the ten-pound note hidden safely about him. Much to Oliver's

surprise his mother put seven shillings into his hand. "You'll not want

to use it, and must give it me back to-morrow," she said, "but it does

not look well to go to a thing of this sort with quite empty pockets."

Oliver thanked her, kissed her, and they drove off. Before reaching

Mrs. Jacob Chandler's, after passing Islip Grange--the property of Lady

Fontaine, as may be remembered, who was first cousin to John Paul--they

overtook Sam, walking on to take back the gig. "We may as well get out

here," said Oliver, and he pulled up. Getting out, and helping out Jane,

he sent Sam and the gig back at once. He bade his sister walk on alone

to Mrs. Chandler's, saying he wanted to do a little errand first. But

he charged her not to mention that; only to say, if questioned, that

he would join them by-and-by. He ran all the way to the station,

regardless of the heat, and caught a train for Worcester.

The rest is known. Oliver changed the note at the silversmith's, bought

himself a pair of dandy gloves, with one or two other small matters, and

made the best of his way back again. But it was past the middle of the

afternoon when he got to the picnic: trains do not choose our time for

running, but their own. Jane wondered where he had been. Hearing of the

pigeon-match, she thought it was there. She asked him, in a whisper,

where he had found those delicate gloves; Oliver laughed and said

something about a last relic from Tours.

And there it was. He had taken the note; he, Oliver Preen; and got the

gold for it. That day of the picnic was in truth the worst he had ever

experienced, the one hard day of all his life, as he had remarked to

Jane. Not only had he committed a deed in it which might never be

redeemed, but he also learnt that Emma Paul's love was given not to him,

but to another. It was for her sake he had coveted new gloves and money

in his pockets, that he might not look despicable in her sight.

The dearest and surest of expectations are those that fail. While

Oliver, as the days went on, was feverishly looking out, morning after

morning, for the remittance from Tours, he received a letter to say it

was not coming. His friend, with many expressions of regret, wrote to

the effect that he was unable to send it at present; later, he hoped to

do so. Of course, it never came. And Oliver had not been able to replace

the money, and--this was the end of it.

In a whispering, sobbing tone, he told these particulars by degrees to

Jane as they sat there. She tried to comfort him; said it might never

be known beyond themselves at home; rather advocated his going away for

a short time, as proposed, while things righted themselves, and their

father's anger cooled down. But Oliver could not be comforted. Then,

leaving the unsatisfactory theme, she tried another, and began telling

him of the wedding at Islip that morning, and of how Tom and Emma

looked----

"Don't, Jane," he interrupted; and his wailing, shrinking tone seemed to

betray the keenest pain of all.

They walked home together in silence, Jane clinging to his arm. The

night shades lay upon the earth, the stars were shining in the sky.

Oliver laid his hand upon the garden gate and paused.

"Do you remember, Jane, when I was coming in here for the first time,

how a strange shiver took me, and you thought I must have caught a

chill. It was a warning, my dear; a warning of the evil that lay in

store for me."

He would not go into the parlour to supper, but went softly up to his

room and shut himself in for the night. Poor Oliver! Poor, poor Oliver!

The following day, Friday, Mr. Preen, allowing himself the unwonted

luxury of a holiday for a day's shooting, was away betimes. For the

afternoon and evening, Mrs. Jacob Chandler's daughters, Clementina,

Georgiana, and Julietta, had organised a party to celebrate their cousin

Tom's wedding; Miss Julietta called it a "flare-up."

Jane Preen had promised, for herself and for Oliver, to be there by

three o'clock. For Oliver! She made herself ready after dinner; and

then, looking everywhere for her brother, found him standing in the road

just outside the garden gate. He said he was not going. Jane reproached

him, and he quite laughed at her. _He_ go into company now! she might

know better. But Jane had great influence over him, and as he walked

with her along the road--for she was going to walk in and walk back

again at night--she nearly persuaded him to fetch her. Only nearly; not

quite. Oliver finally refused, and they had almost a quarrel.

Then the tears ran down Jane's cheeks. Her heart was aching to pain for

him; and her object in pressing him to come was to take him out of his

loneliness.

"Just this one evening, Oliver!" she whispered, clinging to him and

kissing him. "I don't ask you a favour often."

And Oliver yielded. "I'll come for you, Janey," he said, kissing her

in return. "That is, I will come on and meet you; I cannot go to the

house."

With that, they parted. But in another minute, Jane was running back

again.

"You will be _sure_ to come, Oliver? You won't disappoint me? You won't

go from your word?"

Oliver felt a little annoyed; the sore heart grows fretful. "I swear

I'll come, then," he said; "I'll meet you, alive or dead."

I was at the party. Not Tod; he had gone shooting. We spent the

afternoon in the garden. It was not a large party, after all; only the

Letsoms, Jane Preen, and the Chandler girls; but others were expected

later. Jane had a disconsolate look. Knowing nothing of the trouble at

Duck Brook, I thought she was sad because Valentine had not come early,

according to promise. We knew later that he had been kept by what he

called a long-winded client.

At five o'clock we went indoors to tea. Those were the days of real,

old-fashioned teas, not sham ones, as now. Hardly had we seated

ourselves round the table, and Mrs. Jacob Chandler was inquiring who

took sugar and who didn't, when one of the maids came in.

"If you please, Miss Preen, the gig is come for you," she said.

"The gig!" exclaimed Jane. "Come for me! You must be mistaken, Susan."

"It is at the gate, Miss Jane, and Sam's in it. He says that his master

and missus have sent him to take you home immediate."

Jane, all astonishment, followed by some of us, went out to see what

Sam could mean. Sam only repeated in a stolid kind of way the message he

had given to Susan. His master and mistress had despatched him for Miss

Jane and she must go home at once.

"Is anything the matter?--anyone ill?" asked Jane, turning pale.

Sam, looking more stolid than before, professed not to know anything; he

either did not or would not. Miss Jane had to go, and as quick as she

could, was all he would say.

Jane put on her things, said good-bye in haste, and went out again to

the gig. Sam drove off at a tangent before she had well seated herself.

"Now, Sam, what's the matter?" she began.

Sam, in about three stolid words, protested, as before, he couldn't say

_what_ was the matter; except that he had been sent off for Miss Jane.

Jane noticed, and thought it odd, that he did not look at her as he

spoke, though he was frank and open by habit; he had never looked in any

of their faces since coming to the door.

"Where's Mr. Oliver?" she asked. But Sam only muttered that he "couldn't

say," and drove swiftly.

They went on in silence after that, Jane seeing it would be useless to

inquire further, and were soon at Duck Brook. She felt very uneasy. What

she feared was, that her father and Oliver might have quarrelled, and

that the latter was about to be turned summarily out of doors.

"Why, there's Mr. Oliver!" she exclaimed. "Pull up, Sam."

They were passing the first Inlet. Oliver stood at the top of it, facing

the road, evidently looking out for her, as Jane thought. His gaze was

fixed, his face white as death.

"I told you to pull up, Sam; how dare you disobey me and drive on in

that way?" cried Jane; for Sam had whipped up the horse instead of

stopping. Jane, looking at his face saw it had gone white too.

"There he is! there he is again! There's Mr. Oliver!"

They had approached the other Inlet as Jane spoke. Oliver stood at the

top of it, exactly as he had stood at the other, his gaze fixed on her,

his face ghastly. Not a muscle of his face moved; a dead man could not

be more still. Sam, full of terror, was driving on like lightning, as if

some evil thing were pursuing him.

And now Jane turned pale. What did it mean? these two appearances? It

was totally impossible for Oliver to be at the last Inlet, if it was

he who stood at the other. A bird of the air might have picked him up,

carried him swiftly over the trees and dropped him at the second Inlet;

nothing else could have done it in the time. What did it mean?

Mr. Preen was waiting at the door to receive Jane. He came a little way

with slow steps down the path to meet her as the gig stopped. She ran in

at the gate.

"What has happened, papa?" she cried. "Where's Oliver?"

Oliver was upstairs, lying upon his bed--dead. Mr. Preen disclosed it to

her as gently as he knew how.

* * * * *

It was all too true. Oliver had died about two hours before. He had shot

himself at the Inlets, close by the melancholy osiers that grew over the

brook.

Oliver had accompanied Jane to the end of Brook Lane. There, at the

Islip Road, they parted; she going on to Crabb, Oliver walking back

again. Upon reaching the Inlets, that favourite spot of his, he sat down

on the bench that faced the highway; the self-same bench Jane had sat on

when she was watching for his arrival from Tours, in the early days of

spring. He had not sat there above a minute when he saw his father, with

one or two more gentlemen, get over the gate from the field opposite.

They were returning from shooting, and had their guns in their hands.

Mr. Preen walked quickly over the road to Oliver.

"Take my gun indoors," he said; "I am not going in just yet. It is

loaded."

He walked away down the road with his friends, after speaking. Oliver

took the gun, walked slowly down one of the Inlets, and placed himself

on the nearest bench there, lodging the gun against the end. In a few

minutes there arose a loud report.

Sam was in the upper part of the field on the other side the brook with

the waggon and waggoner. He turned to look where the noise came from,

and thought he saw some one lying on the ground by the bench. They both

came round in haste, he and the waggoner, and found Oliver Preen lying

dead with the gun beside him. Running for assistance, Sam helped to

carry him home, and then went for the nearest doctor; but it was all of

no avail. Oliver was dead.

Was it an accident, or was it intentional? People asked the question. At

the coroner's inquest, Mr. Preen, who was so affected he could hardly

give evidence, said that, so far as he believed, Oliver was one of the

last people likely to lay violent hands on himself; he was of too calm

and gentle a temperament for that. The rustic jury, pitying the father

and believing him, gave Oliver the benefit of the doubt. Loaded guns

were dangerous, they observed, apt to go off of themselves almost; and

they brought it in Accidental Death.

But Jane knew better. I thought I knew better. I'm afraid Mr. Preen knew

better.

And what of that appearance of Oliver which Jane saw? It could not have

been Oliver in the flesh, but I think it must have been Oliver in the

spirit. Many a time and oft in the days that followed did Jane recount

it over to me; it seemed a relief to her distress to talk of it. "He

said he would come, alive or dead, to meet me; and he came."

And I, Johnny Ludlow, break off here to state that the account of this

apparition is strictly true. Every minute particular attending it, even

to the gig coming with Sam in it to fetch Jane from the tea-table, is a

faithful record of that which occurred.

I took an opportunity of questioning Sam, asking whether he had seen

the appearance. It was as we were coming away from the grave after the

funeral. Oliver was buried in Duck Brook churchyard, close under the

clock which had told him the time when he stood with his father posting

the letters that past afternoon at Dame Sym's window. "We are too late,

father," he had said. But for being too late the tragedy might never

have happened, for the letter, which caused all the trouble and

commotion, would have reached Mr. Paul's hands safely the next morning.

"No, sir," Sam answered me, "I can't say that I saw anything. But just

as Miss Jane spoke, calling out that Mr. Oliver was there, a kind of

shivering wind seemed to take me, and I turned icy cold. It was not her

words that could have done it, sir, for I was getting so before she

spoke. And at the last Inlet, when she called it out again, I went

almost out of my mind with cold and terror. The horse was affrighted

too; his coat turned wet."

* * * * *

That was the tragedy: no one can say I did wrong to call it one. For

years and years it has been in my mind to write it. But I had hoped to

end the paper less sadly; only the story has lengthened itself out, and

there's no space left. I meant to have told of Jane's brighter fate in

the after days with Valentine, the one lover of her life. For Val pulled

himself up from his reckless ways, though not at Islip; and in a distant

land they are now sailing down the stream of life together, passing

through, as we all have to do, its storms and its sunshine. All this

must be left for another paper.