Johnny Ludlow Second Series Part 48

So in the middle of the village, at Mr. Duffham's door, Giles pulled up.

The surgeon, seeing who it was, came out, and handed his visitor indoors.

Lady Chava.s.se had not enjoyed a gossip with Mr. Duffham since before her last absence from home. She rather liked one in her coldly condescending way. And she stayed with him in the surgery while he made up some medicine for her, and told her all the village news. Then she began talking about her daughter-in-law.

"Lady Rachel seems well, but there is a little fractiousness perceptible now and then; and I fancy that, with some people, it denotes a state of not perfect health. There are _no_ children, Mr. Duffham, you see. There have been no signs of any."

"Time enough for that, my lady."

"Well--they have been married for--let me recollect--nearly fourteen months. I do hope there will be children! I am anxious that there should be."

The surgeon happened to meet her eyes as she spoke, and read the anxiety seated in them.

"You see--if there were none, and anything happened to Sir Geoffry, it would be the case of the old days--my case over again. Had my child proved to be a girl, the Grange would have gone from us. You do not remember that; you were not here; but your predecessor, Mr. Layne, knew all about it."

Perhaps it was the first time for some three or more years past that Lady Chava.s.se had voluntarily mentioned the name of Layne to the surgeon. It might have been a slip of the tongue now.

"But nothing is likely to happen to Sir Geoffry, Lady Chava.s.se,"

observed Duffham, after an imperceptible pause. "He is young and healthy."

"I know all that. Only it would be pleasant to feel we were on the safe side--that there was a son to succeed. If anything did happen to him, and he left no son, the Grange would pa.s.s away from us. I cannot help looking to contingencies: it has been my way to do so all my life."

"Well, Lady Chava.s.se, I sincerely hope the son will come. Sir Geoffry is anxious on the point, I dare say."

"He makes no sign of being so. Sir Geoffry seems to me to have grown a little indifferent in manner of late, as to general interests. Yesterday afternoon we were talking about making some improvements at the Grange, he and I; Lady Rachel was indoors at the piano. I remarked that it would cost a good deal of money, and the question was, whether it would be worth while to do it. 'My successor would think it so, no doubt,' cried Sir Geoffry. 'I hope that will never be Parker Chava.s.se; I should not like him to reign here,' I said hastily. 'If it is, mother, I shall not be alive to witness it,' was his unemotional answer."

"Lady Chava.s.se, considering the difference between the admiral's age and Sir Geoffry's, I should say there are thirty chances against it," was Duffham's reply, as he began to roll up the bottle of mixture in white paper.

While he was doing this, a clapping of tiny hands attracted Lady Chava.s.se's attention to the window, which stood open. A little boy had run out of Mrs. Layne's door opposite, and stood on the pavement in admiration of the carriage, which the groom was driving slowly about. It was a pretty child of some three years old, or thereabouts, in a brown holland pinafore strapped round the waist, his little arms and legs and neck bare, and his light hair curling.

"Oh, g'andma, look! G'andma, come and look!" he cried--and the words were wafted distinctly to Lady Chava.s.se.

"Who _is_ that child, Mr. Duffham? I have seen him sometimes before.

Stay, though, I remember--I think I have heard. He belongs to that daughter of Mr. Layne's who married a soldier of the same name. A lieutenant, or some grade of that kind, was he not?"

"Lieutenant Layne then: Captain Layne now," carelessly replied Mr.

Duffham. "Hopes to get his majority in time, no doubt."

"Oh, indeed. I sometimes wonder how people devoid of family connections manage to obtain rapid promotion. The grandmother takes care of the child, I suppose. Quite a charge for her."

Mr. Duffham, standing now by her side, glanced at Lady Chava.s.se. Her countenance was open, unembarra.s.sed: there was no sign of ulterior thought upon it. Evidently a certain event of the past was not just then in her remembrance.

"How is the old lady?" she asked.

"Middling. She breaks fast. I doubt, though, if one of her daughters will not go before her."

Lady Chava.s.se turned quickly at the words.

"I speak of the one who is with her--Miss Elizabeth Layne," continued Mr. Duffham, busily rolling up the bottle. "Her health is failing: I think seriously; though she may linger for some time yet."

There was a pause. Lady Chava.s.se looked hard at the white k.n.o.bs on the drug-drawers. But that she began to speak, old Duffham might have thought she was counting how many there were of them.

"The other one--Miss Mary Layne--is she still in that situation in India? A governess, or something of the kind, we heard she went out to be."

"Governess to Captain Layne's children. Oh yes, she's there. And likely to be, the people over the way seem to say. Captain and Mrs. Layne consider that they have a treasure in her."

"Oh, I make no doubt she would do her duty. Thank you; never mind sealing it. I will be sure to attend to your directions, Mr. Duffham."

She swept out to the carriage, which had now drawn up, and stepped over the low step into it. The surgeon put the bottle by her side, and saluted her as she drove away. Across the road trotted the little fellow in the pinafore.

"Did oo see dat booful tarriage, Mis'er Duffham? I'd like to 'ide in it."

"You would, would you, Master Arthur," returned the surgeon, hoisting the child for a moment on his shoulder, and then setting him on his feet again, as Miss Layne appeared at the door. "Be off back: there's Aunt Elizabeth looking angry. It's against the law, you know, sir, to run out beyond the house."

And the little lad ran over at once, obediently.

Nearly three years back--not quite so much by two or three months--Church d.y.k.ely was gratified by the intelligence that Captain Layne's wife--then sojourning in Europe--was coming on a short visit to her mother with her three or four weeks' old baby. Church d.y.k.ely welcomed the news, for it was a sort of break to the monotonous, jog-trot village life, and warmly received Mrs. Richard Layne and the child on their arrival. The infant was born in France, where Mrs.

Richard Layne had been staying with one of her sisters--Mary--and whence she had now come direct to her mother's; Mary having gone on to Liverpool to join Mrs. Richard Layne's other children. The baby--made much of by the neighbours--was to remain with old Mrs. Layne: Mrs.

Richard Layne did not deem it well to take so young a child to India, as he seemed rather delicate. Church d.y.k.ely said how generous it was of her to sacrifice her motherly feelings for the baby's good--but the Laynes had always been unselfish. She departed, leaving the child. And Baby Arthur, as all the place called him, lived and thrived, and was now grown as fine a little fellow for his age as might be, with a generous spirit and open heart. My Lady Chava.s.se (having temporarily forgotten it when speaking with Mr. Duffham) had heard all about the child's parentage just as the village had--that he was the son of Captain Richard Layne and his wife Susan. Chava.s.se Grange generally understood the same, including Sir Geoffry. There was no intercourse whatever between the Layne family and the Grange; there had not been any since Miss Mary Layne quitted it. My Lady Chava.s.se was in the habit of turning away her eyes when she pa.s.sed Mrs. Layne's house: and in good truth, though perhaps her conscience reminded her of it at these moments, she had three-parts forgotten the unpleasant episode of the past.

And the little boy grew and thrived: and became as much a feature in Church d.y.k.ely as other features were--say the bridge over the mill-stream, or the butcher's wife--and was no more thought of, in the matter of speculation, than they were.

Miss Elizabeth Layne caught hold of the young truant's hand with a jerk and a reprimand, telling him he would be run over some day. She had occasion to tell it him rather often, for he was of a fearless nature.

Mr. Duffham nodded across the road to Miss Elizabeth.

"Are you better to-day?" he called out. People don't stand on ceremony in these rural places.

"Not much, thank you," came the answer.

For Miss Elizabeth Layne had been anything but strong lately: her symptoms being very like those that herald consumption.

The time rolled on, bringing its changes. You have already seen it rolling on in Calcutta, for in this, the third part, we have had to go back a year or two.

Elizabeth Layne died. Mrs. Layne grew very feeble, and it was thought and said by every one that one of her daughters ought to be residing with her. There was only one left unmarried--Mary. Mary received news in India of this state of things at home, together with a summons from her mother. Not at all a peremptory summons. Mrs. Layne wrote a few shaky lines, praying her to come "if she would not mind returning to the place:" if she did mind it, why, she, the mother, must die alone as she best could. There was a short struggle in Mary Layne's heart; a quick, sharp battle, and she gave in. Her duty to her mother lay before aught else in G.o.d's sight; and she would yield to it. As soon as preparations for her voyage could be made, she embarked for England.

It was autumn when she got home, and Church d.y.k.ely received her gladly.

Mary Layne had always been a favourite in the place, from the time her father, the good-hearted, hard-working surgeon, had fondly shown her, his youngest and fairest child, to the public, a baby of a few days old.

But Church d.y.k.ely found her greatly changed. They remembered her as a blooming girl; she came back to them a grave woman, looking older than her years, and with a pale sweet countenance that seemed never to have a smile on it. She was only six-and-twenty yet.

Miss Layne took up her post at once by the side of her ailing mother.

What with attending her and attending to Baby Arthur--whom she took into training at once, just as she had taken the children in India--she found her time fully occupied. The boy, when she returned, was turned five.

She went out very rarely; never--except to church, or at dusk--when the family were at the Grange, for she seemed to have a dread of meeting them. Church d.y.k.ely wondered that Miss Layne did not call at the Grange, considering that she had been humble companion there before she went out, or that my lady did not come to see her; but supposed the lapse of time had caused the acquaintances.h.i.+p to fall through.

Mary had brought good news from India. Her sister Eleanor, Mrs. Allan McAlpin, had a little girl, to the great delight of all concerned. Just when they had given it up as hopeless, the capricious infant arrived.

Major Layne told his wife confidentially that Allan McAlpin was prouder of that baby than any dog with two tails.

And henceforth this was to be Mary Layne's home, and this her occupation--caring for her mother, so long as the old lady should be spared, and gently leading to good the child, Arthur. Mrs. Layne, lapsing into her dotage, would sit in her favourite place, the parlour window, open when the weather allowed it, watching people as they pa.s.sed. Mary's smooth and bright brown hair might be seen in the background, her head drooping over the book she was reading to Mrs.

Layne, or over her work when the old lady grew tired of listening, or over Master Arthur's lessons at the table. Not only lessons to fit him for this world did Mary teach him; but such as would stand him in good aid when striving onwards for the next. Twice a day, morning and evening, would she take the child alone, and talk to him of heaven, and things pertaining to it. Aunt Elizabeth's lessons had been chiefly on the score of behaviour: the other sort of instruction had been all routine, at the best. Mary remedied this, and she had an apt little scholar. Seated on her knee, his bright blue eyes turned up to her face, the child would listen and talk, and say he would be a good boy always, always. The tears wet his eyelashes at her Bible stories: he would put his little face down on her bosom, and whisper out a sobbing wish that Jesus would love _him_ as He had loved the little children on earth.