Johnny Ludlow Second Series Part 92

She could never feel that same love again; it was over and done with for ever; but there was surely no reason why she should sacrifice all her future to its remembrance. _Yes_: she would accept Sir Robert Tenby: and would, by the help of Heaven, make him a true, faithful, good wife.

It was nearly dusk the next afternoon before she could leave the house.

Mrs. Lewis had kept her in sight so long that she feared she might not find the opportunity that day. She ran all the way to Bellwood, anxious to keep her promise: she could not bear to seem to trifle, even for a moment, with this good and considerate man. Sir Robert was waiting for her in a glow of firelight. He came forward, took both her hands in his, and looked into her face inquiringly.

"Well?"

"Yes, sir, if you still wish to take me. I will try to be to you a loving wife; obedient and faithful."

With a sigh of relief, he sat down on a sofa that was drawn to the fire and placed her beside him, holding her hand still.

"My dear, I thank you: you have made me very happy. You shall _never_ have cause to repent it."

"It is so strange," she whispered, "that you should wait all these years, with the world to choose from, and then think of _me_ at last! I can scarcely believe it."

"Ay, I suppose it is strange. But I must tell you something, Anne. When quite a youth, only one-and-twenty, there was a young lady whom I dearly loved. She was poor, and not of much family, and my father forbade the union. She married some one else, and died. It is for the love of her I have kept single all these years. But I shall not make you the less good husband."

"And I--I wish to tell you that _I_ once cared for some one," whispered Anne, in her straightforward honesty. "It is all over and done with; but I did like him very much."

"Then, my dear, we shall be even," he said, with a merry smile. "The one cannot reproach the other. And now--this is the beginning of April; before the month shall have closed you had better come to me. We have nothing to wait for; and I do not like, now that you belong to me, to leave you one moment longer than is needful with that lady whom you are forced to call stepmother."

How Anne reached home that late afternoon she hardly knew: she knew still less how to bring the news out. In the course of the following morning she tried to do so, and made a bungle of it.

"Sir Robert not going to get you a situation as governess!" interrupted Julia, before Anne had half finished. "Of course he is not. He knows you are not capable of taking one. _I_ thought how much he was intending to help you. You must have had plenty of _cheek_, Anne, to trouble him."

"I am going to be his wife instead," said poor Anne, meekly. "He has asked me to be. And--and it is to be very soon; and he is coming to see Mrs. Lewis this morning."

Mrs. Lewis, sitting back in an easy-chair, her feet on the fender, dropped the book she was reading to stare at Anne. Julia burst into a laugh of incredulity. Her mother echoed it, and spoke----

"You poor infatuated girl! This comes of being brought up on French soup. But Sir Robert Tenby has no right to play jokes upon you. I shall write and tell him so."

"I--think--he is there," stammered Anne.

There he was. A handsome carriage was drawing up to the gate, the baronet's badge upon its panels. Sir Robert sat inside. A footman came up the path and thundered at the door.

Not very long afterwards--it was in the month of June--Anne and her husband were guests at a London crush in Berkeley Square. It was too crowded to be pleasant. Anne began to look tired, and Sir Robert whispered to her that if she had had enough of it, they would go home.

"Very gladly," she answered, and turned to say good-night to her hostess.

"Anne! How are you?"

The unexpected interruption, in a voice she knew quite well, and which sent a thrill through her, even yet, arrested Anne in her course. There stood Henry Angerstyne, his hand held out in greeting, a confident smile, as if a.s.suming she could only receive him joyfully, on his handsome face.

"I am so much surprised to see you here; so delighted to meet you once again, Miss Lewis."

"You mistake, sir," replied Anne, in a cold, proud tone, drawing her head a little up. "I am Lady Tenby."

Walking forward, she put her arm within her husband's, who waited for her. Mr. Angerstyne understood it at once; it needed not the almost bridal robes of white silk and lace to enlighten him. She was not altered. She looked just the same single-minded, honest-hearted girl as ever, with a pleasant word for all--except just in the moment when she had spoken to him.

"I am glad of it: she deserves her good fortune," he thought heartily.

With all his faults, few men could be more generously just than Henry Angerstyne.

XV.

THE KEY OF THE CHURCH.

"Johnny, you will have to take the organ on Sunday."

The words gave me a surprise. I turned short round on the music-stool, wondering whether Mrs. Todhetley spoke in jest or earnest. But her face was quite serious, as she sat, her hands on her lap, and her lame finger--the fore-finger of the left hand--stretched out.

"I take the organ, good mother! What's that for?"

"Because I was to have taken it, Johnny, and this accident to my finger will prevent it."

We had just got home to d.y.k.e Manor from school for the Michaelmas holidays. Not a week of them: for this was Wednesday afternoon, and we should go back the following Monday. Mrs. Todhetley had cut her finger very seriously in carving some cold beef on the previous day. Old Duffham had put it into splints.

"Where's Mr. Richards?" I asked, alluding to the church organist.

"Well, it is rather a long tale, Johnny. A good deal of dissatisfaction has existed, as you know, between him and the congregation."

"Through his loud playing."

"Just so. And now he has resigned in a huff. Mr. Holland called yesterday morning to ask if I would help them at the pinch by taking the organ for a Sunday or two, until matters were smoothed with Richards, or some fresh organist was found; and I promised him I would. In the evening, this accident happened to my finger. So you must take it in my place, Johnny."

"And if I break down?"

"Not you. Why should you?"

"I am out of practice."

"There's plenty of time to get up your practice between now and Sunday.

Don't make objections, my dear. We should all do what little we can to help others in a time of need."

I said no more. As she observed, there was plenty of time between now and Sunday. And, not to lose time, I went off there and then.

The church stood in a lonely spot, as I think you know, and I took the way across the fields to it. Whistling softly, I went along, fixing in my mind upon the chants and hymns. Ours was rather a primitive service.

The organ repertoire included only about a dozen chants and double that number of hymns. It had this advantage--that they were all familiar to the congregation, who could join in the singing at will, and the singers had no need to practise. Mr. Richards had lately introduced a different style of music, and it was not liked.

"Let me see: I'll make it just the opposite of Richards's. For the morning we will have the thirty-seventh psalm, 'Depend on G.o.d:' there's real music in that; and 'Jerusalem the Golden.' And for the afternoon, 'Abide with me,' and the Evening Hymn. Mornington's Chant; and the Grand Chant; and the---- Halloa, Fred! Is it you?"

A lithe, straight-limbed young fellow was turning out of the little valley: on his way (as I guessed) from the Parsonage. It was Fred Westerbrook: old Westerbrook's nephew at the Narrow d.y.k.e Farm--or, as we abbreviated it, the N. D. Farm.

"How are you, Johnny?"

His face and voice were alike subdued as he shook hands. I asked after Mr. and Mrs. Westerbrook.