Johnny Ludlow, Fourth Series. Henry Wood

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СКАЧАТЬ your voices.” She sat at the table, her paint-box before her. Minty painted very nice pieces in water-colours: the one in process was a lovely bit of scenery taken from Little Malvern. Mrs. Brook was out.

      “What did I hear you saying to Ann about William—that he had come home?” she began to us, without getting up from her work—for we were too intimate to be upon any ceremony with one another. “He is not come yet. I only wish he was.”

      “But he is come,” said Tod. “He came last night. We saw him and spoke to him.”

      Minty put down her camel-hair pencil then, and turned round. “What do you mean?” she asked.

      “Mr. St. George drove William home from Worcester. We passed them in the gig in Dip Lane.”

      Minty retorted by asking whether we were not dreaming; and for a minute or two we kept at cross-purposes. She held to it that they had seen nothing of her brother; that he was not at Timberdale.

      “Mamma never had a wink of sleep last night, for thinking of the dreadful gale William must be in at sea. Your fancy misled you,” went on Minty, calmly touching-up the cottage in her painting—and Tod looked as if he would like to beat her.

      But it did really seem that William had not come, and we took our departure. I don’t think I had ever seen Tod look so puzzled.

      “I wish I may be shot if I can understand this!” said he.

      “Could we have been mistaken in thinking it was Brook?” I was beginning; and Tod turned upon me savagely.

      “I swear it was Brook. There! And you know it as well as I, Mr. Johnny. Where can he be hiding himself? What is the meaning of it?”

      It is my habit always to try to account for things that seem unaccountable; to search out reasons and fathom them; and you would be surprised at the light that will sometimes crop up. An idea flashed across me now.

      “Can Brook be ill, Tod, think you?—done up with his voyage, or something—and St. George is nursing him at his house for a day or two before he shows himself to Timberdale?” And Tod thought it might be so.

      Getting back to Mr. Delorane’s, we found him and the Squire sitting at the table still. St. George, just come in, was standing by, hat in hand, and they were both tackling him at once.

      “What do you say?” asked St. George of his master, when he found room for a word. “That I brought William Brook home here last night from Worcester! Why, what can have put such a thing into your head, sir?”

      “Didn’t you bring him?” cried the Squire. “Didn’t you drive him home in your gig?”

      “That I did not. I have not seen William Brook.”

      He spoke in a ready, though surprised tone, not at all like one who is shuffling with the truth, or telling a fable, and looked from one to another of his two questioners, as if not yet understanding them. The Squire pushed his spectacles to the top of his brow and stared at St. George. He did not understand, either.

      “Look here, St. George: do you deny that it was you we passed in Dip Lane last night—and your grey horse—and your gig?”

      “Why should I deny it?” quietly returned St. George. “I drew as close as I could to the hedge as a matter of precaution to let you go by, Squire, you were driving so quickly. And a fine shouting you greeted me with,” he added, turning to Tod, with a slight laugh.

      “The greeting was not intended for you; it was for William Brook,” answered Tod, his voice bearing a spice of antagonism; for he thought he was being played with.

      St. George was evidently at a loss yet, and stood in silence. All in a moment, his face lighted up.

      “Surely,” he cried impulsively, “you did not take that man in the gig for William Brook!”

      “It was William Brook. Who else was it?”

      “A stranger. A stranger to me and to the neighbourhood. A man to whom I gave a lift.”

      Tod’s face presented a picture. Believing, as he did still, that it was Brook in the gig, the idea suggested by me—that St. George was concealing Brook at his house out of good-fellowship—grew stronger and stronger. But he considered that, as it had come to this, St. George ought to say so.

      “Where’s the use of your continuing to deny it, St. George?” he asked. “You had Brook there, and you know you had.”

      “But I tell you that it was not Brook,” returned St. George. “Should I deny it, if it had been he? You talk like a child.”

      “Has Brook been away so long that we shouldn’t know him, do you suppose?” retorted quick-tempered Tod. “Why! as a proof that it was Brook, he shouted back his greeting to us, taking off his hat to wave it in answer to ours. Would a strange man have done that?”

      “The man did nothing of the kind,” said St. George.

      “Yes, he did,” I said, thinking it was time I spoke. “He called back a greeting to us, and he waved his hat round and round. I should not have felt so sure it was Brook but for seeing him without his hat.”

      “Well, I did not see him do it,” conceded St. George. “When you began to shout in passing the man seemed surprised. ‘What do those people want?’ he said to me; and I told him you were acquaintances of mine. It never occurred to my mind, or to his either, I should imagine, but that the shouts were meant for me. If he did take off his hat in response, as you say, he must have done it, I reckon, because I did not take off mine.”

      “Couldn’t you hear our welcome to him? Couldn’t you hear us call him ‘Brook’?” persisted Tod.

      “I did not distinguish a single word. The wind was too high for that.”

      “Then we are to understand that Brook has not come back: that you did not bring him?” interposed the Squire. “Be quiet, Joe; can’t you see you were mistaken? I told you you were, you know, at the time. You and Johnny are for ever taking up odd notions, Johnny especially.”

      “The man was a stranger to me,” spoke St. George. “I overtook him trudging along the road, soon after leaving Worcester; it was between Red Hill and the turning to Whittington. He accosted me, asking which of the two roads before us would take him to Evesham. I told him which, and was about to drive on when it occurred to me that I might as well offer to give the man a lift: it was an awful evening, and that’s the truth: one that nobody would, as the saying runs, turn a dog out in. He thanked me, and got up; and I drove him as far as–”

      “Then that’s what took you round by Dip Lane, St. George?” interrupted Mr. Delorane.

      “That’s what took me round by Dip Lane,” acquiesced St. George, slightly smiling; “and which seems to have led to this misapprehension. But don’t give my humanity more credit than it deserves. Previously to this I had been debating in my own mind whether to take the round, seeing what a journey was before me. It was about the wildest night I ever was out in, the horse could hardly make head against the wind, and I thought we might feel it less in the small and more sheltered by-ways than in the open road. Taking up the traveller decided me.”

      “You put him down in Dip Lane, at the turning that leads to Evesham,” remarked the Squire.

      “Yes, I put him СКАЧАТЬ