Johnny Ludlow Fifth Series Part 36

"That's rather too good, Mrs. Picker, that is. I have heard of lodging-house cats effecting wonders in the way of domestic disappearances, but not of magpies. Look at him, poor old fellow! He can't speak to defend himself."

"Yes, look at him, sir," repeated Mother Picker; "and a fine objec' of a half-fed animal he is, to look at! My opinion is, he have got something wrong o' the inside of him, or else it's his sins that troubles his skin, for the more he's give to eat the thinner he gets. No feathers, no flesh; nothing but a big beak, and them bright eyes, and the deuce's own tongue for impedence. Which is begging pard'n for speaking up free,"

concluded Mother Picker, as Mrs. Todhetley came in, fastening her waistband.

A little searching, not a t.i.the of what had been before again and again, and the creature's nest was discovered. In a cavity of the old tree-stump, so conveniently opposite, lay the articles: the bank-note, the ring, the blue bow, and some other things, most of which had not been missed. One was a bank receipt, that the house had been hunted for high and low.

"Now, then, Peter!" cried the magpie, hopping about on the gravel as he watched the raid on his treasures.

"He must be killed to-day, Joe," said Mr. Todhetley; "he has made mischief enough. I never took kindly to him. Monk, I am sorry for the mistake I was led into; but we suspected others before you--ay, and accused them."

"Don't mention it, sir," replied Monk, his eye catching mine. And if ever I saw revenge written in a face, it was in his as he turned away.

ROGER MONK.

I'd never seen such a scene before; I have not seen one since. Perhaps, in fact, the same thing had never happened.

What had done it n.o.body could imagine. It was as if the place had been smoked out with some deleterious stuff; some destructive or poisoning gases, fatal to vegetable life.

On the previous day but one, Tuesday, there had been a party at the Manor. Squire and Mrs. Todhetley did not go in for much of that kind of thing, but some girls from London were staying with the Jacobsons, and we all went over to a dance there on the Friday. After supper some of them got talking to Mrs. Todhetley, asking in a laughing sort of way why _she_ did not give them one? she shook her head, and answered that we were quiet people. Upon that Tod spoke up, and said he had no doubt the Squire would give one if asked; would like to do it. Had Mrs. Todhetley gone heartily into the proposal at once, Tod would have thrown cold water on it. That was his obstinacy. The girls attacked the Squire, and the thing was settled; the dance being fixed for the following Tuesday.

I know Mrs. Todhetley thought it an awful trouble; the Squire openly said it was when we got home; and he grumbled all day on Sat.u.r.day. You see, our servants were not used to fas.h.i.+onable parties; neither in truth were their masters. However, if it had to be done at all, it was to be done well. The laundry was cleared out for dancing; the old square ironing-stove taken away, and a few pictures were done round with wreaths of green and hung on the yellow-washed walls. The supper-table was laid in the dining-room; leaving the drawing-room free for reception.

It was the Squire thought of having the plants brought into the hall.

He never could say afterwards it was anybody but him. His grumbling was got over by the Tuesday morning, and he was as eager as any of us.

He went about in his open nankeen coat and straw hat, puffing and blowing, and saying he hoped we should relish it--_he_ wouldn't dance in the dog-days.

"I should like to see you dance in any days now, sir," cried Tod.

"You impudent rascals! You must laugh, too, must you, Johnny! I can tell you young fellows what--you'll neither of you dance a country dance as we'd used to do it. You should have seen us at the wake. Once when we militia chaps were at the Ram, at Gloucester, for a week's training, we gave a ball there, and footed it till daylight. 'We bucks at the Ram;'

that's what we called ourselves: but most of us are dead and gone now.

Look here, boys," continued the pater after a pause, "I'll have the choice plants brought into the hall. If we knock up a few sconces for candles on the walls, their colours will show out well."

He went out to talk to Roger Monk about it. Mrs. Todhetley was in the kitchen over the creams and jellies and things, fit to faint with heat.

Jenkins, the head-gardener was back then, but he was stiff yet, not likely to be of permanent good; so Roger Monk was kept on as chief.

Under the pater's direction the sets of green steps were brought in and put on either side of the hall, as many sets as there was s.p.a.ce for; and the plants were arranged upon them.

I'd tell you the different sorts but that you might think it tedious.

They were choice and beautiful. Mr. Todhetley took pride in his flowers, and spared no expense. Geraniums of all colours, tulips, brilliant roses, the white lily and the purple iris; and the rarer flowers, with hard names that n.o.body can spell. It was like a lovely garden, rising tier upon tier; a grove of perfume that the guests would pa.s.s through.

They managed the wax-lights well; and the colours, pink, white, violet, green, orange, purple, scarlet, blue, shone out as the old east window in Worcester Cathedral used to do when it sparkled in the morning sun.

It went off first-rate. Some of the supper sweet dishes fell out of shape with the heat; but they were just as good to eat. In London, the thing you call "society" is made up of form and coldness, and artificialism; with us county people it is honest openness. There, any failure on the table is looked away from, not supposed to be seen; at the supper at Squire Todhetley's the tumble-down dishes were introduced as a topic of regret. "And to think it should be so, after all the pains I bestowed on them!" added Mrs. Todhetley, not hesitating to say that she had been the confectioner and pastry-cook.

But it is not of the party I have to tell you. It was jolly; and everyone said what a prime ball-room the laundry made. I dare say if we had been London fas.h.i.+onables we should have called it the "library," and made believe we'd had the books taken out.

Getting ready for company is delightful; but putting things to rights the next day is rather another thing. The plants were carried back to their places again in the greenhouse--a large, long, commodious greenhouse--and appeared none the worse for their show. The old folks, whose dancing-days were over, had spent half the night in the cool hall, admiring these beautiful plants; and the pater told this to Roger Monk as he stood with him in the greenhouse after they were put back. I was there, too.

"I'm glad they were admired, sir," said Monk in answer. "I've taken pains with them, and I think they do the Manor credit."

"Well, truth to say, Monk, it's a better and brighter collection than Jenkins ever got. But you must not tell him I say so. I do take a pride in my greenhouse; my father did before me. I remember your mother spending a day here once, Johnny, before you were born, and she said of all the collections in the two counties of Warwick and Worcester, ours was the finest. It came up to Lord Coventry's; not as large, of course, but the plants in the same prime condition."

"Yes, sir: I've seen the conservatories at Croome," returned Monk, who generally went in for large names.

"The late Lord Coventry--Yes! Here! Who's calling?"

Tod's voice outside, shouting for the Squire, caused the break. He had got Mr. Duffham with him; who wanted to ask about some parish business; and they came to the greenhouse.

So that made another admirer. Old Duff turned himself and his cane about, saying the colours looked brighter by daylight than waxlight; and he had not thought it possible the night before that they could do it.

He stole a piece of geranium to put in his b.u.t.ton-hole.

"By the way, Monk, when are you going over to Evesham about those seeds and things?" asked the Squire, as he was departing with old Duff.

"I can go when you like, sir."

"Go to-morrow, then. Start with the cool of the morning. Jenkins can do what has to be done, for once. You had better take the light cart."

"Very well, sir," answered Monk. But he had never once looked in the Squire's face as he answered.

The next morning was Thursday. Tod and I were up betimes to go fis.h.i.+ng.

There was a capital stream--but I've not time for that now. It was striking six as we went out of the house, and the first thing I saw was Jenkins coming along, his face as white as a sheet. He was a big man once, of middle height, but thin and stooping since his last bout of rheumatism; grey whiskers, blue eyes, and close upon fifty.

"I say, Tod, look at old Jenkins! He must be ill again."

Not ill but frightened. His lips were of a bluey grey, like one whom some great terror has scared. Tod stared as he came nearer, for they were trembling as well as blue.

"What's up, Jenkins?"

"I don't know what, Mr. Joe. The devil has been at work."

"Whereabouts?" asked Tod.

"Come and see, sir."

He turned back towards the greenhouse, but not another word would he say, only pointed to it. Leaving the fis.h.i.+ng-rods on the path, we set off to run.

Never had I seen such a scene before; as I told you at the beginning.

The windows were shut, every crevice where a breath of air might enter seemed to be hermetically closed; a smell as of some sulphurous acid pervaded the air; and the whole show of plants had turned to ruin.

A wreck complete. Colour was gone; leaves and stems were gone; the sweet perfume was gone; nothing remained, so to say, but the pots. It was as if some burning blast had pa.s.sed through the greenhouse, withering to death every plant that stood in it, and the ripening grapes above.

"What on earth can have done this?" cried Tod to Jenkins, when he was able to speak.

"Well, Mr. Joseph, I say nothing _could_ have done it but the----"

"Don't talk rubbish about the devil, Jenkins. He does not work in quite so practical a way. Open the windows."