Johnny Ludlow, Fourth Series. Henry Wood

some impatient remark about the absurdity of women in general, turned round and stood looking into the garden as before. Ellin’s mind was getting unhinged with the long separation, she had begun to regard it as hopeless, and hence these dreams that Brook was “lost,” he told himself, and with reason: and what was he to do?

      How long he stood thus in perfect silence, no sound to be heard but the everlasting jingling of the loose silver, Aunt Hester did not know; pretty near an hour she thought. She wished he would go; she felt very uncomfortable, as she always did feel when she vexed him—and here were the bills waiting to be added up. At length he turned sharply, with the air of one who has come to some decision, and returned to the office.

      “I suppose I shall have to do it myself,” he remarked to Mr. St. George.

      “Do what, sir?”

      “Send for that young fellow back, and let them set up in some little homestead near me. I mean Brook.”

      “Brook!” stammered St. George.

      “Here’s Ellin beginning to fade and wither. It’s all very well for her aunt to talk about the heat! I know. She is pining after him, and I can’t see her do it; so he must come home.”

      Of all the queer shades that can be displayed by the human countenance, about the queerest appeared in that of Mr. St. George. It was not purple, it was not green, it was not yellow; it was a mixture of all three. He gazed at his chief and master as one gazes at a madman.

      “Brook can come into the office again,” continued Mr. Delorane. “I don’t like young men to be idle; leads ’em into temptation. We’ll make him head clerk here, next to you, and give him a couple of hundred a-year. If—what’s the matter?”

      For the strange look on his manager’s face had caught the eye of Mr. Delorane. St. George drew three or four deep breaths.

      “Have you thought of Miss Delorane, sir—of her interests—in planning this?” he presently asked.

      “Why, that’s what I do think of; nothing else. You may be sure I shouldn’t think of it for the interest of Brook. All the same, I like the young man, and always shall. The child is moping herself into a bad way. Where shall I be if she should go into a decline like her mother? No, no; she shall marry and have proper interests around her.”

      “She could do that without being sacrificed to Brook,” returned St. George in a low tone. “There are others, sir, of good and suitable position, who would be thankful to take her—whose pride it would be to cherish her and render every moment of her life happy.”

      “Oh, I know that; you are one of ’em,” returned Mr. Delorane carelessly. “It’s what all you young sparks are ready to say of a pretty girl, especially if she be rich as well. But don’t you see, St. George, that Ellin does not care for any of you. Her heart is fixed upon Brook, and Brook it must be.”

      Of course this news came out to Timberdale. Some people blamed Mr. Delorane, others praised him. Delorane must be turning childish in his old age, said one; Delorane is doing a good and a wise thing, cried another. Opinions vary in this world, you know, and ever will, as proved to us in the fable of the old man and his ass.

      But now—and it was a strange thing to happen the very next day Mr. Delorane received a letter from William Brook, eight closely written pages. Briefly, this was its substance. The uncle, Matthew Brook of New York, was about to establish a house in London, in correspondence with his own; he had offered the managership of it to William, with a small share of profits, guaranteeing that the latter should not be less than seven hundred a-year.

      “And if you can only be induced to think this enough for us to begin upon, sir, and will give me Ellin,” wrote the young man, “I can but say that I will strive to prove my gratitude in loving care for her; and I trust you will not object to her living in London. I leave New York next month, to be in England in September, landing at Liverpool, and I shall make my way at once to Timberdale, hoping you will allow me to plead my cause in person.”

      “No no, Master William, you won’t carry my daughter off to London,” commented Mr. Delorane aloud, when he had read the letter—not but that it gratified him. “You must give up your post, young man, and settle down by me here, if you are to have Ellin. I don’t see, St. George, why Brook should not make himself into a lawyer, legal and proper,” added he thoughtfully. “He is young enough—and he does not dislike the work. You and he might be associated together after I am dead: ‘Brook and St. George.’”

      Mr. St. George’s face turned crusty: he did not like to hear his name put next to Brook’s. “I never feel too sure of my own future,” he said in reply. “Now that I am at my ease in the world, tempting visions come often enough across me of travelling out to see it.”

      Mr. Delorane wrote a short, pithy note in answer to the appeal of William Brook, telling him he might come and talk to him as soon as he returned. “The young fellow may have left New York before it can reach him,” remarked the lawyer, as he put the letter in the post; “but if so, it does not much matter.”

      So there was Timberdale, all cock-a-hoop at the prospect of seeing William Brook again, and the wedding that was to follow. Sam Mullet, the clerk, was for setting the bells to ring beforehand.

      Some people think September the pleasantest month in the year, when the heats of summer have passed and the frosts of winter have not come. Never a finer September than we had that autumn at Timberdale; the skies looked bright, the leaves of the trees were putting on their tints of many colours, and the land was not yet quite shorn of its golden grain.

      All the world was looking out for William Brook. He did not come. Disappointment is the lot of man. Of woman also. When the third week was dragging itself along in expectancy, a letter came to Mrs. Brook from William. It was to say that his return home was somewhat delayed, as he should have to take Jamaica en route, to transact some business at Kingston for his uncle. He should then proceed direct from Kingston by steamer to Liverpool, which place he hoped to reach before the middle of October. “Tell all my friends this, that they may not wonder at my delay,” the letter concluded; but it contained no intimation that he had received the answer written by Mr. Delorane.

      A short postscript was yet added, in these words: “Alfred St. George has, I know, some relatives living in, or near Kingston—planters, I believe. Tell him I shall call upon them, if I can make time, to see whether they have any commands for him.”

      Long before the middle of October, Ellin Delorane became obviously restless. A sort of uneasy impatience seemed to have taken possession of her: and without cause. One day, when we called at Mr. Delorane’s to take a message from home, Ellin was in the garden with her outdoor things on, waiting to go out with her aunt.

      “What a ridiculous goose you are!” began Tod. “I hear you have taken up the notion that Sweet William has gone down in the Caribbean Sea.”

      “I’m sure I have not,” said Ellin. “Aunt Hester must have told you that fable when she was at Crabb Cot yesterday.”

      “Just so. She and the mater laid their gossiping caps together for the best part of an hour—and all about the foolishness of Miss Ellin Delorane.”

      “Why, you know, Ellin,” I put in, “it is hardly the middle of October yet.”

      “I tell myself that it is not,” she answered gravely. “But, somehow, Johnny, I don’t—don’t—expect—him.”

      “Now, what on earth do you mean?”

      “I wish I knew what. All I can tell you is, that when his mother received that letter from William last month, saying his return was delayed, a sort of foreboding seized hold of me, an apprehension that he would never come. I try to shake it off, but I cannot. Each day, as the days come round, only serves to make it stronger.”

      “Don’t you think a short visit to Droitwich would do you good, Ellin?” cried Tod, which was our Worcestershire fashion of recommending people to the lunatic asylum.

      “Just listen to him, Johnny!” she exclaimed, with a laugh.

      “Yes, ‘just listen to