Johnny Ludlow, Third Series

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Henry Wood. Johnny Ludlow, Third Series

THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE

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CRABB RAVINE

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OUR VISIT

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JANET CAREY

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DR. KNOX

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HELEN WHITNEY’S WEDDING

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HELEN’S CURATE

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JELLICO’S PACK

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CAROMEL’S FARM

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CHARLOTTE AND CHARLOTTE

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THE LAST OF THE CAROMELS

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A DAY IN BRIAR WOOD

THE STORY OF DOROTHY GRAPE. DISAPPEARANCE

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THE STORY OF DOROTHY GRAPE. IN AFTER YEARS

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LADY JENKINS. MINA

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LADY JENKINS. DOUBT

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LADY JENKINS. MADAME

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LADY JENKINS. LIGHT

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THE ANGELS’ MUSIC

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Отрывок из книги

Our old grey church at Church Dykely stood in a solitary spot. Servant maids (two of ours once, Hannah and Molly), and silly village girls went there sometimes to watch for the “shadows” on St. Mark’s Eve, and owls had a habit of darting out of the belfry at night. Within view of the church, though at some distance from it, stood the lonely, red-brick, angular dwelling-house belonging to Copse Farm. It was inhabited by Mr. Page, a plain worthy widower, getting in years; his three daughters and little son. Abigail and Susan Page, two experienced, sensible, industrious young women, with sallow faces and bunches of short dark curls, were at this period, about midway between twenty and thirty: Jessy, very much younger, was gone out to get two years’ “finishing” at a plain boarding-school; Charles, the lad, had bad health and went to school by day at Church Dykely.

Mr. Page fell ill. He would never again be able to get about much. His two daughters, so far as indoor work and management went, were hosts in themselves, Miss Abigail especially; but they could not mount a horse to superintend out-of-doors. Other arrangements were made. The second son of Mr. Drench, a neighbouring farmer and friend, came to the Copse Farm by day as overlooker. He was paid for his services, and he gained experience.

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You may fancy it is a slice of romance this; made up for effect out of my imagination: but it is the real truth, as every one about the place can testify to, and its strangeness is talked of still. Yet there are stranger coincidences in life than this. On Christmas-Eve, a year before, Jessy Page had been helping to dress the church, in her fine blue mantle, in her beauty, in her light-hearted happiness: on this Christmas-Eve when we were dressing it again, she re-appeared. But how changed! Wan, white, faint, wasted! I am not sure that I should have known her but for her voice. Shrinking, as it struck me, with shame and fear, she put up her trembling hands in supplication.

“Don’t betray me!—don’t call!” she implored in weak, feverish, anxious tones. “Go away and leave me. Let me lie here unsuspected until they have all gone away.”

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