Johnny Ludlow, Fourth Series. Mrs. Henry Wood
not trace the beginning. At first it was but the merest shadow of a doubt; hardly that; but it has grown deeper and darker, and I cannot rest for it.”
“Bless my heart!” cried the Squire. “Johnny, hold my hat a minute.”
“Just as surely as that I see that moon in the sky, sir,” she went on, “do I seem to see in my mind that some ill was wrought to Frank by his brother. Mrs. Radcliffe said it would be.”
“Dear me! What Mrs. Radcliffe?”
“Frank’s mother. She had the impression of it when she was dying, and she warned Frank that it would be so.”
“Poor Selina! But—my dear lady, how do you know that?”
“My husband told me. He told me one night when we were sitting alone in the parlour. Not that he put faith in it. He had escaped Stephen’s toils until then, he said in a joking tone, and thought he could take care of himself and escape them still. But I fear he did not.”
“Now what is it you do fear?” asked the Squire. “Come.”
She glanced round in dread, and then spoke with considerable hesitation and in a low whisper.
“I fear—that Stephen—may have—murdered him.”
“Mercy upon us!” uttered the Squire, recoiling a step or two.
She put her elbow on the stile and raised her hand to her face, showing out so pale and distressed under its white net border.
“It lies upon me, sir—a great agony. I don’t know what to do.”
“But it could not be,” cried the Squire, collecting his scared senses. “Your imagination must run away with you, child. Frank died up at Dr. Dale’s; Stephen Radcliffe was down here at the time.”
“Yes—I am aware of all that, sir. But—I believe it was as I fear. I don’t pretend to account for it; to say what Stephen did or how he did it—but my fears are dreadful. I have no peace night or day.”
The Squire stared at her and shook his head. I am sure he thought her brain was touched.
“My dear Mrs. Frank, this must be pure fancy. Stephen Radcliffe is a hard and griping man, not sticking at a trick or two where his pocket is concerned, but he wouldn’t do such a thing as this. No, no; surly as he may be, he could not be guilty of murder.”
She took her arm off the stile, with a short shiver. David Skate came into sight; Tod’s footsteps were heard brushing the grass.
“Good-night, sir,” she hurriedly said; and was over the stile before we could help her.
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