Johnny Ludlow, Second Series. Mrs. Henry Wood
uniform of purple gowns and white muslin aprons, ran about wildly. Every two minutes, old Coney went up to a staircase window that faced Timberdale, looking out to see whether Robert Ashton was coming—like Sister Anne, in “Bluebeard.”
Twelve o’clock! It was like a knell booming out; and the carriages went away with the company. A fine ending to a wedding!
I was standing at the back-door, disconsolate as the moaning wind, when the Timberdale Station fly came rattling along. A gentleman put his head out of it, to tell the driver to stop. He got down, and came limping up to me. It was Mr. West’s partner, old Lawyer Cockermuth, who had declined an invitation to the wedding, because of gout.
“Look here,” said he, catching me by the shoulder, “I want to say half-a-dozen words to Mr. Coney. Can you manage to bring him out to me, or smuggle me into any little place where we can be alone? I suppose the house is chock-full of wedding-people.”
“You have brought bad news of Robert Ashton!” I said, in sudden conviction. “What is it?”
“Well, so I have,” he answered confidentially. “It will soon be known to every one, but I should like to break it to Coney first. I’ve come over to do it. Robert Ashton is in custody for murder!”
I felt my face turn as pale as a girl’s. “For murder?”
Old Cockermuth’s face grew long as he nodded. “He is in custody for nothing less than the murder of his brother-in-law, Bird. Yesterday——”
A smothered cry behind us, and I turned sharply. There stood Jane. She had seen Cockermuth’s arrival, and came down, knowing he must have brought bad news. The white robe and wreath were gone, and she wore an everyday dress of violet merino.
“Now, my dear! my dear, be calm!” cried the old lawyer, in a fright. “For goodness’ sake shut us in somewhere, Johnny Ludlow! We shall have the whole pack out upon us.”
Some of the pack did come, before he could be shut up. And there we were—hearing that Robert Ashton had been taken up for murder.
It appeared that, after quitting the Crown on the previous day, he met his sister’s husband, Captain Bird—from habit, people still accorded him his title. Captain Bird told him Lucy was dangerously ill, and asked him to go and see her. Robert went at once to their lodgings. What exactly happened there, no one as yet knew; but Robert and Bird got quarrelling. Robert did not come out again. In the morning (this morning) the neighbours heard a hue-and-cry; and on the door being opened by two policemen, Bird was found lying in the passage dead, as was supposed, and Robert Ashton was given into custody for his murder.
Jane touched me on the arm, and I followed her into the large, empty dining-room. That miserable breakfast! waiting for those who could not sit down to it. The evergreens on the walls seemed to look faded; the flowers on the table to have lost their first freshness.
“You see I was right, Johnny,” she said. “That dream was a dream of warning. And sent as one.”
It did look like it. But dreams are things you can’t lay hold of; no, nor altogether believe in. Standing by the cold grate, she began to shiver. In the confusion, the servants had let the fire go out.
“I would forget the dream, if I were you, Jane. Where’s the use of people having dreams——”
“Say warnings, Johnny.”
“——if they cannot see how to make use of them? Call them warnings, an you like the word better. They are of no good at all.”
“Oh, Johnny, if I could only die! It was hard enough to bear when he was only missing; but now——”
It was just as though she never meant to leave off shivering. I went to hunt for some sticks, and saw our cook, Molly, in the kitchen amongst the maids. Trust her for being in the thick of any gossip. Bringing the sticks back, I pushed them in, and they soon crackled up into a blaze. Jane sat down and watched them.
“I wouldn’t be afraid, Jane, if I were you. There must be some mistake.”
“I’m not afraid—in one sense. That Robert has done nothing wrong willingly, I know. But—he is rather passionate; and there’s no telling how they might provoke him. If there is much prolonged suspense; a trial, or anything of that sort—well, I suppose I shall live through it.”
How hopeless she looked! her head bent, her eyes cast down. Just then there was a cry outside for Jane. “Jane!”
“Go out, Johnny, and say I am all right. Pray to them to leave me alone. Tell mamma not to come in; I am easier by myself—and the fire’s burning up. They have gone calling upstairs; they wouldn’t think I am here.”
Was there anything incoherent in her words? I looked at her narrowly. I suppose that they sounded something like it.
“One has been coming to soothe me, and another has been coming; I haven’t known how to bear it. They mean it in kindness—great kindness; but I would so much rather be alone. You go now, Johnny.”
So I shut her in. And whispered to Mrs. Coney that she was praying to be left.
I don’t know how the day went on, except that it was miserably uncomfortable. We had some cold beef in the everyday dining-room, and old Coney, after saying he’d have given a thousand pounds out of his pocket for it not to have happened, went and smoked a pipe with Cockermuth in the best kitchen. Dusk began to come on.
Why! who was that—driving up in Robert Ashton’s dog-cart? Robert! Robert himself? Yes, it was; and the Squire, and Tod, and Tom Coney with him. The dog-cart had gone to the station to wait for the Squire and the other two: they came, bringing Robert Ashton.
“Is it all right, Mr. Ashton?”
“Quite right, Johnny. You did not think it could be wrong, did you?”
“You are out on bail?”
“Out for good. There has been no real damage done. I wonder where Jane is?”
“I’ll take you to her. She has been wishing she was dead.”
No one in the house scented his presence. I opened the door of the large oak-room. Jane was kneeling on the hearthrug, her face buried in the cushion of the arm-chair. She started up at the noise, and stood like one turned to stone.
“Robert?”
I do believe she thought it was not real—his ghost, or something. He went up in silence, slightly smiling—he was always a quiet-mannered man—and holding out his hand.
“It is I, myself, Jane. You look as though you doubted it.”
With a great cry she fell forward. Robert caught her to his breast. I was going away when he hastily called to me. For the first time in her life she had fainted away. The thing had been too much for her.
“Get some water, Johnny. Don’t call any one. She’ll soon come to.”
There was water on the table; wine too. He gave Jane some of both. And then she listened to his story, leaning on his arm, and crying as softly and peacefully as a little child.
Those outside were listening to the wonderful tale. When I went out, they had gathered in the best kitchen, round the Squire, who had gone there in search of old Coney. The Squire’s glowing face was a sight to be seen. Mrs. Coney had sat down on the mahogany bench; her hands lifted. Coney stood with his pipe held at arm’s-length. As to Mrs. Todhetley, the tears were running down her cheeks in a stream.
It was quite true that Lucy Bird was very ill. Robert saw her in bed. As he was leaving, Bird began upon the old grievance—that he should have some of Lucy’s money advanced in a lump. He wanted it for his cards and dice, you see. Robert told him, No: as he had told him all along. An associate of Bird’s was there; a very bad man, named Dawler. They got Robert to take a friendly glass of wine—which purported to be sherry: