Johnny Ludlow Second Series Part 23

"Tom," said he, virtually giving in, "I think we had better talk to the police. Here's one coming along now."

When the policeman was abreast, the Squire took his hands from his pockets, and pinned the man by his b.u.t.ton-hole.

"Mr. Ashton of Timberdale?--oh, he has got into trouble, sir," was the man's ready answer. "He is before the magistrates now, on a charge of----"

The railway omnibus, coming along at the moment, partially drowned the word.

"Charge of _what_?" roared the Squire.

The policeman repeated it. The omnibus was making a frightful rattle, and the Squire only just caught it now. With a great cry he dashed over to the fly-stand, got into one, and ordered it to gallop away with him.

Tom Coney and Tod barely escaped having to hang on behind.

"Drive like mad!" stamped the Squire.

"Yes, sir," said the man, obeying. "Where to?"

"Go on, will you, sir! To the deuce."

"To the police-court," corrected Tom Coney.

Arrived there, the Squire left them to pay the fare, and fought his way inside. The first thing his spectacles caught sight of distinctly was the fair Saxon face and fine form of Robert Ashton, standing, a prisoner, in the criminal dock.

At the Farm, things were in a state more easily imagined than described.

The carriages came bowling up, bringing the guests. The four bridesmaids wore pale-blue silk, trimmed with white fur. Jane was dressed. In pa.s.sing her door, I saw her. They had sent me up to fetch something from Tom's room.

"Is it not a mockery, Johnny?" she said, letting me enter. And her poor pale face looked more fit for a burying than a wedding, and her eyes had dark circles round them.

"If you mean your dress, Jane, I never saw anything less like a mockery, or more like a princess's in a fairy tale."

It was of rich white silk; a delicate wreath of myrtle and orange-blossoms on her chestnut hair. The veil lay upon the bed.

"You know what I mean, Johnny. There will be no wedding at North Crabb Church to-day--and nothing can have been more foolish than to prepare me for it. Oh, Johnny! if I could only go to sleep till ten years hence, and never wake up between!"

Before the gate waited the carriages, their postillions in scarlet jackets; the company, in their fine plumage, jostled each other in the nooks and corners of the house; the maids, wearing a bright uniform of purple gowns and white muslin ap.r.o.ns, 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 c.o.c.kermuth, 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 c.o.c.kermuth'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 c.o.c.kermuth'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 t.i.tle. 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 pa.s.sage 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 s.h.i.+ver. 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 s.h.i.+vering. 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 pa.s.sionate; 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 c.o.c.kermuth 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?"