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:
and from that moment he lost all power, and partly consciousness. The
wine was drugged. Their object, no doubt, had been to partly stupefy
him, and so induce him to sign an undertaking to hand over the money to
Bird. But they had made the potion a trifle too strong, not calculating
the effect it would take on a young and habitually sober man. Robert
fell into a deep sleep, from which it was impossible to arouse him all
night: as to writing, his hands were as if dead. Late in the morning he
awoke; and, bit by bit, realized where he was and what had passed. He
was a little stupid even then, but sensible enough to remember that it
was his wedding-day, and to foresee that he might have some trouble to
get away from the house. On attempting to leave, Bird and Dawler placed
themselves in the passage to prevent him. There was a hot contest.
Robert Ashton, a stronger man than either of the others, but aware that
all his strength was not then at his own command, seized a knotted
stick, or club, that was lying in a corner, and lifted it to fight his
way through. Dawler struck at it, to get it out of his hand, and struck
it against Bird's head with frightful force. The fellow dropped as one
dead, and the door was burst open by the neighbours and policemen. The
excitement, perhaps the exertion, acting on Robert Ashton's only partly
recovered state, turned him stupid again: the people took him to be
drunk, and Dawler gave him in charge for murder.
That was the history. When the Squire had got into the police-court,
Robert Ashton (who was nearly himself again through the remedies the
doctor had given him in the police-station) was telling his tale. Dawler
was contradicting him, and swearing hard and fast that it was a case of
deliberate murder. The magistrates invited the Squire to a seat beside
them: and the first thing he did was to break into a hot tantrum, vowing
Robert Ashton couldn't be guilty. How it would have terminated no one
knew, but Lucy saved him.
Lucy saved him. A wan, haggard young woman wrapped in an old shawl,
staggered into the justice-room, to the front of the room. It was Lucy
Bird. She had come crawling through the streets to tell the truth.
"My brother Robert did not attempt to strike any one," she said in low,
weak, earnest tones. "He only held the club in his hand. I saw it all,
for I stood by. It was Dawler who threw his weight upon the club, and
struck down my husband. Robert fell too; pushed down by Dawler. This is
the sole truth, before Heaven!"
They believed her. The best was, that Bird was not dead at all, only
stunned; and the next to appear in court was himself, with a big
white plaister on his forehead. Discovering his wife's flight to the
magistrates, he thought it well to go after her: there was no knowing
what plots might be in the wind. He had the grace to acknowledge that
the blow was an accident. The whole bench shook hands with Robert
Ashton, telling Bird and the other man significantly that they had
better take care what they were about for the future: and the Squire
brought him home in triumph.
"But where is Robert?" asked old Coney and the rest. Why, in there with
Jane: where else should he be? They burst into the oak-room in a body,
and found him trying on the ring.
"Why shouldn't we have a dinner to-night?" asked old Coney. "Last
night's was only half a dinner, through one bother or another."
"Hear, hear!" cried the Squire. "Why not?"
The only thing against it was--as Mrs. Coney said--that no dinner was
prepared. Unless they could put up with a cold one.
"And glad to do so," spoke up everybody. So the cold meats were brought
from the larder, and the fowls from the breakfast-table, and laid in the
everyday dining-parlour. The ladies were in their ordinary gowns, and
there was no room for elbows, but we made up with laughter. Sixteen this
evening; Fred Coles being there, and old Cockermuth, who sat down in
spite of the gout. Afterwards we went off by the light of the stars to
summon the company to the morrow's wedding; it was good to go knocking
at the doors with the news. Whilst the servants at the Farm, with Molly
to help them, began cooking fresh fowls for the breakfast-table.
And that's about all. There was never a better wedding seen, and the
scarlet jackets of the post-boys dazzled one's eyes in the morning sun.
Robert Ashton was calm and quiet in church; Jane too, and not a bit
nervous. The chief speech at the breakfast was undertaken by the Squire,
so you may give a guess what it was like; but it didn't spoil the
wedding-cake.
Jane was shut up with her mother when the time came for starting, and
came out in a flood of tears. She was leaving her childhood's home, you
see. Robert would have hurried her straight to the carriage, but the
company wouldn't be done out of their leave-taking. I was the last.
"Thank you for all, Johnny," she cried, wringing my hand as she went
down the path. "They were all very kind to me yesterday, but it seemed
that you were kindest."
In the next minute, both of them, with the door shut, and the carriage
away towards South Crabb Junction. The people cheered, the cocks crew,
and the old shoes flew after them in a shower.
VI.
HARDLY WORTH TELLING.
You remember what I, Johnny Ludlow, said in the last paper--that on our
way to Timberdale Court we met with an adventure, which I had not then
time to tell of. It was this.
After our race through Crabb Ravine by moonlight, looking for Robert
Ashton, we went on to Timberdale Court as fast as the snowy ground would
admit of, Joseph Todhetley and Tom Coney rushing on in front, I after
them--they were older and stronger than I was. Not by the ordinary
highway, but over fields and hedges and ditches, straight as the crow
flies, wishing to save time. Instead of saving time, we lost it, for
though the road, had we taken it, was longer, the snow was beaten
there; whereas it was lying deep across the country and had to be waded
through. But you can't always bring common-sense to bear at the moment
it's wanted. And if we had looked like three undertakers at a funeral,
stalking after one another in the Ravine, with our dark coats showing
out against the white snow, I'm sure we must have looked still more
like it in the open ground.
At the far corner of the square meadow was a cow-shed, unused since the
autumn, when Ashton of Timberdale had caused the fields about here to
be ploughed. Beyond the shed, touching its walls, ran a brook; and it
brought us up. We had meant to take it at a flying leap; but the snow
had melted there, and the brook was swollen. It was not agreeable to run
the chance of pitching in, and it seemed that we should have to make for
the gate, lower down. Standing for a moment to reconnoitre, there broke
on our ears a low moan; and then another.
"I say," cried Tod, "is that the ghost?" I said in that last paper, as
any one may see, that we had looked out for the ghost in the Ravine. The
moaning came again.
"If I don't believe it is in the cow-shed!" exclaimed Tom Coney. And he
went round to the door and shook it open.
Pitch dark inside and the same moaning, soft and low. Tom Coney had some
lights in his pocket, and struck one. Well! we were astonished. On the
ground lay a woman--or girl--and a very little child. She had a young
face, with anxious eyes and feverish cheeks. She said she was dying,
and so answered our questions; but we had to kneel down to hear her.
She had walked across the country from somewhere in Gloucestershire,
carrying her baby of a fortnight old, but the weakness and fever
overtook her. Two nights ago she had crept into the shed, and lain
there, unsuspected, ever since.
"But why did you leave your home?" inquired Tod.
"I couldn't stay for the shame," was the nearly inaudible answer: and
but that our ears were good ones, we should not have caught it. If we
would but fetch her a drop of water for the love of Christ, she said, as
we got up.
It was impossible to help wondering whether God had not allowed Robert
Ashton to be lost on purpose to bring us round there. But for our
passing, both she and the baby must very soon have died, for the shed
was quite out of the reach of any road likely to be traversed. We must
have seemed to her like angels of mercy. Perhaps we were made use of as
such that night.
"Have you lain here all that time--two nights and days--without food?"
asked Tod, in his softest voice.
"Without food, sir, and without drink. Oh, for a drop of water! If you
could only bring it me, I should die easier."
We got some clean snow and moistened her lips with it. She gave a
sobbing cry as it trickled down her throat: Tom Coney said it was
choking, but I thought it was joy. To a poor creature in a burning
fever, lying without any sort of drink for days and nights, the fresh
cold snow must have tasted like dew from heaven. She motioned that the
baby should have some, but we were afraid: it looked to be dying.
What could be done with her? To carry her away was not practicable--and
she seemed too ill besides. Tom Coney offered to cover up the baby under
his coat and take it to the Court for food and shelter; but she clutched
it closer to her side as it lay on her arm, and faintly said it couldn't
do without her. Shutting the shed door again, we got quickly to
Timberdale Court, found Robert Ashton was not at home, as you heard, and
asked for the housekeeper, Mrs. Broom.
She was sitting in her little carpeted room, off the big kitchen, with
one of the maids. They were sewing white bows on a lot of caps, and
wondering what had become of the master. To be burst in upon by us, all
three telling the story at once of the woman and child, pretty nearly
scared good old Mother Broom's senses away.
"You are just playing a trick upon me, young gentlemen."
"It is as true as that we are here, Mrs. Broom; it is true as gospel.
They'll both be dead if something's not done for them."
"Well, I never heard of such a thing," she exclaimed, beginning to stir
about. "Lying in that cow-shed for two days without help! You ought to
have brought the poor baby away with you, sirs."
"She wouldn't let it come."
"I wouldn't have minded her saying that. A fortnight-old baby lying in
the shed in this cold!"
"I don't think it will make much difference in the long-run, whether the
baby stays in the shed or comes out of it," said Tom Coney. "If it sees
to-morrow's dawn, I shall wonder."
"Well, this _is_ a fine start!" cried Mother Broom. "And the master
never to have come home--that's another," she went on. For, what to do,
she didn't know the least in the world, and was like a woman with a lost
head.
We left the matter to her, carrying some things to the shed as we passed
it on our way home--blankets and a pillow, fresh water, milk-and-water
for the baby, and a candle and matches. One of the women-servants was to
come after us, with hot broth and wine.
When we reached Crabb Cot, the dismay there at hearing Robert Ashton had
not turned up, was diversified by this news, which we told of. Not that
they thought very much of it: the woman was only a poor tramp, they
said; and such things--fevers, and that--happen to poor tramps every
day.
"Do you think the baby's dying?" asked Charles Ashton, the parson.
"I'm nearly sure it is," said Tom Coney.
"That's a kind of woman, you know, that ought to be committed for
fourteen-days' hard labour," observed the Squire, fiercely, who was in
a frightfully cross mood with the various mishaps and uncertainties of
the evening. "Seems to be very sickly and humble, you say, Mr. Johnny!
Hold your tongue, sir; what should you know about it? These women
tramps bring death on their infants through exposure."
"And that's true," said old Coney. "I'd punish 'em, Squire, if I were a
magistrate like you."
But what do you think Parson Ashton did? When the dog-cart had taken him
and Mr. and Mrs. James Ashton to the Court--where they were to stay all
night--he started off for the shed, and did not come away from it until
he had baptized the baby.
We heard nothing more about it until the next day--and I don't suppose
any one has forgotten what sort of a miserable day that was, at old
Coney's Farm. How the wedding never took place, and Robert Ashton was
still missing, and Jane Coney was dressed in her bridal robes for
nothing, and the breakfast could not be eaten, and we guests staring in
each other's faces like so many helpless dummies. What news we had of
it then, came from Charles Ashton: he had been to the shed again that
morning. Whilst the carriages stood waiting at the gate, the post-boys'
scarlet jackets flaming in the sun, and the company indoors sat looking
hopelessly for the bridegroom, Parson Ashton talked about it in a corner
to Mrs. Coney and the Squire's wife: both of them in their grand silk
plumage then, one plum-coloured, the other sea-green, with feathers for
top-knots.
The little baby was dead, Charles Ashton said. The mother had been
removed to a shelter in Timberdale village, and was being cared for. The
doctor, called in to her, Darbyshire, thought she might get over it.
"You baptized the child, I hear, Charles?" said Mrs. Coney, to the
parson.
"Oh yes."
"What did you name it?"
"Lucy. Something in the mother's face put me in mind of my sister, and
it was the name I first thought of. I asked the mother what she would
have it called. Anything, she answered; it did not matter. Neither did
it, for the little thing was dying then. Hot-water bottles and other
remedies were tried last night as soon as they could be had, to get
warmth into the child--to renew its life, in fact; but nothing availed."
"Where was the woman taken to?"
"To Jael Batty's. Jael consented to take her in."
"I suppose it is but another case of the old, sad story?" groaned Mrs.
Todhetley.
"Nothing else. And she, poor thing, is not much more than a girl."
"Now, Charles, I tell you what. It may be all very consistent for you
clergymen--men of forgiveness, and that--to waste your compassion over
these poor stray creatures, but I think it might do more good sometimes
if you gave them blame," spoke Mrs. Coney, severely.
"There are times and seasons when you cannot express blame, however much
it may be deserved," he answered. "The worst of it in these cases is,
that we rarely know there exists cause for censure before it is too late
for any censure to avail, or avert the evil."
What with the astounding events of the day, connected with the
interrupted wedding, nothing more was said or thought of the affair.
Except by Jane. When she and I were in the big dining-room together--I
trying to blow up the fire, and she in full dread that Robert Ashton
would have to be tried for his life at the Worcester Spring Assizes, and
lie in prison until then--she suddenly spoke of it, interrupting the
noise made by the crackling of the wood.
"So that poor baby's dead, Johnny! What a happy fate--not to grow up to
trouble. Charles named it Lucy, I hear. I should like to see the poor
mother."
"See her for what, Jane?"
"She is in distress, and so am I. I don't suppose she has a corner to
turn to for comfort in the wide world. I have not."
It was not so very long after this that _her_ distress was over. Robert
Ashton arrived in triumph, and so put an end to it. One might suppose
Jane would no longer have remembered that other one's distress; what
with the impromptu dinner, where we had no room for our elbows, and the
laughter, and the preparations for the next day's wedding.
But the matter had taken hold of Jane Coney's mind, and she reverted to
it on the morrow before going away. When the wedding-breakfast was over,
and she--nevermore Jane Coney, but Jane Ashton--had changed her dress
and was saying good-bye to her mother upstairs, she suddenly spoke of
it.
"Mamma, I want to ask you to do something for me."
"Well, my dear?"
"Will you see after that poor young woman who was found in the shed?"
Naturally Mrs. Coney was taken by surprise. She didn't much like it.
"After that young woman, Jane?"
"Yes; for me."
"Mrs. Broom has seen to her," returned Mrs. Coney, in a voice that
sounded very frozen.
"Mother, dear," said Jane, "I was comparing myself with her yesterday;
wondering which of us was the worst off, the more miserable. I thought
I was. I almost felt that I could have changed places with her."
"Jane!" angrily interjected Mrs. Coney.
"I did. She knew the extent of her trouble, she could see all that it
involved; I did not see the extent of mine. I suppose it is always
thus--that other people's sorrows seem light when compared with our own.
The reason must no doubt be that we cannot realize theirs, whilst we
realize ours only too keenly."
"My dear, I don't care to talk of this."
"Nor I much--but hear me for a minute, mother. God has been so merciful
to me, and she is still as she was, that I--I should like to do what I
can for her when we come back again, and comfort and keep her."
"Keep her!"
"Keep her from want, I mean."
"But, child, she has been--you don't know what she has been," gravely
rebuked Mrs. Coney.
"I think I do, mother."
"She is a poor outcast, Jane; with neither home to go to, nor friends to
look upon her."
Jane burst into tears: they had been hardly kept down since she had
begun to speak.
"Just so, mother. But what was I yesterday? If Robert had been tried for
his life, and condemned, I should have felt like an outcast; perhaps
been looked upon as no better than one by the world."
"Goodness, Jane, I wish you'd exercise your common sense," cried Mrs.
Coney, losing patience. "I tell you she _is_ an outcast, and has
forfeited home and friends. She has been a great sinner."
"Mother, if she had a home and friends, there would be no need to
succour her. As to sin--perhaps we can save her from that for the
future. My gratitude for the mercy shown to _me_ is such that I feel as
if I could take her to my bosom; it seems to my mind that I ought to do
something for her, that she has been thrown in my way that I should do
it. Mother, it is my last petition to you: see after her a little for me
until we come back again."
"Very well, dear; as you make this point of it," concluded Mrs. Coney,
relenting just a little. And then Jane began to cry hysterically; and
Tom Coney knocked at the door, saying time was up.