Johnny Ludlow Second Series Part 20

she answered; going in for a slight instalment of shivering there and then. "It might ha' come to hanging. Leastways, that's what I've been dreaming of."

V.

ROBERT ASHTON'S WEDDING-DAY.

The hall-clock was striking half-past five as we went out into the sharp night-air: Mr. and Mrs. Todhetley, I, and Tod. We were spending Christmas that year at Crabb Cot. Old Coney's dinner was fixed for six: but country people don't observe the fashion of dashing in at the last stroke of the hour. The weather was cold, and no mistake; the snow lay on the ground; the stars shone like silver. This was Tuesday, New Year's Day; and to-morrow, the second of January, Jane Coney would be married to Robert Ashton of Timberdale. The Ashtons were to dine to-night at the Farm, and we had been asked to meet them. If every one stood upon his own level, we should shoot up some degrees over the Coneys' heads in the scale of the world's ladder; for old Coney was only a plain farmer; and you've learnt by this time what the Squire was. But the Coneys were right-down good people, and made the best neighbours in the world.

We had only to cross the road slantwise, and old Coney had had it swept for us. It was an old-fashioned farm-house, full of nooks and angles, with one ugly, big room in it, oak-panelled. The cloth was laid there for to-night, the breakfast would be for the morrow. Old Coney and Mrs.

Coney came out of the drawing-room to meet us: that was small and snug, with a running pattern of pale roses on its white-watered walls. He was jolly; she, plain, homely, and sensible.

Jane was quiet, like her mother; very well she looked, standing on the carpet in her pretty blue silk dress. Her brother Tom, a tall, strong young fellow with a red face, lifted her out of the way by the waist, that he might shake hands all round. The eldest daughter, Mary West, was staying there with her nurse and baby; she looked ill, and got up only for a minute from her chair by the fire. Her husband was a lawyer, in practice at Worcester. Another young lady was sitting near, with light frizzed hair: Mrs. James Ashton.

Before we had settled down, wheels were heard. It was Robert Ashton's dog-cart, bringing his two brothers, Charles and James; and Mary West's husband. Miss Jane's cheeks turned as red as a rose for nothing: Robert Ashton had not come with them.

I had better say who the Ashtons were. Old Ashton (the father) had lived at Timberdale Court always. It was one of the best farms in all Worcestershire. Old Ashton lived in good style, educated his children, and started them well in life. Lucy, the only girl, married a Captain Bird, who turned out to be a frightful scamp. Robert remained on the farm with his father; Charles was a clergyman; James a doctor in Worcester. Everybody respected Mr. Ashton. It was about three years now since he died, and he left a good pot of money behind him. Robert succeeded to the farm, and it was he who was to marry Jane Coney to-morrow.

They went upstairs with their carpet-bags, having come direct from Worcester by train; Robert Ashton's dog-cart had been waiting, as arranged, at Timberdale Station to bring them on. Mrs. James Ashton came over earlier in the day with Mrs. West. Robert and Charles Ashton were both fine young men, but the doctor was slight and short. Now I hope all that's clear; because it was necessary to say it.

What with talking and looking at the presents, the time pa.s.sed. They were laid out on a table against the wall, on a snow-white damask cloth of rare beauty.

"Look here," whispered Mrs. Coney, taking up a scented blue-and-white case of satin ribbon and beads for holding pocket-handkerchiefs. "Poor Lucy Bird sent this. She must have made it herself, a thing like this, bought, would be as much as fifteen or sixteen shillings. It came almost anonymously: 'With best love and ever kind wishes for Robert and Jane,'

written on it; but we knew Lucy's handwriting."

"Where are they now?" asked Mrs. Todhetley, in the same mysterious whisper.

"I fancy they are staying somewhere in Worcester. We should have liked to have Lucy over for the wedding; but--you know how it is: we could not ask him."

Mrs. Todhetley nodded. She wore her grey silk gown that night, which always seemed to make her look taller and thinner than ever, and a white lace cap with pink ribbons. A pink bow was in her light hair, and she had put on her beautiful earrings.

There is some thorn in most families, and Lucy was the one in that of Ashton. She was educated at the best school in Worcester, and came home at eighteen brimful of romance. It lay in her nature. You'd hardly have found so pretty and sentimental a girl in the county. Because her name was Lucy Ashton, she identified herself with Scott's Lucy Ashton, and looked out for a Master of Ravenswood. These sentimental girls sometimes come to grief, for they possess only three parts of their share of plain common-sense. The Master of Ravenswood came in the shape of Captain Bird, a tall, dark man, with a flaming coat and fierce moustache. He paid court to Lucy, and she fell in love with him before a week was over. The Ashtons turned their backs upon him: there was something in the man they did not like, in spite of the red coat and the black moustache. But he won Lucy over--he had heard of her fortune, you see--and she promised to marry him. She was a gentle, yielding, timid girl then; but her love was strong, and she ran away. She ran away and was married the same morning at St. Helen's church in Worcester, in which parish Bird had been staying. It was the talk of the county; but when the commotion had subsided, every one began to pity Lucy, saying she would have plenty of time and cause for repentance. After all, he was not a real captain now. He had sold out of the army; and there arose a rumour that he had done something wrong and was obliged to sell out.

Mr. Ashton had loved Lucy better than all his children. He forgave the marriage for Lucy's sake, and had them home on a visit, and presented her with a handsome sum. But he made a great mistake--I've heard the Squire say it often--in not settling it upon her. Bird spent it as soon as he well could; and he would have spent some more that came to Lucy when her father died, only that it was left in Robert Ashton's hands to be paid to her quarterly. People called Bird a blackleg: said he was about the worst man that ever stepped. Robert had offered Lucy a home at Timberdale Court, but she would not leave her husband: she had married him, she said, for better or worse. If he came to be transported--and he was going on for it--the chances were that Lucy would follow him to Van Diemen's Land.

"I say, there's six o'clock!" exclaimed Mr. Coney, as the hour struck.

"Jane, what have you done with Robert?"

"Not anything, papa. He said he should be here half-an-hour before dinner."

"And it will soon be half-an-hour after it," returned old Coney. "If he does not make haste, we shall sit down without him."

The clock on the mantelpiece went ticking on, and struck half-past six.

Dinner. The Squire led off the van with Mrs. Coney. Tod laid hold of Jane.

"I'll take Robert's place whilst I can, Jenny."

The oak-room was a surprise. It looked beautiful. The dark walls were quite covered with holly and ivy, mixed with the blossoms of laurustinus and some bright flowers. Old Thomas (borrowed from us) and the maids stood by the sideboard, which glittered with silver. The Coneys had their stores as well as other people, and did things well when they did them at all. On the table was a large codfish, garnished with horse-radish and lemon. Our names were before our places, and we took them without bustle, Robert Ashton's, next to Jane, being left vacant.

"For what----"

A faint shriek interrupted the Reverend Mr. Ashton, and the grace was interrupted. Lifting his head towards the quarter whence the shriek came, he saw his sister-in-law with a scared face.

"We are thirteen!" exclaimed Mrs. James Ashton. "I beg your pardon, Charles--I beg everybody's pardon; but indeed we must not sit down thirteen to dinner on New Year's Day. I would not for any money."

"What nonsense, my dear!" cried her husband, rather crossly. "Robert will be here directly."

It was of no use. The ladies took her part, saying they ought not to sit down. And there we all stood, uncertain what to do, the dinner hovering in mid-air like Mahomet's coffin, and not to be eaten.

"There are two days in the year when it is not well to sit down thirteen: New Year's Day and Christmas Day," said Mrs. Todhetley, and the rest held with her.

"Are we all to go back to the drawing-room, and leave our dinner?"

demanded old Coney, in wrath. "Where the plague _is_ Robert? Look here: those that won't sit down thirteen can go, and those that don't mind it can stop."

"Hear, hear!" cried the Squire.

But Jane Coney went gliding to her mother's side. "I will wait for Robert in the drawing-room, mamma, and you can sit down twelve. Yes, please; it is best so. Indeed I could not eat anything if I stayed."

"Shall we send you some dinner in, child?" asked Mr. Coney.

"No, thank you, papa. I should like best to take it with Robert when he comes."

"All right," said old Coney. "Johnny, you go over to that side, to make the table even. We'll have the grace now, parson."

And the parson said it.

It was a dinner that pleased the Squire's heart. He had a mortal objection to what he called kickshaws, meaning the superfluous dishes you find at a modern entertainment. The Coneys never had kickshaws, only a plain, substantial dinner, the best of its kind.

"Coney, I never taste such oyster-sauce as yours, go where I will,"

cried the Squire. "It can't be matched."

Old Coney winked, as much as to say he knew it. "The missis gives an eye to that, you see, Squire," he answered, in a side whisper. "She had been in the kitchen till you came."

The Squire took another ladleful. He went once or twice to every dish, and drank champagne with all of us. But still Robert Ashton did not come.

I slipped round to Mrs. Coney when the plum-pudding appeared, whispering that I would take a slice to Jane.

"So you shall, Johnny," she said, giving me some on a plate, and putting a mince-pie beside it. "She will have no luck unless she eats a little of both pudding and pie on the first day of the year."

Jane sat in a low elbow-chair before the fire, her head leaning on her hand, her hair a little tumbled. It was very pretty hair, dark chestnut, and her eyes were hazel. Robert Ashton was fair-haired and blue-eyed; Saxon all over, and very good-looking.

"I have brought you some pudding, Jane."

"Oh, Johnny! why did you leave the table? I can't eat it."

"But Mrs. Coney says you are to; and some mince-pie also, or you'll have no luck."