Johnny Ludlow Second Series Part 25

"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 pa.s.sed 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 compa.s.sion 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 a.s.sizes, 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. G.o.d 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."