Johnny Ludlow Second Series Part 22

On we went, wading through the snow. Some of us looked round for the ghost's light, and did not see it. But rumour said that it never came on a bright moonlit night. Here we were at last!--at the foot of the other zigzag. But Robert Ashton wasn't here. And, the best proof that he had _not_ fallen, was the unbroken surface of the snow. Not so much as a rabbit had scudded across to disturb it.

"I knew it," said Tom Coney. "He has not come to grief at all. It stands to reason that a fellow must have heaps to do the day before his wedding, if it's only in burning his old letters from other sweethearts.

Bob had a heap of them, no doubt; and couldn't get away in time for dinner."

"We had better go on to the Court, and see," I said.

"Oh, that be hanged!" cried the other two in a breath.

"Well, I shall. It's not much farther. You can go back, or not, as you like."

_This_ zigzag, though steeper than the one on our side, was not so slippery. Perhaps the sun had shone on it in the day and melted the snow. I went up it nearly as easily as in good weather. Tod and Coney, thinking better of the turning back, came after me.

We should have been at Timberdale Court in five minutes, taking the short-cut over hedges and ditches, but for an adventure by the way, which I have not just here s.p.a.ce to tell about. It had nothing to do with Robert Ashton. Getting to the Court, we hammered at it till the door was opened. The servant started back in surprise.

"Goodness me!" said she, "I thought it was master."

"Where is the master?" asked Tom.

"Not come home, sir. He has not been in since he left this morning."

It was all out. Instead of pitchpolling into Crabb Ravine and breaking his limbs, Bob Ashton had not got back from Worcester. It was very strange, though, what could be keeping him, and the Court was nearly in a commotion over it.

When we got back to the Farm, they were laying the table for the wedding-breakfast. Plenty of kickshaws now, and some lovely flowers. The ladies, helping, had their gowns turned up. This helping had not been in the evening's programme; but things seemed to have been turned upside down, and they were glad to seize upon it. Jane and her sister, Mrs.

West, sat alone by the drawing-room fire, never saying a word to one another.

"Johnny, I don't half like this," whispered Mrs. Todhetley to me.

"Like what, good mother?"

"This absence of Robert Ashton."

I don't know that I liked it either.

Morning came. In an uncertainty such as this, people go to each other's houses indiscriminately. The first train came in from Worcester before it was well light; but it did not bring Robert Ashton. As to the snow on the ground, it was pretty well beaten now.

"He wouldn't travel by that slow parliamentary thing: he'll come by the express to South Crabb Junction," said Tom Coney, thinking he would cheer away the general disappointment. Jane we had not seen.

The express would be at the Junction between nine and ten. A whole lot of us went down there. It was not farther off than Timberdale Station, but the opposite way. I don't think one of us was more eager than another, unless it was the Squire. The thing was getting serious, he told us; and he went puffing about like a man looking for his head.

To witness the way he seized upon the doors when the express steamed in, and put his old red nose inside all the carriages, looking for Robert Ashton, was a rare sight. The guard laid hold of his arm, saying he'd come to damage. But Robert Ashton was not in the train.

"He may come yet," said old Coney, looking fit to cry. "There'll be a train in again at Timberdale. Or, he may drive over."

But every one felt that he would _not_ come. Something told us so. It was only making believe to one another, saying he would.

"I shall go to Worcester by the next down train," said the Squire to old Coney.

"The next does not stop here."

"They'd better stop it for me," said the Squire, defiantly. "You can't come, Coney. You must remain to give Jane away."

"But if there's no bridegroom to give her to?" debated old Coney.

"There may be. You must remain on the strength of it."

The down train came up, and obeyed the signal to stop made by the station-master. The Squire, Tod, and Tom Coney got in, and it steamed on again.

"Now mind, I shall conduct this search," the Squire said to the others with a frown. "You young fellows don't know your right hand from your left in a business of this sort. We must go about it systematically, and find out the different places that Robert Ashton went to yesterday, and the people he saw." Tod and Tom Coney told us this later.

When they arrived at Worcester, the first man they saw at Shrubb Hill Station was Harry Coles, who had been seeing somebody off by the train, which was rather curious; for his brother, Fred Coles, was Robert Ashton's great chum, and was to be groom's-man at the wedding.

Harry Coles said his brother had met Ashton by appointment the previous day, and went with him to the Registrar's office for the marriage licence--which was supplied to them by Mr. Clifton himself.

After that, they went to the jeweller's, and chose the wedding-ring.

"Well, what after that?" cried the impatient Squire.

Harry Coles did not know what. His brother had come back to their office early in the afternoon--about one o'clock--saying Ashton was going, or had gone, home.

"Can't you tell which he said--going, or gone?" demanded the Squire, getting red.

"No, I can't," said Harry Coles. "I was busy with some estimates, and did not pay particular attention to him."

"Then you ought to have paid it, sir," retorted the Squire. "Your brother?--where is he?"

"Gone over to Timberdale ages ago. He started the first thing this morning, Squire; a big coat thrown over his wedding toggery."

The Squire growled, as a relief to his feelings, not knowing what in the world to do. He suddenly said he'd go to the Registrar's office, and started for Edgar Street.

Mr. Clifton was not there, but a clerk was. Yes, Mr. Ashton of Timberdale had been there the previous day, he said, in answer to the Squire, and had got his licence. The governor (meaning Mr. Clifton, who knew the Ashtons and the Coneys well) had joked a bit with young Ashton, when he gave it. As to telling where Ashton of Timberdale and Mr. Coles had gone to afterwards, the clerk did not know at all.

So there was nothing to be gathered at the Registrar's office, and the Squire turned his steps up the town again, Tod and Coney following him like two tame lambs; for he wouldn't let them make a suggestion or put in a word edgeways. He was on his way to the jeweller's now: but as he had omitted to ask Harry Coles which of the jewellers' shops the ring was bought at, he took them all in succession, and hit upon the right one after some difficulty.

He learnt nothing there, either. Mr. Ashton of Timberdale had bought the ring and keeper, and paid for them, the master said. Of course every one knew the young lady was Miss Jane Coney: he had brought one of her rings as a guide for size: a chased gold ring, with small garnet stones in it.

"I am not asking for rings and stones," interrupted the Squire, wrathfully. "I want to know if Mr. Ashton said where he was going to afterwards?"

"He said never a word about it," returned the master. "When they went out of here--young Fred Coles was with him--they took the way towards the Hop Market."

The Squire went to the Crown next--the inn used by the Ashtons of Timberdale. Robert Ashton had called in the previous day, about one o'clock, the waiter said, taking a little bread-and-cheese, observing that he had no time for anything else, and a gla.s.s of table-beer. Mr.

Coles had come down Broad Street with him, as far as the inn door, when they shook hands and parted; Mr. Coles going back again. The waiter thought Mr. Ashton was not in the house above five minutes at the most.

"And don't you know where he went to next?" urged the Squire.

"No," the waiter replied. The impression on his mind was, that Mr.

Ashton's business in Worcester was over, and that he was returning home again.

The Squire moved slowly up Broad Street, more gloomy than an owl, his hands in his pockets, his nose blue. He boasted of his systematic abilities, as applied to seekings and searchings, but he knew no more what to be at next than the man in the moon. Turning up the Cross, he came to an anchor outside the linen-draper's shop; propping his back against the window, as if the hanging silks had offended him. There he stood staring up at St. Nicholas's clock opposite.