Johnny Ludlow Second Series Part 102

"No, thank ye, lad. I want to be independent as long as I can. Come you both over in good time on Friday. Perhaps we can get an hour or two's shooting."

Friday came, and we had rather a jolly day than not, what with shooting and feasting. Gisby drew near to join us in the cover, but his master civilly told him that he was not wanted and need not hinder his time in looking after us. Never a word did old Westerbrook say that day of Fred, and he put on his best spirits to entertain us.

But in going away at night, when Tod had gone round to get the bag of partridges, which old Westerbrook insisted on our taking home, he suddenly spoke to me. We were standing at his front-door under the starlight.

"What made you say the other day that Fred was not guilty?"

"Because, sir, I feel sure he was not. I am as sure of it as though Heaven had shown it to me."

"He was with the gang of poachers: Gisby saw him shoot," said the old man, with emphasis.

"Gisby may have been mistaken. And Fred's having been with the poachers at the moment was, I think, accidental."

"Then why, if not guilty, did he go away?"

"Fear sent him. What would his word have been against Gisby's dying declaration? You remember what a hubbub there was, sir--enough to frighten any man away, however innocent he might be."

"Allow, for argument's sake, that your theory is correct, and that he was frightened into going into hiding, why does he not come out of it?

Gisby is alive and well again."

Ah, I could not speak so confidently there. "I think he must be dead, sir," I said, "and that's the truth. If he were not, some of us would surely have heard of him."

"I see," said the old gentleman, looking straight up at the stars. "We are both of the same mind, Johnny--that he is dead. I say he might have died that night: you think he went away first and died afterwards. Not much difference between us, is there?"

I thought there was a great deal; but I could not tell him why. "I wish we could hear of him, sir--and be at some certainty."

"So do I, Johnny Ludlow. He was brought up at my knee; as my own child."

On our way home, Tod with the bag of game slung over his shoulder, we came upon Mr. Holland near the Parsonage, with Edna Blake and the children. They had been to Farmer Page's harvest-home. Whilst the parson talked to Tod, Edna s.n.a.t.c.hed a moment with me.

"Have you heard any news, Johnny?"

"Of _him_? Never. We can't make it out."

"Perhaps we never shall hear," she sighed. "Even if he reached the coast in safety, he may not have got over to the other side. A great many wrecks took place about that time: our weekly paper was full of them. It was the time of the equinoctial gales, and----"

"Come along, Johnny!" called out Tod, at this juncture. "We must get on.

Good-night, Edna: good-night, you youngsters."

The next day, Sat.u.r.day, we went to Worcester, the Squire driving us, and there saw Gisby as large as life. The man had naturally great a.s.sumption of manner, and latterly he had taken to dress in the fas.h.i.+on. He was looming up High Street, booted and spurred, his silver-headed whip in his hand. Taking off his hat with an air, he wished the Squire a loud good-morning, as if the town belonged to him, and we were only subjects in it.

"I should think Westerbrook has never been fool enough to make his will in Gisby's favour!" remarked the Squire, staring after him. "Egad, though, it looks like it!"

"It is to be hoped, sir, that he would make it in Fred's," was Tod's rejoinder. And the suggestion put the pater out.

"Make it in Fred's," he retorted, going into one of his heats, and turning sharply round on the crowded pavement near the market-house, by which he came into contact with two women and their big b.u.t.ter-baskets.

"What do you mean by that, sir? Fred Westerbrook is beyond the pale of wills, and all else. It's not respectable to mention his name. He--bless the women! What on earth are these baskets at?"

They seemed to be playing at b.u.mps with the Squire; baskets thick and threefold. Tod went in to the rescue, and got him out.

It was a strange thing. It really was. Considering that for the past day or two something or other had arisen to bring up thoughts of Fred Westerbrook, it was strange that the strangest of all things in connection with him was yet to come.

Sitting round the fire after supper, upon getting home from Worcester--it is a long drive, you know--and Tod had gone up to bed, dead tired, who should walk in but Duffham. He would not sit down, had no time; but told his business hastily. d.i.c.k Standish was dying, and had something on his conscience.

"I would have heard his confession," said Duffham, "as I have heard that of many another dying man; but he seems to wish to make it to a magistrate. Either to a magistrate, or to old Mr. Westerbrook, he urged.

But there's no time to go up to the N. D. Farm, so I came for you, Squire."

"Bless me!" cried the Squire, starting up in a commotion--for he thought a great deal of his magisterial duties, and this was a very unusual call. "d.i.c.k Standish dying! What can he have to say? He has been nothing but a poacher all his life, poor fellow! And what has Westerbrook to do with him?"

"Well," said Duffham, in his equable way, "it strikes me that what he wants to say may affect Fred. Perhaps Standish can clear him."

"Clear Fred Westerbrook!--clear an iniquitous young man who could turn poacher and murderer! What next will you say, Duffham? Here, Johnny, get my hat and coat. Dear me! Take down a confession! I wonder whether there'll be any ink there?"

"Let me go with you, sir!" I said eagerly. "I will take my little pocket-inkstand--and some paper--and--and--everything likely to be wanted. Please let me go!"

"Well, yes, you can, Johnny. Don't forget a Bible. Ten to one if _he_ has one."

There were three brothers of these Standishes, Tom, Jim, and d.i.c.k, none of them particularly well-doing. Tom was no better than a sort of tramp, reappearing in the village only by fits and starts; Jim, who had married Mary Picker, was likewise given to roving abroad, until found and brought back by the parish; d.i.c.k, as the Squire phrased it, was nothing but a poacher, and made his home mostly with Jim and Mary. The cottage--a tumble-down lodgment that they did not trouble themselves to keep in repair--was at our end of the parish half-a-mile away, and we put our best feet foremost.

d.i.c.k lay upon the low bed in the loft. His illness had been very short and sharp; it was scarcely a week yet since he was taken with it.

Duffham had done his best; but the man was dying. Jim Standish was off on one of his roving expeditions, neither the parish nor the public knowing whither.

The Squire sat by the bed, taking down the man's confession at a small table, by the light of a small candle. I and Duffham stood to hear it; Mary Standish was sent down to the kitchen. What he said cleared Fred Westerbrook--Duffham had no doubt gathered so much before he came for the Squire.

Just what Fred had told us of the events of the night, d.i.c.k Standish confirmed now. He and other poachers were out, he said, his brother Tom for one. They had bagged some game, and were about to disperse when they encountered Mr. Fred Westerbrook. He stayed talking with them, walking the same way that they did, when lo! they all fell into the ambush planned by Gisby. A fight ensued; and he--he, d.i.c.k Standish, now speaking, conscious that he was dying--he fired his gun at them, and the shot entered Gisby. They ran away then and were not pursued; a gun was fired after them, and it struck his brother Tom, but not to hurt him very much: not enough to disable him. He and Tom made themselves scarce at once, before daylight; and they did not come back till danger was over, and Gisby about again. Old Jones and other folks had come turning the cottage inside out at the time in search of him (d.i.c.k), but his brother Jim swore through thick and thin that d.i.c.k had not been at home for ever so long. The Squire took all this down; and d.i.c.k signed it.

I was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the little inkstand up to return it to my pocket, when Mr. Holland entered, Mary Standish having sent for him. Leaving him with the sick man, we came away.

"Johnny, do you know, we might almost have made sure Fred Westerbrook was not guilty," said the Squire, quite humbly, as we were crossing the turnip-field. "But why on earth did he run away? Where is he?"

"I think he must be dead, sir. What news this will be for Mr.

Westerbrook."

"Dear me yes! I shall go to him with it in the morning."

When the morning came--which was Sunday--the Squire was so impatient to be off that he could hardly finish his breakfast. The master of the N. D. Farm, who no longer had energy or health to keep the old early hours, was only sitting down to his breakfast when the Squire got there.

In his well-meaning but hot way, he plunged into the narrative so cleverly that old Westerbrook nearly had a fit.

"Not guilty!" he stammered, when he came to himself. "Fred not guilty!

Only met the poachers by accident!--was not the man that shot Gisby!

Why, that's what Johnny Ludlow was trying to make me believe only a day or two ago!"

"Johnny was? Oh, he often sees through a stone wall. It's true, anyway, Westerbrook. Fred never had a gun in his hand that night."

"Then--knowing himself innocent, why on earth does he stay away?"

"Johnny thinks he must be dead," replied the Squire.

Old Westerbrook gave a groan of a.s.sent. His trembling hands upset a cupful of coffee on the table-cloth.