Johnny Ludlow, Second Series

A prolonged, sobbing sigh, as if she were going to faint, and then a glad light in her eyes. She took up her work again. I went over to the seat next her, and told her all. She was darning all the while. With such a heap of mending the fingers must not be idle.

“To America!” she repeated, in answer to what I said. “What is he going to do for money to carry him there?”

“He talks of working his passage over. He has enough money about him, he says, to take him to the coast. Unfortunately, neither Tod nor I can help him in that respect. We have brought empty pockets from school, and shall have no money before the time of going back again. Will you go in and see him, Edna?”

“Yes,” she said, after a minute’s consideration. “And I will bring a roll of music in my hand, as you suggest, Johnny, for the satisfaction of Clerk Bumford’s curiosity. I will be at the stile as near eight o’clock as I can, if you will come out there to meet me: but it is Saturday night, you know, when there’s always a great deal to do.”

Dinner was made later than usual that night at home: it had struck half-past seven before we got out, having secured another bottle of beer. The moon was rising behind the trees as we went into the barn.

Tod struck a match, and we looked about. Yes, Fortune was with us still. Hanging on the shaft of the cart, was Mack’s smock-frock. It was anything but clean; but beggars can’t be choosers. Next we descried a cotton neckerchief and a pair of boots; two clumsy, clod-hopping boots, with nails in the soles, and the outside leather not to be seen for patches.

“They must do,” said Tod, with a rueful look. “But just look at the wretches, Johnny. I must smuggle these and the smock-frock into the church-porch, whilst you go round to old B.’s for the key.”

“I have the key. I flung him a shilling this morning instead of the key, saying I might be wanting to practise at any hour to-day, and would give it him back to-night.”

Going by the most solitary way, I let Tod into the church, and went to meet Edna Blake. She was already there, the roll of music in her hand. Bumford shot out of his house, and crossed our path.

“Good-evening, Mr. Bumford!” said she, cheerily. “I am come to try the hymns for to-morrow, with Johnny Ludlow.”

“They’d need to be sum’at extra, they had, with all this here fuss of practising,” returned Bumford, ungraciously. “Is the parson at home, Miss Blake?”

“Yes. He is in the little room, writing.”

“‘Cause I want to see him,” said the clerk; and he stalked off.

“Do you know how Gisby is?” Edna asked me in a whisper.

“Dead by this time, I dare say. But I have not heard.”

They were at the top of the church when we got in, laughing in covert tones; I guessed it was over those dreadful boots. Edna stood by me whilst I locked the door, and then we went at once to the organ and began the hymn. Old Bumford could not be too far off yet to catch the sounds. Presently Fred Westerbrook and Edna went into the aisle, and paced it arm-in-arm. I kept on playing; Tod, not knowing what to do with himself, whistled an accompaniment.

“How long shall I be away, Edna!” exclaimed Fred, in answer to her question. “Why, how can I tell? It may be for years; it may be for ever. I cannot come back, I suppose, whilst this thing is hanging over my head.”

She was in very low spirits, and the tears began to drop from her eyes. Fred could see that much, as they paced through one of the patches of moonlight.

“You may not succeed in getting away.”

“No, I may not. And do you know, Edna, there are moments when I feel half inclined not to attempt it, but to give myself up instead, and let the matter take its course. If I do get away, and get on in the States, so as to make myself a home, will you come out and share it with me?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“I may do it. I think I shall. Few people know more about the cultivation of land than I do, and I will take care to put my shoulder to the wheel. Practical farmers get on well there if they choose, though they have to rough it at first. Be very sure of one thing, Edna: all my hopes and aims will be directed to one end—that of making a home for you.”

She could not speak for crying.

“It may not be a luxurious home, neither may I make anything of a position. But if I make enough for comfort, you will come out to it?”

“I will,” she said with a sob.

“My darling!”

Echo bore the words to us, softly though they were spoken. I played a crashing chord or two, after the manner of Richards.

“You may not hear from me,” continued Fred. “I must not give any clue to where I am, and therefore cannot write—at least, not at present. Men accused of murder can be brought home from any part of the world. Only trust me, Edna. Trust me! though it be for years.”

No fear but she would. She put a small packet in his hand.

“You must take it, Frederick. It is my last half-year’s salary—ten pounds—and I chance to have it by me: a loan, if you will; but take it you shall. Knowing that you have a few pounds to help you away and to fall back upon, will make things a little less miserable for me.”

“But, Edna–”

“I declare I will throw it away if you do not take it,” she returned, warmly. “Do not be cruel to me, Frederick. If you knew how it will lighten my doubts and fears, you would not for a moment hesitate.”

“Be it so, Edna. It will help me onwards. Truth to say, I did not see how I should have got along, even to the coast, unless I had begged on my way. It is a loan, Edna, and I will contrive to repay it as soon as may be.”

So his boast of having money to take him to the coast had been all a sham. Poor Fred! They began to take leave of one another, Edna sobbing bitterly. I plunged into the “Hallelujah Chorus.”

Tod let her out, and watched her safely across the churchyard. Then we locked the door again for the dressing-up, I playing a fugue between whiles. The first operation was that of cutting his hair short, for which we had brought the mater’s big scissors. No labourer would be likely to possess Fred’s beautiful hair, or wear it so long. Tod did it well; not counting a few notches, and leaving him as good as none on his head.

It was impossible to help laughing when we took a final look at him in the moonlight, Fred turning himself about to be inspected: his hair, clipped nearly to the roots, suggesting a suspicion that he had just come out of prison; his trousers, not reaching to the ankle, showing off the heavy, patched, disreputable boots; the smock-frock; and Mack’s spotted cotton neckerchief muffled round his chin!

“Your own mother wouldn’t know you, Fred.”

“What a figure I shall cut if I am dropped upon and brought back!”

“Take heart, man!” cried Tod. “Resolve to get off, and you will get off.”

“Yes, Fred, I think you will. You have been so helped hitherto, that I think you will be helped still.”

“Thank you, Johnny. Thank you both. I will take heart. And if I live to return, I hope I shall thank you better.”

Later we dared not stay; it was past nine now. I bade Fred good-bye, and God-speed.

“Between half-past twelve and one, mind, will be your time; you’ll hear the clock strike,” was Tod’s parting injunction, given in a whisper. “Good luck to you, old fellow! I hope and trust you’ll dodge the enemy. And as soon as you are clear of the churchyard, make off as if the dickens were behind you.”

“Here’s the key, Mr. Bumford,” I said, while Tod stole off with his bundle the other way, Fred’s boots, and hair, and all that. “You won’t be bothered for it next week, for I shall be off to school again.”

“Thought you’d took up your lodging inside for the night,” grunted Bumford. “Strikes me, Master Ludlow, it’s more play nor work with you.”

“As it is with a good many of us, Bumford. Good-night!”

We walked home in the moonlight, silent enough, Tod handing me the bundles to carry. The Squire attacked us, demanding whether we had stayed out to look at the moon.

And I tossed and turned on my restless bed till the morning hours, thinking of poor Fred Westerbrook, and of whether he would get away. When sleep at last came, it brought me a very vivid dream of him. I thought he did not get away: he was unable to unlock the church-door. Whether Tod and I had double-locked it in leaving, I knew not; but Fred could not get it open. When Clerk Bumford entered the church in the morning, and the early comers of the congregation with him, there stood Fred, hopelessly waiting to be taken. I saw him as plainly in my dream as I had ever seen him in reality: with the dirty smock-frock, and the patched boots, and the clipped hair. Shepherd, who seemed to follow me in, darted forward and seized him; and in the confusion I awoke. Just for a minute I thought it was true—a scene actually enacted. Would it prove so?

XVI.

THE SYLLABUB FEAST

“You have gone and done a fine thing, Master Johnny Ludlow!”

The salutation came from Clerk Bumford. He was standing at the church-door on Sunday morning, looking out as if he expected me, his face pale and stern. I had run on betimes: in fact, before the bell began.

“What have I done, Bumford?”

“Why, you just went and left this here church open last night! You never locked it up! When I come in but now, I found the door right on the latch; never as much as shut!”

Beginning to protest till all was blue that I had shut and locked the door—as I knew too well—caution pulled me up, and whispered me to take the blame.

“I’m sure I thought I locked it, Bumford. I never left it unlocked before, and I’ll take care I never leave it so again.”

“Such a thing as having the church open for a night was never heered of,” he grumbled, turning away to ring out the first peal of the bell. “Why, I might have had all my store o’ candles stole! there’s nigh a pound on ’em, in here. And my black gownd—and the parson’s gownd—and his surplice! Besides the grave-digging tools, and other odds and ends.”

Shutting himself into his den underneath the belfry, and tugging away at the cords, the bell tinkled out, warning the parish that it was time to start for morning service. The bell-ringer was a poor old man named Japhet, who was apt to be a little late. Upon which Bumford would begin the ringing, and blow Japhet up when he came.

Not a soul was yet in church. I went down the middle aisle softly calling Fred Westerbrook’s name. He did not answer; and I hoped to my heart he had got clear away. The open entrance-door seemed to indicate that he had; and I thought he might have left it undone in case he had to make a bolt back again. Nevertheless, I could not shake off the remembrance of my unpleasant dream.

Of all troublesome idiots, that Bumford was the worst. When I went back, after passing by all the remote nooks and corners, Japhet had taken his place at the bell, and he was telling the parson of my sins.

“Right on the latch all the blessed night, your reverence,” protested Bumford. “We might have found the whole church ransacked this morning.”

Mr. Holland, a mild man, with stout legs, and cares of his own, looked at me with a half-smile. “How was it, Johnny?”

“I have assured Bumford, sir, that it shall not happen again. I certainly thought I had locked it when I took him back the key. No harm has come of it.”

“But harm might ha’ come,” persisted Bumford. “Look at all them candles in there! and the gownds and surplices! Pretty figures we should ha’ cut, saving his reverence’s presence, with nothing to put upon our backs this here blessed morning!”

“Talking of the key, I missed mine this morning,” remarked Mr. Holland. “Have you taken it away for any purpose, Bumford?”

“What, the t’other church-key!” exclaimed Bumford. “Not I, sir. I’d not be likely to fetch that key when I’ve got my own—and without your reverence’s knowledge either!”

“Well, I cannot find it anywhere,” said Mr. Holland. “It generally lies on the mantelpiece at home, and it is not there this morning.”

He went into the vestry with the last words. To hear that the church-key generally lay on the mantelpiece, was nothing; for the parson’s house was not noticeable for order. There would have been none in it at all but for Edna.

Close upon that, arrived Shepherd, a folded paper in his hand. It contained a request that Gisby might be prayed for in the Litany.

“What, ain’t he dead yet?” asked Bumford.

“No,” returned Shepherd. “The doctors be afraid that internal inflammation’s a-setting in now. Any way, he is rare and bad, poor man.”

Next came in my set of singers, chiefly boys and girls from the parish school. But they sang better than such children generally sing; and would have sung very well indeed with an organist who had his head on his shoulders the proper way. Mrs. Todhetley had long taken pains with them, but latterly it had all been upset by Richards’s crotchets.

“Now, look here,” said I, gathering them before me. “We are not going to have any shrieking to-day. We sing to praise God, you know, and He is in the church with you and hears you; He is not a mile or two away, that you need shout out to be heard all that distance.”

“Please, sir, Mr. Richards tells us to sing out loud: as loud as ever we can. Some on us a’most cracks our voices at it.”

“Well, never mind Mr. Richards to-day. I am going to play, and I tell you to sing softly. If you don’t, I shall stop the organ and let you shout by yourselves. You won’t like that. To shout and shriek in church is more irreverent than I care to talk about.”

“Please, sir, Mr. Richards plays the organ so loud that we can’t help it.”

“I wish you’d let Mr. Richards alone. You won’t hear the organ loud to-day. Do you say your prayers when you go to bed at night?”

This question took them aback. But at last the whole lot answered that they did.

“And do you say your prayers softly, or do you shout them out at the top of your voices? To my mind, it is just as unseemly to shout when singing in church, as it would be when praying. This church has been like nothing lately but the ranter’s chapel. There, take your seats, and look out the places in your Prayer-books.”

I watched the different groups walk into church. Our people were pretty early. Tod slipped aside as they went up the aisle to whisper me a question—Had Fred got clear away? I told him I thought so, hearing and seeing nothing to the contrary. When the parson’s children came in, Mrs. Holland was with them, so that Edna Blake was enabled to join the singers, as she did when she could. But it was not often Mrs. Holland came to church. Edna had dark circles round her eyes. They looked out at mine with a painful inquiry in their depths.

“Yes, I think it is all right,” I nodded in answer.

“Mr. Holland has missed his church-key,” she whispered. “Coming along to church, Charley suddenly called out that he remembered hiding it in Mr. Fred Westerbrook’s coat-pocket. Mrs. Holland seemed quite put out about it, and asked me how I could possibly have allowed him to come into the study and sit there.”

“There’s old Westerbrook, Edna! Just look! His face is fiercer than usual.”

Mrs. Westerbrook was with him, in a peach-coloured corded-silk gown. She made a point of dressing well. But she was just one of those women that no attire, good or bad, would set off: her face common, her figure stumpy. And so, one after another, the congregation all came in, and the service began. It caused quite a sensation when Mr. Holland made a pause, after turning to the Litany, and read out the announcement: “Your prayers are requested for Walter Gisby, who is dangerously ill.” Men’s heads moved, and bonnets fluttered.

“How I wish you played for us always, Johnny!” cried Miss Susan Page, looking in upon me to say it, as she passed out from her pew, when the service was over.

“Why, my playing is nothing, Miss Susan!”

“Perhaps not. I don’t know. But it has this effect, Johnny—it sends us home with a feeling of peace in our hearts. What with Richards’s crashing and the singers’ shouting, we are generally turned out in a state of irritation.”

After running through the voluntary, I found a large collection of people in the churchyard. Old Westerbrook was holding forth on the subject of Fred’s iniquities to a numerous audience, the Squire making one of them. Mrs. Westerbrook looked simply malicious.

“No, I do not know where he is hiding,” said the master of the N. D. Farm in answer to a question. “I wish I did know: I would hang him with all the pleasure in life. An ungrateful, reckless– What’s that, Squire? You’d recommend me to increase the reward? Why, I have increased it. I have doubled it. Old Jones has my orders to post up fresh bills.”

“If all’s true that’s reported, he can’t escape very far; he had no money in his pocket,” put in young Mr. Stirling, of the Court, who sometimes came over to our church. “By the way, who has been playing to-day?”

“Johnny Ludlow.”

“Oh, have you, Johnny?” he said, turning to me. “It was very pleasant. And so was the singing.”

“It would have been better had Mrs. Todhetley played—as she was to have done,” I said, wishing they wouldn’t bring me up before people, and knowing that my playing was just as simple as it could be, neither florid nor flowery.

“I have seen what Frederick Westerbrook was, this many a year past,” broke in Mrs. Westerbrook in loud tones, as if resenting the drifting of the conversation from Fred’s ill-doings. “Mr. Westerbrook knows that I have given him my opinion again and again. Only he would not listen.”

“How could I believe that my own brother’s son was the scamp you and Gisby made him out to be?” testily demanded old Westerbrook, who in his way was just as unsophisticated and straightforward as the Squire: and would have been as good-natured, let alone. “I’m sure till the last year or two Fred was as steady and dutiful as heart could wish.”

“You had better say he is still,” said she.

“But—hang it!—I don’t say it, ma’am,” fired old Westerbrook. “I should be a fool to say it. Unfortunately, I can’t say it. I have lived to find he is everything that’s bad—and I say that hanging’s too good for him.”

Mr. Holland came out of the church and passed us, halting a moment to speak. “I am on my way to pray by poor Gisby,” he said. “They have sent for me.”

“Gisby must need it,” whispered Tod to me. “He has been a worse sinner than Fred Westerbrook: full of hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness.”

And so he had been—in regard to Fred.

“Help! Thieves!—Robbers! Help!”

The shouts came from our yard, as we were sitting down to breakfast on Monday morning, and we rushed out. There stood Mack, in the greatest state of excitement possible; his eyes lifted, his arms at work, and his breath gone. The servants ran out before we did.

“Why! what on earth’s the matter, Ben Mack?” demanded the Squire. “Have you gone mad?”

“We’ve had thieves in the barn, sir! Thieves! All my clothes is stole.”

“What clothes?”

“Them what I left in’t o’ Saturday night, Squire. My smock-frock and my boots, and my spotted cotton neck-handkecher. They be gone, they be.”

“Nonsense!” said the Squire, whilst I and Tod kept our faces. “We have not had thieves here, man.”

“But, ’deed, and the things be gone, Squire. Clean gone! Not so much as a shred on ’em left! Please come and see for yourself, sir.”

He turned, and went striding across the yard. The Squire followed, evidently at fault for comprehension; and the rest of us after him.

“It’s a mercy as the horses and waggons bain’t took!” cried Mack, plunging into the barn. “And the harness! look at it, a-hanging up; and that there wheelbarrer–”

“But what do you say is taken, Mack?” interrupted the Squire, cutting him short, and looking round the barn.

“All my traps, sir. My best smock-frock; and my boots, and my spotted cotton neck-handkecher. A beautiful pair o’ boots, Squire, that I generally keeps here, in case I be sent off to Alcester, or Evesham, or where not, and have to tidy myself up a bit.”

Tod backed out of the barn doubled up. Nearly choking at the “beautiful” boots.

“But why do you think they are stolen, Mack?” the Squire was asking.

“I left ’em safe here o’ Saturday evening, sir, when I locked up the barn. The things be all gone now; you may see as they be, Squire. There bain’t a vestige of ’em.”

“Have any of the men moved them?”

“’Twas me as unlocked the barn myself but now, Squire. The key on’t was on the nail where I put it Saturday night. If any of the men had unlocked it afore me this morning, they’d not ha’ shut it up again. We’ve all been away at work too on t’other side o’ the land since we come on at six o’clock. No, sir, it’s thieves—and what will become of me? A’most a new smock-frock, and the beautifulest pair o’ strong boots: they’d ha’ lasted me for years.”

Tod shrieked out at last, unable to help himself. Mack cast a reproachful glance at him, as if he thought the merriment too cruel.

“You must have been drinking on Saturday, Ben Mack, and fancied you left ’em here,” put in Molly, tartly.

“Me been a-drinking!” retorted poor bereaved Mack, ready to cry at the aspersion. “Why, I’d never had a drop o’ nothing inside my lips since dinner-time, save a draught of skim milk as the dairy-maid gave me. They was in that far corner, them boots; and the smock-frock was laid smooth across the shaft of this here cart, the handkecher folded a-top on’t.”

“Well, well, we must inquire after the things,” remarked the Squire, turning to go back to breakfast. “I don’t believe they are stolen, Mack: they’ll be found somewhere. If you had lost yourself, you could not have made more noise over it. I’m sure I thought the ricks must be on fire.”

Tod could hardly eat his breakfast for laughing. Every now and then he came out with the most unexpected burst. The pater demanded what there was to laugh at in Mack’s having mislaid his clothes.

But, as the morning went on, the Squire changed his tone. When no trace could be discovered of the articles, high or low, he took up the opinion that we had been visited by tramps, and sent off for old Jones the constable. Jones sent back his duty, and he would come across as soon as he could, but he was busy organizing the search after Master Westerbrook, and posting up the fresh bills.

“Johnny, we must dispose of that hair of Fred’s in some way,” Tod whispered to me in the course of the morning. “To let any one come upon it would never do: they might fish and ferret out everything. Come along.”

We went up, bolted ourselves in his room, and undid the hair. Fine, silky hair, not quite auburn, not quite like chestnut, something between the two, but as nice a colour as you would wish to see.

“Better burn it,” suggested Tod.

“Won’t it make an awful smell?”

“Who cares? You can go away if you don’t like the smell.”

“I shall save a piece for Edna Blake.”

“Rubbish, Johnny! What good will it do her?”

“She may like to have it. Especially if she never sees him again.”

“Make haste, then, and take a lock. It’s quite romantic. I am going to put a match to it.”

I chose the longest piece I could see, put it into an envelope, and fastened it up. Tod turned the hair into his wash-hand basin, and set it alight: the grate was filled up with the summer shavings. A frizzling and fizzing set in at once: and very soon a rare smell of singeing.

“Open the window, Johnny.”

I had hardly opened it, when the handle of the door was turned and turned, and the panel thumped at. Hannah’s voice came shrieking through the keyhole.

“Mr. Joseph!—Master Johnny! Are you both in there? What’s the matter?”

“What should be the matter?” called back Tod, putting his hand over my mouth that I should not speak. “Go back to your nursery.”

“There’s something burning! My goodness! it’s just as if all the blankets in the house were singeing! You’ve been setting your blankets on fire, Mr. Joseph!”

“And if I have!” cried Tod, blowing away at the hair to make it burn the quicker. “They are not yours.”

“Good patience! you’ll burn us all up, sir! Fire—fire!” shrieked out Hannah, frightened beyond her wits. “For goodness’ sake, Miss Lena, keep away from the keyhole! Here, ma’am! Ma’am! Here’s Mr. Joseph with all his blankets on fire!”

Mrs. Todhetley ran up the stairs, and her terrified appeal came to our ears through the door. Tod threw it open. The hair had burnt itself out.