ON the afternoon of the day after Lawless's wine-party Oaklands and I were walking down to the stables where his horses were kept (he having, in pursuance of his plan for preventing my over-reading myself, beguiled me into a promise to ride with him), when we encountered Archer.
“I suppose you have heard the news par excellence,” said he, after we had shaken hands.
“No,” replied I, “what may it happen to be?”
“Only that Lizzie Maurice, the pastry-cook's daughter, disappeared last night, and old Maurice is going about like a distracted creature this morning, and can't learn any tidings of her.”
“What, that pretty girl with the long ringlets, who used to stand behind the counter?” asked I. “What is supposed to have become of her?”
“Yes, that's the identical young lady,” returned Archer. “All that seems to be known about her is, that she waited till her father went out to smoke his pipe, as he usually does for an hour or so every evening, and then got the urchin who runs of errands to carry a bundle for her, and set out without saying a word to any one. After she had proceeded a little way, she was met by a man muffled up in a cloak, who took the bundle from the boy, threw him a shilling, and told him to go home directly. Instead of doing so, however, he let them proceed for a minute or two, and then followed them. They went at a quick pace along one or two streets, and at length turned down a lane, not far from the bottom of which a gig was waiting. Another man, also muffled up, was seated in the gig, into which the girl was handed by her companion, who said to the second man in a low tone, 'All has gone well, and without attracting notice'. He then added in a warning voice—'Remember, honour bright, no nonsense, or'—and here he sunk his voice so that the boy could not catch what he said; but the other replied, 'On my word, on my honour!' They then shook hands; the second man gathered up the reins, drew the whip across the horse, which sprang forward at speed, and they were out of sight in a moment. The person who was left gazed after them for a minute or so, and then, turning briskly on his heel, walked away without perceiving the boy, who stood under the shadow of a doorway. On being questioned as to what the men were like, he said that the first kept his face entirely concealed, but he was rather tall, and had black hair; the second was a stout man, with light hair and a high colour—for a dark lantern which he had in the gig with him happened to throw its light on his face as he was lighting it.”
“At what time in the evening did all this take place?” inquired Oaklands.
“Between nine and ten,” replied Archer. Oaklands and I exchanged glances; the same idea had evidently struck us both.
“Has any one seen Wilford this morning?” asked Oaklands.
“Seen him!” returned Archer; “yes, to be sure, he and Wentworth have been parading about arm and arm all over the town: they were with me when I met poor old Maurice, and asked him all sorts of questions about the affair. Wilford seemed quite interested for him.”
“Strange!” observed Oaklands musing. “I don't make it out. I would not willingly wrong, even in thought, an innocent man. Archer,” he continued, “you have a shrewd keen wit and sound judgment; tell me in confidence, man, who do you think has done this?”
“Nay, I am no diviner to guess other men's secrets,” replied Archer; “and these are subjects about which it is not over safe to hazard conjectures. I have told you all I can learn about it, and it is for you to draw your own conclusions, It is no use repeating things to you of which you are already aware; I might as well tell you dogs bark and cats mew—that Wilford has black hair, and Wentworth is a stout man with a high colour—or any other well-known truism. But I am detaining you—good-morning.” So saying, he shook hands with us and left us.
After walking some distance in silence Oaklands exclaimed abruptly: “It must be so! it is Wilford who has done this thing—you think as I do, do you not, Frank?”
“I am sure we have not evidence enough to prove it,” replied I; “but I confess I am inclined, as a mere matter of opinion, to agree with you, though there are difficulties in the way for which it is not easy to account. For instance, why should Wilford have gone to that party last night and have incurred the risk of entrusting the execution of his schemes to another, instead of remaining to carry them out himself?”
“That is true,” said Oaklands thoughtfully, “I do not pretend to understand it all clearly; but, somehow, I feel a conviction that Wilford is at the bottom of it.”
“You should recollect, Harry, that you greatly dislike this man—are, as I conceive, prejudiced against him—and are therefore, of course, disposed to judge him harshly.”
“Yes I know all that; still you'll see it will come out, sooner or later, that Wilford is the man. Her poor old father! I have often observed how he appeared to doat upon that girl, and how proud he was of her: his pride will be converted into mourning now. It is fearful to think,” continued Oaklands, “of what crimes men are guilty in their reckless selfishness! Here is the fair promise of an innocent girl's life blighted, and an old man's grey hairs brought down with sorrow to the grave, in order to gratify the passing fancy of a heartless libertine.” He paused, and then continued, “I suppose one can do nothing in the matter, having no stronger grounds than mere suspicion to go upon?”
“I should say nothing likely to be of the slightest benefit,” replied I.
“Then the sooner we get to horse the better,” returned Oaklands; “hearing of a thing of this kind always annoys me, and I feel disposed to hate my species: a good gallop may shake me into a better humour.”
“And the dolce-far-niente?” I inquired.
“Oh! don't imagine me inconsistent,” was the reply. “Only somehow, just at present, in fact ever since the breeze last night, I've found it more trouble to remain quiet than to exert myself; so, if you would not tire me to death, walk a little faster, there's a good fellow.”
After a brisk ride of nearly two hours along cross-roads, we came out upon a wild heath or common of considerable extent.
“Here's a famous place for a gallop,” exclaimed Oaklands; “I never can make up my mind which is the fastest of these two horses; let's have a race and try their speed. Do you see that tall poplar tree which seems poking its top into the sky on the other side the common? that shall be the winning-post. Now, are you ready?”
“All right, go ahead,” replied I, bending forward and giving my horse the rein. Away we went merrily, the high-couraged animals bounding beneath us, and the fresh air whistling round our ears as we seemed to cut our way through it. For some time we kept side by side. The horse Oaklands rode was, if anything, a finer, certainly a more powerful animal than the one on which I was mounted; but this advantage was fully compensated by the fact of his riding nearly a stone heavier than I did. We were, therefore, on the whole, very fairly matched.
After riding at speed, as well as I could reckon, about two miles, Oaklands, to his great delight, had gained nearly a horse's length in advance of me—a space which it seemed beyond my powers of jockeyship to recover. Between us, however, and the tree he had fixed on as our goal lay a small brook or water-course near the banks of which the ground became soft and marshy. In crossing this the greater weight of man and horse told against Oaklands, and gradually I began to creep up to him. As we neared the brook it struck me that his horse appeared to labour heavily through the stiff clay. Now or never, then, was my opportunity; and shouting gaily, “Over first, for a sovereign—good-bye, Harry,” I gave my horse the spur, and, putting him well at it, cleared the brook splendidly, and alighted safely on the farther bank.
Determined, if possible, not to be outdone, Harry selected a point, by crossing at which he could contrive to cut off a corner, and thus gain upon me considerably. In order to accomplish this it was necessary for him to take his leap at a spot where the brook was some feet wider than ordinary. Relying, however, on the known good qualities of the animal he rode, he resolved to attempt it. Settling himself firmly in his saddle, he got his horse well together, and then throwing up his whip-hand and (as Lawless would have termed it) “sticking in the persuaders,” he charged the brook at speed.
It was a well-imagined and bold attempt, and, had his horse been fresher, would have succeeded in winning the race; but we had kept up a fair pace during the whole of our ride, and now our gallop across the common, and more particularly the severe pace over the marshy ground, had tried his horse's wind considerably. Still, however, the noble animal strove to the utmost of its power to answer the call made upon it, and by a vigorous effort succeeded in clearing the brook; but the ground on the other side was rugged and broken, and, apparently exhausted by the exertion he had made, he stumbled, and after a slight struggle to preserve his footing fell heavily forward, pitching Harry over his head as he did so.
Fortunately the ground was soft and clayey, and neither man nor horse seemed to have sustained any injury, for I had scarcely time to draw rein ere they were on their legs again, and, as Harry's first act was to spring lightly into the saddle, I determined to secure the race at once; and cantering up to the poplar tree, which was now within a hundred yards of me, I snapped off a bough in token of victory. As I turned back again I observed that Harry had dismounted and was examining his horse's foot.
“Nothing wrong, is there?” asked I, as I rejoined him.
“Yes, everything's wrong,” was the reply; “you've been and gone and won the race, you villain you—I've tumbled nose and knees into a mud-hole, and spoiled my white cord oh-no-we-never-mention-ums—and 'the Cid' has wrenched off one of his front shoes in the scrimmage.”
“And that's the worst of all the misfortunes,” said I, “for here we are some ten or twelve miles from Cambridge at least, in a region utterly unknown, and apparently devoid of inhabitants; so where we are to find a smith passes my poor skill to discover.”
“You're wrong about the inhabitants, I flatter myself,” replied Harry. “Do you see the faint white mist curling above those trees to the right? I take that to be smoke; where there's smoke there must be fire; fire must have been kindled by some human being or other—through that individual we will endeavour to obtain an introduction to some blacksmith, conjointly with sufficient topographical information to enable us to reach our destination in time for a certain meal called dinner, which has acquired an unusual degree of importance in my eyes within the last hour or so. I have spoken!”
“Like a book,” replied I; “and the next thing is to bring your sapient deductions to the test of experiment. There is a cart-track here which appears to lead towards the smoke you observed; let us try that.” So saying, I also dismounted, and throwing my horse's bridle over my arm we proceeded together on foot in the direction Oaklands had indicated.
Ten minutes' walking brought us into a rough country lane, winding picturesquely between high banks and green hedges, affording an agreeable contrast to the flat, unenclosed tracts of corn-land so general throughout Cambridgeshire. After following this lane about a quarter of a mile, we came upon a small, retired ale-house, surrounded by trees. As we approached the door a stout, vulgar-looking woman, dressed in rather tawdry finery, ran out to meet us; on coming nearer, however, she stopped short as if surprised, and then re-entered the house as quickly as she had left it, calling to some one within as she did so. After waiting for a minute or two she came back, accompanied by a tall, disagreeable-looking man in a velveteen shooting-jacket, with a remarkably dirty face, and hands to match.
“Is there a blacksmith living anywhere near here, my good man?” inquired Oaklands.
“Mayhap there is,” was the reply in a surly tone. “Can you direct us how to find him?” continued Oaklands.
“What might you want with him when you've found him?” was the rejoinder.
“My horse has cast a shoe, and I want one put on immediately,'” replied Oaklands, who was getting impatient at the man's unsatisfactory, not to say insolent, manner.
“Mayhap you won't get it done in quite such a hurry as you seems to expect! There's a blacksmith lives at Stony End, about five miles farther on. Go straight up the lane for about three miles, then turn to the right, then twice to the left, and then you'll see a finger-post that ain't got nothing on it—when you come to that——”
“Which I never shall do, depend upon it,” replied Oaklands. “My good man, you don't imagine I'm going to fatigue myself and lame my horse by walking five miles up this unlucky lane, do you? If things really are as bad as you would make them out to be, I shall despatch a messenger to summon the smith, and employ myself in the meanwhile in tasting your ale, and consuming whatever you may happen to have in the house fit to eat.” I observed that the landlord and his wife, as I presumed her to be, exchanged very blank looks when Oaklands announced this determination. When he ceased speaking she whispered a few words into the ear of the man, who gave a kind of surly grunt in reply, and then, turning to Harry, said, “Mayhap I'll shoe your horse for you myself if you'll make it worth my while”.
“You will? why, I thought you said there was not a smith within five miles?”
“No more there ain't, only me.”
“And you've been worrying me, and tiring my patience all this time, merely to secure yourself a better bargain? Oh, the needless trouble people give themselves in this world! Shoe the horse, man, and make your own charge; be sure I'll not complain of it, only be quick,” replied Oaklands.
“P'r'aps that worn't all,” returned the fellow gruffly; “but if ye be in such a mighty hurry, bring 'un along here, and I'll clap a shoe on 'un for ye in a twinkling.”
So saying, he led the way through an old gate, and down a stable-yard behind the public-house, at the bottom of which, under a kind of half-barn, half-shed, was a blacksmith's shop, fitted up with a forge and other appliances for shoeing. Our conductor (who having divested himself of the velveteen jacket, which he replaced with a leather apron, seemed now much more in his proper element) displayed greater quickness and skill in making and applying the shoe, than from his previous conduct I should have anticipated; and I began to flatter myself that our difficulties were in a fair way to be overcome.
I was drawing up the girths of my horse's saddle, which had become somewhat loosened from our gallop, when Oaklands, who had been sitting on a gate near, industriously flogging his boot with his riding-whip, jumped down, saying, “If you'll keep an eye to the horses, Prank, I'll go and see if I can get some of the worst of this mud brushed off”.
“Better stay where you are! I shall a done direc'ly,” observed the smith; “you ain't wanted at ther house, I tell yer.”
“You should stick to your original trade, for your manners as an innkeeper are certainly not calculated to fascinate customers, my friend,” replied Oaklands, walking towards the house.
The man muttered an oath as he looked after him, and then applied himself to his work with redoubled energy. Above ten minutes had elapsed, the shoe was made, fitted to the hoof, and the process of nailing on nearly concluded, but still Oaklands did not return. I was tying my horse's rein up to a hook in the wall, with the intention of seeking him, when I heard the noise of wheels in the lane, followed immediately by the clatter of a horse's feet, ridden at speed—both sounds at the moment ceased, as if the parties had stopped at the inn-door. The blacksmith also heard them, and appeared for a moment uncertain whether to continue his work or not; then, uttering an impatient exclamation, he began twisting off and clenching the points of the nails as though his life depended on his haste. Perceiving that Oaklands' horse would be ready for him to mount directly, I turned to unfasten my own, when the sound of men's voices raised high in angry debate became audible; then a confused noise as of blows and scuffling ensued, mingled with the screams of women; and immediately the blacksmith's wife ran out, calling to her husband to hasten in, for that “they had come back and quarrelled with the strange gentleman, and now they were fighting, and there would be murder done in the house”.
Without waiting to hear more I ran hastily up the yard, followed by the blacksmith and the woman. On reaching the front of the house I perceived, waiting at the door, a gig, in which was seated a man, dressed in a suit of rusty black, while under the shade of the trees a boy was loading up and down a magnificent black mare, which I instantly recognised as the identical animal Wilford had become possessed of in the manner Archer had related to me. The sounds of blows and struggling still continued, and proceeded, as I now ascertained, from the parlour of the ale-house. As the readiest method of reaching the scene of action, I flung open the window, which was not far from the ground, and without a moment's hesitation leaped into the room.
THE sight which met my eyes as I gazed around was one which time can never efface from my memory. In the centre of the room, his brow darkened by the flush of concentrated indignation, stood Oaklands, his left hand clenching tightly the coat-collar of a man whom I at once perceived to be Wilford, while with his right hand he was administering such a horse-whipping as I hope never again to see a human being subjected to. Wilford, who actually writhed with mingled pain and fury, was making violent but ineffectual struggles to free himself. Near the door stood Wentworth, the blood dropping from his nose, and his clothes dusty and disordered, as if from a fall. Crouching in a corner at the farther end of the room, the tears coursing down her fear-blanched cheeks, and her hands clasped in an agony of terror and despair, was a girl, about nineteen years of age, whom I had little difficulty in recognising as Lizzie Maurice, the daughter of the old confectioner, of whose elopement we had been that morning informed. On perceiving me she sprang forward, and clasping my knees implored me to interfere and endeavour to separate them. I was not, however, called upon to do so, for, as she spoke, his riding-whip broke short in Oaklands' hand, and dashing down the fragments with an exclamation of impatience, he flung Wilford from him with so much force that he staggered forward a few paces, and would have fallen had not Wentworth caught him in his arms, just in time to prevent it.
Oaklands then turned to the girl, whom I had raised from the ground and placed on a chair, and addressing her in a stern impressive manner, said: “I will now resume what I was saying to you when yonder beaten hound dared to lay hands upon me. For the last time the choice is offered to you—either return home, and endeavour, by devoting yourself to your broken-hearted old father, to atone as best you may for the misery you have caused him; or, by remaining here, commence a life of infamy which will end sooner or later in a miserable death.” He paused; then, as she made no reply, but sat with her face buried in her hands, sobbing as if her heart would break, he continued, “You tell me, the vile tempter who has lured you from your duty promised to meet you here to-day, and, bringing a clergyman with him, to marry you privately; now if this is the truth——”
“It is, it is,” she faltered.
“If so,” resumed Oaklands, “a knowledge of the real facts of the case may yet save you. This scoundrel who has promised to marry you, and who belongs to a rank immeasurably above your own, is already notorious for what are termed, by such as himself, affairs of gallantry; while the wretched impostor whom he has brought with him to act the part of clergyman is the marker at a low billiard-table, and no more a clergyman than I am.”
“Is this really so?” exclaimed the girl, raising her eyes, which were swollen and red with weeping, to Wilford's face; “would you have deceived me thus, Stephen—you, whom I have trusted so implicitly?”
Wilford, who, since the severe discipline he had undergone, had remained seated, with his head resting on his hand, as if in pain, apparently unconscious of what was going on, glared at her ferociously with his flashing eyes, but made no reply. The girl waited for a minute; but, obtaining no answer, turned away with a half shudder, murmuring, “Deceived, deceived!” Then addressing Oaklands, she said, “I will go home to my father, sir; and if he will not forgive me, I can but lie down and die at his feet—better so than live on, to trust, and be deceived again”.
“You have decided rightly, and will not repent it,” remarked Oaklands in a milder tone of voice; then, turning to the blacksmith (who had made his appearance, accompanied by his wife, the moment the affray had ended), he continued: “you must procure some conveyance immediately to take this young person back to Cambridge, and your wife must accompany her”. Observing that the man hesitated, and cast an inquiring glance towards Wilford, he added sternly, “If you would not be compelled to answer for the share you have taken in this rascally business before the proper authorities, do as I have told you without loss of time”.
The man having again failed in an attempt to attract Wilford's attention, asked in a surly tone, “Whether a spring-cart would do?” and, being answered in the affirmative, left the room.
Lizzie Maurice withdrew to prepare for her return home, the woman accompanied her; Oaklands strode to the window, and remained watching the operation of harnessing the horse to the tax-cart. Wilford still retained the same attitude, and neither spoke nor moved. Wentworth having glanced towards him once or twice, as if to divine his wishes, receiving no sign, lit a cigar, and leaning His back against the chimney-piece began to smoke furiously, whilst I devoted myself to the pages of an old sporting magazine. Thus passed five minutes, which seemed as if they would never come to an end, at the expiration of which time the tax-cart, driven by a stout country lad, drew up to the door, and the two women making their appearance at the same moment, Oaklands turned to leave the room. As he did so Wilford, for the first time, raised his head, thereby disclosing a countenance which, pale as death, was characterised by an expression of such intense malignity as one might conceive would be discernible in that of a corpse reanimated by some evil spirit. After regarding Oaklands fixedly for a moment, he said, in a low, grating tone of voice, “You have foiled me once and again—when next we meet, it wilt, be my turn!” Oaklands merely smiled contemptuously, and quitted the house.
Having mounted our horses, we ordered the lad who drove the spring-cart to proceed at his fastest pace, while we followed at a sufficient distance to keep it in sight, so as to guard against any attempt which might be made by Wilford to repossess himself of his victim, without positively identifying ourselves with the party it contained. We rode in silence for the first two or three miles; at length I could refrain no longer, and, half uttering my thoughts aloud, half addressing my companion, I exclaimed, “Oh, Harry, Harry, what is all this that you have done?”
“Done!” replied Oaklands, with a heightened colour and flashing eyes, “rescued an innocent girl from a villain who would have betrayed her, and punished the scoundrel about half so severely as he deserved; but that was my misfortune, not my fault. Had not the whip broken——”
“You know that is not what I mean,” returned I; “but this man will challenge you, will—you are aware of his accursed skill—will murder you. Oh! that fiendish look of his as you left the room—it will haunt me to my dying day.”
“And would you have had me leave the poor girl to her fate from a coward fear of personal danger? You are strangely altered since you defied a room full of men last night rather than allow Clara Saville's name to be uttered by their profane lips; or, which is nearer the truth,” he continued with a kind smile, “your affection for me blinds you.”
“Not so, Harry,” replied I; “but it is the recollection of my own feelings, when, while waiting for Lawless's report last night, I believed I should be forced to meet this Wilford—it is the misery, the self-reproach, the bitter penitence of that moment, when, for the first time, I was able to reflect on the fearful situation in which by my own rashness I had placed myself, a situation in which crime seemed forced upon me, and it appeared impossible to act rightly—it is the remembrance of all these things which causes me to lament that you, my more than brother, should have involved yourself in similar difficulties.”
“But, Frank,” he began—then, interrupting himself, he seized my hand, and pressing it warmly between his own, exclaimed, “My dear old fellow, forgive me if I have spoken unkindly to you; but this man has maddened me, I believe”. He paused, and then continued in a calmer voice, “Let me tell you how it occurred, and you will see I could scarcely have acted otherwise than I have done. You know I went into the public-house to brush off the mud after my tumble. The instant my step sounded in the passage, a girl tripped lightly down the stairs and ran towards me, exclaiming joyfully, 'You have come at last, then!' On finding that it was not the person she expected she stopped in alarm, and I perceived to my astonishment that it was Lizzie Maurice. She recognised me at the same moment, and apparently a new idea struck her, for she again approached me, saying, 'Mr. Oaklands, tell me, sir, for heaven's sake, has anything happened to Wilford?' Then, with woman's tact, perceiving her mistake, she blushed deeply, adding in a timid voice, 'I fancied you might have been riding with that gentleman; and seeing you alone, I was afraid some accident might have befallen your companion'. All this convinced me that my suspicions had not been misplaced; and the thought occurred to me that possibly it might not yet be too late to endeavour to restore her to her father, while the recollection of Archer's account of the old man's distress determined me to make the attempt.
“Taking her, therefore, by the hand, I led her into the parlour, and, begging her to listen to me for five minutes, told her I was aware of her elopement, and entreated her to return home again, adding that her father was brokenhearted at her loss. She shed tears when I mentioned the old man's grief, but positively refused to return home.
“Finding persuasion to be of no avail, I thought I would appeal to her fears: so I informed her that I was aware of the name of the villain who had enticed her away; that I would seek him out and expose him, and that I should instantly acquaint her father with her place of refuge, and advise him to come provided with proper powers to reclaim her. This produced more effect, and, after some hesitation, she told me proudly that I had done her foul wrong by my doubts; that Mr. Wilford meant to make her his lawful wife; but that, in order to prevent his great relations hearing of it till he could break it to them cautiously, it was advisable to keep the affair quiet—(the old story, in short, private marriage and all the rest of it)—a friend of Wilford's, therefore, to avoid exciting suspicion, had kindly driven her over there the night before, and she was now expecting her lover to come, and bring a clergyman with him, who would marry them by licence on the spot; when she heard my step she thought they had arrived. The air of truth with which she told her tale carried conviction with it.
“I was about to represent to her the improbability of Wilford's intentions being as honourable as she fondly imagined them, when a gig drove up to the door, containing Wentworth and a fellow whom I recognised as one of the billiard-markers in —— Street, dressed in a seedy suit of black for the occasion; immediately afterwards Wilford arrived on horseback. The whole thing was now perfectly clear. Wilford, having made the girl believe he intended to marry her, persuaded Wentworth, who is completely his tool, to carry her off for him; after which he went to Lawless's wine-party, in order to show himself and thereby avert suspicion. He then bribed the billiard-marker to play parson, got Wentworth to bring him, and going out as if merely for a ride had joined them here. I was considering what would be the best course to pursue, and was just coming out to consult you, when the door was flung open, and Wilford and Wentworth entered hastily. The moment Wilford's eyes fell upon me he started as if a serpent had stung him, and his brow became black as night.
“Advancing a step or two towards me, he inquired, in a voice hoarse with rage, what I was doing there. I replied, 'Endeavouring to prevent some of his evil designs from succeeding'. He tried to answer me, but his utterance was literally choked by passion; and turning away, he strode up and down the room gnashing and grinding his teeth like a maniac. Having in some degree recovered his self-control, he again approached me, drew himself up to his full height, and, pointing to the door, desired me to leave the room.
“I replied I should not do so until I had given the young lady a piece of information respecting the character of one of the party—and I pointed to the billiard-marker, who had not yet alighted—I should then, I added, learn from her own lips whether she still wished to remain there, or would take my advice and return to her father.
“Again Wilford ground his teeth with rage, and desired me, in a voice of thunder, to 'leave the room instantly '; to which I replied flatly that I would not.
“He then made a sign to Wentworth, and they both approached me, with the intention of forcing me out. Fearing that their combined efforts might overpower me (for Wentworth, though short, is a broad-shouldered, strong man, and Wilford's muscles are like iron), I avoided their grasp by stepping backwards, and, hitting out with my right hand as I did so, caught Wentworth full on the nose, tapping his claret for him, as the pugilists call it, and sending him down like a shot. At the same moment Wilford sprang upon me with a bound like a tiger, and seizing me by the throat a short but severe struggle took place between us. I was too strong for him, however; and finding this, he would gladly have ceased hostilities and quitted me, kindly postponing my annihilation till some future day, when it could be more conveniently accomplished by means of a pistol-bullet. But, as you may imagine, my blood was pretty well up by this time, and I determined he should not get off quite so easily. Seizing, therefore, my whip in one hand, I detained him without much trouble with the other—his strength being thoroughly exhausted by his previous exertions—and administered such a thrashing as will keep him out of mischief for a week to come, at all events. It was while this was going on that you made your appearance, I think; so now you are au fait to the whole affair—and pray, what else could I possibly have done under the circumstances?”
“It is not easy to say,” replied I. “I think the horse-whipping might have been omitted, though I suppose the result would have been the same at all events, and it certainly was a great temptation. The brightest side of the business is your having saved the poor girl, who I really believe is more to be pitied than blamed, having only followed the dictates of her woman's nature, by allowing her feelings to overrule her judgment.”
“You have used exactly the right expression there,” said Oaklands; “in such cases as the present, it is not that the woman is weak enough to be gulled by every plausible tale which may be told her, but that she has such entire confidence, such pure and child-like faith in the man she loves, that she will believe anything rather than admit the possibility of his deceiving her.”
“The deeper villain he, who can betray such simple trust,” replied I.
“Villain, indeed!” returned Oaklands. “I would not have been in Wilford's place, to have witnessed that girl's look when the conviction of his baseness was forced upon her, for worlds; it was not a look of anger nor of sorrow, but it seemed as if the blow had literally crushed her heart within her—-as if the brightness of her young spirit had fled for ever, and that to live would only be to prolong the duration of her misery. No; I would rather have faced death in its most horrible form, than have met that look, knowing that my own treachery had called it forth.”
We rode for some little distance in silence. At length I inquired how he meant to arrange for Lizzie Maurice's return to her home, as it would not do for us, unless he wished the part we had taken in the affair to be known all over Cambridge, to escort her to her father's door in the order of procession in which we were then advancing.
“No, I was just thinking of that,” replied Oaklands. “It appears to me that the quietest way of managing the affair will be to pay the boy for the horse and cart at once, telling him to set Lizzie Maurice down within a short distance of her father's shop, and then to drive back with the woman. Lizzie can proceed on foot, and will probably at this time of the evening (it was nearly seven o'clock) be able to enter the house without attracting attention: we will, however, keep her in sight, so as to be at hand to render her assistance should she require it. I do not myself feel the slightest doubt that her father will believe her tale, and treat her kindly. I shall, however, leave her my direction, and should she require my testimony in support of her veracity, or should the old man be unwilling to receive her, she must inform me of it, and I will call upon him, and try to bring him to reason.”
“That will not be necessary, depend upon it,” returned I; “he will only be too glad to recover her.”
“So I think,” replied Oaklands.
“What course shall you take with regard to Wilford?” inquired I.
“I shall never mention the affair to any one, if he does not,” answered Oaklands; “neither shall I take any step whatever in the matter. I am perfectly satisfied, with the position in which I stand at present, and if he should not enjoy an equal share of contentment, it is for him to declare it—the next move must be his, and it will be time enough for me to decide how to act when we see what it may be. I shall now tell Lizzie Maurice of my plan for her, and inform her that as long as I hear she is living quietly at home, and leading a respectable life, my lips will be sealed with regard to the occurrences of to-day.” So saying, he put his horse into a canter, and riding up to the side of the cart, conversed with the girl in a low tone of voice for several minutes; then, drawing out his purse, handed some money to the driver, and rejoined me. “She is extremely grateful to me for my promise of silence,” he commenced; “seems very penitent for her fault, and declares that this is a lesson she shall never forget. She agrees to my plan of walking, and tells me there is a side-door to the house, by which she can enter unobserved. She promises to confess everything to her father, and hopes to obtain his forgiveness; and appears altogether in 'a very proper frame of mind,' as the good books say.”
“Long may she remain so,” returned I; “and now I am happy to say there are some of the towers of Cambridge visible, for, like you, I am becoming fearfully hungry.”
“And for the first time during the last twenty-four hours I am actually beginning to feel as tired as a dog,” rejoined Harry, shrugging his shoulders with an air of intense satisfaction.
OLD MAURICE, the pastry-cook, had welcomed his daughter gladly, as one returned from the grave, and had learned from her own lips, with mingled tears of joy and gratitude, how, thanks to noble Harry Oaklands, she had escaped unscathed from the perils and temptations to which she had been exposed; many days had elapsed, the Long Vacation had commenced, and the ancient town of Cambridge, no longer animated by the countless throngs of gownsmen, frowned in its unaccustomed solitude, like some City of the Dead, and still no hostile message came from Wilford. Various reports were circulated concerning the reappearance of Lizzie Maurice; but none of them bore the faintest resemblance to the truth, and to no one had the possibility of Oaklands' interference in the matter occurred, save, as it afterwards appeared, to Charles Archer.
For above a week Wilford was confined to his room, seeing only Wentworth; and it was given out that he had met with a severe fall from his horse, and was ordered to keep perfectly quiet. At the expiration of that period he quitted Cambridge suddenly, leaving no clue to his whereabouts. This strange conduct scarcely excited any surprise amongst the set he moved in, as it was usually his habit to shroud all his proceedings under a veil of secrecy, assumed, as some imagined, for the purpose of enhancing the mysterious and unaccountable influence he delighted to exercise over the minds of men.
Oaklands remained a few days at Cambridge after Wilford's departure, as he said, to pack up, but, as I felt certain, to prevent the possibility of Wilford's imagining that he was anxious in any way to avoid him. Finding at length that his rooms were dismantled, and that he would not in all probability return till the end of the Long Vacation, Harry ceased to trouble his head any further about the matter, and we set off for Heathfield, accompanied by Archer, whom Harry had invited to pay him a visit.
We found all well at our respective homes; my mother appeared much stronger, and was actually growing quite stout, for her; and Fanny looked so pretty, that I was not surprised at the very particular attentions paid her from the first moment of his introduction by the volatile Archer (who, by the way, was a regular male flirt), attentions which I was pleased to perceive she appreciated exactly at their proper value. We soon fell into our old habits again, Oaklands and Archer setting out after breakfast for a stroll, or on a fishing expedition, which usually ended in Harry's coming to an anchor under some spreading oak or beech, where he remained, “doing a bit of the dolce,” as Archer called it, till luncheon time; whilst I, who could not afford to be idle, read hard till about three o'clock, and then joined in whatever amusement was the order of the day.
“Frank, may I come in?” exclaimed Fanny's silvery voice outside my study door, one morning during my working hours when I had been at home about a fortnight.
“To be sure you may, you little torment,” replied I; “are you coming to learn mathematics, or to teach me crochet? for I see you are armed with that vicious little hook with which you delight to torture the wool of innocent lambs into strange shapes, for the purpose of providing your friends with innumerable small anomalous absurdities, which they had much rather be without.”
“No such thing, Mr. Impudence, I never make any article which is not particularly useful as well as ornamental. But, Frank, dear,” she continued, “I should not have interrupted you, only I wanted to tell you something—it may be nothing to signify, and yet I cannot help feeling alarmed about it.”
“What is it, darling?” said I, putting my arm round her taper little waist, and drawing her towards me.
“Why, Mr. Oaklands has been here this morning; he came to bring mamma a message from Sir John, inviting us all to dine with him to-morrow.”
“Nothing very alarming so far,” observed I; “go on.”
“Mamma said we should be extremely happy to do so, and quitted the room to find a recipe she had promised to the housekeeper at the Hall.”
"And you were left alone with Harry—that was alarming certainly,” said I.
“Nonsense,” returned Fanny, while a very becoming blush glowed on her cheek; “how you do interrupt me! Mr. Oaklands had kindly offered to explain a difficult passage in Dante for me, and I was standing on a chair to get down the book—”
“Which he could have reached by merely stretching out his arm, I daresay, only he was too idle,” interposed I.
“Indeed he could not,” replied Fanny quickly, “for he was sitting in the low easy-chair, and trying to fasten mamma's spectacles on Donald's nose.” (Donald being a favourite Scotch terrier belonging to Harry, and a great character in his way.) “Well, I had just found the book,” she continued, “and we were going to begin when a note was given to Mr. Oaklands, which had been brought by a groom from the Hall, with a message that the gentleman who had left it was waiting at the inn in the village for an answer. Mr. Oaklands began to read it in his usual quiet way, but no sooner had he thrown his eye over the first few lines than his cheeks flushed, his brow grew dark, and his face assumed that fearfully stern expression which I have heard you describe, but had never before seen myself. As soon as he had finished reading it he crushed the paper in his hand, and sprung up, saying hurriedly, 'Is Frank———?' He then took two or three steps towards the door, and I thought he was coming to consult you. Suddenly, however, some new idea seemed to cross his mind, and, stopping abruptly, he strode towards the window, where he remained for a few moments, apparently buried in thought. At length he muttered, 'Yes, that will be better, better in all respects'; and turning on his heel, he was about to quit the room, leaving his hat on the table, when I ventured to hand it to him, saying, 'You are going without your hat, Mr. Oaklands'. He started at the sound of my voice, and seeming for the first time to recollect that I was in the room, he took the hat from me, begging pardon for his inattention, and adding, 'You must allow me to postpone our Italian lesson till——till to-morrow, shall we say? I find there is a gentleman waiting to see me.' He paused as if he wished to say more, but scarcely knew how to express himself. 'You saw,' he continued, 'that is—you may have observed that—that in fact there was something in that note which annoyed me—you need not say anything about it to Mrs. Fairlegh; she is rather given to alarming herself unnecessarily, I fancy,' he added with a faint smile; 'tell Frank I shall not be at home till dinner time, but that I shall see him in the evening.' He then shook my hand warmly, and, holding it for a moment in his own, fixed his eyes on my face with a strange, half-melancholy expression that frightened me, and once more saying 'good-bye,' he pressed his hat over his brows, and bounding across the lawn, was out of sight in an instant. His manner was so very odd, so unlike what it generally is. Dear Frank, what is the meaning of all this? I am sure there is something going to happen, something—”
“You silly child,” replied I, affecting a careless composure I was far from feeling, “how you frighten yourself about nothing. Harry has probably received a threatening letter from a Cambridge dun, and your lively imagination magnifies it into a—(challenge, I was going to add, but I substituted)—into something dreadful.”
“Is that what you really think?” questioned Fanny, fixing her large blue eyes upon my face inquiringly.
I am the worst hand in the world at playing the hypocrite, and with ready tact she perceived at once that I was attempting to deceive her.
“Frank,” she resumed, “you have seen but little of me since we were children together, and deem, possibly, that—I am a weak, silly girl, unfit to be trusted with evil tidings; but indeed, dear brother, you do me injustice; the sorrows we have gone through” (and her eyes filled with tears as she spoke), “the necessity for exertion in order to save mamma as much as possible, have given me more strength of character and firmness of purpose than girls of my age in general possess; tell me the truth, and fear not that power will be given me to bear it, be it what it may; but, if I think you are trying to hide it from me—and do not hope to deceive me; your face proves that you are as much alarmed at what you have heard as I am myself, and probably with far better reason—I shall be unable to forget it, and it will make me miserable.”
“Well then,” replied I, “thus far I will trust you. I do fear, from what you have told me, that Oaklands has received some evil tidings relative to a disagreeable affair in which he was engaged at Cambridge, the results of which are not fully known at present, and which, I am afraid, may yet occasion him much care and anxiety.”
“And I had fancied him so light-hearted and happy,” said Fanny thoughtfully; “and is this all I am to know about it then?”
“All that I feel myself at liberty to tell at present,” replied I; “recollect, darling, it is my friend's secret, not my own, or you should hear everything.”
“Then you will tell me all your secrets if I ask you?” inquired Fanny archly.
“Whom should I trust or confide in, if not my own dear little sister?” said I, stroking her golden locks caressingly. “And now,” continued I, rising, “I will go and see whether I can do any good in this affair; but when Master Harry is in one of his impetuous moods he gets quite beyond my management.”
“Oh! but you can influence him,” exclaimed Fanny, her bright eyes sparkling with animation; “you can calm his impetuosity with your own quiet good sense and clear judgment—you can appeal to his high and generous nature—you can tell him how dear he is to you, how you love him with more than a brother's love: you can and will do all this—will you not, dear Frank?”
“Of course I shall do everything that I am able, my dear child,” replied I, somewhat astonished at this sudden outburst; “and now go, and be quiet, this business seems rather to have excited you. If my mother asks for me, tell her I am gone up to the Hall.”
“What warm-hearted creatures women are!” thought I, as I ran, rather than walked, through the park; “that little sister of mine, now—no sooner does she hear that my friend has got into a scrape, of the very nature of which she is ignorant (a pretty fuss she would be in if she were aware that it was a duel, of which I am afraid), than she becomes quite excited, and implores me, as if she were pleading for her life, to use my influence with Harry to prevent his doing—something, she has not the most remote notion what. I wish she did not act quite so much from impulse. It's lucky she has got a brother to take care of her; though it does not become me to find fault with her, for it all proceeds from her affection for me; she knows how wretched I should be if anything were to go wrong with Harry,”—and then I fell into a train of thought as to what it could be which had so suddenly excited him: something connected with Wilford, no doubt; but what?—my fears pointed to a challenge, and my blood ran cold at the thought. He must accept it; neither my influence, were it increased a hundredfold, nor that of any one else, could make him apologise; besides, it is not very easy to imagine a satisfactory apology for horse-whipping a man till he cannot stand. And what course likely to be of any use could I take? On one point I was resolved—nothing should induce me to become his second. What would be my feelings in case of a fatal result were I to reflect that I had made all the arrangements for the murder of the friend I loved best in the world—that I had actually stationed him opposite the never-failing pistol of his most bitter enemy, and placed in his hand a deadly weapon wherewith to attempt the life of a fellow-creature, when the next moment he might be called upon to answer before the Judge of all mankind for the deeds which he had done in the flesh? No! I could not be his second. As my meditations reached this point, I overtook the groom who had brought the eventful note, and who was leisurely proceeding on foot towards the Hall with that peculiar gait observable in men who spend much of their time on horseback, which consists of a compromise between walking and riding, and is strongly suggestive of their inability to realise the fact that they have not at all times and seasons a perpetual horse between their legs.
“Have you seen Mr. Oaklands, Harris?” inquired I, as the man touched his hat respectfully.
“Yes, sir, I may say I've seen him, and that's all,” was the reply. “I brought him a note to the cottage, and was a waiting for orders, when he came tearing out, ordered me to get off, sprang into my saddle, and without stopping for me to let down the stirrups, drove his heels into 'Tom Trot'—that's the new grey horse, sir, if you please—and was out of sight like old boots.”
Not having time to institute an inquiry into the amount of velocity with which the ancient articles referred to by Mr. Harris were accustomed to vanish, I asked if he knew who brought the note.
“A groom in a dark, claret-coloured livery, mounted on a splendid coal-black mare, nearly thorough-bred, but with more bone and substance about her than you generally see in them sort, and as clean on her pins as an unbroke colt. Sir John ain't got such a horse in his stables, nor Mr. Harry neither,” was the reply.
This was conclusive evidence; the livery and the mare were alike Wilford's.
Leaving the groom to conjecture what he pleased, I hurried on, and, reaching the Hall, inquired of the old butler whether Harry was at home.
“No, sir,” was the reply, “they ain't any of them at home. Mr. Harry came home a horseback about a quarter of an hour ago, and called Mr. Archer into his own room, and they had a confab, and then Mr. Archer went out a riding on the same horse Mr. Harry came back upon, and would not take any o' the grooms with him—and afore that Sir John had ordered the phaeton, and Mr. Henry being come home he asked him to go with him; so you see, Mr. Fairlegh, they're none of 'em at home, sir.”
“I'll go into the library and write a note, Edmonds,” said I, as a new idea entered my head. “You know Sir John is kind enough to let me order a horse whenever I require one—will you tell Harris to have one saddled for me in ten minutes' time?”
“Certainly, Mr. Fairlegh; we all of us have Sir John's orders to attend to you, sir, the same as to Mr. Henry, and you're a young gent as it's a pleasure to serve too, if you'll excuse me taking the liberty of telling you so,” replied the good old man, as he showed me into the library.
The idea which had come into my head (and it was more for the sake of doing something that I determined on it, than from any great hope I entertained of its proving of much avail) was to ride over to Hillingford, and consult Freddy Coleman on the subject. Perhaps his clear head and quick wit might enable him to devise some scheme by which, without betraying Harry's confidence, or bringing the slightest imputation on his honour, this duel might be prevented. What else could I do? It was quite clear to me that the note Harry had received was a challenge from Wilford, and that the gentleman waiting at the inn was some one whom he had prevailed upon to act as his second, probably Wentworth. Harry's first impulse had evidently been to come to me, and ask me to be his second; but, doubtless, guessing the distaste I should have to the office, and reflecting on the difficulties in which, if anything serious were to ensue, I might be involved, he had determined on asking Archer instead. Archer, by instantly setting off on horseback alone, had clearly agreed to his request, and was gone to make the necessary arrangements; and Harry had gladly accompanied Sir John, in order to be out of the way, and so avoid my questions and any attempts I might have made to induce him to alter his purpose. Were I to inform Sir John on his return, it would be an unpardonable breach of confidence towards Harry; were I to give notice to the authorities, so as to enable them to take measures for preventing the duel, it would always be said by Wilford that I did so with Harry's connivance, because he was afraid to meet him: thus my hands were tied in every way, and, as I said before, I could think of nothing better than to ride over and consult Coleman, whose powers of getting out of a scrape I had seen pretty well tested in the affair of the bell-ringing. I therefore scrawled a hasty note to my mother, telling her that I was going to take a long ride, and she had better not wait dinner for me; and leaving a message for Oaklands with the servant who announced the horse, that I should see him in the evening, flung myself into the saddle, rode quietly till I was out of sight of the house, and then started at a gallop for Hillingford. Unwilling to meet any of the Coleman family, I left my horse at the inn, and, pulling my hat over my brows, to avoid, if possible, being recognised by their servant, rang the bell, and desired him to tell Mr. Frederic that a gentleman wanted to speak with him on particular business.