Part 28 (2/2)
--_Gay's Trivia_.
”'Be who thou wilt... thou art in no danger from me, so then tell me the meaning of this practice, and why thou drivest thy trade in this mysterious fas.h.i.+on----'
”'Your horse is shod, and your farrier paid--what need you c.u.mber yourself further, than to mount and pursue your journey?'”
--_Kenilworth_.
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 m.u.f.fled up in a cloak, who took the bundle from the boy, threw him a s.h.i.+lling, and told him to go home directly. -183--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 m.u.f.fled 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 -184--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 pa.s.sing 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 -185--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.”
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