CHAPTER XXIII — WHAT HARRY AND I FOUND WHEN WE LOST OUR WAY
“It is too true an evil—gone she is.
Unhappy girl! Ah! who would be a father!”
“Far in the lane a lonely hut he found,
No tenant ventured on th' unwholesome ground,
Here smokes his forge: he bares his sinewy arm,
And early strokes the sounding anvil warm;
Around his shop the steely sparkles Hew,
As for the steed he shaped the bending shoe.”
—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 fashion——'
“'Your horse is shod, and your farrier paid—what need you
cumber 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 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.