“Look here,” he said, in a loud whisper, “I’ll make it worth your while. It’ll be as good as a suv—, well, I may say if you’ll really find out what I want, as good as a fiver in your pocket. Oh, I say, what’s the matter: I don’t mean no harm.”
“I wonder who you take me for,” cried Walter, whose sudden move forward had thrown the other back in mingled astonishment and alarm.
The stranger eyed him from head to foot with a puzzled look, which finally awoke a little amusement in Walter’s angry soul. “Don’t know you from Adam,” he said, “and I ain’t used to fellows in knickerbockers. Swells wear them, and gamekeepers wear them. If you’re a swell I beg your pardon, that’s all I can say.”
This prayer it pleased Walter graciously to grant. He began to enter into the humor of the situation. And then, to save her from some vulgar persecutor, was not that worth a little trouble? “Never mind,” he said, “who I am. I know all the ladies that live here. Which of them is it that you want?”
“Well, she don’t live here,” said the other. “Yes, to be sure, she’s here for the moment, with one Croaker, or something like that. But she’s not one of the ladies of the place; she’s not, perhaps, exactly what you would call a—Yes, she is though—she’s awfully well educated. She talks—oh, a great deal better than most of the swellest people you meet about. I’ve met a good few in my day,” he said, with an air, caressing his mustache. “I don’t know nobody that comes up to her, for my part.”
He was a little beast—he was a cad—he was a vulgar little beggar: he was not a gentleman, nor anything like it. But still he seemed to have a certain comprehension. Walter’s heart softened to him in spite of all provocations. “I don’t think,” he said, but more gently than he could have thought possible, “that you will meet any one of that sort here.”
“No? you don’t think so. But they’d keep her very close, don’t you see. Fact is, she was sent off to keep her out of a young fellar’s way. A young swell you know, a—a friend of mine, with a good bit of money coming to him, and his people didn’t think her good enough. Oh, I don’t think so—not a bit. I’m all on the true love side. But where there’s money, don’t you know, there’s always difficulties made.”
“I suppose so,” said Walter, with momentary gravity. And there came before him for a moment a horrible realization—something he had never thought of before. “But I don’t think,” he added, “that you will find any such lady here.” He was so young and simple that it was a certain ease to his conscience to put it in this way. He said to himself that he was telling no lie. He was not saying that there was no such lady here, only that he didn’t think the other would find her—which he shouldn’t, at least so long as Walter could help it. This little equivocation gave great comfort and ease to his mind.
“Don’t you, though?” said the stranger, discouraged. “But I’m almost sure this was the village, near the river, and not far from—it answers to all the directions—if only I could find Croaker—or Crockton, or a name like that. I’m a dreadful fellow for muddling names.”
“I’ll tell you what,” said Walter, “it may be Endsleigh, about two miles further on; that’s near the river, and not far from Reading, which I suppose is what you mean—a pretty little village where people go in summer. And, to be sure, there’s some people named Croaker there; I remember the name—over a shop—with lodgings to let—that’s the place,” he cried, with a little excitement. For all this was quite true, and yet elaborately false in intention, a combination to delight any such young deceiver. “Come along,” he cried, “I’ll show you the way. It lies straight before you, and Croaker’s is just as you go into the village. You can’t miss it. I’ve earned that fiver,” he said, with a laugh, “but you’re welcome to the information—for love.”