“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. ~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 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
~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 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 ~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.”
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 ~186~~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 ~187~~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
~188~~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, ~189~~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.