up Bob and Blister, to drive on. I generally did take care of myself,
but the Squire never forgot to remind me to do it.
The afternoon went on, and my search with it in the intervals of the
racing. I could see nothing of those I wanted to see, or of Tod and
Harry Parker. Our meeting, or not meeting, was just a chance, amidst
those crowds and crowds of human beings, constantly moving. Three
o'clock had struck, and as soon as the next race should be over--a
four-mile heat--it would be nearly time to think about keeping my
appointment with Lucy Bird.
And now once more set in all the excitement of the running. A good field
started for the four-mile heat, more horses than had run yet.
I liked those four-mile heats on Worcester racecourse: when we watched
the jockeys in their gay and varied colours twice round the course,
describing the figure of eight, and coming in, hot and panting, at the
end. The favourites this time were two horses named "Swallower" and
"Master Ben." Each horse was well liked: and some betters backed one,
some the other. Now they are off!
The running began slowly and steadily; the two favourites just ahead; a
black horse (I forget his name, but his jockey wore crimson and purple)
hanging on to them; most of the other horses lying outside. The two
kept together all the way, and as they came in for the final run the
excitement was intense.
"Swallower has it by a neck!" "No! Master Ben heads him!" "Ben wins!
Swallower loses!" "Swallower has it! Ben's jockey is beat!" and so on,
and so on. Amidst the shouts and the commotion the result was
announced--a dead heat.
So the race must be run again. I looked at my watch (which you may
be sure I had kept carefully buttoned up under my jacket), wondering
whether I could stay for it. That was uncertain; there was no knowing
how long an interval would be allowed for breathing-time.
Suddenly there arose a frightful commotion above all the natural
commotion of the course. People rushed towards one point; horsemen
galloped thither, carriages bowled cautiously in their wake. The centre
of attraction appeared to be on the banks of the river, just beyond the
grand-stand. What was it? What had occurred? The yells were deafening;
the pushing fearful. At last the cause was known: King Mob was ducking
some offender in the Severn.
To get near, so as to see anything of the fun, was impossible; it was
equally impossible to gather what he had done; whether picked a pocket,
or cheated at betting. Those are the two offences that on Pitchcroft
were then deemed deserving of the water. This time, I think, it was
connected with betting.
Soon the yells became louder and nearer. Execrations filled the air. The
crowd opened, and a wretched-looking individual emerged out of it on the
hard run, his clothes dripping, his hair hanging about his face like
rat's tails.
On he came, the mob shouting and hallooing in his wake, and brushed
close past me. Why! it was surely the country gentleman I had seen
with Bird! I knew him again at once. But whether it was the man Eccles
or not, I did not see; he tore by swiftly, his head kept down. A
broad-brimmed hat came flying after him, propelled by the feet of the
crowd. He stooped to catch it up, and then kept on his way right across
the course, no doubt to make his escape from it. Yes, it was the same
man in his top-boots. I was sure of that. Scampering close to his heels,
fretting and yelling furiously, was a half-starved white dog with a
tin kettle tied to its tail. I wondered which of the two was the more
frightened--the dog or the man.
And standing very nearly close to me, as I saw then, was Captain
Bird. Not running, not shouting; simply looking on with a countenance
of supreme indifference, that seemed to express no end of languid
contempt of the fun. Not a sign of recognition crossed his face as the
half-drowned wight swept past him: no one could have supposed he ever
set eyes on him before. And when the surging crowd had passed, he
sauntered away in the direction of the saddling-place.
But I lost the race. Though I stayed a little late, hoping to at last
see the horses come out for the second start, and to count how many of
the former field would compete for it, the minutes flew all too swiftly
by, and I had to go, and to put the steam on. Making a bolt across
Pitchcroft and up Salt Lane, went I, full split, over the Tything, and
so down to Sansome Walk. St. Oswald's clock was tinkling out four as I
reached it.
Lucy did not come. She had indicated the spot where the meeting should
be; and I waited there, making the best I could of it; cooling myself,
and looking out for her. At half-past four I gave her up in my own mind;
and when five o'clock struck, I knew it was useless to stay longer. So I
began to take my way back slower than I had come; and on turning out by
St. Oswald's, I saw the carriages and people flocking up on their way
from Pitchcroft. The first day's racing was over.
There was a crowd at the top of Salt Lane, and I had to wait before I
could get across. In the wake of a carriage-and-four that was turning
out of it came Captain Bird, not a feather of his plumage ruffled, not a
speck (except dust) on his superfine coat, not a wristband soiled. He
had not been ducked, if his friend had.
"How d'ye do, Master Ludlow?" said he, with a grandly patronizing air,
and a flourish of his cane, as if it were a condescension to notice me.
And I answered him civilly; though he must have been aware I knew what a
scamp he was.
"I wish he'd steal away to America some moonlight night," ran my
thoughts, "and leave poor Lucy in peace."
The Squire's carriage dashed up to the hotel as I reached it, Tod
sitting behind with Giles. I asked which of the two horses had won.
Swallower: won by half-a-neck. The Squire was in a glow of satisfaction,
boasting of the well-contested race.
And now, to make things intelligible, I must refer again for a minute or
two to that past paper. It may be remembered that when "Detective
Eccles" called on us that Sunday afternoon, asking to look at the
fellow-earring to the one lost, Mrs. Todhetley had gone in to the
Coneys', and the Squire sent me for her. When I arrived there, Lucy Bird
was in the drawing-room alone, the mater being upstairs with Mrs. Coney.
Poor Lucy told me she had been spending a day or two at Timberdale Court
(her happy childhood's home), and had come over to dine with Mr. and
Mrs. Coney, who were always kind to her, she added with a sigh; but she
was going back to Worcester by the next train. I told her what I had
come for--of the detective's visit and his request to see the other
earring. Mrs. Todhetley felt nervous at meeting a real live detective,
and asked me no end of questions as to what this particular one was
like. I said he was no tiger to be afraid of, and described him as well
as I could: a tall, slender, gentlemanly man, well-dressed; gold studs,
a ring on his finger, a blue necktie, and a black moustache. Lucy (I had
noticed at the time) seemed struck with the description; but she made no
remark. Before we turned in at our gate we saw her leave the Coneys'
house, and come stepping through the snow on her way to the station.
Since then, until now, we had not seen anything of Lucy Bird.
* * * * *
The stars flickered through the trees in Sansome Walk as I turned into
it. A fine trouble I had had to come! Some entertainment was in full
swing that evening at the Saracen's Head--a sort of circus, combined
with rope-dancing. Worcester would be filled with shows during the
race-week (I don't mean those on Pitchcroft), and we went to as many as
we could get money for. We had made the bargain with Harry Parker on the
course to go to this one, and during the crowded dinner Tod asked the
Squire's leave. He gave it with the usual injunctions to take care of
ourselves, and on condition that we left our watches at home. So, there
I was in a fix; neither daring to say at the dinner-table that I could
not go, nor daring to say what prevented it, for Lucy had bound me to
secrecy.
"What time is this thing going to be over to-night, Joe?" had questioned
the Squire, who was drinking port wine with some more old gentlemen at
one end of the table, as we rose to depart.
"Oh, I don't know," answered Tod. "About ten o'clock, I dare say."
"Well, mind you come straight home, you two. I won't have you getting
into mischief. Do you hear, Johnny?"
"What mischief do you suppose, sir, we are likely to get into?" fired
Tod.
"_I_ don't know," answered the Squire. "When I was a young lad--younger
than you--staying here for the races with my father--but we stayed at
the Hop-pole, next door, which was the first inn then--I remember we
were so wicked one night as to go about ringing and knocking at all the
doors----"
"You and your father, sir?" asked Tod, innocently.
"My father! no!" roared the Squire. "What do you mean, Joe? How dare
you! My father go about the town knocking at doors and ringing at bells!
How dare you suggest such an idea! We left my father, sir, at the hotel
with his friends at their wine, as you are leaving me with my friends
here now. It was I and half-a-dozen other young rascals who did it--more
shame for us. I can't be sure how many bell-wires we broke. The world
has grown wiser since then, though I don't think it's better; and--and
mind you walk quietly home. Don't get into a fight, or quarrel, or
anything of that kind. The streets are sure to be full of rough people
and pickpockets."
Harry Parker was waiting for us in the hotel gateway. He said he feared
we should be late, and thought we must have been eating dinner for a
week by the time we took over it.
"I'm not coming with you, Tod," I said; "I'll join you presently."
Tod turned round and faced me. "What on earth's that for, Johnny?"
"Oh, nothing. I'll come soon. You two go on."
"Suppose you don't get a place!" cried Parker to me.
"Oh, I shall get one fast enough: it won't be so crowded as all that."
"Now, look here, lad," said Tod, with his face of resolution; "you are
up to some dodge. What is it?"
"My head aches badly," I said--and that was true. "I can't go into that
hot place until I have had a spell of fresh air. But I shall be sure to
join you later, if I can."
My headaches were always allowed. I had them rather often. Not the
splitting, roaring pain that Tod would get in his head on rare
occasions, once a twelvemonth, or so, when anything greatly worried him;
but bad enough in all conscience. He said no more; and set off with
Harry Parker up the street towards the Saracen's Head.
The stars were flickering through the trees in Sansome Walk, looking as
bright as though it were a frosty night in winter. It was cool and
pleasant: the great heat of the day--which must have given me my
headache--had passed. Mrs. Bird was already at the spot. She drew me
underneath the trees on the side, looking up the walk as though she
feared she had been followed. A burst of distant music crashed out and
was borne towards us on the air: the circus band, at the Saracen's Head.
Lucy still glanced back the way she had come.
"Are you afraid of anything, Lucy?"
"There is no danger, I believe," she answered; "but I cannot help being
timid: for, if what I am doing were discovered, I--I--I don't know what
they would do to me."
"You did not come this afternoon."
"No. I was very sorry, but I could not," she said, as we paced slowly
about, side by side. "I had my shawl and bonnet on, when Edwards came
in--a friend of my husband's, who is staying with him. He had somehow
got into the Severn, and looked quite an object, his hair and clothes
dripping wet, and his forehead bruised."
"Why, Lucy, he was ducked!" I cried excitedly. "I saw it all. That is, I
saw the row; and I saw him when he made his escape across Pitchcroft. He
had on a smart green cut-away coat, and top-boots."
"Yes, yes," she said; "I was sure it was something of that kind. When
my husband came home later they were talking together in an undertone,
Edwards cursing some betting-man, and Captain Bird telling Edwards that
it was his own fault for not being more cautious. However, I could not
come out, Johnny, though I knew you were waiting for me. Edwards asked,
as impertinently as he dared, where I was off to. To buy some tea, I
answered, but that it did not matter particularly, as I had enough for
the evening. They think I have come out to buy it now."
"Do you mean to say, Lucy, that Captain Bird denies you free
liberty?--watches you as a cat does a mouse?"
"No, no; you must not take up wrong notions of my husband, Johnny
Ludlow. Bad though the estimation in which he is held by most people
is, he has never been really unkind to me. Trouble, frightful trouble
he does bring upon me, for I am his wife and have to share it, but
personally unkind to me he has never yet been."
"Well, I should think it unkind in your place, if I could not go out
when I pleased, without being questioned. What do they suspect you would
be after?"
"It is not Captain Bird; it is Edwards. As to what he suspects, I am
sure he does not know himself; but he seems to be generally suspicious
of every one, and he sees I do not like him. I suppose he lives in
general fear of being denounced to the police, for he is always doing
what he calls 'shady' things; but he must know that he is safe with us.
I heard him say to my husband the day before we left London, 'Why do you
take your wife down?' Perhaps he thinks my brothers might be coming to
call on me, and of course he does not want attention drawn to the place
he may chance to be located in, whether here or elsewhere."
"What is his name, Lucy?"
"His name? Edwards."
"It's not Eccles, is it?"
She glanced quickly round as we walked, searching my face in the dusk.
"Why do you ask that?"
"Because, when I first saw him to-day on the racecourse with Captain
Bird, he put me in mind of the fine gentleman who came to us that Sunday
at Crabb Cot, calling himself Detective Eccles, and carried off Mrs.
Todhetley's other earring."
Mrs. Bird looked straight before her, making no answer.
"_You_ must remember that afternoon, Lucy. When I ran over to old
Coney's for Mrs. Todhetley, you were there, you know; and I told you all
about the earrings and the detective officer, then making his dinner of
cold beef at our house while he waited for the mother to come home and
produce the earring. Don't you remember? You were just going back to
Worcester."
Still she said not a word.
"Lucy, I think it is the same man. Although his black moustache is gone,
I feel sure it is he. The face and the tall slender figure are just like
his."
"How singular!" she exclaimed, in a low tone to herself. "How strangely
things come about!"
"But _is_ it Eccles?"
"Johnny Ludlow," she said, catching my arm, and speaking in an excited,
breathless whisper, "if you were to bring harm on me--that is, on him or
on my husband through me, I should pray to die."
"But you need not be afraid. Goodness me, Lucy! don't you know that I
wouldn't bring harm on any one in the world, least of all on you? Why,
you said to me this morning that I was true as steel."
"Yes, yes," she said, bursting into tears. "We have always been good
friends, have we not. Johnny, since you, a little mite of a child in a
tunic and turned-down frill, came to see me one day at school, a nearly
grown-up young lady, and wanted to leave me your bright sixpence to
buy gingerbread? Oh, Johnny, if all people were only as loyal and
true-hearted as you are!"
"Then, Lucy, why need you doubt me?"
"Do you not see the shadows of those leaves playing on the ground cast
by the light of that gas-lamp?" she asked. "Just as many shadows, dark
as those, lie in the path of my life. They have taught me to fear an
enemy where I ought to look for a friend; they have taught me that life
is so full of unexpected windings and turnings, that we know not one
minute what new fear the next may bring forth."
"Well, Lucy, you need not fear me. I have promised you to say nothing of
having met you here; and I will say nothing, or of what you tell me."
"Promise it me again, Johnny. Faithfully."
Just a shade of vexation crossed me that she should think it needful to
reiterate this; but I would not let my face or voice betray it.
"I promise it again, Lucy. Faithfully and truly."
"Ever since last winter I have wanted to hold communication with one of
you at your home, and to restore something that had been lost. But it
had to be done very, very cautiously, without bringing trouble on me or
on any one connected with me. Many a solitary hour, sitting by myself in
our poor lodgings in London, have I deliberated whether I might venture
to restore this, and how it was to be done: many a sleepless night
have I passed, dwelling on it. Sometimes I thought I would send it
anonymously by the post, but it might have been stolen by the way;
sometimes it would occur to me to make a parcel of it and despatch it in
that way. I never did either. I waited until some chance should bring me
again near Mrs. Todhetley. But to-day I saw that it would be better to
trust you. She is true also, and kind; but she might not be able to keep
the secret from the Squire, and he--he would be sure to betray it,
though perhaps not intentionally, to all Timberdale, and there's no
knowing what mischief might come of it."
Light flashed upon me as she spoke. As surely as though it were already
before me in black and white, I knew what she was about to disclose.
"Lucy, it is the lost earring! The man staying with you _is_ Eccles."
"Hush!" she whispered in extreme terror, for a footstep suddenly sounded
close to us. Lucy glided behind the tree we were passing, which in a
degree served to hide her. How timid she was!--what induced it?
The intruder was a shop-boy with an apron on, carrying a basket of
grocery parcels to one of the few houses higher up. He turned his head
and gave us a good stare, probably taking us for a pair of lovers
enjoying a stolen ramble by starlight. Setting up a shrill whistle,
he passed on.
"I don't know what has come to me lately; my heart seems to beat at
nothing," said poor Mrs. Bird, coming from behind the tree with her hand
to her side. "And it was doubly foolish of me to go _there_; better that
I had kept quietly walking on with you, Johnny."
"What _is_ it that you are afraid of, Lucy?"
"Only of their seeing me; seeing me with you. Were they to do so, and it
were to come out that the earring had been returned, they would know I
had done it. They suspected me at the time--at least, Edwards did. For
it is the earring I am about to restore to you, Johnny."
She put a little soft white paper packet in my hand, that felt as if it
had wool inside it. I hardly knew whether I was awake or asleep. The
beautiful earring that we had given up for good, come back again! And
the sound of the drums and trumpets burst once more upon our ears.
"You will give it to Mrs. Todhetley when you go home, Johnny. And I must
leave it to your discretion to tell her what you think proper of whence
you obtained it. Somewhat of course you must tell her, but how much or
how little I leave with you. Only take care you bring no harm upon me."
"I am sure, Lucy, that Mrs. Todhetley may be trusted."
"Very well. Both of you must be secret as the grave. It is for my sake,
tell her, that I implore it. Perhaps she will keep the earring by her
for a few months, saying nothing, so that this visit of ours into
Worcestershire may be quite a thing of the past, and no suspicion,
in consequence of it, as connected with the earring, may arise in my
husband's mind. After that, when months have elapsed, she must contrive
to let it appear that the earring is then, in some plausible way or
other, returned to her."
"Rely upon it, we will take care. It will be managed very easily. But
how did you get the earring, Lucy?"
"It has been in my possession ever since the night of the day you lost
it; that Sunday afternoon, you know. I have carried it about with me
everywhere."
"Do you mean carried it upon you?"
"Yes; upon me."
"I wonder you never lost it--a little thing like this!" I said, touching
the soft packet that lay in my jacket pocket.
"I could not lose it," she whispered. "It was sewn into my clothes."
"But, Lucy, how did you manage to get it?"
She gave me the explanation in a few low, rapid words, glancing about
her as she did it. Perhaps I had better repeat it in my own way; and to
do that we must go back to the Sunday afternoon. At least, that will
render it more intelligible and ship-shape. But I did not learn one-half
of the details then; no, nor for a long time afterwards. And so, we go
back again in imagination to the time of that January day, when we were
honoured by the visit of "Detective Eccles," and the snow was lying on
the ground, and Farmer Coney's fires were blazing hospitably.
* * * * *
Lucy Bird quitted the warm fires and her kind friends, the Coneys, and
followed us out--me and Mrs. Todhetley--she saw us turn in at our own
gate, and then she picked her way through the snow to the station at
South Crabb. It was a long walk for her in that inclement weather; but
she had been away from home (if the poor lodgings they then occupied in
Worcester could be called home) two days, and was anxious to get back
again. During her brief absences from it, she was always haunted by the
fear of some ill falling on that precious husband of hers, Captain Bird;
but he was nothing but an ex-captain, as you know. All the way to the
station she was thinking about the earrings, and of my description of
Detective Eccles. The description was exactly that of her husband's
friend, Edwards, both as to person and dress; not that she supposed it
could be he. When she left Worcester nearly two days before, Edwards had
just arrived. She knew him to be an educated man, of superior manners,
and full of anecdote, when he chose, about college life. Like her
husband, he had, by recklessness and ill-conduct, sunk lower and lower
in the world, until he had to depend on "luck" or "chance" for a living.
Barely had Lucy reached the station, walking slowly, when the train shot
in. She took her seat; and, after a short halt the train moved on again.
At that moment there strode into the station that self-same man,
Edwards, who began shouting furiously for the train to stop, putting up
his hands, running and gesticulating. The train declined to stop; trains
generally do decline to stop for late passengers, however frantically
adjured; and Edwards was left behind. His appearance astonished Lucy
considerably. Had he, in truth, been passing himself off as a detective
officer to Squire Todhetley? If so, with what motive? Lucy could not see
any motive, and still thought it could not be; that Edwards must be over
here on some business of his own. The matter passed from her mind as she
drew near Worcester, and reached their lodgings, which were down
Lowesmoor way.
Experience had taught Lucy not to ask questions. She was either not
answered at all, or the answer would be sure to give her trouble.
Captain Bird had grown tolerably careless as to whether his hazardous
doings reached, or did not reach, the ears of his wife, but he did not
willingly tell her of them. She said not a word of having seen Edwards,
or of what she had heard about the loss of Mrs. Todhetley's earring, or
of the detective's visit to Crabb Cot. Lucy's whole life was one of
dread and fear, and she never knew whether any remark of hers might not
bear upon some dangerous subject. But while getting the tea, she did
just inquire after Edwards.
"Has Edwards left?" she asked carelessly.
"No," replied Captain Bird, who was stretched out before the fire in his
slippers, smoking a long pipe, and drinking spirits. "He is out on the
loose, though, somewhere, to-day."
It was late at night when Edwards entered. He was in a rage. Trains
did not run frequently on Sundays, and he had been kept all that time
at South Crabb Junction, waiting for one. Lucy went upstairs to bed,
leaving Edwards and her husband drinking brandy-and-water. Both of them
had had quite enough already.