"Time will show," rejoined Lawless, turning towards the door, which opened at this moment to admit Mr. Vernor; and, alas! him only.

His reception of us, though perfectly easy and well-bred, was anything but agreeable or encouraging. He answered our inquiries after Miss Saville's health by informing us, cursorily, that no ill effects had ensued from her alarm of the previous evening. He received Lawless's apologies with a calm, half-ironical smile, and an assurance that they were not required; and he slightly thanked me for my obliging assistance in words perfectly unexceptionable in themselves, but which, from a peculiarity in the tone of voice more than anything else, impressed one with a sense of insult rather than of compliment. Still, in compliance with certain expressive looks from Lawless, who evidently was most unwilling to be convinced of the failure of his little bit of diplomacy, I used every means I could think of to prolong the visit. I first admired, then criticised, the carving of the chimney-piece; I dived into a ~149~~book of prints which lay upon the table, and prosed about mezzo-tint and line engraving, and bored myself, and of course my hearers also, till our powers of endurance were taxed almost beyond their strength; and, at last, having completely exhausted not only my small-talk, but my entire stock of conversation of all sorts and sizes, I was regularly beaten to a stand-still, and obliged to take refuge in alternately teasing and caressing a beautiful black and tan setter, which seemed the only member of the party thoroughly sociable and at his ease.

At length it became apparent even to Lawless himself that the visit could not be protracted longer, and we accordingly rose and took our leave, our host (I will not call him entertainer, for it would be a complete misnomer) preserving the same tone of cool and imperturbable politeness to the very last. On reaching the hall we encountered the surly old footman, whose features looked more than ever as if they had been carved out of some very hard species of wood.

"I say, old boy, where's the young lady, eh?" exclaimed Lawless, as soon as he caught sight of him; "she never showed so much as the tip of her nose in the room; how was that, eh?"

"If she com'd into the room when gentlemen was calling, master would eat her without salt," was the reply.

"Which fact you were perfectly aware of when you took my tip so quietly just now?"

"In course I was, why should I not be?"

"Done brown for once, by Jove!" muttered Lawless as he left the hall; "a raw-boned old rogue, I'll be even with him some day, though——, we shall see, eh?"

While Lawless was busily engaged in settling some of the harness which had become disarranged the old footman came up to me and whispered, "Make use of your eyes as you drive through the park, and mayhap you'll spy some game worth looking after, young gentleman".

Surprised at this unexpected address, I turned to question him as to its meaning, but in vain; for no sooner had he finished speaking than he re-entered the hall and shut the door behind him.

What could he intend me to understand, thought I; he evidently wished to imply something beyond the simple meaning of the words "game worth looking after"; could he mean to——no! the thing is impossible—"absurd!" exclaimed I, as a wild idea shot through my brain and I felt myself colour like a girl.

~150~~"What's absurd?" exclaimed Lawless, gathering up the reins as he spoke; "what are you talking about? why, you're ranting and staring about you like a play-actor; what's the matter with you, eh, Frank?"

"Nothing," replied I, taking my seat; "don't drive too fast through the park, I want to look at the view as we go along."

In obedience to the gaunt domestic's mysterious injunction I made the best use of my eyes as we retraced our way through the park, and for my pains had the satisfaction of beholding a solitary rabbit, half-hidden under a dock-leaf, and sundry carrion crows.



CHAPTER XVIII — THE GAME IN BARSTONE PARK

"The fringed curtains of thine eye advance and say what thou see'st yond." —Tempest.

"Accost, Sir Andrew, accost." —Twelfth Night.

"Let us go thank him and encourage him. My Guardian's rough and envious disposition Strikes me at heart—Sir you have well deserved." —As You Like It.

WE had arrived within a quarter of a mile of the gate, and I had just settled to my thorough dissatisfaction that the old footman must be a humorist, and had diverted himself by making a kind of April-fool out of season of me, when, through the trees, which at that spot stretched their huge branches across the road so as to form a complete arch, I fancied I perceived the flutter of a woman's dress; and, in another moment, a turn in the drive disclosed to my view a female form, which I instantly recognised as that of Clara Saville.

Without a minute's hesitation I sprang to the ground before Lawless had time to pull up, and, saying to him, "I shall be back again directly; wait for me, there's a good fellow," I hastily entered a winding path, which led through the trees to the spot where I had seen the young lady, leaving my companion mute from astonishment. Up to this moment, acting solely from a sort of instinctive impulse which made me wish to see and speak to Miss Saville, I had never considered the light in which my proceedings might appear to her. What right, I now asked myself, had I to intrude upon her privacy, and, ~151~~as it were, force my company upon her, whether she wished it or not? Might she not look upon it as an impertinent intrusion? As these thoughts flitted through my brain I slackened my pace; and had it not been for very shame could have found in my heart to turn back again. This, however, I resolved not to do; having committed myself so far, I determined to give her an opportunity of seeing me, and, if she should show any intention of avoiding me, it would then be time enough to retrace my steps and leave her unmolested. With this design I proceeded slowly up the path, stopping now and then as if to admire the view, until a turn of the walk brought me in sight of a rustic bench, on which was seated the young lady I had before observed. As soon as she perceived me she rose and turned towards me, disclosing, as she did so, the graceful form and lovely features of my partner of the preceding evening. The morning costume, including a most irresistible little cottage-bonnet lined with pink, was even more becoming to her than the ball-dress; and when, instead of the cold air of constraint which had characterised her manner of the previous evening, she advanced to meet me with a slight blush and the most bewitching smile of welcome that ever set man's heart beating, I thought I had never seen anything so perfectly beautiful before.

"I must ask your forgiveness for venturing thus to intrude upon you, Miss Saville," began I, after we had exchanged salutations; "but the temptation of learning from your own lips that you had sustained no injury was too strong to be resisted, more particularly after the disappointment of finding you were from home when I did myself the pleasure of calling on Mr. Vernor to inquire after you."

"Nay, there is nothing to forgive," replied Miss Saville; "on the contrary," she continued, blushing slightly, "I was anxious to see you, in order to thank you for the eminent service you rendered me yesterday evening."

"Really it is not worth mentioning," returned I; "it is only what any other gentleman in the room would have done had he been in my situation; it was good Mrs. Trottle's shawl saved you; I could have done nothing without that."

"You shall not cheat me out of my gratitude in that way," replied she, smiling; "the shawl would have been of little avail had it not been so promptly and energetically applied; and, as for the other gentlemen, they ~152~~certainly were very ready with their offers of assistance after the danger was over. I am afraid," she continued, looking down, "you must have repented the trouble you had taken when you found what a thankless person you had exerted yourself to save."

"Indeed, no such idea crossed my mind for an instant; the slight service I was able to render you was quite repaid by the pleasure of knowing that I had been fortunate enough to prevent you from sustaining injury," said I.

"You are very kind," was the reply; "but I can assure you I have been exceedingly annoyed by imagining how wholly destitute of gratitude you must have considered me!"

"Lucy Markham told me such would be the case," replied I, smiling.

"Did she?—a dear warm-hearted girl—she always does me justice!" exclaimed Miss Saville, as she raised her beautiful eyes, sparkling with animation, to my face. She then, for the first time, observed my injured arm, and added quickly, "but you wear your arm in a sling; I hope—that is—I am afraid—-I trust it was not injured last night!"

"It is a mere trifle," replied I; "he wristband of my sleeve caught fire, and burnt my arm, but it is nothing of any consequence, I can assure you."

"I am sure you must have thought me sadly ungrateful," returned my companion; "you exerted yourself, and successfully, to save my life, receiving a painful injury in so doing, whilst I left the house without offering you the thanks due even to the commonest service imaginable."

"You were not then aware that I had burnt my arm, remember; and forgive me for adding," returned I (for I saw that she was really distressed at the idea of my considering her wanting in gratitude), "that it did not require any unusual degree of penetration to perceive that you were not altogether a free agent."

"No, indeed," replied she, eagerly catching at the idea, "Mr. Vernor, my guardian—he always means to be very kind I am sure; but," she added, sinking her voice, "he is so very particular, and he speaks so sternly sometimes, that—I know it is very silly—but I cannot help feeling afraid of him. I mention this, sir, to prevent your judging me too harshly, and I trust to your generosity not to take any unfair advantage of my openness; and now," she added, fixing her large eyes upon me with an imploring look which would have melted the toughest old anchorite ~153~~that ever chewed grey peas, "you will not think me so very ungrateful, will you?"

"My dear Miss Saville," replied I, "let me beg you to believe I never dreamt of blaming you for a moment; on the contrary, I pay you no compliment, but only mention the simple truth, when I tell you that I admired your behaviour throughout the whole affair exceedingly; your presence of mind and self-control were greater than, under the circumstances, I could have supposed possible." As she made no reply to this, but remained looking steadfastly on the ground, with her head turned so as to conceal her face, I continued—"I hope it is unnecessary for me to add, that you need not entertain the slightest fear of my making any indiscreet use of the frankness with which you have done me the honour of speaking to me—but I am forgetting half my business," added I, wishing to set her at ease again, "I am charged with all sorts of kind messages to you from good Mrs. Coleman and Miss Markham; I presume you would wish me to tell them I have had the pleasure of ascertaining that you have sustained no ill effects from your alarm."

"Oh yes, by all means," replied Miss Saville, looking up with a pleased expression, "give my kind love to them both, and tell dear Lucy I shall come over to see her as soon as ever I can."

"I will not intrude upon you longer, then, having delivered my message," said I; "I have kept my companion, the gentleman who was so unfortunate as to overturn the candelabrum, waiting an unconscionable time already; he is very penitent for his offence; may I venture to relieve his mind by telling him that you forgive him?"

"Pray do so," was the reply; "I never bear malice; besides, it was entirely an accident, you know. How thoroughly wretched he seemed when he found what he had done; frightened as I was, I could scarcely help laughing when I caught a glimpse of his face, he looked so delightfully miserable," added she, with a merry laugh. After a moment's pause she continued—"I'm afraid Mr. Vernor will think I am lost, if he should happen to inquire after me, and I'm not forthcoming".

"Surely," said I, "he can never be so unreasonable as to blame you for such a trifle as remaining five minutes too long. Does he expect you to be a nun because he lives in a priory?"

"Almost, I really think," was the reply; "and now, good-bye, Mr. Fairlegh," she continued—"I shall feel ~154~~happier since I have been able to explain to you that I am not quite a monster of ingratitude."

"If that is the case, I am bound to rejoice in it also," answered I, "though I would fain convince you that the explanation was not required."

Her only reply to this was an incredulous shake of the head; and, once more wishing me good-morning, she tripped along the path; and, when I turned to look again, her graceful figure had disappeared among the trees.

With a flushed brow and beating heart (gentle reader, I was barely twenty) I hastened to rejoin my companion, who, as might be expected, was not in the most amiable humour imaginable, having had to restrain the impatience of two fiery horses for a space of time nearly approaching a quarter of an hour.

"Really, Lawless," I began, "I am quite ashamed." "Oh, you are, are you?" was the rejoinder. "I should rather think you ought to be, too. But it's always the way with you fellows who pretend to be steady and moral, and all that sort of thing: when you do find a chance of getting into mischief, you're worse a great deal than a man like myself, for instance, who, without being bothered with any particular principles of any kind, has what I call a general sense of fitness and propriety, and does his dissipation sensibly and correctly. But to go tearing off like a lunatic after the first petticoat you see fluttering among the bushes in a gentleman's park, and leaving your friend to hold in two thorough-bred peppery devils, that are enough to pull a man's arms off, for above a quarter of an hour, it's too bad a great deal. Why, just before you came, I fully expected when that mare was plunging about on her hind legs——"

"How lovely she looked!" interrupted I, thinking aloud.

"You thought so, did you?" rejoined Lawless; "I wish you'd just had to hold her; her mouth's as hard——"

"Her mouth is perfect," replied I emphatically; "quite perfect."

"Well, that's cool," muttered Lawless; "he'll put me in a passion directly;—pray, sir, may I ask how on earth you come to know anything about her mouth?"

"How do I know anything about her mouth?" exclaimed I. "Did I not watch with delight its ever-varying expression?—mark each movement of those beautiful lips, and drink in every syllable that fell from them?—not observe her mouth! Think you, when we have been conversing together for the last quarter of an hour, that I could fail to do so?"

~155~~"Oh he's gone stark staring mad!" exclaimed Lawless; "strait-waistcoats, Bedlam, and all that sort o' thing, you know;—conversing with my bay mare for the last quarter of an hour, and drinking in every syllable that fell from her beautiful lips—oh, he's raving!"

"What do you mean?" said I, at length awaking to some consciousness of sublunary affairs—"Your mare!—who ever thought of your mare? it's Miss Saville I'm talking about."

"Miss Saville!" repeated Lawless, giving vent to a long whistle, expressive of incredulity; "why, you don't mean to say you've been talking to Miss Saville all this time, do you?"

"To be sure I have," replied I; "and a very interesting and agreeable conversation it was too."

"Well," exclaimed Lawless, after a short pause; "all the luck in this matter seem's to fall to your share; so the sooner I get out of it the better. It won't break my heart, that's one comfort;—if the young woman has the bad taste to prefer you to me, why, it can't be helped, you know;—but what did she say for herself, eh?"

"She sent you her forgiveness for one thing," replied I; and I then proceeded to relate such particulars of the interview as I considered expedient; which recital, and our remarks thereupon, furnished conversation during the remainder of our drive.



CHAPTER XIX — TURNING THE TABLES

"'You should also make no noise in the streets.'

"'You may stay him.'

"'Nay, by're lady, that I think he cannot.'

"'Five shillings to one on't with any man that knows the statutes, he may stay him. His wits are not so blunt as, God help, I would desire they were. It is an offence to stay a man against his will. Dost thou not suspect my place? dost thou not suspect my years? O that he were here to write me down an ass! but, masters, remember that I am an ass: though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass." —Much Ado About Nothing.

ABOUT a week had elapsed after the events which I have just recorded, when one morning, shortly before my return to Cambridge, I received a letter from Coleman, detailing the finale of the bellringing affair. It ran as follows:—

156~"My Dear Frank—Doubtless you are, or ought to be, very anxious to hear how I contrived to get out of the scrape into which you and the Honourable George managed to inveigle me, having previously availed yourselves of my innocence, and succeeded, through the seductive medium of oysters and porter, in corrupting my morals, then leaving me, poor victim! to bear the blame, and suffer the consequences, of our common misdemeanour. However, mine is no pitiful spirit to be quelled by misfortune, and, as dangers thickened around me, I bore up against them bravely, like—like—(was it Julius Caesar or Coriolanus who did that sort of thing?) but never mind—like a Roman brick, we'll say; the particular brick is quite immaterial, but I must beg you to believe the likeness was something striking. To descend to particulars.—Hostilities were commenced by that old ass, Mayor Dullmug, who took out a summons against me for creating a riot and disturbance in the town, and the first day the bench sat I was marched off by two policemen, and locked up in a little dirty room, to keep cool till their worships were ready to discuss me. Well, there I sat, kicking my heels, and chuckling over a heart-rending little scene I had just gone through with my mother, whose dread of the terrors of the law was greatly increased by the very vague ideas she possessed of the extent of its powers. The punishment she had settled in her own mind as likely to be awarded me was transportation, and her farewell address was as follows: 'If they should be cruel enough to order you to be transported for fourteen years, Freddy, my dear, I shall try to persuade your father (though he's just like a savage North American Indian about you) to get it changed "for life" instead, for they always die of the yellow fever for the sharks to eat them, when they've been over there three or four years; and four years are better than fourteen, though bad's the best, and I'm a miserable woman. I read all about it last week in one of Captain Marryat's books, and very shocking I thought it,'—Having ventured to hint that if I was carried off by the yellow fever at the end of a year or two, the length of my sentence would not signify much to me when I was dead, I was rebuked with 'Don't talk in that shocking way, Frederick, as if you were a heathen, in your situation, and I hearing you your collect every Sunday, besides Mrs. Hannah More, who might have been a saint if ever there was one, or anything else she liked, with her talents, only she was too good for this wicked world, and so she went to a better, and wrote that charming book Colebs ~157~~in Search of a Wife'.—Oh! my poor dear mother's queer sentences! I was becoming shockingly tired of my own company, when it occurred to me that it would be the correct thing to carve my name on the Newgate stone a la Jack Sheppard; and I was just putting a few finishing strokes to the N of Coleman, wherewith, in characters at least six inches long, I had embellished a very conspicuous spot over the chimney-piece, when I was surprised 'with my chisel so fine, tra la,' (i.e., with a red-hot poker, which I had been obliged to put up with instead, it being the only implement attainable,) by the officials, who came to summon me, and who did not appear in the slightest degree capable of appreciating the beauties of my performance. By them I was straightway conducted into the awful presence of sundry elderly gentlemen, rejoicing in heads all more or less bald, and faces expressing various degrees of solemn stupidity, who in their proper persons constituted 'the bench'. Before these grave and reverend signiors did Master Dullmug and his satellites

"'Then and there, Rehearse and declare'

all my heinous crimes, offences and misdemeanours; whereupon the aforesaid signiors did solemnly shake their bald heads, and appear exceedingly shocked and particularly puzzled. Well, at last I was called upon for my defence, and, having made up my mind for some time what line I would take, I cut the matter very short, by owning to have assisted in ringing the bells, which I confessed was an act of folly, but nothing more, and that the idea of its constituting an offence punishable by law was absurd in the extreme. This sent them to book, and, after turning over sundry ponderous tomes, and consulting various statutes of all sorts and sizes, besides whispering together, and shaking their heads once and again, till I began to fear that their necks would be dislocated, they arrived at the conclusion that I was right, or thereabouts. This fact the eldest, most bald, and most stupid of the party, chosen by common consent, doubtless in virtue of these attributes, as spokesman, proceeded to communicate to me in a very prosy harangue, to which he appended a lecture—a sort of stock article, which he evidently kept constantly on hand, with blanks which could be filled up to suit any class of offenders. In this harangue he pointed out the dangers of juvenile tricks, and the evils of dissipation, winding up with the assurance that, as I seemed deeply sensible of the error of my ways, they, the ~158~~magistrates, would, on my making a suitable apology to that excellent public functionary, the Mayor of Hillingford, graciously deign to overlook my misconduct. During his long-winded address a new idea struck me, and when he had concluded I inquired, with all due respect, whether 'I was to understand that it was quite certain I had committed no offence punishable by law?' To this he replied, 'that I might set my mind completely at ease upon that point; that though, morally speaking, I had been guilty of a very serious misdemeanour, in the eye of the law I was perfectly innocent'. 'In that case, gentlemen,' replied I, 'the liberty of the subject has been infringed; I have been kept in illegal confinement for some hours, and I believe I have my remedy in an action for false imprisonment against Mr. Dullmug. Does not the law bear me out in what I state?' Again they had recourse to their books, and were unwillingly forced to confess that I was right.' Then,' continued I, 'so far from making any apology to Mr. Dullmug, unless that gentleman consents to beg my pardon, and gives me a written apology for the unjust and illegal prosecution to which he has subjected me, I shall at once take the necessary steps to proceed against him.' Oh! Frank, I would have given something to have had you there, old boy! when I announced this determination; there was such a shindy as I never before witnessed: old Dullmug was furious, and vowed he'd never apologise: I declared if he didn't, nothing should prevent me from bringing my action: the magistrates tried to persuade me, but I was inflexible; and (by Jove! I was very near forgetting the best part of it all) my governor, who was in court, the moment he found the law was on my side, turned suddenly round, swore I had been shamefully used, and that if it cost him every farthing he possessed in the world, he would see justice done me. So the end of it was that old Dullmug was forced to write the apology; it now lies in my writing-desk, and I look upon it as one of the proudest trophies man ever possessed. So, Master Frank, considering all things, I think I may reckon I got pretty well out of that scrape.

"Ever your affectionate,

"F. C.

"P.S.—What have you said or done to render old Vernor so bitter against you? Clara Saville tells Lucy, that, when she informed him of her having met and conversed with you alone in the park that day, he flew into ~159~~such a rage as she had never seen him in before, and abused you like a pickpocket; and she says she feels certain that, for some cause or other, he entertains a strong personal dislike to you. Entre nous, I don't think the fair Clara seems exactly to sympathise with him in this feeling. Considering that you had somewhat less than half an hour to make play in, from Lucy's account you do not seem to have wasted much time. Ah! Master Frank, you are a naughty boy; I can't help sighing when I reflect, how anxious your poor dear mother must feel about you, when she knows you're out."

"Still the same light-hearted merry fellow as ever," exclaimed I, as I closed the letter; "how long, I wonder, will those buoyant spirits of his resist the depressing effect which contact with the harsh realities of life appears always sooner or later to produce? Strange, what he says about that Mr. Vernor; I am not conscious that I ever met the man till the evening of the ball, and yet I fancied there was something which seemed not utterly unfamiliar to me in the expression of his face. Vernor! Vernor! I don't believe I ever heard the name before—it's very odd. Of course, what he says about Miss Saville is all nonsense; and yet there was something in her manner, which made me fancy, if I had time and opportunity—pshaw! what absurdity—I shall have enough to do if I am to imagine myself in love with every nice girl who says, 'Thank you' prettily for any trifling service I may chance to render her. I am sure she is not happy, poor thing! Seriously, I wish I were sufficiently intimate with her to be able to afford her the advice and assistance of a friend, should such be ever required by her. I should take the liberty of asking old Vernor what he meant by his extraordinary behaviour towards me, were I to see much more of him; there's nothing like a little plain speaking. But I need, not trouble my brains about the matter; I shall probably never meet either of them again, so what does it signify? She certainly is the loveliest girl I ever saw, though! heigho!" and, with a sigh, for which I should have been somewhat puzzled rationally to account, I took up my gun, and set off for a day's shooting with Harry Oaklands. ~160~~



CHAPTER XX — ALMA MATER

"He's a good divine that follows his own instructions; I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done, than be one of the twenty to follow my own teaching. The brain may devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps over a cold decree." —Merchant of Venice.

TIME, that venerable and much-vituperated individual, who, if he has to answer for some acts savouring of a taste for wanton destruction—if he now and then lunches on some noble old abbey, which had remained a memorial of the deep piety and marvellous skill of our forefathers—if he crops, by way of salad, some wide-spreading beech or hoary patriarchal oak, which had flung its shade over the tombs of countless generations, and, as it stood forming a link between the present and the past, won men's reverence by force of contrast with their own ephemeral existence—yet atones for his delinquencies by softening the bitterness of grief, blunting the sharp edge of pain, and affording to the broken-hearted the rest, and to the slave the freedom, of the grave;—old Time, I say, who should be praised at all events for his perseverance and steadiness, swept onward with his scythe, and cutting his way through the frost and snow of winter, once more beheld the dust of that "brother of the east wind," March, converted into mud by the showers of April, and the summer was again approaching. It was on a fine morning in May, that, as Oaklands and I were breakfasting together in my rooms at Trinity, we heard a tap at the door, and the redoubtable Shrimp made his appearance. This interesting youth had, under Lawless's able tuition, arrived at such a pitch of knowingness that it was utterly impossible to make him credit anything; he had not the smallest particle of confidence remaining in the integrity of man, woman, or child; and, like many another of the would-be wise in their generation, the only flaw in his scepticism was the bigoted nature of his faith in the false and hateful doctrine of the universal depravity of the human race. He was the bearer of a missive from his master, inviting Oaklands and myself to a wine-party at his rooms that evening.

"I suppose we may as well go," said Oaklands; "I like a positive engagement somewhere—it saves one the trouble of thinking what one shall do with oneself."

~161~~"You can accept it," replied I, "but it would be a waste of time which I have no right to allow myself; not only does it make one idle while it lasts, but the next day also, for I defy a man to read to any purpose the morning after one of Lawless's symposia."

"Call it supper, my dear boy," returned Oaklands, stretching himself; "why do you take the trouble to use a long word when a short one would do just as well? If I could but get you to economise your labour and take things a little more easily, it would be of the greatest advantage to you;—that everlasting reading too—I tell you what, Frank, you are reading a great deal too hard; you look quite pale and ill. I promised Mrs. Fairlegh I would not let you overwork yourself, and you shall not either. Come, you must and shall go to this party; you want relaxation and amusement, and those fellows will contrive to rouse you up a bit, and do you good."

"To say the truth," I replied, "that is one of my chief objections to going. Lawless I like, for the sake of old recollections, and because he is at bottom a well-disposed, good-hearted fellow; but I cannot approve of the set of men one meets there. It is not merely their being what is termed 'fast' that I object to; for though I do not set up for a sporting character myself, I am rather amused than otherwise to mix occasionally with that style of men; but there is a tone of recklessness in the conversation of the set we meet there, a want of reverence for everything human and divine, which, I confess, disgusts me—they seem to consider no object too high or too low to make a jest of."

"I understand the kind of thing you refer to," answered Oaklands, "but I think it's only one or two of them who offend in that way; there is one man who is my particular aversion; I declare if I thought he'd be there to-night I would not go."

"I think I know who you mean," replied I; "Stephen Wilford, is it not? the man they call 'Butcher,' from some brutal thing he once did to a horse."

"You're right, Frank; I can scarcely sit quietly by and hear that man talk. I suppose he sees that I dislike him, for there is something in his manner to me which is almost offensive; really at times I fancy he wishes to pick a quarrel with me."

"Not unlikely," said I; "he has the reputation of being a dead shot with the pistol, and on the strength of it he presumes to bully every one."

"He had better not go too far with me," returned ~162~~Oaklands, with flashing eyes; "men are not to be frightened like children; such a character as that is a public nuisance."

"He will not be there to-night, I am glad to say," replied I, "for I met him yesterday when I was walking with Lawless, and he said he was engaged to Wentworth this evening; but, my dear Harry, for Heaven's sake avoid any quarrel with this man; should you not do so, you will only be hazarding your life unnecessarily, and it can lead to no good result."

"My dear fellow, do I ever quarrel with anybody? there is nothing worth the trouble of quarrelling about in this world; besides, it would be an immense fatigue to be shot," observed Harry, smiling.

"I have no great faith in your pacific sensations, for they are nothing more," rejoined I; "your indolence always fails you where it might be of use in subduing (forgive me for using the term) your fiery temper; besides, in allowing a man of this kind to quarrel with you, you give him just the opportunity he wants; in fact you are completely playing his game."

"Well, I can't see that exactly; suppose the worst comes to the worst, and you are obliged to fight him, he stands nearly as good a chance of being killed as you do."

"Excuse me, he does nothing of the kind; going out with a professed duellist is like playing cards with a skilful gambler; the chances are very greatly in his favour: in the first place, nine men out of ten would lose their nerve entirely when stationed opposite the pistol of a dead shot; then again, there are a thousand apparent trifles of which the initiated are aware, and which make the greatest difference, such as securing a proper position with regard to the sun, taking care that your figure is not in a direct line with any upright object, a tree or post for instance, and lots of other things of a like nature which we know nothing about, all of which he is certain to contrive to have arranged favourably for himself, and disadvantageously for his opponent. Then, having as it were trained himself for the occasion, he is perfectly cool and collected, and ready to avail himself of every circumstance he might turn to his advantage—a moment's hesitation in pulling the trigger when the signal is given, and he fires first—many a man has received his death-wound before now ere he had discharged his own pistol."

"My dear boy," said Harry, "you really are exciting and alarming yourself very unnecessarily; I am not going to quarrel with Wilford or anybody else; I detest ~163~~active exertion of every kind, and consider duelling as a fashionable compound of iniquity, containing equal parts of murder and suicide—and we'll go to Lawless's this evening, that I'm determined upon—and—let me see—I've got James's new novel in my pocket. I shall not disturb you if I stay here, shall I? I'm not going to talk."

Then, without waiting for an answer, he stretched himself' at full length on (and beyond) the sofa, and was soon buried in the pages of that best of followers in the footsteps of the mighty Wizard of the North—Walter Scott—leaving me to the somewhat less agreeable task of reading mathematics.



CHAPTER XXI — THE WINE-PARTY

"This night I hold an old-accustomed feast, Whereto I have invited many a guest, Such as I love."

"A fair assembly, whither should they come?

Servant.—Up——-!

Romeo.—Whither?

Servant.—To supper." —Shakspeare.

"All is not false that seems at first a lie." —Southey.

"Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

I do bite my thumb, sir!

Do you quarrel, sir?

Quarrel, sir! No, sir!

If you do, sir, I am for you." —Shakspeare.

LET the reader imagine a long table covered with the remains of an excellent dessert, interspersed with a multitude of bottles of all shapes and sizes, containing every variety of wine that money could procure, or palate desire; whilst in the centre stood a glorious old china bowl of punch, which the guests were discussing in tumblers—wine-glasses having been unanimously voted much too slow. Around this table let there be seated from fifteen to twenty men, whose ages might vary from nineteen to three- or four-and-twenty; some smoking cigars, some talking vociferously, some laughing, some though they were decidedly the minority, listening: but ~164~~all showing signs of being more or less elated by the wine they had taken. Let the reader imagine all this, and he will have formed a pretty correct idea of the supper-party in Lawless's rooms, as it appeared about ten o'clock on the evening subsequent to the conversation I have just detailed.

"Didn't I see you riding a black horse with one white stocking yesterday, Oaklands?" inquired a young man with a round jovial countenance, which might have been reckoned handsome but for the extreme redness of the complexion, and the loss of a front tooth, occasioned by a fall received in the hunting field, whose name was Richard, or, as he was more commonly termed, Dick Curtis.

"Yes," replied Oaklands, "I daresay you did; I was trying him."

"Ah! I fancied he was not one of your own." "No; he belongs to Tom Barret, who wants me to buy him; but I don't think he's strong enough to carry my weight; there's not substance enough about him; I ride nearly eleven stone."

"Oh! he'll never do for you," exclaimed Lawless. "I know the horse well; they call him Blacksmith, because the man who bred him was named Smith; he lives down in Lincolnshire, and breeds lots of horses; but they are none of them, at least none that I have seen, what I call the right sort; don't you buy him,—he's got too much daylight under him to suit you."

"Too long in the pasterns to carry weight," urged Curtis.

"Rather inclined to be cow-hocked," chimed in Lawless.

"Not ribbed home," remarked Curtis.

"Too narrow across the loins," observed Lawless.

"He'll never carry flesh," continued Curtis.

"It's useless to think of his jumping; he'll never make a hunter," said Lawless.

"Only hear them," interrupted a tall, fashionable-looking young man, with a high forehead and a profusion of light, curling hair; "now those two fellows are once off, it's all up with anything like rational conversation for the rest of the evening."

"That's right, Archer, put the curb on 'em; we might as well be in Tattersall's yard at once," observed another of the company, addressing the last speaker.

"I fear it's beyond my power," replied Archer; "they've got such an incurable trick of talking equine scandal, and taking away the characters of their ~165~~neighbours' horses, that nobody can stop them unless it is Stephen Wilford."

The mention of this name seemed to have the effect of rendering every one grave, and a pause ensued, during which Oaklands and I exchanged glances. At length the silence was broken by Curtis, who said:—

"By the way, what's become of Wilford? I expected to meet him here to-night."

"He was engaged to dine with Wentworth," said Lawless; "but he promised to look in upon us in the course of the evening; I thought he would have been here before this."

As he spoke a tap was heard at the room-door.

"Well, that's odd," continued Lawless; "that's Wilford for a ducat; talk of the devil,—eh, don't you know? Come in."

"You had better not repeat that in his hearing," observed Archer, "though I believe he'd take it as a compliment on the whole; it's my opinion he rather affects the satanic."

"Hush," said Curtis, pressing his arm, "here he is."

As he spoke the door opened, and the subject of their remarks entered. He was rather above the middle height, of a slight but unusually elegant figure, with remarkably small hands and feet, the former of which were white and smooth as those of a woman. His features were delicately formed and regular, and the shape of his face a perfect oval; strongly marked eyebrows overshadowed a pair of piercing black eyes; his lips were thin and compressed, and his mouth finely cut; his hair, which was unusually glossy and luxuriant, was jet black, as were his whiskers, affording a marked contrast to the death-like pallor of his countenance. The only fault that could be found in the drawing of his face was that the eyes were placed too near together; but this imparted a character of intensity to his glance which added to, rather than detracted from, the general effect of his appearance. His features, when in repose, were usually marked by an expression of contemptuous indifference; he seldom laughed, but his smile conveyed an indication of such bitter sarcasm that I have seen men, whom he chose to make a butt for his ridicule, writhe under it as under the infliction of bodily torture. He was dressed, as was his wont, entirely in black; but his clothes, which were fashionably cut, fitted him without a wrinkle. He bowed slightly to the assembled company, and then seated himself in a chair which had been reserved for ~166~~him at the upper end of the table, nearly opposite Oaklands and myself, saying as he did so: "I'm afraid I'm rather late, Lawless, but Wentworth and I had a little business to transact, and I could not get away sooner".

"What devil's deed have they been at now, I wonder?" whispered Oaklands to me.

"Manslaughter, most likely," replied Archer (who was seated next me, and had overheard the remark), "Wilford appears so thoroughly satisfied with himself; that was just the way in which he looked the morning he winged Sherringham, for I saw him myself."

"Send me down the claret, will you, Curtis?" asked Wilford. "Punch is a beverage I don't patronise; it makes a man's hand shaky."

"If that is the case," returned Archer, "you ought to make a point of drinking it for the good of society, my dear Wilford; let me help you to a glass."

"Nonsense, Archer, be quiet, man; here, taste this cool bottle, Wilford; claret's good for nothing if it's at all flat," exclaimed Lawless, drawing the cork of a fresh magnum as he spoke.

"I differ from you in that opinion, Archer," returned Wilford, fixing his keen black eyes upon the person he addressed with a piercing glance; "society is like the wine in this glass," and he filled a bumper to the brim with claret as he spoke; "it requires a steady hand to keep it within its proper bounds, and to compel it to preserve an unruffled surface"; and so saying he raised the glass to his lips without spilling a drop, still keeping his eyes fixed upon Archer's face with the same withering glance.

"Well, I have often heard of looking daggers at a person," continued Archer, who had been drinking somewhat deeply during the evening, and now appeared possessed by a spirit of mischief leading him to tease and annoy Wilford in every way he could think of; "but Wilford does worse, he positively looks pistols—cocked and loaded pistols—at one. Fairlegh, I shall screen myself behind your broad shoulders; I never could stand fire." So saying he seized me by the elbows, and, urging me forward, crouched down behind me, affecting the extremity of terror.

The scowl on Wilford's brow deepened as he spoke, but, after a moment's hesitation, apparently considering the affair too absurd to take notice of, he turned away with a contemptuous smile, saying, "You make your punch too strong, Lawless".

Archer instantly recovered his erect attitude, and with ~167~~a flushed face seemed about to make some angry reply, when Lawless, who appeared nervously anxious that the evening should pass over harmoniously, interposed.

"Archer, you're absolutely incorrigible; keep him in order, Fairlegh, eh? give him some more punch, and fill your own glass—it has been empty I don't know how long. I'll find a toast that will make you drink—bumpers round, gentlemen, 'to the health of the prettiest girl in Hertfordshire'. Are you all charged? I beg to propose



"Excuse my interrupting you, Lawless," exclaimed I—for I felt certain who it was he was thinking of; and the idea of Miss Saville's name being mentioned and discussed with the tone of licence common on such occasions, appeared to me such complete profanation, that I determined, be the consequences what they might, to prevent it—"Excuse my interrupting you, but I should feel greatly obliged by your substituting some other toast for the one you are about to propose".

"Eh, what! not drink the young woman's health? why I thought you admired her more than I do: not drink her health? how's that, eh?"

"I shall be most happy to explain to you the reasons for my request at some other time," replied I; "at present I can only add that I shall consider it as a personal favour if you will accede to it."

"It does not appear to me to require an OEdipus to discover Mr. Fairlegh's reasons for this request," observed Stephen Wilford; "he evidently does not consider the present company deserving of the high honour of drinking the health of a young lady whom he distinguishes by his admiration."

"Not over-flattering, I must say," muttered Lawless, looking annoyed.

"I suppose he's afraid of our hearing her name, lest some of us should go and cut him out," suggested Curtis in an undertone, which was, however, perfectly audible.

"In the meanwhile, Lawless, I hope you're not going to indulge your friend's caprice at the expense of the rest of the company," resumed Wilford; "having raised our expectations you are bound to gratify them."

Lawless, who evidently hesitated between his desire to assert his independence and his wish to oblige me, was beginning with his usual, "Eh? why, don't you see,"—when I interrupted him by saying, "Allow me to set this matter at rest in a very few words. Lawless, I hope, knows me well enough to feel sure that I could not ~168~~intend any disrespect either to himself or to his guests—I believe it is not such an unheard-of thing for a gentle-man to object to the name of any lady whom he respects being commented upon with the freedom incidental to a convivial meeting like the present—however that may be, I have asked Lawless as a favour not to drink a certain toast in my presence; should he be unwilling to comply with my request, as I would not wish to be the slightest restraint upon him at his own table, I shall request his permission to withdraw; on this point I await his decision. I have only one more observation to make," continued I, looking at Wilford, who was evidently preparing to speak, "which is, that if, after what I have just said, any gentleman should continue to urge Lawless to give the toast to which I object, I must perforce consider that he wishes to insult me."

As I concluded, there was a murmur of applause, and Archer and one or two others turned to Lawless, declaring it was quite impossible to press the matter further after what I had said; when Wilford, in a cold, sarcastic tone of voice, observed: "I am sorry Mr. Fairlegh's last argument should have failed in convincing me, as easily as it seems to have done some others of the party; such, however, unfortunately being the case, I must repeat, even at the risk of incurring a thing so terrible as that gentleman's displeasure, my decided opinion that Lawless, having informed us he was going to drink a particular toast, should not allow himself to be bullied out of it, in compliance with any man's humour".

This speech, as it might be expected, produced great excitement; I sprang to my feet (an example followed by several of the party), and was about to make an angry reply, when Oaklands, who up to this moment had taken no part in the discussion, but sat sipping his wine with his usual air of listless contentment, apparently indifferent to, if not wholly unconscious of, all that was going on, now rose from his seat, and having obtained silence said: "Really, gentlemen, all this confusion appears to me very unnecessary, when a word from our host will end it. Fairlegh has asked you not to propose a certain toast; it only remains for you, Lawless, to say, whether you intend to do so or not."

Thus urged, Lawless replied, "Eh? no, certainly not; Frank Fairlegh's a trump, and I would not do anything to annoy him for more than I can tell: besides, when I come to think of it, I believe he was right, and I was wrong—but you see, women are a kind of cattle I don't clearly understand—if it was a horse now——"

~169~~A burst of laughter at this characteristic remark drowned the conclusion of the speech, but the announcement that the toast was given up appeared to produce general satisfaction; for, since I had spoken, the popular opinion had been decidedly in my favour.

"The cause of this little interruption to the harmony of the evening being removed," resumed Oaklands, "suppose we see whether its effects may not as easily be got rid of. Every man, I take it, has a right to express his own opinion, and I think Fairlegh must allow that he was a little hasty in presupposing, that by so doing an insult was intended. This being the case, he will, I am sure, agree with me that he ought not to take any notice of Mr. Wilford's remark."

"Yes, to be sure, that's it—all right, eh?" exclaimed Lawless; "come, Fairlegh, as a favour to me, let the matter end here."

Thus urged, I could only reply, that "I was quite willing to defer to their judgment, and do whatever they considered right "—and as Wilford (though I could see that he was annoyed beyond measure at having failed in persuading Lawless to give the toast) remained silent, merely curling his lip contemptuously when I spoke, here the affair ended.

As soon as the conversation became general Oaklands turned to me with a mischievous smile, and asked, in an undertone, "Pray, Master Frank, what's become of all the wisdom and prudence recommended to me this morning? I am afraid you quite exhausted your stock, and have not reserved any for your own use. Who's the fire-eater now, I wonder?"

"Laugh away, Harry; I may have acted foolishly, as is usually the case where one acts entirely from impulse; but I could not have sat tamely by and heard Clara Saville's name polluted by the-remarks of such men as Curtis and Wilford—I should have got into a row with them sooner or later, and it was better to check the thing at once."

"My dear boy," returned Oaklands, "do not imagine for a moment that I am inclined to blame you; the only thing that I could not help feeling rather amused at, was your throwing down the gauntlet to the gentleman opposite, when I recollected a certain lecture on prudence, with which I was victimised this morning."

"As you are strong, be merciful," replied I; "and, whenever I do a foolish thing, may I always have such a friend at hand to save me from the consequences."

~170~~"That's a toast I will drink most willingly," said Oaklands smiling; "the more so, as it reverses the position in which we generally stand with regard to each other, the alteration being decidedly in my favour; but—" he continued, interrupting himself, "what on earth are they laughing at, and making such a row about?"

"Oh, it's merely Curtis romancing with the most unmitigated effrontery, about something that neither he, nor any one else, ever did out hunting," replied Archer; "a tremendous leap, I fancy it was."

"Do not be too sure that it is impossible," replied I; "a horse once cleared the mouth of a chalk pit with me on its back, when I was a boy; Lawless remembers it." "Eh! what? Mad Bess!" returned Lawless; "I should think I did too; I rode there afterwards and examined the place—a regular break-neck-looking hole as ever I saw in my life. Tell 'em about it, Frank."

Thus called upon, no choice was left me but to commence the recital, which, although there are few things to which I have a greater objection than being the hero of my own story, I accordingly did. Several remarks were made as I concluded, but, owing either to my well-known dislike of exaggeration, or to the air of truthfulness with which I had told the tale, nobody seemed inclined to doubt that the adventure had occurred in the manner I related, although it was of a more incredible nature than the feat Curtis had recounted. This fact had just excited my attention, when Wilford, turning to the man on his right hand, observed: "It's a great pity that some one hasn't taken notes of this evening's conversation; they would have afforded materials for a new volume of the adventures of Baron Munchausen".

My only answer to this remark, which was evidently intended for my hearing, was a slight smile, for I had determined I would not again be betrayed into any altercation with him, and, being now on my guard, I felt pretty sure of being able to maintain my resolution. To my annoyance Oaklands replied: "If your remark is intended to throw any discredit upon the truth of the anecdote my friend has related, I must be excused for observing that Lawless and I, though not actually eyewitnesses of the leap, are yet perfectly aware that it took place".

"Was that observation addressed to me, Mr. Oaklands?" inquired Wilford, regarding Oaklands with an insolent stare.

~171~~"To you, sir, or to any other man who ventures to throw a doubt on what Fairlegh has just stated," replied Oaklands, his brow flushing with anger.

"Really," observed Wilford, with a contemptuous sneer, "Mr. Fairlegh is most fortunate in possessing such a steady and useful friend: first, when he dictates to Lawless what toasts he is to propose at his own table, and threatens the company generally with the weight of his displeasure should they venture to question the propriety of his so doing, Mr. Oaklands kindly saves him from the consequences of this warlike declaration, by advancing the somewhat novel doctrine, that his friend, having spoken unadvisedly, ought not to act up to the tenor of his words. Again, Mr. Fairlegh relates a marvellous tale of his earlier days, and Mr. Oaklands is prepared to visit the most trifling indication of disbelief with the fire and faggots of his indignation. Gentlemen, I hope you are all good and true Fairleghites, or you will assuredly be burned at the stake, to satisfy the bigotry of Pope Oaklands the First."

During this speech I could perceive by the veins on his forehead, swollen almost to bursting, his firmly set teeth, and his Viands clenched till the blood was forced back from the nails, that Oaklands was striving to master his passion; apparently he succeeded in a great measure, for, as Wilford concluded, he spoke calmly and deliberately: "The only reply, sir," he began, "that I shall deign to make to your elaborate insult is, that I consider it as such, and shall expect you to render me the satisfaction due to a gentleman".

"No, Harry," exclaimed I, "I cannot permit this: the quarrel, if it be a quarrel, is mine; on this point I cannot allow even you to interfere. Mr. Wilford shall hear from me."

"No, no!" exclaimed Lawless; "I'm sure you must see, Wilford, that this is not at all the sort of thing, eh? recollect Oaklands and Fairlegh are two of my oldest friends, and something is due to me at all events, eh?—Archer—Curtis—this cannot be allowed to go on."

By this time the party had with one accord risen from their seats, and divided into groups, some collecting round Wilford and Lawless, others about Oaklands and myself, and the confusion of tongues was perfectly deafening. At length I heard Wilford's voice exclaim: "I consider it unfair in the extreme to lay all this quarrelling and disturbance to me, and, as it is not at all to my taste, I beg to wish you a very good evening, Lawless".

~172~~"You will do no such thing," cried Oaklands, and, bursting through the cluster of men who surrounded him and endeavoured to detain him, he sprang to the door, double-locked it, and, placing his back against it, added, "no one loaves the room till this affair is settled one way or other." The action, the tone of voice, and the manner which accompanied them, reminded me so forcibly of a deed of a somewhat similar nature at Dr. Mildman's, when Oaklands first heard of the loss of his letter containing the cheque, and began to suspect foul play—that for a moment the lapse of years was forgotten, and it seemed as though we were boys together again.

Whenever Oaklands was excited by strong emotion of any kind, there was a proud consciousness of power in his every look and motion, which possessed for me an irresistible attraction: and now, as he stood, his noble figure drawn up to its fullest height, his arms folded across his ample chest in an attitude of defiance a sculptor would have rejoiced to imitate; his head thrown slightly back, and his handsome features marked by an expression of haughty indignation; when I reflected that it was a generous regard for my honour which excited that indignation, I felt that my affection for him was indeed "passing the love of women," and that he was a friend for whom a man might resolve to lay down his life willingly.

While these thoughts passed through my brain Lawless and several of the more influential members of the party had been endeavouring to persuade Wilford to own that he was in the wrong, and ought to apologise, but in vain; the utmost concession they could get him to make was, that "he was not aware that he had offered any particular insult to Mr. Oaklands, but if that gentleman chose to put such a construction upon his words, he could not help it, and should be ready to answer for them when and where he pleased".

They were then, as a last resource, about to appeal to Oaklands, when I interfered by saying "that the insult, if insult it was, had originated from the part I had taken in the proceedings of the evening, and was directed far more against me than Oaklands; that under these circumstances it was impossible for me to allow him to involve himself further in the affair. If my veracity were impugned, I was the proper person to defend it; there could be but one opinion on that subject."

To this they all agreed, and at length Oaklands himself was forced reluctantly to confess he supposed I was right.

"In this case, gentlemen," I continued, "my course is ~173~~clear; I leave my honour in your hands, certain that in so doing I am taking the wisest course; honourable men and men of spirit like yourselves will, I feel certain, never recommend anything incompatible with the strictest regard for my reputation as a gentleman; neither will you needlessly hurry me into an act, the consequences of which might possibly embitter the whole of my alter life. In order that personal feeling may not interfere any more with the matter, my friend and I will withdraw; Lawless will kindly convey to me your decision, on which, be it what it may, I pledge myself to act;—-I wish you a very good-night."

Then telling Lawless I should sit up for him, and taking leave of two or three members of the party with whom I was most intimate, I drew Oaklands' arm within my own, and, unlocking the door, left the room, Wilford's fierce black eyes glaring at us with a look of disappointed fury, such as I have witnessed in a caged tiger, being the last object I beheld.



CHAPTER XXII — TAMING A SHREW

"I remember a mass of things, but nothing distinctly; A quarrel."

"I do repent; but Heaven hath pleased it so To punish me with this."

"We will compound this quarrel."

"'What's that?'—'Why, a horse.' "'Tell thou the tale.'"

"Nay, I will win my wager better yet, And show more signs of her obedience."

"Now go thy ways, thou hast tamed a curst shrew." —Shakspeare.

"WHY did you prevent me from giving that insolent scoundrel the lesson he deserved?" was Oaklands' first observation as we left the quadrangle in which Lawless's rooms were situated; "I do not thank you for it, Frank."

"My dear Harry," replied I, "you are excited at present; when you are a little more cool you will see that I could not have acted otherwise than I did. Even supposing I could have borne such a thing myself, what would have ~174~~been said of me if I had allowed you to fight in my quarrel? no honourable man would have permitted me to associate with him afterwards."

"But I don't see that the quarrel was yours at all," returned Oaklands; "your share of it was ended when the toast affair came to a conclusion; the rest of the matter was purely personal between him and myself."

"How can that be, when the origin of it was his doubting, or pretending to doubt, the truth of the anecdote which I related?" inquired I. "No; depend upon it, Harry, I have acted rightly, though I bitterly regret now having gone to the party, and so exposed myself to all this. I have always looked upon duelling with the greatest abhorrence; to run the risk of committing murder (for I can call it by no milder name), when at the very moment in which the crime is consummated you may fall yourself, and thus even the forlorn hope of living to repent be cut off from you, appears to me little short of madness. On one point I am resolved—if I do go out with him, nothing shall induce me to fire at him; I will not die a murderer, at all events."

"Should your life indeed be sacrificed," said Oaklands, and his deep voice trembled with emotion as he spoke, "I will follow this man as the avenger of blood, fix a mortal insult upon him wherever I meet him, and shoot him like a dog, convinced that I shall perform a righteous act in so doing, by ridding the world of such a monster!"

I saw by his manner that it would be useless to attempt to reason with him at that moment—his warm feelings, and the fiery though generous impulses of his impetuous nature, had so completely gained possession of him, that he was no longer a reasonable creature—we therefore walked in silence to my rooms, where we parted; I declining his offer to remain with me till I should learn the decision of Lawless and his friends, on the plea of wishing to be alone (which was, indeed, a true one), although my chief reason for so doing was to prevent the possibility of Oaklands saying anything in his present excited state of mind, which, if repeated, might in any way involve him with Wilford.

My first act, when I found myself once more alone, was to sit down, and endeavour calmly to review the situation in which I was placed. In the event of their deciding that the affair might be arranged amicably, my course was clear—I had only to avoid Wilford as much as possible during the time I should remain at Cambridge, and, if ~174~~ever I were obliged to be in his company, to treat him with a cool and studied civility, which would leave him no pretext for forcing a quarrel upon me. On the other hand, if they should think it imperative upon me to go out with him, then indeed was the prospect a gloomy one. Wilford, whose ruthless disposition was so well known as to have become, as it were, a by-word among the set he mixed with, was not a man to be offended with impunity, and as, moreover, I had made up my mind not to return his fire, the chances were strongly against my escaping with life.

I am no coward; on the contrary, like most men whose physical energy is unimpaired, I am constitutionally fearless, and in moments of danger and excitement have never found myself wanting; still it would be affectation to deny that the prospect of a sudden and violent death, thus unexpectedly forced upon me, impressed my mind with a vague sensation of terror, mingled with regret for the past, and sorrow for the future. To be thus cut off in the bright spring-time of vigorous manhood, when the warm blood of youth dances gladly through the veins, and every pulse throbs with the instinct of high and noble daring—to die with hopes unattained, wishes ungratified, duties unperformed—to leave those we love without one parting look or word to struggle on through this cold unsympathising world alone and unprotected—and, above all, to lose one's life in an act the lawfulness of which was more than questionable—all these things contributed to form a picture, which it required either a very steadfast or an utterly callous heart to enable one to gaze upon without blanching. I thought of the misery I should entail upon my family; how, instead of fulfilling my father's dying injunctions to take his place, and devote myself to comfort and protect them, I should wound my mother's heart anew, and spread the dark mist of sorrow over the fair prospect of my sister's young existence; and I cursed my fastidious folly in objecting to the toast, to which, in my self-accusation, I traced all that had afterwards occurred. Then, with the inconsistency of human nature, I began to speculate upon what would be Clara Saville's feelings, were she to learn that it was to prevent the slightest breath of insult being coupled with her name that I was about to peril, not only my life, but, for aught I knew, my hopes of happiness here and hereafter. As the last awful possibility occurred to me, the burden of my misery became too great for me to bear, and, retiring to the privacy of my own chamber, I flung myself on my knees, and poured ~176~~forth an earnest prayer for pardon for the past, and deliverance for the future.

When I again returned to my sitting-room my mind had nearly recovered its usual tone, and I felt prepared to meet and to go through whatever might be before me with calmness and determination. As I was uncertain how long it might be before Lawless would arrive, I resolved, in order to avoid the horrors of suspense, to employ myself, and taking up the mathematical treatise upon which I was engaged, and by a vigorous effort of mind compelling my attention, I read steadily for about half an hour, at the end of which time the sound of hasty footsteps was heard ascending the stairs, and in another minute the door was flung open, and Lawless and Archer entered the apartment.

"Reading mathematics, as I'm a slightly inebriated Christian!" exclaimed Archer, taking the book out of my hands; "well, if that isn't pretty cool for a man who may be going to be shot at six o'clock to-morrow morning, for anything he knows to the contrary, I'm no judge of temperature."

"Oh! bother mathematics," rejoined Lawless, flinging the book which Archer held out to him at a bust of Homer adorning the top of my bookshelves, which it fortunately missed—"Frank, old boy! it's all right—you're not to have a bullet through your lungs this time—shake hands, old fellow! I'm so glad about it that I've—"

"Drunk punch enough to floor any two men of ordinary capacity," interposed Archer.

"Of course I have," continued Lawless, "and I consider I've performed a very meritorious act in so doing;—there was the punch, all the other fellows were gone away, somebody must have drunk it, or that young reprobate Shrimp would have got hold of it; and I promised the venerable fish-fag his mother to take especial care of his what do ye call 'ums—morals, isn't it? and instil by precept, and—and—"

"Example," suggested Archer.

"Yes, all that sort of thing," continued Lawless, "a taste for, that is, an unbounded admiration of, the sublime and beautiful, as exemplified under the form of—"

"Rum punch, and lashings of it," chimed in Archer; "but suppose you were to tell Fairlegh all that has passed since he came away, or let me do it for you, whichever you like best."

"Oh! you tell him, by all means,—I like to encourage ingenuous youth; fire away, Archer, my boy!"

~177~~Thus urged, Archer informed me that upon my departure there had been a somewhat stormy discussion, in which the events of the evening were freely canvassed; and at last they came to a unanimous decision that any man was at liberty to withdraw, if a toast was proposed to which he objected, and that, if the toastmaster preferred giving it up rather than allow him to leave the party, he had a perfect right to do so. This being the case, they decided that Wilford, having been in the wrong, ought to confess he had spoken hastily, and that, if he would do so, and would add that he had meant nothing offensive either to me or Oaklands, there the matter might rest. This for a long time he positively refused to do; at length, finding he could get no one to support him, he said that, as I had owned I was wrong in attempting to prevent his expressing his opinion, he considered that, in all other respects, I had behaved in a gentlemanly way; therefore, if he had said anything which implied the contrary, he was willing to withdraw it. But, in regard to Mr. Oaklands, he considered he had interfered in a very uncalled-for manner; and he could only repeat, if that gentleman felt himself aggrieved by anything he had said, the remedy was in his own hands. As soon as he had spoken he withdrew.

The question was again debated, and at length they came to the conclusion that what Wilford had said amounted to an ample apology as far as I was concerned, which I was bound to accept; and that Oaklands, having agreed to consider the quarrel mine, could not take any further notice of it; therefore, the affair was at an end.

"Well," said I, as he finished his recital, "I must ever feel grateful to you both for the trouble you have taken on my account, and the kind feeling you have shown towards me throughout. I will not pretend to deny that I am very glad the matter has been amicably arranged, for, circumstanced as I am, with everything depending upon my own exertions, a duel would have been ruin to me; but I must say I think the whole business thoroughly unsatisfactory, and it is only my conviction that a duel would make matters worse, instead of mending them, which leads me to agree to the arrangement. I sincerely hope Oaklands will not hear what Wilford said about him, for he is fearfully irritated against him already."

"I'll tell you what it is," interrupted Lawless; "it's my belief that Wilford's behaviour to you to-night was only assumed for the sake of provoking Oaklands. ~178~~Master Stephen hates him as he does the very devil himself, and would like nothing better than to pick a quarrel with him, have him out, and, putting a brace of slugs into him, leave him—"

"Quivering on a daisy," said Archer, completing the sentence. "Really I think," he continued, "what Lawless says is very true; you see Oaklands' careless, nonchalant manner, which is always exactly the same whether he is talking to a beggar or a lord, gives continual offence to Wilford, who has contrived somehow to exact a sort of deference and respect from all the men with whom he associates till he actually seems to consider it his right. Then, Wilford's overbearing manner irritates Oaklands; and so, whenever they have met, the breach has gone on widening, till now they positively hate one another."

"How is it you are so intimate with him?" asked I; "for nobody seems really to like him."

"Well, hang me if I can tell," replied Lawless; "but, you see he has some good points about him, after all; for instance, I never saw him out with the hounds yet that he didn't take a good place, aye, and keep it too, however long the run and difficult the country. I killed the best horse I had in my stables trying to follow him one day in Leicestershire last season; my horse fell with me going over the last fence, and never rose again. Wilford, and one of the whips, who was merely a feather-weight, were the only men in at the death. I offered him three hundred guineas for the horse he rode, but he only gave me one of his pleasant looks, and said it wasn't for sale."

"You've seen that jet-black mare he rides now, haven't you, Fairlegh?" asked Archer.

"Yes; what a magnificent creature it is!" was my reply.

"Did you ever hear how he came by it?"

On my answering in the negative, Archer continued: "Well, I wonder at that, for it was in everybody's mouth at one time: it's worth hearing, if it were but to show the determined character of the man. The mare belonged to Lord Foxington, Lord Sellborough's eldest son. I believe he gave five hundred guineas for her. She was a splendid animal, high-couraged, but temperate. In fact, when you were on her she hadn't a fault, but in the stable she was a perfect devil; there was only one man who dared go near her, and he had been with her from the time she was a filly: so that, when Foxington bought the mare 179~he was forced to hire the groom too. The most difficult thing of all was putting on the bridle; it was generally half an hour's work before she would let even this groom do it. After dinner one day Foxington began talking about this animal, saying what a brute she was to handle, and adding what I have just told you, as to the impossibility of putting on the bridle, when Wilford, who was present, made some remark, which showed he did not believe in the impossibility. Upon which Foxington inquired whether he doubted the fact he had just heard? Wilford replied that he was sure his lordship fully believed in the truth of what he had just stated; but, for his own part, he had so often found impossibilities of this nature yield to a little courage and determination, that he confessed he was somewhat sceptical. Now, it so happened that Foxington, soon after he bought the mare, had thought just as Wilford did, and determined that he would put the bridle on. Accordingly he attempted it, and the matter ended by his getting regularly driven out ol the stable by the animal, with a tolerably severe bite in the fleshy part of his shoulder. Wilford's remark, therefore, as may be imagined, rather nettled him; and he inquired, somewhat tartly, whether Wilford believed he could put the bridle on? and, if so, whether he were willing to try? Wilford replied, in his usual cool tone, that he had an idea he could do so, but that he had no particular inclination to try, as it would probably be some trouble, and the weather was too hot to render active exertion desirable. At this Foxington laughed derisively, saying that it sounded very like a put-off. 'Not at all,' returned Wilford; 'and to show you that I never say a thing without being ready to act up to it, I am willing to stake five hundred guineas against the mare herself that I go up to her and put the bridle on without any assistance, and without a stick or anything whatsoever in my hands.' Foxington accepted the bet gladly, reckoning himself safe to pocket the five hundred guineas. The affair was to come off the next morning at Foxington's stables, at eleven o'clock. His lordship had invited all the men who had been present when the bet was made to come and witness the event, expecting a complete triumph over Wilford. While they were standing about waiting Foxington told them of his own attempt, and his conviction, from the experience he had then gained, that the thing could not be done; and the general opinion was that Wilford, under the influence of wine, had foolishly boasted of a thing which he would ~180~~not be able to accomplish, and was certain to lose his money. As the time drew near, and he did not make his appearance, an idea began to gain ground that he meant to shirk the affair altogether; and Foxington was becoming exceedingly irate, when, just as the clock was on the stroke of eleven, the sound of a horse's feet was heard, and Wilford cantered quietly up, looking as if he felt no personal interest whatever in the event. On his arrival they proceeded at once to the stable in which the mare stood. She was kept in a loose box, with her clothes on, but her head entirely free.

"I ought, by-the-by," said Archer, interrupting himself, "to have told you that I had the account from a man who was there at the time, and saw the whole thing.

"Well, as soon as they went into the stable, the mare left off feeding, and, turning round so as to face them, stood with her ears pricked up, gazing wildly at them. Wilford just glanced at her, and then leisurely divested himself of his coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth, turned up the wristbands of his shirt, and, taking the bridle from the groom, announced that he was ready. As soon as the door was open, Wilford fixed his eyes sternly on the mare, and walked towards her. To the surprise of every one the animal allowed him to approach quietly and pat her, without showing any symptoms of vice. Men began to exchange inquiring glances with each other, and those who had betted heavily against him trembled for their money; but Foxington, who was better acquainted with the animal, exclaimed, 'Wait a minute, he has not tried to touch her head yet'. Wilford now moved his hand forward along the neck, patting her, and speaking soothingly to her as he advanced; but, as he approached the head, she became impatient and fidgety, and when he attempted to take hold of the ear, in order to put on the bridle, she flung up her head, reared, and ran back a few steps, where she stood, shaking her mane and pawing the ground. After remaining in this position a few seconds, she suddenly laid back her ears, and, showing the whites of her eyes, ran at Wilford with her mouth wide open, and as soon as she got within distance made a ferocious bite at him. By springing on one side with great agility he just contrived to avoid it; then, dropping the bridle, he threw himself into a sparring attitude (you know he's a capital boxer), and, as the mare again ran at him, hit out, and, striking her just on a particular spot by the ear, brought her down like a bullock. As soon as she recovered her legs she renewed the attack, and Wilford ~181~~received her as before, delivering his blow with the same coolness and precision. When the animal rose the second time she seemed partially stunned, and stood for a moment with her head hanging down and her ears drooping; but on Wilford's making a step towards her she again plunged forward, and attempted to seize him with her teeth. Once more did Wilford evade her bite by springing on one side, and seizing his opportunity succeeded in planting his hit, and, for the third time, felled her to the ground. When she again rose, however, she showed no disposition to renew the attack, but stood trembling violently, with the perspiration running down her sides. She now allowed Wilford to approach her, to stroke her head, pull her ears, and finally to put the bridle on, and lead her out, completely conquered; and so my Lord Foxington lost the best horse in his stables, and Wilford gained his bet, and added to his character for invincibility, which, by the way, he cared about much the most."

"It was a bold deed," returned I, as Archer concluded his story, "but one does not like a man the better for having done it; there seems to me a degree of wanton cruelty in punishing an animal so severely, unless he had been actually forced to do it. Public executioners may be necessary for the prevention of crime; but that is no reason why one need volunteer as an amateur hangman."

"Everybody thought it an uncommonly plucky thing at the time, and there was an immense fuss made with him afterwards," replied Archer.—"Why, Lawless, are you asleep? rouse up, man—to bed—to bed. Good-night, Fairlegh, you'll sleep all the better for knowing you are not to be shot at cock-crow."

So saying, he took Lawless by the arm and marched him off, though, it must be confessed, his gait, as he descended the stairs, was somewhat unsteady.~182~~



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. ~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.



CHAPTER XXIV — HOW OAKLANDS BROKE HIS HORSEWHIP

~190~~

"Away to heav'n, respective lenity, And fire-eyed fury be my conduct now."

"Use every man after his desert, and who should 'scape whipping?"

"He swore that he did hold me dear As precious eyesight, and did value me Above this world, adding thereto moreover That he would wed me."

"Men's vows are women's traitors."

"To promise is most courtly and fashionable; performance is a kind of will or testament which argues a great sickness in his judgment that makes it."

—Shakspeare.

THE sight which met my eyes as I gazed around was one which time can never efface from my memory. In the centre of the room, his brow darkened by the flush of concentrated indignation, stood Oaklands, his left hand clenching tightly the coat-collar of a man whom I at once perceived to be Wilford, while with his right hand he was administering such a horse-whipping as I hope never again to see a human being subjected to. Wilford, who actually writhed with mingled pain and fury, was making violent but ineffectual struggles to free himself. Near the door stood Wentworth, the blood dropping from his nose, and his clothes dusty and disordered, as if from a fall. Crouching in a corner at the farther end of the room, the tears coursing down her fear-blanched cheeks, and her hands clasped in an agony of terror and despair, was a girl, about nineteen years of age, whom I had little difficulty in recognising as Lizzie Maurice, the daughter of the old confectioner, of whose elopement we had been that morning informed. On perceiving me she sprang forward, and clasping my knees implored me to interfere and endeavour to separate them. I was not, however, called upon to do so, for, as she spoke, his riding-whip broke short in Oaklands' hand, and dashing down the fragments with an exclamation of impatience, he flung Wilford from him with so much force that he staggered forward a few paces, and would have fallen had not Wentworth caught him in his arms, just in time to prevent it.