An Isle of Surrey: A Novel. Dowling Richard
I can describe him. He wore a black tail-coat, a round black hat, a black tie, and dark tweed trousers. He was nearer your height and build than mine. The chief things in his face are a long straight nose, dark and very straight brows, and dark eyes. He has no colour in his cheeks."
Layard drew up in amazement.
"Do you mean to say," he asked with emphasis, "that you could see all this at such a distance?"
"I," the other answered with a second's hesitation-"I used a glass."
"O!" said Layard; and they resumed their walk, and nothing further was said until they came to the bridge, on which they stood looking up the tow-path, along which the pedestrian ought to have come.
Layard broke the silence.
"Unless we are to make a commotion, I don't see what we can do beyond asking the toll-man. The gate is shut now. It must be eleven o'clock, and this place owns an early-to-bed population."
He was now beginning to regret his too easy participation in his lodger's absurd quest.
"Do not let us make any commotion, but just ask the toll-man quietly if such a man went through his gate," said Crawford hastily. "I know my uneasiness is foolish, but I cannot help it."
They turned from the parapet over which they had been looking, and Layard led the way a little down the road, and, then turning sharp to the right, entered the approach to the toll-house.
As they emerged from the darkness of the approach, the toll-taker was crossing the wharf or quay towards the gate. He passed directly under a lamp, and opened the gate which closed the path at the bridge.
Crawford caught Layard by the arm, and held him back, whispering:
"Wait!"
From the gloom of the arch a young man stepped out into the light of the lamp. He wore a black tailed-coat, a black tie, a black round hat, and dark tweed trousers. His nose was straight, and his brows remarkably dark and straight. Upon the whole, a young man of rather gloomy appearance.
"It's all right," whispered Crawford quickly into Layard's ear; "that's the man. Come away."
He drew his companion forcibly along the approach back to the road.
"It's well I didn't make a fool of myself," he whispered. "Come on quickly. I am ashamed even to meet this man after my childish fears."
They were clear of the approach, and retracing their steps over the bridge, before the pedestrian emerged from the darkness of the approach. When he gained Welford Road he went on straight-that is, in a direction opposite to that taken by the two.
"I am greatly relieved," said Crawford, rubbing his perspiring forehead with his handkerchief.
"I am not," thought Layard. "I am afraid there is something wrong with Crawford's upper storey."
CHAPTER V.
A SECOND APPARITION
When Alfred Layard got back to the house he was far from easy in his mind about his lodger. In appearance Crawford was the least imaginative man in the world. His face, figure, and manner indicated extreme practicalness. No man could have less of the visionary or the seer about him. One would think he treated all things in life as a civil engineer treats things encountered in his profession. And yet here was this man giving way to absurd and sentimental timidity about nothing at all.
Of course, Layard himself would have been greatly shocked if he thought any harm had come to that solitary pedestrian on the tow-path; but not one man in a thousand would have allowed the circumstance of the man's non-appearance and the jesting words he himself had used to occupy his mind five minutes, to say nothing of suffering anxiety because of the circumstance, and sallying out to make inquiries and clear it up.
He did not bargain for such eccentricity as this when he agreed to live for a few days a month under the same roof with William Crawford. He would say nothing to Hetty of his fears, or rather uneasiness; but it would be necessary for him to suggest precautions.
When Crawford had bidden the brother and sister good-night finally, and the two were again alone in the front sitting-room, and Alfred had told Hetty, with no alarming comment, what had occurred since they left the house, she cried, "Now, sceptic, what have you to say? Could anything be more humane or kind-hearted than the interest he took in that unknown man, a man he could absolutely have never seen once in all his life? You were in the act of implying that he saved the widow because she was rich, and married her because she was rich, when, lo! Sir Oracle, down comes Mr. Crawford to see what had happened to that man, the unknown man! Tell me, was he rich? Is he going to marry him?"
"I confess things look very black for my theory," said the brother, from the couch, where he lay smoking placidly.
"I do believe," she cried with animation, "that you are rather sorry he turned out so nobly. I do believe you would rather he showed no interest in that man on the tow-path."
"Candidly, Hetty, I would."
"It is all jealousy on your part, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Are you?"
"No-o-o," he said slowly, "I can't say I am much ashamed of myself on that account."
"Then," she said, "it is worse not to repent than to sin, and your condition is something dreadful. Now, my impression is that Mr. Crawford never thought of money at all when he married his wife. I believe he married her for pure love, and the fact of her being an invalid was a reason for his loving her all the more. To me he is a Bayard," cried this enthusiastic young person with flushing cheek, and eyes in which the gold glinted more than ever.
"He's too stout, my dear," said the brother placidly from his couch.
"What!" cried she indignantly. "Too stout to marry for love! You are outrageous!"
"No; not to marry for love, but to be a Bayard. You know as well as I do our lodger would not cut a good figure on horseback," said the brother with calm decision.
"You are intolerable, Alfred, and I will not speak to you again on the subject. Nothing could be in worse taste than what you have been saying," said the girl, gathering herself daintily together and looking away from him.
"Besides, you do an injustice to our lodger."
"I wish, Alfred, if you find it necessary to refer to Mr. Crawford, that you would do so in some other way than by calling him our lodger. It is not respectful."
"Not respectful to whom?"
"To me," with a very stately inclination of the gallant little head.
"I see. Well, I will call him Mr. Bayard," said the brother with provoking amiability.
"I am sure, Alfred, I do not know how you can be so silly."
"Evil communications, my dear."
"The gentleman's name is Crawford, and why should you not call him Crawford?"
"Just to avoid the monotony."
"And, I think, Alfred, to annoy me."
"Perhaps."
"Well, I must say that is very good-natured of you."
"But I aim at an identical result."
"I don't understand you."
"To avoid monotony, too. You are always so good-humoured and soft-tempered it is a treat to see you ruffled and on your dignity. But there, Hetty dear, let us drop this light-comedy sparring-"
"I'm sure I don't think it's light comedy at all, but downright disagreeableness; and I didn't begin it, and I don't want to keep it up, and I am sure you have a very clumsy and unkind notion of humour, if talking in that way is your idea of it."
"Remember, Hetty," he said, holding up his hand in warning, "you are much too big a girl to cry. You are a great deal too old to cry."
"A woman is never too old to cry-if she likes."
"She is, and you are, too old to cry for anything a brother may say to you. According to the usage of the best society, you are too old to cry because of anything I may say to you. It will