Wee Wifie. Rosa Nouchette Carey
Poor impetuous child; these were hardly the cold words of civility that her pompous father had dictated, and were to supplement the thirty pounds per annum, “officially delivered.” Surely, as she looked at the young man in his shabby coat, she must have remembered that it was only Maurice Trafford the junior clerk—the drudge of a mercantile house.
Nea owned afterward that she had forgotten everything; in after years she confessed that Maurice’s grave young face came upon her like a revelation.
She had admirers by the score—the handsome, weak-minded Lord Bertie among them—but never had she seen such a face as Maurice Trafford’s, the poor curate’s son.
Maurice’s pale face flushed up under the girl’s enthusiastic praise, but he answered, very quietly:
“I did very little, Miss Huntingdon; any one could have done as much. How could I stand by and see your father’s danger, and not go to his help?” and then, as the intolerable pain in his arm brought back the faintness, he asked her permission to reseat himself. “He would go home,” he said, wearily, “and then he need trouble no one.”
Nea’s heart was full of pity for him. She could not bear the thought of his going back to his lonely lodgings, with no one to take care of him, but there was no help for it. So Mrs. Thorpe was summoned with her remedies, and the carriage was ordered. When it came round Maurice looked up in his young hostess’s face with his honest gray eyes and frank smile and said good-bye. And the smile and the gray eyes, and the touch of the thin, boyish hand, were never to pass out of Nea’s memory from that day.
* * * * * *
The shadows grew longer and longer in the gardens of the square, the house-martins twitted merrily about their nests, the flower-girls sat on the area steps with their baskets of roses and jonquils, when Mr. Huntingdon laid aside his invalid habits and took up his old life again, far too soon, as the doctors said who attended him. His system had received a severer shock than they had first imagined, and they recommended Baden-Baden and perfect rest for some months.
But as well might they have spoken to the summer leaves that were swirling down the garden paths, as move Mr. Huntingdon from his usual routine. He only smiled incredulously, said that he felt perfectly well, and rode off every morning eastward on the new gray mare that had replaced Gypsy.
And Nea flitted about the room among her birds and flowers, and wondered sometimes if she should ever see Maurice Trafford again. While Maurice, on his side, drudged patiently on, very happy and satisfied with his sudden rise, and dreaming foolish, youthful dreams, and both of them were ignorant, poor children, that the wheel of destiny was revolving a second time to bring them nearer together.
For when November came with its short days, its yellow fogs, its heavy, damp atmosphere, a terrible thing happened in Mr. Huntingdon’s office.
A young clerk, the one above Maurice—a weak, dissipated fellow, who had lately given great dissatisfaction by his unpunctuality and carelessness—absconded one day with five thousand pounds belonging to his employer. Mr. Huntingdon had just given authority to the manager to dismiss him when the facts of his disappearance and the missing sum were brought to their ears. The deed was a cool one, and so cleverly executed that more than one believed that an older hand was concerned in it; but in the midst of the consternation and confusion, while the manager stood rubbing his hands nervously together, and Mr. Huntingdon, in his cold, hard voice, was giving instructions to the detective, Maurice Trafford quietly asked to speak to him a moment, and offered to accompany the detective officer.
He knew George Anderson’s haunts, he said, and from a chance word accidentally overheard, he thought he had a clew, and might succeed in finding him.
There was something so modest and self-reliant in the young man’s manner as he spoke that, after a searching glance at him, Mr. Huntingdon agreed to leave the matter in his hands, only bidding him not to let the young villain escape, as he certainly meant to punish him.
Many were the incidents that befell Maurice and his companion in this his first and last detective case; but at last, thanks to his sagacity and the unerring instinct of the officer, they were soon on the right track, and before night had very far advanced were hanging about a low public-house in Liverpool, lurking round corners and talking to stray sailors.
And the next morning they boarded the “Washington,” bound for New York, that was to loose anchor at the turn of the tide; and while Staunton, the detective, was making inquiries of the captain about the steerage passengers, Maurice’s sharp eyes had caught sight of a young sailor with a patch over his eye, apparently busy with a coil of ropes, and he walked up to him carelessly; but as he loitered at his side a moment his manner changed.
“Don’t look round, George,” he whispered; “for Heaven’s sake keep to the ropes or you are lost. Slip the pocket-book in my hand, and I will try and get the detective out of the boat.”
“Would it be penal servitude, Maurice?” muttered the lad, and his face turned a ghastly hue at the thought of the human blood-hound behind him.
“Five or ten years at least,” returned Maurice. “Were you mad, George? Give it to me—quick—quick! and I will put him on the wrong scent. That’s right,” as the shaking hands pushed a heavy brown pocket-book toward him. “Good-by, George; say your prayers to-night, and thank God that you are saved.”
“Staunton,” he said, aloud, as the detective approached him, “we are wrong; he is in the bow of the ‘Brown Bess,’ and he sails in the ‘Prairie Flower;’ ” and as he uttered the first lie that he had ever told in his guileless young life Maurice looked full in the detective’s face and led him quietly away.
But a couple of hours later—when Staunton was losing his temper over their want of success, and the “Washington” was steaming out of the dock—Maurice suddenly produced the pocket-book, and proposed that they should take the next train back for London. “For I am very tired,” finished Maurice, with provoking good-humor; “and Mr. Huntingdon will sleep better to-night if we give him back his five thousand pounds.”
“You let the rogue go!” exclaimed Staunton, and he swore savagely. “You have cheated justice and connived at his escape.”
“Yes,” answered Maurice, calmly. “Don’t put yourself out, my good fellow. I will take all the blame. He sailed in the ‘Washington,’ and there she goes like a bird. You are out of temper because I was too sharp for you. Evil communications corrupt good manners, Staunton. I have taken a leaf out of your book—don’t you think I should make a splendid detective?” continued Maurice, rattling on in pure boyish fun. “I got up the little fiction about the ‘Brown Bess’ and the ‘Prairie Flower’ when I saw him dressed like a sailor, with a patch over his eye, hauling in the ropes.”
Then, as Staunton uttered another oath:
“Why, did you expect me to bring back my old chum, when I knew they would give him five or ten years of penal servitude? Do you think I am flesh and blood and could do it? No! I have kept my promise, and brought back the five thousand pounds, and not a farthing of it would he or you have seen but for me.”
Perhaps Staunton was not as hard-hearted as he seemed, for he ceased blustering and shook Maurice’s hand very heartily; nay, more, when they told their story, and Mr. Huntingdon frowned angrily on hearing Maurice had connived at the criminal’s escape, he spoke up for Maurice. “You did not expect the young gentleman, sir, to put the handcuffs on his old pal; it is against human nature, you see.”
“Perhaps so,” returned Mr. Huntingdon, coldly; “but I should have thought better of you, Trafford, if you had sacrificed feeling in the matter. Well, it may rest now. I have struck off George Anderson’s name as defaulter out of my book and memory, and I will tell Dobson to add his salary to yours. No thanks,” he continued in rather a chilling manner, as Maurice’s eyes sparkled, and he attempted to speak; “it is a fair recompense for your sagacity. Go on as well as you have begun, and your future will be assured. To-morrow I shall expect you to dine with me at Belgrave House. Dobson is coming, too,” and with