Page:Once a Week Dec 1860 to June 61.pdf/128

. 26, 1861.] Lygon had so lately learned, of the woman who had enabled Laura to escape from a husband vulgarly deceived by her shameless sister.

But, unless the bridge could have suddenly given way, speaking became a necessity, and Lygon struggled to answer Urquhart, and make inquiries as to the railway accident about which the latter was supposed to be away from Paris.

“O, ay, yon fools? It served them just right, and I wish that a mile had gone down instead of a hundred yards. I was as pleased as Punch, and I just told them so to their faces, before I set the fellows at work. But now then, Arthur, where are you, and how long have you been in this decent city, and is Laura with you—but of course I needn’t ask that of the model husband?”

“No, Laura is not with me,” said Arthur, hastening to deal with this merciless catechism, and almost wishing that the kind good fellow before him would go mad and spring into the river, or be somehow got out of the way before another word could be said.

“No? That’s shabby, and I don’t envy you the scolding you’ll get from Bertha. But perhaps you have seen her, and had your chastising.”

“Yes, I have been to your house—indeed, I left it only last night. I am on my way to England directly.”

“Not exactly, my man, seeing that the way to England is out there,” laughed Robert Urquhart, stretching forth his great arm, and pointing in the given direction. “But that’s purely a low and topographical view of the case. In the moral and social aspect of the question, I am likewise d—d if you are going to England, because we are going to have a long walk and a long crack, and a trifle of creature comfort, and then we’re going to order a jolly dinner at the Traw Frare, of which we will partake in the evening, with befitting thanks to Providence before and after meat. Do you see that, my man?”

“Utterly impossible, my dear Robert. I must get away.”

“You’ll just do nothing of the kind, so it’s no use being an obstinate brute. I hate obstinacy.”

“It is matter of business of extreme importance.”

“Matter of bosh. Hearken unto me. You can’t get to England until night, when it’s too late to be doing any business which decorous Christian men like you, and another who shall be nameless, are likely to undertake, and therefore you may as well leave by the night train, and be at your business early in the morning. Now that is so clear that I’ll not hear another word on it; and now we’ll go and get some lunch, for I will not insult the good breakfast I had three hours ago by pretending I want another. Come along.”

At another time no one would have extricated himself more pleasantly and yet more satisfactorily from an engagement he wished to get rid of than Arthur Lygon. But at this moment he seemed powerless. The commonplace excuses of life did not seem to come to his tongue, and his imagination was far too much exhausted to supply him with any better plea. His condition may be judged when it is added that he actually had an impulse to make a sudden start, and flee away from his unconscious tormentor, who would assuredly have been after him with the speed of an Achilles.

“I am not very well,” said Arthur, “and I had rather not walk.”

“Then we’ll ride, which is more dignified and also more retired,” said Urquhart. “But I don’t like to hear you talk of being ill. I thought that, like myself, you left such follies to the women, who are the final cause of those abominable doctors. What’s the matter, my man?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I have been working too hard.”

“That’s a wicked thing to do, and clean contrary to the will of Providence. I am ashamed of you, and likewise of Laura for permitting it. Indeed I believe it must just be her fault, for a more obedient husband, excepting myself, I do not know, and it is her prerogative and privilege to take care of you. Give her a lecture for me.”

“Yes, over-work won’t do.”

“I should think not. But let us go over to yon caffy, and see what the beggars can give us.”

The repast occupied some time, during which Arthur Lygon contrived to parry many home questions, and, by his manner, to impress Urquhart, with an idea that Lygon was really much more ill than he owned himself to be. The good-natured talk of the engineer incessantly wounded Arthur to the heart’s core; but Robert Urquhart not only could not perceive this, but with the affectionate instinct of a kindly Scot, who always finds happiness in speaking of those dear to him, thought that he was rendering Lygon the very best service in attempting to cheer him up by incessant questions about Laura, and her looks, and habits, and remembrances of some of her old bits of playfulness, or naïveté, and other trifles, the like of which, when addressed to the happy, make them happier. But what were they to the unfortunate husband? Then Robert would speak of the children in succession, and know how old each was, and what he or she could do, and whether they resembled Arthur or Laura, and what were their views for the future; and by the time the lunch was over, Lygon was worked to a state which even Adair might have pitied.

Urquhart watched Arthur swallow at a draught a large quantity of a not very weak wine, and the Scotchman shook his head, and said no more until they were seated in an open carriage, whose driver was ordered to take them a long round, and not to fatigue his horse.

“Parley voo Anglay?” was Mr. Urquhart’s demand of the driver. The latter proudly disclaimed the slightest knowledge of the insular tongue.

“So much the better,” said Mr. Urquhart, lighting a cigar about the size of a small umbrella, and tendering a similar club of tobacco to Lygon, who took it rather eagerly. It was a good excuse for much silence, that mighty weed. Again the keen Scotchman watched him, as they drove away towards the Arch of Triumph.

After some minutes, Robert Urquhart, who was as straightforward in his dealings as man should be, said, laying a great hand on Lygon’s,

“Now, my man, there should be no secrets between us.”