He was too much touched to point out to her the slight inaccuracy contained in this speech. ‘My poor child, I wish indeed that you had some guardian to take care of you! Or that I could find your friend, Mrs Street. But I have enquired at the receiving-office, and at upwards of twenty shops, and no one can give me the least intelligence of her. In fact, the only Street living in Hitchin is an old man, who is stone deaf, and knows nothing of your Maggie! Can you not –’
He was interrupted. Belinda broke into a peal of merry laughter. ‘Oh, but she is not Mrs Street!’ she told him. ‘How came you to think she was, dear sir? She was Maggie Street when she worked at Mrs Buttermere’s establishment, but then, you know, she was married!’
For one horrifying moment, the Duke recognised in himself an affinity with Mr Liversedge, who had boxed Belinda’s ears. Then the absurdity of it most forcibly struck him, and he began to laugh. Belinda regarded him in faint surprise, and Tom, entering the room at that moment, instantly demanded to be told what the jest might be.
The Duke shook his head. ‘Nothing! Tom, if you would please me, go and wash your face!’
‘I was just about to do so,’ said Tom, with great dignity, and even greater mendacity. ‘By Jupiter, I never wanted my dinner more! I am quite gutfoundered!’
On this elegant expression, he vanished, leaving the Duke to ask Belinda, in a failing voice, if she knew what her friend’s surname might now be. He was by this time sufficiently well acquainted with Belinda to feel no surprise at her reply.
‘Oh, no! I daresay she may have told me, but I did not attend particularly, you know, for why should I?’
‘Then what,’ demanded Gilly, ‘are we to do?’
He had no very real expectation of receiving an answer to this question, but Belinda, assuming an expression of profound thought, suddenly said: ‘Well, do you know, sir, I think I would as lief marry Mr Mudgley after all?’
The introduction into his life of this entirely new character slightly staggered the Duke. He said: ‘Who, Belinda, is Mr Mudgley?’
Belinda’s eyes grew soft with memory. ‘He is a very kind gentleman,’ she sighed.
‘I am sure he is,’ agreed the Duke. ‘Did he promise you a purple silk gown?’
‘No,’ said Belinda mournfully, ‘but he took me to see his farm and his mother, driving me in his own gig! And he said he was wishful to marry me, only Uncle Swithin told me I should go away with him, and be a real lady, and so of course I went.’
‘Of course,’ said the Duke. ‘Did you know Mr Mudgley when you lived in Bath?’
‘Oh, yes! And he has the prettiest house, and his mother was kind to me, and now I am sorry that I went with Uncle Swithin, for Mr Ware didn’t marry me, and he didn’t give me a great deal of money either. I was quite taken in!’
Here the door opened to admit both Tom and the waiter. While the latter laid the covers for dinner, Tom plunged into an animated account of his activities at the Fair, and displayed for the Duke’s admiration the Belcher handkerchief he had won in the sack race. He was with difficulty deterred from knotting this about his neck at once. The waiter set the dishes on the table, and withdrew, and the Duke was again able to touch upon the question of Belinda’s destination. He asked her if Mr Mudgley lived near Bath. She replied, after her usual fashion: ‘Oh, yes!’ but seemed unable to supply any more detailed information. Tom, surprised, demanded enlightenment, and upon being told that Belinda had forgotten Maggie Street’s married name, said disgustedly: ‘You are the most henwitted girl! I daresay she don’t live at Hitchin at all, but at Ditchling, or – or Mitcham, or some such place!’
Belinda looked much struck, and said ingenuously: ‘Yes, she does!’
The Duke was in the act of conveying a portion of braised ham to his mouth, but he lowered his fork at this, and demanded, ‘Which?’
‘The one Tom said,’ replied Belinda brightly.
‘My dear child, he said Ditchling or Mitcham! Surely –’
‘Well, I am not quite sure,’ Belinda confessed. ‘It was some place that sounded like those.’
The prospect of travelling about England to every place that sounded faintly like Hitchin was not one which the Duke found himself able to contemplate for as much as a minute. He said rather fatalistically: ‘Mr Mudgley it must be!’
‘Yes, but I dare not go back to Bath,’ objected Belinda. ‘Because, you know, if Mrs Pilling were to find me she would very likely put me in prison for having broken my indentures.’
The Duke had no very clear idea of what the laws were governing apprentices, but it had occurred to him that in Bath he would find Lady Harriet. She might not be the bride of his choosing, but she was one of the friends of his childhood, and never in any childish exploit had she failed to lend him a helping hand whenever it had lain in her power to do so. That she might not feel much inclination to extend this hand to Belinda he did not consider. It seemed to him that since he had been forced into the position of Belinda’s protector, and could not find it in his heart to abandon her, he must find for her (failing Mr Mudgley) a suitable chaperon. He could think of none more suitable than Harriet, and he began to feel that he had been a great simpleton not to have carried Belinda to Bath at the outset.
Tom interrupted these meditations with a demand to know whether the proposed trip to Bath would preclude his being taken to London. If, he said, that were so, he thought he should be well advised to leave the party, and to make his own way either to London or to some likely sea-port. As it was obvious that the merest hint of returning him to his parent would drive him into precipitate flight, the Duke refrained from making this suggestion, but assured him that although he must certainly write to Mr Mamble from Bath, he should beg to be allowed the pleasure of his son’s company on a visit to the Metropolis. Tom seemed a little doubtful about this, but allowed himself to be overborne. Belinda reiterated her fear of Mrs Pilling, and the Duke wondered whether his Harriet would also be able to deal with this awe-inspiring lady. He was just about to say that he would hire a post-chaise to take them all to Cheyney on the morrow, when it suddenly occurred to him that his arrival at any one of his houses, accompanied by Belinda, would give rise to more scandalous comment than he felt at all able to face. He decided to seek out the quietest inn in Bath, and to lose no time in calling upon Harriet, in Laura Place.
While he and his young friends were eating their dinners, Mr Liversedge and Mr Shifnal were taking counsel together. Mr Shifnal’s suggestion that Mr Liversedge should also hire a room at the Sun, and should smother the Duke in his bed at dead of night, was ill-received by his partner, who demanded to know how that could serve any good purpose. He said that even supposing that Mr Shifnal were there to give his assistance it was hardly to be supposed that they could smuggle out of a busy inn an unconscious guest. Mr Shifnal, a little damped, was still trying to think out an alternative scheme when the Duke’s party issued forth from the inn, and began walking in the direction of the Fair-ground. Protected by the tilt of the cart, the confederates watched them go, and could scarcely believe their good fortune.
‘Sam,’ said Mr Shifnal, ‘if we can’t nabble that Dook while everyone’s watching the fireworks we don’t deserve no thirty thousand pounds!’
The Fair, when the Duke reached it again, was the scene of even denser crowds than it had been during the daylight hours. All the shopkeepers of Hitchin seemed to have thronged there, and although the open-air competitions were over, the various booths were packed with people, either staring at some monstrosity, or taking part in wrestling, boxing, or single-stick bouts. A large prize was offered to any sportsman able to knock out a professional bruiser with a broken nose and a cauliflower ear, and it was with difficulty that the Duke dissuaded Tom from instantly throwing his hat into the Ring. He took him instead to witness a stirring drama, entitled Monk and Murderer! or The Skeleton Spectre, which gave both him a
nd Belinda the maximum amount of fearful enjoyment. Belinda was obliged to cling tightly to the Duke’s arm from the moment of the Mysterious Monk’s first appearance in Scene 2 (The Rocks of Calabria), to the Grand Combat with Shield and Battle-Axe in Scene 6, but upon being asked rather anxiously if she liked the piece, nodded her head very vigorously, and heaved a tremulous sigh.
When this stirring drama came to an end, the last daylight had faded, and the Fair-ground was lit by flares and cressets. The crowd was wending its way towards the open space where the fireworks were to be let off. The Duke, with Belinda still hanging on his arm, joined the general throng, and managed to secure good places for her and Tom on one of the forms set up in tiers round the field. He gave up his own place to a stout and panting dame, who sank thankfully down beside Belinda. With this bulwark on one side of his charge, and Tom on the other, the Duke thought that he might safely relax his vigilance, and retire from the crowd. He made his way between the forms to the back of the field, and was idly watching the struggle of determined citizens to push their way to the fore when a respectful voice said softly, yet with urgency, a little behind him: ‘My lord Duke!’
Instinctively he looked round. A neat man in a sober riding-dress, who had something of the look of a head-groom, touched his hat to him, and said: ‘I ask your Grace’s pardon for intruding, but I have a message for your Grace.’
Without giving himself time to consider that his cousin could not possibly have received the letter he had posted to him in Baldock that morning, the Duke leaped to the conclusion that the neat man must have come to him from Gideon. There was nothing at all alarming in Mr Shifnal’s appearance: indeed, he ascribed much of his success to his respectable air. The depth of his bow was exactly as it should have been; his manner was a nice mixture of deference and the assurance of a trusted personal servant. He glanced deprecatingly at the persons within easy earshot, and moved suggestively in the direction of one of the tents that were dotted about the edge of the field. The Duke followed him. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘What do you want with me?’
‘I beg your Grace’s pardon,’ Mr Shifnal said again, ‘but I was told – by your Grace perhaps knows who – to deliver my message into your Grace’s private ear.’
The Duke was a little amused, but still unsuspicious. Gideon must be hard-pressed, he thought, to have sent to him. Possibly Lord Lionel had arrived in London, and was threatening to cut his son off with a shilling unless he divulged his cousin’s whereabouts. Mr Shifnal was standing in the deep shadow cast by the now deserted tent; the first of the rockets went up in a glorious burst of stars; the Duke came up to Mr Shifnal, and repeated: ‘Well, what do you want?’
He did not feel the blow that struck him down, for Mr Liversedge, sliding out of the murk behind him, was leaving nothing to chance. The Duke dropped where he stood; and Mr Liversedge, thrusting his cudgel out of sight under the tent-wall, instantly bent over him in an attitude of tender solicitude. A man, who had been staring up at the bursting rocket, glanced over his shoulder, and Mr Liversedge at once called peremptorily to Mr Shifnal: ‘You, sir! Would you have the goodness to assist me to carry my nephew to my carriage? He has fainted from this excessive heat, and these crowds! My sister’s son: a very delicate young man! I told him how it would be, but these young sparks! They will never listen to older and wiser heads!’
The stranger watching the fireworks at once drew near, offering his aid. Mr Liversedge thanked him profusely, and agreed that the poor young man did indeed look pale. ‘Sickly from birth!’ he confided. ‘I have known him to swoon for as much as an hour on end! But I beg you will not put yourself to the trouble of coming with me! This gentleman will perhaps help me to my carriage: ah, I thank you, sir!’
Mr Shifnal, who had picked up the Duke’s hat, and malacca cane, here joined his confederate, and offered to take the poor gentleman’s legs. One or two people began to be interested in what was going on, but Mr Liversedge was spared the trouble of repeating his story by the first gentleman, who very kindly retailed it for him. While he was doing this, Mr Liversedge and Mr Shifnal made haste to remove the Duke to where they had left Mr Mimms’s cart, outside the field. A particularly fine display of pyrotechnics diverted the attention of those who had shown faint interest in the Duke’s swoon, and as he and his bearers had disappeared from view when they again had leisure to look round they troubled themselves no further in the matter.
The Duke’s inanimate body was soon hoisted into the back of the cart, and laid upon the boards. Mr Liversedge scrambled in beside him, adjuring Mr Shifnal to make haste and drive off before any meddling busybody could come poking and prying. He slid his hand under the Duke’s coat, feeling for his heart, and was relieved to feel it beating. He was not, as he had told his friend, a man of violence, and he had suffered quite a horrid revulsion of feeling when the Duke had gone down under the blow of his cudgel. He decided, privately, that if it should become necessary to dispose of the Duke someone other than himself would have to undertake that task: probably Nat, who had little sensibility, and none of the gentlemanly qualms that troubled his friend.
Fourteen
Upon the morning of the Duke’s departure from London, Captain Ware was awakened by the sound of altercation outside his door. Ex-Sergeant Wragby’s voice was raised in indignant refusal to allow anyone to enter his master’s room; and he was freely accusing the unknown intruder of being as drunk as an artillery-man. Captain Ware then heard Nettlebed’s voice, sharpened by fright, and he grinned. He had enjoined Wragby, who had been his trusted servant for several years, not to mention the Duke’s presence in Albany the previous evening to anyone, and as his batman had not been on duty he had no fear of the information’s leaking out. He linked his hands behind his head, and awaited events.
‘You looby, if you don’t stand out of my way you’ll get one in the bread-basket as’ll send you to grass!’ said Nettlebed fiercely.
‘Ho!’ retorted Wragby. ‘Ho, I will, will I? If it’s a bit of homebrewed you’re wanting, you herring-gutted, blubber-headed clunch, put up your mawleys!’
Captain Ware thought it time to intervene, and called: ‘Wragby! What the devil’s all this kick-up?’
His door burst open unceremoniously, and Wragby and Nettlebed entered locked in one another’s arms.
‘See the Captain I must and will!’ panted Nettlebed.
‘Sir! here’s his Grace’s man, as drunk as a brewer’s horse, and not nine o’clock in the morning!’ said Wragby, in virtuous wrath.
‘How monstrous!’ said Gideon. ‘Nettlebed, how dare you?’
Nettlebed succeeded in wrenching himself free from Wragby’s grip. ‘You know well I don’t touch liquor, Master Gideon!’ he said angrily. ‘Nor this isn’t the time for any of your tricks! Sir, his Grace never came home last night!’
Gideon yawned. ‘Turning Methodist, Nettlebed?’
Wragby gave a snigger. This exasperated Nettlebed into saying hotly: ‘Think shame to yourself, Master Gideon, a-casting such aspersions upon his Grace! Don’t you go saying as he takes up with bits of muslin, for he don’t and never has! His Grace left his house yesterday morning, and he hasn’t been seen since!’
‘Ah, slipped his leash, has he?’ said Gideon.
Nettlebed stared at him. ‘Slipped his leash? I don’t know what you mean, sir!’
‘Bring my shaving-water, Wragby, will you?’ said Gideon. ‘I mean, Nettlebed, that I’m surprised he hasn’t done it before. And why you should come to me –’
‘Master Gideon, the only hope I had was that his Grace maybe spent the night here!’
‘Well, he didn’t. Nor do I know where he is. I daresay he will return in his own good time.’
‘Sir,’ said Nettlebed, staring at him in horror, ‘never did I think to hear you, as was always the first to have a care to his Grace, speak in such a way!’
‘You fool, how s
hould I speak? His Grace is not a child, for all you and that precious crew he has about him treat him as though he were! I hope it may be a lesson to you, for how he has borne it all these years I know not!’
‘Master Gideon, have you thought that his Grace may have been murdered?’ Nettlebed demanded.
‘I have not. His Grace is very well able to take care of himself.’
Nettlebed wrung his hands. ‘Never in all the years I’ve served him has he done such a thing! Oh, Master Gideon, I blame myself, I do indeed! I should never have allowed myself to take offence at what – But how could I tell – And he went out, not telling Borrowdale when he meant to come back, and we waited, and waited, and never a sign of him! Borrowdale, and Chigwell, and Turvey, and me, we were sitting up all night, not knowing what to think, nor what to do! Then I thought as how he might have been with you, and I came round on the instant! Master Gideon, what am I to do?’
‘You will go back to Sale House, and you will wait until his Grace returns, as he no doubt will do,’ replied Gideon. ‘And when he does return, Nettlebed, see to it that you do not drive him into flight again! You, and Borrowdale, and Chigwell, and Turvey – and a dozen others! My cousin is a man, not a schoolboy, and you have so bullied him between you –’
‘Bullied him!’ exclaimed Nettlebed, his voice breaking. ‘Master Gideon, I would lay down my life for his Grace!’
‘Very likely, and much good would that do him!’ said Gideon. He sat up. ‘Now you may listen to me!’ he said sternly, and read his cousin’s stricken henchman a short, telling lecture.
If Nettlebed attended to it, he gave no sign of having done so. He said distractedly: ‘If only he has not been set upon by footpads! I should go round to Bow Street, perhaps, only that I do not like –’
‘If you do that,’ said Gideon strongly, ‘neither his Grace nor my father would ever forgive you! For God’s sake, man, stop flying into a pucker for nothing!’