The Foundling (33 page)

Leaving the Colonel, Gideon hesitated on the brink of paying a call on his father, and then decided that it would be wiser to write to him. He had no wish to be obliged to enter into lengthy explanations, and still less to find himself with Lord Lionel as another passenger in his carriage. It was by this time too late for his dinner-engagement at the Daffy Club, even had he not been too much disturbed by Gilly's plight to have any inclination for a convivial party. He walked into Stephen's Hotel instead, in Bond Street, where, since his was a known face, and one, moreover, that belonged to the military set, he was made discreetly welcome, and led to a vacant table in the coffee-room. The dinner which was served was well-chosen, and well-cooked, but the Captain made a poor meal. Had it been practicable, he would have preferred to have left town that evening. He had no very real fear that the Duke would be murdered by Mr. Liversedge's confederates, but he hated to think of Gilly in the hands of villains who might use him roughly, or incarcerate him in some comfortless stronghold. How he had got himself into such a situation Gideon could not imagine, although he suspected that the adventure he had hinted at had something to do with Mr. Liversedge. He had never supposed that anything other than the mildest excitement would befall Gilly, and Mr. Liversedge's disclosure had come to him as a shock that brought with it a revulsion of feeling. He now realized that he had been a fool to imagine that Gilly, all untried as he was, could fend for himself. If he had had a grain of sense he would have applied for leave a week earlier, and joined Gilly on his adventures. Then he remembered the mischievous twinkle in Gilly's eyes when he had last seen him, and his refusal to divulge his destination, or even his purpose in leaving London. Gilly had not wanted his cousin's company, and that fact alone ought to have put a sane man on his guard. Captain Ware, as the wine grew low in the bottle, began to feel little better than a murderer. His imagination played round Gilly's present lot, and it was with an effort that he refrained from jumping up, and striding out of the hotel. To remain inactive while Gilly might need him urgently was almost more than he could bear; and had there been a full moon he thought he must have set out on his journey immediately. He tried to comfort himself with the thought that if Gilly knew Liversedge's destination he would know also that his big cousin would come speedily to his rescue; but it did not seem probable that Liversedge would have told him in which case he must have given himself up for lost.

When he reached his chambers again, he found that Wragby, by way of facilitating his task, had, as he phrased it, given his charge such liberal potations of strip-me-naked that he was now quite shot in the neck, and sleeping heavily upon the kitchen-floor.

"What a waste of good gin!" remarked Gideon.

"Ah, but it weren't the good gin, sir!" replied his henchman.

Gideon went into his sitting-room, and sat down to write a brief note to his father. He informed him merely that he had discovered a clue to Gilly's whereabouts, and was going out of town to find him. After that he went to bed, warning Wragby to be ready to make an early start next morning. Wragby said that there would be no difficulty about that, except that they might have to carry Mr. Liversedge down to the curricle, since he would undoubtedly be stale-drunk after imbibing so much bad gin.

Chapter 17

The Duke came to himself slowly and painfully. While the cart in which he was conveyed some five miles to the Bird in Hand jolted its way down the rough lane which Mr. Shifnal chose in understandable preference to the pike-road, he lay for some time unconscious, and for the last mile in, a queer state between swooning and waking. He seemed to himself to be suffering some nightmare. It hurt him to move his head, and his eyelids were weighted. When he tried to open them knives stabbed behind them. At moments he was aware of movement, even of hands feeling his brow, and his wrists, and of a vaguely familiar voice speaking from a great distance away; but for long periods of time he sank back into uneasy oblivion, these merciful lapses being largely brought on by the bumping of wheels over all the inequalities of the road. Each lurch caused him exquisite torment, for Mr. Liversedge had struck hard, and with a heavy cudgel, and not only the Duke's head, but his neck and spine had suffered. He was in one of these deep swoons when he was lifted out of the cart, and carried into the Bird in Hand through the back-door, so he knew nothing of the violent altercation which raged over his body, or of the disaster prophesied by Mr. Mimms.

When he began to come more fully to his senses, it still hurt him to open his eyes, or to move his head, but he was regaining command over his faculties, and he knew that this weakness must be overcome. He forced himself to lift his eyelids, but winced as light struck against his aching eyeballs. Something cold and wet was laid across his brow; a voice said encouragingly: "That's the dandy, now! You want to bite on the bridle, lad, and you'll be as right as a trivet! Take a sup of this! Come on, now! open your mummer! There's nothing like a glass of blood-and-thunder to put a cove in high gig!"

A hand slid under his head, raising it. The Duke bit back an involuntary groan, and rather helplessly swallowed a mouthful of the fiery potion being held to his lips. Then he lifted a wavering hand to thrust the glass aside.

"Have another sup, and you'll feel as good as ever twanged!"

The Duke knew from experience that nothing aggravated his periodic headaches more than liquor. In his hazy state of mind the only thing he knew was that one of these, and an unusually severe one, had attacked him. He whispered: "No."

"Dashed if you aren't too green to know what's good for you!" remarked Mr. Shifnal, lowering him again.

"Water!" uttered the Duke.

"Well, you can have it if you
want
it," said Mr. Shifnal. "But I never knew Adam's ale do anyone a mite of good. What's more, I'll have to drink up this here blood-and-thunder, if you want to put water in your glass." He accomplished this task without difficulty, poured some water into the glass, and once more lifted the Duke's head. When he had let him sink back again on to the dirty mattress which had been laid on the floor to receive him, he lifted up the candlestick and closely studied his prisoner's face. "I'm bound to own you look hike a death's head on a mop-stick," he said candidly. "Howsever, I don't fancy as you'll be put to bed feet first this journey. What you want to do is to shut your ogles, and have a sleep."

The Duke was only too glad to do so, for the little flame of the candle hurt his eyes. Mr. Shifnal spread an aged horse-blanket over him, and went away, leaving him in Stygian gloom. The Duke slept, woke, and slept again.

When he woke fully, his head, although still aching, was rather better. It was propped up on a lumpy cushion, from which arose an unpleasant aroma of dirt and mildew. The Duke moved distastefully, and found that the back of his skull was badly bruised. He put up his hand, and cautiously felt the swelling, and as he did so he remembered that he had been watching fireworks at Hitchin Fair, and that he must keep an eye on Tom and Belinda. But he was not now at Hitchin Fair. In fact, he did not know where he was, though he seemed to be lying, fully dressed, on a very hard bed. He put his hand out, groping in the darkness for some familiar object, and felt cold stone. Then he must, he supposed, be lying on the floor. His hand encountered the round shape of an earthenware jar, and for a few moments the only thought in his mind was that he was parched with thirst. He dragged himself up on one elbow, feeling sick, and dizzy, and absurdly weak, and after a grim effort contrived to lift the jar. It was more than half full of water. The Duke drank deeply, and when he could drink no more pulled the bandage from his head, and dipped it into the jar. With this tied round his burning skull again, he was able, although unreadily, to fix his thoughts on what had happened to him. Fireworks, and a fat woman to whom he gave up his place: he remembered that clearly enough. He had gone to the back of the crowd, and someone had spoken to him. A neat man, in worn riding-clothes, whom he had taken for a groom, and who— Suddenly he stiffened, recalling in a flash of comprehension that the man had said: "My lord Duke!" He had been caught off his guard; he had turned involuntarily; he had even been fool enough to follow the unknown man into the shadow of one of the tents. A blatant trap, and he had walked into it like the Johnny Raw he was. He could have wept with rage at his folly, and did indeed utter a stifled groan. How Gideon would mock at him if ever he heard of it! Then it occurred to him, rather unpleasantly, that there might be no room for mockery. Someone had recognized him, and had kidnapped him. The Duke was not so raw that he did not realize that the price of his freedom was likely to be a heavy one. And since he had taken such care not to let anyone know where he was there could be no hope of a rescue. Matthew would know that he had been at Baldock; so too would Gideon, for he remembered that he had written a letter to him from the White Horse. But neither could guess that he had gone to Hitchin; and neither would be at all alarmed at his continued absence, until it was too late. The Duke had no desire to pay a staggering ransom, and still less desire to face the reproaches of his family, but he could not remain shut up in darkness for the rest of his life. If he were obstinate, his captors might starve him, or resort to even sterner measures. He was quite at their mercy, and never in his life had he longed more passionately for Nettlebed, or Chigwell, or even for Lord Lionel. And more than for anyone did he long for Gideon, who would surely get him out of this appalling predicament. He felt ill, and helpless, and humiliatingly childish; and he was obliged to scold himself as sharply as Lord Lionel had so often done before he could shake off his crushing despondency.

After what seemed a very long time, he heard footsteps coming down a creaking stair. A crack of light showed him where the door of his prison was. He found that he had instinctively braced himself, and flushed in the darkness. He forced himself to relax, and to lie as though at his ease, betraying none of the alarm he felt. A Johnny Raw he might be, but he was also Ware of Sale, and no common felon should have the satisfaction of seeing him afraid.

The door opened, and Mr. Shifnal came in, bearing a steaming bowl, and with a lantern slung over one wrist. The Duke recognized him at once, and remembered that it was he who had given him some potent liquor, many hours ago. He crooked his left arm under his head to raise it, and lay calmly regarding his gaoler.

Mr. Shifnal set the lamp down on the floor close to the Duke's head, and looked at him closely. "That's the barber!" he said cheerfully. "I thought you was backt at one time, guv'nor, but there's nothing like a real rum bub for a cull as has been grassed. Not but what you didn't have no more than a lick, but I doubt it done you good. I got some cat-lap here for you, seeing as how you was as sick as a cushion, and maybe used to pap. If you was to sit up, you could sup it down, couldn't you?"

"Presently," said the Duke. "Put it on the floor, if you please."

Mr. Shifnal grinned down at him. "It ain't no use for you to be cagged, guv'nor. The blow's been bit, and you'll have to stand buff if you want to get out of this cellar alive. Which, mind you, there's some as holds you didn't ought to get out alive, but I wouldn't wish you to think I was one of them, because I ain't. You drink up that cat-lap, and maybe you'll feel able to talk business, which is what I come for."

While he unburdened himself of this speech, not much of which was comprehensible to his prisoner, the Duke was taking unobtrusive stock of his surroundings. The cellar in which he lay was paved with stone flags and had no window. Its only outlet appeared to be the door through which Mr. Shifnal had entered and to which he held the ponderous key. As it opened inwards, there would be little chance of breaking out through it. The roof of the cellar was vaulted; it was quite a large room, and seemed to be used as a dumping-place for all manner of rubbish. A broken chair, several rusted cooking-pots, some sacks, an old broom, one or two cans, and a litter of broken casks and boxes and empty bottles were all it contained, except for the mattress on which the Duke lay.

Having taken this in, the Duke brought his gaze to bear on Mr. Shifnal, who had squatted down beside him on a folded sack. He saw that he had a pistol tucked into his boot, and said: "I thought when I first saw you that you were a groom, but I fancy I was wrong: you are a highwayman."