The Foundling

Chapter XVII

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 hishead, 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, hiscaptors 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.”

“It don’t matter to you what my lay is,” responded Mr. Shifnal. “Maybe I’ll be a gentleman, and live at my ease afore many days is gone by.”

“Maybe,” agreed the Duke. “Or maybe you’ll be on your way to Botany Bay. One never knows,”

“Hard words break no bones,” said Mr. Shifnal. “Mind I don’t blame you for feeling peevy! It ain’t a pleasant thing to be bowled out, and you little more than a halfling. But don’t you worry, guv’nor! You’re well-equipt, you are, and there ain’t nothing to stop you loping off any time you says the word. The cove as wants to carry you out feet first ain’t here just at the moment. But he’s a-coming back, and it would be as well for you if you were gone afore he gets here. Now, maybe it’s because you’re just a noddy, or maybe it’s because I allus had a weakness for a game chicken, which I’ll allow you are, but I’ve taken quite a fancy to you, dang me if I ain’t! and I wouldn’t like for you to be put to bed with a shovel afore your time. You grease me in the hand, guv’nor, and do it handsome, and I’ll let you go afore this other cove comes back.”

“How long have I been here?” asked the Duke, asthough he had not attended to a word of this.

“You’ve been here ever since close on eleven last night, and you’ll likely—”

“What’s o’clock now?” interrupted the Duke, taking out his watch, which had stopped. “I must thank you, by the way, for not robbing me of my watch!”

“Ay, and it isn’t many as wouldn’t have had it off of you, and the ready and rhino in your pockets as well,” said Mr. Shifnal frankly. “I don’t see what it matters to you what time of day it is, because down in this cellar it don’t make any difference, but since you’re so particular anxious to know, it’s close on nine in the morning. And a fine, bright day it is, with the sun a-shining, and the birds all a-singing. Just the kind of day for a cove to be out and about!”

The Duke set his watch, and wound it up. Mr. Shifnal looked at it wistfully. “It’s a rare loge that,” he said. “It went to my heart not to snabble it.”

“Never mind!” said the Duke, sitting up with an effort. “You may have it, and the money in my pockets as well, if you leave that door unlocked.”

Mr. Shifnal smiled indulgently upon him. “I had a look in your pockets, guv’nor, and it’s low tide with you. It ain’t coachwheels I want, but flimseys.”

The Duke picked up the bowl of thin gruel, and sipped it resolutely. “How much?” he enquired.

“What do you say to fifty thousand Yellow Georges?” suggested Mr. Shifnal winningly.

“Why, that I thank you for the compliment you pay me in rating me at so high a figure, but that I fear I am not worth it.”

“Call it thirty!” said Mr. Shifnal. “Thirty wouldn’t seem no more to a well-blunted swell like you than what a Goblin would be to me!”

“Oh, I couldn’t pay you the half of thirty thousand!” said the Duke, swallowing some more of the gruel.

“Gammon!” replied Mr. Shifnal scornfully. “You could draw the bustle to twice that figure!”

“Not until I am twenty-five,” said the Duke.

The tranquility in his voice took Mr. Shifnal aback slightly. It seemed very wrong to him that this frail young swell should not be made to realize the dangerous nature of his position. He pointed it out to him. The Duke smiled at him absently, and went on sipping his gruel. “It ain’t no manner of use bamming me you ain’t as well-breeched a cove as any in the land, because I knows as how you are!” said Mr. Shifnal, nettled.

“Yes, I am very rich,” agreed the Duke. “But I do not yet control my fortune, you know.”

“There’s them as does as would pay it, and gladly, to have you back safe!”

The Duke appeared to consider this. “But perhaps they don’t want to have me back,” he suggested.

Mr. Shifnal was nonplussed. It began to seem as though his colleague’s notions, which he had been inclined to think fanciful, were not so far-fetched. Yet although Mr. Liversedge might return loaded down with money-bags given him by the Duke’s grateful cousin, Mr. Shifnal had a strong suspicion that his share in that wealth might not be commensurate with his deserts. It would, he thought, be a very much better plan for him to remove the Duke from his dungeon, and to pocket a ransom, before Mr. Liversedge could return from his mission. He would have the support of Mr. Mimms, he knew, because although Mr. Mimms would undoubtedly claim a share of any blood-money there might be, he did not want the Duke to be murdered on his premises; and he was mortally afraid of coming into serious contact with the Law. He shook his head at the Duke, and told him that he did not know what lay before him. But the Duke could not perceive any advantage to his captors in killing him, and considered that Mr. Shifnal’s references to the likelihood of his sudden taking-off were designed merely to frighten him into agreeing to the payment of an extortionate ransom. He finished the gruel, and set down the bowl.

“You better think it over, guv’nor!” Mr. Shifnal said. “You won’t have nothing else to do, so take your time! I’m striking the gigg now, and you won’t see no more of me, nor anyone, till I brings you your supper. I daresay you’ll be thinking different by then.”

He rose from the floor, picked up the bowl and the lantern, and went away, locking the door behind him. The Duke lowered himself on to his unpleasant pillow again, and bent his mind to the problem of how he was to escape. For he had made up his mind that escape he must and would.

No method immediately presented itself to him, and he wasted some time in cursing himself for not having gone armed to the Fair. His only weapon was his malacca cane, which had been propped against the broken chair, with his curly-brimmed beaver poised on top of it, and a malacca cane pitted against Mr. Shifnal’s pistol would stand little chance of success. The possibility of taking Mr. Shifnal off his guard seemed remote: he plainly held the Duke to be of little account, but he did not look as though he were in the habit of being taken off his guard. Moreover, the Duke was still feeling extremely battered, and he doubted whether he would have the physical strength to stun Mr. Shifnal. He thought that the most pressing need was to recruit his forces, and with this end in view he closed his eyes, and tried so hard to go to sleep that he did so at last through sheer exhaustion.

He was awakened, by the sound of footsteps again, but they did not come to his door. A heavy tread passed it; he heard a latch liftgratingly, and the sound as of a wooden case being dragged across the stone floor. Other and rather shuffling footsteps came down the stairs. The Duke heard the murmur of voices, and strained his ears in vain to catch what was being said. He failed, but as the footsteps passed his door again, a rough voice said: “Mind how you carry that, you clumsy chub! Give me them daffy-bottles!”

The Duke’s brows twitched together, for the voice was familiar. For a long time he could not place it, but by dint of recalling the various persons whom he had encountered during the preceding week he at last reached the right conclusion. The voice belonged to Mr. Mimms; and if that were so it was more than likely that his cellar lay under the Bird in Hand. And if that again were so, then there could be no doubt that Mr. Liversedge had had a hand in the abduction.

It seemed a little puzzling to the Duke, and for a moment he wondered if he had been kidnapped for revenge. Then he thought that this was too foolhardy a thing for even Mr. Liversedge to undertake, and he supposed that by some means or other that astute gentleman had discovered the identity of his visitor. Why Mr. Liversedge was remaining in the background he could not imagine, unless it were that his sensibilities were too nice to permit of his openly confessing himself a kidnapper. The Duke decided that such questions as these were not of great moment, and applied his mind to the more urgent problem. If he was to attempt to break out of the cellar, and if this was indeed in the Bird in Hand, the best time for the attempt would undoubtedly be during the evening, when the tap-room might be supposed to be full, and Mr. Mimms and his satellites busy in serving drinks. In all probability there would be a good deal of cheerful noise in the tap-room, which would be helpful. The Duke considered afresh the only plan he had been able to hit upon, and thought it was worth a trial. Since money was what his captors wanted, they were unlikely to kill him, whatever he did; and if he failed he would be no worse off than he was now.

Not the most boring day spent in his tutor’s company had ever seemed as long to the Duke as this one. The darkness was like a blanket, and no sound from above penetrated to the cellar. He thought that if he failed to escape it would not be long before he would agree to pay any ransom. When he heard Mr. Shifnal’s quick step approaching down the stairs, he had almost given up hope of being brought any of the promised supper. He knew that he stood in need of sustaining food, however little he might relish the thought of it, for he had tried the effect of standing up, and of taking a few groping steps in the darkness, and he had felt abominably dizzy and weak-kneed. His headache, however, had considerably abated. He thought that it would be just as well that Mr. Shifnal should suppose him to be still prostrate, so he lay down, and closed his eyes, groaning artistically when the door opened.

Mr. Shifnal had brought him a plate of cold beef, a hunk of bread, and a mug of porter. He set these down, and asked him how he felt.

“My head aches,” complained the Duke fretfully.

“Well, you got a rare wisty castor on it,” said Mr. Shifnal. “What you want is a nice bed, like you’re used to, and a breath of fresh air. You could have it, too, if you wasn’t so bacon-brained.”

The Duke said: “But how could I pay thirty thousand pounds?”

Mr. Shifnal caught the note of doubt in his voice, and congratulated himself on his wisdom in having left the young swell alone all day. He explained to the Duke how the sum could be found, and the Duke listened, and raised objections, and seemed first to agree, and then to think better of it. Mr. Shifnal thought that by the following morning he would know no hesitation, and was sorry that he had fortified him with meat and drink. He had been a little afraid that so delicate a young man might become seriously ill if starved, and a dead Duke was of no use to him. He determined not to allow him any breakfast, if he should still be obdurate in the morning, and he refused to leave the lantern behind him. Continued darkness and solitude, he was certain, would bring about a marked improvement in the Duke’s frame of mind. He went away again, warning the captive that it was of no use to shout, for no one would hear him if he did. The Duke was glad to know this, but he hunched a shoulder pettishly, and turned his face to the wall.

He forced himself to wait for what seemed an interminable time. When he judged that the hour must be somewhere near ten, he stood up, and felt in his pocket for the device he used to light his cigars. Under his finger the little flame sprang up obediently. He kindled one of the matches at it, and holding it carefully on high, located the position of the heap of lumber. He went over to it, and had picked up a splinter of wood before the match went out. He could feel that the wood was dry, and when he kindled a second match and held it to the splinter, it caught fire. The Duke found a longer splinter, and kindled that from the first, and stuck it into one of the bottles on the floor. The light it threw was not very good, and it several times had to be blown to renewed flame, but the Duke was able, in the glimmer, to find what be wanted, and to carry it over to the door. He built up there a careful pile of shavings of wood, scraps of old sacking, the broken chair, the broom, and anything else that looked as though it might burn easily. His tablets went to join the rest, the thin leaves being torn out, and crumpled, and poked under the wood. The Duke set fire to his heap, and thanked God that the cellar was not damp. He had to kneel down and blow the fitful flames, but his efforts were rewarded: the wood began to crackle; and the flames to leap higher. He got up, and observed his work with satisfaction. If the smoke rose to the upper floor, as he supposed it must, he could only hope that it would be drowned by the fumes of clay pipes in the tap-room. He collected his hat, and his cane, buttoned up his long drab coat, and added an old boot to his bonfire. It was becoming uncomfortably hot, and he was forced to stand back from it, watching anxiously to see whether the door would burn. In a short time he knew that it would. His heart began to beat so hard that he could almost hear it. He felt breathless, and the smoke was making his eyes smart. But the door was burning, and in a few minutes more the flames would be licking the walls on either side of it. The Duke caught up the horse-blanket, and, using it as a shield, attacked the flaming woodwork. He scorched himself in the process, but he succeeded in kicking away the centre of the door. He paid no heed to where the burning fragments fell, but he did smother the flames round the aperture he had made; and then, abandoning the charred blanket, swiftly dived for his hole, and struggled through it.

One moment he spent in recovering his breath, and settling his hat somewhat gingerly on his head, and then, taking a firm grip on his cane, he stole up the stairs.

He reached the top, and knew that he had been correct in his assumption that he wasimprisoned in the Bird in Hand. He remembered that there was a door leading into the yard at the back of the house, and he made for this. From the tap-room came the sound of convivial song and laughter. There was no one to be seen in the dimly lit space by the yard-door, and he thought for a moment that he was going to make his escape unperceived. And then, Just as he was within a few steps of his goal, a door on his right opened, and Mr. Mimms came out, carrying a large jug.

Mr. Mimms gave one startled grunt, dropped the jug, and lunged forward. The Duke was expert in the use of the singlestick, but he employed none of the arts he had been taught. Side-stepping Mr. Mimms’s bull-like rush, he made one neat thrust with his cane between his legs, and brought him crashing to the ground. The next instant he had reached the yard-door, and had torn it open, and was stumbling over the cobbles and the refuse outside the inn.

It was a dark night, and the yard seemed to be full of obstacles, but the Duke managed to get across it, to grope his way round a comer of the barn, and, as his eyes grew accustomed to the murk, to reach the field beyond. In the distance behind him, he thought he could hear voices. He thanked God that there was no moon, and ran for his life, heading in what he hoped was the direction of the village of Arlesey.

By the time he reached the straggling hedge that shut the fields off from the lane he was out of breath, and staggering on his feet. He was obliged to stand still, to recover himself a little, and he took the opportunity of looking back towards the inn. It was hidden from him by trees, but he was able to see a faint red glow, and realized that his fire must have taken good hold. He gave a panting laugh, and pushed his way through the hedge on to the lane. Mr. Mimms would have enough on his hands without adding the pursuit of his prisoner to it, he thought; and if the man in riding-dress thought the recapture of his prize of more importance than the quenching of the fire, the deep ditch beside the lane would afford excellent cover for a fugitive. The Duke walked as fast as he could down the lane, straining his ears for any sound of footsteps behind him. But he thought that he would be searched for in the fields rather than in the road.

The first cottages of Arlesey came into sight. Chinks of lamplight shone between several window-blinds. The Duke, reeling from mingled faintness and fatigue, chose a cottage at random, and knocked on the door. It was presently opened to him by a stolid-looking man in fustian breeches, and a velveret jacket, who opened his eyes at sight of his dishevelled visitor, and ejaculated: “Lord ha’ mussy! Whatever be the matter with you, sir?”

“Will you allow me to rest here till daylight?” said the Duke, leaning against the lintel of the door. “I have—suffered an accident, and—I rather fancy—some murderous fellows are on my heels.”

A stout woman, who had been peeping round her husband’s massive form, exclaimed: “The poor young gentleman! I’ll lay my life it’s them murdering thieves as haunts the Bird in Hand! Come you in, sir! come you in!”

“Thank you!” said the Duke, and fainted.