“I left your servants a trifle stunned by your guests, but it seems probable that Liversedge will assume control of the household. He informed me that I might have the most complete confidence in him. By and by, that bailiff of yours—Moffat, is it?—is overjoyed to learn that you are in Bath, and trusts that you will go to Cheyney. He has all manner of matters to lay before you.”
“If Moffat wants to see me, he must come to Bath. I have no time to go out to Cheyney now.”
“I told him so, and he said that he would come to you,” said Gideon. “There is no escape for you!”
“You might have fobbed him off!” complained the Duke. “Your retainers are not so easily fobbed off. If you are going to Laura Place, I shall come with you. I can no longer exist without a sight of the fair Belinda. Besides, I dote on the Dowager! I wonder if she has bought a new wig? When last I saw her she had a red one—devilish dashing!”
But when they arrived in Laura Place, and were taken up to the drawing-room on the first floor, they found that wiser counsels had prevailed with the Dowager Lady Ampleforth, and she had exchanged the red wig for one of iron grey. But as she chose to set a turban of rich violet silk, shot with orange, on top of these new ringlets the effect was still extremely colourful. She was a handsome old lady, with a beak of a nose, and a wicked eye. In her day she had been, as she had not the slightest hesitation in informing her acquaintance, a great rake, but gout, and increasing years, now largely chained her to her chair. She tolerated her son, despised her three daughters, and cherished towards her daughter-in-law a violent animosity. Since she belonged to a more robust and by far less prim a generation than theirs she had no difficulty at all in shocking her descendants, a pastime to which she was greatly addicted. She received the Duke indulgently, and his cousin with acclaim. Gideon corresponded exactly with her notions of what a young man should be like, and she received his outrageous advances in high delight, encouraging him in every extravagant flattery, and adjuring him to murmur into her ear all the more scandalous stories current in military circles. She was able to regale him with quite a number of warm anecdotes herself, and it was not long before she had signed to him with one twisted hand to draw his chair closer to hers. This left the Duke free to confide his errand to Harriet. She was concerned to learn that he had been unable to discover Mr. Mudgley. “It is not that I do not wish to keep her with me, Gilly,” she explained, “but I know Mama will never permit me to, and there is another circumstance which makes me feel a little uneasy. I am afraid Charlie admires her excessively!”
“Good God!” said the Duke. “I had not thought of that! What is to be done?”
“Well, Gilly, I do think we should find a suitable establishment for her, but pray do not be worried! Charlie is not staying here, you know: he has a lodging in Green Street, and I have explained to him that he must be good. But nothing would do but he must squire us to the theatre last night, and I fear he did flirt rather dreadfully with Belinda! I was a goose to go with him, but Belinda wanted so very much to see the play that I did not know how to refuse. But I won’t let him be alone with her, I promise. I must go with Grandmama to Lady Ombersley’s party tonight, but Charlie told us himself that he has promised to some friends of his own, which is why he cannot go with us. I hope you will not think I did wrong to go to the play!”
“No, no, how could you do wrong? I am only distressed that you should be put to so much anxiety, my poor Harry! Is Belinda in? Would it be of the least use for me to ask her if she cannot cudgel her brains a little?”
“Oh, yes, she is trimming a hat for herself! I will fetch her down directly. But, Gilly, I don’t know how it will answer! She is the strangest creature! It does seem as though this Mr. Mudgley and his mother are the only people who have ever been kind to her, and I own that she speaks of the young man with a wistful look that quite touches one’s heart, but she has not the least notion of constancy! It is quite dreadful! And, oh, Gilly, by the unluckiest chance we saw a purple gown in one of the shops on Milsom Street, and I do believe it has put everything else out of her head!”
He laughed. “Harriet, do pray buy it for her, and set it to my account! Perhaps if she had her purple gown—”
“Gilly, I could not!” said Harriet earnestly. “You have no idea how unsuitable it would be! It is of the brightest purple satin, with Spanish sleeves slashed with rows of gold beads, and a demi-train, and the bosom cut by far too low! Dear Gilly, I would do anything for you, but only conceive of a young girl’s wearing such a gown! Even Grandmama would be shocked!”
He was awed by this description of the gown’s magnificence, and could not but acknowledge the justice of Harriet’s objection to it. To insist on her lending her countenance to a young female clad in such startling raiment would, he realized, be unreasonable. He acquiesced therefore in her decision, and held the door open for her to pass from the room.
The Dowager watched him critically, and said, as he came back into the room: “Well, Sale, I’m sure I don’t know what you uncle will have to say to your raking, but it has done you a great deal of good, and my granddaughter too! I’ve no doubt you’ve been deceiving her monstrously, but the dullest dog alive is ever your virtuous young man! Which I thought you were, I own. However, I see there’s more of your grandfather in you than I knew. Lord, what a dashing blade he was, to be sure! He can’t have been a day older than you when he ran off with Lyndhurst’s wife. They hushed it up, of course, but I remember what a scandal it was at the time! They say it cost his father—your great-grandfather, you know—a pretty penny to get him out of such an entanglement, and I daresay it did. Then he married one of the Ingatestone gals: a sickly creature, she was, always in the megrims! Lord Guiseley was her bel ami for years. They used to say that the second daughter—your aunt Sarah, I mean—was none of Sale’s, but I never set any store by it myself: she hadn’t the spirit of a hen! But your grandfather used to be the biggest rake in town. All the Mamas used to forbid us to dance with him at the assemblies, for he never kept the line, and there was no sense in encouraging his advances once he was tied up in marriage, you know.”
The Duke received these engaging reminiscences of his progenitors without protest, merely smiling at the old lady, and murmuring that he hoped no careful parent would feel compelled to warn her daughter against him; but Gideon instantly demanded to be told more about Aunt Sarah, whom he cordially disliked. The Dowager was nothing loth, and was in the middle of a highly libellous story when Harriet came back into the room with Belinda.
Belinda, becomingly attired in one of Harriet’s cambric gowns, bestowed a ravishing smile upon Gideon, favouring him with one of her wide, speculative stares. She seemed genuinely pleased to see the Duke, but she was looking a little wistful, and her lovely mouth drooped at the corners.
Whether she was pining for Mr. Mudgley, or for the purple gown, he was unable to discover, since her thoughts seemed to he equally divided between them. She was plainly in awe of Lady Ampleforth, and was minding her manners so painstakingly that she spoke only in a subdued voice, and sat on the extreme edge of a chair, with her feet together, and her hands folded in her lap. He guessed that, in spite of Harriet’s kindness, her surroundings were oppressive to her. She was terrified of doing something wrong. He felt more sorry for her than ever, and redoubled his determination to find her swain for her.
But she was of very little assistance to him. She had only once visited Mr. Mudgley’s farm, on a day when Mrs. Pilling had gone to Wells to see her sister; and although she was able to describe in great detail the big kitchen there, the dear little chicks in the yard, and a calf which had licked her fingers, she had no idea how far the farm lay from Bath, or in which direction. But there had been a stream, with primroses growing beside it, and Mr. Mudgley had very obligingly stopped to let her get down from the gig to pick a great bunch of them.
The Duke felt defeated, and for a moment said nothing. Belinda sighed. “Perhaps he went away, like Maggie, and I shall never
see him any more,” she said.
He did not think this was likely, and shook his head. Belinda sighed again. “I daresay he is married now, because he was very handsome, and it was such a nice house, with a garden, and beautiful red curtains in the parlour. I am very unhappy.”
Both he and Harriet said what they could to console her, but she seemed to have sunk into a mood of gentle resignation. She said simply: “I wish I was not a foundling! It is very hard, you know, because no one cares what becomes of one, and one has nowhere to go, and when I thought that Uncle Swithin would make me comfortable I was quite taken-in. And so it is always!”
This sad little speech brought the tears to Harriet’s eyes, and she took one of Belinda’s hands in hers, and clasped it, saying: “No, no, do not say so! The Duke and I will always stand your friends, I promise!”
“Yes, but it is not the same,” said Belinda unanswerably.
The Duke could only reiterate his determination to find Mr. Mudgley. Belinda smiled gratefully at him, but without conviction, and, catching Gideon’s eye, he rose to take his leave.
“Well,” said Gideon, as they walked towards Bridge Street together, “she is certainly a nonpareil, Adolphus, and I think you are wasting your time. She is destined to become a Covent Garden nun.”
The Duke compressed his lips, returning no answer. Captain Ware glanced quizzically down at him. “I have offended you, Adolphus?”
“No. I expected you to say something of the sort. You have never the least sympathy for those born in less easy circumstances than yourself—witness your contempt of Matt!”
Captain Ware blinked. “Phew! What can I do to atone?”
“Find Mudgley for me!” said the Duke tartly.
“Yes, your Grace!” said Captain Ware, in servile accents.
This made the Duke laugh. He slid a hand in his cousin’s arm, pressing it slightly, and saying: “I have learnt some few things in this week that I never knew before, you see, Gideon. Did you ever think how it would be to be without a single relative in the world?”
“I did not, I own. I thought you had done so, however, and envied those in that happy state.”
“I have discovered my mistake,” replied the Duke.
Gideon could not help smiling at this. He said: “I hope you will still think so when my father arrives in Bath!”
This event took place that evening, just as Nettlebed had brought sherry and Madeira into the private parlour, drawn the blinds, and made up the fire. The door was suddenly opened, andLord Lionel stalked into the room, before the trembling waiter had had time to announce him.
His lordship, having passed through every stage of anxiety, was suffering from the inevitable reaction, and looked to be in anything but a conciliatory mood. His eagle glance swept past his son and became fixed upon the Duke. “Ha!” he ejaculated explosively. “So you have seen fit to inform us of your whereabouts, Sale! Extremely obliging of you! And now perhaps you will have the goodness to explain the meaning of this caper?”
The Duke, rising quickly from his seat by the fire, fancied that he could detect fresh lines on his uncle’s face. He went forward, holding out his hands, and saying: “Dear sir, I am so very glad to see you! Forgive me!”
Lord Lionel champed upon an invisible bit. With all the air of a man constrained against his will, he took the outstretched hands, and gripped them. “I want none of your cajolery, Sale!” he announced, his penetrating gaze searching the Duke’s face. “I do not know what the devil you mean by behaving in this way. I am very angry with you, very angry, indeed! How dared you, sir?”
The Duke smiled up at him. “Indeed, I don’t know how I dared! But I did not mean the fools to worry you with my capers!”
“Let me tell you that I have better things to do than to worry over your conduct!” said his lordship inaccurately. “Are you quite well, Gilly? Yes, I see that you are. It would have served you right if I had found you laid down on your bed with one of your sickly turns, let me tell you! Where have you been, and what the devil are you doing in this place? Let me have a plain answer, if you please!”
“Oh, I have been in all manner of places, sir, trying to discover if I am a man, or only a duke!” responded the Duke.
“Balderdash!” pronounced his lordship comprehensively. He released the Duke’s hands, and discovered Nettlebed’s presence in the room. His exacerbated feelings found a certain measure of relief in the utterance of a severe rebuke to him for having left Sale House without notice or permission. He then turned his attention to his son, and having condemned his manners and morals in a few blistering sentences, felt a good deal better. He eyed the real culprit measuringly. “I know very well when you have been in mischief, sir!” he said grimly. “Don’t think to fob me off, or to hide behind Gideon, for I mean to have the truth! If you were but five years younger—”
“No, no!” protested the Duke, his face alive with laughter. “You never flogged me after I was sixteen, sir!”
“I collect,” said Lord Lionel, with a fulminating glance cast at his son, “that you mean to tell me that it was I who drove you into this nonsensical affair?”
“To tell you the truth, sir,” said the Duke, coaxing him into a chair by the fire, “I do not mean to tell you anything at all! Oh, no, don’t frown at me, and pray do not be so angry with me! You see I have taken no hurt, and I promise I will not cause you such anxiety again. Nettlebed, be so good as to tell them to lay covers for three, and fetch another wine glass for his lordship!”
“I do not dine here,” stated his lordship, his brows still alarmingly knit, “and nor do you, Gilly! I do not know why, when you have a house very conveniently placed, you must needs install yourself at a common inn: I daresay it is of a piece with all the rest! You will accompany me to Cheyney at once!”
Gideon leaned his shoulders against the wall, and waited with interest to hear what his cousin would reply to this command.
“Oh, no, do stay to dine with me!” said the Duke. “I must explain to you that I have guests staying at Cheyney—rather odd guests perhaps you may think!”
“Yes; I do think it!” said Lord Lionel. “I have already been to Cheyney, Sale! I am well aware that it no longer any concern of mine if you choose to fill your house with a parcel of vulgar tradesmen, and to give an overgrown schoolboy carte blanche to shoot every bird you have on the place, but I should be glad to know where you acquired your taste for low company!”
“The thing is,” replied the Duke confidentially, “that I haven’t a taste for low company, sir. I owed Mamble some degree of extraordinary civility, for I fear I did aid and abet his son to escape from him.”
“I do not know what you are talking about!” complained his lordship. “And if it is your notion of extraordinary civility to invite a man to stay in your house when you are not there to entertain him, I can only suppose that I have failed, in all these years, to teach you common courtesy! I am ashamed of you, Gilly!”
“But I couldn’t endure him, sir! It is very bad, but what was I to do, when he would toadeat me so, and there was no getting away from him? He means only to stay there for a day or two because I promised Tom he should have some shooting. Should you object very much to entertaining him for me?”
“I should!” barked Lord Lionel. “You will stop talking flummery to me, and come to Cheyney!”
The Duke poured out some sherry into the glass Nettlebed had just brought into the room, and handed it to his uncle. “No, I cannot spare the time to go to Cheyney now,” he said. “I am removing to the Christopher, however. Did you bring my baggage with you from London, dear sir?”
“Yes, I did, and it is awaiting you at Cheyney. Now, Gilly—”
“Then it must be sent to the Christopher tomorrow,” said the Duke calmly. “It is very tiresome! I am so sadly in need of a change of raiment!”
“Gilly!” said his lordship awfully,
“Yes, sir!”
Lord Lionel glared at him. “Gilly, what is the matte
r with you?” he demanded. “What made you do it, boy? Be a little plain with me, I beg of you!”
The Duke sat down beside him, and laid a hand on his knee. “It is very ridiculous,” he said, in his soft voice. “I found it a dead bore to be Duke of Sale, and I thought I would try how it would be to be nobody in particular.”
“Upon my word! I should have thought you would have had more sense.”
“But I hadn’t, sir.”
Lord Lionel gripped the hand on his knee. “Now, my boy, don’t be afraid to own the truth to me! Yon know I have nothing but your welfare at heart! If you went off on this start because of anything I may have said to you—in short, if you did not like the arrangement I had made for you, there was not the least need for you to have offered for Lady Harriet! I never had any desire to force you into what you had a distaste for. Indeed, if your mind misgives you—though it will be a damned awkward business!—I will see to it—”
“No, sir, I am very happy in my engagement,” the Duke interrupted. “Much happier than I ever thought to be! She is an angel!”
Lord Lionel was slightly taken aback. He stared at the Duke under his bushy brows, and remarked dryly: “This is a different tune from the one you sang at Sale, when I first broached the matter to you!”
“I was not then aware what a treasure you had chosen for me, sir. But I told you I had been learning some few things of late.”
Lord Lionel grunted. “Well, if you have learnt to have a little more common-sense, I am glad of it, but why you must needs run off without a word to anyone is past my understanding! If you had wanted to go out of town, I am sure it was quite your own affair, and you might have done so without question.”
Gideon spoke. “But not, sir, without Nettlebed, Chigwell, Borrowdale, Turvey, and the rest of his retinue.”
“You,” said Lord Lionel crushingly, “have behaved throughout in an insolent, heedless, and callous fashion, and may now have the grace to remain silent!”
The Foundling Page 35
