The Foundling Read online

  Tom, whose mind knew no half-shades, had swiftly passed from suspicion of his benefactor to wholehearted admiration for him. His scruples having been relieved by the Duke’s promise to render a strict account of any financial transaction incurred on his behalf to his father, he accepted a guinea to spend with alacrity, and assured the Duke of his ability to amuse himself while he was absent on his own affairs.

  Accordingly, the Duke set out once more on his quest of the Bird in Hand, choosing this time to go by the pike-road as far as to the cross-road leading to Shefford. He was obliged to traverse some distance down a rough lane, but a little way beyond the village of Arlesey the Bird in Hand came into sight, a solitary alehouse standing amongst some tumbledown outhouses and barns, and displaying a weather-beaten and much obliterated sign on two rusty chains which creaked when the wind swayed them. The house was a small one, and might from its situation have been supposed to have catered merely for farm-labourers. It had a neglected appearance, but an impression that it was slightly sinister the Duke attributed to his imagination. He drew up, and alighted from the gig, tethering the cob to a post. At this hour of the day there were no signs of life about the inn, and when he reached the door, and entered the tap-room into which it led, he found no one there. The room was small, and fetid with the fumes of stale smoke from countless clay pipes, and the droppings of gin and ale. The Duke’s nostrils curled fastidiously, and he walked over to an inner door, and pushed it open, calling: ‘House! house!’

  After a prolonged pause, a spare individual in a plush waistcoat shining with grease shuffled out from the nether regions of the hostelry, and stood staring at the Duke with his mouth open and his watery eyes popping out of their sockets. Several teeth were missing from his jaw, and a broken nose added nothing to the comeliness of his face. The sight of a well-dressed stranger within the precincts of the inn appeared to bereave him of all power of speech.

  ‘Good afternoon!’ said the Duke pleasantly. ‘Have you a Mr Liversedge staying at this inn?’

  The man in the plush waistcoat blinked at him, and said enigmatically: ‘Ah!’

  The Duke drew out his pocket-book, and produced from it his cousin’s card. ‘Be so good as to take that up to him!’ he said.

  The man in the plush waistcoat wiped his hand mechanically on his breeches, and took the card, and stood holding it doubtfully, and still staring at the Duke. The sight of the pocket-book had made his eyes glisten a little, and the Duke could only be glad that he had had the forethought to leave the bulk of his money at the White Horse. The presence of the pistol in his pocket was also a comfort.

  He was just about to request his bemused new acquaintance to bestir himself, when a door apparently leading out to the stableyard opened, and a burly man with grizzled hair, and a square, ill-shaven countenance appeared upon the scene. He cast the Duke a swift, suspicious look out of his narrowed eyes, and asked in a wary tone what his business might be. The man in the plush waistcoat mutely held out Mr Ware’s elegantly engraved visiting-card.

  ‘I have business with Mr Liversedge,’ said the Duke.

  This piece of information seemed to afford the newcomer no gratification, for he shot another and still more suspicious look at Gilly, and removed the card from his henchman’s hand. It took him a little time to spell out the legend it bore, but he did it at last, and it seemed to the Duke that although his suspicion did not abate, it became tinged with uneasiness. He fixed his eyes, which held no very pleasant expression, on the Duke, and palpably weighed him up. Apparently he saw nothing in the slight, boyish figure before him to occasion more than contempt, for his uneasy look vanished, and he gave a hoarse chuckle, and said: ‘Ho! it is, is it? Well, I dunno, but I’ll see.’

  He then mounted a creaking stair, and the Duke was left to endure the gaze of the man in the plush waistcoat.

  After a prolonged interval, the landlord reappeared. The Duke had caught the echoes of his voice raised in argument in some room above; and it seemed to him when he came downstairs that his uneasiness had returned. The Duke should have been able to sympathise with him: he was feeling a little uneasy himself.

  ‘You’ll please to come up, sir,’ said the landlord, with the air of one repeating a hard-learned lesson.

  The Duke, who had slid one hand unobtrusively into the pocket of his drab Benjamin, and closed it round the reassuring butt of Mr Joseph Manton’s pistol, drew a breath, and trod up the stairs.

  He was led down a passage to a room at the back of the house. The landlord thrust the door wide, and announced him in simple terms: ‘Here he is, Sa – sir!’ he said.

  The Duke found himself upon the threshold of a square and not uncomfortable apartment which had been fitted up as a parlour. It was very much cleaner than the rest of the house, and it was plain that efforts had been made to achieve a semblance of elegance. The curtains, though faded, had lately been washed; the table in the centre of the room was covered with a red cloth; and one or two portable objects seemed to indicate that the guest at present inhabiting the room had brought with him various articles of furniture of his own.

  Standing before a small fire, was a middle-aged gentleman of somewhat portly habit of body, and a bland, pallid countenance surmounted by a fine crop of iron-grey hair, swept up into a fashionable Brutus. He was dressed with great propriety in a dark cloth coat, and light pantaloons; the points of his shirt-collar brushed his whiskers; his cravat was arranged with nicety; and it was only upon closer examination that the Duke perceived that his elegant coat was sadly shiny, and his shirt by no means innocent of darns. There was a strong resemblance between him and the landlord, but his countenance had an air of unshakable good-humour, which the landlord’s lacked, and nothing could have exceeded the gentility with which he came forward, holding out a plump hand, and saying: ‘Ah, Mr Ware! I am very happy to receive this visit from you!’

  The Duke had by this time visualised the possibility of his corpse being cast into the evil-smelling pond beside the inn, but he could see no obligation on him to take Mr Liversedge’s hand, and he merely bowed. Mr Liversedge, whose eyes had been running over him shrewdly, smiled more widely than ever, and drew out a chair from the table, and said: ‘Let us be seated, sir! Alas, you have come upon a very painful errand! I assure you I feel for you, sir, for I have been young myself, but my duty is to my unfortunate niece. Ah, Mr Ware, you little know the pain and grief – I may say the chagrin – you have inflicted on one whose tender heart has been so undeservedly smitten!’ Overcome by the picture his own words had conjured up, he disappeared for a moment or two into a large handkerchief.

  The Duke sat down, and laid his hat on the table. He said in his diffident way: ‘Indeed, I am sorry for that, Mr Liversedge. I should not wish to cause any female pain or grief.’

  Mr Liversedge raised his bowed head. ‘There,’ he said, much moved, ‘speaks a member of the Quality! I knew it, Mr Ware! True Blue! When my niece has wept upon this bosom, declaring herself forsaken and betrayed, My love, I have said, depend upon it a scion of that noble house will not fail to do you right! I thank God, Mr Ware, that my faith in humanity is not to be rudely shaken!’

  ‘I hope not, indeed,’ said the Duke. ‘But, you know, I had no notion that your niece’s affections were so deeply engaged.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Mr Liversedge, ‘you are young! you do not yet know the depths of woman’s heart!’

  ‘No,’ agreed the Duke. ‘But will money allay the – the pangs of grief and chagrin?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Liversedge simply.

  The Duke could not help smiling at this. He said in a meek tone: ‘Forgive me, Mr Liversedge, but is not a – a transaction of this nature repugnant to a man of your sensibility?’

  ‘Mr Ware,’ said Mr Liversedge, ‘I shall not conceal from you that it is deeply repugnant. I am, as you have divined, a man of sensibility, and it is with profound reluctan