When he reached the White Horse again, he found that although Belinda had packed her bandboxes, Tom was by no means ready to depart, having, in fact, made no attempt to stow away the articles of apparel procured for him into the carpet-bag which was all the Duke had been able to find in Baldock for the carriage of his effects. Tom had expended some part of the guinea the Duke had given him on the acquisition of a fascinating new toy, called, not without reason, Diabolo. He had already succeeded in breaking a water-bottle, and a cherished vase of unsurpassed hideousness which Mrs. Appleby stated had belonged to her husband’s grandfather and was quite irreplaceable. The Duke was greeted on his arrival with a strongly worded complaint from Mrs. Appleby, and a simple request from Belinda to buy her a Diabolo too. However, Tom, who found that he did not excel in manipulating the toy, said loftily that it was a stupid thing, and very handsomely made Belinda a present of it. But the Duke was obliged to do his packing for him, and by the time he had left Tom to strap up the carpet-bag, and had dealt with his own effects, and settled his reckoning with Mrs. Appleby, the hired chaise was at the door. He saw his charges into it, directed the post-boy to take them to the Sun Inn at Hitchin, and turned to take his leave of Mrs. Appleby.
“Mark my words, Mr. Rufford, sir,” she said bodingly, “you will live to regret it, for if ever I saw a light-skirt, which I never thought to soil my lips with such a word, I see one this day!”
“Nonsense!” said Gilly, and sprang up into the chaise.
“This,” declared Belinda buoyantly, “is beyond anything great, sir! To be jauntering about in a private chaise like a real lady, as fine as a star! If Mrs. Pilling were to see me now she would not credit her eyes, I daresay! Oh, if only Mr. Liversedge does not find me, and take me back again!”
“Mr. Liversedge,” said Gilly, “has a great deal of effrontery, but hardly enough, I dare swear, for that! Let us put him out of our minds!” He saw that she was still looking vaguely scared, and smiled. “There is nothing more he can do, Belinda, after all! Ten to one, he is by this time turning his mind into other channels.”
But little though he knew it he had wronged Mr. Liversedge. That gentleman had found himself so very far from well on the previous evening that he had been quite unable to bend his powerful mind to any more difficult problem than how he could most expeditiously cure the shocking headache that nearly blinded him. He bad gone to lie down upon his bed, and had responded to a suggestion that he would be better for a bite of supper only by a hollow groan. Mr. Minims, regarding him with a scornful eye, offered him consolation in the form of a reminder that he had warned him that no good could come of flying at game too high for him.
“You leave them swell bleaters be, Sam!” he adjured the prostrate sufferer. “Then maybe you won’t have no broken head another time!”
Mr. Liversedge opened a bloodshot eye. “Swithin!” he found strength to utter.
“Sam you was christened, and much good it done you to go a-giving yourself a silly flash name like Swithin!” said Mr. Mimms severely. “Well, if you don’t want no peck and booze there’ll be more for them as does, that’s one thing!”
On this cheering thought, he departed, leaving his afflicted brother to spread a cold compress over his head and to take another pull at the brandy bottle.
It was some hours later before Mr. Liversedge felt able to rise from his couch, and to totter downstairs to the kitchen. He still wore the Duke’s handkerchief knotted round his head, and he had by no means recovered his complexion, but the pangs of hunger had begun to attack him. He pushed open the kitchen door, and found that his brother was entertaining a guest, a thin, wiry gentleman, who wore a riding-suit of sober-coloured cloth, and a pair of well-fitting boots that seemed to have seen much service. He had a pair of bright grey eyes, which lifted quickly and warily as the door opened. He was in the act of consuming a prodigious portion of cold beef, but he held his knife suspended for an instant, until he saw who it was that had entered, when he relaxed, and waved the laden knife at Mr. Liversedge, saying cheerfully: “Hallo, Sam, old gager!”
Mr. Mimms, who was seated on the opposite side of the table, engaged in inspecting a collection of watches, purses, fobs, and rings, cast an appraising look at Mr. Liversedge, and said: “That flash mort of yours has loped off.”
Mr. Liversedge drew up a spare chair, and lowered himself into it, “Where to?” he demanded.
“I dunno, nor I don’t care. How you ever come to think there was any good to be got out of such a bird-witted wench downright queers me! Good riddance to her, that’s what I say!”
“Bird-witted she may be,” replied Mr. Liversedge fair-mindedly, “but where, I ask you to tell me, Joe, could you find a more lovely piece?”
The gentleman in riding-dress paused between mouthfuls to heave a deep sigh. “Ah, if ever I see such a rare bleached mort!” he said, shaking his head. “What a highflyer, Sam! But no sense in her cockloft, which makes her dangerous ware for a man like me. Else I would have—”
“You would have done no such thing, Nat Shifnal, as I have erstwhile made plain to you!” said Mr. Liversedge. “Nothing could be more fatal for a man in my position than to be bringing damaged goods to market!” He stretched out a hand for the dish on which a somewhat mutilated sirloin of beef reposed, and drew it towards him. “I will trouble you for the carving-knife, Joe,” he said, with dignity.
His brother pushed it across the table. “She’s loped off in pudding-time, that’s what I say and will hold to!” he announced. “If you had of gone on the dub-lay, Sam, it’s low, but not a word would you have heard out of me! Nor I wouldn’t have blamed you for turning bridle-cull, like Nat here. But you took and tried to be a petticoat-pensioner, and that’s what I don’t hold with, and nothing will make me say different!”
Mr. Liversedge replied in a lofty tone that he would thank his brother not to use such vulgar terms to him. “There is, I will grant, a certain distinction attached to those who embrace the High Toby as their profession. But the dub-lay—or, as I prefer to call it, the very ignoble calling of a common pickpocket—is something I thank God I have never yet been obliged even to contemplate!”
“No, because every time as you’re nippered it’s me as stands huff!” retorted Mr. Minims.
“Easy, now, easy!” begged Mr. Shifnal placably. “I don’t say as Sam done right this time, but there’s no denying, Joe, he’s got gifts. For one thing, he talks as nice as a nun’s hen; and for another, there ain’t anyone to touch him for drinking a young ’un into a fit state for plucking.”
“Then let him stick to it!” retorted Mr. Mimms. “I got nothing against that lay, but petticoat-pensioners I can’t stomach!”
Mr. Shifnal regarded Mr. Liversedge curiously. “How did you come to be diddled by a greenhorn, Sam? It ain’t like you, I’ll cap downright! By what Joe tells me, you shouldn’t have had trouble in plucking that pigeon.”
Mr. Liversedge described an airy gesture with one white hand. “The greatest amongst us must sometimes err. I own that I erred. Talking pays no toll, or I might be tempted to say much in extenuation of what I admit to have been a misjudgment.”
“It wouldn’t be no use talking them breakteeth words to Nat,” said Mr. Mimms caustically. “He ain’t had your advantages, Sam, for all he’s able to pay his shot, and don’t have to come down on me for the very bread he puts in his mummer.”
Mr. Liversedge’s bosom swelled perceptibly, but after looking hard at his brother for a moment he apparently decided to ignore his lapse from good taste. He said: “What I ask myself is, Who was he?”