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 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.