His Grace's offer was accepted with a readiness he could scarce have
expected, and we all left the room in the midst of a buzz of comment.
We knew well that the matter was not so haphazard as it appeared, and on
the way to Hanover Square Comyn more than once stepped on my toe, and
I answered the pressure. Our coats and canes were taken by the duke's
lackeys when we arrived. We were shown over the house. Until now--so his
Grace informed us--it had not been changed since the time of the fourth
duke, who, as we doubtless knew, had been an ardent supporter of the
Hanoverian succession. The rooms were high-panelled and furnished in
the German style, as was the fashion when the Square was built. But some
were stripped and littered with scaffolding and plaster, new and costly
marble mantels were replacing the wood, and an Italian of some renown
was decorating the ceilings. His Grace appeared to be at some pains that
the significance of these improvements should not be lost upon us; was
constantly appealing to Mr. Fox's taste on this or that feature. But
those fishy eyes of his were so alert that we had not even opportunity
to wink. It was wholly patent, in brief, that the Duke of Chartersea
meant to be married, and had brought Charles and Comyn hither with a
purpose. For me he would have put himself out not an inch had he not
understood that my support came from those quarters.
He tempered off this exhibition by showing us a collection of pottery
famous in England, that had belonged to the fifth duke, his father.
Every piece of it, by the way, afterwards brought an enormous sum at
auction. Supper was served in a warm little room of oak. The game was
from Derresley Manor, the duke's Nottinghamshire seat, and the wine, so
he told us, was some of fifty bottles of rare Chinon he had inherited.
Melted rubies it was indeed, of the sort which had quickened the blood
of many a royal gathering at Blois and Amboise and Chenonceaux,--the
distilled peasant song of the Loire valley. In it many a careworn clown
had tasted the purer happiness of the lowly. Our restraint gave way
under its influence. His Grace lost for the moment his deformities, and
Mr. Fox made us laugh until our sides ached again. His Lordship
told many a capital yarn, and my own wit was afterwards said to be
astonishing, though I can recall none of it to support the affirmation.
Not a word or even a hint of Dorothy had been uttered, nor did
Chartersea so much as refer to his Covent Garden experience. At length,
when some half dozen of the wine was gone, and the big oak clock had
struck two, the talk lapsed. It was Charles Fox, of course, who threw
the spark into the powder box.
“We were speaking of hunting, Chartersea,” he said. “Did you ever know
George Wrottlesey, of the Suffolk branch?”
“No,” said his Grace, very innocent.
“No! 'Od's whips and spurs, I'll be sworn I never saw a man to beat him
for reckless riding. He would take five bars any time, egad, and sit any
colt that was ever foaled. The Wrottleseys were poor as weavers then,
with the Jews coming down in the wagon from London and hanging round
the hall gates. But the old squire had plenty of good hunters in the
stables, and haunches on the board, and a cellar that was like the
widow's cruse of oil, or barrel of meal--or whatever she had. All the
old man had to do to lose a guinea was to lay it on a card. He never
nicked in his life, so they say. Well, young George got after a rich
tea-merchant's daughter who had come into the country near by. 'Slife!
she was a saucy jade, and devilish pretty. Such a face! so Stavordale
vowed, and such a neck! and such eyes! so innocent, so ravishingly
innocent. But she knew cursed well George was after the bank deposit,
and kept him galloping. And when he got a view, halloa, egad! she was
stole away again, and no scent.
“One morning George was out after the hounds with Stavordale, who told
me the story, and a lot of fellows who had come over from Newmarket. He
was upon Aftermath, the horse that Foley bought for five hundred pounds
and was a colt then. Of course he left the field out of sight behind. He
made for a gap in the park wall (faith! there was no lack of 'em), but
the colt refused, and over went George and plumped into a cart of winter
apples some farmer's sot was taking to Bury Saint Edmunds to market. The
fall knocked the sense out of George, for he hasn't much, and Stavordale
thinks he must have struck a stake as he went in. Anyway, the apples
rolled over on top of him, and the drunkard on the seat never woke up,
i' faith. And so they came to town.
“It so chanced, egad, that the devil sent Miss Tea Merchant to Bury to
buy apples. She amused herself at playing country gentlewoman while papa
worked all week in the city. She saw the cart in the market, and ate
three (for she had the health of a barmaid), and bid in the load, and
George with it. 'Pon my soul! she did. They found his boots first. And
the lady said, before all the grinning Johns and Willums, that since
she had bought him she supposed she would have to keep him. And, by Gads
life! she has got him yet, which is a deal stranger.”
Even the duke laughed. For, as Fox told it, the story was irresistible.
But it came as near to being a wanton insult as a reference to his
Grace's own episode might. The red came slowly back into his eye. Fox
stared vacantly, as was his habit when he had done or said something
especially daring. And Comyn and I waited, straining and expectant, like
boys who have prodded a wild beast and stand ready for the spring. There
was a metallic ring in the duke's voice as he spoke.
“I have heard, Mr. Carvel, that you can ride any mount offered you.”
“Od's, and so he can!” cried Jack. “I'll take oath on that.”
“I will lay you an hundred guineas, my Lord,” says his Grace, very
off-hand, “that Mr. Carvel does not sit Baltimore's Pollux above twenty
minutes.”
“Done!” says Jack, before I could draw breath.
“I'll take your Grace for another hundred,” calmly added Mr. Fox.
“It seems to me, your Grace,” I cried, angry all at once, “it seems to
me that I am the one to whom you should address your wagers. I am not
a jockey, to be put up at your whim, and to give you the chance to lose
money.”
Chartersea swung around my way.
“Your pardon, Mr. Carvel,” said he, very coolly, very politely; “yours
is the choice of the wager. And you reject it, the others must be called
off.”
“Slife! I double it!” I said hotly, “provided the horse is alive, and
will stand up.”
“Devilish well put, Richard!” Mr. Fox exclaimed, casting off his
restraint.
“I give you my word the horse is alive, sir,” he answered, with a mock
bow; “'twas only yesterday that he killed his groom, at Hampstead.”
A few moments of silence followed this revelation. It was Charles Fox
who spoke first.
“I make no doubt that your Grace, as a man of honour,”--he emphasized
the word forcibly,--“will not refuse to ride the horse for another
twenty minutes, provided Mr. Carvel is successful. And I will lay your
Grace another hundred that you are thrown, or run away with.”
Truly, to cope with a wit like Mr. Fox's, the duke had need for a longer
head. He grew livid as he perceived how neatly he had been snared in his
own trap.
“Done!” he cried loudly; “done, gentlemen. It only remains to hit upon
time and place for the contest. I go to York to-morrow, to be back
this day fortnight. And if you will do me the favour of arranging
with Baltimore for the horse, I shall be obliged. I believe he intends
selling it to Astley, the showman.”
“And are we to keep it?” asks Mr. Fox.
“I am dealing with men of honour,” says the duke, with a bow: “I need
have no better assurance that the horse will not be ridden in the
interval.”
“'Od so!” said Comyn, when we were out; “very handsome of him. But I
would not say as much for his Grace.”
And Mr. Fox declared that the duke was no coward, but all other epithets
known might be called him. “A very diverting evening, Richard,” said he;
“let's to your apartments and have a bowl, and talk it over.”
And thither we went.
I did not sleep much that night, but 'twas of Dolly I thought rather
than of Chartersea. I was abroad early, and over to inquire in Arlington
Street, where I found she had passed a good night. And I sent Banks
a-hooting for some violets to send her, for I knew she loved that
flower.
Between ten and eleven Mr. Fox and Comyn and I set out for Baltimore
House. When you go to London, my dears, you will find a vast difference
in the neighbourhood of Bloomsbury from what it was that May morning
in 1770. Great Russell Street was all a sweet fragrance of gardens,
mingling with the smell of the fields from the open country to the
north. We drove past red Montagu House with its stone facings and dome,
like a French hotel, and the cluster of buildings at its great gate. It
had been then for over a decade the British Museum. The ground behind
it was a great resort for Londoners of that day. Many a sad affair was
fought there, but on that morning we saw a merry party on their way to
play prisoner's base.
Then we came to the gardens in front of Bedford House, which are now
Bloomsbury Square. For my part I preferred this latter mansion to the
French creation by its side, and admired its long and graceful lines.
Its windows commanded a sweep from Holborn on the south to Highgate on
the north. To the east of it, along Southampton Row, a few great houses
had gone up or were building; and at the far end of that was Baltimore
house, overlooking her Grace of Bedford's gardens. Beyond Lamb's Conduit
Fields stretched away to the countryside.
I own I had a lively curiosity to see that lordly ruler, the proprietor
of our province, whose birthday we celebrated after his Majesty's. Had
I not been in a great measure prepared, I should have had a revulsion
indeed.
When he heard that Mr. Fox and my Lord Comyn were below stairs he
gave orders to show them up to his bedroom, where he received us in a
night-gown embroidered with oranges. My Lord Baltimore, alas! was not
much to see. He did not make the figure a ruler should as he sat in his
easy chair, and whined and cursed his Swiss. He was scarce a year over
forty, and he had all but run his race. Dissipation and corrosion had
set their seal upon him, had stamped his yellow face with crows' feet
and blotted it with pimples. But then the glimpse of a fine gentleman
just out of bed of a morning, before he is made for the day, is unfair.
“Morning, Charles! Howdy, Jack!” said his Lordship, apathetically. “Glad
to know you, Mr. Carvel. Heard of your family. 'Slife! Wish there were
more like 'em in the province.”
This sentiment not sitting very well upon his Lordship, I bowed, and
said nothing.
“By the bye,” he continued, pouring out his chocolate into the dish,
“I sent a damned rake of a parson out there some years gone. Handsome
devil, too. Never seen his match with the women, egad. 'Od's fish--”
he leered. And then added with an oath and a nod and a vile remark:
“Married three times to my knowledge. Carried off dozen or so more. Some
of 'em for me. Many a good night I've had with him. Drank between us one
evening at Essex's gallon and half Champagne and Burgundy apiece. He got
to know too much, y' know,” he concluded, with a wicked wink. “Had to
buy him up pack him off.”
“His name, Fred?” said Comyn, with a smile at me.
“'Sdeath! That's it. Trouble to remember. Damned if I can think.” And he
repeated this remark over and over.
“Allen?” said Comyn.
“Yes,” said Baltimore; “Allen. And egad I think he'll find hell a hotter
place than me. You know him, Mr. Carvel?”
“Yes,” I replied. I said no more. I make no reservations when I avow I
was never so disgusted in my life. But as I looked upon him, haggard
and worn, with retribution so neat at hand, I had no words to protest or
condemn.
Baltimore gave a hollow mirthless laugh, stopped short, and looked at
Charles Fox.
“Curse you, Charles! I suppose you are after that little matter I owe
you for quinze.”
“Damn the little matter!” said Fox. “Come, get you perfumed and dressed,
and order up some of your Tokay while we wait. I have to go to St.
Stephens. Mr. Carvel has come to buy your horse Pollux. He has bet
Chartersea two hundred guineas he rides him for twenty minutes.”
“The devil he has!” cried his Lordship, jaded no longer. “Why, you must
know, Mr. Carvel, there was no groom in my stables who would sit him
until Foley made me a present of his man, Miller, who started to ride
him to Hyde Park. As he came out of Great Russell Street, by gads life!
the horse broke and ran out the Tottenham Court Road all the way to
Hampstead. And the fiend picked out a big stone water trough and tossed
Miller against it. Then they gathered up the fragments. Damme if I like
to see suicide, Mr. Carvel. If Chartersea wants to kill you, let him try
it in the fields behind Montagu House here.”
I told his Lordship that I had made the wager, and could not in honour
withdraw, though the horse had killed a dozen grooms. But already he
seemed to have lost interest. He gave a languid pull at the velvet
tassel on his bell-rope, ordered the wine; and, being informed that
his anteroom below was full of people, had them all dismissed with the
message that he was engaged upon important affairs. He told Mr. Fox
he had heard of the Jerusalem Chamber, and vowed he would have a like
institution. He told me he wished the colony of Maryland in hell; that
he was worn out with the quarrels of Governor Eden and his Assembly, and
offered to lay a guinea that the Governor's agent would get to him that
day,--will-he, nill-he. I did not think it worth while to argue with
such a man.
My Lord took three-quarters of an hour to dress, and swore he had not
accomplished the feat so quickly in a year. He washed his hands and face
in a silver basin, and the scent of the soap filled the room. He rated
his Swiss for putting cinnamon upon his ruffles in place of attar of
roses, and attempted to regale us the while with some of his choicest
adventures. In more than one of these, by the way, his Grace of
Chartersea figured. It was Fox who brought him up.
“See here, Baltimore,” he said, “I'm not squeamish. But I'm cursed if I
like to hear a man who may die any time between bottles talk so.”
His Lordship took the rebuke with an oath, and presently hobbled down
the stairs of the great and silent house to the stable court, where
two grooms were in waiting with the horse. He was an animal of amazing
power, about sixteen hands, and dapple gray in colour. And it required
no special knowledge to see that he had a devil inside him. It gleamed
wickedly out of his eye.
“'Od's life, Richard!” cried Charles, “he has a Jew nose; by all the
seven tribes I bid you 'ware of him.”
“You have but to ride him with a gold bit, Richard,” said Comyn, “and he
is a kitten, I'll warrant.”
At that moment Pollux began to rear and kick, so that it took both the
'ostlers to hold him.
“Show him a sovereign,” suggested Fox. “How do you feel, Richard?”
“I never feared a horse yet,” I said with perfect truth, “nor do I fear
this one, though I know he may kill me.”
“I'll lay you twenty pounds you have at least one bone broken, and ten
that you are killed,” Baltimore puts in querulously, from the doorway.
“I'll do this, my Lord,” I answered. “If I ride him, he is mine. If he
throws me, I give you twenty pounds for him.”
The gentlemen laughed, and Baltimore vowed he could sell the horse to
Astley for fifty; that Pollux was the son of Renown, of the Duke
of Kingston's stud, and much more. But Charles rallied him out by
a reference to the debt at quinze, and an appeal to his honour as a
sportsman. And swore he was discouraging one of the prettiest encounters
that would take place in England for many a long day. And so the horse
was sent to the stables of the White Horse Cellar, in Piccadilly, and
left there at my order.