Fourteen
Not for three days did any news of the disasters which had overtaken Bertram reach his sister.
She had written to beg him to meet by the Bath Gate in the Green Park, and had sent the letter by the Penny Post. When he neither appeared at the rendezvous nor replied to her letter, she began to be seriously alarmed and was trying to think of a way of visiting the Red Lion without her godmother’s knowledge when Mr Scunthorpe sent up his card, at three o’clock one afternoon.
She desired the butler to show him into the drawing-room, and went down immediately from her bed-chamber to receive him.
It did not at once strike her that he was looking preternaturally solemn; she was too eager to learn tidings of Bertram, and went impetuously towards him with her hand held out, exclaiming: ‘I am so very glad you have called to see me, sir! I have been so much worried about my brother! Have you news of him? Oh, do not tell me he is ill?’
Mr Scunthorpe bowed, cleared his throat, and grasped her hand spasmodically. In a somewhat throaty voice he replied: ‘No, ma’am. Oh, no! Not ill , precisely!’
Her eyes eagerly scanned his face. She now perceived that his countenance wore an expression of deep melancholy, and felt immediately sick with apprehension. She managed to say: ‘Not – not – dead ?’
‘Well, no, he ain’t dead,’ replied Mr Scunthorpe, but hardly in a reassuring tone. ‘I suppose you might say it ain’t as bad as that. Though, mind you, I wouldn’t say he won’t be dead, if we don’t take care, because when a fellow takes to – But never mind that!’
‘Never mind it?’ cried Arabella, pale with a alarm. ‘Oh, what can be the matter? Pray, pray tell me instantly!’
Mr Scunthorpe looked at her uneasily. ‘Better have some smelling-salts,’ he suggested. ‘No wish to upset a lady. Nasty shock. Daresay you’d like a glass of hartshorn and water. Ring for a servant!’
‘No, no, I need nothing! Pray do not! Only put me out of this agony of suspense!’ Arabella implored him, clinging with both hands to the back of a chair.
Mr Scunthorpe cleared his throat again. ‘Thought it best to come to you,’ he said. ‘Sister. Happy to be of service myself, but at a standstill. Temporary, of course, but there it is. Must tow poor Bertram out of the River Tick!’
‘River?’ gasped Arabella.
Mr Scunthorpe perceived that he had been misunderstood. He made haste to rectify this. ‘No, no, not drowned!’ he assured her. ‘Swallowed a spider!’
‘Bertram has swallowed a spider?’ Arabella repeated, in a dazed voice.
Mr Scunthorpe nodded. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Blown up at Point Non Plus. Poor fellow knocked into horse-nails!’
Arabella’s head was by this time in such a whirl that she was uncertain whether her unfortunate brother had fallen into the river, or had been injured in some explosion, or was more mildly, suffering from an internal disorder.
Her pulse was tumultuous; the most agitating reflections made it impossible for her to speak above a whisper.
She managed to utter: ‘Is he dreadfully hurt? Have they taken him to a hospital?’
‘Not a case for a hospital, ma’am,’ said Mr Scunthorpe. ‘More likely to be screwed up.’
This pronouncement, conjuring up the most horrid vision of a coffin, almost deprived Arabella of her senses. Her eyes started at Mr Scunthorpe in a look of painful enquiry. ‘Screwed up?’ she repeated faintly.
‘The Fleet,’ corroborated Mr Scunthorpe, sadly shaking his head. ‘Told him how it would be. Wouldn’t listen. Mind, if the thing had come off right, he could have paid down his dust, and no harm done. Trouble was, it didn’t. Very rarely does, if you ask me.’
The gist of this speech, gradually penetrating to Arabella’s understanding, brought some of the colour back to her face. She sank into a chair, her legs trembling violently, and said. ‘Do you mean he is in debt ?’
Mr Scunthorpe looked at her in mild surprise. ‘Told you so, ma’am!’ he pointed out.
‘Good God, how could I possibly guess – ? Oh, I have been so afraid that something of the sort must happen! Thank you for coming to me, sir! You did very right!’
Mr Scunthorpe blushed. ‘Always happy to be of service!’
‘I must go to him!’ Arabella said. ‘Will you be so kind as to escort me? I do not care to take my maid on such an errand, and I think perhaps I should not go alone.’
‘No, wouldn’t do at all,’ Mr Scunthorpe agreed. ‘But better not go, ma’am! Not the thing for you. Delicate female – shabby neighbourhood! Take a message.’
‘Nonsense! Do you think I have never been to the City? Only wait until I have fetched a bonnet, and a shawl! We may take a hackney, and be there before Lady Bridlington comes downstairs.’
‘Yes, but – Fact is, ma’am, he ain’t at the Red Lion!’ said Mr Scunthorpe, much disturbed.
She had sprung up from her chair, but at this she paused. ‘Not? But how is this? Why has he left the inn?’
‘Couldn’t pay his shot,’ explained Mr Scunthorpe apologetically. ‘Left his watch. Silly thing to do. Might have come in useful.’
‘Oh!’ she cried out, horror in her voice. ‘Is it as bad as that ?’
‘Worse!’ said Mr Scunthorpe gloomily. ‘Got queered sporting his blunt on the table. Only hadn’t enough blunt. Took to signing vowels, and ran aground.’
‘ Gaming! ’ Arabella breathed, in a shocked voice.
‘Faro,’ said Mr Scunthorpe. ‘Mind, no question of any Greeking transactions! No fuzzing, or handling the concavesuit! Not but what it makes it worse, because a fellow has to be dashed particular in all matters of play and pay, if he goes to the Nonesuch. All the go, I assure you: Corinthian club – best of good ton ! They play devilish huge there – above my touch!’
‘Then it was not you who took him to such a place!’
‘Couldn’t have been,’ said Mr Scunthorpe simply. ‘Not a member. Chuffy Wivenhoe.’
‘Lord Wivenhoe! Oh, what a fool I have been!’ cried Arabella. ‘It was I who made him known to Lord Wivenhoe!’
‘Pity,’ said Mr Scunthorpe, shaking his head.
‘But how wicked of him to have led Bertram to such a place! Oh, how could he have done so? I had no suspicion – I thought him so agreeable, and gentlemanlike – !’
‘Polite to a point,’ agreed Mr Scunthorpe. ‘Very good sort of a man: very well-liked. Daresay he did it for the best.’
‘How could he think so?’ Arabella said hotly.
‘Very exclusive club,’ he pointed out.
She said impatiently. ‘It is of no use for us to argue on that head. Where is Bertram?’
‘Don’t think you’d know the place, ma’am. It’s – it’s near Westminster!’
‘Very well, let us go there at once!’
In considerable agitation, Mr Scunthorpe said: ‘No, dash it! Can’t take a lady to Willow Walk!
You don’t quite understand, ma’am! Poor Bertram – couldn’t pay his shot – not a meg on him – duns in his pocket – tipstaffs after him – had to give ’em all the bag!
Can’t quite make out exactly how it was, but think he must have gone back to the Red Lion when he left the Nonesuch, because he has his portmanteau with him.
Seems to have bolted for it to Tothill Fields.
Very low back-slum, ma’am. Silly fellow ought to have come and knocked me up – happy to have given him my sofa! ’
‘Good God, why did he not?’
He coughed in an embarrassed way. ‘Might have been a little bit on the go,’ he said diffidently.
‘Scared of being pounded by the tipstaffs, too. Come to think of it, might easily be if he stayed with me. Dashed tradesmen know he’s a friend of mine!
At all events, he ain’t with me – didn’t send me word where he was till this morning – feeling too blue-devilled, I daresay. Don’t blame him: would myself!’
‘Oh, poor Bertram, poor Bertram!’ she cried, wringing her hands. ‘I do not care where he is, see him I must, if I have to go to this Willow Walk alone!’
‘Good God, ma’am, mustn’t do that!’ he exclaimed, appalled. ‘Very rough set of coves in Willow Walk! Besides –’ He paused, looking acutely uncomfortable. ‘Not quite himself!’
‘Oh, he must be ill with worry, and despair! Nothing would keep me from him at a such a time! I will fetch my bonnet, and we may be off directly!’
‘Ma’am, he won’t like it!’ Mr Scunthorpe said desperately. ‘Very likely be ready to murder me only for telling you! You can’t see him!’
‘Why can I not?’
‘He’s been in the sun a trifle! You see – very understandable thing to do! – shot the cat!’
‘ Shot the cat? ’
‘Can’t blame him!’ Mr Scunthorpe pleaded. ‘Wouldn’t have told you, if you hadn’t been so set on seeing him! Felt desperate – shot the cat – felt better – kept on swallowing balls of fire – result, looking as queer as Dick’s hatband, when I saw him!’
‘Do you mean that he has been drinking?’ demanded Arabella. ‘What, in heaven’s name, is a ball of fire?’
‘Brandy,’ said Mr Scunthorpe. ‘Devilish bad brandy too. Told him to make Blue Ruin the preferred suit. Safer.’
‘Every word you say makes me the more determined to go to him!’ declared Arabella.
‘Assure you much better to send him some blunt, ma’am!’
‘I will take him all I have, but oh, it is so little! I cannot think yet what is to be done!’
Mr Scunthorpe pointed significantly to the ceiling. ‘You don’t think the old lady – ?’ he suggested delicately.
She shook her head. ‘Oh, no, no! Impossible!’
Mr Scunthorpe looked a little thoughtful. ‘In that case, ma’am, better take you to him. Talking very wildly this morning. No saying what he might do.’
She almost ran to the door. ‘We have not a moment to waste, then!’
‘No, no!’ he assured her. ‘No need to be on the fret! Won’t cut his throat today! Told the girl to hide his razor.’
‘What girl?’
He became very much confused, blushed, and uttered: ‘Girl he sent to my lodging with a message. Been looking after him.’
‘Oh, God bless her!’ Arabella cried fervently. ‘What is her name? How much I must owe her!’