Her eyes were very fine, her manner frank and engaging. Moreover, the Duke hated to see people disappointed. Thus the thing might just as well have happened as not. And on so narrow a point did the issue stand that to this day certain persons declare that it – or part of it – did happen; for why, and on what account, they ask, should an experienced connoisseur (and such undoubtedly was the Duke of Belleville) present a young lady previously unknown to him (or, for the matter of that, any young lady at all, whether known or not known to him) with such a rare, costly, and precious thing as the Queen Bess flagon? For the fact is – let the meaning and significance of the fact be what they will – that when the young lady, gazing fondly the while on the flagon, exclaimed, “I never really cared about him much, but I should have liked the beautiful flagon!” the Duke answered (he was still leaning over her chair, in order the better to explain and trace the figure on the flagon):
“Of him you are well rid. But permit me to request your acceptance of the flagon. The real Duke of Belleville, madam, must not be outdone by his counterfeit.”
“Really?” cried the young lady.
“Of course,” murmured the Duke, delighted with the pleasure which he saw in her eyes.
The young lady turned a most grateful and almost affectionate glance on the Duke. Although ignorant of the true value of the Queen Bess flagon, she was aware that the Duke had made her a very handsome present.
“Thank you,” said she, putting her hands into the Duke’s.
At this moment a loud and somewhat strident voice proceeded from the door of the room.
“Well, I never! And how did you come here?”
The Duke, looking round, perceived a stout woman, clad in a black petticoat and a woollen shawl; her arms were akimbo.
“We came in, madam,” said he, rising and bowing, “by the hall door, which we chanced to find open.”
The stout woman appeared to be at a loss for words. At length, however, she gasped out:
“Be off with you. Don’t let the Inspector catch you here!”
The Duke looked doubtfully at the young lady.
“The woman probably misunderstands,” he murmured. The young lady blushed slightly. The Inspector’s wife advanced with a threatening demeanour.
“Who are you?” she asked abruptly.
“I, madam,” began the Duke, “am the – ”
“I don’t see that it matters who we are,” interposed the young lady.
“Possibly not,” admitted the Duke, with a smile.
The young lady rose, went to a little mirror that hung on the wall, and adjusted the curls which appeared from under the brim of her hat.
“Dear me,” said she, turning round with a sigh, “it must be nearly three o’clock, and my aunt always likes me to be in before daybreak.”
The stout woman gasped again.
“Because of the neighbours, you know,” said the young lady with a smile.
“Just so,” assented the Duke, and possibly he would have added more, had not the woman uttered an inarticulate cry and pointed to his feet.
“Really, madam,” remarked the Duke, with some warmth, “it would have been in better taste not to refer to the matter.” And with a severe frown he offered his arm to the young lady. They then proceeded towards the doorway. The Inspector’s wife barred the passage. The Duke assumed a most dignified air. The woman reluctantly gave away. Walking through the passage, the young lady and the Duke found themselves again in the open air. There were signs of approaching dawn.
“I really think I had better get home,” whispered the young lady.
At this moment – and the Duke was not in the least surprised – they perceived four persons approaching them. The Inspector walked with his arm through the arm of the young man who had claimed to be the Duke of Belleville; following, arm-in-arm with the driver of the brougham, came the policeman whose uniform the Duke had borrowed. All the party except the Inspector looked uneasy. The Inspector appeared somewhat puzzled. However, he greeted the Duke with a cry of welcome.
“Now we can find out the truth of it all!” he exclaimed.
“To find out truth,” remarked the Duke, “is never easy and not always desirable.”
“I understand that you are the Duke of Belleville?” asked the Inspector.
“Certainly,” said the Duke.
“Bosh!” said the young man. “Oh, you know me, Inspector Collins, and I know you, and I’m not going to try and play it on you any more. But this chap’s no more the Duke than I am, and I should have thought you might have known one of your own policemen!”
The Inspector turned upon him fiercely.
“None of your gab, Joe Simpson,” said he. Then turning to the Duke, he continued, “Do you charge the young woman with him, your Grace?” And he pointed significantly to the Queen Bess flagon, which the young lady carried in an affectionate grasp.
“This lady,” said the Duke, “has done me the honour of accepting a small token of my esteem. As for these men, I know nothing about them.” And he directed a significant glance at the young man. The young man answered his look. The policeman seemed to grow more easy in his mind. “Then you don’t charge any of them?” cried the Inspector, bewildered.
“Why, no,” answered the Duke. “And I suppose they none of them charge me?”
Nobody spoke. The Inspector took out a large red handkerchief and mopped his brow.
“Well, it beats me,” he said. “I know pretty well what these two men are; but if your Grace don’t charge ’em, what can I do?”
“Nothing, I should suppose,” said the Duke blandly. And, with a slight bow, he proceeded on his way, the young lady accompanying him. Looking back once, he perceived the young man and the driver of the brougham going off in another direction with quick furtive steps, while the Inspector and the policeman stood talking together outside the door of the house.
“The circumstances, as a whole, no doubt appear peculiar to the Inspector,” observed the Duke, with a smile.
“Do you think that we can find a hansom cab?” asked the young lady a little anxiously. “You see, my aunt – ”
“Precisely,” said the Duke, and he quickened his pace.
They soon reached the boundary of the Heath, and, having walked a little way along the road, were so fortunate as to find a cab. The young lady held out her left hand to the Duke: in her right she still grasped firmly the Queen Bess flagon.
“Good-bye,” she said. “Thank you for the beautiful present.”
The Duke took her hand and allowed his glance to rest for a moment on her face. She appeared to see a question in his eyes.
“Yes, and for rescuing me from that man,” she added with a little shudder.
The Duke’s glance still rested on her face.
“Yes, and for lots of fun,” she whispered with a blush.
The Duke looked away, sighed, released her hand, helped her into the cab, and retired to a distance of some yards. The young lady spoke a few words to the cabman, took her seat, waved a small hand, held up the Queen Bess flagon, kissed it, and drove away.
“If,” observed the Duke with a sigh, “I were not a well-bred man, I should have asked her name,” and he made his way back to his house in a somewhat pensive mood.
On reaching home, however, he perceived the brougham standing before his door. A new direction was thus given to his meditations. He opened the gate of his stable-yard, and, taking the horse’s head, led it in. Having unharnessed it, he put it in the stable and fed and watered it; the brougham he drew into the coach-house. Then he went indoors, partook of some brandy mixed with water, and went to bed.
At eleven o’clock the next morning Frank, the Duke’s man, came up to Hampstead to attend to his Grace’s wants. The Duke was still in bed, but, on breakfast being ready, he rose and came downstairs in his dressing-gown and a pair of large and very easy slippers.
“I hope your Grace slept well?” said Frank.
“I never passed a better night, thank you, Frank,” said the Duke as he chipped the top off his egg.
“Half-an-hour ago, your Grace,” Frank continued, “a man called.”
“To see me?”
“It was about – about a brougham, your Grace.”
“Ah! What did you say to him?”
“I said I had no orders about a brougham from your Grace.”
“Quite right, Frank, quite right,” said the Duke with a smile. “What did he say to that?”
“He appeared to be put out, but said that he would call again, your Grace.”
“Very good,” said the Duke, rising and lighting a cigarette.
Frank lingered uneasily near the door.
“Is anything the matter, Frank?” asked the Duke kindly.
“Well, your Grace, in – in point of fact, there is – there is a strange brougham and a strange horse in the stables, your Grace.”
“In what respect,” asked the Duke, “are the brougham and the horse strange, Frank?”
“I – I should say, your Grace, a brougham and a horse that I have not seen before in your Grace’s stables.”
“That is a very different thing, Frank,” observed the Duke with a patient smile. “I suppose that I am at liberty to acquire a brougham and a horse if it occurs to me to do so?”
“Of course, your Grace,” stammered Frank.
“I will drive into town in that brougham to-day, Frank,” said the Duke.
Frank bowed and withdrew. The Duke strolled to the window and stood looking out as he smoked his cigarette.
“I don’t think the man will call again,” said he. Then he drew from his pocket the ten-pound note that the young man had given him, and regarded it thoughtfully. “A brougham, a horse, ten pounds, and a very diverting experience,” he mused. “Yes, I am in better spirits this morning!”
As for the Queen Bess flagon, he appeared to have forgotten all about it.
THE DUKE’S ALLOTMENT
I
THE Duke of Belleville (nothing annoyed his Grace more than to hear his name mispronounced – it should sound “Bevvle”) was tired of it all. That succinctly expresses his condition; and the condition is really not to be wondered at after fifteen years of an existence such as his, although it is true that he had occasionally met with some agreeable and even some unexpected adventures. He wanted a new sensation, a new experience, a new environment, although it was possible that he would not want any of them for very long. He consulted his man Frank on the matter one evening at dinner.
“When I felt like that as a lad, your Grace,” Frank remarked, “my father used to put me to digging.”
“Excellent, Frank! Buy me a labourer’s allotment to-morrow morning.”
“Very good, your Grace,” said Frank.
He was an invaluable servant, although at times, the Duke would complain, lacking in imagination.
“Have you got it, Frank?” said the Duke the next morning at lunch.
“Yes, your Grace. And I thought it well also to obtain a cottage.”
“Very thoughtful! Clothes?”
“I thought that perhaps your Grace would prefer to give your personal – ”
“Quite right, Frank. I’ll go to Clarkson’s to-morrow.”
“I beg your Grace’s pardon – am I to accompany your Grace?”
“I do not propose to dig all night, nor even after sunset. Men on allotments eat, I am given to suppose!”
“I beg your Grace’s pardon.”
“Never mind, Frank. In the evening we shall be as usual. Give the necessary orders. Neither you nor the chef will, of course, be visible.”
“Very good, your Grace.” Frank placed the coffee and old brandy on the table, and withdrew.
The next morning the Duke repaired to Wardour Street and mentioned something about private theatricals. The suave and accomplished proprietor was fertile in suggestion.
“I mustn’t look too new or clean,” the Duke stipulated. The hint was sufficient; he was equipped with an entirely realistic costume.
“Duplicate it, please,” said the Duke as he re-entered his brougham. “It was careless of me to forget that it might rain.”
The Duke and Frank left King’s Cross the same evening (the chef had preceded them with the luggage; he made no stipulation about kitchen or scullery maids – everybody was always anxious to oblige his Grace) under cover of night. A journey of some forty miles brought them to their destination. On the outskirts of the little town lay the allotments. They were twelve in number, each comprising half-an-acre of land. Three cottages stood facing the allotments with their backs to the highroad. One of these now appertained to the Duke. The chef had done wonders; all was clean and comfortable – though the furniture was, of course, very plain. The dinner was excellent. A new spade, a new hoe, a new rake, and a new wheelbarrow stood just within the door.
“Get up early and rub them over with dirt, Frank,” said the Duke as he retired, well pleased, to rest.
The next morning also he breakfasted with excellent appetite.
“I beg your Grace’s pardon,” said Frank, “but your Grace will not forget to be out of work?”
“I came here to be in work, Frank.”
“The men work on their allotments only in their spare time, your Grace.”
“I see, I see. Thank you, Frank. I will certainly be out of work, if occasion arises to define precisely my economic position. I trust, however, that this is not an inquisitive neighbourhood.”
It was not, as a rule. But just now there were special circumstances, unknown to Frank – and to the Duke.
He began to dig at 9.30 A.M. His allotment had been a good deal neglected, and the ground happened to be hard. Presently he found himself afflicted with acute sensations in the back. He begun to wonder what men on allotments did when they felt tired. A thought struck him – a reminiscence of his wide and curious reading. Observing a small girl seated on the railing which bordered the allotments he approached her. “Child,” said he kindly, “be good enough to go to the nearest public-house and fetch me a pint of four-’alf.”
“W’ere’s your money?” said the child.
The Duke had been too realistic; there was no money in his pocket. He returned to his labours (he had promised himself to be independent of Frank for at least three hours) with a sigh. The little girl laughed scornfully, and then performed a somersault. The Duke was not quite pleased.
By twelve o’clock his back was very bad and his hands blistered. His corduroy trousers were cutting him at the back of the knees. Also it had begun to rain. “I have the sensation vividly enough for the moment. I will return to the cottage and have lunch,” he said to himself, throwing down his spade. He had turned up a considerable amount of earth, and had found some vegetables amongst it. He was not very clear what they were. He picked up his coat, put it on, and began instinctively to feel for a cigarette. No case was to be found.
“Oh, d – n that Frank!” said the Duke mechanically.
“Need you swear?” asked a voice suddenly.
“Who wouldn’t?” mumbled the Duke, who was just wiping his brow (which was like that of the blacksmith in the poem) with a large and fearfully rough pocket-handkerchief.
“What?”
The voice was very sharp. It recalled to the Duke the necessities of his situation. Emerging from behind the handkerchief, he found himself in the presence of a tall stout lady of imperious demeanour. She wore a skirt, consequentially ample, of shiny black, and a black velvet mantle embellished with beads, apparently jet.
The Duke’s instinct rarely failed him – that was what would have made him such a great man of affairs. “The parson’s wife!” he thought to himself, without a moment’s hesitation. Then he cast about for his wisest course of action.
“Why aren’t you at work?” the lady demanded sternly.
The Duke had worked extraordinarily hard for three hours. He was indignant. But he was wary. He was considering what accent to adopt. It struck him that he would try the Somersetshire; he had heard that at the theatres; the rural (but honest) father of the erring (but sweet) heroine usually employed it. Of course, if the parson’s wife happened to come from Somerset – Well, some risks must be taken.
“I do be of a-workin’,” said the Duke. “Lasteways, I do be of a just ’avin’ done it.” He clung to his “be” with no small confidence.
“Where do you come from?”
“Zummer-sett,” said he.
“You talk in a funny way. When did you come here?”
The Duke felt sure that he ought not to say “Last night”; accordingly he replied “Yuster-e’en.”
The lady looked suspicious. “You’re seeking employment?”
Suddenly – and opportunely – the Duke remembered Frank’s warning: he was to be out of work.
“Yus, I be,” he said, wondering if his face were dirty enough.
“Church or Chapel?” she asked sharply.
“Charch,” answered the Duke. And by a happy thought he added, “Ma’am.”
“What’s your name?” With the question she produced a little note-book and a pencil.
“Bevv – ” he began thoughtlessly. He stopped. A barren invention, and a mind acute to the danger of hesitation, combined to land him in “Devvle.”
“Devil? That’s a very odd name.”
“My feyther’s name afore me,” affirmed the Duke, who felt that he was playing his part rather well, though he regretted that a different initial consonant had not occurred to him.
The lady surveyed him with a long and distrustful glance.
“Have you had any beer this morning?” she asked.
The Duke never took beer – not even in the evening. “None,” he replied with a touch of indignation.
“I wish I was sure of that!” she remarked. The Duke, himself regretfully sure (for the digging had changed his feelings towards beer), wondered at her suspicious disposition. “Well, we shall see. You’re in my daughter’s district. She will come and see you.”
“Vurry good, ma’am,” said the Duke.
“Are you married?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You live alone, then?”
Swiftly the Duke reflected. “I got a brother, ma’am, but ’e do be kind o’ – kind o’ weak.”
“A pair of you, I think!” she remarked rather disconcertingly, as she turned and marched off. The Duke returned to his cottage and decided, over a pint of hock and a bottle of seltzer, that he had come out of the interview with much credit.
He did not hurry back to work after lunch. Why, he reflected, should he? None of the other men were working on their allotments. This fact seemed rather strange to him, since he overlooked the circumstance that harvest was in full swing and all his supposed compeers busy from dawn till late evening in the fields; but, knowing that he was strange to his surroundings, he waited patiently for an explanation. He lit his pipe – a clay pipe, coloured by and borrowed from one of his stableboys, and sat on the fence in an agreeable meditation. The rain had ceased, and the afternoon was mild.
“What more in reality,” he exclaimed, “does a man want than this? I was quite right to insist on an entirely simple dinner.” He paused and added: “After all I will do a little weeding.”
When he had done quite a little weeding, a thought struck him. He repaired to the cottage and called Frank. Frank appeared; he also wore corduroys and other suitable habiliments. “Very good, Frank, very good. You’re really an intelligent man. If a young lady calls, you’re an idiot.”
“I – I beg your Grace’s pardon?”
“If a young lady calls, you’re to appear to be an idiot.” The Duke, as he spoke, smiled over the reflection that his order to Frank embodied nothing very unusual.
“Very good, your Grace! What’s Monsieur Alphonse to be?”
“If he must exist at all he’d better be in bed – with something a trifle infectious,” answered the Duke, after a moment’s reflection.
“Very good, your Grace. Burgundy or champagne at dinner? The chambertin appears to have recovered from the journey.”
“Then let me have the chambertin,” said his Grace. “Dinner at seven. I feel as if I should be hungry. I am now going to take a walk.”
On his walk through what proved to be exceedingly pretty country, the Duke meditated, in admiration mingled with annoyance, on the excellent organisation of English rural parishes. The immediate notice taken of his arrival, the instantaneous zeal for his moral welfare, argued much that was good – the Duke determined to say a few words about it in the House of Lords – but, on the other hand, it certainly rendered more difficult his experiment in the simple life – to say nothing of necessitating his adventurous excursion into the Somerset dialect.
“She is probably actuated,” he concluded, “by a groundless fear that I shall resort to the Nonconformist chapel.”
Seven o’clock found him seated before his brightly furnished dining-table. The table was of deal, but it was covered with damask, decked with silver, and ornamented by the chambertin. The Duke had a fine appetite, and fell to cheerfully on Monsieur Alphonse’s creations; these were studiously rural in their character – Watteau-like confections. Monsieur Alphonse was dreaming of the Petit Trianon.
The cottage was not large; the sitting-room was in close proximity to the door. A sharp rap of somebody’s knuckles on the door startled him, just as he was finishing his first glass of chambertin. He was in demi-toilette – a dress jacket and black tie. It should be added that, although daylight prevailed outside, the blind of the window was carefully drawn down.
The knock was repeated – rather impatiently. “Frank!” called the Duke in a voice carefully modulated.
“I’m on my way, your Grace,” Frank answered, putting his head in at the door. “I merely waited to put on a blanket over my dress-coat. Monsieur Alphonse has got into bed. He looks very natural in his official apron, your Grace.”
“Good,” said the Duke. “Don’t permit the person to enter.” He smiled slightly as he regarded Frank, who had hastily assumed a red blanket, striped with blue, and wore his hair brushed up straight from his head.
The next moment the Duke heard the door of the cottage open, and one of the sweetest voices he had ever listened to in his life softly pronouncing the question: “Oh, please, are you the man Devil?”
“I really ought to have recollected to tell Frank about that little mistake of mine,” thought the Duke, smiling.
His smile, however, vanished as he heard Frank, in answer to the question, shout with extraordinary vigour: “Yahoo, yahoo, yahoo!”
“This will never do,” said the Duke, rising and laying down his napkin. “The fellow always over-acts. I said idiocy – not mania.”
It appeared to do very well, all the same, for the sweet voice remarked, with no trace of surprise, “Oh, of course, you’re his poor brother; mamma – I’m Miss Hordern, you know, Miss Angela Hordern – told me about you. Please don’t let yourself become nervous or – or excited.”
Monsieur Alphonse’s voice suddenly broke forth, crying loudly: “I have ze fevaar – ze fevaar – veri bad fevaar!”
“Point de zele! Talleyrand was right,” said the Duke sadly.
“Who’s that?” cried Miss Angela. “Is some poor man ill in there? Oh, it’s not Devil himself, is it?”
No answer came from Frank, unless a realistically idiotic chuckle, faintly struggling, as it seemed to the Duke’s ears, with more natural mirth, may be counted as such.
“I must see this girl,” said the Duke.
“I think I’d better call again to-morrow,” said Miss Angela. “I’m in a hurry now – it’s Mothers’ Meeting night. I’ll come in to-morrow. Will you give this to your brother? Mamma sent it. Can you understand me, poor fellow?
“Yahoo, yahoo,” murmured Frank.
The door closed. The Duke dashed to the window, furtively drew the blind a little aside, and looked out.
“Upon my word!” said the Duke. “Yes, upon my word!” he reflected, twisting his moustache as he returned to the table.
Frank entered, holding a silver salver. “With Miss Angela Hordern’s compliments, your Grace.”
“Thank you, Frank. You can serve the fish; and beg Alphonse in future to wait for his cue.”
“Very good, your Grace.”
Frank withdrew, and the Duke examined the paper which he had taken from the salver. It acquired a certain interest from having passed through Miss Angela’s hands. The Duke fingered it delicately and eyed it pensively. It was entitled “A Dram for a Drinker; or, Just a Drop to do you Good.”
“A neat title,” the Duke mused, “but perhaps liable to defeat its own object by evoking a reminiscence too pleasurable.”
Frank entered with the fish. “Frank, I am at home next time Miss Hordern calls. You are not – nor Monsieur Alphonse.”
“Very good, your Grace,” Frank answered. “Your Grace will answer the door yourself?”
The Duke had overlooked the point. He did not feel that he could answer a door at all plausibly.
“Leave it on the jar,” he commanded, in a happy inspiration.
But when he was left alone his brow clouded a little. “Suppose the mother comes!” he thought. His face cleared. “She shall see Alphonse and Frank. And I will see Miss Angela.” He lit his cigar with a composed cheerfulness. “It is impossible,” he said meditatively, “to deny the interest of a sociological experiment. I am, however, inclined to hope that it will rain very hard to-morrow.” He stroked his back warily as he slid into a chair.