“Perhaps it may be a little way from the town,” suggested Gilly.
“Ah, very likely,” the waiter agreed, beginning to pile up the dishes on a tray. “There’s no saying but what it mightn’t be so.”
“And perhaps,” further suggested Gilly patiently, “there may be someone in the tap-room who may know of it if you were to ask them.”
The waiter said that he would do this, and went away with his tray. He was gone for some time, and when he came back, although he had collected a quantity of information about a Bird in the Bush, a Partridge, and a Feathers Inn, he had not discovered anyone who knew the Bird in Hand. Gilly rewarded him suitably for his efforts, and said that it did not signify. He did not feel equal to pursuing his enquiries further that evening, so when the waiter had withdrawn he stretched his legs out before the fire, and opened the book his cousin Gideon had given him to read upon his travels. The preface somewhat quellingly advertised the work to exhibit “the amiableness of domestic affection, and the excellence of universal virtue,” but Gideon had warned him not to allow himself to be daunted by this unpromising start. The book was anonymously published, and had, of course, been cut up by the Quarterly. It was entitled Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus. The Duke blew a cloud of smoke, crossed one foot over the other, and began to read.
The candles were guttering in their sockets, and the fire was burning very low when the Duke at last tore himself from the tale, and went to bed.
He saw, on consulting his watch, that it was past midnight, and when he opened the door of the parlour he found the inn in darkness. Guarding the flame of his bedroom candle with one hand, he trod along the passage, not precisely expecting to meet a man-made monster (for he was no longer a child, he told himself) but with a shudder in his flesh. He must find some indescribably horrible tale to bestow on Gideon, in revenge for his having given his poor little cousin a book calculated to keep him awake all night, he decided, smiling tohimself.
But with every expectation of having his rest disturbed by nightmares, he slept soundly and dreamlessly all night, awaking in the morning to hear cocks crowing, and to find sunlight stealing between the closed blinds of his room. All trace of his headache had left him; he felt remarkably well, and thought there must be something salubrious about the air of Hertfordshire.
He had told the boots he would have his shaving-water brought to him at eight o’clock, but when this worthy came into his room to waken him, he found him standing by the window in his great coat, interestedly watching a herd of bullocks being driven down the street. It seemed to be market-day, and the Duke had never come into close contact with a market before, and consequently found it most entertaining. He turned his head when the boots entered, saying: “Is it market-day? What quantities of pigs and cows and chickens have come into the town! You must have a very large market here!”
“Oh, no, sir!” said the boots pityingly, setting down the jug of water on the corner-washstand. “ This ain’t nothing! Missus said to ask if there was anything as you would be wanting.”
“Thank you—if you would be good enough to have my coat brushed!” the Duke said, picking it up, and handing it to him.