“Surely Lady Beauclerk has since regretted the argument with General Tilney, if she felt true affection for him?”
“Oh, no; Mr. Hornebolt dotes on her ladyship, and on that cat, too. Says Lady J. is a superior creature of her kind, and that his dear Agatha can spend just what she likes on her bits of muslin, and any jumped-up half-pay officer who won’t stand the expense of his wife’s fitting-out should be run through with his own sword. I dare say he was talking about the general. But he won’t stand for Lady Beauclerk keeping her title. He’s an old-fashioned man, his mother was Mrs. Hornebolt and his wife will be Mrs. Hornebolt. Miss don’t let her forget it, either; she will have precedence over her own mother when she is Lady Beauclerk and her mamma is Mrs. Hornebolt.”
She stopped for breath, and Matthew regarded her with admiration. “My dear Miss Biddy, have you been listening at doors again?”
“Of course! How else could I learn anything? You like to listen to my gossip well enough, I’m sure. I’ll wager you carry it back to your master right smart, too.”
The sudden, simple truth of her words shamed Matthew; so much so, that when they reached Laura-place, he allowed her to draw him into a dark niche by the kitchen door “to say good-bye proper-like” with very good grace, and gave her a good-bye kiss that left her dreamy-eyed and giggling.
The previous Sunday walk to Beechen Cliff had been so successful that the Tilneys and the Whitings determined to repeat it. The day was fine and sunny, and while the walk beside the river was not as crowded as the Royal Crescent, they were not alone, so MacGuffin remained on his lead. Henry and Eleanor both were in fine spirits, having had good news from Matthew about their father.
“I cannot help feeling a little sorry for General Tilney,” said Catherine. “What if Lady Beauclerk had made him very much in love with her?”
“I think he was, after his own fashion,” said Henry. “But your amiable habit of putting yourself in another’s place, and attributing to them your own unhappiness in such a situation, has misled you, I fear. If my father is unhappy over Lady Beauclerk, his disposition is such that it will not be of long duration. He will soon tease himself out of it by recalling her account at her mantua-maker’s, and congratulating himself on escaping having to pay it.”
“Not to mention escaping having to walk her cat,” said his lordship.
A man was pacing along the riverbank ahead of them, near the spot where MacGuffin had waded out to chase the ducks. As they approached him, Catherine recognized him. “That is Mr. Shaw. Poor man! I do feel very sorry for him, and I dare say he feels his misfortune more than General Tilney.”
The man bent over and picked up some objects along the shoreline and placed them in his coat pockets. He paced some more, and then, as they approached from one side and a large family party from the other, he suddenly waded out into the river.
Understanding dawned on Catherine. “Oh! He has placed rocks in his pockets! Henry, Mr. Shaw means to drown himself! You must stop him!”
“Shaw!” cried Henry. “I say, Shaw!”
Mr. Shaw whirled around and pointed a finger accusingly at them. “Do not try to stop me! No one would help me, no one would make my angel listen to me! It is too late! My blood is on your hands!” He turned away and stumbled forward, walking with odd high steps rather than wading. “She will know!” he cried, pointing in the general direction of the Pulteney Bridge. “She will know how much I loved her when she finds me floating by her very door, and then she will regret her treatment of me! But it will be too late! I shall be gone from this earth forever!”
Catherine, frightened beyond understanding, cried, “Oh, stop him! Someone stop him!”
Henry released her arm and strode down the riverbank. “That river must be freezing at this season, Shaw, and you are frightening the ladies. Do come out now, there’s a good fellow.” MacGuffin added several barks as emphasis as he strained on his lead.
Mr. Shaw took two more thrashing steps into the river, which flowed against him and broke around his knees. “I have nothing to live for,” he said. “Nothing. My angel has forsaken me. The devil must take me for his own now!”
Henry gave a short sigh of impatience, and then bent down and took off MacGuffin’s lead. The dog immediately raced for the river and plunged in.
Mr. Shaw flailed away from MacGuffin. “Begone, hellbeast! Leave me to your dark master!” One of his feet slipped, and he went down on one knee, struggling to keep his head above water. Even in her fright, Catherine thought his behavior odd; he said he wanted to drown himself, but seemed afraid to go under water.
MacGuffin, up to his haunches in the water, seized the floating end of Mr. Shaw’s tailcoat firmly in his mouth and braced himself on the river bottom. Mr. Shaw tried to move away from him, but MacGuffin held firm.
“He has been trained in water retrieval,” Henry called to Mr. Shaw. “Trained very well, I may add. You might as well give it up now.”
Mr. Shaw attempted to unbutton his coat and slip out of it, but MacGuffin growled, the coat-tail still in his mouth, and shook his head violently from side to side, as though playing a game of keep-away. Mr. Shaw stopped struggling and began to weep with loud braying sobs; he then buried his face in his hands.
Henry watched him for a long moment. “Do you think you are the only man whose peace has been destroyed by Judith Beauclerk?” he asked, his voice full of compassion. Mr. Shaw’s turned to look at him; Henry gazed back at him steadily, and they seemed to communicate something, a shared knowledge that made Catherine suddenly uneasy.
MacGuffin tugged again, and at last Mr. Shaw came with him, stumbling out of the river, the dog herding him like a lost sheep and never letting go of the coat-tail until his captive was safely on land and wrapped in a blanket produced by the family party, which had watched the proceedings with fascinated horror. A few more spectators had collected, including several small boys who heard that someone had drowned himself and demanded, in high-pitched, strident voices, to see the corpse. Lord Whiting sent them away and consulted with the father of the family-party, and they went to fetch his carriage, which was waiting in Argyle-street.
Henry put an arm around Mr. Shaw’s shoulders, still bowed in sorrow. He looked up at Catherine consciously, and she turned and said to the fascinated onlookers, “Step away, please; leave him be.” They turned, one by one, and drifted away, as Henry spoke to Mr. Shaw in unintelligible tones.
The mother of the family-party would not be moved so easily. “What is he saying?” she asked Catherine, peering over her shoulder at Henry and Mr. Shaw huddled on the riverbank. “What is he doing?”
“My husband is a priest,” said Catherine firmly. “He will say all that is necessary.”
The woman’s face cleared. “Oh, a priest,” she said. “Aye, he’ll take care of the poor devil.” She turned to shoo her children away.
Lord Whiting and the father returned, and the three men helped Mr. Shaw to get up and moving towards the bridge. “Cat, take MacGuffin, and go to our lodgings with Eleanor,” Henry called to her. “We will meet you there.”
Henry and John returned to Pulteney-street a few hours later, and assured the worried ladies that they had returned Mr. Shaw to his rooms in Westgate Buildings, saw him into dry clothes and left him in front of a blazing fire.
“How could you leave him?” cried Catherine. “How do you know he will not try again to destroy himself?”
“He did not really want to destroy himself,” said his lordship, flinging himself into a chair. “He only wanted someone to share his misery. Did you not see that he feared the water? Only a man still in love with life would have such fear.”