Works of Ellen Wood, page 14
Mr. Serle looked cross and vexed. His hands were in his pockets, and he was rattling the silver in them. His sons had given him some trouble, though not, as yet, a great extent. “Has Cargill been here?” he suddenly asked.
“No; but Lord Temple has.”
“What did he want?”
“The old errand. Money raised.”
“I should like to know what upon,” crabbedly retorted Mr. Serle. “He has pretty nearly drained himself dry.”
“He wants £3000 by the 25th of the month.”
“How much?” was Mr. Serle’s astonished rejoinder.
“£3000.”
“Why, what has he been at, to want that?” he resumed, after a pause.
“Play,” was the short answer.
“There’s another nice specimen for you, his lordship of Temple,” sarcastically cried Mr. Serle. “Money, money, money, nothing but money; have it he will; and when he has got it, throws it away like water. Well, if he does choose to reduce himself to poverty, he must do it: it’s no affair of mine. By when, do you say?”
“The 25th. Can it be raised?”
“Oh, it can be raised, this can: but I can tell him there will soon be nothing left to raise upon. What possessed him to be such a madman as to lose £3000 at play?”
“He was drunk when he did it,” returned Mr. St. George. “Drunk when he played, and drunk when he gave his acknowledgment of the debt.”
“There it is again! there’s the evil. Charles pleads drunkenness as the cause of his embarrassment; Robert Danesbury owes his to drink. I wish all the filthy liquor was at the bottom of the sea!” Probably Mr. Serle forgot, as he spoke, that he partook pretty plentifully himself every day.
“It would be all the better for some people,” acquiesced Mr. St. George, in his quiet tone.
“To go and lose £3000 at play! He is mad.”
“He says he was perfectly senseless. Knew nothing about it then, and remembers nothing now.”
“Nonsense, St. George! If a man is sane enough to play, and sign for his losses, he is sane enough to remember it.”
The same reflection had struck Mr. St George. Yet Lord Temple’s word was strictly honourable.
Mr. Serle nodded his head, several little nods successively, as if he were at a loss for words. “It is fine to be these noble blades. What a way of getting out of money! Disgraceful! Who holds the acknowledgment?”
“Swallowtail.”
“Who?” sharply repeated Mr. Serle.
“Swallowtail.”
“Swallowtail!” uttered Mr. Serle. “How can noblemen lower themselves to associate with such a man? He would not be tolerated at their houses. But he is a clever man! Ay, not a man in the profession, or out of it, has keener brains than he. If the money was lost to Swallowtail— ‘ware Temple! for he must pay it to the hour.”
Later, as Mr. Danesbury was standing by Charing Cross, on his way from Parliament Street, Lord Temple and his cab came driving by. The young nobleman saw him, and pulled up.
“Whither are you bound?” he inquired, when salutations were over.
“To Bedford Row,” replied Mr. Danesbury.
“Allow me to drive you,” said Lord Temple. “Get up behind,” he added to his servant. So the man got out of the cab, and Mr. Danesbury got in.
“I am delighted to have met you,” exclaimed Lord Temple, slackening the reins. “I have a petition to prefer to you, though I fear you will not entertain it.”
“What is it?” said Mr. Danesbury.
“I am ashamed to ask it,” returned Lord Temple, with a heightened colour. “I had better bring it out without any softening,” he added, in a sort of desperation. “The fact is, sir, I want you to give me Isabel at once, and I have nothing to keep her on.”
A pause of some minutes. Lord Temple’s whip gently played with his horse’s ears. He was intrenched in all the pride and prejudices of his rank, as Mr. St. George had remarked, and really believed that it was little short of an insult to Isabel, to make her, at the present moment, Lady Temple.
“What do you call ‘nothing?’ “ asked Mr. Danesbury.
“A thousand or fifteen hundred a year, or so. It is all that can be screwed from my estates. Do you think Isabel would risk it?”
“Not if her heart be set upon opera-boxes and court diamonds.”
The young nobleman looked round at Mr. Danesbury in surprise. “St. George has been talking to you, sir!”
“Yes, he has,” replied Mr. Danesbury. “I went into Serle’s just after you left, and St George, in doubt, I believe, whether I should think he had done right, told me what he had been recommending.”
Lord Temple scarcely breathed. “Do you approve of it!” he asked at length.
“I think it would be a far happier life, both for you and Isabel, than the one you are leading; and I should entirely approve of it, but for one thing.”
“What is that, sir!”
“St George spoke of your extravagant evening habits. He did not enter into them, but I can give a guess at what they are. Unfortunately, I am getting experienced in the evil indulgences of a London life. Are you sure, sure beyond doubt, that you can put these entirely and forever aside? Morally sure in your own heart, resolutely sure in your own self-reliance, under help from, and trust in, your Creator? Unless you are, I will not consent to give you my daughter. My lord, I trust implicitly to your honour for a truthful answer.”
Excitement flashed in the face of Lord Temple, eagerness to his eye, as he grasped the hand of Mr. Danesbury. “So long as I am alone,’’ he said, “ I must keep up, in some measure, my evening habits; but, from the moment that I am a married man, I forswear them. Nothing, no temptation, were it likely that such could be then offered me, would induce me to rejoin my present wild companions; I would not so far wrong my wife and myself. On my honour as a British nobleman, on my sacred word, sir, I tell you truth.”
“Then, Lord Temple, you shall have Isabel.”
They reached Bedford Row. Mr. Danesbury went in, and Mr. St George came out. “Has any thing been done?” he whispered. “Have you said any thing to Mr, Danesbury?”
“I have said all,” was Lord Temple’s answer, while a radiant expression sat upon his countenance; “and he thinks as you do, that it will be the best thing. I shall be ever grateful to you, St George, for suggesting it to me.”
“I think you might have suggested it to yourself, all these wasted years. But, Lord Temple, I have all but passed my word to Mr. Danesbury that, with your marriage, your reckless habits shall cease.”
Lord Temple bent his head forward and looked full in the face of Mr. St. George. ‘‘I have sworn that they shall. Be easy.”
“Good. Have you seen Isabel?”
“No; she was out. I am going up again. I suppose you will give your permission now,” he added, with a merry glance.
Mr. St. George returned it. “I would say, come and dine with us to-day at six, only that there’s sure to be a plain dinner: nothing fit to set before a viscount.”
“Thank you,” laughed Lord Temple; “I will be sure to come. Bread and cheese will do, if there’s nothing else.” And once more Lord Temple whirled away.
Some ladies were waiting in the front drawing-room of a handsome house, contiguous to Hyde Park, on that hot July evening. It was getting close to the dinner-hour. Mrs. St. George, grown into a perfect little dumpling since her marriage, sat on a low chair, nursing a young gentle-man in long white petticoats; another gentleman, in short full velvet ones, the very shape of a fan, was making himself troublesome in all parte of the room; and a little girl, in a pink embroidered frock, had seated herself on the carpet. Mrs. Danesbury, wearing a lavender muslin dress and a cross look, was at one of the windows, and Isabel had knelt to play with the little girl. Her form was elegant, her bearing stately, as of old, but a somewhat sad look had settled upon her lovely face. The light of the sun shone on the smooth bands of her chestnut hair, and her blue eyes were dancing with merriment at the little lady’s queer attempts to talk. She wore a light-blue silk dress with a gold chain and golden bracelets. They had been out shopping all the afternoon — Mrs. and Miss Danesbury’s chief object in accompanying Mr. Danesbury to town.
“You look tired, aunt Eliza,” cried Mrs. St. George.
“I am vexed,” peevishly returned Mrs. Danesbury. “I thought Robert and Lionel would have been here to see me before this.”
“How do you know they may not have called while we were out, mamma?” interposed Isabel. “Have you inquired?”
“No,” snappishly replied Mrs. Danesbury. “ Had they called, I should have been told of it.”
“Servants forget sometimes,” observed Mrs. St. George. “Walter, darling, come and ring the bell.”
“Sha’n’t,” was lisped from the far end of the room.
“Oh! come and ring it for mamma.”
“No,” responded Master Walter, who was at some mischief with the pedals of the piano.
Isabel laughed, rose, and rang it. And the servant, in answer to inquiries, said that none of the Mr. Danesburys had called.
“Are you sure?” cried Mrs. Danesbury, turning sharply on the man.
“Quite sure, ma’am. No one has been but one gentleman, and he called twice. He asked for Miss Danesbury, and his cab had a coronet on it.”
“No need to wonder who that was, Isabel,” smiled Mrs. St. George, as the servant retired. “I am sorry you were out.”
“Ugh!” grunted Mrs. Danesbury, “no great compliment. If he would fix the marriage, it would be more to the purpose. I know this, if a gentleman asked me to be his wife, and then kept shilly-shallying, off and on, for years, he might keep his calls to himself. His affection for Isabel looks more like moonshine than reality.”
There was an awkward silence. Kind Mrs. St. George was wondering what she could say to soften down the speech, and Isabel’s heart beat visibly, when Mr. St. George entered.
“Has Mr. Danesbury got back yet?” he asked.
“No, he hasn’t,” returned Miss. Danesbury. “Have you seen Robert?”
“I have not. I believe he has.”
“It is very strange the boys could not call here. Unless Mr. Danesbury, with his stupid memory, forgot to say that we had come to town with him.”
Isabel looked quickly up, longing to say that her dear father’s memory was not stupid. But she rarely cared to enter the contradiction lists with Mrs. Danesbury.
The children were pulling Mr. St. George about screaming and talking. “That’s just like you, Charlotte,” cried he, “filling the room with, these little brats, to deafen your visitors.” But he nevertheless took up the “little brats,” and kissed them fondly.
“Have you been whipped to-day, Walter?”
“No, ‘pa.”
“I shall never teach mamma what’s good for you; I know you have deserved it. There, run along. Isabel, step into this room with me. None of you, remember. Charlotte, call the children. I want to talk secrets with Isabel.”
The back drawing-room was empty, and he closed the door between the two rooms. “Isabel,” he began, “have you seen Lord Temple?”
“No.”
“Then what will you give me for some news?”
She made no reply.
“I have been talking with Lord Temple to-day. He had got it into his head that you would not marry him unless he had a nobleman’s allowance — which is any sum you may please to mention, from ten thousand a year upward — and I told him I thought he was mistaken; that you did not consider an army of footmen essential, or a mansion in Grosvenor Square. So I believe — now do not look so scared and conscious, or I will not tell! — I believe he means to ask you to take him as he is.”
Isabel did look very conscious, if not scared: but at that moment there was a thundering peal at the house-door.
“I thought I would whisper it to you, for you have been kept in suspense long enough: much longer than you should have been, had I been your nearest relative. May Heaven bless you, Isabel, and render your wedded life happy; and more prolonged than was your poor mother’s!”
Mr. St. George went out of the room by the door leading to the staircase, leaving Isabel in agitation. The news was indeed sudden, and her chest was heaving wildly. Mr. St. George encountered some one on the stairs, and then came back, as Isabel supposed, into the room. He closed the door and advanced to her, but she was leaning with her elbow on the mantle-piece, her fingers shading her eyes. In another moment, two white, aristocratic hands were laid on her shoulders, and she looked up. A faint cry of surprise, and Lord Temple clasped her to him.
“No, no; stay here. It will soon be your own legal resting-place. My dearest, this suspense is to end, for I am to have you, poor as I stand. Your father has consented. Will you consent?”
She did not answer. Only let fall a few happy tears, and remained passively where he had placed her.
“It is not as it ought to have been,” he continued to whisper, “but they say you will be content to risk it, until things come round. What I can not give in riches, I will make up in love, Isabel.”
“Worth far more than the other,” she murmured.
“My darling! may you ever think so!”
At this moment the door opened, and Mrs. St. George entered so quickly that Isabel had no time to draw away. Viscount Temple raised his face, placed her arm within his, and stood there with her, proud, calm, self-possessed. Mr. St. George came following his wife quickly.
“Now, Charlotte! what can you possibly want?”
“I — I thought it was only you,” stammered Mrs. St. George. “I did not know Lord Temple was here.”
“Did I not tell you I had secrets to discuss with Isabel?” remonstrated Mr. St. George, with mock seriousness, while his wife looked from one to the other, and Lord Temple laughed to see her bewilderment. “What is there for dinner to-day?” continued Mr. St. George.
“For dinner!” she echoed.
“Because Lord Temple will do us the honour to partake of it.”
“Oh — if I had but known! Though indeed I am very proud and pleased to see your lordship,” she added, in her good-natured way. “Only I would have had something better; something different, I mean.”
“I bargained for bread and cheese,” said Lord Temple; “so, if there should be any thing more substantial than that, it will come as a surprise.”
“Bread and cheese!” repeated Mrs. St. George.
“Is it bread and cheese?” gravely questioned her husband.
“How stupid you are, Walter! But it is a very plain dinner. I wish I had known.”
“Is it suet dumplings!” continued Mr. St. George.
“Walter, then! It is a salmon, and a piece of roast beef. Nothing else in the world, except some pastry.”
“We shall not fast, it seems,’’ said Lord Temple. “It is a dinner for a prince.”
“You are both laughing,” she returned. “You are also laughing, Isabel. You must all have some secret.”
“Which you shall know very shortly, dear Mrs. St. George, and the world also,” answered Lord Temple.
Mr. Danesbury and William arrived, and they sat down to dinner. When the cloth was removed, the troublesome Master Walter and his sister were brought in. Mrs. Danesbury took the boy on her knee, and after supplying him with fruit, and other good things from the dessert, held her glass of port-wine to his lips, that he might sip it. Mr. St. George immediately placed his hand over the glass. “No wine for the child, Mrs. Danesbury.”
“Just a little sip,” said she. “That rich cake must have made him thirsty.”
“No wine,” repeated Mr. St. George in an unmistakable tone, as he poured out some water and handed it to the boy. “My children do not drink it.”
Isabel, who was on the other side Mr. St. George, between him and Lord Temple, presently took occasion to whisper: “Have you adopted Arthur’s theory?”
“I have adopted your mamma’s,” replied Mr. St. George. “The evening that I dined with her at Mr. Serle’s, many years ago now, the fatal evening of the accident, I heard her speak of the duty a parent owes a child, to encourage in him the love of pure water. It made a strong impression on me, and I inwardly resolved, if ever I had children, that it should be carried out. That boy has never tasted wine or beer yet, and I do not intend that he shall. Charlotte will tell you the same.”
“You are drinking wine yourself,” said Isabel.
“Yes: I was not brought up to drink water,” significantly responded Mr. St. George. “But I do not exceed, Isabel.”
There was an interruption ere he had well spoken. Lionel Danesbury entered. A good-looking, pleasant young man, something like William — curious that it should be so, for William resembled chiefly his own mother. Lionel was not tall, scarcely reaching the middle height. He was in high spirits, and seemed very well.
“A pretty dance I have had after you, Lionel,” cried
Mr. Danesbury. “Four times I was at your rooms today, and could not find you in.”
“I was at the hospital, sir. Thank you, Mrs. St. George, I have dined. I did not get the note my father left till six o’clock, so I went and had a chop first, for I knew you would have finished. How well you are looking, Isabel!”
A remark that made Isabel colour very much. Lionel sat down by his mother, and Mr. St. George passed him the wine.
“Good gracious, Lionel,” cried Mrs. Danesbury, in a whisper, “how you do smell of tobacco-smoke! What can make you smoke so much?”
“Ah!” laughed he, good-humouredly; “put you in my place, mother, in the dissecting-room, and you’d smoke yourself. I don’t wish to upset you over St. George’s dinner-table, but I should if I were to tell you of the work we have to do there. A medical student must smoke in self-defence.”
“When shall you pass, Lionel?”
“In the spring. Pass the Royal Collage of Surgeons — not the physicians, you know, yet.”
“Of course not. And where do you think of setting up?”
“In London, of course. I intend to be a great man before I die, mother; and I hope you’ll live to see it. ‘Sir Lionel Danesbury, baronet, M.D., Physician to her Majesty the Queen.’ Nothing less than the top of the tree will content me. Especially when I get a peer for my brother-in-law.”
