by Ellen Wood
Daylight broke, and the lords came forth; some had to be helped into the cabs by their servants, little more sober than themselves. Lord Temple pitched into his, and was driven home. His valet assisted him to undress, and he got into bed at an hour when less exalted people were beginning their day. He awoke with aching head and fevered tongue. What was the time? Eleven. And he turned round and closed again his heavy eyes. Later, he struggled up, dressed, and went into the breakfast-room, not inclined to eat; on the contrary, shuddering at the displayed viands on the table. As he stood there, with his hands in his pockets, George Eden dropped in, one of the last night’s party, with the same burning head and shaking frame. It was those cursed cigars made them ill, it was the adulterated wine, it was the impure brandy: the fellow at the “Finish” ought to have his license stopped for supplying such: it was any thing, in short, but the quantity they took, and, of course, it was not that. Certainly not: nobody ever acknowledged to such an imputation yet. What could they take now? A glass of hock, said George Eden; brandy and soda-water, said Lord Temple, and his servant supplied them. They were not fit for any thing; they did confess that; and the horses were ordered round, that they might go for a long, bracing ride. The fresh air blew on their heated brows, and made other men of them, but they were awfully thirsty, and they called for some half-and-half at more than one roadside inn. They got back to town in time to pay some morning visits (morning, as they are called), and they looked in at the clubs for a gossip, and idled away an hour in the betting-rooms, leaving time for the display in the park. Then came round the late dinner hour, and they sat down to it as on the previous evening, though not at Sir Robert Payn’s, and afterward finished up the night selon les régles.
Now this was a fair specimen of Lord Temple’s days; and yet he told Arthur Danesbury that his wild oats were buried! Possibly Lord Temple believed they were. Possibly Lord Temple thought that when he married he should cut through his present habits as effectually as a knife severs a cheese, and never return to them. Or, he may have seen nothing to reprobate in this course of life, for example is fearfully infectious, and numbers, older and wiser and higher in the peerage than he, led it.
But what reckoning was it that he was laying up for himself? Time wasted, powers prostrated, talents thrown away! Lord Temple’s intellect was fine, and his heart good, but what use was he making of them? He never cast a thought to the solemn warning that “for all these things God would surely bring him into judgment.”
CHAPTER X.
LORD TEMPLE’S FOLLY.
Time went on. Time goes on with us all. Lord Temple paid occasional visits to Danesbury House, his conduct there being all that it ought to be, and Isabel’s attachment to him grew deeper and deeper. Their marriage was not spoken of even yet as a speedy event, although they were both some years older than when first engaged, but his affairs did not get straight Serle and St. George performed prodigies of wonder toward righting them, so the former assured Lord Temple; but the more they effected, the more his lordship spent. Every morning of his life did Lord Temple make a firm resolve that the morrow should see him begin a life of reformation, of saving, and every night saw his lordship spending as before.
Robert and Lionel Danesbury had been for some time resident in London. Robert’s regiment, a foot regiment, was quartered there; and Lionel, who had done with Mr. Pratt, was with an eminent town practitioner, attending lectures, and walking the hospitals. William likewise remained in town. At the expiration of his articles, the firm had proposed to Mr. Danesbury that he should continue with them a few additional years, for he was clever in his profession, and of much use to them. William likewise urged it, “for improvement, and to gain experience,” he said; but the unhappy truth was, that he was unable to tear himself from the fascinations of a London life. The three young men were in the first flush of manhood; William more than of age, Lionel approaching it. They were not very frequently together, for their pursuits lay in different spheres, and each had a separate lodging. Mr. Danesbury was startled at the frequent calls upon his purse, so much more than he had ever bargained for. All were ready with an excuse; Robert’s perhaps the most plausible. He urged the expensive mess; the extravagant habits of his brother officers; and he must do as they did, unless he would like to be sent to Coventry. Mr. Danesbury believed that officers must be the greatest spendthrifts on the face of the earth: he made a handsome allowance to Robert, besides his pay, but the allowance and the pay seemed to be swallowed up, no one could tell how, and a vast deal besides it. He had left the ensigncy behind him, and was now lieutenant. William received a good salary from his employers, but he could not make it sufficient for his wants. Lionel was furnished with a liberal allowance, but it seemed as nothing to him. Mr. Danesbury consulted with Arthur, and grumbled, and wrote lectures to his sons; but Mrs. Danesbury made very light of it. Young men liked to see life before settling down, she said; but they would be all the steadier for it in the end.
But what was it that their London life was teaching them? Every thing that was bad. Some things they learned need not be given in detail, but the worst habit that can possibly fall upon young men, they had rapidly acquired — to fritter away their hours in idleness, smoking, and drinking. We are speaking now more particularly of Robert and Lionel; William’s days, till evening, were occupied in his business, therefore idleness could not be charged upon him. Robert’s habits had grown bad, as well as alarmingly expensive: too many families remember now, with a sigh of agony, what were the lives led by the officers quartered in London during the long peace. Vanity, vice, betting, gambling, and — what this history has most to do with — drinking. All three were without control in that dangerous city; without a home; for the furnished lodgings of a young man can not deserve the name. Lionel’s companions were, of course, chiefly medical students of various ages; quite as notorious in their way, as officers are in theirs; they were dissolute, idle, and irreligious, gentlemen though they called themselves. Robert and Lionel (do not forget that we are not much alluding to William, who was not quite so unsteady as his brothers) were not yet in the habit of getting intoxicated — that only happened to them occasionally: but had they sat down and reflected on the immense quantity of drink they did consume in a day, it might have startled them. Lionel chiefly indulged in porter, medical student fashion; Robert in wine; and spirits came amiss to neither. Drinking begets drinking. Had any one told them they were on the road to become men of habitual inebriation, they would have scoffed at the notion; yet, had they recalled what had been their customary daily portion the previous year, and what the year before that, they would have been astonished to find how, with each year, the quantity had augmented. How could it increase? they would have asked themselves; they did not seem to take, one day, more than the preceding one. No, they did not seem to do so, taking one day with another, and yet the increase had been dreadful. Poor lads! the vice was insinuating itself imperceptibly upon them; they were thrown into its very midst; they did not wish, or intend to do wrong; but they were unable to withstand the temptations that beset them, for London teemed then, as it teems now, with incentives to indulge in it.
A cab was dashing down Oxford Street into Holborn, a well-appointed cab, with a coronet on its panels. The refined features of its distinguished-looking driver bore the pale, jaded air that tells too surely of a dissipated life; he seemed to urge his horse recklessly. Clearing all impediments, he was about to turn up Bed Lion Street, when he checked his horse so suddenly that the animal was nearly pulled on his haunches.
“Halloa, Payn!” called out he; and Sir Robert Payn, who had been walking along in a brown study, regarding nobody, turned off the pavement and went round to the driver’s side of the cab.
“I say, Payn,” cried he, stooping down and speaking in an under tone, “were you not in St. James’s Street, the night before last when I went in?”
“Yes,” answered the baronet. “You had been in the sun, and no mistake.”
“
Did I play while you were there?”
“Not you. You were too far gone. You couldn’t have held the cards. Why?”
“It seems I did get playing. And I thought if you had been there, Payn, you might have done me the service to pitch me out at the window rather than suffer me to make a fool of myself, and docks and drakes of my money.”
“Do you mean to Say you did do that?”
“Others say it; and there’s no doubt I did.”
“Much damage?”
“Pretty fair. What time did you leave?”
“What time did I leave?” pondered Sir Robert “ Let’s see. After that I looked in at Maggs’s, and stopped about three quarters of an hour, and I was at home and in bed before four. It must have been getting on for three when I left St. James’s Street. Danesbury and Colonel Neeve went out when I did. You were fast asleep on the sofa then.”
“Was Sandlin there?”
“No, Sandlin was gone. Whitehouse was there, and Georgy Eden; and those were about all, I think, except you and Anketel. There was nothing doing. Swallowtail was sitting by the fire-place, and Whitehouse and Georgy were flinging for sovereigns. Are you coming to Sandlin’s to-night?”
“I don’t know. I shall see. Good-day.”
The cab sped on, up Bed Lion Street, toward Bedford Row; and there it pulled up at the offices of Serle and St George. The gentleman threw the reins to his groom, jumped out, went into the house, and opened the door of the front office.
“Mr. Serle in?”
“No, my lord. Mr. St. George is.”
His lordship walked listlessly through the room. The clerks turned their heads after him. Scarcely a young clerk bat gazed with a sigh of envy: his handsome person, his life of ease, his title, even his aristocratic cab at the door, with its blood horse, all presented, or seemed to present, food for envy. But had the breast of that nobleman been laid bare before them, they might have hesitated to exchange their own position for his, although they did have to scratch away from morning till night with a hard pen at a hard desk. The head clerk left his place, and held open the door of a very small room, the private room of Mr. St. George.
“Lord Temple, sir.”
Mr. St George rose. He had been sitting before a table covered with parchments and papers. “Serle’s not in?” said Lord Temple, who was not only some years older than when we last saw him, but who looked it.
“No,” replied Mr. St George. “He is gone up west with Mr. Danesbury.”
“With Mr. Danesbury! Is he in town?
“He came op last night on unexpected business. Is it any thing I can do, my lord?”
“I can speak to you, as well as to Serle; it is all the same, I dare say, returned Lord Temple, throwing himself into the client’s chair. “I want some money raised.”
“Raised again?” echoed Mr. St. George, with an emphasis.
“And I must have it, too,” added Lord Temple.
“I fear it will be difficult. The mortgage on the Dacre estate—”
“I beg your pardon,” interrupted Lord Temple. “I never go into these business details: Serle can tell you so. You and he must manage the practical part, but don’t worry me with it. I must have £3000 by the 25th.”
Mr. St. George looked grave, and at length spoke hesitatingly.
“Lord Temple—”
“Well?”
“Will you pardon me if I am frank with you? Mr. Serle, I know, smooths matters over, and gives them a pleasant aspect. It is his way. So long as the evil day can be put off, he is sure to do it. I should like to be more honest with you.”
“You would like to tell me that my estates are going to the deuce headlong, and the more money I raise the quicker they’ll be there,” said his lordship, good-humouredly. “That’s what you mean, is it not, St George?”
“Part of it, my lord.”
“Part of it! what’s the other part?”
“I should like to ask how much longer you are going to play with Miss Danesbury,” said the lawyer, in a low tone, “if I may dare to ask it.”
The colour rushed into the viscount’s face. He bit his lip.
“You will forgive my boldness, Lord Temple, when you remember that her mother was my near relative. I have long been pained to see your time, your fortune, your energies thrown away; pained for you, and pained for Miss Danesbury. You ought to give her up.”
“Give her up!” echoed his lordship: “give her up! Never. She is dearer to me than my own life.”
A contemptuous curl, suppressed instantly, rose to Mr. St. George’s lip. “Is she dearer to you than your follies, my lord?”
The viscount started from his seat in perturbation, angry, yet conscience-stricken. “You are the only man who should so speak to me, Mr. St. George. But, as you say, you were her mother’s relative.”
“It is time that some one should speak,” returned Mr. St. George. “Mr. Danesbury, buried in the country, unsuspicious as his own honourable nature, believes that your affairs were so inextricably involved at your father’s death, that it is taking all this time to get them straight. You know perfectly well they might have been set to rights twice over, had you been barely prudent — at least, sufficiently straight to allow of your marriage.”
Lord Temple made no answer.
“You also must be aware that each year brings less chance of its being accomplished. Every sum of money you raise, makes the prospect darker; while Mr. Danesbury — and no doubt his daughter also — is naturally looking, from one month to another, to receive news that the desired end is gained. Indeed, Lord Temple, you ought to give up Miss Danesbury.”
“I will not give her up,” was the answer, passionately uttered. “How dare you suggest so dishonourable an alternative?”
“My lord! Dishonourable! Whether would it be more honourable, frankly to tell Mr. Danesbury that your circumstances bar you from marrying, or to waste Miss Danesbury’s best years in a useless engagement which will never be fulfilled?”
His lordship turned his haughty face on Mr. St. George. It expressed the very essence of scorn.
“What are you saying, sir? That the engagement will never be fulfilled?”
Mr. St. George met the viscount’s anger equably. He was a plain-speaking, right-minded man, and had less reverence for rank (as rank alone) in his whole body, than Mr. Serle had in his little finger. It was with the senior partner that Lord Temple had hitherto consulted. But, now that Mr. St. George had got him face to face, and broken through the official trammels of lawyer and client, the social trammels due to rank, he was determined to speak out his mind.
“My lord, I am saying nothing that the facts of the case will not justify. How can the engagement ever be fulfilled, when you are daily putting it more and more out of your power to do so? When you were first engaged to Miss Danesbury, years ago, you were in a better position to marry than you are now.”
Lord Temple could not gainsay it. “The fact is,” said he, with a somewhat crestfallen expression, ‘‘I have been led unwittingly into expenses, one after another. But this shall not go on. I will begin the work of reformation, and get things straight.”
“So yon said then. I fear you will go on saying it to the end of time, but not acting. It is cruel behaviour toward Miss Danesbury. My lord, I must express it; cruel behaviour.”
“I can not control my circumstances, and convert shillings into pounds,” cried Lord Temple, after an uncomfortable pause. He was provoked at the lawyer’s manners, so cool, yet so evidently determined not to quarrel; he was provoked at his words, because they were true; and he was provoked at himself
‘‘But you can control yourself, and spend less,” spoke Mr. St. George. “That, at least, is in your power. Lieutenant Danesbury was at my house the other night, and I gathered a hint of your extravagance from some words dropped by him. He said Lord Temple was ‘going the pace,’ even for a nobleman.”
“He need not talk,” returned Lord Temple, in a fiery tone. “There are not many men i
n this town, noble or simple, who go the pace quicker than Robert Danesbury.”
“I believe that is unfortunately true. Mr. Danesbury’s present visit to town is caused by some unpleasant extravagance of Robert’s, which must be looked into and provided for. But Robert Danesbury is not an engaged man.”
“You harp so much upon my being engaged,” peevishly cried Lord Temple. “I wish to my heart I was not engaged; I wish I was married. A single man — a man without home ties, as I am, can not help getting into extravagance. I’ll defy him. I am not a tenth part as extravagant as many of my order.”
‘‘Nor a fortieth part as wealthy to be extravagant upon,” thought the lawyer. “I know what I should do in the dilemma,” he added aloud. “I should many.”
“Marry!” cried Lord Temple, in consternation.
“I should. I should lay a statement of facts before Mr. Danesbury, and say, ‘Give me your daughter, sir, and save me from my follies, for I can not save myself.’ You would spend less, as a married man, than you are spending now.”