by Ellen Wood
He was silent.
“William, do you hear me?”
“Whatever may be my faults, I hold a promise very sacred, Isabel: my father taught me that in my childhood, and I can not forget it. I never undertake a promise lightly. Do not distress yourself so.”
“I will put it somewhat differently,” she sighed. “Will you try to overcome it, William?”
A moment’s hesitation, and then a dear, steady answer, “I will try.”
When the hall door was thrown open for them, William took out his watch and looked at it by the light of the hall lamp. It was a quarter past ten. He was then turning from the door, but Isabel turned with him.
“You are not going out again to-night?”
“Just for half an hour.”
“Oh pray, pray do not!” she urged. “Come in and play a game at chess with me.”
Whether it was that his conscience whispered of the promise he had just made, or that he marked her pained, eager countenance, certain it is he entered with her.
“A pretty time to come home!” was Mrs. Danesbury’s greeting. “What made you so late?”
“It is not late, mamma,” returned Isabel, who was rushing off her things in a violent hurry, as if she feared William would be off, unless she sat down to detain him. She then pulled forward the chess-table, and began setting out the men.
“You are not going to begin chess at this hour?”
“There is plenty of time for a game,” exclaimed Isabel. “I have challenged William to play with me. It is only a quarter past ten.”
“There’s not time, and I want to go to bed,” retorted Mrs. Danesbury. “I was up half of last night: if you want to know the reason, ask William.”
“I think,” said William, chafing at the allusion, and at Mrs. Danesbury’s words altogether, “I had better go back and spend my evening in the town. I had promised a friend to do so, only Isabel over-persuaded me.”
“Go out and disgrace yourself, and come home as you did last night, is that what you mean?” cried Mrs. Danesbury. “I should fancy you want bed, and might be contented to go to it.”
William turned on his heel and left the room. Isabel darted after him. He was striding along to the hall door. She grasped his arm.
“Oh, William, William! do not go! do not heed her!”
“Not go! does she think to send me to bed at ten o’clock at night, like a baby? I would have passed a rational hour at home with you, Isabel, and not have gone out; I had made up my mind to do it, and she has stopped it. Let me go, my dear.”
Her features were pale, her hands were trembling, but she would not loose her hold.
“For my sake,” she implored, “for my sake. Stay in, and we will have our game at chess. I shall tell Mrs. Danesbury so, in papa’s presence. Come back with me! Dearest William, I shall soon be gone. I ask you for my sake.”
He scowled, hesitated, and finally turned back with her. She took his arm, and thus they went into the drawing-room. “Mamma,” she said, approaching Mrs. Danesbury, “my brothers must be allowed proper amusement in their own home. You will forgive me, if I say I must play the promised game at chess with William.”
It is probable the speech took every body by surprise. Arthur rose from his seat and finished placing the chessmen, which Isabel’s sudden movement had interrupted. It was plain on which side his influence would be given. He then drew her chair forward, and looked to William and Isabel. All this without speaking.
Mrs. Danesbury was livid with anger. She rose up and confronted her husband.
“Am I to be bearded in my own house by your children? Are you going to sit tamely by, and see me insulted, Mr. Danesbury?”
Mr. Danesbury was grievously annoyed and perplexed, but the principles of justice were strong within him. He was also keenly alive to the necessity of keeping William indoors, could it be effected. “You take things in a wrong light,” said he to Mrs. Danesbury; “in a calmer moment you will see it, I make no doubt. It is not yet bedtime; if the children have a mind for a game at chess, surely they may be allowed to gratify it. It need not keep you up.”
“And yon will suffer them to insult me in my own home?” she repeated, with concentrated passion.
“I would not suffer them to act to you in any improper way whatever; you know I would not, and you know that they would not attempt to do so. As to the home, Eliza, you seem to forget that it is theirs as well as yours.” Many a less calm man would have been tempted to add, “And was theirs before you came to it.”
Mrs. Danesbury flung out of the room, pushing one chair here, and another there, screaming all sorts of outrageous things, as an angry woman, unsubdued by a Christian spirit, will do. Isabel made things comfortable, and sat down to chess with William. At about twenty minutes to eleven, Mr. Danesbury rose, and said he should go to bed.
“I suppose you do not mean to be late, children,” he said, in a pleasant tone.
“The game promises to be a long one: I conclude you do not wish us to leave it unfinished,” spoke William, with a touch of resentment in his voice, for his spirit was still smarting under the words of his step-mother.
“My son,” said Mr. Danesbury, “I have never denied innocent gratification to my children, or placed an unnecessary check upon their wishes. You know that I should not wish you to leave the game unfinished; neither should I wish to drive you to bed before you care to go. I only wish you would spend your time thus every evening. Good-night, my boy,” he added, holding out his hand.
William rose and grasped it. “Good-night, dear father,” he warmly said, full of contrition for having momentarily pained so good a father.
Presently William rang the bell. It was for hot water. He told the servant to put out the brandy.
“You will not take it, William,” whispered Isabel, when the man was gone.
“I must have a glass, Isabel, and I shall. I can not forego every thing at once.”
“Arthur,” she said, “beg him not.”
“I wish he was like me,” said Arthur— “did not like it” But that was all the remonstrance he ventured on. Arthur knew that too much remonstrance might be worse than none; that no man can be coerced from evil to good.
“You foolish girl!” uttered William: “if I never do any thing worse in an evening than play at chess and drink one glass of brandy and water, I should think even Mrs. Danesbury ought to find no room to grumble. I will only take one: I promise you,” he somewhat significantly added.
He drank his glass of brandy and water, but he took no more. The chess-men were put away soon after eleven, and all three drew round the fire for a cheerful chat, going up to bed about half past. Isabel went inside her brother William’s room. He kissed her fervently.
“Not many could have influenced me as you have tonight, Isabel. God bless you, my dear sister.”
“May He bless you, William,” she returned with streaming eyes, “and keep you from temptation when I am gone!”
And every night, save two, by hook or by crook, did Isabel contrive to appropriate the evenings of William and Lionel. Now at chess; now by the help of music and Louisa Serle, who came down from town; now by a few other friends, invited for the evening, which Isabel made her approaching departure the plea to Mrs. Danesbury for insisting upon; and now at Mrs. Philip Danesbury’s. Those two evenings they went out, but did not come home the worse for liquor, so far as could be seen. Isabel’s hopes rose high; she thought they had not fallen so low as she feared.
And thus the wedding-day came on, and brought grand doings at Danesbury. All the sons were at home for it, many friends gathered at the house, and the whole of the workmen were feasted. There was a long and elaborate breakfast, after which Lord and Lady Temple left, to proceed to Dover, for they purposed passing some months on the Continent, and there was an elaborate dinner in the evening. It all passed off well, and the guests departed full of high spirits and good wishes, suspecting nothing amiss. Only to the household was it betrayed that Robert
and Lionel had been carried up to bed helpless, on this, their sister’s marriage-day.
CHAPTER XIII
A DISCOVERY.
London was empty. The hot days of July had contributed to thin it. But, now that August had come in, every body was getting away. “Except myself and a few more drudges,” thought Mr. St. George, as he stood at the windows of the clerks’ office, looking out on the hot and dusty road. It was close upon the long vacation. There was little doing, and even Mr. Serle had gone for a fortnight to his family, who were sojourning at Brighton. One of the clerks crossed the street, passed the window, and entered.
“Well?” said Mr. St. George to him. “Is the man in, all safe?”
“No, sir. The man’s out. The money’s paid.”
“Paid!” echoed Mr. St. George, as though the information afforded him considerable surprise.
“I have got it here, sir, expenses and all.”
Mr. St. George turned, went into his own room, and the clerk, first hanging up his hat, followed. He took from his pocket a fifty-pound note, and laid it before Mr. St. George. “I gave the change, sir, twenty-five shillings and nine-pence.”
“If the man — Pratt, or whatever his name is — had got the money, why did he give all this trouble? exclaimed Mr. St. George.
“He had not got it, sir. It was his wife. When she saw the man was really in possession, she said she supposed there was nothing for it but to pay, for she could not have the children’s beds taken from under them. So she went into the back room and brought out this note. She cried when she handed it to the man, and said she had had it by her ever since her husband gave it her, twelve months ago, and had kept it to apprentice on the eldest boy, but she must let it go now.”
“Curious!” remarked Mr. St. George. “Did not her husband know that she had it?”
“No; I am sure he did not. He was as much astonished as I was. He said to her, perhaps, as she had got that, she had got another, and she sobbed bitterly, and said she had not another halfpenny in the world. She seemed quite a lady, though she was dressed poorly.”
“It is a pity she did not produce it before, and save expenses,” remarked Mr. St. George, as the clerk retired. “I wish Serle would not meddle with these nasty, paltry things,” he added to himself. “Taking children’s beds from under them! I would not, if I were head of the firm. They turn in little profit and no credit. When people bring in this dirty sort of work, they should be sent away to find others to dabble in it for me. Halloa! what’s this?”
Mr. St. George’s eye had fallen on a name written on the back of the note, “Victor d’Entraigue.”
There was nothing in the name itself, for he had never known any one who owned it; but what had caused his exclamation, was a sudden conviction that that same note had passed through his hands before. He had a perfect recollection of the name, and also of the long sprawling writing — the two words taking up two lines across the back of the note, from one side to the other.
“Now, where did we pay away that note, that it could come into the hands of such persons as these Fratts must be?” thought he. “Why! it was one of those handed by Lord Temple to Swallowtail, to liquidate that gambling debt of £3000.”
Mr. St. George had never been satisfied in his own mind upon the circumstances of that loss. He had often ruminated over them, but could never solve the point of Lord Temple — or any one else — having been able to play, and sign away money in a state of utter unconsciousness. The engagement of Lord Temple to Isabel, and their subsequent marriage, had given him an interest in that nobleman beyond what he felt for the generality of clients. Lord and Lady Temple had just returned from the Continent; they were then in London, and he had been to see them only two evenings before. But of this more presently.
Mr. St. George leaned back in his chair, and ruminated. He had a faint idea that this Pratt was connected with gamblers, but he knew nothing of him beyond what their client, who had given them instructions to proceed against him for a debt, had related. For twelve months the woman said she had had the money; it was rather more than twelve since the transaction between Swallowtail and Lord Temple; therefore the inference to be drawn was, that she had received it at the time. ‘‘Now,” thought Mr. St. George, who was a long-headed man, with a remarkable facility for sifting details, “if Lord Temple lost that money to Swallowtail, why should fifty pounds of it be given to Pratt? It looks as if it had been a stop-gap.”
Mr. St. George touched his bell. ‘‘Send Hadden to me,” said he, as a clerk answered it.
The same man who had brought the money came in. “Hadden,” cried Mr. St. George, “do you know any thing of this Pratt, who and what he is?”
“I do not, sir. I never saw or heard of him till now; but the man whom Checkett sent in seemed to know him. He said, when we came away, that he was glad it was settled, for Pratt was not a bad fellow, and was nobody’s enemy but his own. It is not often those sort of men find pleasure at such a termination.”
“Did he say what Pratt was?”
‘‘He said he once was very respectable, but had got down in the world, and was now a marker — or whatever they call it — at a gaming-house in St. James’s Street.”
“Ah!” said Mr. St. George, in a tone as if he had expected the information. ‘‘I want to have a word with this Pratt,” he continued. “Can you get him here?”
“I dare say I can, sir.”
“Go and see.”
Hadden was successful in his errand, and returned with Mr. Pratt: a thin, shabby-genteel man, with something of the gentleman about him still. He had a pale face, with hollow cheeks and hot lips. Mr. St. George pointed to a chair, and then took out the bank-note.
“A seizure was put into your rooms this morning, Mr. Pratt,” he began, “and you settled it by means of this note. I want a little information about it. I have seen it before.”
Pratt’s face turned of a different white — more ghastly. There — there’s nothing wrong about the note, is there, sir? It is not a bad one?”
Mr. St. George locked up the note before he answered. He purposely abstained from relieving the man as to the false scent he had got upon. “Where did you get the note? asked he. “I must know.”
“Sir, if there’s any thing wrong about it, I never knew it. I am as innocent of it as I can be.”
“Whatever there may be about it, wrong or right, I will hold you harmless, provided you tell me all you know of the transaction by which it came into your hands. Of that I pledge you my word.”
“I got it a long while ago, sir.”
“How long? What date?”
“I can’t state it, for certain. It was last summer; in July or August, I think. I could tell, perhaps, by hunting up dates.”
“How did you get it!”
“I got it paid me with another. The other was good, sir, I’ll swear to it; for I changed it at the Bank of England.”
“But I ask how you got them?”
“Somebody was owing me money — a hundred pounds — and paid me with these two notes.”
“Mr. Pratt,” said the lawyer, “it is of no use for you to beat about the bush. I told you I would hold you harmless of all consequences, provided you gave me the information I required. If you will not do that, say so. ‘Somebody was owing me money,’ won’t do for me.”
“Well, sir, I got them from Swallowtail. Lawyer Swallowtail, as he is sometimes called. He had to pay me one hundred pounds, and he did pay me with these two notes. In the flush of having the money, I went home and gave my wife one of them. When mine was spent, I asked her for the other, and she stood to it that she had spent it in paying debts, and buying things for the children. But it turns out now that she has kept it ever since, sewn up in her stays. Badly enough at times have we wanted money, but she never brought it forth. Our eldest boy possesses a wonderful talent for architecture; he has made drawings of all the public buildings, and beautiful structures, cathedrals, palaces, and things, out of his own head. His
mother’s heart is set, like his, upon his being placed with an architect, and she had kept the money to help him to one, and never brought it forth. But, when she saw all the sticks and stones going this morning, out it came.”
“Did Swallowtail lose it to you at play, at the gambling-house in St James’s Street?”
The man was surprised, and looked up. Mr. St. George’s keen dark eyes were fixed on him.
“Not at play, sir. Mr. Swallowtail calls himself one of the nobs, and I only hold a subordinate situation there. He would not play with me.”
“But, at any rate, it was the proceeds of a gambling transaction: if not between you and Mr. Swallowtail, between Mr. Swallowtail and somebody else,” calmly repeated Mr. St. George.
Pratt was silent.
“And the ‘pull’ out of the affair — that is the orthodox word, I believe — was £3000.”
Mr. Pratt could not answer, he could only stare. “Do you know any thing about it, sir?” he at length uttered.
“I know all about it,” replied Mr. St. George, in a firm tone, “save some of the minor details, which you can supply. This money was chiseled out of Lord Temple, when he was dead drunk.”
No answer.
“In the presence of you and Swallowtail, and Major Anketel,” continued Mr. St George, venturing on some guesses. “How many others were there?”
Mr. Pratt hesitated. “I should have no objection to answer your questions, sir; I thought it a shameful thing at the time — a dead robbery, many a poor fellow has been transported for less; but, if it should come round to Swallowtail that I have spoken, it would be ruin to me.”
“It shall not come round to any one,” said Mr. St. George; “your name shall never be mentioned by me in the business; and, indeed, I very much question whether your friend Swallowtail will ever know that the affair has been spoken of at all.”
“Is the note a bad one?”
“There’s nothing the matter with the note. I want to know how the money was drawn from Lord Temple. When he went into the gaming-house that night with Anketel, he was completely intoxicated, and lay on the sofa asleep. How was it he got playing? Earl Sandlin, Sir Robert Payn, young Eden, Lieutenant Danesbury, and others, were there.”