by Ellen Wood
“I hope so, sir. I’ll do all I can. And I am very much obliged to you.”
“Are you sure you feel obliged to me?”
The boy looked up. “Of course I do, sir, and so do my friends.”
“Then you must repay the obligation by observing a certain rule which I wish to impose on you.”
“What is it, sir?”
“That you never drink any sort of intoxicating liquor; neither wine, nor beer, nor spirits. You will be among young men who probably do drink such, and they will be for persuading you. Unless you can resolve to withstand that, and to abstain, you had better stay away altogether.”
The boy’s face became painfully suffused, for he knew why Mr. St. George thought it necessary to give him that caution. “Oh, sir,” said he, “there will be no difficulty. I have promised the same to mamma, and I will keep my word. She has never yet permitted me to drink any thing but water, and I never will.”
“I will trust you,” answered Mr. St. George. “Remember, I implicitly trust you. Before I give you directions where to go,” he added, “I want you to step home and bring your father here. Tell him I wish to speak with him.”
“Young Pratt flew off, and soon returned with his father. The latter, a little the worse for liquor, had not staid to dress himself, and he looked, as the saying runs, “seedy;” seedy in clothes, and very seedy in face and frame. He shrank into himself when he recognized Mr. Arthur Danesbury, ashamed that he should see him as he was. It proved that Mr. St. George was mistaken in his suspicion of Pratt’s having been the man to present the bills at Roberts’s Pratt knew nothing whatever about them. Indeed, the probability was, that they had passed out of Robert Danesbury’s hands, three months before, into a discounter’s.
“There are plenty of men in London with white faces and inflamed lips,” thought Mr. St. George to himself: “I was wrong.”
“Do you happen to know where Mr. Robert Danesbury is now?” Arthur inquired of Pratt.
“‘No, sir. I have not seen the captain for some time — as we always call him among ourselves.”
Not waiting to ask who “ourselves” might mean, though Mr. St. George well knew, Arthur Danesbury proceeded.
“Do you know where he removed to, when he left his apartments in Bond Street?”
“He went to Arundel Street, in the Strand, and afterward he left that place, and I don’t know where he went to,” was Pratt’s reply. “He had a run of ill luck, and since then he has not shown out much.”
“What do you mean by ill luck?”
“At the gaming-table, sir. And the captain was extravagant in other ways, and I expect he is keeping himself dark, just now. I see him now and then at night; though I have not, for the last week or two. His old night resorts are, I expect, too expensive for him at present, or else he is afraid to show himself at them, and I am not acquainted with his new ones. I shall see two or three people to-night that I can inquire of.”
“I shall be obliged to you to do so,” returned Arthur Danesbury.
“And come here to-morrow morning and report,” said the lawyer, sharply, “at eleven o’clock.”
The following day, Saturday, Pratt; made his appearance in Bedford Row at the appointed hour. Arthur Danesbury was waiting for him. He had not been able to see Captain Danesbury, he said, for. it was as he thought; the captain was in hiding; but he had heard that he sometimes appeared at a certain tavern called the Golden Eagle: he “went there for his drink.”
“Do you know what he is doing?” inquired Arthur.
“Not much, sir,” replied Pratt. “He looks shabby now: though you may be slow to believe that, of Captain Danesbury. He is hastening along the downward road that I have gone. Lately, I have never seen him but he has been half screwed.”
“Half what ?” inquired Arthur.
“He means half drunk,” explained Mr. St. George. “It 18 one of our glorious town’s fast expressions, and has not, I presume, travelled to Eastborough.’’
‘‘Not to me,” replied Arthur. ‘‘I will go at once to this ‘Golden Eagle.’”
“It will be of no manner of use, sir,” interrupted Pratt. “He never appears there till night; and then with caution. Your surest plan would be, to watch the doors after dark, or go indeed and wait.”
Arthur Danesbury had plenty to occupy himself with that day, for he had business to attend to for the firm. He then went to his hotel and dined — the Queen’s, St. Martin’s-le-Grand — and afterward he went out to find the Golden Eagle.
The Golden Eagle was situated in a low neighbourhood, near to Oxford Street. Arthur was somewhat puzzled with the courts and street; but, on turning into the right one, there rose the structure before him. A magnificent white building — a gin-palace — imposing with pillars, and cornices, and balustrades, and ornamental architecture, all flooded with light. A “golden eagle,” jetted with gas, spread its wings over the first-floor windows, and lamps with pretty devices on the variously-coloured glass, four in front and two on the side — for it was a comer house — raised themselves on pilasters from the pavement. But, glaring and brilliant as was the light without, it appeared to be eclipsed by that within.
Arthur took up his station at the comer. A most unenviable position; for the flood of gas streamed full upon, and lighted him up, as if he had been placed there for show. But from no other point or darker comer could he see the two doors; and to watch only one was almost the same as watching neither. If that house was the Golden Eagle, the one at the opposite comer of the narrow street might be called the Golden Balls. It was a pawnbroker’s shop. Do you ever see the two far apart? And many a one visited that before they visited the Golden Eagle. Numbers were passing into it that Saturday night, carrying with them incongruous articles — flat-irons and children’s clothes, pillows and time-pieces, wedding-rings and men’s boots, Dutch ovens and chimney ornaments. Some pressed in there from sheer necessity; others to obtain means of gratifying their fiery craving for drink. Arthur Danesbury was often jostled by the pestiferous crowd, who came too close to him with their poisonous breaths, their glassy eyes, and their tainted rags. They were swarming there in scores, for it was Saturday night with the drinkers as well as with the pawners: and now and again his view of the doors was baffled by the intervening mob. The mob, who stared at him, standing there, as if he had been a wild animal, so entirely did he appear of a different species from themselves. He began to think he should be better off inside. It appeared a large place. Surely there might be a quiet corner where he could sit and wait, and he entered.
Several men, mostly young, and in shirt-sleeves — for it was hot within that reeking place — were serving behind the counter. It was the first time Arthur Danesbury had ever been inside a London gin-shop, and he stood in amazement. Lustrous mirrors in glittering gilt frames dazzled his sight, their costly plate-glass reflecting back the lights, as in countless numbers; massive pillars, all marble and burnished gold — at any rate to look at; showy time-pieces, and rich cut-glass chandeliers. Could this be a common gin-shop, where penny half-pints of porter and drams of gin were doled out? Ay, it was indeed, and a luminous sight it was. The taps communicating with the spirit-casks were of polished silver, or were silver-plated; it was impossible for the eye to tell which; farther on, a little space, were the beertaps; and the beautiful shelves behind held bottles of various kinds and elegant ornament. They contained cordials and liqueurs whose very names were sufficient to tempt the unwary, as they gazed at them, ranged there before the plate-glass. No lack of good cheer was sold there, or what the infatuated crowd deemed such. Barclay, Perkins, & Co.’s entire, prime double stout, mild ale, best cordial gin, cream of the valley, old Tom, pineapple rum, genuine Scotch whisky, best French brandy, sherbet, rum-shrub, were some of the names that, amid many others, stared in Arthur’s eyes. A little recovering from his astonishment, he approached a portly man who appeared to be the master. The latter gazed at him with surprise: his lofty form, his better than lofty countenance, his high breedin
g and affable tones were such that had not often been seen at the Golden Eagle.
Arthur courteously raised his hat: yes, even to a tavernkeeper, for he was a thorough gentleman at heart; and spoke in a low tone as he bent over the counter.
“Will you allow me the privilege of waiting here for half an hour? I wish to see a friend who occasionally comes here: perhaps he may do so to-night”
“Sir, with pleasure,” respectfully answered the landlord. “Will you please to walk into our private parlour, sir?”
“Thank you, no. This gentleman may be in and gone in a minute, and I might miss him. I will stand aside and wait here.”
The landlord bustled forward with a chair, and placed it at the corner of the counter. Arthur moved it back into the shade — if that term may be applied to any place so brilliant with light — somewhat out of the reach and somewhat out of the gaze of the crowd. The landlord handed him a weekly newspaper, and he opened it, but his attention was much taken up by what was passing around him.
They were coming in, thick and three-fold. Men, women, boys, girls; some old; some young; some “respectable,” some the very dregs of the street. If ever Arthur Danesbury felt pre-eminently thankful for being a water drinker, he felt so then. Repelling jokes met his ear, coarse conversation, profane swearing. Some were haggard with famine; some with long drinking; some were scarcely a day removed from their graves. One woman, pale and bloated, in a broken straw bonnet, came up to the counter, carrying a moaning infant. It did not seem to have strength to cry.
“Quartern o’ prime Old Tom,” she cried, putting down fivepence.
No sooner said, than the glass was handed to her with one hand, and the money swept away with the other. She drank it rather better than three parts, and the rest she poured down the throat of the infant, to dose it into quietness. Arthur Danesbury could not forbear an exclamation, but it was unheard in that Babel of sounds. As the woman turned from the counter, a young girl, in a green-and-red plaid shawl and tidy cotton gown, pushed her way into the place. She looked scarcely seventeen, yet the plague spot of intemperance had already set its mark upon her face. Thin and wan, and clammy in flesh and feature, it had the lack-lustre eye and the red-hot lips. She fixed those poor eyes of hers upon the landlord, and spoke with a pleading accent.
“Master, you’ll just trust me with a half-quartern, won’t yet”
“Not if I know it, wench,” roughly replied the same tongue which had been so civil to Arthur Danesbury.
“I’m dying for it,” she went on. “I ha’n’t had a taste in my lips this day, and I’m just fainting for the want of it. He ain’t come out o’ quod yet; when he does, I’ll pay ye. Let’s have it”
“Just take yourself off,” returned the landlord; “you can’t come the dodge over me.”
She broke out into an oath: “Hear to him!” she shrilly cried, turning to the shopful. “He won’t trust for a paltry half-quartern, and we have laid out pounds with him. You avaricious old Brimstone! I know who’ll get his own, some day.”
The landlord did not reply. He nodded to two of his men in the shirt-sleeves, who emerged from behind the counter and bundled the unhappy girl outside, she shrieking and cursing.
“We have rough customers here sometimes, sir,” said the landlord, approaching Arthur, and speaking in a tone of apology; “and this is Saturday night: any other, it would not be so bad.”
“Poor things!” returned Arthur Danesbury.
“Can I offer you a glass of any thing, sir? I’m sure I should be proud to — if you’d please to name what. I have got as good a glass of port as ever was tasted.”
Arthur shook his head. “You are very kind. I never drink.”
“Never, sir! Not any thing?”
“Except water.”
“Law, sir! that’s poor stuff to keep up a man’s stamina.”
“I don’t know,” returned Arthur, with an amused look. “If you contrast my ‘stamina’ with that of those I now see around, I think mine would not suffer in the comparison.”
“Yes, sir,” said the landlord, “but you must also contrast your position and advantages with theirs.”
“It may be that some of those now present have had it in their power to attain to as good a position as mine,” returned Arthur. “Two or three of them look as though they had been gentlemen once.”
“Yes, I believe they have been, sir.”
“Till ruined by the demon, drink,” muttered Arthur to himself.
“Who is that sitting down in the bar?” demanded the smartly-attired landlady, when her husband went into their own parlour.
“I don’t know who: some nob, though. He’s a real gentleman, whoever he may be; a lord, I shouldn’t wonder. He took off his hat to me as stylish as if I had been a duke royal, and asked leave to wait to see a friend. But, I say, what d’ye think? he’s one of them teetotalers.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he said so. I asked him to take something — I’d have given one of my best beeswing ports to such a man as he, for that he was not one of the beer or gin customers I could see with half an eye — and he said he never took any thing but water.”
“Perhaps he is one of those teetotal spies, come to show the trade up,” suggested the landlady.
“No, that he is not. He has nothing of the spy about him. He carries the stamp of honour on his face. My belief is, he’s a noble incog.”
“What made you give him that newspaper to read?”
“Because I thought he might like to amuse himself with it while he waited.”
“But that’s an old one.”
“An old one!” cried the landlord. “Ain’t it to-night’s?”
“No; last week’s. Here’s to-night’s.”
“Bless me!” exclaimed the man. And, taking the fresh paper, damp from the press, he approached Arthur with an apology for his remissness. The latter took it, but did not, at the moment, resign the other, for he was interested in something he was reading from it. Just then there was a loud shout in the bar, causing Arthur to look up, and the landlord to step close to the counter. It seemed to speak of applause.
The young girl had come in again, and, flinging down a shilling on the counter, demanded a half-quartern of “mountain dew.” The gin was served out to her and the eight pence change. She had taken off her cotton gown in the street, and pledged it for a shilling at the opposite pawnshop.
“Who says I am to be done?’’ cried she, when it was swallowed, taming round and holding out her scant petticoat, as if she were preparing to dance a minute. “Old Brimstone wouldn’t trust me, so I went and popped it for a shilling. I think this is as handsome as that: at any rate, for his shop,” she continued, still holding out the garment for exhibition, which, whether it was originally black or white, was of no colour but dirt now. “Ah I never say die!”
The applause was uproarious. Before half an hour had elapsed, she had spent the shilling in three half-quarterns of mountain dew, and went reeling out Gin on an empty stomach, weak from long fasting!
Arthur’s spirit was faint within him. In and out, in and out of the doors they poured — these poor, eager applicants, in all stages of misery, in all stages of disease, in all stages of intoxication. The doors were on the swing perpetually. Before one set had drained the poison that was destroying them, another was ready to fill up their places. What reward were they hastening on to in the next world? What were they hastening to only in this?
He sat till the house was ready to close — sat it out. Robert had not come in.
“May I trespass upon you again to-morrow night?” he inquired of the landlord. “I am from the country, and am unwilling to go back without seeing my friend. I do not know his address, but am informed he sometimes comes here at night.”
“What is his name, sir?” asked the landlord.
“I question if you would know him by name. I believe not”
“Come to-morrow night, sir, and as many nights as you please. I a
m sorry it is so dull for you, sitting here, and watching others drink.”
“I would rather watch them than drink myself,” was Arthur Danesbury’s answer. “What I have witnessed here to-night has not tended to increase my approval of it.”
“Drink is not bad in itself, sir, when taken in moderation; only when swallowed in excess.”
“But most of your customers do seem to take it in excess,” was Arthur’s rejoinder.
‘‘A good many do, it can’t be denied. Bat, sir, there are other things that do them harm as well as drink. Look at the low trash they are always reading, the bad, pernicious literature that they buy up and devour, the women especially. It’s awfully demonizing, and destroys their minds faster than drink destroys their bodies. Good-night to you, sir.”
The landlord was not far wrong; for nothing can tend to demoralize the minds of the lower classes more than certain cheap and low publications, periodically poured forth with an unsparing hand in the British metropolis. Next to the unseemly indulgence in intoxicating liquors, they are the greatest bane that ever fell upon a nation’s people.
CHAPTER XVI.
MEETING OF OLD FRIENDS.
Sunday morning rose. Arthur Danesbury attended divine service at St Paul’s, and then bent his course westward to Lord Temple’s house at Kensington. The service at St. Paul’s was over early, and Lord and Lady Temple had not returned from church. But they soon followed him in, and greeted him with glad surprise. He inquired, not without anxiety, after Lord Temple’s health.
“I’m getting strong again,” was the reply. “When did you come to town?”
“On Friday morning. But I have been engaged, and could not get as far as this. I can stay with you to-day. How is my little god-son?”
“You shall judge for yourself,” answered Isabel. “You never saw such a lovely child as he grows, Arthur — and so good!”
“Never was such a child before — in his mother’s eyes,” cried Lord Temple.
“Now, Reginald! You know that he is lovely — and good.”