by Ellen Wood
“To be sure. Takes after his father in both respects,” gravely responded Lord Temple.
They laughed at this. And Isabel quitted the room laughing.
“I am glad to see you looking so much stronger,” observed Arthur, when left alone with his brother-in-law. “I had grave fears that you would never be strong again. In the spring, when I was here at the child’s christening, and you were, so to say, well — I had my doubts of you.”
“Ay: my renewed life is a blessing I did not deserve.”
“Have you persevered in your resolution of keeping to water?” inquired Arthur.
“Yes; thank God! And I will persevere, by His help — persevere to the end. All that day, when I lay dying, as I and every body thought, my inward prayer was that God would mercifully renew my life to me, as He did to Hezekiah. Not for die sake of the life — the living longer in the world — it was not for that I so earnestly prayed, but that I might be enabled to atone for the past. Almost by a miracle I was raised up. The medical men said it was a miracle to them, and I am sure it was to me, for I had every sensation of a dying man. After mercy, so great, accorded me — so direct an answer to my earnest prayer — how could I relapse into a careless or evil life? It was prolonged to me to redeem it, to strive to please God, to be useful to my fellow-men: and my first resolution toward this was that I would never drink any thing but water, so long as I should live. Wine and strong drink had led me on to most of the ill I had committed: they never shall again.”
“Water is the only, certain safeguard in such a case as yours,” remarked Arthur.
“It is,” assented the viscount. “Some men — your father, for example — can take stronger drinks, and never exceed a harmless quantity; but, were I to return to them, I might take too much, as I often used to do; therefore I keep the temptation at arm’s length. Yet I have not escaped being tempted, even since my raising up — I shall never call it by any other name, Arthur.”
“Tempted by your friends?”
“No. By my medical men. When I was growing better, they ordered me stout and wine; insisted on my taking it; told me I should never be well if I did not But I kept my resolution. I was helped to keep it,” added Lord Temple, reverently.
“Medical men little know the ill they do in pressing stimulants upon patients who are recovering from illness,” cried Arthur Danesbury. “A man rises from his bed as you did, weak, emaciated, trembling, a living skeleton. He can not yet take very substantial food, and his doctor immediately orders him port wine — a glass a day, or two glasses, or three, as the case may be, by way of getting up his strength. Many, many have become intemperate from only this slight beginning. They learn to like the wine, and to crave for it; they continue its use, after health has returned, in gradually increasing quantities, and the rest is easy.”
“I do believe you. I am convinced that it is so. Wanting the moral power to rents, and the better and higher safeguard, white I trust I have now within me, I should have been quite as ready to drink as my medical men were to order, and should have gone on from bad to worse. When Isabel was recovering, after the boy was born, they told her she must take double stout and port wine — that she must. After the first day or two she did not dispute the point with them, but quietly let them believe, if they chose, that she did take it.”
“And drank only water?”
“Of course. You know Isabel never takes any thing else. She got strong none the slower for it, and I am sure the child lost nothing by the bargain. He really is a beautiful boy, Arthur,” added Lord Temple, “but if I were to admit it before Isabel, she’d be prouder of him than she already is, and be for showing him off to the public in a glass case.”
“How do you manage to abstain from wine when dining with your friends?”
“Oh, I have put it hitherto on the score of my damaged inside, where the bullet went,” laughed Lord Temple. “The time may come, when I shall avow fearlessly my true reason, that water is better for the body, and better for the soul.”
“I wish you would,” earnestly spoke Arthur.
“It will come. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Some of these nights I may rise in my place in the House, and astonish the Lords by avowing that I have taken up the temperance cause, and call upon them, as good men and true, to legislate for it.”
“I pray that I may live to see the day,” aspirated Arthur Danesbury. “Much depends on you of the higher orders: you make the laws, you are set in lofty places, you are the mighty counselors of England’s Queen. You might affect much, if you gave yourselves up, heart and spirit, to look into, and strive to check this monster evil.”
‘‘The government might affect more than it does,” said Lord Temple. “It might render the laws and the duty affecting spirits more stringent; it might close up some of the gin and beer shops; it might help in other ways. But to suddenly convert the British community, from a toping people into a sober people, is not in their power. Government can not say to a man ‘I will not permit you to touch beer, spirits, or wine, for they are not good for you; or, ‘I will allow you but a moderate portion of each;’ it is impossible. Such a change must come from a man’s own will and heart.”
“Undoubtedly it must. Still, much might be done toward it. The outward attractions of the gin-palaces, their floods of light might be put down. Why should they display a nightly illumination more than other trades? If all shops were like them, we should require no street lamps. These flaring, establishments are the worst temptation to the poor, that ever were invented or permitted. It is all very plausible to say, man is a free agent, and need not enter them unless he choose: but it is man’s nature to yield to temptation, especially when it is thrown attractively in his way, as are these gin-palaces. I was in one last night, Temple.”
“You!”
“I, myself. I wanted to see a person on urgent business, and was told I might catch him there. I waited there for hours. And the scenes I witnessed kept me awake all night. I never closed my eyes till daylight. Misery, misery, nothing but misery. There lies an awful responsibility for guilt somewhere.”
“The question is, with whom does lie the responsibility,” remarked Lord Temple.
“It might do some good. Temple, if you would move that the House should cause a return to be made, for one whole year, of all the crimes, accidents, and offenses, committed by parties when under the influence of intoxication,” said Arthur, after a pause. “It might be productive of more benefit than some of the parliamentary returns are, for I can not but think it would startle the Legislature into acting.”
“You should get one of the Commons to do that,” laughed Lord Temple. “It is in their department.”
“If ever I enter Parliament, the prevalence of intemperance, and its possible remedy, shall be the first point to occupy my attention.”
“Do you think of entering it? I wish you would.”
“The thought has crossed my mind at times,” replied Arthur. “I may, some day; as you observe, of your rising in your place to astonish the peers. Have you learned yet to like the water?”
“A long while ago. If you put water and wine before me now, I would take the former from preference. I did not like it at first, I thought I never should; but with the habit of drinking it, the liking came. I am sure, also, that my general health is better for it. I question whether I should have wholly recovered, had I taken again to stimulants; perhaps might not have lived many months. And I will tell you another thing it is benefiting, and that’s my pocket I shall have my affairs straight in half the time that we looked for.”
“Have you seen Robert lately?”
“No. Isabel was wondering what had become of him. That was a mad trick of his, the selling out.”
“Yes, it was,” said Arthur, sadly. “We did not know of it at home. He is going all wrong, I fear.”
“I fear so, too,” said Lord Temple. “Drink again!”
At this moment Isabel came in, tossing an infinite of nine or ten months old. There was no mistak
e about his being a beautiful child, with his mother’s clear, intelligent eyes, and his father’s refined mouth. His white frock was tied up with blue ribbons, and his little fat arms were beating the air.
“There, Arthur,” said his mother to him, “go to your namesake, and uncle, and god-papa.”
Arthur Danesbury took him, awkwardly, it must be confessed, and little Master Arthur immediately rewarded him by seizing upon his whiskers. Arthur the elder cried out.
“Give him back; you are not a nurse at all,” said Isabel; “you should see what a famous one Reginald is.”
“He has been in practice,” said Arthur: “I have not.”
“Do you ever intend to be in practice?” returned Isabel, in a graver tone, which bore its own meaning, while Lord Temple carried the child across the room, playing with him.
“No one can answer for the future, Isabel.”
“I once thought your choice of a wife would fall upon — Shall I say?”
“If you like.”
“Mary Heber.”
A slight colour flushed his face. He did not speak.
“Was I right or wrong, Arthur?” continued Lady Temple.
“Right: inasmuch as that, if I ever do marry, I would prefer her to all the world.”
“Does Mary know it?”
“Not from me — in a direct manner.”
“Indirectly, I presume. May I ask, Arthur, why you do not marry?”
“I have had too much anxiety and care upon me to think seriously of it,” he said, in a low tone. “And I do not know that I could afford it.”
“What!” she exclaimed, in astonishment. “Not afford it?”
“Things have been going backward with us a long while, Isabel. Not with the business; but our expenses have so increased. They are a fearful drain.”
“Yon mean the boys’ expenses — their extravagance?”
“Yes. Robert’s have been — I will not tell you what; and William’s and Lionel’s not despicable. Were I to inform my father now that I had resolved to marry, I candidly tell you that he would have difficulty in finding me a suitable allowance.”
“But you are a partner. You have a share to a certain extent,” debated Isabel.
“But what I had accumulated I have been obliged to put back into the business: we could not have carried it on without. And, for three years, I have not drawn my full share.”
“Is it possible? Arthur, you are sacrificing your prospects to the others.”
“There has been no help for it. The liabilities their incurred in London had to be provided for, to avoid disgrace. My visit to town now is censed by — by an act of Robert’s” — he did not choose to speak more explicitly— “which will cost us £1000.”
“How wrong! how wicked of him!
“I would put up cheerfully with all we have lost, if I could but see them renounce their habit of drinking. It grows upon them all.”
“All I Even upon William?”
“Yes, upon William. He was decidedly better at the period of his marriage, but he is relapsing again. Lionel is much worse.”
“What does Mrs. Danesbury say to this?”
“She is bitter against William, but ever ready to find excuses for Robert and Lionel; though William indulges, and has indulged far less than either of them. I think this last exploit of Robert’s will startle her.”
“Why did he sell out, Arthur? He never comes here.”
“We did not hear of it at Eastborough. I was going to ask you why.”
“I do not know. He does not come here. A considerable time ago he called, and was closeted with Reginald. I found afterward he had come to borrow money.”
“Was it lent him?”
“Two hundred pounds. He has not been here since. What is he going to do with himself?”
“Lead an idle life at Eastborough, I expect. I have orders to carry him down with me. He must be got away from London, unless we wish to be quite ruined.”
“Indeed I would not have him at Eastborough, were I papa,” exclaimed Lady Temple. “He should be left to himself, to take the consequences of his folly. Papa is not responsible for him, as if he were a boy.”
“The consequences might be more serious than you imagine, my dear,” was the grave answer. “No: he must come home.”
“Does mamma make the evening home more cheerful?”
“Quite the contrary. I frequently sit in my own room, or go to Mrs. Philip Danesbury’s: sometimes to William’s.”
“How hard it must be for Lionel! You say he grows worse instead of better. Does he mean to take his degree?”
“Isabel, if he can only cure himself of his unhappy propensity, he will do that, and every thing else that he ought. His wishes to do right are sincere, and he is clever in his profession, but he lets drink stupefy away his time and his energies.”
“And what of William?”
“Well — I hardly know what to tell you. We had great hopes that his marriage was to do wonders: and, both before it and after it, he was quite steady. But latterly he has been out again in an evening, and has, to my knowledge, gone home intoxicated. It is a cruel thing so to speak of two brothers, but I fear that Lionel is just now William’s evil genius.”
“Lionel! In what way?”
“He is everlastingly after William; enticing him out, and leading him to drink. As long as temptation is not thrown palpably in William’s way he keeps sober; but, let any body urge it on him, and he succumbs. I do not believe William is so much a slave to liquor in itself, as to the inability to resist partaking of it when set before him. Lionel, on the contrary, is a slave to it; he loves it; and there lies the difference between them.”
“Why does not papa forbid Lionel to go after William?”
“My dear, they are no longer boys, that they can be controlled,” replied Arthur, “they are men. My father has spoken to him, and urged it upon his good-feeling not to induce William to drink. Mrs. Philip met Lionel last week, and gave him a sound chastisement, as far as her tongue could do it.”
“What did Lionel say?”
“Only laughed in his easy, careless way, and said William was older than he, and it was hardly fair to blow him, Lionel, up for William’s misdoings.”
“There is a good deal in that,” mused Isabel. “William is the elder of the two, and a married man. He ought to have the moral strength to resist any temptation that Lionel could bring upon him.”
“Ought! there it all lies, Isabel. If we could but do as we ought, we should be good men. Lord Temple tells me that he still keeps to water: I think he is striving to do as he ought.”
“Oh yes, and he will do it,” she said, with quiet happiness.
“He 18 going the right way to work. He has found out where to look for help and strength. That dreadful duel, which I really thought would have killed me at the time, has tamed out to have been a blessing.”
“All things work together for good to them that lore God,” whispered Arthur, pressing his lips to her forehead. “Whatever sorrow may betide, remember that, my sister.”
“No sorrow such as that was can ever befall me again, with reference to my husband,” she answered, the tears standing in her eyes. “I am quite certain that in conduct he will keep right now: I have a positive, inward conviction of it, and so has he. And if death were to come to him, though very grievous for us, and for me hardly to be borne, we should only part in the sure hope of meeting and dwelling together hereafter. But oh, Arthur! that, other death! when he was suddenly cut down in his sins! without having found Christ, or done a single thing to please God in all his life! I do believe it would have killed me, had he died. He has gone with me to the communion-table,’’ she added, sinking her voice still lower. “Only think of that! And he never went before in all his life, save the Sunday after he was confirmed, and then he says he should have been better away, for he went through the ceremony as a ceremony, entirely in a matter-of-course sort of way. I used to ask him to go with me after our marriag
e, when we were staying in Paris and attending the embassador’s chapel, and he would laugh and say he was not good enough. But he has been at last; he went of his own accord, without my speaking of it; and I can see that in time he will go regularly. It has made me so happy, so thankful.”
‘‘How much longer am I to be nurse?” called out Lord Temple from the opposite end of the room.
Isabel laughed. “Why do you not bring him here, Reginald? You have kept him yourself.”
“But the young Turk has got his eyes and hands on this shining curtain bracket. If I take him away he may deafen Arthur’s ears with screams, and they are not used to the music.”
Isabel rose and took the baby. But if he had lost the curtain ornament he had found his mother, and did not cry. She summoned the nurse, who carried away the child.
“I need not ask if you intend to make him a water drinker,’’ said Arthur.
“No, that you need not,” heartily responded Lord Temple. “Neither he nor any of his brothers and sisters who may come after him shall ever touch aught but water while I control them. I don’t know what they may do afterward.”
“Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it.’ That was spoken by a wiser man than either you or I, Temple,” said Arthur Danesbury.
“Dinner, my lady,” cried a servant, opening the door.
“We dine early on Sundays,” remarked the viscount, as he followed his wife and Arthur to the dining-room. “Isabel has got me into the habit, and we find it to be a good one; more particularly as regards the convenience of the servants. But — talking about getting into good habits — do you know that St. George has become a water-drinker?”
“Has he? St. George!”
“He dined here a fortnight ago, and wine was placed on the table, as usual when, we have any one with us, for I don’t force my temperate habits upon my guests,” continued Lord Temple. “But St. George said I might order the wine off again; he had given up drinking it.”
“Did he give his motive?”
“Simply that, seeing so much evil arising from indulgence in it, especially to young men, he had come to the determination to banish wine and beer from his own table before his children should grow up. Of course that could only be done by abjuring them himself; and he has done it.”