by Ellen Wood
Mrs. Philip Danesbury hastened to descend the stairs. Katherine, ill and tearful, placed a chair for her.
“What did he mean when he spoke of his brother’s having been killed?” she asked. “Has any thing happened to him?”
“Oh no, ma’am. Mr. William was- here this morning. My poor husband has been going on like this all night, his mind wandering from one subject to another. It always does, in these attacks.”
Mrs. Philip wished Katherine good-day, and left the house; a conviction resting on her mind that she had seen Lionel for the last time.
That day passed, and the night, and in the course of the next day they had to strap him down to his bed. Now, would be an interval of quietness, not rest; and now, one of outrageous madness. The phantoms and shapes, sure characteristics of the malady, haunted his brain incessantly, and his words were painful to the watchers around him. This disease had hovered over him a long while, as it usually does over those it finally makes its victims, breaking out. every now and then, into fierce attacks like the present. And in the long nights, the terrible mornings, these “devils,” as they appeared to be to his disordered mind, had seemed to glide into his chamber in countless numbers, knocking at the furniture, the walls, the floor, the bed-stead, all mocking and gibing at him; now darting about the room, now becoming invisible, and now reappearing in every kind of horrible shape and form, such as we, who have lived a life of sanity and peace, can form no conception of.
Most men who have given themselves recklessly up to intemperance, know that this disease will creep, or is creeping upon them, that it will probably be their end; and yet they can not bring themselves to abandon the courses which are inducing its approach. Lionel knew it. Faint hopes, half-formed resolves arose, that in time he would thrust from him this insidious vice, and embrace uprightness and peace. In time, take you notice; not at the present moment; at some future one. Many a day had he awoke to intense suffering of body, to physical depression almost unbearable; but those pains were as nothing compared with his mind’s anguish; for he had not been brought up a heathen, and the dread consciousness of a world to come shone out in strong, fiery, scarlet colours. Marvel not that the illusion of devils, and other frightful phantoms, attacked Lionel Danesbury.
Again dawned the morning light upon the patient. It was his last day of life, though he might know it not. The fits of delirium continued with unarmed violence, broken, as before, by interludes of quiet — if it could be called quiet, when the whole frame was shaken, as with a fierce ague. His mind wandered distressingly; yet in those wanderings might be traced a recollection of his present state, of the life he had led.
“They keep me here, you see,” he exclaimed to Arthur, “and I want to be out. I want to — Father, is that you?”
It was Mr. Danesbury. Though very near the grave himself, he had insisted on being brought to Lionel’s bedside. William was also present.
“That’s good,” continued Lionel; “I wanted to see you. I’m so hot, you know. They have been coming round, such a lot of them, millions and millions. Where’s Robert?”
With one hand he swept the cloths from his head, and Dr. Pratt, who had come in with Mr. Danesbury, though protesting against Ms old friend’s visit, replaced them.
“Who says I am dying?” he shouted. “It is no business of theirs. See how they sneak up — creep, creep, creep! That one in green only came in this morning. Ah! is that you?” he cried, again momentarily recognizing his father, and holding out his hand, which was vibrating like a pendulum. “You don’t think I am going; do you?”
Mr. Danesbury was taken by surprise, the question was put so rationally. He did not know what to answer.
“Oh no, no!” reiterated Lionel, with a shriek of anguish that none present would ever forget; “not yet, in mercy! A little respite! a short period for reformation and redemption! Take away the drink; take it away, I say! I have led an evil life,” he added, his mind a strange mixture of consciousness and insanity, “but I won’t touch another drop: it’s burning here.”
He pointed to his chest, and then lay still; recommencing after a short pause.
“They came round me in the night and told me I was dying; but it’s not true. Hold me! hold me! at least till I have got through this multiplicity of work. Do you see all the duties that have accumulated? I have done nothing, you know; nothing but drink: but I can get through them. Not if you let these devils come upon me: I thought that little one was gone!”
“He has been raving all night about this accumulation of work and duties,” whispered Katherine.
“It can not be that I am dying! I must have the time I want first. Yes, I told you God would give it me. Katherine, my poor wife, you say you have been miserable, but we shall be happy now. You need not be afraid of me any longer: I’ll keep my promises, and leave it off. Hark! Hark! don’t make a noise” (though the room was perfectly still), “there’s that little one again. He has got another, and another, and another! They come creeping on! the room is full!”
With wild shouts and sad imprecations, he strove to raise himself to escape, it would seem, the fiends he thought he saw. And, though firmly prevented from moving, none could prevent the convulsive throes that shook his frame. The paroxysm of violence over, exhaustion supervened, and with it, partial recollection.
“William, is that you? Come here; closer. I have had such a horrid dream. I thought I was getting toward the prime of life, and that all the years given to me had been wasted: that I had been constantly drunk. Drunk. I thought — and it made me burn here,” tossing the cloths from his brow, “that the time was come for me to die, and then I found that all these years had not been mine to waste. Who spoke then? it was none of you. Who says it’s true? It is not true; I tell you it was a dream. Be off! be off! how dare you drive me mad? And if it were true, I am to have the time. What do you know about it? I say the time is mine. That’s one of those devils speaking: he says it was given to all but me. Who says I had it once, and threw it away? How dare you say it? Oh, mercy, mercy I a little time, for the love of mercy! I am not drunk now. Father, is that you? I have sworn not to touch another drop. Keep those devils from me. How can you let them come here, with this weight of sin upon me? What are they calling out — that Robert had no time? What’s Robert to me? I am to have it. I am. Do you see how they are coming on? Hold me! hold me! keep off that little one. I won’t die! he is mocking me! I won’t die, I say. Hold him back. No time for me! No time!”
“My dear father,” said Arthur, approaching Mr. Danesbury, “this is no place for you. Let me take you away.”
“Arthur,” said the old man, with quivering lips and trembling hands, as he grasped those of his eldest son, “there is no place for me much longer on earth. I question whether he or I shall go the quicker. My heart is broken. William,” reaching out to take his hand, and bring him side by side with Arthur— “can you marvel at it? My son, can you marvel at it? Few and evil have the days of my old age been: my substance destroyed, my peace of mind wrecked. One of my children has gone before me; another — he, poor madman — is going with me, and I have no hope that I shall meet either of them here after. Do you act” — he wrung William’s hand—” so as to come to me.”
They took Mr. Danesbury from the room; they also took the unhappy wife; for Dr. Pratt saw that the end was at hand. In a paroxysm of violence, more acute than any which had gone before it, the troubled spirit of Lionel Danesbury flew away to Him who gave it.
Yes! he asked for time, in his half-conscious ravings; but time upon time had been vouchsafed him, and he had used it not! Was it not enough to break their father’s heart? This is no imaginative history, it is taken from a family’s life. The one son rushed into the next world a suicide; the other was brought in the early years of man-hood to his dreadful death-bed. Not one good action could they remember to have performed in their whole lives; not one hour of the precious time granted them, had been used to good account. Their manly forms, their talent
s, their health and strength, had been offered up, and sacrificed, on the shrine of Intemperance.
Oh, reader! should the temptation to exceed ever assail you, should the vice with its insidious steps approach very near to you, and threaten to be habitual, take warning by this unhappy story! I tell you it is no ideal one. Look not thou upon the wine when it is red; flee from it in your earlier and thoughtless years; resolutely keep it at arm’s distance, if you would obtain peace in this world and in the next I
CHAPTER XXII.
ONE MORE DEATH. — ANXIOUS THOUGHT.
The church bell at Eastborough was solemnly tolling, as a funeral wound its way from Danesbury House. It was a long procession, all walking; for no carriages were used, by desire of the dead; and indeed the distance was but short. The officiating minister preceded the coffin, which was borne by eight of the Danesbury workmen, its pall being hell by eight of the superior overlookers and foremen, Thomas Harding being one. The chief mourners were Arthur and William Danesbury, Viscount Temple and Mr. St. George; but many others followed, friends and neighbours, and behind them came the long string of dependents. No noise, no busy sounds of labour or of life, arose that day from the Danesbury Works: and every house and shop in Eastborough had its shutters closed, to testify respect to him who was being carried past.
Stealing after it, came groups and groups of women, partly led by curiosity, partly by regret and affection, but, woman-like, they fell into gossip, though the tears were coursing down many of their cheeks.
“It’s a good man gone home,” said one. ‘We shall never see another like him.”
“Yes, we shall. He has left one behind that will tread in his steps. Mr. Arthur will be his father over again. Only to think of it I but fifteen days, this very day, since poor young Mr. Lionel was laid in the ground! It must have been sudden, like; for Miss Isabel — Lady Temple, that is to say — was only sent for three days before the death.”
“The poor old gentleman wanted to go to Mr. Lionel’s funeral, but his sons and Mr. Pratt told him he was not equal to it, and at last he listened to them, and consented to stay at home. But when they got in again from the grave, there he was on the floor. It was not a fit, Mr. Pratt said; he thought he was taken for death. After that he rallied for three or four days, and actually walked out into the garden and sat there, and then he was taken worse, and they telegraphed for Lady Temple.”
“He was quite sensible up to the last minute, I heard, and had his speech and senses about him, all clear.”
“I heard another thing, I did: that when somebody asked old Pratt what he had died of, he said of a broken heart.”
“Well, he has had enough to break it. He makes the fourth taken to the church-yard, all within the year. What do you think?” added the woman, dropping her voice—” he is going to be laid by the side of the first Mrs. Danesbury, not the second.”
“How do you know?”
“I do know. My husband heard old Green, the sexton, say-so last night, in at the Cock-and-Bottle. There was a vacant space left; by the side of the first Mrs. Danesbury, which had never been filled up, and he is to lie there.”
Yes. John Danesbury was gone! Gone from a world of care, to his recompense above. He could, in truth, say, with old Jacob, that few and evil had the days of his later life been: but he had learned in time to look to one who is a sure refuge.
The dark line wended its slow way along, past the public-houses, closed to-day — past the gin-palace, for once, in its flaring life, quiet and sombre — past the cottage of the ill-fated Lionel — through the church-yard, into the church. When it came out again, there was scarcely space left for it in the church-yard, or for the mourners to gather round the grave; and there was not a dry eye to be seen, there was not a heart but was lifted up in response to the words of the minister, “I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, Write, Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yes, said the Spirit; that they may rest from their labour.”
Back again at Danesbury House, the solicitor to the family marshalled all whom it might concern into the library, and produced the will. It was sealed with Mr. Danesbury’s own private seal, and upon being opened, two letters fell out; one addressed to “My Son Arthur,” the other to “My Son William,” and were superscribed, “To be read before the will is read.”
Each perused his letter in silence, Arthur’s face flushing with surprise, William’s with emotion. It was supposed, by those around, that the letters explained to each the motives which had dictated the will. After the death of Lionel, Mr. Danesbury had cancelled his previous will, and made this: and the letters bore the same date.
“Are you ready?” inquired Mr. Williams, the solicitor.
“Quite,” they answered.
“First of all,” premised Mr. Williams, “Mr. Danesbury wished me to declare publicly that he had had no adviser in the making of the will, and that no person whatever is privy to its contents, save himself, and I, who wrote it.” And he began to read.
The spectators listened in silence — some deeming it a strange will. It was found that the whole of the business, and the capital occupied in it, was left exclusively to Arthur. A certain portion of its profits was to be paid yearly to William for five years. At the end of that period he was to be taken into partnership, and receive an equal share, provided Arthur should deem it expedient. If Arthur did not, things were to go on as before. There were a few trifling bequests and legacies; and to Katherine Danesbury was secured a suitable annuity, in accordance with her original position in life. Danesbury House, with its furniture, except the plate and pictures, was bequeathed to Arthur, and a sum of ready money to William. The plate was to be equally divided between Arthur and William, and of the pictures Lady Temple also took her share. They both understood, nay, they knew, the motives which had dictated the will: a doubt of what William’s future conduct might be; and Mr. Danesbury, in making it, knew that the high honour, the exact justice, of Arthur needed no other guarantee for his performance of the contract, should it be desirable, when the time came, to fulfil it. Most earnestly did Arthur hope that William would act so as to enable him to perform it.
Earnestly, also, did William hope it; I am not sure but he prayed for it, as he walked home with his wife that evening. He was striving with all his might to overcome, and the strife was great, greater than he knew well how to battle with. For some little time now, he had been temperate, only taking beet with his dinner, and a glass of wine now and then, or one glass of spirits. The worst was, that in taking a glass of wine or spirits, he invariably longed to take more, and there lay the chief strife.
An afternoon or two before they were to quit Eastborough, Lord and Lady Temple were standing at the drawing-room window of Danesbury House, looking at the dusk of night, which was stealing over the landscape. Isabel was talking in a low, saddened tone, of many things connected with her old home and her late father. Her husband had drawn her closer to him, and stood with his arm round her waist. At length they began to speak of the will; it had been a fruitful topic of conversation in Eastborough.
“Do you know, Isabel, I can not yet understand it,” he said: “so just, so good a man as your father, to leave his sons so differently provided for! — at any rate for five years.”
“I can, unfortunately,” replied Isabel. “It has proved to me what I have dreaded to ask — that William has not forsaken his old habit.”
“Still, I can not agree with the will,” debated Lord Temple. “Suppose Arthur was not what he is? he might take advantage of William.”
“But he is what he is,” smiled Isabel, “and my dear father knew it. Otherwise he would never have left it so.”
“It is a perfectly just will,” called out a voice from the embrasure of the other window, “the will of a just and a good man.’’
“Who’s that? William, is that you? We had no idea you were there.”
William advanced. “I was here when you came in,” he said, “and thought you sa
w me, but I was buried in unpleasant reveries, and did not interrupt your converse. My father could not have made any other will, Lord Temple,” he continued, linking his arm within that of his brother-in-law, so that they all three stood together. “Suppose he had constituted me an equal partner with Arthur; given me co-authority and co-ownership; and I were to squander my substance and his; run recklessly to work; go the way of Robert and Lionel? Arthur might be ruined long before the five years were up, the trade fallen through, and the Works done away with.”
“True, true,” answered Lord Temple; “I did not look at it in that light.”
“It was the kindest will to me that my father could have made. He had my true interest at heart; I know he had, and he told me so in the letter.”
“Mr. Danesbury was a man who lived but for his children,” said Lord Temple. “But, William, you are not going the way of Robert and Lionel.”
William heaved a deep sigh. “Sometimes I fear I shall have a difficulty to keep from it.”
“But why? Do you doubt your resolution?”
“Yes, I do. I have resolved to be a sober man so many times now, and broken out again, that I begin to fear it.”
Isabel’s heart beat against her side. She could not bear to hear William say this. Any thing was better than for him to lose courage.
“I have not seen you the worse for wine in the slightest degree this fortnight that we have been down,” remarked Lord Temple, in a gentle tone of encouragement.
“No. I have not exceeded, neither did I for some little time before you came. But I have been cautious for as long as this before, and the temptation has overtaken me again. If I take but a glass of any thing, I crave for more, with a longing, positively painful in its intensity. One glass of wine, one glass of spirits, sets me on; and then the desire is almost irrepressible. I may almost add, one glass of beer.”