Bertram glanced in a bewildered way towards Ulysses, who was sitting suggestively by the door, and said: “You don’t understand, sir. I—I was rolled-up! It was that, or—or prison, I suppose!”
“Yes, I rather thought you were,” agreed Mr. Beaumaris. “I sent a hundred pound banknote to you the next morning, together with my assurance that I had no intention of claiming from you the vast sums you lost to me. Of course, I should have done very much better to have told you so at the time—and better still to have ordered you out of the Nonesuch at the outset! But you will agree that the situation was a trifle awkward.”
“Mr. Beaumaris,” said Bertram, with considerable difficulty, “I c-can’t redeem my vowels now, but I pledge you my word that I will redeem them! I was coming to see you on Thursday, to tell you the whole, and—and to beg your indulgence!”
“Very improper,” approved Mr. Beaumaris. “But it is not my practice to win large sums of money from schoolboys, and you cannot expect me to change my habits only to accommodate your conscience, you know. Shall we sit down, or don’t you trust the chairs here?”
“Oh, I beg pardon!” Bertram stammered, flushing vividly. “Of course! I don’t know what I was thinking about! Pray, will you take this chair, sir? But it will not do! I must and I will—Oh, can I offer you any refreshment? They haven’t anything much here, except beer and porter, and gin, but if you would care for some gin—”
“Certainly not, and if that is how you have been spending your time since last I saw you I am not surprised that you are looking burned to the socket.”
“I haven’t been—at least, I did at first, only it was brandy—but not—not lately,” Bertram muttered, very shamefaced.
“If you drank the brandy sold in this district, you must have a constitution of iron to be still alive,” remarked Mr. Beaumaris. “What’s the sum total of your debts? Or don’t you know?”
“Yes, but—You are not going to pay my debts, sir!” A dreadful thought occurred to him; he stared very hard at his visitor, and demanded: “Who told you where I was?”
“Your amiable but cork-brained friend, of course.”
“Scunthorpe?” Bertram said incredulously. “It was not—it was not someone else?”
“No, it was not someone else. I have not so far discussed the matter with your sister, if that is what you mean.”
“How do you know she is my sister?” Bertram said, staring at him harder than ever. “Do you say that Scunthorpe told you that too?”
“No, I guessed it from the start. Have you kept your bills? Let me have them!”
“Nothing would induce me to!” cried Bertram hotly. “I mean, I am very much obliged to you, sir, and it’s curst good of you, but you must see that I couldn’t accept such generosity! Why, we are almost strangers! I cannot conceive why you should think of doing such a thing for me!”
“Ah, but we are not destined to remain strangers!” explained Mr. Beaumaris, “I am going to marry your sister.”
“Going to marry Bella?” Bertram said.
“Certainly. You perceive that that puts the whole matter on quite a different footing. You can hardly expect me either to win money from my wife’s brother at faro, or to bear the odium of having a relative in the Fleet. You really must consider my position a little, my dear boy.”
Bertram’s lip quivered. “I see what it is! She did go to you, and that is why—But if you think, sir, that I have sunk so low I would let Bella sacrifice herself only to save me from disgrace—”
Ulysses, taking instant exception to the raised voice, sprang to Mr. Beaumaris’s side, and barked a challenge at Bertram. Mr. Beaumaris dropped a hand on his head. “Yes, very rude, Ulysses,” he agreed. “But never mind! Bear in mind that it is not everyone who holds me in such high esteem as you do!”
Much confused, Bertram stammered. “I didn’t mean—I beg your pardon! I only meant—She never said a word of this to me!”
“Didn’t she? How secretive females are, to be sure! Perhaps she felt that her parents should be the first persons to learn the news.”
“Well, I suppose she might,” Bertram said doubtfully. “But considering she said she couldn’t marry anyone, because she made ’em all think she was an heiress—”
“She didn’t make me think anything of the sort,” said Mr. Beaumaris.
“Oh, I see!” said Bertram, his brow clearing. “Well, I must say, sir, I’m dashed glad, because I had a notion she liked you more than all the rest! I—I wish you very happy! And, of course, I do see that it makes a difference to my debt to you, only I don’t think I should let you pay the other debts, because it is not in the least your affair, and—”
“Now, don’t let us go into all that again!” begged Mr. Beaumaris. “Just tell me what you propose to do if I don’t pay your debts!”
“I thought of enlisting in a cavalry regiment, if they would take me,” confessed Bertram. “Under an assumed name, of course!”
“I should think that a cavalry regiment would suit you very well,” said Mr. Beaumaris. “But it will be very much more comfortable for you, and for all of us, if you join it under your own name, and as a cornet. What do you want? a Hussar regiment?”
These incredible words made Bertram turn first red, and then while, swallow convulsively, and finally blurt out: “You c-couldn’t mean that! After this! I—Oh, sir, do you mean it?”
“Yes, of course, but give me your bills!”
“I don’t deserve anyone should do anything for me!” Bertram said, overcome.
“The bills!”
Bertram, already floating in some beatific dream, started, and said: “The bills? Oh! Oh, yes, I have them all here—only you will be very much shocked to see how much I have spent, and—”
“Nothing, ever shocks me,” replied Mr. Beaumaris, holding out a hand. He stuffed the sheaf of crumpled papers into the pocket of his driving-coat, and said: “I will settle all these so that none of your creditors will know that it was not you who paid them. Do you owe anything in this neighbourhood beyond your shot here?”
Bertram shook his head. “No, for Bella gave me all the money she had, when she came to see me. I am afraid you would not have liked her doing so, sir, and nor did I, but Felix brought her, like the saphead he is! It—it was a horrid place, and I think I ought to tell you that it was all my fault that she ever went to such a back-slum!”
“You fill me with dismay,” said Mr. Beaumaris. “I do trust she did not set eyes on any destitute person whom she may feel it to be her duty to befriend?”
“Well, I don’t think she did,” Bertram replied. “Felix did say that she told a woman they all call Quartern Sue not to give her baby gin to drink, and gave her a shilling to buy it some milk. And I am excessively sorry, sir, and I would not have had it happen for the world, but Felix says that they walked smash into Leaky Peg, who—who took me to the place when I was so castaway I didn’t know even where I was, or how I came there. She—she was very good to me, in her way, you know, and Bella got it into her head she owed her a debt of gratitude for looking after me! But that’s all right, because I gave Peg five pounds out of the money Bella left for me!”
“Heaven help me!” said Mr. Beaumaris. “She will undoubtedly expect me to house this doxy! Leaky Peg, did you say? Good God!”
“No, no, sir, of course she won’t!” exclaimed Bertram. “Why should she?”
“Because that is her invariable practice,” said Mr. Beaumaris bitterly. “You don’t suppose, do you, that I voluntarily adopted that animal over there?”
“You don’t mean Bella gave him to you? Well, that’s a great deal too bad of her! I must say, I thought it was a queer sort of a dog for you to have, sir!”
“The whole of London thinks it is a queer sort of a dog for me to have. Even the landlord of this tavern tried to chase him from the taproom!” He drew out his pocket-book, and extracted from it several banknotes, and pushed them across the table. “There you are: pay your shot here, redeem whateve
r lies in pawn, and book yourself the box-seat on the first stage to Harrowgate. I believe the northern-bound coaches leave at some godless hour of the morning, so you had better spend tonight at whatever inn they set out from. A few days in the fresh air will, I trust, repair the ravages of all the brandy you imbibed, and make it possible for you to meet your father without arousing suspicion.”
Bertram tried to speak, failed, tried once more, and managed to say in a very gruff voice: “I c-can’t thank you as I should, and of course I know it is for Bella’s sake! But I can do one thing, and I will! I shall confess the whole to my father, sir, and—and if he says I may not join a Hussar regiment, after behaving so badly, well—well it will serve me right!”
“Yes,” said Mr. Beaumaris, “that is very noble of you, of course, but I have always found it to be an excellent plan, before one indulges in an orgy of expiation, to consider whether the recipient of the sort of confession you have in mind may not be made to suffer a great deal of quite unnecessary pain.”
Bertram was silent for a moment, as this sank into his brain. “You don’t think I should tell my father, sir?”
“I not only don’t think you should: I utterly forbid you to mention the matter to him.”
“I don’t quite like to deceive him,” Bertram said shyly. “You see—”
“I am sure you don’t, so if your mind is set on doing penance, that will serve your turn excellently. You have been staying in Berkshire with Scunthorpe. Just bear that in mind, and forget that you have ever been within ten miles of London!” He rose, and held out his hand. “Now I must go. Don’t harrow yourself with thinking that you have broken all the ten commandments! You have only done what four out of five young fools do, if set loose upon the town. Incidentally, you have acquired a deal of valuable experience, and when next you come to London you will do much better.”
“I shall never be able to show my face in London again, sir,’ said Bertram wistfully. “But thank you!”
“Nonsense! A few years’ service, and you will become a dashing Captain, I daresay, with a fine pair of military whiskers. No one will recognize you. By the way, don’t call to take leave of your sister: she is very much occupied today. I will tell her that you are safely despatched to Yorkshire. Ulysses, stop scratching! Do try to be a little more worthy of me! Yes, we are now going, but it is quite unnecessary, and, indeed, extremely uncivil, to caper about in that joyful fashion!” He picked up his gloves, shook hands, and walked to the door, but bethought him of something, and put a hand into his inner pocket. “Association with that hound—the boon companion of every prig in town, I have not a shadow of doubt—is fast undermining my morals. Your watch, Bertram!”
XVII
Mr. Beaumaris’s subsequent proceedings, during the short space of time that elapsed before his elopement, were many and varied, but although they included precise instructions to his coachman and his postilion, and a drive out of London, there was one curious omission: he took no steps to procure a special licence, so that it was to be inferred that he contemplated a flight to the Border, and a ceremony performed across the anvil at Gretna Green: a departure from the canons of good taste which would have staggered any of his associates who had had the least suspicion of his clandestine intentions. But as no one who met him detected anything out of the ordinary in his demeanour no one except his prospective bride speculated at all on the course of action he meant to pursue.
Arabella, naturally enough, employed every moment that was unoccupied by social engagements in a great deal of speculation, but as she was wholly ignorant of the rules governing hasty marriages the need of a special licence did not occur to her. She certainly supposed that she would be driven to Gretna Green, and, having once accepted this hateful necessity, resolutely turned her thoughts away from it. Romantic though such an adventure might be, no young lady, reared, as she had been, in the strictest propriety, could embark on it without feeling herself to have sunk to irreclaimable depths of depravity. How she was ever to explain such conduct to the satisfaction of Papa was an unanswerable question. Only the thought of Bertram’s predicament in any way sustained her. She snatched ten minutes between seeing a balloon-ascent and dressing for a more than ordinarily splendid ball, in scribbling a letter to Bertram, assuring him that he need only wait patiently at the Cock for a few more days before he should infallibly be rescued from all his embarrassments.
Of Mr. Beaumaris she saw nothing until she met him at Vauxhall Gardens. He was not present at the ball on the night previous to their assignation, a circumstance of which she hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry.
Perhaps it was fortunate that Lady Bridlington’s plans for their amusement left her with so little time for reflection. The indulgence of a quiet hour or two in her own bedchamber was not granted her. Try as she would she was unable to stay awake after that splendid ball, and only awoke next morning when Maria drew back her window-blinds. The day was full to overflowing with engagements: she was dressing for Mr. Beaumaris’s Vauxhall Gardens party, before, as it seemed to her, she well realized what she was about.
It so happened that through the press of invitations which had showered down upon the house in Park Street Arabella had never before visited the famous gardens. They took sculls across the river, to enter by the water-gate, and at any other time she must have been transported by the sight which met her eyes. The gardens, which were laid out in groves and colonnades, were lit (as Lord Bridlington instructively informed her) by no fewer than thirty-seven thousand lamps, some of them suspended in graceful festoons between the pillars of the colonnades. The orchestra, detected across the principal-grove, was established in a giant kiosk, glittering all over with coloured lights; there was a spacious Pavilion, lined with mirrors, which formed the principal supper-room for those who did not care to go to the expense of hiring one of the boxes which opened on to the various colonnades; a Rotunda, where excellent concerts were held throughout the season; several magnificent fountains; and innumerable walks where lovers could lose themselves at will.
Mr. Beaumaris met his guests at the water-entrance, and conducted them to the Rotunda, where, since it was past eight o’clock, the concert was already in progress. Arabella could scarcely meet his eyes, but forced herself to look up once, very fleetingly, into his face. He smiled at her, but no private speech passed between them.
After the first act of the concert, at about ten o’clock, a bell rang, and those who had no ear for music poured into the Rotunda to witness the marvels of the Grand Cascade. Even though feelings of guilt were in danger of overcoming her, Arabella could not help uttering an exclamation of delight when a dark curtain arose to reveal a rural scene, done in miniature, but amazingly life-like, of a cascade, a water-mill, a bridge, and a succession of coaches, wagons, and other vehicles passing with every appearance of verisimilitude across the stage. Even the sound of the wheels, and the rush of the waters was ingeniously counterfeited, so that she thought it no matter for wonder that people should visit Vauxhall three and four times only to see this marvel.
When the curtain descended again, Mr. Beaumaris suggested that his guests might like to partake of supper instead of waiting to hear the second part of the concert. This being agreed to, they edged their way out of the row where they were sitting and strolled down one of the colonnades to the supper-box which had been hired for their accommodation. This was in an excellent position, not too close to the orchestra in the kiosk to make conversation a labour, and commanding a splendid view of the principal grove. No one, of course, could visit Vauxhall without eating the wafer-thin slices of ham for which the suppers were famous, or tasting the rack-punch; but in addition to these delicacies Mr. Beaumaris had ordered a meal so excellently chosen as to tempt the most fugitive appetite. Even Arabella, whose appetite had deserted her several days before, could enjoy the chicken, cooked before her eyes in a chafing-dish; and was persuaded to toy with a trifle. Mr. Beaumaris prepared a peach for her with his own hands, and since an i
mminent elopement was no excuse, she believed, for a present lapse of good manners, she ate this too, smiling shyly and gratefully at him. She found little to say beyond the merest commonplace throughout supper, but this silence passed unnoticed in the spate of Lord Bridlington’s discourse. He kindly explained to the ladies the mechanism which produced the wonders of the Grand Cascade; sketched the history of the Gardens; extensively examined their claim to be considered a development of the old Spring Gardens; and disposed of the tradition which linked the district with the name of Guy Fawkes. He was only interrupted when it became necessary to exchange greetings with some acquaintance who happened to walk past the box; and since his mother murmured encouraging remarks every now and then, and Mr. Beaumaris, with great self-control, forbore to utter one of his blighting snubs, he enjoyed himself very much, and was sorry when his host suggested that Miss Tallant would like to see the Fireworks.
He was allowed to take Arabella on his arm on their way to the part of the grounds whence these could best be seen, while Mr. Beaumaris followed beside Lady Bridlington, but just as he had secured two excellent places he found himself, quite how he did not know, supplanted, and was obliged to attend to his Mama, who did not like her situation, and insisted on his finding her a place where her view of the set-pieces would not be obscured by the head-dress of a lady who favoured immensely tall ostrich plumes.
Arabella momentarily forgot her troubles in enchantment, and clapped her hands when the rockets soared skywards, and burst into stars. Mr. Beaumaris, inured to fireworks, derived even more entertainment through watching her round-eyed delight; but after the first of the set-pieces had burnt itself out, he consulted his watch, and said gently: “Shall we go, Miss Tallant?”
These words brought her to earth with a shock. An impulse to tell him that she had changed her mind had to be sternly repressed, and all the miseries poor Bertram must be enduring recalled. She clutched her taffeta cloak round her, and said nervously: “Oh, yes! Is it already time? Yes, let us go at once!”
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